S.E. Zell's Blog

The Big Reveal!

Finally, the day has arrived–Book 1’s official cover and title are finally here! AND the rest of the character portraits have been released as well. As always, follow @sezellauthor on Instagram for the most up-to-date notifications and releases.

PREORDERS open October 1st!

Final release on October 31st!

Artwork by @brosedesignz

Character portraits by @hmmr.art

Character Portraits!

In advance of Jesimae’s makeover and rerelease as Ransom and Ruin this October 31st, I collaborated with a fantastic artist (@hmmr.art on Insta) for some portraits to bring my not-so-h0ly trinity to life. I needed two broody roguish twins and one fierce Red Lady and boy, did Haley deliver.

Without further ado…

THE ROGUE HIMSELF

Aedrik

Stay tuned for more portraits in the coming days!

Guess Who’s Back?!

In the last five years I’ve moved six times. There was one move across the state (finish college), two across the Atlantic Ocean (starting grad school), one up the East Coast (continuing grad school), and two across Manhattan (rent is high and landlords suck). Obviously, that was never what I intended, but you go where life takes you.

Grad school is hard for anyone, but when you’re trying to measure up to the standards of what a seminary thinks you should be as a clergy person…well, let’s just say something had to take a back seat. Unfortunately, that was writing for me because fourteen classes a week weren’t going to take themselves.

For four years, I’ve pushed through every obstacle they set before me with only my fieldwork internships at area synagogues to tell me the other side would be worth it.

Last fall, as we were picking out our thesis topics for our fifth and final year, I had a realization: writing feeds my soul just as much as anything else I’ve been doing and training for the last four years. And suddenly, I had a way of incorporating this long neglected talent.

I could write my thesis…as a novel.

I could incorporate all the research I would do into a deep and exciting fantasy adventure. From there, I slowly clawed my way back into the writing world, forged new friendships, found a mentor or three, and dusted off my keyboard.

Thanks to a few good people, the healing powers of the Scottish Highlands, and a LOT fewer classes this coming year, I’m glad to say the creative juices have begun to flow once more and…well…my cup runneth over.

I wanted to say thank you to all of you for your patience. As someone who gets frustrated when an author takes forever to come out with a new book, I get the feeling of disappointment and frustration.

But the wait is soon to be rewarded! That novel which will become my thesis, truly is a labor of love, and contains a piece of my soul will be completed in 2024.

AND

The long-awaited sequel to Jesimae is currently being edited and will be out before the end of the year! All your favorite characters from book one will return (well, except the ones who can’t) in…

In Ruins

Ashdan can’t remember who she is or where she comes from. The only thing she knows is how to kill. But when she’s commanded by the King to assassinate the Crown Prince, memories spark and allegiances to the crown begin to crumble.

Aedrian finds himself the head of Jesimae’s criminal underworld – something he never wanted. When he breaks into the Palace to save his lover and collect his mind-wiped sister, he and his companions find themselves once more on the run with Crown Prince Emyr – this time, to stage a coup.

Death’s Gatekeeper

[Loosely based off the Romanian folktale, “The Voice of Death”]

Way outside of town, farther than most people dare to go, there is a cliff. If you look to the bottom of this cliff there is a plain. It is an empty, barren thing that stretches as far as the eye can see. Mist curls over the hard-packed ground, reaching toward the cliff-face with hand-like tendrils.

The only person still alive who has seen this plain is Dimitri. He is an old man who lives at the bottom of the rise to the cliff. Over the years, he has seen many people climb the hill to the top. None ever return.

When he first noticed this many years ago, Dimitri tried calling out to the people.

“Please! Go no further! It is too dangerous!”

But they could not or would not hear him and continued on their way.

He tried to stop them physically when he was a younger man, but only gained deep cuts and bruises for his pains. They fought ruthlessly, saying only, “I must go. They are calling me. Can you not hear it? I only need to know what they want. Then I will return.” He still bears the scars of those encounters.

He tried building a fence to keep people away, but they only climbed it or tore it down.

So now, Dimitri does nothing. When he catches a glimpse of someone through the window, he closes his curtain and mutters to himself.

Over the years, his conversations with himself have gotten longer, louder, and more intricate. What started as short mumbles or outbursts of things like “Fools!” has turned into a two-sided conversation—both roles voiced by Dimitri.

It is a lonely and sad existence, but otherwise pleasant. Dimitri does not need much. He has wood for fires and a garden for food. He spends his days whittling wooden figurines, carving bone knife handles, or tending his garden.

Once a month, he makes the ten-mile walk into town to purchase whatever he cannot grow or make himself. He trades his work to venders for coin and returns home with a sack full of grain, or blankets, or new socks.

The people in town like Dimitri though they do not know him. His eccentric patchwork clothing, kind and sorrowful eyes, and sardonic smile make them look forward to his visits.

Owning a piece of his handiwork is considered a rite of passage in the village. Children flock around him to see upon whom he will bestow a single gift of an animal figurine.

His visits are as regular as the cycles of the moon. People set their monthly calendar by his visit.

“Did we restock the larder last week or the week before?”

“It was last week. After Dimitri’s visit.”

Yes, the people look forward to seeing Dimitri.

But they don’t know him. As quickly as he comes, he is gone again until the next month. He can’t bare to look too long at their faces only to see them one day climbing up the hill to the cliff.

Dimitri often wonders who it is they hear calling. He wonders, too, if he will ever be called. Sometimes, he thinks it would be nice to hear a voice other than his own. After so much time spent alone, feeling called to something important would be a nice change.

One day, Dimitri had just finished covering all his windows to avoid watching the town baker walk up the hill. He sat down in the soft stuffed chair by the fire and picked up his work, intending to create a forest scene in the bone. There would be a tiny, ornate stag peering through the trees. He thought he might do a number of carvings in the forest theme and sell them as a set. People liked to collect his work. This would be the first ~official~ collection.

He let his mind drift, not looking down as his hands moved with the accumulated skill of decades. Some of the villagers had asked recently how he could still create such fine work in his old age. He had answered truthfully.

“No matter how old I get, my hands still seem to have the same youth and vigor as when I was a boy.”

He didn’t know why this was, but he didn’t argue that it was a blessing.

The design finished, he blew the ivory shavings away to admire the finished product and was astonished by what he saw. This was some of the best work he had ever produced, but there was a problem. The image was not of a lush forest and curious stag.

Instead, he had unwittingly carved out a depiction of the steep cliff face. Down to each jutting detail, it stood starkly against the bone that now trembled in his hand. The bit of plain visible at the bottom was covered in mist that seemed to form skeletal hands.

And at the top—

at the top there was a shadowy human figure, arms stretched out and reaching to the sky. Just beyond the human figure, reaching back to catch their outstretched hands, was another figure. It extended itself toward the human as if it would whisk them away into the air.

Dimitri stared at the flawless and baffling work.

“What does this mean? Why have I done this?”

Dimitri did not have an answer to his own question, so he did not open his mouth to respond.

But, someone else spoke in a voice he had never heard before.

“Do not worry old friend. I thought it was time we met face to face after all these years.”

Processing Feelings

I’m angry.

I’m angry that when I got to my synagogue on Sunday morning to teach, I had to knock because the doors were locked.

I’m angry that two of my most lively sixth grade boys sat quietly and subdued and they didn’t have to speak for me to know they were wondering if they were going to be next.

I’m angry that our president cast blame on the security guard for not taking out the gunman when four trained police officers were injured in the attempt.

I’m angry that Rose Mallinger survived the Holocaust only to be shot at 97 as she gave thanks in her Pennsylvania temple on Shabbat morning in 2018.

I’m angry that two other heinous hate crimes were committed this week, but no one knows about them because a genocide eclipsed everything.

I’m angry that three of my five students didn’t even show up for class.

And I’m angry because I came back to school to finish my degree and go to Cantorial school; I’ve chosen to dedicate my life to becoming a Jewish clergy member and on Saturday afternoon, my parents, who are the reason I am Jewish and my biggest supporters called me and asked me implicitly if I was still sure I wanted to pursue it as a career.

The answer to their question: You’re damn right I do, but right now…

I’m angry.

Flash Fiction Friday

Sand blew in my face and I cursed my decision to go on this desert camping trip. “It’ll be fun,” they said. “We won’t get a day this nice again for a while,” they said. Given that I was allergic to dust, this was a profoundly stupid decision. I blew my nose in another one of my rapidly disappearing tissues.

My friends skipped ahead of me, playfully swatting at one another with their protective headscarves.

“Come on,” they called. “I think the sandstorm last week uncovered something!”

As I crested another dune, I looked in the direction of their pointing fingers and saw a tiny glint of gold about a two hundred yards away down a steep incline.

“The sandstorm must have been pretty intense out here to move this much sand.”

The four of us stumbled and slid down into the newly-made valley and began uncovering what looked like a wing of some kind.

“Maybe it’s an ancient Hittite figurine of one of their gods.”

“No way. I don’t think they came this far south.”

“Hold on, guys. It’s attached to a larger piece. Help me dig.”

We dug for several more minutes, until the thing was fully uncovered. When we stood back to fully take it in, we were speechless. It wasn’t possible.

“It’s gotta be a replica.”

“We could open it and find out,” someone joked.

“NO!” The rest of us shouted. We continued to stare at it, as if waiting for something to jump out and consume us.

“Even if it’s not the real thing, it’s clearly old. The writing around the base is ancient. We should bring it back with us and give it to a museum.”

I yelped. My hand which had been stroking the ancient, yet familiar letters around the base felt as if it had been zapped by a bolt of lightning.

“I don’t think it likes that idea.”

More silence.

“We can’t just leave it here to be lost again in the sand. It’s a piece of history. We need to try and authenticate it or prove that it’s a replica. We’re not that far from town, let’s get it there and then we can figure out what to do with it.”

With that agreed, we rigged a sand sled of sorts and placed the thing on top, making sure it was completely covered. Then we took turns in twos dragging it back to town. We lugged it into our (thankfully) first floor apartment and went to sleep.

That night, my dreams were dark and violent and I woke with no doubt in my mind as to its authenticity.

That only left one question:

How do we share our discovery without ending the world?

Thursday Thoughts

Rain.

It’s sheeting down the windows and soaking into the marrow of this sleepy college town. Everything is soaked. I’m perfectly dry, but it’s so wet outside I swear my skin is dripping. It’s a fitting backdrop for the second-most stressful week of the year for college students–MIDTERMS. My back is to the room, preferring to stare out the window as I try to think about the essay on foreignness and race in Wuthering Heights that I have to complete by tonight. All around me, students are so entrenched at their work tables that some of them appear to have become one with the bleak landscape. Bags line their eyes and the hysterical laughter that is only born out of misery echoes across the large room. Elbows bear the telltale marks of having spent too long being leaned on. Necks crack, books slam, sighs of frustration gust through the air like the north wind.

We’ve had it.

Only one more day until freedom, but most of us can’t even see the other side.

Every time I sit down to put the proverbial pen to paper, my fingers fly away from the keys and my head drops to the back of my chair. It’s not that I don’t want to write–I do. I actually am quite interested in the topic and have a lot to say.

But with the end so near, my brain fights bitterly with my sense of obligation.

I stretch. I stand and shake off the funk. I switch chairs so I can’t see outside.

Let’s do this.

Wish me luck, folks!

Cynic’s Word of the Day

Harangue, n.

A speech by an opponent, who is known as an harang-outang.

–Ambrose Bierce (1842-1913 or 14), The Cynic’s Word Book

If you haven’t discovered this gem, you’re welcome for the introduction. More to follow!

Jesimae, Free?!

A notification pops up in your newsfeed. No. It can’t be. This has to be a scam. You click on the link and–lo and behold!–it’s not a scam!

The book you’ve been waiting for is completely free in its Kindle edition on Amazon! What’s that you say? For how long?

NOW until November 25th! This could be one of your last chances to get the first edition of Jesimae.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! I’m so thankful for the support!

PS: If you liked the book, please consider leaving a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads.

Get “Jesimae” Free!

Hello readers!

Now is your chance to get the original version of Jesimae completely free on Kindle! Starting tomorrow (11/21) through Saturday (11/25), go to this link to download the Kindle edition completely free of charge.

This might be one of your last opportunities to read the original version before it’s published under a new name.

What are you waiting for!?