Lorina Stephens's Blog, page 14

Revised and updated And the Angels Sang

Sometimes balls drop

Yeah, yeah, I know, I really probably shouldn’t have used that header. But it got your attention, didn’t it?

Seriously, though, I honestly did drop the things I was juggling. Well, not for the first time, but apparently I had completely forgotten a year and a half ago I was going to go with a updated and new shiny revision of And the Angels Sang. But, well, you know–life. It happens to you. It happens to other people you bring in on your journey. And you get so tied up in the getting on with getting on, that you forget you planted the seeds of something which might have been marvelous. But alas.

So, it wasn’t until R. Graeme Cameron reviewed And the Angels Sang for Amazing Stories, that I realized there was all this splatter and ooopness in a big eggy mess around me. And I really needed to do something about that, because, oh-my-goodness his review of my collection of speculative short stories was really quite, well, wow.

Ta-da! New and improved!

Which means I now have finally finished the revision of And the Angels Sang. Proper accreditation has been given to my genius friend, Jeff Minkevics, for the stunning cover. The interior is sleeker and better presented, I think. And there’s bonus reading material in there for you by way of a preview of my speculative fiction novel, Caliban. I think you might enjoy it. And I’m hoping it might lead you to purchase either a copy of the trade paperback or an ebook. Both are available, by the way, through this website and your favourite online bookseller, even elibraries.

What else have you got?

Well, I’ve actually started working on short stories again, along with poking at the historical novel, Hekja’s Lament. I was quite surprised yesterday when I was sorting through marketable shorts and found a story I had no idea I’d written. Huh. Imagine that. Apparently I drop things all the time. Anyway, found story and another have gone sailing out to potential markets, and so I begin that oh-so-inspiring exercise of submission and rejection.

You thought when you submitted to me at Five Rivers, when I was publishing other authors, it was hard? Yeah, every time I rejected one of you I felt your pain, cause I’ve been on that side of the desk, and apparently have returned. Why on earth do we do this?

In between all that…

…I’ve been deep into the COVID summer of 2020. I’ve quite enjoyed my time mucking about either in the perennial or vegetable gardens, being sweaty, enjoying my year-old knees which are absolutely wonderful. Gary’s been deep into construction of the new back terrace. Gee, wowzers, it’s going to be gorgeous. Got to finally see my dearest son and daughter-in-law after six months COVID absence, hugs and everything, so that was wonderful, and then got to see my amazing sister and brother-in-law, hugs and everything. So, that’s our safe circle, which suits me quite fine.

The only hitch in all this new-found retirement, and freedom from the nightmare that had been elder-care, is a wee concern over health issues not related to COVID. Seems I’ve had another TIA, and that’s resulted in a battery of tests. As I’m writing this I’m sitting here with a Holter monitor slung around my neck, counting down the minutes until I can remove the inconvenient thing. But, truly, I am grateful for all the medical tech and science that keeps us functioning. Tomorrow I go for a CT scan and carotid doppler test, and the week after that for an eye exam to determine if there’s been damage to my right eye. And just think, all those tests, all that remarkable, high-quality medical care costs me absolutely nothing. I am so grateful to be living in a country that values people and a social conscience.

But about that collection of short stories

Sure would love it if you went and got yourself a copy of And the Angels Sang. Enjoy reading it or not, why not review it? Put it up on FB, Twitter, Goodreads, LibraryThing. Write a review on Amazon or Kobo or Indigo. Let people know what you thought. Either way, would be great to create a discussion about the merits or smell of the collection.

Pandemic, publishers and writers

And another one bites the dust

I learned this week, with regret, the closure of another excellent small publisher, Bundoran Press. Headed by Hayden Trenholm, Elizabeth Westbrook-Trenholm, and Mike Rimar, Bundoran had a good run in the SF genre, giving voice to Canadian SF authors, and producing work which received literary acclaim.

Speaking on behalf of the Bundoran team, Hayden Trenholm said: “While we still love the press and our artists, we no longer have the emotional or financial resources to continue the struggle. Selling books as a small press has always been challenging but the last year has seen those challenges grow. The current pandemic was only the final blow.”

Bundoran leaves behind a considerable legacy of not only quality publications, but a standard of business conduct which, sadly, is too often rare in this business. The team should be proud of what they achieved. And they will be sorely missed.

Pandemic a blow to publishing

Like many industries, publishing has been stressed to near breaking during the COVID-19 pandemic. However, unlike many industries, it seems counter-intuitive that books, indeed reading, should have seen such a sharp decline, in fact according to an article in The Walrus, unit sales have dropped 27%. It would seem in order to deal with working from home, people have turned to baking bread instead of reading during their leisure. Or if they are essential workers, have been too stressed and exhausted to even consider getting lost in a good book in whatever format.

And so, not only are bricks and mortar bookstores closing at a brisk rate, but small publishers are weighing the realities of existing in this new world.

There’s no denying being a publisher, at any level, is a labour of love. If you’re one of the Big 5, it’s a constant battle to satisfy shareholders who care not one iota about the reality of the world; all they want are ever-increasing dividends. If you’re a mid to small publisher, the weight of trying to fight your way to some sort of market recognition may very well mean you’re going to cash in now before things get so ridiculous you are no longer able to honour your commitments. Certainly that, plus the reality of eldercare during this plague, made Five Rivers’ decision to close a sensible move. And for Bundoran, it would seem.

But there’s another factor at play

And that factor has to do with a society which has steadily been moving toward an unprecedented state of entitlement. Or put another way, a society which expects everything for free. We saw it happening in the music industry. And then new platforms opened up which allegedly would not only solve the problem of big industry record labels dictating the artistic vision of musicians and songwriters, but give voice and a marketplace for the growing indie artist. Except that’s not how it ended up. Instead, those very platforms, driven by shareholders’ addiction to ever-increasing dividends, ended up even more predatory than the music labels. There are enough stories about how artists aren’t paid properly, or fairly, through Spotify, how the algorithms are stacked so that preference is given to what makes Spotify more money than those small indies.

But that’s the music industry.

The same thing, however, happened years ago in visual arts and galleries.

And it’s been happening with the publishing industry now for 20 years, ever since the emergence of legitimate print on demand and accessibility to the larger marketplace. Sure, both indie authors and small publishing houses can relatively easily produce material and access markets. But the financial share both publishers and indie authors receive is a mere pittance. And then elibraries happened. Even the mention of the concept drives me to hysterical laughter, because, on average, Five Rivers used to receive $0.30 per elibrary book compensation. And then get to split that 50/50 with the author. So, each of us would make $0.15 per sale. Fifteen cents. Per book. Gee, thanks. If the author sells 11 elibrary books, books which may have taken decades to write and polish and bring to print, they may just be able to buy a Tim Hortons coffee. And the publisher? Well, at that rate, for Five Rivers, we would have had to sell over 3000 copies in order to break even on our developmental costs. Given that most books rarely sold even 500 copies in any format– well, you can see the financial problem.

And people scream about a living wage?

But it gets better. Because the society in which we live seems to think all this creative content should be available for free, or near to free. And so work is pirated with impunity, in print and digital, and gleefully consumed. But that’s okay, right? It’s just one copy. And another. And another. But it’s not really stealing. Not really.

And when the well runs dry, those same people scream they have no more films to watch, or books to read, or music to listen to.

But in the meantime, Coteau Books, Bundoran Press, and Five Rivers Publishing, are no more. And all those authors are orphaned, in some cases for a second or third time.

 

My advice to the orphans

Here it is. And it’s good advice, even though it’s free. Go indie. Do it yourself. If it’s a predatory world, best make yourself as free from commitment and contractual obligation as possible, and control your own destiny. But you don’t have time to market? Well, guess what? Even if you signed with one of the Big 5, you’d still have to self-promote. That sucks? Yes it does, but it’s part of the schtick, because YOU ARE YOUR BRAND.

And this way, if you do make an elibrary sale, well, it will only take six sales to get you that Timmies double-double, instead of 11. Another and: no one’s going to close up shop on you because they ran out of funds, energy, or chutzpah. You control your creative destiny. And you stand about as much chance of success doing it on your own, however you measure success, as publishing through a small, mid or large publisher.

Anne, COVID, and plunging back into the novel

Anne with an E

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Started to watch the new, and apparently last, season of CBC’s Anne with an E. While I quite enjoyed the first two seasons, found the exploration of Lucy Maud Montgomery’s beloved Islander character from the point of view of PTSD survivor a fascinating and well-drawn perspective, I’m afraid just short minutes into the first episode of season three put me off so intensely I doubt I’ll go back to give it a second try.

The reason for my visceral reaction was outrage regarding the portrayal of First Nations, which was just shy of “Me, Tonto.” It left me wondering just how unenlightened the writers were. I was embarrassed and angry for any First Nations individual, and embarrassed and angry for the actors who portrayed the fictional characters, in particular Mohawk actor Kiawentiio. Great exposure for her, but a role written entirely from a white colonial perspective, and frankly politely racist. CBC, you could do much better. And have, with productions like North of 60. But it is entirely possible I’m being oversensitive. I just don’t know any more.

COVID-19 and idiot people

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Being a recluse has its advantages, and certainly the lock-down which was required of most Canadians imposed little discomfort for me. I like being alone, or in the company of a select few. I detest shopping, having to make polite conversation and navigating public spaces. Certainly during the eight weeks of elder care to which we subjected ourselves stretched the boundaries of my comfort zone in that there was an army of healthcare workers who paraded through our space, all adhering to health requirements, but still far more people in my private space than I’m accustomed.

Now the eldercare is over, I’m still finding being around people difficult not only from the point of view of social reluctance, but from the point of view of their complete disregard for any kind of preventative measures people all over the world have been using for the first six months of 2020. Not only is there a distressing lack of mask usage, but social distancing and protocols seem to be merely inconvenient guidelines, as if this virulent virus isn’t really a threat. Everyone seems to be galloping backwards into society as it was before 2020, instead of navigating carefully and with prudence into the new world into which we have, in fact, emerged.

You only have to read the scientific data streaming our way to realize herd immunity isn’t going to happen. This virus is far more complex and insidious than previously thought. If you do contract COVID-19, and survive, it’s likely your life will forever change because you’re never really going to recover. COVID’s going to mess with your immune system, screw with your cellular structure and leave you with a variety of permanent health problems which at best will leave you with chronic fatigue, at worst with pulmonary or neurological disorders. This is serious stuff, people. So wear your damned masks over your nose and mouth. Just do it. Don’t touch things you don’t absolutely need to touch. Keep the required distance from other people. Observe protocols retailers have set up in order to control the flow of traffic. Just do it. Don’t be an idiot. And wash your damned hands. A lot.

Back to the novel

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In a somewhat desultory fashion I opened Hekja’s Lament, and reread some of what I’d previously written. Grudgingly, I thought it wasn’t half bad, certainly worth continuing, worth finishing. The opening is okay, although I’m uncertain I’ve sufficiently set the tone and hook. It opens with a hunt for slaves, a pounding pursuit across Scappa’s craggy landscape. It’s grim and heartless, and continues that way for pages and pages. So, yeah, I guess I’ve set the tone for the rest of the novel. But we’ll see.

When will I have it finished? Good the gods, I haven’t a clue. It takes me years to write a novel. I’m not one of those brilliant writers who can toss off an entire, captivating work of art in months. I’m more of a plodder, endlessly going over and over sections to make sure I have the point of view, the narrative, the tension just so. I think a lot. And then I rethink because certainly the first thing I think can’t possibly be the right way to go. And then when thinking isn’t enough, I plunge into a new aspect of research, because it matters to me to know whether this leather bottle was waxed, and with what, and how, like as if that matters at all to the reader. But it matters to me, because I need to know how that leather bottle feels, and what the liquid tastes like that comes out of that bottle. And thus and so. Ridiculous detail.

So, yeah, Hekja’s Lament is back on the board, but it’s going to be slow. So. Very. Slow.

Anyway, that’s all for now, peeps. Thanks for stopping by. Buy my books, please. They’re available through this site in print and ebook. They’re also available through your favourite online bookseller in print, ebook and audiobook. You can also borrow them from a elibrary service. And all those options are available internationally.

Be well. Be safe. Until we meet again.

 

And just like that…

…there’s a new world

Eight weeks after taking on elder care, it seems it’s over. After an explosive and dramatic Friday, during which our in-laws staged a clandestine flit, the Old Stone House has returned to quietude and harmony. Remember what I wrote earlier about sometimes people don’t want a rescue, can’t accept help? Seems that’s very true. And so it’s just Gary and me once again in this pile of stone. I’ve gone from having to make three separate menus for every meal back to one. No having to change diapers, doing four loads of laundry a day, two dishwasher runs. No more worry about trying to implement high protein and nutrition for weight gain in two very frail elders, one of whom will eat no fruit or veg, nothing with a foreign-sounding name, no seasoning beyond salt and a hint of pepper. No arguments and hysterics. No marriage counselling. No army of health care workers during a global pandemic.

Just quiet.

What now?

First, recovery for both of us. The stress was quite remarkable. We find ourselves these past few days simply exploring the garden, chatting about the drama of the past eight weeks, chatting about the future, each other. We found we quickly purged ourselves of the detritus they left.

And we both found ourselves returning to the plans and projects we’d left before this nightmare began. So that’s good. And we’ve both made each other a promise the next time someone needs a rescue, we’re going to let someone else step up.

So, for now Gary will return to building the new terrace. I will return to helping him with that, to mucking about in the garden, and to working on my next novel, Hekja’s Lament.

And just like that, we return to normal.

In the meantime, for your COVID-19 read, you should check out my recent novel, The Rose Guardian. What have you got to lose?

Life on the far side

It’s been eight weeks now since we’ve undertaken the care of my in-laws. It feels like it’s been eight years.

If you think elder care is hard, think again

Think again because it’s hard, so, so very hard. Even though we planned for all manner of possibilities and contingencies, we never expected the events that have unfolded over the past eight weeks. It’s like living through a novel, or a live-action movie. What you thought was going to be hard turns out not to be, and what you thought would be easy, turns out to be almost insurmountable. There have been sleepless nights, and long conversations between Gary and me trying to come up with new strategies. This has required all our life experiences and expertise in handling logistics, people management, plan development. And just when you think you have a workable plan, well, you find out you don’t.

LHIN is amazing

Local Health Integration Network (LHIN) here in West Grey have been amazing. I cannot speak highly enough regarding the professionalism of the team, their dedication, their remarkable willingness to help and go beyond what’s required. From Personal Support Workers (PSW) to the coordinator of the palliative care team we’ve been assigned, every professional has been an invaluable asset in the small army which sweeps through our home on a weekly basis, all of this under the restrictions required by COVID-19. There are RNPs, nutritionist, occupational therapist, physiotherapist, social workers, counselor–all of them working in concert with one another and providing world-class care. Time and again I’ve been astonished by what they’ve been able to provide.

Circling back to COVID-19

This pandemic has been an overriding concern throughout these past eight weeks, because we’re a household with four of us at high risk. So we’ve been exercising the extreme end of caution in our protocols, which just seems logical. Yet it has been gobsmackingly astonishing some people just don’t get that, who think this pandemic has been overblown, because after all they don’t know of anyone who has contracted THE COVID, and despite being warned if they wish to visit it will have to be through an exterior door, at least six feet distant, and they must wear mask and gloves, they still show up, mask and gloves in hand, but not in place, and not until being told, sternly, to apply said mask and gloves do they do so, grudgingly, even laughingly, with the mask dipping down under their nose. Another caution ensues. The mask gets put into place. For us a mental note is logged this will be the first and last visit allowed, because you just can’t trust some people to exercise common sense. Someone once told me common sense isn’t. They were right.

And while dealing with eldercare and a pandemic…

…there’s also the necessity of tying up all the loose ends of the publishing house. For the most part that’s gone smoothly. Removing authors’ books from distribution was easy through Lightning Source, Amazon, Kobo, Google, and Smashwords. ACX, however, has been an entirely different matter, one fraught with frustration trying to deal with a company bent on draconian protocols, even though those protocols leave me in breach of contract. At the bottom of it is a blind behemoth of a machine whose sole purpose is to generate revenue without thought for the people behind the commodities their selling. That end of the publishing house may languish for up to seven years. It’s like bashing on the walls of Mordor, or the Ice Wall of Winterfell.

Gardening as a tranquilizer

I’ve started to say to whoever will listen: Some people take tranquilizers; I garden. And in acknowledging the anodyne gardening provides me, it makes me realize there is one quality I did inherit from my mother, and she from hers, and her from her father, and that is a love of plunging your fingers into good, dark earth, of making things grow, of sitting amid the fruit and the veg and the flowers and the scent and sounds and feeling yourself part of something wider, older, of seeping out into that timeless river and saying, “Yes, this is what the world is about.” It’s the realization that the worries about eldercare, of dealing with someone’s mental illness, of trying to ensure the well-being of the authors you’ve had to let down, of the uncertainty of a global pandemic, and a political neighbour in flames literally and metaphorically to the south–all that, in the end, is just background noise, a blip, in the stream of life and the miracle of this planet. And somehow all those cares don’t seem so urgent anymore. You learn how to breathe again, slowly, in, out, and let your pulse settle into the rhythms of the garden, so that birdsong is what you hear, not the pounding of your head. It’s the rich, heady scent of peonies you smell, not antiseptic and antibacterial cream. And you realize it’s going to be okay. All of it. Idiot people. The pandemic. The elders you’ve undertaken to shelter. The authors you’ve set loose upon the world. All of it’s going to be okay.

And then maybe, one day…

…I’ll find myself at the keyboard again, sailing with Hekja and Haki to Vinland, and that novel will come to life just as my garden, just as will I.

Walking into a new life

This past week has been one of turmoil, not all of it good. I find myself at a place on the map marked: here there be dragons. I feel unhinged, displaced. I feel astonished, humbled. I find myself staring into the distance and wondering how I arrived here. Life is a journey. Yes. It is. And sometimes it’s bewildering, sometimes exciting, sometimes all those things.

So much of my life

these past 12 years has been about publishing other peoples’ work, about helping to nurture and guide voices into existence. It has been such a privilege. I find myself not quite sure who I am, or what I am, now that I’ve hung up the hat of publisher. And I also find myself frequently bursting into tears whenever some acquaintance or associate or friend writes something privately or on social media about their experience with me. I keep asking myself: who is this person of whom they speak?

That

‘s also caused me to realize not only is life a journey, but it’s kind of like an advent calendar. We think the calendar is one thing. We open a panel and find another image. And each day that image expands until we have some semblance of the total picture. But in truth, we don’t really understand the whole picture unless we rip the entire cover away. And that’s the way I feel. I thought I was this. And then someone illustrated for me that I was also that. And this also. And also something other. It is a strange feeling, and a strange place to be.

And by now many of you will see I’ve decided to keep alive the Five Rivers Publishing domain, and forward my person site to Five Rivers. It just seemed a sensible thing to do, given how robust the architecture is for Five Rivers as compared to Lorinastephens.com. I guess that’s also sort of fitting, because Five Rivers started as a platform for my own work, so returning to that is kind of closing the loop. Still, it feels vaguely self-aggrandizing and pretentious. I know, I know, I always said to all our authors to promote themselves, while all the time I couldn’t promote myself.

All that aside, the reason I stepped through this other doorway to a land beyond, as most of you know, was to take care of my dear husband’s elderly folks. That hasn’t gone particularly well to this point, now that we’re coming up on five weeks in. We both knew it was going to be a lot of work. And it is. And we do that with love and compassion and the utmost care we can, doing everything to try to make sure they’re safe, as healthy as can be expected, nurtured and loved. But it is also a sad reality that sometimes those who most need our help don’t want it, or reject it, or find our assistance suspect. That is of great concern. How do you know when to back off? Do you just let a person step off the ledge and let them fall? Do you tie them up to prevent that fall? How far is too far? How little is too little? And those questions are mostly why there are dragons on the map, because it never occurred to either of us that maybe our act of compassion wold be misinterpreted, or rejected. How do you know when you’re doing more harm than good?

 

We’ve had a veritable army of health care workers sweep through our home on a daily basis. That’s slowing now the initial assessments have been done. But that has also raised other concerns given this all happened in the perfect storm of the COVID-19 pandemic. So we’ve become rigorous in demanding people arrive with gloves and masks, that social distancing where appropriate is exercised, but how do you social distance when it’s a care worker there to bathe your father-in-law, or a speech therapist to assess his difficulty swallowing, or the RNP who is checking on his general welfare?

It all seems rather arbitrary and somewhat useless, and I find myself hoping no one has been exposed, or is a carrier, and that my in-laws will remain unaffected. It’s as concerning as caring for young children.

And there’s also concern about mental health, and how to navigate that, assess that, deal with that. New territory. Here there be dragons.

What I do know, most definitely, is my sister is a hero, because she did all this with our mother three years ago. And Mother was not an easy woman to love or live with.

Anyway, here we are on the map, charting unknown territory, finding our way. I have to believe in the hope of tomorrow. A problem is just a solution waiting to happen.

The End of an Era

It is with deep regret I write today to let all of you know I’m shutting down Five Rivers Publishing. Well, mostly.

This is not a decision I’ve made easily, or lightly, and has taken weeks of deliberation and deep concern.

John Lennon allegedly penned, life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.

Which, it seems, is exactly what’s happened. Three weeks ago my elderly inlaws came to live with us, likely for the rest of their lives. He’s bedridden after 12 weeks in hospital during which the COVID pandemic came hurtling through. She’s likely suffering with early dementia. To say life has become hectic, with an army of health care personnel sweeping through our home, would be an understatement.

While I was able to cope with the demands of the publishing house through my own cancer surgery four years ago, and then double knee replacements last year, this challenge will last longer, years in all likelihood. Just trying to keep up to the demands of two frail elders, along with keeping our glass business operating (which is what pays the bills) is all I can handle. So, rather than fail all of our authors, it just seems fair and sensible to return all rights to them as of June 1, 2020. And I have now shut down the site as regards all our authors, but for me. I do hope to still find time to write in the future, and my own books are still out there, so I thought I would utilize the site for a bit of vanity, if you will please pardon me. I just feel like I have to have something left of what I created over 12 years.

It has been my honour and privilege to have given voice to the work of these extraordinary Canadian authors I published, to have laboured on their behalf, to have represented excellent literary achievements which have gone on to be shortlisted for artistic awards. Many went on to sign deal with larger houses. Some have made a financial viable life for themselves as writers. For others their adventure with me was all about making dreams come true. All of it was a blast. And I thank you.

Please go forward knowing I believed in you. And still do.

For your isolation reading

We’re offering all our captive (as in isolated) readers worldwide two free ebooks to fill your days, even nights, all as our way of helping you cope with these extraordinary circumstances.

Allow us to introduce you to the first novel, Kingmaker’s Sword, in Ann Marston’s wonderful fantasy series, The Rune Blades of Celi. This is epic, Celtic-inspired fantasy at its best, beautifully written, completely captivating. Ann creates a believable world, with believable characters. We think Kingmaker’s Sword is a perfect escape, and it’s free starting tomorrow for one week exclusively at Kobo. Kobo’s stats tell me it’s about an eight to nine hour read.

Of course, if you prefer your book in print or audio, we have those available as well, but just not for free. Trade paperback can be had directly from Five Rivers, or through your favourite online bookseller. Audiobook is available through Audible, Amazon and iTunes; links for audio are on the Kingmaker’s Sword page.

The second novel we’re offering is my own novel, The Rose Guardian. There’s a little bit of CanLit, a little bit of magic realism, and a lot about unspoken conversations. It, also, is available for free exclusively through Kobo starting tomorrow for one week only. Or, if you prefer print, you can order that through Five Rivers or your favourite online bookseller, but it’s not for free. Kobo’s stats say The Rose Guardian is about a seven to eight hour read.

Stay safe everyone. Stay home. And wash your hands.

Cloudbearer’s Shadow now in audiobook

Cloudbearer’s Shadow, the fourth novel in Ann Marston’s much-beloved fantasy series, The Rune Blades of Celi, is now available in audiobook from Amazon, Audible and iTunes.

Once more narrator Austin Vanfleet creates a hypnotic experience for listeners.

The recording runs 11 hours and 46 minutes, a perfect way to escape from the daily onslaught of Covid19 news.

Another free read from me to you

I do hope you’re getting out to enjoy some fresh air, practicing safe distancing from people. When you’re back inside, or maybe even perched on your porch, and taking time to catch up on reading, allow me to entice you with my historical novel, Shadow Song. For the next week it’s free on Kobo, from me to you, as a way of helping us all through this extraordinary time.

Shadow Song will take about six to seven hours to read, and transport you to 1830s Upper Canada. There is vengeance in the backwoods, a desperate flight that sweeps across the Bruce Peninsula to Manitoulin Island, and from there to the dark reaches of Superior’s north shore.

If you’d rather listen to your books, it’s also available through Audible, Amazon and iTunes, and also in trade paperback directly from me, Five Rivers Publishing, or your favourite online bookseller.

And if you enjoy the novel, please leave a review. It’s always helpful to authors for readers to leave reviews.

Stay safe. Stay smart.