S.L. Luck's Blog, page 3

Alan In The Bathtub

January 4, 2020

Hi team! I’ve got a new story for you today. It’s definitely lighter than my current novel-in-progress, so you’ll sleep better with this one. Enjoy, Dear Readers!

Alan In The Bathtub

                It was a week since his birthday and Alan still hadn’t had a bath. He had good reason; for the last one hundred and sixty-eight hours, in between the moments where his parents forced him to bed and forced him to eat, Alan had been climbing the levels of his new video game on his new, twenty-eight button, so-real-you-could-pet-the-animals-in-it, no-other-kid-he-knew-owned-it game system. It was a gift from his parents for his tenth birthday, the best birthday Alan ever had, the best there ever would be. The first touch of those buttons sent a thrill through his skin that shook Alan and made his parents and little sister laugh until they were holding their bellies and wiping their faces and had to close their eyes to calm down. That was the first day. Alan played for five and a quarter hours until the sun went down and his father gently nudged Alan to bed. On the second day, Alan woke in the dark of the morning without the help of his alarm clock and played while the sun rose and set, chancing only occasional trips to the bathroom to pee. By the time he remembered he had forgotten to brush his teeth, Alan was already in bed, on the precipice of a dream about his game. The third day, he stopped washing his hands. The fourth, he’d altogether forgotten he had hair. On the fifth, sixth, and seventh, Alan smelled like sour potatoes and his skin had grown a darkish, oily sheen that he deposited on whatever he touched. His white teeth had gone brown and when Alan opened his mouth to speak, his mother, father, and little sister recoiled as though Alan had thrown a bucket of fish guts at them.

                It was time for a bath, they told him. But Alan didn’t want, didn’t need a bath. He needed to find the last hidden diamond on level sixty-seven of his game. A bath would ruin his concentration, he told them. A bath would ruin his progress. Alan looked at his parents and told them that a bath would ruin his life.

                That did it.

                With three purposeful strides to the back of the TV, Alan’s father unplugged Alan’s life. A roar rose up through Alan’s throat and he beat the floor at his defeat, wailing at the injustice of it all. Then Alan’s father wrapped a strong arm around his son’s belly and carried him to their filling, bubbling tub. Alan’s arms and legs sprang out like a cat and he clung to the sides of the tub, the walls, the shower curtain, arching his body away from the water. “No! No! No!” Alan cried.

                “Yes! Yes! Yes!” his family insisted and threw Alan—clothes and all—into the bathtub.

                “I’m bored! Let me out of here!” Alan wailed through the door. To his surprise, the door squeaked open and a book was slid across the floor. It bumped against the outside of the bathtub, and then the door was closed again. Alan slapped the water and it splashed up high onto the walls and onto the floor and over the book. Alan brooded, struggling out of his wet clothes, and dropped them onto the book. He sulked until the water ran cold, then he turned the tap and was adding more hot water when he heard a scratching sound. Little sisters were the most annoying sort, and Alan yelled at her to stop taunting him with her freedom on the other side of the door, but the scratching did not stop. Frowning, Alan looked over the side of the tub and saw that his wet shirt and pants were moving. Mice sometimes snuck into the house whenever the garage door was left open so Alan knew that mice were quick and cunning. Quietly, he leaned over the tub, raised his hand high, and brought it down with a smash on the pile. Pain tore through his finger and when Alan pulled it back, there was a spot of blood on the inside of his knuckle. He washed his finger in his bathwater, spotted a shampoo bottle, and used it to nudge his wet clothes. His pants and shirt slid off the book while his underwear scampered off behind the toilet. Alan swung to the other side of the tub near the faucet and craned his neck to spy the tiniest little goat springing from the leg holes in his underwear. It had a sword, no, a sewing needle in its mouth.

                Alan scratched his head, wondering if he were actually not in the bathtub but asleep in his bed. He sat back, flummoxed, when a melody arose from his shorts. Again, Alan inspected the curiosities on the floor, and with pinched fingers, Alan pulled a bone no bigger than his fingernail from under his wet pocket. On and on the bone sang, telling of wild boars and betrayal and of disrespectful siblings. “Shhh!” Alan told the bone. “My parents will hear you and think I’m crazy.” But the bone only sang louder so Alan dropped it in the tub, where its song bubbled up and out of the water. Alan pressed his hands over his ears, trying to shut the song out when out from one of the bubbles popped a drowned flea and drowned louse. The boy flicked them away. Then Alan removed the lid from a bottle of conditioner, picked up the bone, and stuck it inside. He was screwing the lid on tight, watching the goat sew sheets of toilet paper together, when the book started flapping. There, on the wet linoleum floor, a pair of silver hands were waving from between the pages, beckoning to Alan. First, Alan pinched himself. Then he patted his cheeks, tugged his hair, and then pried his eyes wide with his fingers. Regrettably, he didn’t wake in his bed, so he yanked a towel from the bar and threw it over the flapping book.

                Out rolled a golden ball and a frog. Alan peeked under the towel. A pair of shoes made of buffalo leather walked out, inside which was a golden key. Then twelve brothers carrying spinning wheels, an almond tree, six swans, a number of rabbits, foxes and wolves, and a host of kings and queens. Embarrassed by all the company, Alan covered himself with a washcloth. He blinked at his new acquaintances. They blinked at him. Finally, Alan turned the book over. It read Grimms’ Fairy Tales. For a time, the bathroom was quiet. The goat stopped sewing. The bone stopped singing. The silver hands stopped waving. Alan held his breath, dried his hands, and picked up the book. Then Alan opened the cover and found that he was suddenly alone, but for the magic inside his head.

                From then on, Alan was the cleanest boy in the world.

New Year, Dark Projects

January 2, 2021

Happy New Year, Dear Readers!

This is going to be a great year. (How can it be worse, right?) I’ve been away from blogging during the holidays but I definitely wasn’t away from writing. I’m happy to report that my next novel, Interference, will be done sometime next month. This one is a paranormal thriller and has been quite comfortable to write. My aim is to release it sometime between May and July and I’m already confident the release will be much, much smoother than Redeemer’s release. For those of you who have supported me and bought Redeemer during those rocky first weeks, I’m greatly indebted to you. I’ve learned so much, and I know you’ve learned right along side me and for that I’m forever thankful for your support. To those of you who have pestered your local libraries into carrying my book, thank you. To those of you who have shared the book with friends and family, thank you. To those of you who have given me reviews where I need it most, thank you. I’m pleasantly surprised when I review my reports and find I’ve sold more books. I’m in a contract with Amazon until the middle of February that limits my e-book to its platform only, but I did recently upload the print file to Ingram Sparks for a wider release to bricks and mortar bookstores, libraries, and the like. I’ve done zero advertising in this regard, told no one, because I was so focused on my current writing project. And what a surprise it was a few minutes ago to see that I had made sales across the US. Yay for me, the newbie. Once my contract with Amazon expires, I’m going to go wider with Redeemer‘s distribution, so we’ll see how that goes.

In the meantime, I’ll leave you with the prologue for Interference. (If you’re a testy pearl-clutcher, I would suggest reading something else. No offense to delicate natures, I love you as much as everyone else. It’s just that this genre won’t help you sleep at night.)

Prologue

            Harold Ridgeway woke knowing it would be his last day on earth. Polk County, Texas, was suitably cloudy this morning, with the bitter winds of hurricane Xavier departing much too slowly, but even that would not stall his death. They were as bent on his execution as he was on those murders and he knew that after eleven years inside Polunsky’s paint-peeled, sunlight-deficient walls, no one would mourn him. His transfer to A-Pod three months prior told him his options were exhausted, so he accordingly prepared for death. Harold didn’t pray, as others had before him, for he knew that he was beyond salvation. The devil had been his companion much longer than Jesus had and that alone sealed his fate. Instead, Harold took solace in the memory of those dark nights of delicious terror. In his new surroundings, with his high, slit window and emaciated mattress and cold floor and leaking roof, Harold meditated on screams and clutchings and last breaths, consuming these recollections almost orgasmically, sometimes actually so. It required little effort to take him back. By now, he had returned so often that all he needed was to close his eyes and bite his thumb. The taste of that dirty part of his flesh evinced flashbacks of necks and lips and genitalia, of all colors, sizes, genders, rigouring as he watched, fascinated, and this release is what he presently settled into to calm his nerves.

            Rising as his breakfast clanged through the door slot, Harold yawed and stretched. He turned the twenty-seven deaths over in his mind and briefly considered admitting to the other nine. The hope of new information could stay his execution, though not indefinitely, and while his depraved existence at Polunsky hadn’t been constructive for anyone, something inside Harold rallied for more time. It was there, that thing, that enduring urge that ravaged his youth and planted strange impulses that first appeared tentative, then nagging, then insistent, ultimately dominating his adulthood, when the unbearable pressure had to be vented. Harold wasn’t sure if the thing was part of him or of some spectral deity, but it was there, invading his brain, twisting his motives, rotting his ambitions. The thing stuffed his ears with reassurances, like a gentle pat on a dog’s head, then grew impatient and filled his mind with a darkness he had come to rely on. Harold requested no visitors today so he turned to the thing now, if only to have an understanding companion. You there? he wondered inside his head.

            The thing unfurled itself, spreading wide until all space that was not the thing was shrouded inside him. She liked to be called Pandora, but Harold was too selfish to understand that. Narcissistic hosts, the best hosts, could be compelled to do many things except recognize the notion of self in others, and while Pandora could make him speak her name, the effort was beneath her. He had already given her what she wanted, hadn’t he? He’d given her terror and death and the kind of melancholy that not only filled her tanks, but kept her satiated for longer periods than when she was with Pickton or Dahmer or Gacy because Harold held on, pushing his victims to the edges of death, then brought them back, repeatedly extending their torture (and Pandora’s rapture) until the very last filament that held them to life was snuffed, as if by a whisper. Pandora sensed his anxiety. It filled the chambers of his heart, the marrow of his fifty-two-year-old bones, his cartilage, his blood, the vitreous of his eyes. Pandora stroked him, letting the weight of her presence soothe what was left of his soul and thanked him for his service. She would stay with this one until the very end. I’m here, she conveyed.

            I’m not sorry, for anything, he imparted, and I don’t feel wrong about that.

            Pandora let him reflect while she poked around his memory so she, too, could relive those moments. She went back to the first, a young nurse walking home from a late shift with her nose in her phone. Harold followed her for six blocks, lurking behind bushes and fences and cars, until the woman entered a small clutch of trees along a shortcut between the sidewalk and an older residential area. Once she departed the reach of the streetlights, Harold sprang at her, clamping his hand over her mouth, and pulled her into the bushes. Barely an adult himself, Harold was not prepared for how viciously she fought and he sustained long scratches across his face and deep bite marks on his hands. She’d almost torn off his pinky finger when he finally knocked her out and carried her to his car for the long drive to his grandmother’s farmhouse in Hillsboro. There, in the quiet of the night, with his grandmother’s hearing aid on the night table as she slept, Harold dragged the woman to a disused pig barn. Then he woke the nurse and let his urges reign. The evening rejuvenated Pandora as would a relapsed addict. That first taste of death, long since overdue, fortified the deepest part of her being and she knew at once that she had chosen well with Harold. He wasn’t premature like many of the others and he faced no moral dilemma because darkness was already present in Harold long before Pandora had even reached him, perhaps since birth. This allowed her to fuse quickly and securely and she stayed with him, growing stronger with every kill, while Harold himself leaned into their interdependent companionship. Remember Barbara? Pandora asked him now. She almost got you, you know.

            A thin smile cracked Harold’s lips. He recalled his second, an older accountant out for an evening run. Harold hadn’t realized how fit the woman was until he she broke free from his hold, running like the devil down the empty streets of Fort Stockton’s industrial zone. He had the rusty taste of blood by the time he caught up with her, along with a dozen broken and bloody blisters and no less than five impressive gouges from clumsy jumps over stored equipment. He’d been purple as a grape when he squeezed through that last opening between a loader and the wall of a metal fabrication outfit, catching Barbara by her ponytail. She was a tough one, Harold agreed to Pandora. For a long while, they dwelled on their time together. Laughing, howling, arousing each other with thoughts of Stephen, Kristina, Paulina, Max, Teddy, Jonathan, Olga, Felicity, Dorothy, Elijah, and the others, they spent the hours this way until Harold was finally escorted to the cage for his strip-search. He removed his jumpsuit and let it fall to the floor while too many sets of eyes scoured his skin, his insides. Will you stay with me? Harold asked Pandora, feeling the first pangs of apprehension he’d really felt since his incarceration, not because his time had run out but because his time with Pandora had run out.

            I will, Pandora told him.

            Where will you go after me?

            This Pandora could not answer, for Harold was a rare breed. He was loyal and eager and never hesitated when given a command. Unlike others who fought her occupation, Harold welcomed Pandora’s presence and though she’d dabbled unenthusiastically with dozens of other potential hosts since his incarceration, she always found them lacking. She didn’t much care for the ones who acted mechanically, who didn’t enjoy their adventures together. It was like having an unappreciative lover, and while Pandora may have settled for such affairs in her early years, she now often longed for foreplay and those naughty after-moments where her hosts shared their often-unexpected delight. Harold was a good lover this way. She never had to ask with him. If anything, it was Harold who initiated their hunts, and their subsequent gloating. She would miss him. At last, she regarded the circle of apprehensive uniforms crowding her host and pushed outward, sending a small jolt through their shoes and up their feet. Instantly, a collective shriek rang out.

            “What the hell was that?” McMurty shrieked, skipping. The smallest of the six, he felt Pandora’s strike the most severely.

            Robinson, the longest serving guard at Polunsky, lifted each foot and inspected the bottom of his shoes. “Call the Warden and get someone to check the generators. Maybe the storm’s messed with the electrical.” McMurty hurried away.

            A crisp new prison uniform was given to Harold and he quickly covered his nakedness for his transport to the Wall. But before the cage door could open, Pandora flung herself upward. Bolts of light shattered the overhead fluorescents above the cage, beside the cage, down the hall, in every prisoner’s cell, bang, bang, bang, bang, until all lights were extinguished and they were thrust into darkness with only sparse patches of escaped sunlight. Sirens blared, men shouted, radios buzzed, footsteps retreated, advanced, fumbled about, the whole prison in a fury of panic. Through the commotion, Harold’s curiosity came soft and clear to Pandora. W-was that you? he asked.

            Pandora flexed herself again, nudging the guards, poking the prisoners, jabbing the Warden himself. Screams normally reserved for the men in the chamber now erupted violently here, there, inside the walls where free men and sentenced men shared a rare common experience. Alone in the cage, however, Harold was the only one untouched. Pandora now reached tenderly for him. I had to do something, she insisted, and that was enough for him for he knew that had she orchestrated his escape, his freedom would be short-lived and they would not hesitate to gun him down. After all Harold had done for her, she couldn’t let that happen. No. She could not. She would not let them take him the way they wanted. Instead, she wrapped herself around his heart and pressed her appreciation into him. Pandora coiled tight, tighter yet, more and more, until the steady beats of Harold’s heart faded softly away. She stayed like that for some time and when the lights finally came back on, she released Harold’s body to them. Then, lamenting their history, Pandora went to find a new host.

Small Wings and Great Things

December 14, 2020

I have a new short story for you today. Just something I whipped up this morning after reading about the inspiration behind “Carol of the Bells”. Composed by Mykola Leontovych with lyrics by Peter Wilhousky, the tale I read said the song is about a bird who flew into a house to tell everyone it was Christmas and that good things were awaiting them the following year. The song is so powerful, yet stems from a tiny bird’s excitement. It’s one of my favorite songs ever. Happy reading and stay safe.

“Small Wings and Great Things”

Small wings can do great things, his father once told him. Now, as Jimmy looked out over the sleeping city from his tree branch at the top of the hill, he took the last of his mother’s breakfast and readied himself for flight. It was the coldest day he had known; the kind of cold where roosters slept in and the townspeople stayed inside. Jimmy alone had seen the sleigh above. The midnight drops were quiet but still Jimmy saw and he had contented himself to wait until the children rose to see in their windows what had come but then Jimmy saw the bandits, too. From the east, from the south, lurked ten packs of figures with empty bags that soon would be full if Jimmy didn’t warn them. Through the grey light Jimmy watched the evil flocks separate toward chimneys and doors. His parents would forbid his mission so he told them he was cold and was going to get more filling for the nest. They would open presents when he returned.

Off Jimmy went. Out of the tree, down the hill, swooping over homes and roads, fast as a stealth, quiet as a seed. He went straight to the bell tower and pecked it with his beak. It didn’t ring. He went to the flagpole near the school and tried unfurling the limp material but it was too heavy. He ventured into a doghouse but the animal was too cold to be aroused. In the center of town, Jimmy went to a grand Christmas tree and batted the star off with his tail feathers. No one heard the crash. There was a scratching at many locks and a shuffling over many roofs. Jimmy chirped. The town slept. The robbers were almost in.

The little bird flew between houses, over fences, and under bridges looking for a solution. Breathless, he stopped near a trashcan and sobbed. He began to shiver with cold and regret, then the sound of claws against metal breached his small ears and Jimmy looked up to see a crow. The crow regarded him without interest and continued searching for his breakfast. Up went Jimmy’s head, as if shocked by inspiration. It was never too cold for crows. It was never too cold for pigeons. But Jimmy also knew that a crow could eat him.

With a last look at the larcenies in action, Jimmy gulped what could be his last breath and approached the crow.

Christmas trash was the best kind of trash, for as Jimmy spoke, the crow’s head popped up with a large biscuit in its mouth. Quickly, Jimmy pleaded with the larger bird and as the biscuit disappeared, Jimmy braced himself for attack. Instead, the bird flew off. A moment later, twelve crows were knocking the bell in its tower, eleven pigeons were raising eleven dogs, ten crossbills had noisily wrangled ten cats out of their own cans. Owls raised roofs, seagulls pecked doors, finches banged windows. Wings went down, beaks went in, tailfeathers swept and sounded and a great cawing louder than ten thousand roosters finally drew heads from beds. The lurkers stopped lurking and the creepers stopped creeping. The town, now wildly awake with birdsong and Christmas cheer, was saved.

Eventually, the birds retreated and Jimmy found the crow that had helped him. There was no biscuit in the bird’s mouth this time, but he soon had his Christmas meal.

Blunders and Bad Words

December 11, 2020

I’ve struggled a lot since the release of Redeemer. When the book got released a month early, I admit I had insomnia, heart burn, and a raging headache that Tylenol just wouldn’t abate. I worked hard to finish the last edit as soon as I could, spending 16 hour days at my computer so I could upload the revisions. This is not how it was supposed to be! I raged inside. As part of the release, I pre-scheduled a giveaway on Goodreads. Winners of this giveaway were supposed to receive the final version of the book but as Goodreads pulls manuscripts directly from Amazon, I was really at Amazon’s mercy. This upload, too, could not be changed so all 100 winners received the draft copy. (Shit.) Woe are the problems of itty bitty authors like me. This said, I am expecting a much smoother release for my current project next year, when I’ve taken my kicks and Amazon allows me to schedule a release like the pros do.

Reviews are starting to trickle in. Mistakes aside, the book has been received well, though one of the contest winners abhors the vulgarity in my book and doesn’t recommend it. Perhaps the burning church on the cover or the back cover copy which posits local horrors did not sufficiently explain what readers should expect? I wonder. Obviously, that reader is not my Ideal Reader. I know I have those because you write to me and encourage me along every single day. It’s for you that I write. The more books I publish, I know my writing will only improve. But no matter how many books I write, I’m committed to authenticity. As people do in real life, my characters will swear, they will make terrible decisions, they will have immoral thoughts and act in outrageous manners because, well, it’s really not so outrageous when you think of it. I only know of one person who would shout “fiddlesticks” if a hammer were to be dropped on her foot. People like me and my Ideal Readers, however, would spew a litany of profanities quicker than you could blink.

For my Ideal Readers who prefer the real stuff, you fucking rock. Read on!

Influencers Want My Wallet

November 30, 2020

The last few weeks have been wild. Since the unexpected early release of Redeemer, my self-publishing learning curve sped from a nice and slow incline to a rampant propulsion that I was not entirely prepared for. After many sleepless nights and a keen editing team, however, I’m comfortable with the changes that have been made post-release. One of the biggest benefits of self-publishing is that changes can be made quickly, whereas traditionally published authors have to contend with the molasses-slow pace of their publishing houses. Of course, because they already have an experienced team backing them, they generally have less to correct. But when they do, it can take years, if the changes ever get made at all. Such is life.

So far, Redeemer has been received quite well. I managed to outpace several best-selling authors during my first week, which is the best I could have hoped for. I had over 400 readers request my book on Goodreads last week, which is great for a first-timer like me, and I’ve had sales across the globe. I have this incredible network of people that are supporting me and for that I couldn’t be more thankful. Now, however, I’m still waiting on my first Amazon review. They are absolutely vital for authors and while I can’t expect everyone to read my work in a day, or two, or ten, I admit I am biting my nails a bit over this. Time will tell. I have also been approached by more than a few influencers who want to review my book … for a price. While I realize that this is the way of the world these days, I also feel that if I have to pay someone to review my book, that the feedback might be less accurate than if the review was given organically. I know these options are there. If I open my wallet, I can literally pay for reviews from small book clubs all the way up to powerhouse authorities and influencers with millions of followers. But I am new and I am only me with a limited budget. Though sales and reviews are necessary, my priority will always be the quality of my writing. Who would want to read my work if I’m terrible at it? My hope is that my reach will organically grow because my work is worthy of recommendation. Yes, I will eventually run ads. Who knows, I may eventually pay an influencer, but not now. I want my feedback to be natural and accurate.

In other news, I’m already a third into a new book I’m writing and this one is progressing even better than Redeemer. I find the more I write, the easier it gets and the more smooth my writing is. I suppose this is the same with all tasks. With the pace I’m at, this book, tentatively titled Interference, will be finished in March, with a publication in late summer. Stay tuned, Dear Readers, and thanks for sticking with me.

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“Little Island, New Man”

November 23, 2020

New story for you today. Enjoy Dear Readers!

“Little Island, New Man”

A terrible year had led him to this place. Social distortion, financial wreckage, and the assault of opinions bankrupted the entirety of him and so here he stood on the riverbank, looking at the boat he hadn’t rowed since he was a teenager. He removed his phone from his pocket and buried it in the sand then stepped onto the old wood and sat, listening to it creak. Then John flexed his fingers around the oars and looked out at the city one last time, wondering how its failures had been tolerated so long. The boat split the water as he set off. As he rowed, John reflected with regret that he had been with them, recklessly pushing for more of everything until he what he got was never enough and discontent bloomed like poison in his soul.

Navigating a bend in the water, John’s eyes swung to the trees, now taller and more abundant, and felt a loosening inside him. His lungs swelled with clean air, his ears filled with bird chatter, and scents of pine and lake water drew up his nose until John felt his eyes began to tingle. He wiped the tears from his cheeks and removed his shoes, then threw them in the water. His socks, too, went in. And his watch. And his belt. And the jacket he’d gotten for two decades of loyalty to the company that just fired him. He watched the water devour his old self and continued for a long while until he came to the little island that he used to know.

John approached slowly, observing the water-smoothed rocks and isolation-dense trees with a fondness that rose through him and filled those spaces that the city emptied. He sighed and pulled his boat onshore. Even the sand was better here. This sand would not ask anything of him, would not drain what could not be drained. This was a filling sand and so John squished his toes deep inside and let it fortify his fragilities, then he left the shore to look for the cottage.

He found the path swept and the nearby bushes trimmed back. He found the front porch neat and the windows washed. The first sparks of fire glittered from the fireplace and as John pushed his key into the door, it fell open to a room full of people.

Aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, former neighbours, old lovers, and recent coworkers sat on kitchen chairs, rested on the living room couch, laid on the floor, leaned against walls. Grandmothers knitted quietly, grandfathers read books, and children he did not know played games he hadn’t owned.  In the far end of the small room was his own mother stirring a pot of soup. “We knew you’d come eventually,” she said simply.

John considered the escapees’ faces, saw the contentment that was missing from the city, and wished he’d been fired sooner.

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The Haunting of the Letter L

November 19, 2020

The release of Redeemer last week has taken me through so many emotions. As a first-timer, the experience is quite wild. One minute you’re breathing into a paper bag because things don’t go as expected. Then you’re blasting your release everywhere you can because you have to roll with the situation. Then you’re catastrophizing the reception when you find at least 3 (My God, 3!) errors post-print and end up insomniac, over-thinking, beside your snoring husband.

Writing is therapeutic for me, so here I am, after another terrible sleep, releasing my demons.

I’m part of a 10,000-strong author’s community where we trade everything from advice to encouragement to ideas on plot and design. So I knew that mistakes would be inevitable. While this is more prevalent with self-published work, traditionally published work is absolutely not immune, even with the power behind them. Redeemer had been edited many times. It had many sets of eyes on it, with many different perspectives. And even with the eyes and even with three different writing programs and grammar checkers … I missed an “L”. (Gasp! Say it isn’t so!) I won’t tell you where this is or which word it’s in, and it is by no means the smallest mistake in the book (there is another one where I wrote the same thing twice in the same sentence), it’s that tiny little L that made me question everything. The pitch-forked guy on my shoulder had me questioning why I ever began writing in the first place. I regretted releasing the book. I regretted telling people about the book. I regretted even starting the book. All over a little L.

While I know this is a little ridiculous, I also know that moments like these are part of the learning experience and that the newbie like me has to figure out how to move on. I am. But with Band-Aids. Overall, Redeemer is selling incredibly well so far, so I have to just sit back and wait for the reviews.

On a brighter note, I’m almost a third into another novel. If all goes well, I’ll be done writing it by March. Since it will be the second novel I’ll publish, I’m sure the process will go much more smoothly. This time, I should be able to actually get a proof copy in time and, fingers-crossed, Amazon won’t release it before I’m ready.

Stay tuned, Dear Readers. (And please ignore the L’s.)

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Frantic Panic

My book released yesterday— a month early. The planner that I am, I had a month of advertising and promotion and a neat little Gantt chart I created to keep me organized. I uploaded the print file to Amazon a few days ago to ensure I would have time to proof it before the December release and BAM! it went live. Zero opportunity to get my author copy. Zero opportunity to mark the crap out of the book. Zero opportunity to retract the book. (Amazon’s rules for first-time authors do not favor the author.) So after a mini-heart attack, 10 a.m. wine, and consolation from fellow authors, I’ve come to accept that it is what it is. Panic attack aside, I know that things happen for a reason.

Then a funny thing happened. The catastrophizer in me was prepared for the worst, but I sold so many books yesterday that my head is still spinning. It’s really not about sales, it never will be. It has always been and will always be about readers. The first reason for this is because, honestly, authors generally do not make a lot of money. Self-published authors, like me, have it even worse. We pay for everything: editing, formatting, design, distribution, advertising, the list goes on. We need to sell thousands of books to make a profit. While this is possible for me, I’m not relying on it. I will keep writing other books with the hopes that, eventually, I’ll make it. (Whatever it is.) The second reason is that even if we sell a lot of books, our work only lives in the minds of readers. Our words literally depend on readers. Our work cannot survive without them.

With strong sales on Day 1, my mind is now lurking in those dark places where reviews live and we’ll see if I, as a writer, survive that. Thanks to my readers all around the world. I hope that through you my words live a little longer. Keep reading and stay tuned!

[image error]Me, but with nicer boobs.

Author Panties

Yikes! Redeemer will officially be released on December 10. Generally, I’m exited about this but it also means a month of nail-biting and insomnia as I catastrophize the novel’s reception. Most days, I’m satisfied with the work I’ve put in. Sixteen years of practice on other novels, six months of writing this particular book, two months of editing, and a month of formatting should work be good enough, no? Well, the short answer is no. There’s also distribution and advertising and getting the most coveted prize … good (5 star) reviews. In all, the process is exhausting. It keeps me up at night. It occupies my mind during the day. The experienced part of me is ready for all of it, but the self-conscious part of me is terrified. What will people think? How will the novel be received? Without a doubt, I know I already have a core group of dedicated readers and fans. Whether they know it or not, they keep me going and they won’t be the people that will burn the book if, say, on page 167 they find a typo or Father Pauliuk accidentally becomes Father Paul. Even with all the eyes, even with all the editing, I’m sure people may find an extra space or a missing s, and though errors like these can be quickly rectified for subsequent editions, it’s the pointers and the squishers and the laughers that concern me. I just don’t have the constitution for it. (A necessary requirement for writers, I’m afraid.) I have developed thick skin over the years, but I’ve recently read terrible reviews for other authors (no one is immune) that made me cringe. Some were legitimate, but for others the malicious intent was obvious. Sadly, there are a handful of sites where this propensity is greater than others. After chatting with an author friend this week, I’ve decided to put on my big girl panties (bigger as I age … haha. … er … ahem), and face my demons with a little bit of grit and the help of my husband, who is going to sort the feedback for me. And when all else fails, there’s always wine. Keep reading, Dear Readers, and stay tuned.

[image error]For the record, this is not a picture of me. I would be wearing yoga pants and there would be a cat at my feet.

Baby Behemoth – In Training

October 22, 20202

Yesterday was ugly. I began formatting the book for print, which is actually quite an intensive process. I thought…phssst….I can do this, no problem. I thought my marketing background would serve me well, but the truth is, I was beyond exhausted after sorting through too much information, from too many sources. My headache began at 9:00 a.m., and never left until this morning. Traditionally-published writers don’t have to worry about things like this because their publishing houses take care of it for them. Let me tell you; after the writing is done, the ugly and tedious work begins and it is absolutely not fun. Not. At. All. And I’m only talking about the file set-up here. As for the editing? I’ve grown to love editing over the years. Fifteen years ago, I hated it but today it’s actually something I quite enjoy. This said, I’m finding that the more I read literary classics, the more I find fault in my work. I’m a true believer that your output is only as good as your input. So I read the classics, hoping to imbue at least a tiny amount of the talent of the literary behemoths into my work. For this reason, I believe I’m a better writer today than I was the day before, and the day before that, but now when I start to edit, I’m keenly aware that I’m no Bradbury or Steinbeck or Irving. Maybe one day, but for now, I have to give myself a little pep talk every day, reassuring myself that weakness in my writing will slowly, slowly…slowly fade. I’ve gone through a significant edit on Redeemer, I have 5 pairs of eyes on it and I will be overhauling it a few more times yet, knowing that I could spend years on the project and never write anything else. And it still wouldn’t be good enough. Twenty years from now, I wonder if I will feel the same. Possibly, but possibly I’ll also be thankful that my younger self kept going.

On a lighter note, my e-book and print covers are out for (professional) design and I’ll share those with you once I receive them. In the meantime, keep reading and thanks for sticking with me. Cheers, Dear Readers.

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