Renee Miller's Blog, page 9

Shit to Look Forward to…

Or, I suppose I could’ve titled this “Coming Soon” but where’s the fun in that? Anyway, I’ve finished the first draft of Fangs and Fur book 3. It’s supposed to be the final, but as I typed the last few pages, I realized I left a few trails that would allow me to write spin-offs for favorite characters. Crafty bitch, I know.

While I let what I’ve done to that poor, poor book marinate, I’m preparing a funny little crime/absurdist thing for publication. Once upon a time, it was called Whackadoodle, but I worried, as did beta readers, that folks might think it’s not offensive (it could be) or that it’s young person friendly. (It’s not.) So, it’s been re-titled, “Mind Fuck” Of course, the u and the c will be symbols of some kind, because people hate the word “Fuck.” Obviously. Already have the cover planned and all that fun stuff. Look at me being prepared!

Thought I’d share the blurb, or the blurb I have so far. So here:

Someone is killing the nutters. Four deaths in as many months isn’t anything new for Detective Milo Smalls, but these corpses have too many similarities. Milo barely scratches the surface of the investigation before his boss, Captain Cunt (Captain Maines in the office) orders Milo to take a break. Get some psychiatric help, she says.

Milo doesn’t think his shit is a problem. So he’s a little neurotic. He likes order and mistrusts anything that isn’t divisible by three. So he writes everything down and what’s so bad about liking things to match? So he chews his food well, (no less than three times) but not too well (nine chews is sufficient).  So he doesn’t trust pencils and maybe one time he showered his partner with bleach. Whatever. Asshole had it coming.

Milo’s rickety journey toward sanity soon reveals who’s killing the crazies. Except Milo has no proof, the killer knows he’s getting close, and Milo’s next.

There are other goodies in the works, but I won’t share them just yet. In honor of a friend who passed away recently, I’m going to play around with something we’d discussed from time to time. It’s dark, very dark, but with humor. I think it’s got some teeth, but we’ll see how the outlining goes before I get too excited.

While you’re all waiting (and I can tell you’re so very excited about the shit I’m doing), why not check out my latest book, MUSE, which is 99 cents for just a couple of days.

Is it Spring Yet?

 

Spring is almost here. Sure, there’s still a shit ton of snow outside, and just this week, it was minus bullshit outside. But I can FEEL it coming. I hate winter. When I say that, a lot of people are all “Well no one’s making you live in Canada.” Fuck you guys. My bank account is making me live here, so piss off.

Anyway, I find writing difficult when I’m moody, and around February-March, my mood swings are terrifying. So, not a lot gets done. It’s dark when I get up, it’s dark when I go to bed, sometimes it’s dark and gloomy all fucking day. It’s wet and cold and there’s ice everywhere. I spend hours on Netflix, on Facebook, or just napping, because even if I liked going outside (which I don’t) why the fuck would I? However, I feel the itch starting, the mood improving, and I’m thinking there’s going to be a lot of writing happening very soon. That’s a good thing too. I still have the final installment of Fangs and Fur to finish. It’s almost half done. See?

For the Love of Gods book 5 needs writing as well (it’s barely started) and I have my NaNoWriMo novel to think about. Should I traditionally publish or self-publish? I always have this discussion with myself. I send a couple of queries as I try to decide, and in the end, we all know what happens.

One good thing to come out of February this year is I tried my hand at erotic horror. It’s a very interesting genre, and not as easy as I thought it would be to write. However, I love that it forces me outside of my comfort zone. After finishing a couple of stories, I submitted them to an anthology. One was psychological, no gore or guts or obvious gross, while the other was full on cringe-worthy shit. Think severed hand in your what-nots gross. Yeah. Anyway, I figured if they liked any of what I submitted, it’d be the subtle horror, but no. They liked the over the top one. I’ve made the short list, which means I have to wait a few more weeks to find out if they’re going to use it in the anthology. I’ll keep you posted.

So all of this procrastinating and missing the warm, sunny weather made me think, I haven’t done much marketing this winter. Why not have a big spring sale on all my titles? Well, I didn’t plan so well, so I can’t give you discount prices on all of my book, but there are several I’ve marked down to just 99 cents.

Starting March 5th, (that’s Saturday) the titles below are just 99 cents until March 12th (the following Saturday). In addition to that, I’ve put my short story collection, Sweet Revenge, on a free promotion from March 5th to 9th.

99 CENTS!!

 

… AND DON’T FORGET THE FREEBIE!!

So, get in on the cheap shit and bring on the spring. Now, I have to prepare for my House of Cards marathon.

 

 

A is for Anus

Because I don’t have enough fun here on the Edge, I join author, Katrina Monroe over on Brazen Bullshit for some shits and giggles. Check out the first in a series of shorts in which we take offensive terms/themes and turn them into humor, alphabetically, or something. I’m first with Milo Smalls and the Case of the Stolen Anuses.

Brazen Bull(Shit)

Brazen has gotten a wee bit of a make-over. Don’t bother looking. It’s SECRET.

To celebrate, Renee and Katrina have decided to bring special offense to our readers, and what better way than in alphabetical order? Renee starts us off with the letter A in her story, Milo Smalls and the Case of the Stolen Anuses.

Hold onto your butts, people.

MILO SMALLS AND THE CASE OF THE STOLEN ANUSES

Ozzie scanned the room as the waitress set his drink on the table. He watched the people milling at the front of the bar. Finally, Buggy entered, waved to Ozzie, and then made his way to the table. Behind him, a dark figure followed.

“Hey,” Buggy said, pushing his glasses up his nose. Ozzie noticed he was walking funny, like he had hemorrhoids or something. “This is Pan.”

“Fuck-my-nuts. Mm…” Ozzie took a breath. He always lost control of…

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Gender, Genre and Style: Part 3: Results Time!

As those of you that participated in this week’s little experiment know, I’ve been conducting a very unscientific experiment here on the Edge, where I asked several authors to write a scene based on a prompt. Each writer had the same prompt and word limit, and I published the excerpts without names or any hints as to the gender of the authors.

 

The Prompt: Write a scene between two people involving an inanimate object no bigger than your computer screen. Must be in first person.

Word limit: 500 words.

So it’s results time. Some of you cast votes via Facebook, so I’ve included those with the results posted here on the Edge. The authors of Part 1 and Part 2’s scenes are as follows:

Part 1:

Scene 1: Tony Bertauski (male) Tony had 4 votes for female, and just 2 for male. Tony’s object: Eyeball

Scene 2: S.M. Carriere (female) S.M. had 3 votes for female, and 4 votes for male. S.M.’s object: Art (old computer screen with paint splatters)

Scene 3: Mike Keyton (male) Mike also had 3 votes for female and 4 for male. Mike’s object: Brass eyepieces.

Scene 4: A.F. Stewart (female) A.F. also had 3 votes female, and 4 for male. A.F.’s object: A book.

Scene 5: Steve Wetherell (male) Steve had an even split; 3 votes male, 3 votes female. Steve’s object: a dead dog

Scene 6: Me (female) And me, well 5 of you guessed I was female, and just 2 voted male. My object: Sex toy

Apparently, I can’t fool anyone, because all but 2 of you guessed I was a girl, and a few messaged me privately to confirm I did indeed write scene 6. Either I’ve really honed my voice, or you’re all psychic.

Part 2:

Scene 1: Tammy E. A. Crosby (female) 4 guessed that Tammy was female, and just 2 guessed male. Tammy’s object: a mostly dead horrific creature

Scene 2: Mark Morris (male) Mark was the same, with 4 votes for female, and 2 for male. Mark’s object: A chocolate bar

Scene 3: Katrina Monroe (female) Katrina fooled almost all of you with 1 vote for female and 5 for male. Katrina’s object: Mother’s pillow feather

Scene 4: Will Swardstrom (male) Will had and even split; 3 votes female and 3 votes male. Will’s object: an urn

Scene 5: Hanna Elizabeth (female) Hanna also had an even split of 3 and 3. Hanna’s object: a photo

Scene 6: Christian Saunders (male) Only 2 of you guessed that Christian was male, while 4 guessed him to be female. Christian’s object: Cannibalistic serial killer’s fork

In this one, I was surprised to see most of you thought Katrina Monroe was a guy. Only one person guessed her gender correctly.

What I find really interesting is that when I tally the “votes” almost everyone was right about 50% of the time. Of course, that also means you were wrong 50% of the time. Only a handful managed 65% correct, but no one scored higher than that. Both guys and gals had similar results, and we were no more successful at identifying authors of our own gender than those of opposite genders. By that I mean, we misidentified our own gender as often as we misidentified the opposite gender.

This isn’t a huge survey, so it’s not exactly “conclusive”, but I’d say it’s damn hard to determine gender based on a sample of writing. Perhaps a longer work, like a novel, would give a reader more clues, but I doubt it. Why?

I’ll tell you more during over at Underground Book Reviews very soon.

For now, the winner of the $10 gift card is…. Janet. I’ll email you Janet to get the details I need to send your card. Congrats and thanks to everyone that participated.

I’m curious to know what you all think about the results. Also, do you believe gender influences what or how you write?

Gender, Genre and Style: Do Your Genitals Determine What You Write? (Part 2)

Yesterday, we talked about the whole genre and gender thing, and how some people believe that men and women write differently enough for us to guess which gender penned a particular piece of writing.

I know, I’m all, “Bullshit” but the results so far are interesting. I asked a group of writers to write a scene based on the same criteria. They could write whatever they liked in any genre, and came up with some entertaining bits. If you haven’t read yesterday’s post for the full details, here you go. 

Don’t forget to give me your guesses for yesterday’s scenes as well.

Now, today we continue the experiment, with the final batch of anonymous writing samples. In the comments, share your “guesses.” Was the passage written by a man or a woman? Doesn’t matter why you believe what you do. If it’s gut, then so be it. If you’re basing it on word choices, genre, or other elements, that’s okay. I don’t require an explanation if you don’t have one or don’t want to give one.

 

So, the last batch of scenes:

Scene 1: Don’t Feed the Animals (No genre)

James poked at the dead thing only to have his stick slide through it. He pulled it back and a foul smelling golden slime oozed out.

“Dude what the fuck IS it?” I asked.

He covered his nose at the stench and mumbled, “No idea, I can’t tell what kind of animal it is let alone what the fuck the goo is from. How can something so small hold so much?” We stared at the large puddle on the forest floor. The stuff was fucking weird.

We glanced around as though we might find a clue but there wasn’t even a track in the mud. Nothing to be seen, no answers to be found.

“You think we should take it to the park warden?” I asked while I picked the thing up by what I assumed was a tail.

“If you want. Damn thing gives me the fucking creeps.” He stirred the slime around and watched as it seeped itself back together again. He spit his gum into it and watched as it sunk until it disappeared.

I wrapped a bandana around my face to cut the smell. “Well at least we found it early on, I mean we can’t be more than three or four miles in. We’ll throw it in the back of the truck and head to the game office.” I picked up my walking stick and started to head back the way we’d come. James cut in front of me to take the lead, lest he step in the slime that was still dripping from the dead thing.

“Dude watch my boots! My mom will bust my ass if I come home slimy.” He said.

“You mean slimier.” I joked.  James grinned and we continued on.

What we didn’t see was that behind us the pool of slime had now formed into a ball. We didn’t see it start to slowly move and begin to track us from drip to drip. We didn’t know that it would turn out that the creature I carried was only mostly dead. What we didn’t know – was definitely going to kill us.

 

 

Scene 2: Erotica/Chick Lit

Donna turns toward me. Her eyes widen and she reaches forward.

“No. It’s mine. You’ve already had your share.” I pull it toward me, closing my hand over it.

“Bitch.”

“Mmmmmph.” I push it into my mouth, my lips closing onto it.

“Don’t chew.  I want it after you.”

Closing my eyes, I deep-throat it, ignoring my friend’s comment. The chocolate begins to dissolve and I start to drift away, savouring its intensity. It’s a 90% cocoa-solid bar and its bitter taste etches its way up and back into my mouth, my taste-buds rippling as the flavour reaches them. Pulling back, I drag it further out again, the chocolate’s bright aromas bursting into full presence as it slides along my tongue.

“I didn’t hog it like that. I only just licked the tip and swirled it around a bit.”

Opening my eyes, I smile at her, slack-faced and blissed.

“Mmmmmph,” I moan, fluttering my eyelids as though I was about lose control.

“Cow. I don’t think I’d want it back now, the way you’ve been trying to stir your breakfast with it.”

“It’s your loss,” I mumble, knowing she’ll struggle to understand a word of what I’m saying.

“It’s not like you’re on a diet or anything,” Donna shakes her head, her lips parting in a cruel grin. “And you’ve never had any problems getting into last season’s dresses, have you?”

The mangled tip of the bar comes out of my mouth with a soft plop.

“You’re the bitch. That’s such a low blow. And to think I call you my friend.”

“I knew I’d get you to part with it. One way or another.” Picking the bar up, she raises her eyebrows, indicating the tooth marks I’d left on its length. “It’s a good job I’m not your man, isn’t it? You must get through a lot of fuck-buddies that way, emasculating them like that. Luckily for me, my major appendages are all replaceable.”

“What can I say? I’ve never had any complaints yet!”

 

Scene 3:   Compulsion (Noir)

I can’t stop touching it.

“Are you okay?” She asks.

She’s Autumn Vanderlay, consort to the Vacuum King of the Midwest. All lips and lashes, she pouts and bats from across my desk. In her mind, it’s all business, but her face has other ideas. Operation: Flirt.

It only makes it worse.

I keep my hands in my lap and my chair as close to the desk as possible. Even if she were to lean forward, she’d get an eye-full of nothing. Not that she’s looking. It’s the King who’s got a wandering eye.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

We’ve gone through the beginning already over the phone, but I want to get her talking. I can’t stand silence and the thought of coming up with a line of questioning while my hands…

I bite my lip and force myself to keep eye contact with the woman. Thinking about it will only make the need grow. Even though it’s so close, and I could probably get away with it if—

“Did you hear me?”

I blink a few times and nod. “Of course, Mrs. Vanderlay. The bastard had the gall to come home with a blob of lipstick on his jockeys.”

She sniffs. “Thinks I wouldn’t notice. I’m not a bad wife, you know. I just get so bored.”

The tone of her voice sharpens with each new transgression and it’s all I can do to keep from flipping the desk just for a distraction.

“Mrs. Vanderlay—”

“Miss. Might as well start getting used to it. Not that I’m going to give up the name, mind you. I worked for it. It’s the missus that’ll have to go.”

I ask for recent photographs, license plate number… anything she can give me to lessen my leg work. Cases like this, they’ve already got a file started, ready to hand over in all their self-righteous anger. What Mrs. Vanderlay wants—what they all want—is the big a-ha! The illicit photographs of one Miss Skankmonkey with the Vacuum King’s hose in her mouth.

Mrs. Soon-to-be-Miss Vanderlay hefts a manila folder as thick as the King James onto the desk and begins a blow-by-blow: each entry marked with date, time, and degree of suspicion. Color-coded for ease of use. As she talks (and talks) my hand twitches, Frankensteining itself a brain and will of its own and before my mind can catch on, it’s too late.

I stroke and rub with a ferocity that’s new and terrifying. It doesn’t take long for Mrs. Vanderlay to notice. Her eyebrows raise and her mouth twists in mock-disgust.

I’m past apologies. I match her stare until she slams the folder closed.

“I’m not paying you for that last twenty minutes,” she says before sashaying on chipped red pumps out the door.

The catalyst gone, my stroking eases and I withdraw the cursed object—a bent, matted feather plucked from Mom’s down pillow some twenty years before. Sometimes, when my brain is fried and the world sits on my kidneys, I need to touch it. The good doctor calls it a compulsion, brought on by anxiety.

He’s not wrong. This job gets to me sometimes.

I really ought to start keeping the thing in a drawer.

 

Scene 4: Humor

The funeral home is cold and quiet. I suppose that’s on purpose – no one expects a circus clown on the day their grandmother moves on from this world. Even so, Dad and I are silent in the back room. Well…mostly.

“Is that really him?” Dad asks.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there when they put him through the incinerator. For all I know it could be a pile of dirt from out back.”

He scowls at me, and I grin back. We had a witty repartee and simply standing in the funeral home couldn’t change that.

“Sorry Lindsey. I just…I can’t believe he’s gone. Buck. My own brother.”

We’ll pause here for a second. Yes…he is…was my Uncle Buck. Just like that 80’s movie with John Candy, except Buck was a thin, grouch of a man. Dad is upset of course, but the rest of my family is secretly relieved. Buck could grate on even the best of us.

“I know Dad. Just take your time.” I turn away and find a pamphlet. I pick it up – something about funeral insurance. Whatever that is.

“But…you know what this reminds me of…”

I turn back to my father. His face is a mix of emotions, but I can tell what’s coming. I know he can’t hold it in.

“Dad…don’t do it.”

I see him hesitate, but the urge is rising. I can tell.

“Please, Dad.”

Nothing I say can make a difference. My father cannot let the opportunity pass. It does not matter that we are in the inner sanctum of a funeral home, standing over his brother’s ashes. There is a pun to be had, and he will grasp it with both hands and run.

His face cracks and his lips turn up. I know and I cringe.

“I guess today I urned a Buck.”

 

Scene 5: The Photograph (No Genre)

“What ya got there, Marty?” Elaine asked, as if I’m some three year old who might swallow a small toy.

“None of your goddamned business.” I say in my most unfriendly voice. It used to scare people, my voice, but now I can’t get out of this damned chair, let alone put the fear of Marty in someone.

Elaine clucks her tongue; her cheeks are fire engine red as she takes the sheets off my bed. She’s a religious nut and my one pleasure in life is to make her mad and there ain’t no better way to do that then to take the lords name in vain.

“There’s going to be bingo down in the cafeteria tonight after dinner.” She offers, as she stretches the fitted sheet across the crinkly plastic covering the mattress.

I ignore her. I’m focused on what I have in my hand. It’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got. Helen was the lucky one, dying in her tomato patch all those years ago. She was religious too, but not a fanatic like Elaine. Elaine goes to one of those Mega-take-your-last-dime-churches and then tells everyone, like it’s a big deal. Hell, I shoulda’ been a preacher, I had the voice for it. Maybe I would’ve ended up someplace better than here.

Elaine’s finished making the bed and is fluffing the pillows, which irritates me. “I don’t know why you gotta do that. It’s not like they ever lose their shape.”

“Just doing my job, Marty.”

“Well, go do it someplace else, ya hussy.”

That last bit gets her and she stares daggers at me. I stare back until she breaks eye contact. She gathers the dirty sheets and leaves.

I flip the picture over, wishing I was with Helen. I’m stuck here without the use of my legs, without so much as a shred of dignity. The shadows on the floor lengthen and pool in corners. It will be dinnertime soon.

Heavy footfalls sound in the hall and I tuck the picture in my shirt pocket.

A knock on the door-frame is all I get before my son waltzes in. “I hear you’ve been making girls cry again.” He flops down in the chair across from me. Dark circles stand out against his too pale skin.

I wave his comment away like I’m swatting at a fly. “She’s too sensitive.”

Daniel sighs, “They’re threatening to kick you out. Again.”

Figures that’s the only reason he’d come. “Let ‘em try.”

“Dad, we’ve been through this. This is the last nursing home in our area. You’ve burned through the rest.”

“Fine. I’ll be nicer.”

Daniel makes small talk, then leaves, but not before he tells me he loves me and reminds me to be nice. Dinner is salisbury steak with instant potatoes—my favorite. Later, as I’m lying in bed, I pull the picture out of my pocket. Pain lances through my chest and down my arm, but I refuse to cry out. “I’ll be seeing you soon, my love.” I whisper.

 

Scene 6: Dark Humor

“Not very big, is it?” Mark said.

The opportunity for a wicked retort was there, but I grudgingly passed on it. That would be distasteful. Instead, I opted for, “You know what they say about the best things…”

“Coming in small packages?”

“Something like that.”

He gently shook the tiny, gift-wrapped box and, bizarrely, sniffed at it.

“What does it smell like?”

“Nothing. Paper.”

“Open it.”

He didn’t need to be asked a second time, and quickly set about tearing the wrapping paper off his special gift. I watched as the contents of the parcel were exposed and excitement turned to confusion, and was that just a hint of disappointment?

“It’s a fork.”

“It sure is.”

Mark was frowning now. “You got me a fork for my birthday? Not even a full set, just a single fork?”

“Right.”

“And it looks old.”

“Definitely not new.” This was the part I’d been looking forward to the most. Seeing Mark try to piece the puzzle together. He turned the fork over and over in his hands, looking for markings, trying to guess the significance. I should give him a clue. “Russia, 1978-1990?”

The was a spark of understanding. Then it melted away. “I don’t…”

“I know you don’t. Not yet. How about another clue?”

“Give it to me.”

“Fifty-two confirmed kills. The real figure was probably a lot higher.”

“Chikatilo? Andrei Chikatilo? The Butcher of Rostov?”

“There it is,” I felt my face redden slightly. “That’s one of his forks. Obviously, there’s no way of knowing whether he used that particular implement to eat any of his victims, but it came from his house and considering the general lack of kitchen utensils, there’s a high chance.”

“Fuck! This is the best gift EVER! Chikatilo is, like, my favourite serial killer. I like him more than Dahmers, more than Gein. Even more than Pedro Lopez! Even though I always felt kinda sorry for that guy. Despite raping and killing over 300 little girls, he never really got the credit he deserved. They did let him go, though, which is something. If he’d been born on American soil they would have neutralized his ass. Where the hell did you get it?”

“Some trading site on the Dark web,” I said. Being a cop, I had access to a lot of resources. More importantly, I knew how to use them.

“You are the best mom ever!”

“Thank you, hun.” There was no greater feeling than making your only kid happy. “I’m going to put dinner on. Pork medallions and peas. Maybe you can use your new fork.”

 

That’s it for the second part, folks. I’ll leave you all to ponder and debate for a few days, and I’ll post a big reveal early next week. In mid-February, I’ll share my thoughts on the results and I welcome discussion about them over at Underground Book Reviews.

PS: Everyone who takes a stab at it is eligible for the $10 Amazon card, including those of you that emailed me or commented on Facebook.

Thanks for playing along!

Gender, Genre and Style: Do Your Genitals Determine What You Write? (Part 1)

Some of you see this title and you’re all:

I don’t typically play the gender card. Actually, I usually refuse to acknowledge gender at all. It’s a hot button discussion that has few winners and tends to crumble into messy, uncomfortable feelings.

However, I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, so I thought, let’s do some research. No right or wrong answers. Let’s just look at this and see if there’s any substance to the claims that men write differently than women. Yes? Cool.

It’s no secret that the romance genre is dominated by females (unless there are a shit ton of men using pen names out there). Even in the indie world, most romance authors are women. Why? Some believe it’s because the ladies like the feels, and romance is all about feels. True? Possibly.

It’s also no secret that Science Fiction is a male dominated genre that seems depressingly full of dicks (pun intended). Is this genre more balanced in the indie world than the traditional one? I can’t find hard data to answer that question. Certainly, more women seem to be self-publishing in the sci-fi genre than are getting published by publishers. If I find some cold hard facts on this one, I will update you at a later date.

While it’s a couple years old, this article does shed some light on the male/female stats in speculative fiction (based on Tor’s figures anyway) when it comes to the submissions inbox. Are we women not submitting because we’re not writing those genres? I don’t think so.

Many feel that acquisitions editors and readers are biased when it comes to the books they prefer, choosing one gender over another, regardless of the quality of writing involved. I wondered, how do they know if the person they’re reading is male or female. Sure, there’s a name on the book, but with so many pen names and gender neutral names out there, how is it possible for them to know who wrote what they’re reading? Maybe they have enjoyed a space opera penned by a woman, or a romance spun by a man.

But you can tell the difference they say…

Can you really?

There have been extensive studies into the stylistic differences between authors, using what is called Stylometry. Read more about that here. This method has been applied to the differences between male and female writers as well, with some interesting conclusions.

I’ve encountered many readers who believe you can determine gender based on the emotion in the narrative. For example, female writers tend to writers tend to hone in on reaction and motivation, while male writers highlight atmosphere and tone instead.

Some believe you can determine gender based on genre. For example, the ladies like to write romance, while most “decent” sci-fi and horror is written by men. (Hey, I’m not saying this is true. These are the assumptions made out there in the reading world. Don’t shoot the messenger.)

Another “stereotype” I’ve heard is that men tend to write fast-paced, action-packed tales, while us girls prefer to add some backstory, so we tend to slow it down a little in comparison. Men focus on plot focusing on the what, where and when, while the women are all about the how and why of everything. The fairer sex is also believed to be more interactive in our style, while dudes are more impersonal, because they’re all about conveying specific details. Screw the feels.

Hmm.

I decided we should conduct an experiment. It’s entirely unscientific, of course, because I’m not sciency. New word. Enjoy it.

Today (Wednesday February 3, 2016) and tomorrow (Thursday, February 4), I will post a handful of short scenes. They’re around 500 words or less, so they take just a minute or two to read. I want you guys to tell me if each scene was written by a man or a woman. Don’t worry about being right or wrong. Just go with your gut.

At the end of the experiment, I’ll let you know how you did when I post the results (and some discussion, of course) on . If you all guess correctly, then I suppose it really is possible to determine gender based on writing style. If you’re wrong, then I’m right, and you can’t. There are no tricks here. I asked the authors to write a scene based on specific criteria. That was:

Write a scene between two people involving an inanimate object no bigger than your computer screen. Must be in first person.

Word limit: 500 words or less.

I’m investigating the assumption that one can determine gender of an author based solely on writing style, character, word choice and genre. Another interesting by-product of this little adventure may be to see if you can recognize a favorite author’s writing based on style and voice, but that’s just a little bonus.

Participating authors (in no particular order) are:

S.M. Carriere

Mark Morris

Tony Bertauski

Will Swardstrom

Katrina Monroe

Michael Keyton

Steve Wetherell

A.F. Stewart

Christian Saunders

Tammy E. A. Crosby

Hanna Elizabeth

And, of course, me.

If one of your favorite authors is in there, see if you can ferret him/her out of the bunch.

Some scenes will have a title and genre. Some won’t. All will be anonymous until later this week, when I reveal who’s who.

Cool?

Oh, and anyone who votes on these is entered in a draw to receive a $10 Amazon gift card. I’m only giving one of those away, because I’m a writer and funds are limited. (winky face)

Here goes:

Scene 1: Genre: Humor

“What is it?”

“I don’t know.” I jabbed my spoon into the bowl. “It’s hard.”

“That’s what she said.”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

The red bench stuck to my thighs. I hated that feeling, of sweaty skin tacking to cheap vinyl. Reminded me of Gramma’s patio chairs, the ones with cracked plastic that pressed grooves into my shoulders when I was little. And the disgusting food she made.

Why did I order chowder?

“Hit it again,” Pete said.

“You.” I flipped the spoon at him. I wasn’t touching the soup again. Or the bowl or the table. It all smelled like dead fish.

The object was just below the surface, hard and glassy. He pushed it side to side. Round, too. If I would’ve ordered the chicken noodle, I would’ve seen it before diving in. Now there were two spoonfuls of New England clam chowder coating my stomach with the who knows what the hell else.

“What’d it taste like?” he asked.

“How the hell should I know? It all tastes like pussy.”

“How would you know?”

“It’s a guess, asshole.”

He banged the metal edge on the object three more times then started to scoop it out.

“Stop, don’t.”

“You don’t want to know what it is?”

“Hell no. I ate it already, too late. Just don’t.” I raised my hand but the hundred year old waitress was busy with a truck driver. It took three days just to get our food. No way I was sending it back or paying for it or ever eating there again. Just show the old lady the thing in the soup and leave forever.

“Know what I think it is?”

“I don’t want to know.”

He rolled it with the spoon. “A glass eye.”

“Goddamnit.”

“Yeah, look at it.” It swirled just beneath the surface. “About the size of a big marble.”

“And how the fuck did a glass eye get in a bowl of soup? God you’re an asshole.” I waved my arm like the old woman was a cab. “Just stop playing with it.”

“The cook probably sneezed, they do it all the time. Only this time he held it in, you know, so he wouldn’t spray the food and his goddamn eye popped out. Right in the soup.”

“And like he wouldn’t notice it?”

“Well he probably looked for it but didn’t hear it go in. You can’t see in there. Hell, he’s probably still looking for it. We should fish it out before he has to go buy another one. Those things are expensive.”

“How the hell do you know?”

He shrugged.

Pete was rhythmically banging it with the spoon when the waitress started our way. Her face was caving in like a half-eaten apple, her lips curving inward. I went to the bathroom to put a finger down my throat before she got to the table. 

 

Scene 2: The Nature of Pride (No genre given)

“Oh come on!” I say, pointing emphatically at the thing on the pedestal with both hands. “That is not art!”

“Of course it is!” Lindie replies, rolling her eyes at me.

My jaw drops as I stare at her. Perhaps the art museum was not the best choice for our fourth date. I mean, I really like this girl, what with her nerdy, slightly androgynous aesthetic common to all art history students, and her bright, brainy conversation. I was hoping that if I impressed her enough with my highly cultural choice of date location, I might finally get her back to my place for some… you know…

“Art is the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form such as painting or sculpture, producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power,” she continues. “This is clearly doing that. So it’s art.”

“It’s a computer screen with some paint splattered on it. It’s an accident, is what this is.”

“Did you even read the card? The artist wanted to convey the threat of modern technology, how it’s nothing more than the murder of the human spirit.”

I shake my head. “Bullshit,” I say. “That’s just the B.S. esoteric explanation the artist pulled from his ass in order to sell this piece of crap. How much did it cost, anyway?”

Lindie checks her pamphlet. “Twenty-five million,” she informs me.

“Twenty-five million?! Holy shit! This is the best fucking scam ever! I’m going to go home, pour some coloured goop onto my iPad, claim I’m ‘making a statement’” – I use the international symbol for quotation marks with both hands to provide a visual cue in case my obvious sarcasm wasn’t enough – “and sell it for thirty million. Jesus! The art world is populated by absolute suckers!”

I should realise in this moment from Lindie’s glare that I’m running my mouth, and it isn’t appreciated, but I just can’t let this thing lie. I mean, be real. Twenty-five million? For a computer screen someone accidentally spilled paint on?

“It’s like the story ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes.’ This museum got swindled, and everyone has their heads too far up their asses, trying to appear all cultural and learned, to admit it!”

“Oh my god,” Lindie says. “You are such an idiot.” She turns and starts to walk away.

Damn. I’ve blown the date. I reach out and grab her arm. “I’m sorry,” I say, pulling her into a hug. “I’m sorry. How about we just go back to my place. I’ll put on some music, open some wine, and we can talk about other things.”

I smile when I feel Lindie’s arms snake around my ribs. “That sounds nice,” she says. “Just one thing.”

“Anything.”

“Admit that the computer screen is art.”

My shoulders lock, my arms now stuck around her, as my back stiffens.

I’m not getting laid tonight.

 

Scene 3: Genre: Urban Fantasy

The room is bathed in a golden light. It exudes careless opulence, shabby, scholarly even arcane. A large Persian rug is covered in books, strewn at random or arranged in towers like termite nests, and beyond, a fire and a figure hunched in a chair too large for him. I stare at the bone white face and the unnatural brass appendages that look as if they’re glued to his eyes.

A gentle cough prompts me to speak. “I was intrigued by your advert, sir.”

“Ah, the ‘The Beacon’ – you have come from Monmouth, then. My name is Nousel.”

He stares at the paper for a moment or two and raises his head, until the two small brass cylinders are aimed at my face. Though highly polished they look strangely crude and yet imbued with the minute and subtle craftsmanship I have learnt to associate with the early eighteenth century, perhaps earlier. And then, to my unease, I’m aware of Nousel’s eyes staring out from them, like a pair of large and blue exotic fish.

“Sit down, sit down.” Nousel gestures towards the fire as if suggesting immolation was just the thing on such a cold and blustery day. I edge round books that seemed to be teetering in stasis and dust; there is a sense of tracing time through a labyrinth, the unstable towers now resembling wind-torn buttes glowing red from the fire.

The chair faces my host, but is closer to the hearth, forcing Nousel to turn ever so slightly. The effect is off-putting. The brass eyepiece gleams, and ruddy shadows flow from his waxen face like runny paint. Eyes that had only a moment ago appeared as large cobalt fish have been replaced by two tiny red flickers, simulacra of the low burning fire.

Nousel leans forward and smiles. “I am selling everything. Everything . . . everything in this room, the room itself, if that’s what you want.” He pauses, his smile for a moment sardonic. “And these of course.” He tapped the metallic appendages that covered his eyes. “The Alchemical Lenses. John Dee’s last and greatest secret.”

I gaze absently across the finely panelled room, noticing, that for all its subtle richness, the room itself possesses only one small window, and that it looks out upon a yellow-brick wall, built only inches away. I keep my voice even; try to restrain my excitement.

“John Dee, you say.” I look with polite interest at the two cylinders that seem to grow from Nousel’s head, and which were pointing at me now like two tiny brass cannons. “They look of later workmanship.”

Mr. Nousel nods approvingly. “So, it is the lenses you are after.”

“And will you sell them to me?”

Nousel sighs again, with that strange mixture of relief and regret. “Come back tomorrow, and we might agree a price.”

His face is expressionless, putting me in mind of a gambler saving his best card until last.

As I stand up to leave, I spot the mirror behind me, just to the right of the door.

 

Scene 4: The Book, Genre: Horror

We stare at the dusty, aged book sitting on the table. It’s not much to look at; the leather-bound cover has some cracks, and it’s a bit smooth and worn in places. We found it in the library archives during a bit of trespassing and pilfering. A fun lark to relieve the boredom. Grab an old book off a shelf and make off with it. No real harm. Just a prank.

Except…

It’s not funny anymore. This ratty old thing scares us to death.

Silly, isn’t it? Being scared of a book? Then again, most books don’t whisper names, or turn your friend into a screaming mess before incinerating him into ashes.

I glance at the dusty pile of remains that used to be my friend Barry. Then I look at Charlie. His face is pale and he’s trembling. I’m not surprised. The book is whispering his name now. I know he wants to run. I want to run. Trouble is we can’t. We just can’t. The damned book controls us somehow.

“I don’t want to die, Anna.”

I can see the tears forming in his eyes. What am I supposed to tell him?

“I don’t want to die. Please. Help me.”

I want to scream. I can’t. I’ve tried, but I can’t. “I’m sorry, Charlie.”

“I—I know.” The tears track down his cheeks, to soak into the collar of his shirt.

The book stops whispering. We fall silent. I want to tell him everything will be okay, but I know it won’t. I close my eyes, and keep them shut until the screaming stops.

Too bad the smell of burnt flesh lingers.

I stare at the book once more, if only to avoid looking at the second pile of ashes. I know what’s coming next. My name.

Anna.

There it is. The first whisper. I close my eyes again, and wait for the end.

 

Scene 5: No Genre 

I look into the dead dog’s eyes. It has been stuffed into the old refrigerator in such a way that it appears to have frozen mid leap. Its jaws are wide open with its purple tongue lolling, and one paw reaches out stiffly. Its eyes are wide and wild. Not like I expect dead eyes to be.

“Touch it,” says Billy.

“Ew, no. Gross.”

“Wuss.”

Billy sniffs, his mouth all scrunched up into one corner. It’s the look he wears when he’s coming to one of his slow, rigid decisions. He picks up a stick, short and stubby.

“Can’t you just leave it alone, Billy?” I say, a weird emotion already bubbling in my tummy.

“Nu-uh. I’m a scientist. This is science.”

I look around. The quarry was sometimes patrolled, even on a Sunday, to stop people dumping their trash. I half-wished one of the mysterious quarry people, squat and dirty, would yell at us to fuck off before he beat the shit out of us, like they sometimes did.

“Why don’t we go check out the car again? We can play spaceships.”

“Spaceships is for kids,” said Billy. “Not scientists.”

He carefully moves the stick and prods the dog a few times in the neck. “Alsatianus zombiecus.” He says authoritatively. He pokes at it again when he doesn’t get a reaction from me. “Good boy. Stay.” Billy gives a high shrill laugh that makes me want to kick the back of his legs.

“I declare Fido to be dead as dog shit.” he says. “Here, your turn.”

I look at the stick and shake my head. The way the dog is half in and half out of the refrigerator reminds me of old fairground ghost trains. Of silly vampires leaping from their coffins.

“Ah, come on. Do you wanna be a scientist or not?”

“Not really.”

Billy’s mouth once again scrunches to one corner. “Figures. Girl’s don’t science. Everybody knows that.”

“They do too, Billy. There are lots of girl scientists. Famous ones.”

“Probably too afraid they’ll get their hair covered in…” Billy fumbles for a word. “Magnesium.”

I snatch the stick out of his hand. “You’re such a jerk.”

Billy grins, widely. “Go on, touch it.”

I look at the dog. I take a deep breath and hold it, suddenly certain that death is something I can get caught in my throat. I slowly jab the stick into the dog’s neck. It feels like I’m poking a suitcase or a sofa.

“WOOF!”

I spin around, head full of electric, mouth full of copper. Billy is laughing his high pitched laugh. “Your face!” he manages, eyes streaming with tears. “You should have seen the look–”

I punch him. I swing a hard right hook that smacks into his lips and instantly draws blood. Billy stops laughing, his face drawn in comic book shock. “I’m gonna tell mom!” he yells. He sprints away, leaving me alone in the quarry.

The air is warm, and full of the sound of fat flies buzzing. I am suddenly sure that I’m dreaming. “Good boy,” I say to the dog. “Stay.”

Scene 6: Genre: Humor

“I think I’m going to hurl.” I say. “Why didn’t they clean the blood off?”

“It’s only on the sides. Inside’s clean.” Bob says. “I heard it took a man’s dick clean off.”

My balls shrink a little. “What are we supposed to do with it?”

“We’re supposed to verify that it can in fact take a dick off.”

“How?”

Bob scratches his tuft, the only bit of hair on his shiny head. “Guess we could put a screwdriver in it,” he says. “See what happens.”

“That’s not going to tell us anything.”

“Test the torque?”

“Does this thing have a torque?” I look at the vagina, our most lifelike design yet. I hope it doesn’t have torque.

“I don’t even know what torque is.” Bob admits.

“This is dumb,” I say. “We’re the safety department. Why aren’t the production guys looking at it for design flaws?”

“They said it works fine. Legal wants to make sure the damn thing has all the warnings it needs.”

“We can’t say “don’t stick your dick in it” since that’s its whole purpose.”

Bob shrugs.

“You’re not very helpful.” I say.

“Why add a warning at all?”

“Because of lawsuits, I bet. The guy couldn’t have lost his dick if he used it correctly.”

Bob points at the blood stains. “He clearly wasn’t.”

“Maybe he was and it malfunctioned. Squeezed too tight?”

“Still wouldn’t have ripped his dick off.” Bob says. “Squeezing might’ve cut the blood supply. I guess if he left it on there long enough, his dick might’ve fallen off.”

“I can’t imagine a guy leaving his dick in this long enough for that to happen.”

“We’ll just have to test it.”

“How?”

“Take off our pants, put our dicks in it, and see what happens.”

I am not getting naked with Bob. “I don’t love my job enough to put my dick anywhere near yours. I definitely don’t love you enough.”

Bob unbuckles his pants. “You’re such a pussy. Probably why you’re still a minion and I’m a supervisor.”

Bob is an asshole. “Still not doing it.”

“I’ll do it. Turn on the camera.”

I walk to the tripod, where the camera is waiting. As I turn it on, my phone rings. I press the screen and put it to my ear. Bob has already stripped down to his boxers.

“Jim?”

“Yes,” I say.

“This is Sally in Legal. Forget the testing. Turns out the guy got his dick stuck because the batteries died and he cut it off himself. Didn’t want his wife knowing he was banging a rubber twat.”

I want to vomit. “How the—?”

“Not important.”

“Bob’s testing it right now.”

“No need. It malfunctioned, but the injury was self-inflicted so we’re going to settle and put the matter to bed.”

“Thanks, Sally.”

“This thing is powerful,” Bob says. “Who was that?”

“Sally in Legal. She said to make sure we can see the logo on the side.”

Bob turns to face the camera. “Good?”

“Perfect.”

That’s it for this post, kids. In the comments tell me which ones you think you’ve figured out. Tune in tomorrow for more samples (you don’t want to miss these, I promise). Don’t worry about right or wrong. This is science… well, not really. It’s an experiment, though, so whatever you “vote” helps answer the question: Do men and women write differently?

 

 

On Used Books and Money and Egos

I’m sure many of you have read Kristen Lamb’s slightly controversial blog post about authors promoting used bookstores. If not, click the link. Read. I will summarize for the pair of you in the corner who are too lazy to bother.  (winky face)

I’m a little late to the discussion, I know, but I’ve been sick and I wasn’t sure I wanted to voice an opinion on the matter. But then I started feeling better and here we are.

Basically, Lamb chastises those of us (and by “us” I mean writers) that promote used bookstores as good things for the writing profession. She also implies that used bookstores pirate our intellectual property and a few other bits and pieces, and now a lot of folks are pissed at her.

I think she’s got a right to speak her mind, and it’s an important discussion. I don’t agree with a lot of what she says, but that’s the wonderful thing about the big bad Internet. We all get to voice our thoughts and we don’t have to agree with each other.

I do care about bookstores. I also care about readers and even my fellow writers (although they’re a shifty lot). Bookstores are lovely and awesome and, used or new, I want them all to stick around. I also love Amazon and digital books. I love reading and being read. I love money and I love exposure. I love reviews and cuddles.

Why can’t a girl have it all? I know. Real world, blah, blah.

Anyway, Lamb later explains she has bought used books herself, but she’s pissed at the “attitude” that digital and Amazon are bad, while used bookstores and paperbacks are “cultural” treasures and good for writers.

If we want to write for A LIVING, we must GET PAID. If you want to get paid, Lamb believes used bookstores are a bad thing. Okay, she makes a good point. Used book sales earn us no money, but they have their purpose. I’ll get to that in a minute.

I want to say I don’t think her intentions were malicious. On the contrary, she meant well and she’s right, you won’t get paid for exposure. Not directly anyway.

But exposure isn’t a bad thing.

My love of reading and writing blossomed because of used books, and I would never deny another reader the same joy simply because I want to make money. I will always encourage readers to buy used if they must do so, because I value the experience of a good book far more than my bottom line. Is that also wrong? It might be. Probably stupid as well, because if I don’t make money, then I need to keep the day job, but it is what it is.

Of course I’d prefer my readers bought my books new. I prefer to get paid. Who wouldn’t? But I’m a realist in terms of how this industry works. The reality is readers aren’t always willing to invest in an untried author. Some of them simply can’t. They don’t have the means to waste money on an author they don’t enjoy. The ugly truth is that used bookstores do offer exposure, and sometimes that exposure, although many writers loathe the word and the concept, can be profitable down the road. How far down? I don’t know. Depends on your marketing plan and your readers. It also depends on your work. Is it good enough to sell future books? That’s up to the reader, I guess.

I believe Lamb is looking out for her fellow writers. She wants to see us all get paid for our work, and that’s a fine dream to have. I strongly disagree with her likening used bookstores to pirates.

How are they different? I’ll explain.

Aside from the puffy sleeves and fancy facial hair, pirates are thieves. In most cases, books in a used bookstore were purchased new, not stolen, which means the author did see payment for said book at least once (I know one payment is shitty when the book is sold ten times). Sellers of used books often use the money they make to buy more new books, for which the author is paid, and the cycle begins again. They aren’t resold until they’re read by the new owner, so that single used book might take a month to reach more than a couple of readers’ hands. It could take longer. It might not be resold at all. There are still a few of us that like to keep our books on nifty shelves, where we can stare at them when the notion strikes us.

Readers who seek out pirated books are unlikely to EVER purchase a book new, whether they like the author or not. Pirated books are stolen. They’re almost never purchased new and a single copy can be resold/borrowed hundreds or thousands of times in a matter of days or even hours.

It’s a small difference, but one is theft, and the other is selling a product you have purchased, and therefore own, but no longer have a use for. We’ve bought and sold our possessions forever. Why should books be the exception?

But intellectual property!

Yes, books are intellectual property. I’m as far from a legal expert as one can get, but I understand the basics of copyright when it comes to books. Basically, when you sell that paperback and earn a royalty from it, a sort of limited transfer of copyright happens. No, the buyer doesn’t own the ideas in that book, but he does own THE BOOK ITSELF. Basically, the buyer of that new book has the right to “dispose” of said book in whatever manner he chooses, because he bought it. So if he wants to toss it in the garbage, give it to a friend, burn it, shred it, or sell it, he has the right to do so. Yes, the book is intellectual property, but it is also tangible property, which means the person that bought the paperback can sell it to a used bookstore if he wants to.

In the United States, this is because of a thing called the first sale doctrine.

Basically, once you buy a book, you may resell that copy without violating copyright laws. Copyright laws protect intellectual property such as books from being copied or reproduced, but they don’t protect a copy of your book from being resold by the buyer after that first sale.

From the link above:

“The first sale doctrine, codified at 17 U.S.C. § 109, provides that an individual who knowingly purchases a copy of a copyrighted work from the copyright holder receives the right to sell, display or otherwise dispose of that particular copy, notwithstanding the interests of the copyright owner. The right to distribute ends, however, once the owner has sold that particular copy. See 17 U.S.C. § 109(a) & (c).”

Digital books fall in a murkier category, but we’re not talking about the resale of those. Thank God. You don’t technically “own” digital media in the same way you own something “tangible” like a paperback. It’s more like you’re “renting” that book from the seller, be it Amazon, Apple, Kobo, etc. In this way it is better to sell digital books, but then again, they’re vulnerable to piracy, so…

Anyway…

It’s shitty that a used book earns us nothing, and I’m with Lamb on this one. I’d much rather encourage a reader to buy new, but I won’t tell them not to buy used and I don’t think used bookstores are the reason we fail to make a living. We take a gamble when we publish paperbacks. When we sell a physical copy of our books, there’s an understanding that said book will eventually be loaned to a friend or given to a library or sold in a yard sale… or at a used bookstore. We don’t have to like it, but we all know it’s likely to happen.

If you want to encourage your readers to visit used bookstores, you’ve got every right to do so without getting your knuckles slapped. Most of us would be hypocrites if we criticized you for it, and we all know it. You can’t buy used (whether you buy digital later or not) and then pretend like the whole concept of used booksellers is beneath you because you’re a writer. If you TRULY never buy used books, then bravo! You’re a stand-up writer and reader. I applaud you.  Personally, I can’t afford to buy new all the time, particularly if I’ve got a hard on for a particular book in hardcopy. What? I’m aroused by the smell of glue and paper. Shut up.

While I don’t bitch about my day job, I don’t get upset at those who do. Who wouldn’t love to quit doing what they must to do what they love? It’s not something that most of us get to do. Even if I encouraged all of my readers to buy new, and they did, I know my profits would still not be large enough or reliable enough to quit the day job. The day job gives me financially stability, so that I can do this thing I love without worrying about whether my kids will eat tomorrow. If I want to bitch, I shall bitch, and I shall say used bookstores are fantastic, because they are.

I think the point Lamb was trying to make is that we’re never going to get anywhere in this business if we keep doing things that let readers believe we’re okay with not making money. She’s got a point. However, used book sales aren’t entirely bad. No, they don’t result in money for the author, but they can be beneficial. It’s a long, twisty path, but that used book can result in the writer getting paid. Now I’m going to mention that dirty word: Exposure.

Let’s be clear; I’m not just a writer interested in cuddles and sweet nothings, although those things are quite pleasant and I could use more of them.

Before I discuss “exposure,” can I point out that just because Amazon gives the reader the option of buying new along with used, and lists other titles by the same author, doesn’t mean it’s not taking money from the author’s pocket in the same way as used bookstores do? Seriously, guys. Do you honestly think the average reader ISN’T going to go with the cheapest option (even if it’s the used option)? Please.

A smart author lists her other books in the back of every e-book and paperback. Why? Because when a book is borrowed from a friend, or purchased used, or downloaded for free (during a promotion or via other less honest avenues), which we know is going to happen, the reader can find other titles that she can then buy new should she enjoy the author enough to do so.

Okay, back to the exposure thing. It really pisses me off when authors dismiss exposure as useless. Yes, writers deserve to be paid, and should avoid working for free whenever possible. We’re selling a product, though. As with any other product being sold out there, we have to prove our worth and build our “customer” base before real money can be made. Writers often do this by giving away free digital copies to gain reviews, and to expand our audience and our brand, and often results in very little money for us. We offer sales and freebies and paperback giveaways all over social media, and we encourage new authors to do the same. Why? Because free is a useful marketing tool. Exposure is something we need, even if it tastes dirty and gross.

So let’s stop pretending we’re too good for “exposure.” Not all of us are at a point in our career where we can turn our nose up at it, and we shouldn’t. Whatever gets you more readers, you damn well embrace that shit. Exposure is valuable to writers. How you get it is up to you. For example, Lamb got tons of exposure by writing a controversial blog post. She continues to get it every time one of us blogs about said post.

I don’t write for free if I can avoid it, but I’ll take the exposure I get when someone finds my book used, new, free, on sale, at a library, whatever.

And some of us have day jobs that suck no matter how much our books earn. So we’re going to bitch about it. If I want to share an article touting the merits of used bookstores, and then bitch about my day job, I will do so, because I’m funny like that. To be honest, I don’t hate my job. I work with a great bunch of people and we laugh more than we cry. However, if I wanted to go on Facebook and say something like, “Found this awesome little used bookstore. It’s cozy and smells of paper and cheese. Check it out.” And then in the next post say something like, “I wish I could just write full time. This getting up and going outside sucks.” There’s nothing wrong with that.

Kristen Lamb has the right to her opinion. Whether you believe she’s right or wrong, we need people in this industry to speak out when they feel they must, as she did. However, I don’t think that speaking out should take the form of belittling or attacking each other. I also think we need to be honest with ourselves and the rest of the world.

Some of us shop at used bookstores and encourage our readers to do the same. There’s no sin in that. You can hate your day job too, if you want.  What we should do, though, while sharing our love of such things, is also show them where affordable new books can be found. And don’t forget to tell them to leave a review, no matter where they found their next great read.

Post Christmas, Pre-New Year Stuff and Such

Now is the time when bloggers all over the Internet start thinking about resolutions. As you know, I don’t do that shit. Instead, I shall reflect.

Just kidding. I’ve got some goals.

All of the excitement leading up to Christmas is now gone; vanished with a puff of smoke and turkey farts, and the hard reality now stares us boldly in the face.

Now what?

What are you going to do about 2016? Where is your life going? What have you accomplished? What will you do next? Why are you even here?

As I hugged the toilet this morning, certain I was going to die because my insides would just drop out of me, I decided I’m going to do as I’ve done every year, but just a little bit better.

Isn’t that the base for all resolutions? I just want to be better so I don’t reach the end of the year and realize it’s all been a giant waste of time?

Oh, who am I kidding? 2016 will also be wasted. All I can hope is that I enjoy the ride.

I do have a plan, though. In January or February, I’ll release MUSE, the fourth installment in my Gods series. I’ll also finish the third (possibly final) book in the Fangs and Fur series, as well as the fifth book in the gods series, and I’m submitting WHACKADOODLE (not the permanent title) to publishers just to see if it sticks. If it doesn’t, I’ll publish it myself. So look for it in the spring/summer of 2016.

I’m also going to finish this twisted fairy tale WIP, even if it kills me, and I’ve been plugging away at a comedy/horror thing that features a murderous cult of Elvis devotees. Oh, trust me. You can’t even.

 

I have a long list of other shit as well, but I’ll keep that to myself, because I change my mind a lot. I’d hate to promise you something that never happens. I save those promises for my family.

So that’s it.

No… it’s not. I lied.

Keep your eyes peeled for a super secret, awesome announcement in 2016. It might not happen, but it probably will. If it does, you have no idea how ridiculously fun it’s going to be.

Nope. Can’t tell you yet.

I know. I’m a fucker. Hope you had an amazing holiday and all the best in the New Year. Talk soon. :D

12 Days of Stuff: Day 12

This is the last post of the horrendously organized thing I’m pretty sure I’m calling Bookmas, and that means it’s the last day to win here on The Edge. Yesterday’s CHARLENE GREEN won the winner’s choice prize. And for those of you just tuning in, we’re having a bit of a Christmas thing here on the edge, in which I give away book goodies for twelve days. On the 20th, we’ll be meeting on the Facebook for a party full of more giveaways and, of course, some shits and giggles.

What’s the present of the day? I’m glad you asked. One of you will receive paperback copies of Sex, Peanuts, Fangs and Fur, and Sex, Transvestites, Angels and Assholes. No, they won’t be signed, because I’m not THAT organized.

Jesus…

Remember Clive? I do. Sigh…

Anyway, to win these paperbacks, all you have to do is do one or more of the things the Rafflecopter widget (okay, the LINK) tells you to do and you’ll be entered to win. Want pictures too? Fine.

Happy?

Good.

Tomorrow, I’ll announce the winner in a closing blog post. Don’t worry, it’ll be brief. Like, “Hey, (INSERT NAME HERE) wins! Now fuck off.

Just kidding. I’d use an actual name.

 

 

a Rafflecopter giveaway

https://widget-prime.rafflecopter.com/launch.js

12 Days of Stuff: Day 11

We’re almost done! Oh, and good morning. For those of you just tuning in, we’re having a bit of a Christmas thing here on the edge, in which I give away book goodies for twelve days. On the 20th, we’ll be meeting on the Facebook for a party full of more giveaways and, of course, some shits and giggles.

Yesterday’s winner of an e-book by Christian Saunders is LELA LAWING. So what’s under the tree today? I’m glad you asked. Today is winner’s choice. One of you will be able to choose the two e-books written by any of the authors featured so far. That means, you can select any e-book written by myself, Katrina Monroe, Tony Bertauski, Steve Wetherell, Brian Braden, JW Kent, Hanna Elizabeth, Thomas Cardin, or Christian Saunders. I know it’s a hard decision, so I’ve let you have two. See? I’m a nice girl.

(Canadians, because the Amazon doesn’t allow me to gift you things like E-books, should you be selected, I shall send you an Amazon gift card so that you may buy the books you wish to receive.)

A little reminder of the books given away so far for the folks too lazy to look through previous blog posts:

 

 

So, do the Rafflecopter thing’s bidding and you shall be entered. I will announce the winner tomorrow.

 

a Rafflecopter giveaway

https://widget-prime.rafflecopter.com/launch.js