Allison M. Dickson's Blog

And Ten Years Later . . . The Big Book Deal

April 6th 2008





I wrote a short story called "Aria." 




(I had to go back and double-check that date before starting this blog. I found it buried in the deepest recesses of my Gmail, the first draft I'd sent to a friend to read and tear apart. When I saw that the date on the email was, in fact, April 6th, I nearly had a heart attack. You'll understand why if you stick with me here.)





Here's proof, with the irrelevant bits blotted out.





"Aria" was the first piece of fiction I'd written since high school. Many of you reading this right now have read it. Many more of you have not. It isn't particularly important other than to establish the start of a timeline, the one where I began to consider myself an actual writer.




Looking back on on that story now, I think it was pretty silly and amateurish, but hey, you have to start somewhere. Once I had it cleaned up, I sent it off to an anthology I'd had my eye on. When they picked it up a few months later, the boost to my ego was enormous. Sold the first story I'd written in over ten years?! I WAS SHIT-HOT, MAN!




I made $35 off the sale of that story. The husband and I took the kiddos out to dinner that night. My treat, made easier by the fact that they were still little enough to eat off the kids menu.






From there, I would write and publish some more short stories, and then I began taking a stab at writing novels. All the while, I was certain I would very soon get an agent and sell big right away.





This is where the narrator kicks in with something like, "It didn't quite turn out that way..." I've written a lot about my writing career on this blog, so I won't rehash it, but if you want to get a sense of the long and winding events that ultimately led to me publishing a few novels and signing with my agent, you can look here.




July 2014





Upon signing with Stephanie Rostan with a book that eventually came to be called SECRET THINGS, I was so sure I was on the verge of "making it." Mind you, I had no idea what "making it" actually meant. And to be frank, even after the events of the past couple weeks, I'm still not quite sure I know. I'm not sure anyone does. "Making it" is a lot like chasing clouds or taking a big bite of cotton candy. No sooner than you think you have The Thing You're After, the shape of it changes or it disappears altogether. Some people get hung up on this and they spin out and eventually start to waste away. But you have to keep moving, because I think maybe "making it" only means you've found the next marker on the road, and there are no parking spaces until the very end. The journey must continue.




So when I nabbed the marker that read "Acquire Literary Agent," I did what any half-smart writer ought to do and started working on the next book. This one was a little thing called BLIND SPOTS. More on that in a few.




March 2015




Before long, it was early spring of 2015 when SECRET THINGS went out on submission to a list of 20 or so major publishers. And I even had the pleasure of speaking with a few great editors who absolutely loved the book. But after a stressful (though exciting!) couple of weeks, it became clear that love wasn't enough. Stephanie said to keep working on the next book and we would try again. And so I did.

***

This is where dates and things start getting a bit fuzzy, because I got lost in a flurry of work. I finished the first draft of BLIND SPOTS in late summer of 2015 and delivered it to Stephanie. She came back to me a few weeks later with some feedback. It was good. The seed of the idea was right, BUT there were some issues. And they were the sorts of issues that warranted a full top-down rewrite of the book. Mind you, she didn't tell me I had to do this, but rather it was something I knew I needed to do if I wanted to get this right. And I really really wanted to get this right. The story had a hook I couldn't let go. I wrote about the whole "starting over from page one" experience here. It took me about 6 weeks or so to draft a new version.




And then I immediately got to work on another idea that had been tugging at me a while. My friends know it as the "Ted Bundy book," and I worked feverishly on that, oh, I wanna say between December 2015 and February 2016. After working on some revisions, I sent that one along to Stephanie as well, giving her the chance to consider now the revamped BLIND SPOTS and the Bundy book. She came back to me not long after and said (and I agreed) that BLIND SPOTS had the most potential for commercial success. We spoke of some of the additional work it needed, because remember, while I had rewritten the book, it was every bit as much in its early stages of development as the first attempt.




So I got to work. But time passed, and I started working on other types of art projects, too. I taught classes at my local arts center. I would say a great deal of 2016 unfolded without me accomplishing much of anything at all in the writing realm. I stopped self-publishing. I didn't promote much of my existing work at all. Call it recharging the batteries, or maybe just saving myself from total burnout, but I'm glad I took that break, because it helped get me ready for what was to come.




I finished the new draft of the book and sent it back in early 2017. It was better, but still not quite there. Something about it was keeping it from catching, and between spitball sessions with Steph and her assistant Sarah, we finally figured it out, and a light went on in my head. Oh hell, it was more like a Bat-Signal, only it was shining the real shape of this book up into the night sky. And this is when the book went from being BLIND SPOTS to MRS. MILLER AND THE OTHER MRS. MILLER.




With the new shape in place, I was off and running at a feverish pace. Over that time, it bounced back and forth a bit as I made some additional tweaks, refining that shape ever more, bringing out details that gave the book a deeply personal angle it truly needed in order to have my own stamp of approval. In the fall of 2017, it was finally right. The puzzle pieces were all fitting together. I had a pretty spiffy little book, if I did say so.



Actually, let me back that up. It wasn't just a spiffy little book. That makes it sound too simple. I can't recall a time I'd ever felt prouder of something I'd written. I'd learned SO much about writing over the nearly four years I'd spent on this book. I finally understood how some people could spend years working on a novel. I finally understood that you're never as done as you think you are, that if you have the patience and wherewithal to dig deep (and if you have, as I do, an agent who is willing to walk those steps with you like a steady blessing), you will uncover treasures you never dreamed were there. I learned that sometimes a story comes to you whole, but many times, it's a careful sort of archaeological dig on a massive beast whose bones are scattered and lodged in bedrock, and you'll have to find stores of tenacity you didn't know existed to unearth that fucker. I'd been calling myself a writer for a long time up to this point, but it finally felt earned in a way that hummed deep.




The Day of the Deal




I'm not a publisher, but something tells me that spring is a great time to sell books. The weather is improving. People aren't all dropping from the flu. Trade events are gearing up, giving people in the industry something to talk about. We're looking toward summer and fun and rebirth. And wouldn't you know it, there was a shiny new book about to hit editors' desks that seemed to exemplify all those things. But I was bracing myself. SECRET THINGS was a whirlwind that ended in disappointment. However, I also knew that MRS MILLER was a different type of book. I had all the right elements in place, carefully shaped over time the way water shapes rock, and I had a badass agent out there peddling it. I felt about as good as I had any right to expect.




Of course, expectations of a sale notwithstanding, things didn't go how I expected them to go. In fact, they got . . . big.



I didn't expect the level of sheer excitement I ultimately encountered once editors started reading it. I also didn't expect in a million years that the book would to go to auction, a long-held dream of many aspiring writers that is even more exhilarating and crazy-making than you might expect it to be. Much much more. I thought I would entice a single editor and that would be that, the nobody kid with a pretty okay book, but still a nobody kid, at least in this particular landscape. I didn't think I would end up having a choice between an array of editors who were ALL fantastic. It was like someone presenting me with a silver tray on which there were keys to an Audi, a Lexus, a Mercedes, and a Tesla and being told I had to pick one.




And finally, I didn't expect that we would be closing on a life-changing book deal with Putnam on April 6th, 2018, ten years to the day that I wrote my first piece of fiction as an adult, a coincidence that I think will both startle and amuse me long into old age.




But that's where we are now. I somehow managed to write my way through those hallowed publishing gates. And I have an editor!! Her name is Margo Lipschultz, and she is beyond fantastic, with a passion for MRS MILLER that will no doubt ensure its success once it goes out into the world. Our connection was immediate, and I hope I get to work with her for a long time to come. You know how exciting it is to say the words "my editor?" Every bit as exciting as it still is to say "my agent."




Ten years. Ten goddamn years. Millions of words written and erased and rewritten, shaped into stories both good and not-so-good, fed by some steady supply of hope--a supply not always so abundant, but always there, nonetheless--that they would bring me here. Countless rejections and late nights, obsessive thoughts about people who only live inside my head but feel like friends, enemies, and sometimes intimate partners. And oh boy, the doubt constantly chasing me down, even until the second I glimpsed this morning's latest milestone, the Publishers Marketplace listing with my name on it. 









There are other things happening with this book right now (exciting international things!!) that I don't think I'm cleared to announce widely yet, but suffice it to say, it only begins here. World domination is in progress as we speak.



On Nearly Giving Up




The thing is, I was very VERY close to quitting this whole thing not so long ago. In fact, it was only in recent weeks I'd started having a serious conversation with myself, where I allowed that it was okay to quit if MRS MILLER didn't sell, that I'd given this whole author thing ten years to bear fruit, and if I was tired, I had permission to move on. I have, after all, found success in my little crochet business. I also started a job with Pepsi back in January. I'm still developing a podcast that I hope to start up later this year. I still have my teaching gigs at the arts center. I've spent the last 18 months getting on top of my health, losing weight, exercising, defeating type 2 diabetes. My husband and I have started learning how to save a little money and think more seriously about the next part of our lives together, with our kids being nearly grownups themselves now. Essentially, I'd reached age thirty-eight with a pretty nice and full life, and for the first time in a very long time, I was at peace with myself. My whole life's meaning was no longer wrapped up in becoming a successful author; it was no longer revolving around Getting The Deal. I decided I wouldn't feel like a failure if it didn't work out. You simply CAN'T feel like a failure if you try this hard at something for this long.




And it seems like the moment I'd finally come to this realization, when I finally closed my eyes, let loose my breath, and slackened my grip, it happened. Ten years to the day, full circle in in the most literal way.



I can't say for sure I actually would have quit, at least forever. I only knew that I had to feel like it was okay to do it. I had to remind myself that there was room in one life for more than one dream. Sometimes, just the permission to let go is all the heart really needs, even if you decide to keep holding on.




The writing fire is now lit in me anew, forged by a different kind of purpose, to build on this newfound success. I have the next book in front of me to polish up while I wait for notes on MRS MILLER (from my editor!!!!), and there are more ideas ticking away in the back of my mind, waiting for their turn.




Finally, I am so elated to be part of the Putnam team. Putnam. FREAKING PUTNAM. Is this even real?! Will the fireworks in my brain ever stop? I'm so grateful to my amazing agent not only for making it happen, but for putting up with all my jitters along the way, to my family and friends for holding me up and believing well after I'd begun to wane. You absolutely can't do something like this alone.




Watch this space for more news on the book as it develops! Cover art and more! Then watch your local bookstores. I'll tell you when.

On Going Keto, Losing 100+ Pounds, Reversing Type 2 Diabetes, and Feeling (Mostly) 19 Again

As we enter the holidays and the Season of New Resolutions, I've been getting a lot of questions from people looking to start a ketogenic diet. But why are they coming to me, you might be wondering? First, I'll provide a little backstory for people who don't know me all that well, and then I'll get to answering some basic questions. If you know my story, feel free to skip ahead to the next section.




How I Got Here



In mid-December of 2016, I went to the doctor complaining of extreme fatigue, thirst, and a litany of other symptoms I was almost certain were those of Type 2 diabetes. Not only do I have a very strong family history of this disease, but I was carrying a whole lot of risk factors of my own. 410 pounds worth of them, to be exact.





Now look, I'm no stranger to being fat. Starting at puberty and beyond, I've weighed in excess of 200, then 300, then eventually 400 pounds.  I've spoken at length about the need for more body positivity, for respecting that good health is possible at a multitude of sizes (I will tie back into this in a bit). But despite these beliefs, I knew at some point along the way, I'd crossed a threshold where I could no longer make the claim to good health. I had bad acid reflux and other digestive problems. My knees, ankles, and hips were growing too painful and weak to support me. The same could be said for many chairs. In fact, the one I'm sitting in now is meant to support up to 500lbs. I'd been thinking ahead, see. Furthermore, the largest sizes in most plus size stores were becoming too small, and I was being relegated to online stores that carried sizes larger than 4X. Even such small, practical things like tying my shoes and washing my body were becoming harder to manage. Worse, I was also becoming clumsier. Because there was so much weight hanging from my skeleton, I could no longer prevent falls the way I used to. Anytime I tripped, my ass went down hard. In fact, it was best to just roll into the fall to prevent a worse injury that would result from stopping that much momentum. That lack of basic control is really scary, and I feared that if I did really hurt myself, my size would present a barricade to proper and prompt treatment. Getting a 400+ pound person onto a stretcher and out of a house for instance, or onto an operating table is a burden I was terrified to place on medical personnel as well as myself, never mind the increased risks associated with things like general anesthesia for people my size. Again, this wasn't just about being generally fat. Most people can carry around an extra 30 to even 100 pounds without pressing their luck too hard in this area, but I was beyond that. I was the size of two large people at this point. 




And let's be honest here. I didn't get there by being judicious with my food choices. Yes, there are plenty of studies pointing to how obese people don't necessarily eat more than thinner people, but that their genetic makeup can control how their body stores calories. And yes, I do believe there is a lot of validity to this, which is why what I was doing was even worse, because I wasn't paying any real attention to what I put in my mouth. I ate everything I wanted in whatever quantities I wanted, even while knowing I would pay digestive hell for it later. Inside my mind, I was going for broke for as long as I could until the slack ran out of the rope. And it finally ran out just before Christmas last year when my fasting blood sugar was tested at 186 and my Hemoglobin A1C test came back at 7.6 (anything above 7 is classified as diabetic). 




Granted, as far as diabetes diagnoses go, it could have been much worse. I know people who receive diagnosis with blood sugar over 400 and A1Cs in double digits. I'm lucky I got in there when I did, because it sure as hell wasn't going to get any better at the rate I was going. My doctor started me on Metformin and didn't give me much diet and nutrition advice after that. I've come to find out that this is pretty much the standard protocol with diabetes management anymore, which is disappointing to say the least. Luckily I've always been a precocious self-starter type, and I already knew carbs/sugar would have to be addressed immediately. It comes down to this: Type 2 diabetes results from your body no longer being able to properly use the insulin it produces, which means you wind up with a whole lot of extra glucose floating around in your body. If you have too much sugar in your body, the best thing you can probably do is stop putting so much of it in your damn mouth. 




So off I went learning about keto and how to get going. The following section will hopefully get you going on some basics.





December 2016, just after my Type 2 diagnosis



Getting Going On Keto




Now hopefully, you've been doing your homework on this already, so I'm not going to cover every single base here. The first site I tend to send people to is Diet Doctor, which provides a good introduction to how this way of eating works, as well as some tasty recipes. There is a membership you can join, but there is plenty of info you can glean there for free.




The ketogenic diet is considered a low carb/high fat (LCHF) diet with moderate protein intake. But there is a misconception at work here that going keto means you go from eating bread and pasta to bacon dipped in butter for every meal, and I'm just gonna have to stop you folks right there. The high fat is really just a relative term. With your carbs restricted and your protein moderate, the fat macro takes up a bigger slice of the pie chart you see below here:









These are my current target macros using the calculator here. Yours will vary. And you will notice that yes, 61% of my daily calories CAN come from fat. BUT, I would rather use the fat on my body. Which brings me to the first rule of the ketogenic diet:




FAT IS NOT A GOAL MACRO . Eat enough fat to keep hunger at bay and your food tasting good. It's okay if you don't eat even half what the calculator says you can eat. But in the beginning, as your body begins to transition from burning carbs for fuel to burning fat, you're probably going to be feeling hungry, sluggish, and a bit out of sorts. I ate a lot more fat during those days than I do now. Fat kicks hunger and cravings to the curb. Fat keeps your mind from wandering over to all the chips and other junk food you're probably jonesing for. My fat intake included a lot of things like fattier meat cuts (ribeye, ground chuck, chicken thighs, pork belly, sausage/bacon) cheese, butter on my steaks, Bulletproof coffee, spoonfuls of coconut oil, and nuts. After a couple months, I eventually pared back on all that, because my body was now using its own fat stores to keep my hunger at bay. I now enjoy leaner meats and (gladly) took the butter back out of my coffee (I never liked it much to begin with). So really, fat is like a training wheel. Enjoy it and all its benefits in the beginning, but eventually, let your body be your fat macro.




This brings me to the next guideline:




PROTEIN IS YOUR GOAL MACRO.  The math states we should be eating anywhere from .06g to 1g of protein per pound of lean muscle mass (that's what's left over after you subtract your body fat percentage), but since most of us don't know our actual body fat percentage, this macro is often more of a ballpark figure. The general rule is that sedentary people can get away with the bare minimum of the .06g figure while active people can get closer to 1g. I try to strike a balance here by meeting a minimum of 80g daily. Some days will be higher, some lower, but in the end, it balances out.




And finally, the thing this brings me to carbs:




CARBS ARE YOUR LIMIT MACRO. And that's NET carbs (the amount left over after subtracting indigestible carbs like fiber and some sugar alcohols). Technically, most people can maintain some ketosis with anything under 50g net carbs. When I was starting out, and for about 6 or 7 months thereafter, I stuck pretty faithfully to 20g net a day. Often, I was much less than that. However, this is a number that you will have to play with on your own in order to find a sweet spot. Most people will find that 20 grams is something they can stick to for a while, but probably not forever. But I definitely recommend when first starting out to stick to the 20g limit in order to induce your body more quickly into ketosis.




Now I will bulletpoint a bunch of other wisdoms I eventually discovered as I got going on keto. 





ELECTROLYTES ARE LIFE. Keto is a highly diuretic way of eating. This is because when you're storing excess sugar for energy, your body requires a certain amount of water to hold it in place. The early days of keto will have you likely peeing a lot, because your body is releasing all of that water. This means that you'll also be shedding salt, as well as magnesium and potassium. This can result in sluggishness, nausea, constipation, muscle cramps, crankiness, and brain fog, otherwise referred to as "keto flu." This can be avoided by adding extra salt to your food, drinking a cup of broth, or taking a shot or two of pickle brine. You can also sprinkle a little bit of salt into your water bottle. If you get leg cramps, you very likely need magnesium as well.
YOU DON'T REALLY NEED KETOSTIX. People on this diet will tell you to pick up some ketostix at the local pharmacy so you can test your urine for ketone bodies. And that's all fine and good if you want to do it, but a few caveats. These sticks won't paint a very helpful picture for you if you're more than a couple weeks into keto. That's because over time, your body will stop excreting ketone bodies into your urine because it will actually be USING them. Furthermore, you can usually tell when you're in ketosis through physical symptoms (higher energy levels, less hunger, more mental clarity). If you must know your ketone levels, a blood meter is a lot more reliable, but the strips are crazy expensive and not usually covered by insurance. 
DON'T OBSESS OVER "CLEAN" FOOD. This is a bit of a controversial view, I realize, but a lot of people who follow this lifestyle will tell you to buy only Kerrygold butter and grass-fed beef and organic vegetables. If you CAN do those things, great. But please don't let an inability to afford those things bar you from getting on the keto train. I've seen people sabotage themselves more than once with this erroneous thinking. You'll do plenty fine on conventional foods. In fact, 99% of the time, that's all I buy. This diet should not be breaking your bank. In fact, over time, it can save you a lot of money, because of how much less you'll be eating overall. 
FEEL FREE TO EASE IN. I was diagnosed with diabetes on 12/21/16. I started keto on 1/2/17. In that span of two weeks, I started cutting back on bread, pasta, grains, and sugar and watching portion sizes. We ate through several pantry items. By the time I started actually doing keto, it was much less of a shock to the system, and we also didn't have to throw out a ton of food. 
TRACKING IS GOOD. Get yourself a tracking app for your foods, especially in the beginning. Accountability is important so you can see exactly where you're strong or need improvement in your day. It helped me a lot to know exactly what 20g of carbs a day looked like. My Fitness Pal is probably the most common app for this. Admittedly, the food database can be a bit of a mess, but it's also the most comprehensive one out there.
EXERCISE IS GREAT, BUT... 90% of the weight battle is about what you eat. Working out will make you feel good, maintain weight, help with blood sugar, tone muscles, and make you stronger both mentally and physically, and as you lose more and more weight, you'll have a ton of energy and will WANT to exercise. But it also has a tendency to encourage more eating if you aren't careful. Focus on getting the diet under control first. Go for light walk if you must. Lift some free weights. Heavy exercise can always come later. 
AVOID THE SCALE. Okay, I know most of you will ignore this. I do too. But it doesn't hurt to remind folks that the scale is actually quite evil and it lies a lot, and you should avoid weighing yourself every day, otherwise you'll be in for a lot of unnecessary heartbreak. It won't tell you that the extra three pounds you gained overnight is due to the fact that you haven't pooped in a couple days (keto will likely slow your bowel movements) or you're retaining water because you're dehydrated or in a particular part of your monthly cycle (ladies). It won't tell you that weight fluctuates a LOT for all sorts of reasons having NOTHING AT ALL to do with fat loss or gain. And it sucks because, there is SO MUCH MORE to being kinder to your body than a number, so many more victories to celebrate that have nothing at all to do with actual weight loss. I try very hard to remember all my non-scale achievements, because there are too many to count, and they mean more. Which leads me to:
WEIGHT LOSS IS NEVER LINEAR. For me, with the exception of the first few weeks when I was losing a couple pounds seemingly every day, every ten pounds has been a rollercoaster. I'm up two, down one, down three, up two. I'll go sometimes an entire week or more with no net change. This despite carefully watching what I eat, maintaining a caloric deficit, and staying somewhat active. Then all of a sudden I drop six pounds, and I'm onto the next ten-pound bracket for the next one step forward, two steps back, one giant leap forward. I haven't tracked my weigh-ins by graph, but if I had, I guarantee you it would look like a volatile stock market ticker. Nevertheless, if I zoomed out, I would see the line trending downward, and that's the important part. Don't get too hung up on the day to day. Changes creep up on you when you're shrinking, just like they do when you're growing. Somehow, some way in less than a year, I've lost the equivalent weight of a small adult.
YES, HEAVY CREAM HAS CARBS. You will likely be directed to start replacing milk with heavy whipping cream for certain recipes, and that's because there is a lot fewer carbs in it than in milk. However, the 0g carbs you read on the nutritional label isn't a true or infinite zero. There is, in reality, about half a carb per serving in heavy cream. Labeling laws permit a food manufacturer to put 0g if there is less than one gram. When you're trying to live on 20g a day, the carb numbers can add up really fast if you're using a lot of it, so if a recipe is calling for a cup of heavy cream, beware.
EMBRACE THE SIMPLICITY. Being keto means your shopping is easier. Protein and vegetables, full fat dairy, nuts. If you live with people who aren't doing keto, you might be wondering how you can do your thing while feeding everyone else in the house, but it's really simple. You can all still eat the same proteins and vegetables. Just leave the starches off your plate. Or have spaghetti squash with your sauce and make noodles for everyone else. Have your burger off the bun on a bed of greens and save the buns for everyone else. In the beginning, it might be hard to prepare starchy or sweet foods for your kids, for instance, but eventually it gets easier. Then again, a family tends to benefit as a whole from having less junk in the house. I know my kids are eating far less sugar now than they were a year ago, and that's perfectly fine. 
BE CAREFUL WITH ALCOHOL. Yes, you can enjoy some alcoholic beverages while doing keto. You just have to avoid beer and sugary mixers. That said, ketosis makes you a much cheaper date in the booze department. One or two drinks might be all it takes to do you in, so watch out. I learned this lesson the hard way in the beginning.
A BAD MEAL WON'T RUIN YOU. Yes, you will sometimes indulge in a real piece of cake or bread or ice cream or whatever, and when you do, you might fall into a panic and think you've ruined everything. Knock it off.  The second you start bringing shame into the equation, the sabotage has already begun. Shame is a fucking killer. Forever is a long time, and if you set such unrealistic expectations on yourself that you'll NEVER eat (insert "naughty" food here) again, the only possible result IS failure. Enjoy your treat for what it was and move on. Remember how good you feel without those foods being a daily part of your diet, but how good you still feel having the occasional treat. Go easy on yourself. I've been doing this nearly a year. I fully enjoyed my birthday and Thanksgiving with "treats," and I plan to do so for Christmas. The difference now is I know the difference between eating for a special occasion and eating day to day for sustenance. They are two different things, and I now enjoy those lovely indulgences even more because of it. This is how it should be.
YES YOU CAN DO THIS WITHOUT A GALLBLADDER. This is a common question, and of course I always have to tell people to defer to their doctors, but for the record, I've been without a gallbladder for several years. I haven't had a single problem that way with this diet, and there are scores of people who tell the same story. I also have the lab work to back it up.


SO HAS IT WORKED?





12/6/17. A work in progress!


In less than a year, I have lost 115 lbs, four pants sizes and 5 shirt sizes. My fasting and post-meal blood sugar numbers stabilized within the first couple weeks. After 3 months, my first A1C test was 5.5 (down from 7.6). After 9 months, it's now a 5, and that's even after incorporating more carbs than the initial days of the diet. My triglyceride numbers, which were over 270 at diagnosis, are now well under 100. I still take 500mg of Metformin daily, but I could probably stop that if I wanted. However, it does help with the insulin resistance and I'm having no adverse side effects from it. I no longer have any symptoms of GERD or irritable bowel. I no longer get "hangry." My energy levels are through the roof. I have physical stamina, mental clarity, and I also have a lot less anxiety and irritability overall. With the exception of having some of the ailments of a normally aging body (my joints say I'm not really 19 anymore as much as I would like to be), I haven't felt this good in nearly two decades.



With my current state of health, I could just stop here and maintain my current weight and remain as healthy as a horse, and that's still with a good chunk of fat left on my frame (there's that tie back in to Health at Every Size, which I still firmly believe in). I'm in a place now where I can find clothes that fit, where I can sit in a normal sized chair, where I no longer feel like my body is a major injury waiting to happen on the other side of a bad fall. In many ways, I've already attained every goal I set out onto this journey with. But I'm happy to keep going with what I'm doing, because so far, it's been virtually effortless getting here, and if that means my body keeps shrinking, so be it. I can remain the size I am now and still feel comfortable inside my own skin, with healthy blood markers and a lot of get up and go. I also feel like I'm eating mindfully now, rather than mindlessly cramming food into my mouth and being ruled by constant craving for something sweet and something more. I don't think that's something I've ever had, and I'm so grateful for it now.




So yes, this works, without a doubt. This has been normal life for me for nearly a year and I foresee no return to the ways that made me sick, anymore than I see lighting up another cigarette after 7 years of being nicotine-free. And unlike a diet, I don't feel hungry or deprived. I don't have to do anything high maintenance or expensive to stay on this path. I no longer have food-related anxiety or shame. I feel more closely in tune with my body than I ever have.



Maybe it sounds silly to say that diabetes saved my life, but in a way it did, because it brought me to keto, and keto brought me a peace and sense of control I've been waiting my entire life to feel.




Feel free to drop questions in the comments. I know y'all probably have plenty. 

Updates Galore!

Hello everyone! Is this thing still on? I just had to dust a ton cobwebs out of this place and make sure there weren't any creepy human spiders lurking on the ceiling before I could give you all a right and proper update on what's been happening over here.



The main reason things have been so quiet here is because I've been extremely busy, which is a good thing! Aside from working on various writing projects, I also started a little side crochet business. In addition to that, I'm teaching writing and crochet classes locally. Life has been good.



If you want to see a bit more of my yarn biz, hop on over to Allison M. Dickson Yarns for more details. But since this is my writing blog, let's talk books, shall we? Why yes, I still write them!



Since we last spoke, my traditionally published works have switched houses. After six great years working with the wonderful Hobbes End Publishing, they closed their doors and reverted rights to me. I soon signed on with the amazing Local Hero Press, who took both STRINGS and the upcoming sequel THE MOON GONE DARK under its wing. But Allie, you might be asking. Isn't Local Hero Press predominantly a publisher of superhero and sci-fi books? Yes. Yes it is. HOWEVER, they recently formed an imprint for horror and other dark fiction, and I'm the first inductee! I couldn't be more thrilled! I also have had the distinct honor of working with the great Jeff Fielder on the covers for both books. He has breathed sinister new life into the STRINGS cover, and we already know how gorgeous that MOON cover is. But look at them side to side. How sexy is that?





THESE COVERS THOUGH!

The Second Edition of STRINGS is not much different from the original. I did take the opportunity to give it a little bit of an updated line edit, but the plot remains largely the same. This is largely due to the story's many fans insisting I not pull a George Lucas. Anyway, it is being released back into the wild on February 21, 2017, and you can pre-order it here if you haven't had a chance to read it yet. The very long-awaited sequel is due out in July. More details on that will be out soon!



Elsewhere in Writerland, I have entered the world of audiobooks with my Colt Coltrane series! I was stupendously lucky to have met up with a brilliant narrator, Chase Bradley, who has made Colt come to life in a most amazing way. Listeners are loving these books, guys, so don't hesitate to check them out! I personally think this is the best way to consume these stories! And there will be more soon on the Colt audio front. Meanwhile, you can pick the first two novel-length stories on Audible , iTunes, and Amazon!





Beautiful illustrations by Justin Wasson



In the meantime, I'm hot at work on a super exciting project I hope to have turned into my agent soon. I'm anticipating very big news on that front in the coming months, so stay tuned. I know I've been quiet about my work of late, but trust me, things have definitely been happening behind the scenes, and I will try to do better at keeping this place from becoming so tomb-like.

Production Delay for The Moon Gone Dark

Many of you who have preordered the upcoming STRINGS sequel may have received an email from Amazon today regarding the cancelation of the book. I first want to allay any worries people might have about whether the book is coming. It most definitely is. 



Problems arose back in March that delayed finishing the book on time. First, my husband was in a car accident. Two days later, I was summoned to grand jury duty. Soon after that, my agent returned edits on a book she is looking to submit. Suddenly my production plans were thrown for a loop. 




But even if those things hadn't happened, I would have had misgivings. 




The first book, STRINGS, was published by Hobbes End Publishing. The book has done extremely well under them and I have a fantastic working relationship with them. The integrity of their books is something I stand by. I fully believe the sequel to my most popular book should receive the same treatment. Thankfully they have agreed to work with me again to help usher Moon into the world. 




We're aiming for an October release to coincide with the third anniversary of STRINGS. But I will provide more details when available. Including when the book goes back up for preorders! 




Thanks for your understanding, and I am sorry for the delay. But I think in the end, it will be worth it. 

FREE SHORT STORY: A Concealed Hand

Many of you who follow my work have read this one. It's been in circulation for about four years now, but it remains probably my favorite of my own stories after all this time. I decided to dredge it up from the archives and share it here. Enjoy some dark marriage humor, an absurd murder, and a little bit of a ghostly chill! 









I’m
staring at another bad hand in another losing round of Canasta with my wife,
and I can’t remember if I cut the deck. The memory is buried somewhere in my
beer-soaked brain, but all I see when I try to find it is Priscilla shuffling
those worn out Bicycles in her fancy bridge style that sounds like dead leaves
blowing across a cold November road.

She
knows I hate that racket, but she does it anyway because it’s part of her
“winning ritual,” as she calls it. Fourteen bridge shuffles. Always fourteen,
because “thirteen is unlucky and fifteen is too many,” she once explained, as
if seven, ten, or twelve weren’t enough.

Ordinarily,
she’d slap the shuffled deck in front of me to cut before handing us each
fifteen cards, flicking them out in a blur like someone who’d missed her
calling as a Vegas dealer, but I somehow missed that part on this last deal. I
look over at her now, the score pen tucked behind her ear, her shoulders
square, the corner of her mouth tucked into her trademark devilish smirk
revealing a dimple that was never there when she smiled out of happiness or
good will, and something clicks into place. She had asked me to get up and stir
the stew as she shuffled a couple minutes ago, and my cards were waiting for me
when I sat back down. I’m pretty sure I didn’t cut the deck.

Still,
maybe I’m wrong. I’m on my sixth beer and feeling pretty sour. I’m also not
thinking so much about playing cards right now. Instead, I’m thinking that if
she wins this next hand, I’m going to kill her. And I don’t mean it in a
playful way either. I have murder on my mind for the first time in forty years
of marriage, and it doesn’t trouble me a bit. The idea of choking her or
bashing in her self-righteous skull is dancing in my head like Gene Kelly and
Cyd Charisse.

She
flips over the top card on that uncut deck, revealing the two of clubs. A wild
card. That means the pile is locked to anyone who wants to pick it up, unless
either of us has a pair of whatever’s on top. Of course, I never have that magic
pair when I need it, but Priscilla always does. I can’t see her hand to know
for sure, but it’s how the game always goes once the cards are in someone’s
favor. And when it comes to Canasta, the cards are always in Priscilla’s favor.

“Look
at it this way, Bernard,” she says as she fans out her cards, sorting them with
her nimble fingers and her gimlet eye. “I need a hundred and twenty points to
go down. You got a better chance than me to pick that up.” She tries to soften
the blow, but all the while that dimple in her smirk grows deeper and I know my
takedown is imminent. Meanwhile my heart’s pounding in my eardrums to the beat
of the ticking grandfather clock in the front sitting room.

My
cards are shit. Small junk, no wild cards to help me out. I’m already over two
thousand points behind, and there’s little use in playing anymore, but she’d
gloat all damn night if I bowed out early. If I play till she breaks five
thousand, she’ll drop the smirk sometime after dinner. Then we’ll watch 60
Minutes—Priscilla loves that damn show—and head up to bed. And if she’s in
a good mood, which she always is when she wins, she’ll probably even put out a
little. This has been our routine so long, I can hardly remember a Sunday when
I wasn’t holding these cards in my hand.

Tonight
is different, though. Maybe it’s the beer talking in my head, or that damn
smirk of hers, or that bridge shuffle echoing between my ears like the fleshy
wings of a busy bat colony, but my dust is up and I’m pretty sure there isn’t
going to be any 60 Minutes or humping
tonight.

It’s
only after she draws her second red three, one of those “death by a thousand
cuts” moves that always makes me hate this damn game, that I decide to confront
the issue blaring in my mind like the horn of a semi truck. “Did I cut the
cards?”

Priscilla
glances up from her cards and then back down again. “Yes, of course.”

She’s
lying. You don’t spend forty years with someone and not pick up on the little
tells. The flick of an eyelash can betray an entire affair, and her clipped
“yes, of course” just exposed her disappointment over being busted.

“I’m
not so sure I did,” I say.

She
heaves a sigh, like I’m a whiny toddler instead of her husband. “Oh Bernard, if
it’ll make you feel better, we can re-deal the hand I guess. But I was just
about to go out. Don’t you want to get this over with and have dinner?”

A
bitter taste enters my mouth. “So you admit you didn’t have me cut the deck
then?”

“Can’t
you remember cutting the deck, or is the Budweiser making your brain foggy?”
She’s going for the insults, hoping to distract me. It’s a typical Priscilla
technique when she doesn’t want to admit she’s wrong. But I’m not having it
tonight.

“You’re
the dealer, Priss. You’re supposed to make sure the cards are cut before you
hand them out.”

She
rolls her eyes. “It hardly matters, does it? We’re almost done here. Let’s just
play this out and eat our dinner.”

That’s
easy for her to say. She’s winning. She’s always
winning. But I know if the tables were turned and she was down after a misdeal,
she’d be screaming for a do-over. I’m fed up with her attitude.  I’m fed up with losing. It wasn’t just when
we played cards either. She was the same way when we argued over politics or
when she twisted my arm to go to mass at St. Mark’s every Sunday. Priscilla’s
always keen on beating me down to get her way.

“Since
you didn’t see me cut the cards, and since I don’t remember cutting the cards,
I think you ought to re-deal them then,” I tell her. “What you got there is a
bad hand.”

Her
cheeks flush red and I know she’s pissed off. “It’s just like you to turn into
a real foo-head when you’re getting beat.” Foo-head.
A classic Priscilla-ism, that. She folds her cards and slaps them down on the
table hard enough to rattle the flamingo-shaped salt and pepper shakers. “Would
it make your behind feel less chapped if you shuffled them then?” She shoves
her cards at me. Several of them sail off the edge and onto the floor. I notice
three wild cards in the bunch. One of the jokers stares up at me with malice
painted on its face. I can see why she’s mad, but I feel nothing but
satisfaction as I collect the cards.

“Fine,
I’ll deal. But I ain’t gonna wait all night to eat dinner either. We can eat
and play.”

“Isn’t
that just typical? Throwing off the game and our whole evening because you’re
losing.”

I
ignore her dig and go to the cupboard to grab a bowl. They’re the heavy
crockery kind. Ugly as hell too, the color of overripe cantaloupe. Priscilla’s
choice, of course, only she calls it “sunset coral.” They’re part of a set with
teal coffee mugs and yellow dinner plates. We live in central Iowa, but
everything in this house says we live in a Florida Keys flea market. “I don’t
plan on throwing any game. I just want to play fair. And I’m hungry.”

She
sighs again. Oh God, that sigh of hers. If she did it any harder, she’d spit up
a hairball. “I can’t believe this. We’d both be having a peaceful dinner right
now if you weren’t such a damn baby. Pour some into the tureen while you’re up.
Might as well bring enough for us both.”

I
slop a mess of stew into the big tureen sitting beside the pot. Priscilla
always insists on using her fancy serving dishes, even when it’s just the two
of us.  To me it’s just another thing to
wash. The stew looks like dog food with a few pieces of carrot and potato
floating in it, and it’s probably heavy on the salt. One time I asked her to go
easy on the seasoning as it aggravates my acid reflux. She went to the bathroom
and came back with a bottle of Pepcid and said, “Good cooking won’t take a
backseat to your picky digestive system, Bernard.”

With
the tureen, bowls, and silverware on the table, I grab a loaf of bread, a tub
of margarine, and another beer out of the fridge before I sit back down.

As
I deal the cards, I wonder if I should’ve just let her keep that bad hand. The
game would be over, and we’d be eating ice cream in front of the TV. But I was
bothered. Maybe she didn’t set out to cheat, but she lied to me when I asked
about the deck. She lied. And now I
see this nasty creature crouched inside her that I didn’t notice before. It’s
petulant and dishonest, and I can’t un-see it now no matter how hard I try.

I
shuffle the cards and after she cuts them I deal out fifteen a piece. She fans
out her hand and her trademark smirk all of a sudden becomes a frown, then a
pout. My hand, by contrast, is the best I’ve had the whole game. Hell, in months. The joker’s face that had
earlier been grinning at me from the carpet is now sitting next to two others,
along with five queens and a few other pairs. It’s a concealed hand. I could go
out now and be up a few points and take her down a few pegs while I’m at it,
but I decide to draw it out a little longer so I can close the gap some
more. 

 Over the next few turns, I pick up two more
queens from the draw pile, which is almost enough for a natural canasta—seven
pretty ladies all in a row. All of it hinges on whether I can draw that seventh
queen or whether Priscilla discards one. Meanwhile, she hasn’t put down
anything, and she’s huffing and groaning with every draw.

 “I suppose you’re feeling pretty good about
yourself now.” She glares at me with icy blues that snuff out any remaining
warmth between us. It reminds me of what my Granny said when she always used to
kicked my butt at Gin Rummy: there ain’t no such thing as two friends
playing cards. And right now, with a stare that could freeze over Lake
Erie, Priscilla is no friend of mine.

Each
card I pick up is the right one, and I wallow in her sighs and complaints.
After one draw, she even punches the table, and I have to swallow an urge to
giggle. My poker face is a whole lot better than hers. But then she draws one
more card and that goddamn dimple comes back. I feel a cold, black pit open up
in my gut and my heart drops right into it.

 “So sorry to do this, Bernard.” The sweetness
of her tone is about as artificial as the pink packets of stuff she likes in
her tea. She lays down a natural canasta of jacks along with the rest of her
hand in a meld of aces, tens, and wild cards. And then she puts her final card,
the queen of diamonds, on the discard pile. It looks like a bloody dagger.

Right
then I feel a tectonic shift in our marriage. “It doesn’t matter how the deck
is cut, I guess,” she says with a whimsical lilt to her voice. Her eyes fill in
the rest: I beat you, Bernard. I’ll
always beat you. The only reason I play this game with you is because I like
you better when you’re emasculated and broken. Your balls never could produce
me a child, but they fit perfectly in my hand.  

Seconds
tick away as we stare each other down across the table. No one moves to count
scores or dish stew out of the tureen. My six queens still sit in my hand
waiting to be joined with their long lost sister on the discard pile, but now
they and the wild cards have become my enemies, subtracting themselves from my
already paltry score in a final blow to my whimpering ego. And those queens,
they’re trembling with my rage. “You evil cunt.”

Priscilla’s
eyes widen with shock and her jaw drops into a perfect O.  “What did you say?”

“I
said you’re an evil cunt.” I never swore in such a way in all our years
together, much less to her, but now the words slide from my mouth as if with
practiced ease.

Priscilla
gasps. “Bernard! What has gotten into you? It’s just a game!”

She
looks genuinely hurt, and is that fear I see in her eyes? Yeah, maybe just a
little. Like someone who realizes she might have teased a hungry dog just a
little too much. I should stop, but my fury has me in its grip and it has no
intention of letting me go yet.

“It’s
just a game, is it?” My voice raises another octave and I stand up, the legs of
the chair scraping against the tile. She leans back as if pushed by invisible
hands. “It’s always just a game when you’re winning. Only you don’t know how to
just win, do you? You have to… to assert yourself as better.” I round the table toward her and she struggles to back up
her chair, but it’s fetching up against the buffet behind her. At some point
during the game, I must have moved the table back against her, as if
subconsciously I had planned to block her in the whole time. In her fear, which
is no longer just a hint around her eyes, but now a boldly painted rictus, she
keeps knocking back against the teakwood instead of pushing the table forward.

“Bernie,
stop this. You’re scaring me!”

It’s
exactly what I want her to be. “You tried to cheat, you bitch. Just admit it.
You probably stacked the deck when my back was turned.”

“I
don’t know what you’re talking about!” Her voice cracks on the shrill high
note.

My
fist crashes on the table, making the dishes and silverware jump and shiver.
The stack of cards with the queen of diamonds on top falls over. “Shut up! You
had me get up to stir the goddamn stew just hoping I’d forget about cutting the
deck, and when I came back to the table, you’d already dealt them out. You
think I’m too stupid to notice you cheating?”

Priscilla
is shaking her head in convulsive little jerks. “Bernie, you’ve gone crazy. I
have never cheated you. Never!” Tears
begin to spill down her cheeks, taking streaks of her mascara with them. But
the tears aren’t soothing my rage. I only get madder.

I
arch over her like a bogeyman. “You lied to me and I can tell. So goddamn
sanctimonious. Always trying to beat me down and bust my balls, thinking I’ll
just keep going along with it. You push, push, push.” I poke her hard in the shoulder every time I say that word
and I savor each accompanying wince on her face. “But you pushed me too far
this time, Prissy. Dumb ol’ Bernie ain’t as dumb as you think.”

 The rapid rise and fall of her chest signals
oncoming panic. Her eyes dart around and then her arm flashes out to snatch
something from the table. I look over and see the silver butter knife, which
I’d brought to the table to spread margarine on the bread, gleaming in the
chandelier’s light. “You get away from me right now, or I’m going to use this.”


Her
threat is genuine enough, but her weapon is so absurd it makes me laugh.
“That’s a nice knife you got there. What’re you going to do, cover me in Country
Crock?”

She
grits her teeth and next I hear a meaty thunk. My head jerks down to see
the butter knife standing erect between the first and second knuckles of my
left hand, its tip buried in my flesh. There is less blood than I would expect,
and for a minute both of us stare at it like it’s some kind of novelty hand
from a gag shop. But then I finally register the pain and the truth of it—I’ve been stabbed, by God!—and I scream.

Before
I lose my nerve, I grab the knife handle and pull. Blood wells up in the ragged
gash and spills over in little rivulets. My fingers feel like they’ve been
shoved through with rusty nails, but I resist bending them. Priscilla pushes
back the table and stumbles out of her chair, scooting out of my reach, as if
my touch would burn right through her. “I’m sorry, Bernie! I’m so sorry! I
wasn’t even thinking. You’re just scaring me so badly!”

I
know I should relent now before this gets worse than either of us can imagine.
Any sane and reasonable man would have backed off long before the butter knife
incident, but I’m not behind the wheel anymore, and I realize that the same
ugliness I’d seen in Priscilla earlier must also be living in me. I dive across
the table and snag her by the shoulder of her green “lucky” cardigan with the shamrock
buttons. She yelps, trying to wrench it out of my grip, but I have her with my
unhurt hand, which also happens to be the stronger one.

I
work my way around the end of the table until I’m on the same side as her and
grab hold of her from behind, one arm wrapped around her neck and the other
around her arms in a half bear hug. She struggles to pull free as I try to
choke her, but I can’t quite get the angle right because she’s digging her chin
into my forearm. I scan the table for something I can knock her over the head
with instead. One of the “sunset coral” bowls seems the best option until I spy
the tureen of beef stew and have a better idea. With my hurt hand, I reach out
and lift the lid. Steam thick with the smell of bay leaf and thyme fills my nose.
My sanity knows what a grotesque sideshow this is turning into, but it just
sits back horrified and fascinated.

I
grab her hair and shove her face toward the steaming pool of stew. “Bernie no! What are you doing oh my
Go—!” Her final syllable is more of a burble as I press down on the back of her
head with both hands to submerge her face and hold her there.

“Eat
it! Eat your goddamn slop!” I scream, not recognizing my own voice.

She
thrashes around, but I press my weight against her, sandwiching her against the
table like I’m trying to do her from behind. I learn something in those sixty
or so seconds it takes to drown my wife in her over-seasoned beef stew, and
that is anyone who’s on the verge of suffocation will do whatever it takes to
keep breathing. They exhibit superhuman strength as their bodies dump a gallon
of adrenaline into their bloodstreams. I have to ride Priscilla like a cowboy
trying to break a wild horse, pinning her down as she bucks her hips and arches
her back to throw me off.  I hear the
sound of ripping cloth and realize the arms of my shirt are tearing at the
shoulder seams, and I can smell the stink of my exertions wafting out. The
tureen slides around on the table with her struggles and some of the stew gravy
sloshes out and down the sides, but I hold her head steady because I want her
dead even more than she wants to live. I guess that’s the equation behind every
successful murder.

Finally,
she stops bucking and her body gives one final shudder. I imagine that’s the
moment the stew fills her lungs, though I don’t know exactly how these things
work. Either way, I count to a hundred and twenty. Only a Navy Seal could hold
in a breath that long.

Once
I’m sure she’s dead, I remove my hands and step away. Her limp body sags to the
floor, her chin overturning the tureen as she goes. Brackish meat gravy with a
dull confetti of carrot, potato, and herbs floods the table, running down the
vinyl tablecloth in a wide stream that looks like diarrhea. My stab wound
doesn’t even hurt now, probably from my own glut of adrenaline that’s making my
eyes bulge.

The
enormity of what just happened doesn’t hit home until I look at Priscilla’s
face, which is puffed and brown-black with stew and asphyxiation. My gorge
rises, burning my throat with soured beer, but I swallow it back. She looks
like some kind of racist caricature. But Priscilla had been no racist. She’d
been an elitist bitch, a dyed-in-the-wool bleeding heart liberal. Then it
occurs to me that she and I would never argue about politics again. I wouldn’t
have to hear about how I should vote for her guy, and then suffer her disdain
when I didn’t. Along with breathing, cooking, and playing Canasta, Priscilla
would never vote again.

Part
of me—the snickering demon that took pleasure in holding my wife’s head in a
pot of stew as she thrashed for her next breath—is enjoying this. But the human
part of me, the coward that stood aside and watched with horror as I drowned
the woman with whom I sometimes shared cheese and crackers in bed, is screaming.
And the screams echo through the two-story brick house we bought brand new in
1972 intending to fill with kids that never came due my low sperm count. I
suppose that alone should have proven we weren’t very compatible, but I’d loved
her and she’d loved me. And I killed her over a bad hand of cards, like some
Old West outlaw, but with none of the honor or flair.

I
can’t exactly call the police and report an accidental beef stew drowning. Even
if I clean her up, they’d want to do an autopsy, and thyme-flavored brown sauce
in the lungs and throat isn’t what any coroner would call natural causes.
Stashing her somewhere until I can think up a plan seems the best option.

After
putting the cards and score pad on the buffet and carrying the tureen and other
dishes to the sink, I remove the soiled tablecloth and spread it next to
Priscilla’s body. I wrap her up tight and tuck in the end close to her head.
Her feet, clad in her favorite white Keds, still stick out, but that’s fine.
It’s her face I want to hide.

The
basement is the best place to put her. Though the thought of her dead body
anywhere in the house gives me the chills, it’s cool, dark, and out of the way.
I sling her over my shoulder and carry her down the steep, creaky stairs she’d
been on me to replace for years, sweating buckets under the strain. She was
always petite, but I remember reading somewhere that dead people are damn
heavy.

There’s
a storage cabinet under the stairs, and I prop her up in there on a couple
cases of bottled water. Closing the cabinet, I stop cold when a white rectangle
on the floor catches the corner of my eye. It’s the queen of diamonds, its
corner covered with a dollop of stew gravy. It must have stuck to the
tablecloth. I don’t want to touch it—the card’s presence here just seems wrong,
or rather too right—but I pick it up so I can put it with the others.

The
dining room is a mess—streaks of stew on the tile, a crooked table, an
overturned chair—but no one would ever guess a murder had taken place here.
First, I go to the bathroom and inspect my hand. The wound between the knuckles
hurts like hell, but it has clotted at least. That I can still feel and move my
fingers must mean nothing important was severed. I dab it with some antibiotic
ointment from the first aid kit and wrap it with gauze before moving on with
the rest of the clean-up.

As
I mop the floor and wipe up the spatters of stew from the walls, I think of
what happens next. What would a real murderer do? Cleaning his tracks, thinking
of a good burial site. Maybe I can create the illusion of a man whose wife up
and left him after forty years, and in the morning I’ll pack her clothes and
other things in some suitcases and make them disappear too. There wouldn’t be a
note, though. They have handwriting experts for that. There’s also the question
of money. Cops will wonder why she hasn’t used her bank card since
disappearing, but I guess any decent defense attorney could find an argument
around that. “Can’t have a murder without a body, so I have to hide her good,”
I say to the empty room. My voice is steely and cold.

I
pull another tablecloth out of the buffet and spread its white lace across the
table. It had been my mother’s and Priscilla had hated it, referring to
anything that looked traditional as dowdy. I think it looks the way a dining
room table in Iowa should look. Opening another drawer in the buffet, I pull
out the heavy brass candlesticks that had also been Mom’s. I can already see
Priscilla spinning in her as-yet-determined grave.

That
last thought is overwhelming enough that I decide to sleep on it a bit.
Deciding against the beer in the fridge, I go for the good stuff in the cabinet
above: a bottle of Basil Hayden’s. Before I leave the dining room, I dig the
queen of diamonds out of my pocket and place it on the table.

I
dream of Priscilla beckoning to me from a shroud of rotting silk and jerk awake
just before she can touch me. Her side of the bed is still cold and made up, as
if waiting for her to turn down the covers and slide in beside me. It isn’t until
I turn over and hear the half-empty bottle of bourbon slosh by my side that I
remember why that will never happen. My head is as heavy as a cinderblock, and
my tongue feels like a bloated lizard in my mouth.

I
can’t escape the feeling that something brought me up through all those layers
of liquor and bad dreams. A sound of some kind. I’m not sure what it is until I
sit up and hear it again: a fluttering rasp that makes my stomach clench and my
bowels turn to water. My skin prickles in a million tiny bumps. It’s the sound
of Priscilla’s bridge shuffle.

Or,
my mind tries to convince me, just a trick of the wind outside. But one glance
out the window into the still September night convinces me that just isn’t so.
I swing my legs out of the bed and stand up, swallowing back the taste of sour
bourbon as my stomach knots into a noose.

In
the bathroom, I empty my bladder first and notice Priscilla’s white terrycloth
bathrobe hanging from the door hook. It doesn’t know she’s dead. As far as the
robe is concerned, its owner will step out of the shower later this morning and
shrug it over her still-wet shoulders before moving over to her vanity table
near the linen closet, where all her creams, powders, and perfumes are lined up
like soldiers awaiting orders. Now it’s not dread I feel over the act of
killing Priscilla. I’m grieving over the loss of my wife. I want her back,
smirk and all, and I can feel a painful lump rising in the back of my throat
that I push away with a swig of water from the tap.

The
sound comes again as I wipe my hands on the flamingo hand towels. That goddamn
rustling sound, the one I hated most in the world. I race over to the bureau
and open the top drawer. Beneath my folded t-shirts is a Glock automatic
pistol. I slide in a fresh magazine and then flick off the safety. I’ve never
pointed it at anything other than a paper target, but its weight feels right in
my hand. I’m ready to face whatever’s coming.

The
shuffle of the cards comes again as I cross the threshold of the bedroom and
step onto the landing. With each step I take down, I hear the flapping of the
Bicycles echoing off the dining room walls as they have every Sunday with few
exceptions for the last forty years. We even played on our wedding night and
the first night we spent together in this house, sleeping on the living room
floor because the movers were a day late with our things. Thinking back, I can
mark almost every momentous occasion between Priscilla and me with a deck of
cards. And we always walked away from each game we played without a scuffle.
Maybe a little irritated, sure, but we never came to blows. I don’t know what
made tonight so different. It’s like the tightrope of our marriage carried us
over an abyss and, so near the end, we just slipped.

“Into
a vat of beef stew,” I mutter to myself as I reach the foot of the stairs. The
shuffling sound stops. I’m too scared to look around the corner into the dining
room to see if my dead wife is sitting in her chair again, her swollen,
oxygen-deprived face coated in dried beef gravy, with chunks of carrots and
potato in her matted hair.

I
stand and listen for any noise. Another shuffle of cards, perhaps. Or the
rattle of beef stew in her throat. But I only hear the regular tick of the
grandfather clock in the front sitting room. Sighing, I realize Priscilla is
just as dead as she was when I wrapped her up in the tablecloth and stuffed her
into the closet under the basement stairs, where she’s now growing stiff atop
the cases of Poland Spring. The sound of the shuffling cards must have come
from my fevered brain. Looking at the loaded Glock in my hand, I think of how
easy it would be to end it all either before I go crazy or before I get caught.
I’d just need to write a note explaining everything. And maybe call 9-1-1 first
so the cops will find us before one of our neighbors does. Dying was not on my
agenda for the day, but neither was murder. Funny how life can turn on a dime
like that.

I
round the corner and creep toward the dining room, which is just as I’d left
it. My mother’s candlesticks and tablecloth gleam in the bluish-white moonlight
and the only other object on the table is the last thing I left on it before
heading upstairs: the queen of diamonds. The one with the smudge of beef gravy
on the corner, like an accusation.

I
reach out my finger and touch the card. A thump comes from somewhere below me.
In the basement. Placing the gun on the table, I go over to the buffet and
gather the remaining cards and the score pad. I give the cards another shuffle.
Not a bridge shuffle, though. I never could do those.

Another
thud from down there, followed by the slap of the door under the stairs flying
open. Soon she’ll be heading back up here. I realize now there are fourteen
stairs leading up from the basement. Fourteen stairs for fourteen shuffles.
It’s as if she always knew.

We
have a game to finish, my wife and I. The score is definitely in her favor, but
maybe I still have a chance. I glance at the gun sitting here on the table, and
I’m not sure if I have the courage to use it just yet. But maybe when I see her
face again, and the whites of her staring eyes contrasting with her black-brown
face, I will.

Behind
me, I hear the basement door swing open and hit the wall. My nostrils fill
again with the smell of thyme and bay, and I shiver at the icy draft that
follows it. I place the shuffled deck down on Priscilla’s side of the table so
she can cut them. There won’t be any forgetting this time.

Learn More About (and Pre-Order) THE MOON GONE DARK!

Ever since I released STRINGS back in 2013, I knew the story wasn't done. I just wasn't sure I had a reason to tell the rest of that story until I saw how the public reacted to the book. To my surprise, STRINGS has been a success, and probably my largest one to date. And it wasn't long before people started asking for more.



I am proud to say that 2 1/2 years after the release of STRINGS, the sequel, THE MOON GONE DARK, is releasing on June 28th from DeadPixel Publications!



Pre-Order for Kindle here!





Cover by the incomparable Jeff Fielder

I'm guessing folks have some questions about what they can expect in the next book, and I am happy to answer them, but first I want to let folks know a couple things.



STRINGS was an unbridled horror novel. While it had a lot of elements of suspense and crime fiction, the extreme events of the Ballas house meant it had to be marketed in the horror category. And that's fine. I intended it to be that way.



But when I sat down to write the sequel, I realized it wasn't horror. This book falls mainly into the dark suspense thriller category. That isn't to say this book doesn't contain disturbing elements and won't pack a punch but there is no house of horrors here. Whether this will disappoint some readers, I can't say. I can only say that in writing the story that most reasonably follows the arc of the characters I've created, this is what I've ended up with, and I'm proud of it and I think readers who enjoyed STRINGS will enjoy this one.



Also, I'm sure you're wondering where the title comes from. Those who are fans of Cat's Cradle and other string puzzle games might recognize it as one of the formations. I also think it fits very well with the tone of the story as well as sticks to the themes of strings and entanglement.



Finally, you might be wondering if there will be anymore from the STRINGS universe after this. As of right now, my plan is to let this be a duology. However, I do have an idea in mind for a prequel covering the period of time when Dante Cassini and the elder Hank Ballas were in their prime during the 1960s. But that's way down the road.



At any rate, I can't wait for everyone to read this, and I'll be posting more here as we near the release. In the meantime, if you haven't read STRINGS, now is the perfect time to read it so you'll be fresh for the sequel!

Bryan W. Alaspa Talks About THE LORD OF WINTER

Bryan with his adorable pooch, Hondo!


It's been awhile since I've updated Ye Olde Blog, but I can think of no better way to reawaken things than with an interview from a good friend with a new book! Bryan W. Alaspa is prolific as all get-out, writing in all sorts of genres. Horror, noir, post-apocalyptic, non-fiction, and young adult. His latest falls into the latter category, part of a fantasy series called The Elementals. Book 2, THE LORD OF WINTER, just came out. I asked him a few questions about it, and hopefully by the end, you'll click on over to Amazon and pick it up!








1. Tell us a little bit about the Elementals series, and this book in particular.
The series tells the story of an offshoot of humanity known as The Elementals. Longer-lived and stronger than humans, they also have the ability to control one of the four elements of earth, fire, water and air for a variety of purposes. They have been around for centuries, mostly hidden away. This novel, The Lord of Winter, picks up where The Lightning Weaver left off. A split has happened between Elementals who want to live in peace and those who feel they should rule the planet. A very powerful air Elemental with the ability to create blizzards with a thought has lost control of his powers down in Miami. So, our intrepid heroes, Katie Albright and Christopher Farraday head down there to help him gain control and recruit him in their ongoing battle against Johan Apasilic (AKA Mr. Apples) who wants to wage a war against humanity. They also have to battle a drug cartel, because nothing can ever be simple.

2. How many books do you have planned for the series?
Four books. The first is The Lightning Weaver, then The Lord of Winter. This will be followed by The Water Witch and end with The Firedrake.

3. Who are your greatest literary inspirations?
Peter Benchley first got me to think about trying to make a living as a writer. Stephen King is probably my biggest influence and the one author I have to buy their books the day they come out. I am also a huge fan of Robert R. McCammon and, more recently, Blake Crouch.

4. You write both adult and YA fiction. What would you say are the benefits and challenges of both?
Well, writing the adult stuff means that I can really be depraved and cut loose. I can have sex, swearing and all kinds of things happen. YA fiction causes me to think and rethink what I am writing – is this appropriate for the teens? Is there another way to say this that is less violent or without the cussing? I like challenging myself when I write or things get boring for me, so doing exercises like that keep my imagination limber.

5. Shower, car, dreams...every author has a "place" where their ideas normally come to them. Where is yours?
Probably when I go for walks. Sometimes when driving. I am a firm believer that I don’t really create my stories – I just tap into something out there. The characters come to me and tell me their tales and I just transcribe them in what I hope is an entertaining way. It’s like there’s some kind of story force – like the Speed Force in the DC comic book world – that I can tap into and find characters that want me to tell their tales

6. What are you currently working on?I am editing and doing rewrites on a thriller called TEXT that I have a special plan for. I have also recently started a new detective novel in my Deklan Falls series called Radiowaves. I have the second novel in my Rotate the Earth series to do edits and rewrites on and hope to publish later this year.

7. Where on the internet we can find you and all your work?
The best place to find all my work is through my Amazon author page. You can also find links to where to buy my work, updates about upcoming projects and my blog at my website: www.bryanwalaspa.com. .

Everyone Has a Bowie Essay, And So Do I

Ever since waking up Monday with the news of David Bowie's passing, my head has been somewhere else. It's been in David Bowie's world.



But I should first back up and say that I am one of those Bowie fans that a lot of scholars of the man would probably deride with a disdainful sniff. I didn't own every album. I never saw him in concert (though I'd always wanted to). I took David Bowie's presence in the popular culture and his status as one of the coolest and most innovative artists in the world completely for granted. In many ways, Bowie has never really been on a human level for me. He's always seemed at least half immortal. He was already hovering somewhere up above the rest of us, beaming down his talents like the sun.



And in his passing, I can't help but feel like the sun is now a great deal dimmer.

Oddly too, I feel my grief evolving over this in strange ways. I have not cried much, though I think part of that has to do with being on Zoloft. But in lieu of tears, I find myself completely preoccupied with him. I didn't get much work done yesterday, because I was researching Bowie stuff I didn't know about before, listening to songs on albums I had missed or completely forgotten about. My tastes for Bowie's music tended to fall to his earlier stuff--The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust, Hunky Dory, and then jumping way forward to Let's Dance (I didn't concentrate as much on the Berlin years, though I'm making up for it now). I really lost track of his work after the late 90s, though I absolutely loved his collaboration with Trent Reznor, but I'm catching up on those as well.





But in revisiting this standards as well as the music of his I'd missed, I am struck by one completely unassailable thing: Jesus Christ it was all so fucking good. Even songs of his I wouldn't say are my favorites, none of them are actually BAD. There is such a wide variety of sounds, textures, themes, influences, and genres, but they're all united under this umbrella of cool, confident, intelligent, and completely rarified talent. The genius just fell out of the guy's pores like sweat. He never felt irrelevant. He never would have settled for it. He consumed as much culture as he could, past and present, and he continued to pave his way into the future.




But it wasn't just his music for me, which in one form or another has always been part of my life's background soundtrack. It was his movies too. Bowie was completely special in that he enchanted me with both artforms. I imagine if he'd written books too (something I've read he regretted not doing), he would have been a complete and utter god to me. The visual appeal of Bowie, his onscreen presence, was exciting and captivating. It could be even be a short cameo, and the movie was all the better for it. When he stepped through that storm of lightning in The Prestige as Nikola Tesla, I literally squealed in the theater. A movie I was already loving tremendously suddenly became one of my favorite movies, specifically because he was in it.











In fact, David Bowie was my first ever discernible movie crush. My father took me to see Labyrinth when it came out. I was seven years old and completely unaware I could feel feelings like that. I thought of him for years afterward, as I bridged into puberty. Seeing him again as I grew older was like throwing gasoline on a flame that had never extinguished. Years later, I introduced my kids to this same movie and they loved it. My daughter even had a Bowie crush of her own, probably because she could see a lot of herself in him. She has a similar creativity, a dare to be different mentality. I could easily call him a role model for her.









But WHY do I feel this way about David Bowie? What is it about him that captured me the way it has? Why do I look at this man and find a connection? I've never had the courage to be as visually expressive as he was, and my creativity will never be as avant garde as his was, but I have always had an undying and sometimes overwhelming attraction to people who color outside the lines and break the rules, who look at what we deem as "normal" and say "fuck that shit, I'm doing it my way." They look different, they dress different, they think different. They're bold when I can't be. They're daring when I can't be. They're in many ways my surrogates. They're my heroes.




I admit I have fallen down a bit of a rabbit hole since Bowie died. I'm watching live performances, I'm watching interview clips so I can get a glimpse of the man behind the persona. I'm watching clips of movies and shows he's done. I'm seeking out collaborations of his with other artists I admire. I've probably listened to his album Blackstar over a dozen times, not including right now as I write this. The rhythms have worn a groove in my mind. His voice, always remarkable to me, is even more beautiful with the knowledge that he was singing through the pain and wasting away of terminal illness. That someone could still be so brilliant and produce such beauty while dying is so inspirational to me. I have wanted to be more like David Bowie most of my life, but now I know I also want to be like him in death. Defiant and daring and creating until the very end.









In a sense, I'm attending a days-long memorial service inside my own head for David Bowie. It could actually be years-long. I might not show up to it with such intensity every single day as I have over the last few days, but the altar will always be there, and I will be putting flowers on it and lighting incense regularly. I'm so grateful that I got to be alive at the same time he was, though if anything, I think his light will carry on for generations to come.

I'm In A StoryBundle!

Lookit me up there!


I guess you could call this my first real achievement of 2016, although it was actually achieved near the end of 2015. At any rate, the first book in my COLT COLTRANE series was selected to be in a StoryBundle by Jefferson Smith of the Immerse or Die Challenge! It's a huge honor, but I won't bore you with my own words. Here is Jefferson talking about what's in the Bundle, how the whole thing works, and his thoughts on the stories included.





THE 2016 IMMERSE OR DIE BUNDLE 


Curated by Jefferson Smith 

So here we are with the second annual ImmerseOrDie StoryBundle collection. Indie writing gets a bad rap for being full of poorly executed dreck, but hidden in that firehose of sludge, there are occasional gems. ImmerseOrDie's mission is to hunt those down so you don't have to.

If you don't already know how it works, the premise is simple. Every morning, I get on my treadmill, open a new indie fantasy or science fiction ebook, and start my morning walk. Every time I read something that breaks my immersion in the story—bad grammar, inconsistent worldbuilding, illogical character behaviors, etc.—the book earns a red flag, called a WTF. If I find three WTFs before I finish my 40-minute walk, the clock stops, the book closes, and I go off to write up a report about what went wrong, for the benefit of both readers and authors alike. (Check out the archived reports at http://immerseordie.com.)

But this StoryBundle is not just the few books that were clean enough to squeak past my 40-minute guard dogs. After that first round, survivors were then run through a second gauntlet in which they had to do more than simply avoid WTF triggers. This time they had to grab my attention, hold it, and deliver a complete and satisfying story. Not just clean production, but an entertaining read. And not just for 40 minutes, but for the entire book.

The result? Seven glorious books plucked from the indie firehose of suck, plus two of my own so you can judge the judge for yourself. These are not high schoolers trying to score cash for their rambling first drafts, nor are they trunk novels written by established writers padding their revenue streams with weaker work. These are great stories from truly unknown writers who have all kinds of game and are now hunting the savannah in search of you, their audience. If I've done my job right, this StoryBundle will be just the break you've both been waiting for.

But enough about me. Let me introduce you to my posse.

The Girl at the End of the World by Richard Levesque

I hate this book. The problem is that I'm a wimp. I just can't deal when a character I like gets subjected to horrific experiences. I hate that sense of building dread as I turn each page, hoping desperately that things won't get worse, only to be tortured by the fact that they do. I really do not want to be there. And yet, for some reason, I forge on. Why? Because I'm a loyal friend, and if these brave and deserving characters who have earned my friendship must go through hell, how can I possibly let them go there alone? So I soldier on, if only to bear silent witness to their struggle. I hate that it falls to me to do that job, but I do it anyway. For them. But the author who did that to them? Him I hate. And the book? I hate that too. But it's a delicious kind of hate, and if you've got any shred of a soul, you'll hate it too. Every single page of it.

Colt Coltrane and the Lotus Killer by Allison M. Dickson

I'm a sucker for the hard-boiled detective standing between his grimy city and its final plunge into total darkness. Then give him an ass-kicking robot sidekick who seems more Studebaker than Terminator? I simply cannot look away. The fact that it was a great story to boot was just icing on the cake.

Dark Matter by Brett Adams

When a young man sets out to give himself a "beautiful suicide" and instead gives himself superpowers, I'm curious. Throw in a resurrected Nazi with similar powers trying to hunt him down and I'm full-on fascinated. But Dark Matter is more than just an intriguing premise. It has everything I look for in fiction: intelligent ideas, surprising twists, and a dollop of mystery, all delivered within a steady matrix of confident, evocative prose. Smart writing that tells a ripping tale? Yes please.

Rust: Season One by Christopher Ruz

Imagine Stephen King siring a love-beast upon the dead and moldering remains of HP Lovecraft. That's Rust. Right from the opening scene that leaves us questioning just what is real and what is not, Ruz plunges us full-screaming into the chaotic afterlife of one Kimberley Archer, who is either single and dead, or living in hell, unable to escape the devoted husband and child she has no memory of ever having met. This one will creep you out completely.

The Vampire of Northanger by Bryce Anderson

Jane Austen's long-lost vampire novel. I confess I haven't read Austen, but this modern re-imagining of her work—by translocating it into a world where vampires are real—makes me want to give her a try. My only fear is that her entirely vampireless exploits won't live up to the dark and nuanced ballet of inter-species manners that Anderson has fashioned from her more pallid offerings.

Catskinner's Book by Misha Burnett

My most gripping reads are almost always the ones where the very premise itself grabs my attention in a choke hold, and such is the case here. Long-time loser James Ozwryck finally has a life: a small apartment, a regular job, and a steady income. There's even plenty of time for video games. It might not be much, but it's his. And to keep it, all he has to do is let a demon borrow his body from time to time. You know, to kill people. It's a pretty sweet deal.

Pilgrim of the Storm by Russ Linton

Everyone loves an underdog story, but those usually involve human underdogs. This time however, our hero is a lowly insectoid boy, Sidge, born into a race of slaves but valiantly trying to make good in the world of his human "betters." Instead of being lauded for his efforts to fit in though, his impudence has only made him a target for further derision and abuse. But surely that will get better once he rises to a position of respect, right? So all he has to do to win that position is to survive a dangerous cross-country journey with the very people who seem to hate him most. Then at last things will finally be better.

Strange Places by Jefferson Smith

Continuing in the tradition of Alice in Wonderland and The Wizard of Oz, I wrote the Finding Tayna series for my daughters, to give them images of a modern heroine going boldly forth, taming a strange world that thought it was taming her, and doing so with style and humor.

Oath Keeper by Jefferson Smith

It's easy to call yourself the queen of rejection and champion of the timid when things are going well. But the mark of a real hero is how she copes when life serves her a pile of real suck. Well, here cometh that suck. (Book 2 of Finding Tayna.)

– Jefferson Smith

The initial titles in the 2016 Immerse or Die Bundle (minimum $3 to purchase) are:

Strange Places by Jefferson Smith 
Rust: Season One by Christopher Ruz 
The Vampire of Northanger by Bryce Anderson 
Dark Matter by Brett Adams 
Colt Coltrane and the Lotus Killer by Allison M. Dickson 


If you pay more than the bonus price of just $12, you get all five of the regular titles, plus four more:

Oath Keeper by Jefferson Smith 
Pilgrim of the Storm by Russ Linton 
The Girl at the End of the World by Richard Levesque 
Catskinner's Book Vol 1: The Book of Lost Doors by Misha Burnett 


The bundle is available for a very limited time only, via http://www.storybundle.com. It allows easy reading on computers, smartphones, and tablets as well as Kindle and other ereaders via file transfer, email, and other methods. You get multiple DRM-free formats (.epub and .mobi) for all books!

It's also super easy to give the gift of reading with StoryBundle, thanks to our gift cards – which allow you to send someone a code that they can redeem for any future StoryBundle bundle – and timed delivery, which allows you to control exactly when your recipient will get the gift of StoryBundle.

Why StoryBundle? Here are just a few benefits StoryBundle provides.

Get quality reads: We've chosen works from excellent authors to bundle together in one convenient package. 
Pay what you want (minimum $3): You decide how much these fantastic comics are worth to you. If you can only spare a little, that's fine! You'll still get access to a batch of exceptional titles. 
Support authors who support DRM-free books: StoryBundle is a platform for authors to get exposure for their works, both for the titles featured in the bundle and for the rest of their catalog. Supporting authors who let you read their books on any device you want—restriction free—will show everyone there's nothing wrong with ditching DRM. 
Give to worthy causes: Bundle buyers have a chance to donate a portion of their proceeds to charity. 
Receive extra books: If you beat our the bonus price, you'll get the bonus books! 

StoryBundle was created to give a platform for independent authors to showcase their work, and a source of quality titles for thirsty readers. StoryBundle works with authors to create bundles of ebooks that can be purchased by readers at their desired price. Before starting StoryBundle, Founder Jason Chen covered technology and software as an editor for Gizmodo.com and Lifehacker.com. For more information, visit our website at storybundle.com, tweet us at @storybundle and like us on Facebook.

When Publishers Completely Suck

UPDATE #1: As of 1/11/16, Ragnarok Publications has still not paid us any royalties owed for the sale of GRIMM MISTRESSES. They're aware of this blog and the others written by contributors, and they've waged a defense of their own where they're attempting to deflect responsibility by calling this a "misunderstanding" or a "contract dispute." Basically, we're just a bunch of hysterical females waving our tampons around. Never mind that we have a paper trail. Never mind that the folks at Ragnarok had never communicated with us about a royalty schedule in the 11 months since the book has been published until their asses were against the wall and they said December we would be paid (hint: it didn't happen). Never mind that other authors under the Ragnarok umbrella have not been paid either. I can't name names on that front, as those people have to fight their own battles, but let's just say there has been a lot of discussion, and GRIMM MISTRESSES authors are only a small handful of the authors Ragnarok is stealing from. (And yes, if you are pocketing money for the sale of someone else's work and not paying out their fair share, you are stealing).



UPDATE #2: I have not enabled comments on this blog, because I've watched these very same rodeos happen with other colleagues of mine. I know there are loyalists out there eager to be the first ones to step up and defend their fiscally incompetent brothers in arms as well as shame me for not doing everything right. Of course as you will see below, I do more than enough owning up for my mistake of signing a contract I knew was imperfect. I fucked up by assuming the best about a person and an organization and ignoring my instincts. I still don't see how this absolves Ragnarok for using the glaring hole in their own contracts to steal authors' money. It's victim blaming 101, and I don't allow that bullshit on my page. Anyone with questions or concerns is free to email me.



I will update this page again when I have received payment. If we haven't received payment by a certain deadline, we plan to file grievances with certain organizations.



                                                                      ******

First, I want to state that I am writing this piece of my own accord and am speaking for myself and my experience only. I do not intend to drag any other names into this screed with me, but if you do happen to share my beef either directly or indirectly, you are welcome to share it as you see fit.



Let me start right away with the incident in question:





In the summer of 2014, I was invited by a (now former) editor from Ragnarok Publications to contribute a story to an anthology called Grimm Mistresses. You probably saw me talk about it here. At one point, I even had the cover of the book listed on the sidebar with a link to purchase it, but that has since been removed, and for good reason.



At the time, I'd known a few very respected authors who worked with Ragnarok, and they seemed like they were up and coming and putting out some decent work. The editor in question is also a friend of mine and I like her a lot, so I was happy to come up with a twisted take on a Grimm fairy tale for the book. A few months later, I wrote the story "Nectar," which you can now find in my newly released collection, THREE.



During the early planning phase of GRIMM MISTRESSES, things were looking pretty great. They had the cover done already, and it was gorgeous. There was a limited edition hardcover release in the works as well, which was going to be pretty awesome, since I'd never had my work in a hardcover before.



But then I got the contract, and that was when I got my first whiff of something not being right. And please, everyone, use me and my misjudgment as an example of what NOT to do with a publishing contract. When a contract does not explicitly state a royalty payment schedule, you tear that fucker up and either say "give me a new contract" or you walk. No ifs, ands, or buts.



I did contact the publisher about this glaring omission and was assured that royalties were paid twice a year. I was still not completely satisfied with this, because I wanted it in writing. I'm generally a stickler and I know what to look for in publishing contracts, but at the time my thinking was, "Meh. It's just a short story. I'll have rights back in a year (at least that was explicitly stated, and if that part hadn't been, I definitely would have walked). And the royalty split won't be all that much anyway, so no biggie."



In other words, I ignored my intuition, signed, and let the whole thing go. I knew I wasn't going to get rich. I figured even if I made at most a few bucks, it would still be fun, and I'd release it myself once I got the rights back. It wouldn't have been the first time I contributed to an anthology for that very reason.



But again, please do not sign a contract you know doesn't pass the sniff test. Don't be a stupid dummyhead like Allison M. Dickson.



In fact, if you get a contract for a short story and it is offering you a royalty split rather than a flat payment, just walk away, because honestly, splitting a 50% royalty with however many other authors are in the collection is like working for free. Find a better publisher. One who can actually AFFORD to pay authors in full for their contributions either at acceptance or at publication. Don't dick around with piddling royalties on short story collections that 1. Will never sell all that many copies to begin with by nature of the niche offerings they are, and 2. Will never sell that many copies because it's a micro press. A tiny crumb of an already tiny slice of a minuscule pie is not how you make money as a writer. There are very, VERY few exceptions under which I'd take a royalty split on an anthology. The reputation of the publisher has to be without a single blemish, and a very big name has to be involved in the project. Like Neil Gaiman or Stephen King big. Otherwise, there are better ways to publish short stories, trust me.



So anyway, the contract was signed. The end of February 2015 was the release date. Things seemed to be cutting it close, like end of January and into early Feb, and I still hadn't seen any edited copy. That seemed weird, but I had enough going on at the time that I didn't make a big stink about it. After we pestered and finally did get electronic proof copies, I was hugely displeased to find my story contained numerous errors, and actually had errors put INTO it by way of deletion of nearly every comma in the text. Again, red flags went up.



The other stories also contained a lot of typos and other proofing mistakes, and it became very clear that no one had actually done any copy editing or proofing on the book. Again, I was feeling a little uneasy, but we were assured that a clean book would be going to release and that we should just send them whatever errors we found to make sure they caught everything. That was mildly reassuring, but again, the vagueness of the communication was off-putting, and I was getting the sense that things were not going very well behind the scenes. And in case you're wondering, the editor who invited me was not responsible for the editing issues. The publisher had used someone else to proof (very badly) and then told us he would handle the actual editing, and then he flaked out. Unfortunately, the one who invited me to the anthology is still listed as the editor, so guess whose name gets to be hung out there to dry while the ones actually responsible for putting out half-baked copy get to hang back?



In fact, read her complete story if you want to get even more info on what happened behind the scenes.



Also check out C.W LaSart's blog post on the matter.



So as you can imagine, a polished copy did not go to release. While it was improved from the version I initially received, as far as I could tell, the only corrections that were made were ones that we the authors scrambled to find at the 11th hour before publication, and I know there were numerous other ones we probably didn't find. In other words, putting out clean work did not seem to be a priority for the publisher, and that put a really bad taste in my mouth. Was this a regular thing with them, or were we just an unfortunate exception?



In spite of that, the book received good reviews, and we did a good bit of publicity. Twitter chat, podcasts, a few interviews, etc. "Nectar" is not my favorite work of mine, but I was proud to be standing next to some fantastically talented ladies, and get my name in front of people who hadn't heard of me before. The sales rankings also looked decent on release, so I figured hey, maybe I'll make a couple bucks off my story after all, and any minor kinks in the works will be worth it in the end.



But then more kinks kept showing up. We were also promised in the contract contributor's copies upon publication. After substantial pestering from us to the publisher, we got them MANY months later. I feel if there hadn't been considerable pressure put on the folks behind the scenes, they never would have coughed even those up.



Then came the matter of the limited edition hardcovers. Months and months passed, and there was still no word of when they would be released, despite them initially saying late March of 2015. We kept getting one excuse or brush-off after another. People I know who had ordered hardcovers were coming to me asking where their books were. We'd also never received bookplates for the authors to sign so that the books would be signed as promised. These people had paid their thirty bucks months ago, and they had nothing to show for it. Finally, after considerable pressure put on the folks at Ragnarok to explain why there was no hardcover, they said they didn't get enough orders and then refunded the money to people who had ordered. Which, you know, awesome, but if there was going to be a reneging on the hardcover, it should have happened back in the spring.



And finally, the royalties. As of January 4th, 2016, nearly a year after the release of GRIMM MISTRESSES, I have yet to receive a single dime for my story. The book has sold copies. I have no idea how many, because along with no payments, we have received no statements or communication on # of units sold. I do know that upon its release, it did sell some copies because the Amazon rankings were pretty indicative of that.



Again, I don't expect these are huge riches by any means, but payment of even a few bucks along with an accurate accounting of books sold should not be too hard for any publisher worth their salt to produce when gently reminded one time. Ragnarok, however, has not produced anything of the sort. When asked repeatedly, they give the continual brush-off. I decided that after January 1st, if there was still no royalty check, even for as little as fifty cents, I was going to go public.



Personally, I've wanted to grab my soapbox and bullhorn a few times over the last 8 months or so, but I've held off because other people wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt, and they were worried about blowback. I've been told how nice these guys are, and yes, by my personal interactions with them, I have determined that yes, they are nice guys. That doesn't mean, however, that they are good businessmen.



Others say they grew a bit too fast and are just scrambling and disorganized. Yeah, okay, I get that. To a point. Being a little scattered and disorganized might mean a few weeks of lateness on a royalty payment and statement. It does not mean months and months and months of no payment, no contributor copy, no communication, no assurances.



They certainly have their defenders, and maybe other authors' experiences have been better than mine, but from my particular vantage point, I'm neither assuaged nor convinced. There is a difference between being a tad disorganized and being completely negligent and at fault. Is Ragnarok malicious? Are they an author mill in the business of acquiring other people's work and living off other people's money? I can't say for sure if it goes THAT far. I will allow that the people at Ragnarok probably aren't con artists. But I do believe they are caught in a downward spiral of their own disarray, and it's beginning to have an effect on the very people they're counting on to keep them relevant as a publisher. Regardless of the origins of their delinquencies, enough is enough and I've reached my limit.



Some say it's unprofessional to drag a company's name through the mud in public, and I will undoubtedly receive some flack for this. Neglected writers love coming to the defense of their abusers for some reason. Maybe it's cognitive dissonance. No one wants to believe they misjudged a publisher's character and signed the dotted line on a bad deal. Believe me, it's not easy for me to admit I could have walked at the first sign of something wonky and signed anyway, but I'm a first believer in admission being the first step to fixing shit. I admit I should not have signed that contract, but that does not excuse Ragnarok for catastrophically failing on their end of the deal.



I ask any author who is about to step up to defend this bullshit to value yourself more and realize the reason a lot of publishers do this kind of thing and why stories like this are so very common in the business is because they're more or less given permission by the authors themselves by way of not speaking up. Many writers by nature are reclusive and shy and they suck at advocating for themselves. It's why agents exist. But we have to get better at sticking up for ourselves. Our livelihoods depend on it.



I consider it unprofessional to remain unpaid for work I delivered on time. I consider it unprofessional for a publisher to pocket money that doesn't belong to them and use it to do God knows what while the people who gave them said work don't ever see a dime.



I'm also tired of watching Ragnarok announce new projects, acquire new imprints, release new books, and sign new authors all the while knowing several of their current authors were never compensated and are many months (or more) behind on royalties even as I write this. It galls me in particular because any author who knows this system knows that Amazon, the main hub of sales for most small presses, delivers royalties to publishers every month on the dot. Why this money is not properly accounted for and then distributed Ragnarok's authors is a huge mystery to me. I've worked in this business long enough to know that as a publisher, particularly as a small publisher where your revenue streams are limited and the accounting is a whole hell of a lot simpler than that of a big house, that aside from decently packaging and selling books, your first order of business is to PAY YOUR GODDAMN AUTHORS.



If you can't manage that much, you should not be in the business of publishing other people's work. It's that simple. I want no excuses, because there are none that are good enough. At this point, apologies are not good enough. The only thing that is good enough is the color green crossing my palm. Writers make so little as it is, even when they are paid on time. To be forced to grovel for pennies is a slap in the face, and I'm just done.









By the way, if you would like to read "Nectar," please purchase THREE and not GRIMM MISTRESSES, because I would like to be paid for my story in some form. The same goes for the other contributors in this anthology (C.W. LaSart, Mercedes M. Yardley, Stacey Turner, and S.R. Cambridge). See about contacting them directly for other means to access their work. I would like to see them actually getting compensated, and as of right now, they will not be if you purchase GRIMM MISTRESSES. Please don't put money in the hands of publishers who hoard it for themselves.





All proceeds from sales of THREE go directly to author. What a daring concept!