A.C. Hobbs's Blog, page 2
August 20, 2024
This Wide Sea
I’m currently writing a pirate-themed fantasy novel tentatively titlted The Dread. This week, I thought it might be fun to share a snippet of the novel with my readers and Instagram friends. I’m still in the drafting stages (with no contract or agent) but I have had an absolute BLAST writing this story and wanted to share it with you all first.
If you’d like to learn more about my writing and my debut novel Scythe and Pen, visit my author website or Instagram.
Thank you so much for reading and supporting my creativity.
Chapter One: This Wide SeaIf you close your eyes, then maybe this isn’t real, the young woman whispered to herself. Eyes clenched tight, she leaned into the wind. If you close your eyes, you’re there. You’re in Imperia. You’re back home…
A brine-edged breeze stroked her clammy skin. Overhead, she heard the slap and gutter of canvas. The creak of salt-stiffened rope. The singsong of male voices -- barked orders, sharp laughter, bellowed warnings. Waves lapping a wooden hull. They hissed and splashed and whipped themselves into a frothing frenzy.
The young woman’s eyelashes fluttered open. She was greeted with a broad expanse of slate-blue. Undulating water as far as the human eye could see. Loneliness and emptiness stretching in every direction.
Out here, there was no birdsong. No babbling brooks or sighing leaves. No rattling Imperial stagecoaches or marching squadrons. This far off shore, the only sounds you heard were the ones you brought with you.
Except for the sea, the young woman thought. The constant breath of the great dark sea.
Astrea Windcroft gripped the deck rail until her knuckles blanched. Seaspray spattered her cheeks. An eastbound wind whipped her dark curls. She inhaled a shaky breath that stank of seaweed.
Suddenly her stomach heaved. Her fingernails dug crescent moons into the weathered wood. Gods, she hated the ocean. As if sensing her disdain, the boat lurched -- her stomach with it -- and she paled.
As her mouth filled with saliva, Astreat clenched her eyes, this time out of desperation.
The ship bucked like an angry horse. Rise, hover, tilt, plummet, only to rise again.
Oh, gods. Astrea groaned.
Astrea, pull yourself together. Her father’s voice snapped like the sails overhead, forceful even in memory. Her stomach tightened with grief instead of sea-sickness.
The gilded parlor of the Rhododendron Tea Room floated in her memory. Astrea saw pink china teacups, stems as delicate as flower petals. Powdered dainties, candied flowers, and cold cucumbers that she couldn’t even eat due to her whalebone corset. Her heart galloped beneath her bodice; her fingers trembled in lace gloves. Over it all loomed her father’s frown, severe and dark as a stormcloud. His black wig curled magnificently over his embroidered coat. The rich shot-green and black silk garment made his eyes pierce icy blue, while the silver wig glowed against his skin, dark as oiled walnut.
Astrea had stared at his chiseled features, unyielding as hardwood, and sought any resemblance to her own. But she had inherited her mother’s face, a fact her father routinely decried. Soft cupid lips, sandy complexion, and a regal brow. The sole concession to her father was her eyes: iridescent blue and cold as winter. And glistening now with unshed tears.
Father and daughter had glared at each other across the simpering tea service. In that tense moment, Astrea had realized that, shared color notwithstanding, they did not see matters eye-to-eye. Certainly not today. And now, she’d conceded with sinking dread, perhaps never.
“Astrea, I confess myself disappointed. I’d anticipated a better reception.”
Astrea had stifled a laugh. Her teacup rattled against its saucer as she set it aside. “I don’t know what to say, Father.”
“Your opinion is irrelevant. The matter is settled.” Sir Windcroft dabbed his mouth with a lace-edged napkin. “I’ve booked your passage aboard the Endeavor. You’ll sail within the fortnite.”
Astrea clutched her hands in her lap. “So soon?”
Unfazed, Windcroft continued: “Your mother’s cousin Eridena will collect you at Portshelm. After which you’ll be escorted to the Governor’s mansion. Your wedding will occur as soon as possible, I’ve been assured.” He sipped his tea and waved a hand. “Regrettably, I’m unable to attend the nuptials but Eridena is sufficient to the task, I’m sure.”
“Sufficient to the task,” repeated Astrea under her breath. She tapped the golden rim of her cup. The delicate lace ensconcing her finger was so diaphanous it appeared tattooed: white swirls and roses against flesh as dark as a coconut husk.
Her father droned as incessantly as the cicadas outside. Astrea stared at her tea -- stared at cream dwindling to surface scum -- stared at her tapping finger -- stared at the virginal tablecloth and hand painted saucer, fragile as a seashell -- stared -- stared -- stared --
“No.”
The single word jolted through her spiraling panic: swift as a bullet.
Her father stopped. The blue eyes met her face. “What did you say?”
The word welled up Astrea's throat and burst into the air between them. “No. No, I won’t go. I don’t want to.”
“You don’t want to?” her father repeated her words with the air of one being told the sky was purple.
Astrea’s cheeks scorched. “I want to stay here.”
Her father’s lip curled; then he boomed a laugh that made more than one patron glance their way.
“My dear” -- chortling as he poured her a fresh cup of tea -- “ what you want doesn’t matter a whit. The marriage is arranged. Dowry paid, papers signed.”
Astrea’s hands trembled. The teapot clattered on its burner. The silver spoons tinkled. Such nonsensical sounds.
“You’ll depart nine days hence. Here” -- offering a tray of sugar-encrusted pastries -- “have a biscuit.”
“Tre?”
The nickname splashed over Astrea’s memories and dissolved her father’s frown as easily as the biscuit in his tea. She turned to find her brother standing at the rail. His auburn curls, soft as ocean-froth, jumped on the wind. He squinted up at her, nose wrinkled. Unlike Astrea, William had inherited their father’s goodlooks. Yet the boy’s personality belonged to their mother: quick laugh, soft hair, lip-biting frown.
“Gods, William,” huffed Astrea. “What do you want?”
“Captain said I’m to man the helm,” gushed the boy. Ten years younger, he still viewed daily life as an adventure waiting to be bested. “Next bell! Can you believe it?”
Brandishing an invisible sword, he feinted left, then stabbed her side. “I’m captain of this ship now, Windcroft. And ye’ll do as I damn well say or it’s the brig for ya!”
“William!” Despite his cursing, Astrea found herself laughing. She caught his shoulders to assess his appearance. Shirttails loose, waistcoat unbuttoned.
“Well this uniform won’t do,” she tutted. “Tuck. Button.” As he obeyed, she pulled a black ribbon from her pocket satchel and finger-combed his tousled hair. “There. Fit for duty, Soldier.”
William flashed a glittering grin.
And the first cannonball struck.
Thank you so much for reading the opening chapter of my WIP novel The Dread. IFor more writing updates, be sure to follow my Instagram. If you enjoyed this post, let me know in the comment section! Are you a big fan of pirates? In my opinion, we millennials get our love for pirates honest… straight from Jack Sparrow himself.
Enjoyed my writing? Check out my debut dark fantasy thriller Scythe and Pen, available now at all major book retailers.
August 10, 2024
In Which Abigail Returns to Substack
Happy weekend, fellow readers and friends! Many moons have passed since I last updated this space. But I suppose I should do the Proper Author Thing and regularly update my Substack in order to inform the Public about my Whatnots and Whereabouts, right? To be honest, part of me is stunned that I have readers and followers who even want to receive my author newsletter! (Ahem, perhaps that’s unprofessional to admit. Oops, oh well.)
Why don’t we start with a re-introduction?
Hello again! I’m Abigail (A.C. Hobbs) , author of the dark fantasy novel SCYTHE AND PEN, a Jazz Age vampire thriller based on the Hades and Persephone myth. It published this year with Counterpoise Press, an LGBTQ- and woman-owned small presshouse based in Oklahoma. Author Hannah Parker is the editor-in-chief of the press house, which specializes in showcasing underrepresented authors. Her Irish folklore-inspired Young Adult fantasy Autumn’s Tithe is one of my top clean fantasy recommendations for adolescent readers.
My debut fantasy SCYTHE AND PEN was a labor of love! I started writing the book in 2016 and finished in September 2019. (Little did I know, I would find out one week later that I was expecting our daughter! Talk about a busy year!) I immediately started querying and received great feedback. In late February 2020, I received a verbal offer from a literary agent … only to have that offer rescinded mere weeks later when the entire world shutdown due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Crushed, I tabled the story for over a year.
In early 2022, I decided to start querying again. But the post-pandemic market had drastically changed. The agency that had loved the book in 2020 no longer was interested, nor were any other agents who’d been on my meticulously-researched query list. I had to start over at square one.
After several months, I decided to start querying open calls. (An open call occurs when a publishing house opens a narrow submission window to unagented/unsolicited manuscripts from writers who are not under contract.) I started getting nibbles, then bites … and ultimately landed at Counterpoise Press!
Read the first two chapters of SCYTHE AND PEN here.Currently, I reside in Upstate South Carolina, slowly melting like old flan in this Southern summer humidity. When I’m not writing, you can find me rock climbing, hiking, or camping with my husband, daughter, and our pitbull Solo.
Now, what to expect from my updated Substack:First, I’m so glad you’re here! And I solemnly swear not to inundate your inbox with junk mail. Instead, expect periodic (once or twice a month) updates about signing events, contract news, writing tips, and book recommendations. In other words, I’m a book nerd and I’ll be book-nerding in this little corner of the interwebs.
Five books I loved this year (so far):Vampires of El Norte | Isabel Cañas. Obviously I adore a good vampire book, since I wrote one myself. Cañas has crafted an atmospheric, chilling story that stayed with me long after I put the book down. Imagine if Midnight Mass and Like Water for Chocolate had a book baby. I loved the heroine, the romance, and of course the spine-tingling gothic elements. Her other book La Hacienda was one of my favorite reads last year!
Wildwood Magic | Willa Reece. A young woman in rural Appalachia escapes a legalistic cult and flees to a Carolina town where spellwork is woven into trees, bees hum lullabies, appletrees protect homes, and ghosts whisper in your dreams. Due to my own experience deconstructing legalistic religion, this book pierced my heart. This is a perfect read for lovers of historical fiction, romantic subplots, and poetic Southern literature. Honestly, this is a stunning work of fiction!
Empire of Silence | Christopher Ruocchio. Once upon a time, I said “I don’t really like science fiction.” (Much to the dismay of my Trekkie father.) But thanks to bookstagram, I ventured into science fiction this year and …. turns out I like space books, yall! Empire of Silence was fantastic. I gasped, I cried, I laughed, I had high blood pressure, I contemplated starting a statin just to survive this book. Imagine Gladiator, Dune, and Star Wars all had a book baby. Can’t recommend it enough!
What the River Knows | Isabel Ibañez. This book is a must-read for all my millennials who adored The Mummy. When a young Argentinian historian learns that her parents have tragically died in Egypt, she hops on an ocean liner and strikes across the sea to investigate their deaths. Little does she know that Egypt holds more secrets that she ever bargained for. Netflix, would you pretty-please-just-for-me make this your next film adaptation? Pwease?
The Lost Queen | Signe Pike. Another South Carolina author! I discovered this novel while perusing a bookstore on King Street in Charleston. If you love Arthurian legends, Philippa Gregory, or Deb Harkness … this might be your next read. Against the cinematic backdrop of ancient Scotland, the wild young heroine Languoreth navigates the dangerous tides of change as war and religion clash in her kingdom. Soon, Languoreth finds herself swept into the unstoppable destiny of Merlin and Emrys Pendragon, names forever enscribed into Western history. I can’t wait to read the next book in this series!
Thanks to some bookstagram friends, I also discovered how much I adore the author Amy Harmon. I devoured her historical fiction novels, one right after the other. My favorites so far are A Girl Named Samson, The Unknown Beloved, and The Outlaw Noble Salt. Her historical fiction novels are deeply researched and usually based on real people, which I love. Personally, I think A Girl Named Samson deserves its own HBO series or film adaptation. Harmon truly revives a forgotten piece of American history in this book! One that I can’t believe we weren’t taught in schools. Actually, maybe I can believe it (cue cynical huff).
If you’ve made it this far….
Thank you for reading and for supporting a debut indie author. Your support helps more than you know!
Follow along on Instagram, Threads, or Tiktok for daily updates, fun videos, and general bookish nonsense.
Don’t forget to add Scythe and Pen to your Good Reads shelf!January 22, 2024
My Debut Novel is Here! Eeek!
I’m thrilled to announce that my debut novel SCYTHE AND PEN has released from Counterpoise Press, an independent, traditional publishing house. Scythe and Pen is now available at all major retailers. You can find it at Barnes and Noble, Books a Million, Bookshop.org, and your local indie bookstore.
Yes, it’s also available on Amazon, but to be completely blunt, I do not like shopping on Amazon for books. They have very dishonest practices (like holding orders, creating false shipping delays, and strong-arming authors into using their platform KDP).
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What’s the book about?Short blurb:
Desperate to stop a murderer, aspiring politician Demetrius Raske strikes a deal with a cursed gangster, only to become entangled in a criminal underworld of magic, murder, and money in this Jazz- Age reimagining of the Hades and Persephone myth.
Full synopsis:
Demetrius Raske strikes a deal with the Devil to stop a monster stalking the city, but he may have unleashed another villain entirely…
The Capital of the United League of Nations glitters like jewels on a dame’s neck—a city of wicked splendor and possibility. The deals struck in the Senate are as ruthless as the ones struck in the city’s criminal underbelly. No one knows this better than vampire politician Demetrius Raske, who walks both worlds.
Demetrius fights for a bill that will grant humans and vampires equal civil liberties. But many citizens don’t share his sentiment, especially after the murders begin. Body after body, drained of blood, appear throughout the city, threatening the League’s tenuous peace treaty between humans and vampires. If Demetrius’s bill doesn’t pass the Senate, his campaign for a united future will be crushed. Only one man has the ability to apprehend the bloodthirsty monster—a man known simply as the Devil. And rumor has it, he isn’t a man at all. Together, they strike a deal to catch the murderer before Demetrius’s bill fails—a disaster that would push the League to the brink of civil war.
But Demetrius’s calculated moves don’t go unnoticed. He catches the attention of Gabriella Rose, a journalist whose hunt for her next big headline pushes her right into the murderer’s path, costing her everything she holds dear. Now something dark grows within Gabriella—a power her allies wish to control and her enemies want to exploit.
The only way Demetrius and Gabriella can save themselves—and the city they love—is to strike another deal with the Devil. But their villainous partner is playing his own game. And soon they will learn how the Devil earned his name.
SCYTHE AND PEN is a must-read for fans of Six of Crows, A Darker Shade of Magic, Peaky Blinders, The Gilded Wolves, Dance of Thieves, Night Circus, or The Secret Life of Addie LaRue.
Tropes and elements found in the novel:Enemies to lovers
Enemies to brothers ( I made up this trope, but I’m sticking with the term)
Grumpy and sunshine
Female assassins and mob queens
Jazz Age glamour
Slowburn romantic subplot
Hades and Persephone dynamic
cinnamon roll vampire prince (yes, you read that right)
What are readers saying?You can find the book on GoodReads and Storygraph! Here are a few early reviews from readers. Right now, it’s sitting at 5 stars on GoodReads, even though, logically I know that will not continue forever haha!
Read the first two chapters here.I’m so thrilled to finally be able to share this book with the world. I love this gritty, grimy story so much, and I know readers will too.
Six years writing. Two years querying. Thirty-one rejections. One yes. One year editing. And finally…. nearly eight years later… I finally can hold the book in my hands!
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January 18, 2024
Read This if You're in the Dreaded Reading Slump
A strange thing happened to me in 2020 (you know, aside from The Obvious and aside from giving birth to my daughter). I stopped reading. Almost entirely.
Try as I might, I could not focus and finish a book. I floundered through a few novels; but my reading output was nothing like previous years in which I devoured thirty, fifty, sometimes even one hundred books.
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My profound reading slump began prior to the grand entrance of our wailing red-faced little bundle of joy. I told myself “you better read while you can, once That Baby’s here, you won’t have any time to yourself. You’ll be too tired! Come on, pick up a book!” But I couldn’t do it. Oh, I’d pick up a book, only to find my thoughts wandering and soon I’d be aimlessly scrolling Instagram or Twitter instead of reading.
Now, I realize that my inability to focus was likely a combination of pregnancy brain-chemistry and a trauma response to the pandemic. I couldn’t focus to read, arguably my favorite past-time, because I was utterly and completely overwhelmed. I couldn’t dive into a fictional world because the real world felt too unsafe to turn my back on. For me, that feeling persisted through most of 2021 as well.
It wasn’t until the END of 2022 that I began to feel excited about reading once again. I started to feel that familiar tingle in my bones when I picked up a book and cracked it’s spine to that first soul-hooking line.
If you find yourself in the dismal trenches of a reading slump, here are four things I found to be helpful.
Don’t force yourself to read. Unless you’re a slush-pile reader or an editor, reading is typically a hobby meant to be enjoyed. During those years, my brain couldn’t focus in the quiet solitude of reading. So I turned to other past-times like excerise, hiking, and painting furniture. Excessive stress was a large part of why I couldn’t bring myself to relax and read as I once had. Instead, physical hobbies allowed me to burn off steam and recharge my soul.
Do talk to someone if you suspect your slump is a result of an underlying problem. As I mentioned, anxiety and stress were huge factors contributing to my reading slump. It wasn’t “just” a slump. I had given birth to a beautiful baby girl, but unfortunately experienced extreme postpartum depression. I reached out to my doctor who recommended daily walks outside, talk therapy, and a temporary prescription of an SSRI. Eventually I was able to taper off the medication, with my doctor’s approval, but continued daily exercise and talk therapy to great benefit. I’m so glad I reached out for professional guidance in that time. So, if you’ve suddenly experienced a big change in your habits and enjoyments, it is totally valid to reach out to a healthcare professional.
Try re-reading an old favorite. Somewhere along the way, I noticed that new publications weren’t making me feel excited. So I turned to the tattered copies of my old favorites. Jane Eyre, Tender is the Night, the Winternight trilogy, Circe, Lord of the Rings, even Crescent City. These comfort reads rooted me in good memories and helped me rediscover the enjoyment of reading.
Try audiobooks instead. As the mother of a busy toddler, I don’t always have time or solitude to read physical books. I much prefer reading a physical book, but audiobooks allow me to enjoy stories while still getting stuff done and playing with our little girl. An unexpected plus: I’ve noticed my daughter’s language comprehension exploding. Full transparency, I have undertaken exactly zero reserach on this topic, but I think that listening to books has helped her pick up on so many words.
Have you ever experienced a bad reading slump? What helped you break out of it?
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May 8, 2023
Peaches
The summers of my girlhood were sepia-tinted and riddled with mosquito bites. I worried the itchy bumps until they ballooned into nickle-sized monstrosities that raised my grandmother’s eyebrows into her pillowed silver updo.
My paternal grandparents owned a two bedroom bungalow nestled within a peach orchard and bisected by a raildroad. The windows rattled with midnight trains that roared as loudly as the Second Coming. Decades ago, a train did leap that steel path, and the ensuing shriek of destroyed metal drove my grandmother to her knees, sure that angels heralding doom and glory were inbound.
On hazy dogday afternoons, my grandfather led me into the orchard. I ducked into the fragrant warren of branches and leaves and dappled light. My tennis shoes squealched over rotten peaches tumbled in wasteful pink piles at the base of those squat trees. The sheet abudance of fruit excited my little-girl imagination as much as the discovery of pirate’s treasure. With a basket craddled against my elbow, I wanted to pick every single one. To bully my way through leaf and limb and return home burdened with a summer’s bounty. Why do I remember these trees as monolithic? Surely they only grew a few bushy feet.
My tiny hand reached high — but I recoiled with a shriek. The perfect russet peach I’d spooted was pockmarked with beetles. One side was golden, but the other roiled with black and green carapices, many-legged and scuttling. Disgusted, I dropped the offensive fruit and scampered after my grandfather.
My grandfather (Pawpaw, as we called him) picked the sweetest peaches, balanced on the delicate edge of ripeness. He’d hold them to his nose, then mine. You could smell the sunshine in the fruit. As though the tree had nutured and blossomed pure sunshine into food. Take one bite and sheer summertime dribbled down your chin.
We’d lumber home, a market basket swinging between us. Peaches waiting to be peeled, sliced, and simmered into cobblers, jam, salsas, and preserves. My grandmother would peel a golden corkscrew of peach fuzz. I never minded the texture of unpeeled peaches, but she inisted on peeling and slicing the very best fruit. She arranged the slices in a dawn-colored fan on a Corelle plate, then presented them to us as though serving honored houseguests.
There’s simple magic in the summers of childhood. In homegrown fruit and food and family.
May 1, 2023
Mongrels
Important note: Readers may remember my debate in this post about my female main character’s name. Originally, I named her “Arabella Windcroft,” but I did decide to change her name to avoid similarity to a character’s name in my upcoming debut, which releases this fall. Arabella has been changed to Astrea.
I’m currently writing a pirate-themed fantasy novel titlted The Dread. This week, I thought it might be fun to share a snippet of the novel with my readers and Instagram friends. I’m still in the drafting stages but hope to have a finished manuscript by the end of 2023. To learn more about my career, writing or upcoming releases, visit my social media and website.
This installment is meant to be read after the post entitled Take Cover.
CHAPTER THREE: MONGRELS
Astrea’s mind, her body, her breath froze. M-me? Her mouth worked like a broken lever, finally squeaking out: “What?”
Captain Silvereye waggled one bejeweled finger. “Don’t be coy, girl.”
The pirate restraining Astrea tugged her braid sharp. Eyes smarting, Astrea scrambled to her feet. A shove brought her right up to Silvereye, close enough she could smell his body odor. Brine, leather, and sweat. Pale crows feet marred the corners of his eyes. The blinded one gazed past her, unfocused and white, but the blue pierced straight to her heart.
Astrea clenched her eyes tight, as though shutting them might make him vanish.
A low chuckle rumbled. “You are Astrea Windcroft, are you not? Daughter of His Royal Cartographer Xavier Windcroft.”
Astrea’s eyes snapped open. Silvereye smirked and continued slowly: “Affianced to Governor Ralph Rodgers of Portshelm. En route to undertake your holy nuptials, I imagine.”
How could he know these details? Why in the name of the holy gods did a Dauntless pirate know her name?
“I- I don’t --” For a sharp second, Astrea considered lying. She tasted the lie’s desperate bitterness on her tongue. Perhaps Silvereye tasted it too, for he tilted his head, like a cat toying a mouse. Suddenly the silver orb fixated on her like a searchlight.
His voice dropped to a threatening decibel: “Consider your surroundings, Miss Windcroft. Before you lie to me.”
Astrea swallowed. “Yes. Yes, I am she.”
A murmur rippled through the pirate crew. A slow smile tugged Silvereye’s lips.
“Are ye now,” he crooned as though soothing a frightened animal. Then before she could react, he barked: “Take her across.”
“What?” shrieked Astrea in the same second that someone screamed: “No! Tre!”
Her brother William hurdled through the captive crewmen. A pirate lunged, but William wriggled loose like an unhooked fish and collided with Astrea’s skirts. Astrea jerked one arm free of her captor and caught her little brother.
“I’m alright. It’ll be alright,” she heard herself repeat.
“Don’t you dare touch her!” William rounded on Silverye, small frame bristling with fury. “Devil take you if you do!”
Astrea’s throat closed with terror -- she grasped William’s arm, ready to throw him aside -- but the captain threw back his head and laughed.
Hands on his hips, Silvereye regarded William with an arched brow. “Brave lad,” he said approvingly, then waved a hand at the Endeavor sailors. “Of all these yellow-livered mongrels, you’re the only one who bothered to stand forth.” Silvereye propped his fist on his sword. His good eye flickered from William to Astrea.
Astrea’s grip tightened on William’s shoulder.
Silvereye grunted. “Her brother. Aye, I can see it.” He swept a hand toward his waiting vessel. “Take them both!”
“No!” gasped Astrea. Strength drained from her arms. Her heart quailed; and suddenly, like the boom of thunder, another voice shouted:
“Stop this nonsense!”
Astrea whirled to see the Endeavor’s captain standing erect among the prisoners. Although a short man, he loomed above his bowed crew, the golden threads of his epaulets radiant in the afternoon sun. Astrea’s heart surged.
“You’ll not be taking the boy anywhere. Nor the girl.” The captain’s voice rang with steel, and his crew heard the power in his words. Heads spun from captain to captain. Among Silvereye’s crew, glances darted.
The Endeavor captain stepped from the prisoner line. Pistol and blunderbuss trailed his movements, but he did not bat an eyelash.
“This is an Imperial merchantman,” he thundered. “And we are Imperial citizens. If you seize these children, you invoke the wrath of His Majesty the Holy Emperor’s navy.”
Astrea’s eyes snapped to Silvereye. He considered the Endeavor’s captain with bored indifference, as an adult humors a precocious child.
“Ransack my hold if you wish,” the captain continued. “But I’ll be damned if you take one soul off this sh--”
A crack split the air.
Down fell Captain Bateson of the Royal Frigate Endeavor, heavy and final as felled timber. The captain’s head lolled, a knuckle-sized hole smoldered between his eyes. The back of his head peppered the mainmast.
Shock shoved Astrea’s scream right back down her throat. Before she could process what had happened, steel exploded.
Shouts burst from the Endeavor men. Every sailor clambered to his feet, shoving and swearing, hands bound but eyes blazing. Naked blades flashed into the pirates’ hands.
“Back on yer knees!” roared a one-armed pirate at Astrea’s elbow. He whipped a rapier from his belt and brandished it at the closest soldier. The soldier -- Astrea recognized him as the Endeavor’s boatswain -- spat on the pirate’s boot.
“Devil take you!” roared the boatswain before the pirate’s hook collided with his jaw.
Astrea scrambled backward, dragging William with her. Her erstwhile captor walloped the closest man with the butt of his gun. The sailor fell with a moan --
“ENOUGH!”
The shout rocked the ship and every man on it. The very air stilled as the vowels of that single word -- enough -- rang in Astrea’s bones, pulsing from the tips of her fingers to the base of her skull. She gasped, pressing a hand to her head. Pressure built in her ears, in her lungs. Her knees hit the deck --
Suddenly as it came, the oppression vanished. Pain lifted from Astrea’s skull and she looked up, mouth agape.
Silvereye braced one boot on the quarterdeck ladder. Smoke curled from the end of his pistol. His sword gleamed in his right hand. Power crackled from the very fibers of his greatcoat. The air around the pirate captain sparkled; it rippled like the sea below, suddenly and impossibly alive with power. Power that had filled his one-word command, turned it heavy as a cannon’s blow.
Astrea’s stomach dropped. He’s a powerspinner.
Silvereye’s sword whipped left, then right. “Any of ye codbellied cunts so much as bats an eyelash, I’ll scuttle this vessel and leave you to rot in the Locker.”
No man, pirate or freeman, spoke.
The magic amplifying Silvereye’s voice hummed like a tuning fork. His one good eye burned sapphire bright as he considered the sorry lot of them. Astrea held her breath.
Silvereye lowered his gun, then plucked the tricorn from Captain Bateson’s ruined crown. His boots pounded as crossed the gangway and stopped before a bound soldier. Indecorously, he jammed the blood-spattered hat on the first mate’s tattered wig.
“Congratulations, Captain,” growled the pirate.
Pale as skim milk, the first mate said nothing. Silvereye stooped to study the first mate’s face. To his credit, the first mate squared his shoulders. Silvereye, all dazzled gold and sun-hardened leather, was a different creature from this milkbred naval officer. Silvereye’s serpentine grin reappeared.
“Aye,” he growled. “Ye’ll do.”
Then he spun on his heel. Voice like a gunshot, he roared: “Search every bunk and barrel on this useless slagheap. Upon your head if I hear o’ one corner unturned. The boy and girl come with me.”
In the frenzied exchange, Astrea had forgotten Silverye’s orders. Now fear grasped her hard and cold.
“No!” She screamed as rough hands jerked her to the rail. “No! Don’t you dare! I’m an Imperial citizen! And you’ll -- unhand -- me!”
Hands cradled her knees. A moment of breathless weightlessness -- and then Astrea was falling. Falling over blue water --
Into the arms of another pirate.
“Ello, lassie,” drawled a man with a bead-braided beard. “Steady on.”
Astrea shrieked and clawed at his hands on her waist. With a raucous laugh, he set her on her feet. Heart yammering, Astrea realized she’d been tossed from the Endeavor to the Dread, as simply as a sack of grain. She now stood on the oiled black deck of a Dauntless pirate ship.
A pulsating snap drew her gaze upward. At the pinnacle of the great mainmast, through a maze of rigging and canvas, flew the Dread’s colors. A grinning skull, jaw gaping wide enough to devour the whole sea in one ravenous gulp. From that maw, a snake uncoiled, twisting and twining itself into horrible knots.
Astrea’s bones turned to ice. Gods help me.
April 24, 2023
Scarlett O'Holy-Crap-What-Did I-Just-Read
THIS REVIEW CONTAINS SPOILERS.
Historical context
At the beginning of the year, I challenged myself to read some large, intimidating classic novels that had been gathering dust on my bookshelf. Last month, I tackled Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. This month, I selected Gone with the Wind, the controversial and Pulitzer Prize winning novel by Georgia writer Margaret Mitchell.
Growing up in North Georgia, it was impossible to bat your way clear of the all-enveloping circumference of Scarlett O’Hara’s hoop skirts. Middle school Civil War or Georgia study units inevitably included a viewing of the 1939 film. (At least, in the 1990s, they did. Whoops, I just dated myself.) When I moved to Maryland in 2012, I was called “Scarlett” on multiple job interviews due to my Southern accent. Cringe. To be fair, I probably responded to that with a Vivian-Leigh-approved eyebrow arch.
Upon its publication in 1936, Gone with the Wind garnered intense controversy. Critics praised and castigated the story alike. Although this doorstop of a book debuted into the Great Depression, within five months, it had sold one million copies. In 1937, Mitchell won a Pulitzer Prize, and by 1939, the film starring Clark Gable and Vivian Leigh debuted in Atlanta and became the top-grossing movie of all time, when figures are adjusted for inflation. At the time, the film earned 390 million worldwide. Today, that amounts to approximately one billion, 800 million dollars, meaning it out-earned Avatar and Titanic in their time.
Gone with the Wind starred Hattie McDaniel, the first African American woman to win an Oscar. Although criticized for playing the role of a slave, Hattie is considered by many to be a trail-blazer in Hollywood, at a time when unfortunately few leading roles existed for African American actors. At the time of the filming, segregation had taken vicious root in the United States. McDaniel and her peers could not even attend the premier, and McDaniel had to get “special permission” to attend the Oscars, despite being an award recipient. Sadly, her Oscar trophy has been missing for 50 years.
In modern times, Gone with the Wind generates discussion and controversy, just as it did upon publication. The book has been banned in some school districts due to its sanitized depiction of slavery. Interestingly, it was also banned in some districts for the “immoral behavior” of its heroine. (While concerns about down-playing slavery did not surprise me, the criticism of female immorality was unexpected.) Recently, HBO Max removed the film from its library until a content warning label could be applied.
Last month, headlines stirred when an old script of the movie surfaced, revealing that some slavery scenes had been cut. And as recently as last week, the book’s publisher announced that upcoming printings would include a content trigger warning and an introduction by famous novelist Philippa Gregory addressing “white supremist elements of the novel.” The new introduction would replace the current one, written by late Southern author Pat Conroy.
Somehow, despite being nearly 100 years old, both film and book remain relevant in public and academic discourse.
Often on bookstagram, content creators quip about a book being intimidating if it is “over-hyped.” Needless to say, Gone with the Wind fits the description. For years, I shied away from reading this tome, not because of its length, but because of the tremendous controversy and iconic status of the story. Yet, as I stared at my bookshelf, I decided “you know what? Why not? I’ll read it and see for myself.” Rather like every one of Scarlett’s hapless suitors, I had no idea what I was getting into.
Synopsis and my general thoughts
My edition of Gone with the Wind encompasses 959 pages. Woof. I read it over the course of two weeks, which for me, is a long time. I think I underlined nearly every sentence. I have so many thoughts that I’m worried I won’t even be able to articulate them. In fact, in case I fail miserably, feel free to read my friend Madison’s concise review on her bookstagram instead: @classic.literature.love
Gone With the Wind is the story of a spoiled “Southern belle” named Scarlett O’Hara. She’s the daughter of a rich Georgia cotton planter whose world explodes when the South loses the Civil War. With her family’s livelihood destroyed, Scarlett is thrown from the height of luxury into penury. Her house in Jonesboro is one of the only plantation mansions still standing after Sherman burned a swath through the heart of Georgia. Exhausted and starving, Scarlett vows to herself that “I’m going to live through this and when it’s over, I’m never going to go hungry again. If I have to steal or kill – as God is my witness, I’m never going to be hungry again.” Scarlett throws off every convention of Georgia high-society and womanhood and forges her own way through the Reconstruction world. She lies through her teeth, makes deals with friends and enemies alike, and supports her entire family with her lumber mill. But her mettle is tested when she encounters Rhett Butler, a blockade runner, bootlegger, and general scallywag, who has the uncanny ability to see right through Scarlett’s veneer.
TLDR: Gone with the Wind is the well-crafted product of a master storyteller. It’s beloved for a reason; it’s also controversial and hated for a reason. Readers, the publishing industry, streaming giants, and even schools have sought to ban and censor both novel and film. In my opinion, controversy does not negate the importance of a book but rather highlights its signficance to society.
Overall, Mitchell’s writing style is superb. Mitchell was a fantastic storyteller, with beautiful command of prose, a playwright’s ear for dialogue, and an innate understanding of human character. Her descriptions of Georgia summon mosquitos and peach blossoms and summer heat warbling over verdant bottom land. For a classic, the novel is incredibly readable and surprisingly spicy for its time. Mitchell made me feel sympathy for so many characters on both sides of the conflict. Even secondary characters feel fully present and alive. I was alternately appalled by and cheering for Scarlett. The burning of Atlanta gave me chills, and Bonnie Butler’s death drew tears to my eyes.
Mitchell made me feel anxious about the destroyed homes of Southerners, who faced starvation and deprivation in a war-ravaged land. I asked myself: would I be able to survive if society collapsed around me? Would I have the gumption to endure and protect others?
She made me feel sympathy for the northern citizens who moved South after the war. I asked myself: would I be able to hold my chin up, if I was viewed as an oppressor in a conquered land, even if my cause was right and just?
She made me feel sympathy for freed slaves who are used as pawns in the power game between the United States government and the conquered state of Georgia. (One of my favorite scenes occurs in the burning of Atlanta, when Scarlett is frantic with fear at the distant pounding of cannon, but Prissy, a slave, is calmly singing a ballad about freedom. For one character, the cannon represent impending doom, for the other they are the drumbeat of liberation.) I asked myself: how would I have treated others, in a different era, surrounded by different norms? Would I have seen the humanity in all fellow humans, or would I have been imprisoned by illiberal thinking?
My favorite characters were Melanie, Rhett, and of course Scarlett herself. (If anyone wants to know, Ashley is about as entertaining as a wet kleenex, in my opinion.) Melanie possesses a quiet indomitable will that surfaces at unexpected times. Rhett is just downright entertaining, although his later scenes made me feel choked up. (I feel like he may be the original #bookboyfriend) And Scarlett is a fireball, bull-in-a-china-shop, wrong-but-doesn’t-care, force-to-be-reckoned-with heroine. She owns property, runs a business, marries for money, runs the family, controls her child-bearing, and essentially a modern woman shoved into a corset and thrust into the 1860s. It’s fascinating to me that Mitchell wrote such a character for such an era and in such an era.
Challenging aspects
The chief criticism of Gone with the Wind is its depiction of slavery as well as its overtly racist descriptions of African Americans. For some readers, this element condemns the novel, and I respect their decision to not read it. In fact, the new introduction by Philippa Gregory states that this “is the lie that spoils the novel.”
Anyone with an ounce of humanity and a thimbleful of historical knowledge should understand that slavery is an atrocious institution and using racial slurs is indecent, hurtful, and ignorant. Unfortunately, the institution of slavery propped up Southern planter culture and thus the life of this novel’s characters. Because Scarlett O’Hara was a member of that feudal system, slavery is a part of the book. African American characters are described through Scarlett’s biased eyes. Many passages made me cringe, as they would any modern reader.
Mitchell captures the era’s strange cognitive dissonance about slavery as characters alternately admire and dehumanize slaves. They’ll seek the advice of a house servant and even name them as valued family members, as is the case with Mammy and Peter; but in the next sentence, utterly degrade them with belittling, dehumanizing language. While I realize that this reflects the era in which the novel is set (and sadly the era in which it was written), it’s not easy to read.
A famous line from the broken, disillusioned character Ashley Wilkes captures the bitter dichotomy of the novel: “Scarlett, before the war, life was beautiful. There was a glamor to it, a perfection and completeness and a symmetry to it like Grecian art. Maybe it wasn’t so to everyone. I know that now … Now, I know that in the old days, it was a shadow show I watched. I avoided everything which was not shadows, people, and situations which were too real, too vivid… and I was cowardly enough to prefer shadows and dreams.”
In this moment, Ashley has the romantic Moonlight and Magnolias myth ripped from his eyes. He realizes that he possessed tunnel vision and was bewitched by a false “glamor.” Truly, the antebellum world was glamorous for only a select few elite citizens. He references Plato’s allegory of the cave, implying that he now sees hard reality. Unfortunatey, Ashley becomes a depressed, inert character, seeming to prefer the “shadow show” to the world as it is. He runs from reality like a little boy running and hiding from a monster. If modern readers read Gone with the Wind looking for a repudiaton for our history’s sins, they will not find it.
Reading controversial books
As I read this classic novel, I considered the role of controversial books in society. Why do we read them? What’s to be gained?
Mitchell wrote Gone with the Wind from a Georgian perspective. Her narrative is therefore biased, and the novel is tinged with resentment and bitterness. Apparently Mitchell described Gone with the Wind a story about survival and survivors. I can’t help but wonder if the Great Depression in any way influenced her storytelling. During the 1930s, the United States had sunk into a severe economic depression which to many felt like the end of the world. Perhaps Mitchell looked back to another era in which “the world ended,” not because of economic collapse but because of war. Perhaps she summoned an indomitable heroine from the wreckage of a former age; and perhaps this historical context explains why the novel appealed to so many people.
Reading this novel opened my eyes to the catastrophic depravations of a war fought in one’s backyard. In this country, we have been largely sheltered from war. Yet right now, we have numerous politicians tossing about terms like “national divorce,” as if our country hasn’t danced that murderous tango before. We know that the Civil War was fought for a just cause (some historians even call it the Second American Revolution}, but it was sobering to read a story written from the perspective of the ones who were wrong, the ones who lost, the ones whose way of life needed to end.
Because of Mitchell’s storytelling, I empathized with those characters. I saw their humanity and recognized myself in their human flaws and faults and follies. I recognized myself in their love, victories, and simple joys. Maybe that’s why I loved Melanie Wilkes’s character so much; she humanizes her enemy, the Union soldiers, by placing herself in their shoes or thinking of their wives and mothers back home.
History isn’t a simple narrative. Looking back, we apply the narrative to tidy the events into something we can understand. (If you want to get really deep, we could delve into theories of time and whether the past-present-future exist simultaneously, so maybe this war and every other war that’s ever been fought is still endlessly echoing around us. But woosh, this review is already too long, isn’t it?) Our modern society loves to draw harsh lines in the sand. If something is controversial, you drop it, as though somehow you’re sullied by even being near it. You’re either for us, or you’re against us. You’re liberal or you’re conservative. You’re this or you’re that. If you don’t agree with me, then you must be against me. And you absolutely never, ever consider the side of the “enemy” or even speak to them. But neither life nor history is so easily delineated. We shouldn’t apply an Easy To Understand Glamor, like Ashley Wilkes’ s “shadow show,” to our past or our present. History isn’t as simple as sparknotes to be memorized for a test or a catechism to be memorized for our moral good.
Recently, I saw a quote that seemed to align with my thoughts on Gone with the Wind. “If history offends you, GOOD. That means you’re far less likely to repeat it.” This novel challenged me because it delves into a very dark time in our history. It challenged me to consider my own bias alongside the official historical narrative and alternate narratives. (Isn’t it amazing how many versions of history there are?) It inspired me to research events, names, and places of the Civil War and the Reconstruction Era, facts I had forgotten and some I had never even learned.
Reading difficult, controversial books forces you to think critically and deeply about things it would just be so comfortable to not think about at all. Challenging books shake us out of the complacent trap of unnuanced thinking and task us to articulate our own bias and beliefs.
Overall, I’m glad I dusted off my copy of this much-loved and much-hated novel. While this book certainly isn’t for everyone, I completely understand why it commands the position and clout that it does. It has inspired discussion for nearly 100 years. I’m sure it will continue to do so.
Have you read this novel? What did you think about it? If not, what’s another book that challenged you?
April 17, 2023
Here's Your Washcloth, Clean Yourself Up
Parenthood is a forge. The ceaseless, sleepless demands of these tiny helpless humans will pound upon your character until sparks fly. Brittle pieces splinter beyond repair, while other sections fold and fold and fold again. Beneath pressure, you transform into a substance entirely new. Hopefully, you become someone formidable as the dross of your former self chips away: someone who has created and molded new life.
In my experience, motherhood is a perilous calling. Undertaking it leads to destruction of self and, paradoxically, creation of self. You teeter on the edge of chaos and become an expert in balance. Within that tenuous juggling of life (yours as well as your child’s), I think it’s possible to discover something sacred.
Once, a nurse shared with me that “something magnificent” happened in delivery rooms. This woman was by no means a Bible-thumping evangelist; nonetheless, she described a sense of profound awe upon witnessing a child’s roaring slide into the light. “I think an angel is in the room” – her words to me, this woman who had cradled bloody sheets and caught afterbirth, gloved hands sometimes bloodied up to the elbows.
Whether or not a celestial being oversees childbirth is (obviously) not the topic I plan to debate here. However, my nurse-friend’s comment does highlight the sacredness of birth. She is not the first person to ascribe divine significance to motherhood. Numerous cultures worldwide possess images honoring and even idolizing mothers. From the dovelike beneficence of the Virgin to the Egyptian goddess Isis to the queenly Norse Frigg. Our modern, science-bracketed society scoffs at idealizations of motherhood, but archetypes often hint at deep societal truths, however distorted by the ethereal, unattainable glow of “godhead.”
Perhaps the lesson is simple: mothers fulfill a profoundly important role for humanity. Mothers provide the mechanism by which life is furthered. After all, we all come from a mother. Therefore, the modern era’s disdain for (and even fear of) motherhood seems especially tragic.
Currently, the United States, self-proclaimed leader of the free world, possesses a startlingly high mother mortality rate.
Among the mothers who survive, coercive medical interventions, complications, and mistreatment occur at alarming rates. Numerous women (myself included) report feeling mistreated or coerced in the labor room. After I gave birth to my daughter, I was pulled by my elbows from the labor bed, jelly-legged and nauseous. Blood poured down my thighs and snaked around my calves. One leg was still completely numb from the epidural. With a pounding heart, I realized I had to walk into the adjacent bathroom.
Arching her eyebrows at my hesitant steps, my nurse scoffed and said “is that as fast as you can go? You need to get moving.” My mouth fell open. My husband, who overheard the comment, pointed at my blood-streaked legs and said “she literally just gave birth, give her a second.” The nurse proceeded to push me into the shower, hand me a travel-sized body-wash and a washcloth… and leave. I grabbed the support rail, took one look at the rough fabric of the washcloth, and shuddered. No way, I thought. No way was that washcloth going anywhere near my newly-stitched bits. I reached for the teensy body-wash bottle, but my fumbling fingers knocked it onto the tiles. I stared at it, water pounding around my toes, and thought This is ridiculous.
At this moment, a line from that CBS show The Mentalist (remember that one? The psychic crime fighter who drove that snappy Citroen DS?) floated up from the recesses of my brain. He tells a hospital patient to shout until serious help arrives. Gripping the slippery shower rail, I shouted until my husband dashed into the bathroom. “I really could use some help, I can barely stand,” I said. The nurse followed on his heels with a snippy “What’s all the hollering for? There are other patients here, you know.” I suppose shouting in the delivery ward is uncommon?
At this point, I started sobbing; and my husband proceeded to deliver a speech that likely did disturb one or two other patients and ultimately resulted in an apology and a new nurse.
In retrospect, I realize this was suboptimal care and does not represent the behavior of most Labor and Delivery nurses; but in the fugue of sleeplessness and exhaustion, I could only stand trembling in the shower, alone and confused. After nearly 48 hours of Pitocin-induced labor, I felt like I’d gone through battle. Unfortunately, I’m not the only one who has experienced rudeness during birth.
Moreover, unlike other wealthy nations, the United States fails to guarantee parental leave. In fact, the United States is one of only six countries who fail to provide maternity leave. Federal parental leave was recently approved in 2019 … but only for government employees. But even that measure is limited to 12 weeks during the child’s first year. Thankfully, this benefit does extend to adoptive and foster parents among federal employees; but it does not extend to state employees or to the private sector.
Despite the fact that a vast majority (over 80%) of Americans overwhelmingly support it, only about forty percent of employers offer paid leave. Other employers offer variations of paid leave, such as partially-paid leave or unpaid leave. In my own experience, I was granted eight weeks of leave at half-pay; and this was considered profoundly generous for the small practice that employed me. (They were a fantastic practice and were very flexible throughout my daughter’s first year of life. However, this policy by no means reflects the norm in American business.) By contrast, my husband was granted the day of our daughter’s birth, and any additional days were taken from his meager two weeks of PTO.
Here’s another great resource on how the United States measures up on caring for new parents, compared to … literally every other nation in the world.
Despite wide public acceptance of paid leave policies, the United States Congress routinely fails to provide this benefit to the citizens it represents. Leave is routinely pruned out of funding and infrastructure bills, again and again and again.
In addition to poor treatment and lack of maternity leave… as if those troubling statistics are not enough … postpartum care consists of a hasty follow-up visit, despite the fact that an estimated 20% of women experience postpartum depression or other complications. According to some sources, postpartum likely constitutes the most at-risk period in female mental health.
I repeat: motherhood is a perilous calling.
PER-IL-OUS, adjective
full of danger or risk
exposed to imminent risk of disaster or ruin.
“Exposed” is a word that suits motherhood. Mothers are quite literally exposed from that first wand ultrasound to the final six-week examination. I can still remember my bloody shuffle-steps to the hospital bathroom. People say you “forget” the travail of labor once they see the baby. Now, I realize you cannot see me; but my eyebrow is arched to my hairline.
Mothers also expose their heart to an impossibly frail and injury-prone child. They are exposed to overwhelming love. (How can I describe motherly love? Imagine the sun’s warmth on your cheeks when you close your eyes and tilt your face to the sky.) Mothers also expose themselves to hurt, from the first fist-flailing tantrum to the moment your child leaves home. Finally, unfortunately, mothers expose themselves to societal disdain of motherhood.
As evidenced by the above laundry list of policy and medical failure, mothers are often belittled and forgotten,as we have been throughout history. Even today’s proud, placard-waving feminist movement finds the messiness of motherhood unpleasant. There’s something hyper-intellectual about today’s brand of feminism which bogs itself in the abstract and wages its wars on social media, rather than considering the physical needs of flesh-and-blood women. Today’s social-media feminism is more interested in intersectionality than a woman’s ability to birth safely or access vital nutrition for our children. We’d rather type a vicious tweet than actually check on the moms birthing at the city hospitals. We wage war for contraception but often forget the other side of the coin: conception. If women do not possess sovereignty over birth and are instead subjected to coercion and disdain throughout the process of delivery and parenthood, then how can we truly call ourselves liberated?
Sorry, sister, you bowed to the patriarchy. You’ve excused yourself from the gender discourse with that pesky bloody body of yours. Please excuse yourself from the room until you can #dobetter. Inclusivity does not include you, breeder. Here’s your washcloth, clean yourself up.
Is it too much to ask for society to celebrate or support mothers, rather than ignoring, belittling, or gaslighting them?
Those iconoclastic Virgin Marys are empty-eyed marble. Of course no woman could or should attain that ideal. However, these images imbue much-deserved reverence to the dilating and contracting, the bleeding and ripping, the sleeplessness and heartbreak. They provide a reminder that, as you writhe and cuss your way through transition, or bite your cheek during another tantrum, you’re wrestling with that “something marvelous,” that angel of life. The thankless task of motherhood is vital to humanity’s future, even if this truth is squeamish and inconvenient for corporations, politicians, narratives, and social media trends.
No, we don’t claim or aim to be divine. But we mothers would appreciate a modicum of respect, a voice in the room. We don’t want to be shelved. We want to be beheld.
April 10, 2023
Author Antics: How to Support Indie Authors
Stepping into your local bookstore or Barnes & Noble, the dusty-warm aroma of books blends with the heady scent of ground coffee and jelly-encrusted pastries. You might stroll to the new releases table or wander into the fiction stacks, eyes roving covers designed to catch your attention and entice your fingers to flip through crisp pages. Everything begs for you to sit down, relax, and get lost in a good story.
Now, take a moment to glance at the spines of the novels on the shelves. Chances are, the overwhelming majority of these books will bear the stamp of one of the five “big house” publishing companies or an imprint of those companies. These books populate your Barnes & Noble and other bookstore chains around the country. Their authors often receive substantial advances, book tours, movie deals, and foreign rights. However, there is a vast treasure trove of independent or small house publications that simply do not receive the same shelf-space and marketing spotlight.
Before we dive into today’s topic, let’s clarify a few common questions. What does it mean to be “indie published”? Usually, this means an author published their work with a small, independent house, whose annual sales or number of titles fall below a certain threshold. Often, these small houses accept work from un-agented, underrepresented authors but do still follow a traditional route to publishing with modest advances and royalties. Nowadays, the term “indie publishing” also refers to self-published author and vanity-publishing houses. Sidebar: my favorite YA read so far this year is a self-published work.
Are independently published works “badly written” or “subpar” compared to big-five titles? Not at all! Most small houses seek to cultivate talented writers just like the “big five.” In fact, many great writers began their careers at a small house. Some hugely popular genres, like the Instagram-trending romantasy genre, are primarily independently published. While the same may not be said for all self-published authors, who control their own process and may forgo editing, small houses put their titles through a rigorous editing process. I speak from experience here, being in the midst of that process myself.
So then, you may ask, why did a “big” house not take on the work, if it’s just as good? The large houses and agents may reject a work for a variety of reasons. In my experience, market trends were a tremendous factor. Because my upcoming novel contains vampire characters, it was often automatically rejected or, in most cases, not even considered. The vast majority of wishlists I encountered between 2020 and 2022 clearly stated that the agent/house did not want to see any title containing vampire characters or mob-related violence. When one has written a gothic noir fantasy novel, that is an unfortunate hurdle. When I was querying Scythe and Pen, I received thirty rejections, all along the lines of “this was an excellent read but I’m just not able to market it right now.”
Publishing is a business, just like any other, and businesses must pay attention to demand and trends. Fortunately, independent houses safeguard diversity of content, by embracing authors whose content may be excellent but fall outside the “trending” topics. Don’t believe me? Next time you go to a bookstore, try to spot the common trends on the new release shelves. A big one right now is feminist Greek retellings. Don’t get me wrong, I love them too. They’re trending for a reason.
Unfortunately, small houses often do not possess the marketing budget or market clout of the “big five.” This means indie authors often promote their own work and rely strongly on word-of-mouth from readers. So, how can you help?
Here are five ways you can support the indie writers in your life.
Request or buy the book. Obviously, buying your friend’s book is a wonderful way to support their work. Worried about your budget? Even if you’re choosing or needing to save money, you can still support indie authors by requesting their book through your local library. Even though bookstores tend to focus on Big Five publications, if a book trends on social media or is repeatedly requested, you could help an author’s work get on the shelves and become more visible.
Spread the word. Word-of-mouth is still the best way to spread the word about a product. Simply telling your buddy about “that good book I just read” helps indie writers. Share your read on social media. You can share it on Instagram, tweet about it, or mention it in your favorite Facebook group. Remember, small houses often have smaller marketing teams and smaller budgets, meaning less money to forge business relationships and buy ad space. So the more you talk about your friend’s book, the more you’re helping. Tell! Your! Friends!
Consider putting copies in those little free libraries. My friend Stephanie recently shared the wonderful idea of buying one or two extra copies of indie books and sticking them in her neighborhood’s little free libraries. Of course, it may not always be financially feasible to do this, but it’s an incredibly thoughtful idea to get those titles circulating out there in the world.
Suggest it for book club. Are you a member of a local book club? Pitch your friend’s book as the next read! Book club attendees are usually avid readers and will most likely love supporting a local author.
Leave a review. If you read the book, take a moment to review it, even if it’s just a quick star rating on Amazon. Reviews help persuade other readers to give the book a try. Haven’t had time to read the book yet? Add it to your Good Reads! You can add the book as “Want to Read,” which also helps the indie author gain visibility.
Share this list with your reader friends. And feel free to shout out your own book or a friend’s work in the comments section!
April 3, 2023
Take Cover
This installment is intended to be read after prevous post entitled This Wide Sea.
I’m currently writing a pirate-themed fantasy novel titlted The Dread. This week, I thought it might be fun to share a snippet of the novel with my readers and Instagram friends. I’m still in the drafting stages but hope to have a finished manuscript by the end of 2023. To learn more about my career, writing or upcoming releases, visit my social media and website.
Blasted wood and screams and water whipping furious white. The ship bell clanged, despite the fact that the cannon had rocked the Endeavor hard enough to throw every sailor from his bunk.
Arabella peeled herself from the deck. The frenzied bell clamged and clanged, seeming to rebound inside her skull. Boots thundered around her as she whirled, searching for her brother.
“Will? Will?” Her voice cracked. “WILLIAM!”
“I’ve got him, miss!” A black-haired sailor popped onto the quarter deck, hauling Wiliam by the bicep.
Arabella’s stomach dropped. She flew to her brother’s side, hands outstretched. Blood smeared the boy’s forehead, streaking down his cheek. “Oh gods, you’re hurt --”
"I’m fine -- don’t fuss -- I’m --” William squirmed but his face was ashen. Arabella pulled him tight and turned to the sailor.
“Thank you, sir.”
“He’ll be fine,” the sailor shouted over the din. “Scalp wounds bleed something fierce. I’d get below decks if I were --”
A horrible whistle truncated his sentence. A boom and then a fountain of water jettisoned skyward. Arabella shrieked, clinging to William as oceanwater rained and drenched them both. The sailor rushed to the railing.
“A miss!” he crooned. “First must’ve been a lucky shot, the bastards!” He shepherded Arabella toward the stairs. “Get below decks, miss, quickly, quickly!”
“Below decks?” Arabella cried. Somehow trapping herself within the ship’s hull felt like a deathwish.
The sailor leaned close to be heard. “This is an Imperial frigate. A few cannons won’t sink her. Not today. Go, go!”
“TAKE COVER!” bellowed a voice from above. The watchman leaned from the crows-nest, frantically waving his cap.
The whistle-shriek and a cannon -- streaking black -- ripped through rope and tackle. Canvas sagged like fallen laundry, and a scream pierced the air. A boom had splintered, ropes popping; a sailor scrambled to grab purchase on the shroud, a line, anything. Below, his comrades scurried, yelling for a net.
“Wh-what’s happening?” cried Arabella.
“Pirates!” yelled the sailor.
William’s eyes popped wide as silverspoons. “Pirates!?”
Bodily, the sailor shoved Arabella towards the main deck. “Below! Now! Run!”
Pirates. The word stabbed cold through Arabella’s brain. Pirates -- pirates -- no,this can’t be happening -- Gods help us --
Half-dragging William, Arabella flew. Down the gangway, leaping over fallen lines, past three sailors holding their net, screaming for their friend to jump, jump now --
He plummeted--
Just as another cannon roared --
Arabella yelped and ducked. Barely registering if the fallen sailor was safe, she dragged William toward the center of the ship.
Again rang the warning screech. Another water geyser, spray like bullets on her skin.
“RUN OUT THE GUNS!”
“TURN HER ABOUT!”
“ALL HANDS -- ALL HANDS ON DECK!”
Orders ricocheted like gunfire as the Endeavor awoke with purpose and fury. Arabella shoved William toward the main deck.
“Run, William! Run!”
Ahead a man beckoned from a hatch leading below decks. His eyes were wide and white beneath his tricorn. “Here, miss!”
Arabella’s skirts tangled, wet and heavy, around her legs. Safety beckoned from the darkness below. Arabella need only step into it. Yet on the precipice, she slowed, an unbidden force compelling her to turn and to look back.
The world slowed. Foam speckling the air, flying wood like confetti, the sea enraged and white.
Arabella’s gaze lifted to the horizon.
And she saw it.
Like a monster burst from the deep, black and hulking on the waves: a galleon. Hull as dark as pitch, sails proud and full, it crouched broadside. The mainmast was a proud fist against the sky. From it unfurled a black flag.
Arabella’s eyes widened.
A black flag hoisted above a black ship. Black against cerulean blue skies, black as night, black as death.
The name popped into Arabella’s head, pulled from penny pamphlets, barked from citycriers. A name that had risen to gruesome prominence throughout the Empire. The name of the only vessel flying both black sheet and black banner.
She gasped the word like a curse:
“The Dread.”
Light flashed on the galleon’s distant flanks. A thunderclap of ignited powder.
“Below!”
An urgent hand shoved between Arabella’s shoulderblades. Caught off guard, she tripped -- toe catching against the hatch door -- and tumbled down into the hold. Her hands scrambled for purchase. Briefly she grasped the ladder, then only empty air. The hatch fell, and the world closed upon her.
#
Fuzzed black lines and slatted light. Cold dripping onto her forehead. Pain sparking in her ankle.
Arabella’s vision focused. A gray rag hovered over her face, dripping brown water. A gnarled hand moved to reveal a face knotted and dark as driftwood.
“Ah, there she is,” wheezed the old man standing over her. He grinned, revealing two teeth stark in his black maw.
Arabella batted aside the dirty rag. Pressing a hand to her forehead, she stammered: “Wh-what happened?”
“Ye took a right nasty tumble, you did, miss,” said the old man. He slopped the rag into a bucket at his feet. Droplets spattered Arabella’s bodice. Wincing, she rose onto her elbows.
“Ari?” a nervous voice murmured over her shoulder.
Arabella’s heart skittered as memory slammed into her. Cannonfire, pirates -- “William!”
Wide-eyed and pale, her brother knelt at her side. Arabella grasped his knee. The cut on his forehead had stopped bleeding, although red caked his hair. Barrels loomed behind him. Pitch, salt, and spice mingled with sour water.
The hold, she realized. Someone must have carried her to the frigate’s cargo level.
“Your head struck the ladder,” William supplied. “A soldier brought us down here.”
Arabella inspected her own forehead and winced. A goose-egg had formed above her right eye.
William nodded at the old seadog. “Cookie here helped me.”
“I --” Arabella started to thank the seadog, but fear sank like a stone in her belly. “Oh gods, William! The Dread! I saw it” She grabbed her brother’s hands. “I saw the pirate ship!”
“Aye,” growled the cook. “And aptly named, I’d reckon.” He chuckled, the sound creaky as the frigate’s bones. Tapping a finger to his nose, he winked. “Ye’ll notice the quiet? Nary a cannon blast.”
Arabella’s heart surged. “Did we outrun them?”
“Outrun?” The cook’s eyes popped: hard and yellow as cueballs. “Outrun the Dread?” Whee! Gods bones, miss!” He shrilled and the sound whistled through the gaps in his teeth. “No ship outruns the Dread. Nay. Look out yonder.”
As the words left his mouth, darkness bloomed around them. Something blocked the light rippling through the Endeavor’s portholes. As the sunlight faded, Arabella’s spirits sank.
Oh gods no.
The old cook chortled as if watching a street show. Outside, black planks overtook the slate sea. Weathered boards, speckled with salt, then the malignant eye of a cannon barrel. Its soulless glare bored straight into Arabella’s heart.
“Whee - heehee -- there’s no ship afloat can outpace the Dread.” The seadog’s voice pitched like a teakettle. “You’ll meet him now, missy. And maybe yer maker too, eh? -- whee hee!” His wheezing old-man laugh raised every hair on Arabella's neck.
A bone-shaking thud. The Endeavor pitched. Water splashed against the portholes and Arabella scrambled for a handhold as William careened into her.
“What was that?” he gasped, righting himself.
More thuds, followed by shouts overhead.
The cook’s grin stretched taut over his skull. “They’ve rafted ‘longside.”
They’re boarding us. Arabella’s core went cold. Without thought, she shoved William between the crowded barrels.
“Oof! Hey!”
“Hide!”
“But --”
“Hide now!” Arabella kicked him into the small curved slot behind two apple barrels, then lunged for a sheet of spare canvas. Boots thundered far above. “Hurry!”
“You too, missy.” The cook leered at her elbow. Taking the canvas, he nodded at the makeshift hiding spot. “In you go. Nary a peep.”
Arabella’s stomach twisted. She had no desire to entrust her fate to this drunken yellow-toothed lubber; but what choice did she have? She huddled beside William, pulling her skirts tight around her boots. Her corset bit into her ribcage, but the discomfort did not faze her.
With a final wink, the cook dropped the sheeting and disappeared from view.
“All hands!” boomed a distant voice. Arabella nearly leapt out of her skin. “All hands on deck!”
“That’ll be me,” grumbled the cook.
View shrouded by white, Arabella clutched her brother as the cook’s boots receded. She heard the dull thump of a hatch, then Arabella and William were alone with only their hammering hearts. Brother and sister exchanged one wide-eyed look.
A thud overhead -- William jumped. Arabella grabbed his hand with both her own. Don’t make a sound, her eyes begged. Fear crawled like spiders over her skin.
Voices, shouts, one loud doglike laugh. Heavy boots pounded over their heads as men traversed the decks. The Endeavor sloshed -- Arabella’s stomach with it -- with the redistribution of weight.
William, she repeated her brother’s name like a prayer. Just protect William…
A whistle pierced Arabella’s panic. High, long, and dignified. A captain’s whistle.
Arabella and William exchanged a bewildered glance. Did pirates salute their captains?
The cacophony overhead calmed. A heartbeat of silence passed; Arabella heard only William’s breathing.
A deep, male voice murmured. Arabella strained to catch the words but could not identify or distinguish anything concrete.
The hatch banged open. Light poured into the cargo hold, bright against their canvas shelter. Hands pressed to her mouth, Arabella willed herself still, willed herself silent, even as William trembled with round panicked eyes, even as bootsteps clambered down the ladder.
“Search every corner!” A voice boomed through the hold, and it was all Arabella could do not to yelp. Arabella’s eyes met William’s. She clutched his arm. Gods protect us. Please, please --
The canvas snapped -- light flooded their hiding place. Before Arabella could scream, she was hauled to her feet.
A tattooed face leered next to hers. “Two below, Cap’n! A girl and a whelp of a boy!”
#
Blinded by brightness, Arabella’s eyes smarted tears. She saw only searing white as she jerked against the pirate’s grip. One hand straggled free -- but her captor snatched her black hair.
“Let me go!” shrieked Arabella.
“Quiet, bitch!”
A shove drove Arabella to the deck. Pain rang through her knees. Her vision swam.
White figures molded into huddled shapes that further solidified into men, stripped of their blue coats. Arabella gasped. The Endeavor’s crew knelt along the gangway, hands bound and heads bowed. Behind them stood an army of men. Muskets, pistols, machetes brandished. One blade dripped red.
William! Arabella turned, only to have her hair yanked so severely that stars danced before her eyes.
“At ease, Bilson,” a voice barked.
A pair of boots stepped into Arabella’s vision. As she stared at the steel-capped toes, her heart sank. Her gaze traveled to a black belt festooned with tarnished coins -- up the velvet waistcoat, red as spilt blood -- to a bandolier jagged with knives -- and finally to a face.
A face borne from seamen’s yarns.
The pirate’s trim black beard split into a cruel grin. One gold incisor winked. He was chiseled and bronzed by decades of sun with eyes as cold as the surrounding sea. Arabella’s blood thundered in her ears. The pirate’s boots creaked as he knelt bringing them face-to-face. An austere baritone, cultured as any Imperial schoolboy, rolled over her:
“Miss Windcroft, I presume?”
Eye to eye with the rogue, Arabella felt her spine go soft. The pirate captain’s left eye was blue as baywater, pure and vivid. But the right was blighted: a veil of white obscured its pupil. Silvereye. The name, whispered in ports and screamed from pamphlets, popped into Arabella's mind.
Jaryx Silvereye, captain of the pirate vessel Dread, knelt before her. Sea salt encrusted his gold belt buckle, dusted the toes of his boots. One hand rested on his pistol as he assessed her, slowly. His smile uncoiled like a snake.
"I've searched this wide sea for you, lass. And here you are."
Thank you so much for reading and supporting my creativity.
My book Scythe and Pen, a grimdark Jazz-Age retelling of the Hades and Persephone legend, releases this fall from Counterpoise Press.
