Cole McCade's Blog, page 2

I Made a Thing, and It's for You: THE FALLEN Is Live Early, and It's Free

So I'd meant to release THE FALLEN on December 31st, but Amazon was kind enough to set it free today. If you loved Crow City, then I hope you'll enjoy coming back to it for a little while – and getting to meet Gabriel in his own voice, in this prequel story that takes place before he meets Leigh and gives us a window into the depth of his relationships with Gary and Maxi. We'll learn just what broke him…and how he saved himself.

And we'll get our first glimpse of the enigmatic man who calls himself Priest.

Vin Manion. A character I've been holding on to for years, a darkly irredeemable monster who was once Gabriel's best friend – and whom I can't wait to sink my teeth into in THE FOUND.

Smashwords

Read an Excerpt

Amazon UK might be a little slow in showing it for free, but if it's not marked down then you can get it on Smashwords for any device. I'll update this post and the book page as the links for B&N and Kobo go live.

I loved writing this book. It's short, but I could feel every moment weaving together, building up to that moment when Leigh comes slipping quietly into Gabriel's life, little ghost that she was. The near-misses. The intersections of their storylines.  The deeper explorations of Gary and Maxi's pasts and personalities. Those moments that made it more and more clear that it was coming. I've never done that before – writing a prequel tie-in. It was immensely, oddly satisfying, this breathless anticipation that built toward the end…and I can't wait to do it again with Priest's story after finishing THE FOUND.

Just like with any Crow City story, THE FALLEN is triggery as hell – this time dealing heavily with issues of suicide, PTSD in military veterans, and substance abuse. The blurb below covers it a bit more, but as always, take the trigger warning in the front of the novel to heart and remember that it's okay to put yourself first.

BLURB

Reconnect with Gabriel, Gary, Maxi, and Crow City in this free companion novella telling the story of THE LOST's Gabriel Hart before Leigh entered his life – and get a sneak preview of the sinister Priest, hero of THE FOUND (coming 2016).

Gabriel Hart is a broken man.

And everyone close to him dies.

His military unit. His sister. His parents. Everyone he's come to care for has been taken from him, leaving him with nothing but a crippling war injury, a Vicodin addiction, and a scraggly, chewed-up rag of a cat. It's enough to make anyone want to check out. And when he holds his service pistol in his hand and presses it against his temple, for the first time in a long time the world feels right.

But he's not as alone as he thinks. And when grizzled bar owner Gary challenges him to honor his sister's memory by repairing her houseboat before he gives up on life, he discovers she left more for him than her belongings. And her letters lead him on a trail through discovering himself, discovering what he truly wants…and discovering that he has the strength to choose his own path.

Praise for THE LOST from Publishers Weekly: "If the romantic character study is a genre, this fascinating contemporary novel is its exemplar. McCade digs deep into the difficult topics of rape, incest, and sexual abuse via the remarkable voice of Clarissa Leigh VanZandt."

NOTE & TRIGGER WARNING: This novella does not have a romantic or erotic storyline, but is the companion novella to a romantic erotica as a prequel tale told from the hero's POV. While it is a standalone book, it's a character story designed to segue into the beginning of THE LOST and should not be considered a separate romance. This story also contains content discussing suicide and self-harm at length. If you are triggered by such things, please don't hesitate to put the book down and focus on self-care.

I think that just about covers everything. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Now…off I go to get started on THE FOUND.

Free Book Weekend: 12-19-2015 to 12-21-2015: Because Classism Is for Dicks.

(If you want to skip the blather, just hit Page Down or scroll to go right to the download link.)

Uh…hi. I haven't touched my blog in a while, have I?

So this past week there was a bit of a kerfluffle on Twitter when an author made (and, I believe, has since apologized for) a few poorly-thought-out statements about people who pirate books because they can't afford them, basically income-shaming readers. That kerfluffle turned into a large portion of the book community having a really productive discussion and opening a lot of eyes to classism in Booklandia, primarily among YA lit but pervading across pretty much any genre and age group.

The struggle between books and even the most basic necessities is one I understand. I've been that person counting pennies to figure out if I can afford something more than ramen for the week. As a consultant with fluctuating income and unpredictable circumstances, some months are harder than others. Sometimes I can splurge on my addiction to graphic design gadgets. Sometimes I can't. Sometimes I have to choose to care for my pets' health over my own, because they can't make that choice for themselves. Sometimes I have to choose between books and toilet paper; sometimes my book budget for the month is in triple digits; sometimes it's in single digits; in some instances, it's been zero. Fuck, in some instances it's been in the negatives. It happens. That's life. People struggle. I'm not one to talk about my financial circumstances, but it's not something anyone should be shamed for. I'm not ashamed of the fact that as a kid, the only books I owned came from free book days at the library because my family was struggling enough that dinner, some nights, was a can of vienna sausages. And when the readers who can't afford books are kids, that's a double stressor because they may have to ask parents for money they just don't have.

Sometimes life is rough. And sometimes books are all we have to pull us out of that. Sometimes the people you might shame for not being able to afford books are the people who need those books the most. Who need stories that speak to them, and remind them that economic disadvantage does not separate them from their humanity.

And while authors are often struggling just as much as readers, and sometimes those pennies from our book royalties make a difference between microwaving a bowl of broth vs. getting to indulge in takeaway, or sitting with the lights out vs. putting down just enough on the electric to avoid cutoff…it does no one any good if books are priced out of the market or inaccessible to readers below a certain income level and / or living in areas without access to libraries. Books are beyond special, but they should never be a privilege solely for people above a certain tier of wealth or income stability. That doesn't mean I advocate piracy; piracy is a problem, and you can bet I get twitchy when I see one of mine pop up on a pirate site, even if there's little I can do in many cases. But I do advocate for making books more accessible and not gating that access, and not deciding for someone else what they should be able to afford when we don't know their circumstances. There are a lot of ways to address this systemically, from supporting greater library access to bookmobiles to book donation drives.

My personal way of addressing it?

I'm giving my independent books away free this weekend.

I know it's barely a drop in the bucket. One C-list indie author is not going to change much by giving his books away for a weekend, and my books are not age-appropriate for YA (well, the contemps might be close, let's not even pretend there's no sex in YA or that teens don't read adult romance) so it's not addressing the issue of kids not having access to expensive books. But they're here for adults with the same issue, and doing it is better than not doing it. So. If you've been curious about my books but just haven't had room in your book budget, now's your chance to grab them. If you own them already, tell someone you know who's been curious but couldn't afford it. If you can afford it, again…tell someone who can't.

Right. Enough blathering then, and:

>>CLICK TO DOWNLOAD HERE<<

This file will remain active until 9:00am CST on Monday, 12-21-2015. Just unzip and load the files onto your device of choice; .mobi for Kindle, .epub for everything else. Depending on your browser, you can either click the link to start the download, or right-click and select "Save As."

FILES INCLUDED

The Lost: A Crow City Novel (Crow City #1; Cole McCade: After Dark Contemporary Erotica)

Formats: .epub & .mobi
A Second Chance at Paris (Bayou's End #1; Contemporary Romance)

Formats: .epub & .mobi
Zero Day Exploit (Bayou's End #1.5; Contemporary Romance)

Formats: .epub & .mobi

(Okay, yes, ZDE was already free, but I'm packaging them all together for completeness.)

  

MINI-FAQ

Q. Why don't you make them free on Amazon and B&N so I can have them sent to my e-reader that way?

A. Because coordinating pricing across all markets / distributors is a nightmare, especially since I'm not in KDP Select on Amazon and can't set my books to free without a lot of emailing, threats, and snarling. That would turn this into a 2-3 week mess instead of just a quick weekend thing.

Q. Aren't you afraid of someone putting your books up on pirate sites?

A. *laughs* Honey, they're already there. I'm just choosing to give you a legitimate way to get them for free for the weekend.

Q. I missed the free weekend! What do I do?

A. Ask around. Friends might have the files and would probably be happy to send them to you.

Q. None of my friends have the files. I really want to read your books but I just don't have the money, and I'd rather not pirate.

A. Email me. Let's see if we can work something out.

Q. Aren't you worried about losing money?

A. No. If someone couldn't afford to buy my books before, giving them for free isn't taking money out of my pocket when they weren't putting money in my pocket in the first place. Let's see…zero, add the zero, carry the zero…still equals zero. Only difference is hey, now someone's got a book and I hope they love it.

Q. Then why not give them away for free all the time?

A. Because I've got bills to pay too, and I appreciate when people who can afford my books do and choose to support me and all the other authors out there working to make a living.

Q. Aren't you worried about people taking advantage and getting the books free when they could have afforded to pay?

A. *shrugs* I'm not policing. What's in your wallet isn't my business. Books are here regardless of the reasons for downloading. Free is free.

Q. Will you do this again in the future when you have more books out?

A. Maybe. We'll see how it goes this time, and if there's interest in doing it again. Some of my books are contracted to publishers, so I don't have control over giving those away. But I may with my indie titles.

Q. Why isn't Winter Rain included in this?

A. Winter Rain is an independent anthology featuring multiple authors, which was curated, edited, and published by a separate publisher. I don't have the rights or permission to give away an indeterminate number of copies for free.

Q. What if I download the books and I hate them?

A. That's okay! Not everyone likes the same thing. Free books aren't equivalent to LOVE ME NOW OR ELSE. You don't even have to review them. They're just free books. No strings. Stick them on your TBR for a day or a year or forever. Enjoy, or don't. I promise I'll still love you if you don't. Er. Well. As much as I can without being creepy when I don't really know you. Whomever you are. Who's reading this? Where are we? What's going on?

…I'll stop being silly now.

Spiraling Downward, Climbing Upward

*****Trigger Warning*****

(Admin note: contains graphic, sexually explicit content with regards to minors and child sexual abuse.)

I’ve tried to write this a few times. I succeeded with the version that is filtered through a fictionalized account to help it maintain a safe distance, or I’d have never gotten through it. Even the writing of it hurt, triggering me repeatedly and relentlessly over the past five years I’ve spent rewriting it so I can publish it. Even the nightmares came back, taunting me. Still, I kept going, pushed through the worst of it, determined to finish, which I have. It’s currently in the hands of my proof reader, and getting fitted for cover art, and coming out (hopefully) before the end of 2015.

But that’s not the whole story. This version has no filters. I’m sharing it raw, thus the trigger warning.

I grew up poor. Poor white trash. Single mother. Two-bedroom apartment. Parents divorced after my father’s tour in Vietnam left him reeling from PTSD so bad he tore his marriage and family apart with his bare hands. No one supported his recovery, so he didn’t. Recover.

My mother remarried, unknowingly choosing my abuser, thinking herself lucky to find a man who would so readily accept another man’s children. She had no clue. She was young and naïve, and ended up hospitalized during much of the time he spent grooming, gaslighting, and laying the groundwork for his intentions.

At first he scared me. His belt had a thousand names. Bowling balls and spikes, whips and chains, whatever he thought might ping a chord of fear shooting up my spine as I stood between my sister and brother, shuddering at the slap of leather across his hands, his words keeping the staccato beat of each lash, and what they meant.

He’d pace back and forth, panther-like, eyes beaded hard on each one of our sniveling forms. We hadn’t cleaned our rooms. Or, we had, but we didn’t do it “right.” We were five, four, and three years old.

I didn’t know this at the time, but he had already started sexually abusing my sister since she was two. Back then, it had been going on for three years. Then, he decided I was next.

He took me to his parent’s house. A farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. There were horses, and I stood at the edge of the cornfield, watching them while he mowed the whole yard. Hours went by. I got bored. I went inside, and waited in the dark formal living room. At least it seemed formal to me with lace doilies on every piece of furniture.

He came in to shower, and after a while, he called to me from one of the back rooms. I felt strange. Something didn’t fit, but I couldn’t make any sense of it. He called me a second time and I went down the hall, calling out until I found where he was and what he was doing.

He was naked, and he reached up, and pulled me toward him, reaching impossibly far across the room, hooking me by the back of my head and forcing me toward him. Then he tugged me down onto him, as he thrust, thrust, thrust, and then I was gagging and choking and spitting him out, spit the phlegm out, but I couldn't get his taste out of my mouth.

I was four the first time it happened. Three. Two. One. Numbers. None of it mattered. I’ve replayed the dozen or so other encounters that spanned a six month period (or so), hundreds, if not thousands of times since then. This was all before I told. Before my sister and I realized he had played us against each other.

One of the ways he kept me compliant is he used the same grooming script he had used with my sister. He told me I had to keep doing it or he’d choose my sister or my brother next. He sodomized me every way there was to do so, and shamed me when my body responded. He told me I must like it, which made it seem like it would never stop. I thought I was taking a bullet for my brother and sister, and it turned out to be a lie. When I heard her say something in particular one day, a phrase he used with me, I knew he had already started. The terms of our agreement crumbled, and after we told each other, we went to our mother.

I was one of the fortunate ones. I was believed. My sister was believed. We got out and we got help, and we put the bastard in jail. But in the aftermath, the true horror surfaced. A more accurate way of explaining it, is it tugged me in the opposite direction. It’s more like a spiral staircase down to the basement, or a tomb, where a demon waits to chase after me, hunt me down, and invent new ways to kill me in my dreams, where I couldn’t even escape from him.

I had years of recurring nightmares, a swollen colon, which required me to take mineral oil (it made me gag every time I swallowed it) to help my colon return to normal size, and I felt the pain every time I went to the bathroom for years afterward. I won’t go into details, but I recently had a connecting situation happen while I was at work, and while I was mortified in that moment, what bothered me worse, was the fact that what he did by sodomizing me as a four-year-old still affects me almost forty years later.

This has affected so many personal areas of my life. I’ve struggled with being sexually aware since a small child, the fact that my abuser was male made me question my sexual identity for years, and I felt an added shame for failing to live up to what society says a man should do: protect himself.

I have good days and bad days. Sometimes a smell, a sound, a touch in a certain place (like my thigh) will trigger me. If something starts to tug me downward, I find myself walking down the spiral staircase, and I know where it leads. In my nightmares, it was a set of stone stairs, with torches ensconced on either side as I went down, down, down. I knew what was around the corner, but there was a kind of inevitability to it all. There was a script, and I had to deliver my part.

It took years of counseling, and moving to get past the worst of it. Even though I moved more than fifty times before I turned eighteen, even though I’ve seen foulness from the inside of a homeless shelter, even though I learned how to be an expert packer, I somehow managed to graduate college. I’m the first in my family to do so.

I’ve been married for fifteen years, and my wife and I have the blessing of four amazing and beautiful boys, one with extra special abilities. He can walk using crutches, despite not having a cerebellum. He speaks, writes, and still remembers the sign language we taught him to use when he remained preverbal for longer than most. He continues to defy the limits of his condition, and he teaches us, along with his brothers, so many truths about life and what is important. He reminds me to laugh in the face of struggles, so I do.

Recently, I began a master’s degree. I am a state certified English teacher, but I did not succeed with finding a teaching position. So, my master’s degree is ironically clinical mental health counseling. I’m becoming what I hate: a counselor. Still, I love helping others find pathways to healing, hope, and recovery.

In a recent training at work, a colleague gave us what he described as a "fun activity." We completed a 10 question survey, asking questions about the kind of home we lived in, what our parents were like, and what risk factors we were exposed to. He then went through the sheets after collecting them from us, and sorted them all by how many times we answered "yes," to these risk factors (alcohol, abuse, violence, etc.) He then told us our scores were typical to what was found in one of the largest studies in the U.S. What he didn't know is that I kept my sheet, since I had already added up my score, and once I realized what came next, I refused to turn it in. I had scored a 10/10. This colleague of mine told the entire room, NO ONE could survive, remain functional, or not be a drug user, suicidal, or someone in prison if they had even scored as high as four or more. Um… I was sitting right there, and I could hear him just fine. Needless to say, that was a very triggering experience.

Something I’ve learned over the years: Stairwells and stair cases don’t just go down. They can also go back up. So, while I’ve found myself unraveling, spiraling downward, tugged by some invisible thread many, many times over the years, I’ve also found that once I’m at the bottom, I can come back up, I can take one step after another, and keep moving forward. So, that’s what I've learned to do. I move forward, I get back up, and I refuse to give up.

The pain is still there. Believe me. It comes and goes. Even when I think I’ve finally made a way through it all and I’m finally free, I find myself pulled back down and I’m right back there, again. I’ve had fits of rage (I tore up a wall with my fists), and I’ve raised my voice at my boys and my wife. I don’t have it all together. I’m far from perfect, but I am determined to survive.

Something else I’ve learned: I’m not content, just to survive. So, I keep moving. Climbing back up from each and every one of those staircases, until I find the pathway to overcomer.

Denial is not just a river in Egypt

Whenever I think about this incident, I've never referred to it as abuse. I've always said I was a willing participant. I forget how old I was – somewhere between 8 and 12. Of course now I know that I couldn't have given consent. And that it was most definitely abuse.

Anyways, this incident was with a cousin. It pretty much involved lots of kissing and exploration. While we never went all the way, it still should have never happened. Back then my lips would be swollen and when asked about it, I'd say I ran into the wall.

When I think about it, I sometimes try to convince myself it never happened, but I still remember the smells associated with said memory. So it did. No matter how much I try to deny it. And even now, as I write this, I still feel some sort of shame.

I don't know if I have any lasting effects from it. I do know I have difficulty letting people in. So who knows?

Anyways, thanks Cole for this opportunity.

Why didn’t I leave?

It started with the pinching. Then the “light” punches. At first it wasn’t hard enough to leave a mark. It just stung.Soon it started bruising. Then I was wearing long sleeves and long skirts every day. Then I had to lie to my Momma and say I’d hit my face on a cabinet door. She didn’t believe me. The nurse didn’t believe me about slamming my wrist in the car door and breaking it.

He left me. He said I was too old and a frigid bitch. I’m glad he left. But I wish I had left first. I still don’t understand why I stayed.

Why didn't I leave?

It started with the pinching. Then the "light" punches. At first it wasn't hard enough to leave a mark. It just stung.Soon it started bruising. Then I was wearing long sleeves and long skirts every day. Then I had to lie to my Momma and say I'd hit my face on a cabinet door. She didn't believe me. The nurse didn't believe me about slamming my wrist in the car door and breaking it.

He left me. He said I was too old and a frigid bitch. I'm glad he left. But I wish I had left first. I still don't understand why I stayed.

The Speak Project

Yesterday I made it abundantly clear how I feel about speaking out regarding racism and racially motivated harassment, and the damaging effects of silencing the marginalized. But in the past I've also discussed speaking out regarding abuse; I wrote about an abuse survivor in my contribution to the IPPY Award-winning charity anthology Winter Rain. I spoke on USA Today about how part of my motivation for writing The Lost was anger over how society had created this framework that enabled myriad and painful types of abuse and harassment, and how it had affected so many of the women in my life. One common theme among these survivors and in my own story of abuse was that silence enabled abusers, and so abusers demanded silence – or else.

In case you haven't noticed, I'm not very good at being silent in the face of anyone's abusive bullshite.

And I don't think anyone should have to be.

If silence is a weapon against the abused, then your voice is a weapon against abusers. So I've created the Speak Project: a platform to collect and display the stories of people who've survived abuse and harassment. People who are still undergoing abuse and harassment, who need somewhere to find the stories of others like themselves and realize they're not alone.

Maybe that abuse takes the form of domestic violence. Maybe it takes the form of sexual assault. Maybe it takes the form of body-shaming. Maybe it takes the form of racist, misogynistic, homophobic, transphobic hate crimes. Maybe it takes the form of ableist erasure of the disabled. Abuse has many forms, but only one label, and every type of abuse deserves a voice.

Many voices.

You can post openly or anonymously; the platform is open to anyone, and will add your story to a wall-style gallery that people can browse and share. No story is too large, or too small. Share as much or as little as you feel safe sharing. Protect yourself above all things – and if you don't feel safe sharing at all, if you only want to read others' stories, that's all right. Your emotional health and well-being matter, and I only hope that if you don't feel comfortable speaking, that it at least helps you to listen.

My own story is the first of many. It's not unique. Hell, this project probably isn't even that unique. But it was my story to speak, so I did.

And I hope you will, too.

I hope you'll share your story, and speak.

My Husband

My Husband told me he wanted a BDSm Dom relationship but He wouldn't agree to any contracts nad didn't listen when i used the safe word. if i was unhappy He said it was my fault because I was a bad sub and He would hit me and beat me until I bled. For 14 years He used fake BDSM to make me let Him abuse me because if i lovedHim i would answer his needs im sorry for my spelling it makes me cry to rmember because i would make so many excuses for him

but He gave me a beautiful daughter. we left together. I left for her because He wanted to starte training her young. i realized then that this would never end and i would be standing there helping Him make my daughter bleed. I ran. And i've spent the rest of my life happy to love her without Him.

he was supposed to protect me

my foster father would take twenties from his friends to let them feel under my shirt and touch under my skirt. he dressed me up like a doll in slutty clothes and made me turn so he could look at me. now I always keep myself covered, and I hate when anyone looks at me

Just because you can't see it, doesn't mean it's not there

I recently read a sentence that resonated; "this isn’t a form of abuse that causes real bruises, but it bruises the soul." And that's how it was for me.

I can count on one hand the number of people aware of my past. It’s not that I’m ashamed, I used to be, but not any more. However because of my past, I do have trust issues. I have friendships going back 20 years that I'm still wary of and others, fledgling in comparison, where the trust has come quickly and easily. I’m not an easy person to get to know, but if you can break through my barriers you will find someone who will love and protect those she cares about. It's no easy feat and is down to the person who chipped away at me over the course of a few months and who, after we began living together, decided to change me.

What I went through was over a fairly short period of time, and overnight he turned from someone who had made promises, to an abuser. It started with the little things; what I wore, how I acted around people and over the course of a couple of months escalated to my weight and distancing me from my friends. My decisions and ideas were constantly dismissed as stupid, I was belittled in public and private, he'd disappear and I was being ridiculous for questioning where he'd been. He used me like an ATM and if I “loved him”, I’d buy him the sneakers he wanted or the latest cell phone.

The fun stubborn girl was replaced by a shell, intent on simply keeping the peace. But it was six months in, when I discovered I wasn't the only woman in his life, that I found the strength to walk away. Something in me snapped. I took the debt and walked. He didn't care. I’d lost contact with many of my friends, and I didn’t want to explain to my family what I’d been subjected to; they'd voiced concerns so many times when he'd pulled one of his disappearing acts, only for me to brush it aside, that I felt foolish and chose to handle it alone, with the exception of one friend who propped me up. Who saw but waited for me to open up. But even she couldn't stop the night I sat in the bathroom with a bottle of wine and a box of pain meds.

What stopped me was fear, and from nowhere, fight. Enough was enough. Hitting rock bottom actually gave me the kick up the ass I needed and I picked myself up, slowly.

The scars have eased but they're still there. I can come across as standoffish and I don't like people entering my personal space. Except with one; the man who was patient, relentless in his pursuit, and who listened and proved I deserved better. Who helped bring me back, helped me rebuild some trust and although he sometimes struggles to comprehend how someone so stubborn and opinionated could let someone treat her that way, he never forgets what I went through.

Something I've come to realize is I'm not unique. I've met people who've been through similar and have come out the other side the best they can. Everyone deals with it differently and I know I've been fairly lucky. And if none of this had happened to me? My life likely would have taken a different route and I'm not unhappy with how it's turned out at all.