Join the Fight: Tell Congress That Being an Artist/Author IS a Business!

Like most people, I barely understand most of the legalese involved in tax law.  In fact, until recently, I blindly believed that, as an Author, since I considered myself engaged in business, and everything I read told me I had to file a Schedule C as a sole proprietorship, when I had royalty income, I was engaged in a For-Profit business.  Well, imagine my surprise when the State of Arizona tried to tell me, just before Christmas, last year (Thanks alot Arizona Scrooge!), that because I couldn’t prove a profit (ie, more income than expenses) in three out of five years as an author, I was not, in fact, engaged in a For-Profit Business.

Apparently, being an Artist/Author is one of those areas for which you are supposed to be punished, in the good ol’ US of A (or, at least, in Arizona), thanks to one of a set of “tests” to determine whether or not a business meets the criteria for “For Profit.”  Unfortunately, one of those tests requires a showing of profit — something few authors or artists are familiar with, when it comes to their art.  And, equally apparent is the ridiculous notion that an author or artist should ONLY be engaged in writing/art in order to be classed as pursuing that For-Profit status without proof of said profit margin.  Apparently, we really ARE supposed to starve and end up in the poor-house/bankrupt in order to be taken seriously by the tax laws.

Well, if you’re an author/artist, or family or friends of such, you know how driven a profession this is.  We dedicate every spare moment we can squeeze out of our day for the creation of our creative minds.  And there’s not a one of us who doesn’t intend to someday be able to do nothing but write, paint, etc, etc  full-time.  But we’re also realistic enough to realize that with millions of books printed every day, and hundreds of thousands of artists out there, most of us aren’t likely to ever see our names on or far enough up the bestsellers list or on gallery listing, etc, to make that kind of money.  We hold down other jobs, to pay the bills, and our families suffer as much as we do, for our art.

It’s time to take a stand… So if you’re an artist or author, a friend or family of one, or a fan who wants to see your favorite author/artist/etc continue to create, we need your help.  Follow the link below, sign the petition, and let’s tell the US Congress that being an artist/author IS a business, and we deserve protection and fair regard, as such, under the tax laws.

http://www.ipetitions.com/petition/arts-irc-186-amendment/ (yes, I know the link has a mistake… I hit a “6″ instead of a “3″ when typing in the title, and can’t figure out how to change it).

Tearing Down the American Dream: How American Tax Law Has Failed Creativity

From President Obama’s speech on Intellectual Property:

“We’re going to aggressively protect our intellectual property. Our single greatest asset is the innovation and the ingenuity and creativity of the American people…It is essential to our prosperity and it will only become more so in this century.”

While I know that his speech was in regards to Intellectual Property Rights, with such a bold declaration on the part of President Obama, it comes to my mind that part of protecting the innovation and creativity of the American people comes in offering them some protection from the government, as well.  Namely, protection in tax classification.

Why is there no separate governance for those involved in the creative arts, such as artistry, music, writing, and invention?  These are career fields which more often post high losses long before they post any significant income.  Among authors, the current statistic to post even moderate income (barring a fluke runaway success) is an average of about ten years.  For many, however, this is an optimistic figure at best, and they can go much longer before finally getting to the point where their writing turns more profit than they put out in expenses.

For artists, the window can be even longer.  For singers and musicians, it’s about the same “magic window.”  And inventors can literally spend hundreds of thousands of dollars in development of ideas that never actually make it onto the shelves, before they finally hit on something that is marketable.

Authors, artists, and musicians who aren’t already making big money are often responsible for between 75-100% of their total advertising costs.  They’re also responsible for the costs of any research required in the production of their art, the transportation costs of getting said art to whatever destination it may be showed at, or contracted, with not even a promise that it will indeed be shown or contracted.  They are responsible for all costs of getting their name/brand out to the businesses that might be interested in carrying or producing their works, and for all other expenses incurred in pre-contract/sale as well as many of the aspects of post-contract/sale.  They can rack up literally thousands of dollars in debt, all focused on the belief that their art will one day turn a profit, and all with the belief that they are, in fact, operating a business.  They’re certainly doing much more work than many people who operate “traditional” businesses put into their own businesses.

Yet, the IRS and government want to consign these overworked, often struggling souls, who work long hours at jobs they seldom enjoy, just to pay living expenses and the expenses of their true careers, and who put in even longer hours pounding paths over and over in the hope of getting that elusive contract, to the category of “hobbyist” if they can’t manage to turn a profit for three out of any five years.  They can’t be involved in a real business if they’re not turning a profit, according the government.

It is a mockery of the American Dream, of the ideal of being able to make something of yourself from nothing, to call people who are pouring so much of themselves into a dream they firmly believe to be a business venture, nothing more than tinkering hobbyists.  It cheapens the whole experience of being an American, and makes the ideals for which this country was supposedly founded fail the litmus test for creating successes from ashes.

My challenge to the government of the United States, its taxing agencies, and to each and every American citizen, is to combat this inequity.

To the people, it is time to stand up, and demand that the government re-examine and revise current tax laws, removing artists, artisans, inventors and published authors from the IRC 183 clause of tax law, making all arts and inventions that can be substantiated with evidence of business endeavors to be considered a “for-profit” business, no matter the length of time it takes them to actually turn a profit.

To the Lawmakers and the IRS, I issue this challenge: Support innovation, creativity, and ingenuity — the building blocks of our great nation.  Give artists, artisans, authors, and inventors protection under tax laws, so that they can continue to create, without the costly interruptions of such ridiculous clauses as IRC 183.  Having to deal with the audit processes and headaches involved in the current reading of this particular tax law stunts the flow of creativity, and could make the next great American author or artist give up long before they ever reach their potential.  I challenge you to remember that some of the greatest artists and inventors of all time were largely unknown and uncelebrated in their own lifetimes.  But had they been forced to give up their art due to ridiculous taxation laws that could so easily be amended, we might never have Van Goethe or Da Vinci to admire today, or had Beowulf or King Arthur to read about.

It’s time to stop minimalizing people who are fighting with their every breath for a dream that props up the foundation of the American Dream to which we all aspire.

An Author’s Thoughts on Piracy and Intellectual Property Theft

If there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that this post is probably going to get me all sorts of gripes from the “free information” minded people out there.  But it’s something I feel really needs said, because too many people don’t take the time, anymore, to think about the impact of what they’re doing, either on other people or, ultimately, on themselves.

Recently, I posted this Status Update on Facebook:

“I would like to ask the entire working populace of the world to work for free, for the next year.
No? You don’t want to do that? You have bills to pay and can’t afford to work for nothing?
Think about that the next time you download a pirated book… That book took time to research, time to write, time to design the cover, edit, and publish. When you pirate, you’re telling all those people they have to work for free, because YOU want something for nothing… the author, the editor, the publisher, the cover artist… And you’re stealing from their families, as well – time those people COULD have spent with children or spouses, or parents and siblings. Money they could use to pay for food, utilities, their home, maybe even necessary healthcare for an ailing loved one.
It’s NOT a victimless crime, and most people involved in the production of that book don’t even make enough to survive on, from its sales.”

The words are true, and I’d like to expand on them, here.

People who pirate books, music, etc and the people who download said pirated items, never stop to think of the impact.  They’re quick to declare what they’re doing “victimless” and “not a crime.”

Let me lay out some details and facts for you.

Yes, pirating intellectual property IS a crime.  Most of the world’s nations have some kind of laws that govern what is and is not considered protected material – but works of fiction that are still within the author’s lifetime+70 years are considered intellectual property, and protected, by most governments.  Same goes for music (although I’ll personally claim ignorance of the actual time duration, I know that it is AT LEAST the length of the artist’s natural life). In many cases, these laws equally cover things such as computer programs and games.  What does this mean?   It means that if you’re downloading a whole book or album from a website in which you have NOT made a ROYALTY-INCLUSIVE payment for the product, you CAN be fined or go to jail.  It means that I, as the author of a book, CAN press charges against you for theft if you sell, distribute, or acquire one of my books without either paying for the privilege in a way that means I receive my legally-protected royalty,  or through a means by which I, as the author, have given you a copy, personally.

And, lest you believe that your crime is “victimless”…

Most people who pirate work under the assumption that all authors, recording artists, etc make oodles and oodles of money, and “will never miss” the royalties said party is pirating.  Truth?

Wake up and smell the cyber-coffee.  You’re living in a delusion.

The VAST MAJORITY of authors and recording artists are struggling.  Maybe they work a day job, just to pay the bills, or maybe they’ve had to sacrifice the steady income in order to pursue their dreams.  In either case, most of them (myself included) are just scraping by.  We don’t have a NY Times Bestseller (I won’t even go into what goes into getting one of those) or a Billboard-topping single. Most barely make (if they make at all) their bills every month, and the expenses of doing what we love (writing, music, etc) more often than not outweigh the royalties we bring in.  We don’t have health insurance unless either (A) we happen to be lucky enough to have a day job that comes with benefits or (B) we purchase it ourselves.  We don’t get a retirement fund.  Most authors and musicians don’t stop until they die (and many are still in the midst of yet another project when they do).  We don’t get tax breaks, benefits, scholarships, grants, or any other benefit from what we do except the royalties we collect, and the love of the art.

Unlike most people, who leave work behind when they leave for the evening, writers, artists, and musicians are never “off the clock.”  We never stop working.  If we hold a normal job during the day, we often leave from that, go home, and start immediately working on our current project.  Our families and friends often suffer for our art as much as we do – they don’t get to spend the time with us, because we always have to be working on yet another project.  In this business, slowing down is the kiss of death for any hope of a career.  We miss out on a lot of events and holidays because we’re neck-deep in a deadline.

We spend literally hundreds of hours (up to 3 years, a piece) on each book/album/etc.  If you figured that out at just roughly $6/hour (which is below minimum wage in most places in the US, these days), the time alone that goes into just an author’s portion of a book (the research, writing, and doing edits required by the editor) can equal, at the absolute bottom (if by some miracle they managed to pull off a book-a-month, which I’ve personally yet to be able to figure out), roughly $1500 per month spent working on the book.  Most authors aren’t likely to even clear $500 in their first month of sales on a book.  And that’s just time spent.  It doesn’t include any research resources, travel expenses that might be incurred in research, or any marketing that has to be developed or done, pre-release.

Now, when you figure in the time the editor spends editing, and their pay scale (which, when you’re talking small press, is peanuts, really), the cover art, and the various publishing costs that go into producing even an e-book, then the $6 or so you might spend to purchase the book really isn’t anywhere NEAR the amount that’s gone into creating it.

So, say 500 people decide to download the book from a pirate site.  No money goes to the publisher… ergo, no money goes to the author, either.  Let’s take that 500 people, and multiply it by a cover price of $6.  That’s $3000… TWICE the monthly input of the author alone, and just in time alone, by our calculation above.  Still think it’s a victimless crime?  Or that the author won’t miss those royalties?

I’ve heard people try to claim that they “love” a certain author or his/her work.  Yet they will only download the books from pirate sites.  What you’re really doing is telling the author you think they’re not worth your time or money to support properly.  Ergo, you’re contributing to the author eventually not being able to write as many books, because they have to find some other way of supporting themselves and their families.

You wouldn’t walk into a grocery store and demand your groceries for free.  You wouldn’t walk into a department store and expect to get away with walking out with a cartload of items without paying for them.  Those are products someone spent the time and money to develop and present.  The same goes for books and music.  Not only do they take time and money to create, but they also require something that the items you buy in the  store DON’T require – they require the artist to put his/her heart and soul into the crafting.  How is it okay to steal that?

I can hear the people griping about how they can’t afford to spend money on books.

You have options other than stealing.

Visit your local library.  Not only does your patronage there assure the continuation of the library system, and the jobs of the people who work there, but libraries PAY for the books they lend out.  Everyone who should get a cut of the price of that book does, and yet you still get to read it for free. You just can’t KEEP it.

Frequent publisher boards and pages.  Often, larger publishers will have special “free read” deals, and smaller ones will run regular sales where you can find your favorite author’s books at steep discounts.  Both are handled legitimately.

Or, approach the author directly.  Most authors have websites, these days.  Many of them have e-mail addresses where you can contact them.  Write to an author whose work you really admire and want to read more of, and explain your situation.  Authors are people, too, and they know what it’s like to struggle.  Many times, they’ll be only too happy to send you a copy of their book in exchange for nothing more than a brief review or rating on places like Amazon or GoodReads after you’re finished.  And this way, you’re getting the book from the author directly, and it’s a GIFT.  The only thing with this process that I’ll add is, be respectful.  If an author sends you a free copy in exchange for a review or rating, GIVE the review or rating as promised, and do NOT give out or distribute the copy you receive to other people (doing so makes YOU a pirate).

Remember, if you’re downloading it for free, you’re probably not the only one.  And if that happens enough, it ends up hurting YOU, as well, because the authors will eventually just stop writing — wouldn’t you stop working, if you weren’t getting paid for it?

A Different Kind of Strong

When tragedy hits, everyone trips over themselves to be the strong one, to hold it together or pass on platitudes.  Since I’ve never been one for sugar-coating, I guess I’ll be the “weak ” one, because honestly, when someone I care about passes over, I don’t much care if I appear strong or stoic.  I learned a long time ago how much that sucks … So, here  it is:

Today, the loss really sinks in.  When I wrote last night, I was raw inside, but still coming to grips with the shock.  There was a kind of dull pain, a numbness, to how I felt then – like the vague pain of knowing you hurt, but not being quite sure where or how.

Today, I know the answer to those questions, and it’s like a knife drawn across my heart.  The numbness of disbelief is gone, ripped away like a veil that covered over everything – both the good memories, and the ugly truths.

What ugly truths?  The ones that stalk every feeling person when a loved one passes the veil.  Guilt, selfishness, regret, anger, and even sorrow.  All necessary to the process of healing, but all the uglier side of loss.  After all, it is the living who feel the loss most.  Those passed on remember only the love we feel for them.

I’ll admit to my guilt.  It’s a familiar guilt I’ve struggled with for nearly a decade – the guilt of not being there.  In my heart, I know there wasn’t much I could do, but I still feel I should have been able to do more.  I should have done whatever it took, to be there for Mary, to be there now for Renee, Gen, and Joe.

I know an overwhelming amount of guilt that I ever lost contact with Mary, and that it was for so long.  The time I missed out on being in contact is time I can’t get back, and I feel as if I robbed us both of that.  This loss makes me feel even more guilty and depressed by my virtual isolation from the people closest to my heart – my family in every sense of the word – these days.

And yes, some of my feelings are selfish.  I miss Mary.  I miss her razor-sharp wit, her biting humor.  If I close my eyes and listen real close, I can almost hear her voice – and that hint of self-effacing humor and touch of sarcasm that underscored our conversations.  The affectionate squabbling of siblings who, in many ways, were too much alike.

I miss her ready grin, laced with mischief, as if she was some demented elf in the midst of concocting her own brand of mayhem.

But, most of all, I miss her compassion, buried beneath all the layers of sarcasm and mischief. Mary was someone who loved life uninhibitedly, loved her family without reservation, and was always the kind of person, the kind of friend, the kind of sister, you were proud to call a part of your life.  More than anything else, I regret that I didn’t tell her that nearly often enough.

Believing what I do of life and death, it’s easier to bear the sadness.  I know, to the core of my soul, that Mary and I will meet again, someday.  And I would never be so selfish as to wish she had stayed – I would never wish her the pain and struggle she underwent in these past months.

So what DO I wish?

This is where I get angry, because I wish the scourge of cancer never came knocking.  For Mary, for her partner, for her children and grandchildren, I wish that the terrible beast of illness had stayed far from her door.  I wish we’d had more years of the good times – the laughter and the close contact of family.  I wish we’d stayed in contact more, and that I wasn’t so lousy about phone calls.  Most of all, I wish I could have done something to stop this whole situation.  Not knowing how, feeling helpless against the unfairness of it all, makes me want to punch walls or scream.

Going forward, I know I’ll heal. I’ll remember the good times, and the laughter, far longer than I’ll remember the pain of loss. But, for now, I only have regrets, wishes, anger, and the sorrow of knowing that, no matter how temporary the parting, my world is a dimmer place, today.

New Communication: In Defense of the Internet & Social Networking

I’ve heard all the talk about how Social Networking is the ruin of the world, just as, in the past, I heard all the fire-and-brimstone, end of the world talk about the internet and e-mail.

I’d just like to say that the Internet, and Social Networking, are a blessing to me, and I’m sure there are others who feel the same.

Why?

Well, I can’t speak for anyone else, but while everyone is lamenting how the Internet and Social Media have destroyed the concept of a “real” relationship and made everything superficial, without emotional investment, I have to say that they have done exactly the opposite for me, allowing me to better open up and express myself, to form real and lasting bonds and strengthen friendships and family ties that were falling apart all around me, before.

Seems odd, you say?  Not so much.  You see, while I’m not exactly a terrible conversationalist, and I can speak with some passion about subjects that inspire me, I can’t say I’m a great personal orator.  I have early experiences that block me, in face-to-face conversation and relationships, from opening up and really letting the person to whom I’m speaking inside my head and heart.  It’s not that I don’t feel things – it’s that I have difficulty trusting that other people won’t react badly to what I have to say.  I’ve become far too familiar with the verbal (and emotional) slap, and like a wounded animal, I tend to shy away from putting myself into that kind of position again.  I’d rather slink off and hide in the corner, sunk in misery, than to look someone in the eye and tell them what I feel – often, whether that feeling is good or bad doesn’t matter.  I have almost as much difficulty with the words “I love you” as I do with “you hurt me” or “I don’t like this.”  It’s not that I don’t feel love – it’s that verbally expressing said feelings is neigh unto impossible for me.  Instead, I give myself ulcers.

However, as I’m sure you’ve noted, by now, I am quite emotionally expressive and a verbose communicator in written language.  This predates the Internet, by the way.

You see, I learned very young that the only outlet I had for getting out my feelings – whether those of pain and fear, or those of love – was to write it out.  I was an avid journal keeper as a child (however, I destroyed many of the pages I wrote practically as soon as I wrote them, just to make sure no one else found them), and I’ve always poured my heart into the written word.  It’s the one place I felt I could freely express what I thought and how I felt, because it didn’t matter if the person reading accepted it or not.  I didn’t have to deal with their ridicule or rejection – whether real or imagined.

However, in the days prior to the Internet, though I wrote literally hundreds of letters, I never really mailed any of them.  I would second-guess myself, talk myself out of it, and I didn’t want to have to explain to anyone why I needed a stamp.

The advent of the Internet provided me with not only the push I needed to get published as a fiction author, but also the means to start expressing myself.  It was a slow process, because I was technologically handicapped by an initial inability to navigate myself around, and also by a general sense of impatience that wasn’t up to the task of very old dial-up speeds (sitting around watching e-mail download or pages upload wasn’t my cup of tea, even when that was considered “fast.”)

By the time I discovered Social Media, I was already starting to come out of my shell.  The Internet had sufficient speed to allow me to communicate more effectively, and I could hold meaningful conversations, reveal bits of my inner feelings, so much more smoothly than ever before.

 

Social Media allows me the chance to not only stay in contact with my family and close friends, but it also allows me to express myself – my thoughts and feelings – in ways I’m just incapable of over the phone or in person.

Many people who have known or know me in person likely see me as one of two things – either a bitter, angry person who does nothing but complain, or a silly goof who takes nothing seriously and annoys people through her jokes and silliness.

Neither of these two facets are even close to the real me.  They’re shields – devices that I use to keep people from seeing inside me, from knowing how fragile I can really be, how vulnerable I make myself to other people, on the inside.  They keep people from guessing how much I care, and how deeply a careless or hurtful word really cuts.  Those over-the-top personalities are a curtain dropped between me and the rest of the world.  A curtain I pull especially tight against those I love – against my family and friends.

Why?  Because the people I love most have the most power to hurt me.  The people I care about the deepest have the ability to destroy a part of me with their rejections, coldness, or anger at me.  I don’t state this as anything more than simple fact.  Yes, I know I give away that power myself – but it’s something that I have little control over.  No one realizes how very much I care about those I love.

I can say it here.  I can tell the entire world that, for someone I love, someone I care about, I can and will literally lay down my life, if that’s the choice left me.  I would much rather die than ever have to face life without someone I love.  I know.  I’ve been there, and a part of me is still reeling, today, from the pain of not being able to stop the terrible whim of Fate, that day.

I can say it here.  I can tell you all that a single word of revilement, disgust, or rejection from someone I care about slices clear to my heart, and I bleed inwardly over it for decades – perhaps even a lifetime – to come.

But what I can’t do is tell anyone, face-to-face, how much I care.  I can’t tell them when I’m hurting or why.  I can’t reveal my most secret pains and fears to them.  Not if it requires me opening my mouth and having to let actual words come out.  In those situations, my brain freezes, my lips go numb, and my mind starts whirling with the beginnings of the “gonna hate me for this” or “gonna feel sorry for me” or “they don’t care how I feel,” etc, etc, etc.

So, while you may curse the destruction the Internet and Social Media have cast over the concept of meaningful communication and “real” relationships, I’ll be rejoicing in the freedom I’ve found.  The freedom to tell people “I love you,” or to let them know exactly how I feel.

Out of the Dark: It’s Not Easy

I’m sure, by now, that many of you are wondering why I would expose my deepest pains and darkest nightmares in such a public way.

It’s not easy.

It’s not easy to have to remember those nightmares, or to feel that pain.  But, even more, it’s not easy being an adult, and reflecting on my early childhood with the knowledge I have today about rape and rapists.  At the time, I felt dirty and bad, ugly and horrible.  I truly believed it was my fault, that I had done something wrong.

Today, I know that there’s no such thing as a one-time rapist.  Rape is about power and control, about inflicting pain.  I know I wasn’t to blame for what happened to me.  It took someone loving me, without condition or reservation, for me to understand that.  But I still can’t help thinking about all the other little girls that boy who raped me might have already raped by that time, or might have gone on to rape, afterward.  How many girls like me might I have spared that pain, shame, and misery if I had been stronger, less frightened, or felt more sure of my family’s love and support.

I never knew his name, or anything about him, so I can’t even be sure he’s ever been caught, ever been held accountable for any of the crimes I either know he’s committed, or am pretty sure he’s since committed.  That’s a fear I have to live with every day of my life — that someday, I might come face-to-face with him.  Maybe I’d recognize him, or maybe he’s changed so much I wouldn’t even know him to see him.  The idea, quite frankly, makes me want to vomit, every time it crosses my mind.

I’ve devoted a substantial part of my life, both as a writer and a counselor, to helping other victims of abuse.  And not just girls.  There are a large number of boys who are also victims of rape.  Unfortunately, our society makes it even more difficult for them to come forward than girls, because of a misguided belief that males cannot be victims of sexual crimes.

So, while revealing the past I’ve kept so closely guarded all these years isn’t easy, I do believe it to be necessary.  At the very least, it will help you, as a reader of my work, to understand what drives and fuels my darker brand of Romance.  But it is my fervent hope that relating my experiences does more than that — that it inspires you to reach out and help someone who may be suffering as I have suffered for all these years.  If my words move you to become that listening ear, that non-judgmental, loving compassion that shows a victim they are beautiful, clean, and worthy of love, then every word I’ve labored over in order to express the experiences that still plague my nightmares, still visit my daily life with fear, are worthwhile.

Out of the Dark: Glimpses of My Life, Part 2

A lot of people hear the term “Romance” applied to my books and automatically assume that I write feel-good stories about white-bread people who’ve never even had a passing acquaintance with trouble (or, at very least, who have never done anything that could be construed as deadly, extremely dangerous, or even downright illegal).  Those people would be wrong.

One of my most critically-acclaimed and most-loved series is my SF nod to both Military Fiction and Romance, Underground.  It deals with the hard realities of living in a post-global-war world, still teetering on the edge of another war.  And a lot of the characters, and some of the events, are loosely (and not so loosely, in some cases) based on real people I’ve known, real events I’ve experienced or witnessed.

The childhood terror I revealed in my last segment?  Yeah, it’s there.  Slightly modified, it shows up in the past of the main character, Tamia.  She is my mirror, my foil, sometimes an expression of my turbulent emotions as a child and teenager, and sometimes the focus of conveyance for events that either did happen, or could have been.

It should come as a surprise to no one, then, that I first began working on Underground at the age of twelve.  Incidentally, this was around the same time that my life both spiraled out of control, and began to finally find focus.

Confused? Yeah, I figured as much.  I’ll try to explain, but you’ll have to bear with me through some taboo discussion topics, for a moment.

While I’m not going to talk about it, here (that’s a subject for all its own post, if I decide to get into it), it’s important to note that when I was ten, and just before the events I’m about to discuss started happening, I witnessed a horrible accident and its aftermath that would leave me forever scarred.  But, as I said, that’s a subject for a post all its own.

When I began to hit puberty, at around eleven, I was still struggling daily with the shame, fear, and self-loathing of what happened when I was six.  Puberty isn’t a good time, emotionally, for any kid.  For me, it carried a double-whammy I knew nothing about, and never saw coming.

I began having headaches.  Massive, paralyzing headaches, accompanied by wretched abdominal pain.  Most times, I couldn’t even move, fought to breathe, and yet tried to downplay or hide my symptoms as best I could.  I didn’t know what they were, and I was scared.  Still, I began missing school, which eventually only increased the number of times I had the pain, as I fought to make up homework, classes, etc.  I had blackouts (not memory ones… I remember every moment leading up to and directly after the blackouts) — I ended up in the ER several times, and each time, they hooked me up to an IV of glucose, and monitored me, and I bounced back within several hours, so they’d label it “dehydration” and send me home.

But no one had an explanation for the headaches, or the spiraling depression I was suffering (the latter,  no one knew about mostly because I kept it to myself.  I already felt helpless — I didn’t want to be branded “crazy” as well).  Twice, I ended up in the ER because I attempted to kill myself — only, no one knew, because I never made a peep about what I’d taken.  I wanted to die — why would I help them make me live?  Things happened that I can’t explain here, but I will say that those events both saved my life and changed it.

Then, one day, I met a girl whose philosophy about life would forever change my own.  She already knew she was dying.  She had a blood clotting disorder that was killing her, and she knew she wouldn’t even make it until she graduated high school.  Her life had an expiration date.  And she gave me the best advice anyone has ever given me.  “Life is something grand and too brief already. Throwing it away cheats everyone who wants to live and can’t.”

We became fast friends — me, her, and her brother, who was her legal guardian since their parents died a few years before .  She was the sister that, until that point, I’d never had.  And he was my best friend, and my confidant. I won’t divulge their names here, because they were important enough to me that, even though I’m sure it no longer matters, I will protect their memories with my life.

When I was fourteen, my soul-sister died.  She was just six months older than I, and I mourned her passing with wretched grief that I kept locked away from the rest of the world.  I was convinced that the rest of the world would not allow me that grief — after all, I believed that they hadn’t allowed me my own pain, when I was a child, and I felt abandoned.

But I retreated inside, became quiet and withdrawn.  The only people to whom I would open my heart and soul were the “guys” — a group of friends who stood by me and supported me through everything (and for those who would otherwise make disparraging commentary, NO, they were NOT all men. I just call them “guys” here because I’m not going to make my friends’ lives difficult because of small-minded individuals who might otherwise do them harm) – and my best friend in the world, who was also the first man I ever loved, and the only man to whom I ever gave my whole heart, without reservation.

I know some of you will snarl and find it disgusting that over 10 years separated us in ages, and I was just fourteen at the time.  I really don’t care what you think.  We intended to spend the rest of our lives together, and there was nothing sordid or perverse about our love.  Remember, in many ways, I had never been a child.  I was well-ahead of my peers, emotionally and mentally.  Many people mistook me for much older than I was, physically.  I didn’t even LOOK like a child.  And he gave me a joy and love I haven’t felt since.  He showed me all the respect and tenderness I never felt worthy of before, and made me feel beautiful and beloved at a time in my life when it seemed the rest of the world had nothing but hateful things to say.

Sadly, it wasn’t to last.  Though we were making plans for the future — a time when I would be old enough for us to finally no longer have to hide how we felt for each other — we had no idea what was coming.  A freak accident took him away from me.  I stood on the tarmac and watched the plane he was flying go down in flames, and a large part of me died, that day.

I can’t even describe how it felt.  Every time I try, the numbness just sets in, and I can’t feel, all over again.  I wasn’t allowed to grieve him, not anywhere but in the dark of night, and in the confines of my heart.  Only at night could I cry, my tears muffled by my pillow.  And the stress of that loss, the agony of living like that, sent my health spiraling downhill.  That was something my family couldn’t help but notice.  They took me to doctors, looking for answers that never came.

And, for the second time in my life, I wanted to die.  But something stopped me.  The words of my soul-sister, and the knowledge that ending my own life was something neither she nor the man I loved would EVER want for me.  So, I decided to live — for them. But a part of my heart closed off, and I knew that loving the way I loved him would never happen again.  Not in this lifetime.

That’s not to say I haven’t dated, or loved anyone, since.  In 2004, I got married for the first time.  I love my husband, in my own way, and he knows the story of my first love, and that there are just some parts of my heart he can never have.  I’ve never kept that from him.

So, yes, I know what Romance is.  It’s loving someone so much you hurt inside, but take peace from knowing that, in some ways, they’ll never leave you completely.  It’s having the courage to love again, even if it’s not in the same way.  It’s not about Happily Ever After — it’s about “I love you” meaning more than a fairytale.  It’s about that love giving you the strength to go on, even when life seems impossible to bear.

Out of the Dark: Glimpses from My Life, Part 1

I promised everyone that I would let you take a peek inside my head, to help you better understand what and how I write.  I always keep my promises, one way or another, so here goes:

The faceless “they” of publishing wisdom always advise a writer to write what he or she knows.  I often wonder if “they” know what they’re asking for.

I write gritty, dark Romance that often skirts the very edge of denying the traditional “Happily Ever After” ending.  I write characters with real flaws – nobility tarnished by deeds not so very far in the past, nightmares that still follow, and destinies riddled with the very things they most fear or despise.

Why?  Because life is NOT a fairytale – at least, not the watered-down, roses-and-songbook variety of today.  Life is an old-fashioned, Grimm fairytale, drenched in blood, tears, and darkness, through which a sliver of light shines, if you know where to look for it.

That’s not to say that I don’t dream of happiness, or that I don’t believe in true love.  I happen to believe in both, and I’ve been called a Pollyanna, before, for insisting on looking at the bad parts of life as a learning experience.  But I’m also realistic enough to know that turning life into a Valentine’s Day greeting card fantasy isn’t likely to inspire much hope – it only highlights how destitute one’s life looks, in comparison.

I know my writing, and my viewpoint, isn’t for everyone.  I tend to deal with material and circumstances that turn conventional Romance, and even fiction, on its ear.  I’m sure some people have found my work shocking, disturbing, and even offensive (and I have the reviews to prove it).  I make no apology for what I write.  I’m doing exactly as the publishing axiom says – I’m writing what I know.

Bits and pieces of my life and experiences show up in my books.  In the characters, the locations, the plots.

One of my most common themes is trauma.  This isn’t a capricious or accidental move on my part.  I’ve seen enough personal trauma to fill a dozen lifetimes, and I tend to mete a portion of that trauma out to my character, especially.

I’ve learned the hard way that life and love aren’t the stereotypical hearts-and-flowers romance.  I’ve learned that sex isn’t always precipitated by love or desire — sometimes, it’s a power play.  Sometimes, it’s an armored tank that leaves you flattened and bleeding in the middle of life’s road.

Which makes the perfect segue into giving you a peek into my past.  I will warn you, what follows is as shocking and terrible as it is true… And it’s a trauma I live with every day of my life, and will continue to struggle with until the day I die.  Contrary to popular opinion and urban myth, there is no 100% recovery — because there’s always that wary little part of your soul that keeps waiting for disaster to strike.  Most of the contents of the following, I have only recently finally revealed to my own parents – I hid it all so well that even those closest to me wouldn’t suspect.  Nor did anyone suspect just how badly the false face I wore ate at me.  But my path in life does not allow me to hide from myself or others, and part of facing my past, for myself, is in relating my story to others in bare terms, no longer covered by the thin veneer allowed for so long by my writing career.

I’m sure most people live an idyllic childhood.  I’ve heard enough stories to be jealous of those people who remember childhood fondly.  I have a very few of those memories.  Most of the “happiness” in my childhood is false.  It was a veil I dropped over the terror and shame I felt.

That’s not to say it didn’t start out relatively normal.  There were a few bumps, but those remain highly private, as I don’t seek to harm the person who inflicted them – in any event, those would have been bearable, compared to what came later.

The horror descended into my life at the tender age of six.

To say I was entirely ignorant of the mechanics of sex, even at that age, would be a lie.  Thanks to an accidental exposure to a particularly racy adult film, I had an academic knowledge of sex starting at the age of 4.  However, my childish mind equated all sexual acts with love and romance.  I truly believed in it.

That all came crashing down after I turned six.

My elementary school, at the time, had mandatory swimming lessons at the base pool.  Two days a week, we were bussed over to the pool, where we learned to float, swim, etc.  Sounds like a great time, right?

Not for me.

Now, I’ve never been overly fond of the water.  It’s part of my nature, a kind of back-of-my-mind fear.  At least, it always was before.

I remember it being a sunny, warm day in September.  School had just started for the year, and I was excited about first grade.  When I learned we’d have a short set of trips to the pool for swimming lessons, that Fall, and then a longer stretch of them in the late Spring, I was naturally a little anxious.  But not so much as to keep me from attempting my best to learn a new skill, and maybe conquer my minor trepidation.

To this day, I wonder if some of those early misgivings were a warning I failed to heed.

Our final day of swim lessons for the Fall, I wasn’t feeling well.  Given that I was never a strong swimmer, the swim teacher decided it would be better if I lay down somewhere quiet, rather than get back in the pool.  She had some high school kids there, helping (I’m guess, now that I’m older, that they were on work study), so she instructed one of them to take me back to the pool’s office area, where it was quiet and dim, so I could lay down.

Did I mention that I was a trusting child?

I did as I was told, followed the guy back to the offices.  I still remember the smell of chlorine and dust, mixed together – it hung in the air, there.  To this day, the smell of chlorine makes me ill.  Because that day is forever etched in my nightmares, and began a long, terrible battle with PTSD.

I remember how quiet it was.  You couldn’t hear a sound from the pool area.  The office was dark, smelled of stale air and pool water.  The couch was hard, the material abrasive.  I didn’t want to lay down on it.  He didn’t give me a choice.  He pushed me down, held me there, and did things to me that still make me nauseous to think about, all these years later.  That day was my first introduction to real evil — I can still see the cold, soulless look in his eyes, smell the scent of chlorine on his skin and the feel of his hand over my mouth when I started to scream.  When he finished, he threatened me with terrible things, told me what a terrible little girl I was, and that if I told anyone, he would find me and hurt me more.

I was six years old, and my innocent belief in fairytales came crashing down.  I learned the ugly truth that sex isn’t always about love.  Sometimes, it’s about power.  Sometimes, it’s about pain, and fear.

I’ve spent a lifetime with that secret locked in my head.  Tried not to gag, or scream, or give away any emotion whatsoever, when confronted with water – particularly swimming pools.  I just scrunched up my courage, and forced myself into the water, when I couldn’t avoid it.

That afternoon in Hell was only one among many I would eventually face, but it scarred me for life, and for years afterward, I thought I was bad, I was shameful.  I hated myself, and believed no one could ever love me.  I was tainted.

I’ll leave off there, for now… I’m emotionally drained just from that, and I don’t think I can bear to share any more, at the moment.

Do I believe I am the only one who’s ever suffered this way?  Far from it.  There are people who suffer far worse every day of their lives.  These are the people I write for – to show them there is hope.  That you don’t have to live an idyllic, or even a “good” life to find love or peace (and yes, in spite of everything, I do believe in both – but that’s a story for another day).  It can find you in even the most destitute and imperfect of situations.

You don’t need a white knight to rescue you — you only need faith in yourself.  With a little faith, and a sliver of hope, you can find love even after the most terrible of tragedies or abuses.

The Last Straw: Aspen Mountain Press with No Remorse

Before I begin, let me apologize for the length of this post, and some of the tone… I’m very frustrated, annoyed, whatever synonym you choose to use, and I’m addressing specific comments made recently in regards to requests made by a fellow AMP author for information.

“(Author- name excluded for privacy reasons) Do you intend returning answering queries, letters etc? What
is the time span involved so we know when to expect an answer from you?

(Publisher) In all fairness, I can’t tell you what sort of time frame to expect an answer in, except to say that I am working on them. It takes time to respond to THREATS such as the one Wells made and take care of other business matters AND
attend to my health needs and the work that must be done in raising my son alone.”

I’m sorry, but this is unacceptable.  Aspen Mountain Press’ contract specifically states a time limit on how long a breaching party
has to cure (correct) the breach, when informed.  Aspen Mountain Press’ publisher has had well over that allotted time to cure the breaches in contracts that she’s instigated.  Furthermore, the contract specifically states, in the case of expiring/expired contracts, that it requires a request by certified mail of either the Publisher or the Author, and signed and agreed to by the other party within a very specific window of time around the expiration, in order for the contract to continue.

Those are VERY specific time limits on communication, and what they require.  Since my contracts began expiring in June of
2010, I have received NO certified mail from Aspen Mountain Press (referred to herein as AMP), let alone any kind of offer to extend my contracts.  And, as I never sent AMP a request to extend my contracts, either, that specific time period has WELL elapsed. The beginning of August, this year, I informed the owner of AMP of what I believed at the time to be a grievous oversight, and what is, legally, a Copyright violation, and requested she remove my books from sale, as I no longer wished them to be
published by Aspen Mountain Press.  She ignored my certified letter (it came back unclaimed), and also the corresponding e-mails.  It is now mid-October.  In a little over 3 weeks, the period to cure (correct) the breaches she has committed against me will
ALSO have elapsed.

No, I am sorry, Madam Publisher, but you DO have an obligation to respond in a timely manner.  You are running a business, and
your personal issues have no place in your business dealings.  You have an obligation to hold up your end of the contracts you entered into with your authors, and to correct the errors (and yes, you HAVE made some rather large ones) you’ve made in regards to your business.

As to the threats you claim to have received: helpful warnings of legal action in regards to your lack of willingness to properly run your business are NOT threats.  Charles Wells was spot-on when he warned you that failure to redress the issues you’ve created will end in a sticky legal situation for you.  I’m not threatening — I’m stating fact, as I’ve already personally begun to set the wheels in motion regarding this, since you are violating my legally protected Copyrights, at this moment, by continuing to sell IN HER NAME and HOPE OF HEAVEN without a valid contract.  In less than a month, you will also be in violation of my Copyright for SHADOW WALKER, but I see no further point in waiting to address this issue. I’ve allowed you to get away with this illegal activity far too long, already.

“(Author) Can you please explain why you intend holding on to authors that have lost faith in AMP?

(Publisher) Losing faith in a company does not void a contract. Any business matters are between the author and AMP. If the author wishes to make those matters public, they will. I won’t violate their privacy in that way. It is their own decision.”

Actually, it can.  Many independent contractors will revoke contracts with companies that prove themselves to be performing
illegal actions or engaged in illegal operations, in order to keep their own businesses from being linked to any negative press.  Also, if you look at the stock market and customer contracts dropped after the recent Netflix fiascos, you’ll see quite plainly that losing faith in a company is the PRIMARY reason a contractor, customer, or other business ceases to do business with a particular
company.  AMP’s contract specifically states that if a breaching party fails, within a set amount of time, to cure
the breach, the contract automatically terminates.  Pretty clear to me.  The Publisher has been informed, in writing,
as proscribed by the contract, of a list of breaches to said contract (in my case, two books are being sold WITHOUT a contract) by numerous authors.  As her time period for these notifications expire, one after another, with no redress in sight, these contracts actually void themselves, leaving Aspen Mountain Press in the unenviable position of selling a slew of books that violate Copyright law.

” (Author)Do you intend paying royalies AND supplying sales statements in toto as per the contract? When can those owed money expect to be paid?

(Publisher) Yes, I will be paying royalties and statements, but as of the moment they are on the back burner as I deal with all the other threats to the company, and the requests to relinquish contracts.”

Again, entirely unacceptable.  I, too, run a sole-proprietorship business.  If I fail to pay my vendors, they would send me to collections.  AMP’s contract states a specific window of time in which royalties MUST be paid.  Failure to do so is a breach of contract.  One cannot just put paying one’s vendors (which an author is, in the case that they have entered into an agreement to
provide a book for the publisher to sell, in return for a percentage of the profits of said sale) “on the back burner.”  This is poor business practice, at very least, and skates the line of criminal fraud.

Personally, I don’t really care about my royalties.  If I did, I would be pursuing all of the money owed me for the sales of
my out-of-contract works over the last year (since the contracts expired, it is my understanding that ALL monies collected on these works belong to me, as the Publisher has no viable contract to sell or collect money on them.  If there’s an attorney out there with
evidence otherwise, please… I’m interested to hear your thoughts).  But I’m not worried about the money.  What I want are my out-of-contract works removed from sale, ASAP, and the one book that’s nearly reached expiration released from the small remainder of its contract and also removed from sale.  I want the Publisher to apologize, in writing, to me, for having sold my books without a valid contract for a year.  I want her to admit her culpability in this matter, because her constant denial that she’s done
anything wrong is not healthy for her, and is insulting to me and all the other authors she’s harmed.

“(Publisher)Having been an author, I know the return of my intellectual property is more important than anything else.”

You’ll all have to pardon my profanity, here, because this comment literally makes steam come out of my ears.  This statement is a
crock of shit.  If Intellectual Property rights meant ANYTHING to AMP’s owner, she would have seen to it that expired
contracts were taken care of ASAP.  At very least, as soon as she was informed of the violation, she would have immediately responded by following directions and removing the books in question from sale.

Since the beginning of October, AMP’s site has been down (until just the other day) for some supposed technical issues (I’m not a techie… I’m not going to dispute that one, though I admit to some personal skepticism).  How difficult would it have been, now that she’s been informed in both postal, e-mail, AND through the Publisher’s forum, of the continued violation of Copyright law, for her to remove those books being illegally sold BEFORE bringing the site back online?  My gut says not hard at all.  However, the site is back up, and… yep, you guessed it.  My two expired books are STILL for sale on the site.

“(Publisher) That said, I would seriously consider how much attorney fees cost and weigh them against what I believe I’m owed.”

I’m owed my legal rights to my books, to take them wherever I please.  This Publisher, as an author, knows how actively I was  involved in pursuing authors’ rights (including my own) back when Triskelion Publishing folded.  We were fighting the bankruptcy court, then, and I refused to back down.  Even if everyone else had backed out, I would have continued to fight, because my rights  are THE most important thing to me.  I don’t care HOW much it costs me to pursue this.  I am owed the decency of being treated with professional courtesy, honesty, and dignity.  I am owed the decency of being listened to when I address a legal issue that should have been resolved a year ago.  I am owed so much more than money.  In my mind, this statement outlines nothing
more than the Publisher’s greed.  I do NOT respond well to being threatened like this, when I know that I am legally
in the right.  All it does is make me dig my heels in further, and fight harder, for what I know to be right.

The United States of America told me that I own these works I created with my own hands, when I registered
my Copyrights.  I entered into an agreement to allow Aspen Mountain Press the right to publish and promote them,
for a period of time.  That time has elapsed.  According to the laws of the United States of America, that makes ME the SOLE owner of those rights, again.  And that makes any attempt to sell,  distribute, or otherwise promote them without my express, written permission, illegal.

That’s my stand, and I’ll take it in the witness box, if I have to.  I don’t care what it costs me, so quit trying to intimidate me — I learned as a child that a bully can only hurt me if I LET them.  And I’m not about to let this happen.

See you in court.

PS — All reprinted comments here come from a loop recently deemed “not for meetings” by the Publisher ( sic “I’d
like to tell the members here that this is not a business MEETING loop. I’ve posted a few announcements in the past, and participated in some general chat, but I don’t use this for meeting purposes.”), and therefore, by extension, taken by me to imply that the loop in question is merely for chatter, and therefore basically public (it’s hosted by Yahoo, with no specific privacy expectations  attached).

Aspen Mountain Press Problems Update

Time for updates. Please pardon the style of these, but I’m trying to remain as factual as  possible, and not inject too much of the overwrought emotions I feel into this.  The situation is already emotionally volatile enough.

Here are my updates on the Aspen Mountain Press situation:

On September 21, 2011, the first certified letter I sent, back this past summer, was returned to me, unopened and unclaimed.  In this letter, I had expressed my wish to move on with my work, the expiration of my contracts, and extended an offer of payment to take my covers with me.  The publisher’s failure to respond to either this letter or the e-mail copy sent to her indicates that she is NOT holding to her contractual obligation to answer all communications in a timely manner.  (The letter and e-mail were originally sent the beginning of August).

Due to this failure, on September 26th I sent Aspen Mountain Press’ publisher a second certified letter, this time DEMANDING the removal of expired books from sale and revoking the publisher’s right to continue publication of the third book in the series, under breach of contract and ethics/legal violations.

At the same time, I also drafted and sent a letter to Lawyers for the Arts, in Denver, to see what help they might be able to offer me in this matter.

I have sent an e-mail to the Intellectual Property Enforcement Coordinator, at the White House, as well, and drafted letters for the Colorado Better Business Bureau and the FBI’s Cyber Crimes Division (should I need it).

On September 27^th, I sent an e-mail to the Denver Post, outlining what was happening in facts, and offering them the chance to investigate and write up the story, as well.

Since the post to the publisher’s in-house board I mentioned in my first blog  post on this subject (her post being Sept. 22, 2011), there has been no further real communication from the publisher, and she appears to be ignoring e-mails and letters alike, again.  Still no royalties being paid out.  Still no new book releases.  Still no attempts to remove expired books from sale, or to revert rights first requested and then demanded from authors unwilling to face this uncertain and mercurial atmosphere, any longer.

As I mentioned in my ultimatum to the publisher, posted on my Facebook page (to which she has access as a “friend” still), if the basics of business ethics and publishing standards were not met (ie, honoring contracts, taking down books on which contracts are expired, etc), her chances to rectify the situation without public outcry were destroyed.  I don’t like to be a harda**, and there’s nothing I dislike more than having to take grievances that could have been kept private public – but if one party is unwilling to do the right (read legal) thing, I have to step up.  Not just for myself, but for all the other authors who are, as yet, unable to find their voice.

So, from this point forward, I ask all readers of this blog: Please do NOT buy any books published by Aspen Mountain Press, until you hear that a resolution has been reached.  The authors are NOT getting paid for the books you purchase, and in many cases, the sales are illegal to begin with.

Again… PLEASE DO NOT BUY BOOKS PUBLISHED BY ASPEN MOUNTAIN PRESS UNTIL YOU HEAR FROM ME THAT ISSUES HAVE BEEN RESOLVED.  As soon as I know that royalties have been made good on, contracts have been properly honored, and books have been released from this publisher’s stranglehold, buying a book from this publisher is disrespectful to the author(s) you claim to love.