Demoralizing Creativity: Artistic Careers and Popular Misconception

ZappaFound this on Facebook (I assume it’s correct, but I haven’t verified… I just agree with the sentiment, wherever it came from)

And, by the way, it’s not a “hobby”… I don’t mind giving away free books – to people who are actually going to review them. I don’t mind sharing my work, with people who actually want to read it. But this isn’t a hobby, it’s not a “cute little pastime,” or any of a thousand other insulting little turns of phrase you might come up with. Writing is my career. It was my very first occupation (even before I learned to actually write the alphabet), and it’s always been my goal to write full-time. Having to work another job in order to pay bills is a frustration I have to put up with, but that other job is the “moonlighting” one… that is the secondary job, whatever it happens to be, at the time.

So every time you think you’re not hurting anyone by downloading a pirated book, every time you think it’s “okay” to demand free access/free copies of books that no one has paid for (I’m not talking about borrowing from the library – libraries buy their books, to lend), think about this – if you went into work tomorrow, and your boss said “By the way, you’ll be working for free from now on. We’ve decided it’s okay not to pay you, because we decided it doesn’t hurt anyone if we don’t.” how long would you keep working there?
So why do you expect an author to work for free?
Writing is a career – so be a responsible human being: Buy a book if you want to read it (whether hard copy or e-book), and if you get a free copy from an author, realize that it’s not a right — they’re doing you a favor, and return the favor by spreading the word – tell your friends, post a review, comment about it on social media. If you want to call yourself a “fan” then show it by acting like one – your support tells the author you give a damn, and inspires them to keep writing. Stealing from us just tells us you don’t respect us or care about the work we do, and takes away our desire to keep writing.

Human Condition: Writing Strong Characters

The one question I get asked consistently that still baffles me when I get asked it is “Why do you write strong female characters?”

*blinks* I don’t.

I write human characters. I write women and men (equally) who have faced or are facing their most difficult battles. Men and women with scars that run deep enough to make them wary of life, and people. Men and women who have made mistakes they would give anything to undo, been the victims (and then survivors) of horrors and crimes that test the human spirit and one’s ability to survive.

I don’t see the distinction between a “male” and “female” role – human beings, as a species, can be heroic, courageous, strong, and compassionate in equal measure. They can also be petty, vengeful, self-absorbed, and all things villains are made of.

I write heroes and heroines that aren’t just cardboard tropes, because “perfect” people don’t exist, and they’re impossible to live up to. The hero who always does the right thing isn’t just boring, he’s impossibly difficult to aspire to be. As humans, we all stumble, we all fail, at some point. Sometimes it’s the little things, and sometimes it’s big ones. It’s not about the stumble, or the fall. It’s about how we pick ourselves back up afterward, how we set about making things right, and how we learn from our experience. My heroes quite often face monumental mistakes or self-created demons — they suffer regrets, and they have very real fears. They understand human nature, and they’re neither afraid of, nor threatened by, the strength of their female counterparts. While they often have strong protective instincts, they’re also highly aware of their female counterpart’s ability to take care of herself – sometimes, they’re even awed by it. :)

Likewise, my heroines aren’t all pristine little virgins who are all sweetness and light. Many of them have equally dark (and sometimes darker) pasts as their counterpart heroes. They come from histories of abuse (either externally- or self-inflicted or, in some cases, both), they’ve made mistakes, and they’ve struggled for everything they get in life. These heroines are kick-ass not because they’re inexplicably tough, but because they’ve had to become tough. Their struggles have taught them what to hang on to, and what to let go of. Who to trust, and when to pull the trigger. They don’t quake in the face of demons, because they’ve already looked into their own darkness, and come out the other side, stronger. They use their own demons to fight the world’s demons, and they’re not afraid to stand side-by-side, or toe-to-toe, with their male counterparts.

I write these kinds of characters because they give each and every one of us hope. They let us see that there’s no pit too deep to crawl out of, no issue too insurmountable to claw our way out of. I write these kinds of characters to remind myself and my readers that the human spirit is indomitable, that we can survive anything. I write these kinds of characters to show people it’s okay to be strong, that there’s no reason to be afraid of strength, in either ourselves or in others, as long as we remember that strength is not about power. My characters are there to remind us of the difference – that strength is about abandoning the quest for power, about making ourselves vulnerable. Vulnerable to each other, and vulnerable to our own demons, our own past, our own selves. My characters teach people to strip away the outer shell of “everything’s just fine” lies we show the world at large, and take a deep, long look into our insecurities, pains, and personal failures.

And that, dear readers, is why I don’t write just strong female characters. I write strong human characters.

Legends of Tirum

Legends of Tirum

Underground

Underground

“Face-off” Excerpt from HERO’S HOPE (Underground)

Heros HopeThere’re two people who, up until now, have been background characters to Underground. They’ve had a few moments here and there, but I’ve never really given them the spotlight and let them run with it. In Hero’s Hope, these two characters get to become instrumental to what’s going on around them, particularly where it comes to Rick and Tamia’s relationship, and where the investigation is going from here — those characters are Matt “Watchdog” Clipper and Jenifer “Cat” LaSaulle.

Why did I decide to give these two characters such a front-and-center role in what is still, at its core, Rick and Tamia’s story? Quite simply, because they both have some pretty intense backgrounds and stories of their own to tell, and their relationship has almost as much importance to the outcome of the entire Evolution as Rick and Tamia’s does.

Let me share a sample with you… Say “hello” to Watchdog.

 

“Face-off” – Excerpt from HERO’S HOPE (Underground, Book 4) –

 

“Hey, dude, chill out.” Matt Clipper raised his hands in a non-threatening gesture as he backed away from J.T. Romanski. Inside, his heart thundered with adrenaline, and he swore an internal blue streak. Damn it, he knew last week’s little chat with Blade didn’t go unnoticed. J.T.’s soldiers just took their time reporting him. “It’s cool, man. We cool.”

              “You hopped if you think we square,” J.T. snarled. His thumb disarmed the Heater’s safety, and his finger shook on the trigger, and not with fear. Matt watched the infamous leader of the Westsiders’ notorious Ghost Squad kill three cops in cold blood, just a few weeks ago. J.T. pumped iron, and he was famed in the underworld for his temper. Roid Rage, they called it back in the Twentieth. Only, steroids were small potatoes, now. “You sold us out to your military bitch.”

              Matt stiffened instinctively, but forced himself to relax. He had to remember he had a choice, unlike these punks. All he had to do was say the word and Blade would pull him. That reminder curled a cocky, devil-may-care grin on his lips. “She ain’t my bitch, dude. She a ‘Frisco Panther.”

              J.T.’s dark eyes widened for an instant in recognition, before he settled into a glare. Damn, the dude was looking for a rumble. “You lyin’.”

              “Nah. She’s Mia Ku. Spent the Divide tacked and loaded – that’s why she looks military.”

              That information, all very public and true, gave J.T. pause.

              “So why you hangin’ with a Panther bitch?” One of the other Ghosts piped up.

              “She got a pipeline to some shit we can move for a pair a sevens. Hot shit, fresh from the boats.”

              He had their attention now. Even J.T. lowered his weapon and listened. For the chance at making millions moving drugs, they would let him live. Relief curled through Matt. He wracked his brains for weeks, trying to work out how to set up the buy he arranged to have monitored for Narc evidence. Tamia’s little chat in the mall gave him an opening that would keep her out of the Westsiders’ sights, as well. He only wished he could do the same for Jen; there was just no way to turn Ms. Perfection into a street bitch.

              “She tole me where to meet the dudes shiftin’ it into the Apple.”

              J.T. frowned. “What about the Big Man’s cut? What’s that?”

              Matt grinned wolfishly. He had them on the line; now was the time to reel them in. “Nothin’. He don’t even know this shit exists.”

              Narrowed brown eyes considered him for a moment, before J.T. nodded and safetied the Heater. As he stuffed the weapon back into the waistband of his baggy pants, he met Matt’s gaze. “All right, dude. You set up the meet, and we represent.”

              They shook hands in an elaborate ritual of hand movements, and Matt turned and walked away as if nothing was wrong. But he kept his attention fixed behind him all the way out of the abandoned warehouse that acted as the gang’s hangout. He wasn’t stupid. He knew J.T. could change his mind at any time, and burn him down on the spot.

              Finally, when he was halfway down the block from the warehouse, Matt dared to breathe a sigh of relief. That was a damned close call. The worst part about his job was no one knew where he was at any given moment. He was flying solo out here. Not that he let himself care. He fully expected to die out here. Just not before he helped catch the mole; and not while Jen was waiting for him to come home. He’d pick his time, when she hated his guts. When he finally managed to drive the wedge he so desperately needed, and hated. Couldn’t be helped. He saw what the pain of loss did – Blade was a walking open wound. He’d be damned if he let Jen follow.

              He glanced up at a flash of light, to see sunlight glint off what must be a sniper’s scope being retracted, on the roof across the street from the warehouse. Ice shot down his spine, and spread through his abdomen. They’d been watched the entire time. The only question was, by who?

 

LOOK FOR HERO’S HOPE, COMING MAY 30th.  GET INTO THE UNDERGROUND, WITH TAMIA, MIND KILLER, AND TERMINAL HUNTER — AVAILABLE NOW IN E-BOOK AND PRINT AT http://www.amazon.com

“Into Hell” – Excerpt from HERO’S HOPE (Underground)

Heros HopeI can’t tell you how many times I wrote, ripped up, and rewrote this scene. These moments are part of Tamia’s most powerful Black Moment in the entire series – the point at where everything she’s feared for so long is staring her right in the face. Writing them required delving into a part of myself I don’t normally share, and lock away during the day. I think, in the end, that was the reason why this scene finally came out in the middle of the night, when my own nightmares were so strong, there was nothing else to do but channel them into Tamia and the moments when her world came down around her.

 

 

“Into Hell” – Excerpt from HERO’S HOPE (Underground, Book 4) –

“Rick!” Tamia bolted upright in bed, fear scrambling along her nerves. Her hand flailed out, blindly searching for Rick, to reassure herself he was there. Ice plunged through her when her hand dropped to empty sheets, cold from the air circulation system. He wasn’t there.
Her gaze flew instantly to the glowing digital display of the bedside clock. 0400 hours. Rick had been gone a little over an hour, and already her imagination was working overtime. God, she was paranoid. And yet…

Tamia hugged Rick’s pillow to herself, her face buried in the cool material as she inhaled the scent of him clinging there. He was okay. He had to be. Images from her nightmare flashed in her mind, and her heart pounded with fear. It was all so real… Dampness slicked her cheeks, and she realized she was crying.

“Get a grip,” she muttered to herself. “You’ve had nightmares before.”

She shoved down the niggling little voice determined to remind her how all her worst nightmares had a way of coming true. That was Kuron’s superstitions talking, dammit. She didn’t believe in precognition. Did she?

She lay there, staring at the ceiling, as she battled fears she couldn’t exorcise, for what felt like forever. She was surprised to find only half an hour elapsed, when the door tone sounded. Then, the actual time sank in. 0430. Tamia’s heart caught in dread as the sick feeling of fear returned. Rick wouldn’t sound the door tone, and the only other person who’d show up at their door at this time of the morning was whoever was on Comms, which spelled trouble.

The door tone sounded again, more insistent than before; like someone was leaning on the exterior doorpad. Ice shot up Tamia’s spine. Whoever was at the door, it was important. She was suddenly reluctant to find out why. Still, she rose from the bed and made her way to the door as she pulled on her robe. Dread dogged her every step, and flashes of her nightmare haunted her. Her hand shook as she hit the lock release, and her heart came to an abrupt halt as she met Jen LaSaulle’s somber eyes. Oh, God.

“Jen?” The query left her in a whisper as fear gripped her so hard she trembled. Suddenly, her nightmare didn’t seem so impossible. Terror richoted through her. The only way to maintain her fraying calm was to stay focused on one thing. Her gaze fixed on Jen’s face, even as she reached to steady herself against the doorjamb. This was all a bad dream, she told herself over and over. Whatever happened, she was still in her nightmares.

“There’s someone here to see you.”

At the tone of Jen’s voice, and the sympathy in her green eyes, Tamia’s throat closed. She knew what those words, and that tone, meant, and it was no nightmare. Her heart froze in her chest, and she couldn’t breathe as the cold spread through her, and she went numb. The world spun, and she tightened her grip on the doorjamb as reality swam.

“Rick.” His name slipped from her numb lips, and her nightmares rushed back with new terror.

LOOK FOR HERO’S HOPE, COMING MAY 30TH FROM UNDER THE MOON. DISCOVER THE UNDERGROUND, WITH TAMIA, MIND KILLER, AND TERMINAL HUNTER – NOW AVAILABLE IN E-BOOK AND PRINT AT www.amazon.com

“Threats and Premonitions” – Excerpt from HERO’S HOPE (Underground)

Heros Hope In every writer’s life, there are scenes you write that feel a lot like deja vu. And there are scenes that are torn from your heart and soul, and wreak havoc on you to write, and to revisit. Writing HERO’S HOPE was that task for me. It and VENGEFUL HEART (the next book) will forever be the most difficult books — the most difficult fiction — I ever write, because certain parts of them aren’t fiction.

When Rick discovers the ghosts of his past are coming back to hunt his new family, he’ll do anything to protect them. But will his desire to protect cost him everything he loves?

 

“Threats and Premonitions” — Excerpt from HERO’S HOPE (Underground, Book 4)

 

“You can’t go back out there, yet!”

“I have to. I have a hunch about something, and I have to look into it. Besides, it’s my call who takes what assignments. This is something I just have to take care of.”

Tamia’s eyes were so full of disbelief he flinched away from that accusing gaze. “You are insane!”

Rick stared at his hands as he tried to come up with a defense against the fear in her eyes. God, he hadn’t wanted a cigarette this bad in months! His secret ate him alive, and he couldn’t stand that terror on Tamia’s face. He had to do something to wipe it away; but even the truth wouldn’t do that. The truth could put her in deadly danger. He looked up at her somberly. “It’s surveillance, babe. That’s what I was trained to do.”

She looked as if she might argue, before she sealed her lips in a thin line and turned away. But he could read her pain loud and clear in the protective way her shoulders hunched, and the turn of her body, as if she couldn’t bear to let him see how much she was hurting. That single motion punched him hard in the solar plexus and made breathing difficult.

“Tamia—“

“Why you?” Her voice was quiet, and flat, as if she was fighting to maintain that neutral tone. “You’re not cleared for the field, yet. Jen hasn’t signed off on your medical clearance. Let me go, instead.”

He straightened as fear plunged through him. “No way.”

“Why not? I have the same training, the same ability…”

“Tamia.” He rose to his feet. “I’m not going to argue with you about this. Now, I have to go.”

She shot a glare over her shoulder that would have frozen fire. “So it’s do as you say, not as you do?”

“Hey.” He could see where this was going a mile away. “It’s not like that—“

“No? So what if I was the one running out in the middle of the night to follow mysterious leads?”

He couldn’t answer that; he already knew he’d incriminate himself. Hell, there was no way he could convince her he respected her if he voiced his feelings about her being out on the street in her current condition. “I—”

“Don’t bother. I already know the answer. If it was me, or anyone else on this whole damned team, trying to take on a mission before medical clearance was signed, you’d have us confined to Comms duty until our asses went numb.”

He closed his eyes. God, how did he dig himself out of this one? “This is different. I know my limits.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s lame, Rick.”

She started toward the bedroom, already shedding her robe as she went. He swallowed hard. “What are you doing?”

She shot a determined, narrow-eyed look over her shoulder. “I’m taking your place.”

Shock and fear plunged through him. The threatening message was meant to hurt him, but Tamia was Colbert’s ultimate target, for no other reason than her death would kill him. Images flashed through his mind of what could happen if he let her go off on Colbert’s trail in his place. His stomach knotted. No way in hell. “Absolutely not.”

Her chin rose defiantly. “Why not?”

“Because…” He sought desperately for a reason that wouldn’t reveal the truth. His gaze fell on her belly, and the threatening words of the Red Code sliced through him again.

I know about your family. You took mine, and I’m coming for yours. Rick fought the constricting band of fear. “Because you’re pregnant.”

It was only the truth, but he knew it was the wrong thing to say, even before Tamia’s eyes narrowed and a dark scowl settled on her face. “You so don’t want to go there, Carinson.”

He winced. When she called him by his last name in that tone, it meant he’d crossed the line. It was pretty clear she wasn’t going to back down; well, neither was he. This was too important. She was too important. Better she be pissed at him; it would make what had to happen easier for her.

“Look, my leads will go cold, if I stick around arguing this. I have to go. Keep everyone on task, okay?”

Her face paled, and the pain of her fear was a feeling he knew would never fade.

“What are you planning?” Her voice was barely audible, now, and he never wanted to spill his guts so badly in his life. As a torture technique, Colbert couldn’t have planned anything more effective. But there was no way he could tell her what was about to go down.

“You’re getting paranoid.”

She jerked back as if he’d stuck her, and anger roiled in her eyes. “Dammit, Rick. I thought you were dying, in Texas! What would you do if our situations were reversed?”

Memories flooded him, of Tamia just after Porto Alegre, bloody and unconscious, then wreathed in tubes and machinery. The fear he’d felt returned full force, but he shoved it aside. He wasn’t falling into that trap. But nor could he make her a promise he already knew he couldn’t keep. As he looked into her eyes, he saw the resignation, before she sighed, and turned her back to him again. “Go, already. Just don’t make me regret this.”

“Old Demons” – Excerpt from MIND KILLER (Underground)

MindKillerCoverSince it’s not just my heroes I torture, I thought I’d share this little snippet from Underground’s MIND KILLER… Tamia Kuan definitely qualifies as a tortured soul. I ought to know… A lot of Tamia’s experience with life is drawn from my own experiences, and where they could have gone, had Fate not rescued me a little sooner than it did Tamia… The night terrors and PTSD are mine. Her reflections on how she used to deal with it are, thankfully, not… which is not to say the thought never crossed my mind, as a kid.

 

“Old Demons” – Excerpt from MIND KILLER (Underground, Book 2):

 

Tamia bolted upright in bed with a cry of terror, drowned out by the harsh thump of her heart in her ears and the rasp of her labored breaths.  Her eyes cast about wildly in the dim light, and the darkness closed in with a familiar terror.  She didn’t have any phobias about the dark, except when the nightmares came back.  Then, every shadow was a threat, an enemy that could destroy everything she held dear.

After a moment, her pulse settled, and she realized where she was.  She was in the Underground, and she was safe here.  Safer than she had any right to be.  God, she was such a coward!

As the adrenaline of fear drained away, Tamia sobbed and buried her face against her knees.  She hadn’t had that nightmare in years.  With an indrawn breath, she dragged a hand across her face, and noticed that it trembled.

This was new territory for her.  She hadn’t had these nightmares since she was in ‘Frisco.  Back then, when the nightmares came back, she just drowned them out with whatever drug was available, until she was so strung out the pain went away.  But she couldn’t do that, anymore.  Tamia drew in deep gulps of air and tried to calm herself.  It didn’t work.  She was too nervous, too scared.  Her heart beat like a trip-hammer, and she couldn’t think.  Her overwrought mind craved a fix like she hadn’t in years, and her body shook with the ghost of remembered withdrawal.

Like amputees, Detoxees had phantom pains, too.  Only this pain burned her gut, and turned her emotions inside out.  But she learned a trick, all on her own, in Detox.  If she imagined the feeling of that high, she didn’t need the drug, to make the craving go away.  She didn’t need anything to calm her tremors.

With a deeply indrawn breath, Tamia closed her eyes and tried to imagine the sting of the needle as it slid through her skin, followed by the rush of oblivion.

 

Like what you read here? You can find the Underground at Amazon.com:

Book 1: Tamia , Book 2:  Mind Killer, Book 3: Terminal Hunter … and be on the look out for  Book 4: Hero’s Hope, coming May 30, 2014.

When Worlds Collide: Writing Guardians, Incorporated and Witch Hollow Alive

What is it about Guardians, Inc. and Witch Hollow that appeal to me so much? So much so that I wake up in the middle of the night with scenes and conversations floating around in my head? So much so that I spent not days, or weeks, or even months, but years finding the correct blend of information for my character building?

 

I wish I could point you to one defining moment, and say “This is why I write this series. This is why it matters so much to me that it’s done right.”  Truth is, I can’t.

 

The base concept for this series (and particularly Witch Hollow) begins so long ago, it feels like I’ve been working on this series forever.  The first conceptualization began when I was just 7 years old, and absolutely addicted to mystery and crime fiction (something I’ve never outgrown… it’s just become more nuanced over the years).  I had this image in my head – I wanted a detective agency that solved strange cases. And I wanted a laboratory that used science to solve cases no one else could. At the time, I was dealing with a lot of personal trauma, and I wanted to believe there was someone out there who would be able to punish people like the person who hurt me, without the people like me (the victims) having to go to the police. I knew that wasn’t how it worked, but I wondered what it would take for that to be the case.

 

I jotted down my thoughts in a spiral notebook, and shoved it aside, with most of everything else I thought. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it, over the years. And, as I began to study more and more about the paranormal and supernatural, I kept going back to that notebook, jotting more notes. What if the cases involved something paranormal or supernatural? What if they were crimes the regular police couldn’t solve, because either the victims or the perpetrators weren’t human?

 

I kept researching and adding thoughts and ideas and notes and information to the notebook, as time went on. When I was twelve, I shared my idea for the first time ever, with someone I trusted.  With encouragement, I actually started drafting the series in earnest, though I still wasn’t convinced I’d ever have the guts to publish it. Mostly, it was a response to my need to wrestle personal demons, and understand human motivation somehow.

 

By early 1992, I had not only the basic series information compiled, but I’d written more than half of the first book I’d ever write in the series. By 1995, I’d completed the book, and couldn’t believe I was actually considering trying to send it to publishers.

 

It wasn’t until 2003 that I finally worked up the nerve to send it to a publisher for the first time. And I was naïve enough to believe that the words “we just need to tweak it a little” meant making it better. Instead, they tore it apart. Over the next few years, the book came to look nothing like it started out, and I hated what it became. It wasn’t the story I wanted to tell – it was a farce. And when I questioned why it was changed so much, I was told my characters were “too unbelievable” and “not likable enough.” I ended up caving, and it was published in a format that destroyed every ounce of work I’d done  for so many years. An epic battle eventually ensued over whether or not my book would remain as it was edited and released, or I’d be allowed to either return it to its original format, or pull it completely. I didn’t have the industry knowledge, at the time I originally signed my contract, and as a result, I lost the battle. Disheartened, I shoved what had now become a binder full of information and work to the back of the shelf, convinced it was dead.

 

Then the publisher went under, and the chance for the series as I originally envisioned it was reborn, and the final pieces of the puzzle jogged into place for me – this series was tamper-proof.  I would redraft that original book, back to what it was before, and no publisher would be allowed to touch it unless they were willing to put in writing the agreement to not tamper with the core of the characters or the premise of the series/books. Otherwise, I’d find a way to publish it myself.

 

So, I’ve dug in, since, and the series is literally flying at me, the characters talking to me all hours of the day and night, like they’re in some race to catch up to the years I spent hating that book for the damage done to it.  And I will stand by my promise to myself. The only publisher who will ever get a chance to publish these books is one willing to stipulate, in a legally binding contract, to not make alterations to the foundations of my series or characters, and who understands I have final veto on any major changes suggested. If no publisher is interested in that, then I’ll publish it myself.

 

 

While some changes are good and necessary to making a work better, as authors, we must occasionally draw our lines in the sand, and blow off the damned foot that dares to cross it without our permission. This is a lesson I’ve learned under very difficult conditions.

Guardians Decal

“You’re Only As Good…” : The Intersection of Trauma, Fiction, and Publication

I know it probably sounds pathetic to most people that I identify myself so much by my career as an author – especially since I’m not and likely never will get rich doing it. I know there are plenty of people who, no matter what they say to my face, probably think it’s a waste of my time, because it’s not liable to make me rich.

 

I’ve always identified myself as an author… For as long as I can remember (back to even before I could read or write in reality), I’ve had that facet of myself, that identity wrapped up inside me. In my tumultuous childhood, writing was a lifeline, and the only voice I really had.  Life traumas have left me questioning whether or not I should have ever published, but never whether or not I should have ever written.  I think that’s the part that confuses some people.  They think the two are interlinked, and that if one writes, one must publish.

 

Truth? In some ways, I was much happier with my writing, before I published. The self-doubt and self-loathing I’ve struggled most of my life with didn’t invade my writing world until I published the first time… That was when the inner chorus of “See, you’re not worth anything” and “I told you no one wants you” and the “Why do you bother?” grew louder… and every time someone looks down their nose at me about “wasting time” or my “hobby,” that chorus gets louder still.  Every time the icy shoulders come out or someone talks over top of me or changes the subject when I start talking about my books, the chorus becomes more insistent.  Every time I schedule/pay for time to advertise, only to have someone else horn in, and everyone instantly turns their attention to that other person’s work, the chorus becomes deafening.

 

Truth? For every one person I’ve received an e-mail from about how much my work has helped them (and yes, there have been a number… I’m not discrediting that) over the years,  there have been twenty who haven’t even given me or my work a chance, and who’ve done the “snake oil salesman” routine, and told me “how wonderful” my work is, like I can’t see through them, and like I don’t know they’ve never read a word… not even the free postings I’ve offered over the years (and I’m not saying anyone has to read anything I write… what I’m asking for is honesty. If you don’t read it, don’t tell me you think it’s “wonderful”… I’d much rather you just said, “It’s not my speed” than lie to me, thanks.).

 

Am I bitter? No, that’s not the word I would use. Bitterness implies being angry at someone else, or a system, and I’m not. I know how this game is played. The problem is, I’m no good at playing it. I believe an author’s work should be able to speak for itself, not that the author should be out there prostituting themselves for the next reader… I know it’s a shabby way to look at things, and I’m likely to get backlash for it… I’m aware of that. But my truth is built on identifying myself by my work… I’m ashamed to say I allowed other people to dictate the kind of work I did, when I first started out. I allowed publishers to “sex up” my books, even though it destroyed the foundation of those books and characters, and stripped me of my own identity at the same time.

 

Who am I angry at for that?  I’m angry at me. I’m disgusted with my naivete, that I thought that was just how the industry worked, and that I had to go along with every change. I’m thoroughly annoyed at myself for allowing others to convince me I’m not good enough, that my work wasn’t good enough, unless I stripped away everything that made it me, and instead turned it into some kind of printed-page porno.

 

There’s a lot more to me, and to my work, than I think too many people give me credit for… And yet, I’m left with that rising chorus that says I’m worthless as a person, because I’m worthless as a writer, and that the proof is all around me… And, these days, without my identity as an author, I literally AM nothing. I keep writing, because I know that if I stop, if I pause long enough to take a breath, that swelling wave of self-doubt and self-loathing will drown me. And this time, it might just succeed in killing me.

Writing Crossroads and Publishing Options

I’m at a crossroads, of sorts, with my writing. I have two currently published series with books still due out, and two more under consideration. Over the past three decades I’ve been writing, and especially over the past decade I’ve been published, I’ve undergone a lot of changes and growth as an author, and now I find myself at a crossroads I can honestly say I never really considered hitting.

 

For most of my writing career, one of my major points of focus was to get published. It was a dream that kept me going, and writing, through some very difficult straits in my life. My drive was always to be published by an actual publishing house – whether small or big press didn’t matter to me.

 

In 2004, that dream became a reality. While my first attempt to publish had fallen flat before it even got a running start, in 2004 I started with a publishing house that was also in start-up. I have to admit, I was leery at first, but eventually was won over, and so began my journey as a published author. I was doing well enough, but I was also becoming disillusioned, and quickly. The publisher wasn’t a good fit (as I feared from the beginning), and the changes that were being made to my books and my vision for my career were disheartening. Then, in 2007, that publishing house closed its doors and I (and the other authors there) had a fight on our hands, getting our rights to our work back. That scarred me, made me even more wary than before. But I still had a dream to pursue.

 

The next publishing house to come along and request my work had a difficult time getting me to agree, but promises were made, and I eventually agreed to give them a chance. I should have known better, but when that also disintegrated, my growth was spiraling the wrong way. I was starting to question if it was even worth writing, anymore. Yet, I couldn’t give it up, either. Writing was part of my identity, now, and I knew I needed to keep going.

 

I found two wonderful publishers, who treat me and my writing with respect and dignity. Under The Moon currently publishes my Underground (Science Fiction) series, and Desert Breeze Publishing is running my Legends of Tirum (Fantasy) series, with optioning currently out on my Section Psi (Science Fiction) and Project Prometheus (Paranormal/Military) series.

 

However, I’m at a crossroads on the rest of my writing. I’m not sure what I want to do. I have series that I’ve spent a lot of time and effort developing, and having to completely re-edit because the first publisher to have them twisted them beyond recognition. I’m asking myself if I want to take a chance with a publisher, for these books, or if I want to just publish them, myself. The crossroad I’m at is a “maybe traditional publishing wasn’t the way to go” one. Would I be better off, and truer to my craft, to publish the books myself, under my own imprint, than to let someone else get to call the shots?

 

I just don’t know, yet. But, in the meantime, I’m keeping my options open. If a publisher can promise me not to alter my books beyond recognition, and leave me an open-ended clause that says if I don’t like the edits suggested I either don’t have to accept them, or I can yank the book, I’m willing to entertain letting them have an option at my Guardians, Inc. and High Stakes series. But I’m going to be stubborn about the changes I allow to these series… I think they have a lot of sales potential as they are, and I’m still kicking myself for my early allowance of the twisting they underwent.

 

So, let the bargaining begin… You can reach me via e-mail. If I don’t have any option requests by the time the first book is finished, I’ll take that as a sign I’m doing this myself.

Guardians DecalSectionPsidecalPPSeriesDecal

The Underground insignia.

The Underground insignia.

“London Tubes” – Excerpt from THE MEADOWTHORNE THICKET

This is a little First Person POV paranormal I’ve been kind of kicking around, when my Muse needs a break, for the past couple of years. I don’t know that it’ll ever really go anywhere or amount to anything more than an exercise meant to keep my creative muscle in shape, but I thought I’d share and get your take… think it’s worth pursuing?

“London Tubes” — Excerpt from THE MEADOWTHORNE THICKET –

People always tell you that it isn’t until you’ve stared into the face of death that you begin to realize the truth about life. If only those people knew how right they were.

It’s not that I have more or less love of life, these days, but more that I have an understanding of just what Death is, and the reality isn’t nearly as terrifying as the holy rollers and priests would have you believe.

I grew up one of those waifs time forgot about – and I don’t mean all that Oliver Twisty rubbish full of “pleases” and “sirs.” It’s not such a bad life, really. Not that it’s easy, or anything like that, but if you figure out how to survive, you can make a pretty decent run of it. I never really knew anything else, anyway. And it wasn’t like I was uneducated, either. I read whatever I could get my hands on, taught myself how to calculate the amount of dosh it took to get from the High Street Station to Greenwich by Tube and back again, and listened in to every business deal or gossip session held by mobile, so I’ve always been pretty much in the know. At least, that’s what I thought until the day Death found me.

Oh, it’s not all dramatic and scary ghost-story, like I heard from the old birds who bilked tourists getting off the Greenwich Tube in the city. They liked to talk a lot of guff about some black-caped figure with a scythe and bony hands, that’d come and suck the life right out of you, if you weren’t careful. I don’t know who they were trying to scare more – us kids or themselves.

Death don’t look anything like that. Fact is, I probably wouldn’t have even noticed them, if I hadn’t needed fare, that day. Sometimes, even picking a pocket can be an act of Fate.

london tubes