End of the Year Book Lover Giveaway!

This year has been so rough, as you know. I'd like to end it on a high note, and I bet you can guess what that means: a special giveaway of goodies for book lovers!

As you'll see, one of the methods of entry is to subscribe to my newsletter. I know letting someone into your inbox is a big ask! Mostly I'll be sharing exciting book news, but I also offer some sneak peeks behind the scenes, like in today's newsletter. Missed it? Just this once, I'm sharing a link here on my blog so you can see exactly what these emails will be like. Check it out here!

Now on to the giveaway—enter below for a chance to win:

• A large Dreams to Dishes mug
• A Taking Chances notebook, featuring lyrics by Liz Anne
• A book charm necklace
• ...and more!

Enter Here:

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Happy December!

The Raw Truth About Why I Disappeared

The last year and a half have been incredibly difficult in so many ways for so many of us. Many lost family and friends, including me. That on its own should have been enough for people to be kinder to one another, to allow space to process and grieve, to do whatever it took to get ourselves through it as intact as possible.

Instead, we simply found workarounds to help people stay "productive." Because as a society we value an adult's (and often a child's) productivity above all else. Many authors (and readers) rejoiced that being stuck at home during the pandemic meant being able to write more books! And faster! 

You all know that wasn't the case for me or, let's face it, for many others. Yes, I did write the Dragon Story in February–August 2020. It won't be published for some time yet. I also eventually realized that I really needed a break from social media, which I used predominately for the business of being an author. Newsletters went out the window, and eventually my Patreon went on pause.

Because on top of everything related to the pandemic, on top of the chronic illness I've been living with for over a decade, I got even more sick.

Below, I discuss fatphobia, eating, and weight loss in a way that may be difficult for some to read. If you would prefer not to, skip down.

In January of this year, I started experiencing some discomfort and symptoms when I ate. My body so frequently does weird things that I thought, at first, all I needed to do was eat more carefully—bland foods, chicken broth, etc. In just a few weeks I went from struggling to eat to not being able to, and struggling to take in fluids as well. So I called my GI. By the time of my appointment—an entire 5 days later—I could barely drink anything. 

Imagine knowing that every tiny sip of water you take would cause you pain. And even if you did manage to suffer through the symptoms triggered by trying to eat, it wouldn't matter because it wouldn't stay inside long enough to count.

Then imagine doctors ignoring you because, according to some chart that doesn't differentiate among individuals' needs and just slaps on a label, you're considered obese. To the medical community, that word is pretty much synonymous with: "you did this to yourself." Fatphobia is so ingrained in medicine that it has led to doctors ignoring life-threatening issues in favor of body shaming their patients (e.g., doctors telling folks to "just lose weight" (or be glad they had) when what they actually have is undiagnosed stomach cancer). Fatphobia kills, and it nearly killed me.

That first GI I saw literally told me it "didn't matter" that I couldn't eat or drink. He did, however, schedule a test I knew I needed, so I stuck it out before changing doctors, knowing how time-consuming starting over with another practitioner, and getting the requisite insurance approvals, would be. In the two weeks between that first appointment and going to the hospital for that test, I rapidly dropped weight. When I brought it up with him, he said it wouldn't worry him until I weighed 90lbs. Spoiler alert: if I ever reach 90lbs, I'll be dead.

He added that if I was "worried"—as if that was so unreasonable when one is dehydrated and unable to eat—I should just go to the ER, even though I was in the hospital with an IV, and he could have at least given me fluids right then.

Just for extra fun, in the time between that first GI visit and the procedure, I was also diagnosed with Tietze's, a condition that causes significant pain where the ribs meet the sternum, and which can last for months or more. But hey, what's some extra pain when you can't eat or drink and already have a pain disorder? 

Because I knew the chances of being dismissed in the ER were equally high as with the other doctors I had seen, I didn't go to one until I went over 24hrs without being able to drink anything (as opposed to "merely" being in a lot of pain when I did). Many of you would be astounded at how difficult it is to get fluids, much less IV nutrition, in a situation that seems so straightforward to us laymen. To give the ER doctor credit, he ran many tests and did give me fluids (the change in me as a result of the latter was literally visible, but sadly shortlived). He still couldn't find what was causing my problems and, since I wasn't in danger of dying right that second, sent me home, though he did prescribe a medication in an attempt to help.

Ultimately, I was the one to figure out what was causing my symptoms, not any of my doctors. The last GI I saw diagnosed me with functional dyspepsia and IBS—conditions* that can get pretty debilitating each on their own—then basically told me to just deal with it. Turned out, though, the symptoms I was experiencing are known, though rare, side effects to a medication I was on—that every doctor I saw knew I was taking. So all that advocating for myself, all that effort trying to get them to hear me, was basically torturing myself for nothing. Then I also had to deal with withdrawal from those meds and the months-long search for a doctor who would listen and prescribe a replacement.

*I say "conditions," but really these seem to be diagnostic catchalls for: "You have these symptoms and we have no idea why."

As of the time I'm writing this, I've lost 27% of my starting weight. I hate the fact I have to keep track, thinking about that number daily when it's dropping, nearly daily when it plateaus for a while. (See? Recovery.) I hate it even more that all the messaging I've gotten—and sometimes even continue to get—has enough of a hold on me that I have to reason my way out of that little instinct of happiness when I see it drop. Because it dropping is unequivocally bad.

In case it needs saying, losing weight at any cost is most definitely not the path to health. That's called an eating disorder for good reason, and malnutrition has plenty of serious consequences. But it also feels important to point out that starving doesn't change your body the way we expect when we think of "weight loss." Your body doesn't care about societally preferred aesthetics when it's trying to survive.  So yes, I've lost over a quarter of my body weight—and about 18% was in the space of just 2 months—but for those who can't understand just how unhealthy this kind of weight loss is, let me put it in terms we're all much more familiar with: I've only lost 2 pant sizes. I am now frail, not skinny.

For those wondering, I'm comparing the exact same pants from the exact same brand, purchased at the same time (the second one by someone else in my home). It's about as clean an experiment as one can have given how fashion brands make up sizing, and change theirs at will.

And yet, I still constantly heard from people, whether in person (outside, at a distance—stay safe!) or on video calls about how "great" I look. Yes, even people who knew what was going on, that I was literally starving, decided the right response was to compliment me on being that ill, because to them my wellbeing is less important than looking (more like) the way society says I'm "supposed" to. I guess it shouldn't have shocked me considering I've had people calling me fat, telling me the most important thing I could ever do—"for my own health," of course—is lose weight since I was a child. It still brought up emotions I will be sorting through for a long time.

Suffice it to say, this has been a physically, emotionally, and mentally grueling 9 months. Surviving it has been about much more than simply figuring out how to get nutrition into my body, which is still a work in progress. I spent months being unable to read, much less write. At the worst of it, I couldn't even follow a plot in a tv show or movie. Yes, that was as miserable as it sounds.

While I am doing better—as evidenced in part by this long post—there are still severe limitations on what I can eat. All of this has also been less than great for my CFS, making recovery a long, complicated, and unpredictable process with plenty of setbacks along the way. I still have days when I can't handle things like reading or having a conversation, though those stretches now tend to span days rather than weeks or more. Progress, however slow.

---

I hope this helps you understand why I've "disappeared." There were long stretches where I felt as if I literally had: I wasn't a person; I was barely a body, just misery and pain, trying to find the energy to advocate for myself in a system that insisted on ignoring me while implying I was lying or "exaggerating."

And yes, I believe this is at least in part an issue of gender—1, 2, 3.

I am trying to resume "being an author." I guess, since I've had books published all this time, technically I never stopped. Though in a world where we have to be constantly producing more content (or at the very least spending money on ads) to "count," it certainly felt that way. 

Thankfully, I have started sporadically being able to work on my drafted stories. Soon, there will indeed be book news heading your way. 💕

For those who have read this far and may be so inclined, here is how you can help: 

• Buy my books. Read them, review them, gift them to friends, even talk about them on social media if you're so inclined. 
• Not only will this help by showing people do care about and enjoy my stories—that it's worth the effort to resume creating and publishing—but this will also remind storefront algorithms that I exist. This matters.
• Suggest your local library buy my books! They are available to libraries in both digital and print formats, but libraries do rely on patron requests to decide what to purchase.
• Consider supporting me on Patreon for behind-the-scenes access and sneak peeks. Patrons have even seen the cover for the Dragon Story!
  • Yes, this is currently paused and I post only sporadically. However, it is a priority to figure out how to resume bringing value to my supporters there, and there's plenty of available content.
  • Please note: you will be charged immediately one time, the moment you become a Patron. Following that, I will warn all Patrons before I resume monthly billing.
• If a monthly commitment isn't for you:

• Don't forget to tell me how you're doing in the comments! 💕
• Yes, I really do want to know, and yes this counts as supporting me—it's a reminder that you're there, you're listening, and you care enough to give me the time and effort it takes to read, and respond. 

"Fire bad. Tree Pretty."

I don't get it.

In times of turmoil, many respond by simply keeping on. That I understand. Do what you have to do, make it through the day. Hope that things get better, easier, simpler. That someday you'll have space for something more than surviving this moment.

I read months ago observations by psychologists that humans are incapable of processing trauma in the midst of living it. There are coping mechanisms, like denial, but we can't truly engage with the way trauma has impacted us until we have space free from the trauma to do so. Until we can do more than keep on keeping on.

People respond in different ways, of course. Many writers had an immensely productive 2020. Some continue to escape the political circus—and its terrifying implications—by focusing on their stories. And maybe if the extent of their personal trauma is dealing with the isolation of lockdown, I can understand that. After all, I've been living in a "shelter in place" way for years, for reasons unrelated to COVID, and with limits that go beyond local laws (or even the threat of infection). That hamper me even inside my own home. Maybe I would have started to process that, but COVID happened.

And then the traumas kept piling up. People I'd known for years died. And I made my way out of that grief enough to return to looking forward. The protracted disaster that was the US election became just another thing to live with. Staying abreast of developments required energy, sure, but there was a little something left, enough to revise my 2015 NaNo project, however slowly; to reveal the cover of the Dragon Story; to start to plan what I wanted to accomplish writing-wise in 2021.

Then people were diagnosed with terminal cancer, or were injured in a way that required hospitalization. Friends lost relatives to COVID.

The Capitol was attacked by white supremacist terrorists whom half the US still considers "patriots."

And even so I tried to push forward. To be more than a body that drags itself through the rituals of daily life (hygiene, sustenance). To try to find the energy to post here, or write that newsletter I really need to write, or work on the planned revisions to a published book I wanted to re-release. 

But my body has decided that food is too complicated a concept for it to handle.

And today, a family member was hospitalized with COVID.

I'm an expert at "keeping on." I do what I have to do. Hygiene. Water. Food, if I can, or now when I get hungry enough that I'm willing to suffer the consequences of a bowl of broth. Checking in on the people in my life who've been having a hard time.

But writing? Even revising?

Trisha and Ev (Forging Forever #3) have been walking through my mind more frequently. I should be writing their story. The Dragon Story needs to be revised. That other book, the plan was for a February re-release.

But I can't keep on keeping on with my writing. I can't even find the right tone to hit with a patreon post or for a newsletter. I can't be "an author" when I can barely manage to be a person.

I'm sorry. I don't know how other people do it. I feel so incredibly weak, but it's all I can do to keep the endless disasters from overwhelming my mind. So I stare at whatever show or movie is playing on my screen, or I drag my eyes over the pages of stories I'll never remember reading, or I play some inane game online literally because it takes no effort yet still occupies that little bit of my mind left that isn't enough to process everything but would otherwise still try. And break. 

I'm sorry. 

2 weeks into 2021, and I've already failed to keep up with everything, too busy keeping on. 

Someday.

I hope you've found ways to be better, to take care of yourselves, to be kind if you're keeping on, or to celebrate if you're achieving more than that.

p.s. Bonus points to anyone who recognizes the title quotation without looking it up. 

This post originally went up on my Patreon here.

Let's Start with the Oven Mitts

A recent conversation with a friend meandered to a struggle of hers: anxiety about getting burned when using the oven. Of course, she was using potholders, but there are still quite a few ways to accidentally get burned. And burns suck. Anxiety, which is often less than reasonable, also sucks. 

As you can probably guess from the title of the post, we quickly reached the conclusion that oven mitts would offer her the protection she needs. More importantly, they would offer her peace of mind when using the oven. And that means, she'll be able to use the oven more often, making the task of cooking that much easier. 

Now, it wasn't like she was starving before this conversation, so this may seem like a pretty small change to her quality of life overall. Except, making one thing easier is always worth it. When we're juggling a million stressors, it can be hard to see how we can lighten that load even a little. Sometimes, outside perspective is the only way. Sometimes, we see a potential solution but it still feels insurmountable. Or maybe the problem seems too tiny compared to the Real Big Problems, and we convince ourselves (or, perhaps, stress and anxiety convince us) that fixing that tiny problem isn't worth it. 

But consider that experiment with holding a glass of water. Brief recap: picking up a glass of water isn't hard for many of us; holding it awhile isn't that hard either; but if you keep having to hold it aloft, it seems heavier and heavier as time goes on. The same goes for your stressors, whether they're pebbles or boulders. Putting down a pebble is, overall, a small change. But incremental change in the right direction is a good thing that can still have a great impact on your everyday life.

So, let's start with the oven mitts. 

What's one way you can make your life a little bit easier right now? Or, what's one everyday annoyance you'd like help solving? Let us all know in the comments!

"Be Interesting"

Public post from my Patreon

In a little folder in my email, I have ~200 messages focused on teaching authors how to communicate effectively with their audience, primarily through newsletters, but basically they're all about how to create content that reaches through the messy mass we're all trying to avoid and actually has an impact. Because reaching an audience is part of the business of being an author, and I do try to learn and improve. 

The most recent of these expert emails included the groundbreaking tip in this post's title: Be interesting. 

Who knew the trick to writing good, engaging content (whether for blogs, patreons, or newsletters), boiled down to such a simple thing? All I have to do is be interesting! 

Too bad this has very little meaning. What's interesting? To whom? When? How often? (This is where nailing your target audience comes in.) But even if you know your audience pretty well, "interesting" is still a relative, fluctuating concept. Influencers, perhaps, have this figured out. A little while ago I read that if you weren't an influencer 3 years ago, it's too late to try. Frankly, if that's true, it's almost a relief. I'm an author, not an influencer, and being "interesting" isn't my main goal. 

Freshman year of college, one of my professors pointed out that calling a story "interesting" is entirely meaningless, partially because while it should mean that you found the story engaging, it most often means, "I have no idea what to say or have formed a slightly negative opinion but don't want to be offensive/confrontational, so I'll call it interesting." 

So, goodness forbid folks find my real work "interesting." I'd almost rather people hated it—at least that would mean it had some kind of impact. (Though I assume if you hated my work, you wouldn't be here...) But wanting my work to have an impact does mean reaching an audience. 

And that means, apparently, I have to learn to be interesting. So, wish me luck... 

The chronically ill spend our lives hiding. No wonder you don't see us now.

People with chronic illnesses of all kinds spend so much of our time and energy hiding those illnesses from the world at large. It's effective to varying degrees, with invisible illnesses being of course the "easiest" to hide. Or rather, the easiest for you not to see.

Ambulatory wheelchair users who push themselves to walk into a room and sit on a seat in the corner rather than move around that room in a wheelchair are keeping their illness—their disability—hidden from your sight. People living with lupus or CFS or fibromyalgia who put on their nice clothes and makeup and push themselves to "look normal" while meeting friends for dinner (well, now for Zoom sessions) are keeping their illness out of sight. (Etc., etc.) We hide our medications, our supportive devices (when possible), the circles under our eyes, and anything else we can.

And while we do this for ourselves, to protect ourselves from the truly damaging and scary ways some people respond to signs of disability or illness, mostly we do it for you. To make your life easier, we push our bodies and hide our pain. So that you don't have to do the hard work of engaging with our realities.

While we hide less from those with whom we are close, especially from those with whom we live, sometimes you're the ones from whom we hide more—because we know our pain will hurt you too. But that's, in this case, not the point.

People living with disability or chronic illness spend so much of our time trying to help the world pretend that our conditions don't exist, to come across as "normal," that is it really any wonder that now, when the world is battling a virus that's far more dangerous for those who are already ill, that same world simply...doesn't care about us?

The blissfully ignorant continue to minimize the importance of tactics like social distancing, the impact of passing this virus through a community, because you simply don't see us.

"Maybe it's better to let the virus kill who it will kill?" people ask in callous thought experiments, unaware that the people they're hypothetically killing off include their barista, their Uber driver, their coworker, their friend. Their family.

"Can't you answer the question abstractly, don't make it so personal?" my uncle who lives on the other side of the globe asked me a few days ago. "I refuse to think of you as that sick!" he then added multiple times.

I wish I could just refuse to be "that sick." But that's not the point either.

I am more than my illness (as are we all), but if you don't see my illness, you don't see me. And because you don't see that part of us, you can abstract the idea of "those with underlying health conditions" from the horrifying question of: "Don't you think this is too hard on us/the economy, so we should just let them die?"

Don't you think we should just let you die?

I am certainly guilty of keeping the reality of my illness (or to be more accurate: illnesses) from the world at large, inasmuch as possible. Though I've started to talk about it all more in recent years as my health has chewed up my life, I still keep most of my reality to myself, and I've spent decades putting the world at ease by hiding my conditions, my pain. Because I was taught, as are most of us, to prioritize putting you at ease. Not to mention the undeniable reality stated so well in Grey's Anatomy ep. 5x17 that "once people see you as sick, they don't see anything else."

And I am more than my illness.

But I am not separate from my illness.

I wish SARS-CoV-2 could sweep the world and take out disability and chronic illness without taking out the disabled and chronically ill.

See what I did there? This is one of those dichotomies that exist in the minds of the healthy, who think about the conditions but not about the people. (Because that's too hard, too depressing, too much of a downer...)

Frankly, even if the total number of those with chronic conditions was a thousand times less than it is, that death toll would be way too high.

But the thing is, we are everywhere. And we've gotten so good at hiding our realities that now to you, the healthy, we've stopped being real. So you grumble about your boredom, you ignore shelter in place orders, you moan about the media overdramatizing, and you curse the falling stock markets as if that's what matters and not our lives.

"Take the disabled if it means I can have dinner with my friends!" 

"Kill the chronically ill so I can see a concert!"

"Who cares about them?" you ask, in your minds or to our faces, forgetting that we're not a them. We're part of your us.

And we can't shelter you from our reality anymore. Now more than ever, we need you to open your eyes and stop denying our existence. We need you to shelter us.

--
This post first went up on my Patreon. For those who are able during these tumultuous times, I'd appreciate any support you may be able to offer. 

Lost In Translation

This post first appeared on my Patreon page, but it received such a positive response (even private emails on the subject!) that I decided to repost it here. Want to get these posts as soon as they're up? Follow me on Patreon! 

You may not know this, but I'm trilingual, and I got my bachelor's degree by studying literature in all three languages. While I could pretend there was some higher ambition there, the reality is mostly that I like reading—and I especially like reading in the original language. Because no matter how good the translation, something is lost when an author's words are filtered through someone else's understanding.

This isn't to say we shouldn't translate stories—we should! But we should also be aware that we may not quite be experiencing the work the way it was originally created. While I was aware of this before, it was crystalized for me during one semester in college, when I was assigned Madame Bovary in both a French lit. class and a comparative lit. class led in English. You wouldn't believe how different the experience was! While the story is pretty dreary in English, the original is infused with touches of humor. Now, obviously I don't mean it's a comedy, and they certainly aren't laugh-out-loud moments, but the humor is there, lightening the entire reading experience. (Writing my paper based on the French version didn't go over well with the TA who'd only read the English... Whoops.)

The difficulty in conveying the original author's meaning struck me once again when I was discussing the musical Notre Dame de Paris with someone who doesn't speak French. Luckily—you'd think—the musical has been translated into multiple languages, including Russian and English. But as I was listening to the Russian version, I couldn't help noticing just how different the lyrics are, how drastically the characters are changed as a result, even if on the surface it's the same story.

Now obviously translation is even harder with lyrics because they have to fit the melody, but I'm still going to pick on these translations a little bit. To illustrate, I'm going to use an excerpt from perhaps the best-known song from the musical: "Belle."

Since I know you all don't necessarily speak these three languages, I've translated the French and Russian versions into English (for meaning—not at all poetically):

French version

Russian version

And the English version:

Belle, is the only word I know that suits her well
When she dances oh, the stories she can tell
A free bird trying out her wings to fly away
And when I see her move I see the hell to pay

She dances naked in my soul and sleep won't come
And it's no use to pray these prayers to Notre Dame
Tell, who'd be the first to raise his hand and throw a stone
I'd hang him high and laugh to see him die alone
Oh Lucifer, please let me go beyond god's law
And run my fingers through her hair, Esmeralda

So what is it Quasimodo craves so badly? In the French version, it's a rather innocent desire: running his fingers through her hair. In the Russian, this has been transformed to (euphemistically) spending a night with her. Suddenly the character seems much more worldly, much more like the other men who ultimately destroy her (Frollo, the priest, and Phoebus, the soldier). In the French version, both the priest and the soldier have a carnal desire for Esmeralda, while Quasimodo's is a more general, more innocent longing for closeness. For him, it's not about sex.

Note also how much more of the Russian text is about him—his ugliness, his happiness, etc. The French, meanwhile, focuses more on describing her and commenting on their society. And there's more intention in the Russian, a choice being made—"I would sell my soul to the devil"—as opposed to asking the devil for the favor of caressing her hair since Quasimodo already feels doomed to hell for having watched her dance.

While the English version seems a touch closer to the original at first, by the second verse that all changes. Though it ends with the line about running his fingers through her hair, that verse starts with: "She dances naked in my soul." In the original, he's stricken by having seen some skin exposed as she danced, but in translation she's dancing naked in his mind—once again eliminating the juxtaposition of how Quasimodo sees her compared to the other men, equating all three men.

Also in the French, Quasimodo—again, quite innocently—says someone who would judge Esmeralda (by throwing the first stone) doesn't deserve to walk the earth. But in the English this has become rather sinister and malicious: "I'd hang him high and laugh to see him die alone."

Seriously, just take a moment to appreciate how differently this character is presented within a handful of lines. "She's so beautiful, no one should want to hurt her" vs "If someone raised a hand to hurt her, I'd kill him and laugh at his gruesome death."

It's a stark reminder that words matter. And when our experience of someone's words is filtered through someone else's manipulation (via translation), our experience of the characters and the world created by the original author is unavoidably altered.

Unfortunately, most of us can't learn every language out there, or even most of them. And when it comes to traveling and basic communication, things like translation apps are definitely useful, even life-changing. But that utility doesn't translate (pardon the pun) to literature, where nuance is so important.

While we shouldn't give up on reading in translation, it would serve us all well to remember just how much can be lost or distorted by translating someone's art, even when done by a human and not an algorithm. It's one more very good reason to encourage people to learn new languages, opening new worlds not just through reading, but by reading the original author's words to experience what they really wanted to say. And if you do speak another language, all the more reason to practice it by exploring its literary culture in the original.

Plagiarism, Ghostwriting, and the Business of Writing Fiction

Last week was a bit of a mess in the romance world. Monday, Courtney Milan—a well-respected author who also used to clerk for a Supreme Court Justice—posted about a startling revelation: her work had been plagiarized. As it turned out, the person involved had plagiarized work from dozens of romance authors, plus things like online recipes for good measure.

The situation blew up quickly as more and more instances of plagiarism were found within work bearing that name. You can read another quick summary from BookRiot here. Personally, I'm caught somewhere in between:

Wondering just how stupid someone has to be to steal from huge names like Tessa Dare, Courtney Milan, Lisa Kleypas, and oh yeah, Nora Roberts. Seriously, if you're going to plagiarize, why would you choose such massive hitters? And lawyers? Many of the authors involved also have the weight of Big 5 publishers (and their legal teams);

And feeling pretty hopeless at the financial success this person was able to achieve with stolen work, and likely other scammy practices.

But believe it or not, that's only the beginning. In "defense" of her plagiarism, the person publishing as Cristiane Serruya (who knows if this is a real name, a pen name, or a false persona for a publishing group) then blamed a ghostwriter. Ghostwriters then came forward claiming Serruya provided written chunks that they had to rework into a book. Presumably those chunks were the plagiarized pieces, but that's not actually the point of my post.

This "revelation" brought to the forefront another big conversation in the romance world. Thankfully we all (except the perpetrators) agree that plagiarism is wrong. What the fiction world can't agree on? How we should approach ghostwritten fiction. (Everyone seems to be on the same page that ghostwriting things like memoirs is fine. I'd personally still prefer it if those ghostwriters were at least acknowledged in the book somewhere, if not on the front cover.) Many authors took up a new rallying cry: I Write My Own Books. Sometimes, there's an expletive involved.

A Halloween Treat: Mortal Musings and Murder

You may have seen a post circulating around social media (for a couple years now, on and off) that asserts any book's first line can be improved by making the second line:

"And then the murders began."

I tried it with a few of my own first lines, and the results are pretty fun. One I particularly liked was the one from Mortal Musings, partially because Brett is a mystery writer. So I wrote a quick (dark!) flash story set in an Alternative Universe of Mortal Musings, mixed with murder. My Halloween treat for you. 😉

 ---

Writer’s block had walled him in. Again. And then the murders began. 

A football player strung up to bleed out on the goal posts, found at early-morning practice.

The stay-at-home mom injected with a fatal paralytic then positioned at her kitchen counter, prepping the ingredients for that night’s stew. Toppled by her four-year-old’s hungry nudge.

The garbage man chopped into pieces and scattered around neighborhood compost bins.

Gruesome, senseless death. And as far as the police could tell, unconnected. 

Brett scoured the news, glued to any live updates, all saying the same thing: No one knew anything. Not one clue had been found.

On the fourth night, Brett woke, heart pounding from nightmares of wielding a long blade, eviscerating a trio of restaurant servers before trussing them up in the freezer. 

Unable to face the darkness, he staggered to the light switch then landed in front of his computer. His hands came to the keys.

The authorities might not be able to catch the killer, but Brett’s detective could. Piecing together the puzzle behind grisly deaths was what Pete lived for—why he’d been created. And now, Brett knew what puzzle Pete would solve.

As the dark turned to a timid morning gray, red and blue lights flashed outside Brett’s window—a new ineffective patrol. He shook his head and blinked the grit from his eyes. The blurry lines of text on his screen came to 6,863 new words.

Brett sighed and leaned back in his chair. A rustle in the silence spun him around.

Formidable and fearsome, his hallucination stood wiping blood off a broadsword. Her gleaming red hair fell smoothly to her waist, miraculously avoiding the myriad weapons secured to her curves.

“Well?” she asked, her blade catching the light as it wove deftly through the air. The tip landed beneath Brett’s chin, tilting his face up to meet the challenge in the apparition’s astoundingly green eyes. “Aren’t you going to thank me?”

Shana Tova! Happy New Year!

Sunset last night marked the start of the Rosh HaShanah (new year) festivities in the Jewish Calendar. The holiday kicks off the days of awe, a time for apologies and forgiveness, which end with perhaps the most serious holiday in the Jewish calendar, Yom Kippur, the day of atonement. 

Rosh HaShanah is celebrated with prayer, the blowing of the shofar (a ceremonial ram's horn), and goodies such as apples dipped in honey and pomegranates. A traditional greeting wishes others a happy and sweet year: Shana Tova Umetuka!

There is a bit more to the holiday, but rather than my going into it all and possibly boring you, how about a video by the awesome a cappella group The Maccabeats: 

Moana (the Movie): Let's Break it Down

Fair warning: this post has nothing to do with my books or my writing. It does, however, look into the elements of one specific story and the underlying messages that story conveys—intentionally or not. This is very different from my usual topics, but the realization hit me hard and seemed worth writing about. I'd love to hear your thoughts as well!

Movie poster from the Disney site.

So, as you can tell from the post's title, I want to talk about Disney's Moana—a movie one review called "the perfect Disney movie" (Tasha Robinson, The Verge). Let me be clear: I like the movie; this post isn't about bashing it.

But upon watching it (not for the first time, thanks to it being on Netflix), I realized something about the basic underlying story. This post will include details from the movie, so if you haven't seen it, you may not want to read on.

So, Moana broken down:

Man assaults woman then freaks out when she—instead of taking it lying down—gets angry, taking zero responsibility for his own actions.

Help Me Choose the New Cover for Mortal Musings!

Mortal Musings is a fish out of water romance featuring a writer and his (mythological) muse—and it's getting a new cover!

After many—many—mockups, I've narrowed it down to the options below. Now I need your help! Which cover would make you click?

Please keep in mind, these are still mockups—which means watermarked proof files and some extremely rough edges. The final design will of course be all polished and pretty. 💕

Psst. You can check out the current cover in the right sidebar.

#1	#2
#3	#4

Did you know you could start reading Mortal Musings  for FREE right now? Just click here!

Happy Thanksgiving and Merry Holiday Season!

To all those of you celebrating, Happy Thanksgiving! I hope you have a wonderful time with your loved ones!

(To those of you not celebrating, go spend some time with your loved ones anyway!)

Because there has been a lot happening in my life, including a death in the family, I have decided to take a break from posting through the end of this year.

If you would like to stay in touch in the meanwhile, please do, whether through the contact form, social media (top of the sidebar), or my VIP Reader group.

I plan to resume posting in January. (Can you believe it's almost January?) I wish you all a happy, healthy, and safe end to your 2016!

A Flash Story for Domestic Violence Awareness Month

Last March, Scripting Change released Breaking Free, an anthology filled with stories and poetry exploring the impact of domestic violence in its many forms. Since October is 2016's National Domestic Violence Awareness Month, I've decided to share my story that was included in the anthology, hopefully helping to raise awareness.

Of course, it would be awesome if you would consider getting a full copy of Breaking Free, as 100% of proceeds are donated to support survivors of domestic violence.

Be A Man

You throw your dinner ’cross the kitchen, furious at its imperfect temperature. She cowers in the corner.

“A man is always in control.”

Doors slam as you rampage through the house. She used to hide us in the cupboards, trembling.

“A man’s home is his castle.”

“Weak,” you’d call me if I run to her side.

So I wait, until you tire of your attack. Wait, to catch her sobs in my embrace. And I hide—my drawings, my feelings, my self.

But your fists find their target, and I flinch. So a smack spins my head as you command, “Man up!”

Precise punches make for easily hidden bruises. Her stomach, her ribs, her thighs—anywhere clothing will cover. Because you’re always in control.

The world outside will never see, but you demand I watch, and learn.

So I wait.

For the strength to fill my muscles and my heart. For the will to stand against your voice. For the courage to take your blows.

Fists hit flesh, blood blooms, but now I do not flinch. You taught me better.

She gasps, hand fluttering to her lips.

You stumble back—shocked. Out of control. Afraid.

But best of all away from her, from them, all huddling at my back. My fingers flex as I stand, a wall you can’t take down. A shield to save them.

At last, a man.

What's the Deal with Books You Borrow from Libraries?

Many people don't see the difference between borrowing a book from the library and reading a pirated copy. After all, you're reading for free either way, right? And it's "so much more convenient" to find a pirated digital copy than to go to the library.

Do you see where I'm going here? Because in both cases: WRONG.

Let's start with the fact that libraries pay for each copy of the book they provide (print or digital), and then they pay to replace copies that are worn out by repeated borrows, or for extra copies if there is demand. And yes, authors receive royalties for each of those. 

"But I still have to go to the library to get the book!" 

I've heard this more times than I've bothered to count, and the thing is: it's not true. Libraries now provide both digital and audio books—and you can borrow them right from your home! Just log in to your library account, find the book, and click. (And with library copies, you don't have to be worried about any nasty viruses or other surprises.) Sure, occasionally there aren't as many copies as interested readers. And sometimes your library doesn't have the book you're looking for. If so, many will give you the opportunity to request they purchase a copy, giving you the book you want while also compensating the author. 

It's true that in both those cases you may have to wait a little while. But if you absolutely must read that book right this second, maybe you should be buying it.

Because the alternative is stealing from authors. And make no mistake, reading pirated books is stealing from the person who spent months or years creating that story. So rather than theft, take advantage of the legal, convenient, and mutually beneficial service libraries provide!

And to celebrate the awesomeness of libraries, share the last library book you borrowed in the comments! For me, it was Uprooted  by Naomi Novik.

Shana Tova!

Sunset last night marked the start of this year's Rosh Hashanah festivities in the Jewish calendar. Rosh Hashanah kicks off a new year, and it is celebrated with prayer, the blowing of the shofar (a ceremonial ram's horn), and goodies such as apples dipped in honey and pomegranates. A traditional greeting wishes others a happy and sweet year: Shana Tova Umetuka!

There is a bit more to the holiday, but rather than my going into it all and possibly boring you, how about a video by the awesome a cappella group The Maccabeats: 

How About a Flash Story?

It's been a while since I've shared any short fiction I've written, partially due to the end of the weekly Flash! Friday contests. So how about a story? This piece was included in Scripting Change's anthology Beyond the Words. (If you haven't yet grabbed a copy, you should—all proceeds are donated to support literacy!) 

In any case, I hope you enjoy, and I'm looking forward to your thoughts!

Immortalized in Ink

Photo by Heather /
CC license

When was the last time you died?


They say the pages give you lives—open the cover and step through. Escape into the words and find your solace, or adventure. Everything you never knew you needed exists within a book.


Until the story ends.


I’ve lived a thousand lives, and none at all. Each time the cover opens, the path begins anew, an invitation to the reader to walk, hop, duck, devour, run—or linger. Meander through new minds.


How do you read?


Infuse the lines with life. You trade yourself for moments, thoughts that aren’t yours yet wait for you—your heartbeats, gasps, and sighs the only way to matter. The pages flip at fingertips then flutter shut, marked, altered. Characters still, frozen and impatient.


Yearning.


Under your eager eyes they breathe again, huddled in armchairs or splayed out on the floor, cradled in your hands once more until that final page, your fingers’ parting touch a bittersweet caress.


My story stops but doesn’t end.


Shut on the shelf, I wait for you, your children, friends. I’ve memorized the words, the whole of my existence, unchanging. Emotions laid out in snapshots, catalogued yet incomplete, mold to their reader’s temperament, rely on your vicissitudes.


Trapped in my life, I live it over with you.


You laugh, learn, ache, love, grieve, then shed my story like old skin, discard it on a growing pile. Husks wither, dry, decay, but pages stay, a fresh supply.


Immortalized in ink, I wait, and never die.

Who Am I, if Social Media Says I'm Nobody?

Why do we look to strangers on the internet to define us? I've written before about the phenomenon of people chiming in (with ridiculous requirements) on who is "a real writer." But this isn't limited to the publishing world by any means. Just consider this article from the Huffington Post discussing "62 Signs You Are A Full-Fledged Adult Now." Because apparently we can't know if we qualify as an "adult" without someone else—a random stranger writing an article—telling us that that's the case, assuming we match their view of what an adult is.

Think about it: how many posts like that have you seen?

"X signs you're officially a             "

or

"You Know You're a              When..."

Why do we need someone else to tell us who we are? Why does someone pulling together these criteria into an article or blog post suddenly legitimize us, as "true" fans or "real" writers or whatever else?

I think the answer comes down to social media. Culturally, we've come to a point where having followers on Instagram or Vine or whatever is "in" at the moment makes you "somebody"—get enough and you'll be flying around the world for interviews, being invited on shows like Dancing with the Stars, etc. If no one follows you online, if no one likes your Facebook post, if no one comments on your blog posts, then you're nobody. That's the message being constantly perpetuated by the veneration of social media.

I call bullsh*t, but then maybe that's why I fail at social media. I'm sorry, blog readers, but I know who I am whether you comment or not (though comments are always appreciated!). I know who I am whether my tweets get seen or not. I have no identity crises related to not getting enough likes or retweets or whatever else, even as I recognize that, when it comes to social media metrics, I am failing. I'm happy to connect with all of you lovely people, and let's be honest, it's an important part of being an author or any kind of entrepreneur in today's world, but I am not defined by it, or by random articles online.

According to more than twenty sources I read while writing that post I mentioned, about what makes someone a "real" writer, I don't qualify. Not by their benchmarks. But I have three published novels, and thanks to NaNoWriMo, a fourth one drafted. Why should those posts' definitions of what makes someone a writer take that away from me? I understand why they would want it to—power, theirs over all of us—but why do we, generally, let them?

I slip sometimes, when social media, including this blog, starts to feel like screaming into the void. But what I question is my ability to create engaging content, to connect via social media with other writers and readers—not who I am as a person. And if that makes me a failure at social media, I guess I just have to accept that.

So who are you, outside of internet articles and social media metrics? Because that's the you I'd like to get to know.

Welcome to September

Happy Labor Day! Can you believe 2016 is 2/3 over?

September 1st was a sort of "reset" button for me this year. I've been spending a lot of time thinking, about my life and career both, about finding a better work-life balance, about what I want from my writing specifically. Much of that contemplation has been underscored by audio recordings of some RWA workshops, some more useful than others of course. 

One of the main parts of my life I'd like to balance is how much time I spend on social media vs. how well it actually connects me with fellow book lovers. Rather than continually shouting into the world, I'd really like to get back to the root of the "social" part, finding a way to truly connect to those who like reading, and maybe already like my books, and want to chat both with me and other readers in a more intimate setting. 

So, as I mentioned briefly last week, I've created a dedicated Facebook group precisely for that. The structure of the group is still up in the air, and it will be decided by those who join, whether you want dedicated giveaways, access to ARCs, early cover reveals, to help with some creative decisions, or just to hang out and chat—join the group and let me know!

---

And now, for a little bit of business:

Thanks to all those of you who entered the various giveaways celebrating the 1-year anniversary of Mortal Musings! The winner of the main prize pack, including a fold-up bag, deck of cards, and autographed print book is:

Wendy T. Congratulations, Wendy!

And because I like you guys, starting tomorrow you can enter to win a print copy of The Whedonite, my sweet short story of geeky love, via Goodreads:

Goodreads Book Giveaway

The Whedonite

by Aria Glazki

Giveaway ends September 18, 2016.

See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.

Enter Giveaway

I'm Back!

I'm back! Sorry for disappearing without notice—I'd planned to write a quick post, letting you all know that I was merely heading out of the country, not truly disappearing, but of course, as usual lately, life got in the way (packing, friends visiting (yay!), wrapping up work, etc.).

Stressful as wrapping everything up under a very strict deadline was (and don't even get me started on the disasters of traveling on the way there!) this trip truly came at a great time. I spent two full weeks genuinely not working, and usually not even thinking about work. The freedom from social media and worrying about marketing or deadlines—enforced by a lack of internet access—was incredible, and in many ways eye-opening.

I read eight full books, and the beginnings of two more! Two of them were by the fantastic Susan Elizabeth Phillips, one of my favorite authors ever since I first discovered romance. A few were by new-to-me authors, Nalini Singh and Anna Elliott, with a couple more by Laurell K Hamilton. I can't say I loved every book I read, but I loved being able to spend that much time reading—among sight seeing, engaging lectures on art & artists, and plenty of family time.

I also watched at least 5 movies on the plane rides (definitely more, but I only remember one during my flight there, which can't possibly be right). It was almost like coming out of a haze of work and catching up on what was happening in the rest of the world—while simultaneously being completely separate from that world.

I did miss the Olympics, which I am pretty bummed about, especially since I don't have cable in ay form at home and so can't watch the replays on NBC (boo).

Now that I'm back, of course I'm focusing full-force on the celebration for the 1-year anniversary of Mortal Musings, which is next week! I have lots of fun in store, and I hope you'll come celebrate with me. You can get a head start by joining my newsletter so that you'll be the first to know about everything going on. (And because I can't keep a secret, I can tell you there'll be a special giveaway open only to newsletter subscribers!)