New Website, Debut Novel, and the Loneliness of Creating

For so long, I hoped to one day say, ‘my novel comes out this year.’ And now I get to, because…

My debut novel comes out this year.

My YA fantasy novel The Space Between You and Me releases in print and ebook on November 14th with Amazon and other major retailers. You can preorder the ebook now!

Here’s the cover made by real live cover designer Andrew Davis (no relation) who has designed covers of other books on real live best seller lists

So what’s my book about?

Well, it’s about magic, coming of age, family, and best friends finding love in a world that wants to tear them apart.

Since kissing his best friend and setting fire to their friendship, Apollo has been slumming it with the outliers of his magical community.

Jonah has determinedly not been thinking about his ex-best friend and the kiss they shared. But it’s impossible to forget said ex-best friend when he is also your Kindred.

Though their magic only stirs to life when they touch, Jonah and Apollo would be separated for the safety of the community if anyone found out they were Kindred.

When they uncover a plot targeting the orphaned members of their clan for experimentation, they must decide: Keep their secret and stay together or sacrifice their bond to save their clan?

It is my sincere hope that this magical book evokes best friend and first crush nostalgia against the backdrop of a neon-colored night, all tinged with the unsettling threat of an enemy that reminds you of how you felt watching Stranger Things for the first time.

Publishing this novel had been an idea marinating in my brain after a friend who read it asked if I wanted to write anything for a queer book box project she was working on. While out sick from work last year, I finally decided to take the plunge. Turns out having an additional eight hours free per day gives one time to think about all kinds of other facets of one’s life.

Given that the indie publishing track kind of goes hand-in-hand with building your own platform, I’ve decided to buy a domain after nearly two decades of supporting my writing habit with my day job. You can visit my website, and what will be my main home base, here. I will keep this old girl alive for now, but please bookmark my new internet home. If you’re feeling extra bold, sign up for my newsletter; I give subscribers access to the first 99 pages of my upcoming novel.

After reading Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert, I’ve been thinking a lot about art. About supporting my art rather than asking it to support me. So instead of going into this with the expectation that this book will sell enough to one day hit the NY Times Bestseller list and Jimmy Fallon might want to talk to me (Who am I kidding? I could NEVER go on a talk show. Instead of fantasizing about interviews or awards ceremonies, I fantasize about how I’m going to duck out of them Cormac McCarthy style), I will focus on building the biodome for my book to fly in and hopefully land with someone.

But the process of creation is weird. You make yourself completely vulnerable by putting an entire novel carved from your heart into a public space, all with the fervent hope that it resonates with someone else. When people refer to the loneliness of any creative art, I don’t think they’re talking about the actual creating; sure, you are alone, but one is rarely lonely in the company of stories and art. I think people are actually referring to the years spent honing your craft, performing the admin that sucks up all your time to be creative, continuously looking at the creation from every angle until you’re sick of looking at it and then, still, sharpening it further, being the sole proponent of your work, screaming on a hill and hoping someone hears you while you spiral in a fomo-hazed depression, eating bag after bag of Tapatio Doritos while watching other authors find success. That’s the lonely part.

I’m currently in the thick of that part, in case you haven’t gathered that. Here’s the call to action, ya’ll. Indie authors usually don’t have the backing that publishing houses can provide, so people spreading the word is the #1 way our work can find its way into the hands of readers. This has all been done out of my love of what I do (read: my own pocket), so here I am, just a girl, standing in front of you, asking you to love me (and link bombing you).

Interested in my book and ready to take action?

Preorder The Space Between You and Me

Add The Space Between You and Me to Goodreads

Sign up to be considered for an ARC of The Space Between You and Me

Need to know more first?

(I feel like this could double as a personality test…)

Check out my story board on Pinterest

Check out my novel’s playlist on Spotify

Check out my website

Follow me on Amazon

So there’s the haps. Thank you to everyone reading–new followers, old followers, random lurkers–for following me on this journey. I hope you will meet me at my next stop.

The Self-Anointed Artist: My Audio-Produced Story “Feud” and First Author Interview

I have been following Amie McNee, creativity coach and book doula, on Instagram for some time. McNee encourages authors and artists to claim their creator title. The messages she writes to herself and to her followers are designed to systematically restructure our sometimes debilitating inner monologues about being a creator. Even in writing that last sentence, I had originally written “Her little messages”–McNee has taught me this is how doubt, negativity, and fear of others’ perceptions can alter and minimize the self we are striving to be.

I’ve always considered myself as someone who processes life through writing. I don’t get angry at someone and then write them into a novel to then put them through horrible trials. It’s a different kind of processing I undergo when creating art. It’s like I become a sieve, where the sand of any heavy emotion falls to the bottom and all of the bigger stuff like truth rises to the top (wait, do I know how a sieve works?). Though I’ve always instinctively resorted to this act of processing/creating, whenever I have thought of myself as ‘Artist’ or ‘Author’, I would always inwardly cringe, and I certainly never proclaimed myself aloud as such.

Years ago, I started this blog as a home for my creative works, a platform for a writer. I’ve always been more comfortable with calling myself a writer, because it so tidily sits beside reader and doodler. But to call oneself an “Author” is big. It comes with a truckload of connotation and entitled-sounding opinion, but I mentioned in an old post that declaring yourself the self you want to be by living as though you already are, is part of the becoming process. Even now, I feel resistance writing this post, worrying whether it is trite or whether it will resonate with anyone. But I couldn’t honestly share this milestone without talking about about everything I’ve had to fight against to get here.

All this to say, as soon as I changed my online presence descriptors to say “Author”, as soon as I anointed myself with that whole truckload of connotation behind it, that in and of itself didn’t make things happen for me, but it gave me the power to start opening those doors that had been there all along.

Image credit: Cassie Pertiet

Last year, I’d received the acceptance from The Grey Rooms Podcast for my most recently published work, a short horror story “Feud” (click here to listen; my story starts at 19:54). Since then, I have decided to self-publish a novel (more information on that soon!), scheduled a photoshoot for my author photo(!), and have been interviewed (listen to the interview here!) for the first time as an AUTHOR (notice I removed the quotations on that one 😏). I’m not saying that acceptance made those things happen. But my decision to proclaim myself certainly gave me the power to reach out and take what I wanted.

Writing this from the place of the final pass through of edits on upcoming debut release, where I am ripping my hair out, wondering if it’s as close to done as I thought, feels a little fraudulent, but it’s time to fly!

Let’s chat in the comments. Have you ever let yourself fall into this trap of self-denial? How did you anoint yourself?

How to Throw a Bookworm Baby Shower

I’m not big on ceremonies that require a whole lot of pomp or tradition just for the sake of tradition (i.e. weddings, baby showers). Yes, even if they are my own. This probably makes me the least sentimental writer out there, but so you have it.

I knew I needed to have a baby shower though because I needed a lot of things for two babies, so I wanted to ensure it reflected me in some way. And however it reflected me needed to be something I planned to pass down to my chil’en. Thus, books became the theme.

The entire idea came together in pieces, but it all turned out pretty good. I think it started with the awesome books my roomies gifted me for my girls at the horror con.

Shark Vs. Train was hilarious and The Monster at the End of This Book was a unique addition to any child’s book collection.

To throw your own bookworm baby shower, here are the necessary components of such a shindig:

One pregnant chick:

Yes, my belly button is off center. Stare too long and you’ll turn to stone.

Two impending bookworms (or one in most cases):

‘Baby A’ on the left and ‘Baby B’ on the right

Bookworms galore in the décor:

We cut a gajillion of these cute little worms out.

Bookmark party favors:

Got the idea for these badboys from Pinterest

Books (duh):

We used books underneath the colorful centerpieces my sister made, and the diaper raffle prize was even a book.

People:

Well…there were a lot more people inside.

To humor your ridiculous love of books that you will either lovingly pass down to the next generation or shove down their throats.

Some of the excellent books we received for the girls in lieu of cards:

• Animalia by Graeme Base

Probably my favorite illustrated children’s book. Pictures cannot do the book’s detail and thought justice

• The Time Cat series by Lloyd Alexander
• The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein
• Wherever You Are My Love Will Find You and On the Night You Were Born by Nancy Tillman
• Grimm’s Fairy Tales

This is a gorgeous leather bound edition my sister-in-law got us for the girls.

• Love You Forever by Robert Munsch and Sheila McGraw
• The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle
• Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown and Clement Hurd
• The Cat in the Hat and Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss
• The Stinky Cheeseman and Other Fairly Stupid Tales by Jon Scieszka and Lane Smith
• Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter

  

  This pretty and colorful collection of ‘Baby Lit’ is from a high school best friend

The illustrations are beautiful and the structure perfect for primer books, specifically counting primers or opposites primers

There you have it, folks. All you need for a bona fide bookworm baby shower.

Writer’s Lot

Do you ever just get the urge to start cursing and/or ranting and raving, while waving around a drink in one hand and a smoke in the other? I do. The trouble is, I act on it. Potential hazards of writer’s lot may include but are not limited to substance abuse and misanthropic exchanges. 

All writers fear the dreaded writer’s block–whether we handle it proactively or shake in a corner, feeling as though we’ve lost purpose in life because inspiration has seemingly abandoned us (I fall into the latter camp). Regardless of how we handle it, we still fear it. While this is a serious condition for writers, this post will be about another condition I have decided to call ‘writer’s lot’. Perhaps it is a kind of defense mechanism against writer’s block. Or perhaps I am making too many generalizations here. Hey, it’s an occupational hazard of being human.

For now, I’m distilling writer’s lot down to the use and/or abuse of alcohol, but I do not seek to demean the severity of alcoholism. I talk a lot about addiction on this blog–and will continue to do so–as I have my own issues with it (in fact, on my 6th 1st day of ‘quitting’ smoking, the itchy craving is almost paralyzing right now). I don’t want to blame my issues with addiction on being a writer, or my late father, who was a functioning alcoholic. I don’t do it because I’m unhappy either.

I do it to let go, to free my creativity and inhibitions, to get lost in a place that’s sometimes difficult for me to access without that kind of stimulant. Not that I encourage alcohol abuse, but used in moderation, it has its uses. As good ol’ Hemingway said:

In an excellent article by Blake Morrison, “Why Do Writers Drink?” , John Cheever is quoted as saying “The excitement of alcohol and the excitement of fantasy are very similar.” According to the article, poems were recited in ancient Greece during symposiums and soirees that involved heavy imbibing and perhaps an occasional visit from Bacchus himself—depending on how smashed you were. And I wouldn’t doubt it. But why?

Morrison outlines some well-known writers who seem to have fallen into the torrid clutches of writer’s lot: Edgar Allen Poe, William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Dorothy Parker, Ernest Hemingway, Anne Sexton, Patricia Highsmith, Jack Kerouac, John Berryman, and Charles Bukowski…just to name a few.

I think this condition draws people in because we naturally seek things which alter our normal state of being–caffeine, euphoria from exercise, sex, and sometimes mind-altering substances. Drinking affects our mind-state. Many who leisurely drink (or addictively drink) do it for this very reason. I do it for this reason. But how does it affect the mind-state in a way that Hemingway and other prolific writers saw as beneficial?

My assumption is that when you drink, just like when you fantasize, your logic and reasoning can easily be placed on the back burner, freeing your creative mind or just your illogical/emotional self to run rampant on the pages. This is perhaps the little piece inside ourselves that Bukowski would sleep with night after night but never cried about—only acknowledged that little blue bird of feeling while thrusting it out of sight in the light of day.

Morrison mentions that Olivia Laing, who wrote The Trip to Echo Springs: Why Writers Drink, endeavored on her journey to explore the disease to which the people she knew and loved fell victim. Laing does not approach the topic of authorship and drinking romantically at all. And that’s okay. It all comes down to perspective. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist though–writer’s lot. To this, Stephen King would say (and did) “creative people probably do run a greater risk of alcoholism and addiction than those in some other jobs, but so what? We all look pretty much the same when we’re puking in the gutter.” [92, On Writing]

I don’t hold a grudge against my father, nor do I think less of the people that partake in this; I choose to see it as the loosening and lubricating of the mind-state, though not to be depended upon.  Indulging in a bit of writer’s lot sometimes helps me attain this goal:

Sometimes it takes a couple to fill this role–depending on what’s being said…

Didn’t someone once say in vino veritas?

I am curious to know what others think about this. Is my perspective on this riddled with undue romanticism? Or do you agree? How would you characterize your own strain of writer’s lot?

Parallelism and Other Matters of the Mind

Had a dream about a little boy. I was looking out a window. It was snowing, so when I saw the blood shooting out of this boy’s chest, the color contrast itself was the most startling. Once outside, I pulled the child’s shirt back to find a flower-shaped wound, burned around the edges of the gaping hole, like a javelin was dipped in acid and stuck through from the back. I called for help and tried to staunch the bleeding. You hear of people being all noble and patient in moments like that—level-headed and calm. Well, I wasn’t. I was pretty goddamn distraught that this kid was bleeding all over the place. Sometimes I amuse myself by looking up dream meanings. Sometimes I actually do it to find meaning. Whether for amusement or answers: saving a child in one’s dreams signifies an attempt to save a part of oneself that’s being destroyed.

I wake up and drink cup after cup of black coffee. I love the high I get from coffee. I may have a problem with addiction. My work has been weighing on my mind. I wonder what the hell I am doing. The question that will remain unanswered is how the hell can I not?

When the sun has just passed its meridian in the sky, I finally get a cart that doesn’t squeak and feel the day might just be a glorious one. It starts squeaking after about 20 feet. Standing at the check stand, waiting for the cashier to finish sliding my purchases over the window with the electric eye, I think the reason we feel so good when we consume is that it fulfills a biological instinct—maybe it’s just all the advertising though. Later, my psychic aunt seeks me out for insightful inspirations. A progeny to her oracle? Or perhaps just fucked up psychologist… Need I point out the irony?

I see the smoke in the sky and instead of wondering what building has burned, I think it must be from the fire that used to be my life. Never mind. This is not some depressing diary entry that will, after I drink/smoke/caffeinate myself to death, live in infamy along with my work that was previously unrecognized while living. No. I got all that angst out as teenager. It’s just a perspective shift. There’s a lick of flame still burning inside.

“Benjy Compson”