I’ve always written. That’s just the start. I’ve dabbled with writing groups, with Nanowrimo, and being the isolated writer for most of my life, picking up and putting it down as life would divert my attention. This year, I put my foot down and said I’m going to make this writing thing more than just a vacation from the rest of my life. It will be a large part of my life.

First Decision: From Writer to Author – Achievement Unlocked

While technically I’d decided the last time I’d started dipping my toe into the possible publication route to go indie and not traditional since I was placing my flag in the ground this time around, I reviewed whether I still wanted to take on a lot of the front-loading that is indie publishing instead of going the route of finding an agent and going the traditional publishing route. Because of my personality, skill set, and let’s be frank, lack of patience (along with my need to control as many things as possible), I’ve decided to stick with going the indie publishing route to move from “writer” and into “published author”.

Second Decision: Indie Publishing – Achievement Unlocked

I pump out A LOT of words in the fall, usually thanks to Nanowrimo. But given the last two years of Nano shitting the bed on making good choices, that wouldn’t be an option for me this year. (Full story here). I’ve seen a lot of different folks trying to organize Nanowrimo alternatives, but nothing was speaking to me. I happened to attend a free webinar put on by Alessandre Torre (one of the founders of InkersCon, which I’ve attended virtually over the last few years) where she talked about her small group BootCamp she was running in October/November, which would have your work reviewed by three different pro editors, along with direct access to her in open Q&As, and small groups of your peers in the same part of the author journey. I couldn’t hit “Buy Now” quick enough.

Third Decision: Writing Bootcamp – Achievement Unlocked

While we worked through all of the classwork with the Bootcamp, we hit “Publishing” and “Marketing”… and the question that I feel would haunt me if I didn’t make the right decision before I hit Publish came up. To go KDP or to go Wide? Before working through the coursework, I thought, oh, I can go KDP exclusive for ebook, and then wide on print. But the more I did the work, and then fell into a bit of a rabbit hole of opinions and experiments from indies who went before me, especially for fantasy series, the more I hit the decision wall. It only makes sense to start Wide for me. Like choosing indie vs. trad, it’ll be more work on the front end, but it’s the right choice for me.

Fourth Decision: Go Wide – Achievement Unlocked

Now, I’ve reached where my skill set comes in. Because going indie means I’m responsible for editors, marketing, and book cover. I’ve done many book covers and author sites thanks to my freelance business, but looking at the market and comp titles for my fantasy series, my first attempt was soulless. Pretty, but soulless. My personal style was directly in the way of the market expectations. As I was working through the standard “what’s missing” conversations with friends and family, my kid piped in with some really great points, even though their own commission work hadn’t treaded into book cover territory. I ended up working out a deal with them and they’re finishing up the cover as I type this.

Fifth Decision: Book Cover Design – Achievement Unlocked

Next, while I wait for the developmental editors’ feedback from the Bootcamp, I’m starting to gather interested parties to become my beta readers while I wrap up my edits (which if you’re following along on my socials, I just ripped out my entire Act 2 to rewrite it **cries**). While I’ve had lots of friends say “Sure, I’d love to read it” I wanted to put words into action, so I’ve created a Beta Reader Interest Form to keep it all official. I shared out that link to my newsletter, and I’ve already had a few folks sign up.

Sixth Decision: Beta Readers – Achievement Unlocked.

Up next: I’ll need to hire an editor, figure out if I’m going to format my work or hire it out, and so much more. The goal is the beginning of the year to publish The Hand of Mashyana, Book One of my Action-Adventure Fantasy Series. This decision list is really the tip of a scary but exciting adventure. I’ve been writing in some form online since 2003, so I’m going to try and keep up both the joys and the pains of this next experiment here.

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I’ve participated in National Novel Writing Month (Nanowrimo) since 2003. Twenty years, y’all. And here’s where I hang up my hat and say I won’t be participating any longer, thanks to their stance on using AI.

Listen, y’all – I work with AI, and have for years for the day job. I understand its uses and limitations and think it can be a helpful tool in many cases. I have one main stopping point when using AI, though.

I cannot abide by AI in the creative fields. That’s not where it belongs.

To be this completely tone-deaf (at best) by attempting to say that not supporting the use of AI in a creative field like writing. Chuck Wendig says it much more succinctly than I can:

Chuck really breaks down all of the ways that this use of generative AI in particular harms the creative fields in particular – go ahead and give it a read.

It really does hurt my heart to say goodbye to Nanowrimo, as it really did change me, allowed me to play in genres and worlds that I wouldn’t have had the confidence to do. I also WROTE, without care or letting in the inner editor, winning over half of the nanos that I participated in.

So long, Nanowrimo…. it was so good for so long.

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Why Nanowrimo?

Why do I do this? In part, to prove to myself that I can, but from another viewpoint, I tend to use Nano as my way of testing out my collection of random story ideas as a bit of a litmus test. If I can take a sentence or two that I’ve written down in a digital or analog journal and churn out 50,000 in 30 days, it seems to have legs to finish it.

Also, I love playing in new genres during Nano just to see if they interest me as a writer and not just as a reader.

Last year was my first real foray into Epic/Multi-POV Fantasy, and I adored it enough that I’m doing it again this year. Mind you, if you head over to my Goodreads profile I read a lot of it, but I don’t write it. I’ve never felt that I could write in this genre for a multitude of reasons, but I’m happy to say that I really, truly love writing it as much as I love reading it.

So what’s your process?

If you haven’t gotten the theme yet, I adore playing around during Nanowrimo with all kinds of things – ideas, genres, and processes. I’ve used just about every kind of published process out there during PrepTober (October prep for November’s writing).

This year I’m going back to the Beat Sheet I used last year, Take off Your Pants by Libbie Hawker. For someone who has been a self-described Plantster (mix of plotter and pantser) for most of my writing life, I tend to lean a little harder on the pantser mentality than I do plotting out things, so this beat sheet for outlining has been so great for me.

The thing I’ve found with this method of outlining is that it focuses on my favorite part of writing, the characters. I think that’s why I’ve struggled before with some beat sheets and outlines where the plot is the driver, while my lovely little imaginary friends, my characters, will always be my primary focus when I’m writing things.

So what’s happening this year?

I’m being a little bit of a rebel this year because I’m taking last year’s Nano novel, and I’m just starting over. There were some fabulous pieces in there, but I think I flip-flopped on what was important to the story itself, so I’m going to start it over. Not only am I going to be rewriting the book, but I have already begun percolating on making this an actual trilogy.

Book 1 (and more than likely the series) is currently named “The Hand of Mashyana” and I’ve been playing around with a little bit of a blurb.

In the enchanted realm of Emari, loyalty and trust are everything, and Farah has been raised to honor the Mashyana above all else. As a servant of the queen, she’s unwavering in her devotion, until the day she’s tasked with a mission that will change everything.

Yasher, a wily traveler and card shark from a distant northern kingdom, possesses a powerful relic—the Eye of Rashnu—a relic of untold significance. Unaware of its true power, he is thrust into Emari’s dangerous political intrigue.

When Farah’s path crosses with Yasher’s, their worlds collide in a realm where secrets are woven into the very fabric of humanity’s existence when a dark ambition that threatens Emari and its gods emerges. Farah must confront her allegiance, trust in new allies, and confront the realities of power and betrayal.

As the battle for the relics escalates and the fate of the gods hangs in the balance, Farah and Yasher must work together to unveil the Eye of Rashnu’s true purpose. In a world where loyalty can be a weapon and trust the greatest treasure, they face not only the sinister secrets, unlikely allies and enemies, and try to save the gods that abandoned them centuries ago.

Mind you, this is all subject to change as I write this month, but I’m really feeling it so far.

Want to keep up with my writing this month in particular? Hit me up on my socials to follow along.

Threads | Instagram

And if you’re participating in Nanowrimo this year, I’d love to be buddies!

Happy Nanowrimo to all who celebrate!

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Yeah, about that…

I worked solidly through my edits, and I started pushing toward the light at the end of the tunnel.

Then, Ahmaud Arbery was murdered. The pandemic got worse. Then George Floyd was murdered. The pandemic got worse. Then the election. The pandemic got worse. Then January 6. The pandemic got worse, and we decided we’d ignore it. Then, then, then.

I shut down. I stopped doing anything and everything outside of basic functional responsibilities. Family and work were all I could get myself out of bed to do. I started a new day job in the middle of 2021 as well, and every ounce of energy not expended to just get through the day was spent on trying to learn a new company and manage new people who were not used to having a manager who didn’t live in the same area as they did.

Opening up Scrivener caused me outright anxiety, let alone thinking about writing anything. I attempted to work on edits, even getting a new editor for Lens, but I just couldn’t seem to focus for more than short bursts.

That, my friends, is all to say, Depression sucks. Depression lies. Depression knocks you flat on your ass to where you don’t want to get up off the floor.

While I’m not ‘fixed’ yet (the joys of being bipolar means you just figure out what works and what doesn’t) I am writing again. For the moment, I’ve paused edits on Lens, and I’ve been remembering how to write with a new, completely off-brand for me Fantasy for this year’s Nanowrimo project, and it’s honestly going really well. I feel like I’m slowly digging myself out of this hole.

On the plus side, I can work on my own schedule because I plan to self-publish, but I am starting pretty much from scratch because of the last two (almost three) years. While disappointing, I’m feeling confident that I’ve finally had the shift that I’ve been struggling with for so long.

Onwards, y’all.

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To say that 2019 wasn’t kind to me was a little bit of an understatement. Three different (day) jobs, two close family deaths and just a multitude of things going sideways all contributed to me not making any head-way into the goals that I’d set for myself personally and professionally here as an author. 

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I came across a quote, “Love is friendship set on fire” somewhere out in the world, and tonight it just brought this scene to mind. While just a bit of flash fiction, I think I might have to come back to this character, as she seems to have much more to say.

Some days I can forget you. Some days I can forget the fact that from the moment I saw you I knew you were going to be the greatest love story of my life.

Some days I can forget how you saved me without even knowing what you had done, picked me up and set me up on my path with your smile. You didn’t even know who or what I was and you reached out to help. That’s just what you do.

Some days I can even forget how you ripped out my heart with your smile, wrapping your arms around her. I smiled along with you as you walked down the aisle to her, steeling myself by saying to myself that this was just what was meant to be.

Some days I can forget watching the two of you, wishing that I’d spoken up before you’d made your choice. Before you’d even had a choice presented to you. Before my fear of rejection took precedence over my possible happily-ever-after.

Some days I can remember you telling me how she ruined you, made you less of a person until you couldn’t take it any longer. Some days I can forget walking, drinking, as you poured your heart out in your words. I was made mute, keeping my heart bottled up because I was just starting to heal so many years down the road.

Some days I can forget how I lied to you, saying that I once had a crush, but it was no more. The bar stool became a vise, squeezing the lies out to make myself feel better, to pad up my heart from you before you ripped it to shreds again.

Some days I can forget how the wounds seeped open in my heart as I saw the new girl on your arm. I scalded my tongue with coffee to keep the lies from becoming the truth at the worst possible moment. I tried to be happy for you, starting to repair your own heart.

Some days I can forget how I walked away, letting you live your life without me. Some days I can forget how the heart doesn’t really heal, it just puts a layer of scar tissue to help you get through the days that you can’t forget any longer.

Some days I don’t even pull out your pictures any longer.

If only one of us could be happy, I always wanted it to be you.

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Superhero / In a Vehicle Traveling Down the Highway / Weapons of Mass Destruction

—————————

The Last Will and Testament of the Whip

This is how I die. In the back of a car barreling down a highway, unmasked, wondering exactly how much blood is left in my body to pump out. The shreds of the bandage across my abdomen looked as black as my suit even under the random streetlights we passed under as we sped into the night.

“I would have never guessed the great and powerful Whip was you.” My killer said as she gripped the steering wheel. “I mean, really, Jane. You’re a mouse.”

I sighed. This had been the same sentiment she’d had on a vocal loop since the beginning of our drive. My mask hung like fuzzy dice from the rear-view mirror. Somewhere along the ride, I started having trouble recognizing her face reflected in the mirror, but I could keep my focus on my mask. Her eyes replaced the darkness from the holes for my eyes, and I could not look away.

I don’t think she realized that I no longer had the energy to refute her comments. I was inches away from giving into the blackness that was creeping into the edges of my vision, and I really didn’t care what her opinion of me was any longer. I couldn’t even feel the bite of the zip ties that she’d wrapped around my wrist, why did I care if she was in a state of shock that my quiet alter-ego Jane was really The Whip, Protector of MetroCity. The Whip was bleeding out in her backseat, that was all that mattered any more.

“Why are you so quiet, Jane? I can feel that you at least have a few more hours before you don’t have to listen to me ramble on and on.” Her eyes flashed violet in the rear-view mirror and I felt a surge of energy that took over from the numbness settling in.

“I… I don’t have anything… left… to say.” I hear myself say, yet I don’t really feel anything but the foreign energy coursing through my body. “You won.”

“Oh, I haven’t won yet, honeybun. I won’t say that I’ve won until I find your secret stash of weapons, and I hope you realize that you cannot go gently into that good night without my permission, regardless of how you’re feeling.”

“No… more… weapons.” I get out on my own. “Gone.”

“Don’t lie, honeybun. It doesn’t suit your face.” A jolt of her energy flew through my body, causing me to convulse. All of the places where the numbness had set into my body screamed out in agony. I prayed for the first time in my life. Prayed for death.

“You took those weapons of mass destruction out of the Middle East and stashed them somewhere the stupid Nulls couldn’t get to them, didn’t you?” She jerked the steering wheel as she turned to look at me. The rough texture of the emergency lane sent lances of pain through my body until she turned back and re-adjusted the car onto the highway lane.

“I… thought…” The pain made actual speech impossible.

“You thought what?” Another surge of energy flew from her into my body. “You thought you could change your ways and become a Saviour of Mankind?”

Yes, I thought. I heard my voice answer as well, but it seemed even more separate from me than before.

“Well, honeybun, it doesn’t work that way.” She moved the rear-view mirror to check her makeup, then pulled it back to center on me. “See, you’re the villain. I’m the hero. MetroCity is mine, and I need those weapons to remind all those… Nulls who the fuck rules the roost in my city.”

Her rant over for the moment, she returned her attention back to the road, leaving me alone with the ghost of her energy and my own mixture of pain and numb. MetroCity may have made me a villain within their media, but their heroes weren’t anything to write home about either.

I felt the car slow as she pulled off of the highway and onto a disused secondary road. She still thought that I’d leave the weapons somewhere that would be where my alter-ego would go anywhere near, because that is what she’d do.

For a Hero, she wasn’t terribly intelligent.
As I contemplated this, it slowly dawned on me that the pain was gone. Every inch of my body felt as if it had been stripped away, and all that was left was emptiness. The blood had slowed down to just a small trickle from my stomach.

I glanced up at the rear-view mirror and locked eyes with her just as I felt everything slip away. Her face, confused for a moment, distorted into pure, unadulterated rage just before everything went black.

– Fin –

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What’s the challenge this week, you ask? Just this picture:

My contribution is below the fold. I will say, this ended up much differently than I initially thought it would. I ended up writing a lot more than the 1000 word limit, so I had to do some pruning, but I think it works well.

Doll Heads

Mother was a hoarder. She always preferred the word ‘collector’, but Ethan and I would always call it what she actually was. Hoarder, psycho, complete nutjob… depending on whether she was in earshot or not, of course.  Mother wasn’t just a hoarder, she had a mean drunk temper, whether or not she was actually drinking.

I remember when I first read the word ‘mercurial’ when I was in a kid. I ran back home from the library to tell Ethan I had finally found the thing that Mother was, but didn’t pay enough attention that she was in the living room while we were making dinner.

“What did you call me?” she said, too quietly, from behind me. That’s the last thing I remember until I woke up in the Clinic, with fourteen stitches on my forehead and a concussion.

When I turned sixteen, I jumped ship. Ethan was already out of the house a year at that point, and I tried to move in with him. His psycho girlfriends were almost as bad as Mother, though he had the ability to get rid of them. We never could get rid of Mother.

I tried by moving across the country. Waking up with cold sweats night after night, Mother in a falling-down house in Ohio, myself in a cheap walk-up in Seattle, the distance just made her voice in my head a little bit crisper.

We thought that she would live forever, on sheer crazy. Ethan called me one night with the news I thought I’d be elated to hear.

“She’s dead.” he said without preamble. I dropped onto my couch, barely keeping the phone to my ear. “Can you come home?”

Home? I thought. I couldn’t speak. This is home. Not that place, covered in all of Mother’s various projects and shit from her beloved strays. Those nasty animals that I always knew she loved more than us.

I cleared my throat and told Ethan that I would be back in town as soon as I could get a flight out. I had to hang up before I changed my mind. Ethan needed me.

He met me at the baggage claim. It had been a few years since we had seen each other, but there was no mistaking the tall blond man who hid his damage behind a stellar smile. I, on the other hand, wore my damage on my sleeve, which was why I think he noticed me first.

“Missy is already at the house.” He said without greeting. He took my bag without touching me. I don’t like to be touched.

“She’ll have the place organized in no time.” I stopped walking. “Why did you have me come out?”

“She was your mother, Ellen.”

I shook my head, knowing that I was putting him in a corner.

The ride out to the house was silent. Ethan didn’t seem to mind when I put on the radio and surfed through the channels.

He pulled up to the house that still surfaced up in my nightmares. Ethan got out, but I couldn’t bring myself to open the car door.

Ethan made the decision for me by opening up my door.

“Come on.” Ethan whispered.

The smell hit me as I opened the front door. Stale cigarette smoke mixed with rotting paper with a dash of cat piss for good measure. I was confused for a moment, thinking that I was late and that Mother was going to kick my ass in just a minute.

No one was going to kick my ass today.

“Ethan honey? Did you get her?” Missy called from the back of the house. I saw her handiwork already in the house, with all the scattered trash that would normally be through the house was stacked and bagged. There was a semblance of organization to all of Mother’s things, which was never present while I was living here.

“Well, there you are. Come on and get something to drink.” Missy came into the hallway. Outside of her hair going completely white, Missy was the same slip of a woman that she had been my whole life. Ethan called her Miss Tornado when we were kids, and it still suited her.

I followed her, still not ready to speak, back into the kitchen. This is where Missy had started, as everything had a place and there were already items tagged and ready for the estate sale. Missy handed me a glass of iced tea, as I looked over the collections.

The porcelain doll heads caught my eye. Those god-damned doll heads, roughly fired long ago when Mother had decided to make her own dolls were jumbled together with other toys in the corner hutch. While I first found them incredibly creepy, the more Mother lost her mind, more affinity I felt with them. They were parts, strong enough to be made whole but they never would be able to in this house, this life.

“Missy, I need those doll heads.” I said, setting my drink on the scarred old kitchen table.

Missy stopped for a moment, as if to argue, but looked at me, slowly nodding.

“You take anything you need to, honey.” She placed her hands gently on my shoulders. “Anything you need.”

She left me alone with Ethan. I looked at him once, then turned away from him and back to the doll heads. I grabbed the dishtowel, gently placing each porcelain head into the cloth.

I only had to navigate the screen door with its still sticky latch, holding the doll heads in the cloth like an infant. Ethan followed at a small distance behind.

I opened the dishcloth on the ground, and picked up a doll head. I caressed it for a moment before taking aim at the outbuilding, throwing it with all my strength at the wall. Ethan jumped at the sound, taking a step towards me. I turned to look back at him, then picked up another one and threw again.

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So, when I found Flash Fiction Fridays (many thanks to the Great Mr. Chuck Wendig for introducing me to this site) I thought, Well, hell, I can do this…

…. And then I forgot about it. Until I saw this image for Cycle 30. And the beginning of what you will find below the cut popped into my brain. The Cycle was already done for submissions, but I felt that I needed to write this down before it left my brain as a good exercise, along with a real reminder that I need to pay a bit more attention to the due dates of some of these flash fiction pieces.

So, here’s my not-really-a-submission for Flash Fiction Friday – Cycle 30. Feel free to pick it apart, but if you’re going to critique, remember that trolls will be deleted. I follow a strict No-Feeding policy when it comes to trolls.

And when you’re done here, go on over to read the real submissions on their site.

Comes the Dawn

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