New Release: A Tale du Mort

What has it been? Months?

Sorry ’bout it. I’ve been busy. *wink*

Today, the kindle version of my new book, A Tale du Mort is ready and waiting for your eyeballs. For those of you print-a-holics, the print version will be available next week.

Kindle cover final

I’m especially proud of this brain-child because I really let any expectations of what it SHOULD be go and wrote whatever I wanted. It’s also my very first self-pub adventure. I even designed the cover myself!

Thanks SO much for sticking with me despite my silence. I’m making it a point (as of THIS MOMENT) to blog more, even if it’s just me, throwing my voice into the wind.


*flails into the distance*

A Quickie on the Utter Bullshit That is a Writing Career

Good news:

Today, I received my FIRST EVER copy of REAPER in print. It’s fucking gorgeous and beautiful and I am not ashamed to say I snuggled it for a while.



So. Pretty.


And after we snuggled and whispered sweet nothings to each other, I thought about the release. THAT’S RIGHT. Other people (hopefully) will be reading this thing. And not only will they be reading it, they’ll have OPINIONS and shit. And while REAPER is awesomesauce with a dash of sarcastilicious (Thanks, Renee), there will be people out there who hate it. Don’t worry, I’ve got whiskey.

And then I thought, HOLY TWAT WAFFLE I have ANOTHER book coming out next year, which only leads to more rejection via review.

Which brings me to my point–

The rejection never stops.

Say it with me.





But seriously, it doesn’t. It starts with query letters, then edits that make you cut out your favorite scenes, and then reviews and THE CYCLE NEVER ENDS.

And the anxiety? I’ve got a new WIP in front of me that I’m completely in love with, but in the dark recesses of my mind there’s a voice. A voice that says it doesn’t matter what I write, because it’ll suck. It all sucks. It’s like the editor voice, but on steroids. Fucker.

It’s taking some time and patience and a tall glass of whiskey and coke in my “I ❤ BEAVER” glass to get through it.

A career in writing, or any of the arts in general, is complete bullshit. But I’ll be DAMNED if I ever stop.



Rantlet and Update

First the rant, because I know that’s why you all came here. Everyone loves drama.

Pretty recently, author Christopher Moore made a statement on his facebook account that he was told to “Just write books” and to spare his readers his political opinion because, as a writer he shouldn’t have one.

Immediately following that event, Chris started a second twitter account which he uses strictly as a political outlet. If you’re curious, his handle is @NOX10US. Don’t go over there just to act like a douchebag, though, k? Then, my good friend and fellow OFW-er, Renee, blogged her thoughts on the whole thing here.

I decided to give myself some thinking time before I voiced my thoughts, via blog, on the matter. Here’s what I came up with.

Those of you who claim that writers should just “shut up and write” must not read very much.

No, I’m serious. Or if you do, you couldn’t possibly comprehend that what you are reading are ideas come to fruition. That means, the writer had a thought, then voiced that thought via fiction. Writers are sneaky devils. We will lace whatever the fuck we want between the lines of that novel you’re enjoying so much, including a political jab or two. Just because we make the same declaration, be it political, sociological, or just the fact that we fucking love bacon, by a vehicle other than fiction it doesn’t make it any less the same.

As readers, if you want to have that personal connection with your favorite author, then you’re going to have to make room for the personal shit like politics and social issues. If you just want another book, then log off Twitter, and sit back and wait for your email from Barnes & Noble saying that your preordered copy is on the way. It’s that simple. We can’t force you to sit and listen to everything we have to say – and believe we’d fucking love to – just as you can’t force that author to shut up. Not only is it rude, it’s impossible.

So grow up, take a step back, and think about what you’re saying before you go polluting the internet with your whiny bullshit. If you don’t “follow” me because of it, cool. My feelings won’t get hurt. Same if you don’t read my stories. Sure, I’d like you to. What writer doesn’t? It’s why we do it. For us, and for you guys. But chances are if you don’t like my style when it comes to something as dumb as a 140 character tweet, then you probably aren’t going to like my fiction style, either.

And scene.

Now for the update.

I am at the point in my writing career that I’ve had to choose between a moderate social life and committing more time to the two projects I’m knee deep in and extremely excited about. Guess which won. A real desk was purchased.

I have friends who have assumed I died of some strange disease or got myself shot over saying the wrong thing to the wrong person with the wrong inflection. For all intents and purposes, yes, I died. No need for a funeral. Just buy a caramel macchiato in my name and drink it with all the orgasmic joy you can muster.

That’s all I have for today. No, I’m not going to talk about my super exciting projects for the same reason I never tell people what I wish for on my birthday. It’s just bad luck. I will, however, be reading an excerpt at the “Wordier Than Thou” event in St. Petersburg at L Train Bar on September 27th. If you live in the area, I recommend attending. Not just for me, but for the other talented writers that’ll be there sharing their work. Beer and fiction. Doesn’t get better.

Classic Author Spotlight – Prisoner C33

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”

Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde [say that five times fast] (October 16, 1854 – November 30, 1900) was an Irish writer and poet known for his wit, cynicism, and dry, “fuck you,” writing style, and is a personal favorite of mine.

His two most well known works of prose are: his only novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890), in which Wilde expresses his ideas on the supremacy of art and beauty; and the play, The Importance of Being Earnest (1895) – one of his four society comedies.

At the height of his fame, while The Importance of Being Earnest was still on stage, Wilde sued the father of his then lover, Lord Alfred Douglas, for libel. The subsequent trial brought to light evidence which led to Wilde dropping his charges and being arrested himself on charges of gross indecency with other men. He was convicted and sentenced to two years hard labor.

After Wilde was released, he left for France and never returned to Britain. While in France, he wrote his final work, the Ballad of Reading Gaol (1898), a poem commemorating the harshness of prison life and is authored, “Prisoner C33.”

He died destitute in Paris at the age of forty-six of cerebral meningitis. The epitaph on his tomb reads,

“And alien tears will fill for him/Pity’s long broken urn,/For his mourners will be outcast men/And outcasts always mourn.”

While I undoubtedly would’ve hated Wilde had we gone to high school together, pompous ass that he was, there is also no doubt to his talent. Reading his society comedies is like reading the smirk on his face as he witnessed Victorian life around him. A master of sarcasm and blatant insult, Wilde’s work is, to the observant reader, insightful and entertaining.

If you’re a Wilde virgin, I recommend picking up The Picture of Dorian Gray. Wilde spends a lot of time on the soapbox in this novel through the character Lord Henry Wotton, but it’s worth reading. For you e-book whores, it’s usually free through Amazon/Kindle. Now you have no excuse. I expect a report.