Who Likes Free Books?

GrizzyDeadLSI love free books, and Grizzy (my cat) does too! That’s why I’m giving away a free, signed paperback copy of Dead Like Stars! Head over to Goodreads to enter the drawing before Monday (the 28th) at 11:59 pm (PT). While you’re there, perhaps you’ll add Dead Like Stars to your ‘to read’ list and follow my author page. There you’ll find a Q&A section where you can post questions and read answers about my books and other aspects of writing. I love answering your questions, so ask away!

If you don’t win a copy this time, don’t fret. I’ll be running more giveaways in the future! Be among the first to know: sign up for my mailing list!

Dead Like Stars has been doing fairly well. There are 6 reviews on Amazon and Goodreads so far, but I’d love your help to reach 20. If you enjoyed my book, please take a moment to write a review. It doesn’t have to be long or fancy, just choose a star rating, add a sentence or two, and you’re done! As an independent author, reviews increase visibility and add credibility. Your words will help others find mine.

For those of you who’ve been asking about book two, Darkling Like Stars: I’ve been making progress, though not as quickly as I hoped. I have around 60 thousand words. Some context: Dead Like Stars is around 90 thousand words—so I have a pretty sizable chunk.

In other news, I’ve been working my way through my vampire-themed reading list. I just finished Prophecy of Three, book one of the Starseed Trilogy by Ashley McLeo. It’s a fun read, full of magic, witches, and vampires. You can check out my review and get a copy for yourself on Amazon.

Next on my list are

Vampire Girl by Karpov Kinrade

The Scarlet Thread by Derek Murphy

Additionally, I’ve been wanting to re-read a favorite from way back in the day: The Last Vampire by Christopher Pike.

 

Have you read any good vampire books lately? Tell me about your favorites!

Advertisements

Cats Can’t Write

Sometimes I envy my cat. Hell, more than sometimes. Presently he’s sleeping at my side, snoring ever so slightly. Now and again his foot twitches and I imagine he’s creeping through a jungle of dream grass stalking some tantalizingly elusive prey, a bird-mouse perhaps? Or maybe his favorite toy, koala-ball, has become sentient. Either way, it’s a pretty damned awesome dream if you’re a cat.

I wonder what it would be like to sleep like that, like nothing else matters. How would it be to not have my guilt-tripping inner nag constantly whispering, “It’s been six hours! You’ve slept enough! Shouldn’t you be writing? TICK! TICK! TICK! Gotta get those stories out before you DIE!”

But she means well, and she is right. After all, each second, day, hour, I am closer to death, and how horrible it would be to die with an untold story!

I think about this every day on my ten-mile bike commute. Every car that almost swipes me, every bus that veers into my path. I want to shout, “NO! Not yet! I have too many stories to tell!” Which is a lot different than my pre-writing mindset. Settle in, I’ll tell you all about it.

Yes, I’ve always been a “writer” but there was a period (a really fucking dark period) of about ten years in which I didn’t—couldn’t—write anything.

I started smoking in around seventh grade, and I would smoke cigarettes whenever I wrote. When I turned eighteen I decided an asthmatic shouldn’t smoke, and quit. In quitting, I also inadvertently quit writing. I couldn’t do it anymore, not without the ember’s red glow, the waft of swirling grey smoke. It was over. Cue the depression.

So I stumbled through life, sure it all had some purpose, but I couldn’t figure out what. I’d thought it had been writing, but obviously I had been wrong about that. So I decided I would live only as long as my two cats, then, once they died, I too could go. My bike rides then were indifferent. I could die, but meh, it saved me the trouble of having to do it myself.

Good times.

What snapped me out of this funk? Well, oddly enough, all it took was one over-hyped, mind-numbing book. I’m not going to name names, and which book it was isn’t really important. Really, it was more of a cumulative thing and this book just happened to be the last straw. It poked a shining hole into my darkness and forced me to pick up my pen for the first time in ten years. Now my life is measured in stories, not cats.

So, if you’ll excuse me, I have some writing to do.

Seven Years Don’t Mean Shit

It’s been an interesting week full of, well, I’ll just say, surprises. Overall it’s been good. I’ve had time to think and re-imagine my life. In March I’ll be going back to school after almost 10 years off. Time sure creeps, huh? Aside from school, I’ll be focusing on writing, and hopefully, somehow, keeping food on my cat’s plate—because thats the most important thing, or so he tells me, and he only eats the primo shit. No Friskies for this cat.

I’ve been working on Bloodlife again, hopefully I will finish it for real this time. It’s hard to get started, mostly because I know the work that awaits within. Black pools of swamp that I must wade through, purify, and somehow polish into something that fits with the rest of the book. It shouldn’t be this hard, but I’ve been building it up in my head so it’s become this epic, looming mountain I must conquer.

I’m approaching it cautiously, bit by bit, and as I sink into the familiar narrative, I’m surprised to discover some of it isn’t all that bad. I won’t say it’s good, because what does that even mean? Good is subjective and whimsical. However, speaking of good…

I’ve been reading Ursula K. Le Guin’s, “Lathe of Heaven.” It’s amazing, and I can’t stop scribbling in her margins, micro-printed notes, hearts—little smiley faces. I’ve probably underlined a third of the book.

I love how she handles character, each with a their own unique tics, speech patterns, and styles of observation. I know this is something that is supposed to be standard in novels, but so often I feel it is something writers either ignore or do sloppily. I also really enjoy the way she peppers in backstory, unobtrusively with so many interesting and beautiful images and observations.

Another thing I found interesting, there have been a few places where I was jostled out of the story. Wait, you say, that’s a bad thing, right? You would think so, but no. It’s awesome. One example:

Early in the book, there’s a scene where one character, relaying a dream he’s had about his aunt Ethel, says: She was “usually disguised, the way people are in dreams sometimes; once she was a white cat, but I knew she was Ethel.”

It doesn’t seem like much, but upon reading that line, I laughed out loud and exclaimed, “SO TRUE!” (I also underlined it, and put a heart in the margin, in case you were wondering.) Why did I love this bit so much? Because it happens to me often. The strangest shit happens in dreams. I’ll have a dream where I’m doing something with my husband, but he’s also my sister, but at the same time he’s a parrot.

Until I read this book, I had never really thought about it, even though my dream diary is full of instances just like this. It never would have occurred to me to include something like this in my fiction. It’s details like these that make books fun. They draw parallels in our lives and add meaning—they create freakin’ connections. They add realism. In that moment it is real, and you and the character share a secret.

Anyway, that’s just one example, and not even the best one, and as I’ve said, it’s all subjective. Either way, go get a copy. It’s a great book, especially if you are a writer. Once I finish, I’m going to immediately read it again, there’s just so much to learn!

Haven’t read it yet? Please do, and after you’ve had your ‘conversations’ in Ursula Le Guin’s margins, please, tell me all about them!

Also, moderately interesting, I may have given Ursula Le Guin a fan letter last week. It was just like grade school: handwritten, folded into a little rectangle, complete with a smiley kitty face. I thrust it into her hands and ran, then I nervous cried the whole way home. *facepalm*