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Let’s talk TV and Movies. I rewatched Justified over the last couple of weeks, mostly because my mind was restless and needed something to latch onto while I build up mojo to write. Not background noise either. I needed something to make me think. Flitting between Justified and Hannibal after the finale of American Gods, the former won out. Who would’ve thought four words �� “We dug coal together.�� �� could still be swirling around in my north eastern suburban brain, giving me inspiration?

Justified is such a perfect example of:

Taut writing

Every relationship, from the adversarial to the romantic, progressed in ways that made sense, and yet were unexpected. This all had to be planned, because story lines get completed sometimes seasons down the line. Characters return. Threads you thought would never amount to much get pulled long. Threads you thought would make it to the end get cut. And each decision has lasting consequences. You see so many characters that, if not for a right or wrong turn, could be in each other’s shoes. But the plot doesn’t fall by the wayside for the sake of those relationships. This is a show about lawmen and outlaws, after all, and the action keeps moving.

Consistent characterization

Walton Goggins as Boyd Crowder, in particular, is a favorite. He and Raylan serve as great foils for each other. It brings to mind the phrase “Every villain is the hero in their own story.�� Yet, even though you know who these people are, they still have the ability to surprise. That’s because the writers know them inside and out. They know what’s out of character, they know their weaknesses and their strengths, which interactions bring out a certain kind of chemistry. The writers had control, so they knew when to hold back and when to give some vulnerability.

Realistic twists and turns, amazing acting, and great cinematography

You truly get the sense that Harlan is both home and a shackle around the ankles of those who call it home. You get the push and pull, the love and hate, and the consequences of poverty for these people. And this is all shown through the cinematography and the unapologetic depictions of southern life. In one scene you can see two veterans on either side of the law, and never know who is going to make it out of the showdown alive, despite knowing who the good guys are. And it all happens around a backdrop of rolling hills and fertile land juxtaposed with depressed towns where dying industries like coal have left people scrambling for a way to survive.

A believable supporting cast

I never felt like I was treading water until Timothy Olyphant or Walter Goggins entered a scene. Ava, Rachel, Tim, Art, even Wynn Duffy, were all welcome on my screen. And you never know what seeing them will mean for the direction of the plot. They worked well as separate entities and as a group because the writers and actors made them real people and not plot devices alone.

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I keep coming back to the final episode in my mind, mostly because it managed to do something few shows do. Most of the time, the season finale of a beloved show feels more like a goodbye for the cast and crew, rather than a goodbye for the characters. Sometimes I like that veil-thin feeling, where you get to see the actors wave farewell to years of hard work.

But this time around I saw only the characters. It made me sad. I cried as the last frame faded to black, at the subtlety of those final, true moments. It’s a master class in how to stick with a project over the long haul, how to adapt a book into another medium, and ultimately, how to let go when a story has run its course. So many shows seem to hold on too long, or get cut too soon, or end up the victim of behind the scenes drama. Not this one.

If you haven’t seen the show yet, you should give it a try. If you have, you should rewatch again one day, just to remind yourself what great television looks like. Hell, what great storytelling in general looks like. Especially if you’re a writer. The arcs every season, and the continuity of the characters over the course of the series, is great for those working on a series themselves.

I’ve loved many movies and shows in my life, and I’ve cried many times watching them end. But I seldom do so with a smile on my face and a sense of contentment. I think that’s what good art looks like sometimes, too. It’s not always an emotional hangover. Sometimes good art is like a good buzz, or like opening your eyes after a good dream.

And that’s also the best way to describe looking at Timothy Olyphant for six seasons. A damn good dream.

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This week there were several discussions about dark romance and erotica.

Again.

It’s also known as transgressive fiction.

Or rape fiction. Or more derisively “rape as romance�� as it’s called in the romance community. Some of these discussions concerned the nature of trigger warnings, and how to make those warnings as potent as possible. This is for the protection of readers who want to avoid these stories, which I fully support. And though I do think the term and the warnings themselves have been abused somewhat, this isn’t about dismissing their usefulness.

No, this is about how for some people, no matter how much caution tape you put on a thing, it’s not enough. Outrage is intoxicating. People can, and will, stumble through that tape on purpose, as if they were moths on a collision course with a perfectly avoidable flame.

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Trigger Warning: Toy is incredibly self destructive and will ruin your Christmas or birthday in hilariously macabre fashion.

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It doesn’t matter that readers looking for these dark stories are perfectly fine with the trigger warnings used. That they’ve done their research well enough to find them with ease, and know what they’re getting into. People against the existence of transgressive fiction aren’t convinced.

That’s not romance, they say, when what they mean is it’s not healthy romance. Doesn’t matter if it ends with a happily ever after. A rape as romance story on principle shouldn’t be written, and certainly shouldn’t end happily. It’s not afforded a reprieve because it’s fiction. Confirmed consent rests with the reader if not the characters in the story, but that won’t suffice.

That is the kink people signed up to read when looking for dark books, but that’s not okay. To these individuals fiction, they say, informs people’s actions rather than the other way around. And so a trigger warning is just a scarlet letter on a transgression that never should’ve happened. Turns out, its not the separate but equal branding naysayers claimed it would be.

Transgressive stories have been around much longer than the rules of modern publishing. Happily Ever Afters weren’t the required ending of the fairy tales that spawned the term. What we now call fairy tales and romance is the result of a public relations overhaul. Fairies, after all, were some vicious creatures who specialized in duping humans. They forced humans to make deals under duress. Fairies gave zero fucks about consent.

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Yeah, I’m pretty sure this is a fairly unfair fairy price for one sugar plum��

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But then, that’s the beauty of this day and age. Want to read those original terrifying stories about the fair folk? You can. Want the sanitized versions? Check out a Disney flick. These are choices we’ve never had before with such abundance. So why are we trying harder than ever to limit our choices because of disagreement? Why have we cast fiction as more insidious than real life itself? Why are we telling artists to only paint with certain colors on the emotional color wheel? Why are we telling our readers �� and make no mistake they are our readers due to the overlap in audiences looking for good art �� that they should be ashamed for wanting to specifically read dark romance and erotica?

There are numerous trigger warnings �� sometimes with a laundry list of topics and themes recorded. People who hate those themes still read the books, and still leave scathing reviews despite the warning. Which is is their right. But…�� People treat these stories almost like a dare.

“Read at your own risk! And oh boy, I hope you risk it!��

“Are you triggered by certain themes? Well let me tell you, this book is super triggering! Don’t believe me, huh? Huhhhh? Read and find out just how traumatized I want to make you!��

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Sighhhhhhhhhh

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Dark romance, however, is not a dare. And the trigger warnings aren’t a dare either. They’re the truth afforded the consumer, and they are a courtesy. Indie publishing makes more concessions than just about any other artistic platform. Definitely more than traditional publishing makes considering how few trigger warnings they use. We live in a world where a woman’s sexual fantasies, written in her own words, for other women to read, is still a reason to be apologetic. If we’re not ashamed, it’s viewed as an affront to good-minded people. And even when we’re off in our own little corner, it’s still not enough.

That’s why trigger warnings, no matter how well done, explicit or creative, long or short, will never be enough for some readers. They treat it, and dark romance and erotica, like a dare. Like a perverted desire on the part of the artist to offend. Like a scam to take unearned dollars reaped from a reader’s pain. Like a shame that should remain secret for the reader. Like something to hide from outsiders �� particularly men �� looking for any excuse to finger wag at romance and erotica, and women by proxy.

But who are we protecting here with these safe spaces that ironically aren’t safe for dark romance and erotica writers and readers? What about safe spaces for the readers who are rape survivors and find catharsis in transgressive fiction? What about the safe spaces for rape survivors who write their way through the trauma? Who share for those specifically looking for their perspective in story form?

What about the women who will have rape fantasies, assaulted or not?

When are we going to place trigger warnings on all the discussions that paint them as bad people for not being ashamed of their sexual desires? When are we going to let women surmount this societal shame in peace, with a consensual experience they can control in book form? Why are these women not encouraged to use characters as surrogates, in the same way the HEA crowd uses romance to surmount the darkness and uncertainty of real life?

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In real life they broke up and probably got pneumonia. But on film? Kisses in the rain for the win.

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The trigger warning is an invitation to turn around if you don’t want to read a story. With reviews, samples, trigger warnings, and countless discussions about the meaning of “dark��, there’s no excuse for wandering into that creepy house on the hill. Everyone said it’s haunted. There are other houses that are more inviting. So blaming the architects and builders for the scare you received after ignoring the “BEWARE�� sign makes no sense. Don’t go in the house. No one is forcing you to wander inside if you’re afraid of the dark.

They’ve always been here, these dark, taboo reads. Just like women writers have always been here. Just like PoC writers. Just like LGBTQ+ writers. Human beings use stories to traverse their own psyches. We stumble onto the same themes over and over because we share a collective unconsciousness. And yet we all have a unique perspective. If you would stand for a woman’s right to read the fluffiest, most conventional romance novel, then you can stand to give the dark stuff you despise a wide berth. And if you do stumble onto it without warning, you can close the book and leave a review. That’s the real power of fiction. We have power over it. Even when every other facet of our lives has power over us.

Dark romance and erotica is not a dare. It’s a genre. All that’s missing now is a damn category on Amazon. Considering how much money they make off the genre, and romance as a whole, they should get on that.

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Seriously, Amazon. Get it together.

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So, most of the time I can’t half remember the things I like, or they’re so weird and brutal that I feel like maybe I should keep them to myself. The more I thought about it though, the more I decided I should talk more about the things I like. Shame keeps us from sharing things we like, from being ourselves, from changing when it’s time to change. In my own work I’ve learned how to navigate that monster in order to tell the stories I want to tell, but sometimes it’s harder to do when I’m just talking about me. I figured on this rainy Saturday, while I work on drafting my next book, I might as well try blogging again and sort through some things that stood out this week. Whether it’s dark, geeky, or boring, I’ll try to give you an idea of what goes on up here *taps temple*.

There’s a manhwa (the Korean version of a manga or graphic novel) called that is honestly some dark-ass tragic shit that made me sit up straight. It’s M/M (though both protags are bisexual) and ongoing, and I want to know what happens next because I’m honestly not sure if everyone makes it out of this one alive. They definitely won’t make it out of the story without severe emotional, mental, and physical trauma �� on top of what they’ve already suffered, that is. I am not kidding here, this is straight up nightmare fuel, and there’s lots of themes of abuse and brutality, so I caution you to not take my trigger warning as a dare. If you’re not into psychological horror and gore, skip it. This also isn’t for folks who want a quick fix of mindless nastiness either. It’s a bit of slow burn, but if you’re familiar with manga/manhwa, you know that’s not uncommon with long serials.

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It’s not what it looks like. It’s much, much worse.

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I finally got the chance to watch Big Little Lies and I loved it. Never read the book, so I didn’t have to do that comparison thing, or have expectations that weren’t met. I could just watch and be pleasantly surprised. There are themes of sexual assault and domestic violence in this as well. I thought the way they handled it was beautifully done, and I loved the blending and bleeding of characters�� memories, daydreams, and arcs, how you sometimes didn’t know if you were seeing a real event or a figment of their imagination, or a something that would happen in the future. All of this was highlighted by the transitions and the music, and was so artfully done. Watch it for the powerhouse performances, the subtle twists and turns, and the gorgeous film-making.

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They’re probably searching for their Emmy’s.

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On to music. Halsey’s new album hopeless fountain kingdom, much like her first album Badlands deals with a tragic, sexual relationship and a sense of loss. The relationship is abusive and toxic, but it’s not an endorsement. Sometimes the hardest part of making art is wondering if people will be able to separate it from the artist, if people will know that telling a story is not us saying “yes, behave exactly like this, isn’t it wonderful to be so irresponsible!��. Sometimes, it’s just the shit that vexes us, haunts us, scares us. Sometimes it bleeds in and out of different emotions, like lust, and trying to tackle it in art helps make sense of it all.

The songs 100 Letters, Eyes Closed, Heaven In Hiding, Lie, and especially Hopeless �� which sounds like Imogen Heap for you long-time followers who loved The Loose Ends Series �� really hit the right spots for me. I love that with this album she allowed herself to write from the POV of a bisexual woman too, broaching love and lust with men and women, reflecting on the mistakes of the past while she tries to recover from a current heartbreak.

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At some point in the near future, after I finish updating my website, I’ll share the playlist for Doing It To Death (Shivers and Sins Volume 2). I’ll probably do a post for Music Monday or something, and share a few songs. For now, I’ll leave you with one of the songs I had on repeat while writing it. Counting Bodies Like Sheep To the Rhythm Of the War Drums, to me, is kinda creepy and kinda sexy. I stumbled onto a dark romance playlist on Twitter that an author named shared, and this song was on it. Just goes to show, if you keep your eyes open the Muse will find food for you to nibble on.

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What about you guys? Any dark and tragic stuff you’re not afraid to share? Anything that still haunts you, that you’re trying to find again with a different book, song, movie, or show? Leave a comment so others can find something new to love shamelessly, too.

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Doing It To Death (Shivers and Sins Volume 2) is officially LIVE!! And it’s my birthday!! Woo Hoo, we’re celebrating the birth of two VERY complex babies today! *snort*

Grab your copy of this dark paranormal thriller full of witches, vampires, werewolves, hot sex, terror, and get inside the mind of Jesse, the monster Evie encounters in !

I savor my life of blood and power and I’ve never wanted more.

Until the night a witch forced her pathetic human needs into my mind.

My prey made me want her, made me relish her pain, and ensnared me with pleasure. Made me want things I didn’t understand.

I couldn’t break her. I failed to kill her.

Now, I can’t hunt, can’t feed, and can’t sleep for the bitch whispering in my head.

Did baby witch cast a spell on me? My stomach howls with the answer.

The only way to break this curse is to kill the witch who cast it.

I’m coming for you, baby.

This time, I’m gonna do you to death.

❥��.•��*¨`*•✿ ❥��.•��*¨`*•✿ ❥��.•��*¨`*•✿ ��

Author’s Note:

The light at the bottom of this rabbit hole is tinted obsidian, and I put the characters in this story through the ringer. Not for the faint-hearted, this read explores the dark side of obsession, in all its forms. Adults only from this point. Strap in and buckle up. Keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times. Because the teeth lurking ahead are razor sharp and the blood they seek might be yours. Please, do not attempt to exert your human morals on the fictional beasts you will meet. They’ll just laugh while they rip you to shreds.

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So it’s official! Doing It To Death (Shivers and Sins Volume 2) is finished! We’re in the last stages before publication �� proofreading and getting ARCs ready �� but that’s all. This week Jesse’s story will be available for purchase!

If you haven’t already, to read the first 7 chapters of Doing It To Death for free. Check out the synopsis and cover below, ADD IT TO GOODREADS, and get ready for a wild ride!

I savor my life of blood and power and I’ve never wanted more.
Until the night a witch forced her pathetic human needs into my mind.
My prey made me want her, made me relish her pain, and ensnared me with pleasure. Made me want things I didn’t understand.
I couldn’t break her. I failed to kill her.
Now, I can’t hunt, can’t feed, and can’t sleep for the bitch whispering in my head.
Did baby witch cast a spell on me? My stomach howls with the answer.
The only way to break this curse is to kill the witch who cast it.
I’m coming for you, baby.
This time, I’m gonna do you to death.

❥��.•��*¨`*•✿ ❥��.•��*¨`*•✿ ❥��.•��*¨`*•✿ ��

Author’s Note:

The light at the bottom of this rabbit hole is tinted obsidian, and I put the characters in this story through the ringer. Not for the faint-hearted, this read explores the dark side of obsession, in all its forms. Adults only from this point. Strap in and buckle up. Keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times. Because the teeth lurking ahead are razor sharp and the blood they seek might be yours. Please, do not attempt to exert your human morals on the fictional beasts you will meet. They’ll just laugh while they rip you to shreds.
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This Black History Month has me in a more ponderous mood than usual. I’ve been thinking a lot about truth and lies, especially the latter and how it’s working in our government today. And so much of this month is about the great big lies we have to uncover in order to heal and celebrate who we are.

Here’s the thing about racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, etc. They all start with a lie. Lies are armor we set around the truths we don’t like. They’re born of fear, a desire to protect ourselves from the ridicule of others, or from the self-awareness of our own shortcomings. But they aren’t born of ignorance. Ignorance implies we don’t know better. We do. We know when we have something to hide.

After centuries of having the dirty laundry of isms/phobias not only aired, but refuted by facts, by the accomplishments of the persecuted and the perseverance of the oppressed, devotees of prejudice got tired. Bone tired of having to defend their alternative facts (“I’m better than you and I deserve to be treated as such at your expense.��). Instead they were forced to defend, to no avail, the the lie at the roots, the lie in the seed planted. The lie that says there is one superior race, one superior sex, and one superior sexuality, and everyone else must suffer for the “inferiority�� of their birth.

When asked how the powerful majority came to these ideas about race, sex, and sexuality, they touted biology. They touted religion. Money, zip code, dialect, whatever was handy for the season. Until all of these lies were batted aside and folks just had to admit, “I feel better about myself when I make you feel less than. I make more money if I use you to make it for me. I make even more money if I don’t give you your share when the work is done. I want to abuse you because it makes me feel powerful when I feel powerless. I want what you have and if you have it instead of me, it makes me feel like I’m undeserving. I want you to feel undeserving instead.��

And at the root of all this truth is the biggest one: “I feel this way because someone told me I should, someone who profits from my suffering and my desire to break free of it. I don’t know who I am if I question what I was taught, but I’m afraid it means I’m mediocre. I don’t want to start over.��

That’s the root of deflections like. “I’m not racist, but…�� “I’m not sexist, but…�� “I don’t hate LGBTQI folks, but…�� “I’m not judging you, but…��

I truly believe most of the folks saying that know better, and just aren’t up for the challenge of having to defend their beliefs. To defend them would mean to lay the truth of them bare on some dark, lonely night, to pick through the bones and risk losing the the crutch that props them up. The things that make us hate are taught. If we use them to define us, they become an addiction. With every addiction, the addict keeps chasing the high they felt that first time, keeps upping the dose, keeps saying they have it under control.

No one gets addicted to truth. Truth is a choice. Truth is a commitment, and it’s difficult. It’s painful. It’s also unavoidable. You won’t escape it. You can’t log out of it, turn it off, silence it. It beats at the heart of us all, and it will come find you in the quiet moments when you can no longer hide. That is what this month is about. Remembrance. Truth. The things we tried to hide that have, and will continue, to come to light.

The onus is on each of us to examine the lies we tell ourselves about who we are, and to examine what’s left when we strip those lies away. Are we good people in deed, or just in hypothetical policies? Do we love ourselves, or do we only say we do? Do we feel righteous when we hurt others? Do we have a passion that *doesn’t* involve bringing someone else to their knees before us? Ignorance implies we don’t know the answer to these questions. We do. We know when we have something to hide.

We all have a purpose, we’re all deserving of life. And liberty. And the pursuit of happiness. We all deserve to be free, even if it’s just freedom from our own lies. You don’t have to hurt others to be whole. You can love yourself like a revolution. You can embrace the truth around and within you. And if you don’t like what you see, if what you see hurts you, you can change it. You can resist.

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(Yes I understand the difference between community based and government censorship. And while this post was spurred on by another author gaining negative attention, it’s about so much more than one book or one author. It’s about all of us and how we can be different and co-exist.)

Two women stand on a platform waiting for the train to come.

Woman A is standing over the yellow line. She should probably step back for her safety, but that’s not where she wants to stand. She likes the feel of the wind on her face when the train whizzes past. She likes the danger and she has a few friends who can relate to that feeling, that rush amidst the mundane commute to work.

Woman B abhors this. Woman A’s behavior is distasteful and dangerous. How dare Woman A break the rules and set a bad example. So many women have died on these very tracks. And for some reason other women are walking past and giving Woman A compliments for breaking the rules. They want to stand over the yellow line just like Woman A and it’s disgusting and unfair. Woman B was here first, she follows the rules, and believes this is how you show respect to those who died on those tracks.

And now the train is coming��

Woman B pushes Woman A onto the tracks. Because Woman B says it’s her responsibility to make an example of this one disrespectful woman so others don’t step over the line. It’s not allowed, the train station says so. So what if a police officer did just walk right past and let several other women stand over the line, it’s not okay. Read the sign, it says step back! Woman A, in her brazen yellow coat to match the line she refused to tow, deserved to fall. So why not help her inevitable descent?

The train hits Woman A.

But the train isn’t what killed her.

The thing that killed Woman A was self-righteousness, a road paved with good intentions we’ve all walked down a time or two. Woman B believed Woman A deserved to be splattered across the tracks because she stepped over the line, and the shove is what sealed the deal. To say anything else is to lie. All the other women standing on the platform saw the shove. Some agree the train should have run Woman A over, but that’s not the point. The point is the shove, the aggressive act used to hurt someone Woman B disagreed with while claiming to care about the safety of the other commuters.

And while Woman B would like to believe she pushed Woman A because of the need to protect other women�� truthfully Woman B pushed her because Woman A would have gotten on the train first.

We, as women, might vocally blame the train station for not putting up barriers to keep us safe. We might write a scathing post about the men who build these machines with unwieldy breaks, and call them to task for not fixing our faulty transportation system. But we seldom manage to hurt those men as much as we hurt other women riding the same train.

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I don’t think that’s okay. I don’t think that’s sisterhood. I think that’s letting the train station off the hook, letting rapists off the hook, and finding another way to blame women for their assaults while calling them contributors to rape culture.

Her skirt is too short. She was drunk. She read rape fiction.

We don’t abhor the proliferation of rape fantasies as told and passed down by men disguised within mythology and religion in the same way. We don’t get texts and retellings on “Hades and Persephone�� reported and pulled, despite the fact that he fed her the food of the dead, taking away forever her autonomy for several months out of the year. In some cases, this myth is considered a HEA dark romance. Hades is forever faithful to his queen, who once was a spring Goddess snatched from her mother’s embrace, from youthful maiden innocence. She’s rewarded with a kingdom and her “bad boy�� king, with maturity. Or there’s the darker story, the one where she’s trapped and wishes to return home and never recaptures her innocence. Depends on who is telling the tale, but the main thrust of the story, the abduction and the archetypes, persist.

Dark romance and erotica are a part of us, like comedy, tragedy, and mystery. It’s understandable that some of us don’t like that part or our collective unconscious, for personal reasons. That doesn’t mean we can erase the existence of these genres and parts of our psyche, or tell others how to access and grapple with them in their own homes. We pride ourselves on being part of western civilization but rarely do we look back and research the works our “civilized�� fore-bearers called entertainment. Their cheap smut is now called classic theatre and literature, while some school systems are working over time to ban the masterpiece “To Kill A Mockingbird��, or rewrite slaves as “African workers�� in our textbooks in order to the hide our collective shameful history. Who is making these rules?

If I could control other women just by shaming them, I could have stopped 53% of white women from voting against our collective interests (economic, financial, healthcare based interests), the very things that help contribute to rape by disempowering real women in the real world. I can abhor. I can dislike. I can rail. But I cannot take away their voice without forfeiting my own. And I can’t throw them under the bus, raise my hands and say, “look at the tread marks though, it wasn’t me.��

Writers give readers the consensual reading experience they signed up for, a safe space for them to feel raw emotion. No matter what happens on those pages, the real woman can close the book. Assault victims can’t do that. Even the worst and most triggering book is not the actual triggering event. It’s a vibration, an echo of an event or feeling that couldn’t be closed. And for some women, they fight that event *with* fiction. With transgressive, smutty, taboo stories that help them tame the real life horror.

For some, their safe space is on the beach. For others, it’s inside a cage with sharks swimming around, their pointed teeth scraping against the metal bars.

Maybe I don’t agree with swimming with sharks. Maybe I swim with them every day. Maybe one day I’ll change my mind about swimming with sharks and wander back to the shore. But the day I work overtime to make sure no one can swim with sharks �� or one person in particular �� is the day I look up and find the beach has been closed, that the train no longer runs, forcing us all to walk.

You know who will be just fine with us women walking while they take the train? The guys over in literary fiction, fantasy, and science fiction.

Those men are writing the same stuff we want to tear women down for reading and writing. Only they’ll be getting a pat on the back in front of a fireplace, drinks in hand, talking about how fearless they were standing over that yellow line with the train whizzing past. And in a hundred years people will be studying their books in a classroom, while we, the women writing for women, will go down in history as peddling cheap romance and smut.

How can we expect this industry or the future to see our value, our nuances, if we ourselves are too busy casting stones with the words “wrong��, “dirty��, and “disgusting�� etched on them? If we’re making the rules, why are we only enforcing them when they serve to hurt us and put us in boxes we didn’t create in the first place? We have agency. We can choose to wave off the works we disagree with. We can choose to work hard, grapple with the craft. We can choose as a community to live and let die. And we can choose to shove people in front of trains. I’m hoping, for our collective sake, we’ll choose instead to get better, pen the stories we love without fear, and take our rightful place beside the men who can and will write whatever they damn well please.

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It’s been a long time in the making, this twisted tale of mine, and now��by Die By the Drop (Shivers and Sins Volume 1) is officially live!��If you like a paranormal erotic horror story that grabs you by the throat and won’t let go, this is the tale for you.

Still not sure? Then sign up for my and read the first six chapters FREE. This treat is only for subscribers.

Grab��your copy today, add it to ŷ������, and let the wild ride that is Shivers and Sins begin!

ADD TO GOODREADS

Synopsis

I’d fought to lead a normal life, despite being anything but.

Until the night three monsters forced me to fight for survival instead.

They turned a short walk through the woods into the road trip to Hell.

The leader made me his, made me dread pleasure and relish pain. Made me want things I’d once feared.

They wanted to break me, bleed me drop by drop.

They picked the wrong witch.

Author’s Note:

The light at the bottom of this rabbit hole is tinted obsidian, and I put the characters in this story through the ringer. Not for the faint-hearted, this read explores the dark side of obsession, in all its forms. Adults only from this point. Strap in and buckle up. Keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times. Because the teeth lurking ahead are razor sharp and the blood they seek might be yours. Please, do not attempt to exert your human morals on the fictional beasts you will meet. They’ll just laugh while they rip you to shreds.

��

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Yes, it’s time for another unveiling!! Here’s the cover and synopsis for Die By the Drop: Shivers and Sins Volume 1, my upcoming paranormal erotic thriller.

But you know that’s not all I have to share, right? It’s also time for an excerpt!

But first, a warning: This story is not like the others I’ve written. It contains copious amounts of violence, sex, a merging of the two, and non consent, all within the context of a paranormal setting. I’ll talk about that more in another post, and again��when it’s time to publish. If that’s not your cup of tea I totally understand. But if it is, then you might enjoy the rest of this post.

Chapter One is here, but if you want to read the first SIX CHAPTERS, all you have to do is . I swear I won’t spam your inbox. I only send newsletters when I have something to share about my work or awesome deals where you get to stuff your e-reader full to bursting.

I’ll send it as soon as I get everything cleaned up in a few days. And please feel free to leave feedback if you like, it’s always appreciated.

Hope you enjoy and thanks for all your support as I work to get DBTD edited for a tentative summer release!

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I’d fought to lead a normal life, despite being anything but.

Until the night three monsters forced me to fight for survival instead.

They turned a short walk through the woods into the road trip to Hell.

The leader made me his, made me dread pleasure and relish pain. Made me want things I’d once feared.

They wanted to break me, bleed me drop by drop.

They picked the wrong witch.

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Chapter One

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It wasn’t the chill that rattled my bones, but the knowledge didn’t stop me from blaming my shivers on the cold as Manny tore at my clothes to expose more skin.

“You alright?�� My boyfriend of two-and-a-half years shoved my jeans down my hips without waiting for an answer.

“I don’t feel so��good.�� I sensed movement in the trees surrounding us, belying the eerie stillness of the night. In the distance, a bonfire crackled, the pungent smell of smoke tangling on the wind as music blared. I felt trapped in a��bubble of deceptive��calm. Silence, the kind that prevails when animals flee, thickened around us.

Manny didn’t seem to notice. He shoved cold fingers between my legs and rubbed my dry flesh.

Even in his drunken haze, he looked disappointed. Wasn’t I always wet and ready for him? Wasn’t I always predictable and accommodating?

Never mind, his huff seemed to say. The condom had lube on it. He gave me a sloppy kiss while he rifled through his jeans pocket for one. I knew what came next. He’d turn me around, shove me up against the tree, and fuck me from behind��like so many times before in these woods. Maybe the tree he braced me��against��knew the press of our weight, the sound of our moans. Maybe��my��fingernails had��etched��this bark during the throes of ecstasy.

Tonight was different, though. Tonight I couldn’t ignore who I was��what I was. I couldn’t��pretend everything was fine.

“Manny. Manny! Stop for a second, okay?��

I pitched my voice low, soothing him. He was pretty horny so it took longer than usual. He pulled his teeth away from the condom wrapper and stared at me.

“I don’t feel up to it tonight, babe. I’m sorry.��

He sighed and took a step back. “What’s going on with you? You’ve been acting weird all fucking week, and now, we finally get a chance to be alone and you’re not up to it?��

I yanked up my panties and jeans and straightened my spine. “You and I have both been busy, so don’t put this shit on me. If you want something to just lie there while you jizz all over it, then let me get out of your way.�� I slid to the side, and motioned with my hands like a magician’s assistant, presenting the tree for his sexual pleasure.

Shock flared in Manny’s eyes. I’d never spoken to him with disdain. Guilt blew out the flame of my anger and nausea doused the embers. ��

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,�� I whispered to the night air. My stomach flipped and I bent to dry heave. Manny leaned over to push my hair aside.

“You didn’t have too much to drink, did you?��

I shook my head and��regretted the motion. “I couldn’t even finish that beer. Fuck, I want to go home.�� Tears stung my eyes.��

Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong again. Something’s going to happen!

“Is this like one of those episodes you had when you were a kid?��

I grimaced and righted myself, swiping my forehead with a sweaty palm. “You mean, before I got admitted against my will to a mental hospital? One of those ��辱���ǻ���?��

It’s exactly like that, but I’ll be damned if I tell you the truth.

Manny had the decency to look ashamed for bringing up my battle with mental health. I never talked about my admittance into Tremaine Behavioral Hospital after my cousin Nora’s death, but he knew. Everyone in our small suburban town knew. My past hung over me like a cloud. I’d cultivated a new image since then, my dark past fading, mostly blending in with the white fluffy clouds surrounding the fictional life I presented to the world.

But still, every once in a while, if I looked too emotional, if I didn’t smother melancholy before anyone saw, my loved ones pricked up their ears, listening for the first hint of a storm. Always, there glowed a touch of gray in me, a rumble of thunder buried deep within. I’d spent years burying my volatile nature, but I couldn’t dig the hole deep enough so that people forgot I’d been unhinged once. Small towns have longer memories.

“E������—���

I leaned back against the tree for support while I tried to make myself look strong. “I’m not having an episode. I’m not crazy.��

“I know that. Just talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.�� Manny stroked my overheated cheek with cool fingers, gentling his touch the way he did before kissing me.

I wanted to tell him, I’d come too far to turn back now. The girl I used to be, the one who’d screamed and cried and suffered nightmares just before Nora’s death? She died as soon as I got my clearance papers from the hospital. I’d killed her.

I am normal! I’m just sick to my stomach and need to get some rest. I’m not crazy. And even if I was losing my mind, I’d die before I told another living soul. Never again.

“Nothing. I just don’t feel well.�� The lie worked. Like flipping a switch, he returned to exasperation.

“We just got here, Evie. And Greg? What am I supposed to tell him?��

Greg—Manny’s best friend since pee-wee football—shipped��off for the Army tomorrow. We’d come to a bonfire to celebrate his last night in town.

“I’m sorry. You can stay and I’ll take the car.��

Manny scowled. “You’re the designated driver.��

Fuck.

I’d never been a big drinker, so I agreed to be the designated driver. I’d completely forgotten, and now, I regretted my promise

Manny wavered before my eyes, but I blinked my tears back. I swallowed. A shiver wracked me.

Get it together, Evie. Just grin and bear it for one night.

“I can’t stay,�� I blurted.

So much for my pep talk.

The Evie I pretended to be—the normal college senior—would’ve sucked it up and agreed to stay, like a mature and totally sane twenty-two year old would. The Evie I pretended to be would’ve smiled, kissed her boyfriend, and led him back to the party after he shot his load. Why couldn’t I just do that now?

“I can come back and get you. If you call me—��

He shoved his dick��into his boxers and zipped with more force than needed. “I’ll walk home.��

We were��only about a thirty-or forty-minute hike from our hometown of��Guthridge, New Jersey.��No��sweat for a man built like an NFL quarterback, but I still��didn’t like the idea. Not tonight. Not in these woods.

“So you’re gonna walk home drunk and then get up for work tomorrow afternoon?��

“Well, that wasn’t the fucking plan, was it?��

My stomach roiled. I needed to concentrate, push away his anger, and stay calm for both our sakes.��I focused on the relentless tingling in my fingers. I clenched and unclenched my fists and shook out my hands, but they wouldn’t stop shaking.

“Just give me the keys, Evie. I’ll drop you off at your place, then��come by later to drop off your car.��

“You’ve been drinking!�� I protested. “By the time you’re ready to leave, you’ll be drunk.��I’m not letting you drive.��

His jaw clenched. That wonderful, square jaw I loved to kiss. He��rarely got mad at me, and I had ways of making him forget his anger. None of which I felt up to right now.

I growled and stuffed my hands into my jacket pockets. “Call me when you’re ready to go, Manny. I’ll come get you.��

He huffed and shook his head.

“O�첹��?��

“Whatever.�� He turned and stormed towards the party.

“Nice, babe. Thanks for being so��understanding!��

“Fuck you!�� He spun on me. “You’ve been acting like a selfish bitch all week, so you might as well go home. It’ll be more fun without you here. I’ll tell Greg you said ‘bye��.��

I screamed in wordless frustration and slapped the bark of the tree.

“Ow! Shit!��

My palms stung and��I cursed my outburst at an inanimate object. Manny’s softer face would’ve been much more satisfying against my palm. I turned��on my heel, outrage propelling me in the opposite direction.

Fuck me?

No, fuck you! Motherfucking sonofabitch!

Damn near three��years of being unselfish, and one off week was all it took for him to treat me like gum stuck to his shoe?

Fine. I hoped he was ready to get a piece of my mind tomorrow. His ears would bleed by the time I finished��with him.

Underbrush snagged my ankles.��Branches smacked me in the face while I stumbled��on the slippery pine needles, damp leaves, and moss.�� Even the damn trees had it in for me.

I just needed to find my way to the path.

Just get back to the car and��this will��be��

A chill licked the nape of my neck. Reaching to touch the spot, I’d swear I touched a wet trail—the sort left by a tongue.

I whirled.

Of course, there’s nothing there, stupid.

Only evergreens and birches, darkness, and the fading sounds of the party beyond.

But the sickening wrench in my gut—the feeling of something��tracking me��like prey—only worsened. For a moment, I thought of turning back, sucking up my pride, and apologizing to Manny. Instead I picked up the pace, lengthening my stride.

The closer I got to the path, the worse my nausea got. I stopped thinking about cursing Manny out tomorrow. I stopped thinking about having dinner with my parents and brother Sunday evening. I stopped thinking about��exams and my approaching final semester of college. I stopped thinking, period. I gave my sixth sense free reign. The moment I opened my consciousness to the ability I usually suppressed, the deepest sense of dread I’d ever felt hit me like a punch to my gut.

A snapped twig echoed through the night. Booming laughter gave me a fright so fierce,��I spun around again, slipped, and almost��fell on my ass. Inky blackness blanketed the woods, broken only by streaks of moonlight in the gaps between naked tree limbs.

Some sixty feet away, a man stood in plain sight.

I made out his masculine build. His imposing height wasn’t disguised by the easy hunter’s crouch he assumed. Moonlight refracted off his predatory stare, triggering my flight response. Adrenaline pumped��through me.

“My boyfriend is out here!�� I retreated, first one tentative step, then another. “So you should go back to the party and leave me alone!��

The man tilted his head. He took a deliberate step forward.

“You’d better stop fucking off before I scream! My boyfriend won’t think this is funny!��

��Even in the dark, I spied the gleam of white teeth. The blazing flash served as my only warning before he took off at sprint so fast I tasted my heart in my throat.

I pivoted and scrambled for the path, screaming so loud my voice echoed in my ears.

“Manny! Manny! Help me!��

My desperate cries almost��drowned out my attacker’s laughter.

But not quite.

“Somebody! Help!��

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I was gifted a copy of the book by Steven Pressfield a couple of weeks ago by a good friend (Thanks !), which inspired today’s post.

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It’s an amazing book that breaks down the complex hurdles we put in front of our creative efforts, and it does so in a really simple, yet profound way. I’m not usually big on recommendations, but if you want to write and feel stalled in any way, I’d suggest picking up a copy.

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So, why the clip from 300? Well, one of the big components of the book is the idea of an Amateur vs. a Professional. It’s not meant as an insult either. Each does battle with the act of creation and can produce beautiful art. It’s more about the inner struggle to produce it, what it takes to hone that skill everyday versus once in a blue moon when the planets align and the Muse is feeling generous. While one artist balks, defined by the resistance ahead, the other relishes the fight, knowing that half the battle is fought in the everyday minutiae. One isn’t better than the other, but I did have to decide which one I was, and how much I was willing to bleed on the page for this next round of books. How much discomfort was I prepared to feel in order to tap into my ability to write? Hell, how much was I willing to give to any endeavor I undertake in this life. What is my profession?

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All of this popped into my head as I sat down to update you guys. Two good things have happened:

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I’ve put my books into Kindle Unlimited.
After I wrap up Forgotten’s first draft today I’m going to let it sit, marinate, then go back in and get it ready for editing. So it will be available this year, it’s just a question of when. I still have to do my final battle with the edits. And then get back on this merry-go-round for the next book. And the next after that.

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The funny thing about this 300 scene is it illustrates what it looks like from the outside in a lot of ways. The Spartans look good, they are confident, tough, honed, merciless, gleeful in the face of death. The art of war is their profession. You see snippets of them as children, growing through the ranks as soldiers in cruel fashion. What you don’t see is the day in, day out, how they wake up bruised and go to sleep bloody, the meals they eat, the sighs they sigh. You don’t see the absolutely mundane tasks, how boring some of it can be. You don’t see the thousands of punches, kicks, lunges, falls, tears, injuries, screams of frustration.

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And you’re not really supposed to. You just see the spears raised high, hear the echo of their synchronized roar and know instinctively that these warriors didn’t sprout fully formed into the world. They were made. All of that is for the love of the fight, all of that skin in the game is so when they get on the battlefield they can trust themselves. And if they fail, well, at least they met failure with a glorious act of defiance.

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I’m not a Spartan, so don’t get any ideas about me. I don’t sit in front of this laptop in a red cape or anything. I mean, I can hold my own in a sparring ring, but I’m more apt to evoke Bugs Bunny’s trademark line when talking about writing than I am a glorious fighting machine:

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But hey, I’m making strides in this battle towards professionalism. Take my transition to KU, for example. I was resistant to enter KU last year. I was twitching my rabbit nose and stomping my rabbit feet. Every month I read up on the changes going on in the publishing world, and KU seemed to have too many kinks to work out. Then something interesting happened. I signed up to be a part of a huge freebie blitz and put Sunday out there free for a limited time. The response was crazy. Cuh. Razy. I’ve never seen so many downloads (well not since it was a serial on a free site). I realized that I was, as the aforementioned book suggests, putting up walls of resistance that were keeping my books out of the hands of readers. It’s good to try out new things, and perhaps this decision was made at the right time as I move closer to publishing my next book.

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Between that and a huge promotion opportunity coming up this month, we’ll see if I can overcome my aversion to pimping my work and help my books find new homes. That is a big part of my battle, the strange balancing act between art and commerce.

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Which brings me to Forgotten!��The last 10k of rewrites on the first draft get plugged in today. This story has been a struggle to write. It has been my Xerxes, my mammoth nemesis standing in the way of the next phase of my writing career (one day I’ll tell you about my Mt. Everest, the fantasy series I’ve had in mind since I was a teenager). I’ve battled my personal deadlines, my insecurities about the storyline and the genre shift, super personal shit, and writer’s inertia �� which is like writer’s block only suckier, because you have all the ideas in the world, and no will to put them down. I’m glad though, because I had every reason in the world to stop writing this fucking book and I didn’t! I also realized I built this thing up too much. As the first in a series, it’s okay not to know everything that is going to happen, to still have more to learn about these characters and grow into this world along with my audience.

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It’s one of those rainy days I love so much. A good day to strap on my armor, raise my pen, and go to battle. After all, I’m sure you realized by now, this means war.

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How about you, Spartan? Are you ready for war today? What is your profession?

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