I confess that as I’ve been researching marketing, I keep having the thought that it would be easier for me to get remarried instead.
It’s not that I find the idea of marketing to be morally repugnant or anything — hey, once a story is deemed finished, I can cut that metaphorical umbilical cord and throw it out into the world for consumption; no problems there — but the idea of managing a platform and brand sounds so overwhelmingly draining. I’ve never been the sort to wave my arms and cry out, “Look at me!” and it frankly scares me to do so.
At the same time, I’m also aware that dating and marketing probably aren’t all that different. Target demographic: Men, 40’s, divorced with children. Product: One domestic engineer — I can cook, clean, and laugh at all your jokes! The main difference is that I have lots of experience in a companionship and support role, and have otherwise done my best to remain invisible to everyone else in every other capacity. What can I say, I’m shy. LOL.
And honestly, it just hurts to dedicate my life to household management, childcare, budgeting, and culinary arts, only to be abruptly ousted out of my career. Like, hey, I really enjoyed doing that! Please just let me cook dinner.
But I have no idea what my life is supposed to be or where it’s supposed to go, so I’m just going to pick a direction and blindly follow it until I hit a sign or something. And since I love writing so much, that’s where I’m trying to go.
Target demographic: People who love genre romances with strong characterization, deep philosophical discussions, a touch of wholesomeness, and a sprinkle of sordid. Product: My novels.
See? That wasn’t so bad. Now I just need to wave my arms in the air and shout, “Look at me!”
I wouldn’t go out on a date without putting on deodorant first, and in the same vein I should gussy up my books to make them appealing and not stinky. However, I would also never put on fake eyelashes, since that’s not in my personality and not the sort of precedent that I want to set — I’d prefer someone who likes my minimal makeup style. So … I shouldn’t try to make my novels seem like something that they’re not.
The main difference is, of course, that in dating I would just be searching for the One to settle down with, while in marketing I’d be searching for … a lot more. I’m not sure if there is an end goal in marketing, and that’s a little much to wrap my mind around.
And as of yet, I have no idea if being a professional writer will provide the same warm fuzzies that sharing a home cooked meal does.
But you know how it is when life throws you a curve ball. Sometimes all you can do is adapt and stumble around blindly until something new works out.
Alice had lost her sense of self. She had fallen in with a stereotypical bad boy named Damon, and as the mistakes heaped higher the more trapped she felt in the rebellious life she led. However, when Damon pushed circumstances to their breaking point, and Alice fell into legal troubles that there was no escape from. A chance encounter with the local Warden began a process of self-discovery for Alice, as she she asked herself the question, “What does it mean to have dignity?”
What happens when the world’s most powerful magus falls in love?
Ainmire has long since lost his connection with his humanity, existing as more of a shadow that looms over the Order of the Magi, focused more on doing what was necessary rather than on what he wanted. However, after the Order gave the orders for the assassination of the Red Magus, Ainmire has a chance encounter with the Red Magus’s beautiful and vivacious daughter, Lily … and changes his mind. He refuses to follow through with the assassination, and instead pursues Lily with the intent of marriage, rediscovering the human side of himself along the way.
It doesn’t matter how many enemies he makes with his change of goals, because no one comes even close to matching his ability to wield magic. After all, who’s going to stop him?
Base image generated with Stable Diffusion, and everything else added using Canva.
Redesigning the covers for my novels.
Still feeling rather insecure about the process, particularly since I’m not as visually motivated as everyone else, so I don’t really know what it is about covers that scream, “Buy me now!” (Same way that I don’t really understand why arranging food in a fancy way makes people think it tastes better). But I’m perfectly aware that covers are what initially hook people into cracking open a book, so I’m doing my best to learn.
I know I know, I’m very amateur and should probably be embarrassed — and one day I will be! But for now, everyone has to start somewhere.
So yes, that’s my voice. You know how it is when you’re not used to the sound of your recorded voice, so you keep asking yourself over and over, “Is that really what I sound like?” I’m totally mortified! 😅
But you know, this was fun! Expect more videos in the future.
The runes at the bottom of the thumbnail are: Solwilo, Othala, Isa, and Berkana — sun, inheritance, ice, and birch tree.
Lyra sorted through the dressmaker’s orders to place the day’s highest priorities on top as she listened to the rhythmic snipping of Mrs. Elwood’s shears, and the thought crossed her mind that she liked those quiet busy moments best of all. She supposed that one day – assuming she didn’t get married first – the responsibility of sales and customer support would fall on her once she opened her own shop, and she hoped that she would feel more equipped to handle the responsibility in the future. For the moment, she liked being the assistant, without having to think too hard about anything.
“Hello! How may I help you?” Mrs. Elwood called out cheerily, and Lyra carefully tucked the orders into a slot on the top of their “business desk,” as they liked to call it.
“I seem to have snagged the hem of my cloak,” a deep yet all too familiar voice answered, and Lyra’s head snapped around, her heart leaping up into her throat.
“Allow me to take a look, Master,” Mrs. Elwood replied in a voice that was far more saccharine than Lyra thought becoming of a widowed woman. She avoided looking at Malachi, instead quietly making her way towards the backroom in what she hoped was a subtle get-away, knowing all the while that he had already seen her. “Oh yes, the stitching has been pulled out, and there’s a hole torn in the fabric as well. Lyra! Come here, please.”
Lyra’s heart sank, but she turned around and forced a smile. “Good morning, Master Malachi,” she echoed Mrs. Elwood’s tone, though she couldn’t keep the edge of sarcasm at bay.
“Would you find trimming to match Master Malachi’s cloak? We could easily patch the hole for you, but I think that the best solution would be to put a new hem on entirely. The repair would be entirely invisible.”
“I trust your expert judgment, madame.” Malachi smiled back at Mrs. Elwood, and Lyra swallowed down the embarrassment at having to silently watch a Runemaster flirt with her employer.
“Mrs. Elwood,” Lyra ventured timidly, “You have a fitting in two hours, and the dress has yet to be basted.”
“You’ll have to excuse me, Master, but I must get back to my work. Lyra here will assist you, and I assure you that she is very bright and talented. Your cloak will be better than new.” Mrs. Elwood smiled broadly, then retreated back to her cutting table to continue working.
Lyra examined the damaged hem, then murmured, “The tailor is just down the street, Master, if you would feel more comfortable in an establishment that is more suited to male clientele.”
“Hmm … but you don’t work over there, do you.” He grinned, and Lyra couldn’t stop the flush that colored her cheeks.
“I don’t know what I did to gain your attention, Master,” she replied with false politeness, “but I have no intention of responding to your advances. It would be in your better interests to move on.”
“You misunderstand!” Malachi chuckled as he removed his cloak and handed it to Lyra. “I am not pursuing you romantically at all.”
“And yet here you are,” Lyra replied tersely. She took the cloak and retreated to the back room, to search through their supplies to make the repair. She couldn’t quite place the fabric, but it was some sort of warm velveteen and Lyra compulsively touched it to her cheek before she stopped herself. Her training as a dressmaker took over then, and she knew exactly which trim she wanted to line the bottom with. She retrieved it and hurried out to seek Malachi’s approval for the project that was blossoming in her mind.
“We would need to order in matching fabric,” she said as soon as she was back in the Runemaster’s presence, “but I think that this would be a beautiful accent that would far surpass an invisible repair.” She presented the roll of trim to him, which consisted of thick metallic threads expertly tied in an swirl of knots and cords. It had taken Lyra’s breath away when she had first unboxed it, and she had been waiting for the project that would give her the opportunity to work with it. Somehow she doubted that the cost would be a problem for Master Malachi.
He took it from her hands and studied it closely, rubbing the end between his fingers and holding it up to the light. “You’re correct, Lyra. This would be an elegant addition to my cloak … assuming it holds up well in my travels.”
“I assure you that the metal threads are quite strong, and they would hold up well against the dirt and mud of the road,” she almost purred, subconsciously slipping into the same mannerisms that Mrs. Elwood used to drive a big sale. The idea of spending the next hour stitching that trim onto the soft fabric of Malachi’s cloak was too tantalizing to let slip away.
“It might also inspire bandits,” Malachi replied, then gave Lyra a sly wink. “But I would be a fool to turn away the magic that you are offering me. Yes, Lyra, I will order this trim for the repair.”
“Allow me to measure out the length of your hem, and I will write up your receipt for you. The work will be done this afternoon.” Lyra couldn’t suppress the smile that bubbled out from the center of her chest. She had taken the job at the dressmaker’s purely to make ends meet after her father had died, but the process and materials had grown on her in the weeks since, and for the first time she felt deeply excited about this project.
It didn’t matter that it was for Master Malachi, she told herself. It didn’t matter that he had visited their shop specifically for her, either. She repeated that to herself after he had left, and she worked intently on his cloak, carefully applying the trim with her neatest stitches, savoring the soft fabric that rested in her hands.
This novel is a prequel to The Black Magus, though how the two are connected won’t be obvious for quite some time.
As much as I like The Scion Suit/The Scions, truth is I’ve never 100% gotten over the fact that it originated as a story prompt. It doesn’t thematically fit into the larger mythos that I created for The Black Magus, and on an emotional level, that’s what I need right now.
You know. That whole emotional self expression through writing thing. Remember back when that was popular, before our creative culture was subverted for profit?
Anyway, I still plan on finishing The Scion Suit/The Scions, but it is on the back burner for now.
I’ve referenced this before, but the reason I was all but absent for most of 2023 was because there was a lot going on. I got my kids started on a new online school program, and while we’ve been very happy with it, we still had to adjust and figure out what the heck we were doing. It’s taken up an enormous amount of mental energy.
There was also a big 5000-mile road trip across the US with all of our kids. It went pretty well for the most part, with only one heart-stopping moment of our van dying at a gas station near the SC/NC border — but it turned out that the battery terminal had wiggled lose, so it was a quick and easy fix. Phew.
And my 16-year-old cat died. Two days afterwards I came down with one of the worst sinus infections that I’ve ever had in my entire life, and my sinuses still aren’t 100% recovered from it.
The cherry on top was that with everything going on, I forgot to hydrate adequately and got a small kidney stone. Such adventures!
Anyway, that’s enough of that. I could say a lot more, but I don’t want to sound all complain-y and negative. Let’s just say that if one of my future novels includes a wasp attack, it is 100% based on real life.
On the brighter side, I have put in a lot of effort to expand my culinary experiences, and have even tried my hand at sous vide!
I suppose that one of the perks about being a writer is that I tend to view the events of my life with a sort of detached amusement after all is said and done. Don’t get me wrong, I struggle through like any other person would, but eventually it comes to an end and I think to myself, “I could put that in a story.”
Unfortunately, I seem to be quite rusty with creating graphics for my blog. Like, wow, I used to do this all the time, and now it’s a little weird and confusing. Heck, I even looked at Canva to see if I could simplify the process (I currently use GIMP), but that site wanted me to pay to use anything remotely appealing, and I’m WAY too cheap for that. I’ll stick with open source, thank-you-very-much!
With so much of my energy going into my kids’ online school, I’m not anticipating being able to update more than once a week. However, I will announce that I currently have 25,000 words written for a new novel, so pretty soon here I’ll start posting that. You know, when I get my graphics figured out, lol.
Always let something petty stop you from following through! It’s called procrastination. 🤣
“You know, Carol,” the captain said more quietly, growing somber as he stared into his own glass. “I expected you to be a sobbing mess by tonight. I have to say, I’m proud of you.”
She shrugged. “I’m not that pathetic.” She paused, then added, “Okay, I was, but not anymore.”
Lambert chuckled. “You know, when I first saw you, commander, I thought to myself … that’s not a woman, that’s a mouse!”
Holmes and the captain laughed heartily, and Hartmann faked joining in. He had a death grip on his glass, and judged that Lambert was pretending to be more intoxicated than he was – an experienced alcoholic like him wouldn’t become so loose-tongued with only one drink.
“Oh shut up! I don’t like how mean you are towards me,” Carol snapped.
“There’s nothing wrong with being a mouse.” Lambert poured out another round of drinks, and pushed one towards Carol. “Lot of men around here find it to be attractive quality in a woman.”
Danger alarms started sounding in Hartmann’s head, but he remained quiet and distant. Don’t mention me, he willed towards Carol. Forget I exist.
Her face turned bright red, helped along by the tequila. “I-I don’t know about that,” she stammered.
“Now that we know you can perform in battle, we can ease up on the training some. Maybe get you off base for a personal day.” Lambert sipped from his glass. “Go on, commander, have some more.”
Carol took another drink, but still shuddered afterwards. “What would I do off base?” she asked. “I don’t have a personal life to spend time on.”
“Really?” Lambert glanced over at Hartmann. “Not even a boyfriend?”
“No … I-I …” Carol took a big gulp of her drink, but Lambert waited patiently for her to finish. Realizing that he wasn’t going to become distracted, she sighed, then said wistfully, “I guess I was lonely.”
He then said quietly, “I’ve been wondering about you, commander. What sort of woman gets yanked out of her life without a word of complaint? I expected to hear nothing but bitching for weeks, but you went along with everything we put you through.”
Hartmann hated the way that Lambert was looking at her, and the fact that the captain was out-maneuvering him while he had to hold his tongue.
“The Suit was my everything.” She pressed a hand to her forehead, as if she wanted to steady herself. “Cleaning it was all I cared about.”
“You lived for your job, huh?” Lambert was studying her carefully. “I think we can all relate.”
The atmosphere around them had become subdued, or perhaps that was because of the storm raging inside of Hartmann had drowned everything else out. That sense of invisibility was creeping over him again.
“No, I don’t think anyone can understand how I feel about the Suit …” Carol slurred, then hunched over slightly at cross her arms over her stomach. “I feel sick.”
Lambert’s jaw twitched, but he pointed with his thumb and said, “Bathroom’s over there.” They watched as Carol stood and staggered her way over to the door, then Lambert gave his orders to Holmes, “Go stand guard. Make sure you can hear her, but don’t let her know that you’re there. No one else uses that restroom as long as she’s inside.”
“Yes, sir!” Holmes saluted, though his eyes looked disappointed.
“Well, MSG Hartmann,” Lambert picked up his glass and held it out. “It’s a shame you picked a rotgut for our first bottle. I could’ve gotten more out of her if you had gone with something smoother.”
“It was corporal Holmes’s choice, sir,” Hartmann answered carefully. “I didn’t think about how it would affect her,” he lied.
“Hmm.” Lambert’s eyes narrowed. “A toast then, to our first success. You should feel proud of yourself – you oversaw most of her training.”
“Sir, I had nothing to do with what happened out on the mission, today,” Hartmann murmured, almost sullenly, but he raised his glass as well. “It was all that ‘help mode.’”
“It doesn’t bode well that she kept it a secret from us …” Lambert finished his drink. “I’ll take Carol and corporal Holmes back to the Base, and I’m granting you the rest of the night off.”
“Thank you, sir,” Hartmann replied, unable to keep a hint of sarcasm out of his voice.
“Report to my office at 0600 tomorrow.” Lambert checked his watch. “I’ll give her a few more minutes to finish, then retrieve her.”
“I’m sorry for not being more considerate, sir.” Hartmann suppressed his smug smile. He felt a tinge of guilt over deliberately supplying Carol with something that was going to make her vomit, but it had worked out favorably enough – provided she didn’t get chatty on the drive home. He wished that he could push the issue and try to drive Carol back in his own car, but didn’t dare do anything that would increase Lambert’s suspicions.
The captain closed his eyes, his face relaxing into the creased weariness of an extremely long day. “Thank the gods this part is over.”
“I know what you mean, sir.” Hartmann leaned forward to pour himself another drink, then scanned the room. “I might try to put the moves on that hot blonde over there,” he motioned vaguely. “If I don’t decide to go home and sleep, instead.”
Lambert followed the direction of Hartmann’s gesture, then scowled. “I recommend you catch up on sleep.”
They exchanged terse and somewhat awkward farewells, and Lambert headed for the bathroom. A minute later he emerged with Carol, supporting her against his side, and Hartmann angrily watched them cross through the bar and out the front door, with Holmes trailing dutifully behind.
It was late evening when Lambert joined them in the cafeteria. Hartmann had dutifully kept his logbook, and to his relief, Carol had returned to her typical self bit by bit. Lambert was in a good mood, and he clamped a hand down on her shoulder as he proclaimed, “Our commander did a thorough job out there. She’s officially blooded now.”
More than can be said of you, Hartmann thought bitterly, inwardly bristling at the way the captain’s fingers slightly massaged her. Carol’s face turned bright red.
“I-I just did what I was supposed to, sir,” she stammered.
“Wish you had told us about that ‘help mode’ sooner; would’ve saved us all a lot of stress.” Lambert laughed. “C’mon, let’s go out and celebrate.”
From the captain’s boisterous attitude, Hartmann suspected he had already done some celebrating.
“I kind of just want to go to bed,” Carol protested, then shrank back from the look in Lambert’s eyes.
“Camaraderie, commander,” he half growled, half purred. “You’re one of us, now.”
“I’m in.” Hartmann stood and forced a half smile. “Bring that kid corporal along too. He knows what Carol’s normally like, so he should be included.”
“Great idea.” Lambert pulled the radio off his belt and gave orders for Holmes to meet with them in the parking garage.
They made the necessary arrangements, and Lambert drove off with Carol while Hartmann remained to wait for Holmes. Once alone, he let out an expletive and kicked the tire of his car, then took in a deep breath to regain self-control. Carol was a good as his, he reminded himself, so there was no harm in her spending time alone with the captain – Lambert was already suspicious of his interactions with Carol, so it was prudent to play distant anyway.
If he could have it his way, he’d lock Carol up in his apartment where she would play house for him alone, far away from all of this military bullshit.
It took only a few minutes for Holmes to come jogging, and a minute after that Hartmann was accelerating out of the parking garage with squealing tires. He made casual small talk to hide his anxiety, playing up nonchalance with a hint of machismo, repeating that he could have done a better job in the Suit to imply that he was insecure over Carol’s success. He didn’t care what Holmes thought, as long as the corporal didn’t guess that the real reason why he was speeding was because he was scared of leaving Carol alone with the captain, because even still he worried that there was a possibility of losing her to Lambert.
Lambert’s car was in the parking lot at the bar, but he and Carol were already inside. Hartmann winced slightly when he recognized the exterior as one of his hunting grounds, and silently chastised himself for not paying more attention when the captain had suggested the name. Had the choice been deliberate? Was it Lambert’s move in the competition for Carol’s attention? Was he hoping that Hartmann would be embarrassed by one of his former sluts?
Hartmann’s heart was pounding with anger. He kept his back tall and straight, and strode in through the doors, his jaw set as he scanned for the pair that he needed to keep apart at any cost. Carol was his, and he wasn’t going to stand for this bullshit from their commanding officer.
Carol waved at him from one of the tables, and Lambert turned to study him. Keep it cool, Hartmann breathed in and out. He would keep his facade up, and the evening would pass by without a hitch – he would see to that.
“Hey, corporal,” he said to Holmes who was standing slightly behind him. “What are you in the mood for? This round’s on me.”
Holmes grinned and answered a tequila brand that hit like a punch to the gut, but was popular with the younger soldiers. Hartmann bit back the urge to point out that Carol would be drinking along with them, and instead slapped Holmes’s shoulder and laughed, “Coming right up!” A moment later, he plopped himself down at the table with a bottle and four glasses, and poured an inch of liquid into each one.
“Um, sir, I’m not so sure about this …” Carol began to protest, but Lambert wouldn’t hear it.
“You fight with us, you drink with us. Loosen up and celebrate, commander, your cherry’s been popped.”
“Captain!” Carol’s face turned bright red. “That’s not an appropriate thing to say.”
All three of the men burst into laughter, and Holmes exclaimed, “Carol, you’re a hoot!” as she looked around, confused and uncomfortable.
“Drink!” Lambert ordered. “We’ll find a way to work that stick out, one way or another.”
Her eyes met Hartmann’s, as if she was seeking his help. He picked up his glass and said, “Here’s to the cleaning lady, for surprising us all.”
She took the cue, and sipped some of the alcohol, instantly coughing as a shudder ran through her. “Oh god, that’s strong,” she gasped.
Lambert laughed and gave Carol a strong pat on the back. “Finish it all, commander. Be a good girl.”
Hartmann wondered what was going through the captain’s mind. Carol was clearly struggling with the potency of the alcohol, and she was already showing signs of being tipsy. But, after she choked down her first glass, Lambert poured her another.
By Autumn Rain 