Back in 2002 I attended my first Dragon*Con (which was awesome). Coincidentally, I’d just finished writing my Very First Novel, a totally abysmal medieval romance. (Seriously, I wish I still had the printed mss to scan some of it to show you. While I still believe it had a couple of quite good scenes, for the most part it was pretty bad: overdramatic characters, contrived plot points, an Evil Ex Lover making silly threats, a Big Misunderstanding…I honestly barely remember the plot at this point, but trust me, it was lame.)

Anyway. There I was at Dragon*Con, and I happened to notice a panel on women writing, so I hopped on over to see it. It was held in a tiny room in the basement, and there were maybe fifteen people there, which was quite sad as the panelists included Betty Ballantine and a writer I hadn’t heard of named Sherrilyn Kenyon.

It turned out, though, that Sherrilyn Kenyon also wrote under the name Kinley MacGregor, and I’d just finished reading Kinley MacGregor’s BORN IN SIN, as part of my research-based orgy of romance reading. And in fact, BORN IN SIN had been one of my favorites of the romances I’d picked up. So once I realized Sherrilyn and Kinley were one and the same, I was quite excited.

Excited enough, in fact, to make a total idiot out of myself after the panel.

I went bopping up to Sherrilyn, all full of vim and eager puppy-dog dorkiness, and gushed at her that I, too, was a writer! I’d just finished my first romance and I was hoping to get it published! Thankfully I did manage to slip in there that I’d loved BORN IN SIN–although I did also say that I’d had no idea who Sherrilyn Kenyon was when I came to the panel and I was so excited to learn she was also Kinley MacGregor and was that information public, which, FFS, moron–but for the most part, I said the sort of things that make me shrink in embarrassment even now, over ten years later. I asked, stammering and blushing, if she thought I should get an agent, as if I could head for the phone book and hire one just like ordering a pizza (I may even have asked who her agent was; I have honestly blocked much of what I said from my memory). I believe I bragged about doing research and said how much I love the medieval period. And then, in a denouement so fucking ridiculous it makes me cringe, I said, “Maybe one day we’ll have the same publisher!”

Like we were going to play on the Avon softball team or something. Like we’d be Publisher Pals and spend our nights having giggly slumber parties and telling secrets. Like my very first mss ever was obviously just as good as any of her books, and of course I could just walk into a publishing contract simply by virtue of having completed a novel (which was, btw, over 114k words of facile plot contrivances and exclamation points. I didn’t even know not to capitalize the pronoun dialogue tag after dialogue ended in one of those exclamation points, so the book was full of shit like: ‘”Unhand me!” She shouted.’).

Sherrilyn was kindness itself. She gave absolutely no indication that she found my questions ridiculous or my lack of publishing knowledge silly and/or naive. She answered my questions nicely and wished me luck, and left me feeling that, well, maybe I’d been a bit nervous, but it was okay. She left me feeling positive and encouraged.

Now, at this point, I had joined the RWA. I’d done a bit of research on publishing; I knew better than to ask some of those questions. But I asked them anyway. Why? Because I was nervous. Because I was intimidated–I’d never met a real-life author before. Because I wanted to seem like I knew what I was talking about. Because I wanted to show her I was serious. And–this is important–because having read and really enjoyed her book, I felt there was some sort of connection between us. She had spoken to me in that book, and I had responded, and that meant something to me; it mattered to me.

I have never, ever forgotten that day. Yes, sometimes it’s a hauntingly humiliating memory, but I still haven’t forgotten it. I was just some red-faced idiot, and instead of responding with contempt, Sherrilyn Kenyon treated me with gentleness and respect.

But it’s not just her politeness that I remember. I remember the things I said, and WHY. All those reasons I listed above: being nervous, being intimidated, wanting to seem like I knew what I was talking about, feeling like there was a connection between us, like maybe we could be friends; like maybe on some level, insignificant as it was, we were friends. I felt like I knew Sherrilyn, a little bit; she had come into my home and entertained me for a while.

Quite recently there was a blog post written by an author wherein she complained about an email sent to her by a reader, which she felt was rude because it referred to her work as “her stuff” (as in “I bought all your stuff”) and said something like “Why aren’t you writing faster!? Get to work!” She rewrote the reader’s email to be more acceptable to her and went on to instruct readers on what questions not to ask authors, Because Rude, or Because Stupid, or something. She complained about being asked questions when the answers are on her website.

I’m not posting about this to pick on that author, which is one reason why I’m not linking to the discussion(s) about it or giving her name (and I have altered some of the quotes slightly, too). We all have bad days; we all make jokes that don’t come off, or get bad advice, or whatever, and she is human just as the rest of us are. As I’ve said before, internet pile-ons have gone way past the point of amusing for me and into nauseating territory, and that’s one big reason why I have cut back on my internet presence so sharply. This isn’t about her, really–although I admit I find it tremendously difficult to think of how awful that poor reader must feel, being held up as an object of scorn like that for the hideous crime of loving a writer’s work so much that she bought all of it and emailed the writer to tell her so, and asked eagerly when she can further support said writer by buying even more of her work, and I found the post pretty horrific–except that she’s sparked several discussions that break my heart.

Those discussions are from readers saying they’re going to think twice before contacting authors whose work they love, because they’re afraid they too will be publicly humiliated in such a rude and painful fashion if they say the wrong thing.

Guys…please don’t be afraid of that.

My story above is about Sherrilyn Kenyon, but I am absolutely certain that you could insert the name of almost any author on the planet and they would have responded with just as much grace. The fact is, hearing from people who love our books is one of the best things about this job. I can only speak for myself and a few of my friends, but I/we don’t seek out reviews. I/we don’t visit the Amazon pages for my books; I don’t Google them (or myself, unless I’m looking for something specific, like a guest blog post I’ve done somewhere or something); I don’t visit their Goodreads pages or my Goodreads Author page, in general. As I’ve said before, if someone directly sends me a link to a review, I will usually click and read it, because A) that’s a specific invitation for me to do so, which means B) it’s probably a positive review, and I like to retweet those or quote them here as a way of thanking the reviewer/giving them credit for the review without barging into their space.

Emails from readers are the most amazing things in the world. They are. I’ve gotten emails that have brought tears to my eyes. I’ve gotten emails that made me laugh. I’ve gotten emails that made me feel like I was floating for hours, all because someone out there took the time to hunt down my contact info and actually tell me, personally, how much they loved my work and that it meant something to them, really meant something. Without wishing to sound as though I’m making a dirty joke, something I wrote touched them, and they touched me back. Isn’t that what writing and reading are all about? A connection with someone else? Isn’t that why we do what we do, whether we’re writing or reading or reviewing–to feel something, to connect with something, to reach out to something? To share something?

Sure, I’ve gotten some rude emails, too. I’ve gotten a few so offensive and outright threatening that I contacted their IPs. I’ve gotten emails that called me names, that called my characters names, that accused me of all manner of nonsense. They’re not fun. But being asked eagerly when the next book is coming, and can’t I write faster, is not rude. It’s charming, and it’s sweet, and while we all know that intent is not magical, the fact remains that in those cases, when the intent is obviously to flatter, it’s rather silly to take offense. This isn’t a male co-worker telling you how hot you look today and then going, “But I meant it as a compliment! You’re sexy!” It’s someone expressing delight in our work, and that’s not an insult. Especially when if we stopped and thought about it we might realize that behind that email is someone trying to make a connection with us, someone perhaps a bit nervous, perhaps a bit intimidated, someone to whom we mean something and our work means something, and maybe because of that meaning they feel like they know us a little bit. Someone who, aside from everything else, is probably not a professional writer, and is writing private correspondence, and so perhaps cannot be expected to phrase everything in a way that perfectly suits and flatters and pleases us.

I never expect that anyone will be intimidated or nervous when speaking to or emailing me; I mean, who the fuck am I? Nobody of any importance. But I’m also aware that contacting anyone you don’t know personally can be intimidating or can make one nervous. I’m also aware that there are indeed people out there–I’ve met them, and more importantly I’ve been one and occasionally still am–who are nervous or intimidated meeting a writer whose work they love. I’d be willing to bet that when Sherrilyn Kenyon headed for that panel that day, she didn’t expect anyone to be nervous or intimidated at the thought of meeting her, and yet there I was with my face beet-red and my hands shaking as I wagged my Newbie Writer tail in desperate, eager neediness, so excited to be talking to a Real Writer that I pretty much ran down a checklist of silly questions and statements.

I have been horrendously lax in replying to my emails. I’m ashamed of it. I’m so far behind I don’t even know how far behind I am, and that’s inexcusable. But that also doesn’t change the fact that I read and am grateful for every one of those emails. And every writer I know feels the same.

So please, guys, don’t stop writing to us. It matters–you matter. Don’t think the fact that one writer was having a bad day or is rude or ungracious or pretentious or mean means we all sit around rubbing our hands just waiting to pick on you for misphrasing something or misspelling something or simply saying something in a way that doesn’t meet someone’s idea of how to correctly speak to An Author. Most of us don’t expect perfection and we don’t expect you to bow and scrape. We love you just as you are, and are interested in whatever you have to say, and are happy to answer what questions we can, when we can. When you email us we’re grateful, not insulted or offended or angry or upset. Hearing from readers is one of the best things that can happen to us, and if that stopped it would be heartbreaking.

First, a little FAQ:

What is the novella called?

Ha! I finally have an answer for this! The title is WRONG WAYS DOWN.

How long is it?

I’m still editing it, but my estimate is that the final version will be around 55,000 words. So it’s actually more of a short novel than a novella, but oh well.

Is it in continuity?

Yes. It takes place in the time period between UNHOLY GHOSTS and UNHOLY MAGIC; the last scene is set about two weeks before the start of UM.

What’s it about?

It’s a little mystery, basically. There’s magic and hookers and untrustworthy people and Decisions To Be Made and Temptations To Be Dealt With and, of course, plenty of violence.

It’s not about Terrible and Chess, per se. Chess is certainly in it (I finally got to write an event between them that I mentioned very briefly in CITY OF GHOSTS), and there’s certainly time spent on how he sees and thinks of her, but they’re not really working together in this one. It’s HIS story.

I’d like/I’m planning to write UM and CoG from his POV, combined as one story, but that’s going to depend at least in part on how this one does, and whether you guys like it enough to want more.

Will we find out more of Terrible’s past?

A bit more, yes. Including more details on how he came to work for Bump.

When will it be released?

I don’t have a release date yet, sorry. I’d hoped to have it released around today, but I’ve had sick kids and all kinds of other craziness happening, which has cut into my work time. I am almost finished editing, though, and have a copyeditor lined up and all of that, so I’m hoping to have at least a close estimate soon.

And for those who follow me on Twitter… Yes, Terrible makes himself a sandwich at some point. Hee.

So…on to the excerpt! It’s a scene with Chess in it, because it’s Valentine’s Day. (Plus, come on, I know what you guys want to see.)

(This is pre-copyedits; final version may vary slightly.)

Chess answered his text fast, the text he sent almost the second he left Ben’s. A dame got attacked and she oughta know about it, so’s she could keep herself safe.

A dame got attacked, and he just wanted to see her, even iffen it were only for a few minutes. He hadn’t in a few days. And after Ben he felt calm enough that he figured he could.

He parked, ignoring the way his heart sped up, got out and went inside. Up the stairs, to stand outside her door for a second and feel, like he always felt, the little buzz. Came from them magic locks she had around the frame, maybe. Maybe just from knowing where he was and that in a second she’d open the door. He didn’t know. Just like a lot of other shit.

The knob turned almost as soon as his knock died. And there she stood, smiling at him like she meant it, in a faded black t-shirt and jeans, her pretty little feet bare. It was like…like something inside him got cheered up, just seein her smile at him. Like he relaxed. “Hey,” she said, already heading for the fridge. “Want a beer?”

“Aye, thanks.” He watched her walk to get him the beer. Watched her bend over to grab it off the shelf. Then, feeling guilty, he turned away fast before she could catch him at it. “You right?”

“Yeah, right up.” She handed him the beer—her fingers touched his—and wandered into her living room to sit on the lumpy brown couch. The TV was off, the stereo off; she’d been reading a book, and it sat pressed open next to her. She moved it so he could sit, too. “You? Everything okay?”

He was careful not to sit too close. If he sat too close he might forget and touch her, like resting his hand on her knee or some shit. Hard to remember sometimes that she weren’t his, that just cause he wished she was and sometimes felt like she was, she wasn’t. “Aye, right up.”

She looked at him a little more closely. Her eyes were clear, not glassy at all, so she’d been having a good day. He couldn’t stop himself wondering if that was causen she’d brought somebody home earlier, and wished he ain’t cared so much. “You sure?”

Shit. He’d hoped to find a better way to introduce the subject, a smoother way. But if he wanted to find that he shouldn’t have come right over to hers so fast after leaving Ben. Words weren’t his strong suit; always felt like he ain’t knew enough of em, like he couldn’t get em to say what he wanted them to say. So he shoulda gone home, or stayed in the car til he’d thought of a good way to say it.

But he hadn’t, cause knowing he was about to see her made it hard to think on shit like that anyway. When he was going to see Chess, all he could think about was Chess.

But then, when he wasn’t going to see Chess, all he could think about was Chess, so…

She waited. Didn’t raise her eyebrows. Didn’t look impatient. Just waited, like she ain’t cared how long it took him, it ain’t bothered her none. Or, more like she ain’t even noticed when it took him a long time to answer.

“Dame got attacked,” he said finally. “One of Bump’s, dig. Clapper Sue she name. Ain’t got who done it.”

“Is she okay?”

He nodded. “She be right. Ain’t—ain’t hurt bad.” It had felt bad enough lying to Edsel on it. Lying to Chess made him feel like shit.

But he didn’t have a choice, not on this. Weren’t just about Sue’s privacy, neither; aye, she deserved it, but he trusted Chess. She wouldn’t play pass-on with that.

Weren’t because of Sue that he couldn’t tell Chess what happened, or ain’t wanted to tell her. Were because of her.

She’d never outright told him anything. But she’d never had to. He knew. Dames like her didn’t hunt down an addiction lessin there was a damn good reason, and she’d sure as fuck hunted it down. He’d watched her do it, from the first time she showed up in Downside. Watched her not even fight with herself over it, least not what he could see.

And that was way before he really knew her, back when he’d just paid idle attention to her, kept track of her owes and every once in a while said something to her on them. Before he got to know just from the way them greeny-blue-brown eyes of hers clouded, or her mouth turned down, or she suddenly looked so sad and scared and pissed off at the world, what she was thinking on. Why she felt about herself the way she did. What they’d done to her.

He knew. He just did. So how could he tell her about what happened to Sue, and watch her smile fade and a shadow pass behind her eyes? Watch her reach for that pillbox in she bag and down a couple? He couldn’t do that to her. He just couldn’t, not if he ain’t had to. Specially not when it seemed like she were in a good mood.

Chess studied him. Waiting to see would he say more. But she didn’t reach for her bag, so he breathed a little easier. “He just grabbed her off the corner? Or…?”

“Lied like him were buyin. Robbed her in the car.” He reached for his smokes and raised his eyebrows at her. She nodded. He lit two and handed her one.

“Any clues?” She dragged off the smoke, her fingers slim and delicate around it, her gestures soft and graceful. “Did she get a description of him or anything?”

“Said had dark hair, but not much past it. Saying them all looking alike, dig, ain’t paid attention.”

She thought about it for a second. Like she always did. That thing in his chest, whatever it were, relaxed more. Chess was smart. She knew all kinds of shit he’d never even be able to imagine. He bet she’d have some good ideas for him.

And if she didn’t? Just chattering on it with her made him feel better. Like he ain’t had to worry on it all on his alones. Like he had somebody besides Bump backing him up.

“Do you think he was just trying to get it for free, or something else was going on? Like he’s targeting hookers for some reason?” she asked.

“He ain’t said aught to Sue, like any on bein dirty, if you dig. Whores get attacked just for bein whores, usually they hearing that kind of shit.”

Shit. He shouldn’t have said that. What the fuck was wrong with him, how fucking dumb could he be?

“Yeah,” she said. Her eyes darkened. Shit. “I guess they do.”

Maybe he could change the subject. Or move it on, or whatany. He spent too long thinking of something else to say, then finally came up with one. “Got you plans for the new year? Heading out anywheres?”

Her expression cleared, and he felt better. Some. Trouble was, every fucking time he saw that look in her eyes, every fucking time he saw her frown like that, it got harder and harder not to tell her to write down a list of names for him. Every single name she had a recall on, causen he wanted to hunt em all down one by one and make sure they knew why as they died. He honestly couldn’t think of much he’d like more.

“Not really,” she said, obviously unaware that he sat next to her planning bloody revenge on everyone who’d ever so much as looked at her sideways, much less hurt her. “I think the Runouts are playing at Chuck’s, right? I might go. You?”

“Be a fight on,” he said. “Figured on watching it. Maybe head Chuck’s on the after, aye.”

But he wouldn’t. Because Amy’d be at his place, and iffen he took her out after the fight he wouldn’t want to take her anywheres Chess was. Amy ain’t exactly liked Chess; the few times they’d been out somewheres and Chess showed up Amy’d wanted to leave right away. She’d been real casual on it, made up some other reason for taking off, but it ain’t been hard to catch that as soon as Chess walked in Amy wanted to walk out.

Weren’t hard to figure out why, neither, or that it was his fault. He knew that when Chess walked in he looked at her, watched her for too long. He knew he kept glancing at her. He knew his eyes followed her when she moved, and that they ain’t stayed on her face neither. He couldn’t help it, no matter how much he wanted to.

Have a happy Valentine’s Day, everyone!

(BTW, there’s a little love letter to Terrible over at Vampire Book Club, if you want to pop over and see what one reader has to say to him.)

I hope you had a great new year. Personally, I’m hoping 2013 will be a lot better than 2012, which sucked for a number of reasons. Thirteen is an exceedingly good number, though, so fingers crossed.

I’ll have a post in the next week or so with some more details/info about the Terrible novella (which just might finally have a title!); it’ll be an FAQ-style thing, so if you have any questions please do leave them in comments or use the Contact form to ask away. (I’ve already had quite a few questions about it, so I figure this will be the best way to answer them all.)

But today I have something a little different! Emily Winslow is a pal of mine from Absolute Write, and I think her book sounds awesome, so I asked her if she wanted to share an excerpt here today (it was supposed to be for yesterday, but yesterday went a bit haywire for me. My oven was condemned last week–no, seriously, I didn’t know that could happen either. But it’s a very old oven [like thirty years, I think] and the gas man came to look at it and decided we shouldn’t use it any more. So our wonderful landlord has gotten us a new oven, which will be delivered Friday [it is sad how excited I am about this]. The problem is, our old oven is smaller than what seems to have become the standard size for ovens these days, so we had a choice: buy an oven the same size as the current one for like £800, or take three inches off our countertop and buy a slightly bigger oven for a lesser price. Our landlord and I both felt the latter was the best option. So yesterday I had a bunch of work to do in the kitchen, both clearing and cleaning/tidying, and making a meal for Stephen’s co-worker who brought his big impressive power saw over to perform a countertop circumcision. Of course, the worst/hardest work is yet to come, because our old oven has its own backsplash thingy, whereas the new one does not, which means I’ll have like thirty years of grime to scrub off the tiles behind it once it’s gone, not to mention I will then need to paint those tiles to match the rest of them, and all that stuff. Not looking forward to that, particularly, or to what I am certain will be a shockingly filthy floor beneath, but oh well. I get a new oven. And the bottoms of my pots will hopefully no longer be crusted with soot after each use, requiring a complicated cleaning system involving toothbrushes and scrubby sponges just to keep them from staining my shelves. I have digressed quite a bit).

Point is, I spent all day yesterday Doing House Things, so I apologize to Emily for not posting this then. The good news, though, is that here it is now, and I hope you all enjoy it!

In the office, Lucy was talking with the new girl, who brought a newspaper in with her every day. Sometimes she spread it out on the table and it would overlap some of my envelopes. I don’t like to touch newsprint. On this one, the greasy ink made a generic picture of the river Nene in flood, near Peterborough. The words said a body had surfaced in the water there.

Lucy called the new girl Enid, which is how I learned her name. She said, “Enid, that’s disgusting!”

“That’s what water does. They have no idea who she was or how long she’s been there, really. Less than a year. More than a month. There were some hairs left to say she was fair. . . .”

I couldn’t see my notebook. The paper was opened wide, not even folded once. My notebook had to be under there. I looked for its outline, but the page about the dead person lay lightly. It curved. Anything could be under there. Or nothing. The other side, the rest of the news, lay thick and flat.

“Hi, Mathilde,” Enid said. “We’ll all have to be more careful. Someone doesn’t like girls with fair hair.”

I have fair hair. Enid’s hair is shit brown.

“She’s joking,” Lucy said. “Seriously, Enid. There’s nothing about any other victims.”

Enid shrugged. “Just haven’t found them yet.”

“Mattie, are you looking for this?” Lucy took my notebook off the seat next to her. She held it by its binding, which left the pages to flap.

I couldn’t speak. I willed her to put it down. Instead, she stood and walked around the table, holding it out. I didn’t move. “I’ll just put it in your bag,” she said. The bag had slid down to my elbow. It hung open there. The letter poked out the top.

I swung at her with the bag and took the notebook with my other hand. “Jesus Christ,” she said, jumping back. No one was in the way. I got out.

From THE START OF EVERYTHING by Emily Winslow, a novel of psychological suspense, which launches in the US from Delacorte Press, a division of Random House, today (yesterday). In hardcover, ebook and audio. The UK edition will launch in June.

“[Winslow is] brilliant at portraying the ragged fragments of these lives. What emerges isn’t a single killer with motive and means, but a tangle of stories crossing and colliding, stray intersections of incidents and accidents, misunderstandings, and misreadings, all thanks to the myopia of individual perspectives and the self-centeredness of individual desires.”
- The Washington Post

“Outstanding… A literary mystery, there are multiple viewpoints, the use of present tense and jumps in time. This dark thriller will bring chills and heavy atmosphere up to the shocking end.”
- Romantic Times, 4.5 stars out of 5

“Winslow’s second novel is compulsively readable with a final twist; a treat especially for fans of Minette Walters and Ruth Rendell.”
- Booklist

Website: http://www.emilywinslow.com
Blog: http://emilywinslow.wordpress.com
Twitter: @emilycwinslow

Please keep in mind I haven’t finished this, or edited it yet. This is pretty literally a first draft. But I do hope you all enjoy it! (It does not yet have a title, FYI.) And it starts in the time between UNHOLY GHOSTS and UNHOLY MAGIC, though it will move into UM and CoG as the story goes on.

So…here we go!

Chapter One

He’d seen a lot of dead bodies in his life. He’d created a lot of dead bodies in his life, done a lot of damage to living ones. But he’d only a few times seen a body like the one in front of him now, flesh torn an frozen into jagged chunks, covered in blood turned to ice. Slick Michigan, one of Bump’s street-dealers.

What was left of him, leastaways. He were barely recognizable; sliced to shit, with nothing but bloody holes in he chest and stomach, between his legs. His throat was slit. His skin were shredded.

That was part of the problem. Terrible knelt by the body to get a closer look. Had somebody chopped Slick up like that, or had animals got to him? There were plenty around. Not just dogs and cats, neither. Never could tell what might come outen an alley, especially where they were, near the docks.
Dock people kept all kinda shit as pets; hell, he wouldn’t be surprised to find some of them had been eating off Slick. Terrible hated being by the docks. He scanned the streets over and over, watched the windows of the buildings nearby, ready to move fast if he saw even a shadow. The barrel of his gun dug into his side; usually he left it in the car, but on the border streets, or the docks…

“What you thinking?” Roley stood on Slick’s other side, shifting from foot to foot. Anxious. Terrible guessed he couldn’t blame him. The sight of Slick ain’t exactly made him feel good, neither, even if they weren’t where they were. “Like a pack of dogs got he, aye?”

Terrible shook his head. “Somebody had a knife. Slit he throat. But the rest…ain’t know.”

He stood up. “Get he packed up, dig, take he to the cooler. Let Bump get a look in.”

He weren’t thinking just of Bump having a look, though, were he? No. He weren’t. Which made sense. Got a mutilated body, it made sense to have a witch look at it. Especially since he ain’t liked the look of some of them slices, some of them patches of missing skin. Looked like maybe somebody carved some shit into Slick’s body, maybe then cut it off after he were dead. Like maybe somebody doing magic.

So it made sense to think maybe he oughta give Chess a ring-up, see was she busy, if she minded having a look. He hated to do it to her, since Slick ain’t exactly looked pretty, but still. Made sense.

Made sense to step back as Roley and Winchuk started moving Slick’s body, too. An unburied body were like a magnet for a ghost, or could be. Chess taught him that; well, he’d always thought it were true, but she’d confirmed it. Sometimes they’d try coming back, getting back into them bodies. Why they had to be buried so fast, burned so fast. Were why he made sure them at the Crematorium got their money every month, right on time, so bodies could get dropped off there and taken care of.

But he ain’t felt that kind of…unease, like he’d learned he felt when ghosts were around. Not a big feeling. Just a funny one, like somebody were squeezing his stomach a little bit.

Whatever it was, he ain’t felt it then. Good thing, too. But he still didn’t like the look of that body, and he still thought it were best to check with Bump and get the aye to bring Chess in.

Had nothing to do with wanting an excuse to spend more time with her. Nothing at all. Just doing he job.

Roley and Winchuk had Slick turned over. Terrible held up a hand to stop em going further, then reached into Slick’s pockets. The denim, crusted with frozen blood, scratched at the back of his hand as he pulled out Slick’s wallet. Nothing missing, least not what he could see. Still had lashers in it; Terrible weren’t certain how much Slick shoulda had, but he had enough that it ain’t looked like he got robbed. Drugs in he other pocket, too, so definitely ain’t been robbed.

That ain’t made much sense, though. Not for the docks. Aye, this spot—way up ninety-ninth—weren’t a busy one. And aye, Slick had only been dead half a day at most; he picked up he product the night before just right but ain’t showed up that morning to turn in he earnings. So no more than fifteen hours, and long enough to freeze solid, or at least for he skin and all to freeze solid, causen he might just be so stiff from being dead.

He’d died sometime during the night, was all Terrible knew. Figuring shit like that weren’t what he done best; well, figuring any shit weren’t what he done best, was it?

A small crowd had started forming, attracted—he guessed—by the sight of him, Roley, and Winchuk. Maybe attracted by the body, seeing as how the sun had only been up a few hours and it were hidden in some tall weeds where it weren’t easy to see, specially in the dark.

But a crowd in the docks never were a good thing. He knew enough of the dock-people not to be worried. Knew what to do if they started getting too close, if it started lookin like they realized they outnumbered him. But he ain’t exactly wanted to do it, so better to just get out clean.

And try figuring why Slick were up in that part of town to start with. He worked Fifty-fourth, nowhere near the docks. No reason for him bein up there, where most of the buildings ain’t even had roofs and most of the walls looked like crumbling pyramids.

He gave Roley and Winchuk the nod to lift the body. No blood. A little on the grass and trash under it, but looked like transfer. None soaked into the dirt. Slick ain’t been killed there, then. Just dumped there.

He looked at the little crowd. “Anybody hear aught? See anything?”

Heads shook all around. Shit. Were what he expected, but still shit.

A dame stepped forward, her skin as pale as Slick’s from cold an lack of sun. Terrible ain’t felt the cold much neither—an even if he did he wouldn’t have showed it—but he couldn’t imagine how that dame weren’t shivering so hard she could barely stand. Barely dressed at all, she was, just wrapped inna dirty blanket scrap with holes for she arms, tied around her waist with a blue ribbon. Bright blue, only barely smudged with dirt. Like she tried keeping it clean an nice, tried making herself pretty the only way she could. Something about it made sadness echo in he chest.

Specially since there wasn’t shit he could do on it, not really. He’d slip her some cash for her knowledge, but it wouldn’t go past her next meal, maybe whatever man she gave herself to; no woman went alone on the docks. Not even a tough little one like this one, standing straight an ignoring the cold.

Then he looked a little closer an saw part of the reason why she ain’t felt the cold, leastaways. Her pupils were hardly visible, just tiny black dots practically spinning in her eyes.

“Be Unk’s place, there,” she said, in such a high, squeaky voice he almost expected dogs to start howling. Her bony arm stretched out, her bony finger pointing at the paper-covered window—weren’t even a real window, just an irregular hole knocked in the brick wall—next to where Slick’s body had been. “Could be Unk see or hearn aught, could be, you asking he.”

Terrible turned, stared at the window-hole. Whoever Unk were, he were likely watching now. He’d come out in a minute, when he saw them all looking, saw Terrible looking. Least Terrible hoped he would. He’d heard Unk’s name before, and them at the docks seemed to respect the dude. Terrible didn’t want to have to go in after him.

And he didn’t have to. After a minute or so—a minute or so in which Terrible unfolded his arms, straightened his back, raised his chin, making the threat more clear—the tied-together battered slats of wood that worked as a door opened, and Unk stepped out onto he front walk.

Old and skinny, bundled in scraps of burlap and fur that looked like dog. A bright green stocking cap covered his head all the way down to his eyes. Bright, aware eyes. Unk had seen something, aye he had.

“Dumped he here roundabout darktide,” he said. “Darktide, it were, hearing me a car, an gave me a peek. Fast peek, ain’t watching long. No headlights. No moonlights. Ain’t seed it much. But hearing me a voice. Man voice. Hearing the trunk close.”

He looked at Slick’s corpse, or what there were of it, wrapped in plastic hangin between Roley an Winchuk. “Hearing a thud. Car drives off.”

Terrible nodded his thanks. “Drive off fast? Only one voice?”

“One voice. No tires squealin or whatnot.” Unk bowed. “Be all.”

Terrible nodded again. So two people—only one talked, aye, but who’d he be talking to iffen he were on his alones?—dumped Slick there at low tide, which would be just before dawn if he had his knowledge right. Which maybe he ain’t, of course. He’d have to check. And whoever it was either figured he weren’t seen or ain’t gave a fuck iffen he was, causen he ain’t bothered to take off fast.

Which sounded like it were planned, not panicked. People panicked and killed somebody, they were terrified of being seen and caught. They fucked up, made mistakes, ran around tryna hide. But people who planned murders, they didn’t worry so much. They studied, hunted around for places to dump the body, set on times to do it when almost nobody be up to see or hear.

Meant good chances they knew the docks, too, seeing as how darktide were superstition in the dock-people. Bad luck, so they thought. They ain’t gone out during it. They ain’t liked it when the tide come in, neither, but then Terrible felt the same way. The air felt weird when the tide come in, like charged with electricity.

Weren’t the time to start thinking on it. Unk had already gone back inside, so Terrible pulled two twenties from his wallet and held them out to the woman. She stepped forward like she were walking on jagged glass, every step real hesitant and scared, and tugged them out of his hand from arm’s length.

Terrible tipped his head toward Unk’s house, seeing the paper over the window gapped on the side. So Unk were watching, would know he had lashers coming. “Pass he one, dig?”

The dame nodded.

Behind her the crowd started shifting. Time to get gone. He could stay longer, aye, but better to save that for when he needed it. Best thing to do in that part of town was get in fast, get out fast. Hand out a few lashers or a few broken bones, depending; enough of both so they didn’t forget who he was.
He gave Roley and Winchuk the nod toss the body into the back of the truck, and watched them get in the cab theyselves. Time to go.

Time to start tryin to find out who killed Slick Michigan, and more importantly why.

* * *

Bump’s annoyance came through loud and clear when Terrible walked into the red living room. Always hurt his eyes a little at first, afore he got used to it. He weren’t a fan of the pictures on the walls, neither, but weren’t his place to say on it. He just tried not to pay em too much attention.

Bump paced up and down the floor, his gold toe-ring flashing with every other step. His cane leaned against the couch; he wore loose black pants and a blue button-front shirt, and his eyes were bloodshot. Looked like he’d been up all night celebrating something. Terrible wondered when he’d left his house last.

“Be Slobag, betting,” Bump said, without stopping he pacing. “Fuckin betting him behind this one, yay, tryna take heself over, gots he—”

“Naw.” Interrupting Bump wasn’t always the best idea, but he really ain’t wanted to see this one turn into an all-day tirade. “Ain’t thinkin so. Thinkin be some else. Slick all cut up, dig, ain’t just were shot or whatany, like that kinda killing. Lookin like…like be personal, maybe. Or got some other reasoning’s behind it. An Slick ain’t work near the borders, neither. No reasoning I see why it’d be him them went for.”

“Maybe Slick be fuckin spyin.”

Terrible shrugged. “Know Slick gots heself a rep, likes the dames already got men, dig. Maybe one of them catch up to he. Ain’t be the first time he been in trouble over it.”

Bump waved his hand. “Maybe. Maybe you got it right, yay, got the fuckin recall now on that. Only I ain’t wanting rule Slobag the fuck out, yay, ain’t wanting fuckin forget on he. You give it the check-on, you get onna street.”

That one wasn’t too bad. Calmed down fast that time. Good thing, too, causen what Terrible was about to say wouldn’t make Bump happy. “Also…had the thinkin could be magic, dig. Slick gots he some funny cuts on he, like maybe something carved into he, then cut off so’s we ain’t know on it. Like be some ritual or whatany like that.”

“You just fuckin sat there gave me how it probably some fuckin dude ain’t liked Slick fucking he woman. Which one it fuckin be?”

“Just sayin, is all.” He pulled out a smoke and lit it up, spent a few seconds arranging the ashtray to give himself time to think how to put it. Damn it, he should have thought on it more in the car, gave himself time to get the words right. “Ain’t know which it is. Were thinkin…maybe oughta give Chess a ring-up, ask her take a look. Just for certain, dig.”

Silence. He kept staring at the red carpet, tryna pretend there were nothing more to his thought than wanting to make sure they had everything covered. Aye, that was the reason, true thing. He wouldn’t ask on bringing Chess in iffen he were certain what or who got Slick. But he knew Bump wouldn’t see it that way, not after some of the comments he’d made over the last month and a half.

Sure enough, when he glanced up Bump was watching him, arms folded, leaning against his desk. “Thinkin be magic? Or thinkin be a fuckin excuse spend you some time with the ladybird?”

“Ain’t needing an excuse.” He shrugged as he said it, like it ain’t mattered. “Wouldn’t say iffen I ain’t think it could be something.”

Bump held out his hand. “Lemme have a look-see on them fuckin photos again.”

The camera sat in Terrible’s bag, at his feet. He dug it out and handed it over without meeting Bump’s eyes. Maybe he were wrong. The only evidence he had that it could be something to do with magic was his own suspicion. There weren’t any markings or any shit like that on the body. No weird magic shit in he pockets or aught like that. Nothing. Maybe he was just wishing it, causen it’d be a chance to see Chess more.

He already saw her a fuck of a lot more than he’d ever expected, or hoped. Almost every day. Never would have seen that one coming; iffen he’d been asked two months past he’d have said she may have been the prettiest dame he’d ever met but she seemed like one of the bitchiest too—but this would be extra time.

He sure as fuck wouldn’t complain on seeing her more. But he didn’t think that were why. He just didn’t. Something on this one were setting off alarms in he mind, makin him feel like…like something was wrong. Something starting that weren’t good, wouldn’t end well.

Bump flipped through the images on the camera, the pictures Terrible had taken an hour or so before in the cooler. “Just looks like fuckin slices to me, yay? Come fuckin on, Terrible, you done worse damage than that you own fuckin self, specially you lose you fuckin temper. You fuckin knowing that.”

“Aye.” He did know that, ceptin he ain’t lose he temper with knives, not since he were a kid. “Only, some of them patches missing, were thinking maybe were shit carved into he skin.”

“An now them fuckin gone. So what you fuckin think the ladybird gonna pick fuckin up offa that? Nothin to fuckin see is nothing to fuckin see, yay?”

Fuck. He ain’t thought on that one. Made sense, though. Chess were smart, real fucking smart. Had she all that school, an knew more than he could ever hope to. But aye, even she probably ain’t could figure on what magic might be used iffen there weren’t any evidence of it. An the body ain’t felt like aught were happening with it, neither; Terrible weren’t real good on all that, but he knew how he’d felt when everything went down at Chester Airport, and he ain’t felt anything like that with Slick’s body.

Maybe he were just wanting to get Chess involved so he could be with her. Maybe all he concerns were just bullshit made up causen he wanted to be with her more. “Just figured it ain’t hurt askin.”

Bump snorted. “Askin to get you some fuckin trouble, yay. Oughta fuckin know you better. Ain’t can trust a junkie.”

“You trust her.”

“Nay, I fuckin ain’t. Trust her do what I fuckin ask she doing, yay, causen her does it, her gets she needs, dig? Puts Bump in control. Only ain’t fuckin seein you given em to she, so ain’t can guess on why you givin she the fuckin trust you do.”

He forced himself not to move. “Chess ain’t like that.”

“Yay, her is. Only you ain’t fuckin seein it, causen you wanting in she panties so fuckin bad, gots you all crazed up—”

“Ain’t—”

“Don’t got the knowing why you ain’t just fuck she already, yay, get you fuckin over you bullshit on it.”

Like it was that simple.

No point explaining that, though. Explaining that he didn’t try because if she didn’t let him they’d both feel awkward and he wouldn’t get to see her anymore. He didn’t try because if she did let him—and she might, sometimes he had the thought she just might, specially were she fucked up—she’d run away from him as soon as they were done. He knew she would. She’d done it before. She’d done it that night, the one he couldn’t forget no matter how hard he tried—and he’d tried real fucking hard. No point explaining that she preferred her bedpartners first-name- and one-time-only.

So pretty much, he didn’t try because no matter if she let him or not, he wouldn’t get to see her anymore.

And definitely no point explaining how that would kill him. He’d already had a taste of what he were missing, and it was fucking torture. He couldn’t imagine how much worse it would be to actually have her, to have her bare skin against his and her warm body under his, to touch her everywhere, kiss her everywhere…and then lose her. For good.

Bump must have seen something on his face. Or maybe it was just that Bump already knew all this; not cause he’d been told, but just because he knew. Bump weren’t stupid. He had eyes. His expression changed, the sarcasm and irritation leaving. “Be fuckin careful, yay? Alls I meaning. Dig me that you and she got some fuckin friend thing on, her likin you and all that fuckin shit. Can see her fuckin do. Maybe you gots the right, there, yay. Her do got the knowing how to keep she fuckin mouth shut, her do.”

He shifted position, crossing his ankles in the other direction. “Only still wanting you bein fuckin careful. Gots meself some fuckin experience on this one, Terrible. Ain’t can trust a junkie, causen it fuckin comes down to you or them pills? Them takin the pills every fuckin time. Wishing it weren’t the fuckin truth, yay, I do, only it is. And ain’t wanting you fuckin get the hard find-out on it.”

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

My editor and I also rode the Brighton Wheel, that night. It was kinda scary, to be honest. The car swung a lot, and the irritating voice-recording thing kept admonishing us not to swing the car, so we sat frozen in our seats for the first couple of revolutions until we relaxed a bit. But hey, we did ride the thing, and laughed a lot, and that’s what matters, right? (Plus, it gave me a good idea for a scene.)

Mostly I hung out with some very cool ladies I met the first night there. They were there making a follow-up to the film they made at World Horror, called “She’s Behind You.” I highly recommend you watch this. I started giggling as soon as I heard “She writes like a man.”

So anyway. Those were the highlights of my convention experience, really. And the fact that my room had an absolutely gorgeous view of the ocean. (I tweeted some pics, if anyone wants to go hunt around. I am feeling lazy at the moment.)

And I’m working working working. Working on the Terrible novella, plotting a new stand-alone project I’m really excited about: something quite different from what I’ve been doing the past couple of years (read: an erotic project) that’s actually more of a gothic than anything else, with ghosts and witchcraft and murder and stuff. If anyone here has read the short story I had in the MAMMOTH BOOK OF VAMPIRE ROMANCE II a few years back, it’s sort of along those lines. Like I said, it’s a stand-alone, and who knows, maybe it won’t work or it won’t go anywhere or I’ll end up self-publishing it just for fun, but I’m excited about it just the same.

And of course I’m waiting to hear Mr. Agent’s thoughts on the new ms I just handed him. It’s a YA UF–sort of a historical dystopian, and it’s called PENNY DREAD. I am as always torn between thinking it’s awesome and being really pleased with it, and thinking it sucks and is awful and no one will ever even want to finish reading it much less buy it. So we’ll see what he says. And I’m sure once he says what he has to say I’ll be even busier revising and such.

And fall is coming! Yay! My favorite season–and probably the reason why I’m all afire with new ideas etc., because fall and winter are my productive times.

So. Go watch “She’s Behind You,” and enjoy!

Oh, and Three, for my UK readers! I will be at FantasyCon in Brighton this weekend! I’ll be signing books at the big Friday night signing, and doing a reading Saturday afternoon at three. Eep. I have no idea what to read. Any suggestions?

I’m very excited; I love conventions, and I think this is going to be a really cool one, but I know very few people who’ll be there so please by all means come and say hello if you’re there.

Also for my UK/AUS readers, when I return I will have some info on FINDING MAGIC for you. I know it’s taken a while, sorry, but it will be released here/there, and hopefully it won’t take too long.

So…just a quick one, basically. Like I said, it’s been a fairly rough and busy couple of months. But I’m hoping to be back on track soon.

So, there’s a certain “Italian” chain restaurant in the US. I bet you know the one. I actually tended bar at one for a time, even, and although it wasn’t a great place to work for it wasn’t as bad as some. Opinions on their food are somewhat divided, but I admit I have a special fondness for it, for a number of reasons, and I’m not ashamed, either.

But. One thing I haven’t seen anyone disagree on is the deliciousness of their garlic breadsticks. Because seriously, those are some awesome breadsticks.

The other night I was making pasta. Just a very quick pasta, with some homemade bolognese I made and froze a few weeks ago. And I had a craving for some garlic bread to go with it. Lovely, soft, buttery garlic bread. (Some of you may know that I recently figured out–finally!–how to make yeast work, with the result that I’ve been a bread-making fool for the last two months. Sandwich breads, focaccia, dinner rolls, cinnamon rolls…yum yum yum. Anyway.)

I Googled the recipe for this particular restaurant’s breadsticks. And found a couple that looked likely. To my surprise, none of them used actual bread flour; they used regular AP flour. They were pretty basic, bread-wise: flour, yeast, water, salt, melted butter, and a little sugar. And the comments left on those recipes were pretty good.

But I started thinking. Hmm. They don’t use bread flour, and they’re supposed to be Italian, and I *bet* the restaurant uses something a bit spiffier than just plain old AP flour. Well, Italian 00 flour works great in focaccia bread, and in pastas. And 00 flour makes breads softer; something to do with protein levels and fineness of the milling, I don’t know all the science exactly, but I do know that 00 flour can generally be used in a lot of recipes where AP flour is, only it’s a bit softer. Since soft is exactly what these breadsticks are supposed to be, and since I had 00 flour (of course; I currently have about eight different types of flour in my pantry), I figured, why not?

Next I looked at the liquid. All just water, really? I’ve done some breads with all water, some with water & milk, and some with sour cream. The dairy ones are softer. So again, I thought, okay, let’s replace some of the water with milk. And while we’re at it, let’s add a little honey, because not long ago I made some dinner rolls with honey and milk and the hubs pronounced them “So good, you could actually sell these.” They really were good.

I don’t knead for long. Dan Lepard, in his SHORT & SWEET, makes a good case for a brief knead, and I’ve had great results with his method (oh look! That link goes to the HarperCollins UK site! Look what else is there–CHASING MAGIC, which was released yesterday!). So I basically knead just long enough to bring the dough together, then give it another short knead ten minutes or so later, and then another before I shape the dough. Normally I do two other ten-minute-interval short kneads, but again, I was going for very soft here.

So. This is the dough I made. I bought a kitchen scale a few months back, an inexpensive little digital one, so these are measured in grams. Also, I use ml for the liquids, because that’s the easiest way for me to get the temperature right, as you’ll see.

500g Italian 00 flour
10g fine salt (I used regular Morton’s iodized salt, but you could use sea salt or whatever)

whisk those together in a large bowl.

In a measuring cup mix:

1 Tbsp honey
100 ml boiling water
200 ml cold whole milk (not 2% or skim, I used whole, which I usually have to bake with)
(This will give you liquid that’s the perfect temperature for yeast; 100 ml boiling to 200 ml cold. It really works. You don’t even have to take its temperature. 300ml is about 1 cup, so you could do 1/3 cup boiling to 2/3 cold. But my measuring cup has both so it’s just as easy to use ml. You could of course mix it all and microwave it to the right temp., but I don’t have a microwave. I do have an electric kettle.)

Add to that:

2 Tbsp sugar
5g dried yeast.

You can use dried active or quick rise or whatever kind, it doesn’t matter. You don’t *have* to bloom the yeast if you’re using any kind but regular dried, but I tend to anyway just to make sure it’s alive. Give it a stir and let it sit for a couple of minutes while you melt:

2 Tbsp butter.

Let the butter cool for a minute or two, until you can stick your finger in it without it burning, and add it to the liquid/yeast mixture.

Dump the liquids and yeast into the flour/salt, mix it until it forms a dough, and knead it for a minute or two until it comes together and is fairly smooth. Then put it back into the bowl–some recipes say to oil it, and you can do that, but I don’t always bother; I’ve never had a problem with the dough sticking to the bowl, frankly–cover it with plastic, and let it sit somewhere to rise.

Two things about the rise: One, all the fat in this dough means it will rise slowly. It’s because the fat does something to impede the yeast a bit. So while a less-fatty dough may double in size in an hour, this one will take maybe 1 1/2 or even 2 hours.

Two, here’s what I do to make a nice warm place for the yeast to rise. You can try a few things, actually. If your oven is on you can set the bowl on top of it, but this could get too warm. Some people recommend turning the oven on its lowest setting for ten minutes, then turning it off, opening the door a bit, and setting the bowl inside.

Here’s what I usually do, and I do the same after the dough is shaped. I set the bowl on top of the toaster and flip down the levers to turn the heating elements on. I let it sit about ten-fifteen seconds then turn the toaster off. This sends a bit of warmth rising to the bowl, but not too much, and the warmth lingers. And, as I check the bottom of the bowl during the rise, if the bowl feels too cool I can repeat it quickly and easily. No messing about with oven dials and worrying it’s too hot or heating too slow or moving oven racks about or how-far-should-I-leave-the-door-open. I just flip the toaster on for a few seconds. Easy-peasy.

I rise my dough in a really cheap see-through plastic bowl. I’ve used my nice melamine bowls, but I like these better because they’re see-through, which not only makes it easier to watch the dough rising, but also because I am always convinced I’ve done something wrong and the dough won’t rise, and with the clear bowl I can lift it up and look at the bottom. See, as the yeast starts to work little bubbles form in the bottom, little pockmarks. They start at the edges and move inward. So I can make sure the yeast is working before I actually really notice the dough rising, by looking for the pockmarks in the bottom.

Anyway. It took about 2 hours, I think, for the dough to double in size. I kneaded it a bit, shaped it into hot-dog-bun-like rolls–mine were a little too big, I only made six of them. I think next time I’ll go for ten equal pieces. Anyway. Shape them into the rolls, set them on a piece of parchment on a baking sheet, and then back onto the toaster for another forty-five minutes or so until they’ve doubled in size again.

When you set the shaped bread onto the toaster, turn the oven on to 400F.

Stick the risen rolls into the oven and set the timer for seven minutes. Now in a small saucepan over the lowest possible heat, melt about 1/2 cup of unsalted butter with 2 tsp of garlic powder. The recipe I had called for 2 tsp of salt, also, but it turned out a bit too salty, I think, so next time I’ll cut the salt to 1 1/2 tsp. Anyway, mix the garlic powder and salt into the butter and stir and stir. Don’t let it boil or color.

And yes, you can probably use real garlic. I can hear some of you gasping at the garlic powder. But honestly, I’d be worried about real garlic coloring or cooking in the butter. I’d be worried that the flavor isn’t intense enough or is too intense, or rather, that you’d have to use so much garlic to make the flavor right that it would feel like you spend half an hour mincing garlic. But you could, sure. I use real garlic for my other garlic butters and breads. But I was happy enough with this one.

When the timer goes off pull the bread from the oven and baste well with the butter. Give it a nice coat. Then stick it back in the oven for a further seven minutes (rotate it as you put it back).

The bread should be done after that (unlike other breads, because of the melted butter and the extra softness, the sticks won’t sound hollow if you tap the bottom). Take it out and baste with the rest of the butter. Baste it well and baste it thick. I didn’t use all the butter but I used most of it, probably about 4/5 of it. It’s gorgeous, with the shiny wet butter and little bits of garlic powder.

Look at that garlic butter

Eat while still warm, if you can even wait for it to cool down enough to be called “warm.” I swear this bread is SO SOFT. SO delicious. So squishy and buttery-garlic-y and lovely. I was one happy little breadmaker. I barely even wanted my pasta bolognese. I just wanted garlic breadsticks.

This next question is extra-special, because of the level of respect shown by the readersheep in question. Good for you, little sheep! You *might* even qualify as Not Totally Stupid!

Auntie, you’re obviously a wealth of knowledge, and I know, as a moronic reader, I am completely unworthy of your time , but I wanted to thank you. I found your recent post to be a wonderful eye opener – it’s great to finally known exactly what my role as reader actually is! I am extremely grateful for you making it clear, and can’t thank you enough!

Thank you so much for taking time out from advising our godlike authors to read an email from such a lowly reader – if you managed to get this far. I would be beyond humbled to know you gave me the time of day!

Well, I did manage to get that far, but only because of how well you seem to have learned your place. Auntie has no time for readersheep who insist they matter in any way, so it’s nice to see one like you who has learned the error of her me-me-me little ways.

So let’s start at the beginning, which I know is important because try as you might you little sheep are incapable of understanding anything not perfectly linear.

First, you’re right. Authors shouldn’t have to pay for any sort of review, because duh, the free book is payment enough. Even THAT is a slippery slope, in Auntie’s opinion, because it’s frankly giving the readersheep WAY too much power, and swelling their silly little heads to mammoth proportions, to behave as if they deserve anything in return for their obligatory praise. In writing it all should work the other way around: everything for The Author, and nothing for The Reader.

However, because some traitorous authors have actually gotten into the habit of behaving as if the readersheep matter–and I don’t capitalize “Author” there because they are unworthy of it–and especially because of the, well, sheep-like nature of the readersheep which means they move blindly from one book to the next baa-baa-baa-ing as they follow their little sheep pals and buy up anything one of those pals says is any good (and I realize the incongruity of saying “pals,” as if readersheep are capable of feeling things like friendship, when in fact only hatred burns in their dark, envious little hearts)…well. I suppose sometimes we Authors must bite the bullet.

And I admit, giving them free stuff does make it easier later to inform them of their obligations. Much like Don Corleone dealing in favors, so must we be. And our retribution must be as swift, if they make the mistake of thinking they’re entitled to their own opinions.

It is rather confusing, and you being a readersheep I don’t blame you for not immediately knowing how to handle it all. After all, you are not very smart, are you? Poor little dear. What it boils down to, really, is this:

*Readersheep owe Authors positive reviews
*Whatever an Author must do to get positive reviews is justified
*Readersheep have no right to charge for positive reviews, BUT
*If Authors want to pay them for them, that’s fine, because anything Authors do is fine
*At least charging for reviews makes clear that the readersheep are not, as they claim, simply people who love books, but crazed egotists who are desperately trying to exert some sort of control over the behavior and careers of Authors
*Better that we have some paid readersheep out there to sway opinion
*Readersheep are always dumb

Auntie SpecialSnowflake, can you help me write better 5 star reviews? I want to make sure all the amazing and talented authors out there become rich and famous.

As well you should.

Auntie can indeed help, of course, and good for you for recognizing your responsibility! Here are a handy list of phrases you can use:

*The best book I’ve ever read
*Made me cry from its sheer beauty
*I felt like I was inside the story watching it all happen
*Better than {insert bestseller’s name here}
*You wont[sic] be disappointed
*Deserves a Pulitzer Prize
*I’ve never read anything so amazing
*Made me laugh, made me cry, made me cheer! {the exclamation point is very important}
*The most original story I’ve ever read
*Deserves to be a bestseller
*Deserves to be made into a movie

Any combination of those will work very well. And don’t forget, you can also check the five-star Amazon reviews for a number of self-published books to get a whole lot more of them–many of those reviews will even be written by the actual Author, so you know they’re good!

Auntie may still have a question or two in the queue, but tomorrow we may see something different here. It depends.

Auntie Specialsnowflake here! So many of you silly little readersheep sent in questions, and good for you! It is so gratifying to see how many of you acknowledge your lowly status, and that you need to modify your behavior in order to make this world a better place. Auntie is proud of you–well, as proud as she can be, considering that you still have not achieved anything of any importance (i.e. you have not written a book).

So let’s get to it!

Dear Auntie Specialsnowflake,

Yours,
Fat and over 40.

Well, Fat, of course they do! Readersheep are incapable of seeing beyond the surface of anything, which is why they’re such sad failures and why they do things like give bad reviews to books that have lots of errors, just as if writing ability matters or something (we Professional Authors know it does not). As I said before, the obvious and best answer is to steal the photo of a Canadian model from a photographer’s Flickr account. This works especially well if you repeatedly talk about how your manager wants you to get more professional photos like that done but you’re just so down-to-earth you’re not necessarily into that, and you can also mention how hard it is to find people who like you for YOU and not just because of your golden hair and “blue eyes to die for.”

However, if you cannot find a photographer whose copyright you’re ready to trounce upon in the name of entitlement (which, how silly! Of course you’re entitled!) or a model whose image you are happy to use and whose career you are happy to potentially damage, there are other things you can try.

*Along that “picture” vein, find one of yourself taken, say, fifteen years ago. Make sure that it looks like it was taken during the heyday of Glamour Shots (i.e. shiny satin wrapped around your shoulders, hair piled eight inches off your scalp, heavy makeup, lots of fake pearls; science has yet to discover any look more flattering, or one that so loudly screams “Professional Author,” as what I’ve just described) or that you are otherwise wearing clothes or a hairstyle which are seriously dated. That photo of you with big poufy bangs and a perm wearing a Rick Springfield t-shirt will do nicely.

You can also skip the “old” picture and go for one which is “artistic.” Like, say, one where so much Vaseline was smeared on the lens that you resemble nothing so much as a sort of flesh-toned amoeba, or maybe one taken from fifty or sixty feet away, or perhaps a silhouette or an image taken basically in the dark.

Don’t forget, too, that nobody says you have to post a picture of your whole face. Take a close-up of the back of your head, or your hand. Not only will this be flattering, it has an ironic “hipster” feel that will be much appreciated by the younger readersheep, who will never see through any of these ruses.

*Use hip lingo. In my last post I mentioned how valuable “LOL” is, especially when discussing things which no sane human would ever think are actually worth even a smile, much less a full-on laugh. Use “LOL” a lot. This sort of “cool code-word” will immediately clue in the kiddies that you are young and fresh!

*Talk about popular culture. Apparently there’s some young singer called “Justin Beaver” or something. Post some pictures of him. The readersheep will immediately see that you are clued into what the kids are doing these days.

*Post a lot about very personal things. Let it all hang out! Talking about your sex life is guaranteed to excite the readersheep–they have the mentality of raincoat-wearing old men in pornographic theaters, you see, a voyeuristic delight in hearing or reading about anything having to do with sex–and make them come back for more. Auntie can picture them now, drooling as you explain your latest orgasms to them. Don’t forget to totally objectify any man you may happen to write about, as in, “I ran out to the convenience store to get a drink, and the guy behind the counter was totally hot and flirted with me so much I was tempted to peel off my jeans right there and let him see what he so obviously wanted!” The readersheep will be titillated beyond belief at this, especially since everyone knows they themselves can never manage to find anyone willing to have sex with them.

*Prove that you are tough, just like they are. We all know young people today are basically animals with no brains or impulse control. Prove that you are one of them by, of course, following the advice Auntie’s already given, but also by doing things like visiting forums hosted by TV networks for their reality shows and picking fights and calling names. There are no end to the places on the internet where you can demonstrate your amazing linguistic abilities and lack of self-censoring.

*Misspellings and poor grammar. As I mentioned, this will let the readersheep know that you are one of them, casual and unpretentious. Everyone knows that only fuddy-duddies and The Olds care about such things. YOU are an artiste! Young and hip and happening, just like Rimbaud!

*Don’t forget the importance of lying. This is the internet. Nobody has to know how old you really are!

*Make sure you rant whenever you can about how awful the readersheep who don’t like your book are and how much you need the support of the readersheep who do. This will get them on your side and make them want to run around the internet attacking those who give your book bad reviews, which will in turn make it appear that you are young, popular, and cool, with legions of fans (we Professional Authors always refer to the readersheep who like us as “Fans,” btw). Win!

Dear Auntie,

A Stenographer of the Heart

Oh, dear, Stenographer. It can’t be, of course. Your book is the best and most amazing and touching novel ever put on paper. The problem is–as deep down you know–those stupid jealous readersheep. They hate that you managed to write such an intricate and involved tale, and that you have the dedication to put such a huge number of words on the page, especially since we all know that the only other Authors who have ever managed to write that many words are people like Tolkein and Dickens and Clavell, and obviously your book puts you in their ranks.

The only way to combat such stupidity from such uneducated, snivelling, hate-filled readersheep is, of course, to report them and their reviews to whatever site they’re posting on, including web hosts. Get all of your sockpuppets to report, too. In addition, use all of their names in your next book for characters of whose lifestyles you do not approve, or who have diseases or are otherwise imperfect. That’ll show em!

Well, yes, Auntie skipped posting on Friday. Because unlike you people, she actually has a life. So there. You see, being the enormous Bestselling Author that she is, she is simply inundated with requests to do tours and sign autographs and all of that; she is hounded everywhere she goes, just like all us Bestselling Authors are. (Yes, we are recognized in public ALL THE TIME, because no one is more recognizable and celebrity-like than Authors.)

Anyway. Let’s get to your own blog, shall we? And how to use the momentum you’ve gained through Auntie’s special program of sockpuppets, insults, lies, threats, and general tantrum-throwing to truly cement your place in the Authorly Stratosphere.

Why is your own blog so important? Because, duh, if you don’t take the battle to your own blog, you run the risk of the situation–and the ATTENTION–dying down. Also, being on your own blog will add credence to your lies about how many people are looking at you/your post and how they’re all rushing to buy your books in support of it. If you’re on someone else’s blog how could you know this? But on your own…hell, even if the hit counter you have up indicates only, say, 12,000 hits more than it showed when the whole mess started, you can still easily claim 25,000 people checked out your site and blog, and of course, most of them bought your book. This always fools the readersheep. But of course, if it’s not on your blog you can’t lie. And we can’t let that happen, can we? Noooo.

So. You start by writing your own blog post, in which you simply tell the truth and nothing but the truth about how those evil readersheep have injured, damaged, and hurt you personally. How they have ganed up on you and left you bereft. How your innocent attempt to point out the error of their ways–an attempt those ungrateful bitches will never admit how much they appreciate, but we all know they do deep down because all idiots like having their idiotude pointed out. How the hell else are they going to learn, right?–has suddenly snowballed into the most vicious type of aggressiveness.

This will be 100% true, because we all know how the readersheep run their carefully orchestrated campaigns. Auntie believes they have learned to do this by studying the writings of General George S. Patton, because there is of course no way they’re smart enough to orchestrate something of this nature on their own. Hence, you have a whole cabal of readersheep, sitting in front of their computer screens, overeating in a vain effort to silence the gnawing pain of Not Being An Author Like You and cackling madly while they shout, “I’ve got you now, you magnificent son-of-a-bitch! I READ YOUR BLOG!!”

Now, for the first time ever anywhere, Auntie will outline for you the exact methods these readersheep mafiosi use to discredit and attack you:

If Readers catch up to you in a dark alley one day, you are done for

*They quote you. All over the internet. You’ll find your words in places you did not put them. This cannot be countenanced, and is proof that they hate you and all Authors. (It also gives you the opening you need to start adding “You’re violating my copyright!” to your list of legal threats. This will terrify them.)

*They will comment on the things they quote. Just as if they have the right to interpret anything you say. It’s another show of their arrogance, like their stupid misinformed twaddle about your book, which they are obviously just not smart enough to understand.

*They will actually discuss their interpretations of your comments. I know. Something must be done to stop this nonsense. Everyone knows that whatever you say on the internet is intended for your eyes only, or for those of your close circle of friends. No one else has the right to look at your words. This is especially true because you are an Author, and baby, if they want to read what you write they should pay you. Unless of course it’s one of the posts you write based on the following advice, in which case they should be strapped to a table and left there with only your posts to read until they agree to concede that you are far, far better than they can ever hope to be.

*They may put your books on Mean Shelves on Goodreads. Like “Won’t Buy” or “Author Behaving Badly.” Like they have any right to judge the behavior of an Author and make any sorts of buying decisions based on it. You and your book are completely separate things and they are beholden to completely ignore anything and everything about you as a person and just shut up and buy your book. (Again, unless of course they love you. Then they should buy all of your books and give them great reviews simply because that is the sort of support they owe you.)

“Auntie,” you say, “I see this whole bad-shelving thing, but I admit, I’m curious why it matters so much.”

Ah, you poor little thing. I pat you on the head. It matters because the readersheep see even a single instance of such shelving and immediately decide that no matter how much they may want to read your book, they never ever will. All it takes is one to destroy your publishing career forever (there are numerous case studies that support this). The Readersheep know this, so they do this “shelving” thing just because they have nothing better to do and it amuses them to destroy those who have achieved things in life. Remember, just by virtue of writing some words and self-publishing them, or maybe signing a contact with a brand-new epublisher (that means they’re going to show all those big mean established houses!) you are automatically a great success in life.

I repeat, readersheep are incapable of making their own decisions. What one says, thinks, or does, all the others say, think, or do. Period.

ALL of these things can and should be addressed on your own blog. I recommend you begin by using that most mature and guaranteed-to-win argument ever: They Started It. Hey, if they hadn’t been mean about you, you never would have been forced to jump in and defend yourself, right? And they did that knowing how much it could hurt and harm you. They did it just to ruin your life and, especially, to attract your attention. That’s all they want, is for you to notice them.

So first, you point this out. How you were attacked and wounded. Say whatever you want, because the fun isn’t in this initial post–although you must make clear how hurt you are, and how disappointed that they have failed in their responsibility to you–will come in the comments. See, at least one Readersheep is bound to take umbrage at this. Like all stupid people, they get very offended when their stupidity is pointed out to them, even gently. Which you will not be, if you know what’s good for you, because gentleness doesn’t sell books.

So one or two of them will make some moronic comment about how disrespectful you’re being. This is typical of them; they try to make everything about themselves when we all know it’s actually about YOU. Simply let them know that you’re not falling for their attempts to pretend they’re the injured party. You know why they’re on your blog, and it’s because they’re having too much fun attacking you to go away. All you’re trying to do is set the record straight and here they are quoting you and picking at you like the dirty vultures they are.

One or two other Authors–well, I hesitate to say they’re worthy of the title, because all true Authors will see things the way you do–may attempt to get you to remove your post. They will pretend this is because they care and want to help you. This is utter bullshit. They simply do not want you to steal their thunder, because they themselves have been planning a similar Surefire Publicity Campaign and you’re stepping on their territory. Either that, or they’re just kissing ass, hoping the readersheep will see them and buy their books. They do this because they’re just as stupid as the readersheep. Readersheep never buy books from authors who support them, because they have no respect for such a stance. Trust me on this one.

Your post must contain a large amount of self-justification and references to both the stupidity of the readersheep AND how many better things they should have to do AND their bad taste. AND, of course, their meanness, which is what this is all about. A good way to do this is to mention the names of other, more famous Authors, thus implying a bit of modesty and pathos by admitting that, for example, you are not as famous as Stephen King, which means they are extra cruel to attack you. You could of course use J.K. Rowling instead of King; this is especially good if you refer to her as either “JK Rowlings” or “JK Rawling/s.” (Same for calling Stephenie Meyer “Stephanie Mayer,” or similar. All of these are guaranteed to make the readersheep see you as the delicate flower you are, and they will understand how little you deserve to have them express an honest opinion about your book that is not 100% positive. Or anything you do or say.) Once again, it proves that you’re not a crazy egotist, you’re not unable to accept criticism, you’re just a sensitive and extremely talented little snowflake trying as hard as she can to make it in this big scary world, and the readersheep have unjustly targeted you for ruination simply because they get off on such things. Don’t forget to mention all of the things we covered before: the health problems, how important your book is to you, how you’re a good person and they are not, how you don’t deserve such cruelty just for having a dream, etc. etc.

Now–if you’re lucky–you’ll find your blog post linked to or discussed elsewhere. Good for you! You’re becoming a Real Celebrity. Wheaties will be calling you any moment to get your picture on the box, so leave those phone lines open. Most of these posts will be readersheep pretending to be upset by what you’ve said. Do not fall for this. They’re talking about you because your name is now tattooed on their very souls, and they have already begun the process of buying multiple copies of every book you’ve ever written. Deep down they are hugely impressed by you.

But you must at first pretend you don’t know this is the case. You also must–and this is so, so important–NEVER LET THE MATTER DIE. EVER. The name of the game is “Attention at Any Cost,” and you must make them pay for what they’ve done to you. Make the biggest stink you can. Enlist your sockpuppets to start leaving abusive comments on every post on their blogs. They’ll never know it’s you. Threaten them some more. Apply more pathos.

If you’re *really* committed to becoming a huge Bestseller, you’ll try the following:

*Write more blog posts. Write several a day, exposing them for the scum they are. Discuss in great detail how they gang up and bully Authors like you, who did nothing to them except try to share a piece of your heart with the world.

*Make great and excessive use of “LOL” or “< g >” or “HAHAHA!” I recommend “LOL” for most situations. And most of the time what you’ll want to use “LOL” for are things that are not only not funny, but that no one would ever consider funny EVER. For example, you could say “Oh, well, I guess I’m just a jerk that way LOL” and it’s not really funny, but one can see where the “LOL” just might fit in as an indicator of sarcasm or you being asshole-y-ish gleeful about your assholehood. But that’s not what we want here. So try to think in terms of things like, “Sorry I have to go eat dinner LOL” or “My phone is ringing LOL.” Remember, if it makes sense or is something any actual human being would actually laugh at, “LOL” is probably wrong. I recommend “LOL” and “< g >” also for when you’re being a straight-up dick. Like, “I guess I should listen to what you dumb bitches think < g >” or “Go get a life you miserable cunts < g >.” That way you can later pretend you were joking and man, it’s not your fault they have no sense of humor. (“HAHAHAHA!” is best left for threats.)

*Take screenshots of their comments and post them out of context. It doesn’t matter if they’re quoting you calling them fiendish fuckheads. The point is, you have an image where one of them says the phrase “fiendish fuckhead.” Therefore they called you that and no one can prove any different. (Make sure you delete their comment immediately after screenshotting it.)

*Make up other screenshots/posts. The beauty of allowing anonymous comments on your blog is that YOU can post anonymously, too! Of course, you’re already doing so with your supportive sockpuppety friends, but don’t overlook the potential there. You can easily post attacks to yourself for all to see. And once again, not only can no one prove you’re not doing this, they’re too sheeplike and dumb for the idea to even occur to them!

*Don’t just use anonymous sockpuppets, either. Use some who pretend to be your literary agent, or who claim to be lawyers or publishing insiders. If you’re with a small enough publishing house, you can possibly get an editor or higher-up from there to come and go batshit all over the place, which will prove to the readersheep not only how much said publishers believe in your talent, but how important and trustworthy their judgment is. Which, duh, is a lot.

*Inform everyone that you’re receiving private death threats and are talking to the police. Tell them you’ve handed over all of their private information to the authorities (as well as, of course, your own attorney who will need it for those slander suits). This will not only invoke their sympathy and make them see how they’ve gone too far, it will also prove to them your omnipotence (don’t worry about the potential logic issue with this; they certainly aren’t capable of seeing it). As they cower in fear, your name–and book covers!–will be imprinted on their brains, forcing them to buy your books even if they don’t think they want to. They do. Why? Because YOU are dominant, and you have proven it, and now they will submit. Readersheep, being weak little fools, are guaranteed to roll over and do what you want once you take a firm hand.

*Get your friends to keep commenting on your blog and any other that discusses the situation.

*Hunt down every comment they make about you anywhere. Discuss them all with your sockpuppets in detail. Post long blog posts about them.

*Don’t forget to punctuate all of this with more statements about how hugely your sales numbers are rising with every passing second, how they have all made you famous, and you couldn’t pay for that kind of publicity so you thank them. This will make them feel foolish and, of course, prove to them that they have been outsmarted. That works especially well if you begin informing them that THIS is what you expected all along, that you orchestrated the whole thing just to expose them and their evil scheming, and that they have played right into your hands and showed the world who they truly are. THE WHOLE WORLD NOW KNOWS THEY SUCK AND ARE HATEFUL HATERS. HAHAHAHA!

Saying this is proof that you are a Winner

*And, as your last, bold move to Win It All, you must delete everything. Just delete it.

This will leave them guessing and wondering, delighted and amazed. This will leave everyone talking about you. You’ll become a legend: the Amazing Vanishing Author. They’ll debate about you for YEARS.

And you will have cemented your future forever. You, dear Author, are a hero.

TOMORROW: AUNTIE WILL ANSWER YOUR QUESTIONS! SO IF YOU HAVE ONE YOU HAVEN’T YET ASKED, SEND IT IN OR LEAVE IT IN COMMENTS!

*Do I really have to explain that this is satire? Please tell me I don’t.
**This does not work. Ever. This is for entertainment purposes only.