The Witch of the Isle

Chapter 1 - Lord Willing

I gained my freedom the same year that the American’s bought Louisiana from the French. I was only fifteen at the time, and nobody told me that freedom came with dark alleys and men with gnarled teeth and groping hands. Fourteen years later, I’d survived countless indignities to emerge with my own home—now that Old Toulouse wasn’t around to argue that it was his anymore. He still complained in my dreams, but I usually reminded him that I’m the Traiteur now and he’s dead.

The wind scraped the branches against the side of my tiny cabin, as though Old Toulouse had heard my thoughts and decided to remind me that he could still spook me sometimes. I wasn’t afraid, but I might be late. My sleepy-looking brown eyes, as my late mother would have said, shifted from where the sound of the scraping was loudest to the wall clock, which was just a pocket watch that Old Toulouse had lent me before he died. The dull metal device hung from a chain on a cut nail sunk halfway into the wall. The pocket-watch face read nearly tea time, and my new patient should be approaching soon. I bolted over to the door, almost tripping on the little wooden table that Old Toulouse had made from two planks of black birch wood.

I slid my fingers up the door to just below the wooden door latch that barred entry. I listened for an old man’s footsteps beyond. My fingers itched in anticipation as I filtered sounds out from the Cane River: white cattle egrets clucked along the bank probably seeking out crocodiles, and the sound of running water as the river wound through the trees. My breathing came hard and fast, and my heart kept pace. When I heard the shuffling of the man’s gout-stricken feet on the ground outside, I flipped the wooden latch up and pulled the door inward.

“Monsieur LeComte,” I said as I greeted him. He looked as though he might bolt into the woods. As much as it would have helped maintain that air of mystery to have him tell others how I knew him before he knew me, he would have to survive to do so, and bolting into the woods towards the Cane would be a sure way to find death. I interjected before he could react. “It’s okay, Monsieur. You’re welcome and safe in my home. Come in.”

As he passed, my eyes followed. They fell on the dingy, empty walls made with untreated wood marred with the cracks of time. When the wind blew, the house whistled. Beneath my clock rested rows and rows of bottles, each filled with a tincture or potion for some ailment or another. I turned my attention to him.

A bald spot graced the center of his head of gray poofy hair. That and gout could have meant he was an older man, or it could mean that he was a field hand, and had wasted his life away until the sun stole his youth. But I knew he was free. My vision had told me that much, but it didn’t tell me all the circumstances of his life.

“What seems to be bothering you?” I asked, careful to leave the door unlatched. The last time I latched it, a young woman fainted from stress. The rumors never seemed to stop and I’d long since stopped fighting them. The crazy woman in the woods can heal you, but be careful or she’ll eat your soul. Marguerite told me that was one of the rumors—that I eat souls. I don’t. “Monsieur?”

He had locked his vision to where I had the cot propped against the wall—the only seating space in my small cabin unless I decided to repurpose the table (as I sometimes did).

“Monsieur?”

He turned to me slowly and I could see the pain in his eyes. Monsieur LeComte crammed his hands into his armpits, taking on a protective stance. He’d definitely heard some good rumors, I was certain of it. But I could also tell from the sweat congealing between his eyes that he was in so much pain, even the rumors weren’t enough to stay him. That’s how I got customers, and there was always more pain in Isle Brevelle.

“My feet,” he muttered. I looked down.

“No shoes?”

“Can’t. It’s torture.”

I guessed he would know about torture, as would anyone who wasn’t a planter in the Isle. The lines on his knuckles gave away his age finally. He must have been nearly sixty based on those hard hands. I knew also that if I took his shirt off, I’d find rows of whip marks between his shoulderblades. There wasn’t much I didn’t know about the community and I was rapidly putting M. LeComte in his place. He shook on his feet, shifting his weight every few seconds, alternating pain from one foot to the other. I looked down at his deformed toes, warped and twisted and red. I realized why he’d been staring a the cot.

“It must have killed you to make that journey. Sit down, Monsieur, and lift those feet. I can help you.”

A dab of tincture on the tongue and some praying would fix most things. Old Toulouse, who I guess wasn’t that old—and wasn’t from Toulouse even though people used to say he was—taught me that and most of the other stuff I know about healing that didn’t come naturally. He always said that faith was the most important part of faith healing. I’m strong in both faith and talent. That’s what he bet on when he took a former slave girl under his wing.

There was barely enough circulation, despite the creaky old wooden frame, to carry the smell of the man’s sweat out as I smeared ointment over his red, puffy ankles. Part of my vision had told me that this older man didn’t have but a couple of years left to him. It doesn’t make a difference to me. A Traiteur doesn’t have a choice in who they treat. They treat everyone who enters the cabin.

As a cruel mockery of the universe, a young boy walked in through the unlatched door. He was dark black, the color of that giant piano that used to sit in the room off the entryway down in the Pecanier Plantation big house. I’d seen it when visiting Luc and Francois, mon frères, on the rare Sunday when they didn’t have to work. Then the boy talked, and his words stuck together like molasses.

“Master Metoyer sent me to fetch you, Lizzy,” the boy said, dropping his eyes because he was probably afraid of me. My name’s Lysiane, not Lizzy. It used to be Lizzy when I was thirteen, then fourteen, and part of the way through my fifteenth year. On the streets and unattended, I’d lost my name then. The next year, I still couldn’t find it. Only Lysiane remained.

“If he wants me, he can come himself,” I told him. I may have had to treat everyone who entered my cabin, but I didn’t have to do house calls. And I’ve never been in the habit of catering to the person who broke up my family.

When ma mère passed ten years before, her life savings amounted to $1,265, about half in Mexican-milled silver, a third in colonial silver, and the rest paper—her life’s worth after seventy years of living on God’s Earth. She’d been saving that money so she could free us. I remember the tear-stained note we found under her bed the day she died, alongside that money. She couldn’t barely write, having not been taught, and to this day I don’t know who scribbled down her words for her.

Some girls would have cost a lot more than what ma mère offered for my freedom. But I was useless. Ma mère knew it, and M. Metoyer knew it too. Hence the price was just fine by him.

The boy didn’t leave. He was probably afraid of what old Metoyer would do to him if he went back without the answer that his master sought.

“Never mind,” I told the boy, as I could see more sweat gathering on his brow and the tension in his tiny cheeks. “I’ll tell him. You just tell him that I’m treating someone right now and I’ll discuss things with him directly. Do you know what he wants?”

The old man seemed to get nervous at that and began to sit up. I held my hand up, palm down, telling him to stop. In my shack, all were equal, and the planter Metoyer would just have to wait until I finished with the freed man of color, Monsieur LeComte.

“It’s gone,” he told me, showing his foot and wiggling one little toe. His toes still looked like grapes on a twisted vine. There wasn’t much I could do about that part of it. The pain answered me though, every time.

“The Lord wills,” I said, handing him a bottle of the tincture I’d used. “One drop, no more, when the pain comes back. If it gets so one drop won’t do it, you make your way down to New Orleans and find a real doctor.”

“Bless you, child,” the man said, and it seemed that he saw my home for the first time now that the pain had lifted the veil from his eyes. “My goodness!”

Now I have never been embarrassed by much, but the way he said that and lifted his hand to his heart like a maiden made me do a double take myself.

My cabin, or Old Toulouse’s cabin, or Madame Roi’s cabin before him, was about the size of a one-room schoolhouse. The tin roof was nearly rusted through in places, and I still had pots out from the last rain. The floor sank in a bit in the front area under where my bed was. In the treating space, there was just the one small cot that the man was on and holes in the wall near the floor from when I had to go after a rat nearly the size of my arm. Got the rat, but still haven’t got back to patching the holes.

“What do I owe you, ma’am?”

They were always real careful to call me ma’am. Sometimes I liked it, especially when it was the planters doing it. This man, though, something about him said that he had suffered enough. A man who had been through what he had shouldn’t have to call anyone ma’am.”

“Lysiane, not ma’am. And you don’t owe me a thing, sir. The Lord’s work is His, and I am only a vessel.”

I held my breath. This was the trickiest part of the business of Traiteur. I can’t ask him for anything, being that the Lord did the actual work. But what I needed was some more bottles, or it would be nice to have a good meal in the city. Or, Lord willing, another piece of eight to add to my anemic stash that I gathered in the hopes of buying my siblings free. I crossed my heart on impulse.

“Here, Lysiane,” he told me as he reached out his hand to deposit something I couldn’t see from within his closed fist.

“He sick,” the boy interrupted, finally answering my question. I extended my hand to catch the man’s gift while eyeing the child.

“You’re still here. So? Everyone’s dying.”

“Dying now, everyone thinks,” the child pushed the words at me as though the death of one more planter should bother me at all. I tried not to react when I felt the coinage land in my palm.

“You’re too generous,” I suggested, doing my best to ignore the boy.

“It’s what I can give,” Lecomte said to me, raising up to his feet to leave. “Thank you.”

“Glory to the Lord.”

“Glory.”

The man pushed past the boy, bumping him roughly in the process, but the boy still didn’t take the hint.

“Dying of what?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Consumption?”

I eyed my potions.

“Mal du roi?”

The boy shook his head.

“Aint seen it yet. But he got the cough.”

I didn’t have anything to treat consumption. That one only the Lord and strength of faith could heal—or a real hospital. Nasty business, if that’s what he had. But not everyone with a cough had consumption. It served him right, though, breaking up my family the way he had.

“He said he freed you and you owe him,” the boy persisted.

I couldn’t help smiling at the audacity.

“He said that, did he?” Now I knew I would never treat the man. “I told you what to say. Why are you still here?”

“He said he could pay you.”

Even if I could accept payment, which I couldn’t, it was far too late for that.

“Go on then. Tell him what I told you to, that I’ll be along.”

“But will you?”

“Listen, boy,” I said, now losing my patience. “Whether I do or whether I don’t is up to me, isn’t it? You tell him what I told you and maybe you’ll avoid a beating.”

“You gonna beat me?”

I laughed.

“Not at my hand, child. Go on.”

His eyes furrowed up in confusion, but he knew wiser than to ask me more questions. Instead, he did turn to go.

“He’s gonna ask when,” the boy whispered. “When you gonna to come. He’s gonna ask that.”

“Tell him next week.”

“Why can’t you come now? There ain’t nobody here.”

“Things.”

“You don’t like him, do you, on account of Luc. And Francois.”

And Genevieve. They always leave out Genevieve when they try to console me or convince me like her life didn’t really matter. I couldn’t stop my jaw from clenching at the mention of mon frères.

It was Metoyer who read ma mère’s will. He took the money from ma mère and set me free with a bag of food and a handful of nothing. Then, a week later, he sold Luc and Francois both down to Pecanier Plantation, and a week after that, rid himself of Genevieve by sending her down to Mangrove. I didn’t hear about any of that for another month on account of the fact that I was too busy starving to death or servicing lonely men in back alleys for food.

The boy must have sensed my hostility because he backed toward the door. Who knows what thoughts went through that tiny head, or how much bravery he screwed up to not run screaming into the woods.

“Yes, if you have to know. On account of Luc, Francois, and Genevieve.”

“You know how much money he got, Lizzy. He’ll pay whatever you ask. I seen him. He look like death. You can get them back.”

“It don’t work that way, boy.” I felt at a disadvantage not knowing his name, but he didn’t offer it so I didn’t ask. They can be superstitious sometimes about me knowing too much about them.

“Cause of you being a Traiteur? I could ask him for you. Their freedom could be a gift.”

“Why do you care? Besides, it wouldn’t be right for me to treat the man who broke up my family and left me to die.”

“You got to give sometimes, Lysiane. It ain’t all the world like what you think.”

“Go away,” I growled at him. When he finally left, I wondered then what I would do if Metoyer showed up himself on my doorstep. I’d have had to treat him, according to the rules. I growled at myself this time. No damn way. Traiteur or not, there are some things the Lord will just have to forgive.

Character Interview: Larken Marche

Character Interview: Larken Marche

Interview for Brighton’s Best and Brightest, insert in the Brighton Academy school paper Brighton Student News.

Year: 2201, Fall Edition

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Hi there! I’m Madeline Stonewell, a reporter for the Best and Brightest insert for Brighton Student News. Today I’m interviewing Larken Marche, the youngest member of our Lofting team. Larken has already been scouted by numerous colleges, with more to come as she moves into her senior year. Regarded by some as the Prince and Princess of Brighton, Larken and her brother are testaments to the boarding school system. But today, we put that aside—mostly—and talk about the real Larken, her fears, goals, and the limitations she’s experienced in life.

Of course, many folks listening to this want to talk about the sport of lofting for obvious reasons. Can you share how you got interested in lofting in the first place?

Uh, let me think. I think the Angels played on the holovid in the common area in the third grade. It was when Megan Reverte scored that last goal. Do you remember that one? She threw the ball past two defenders and into the goal. Megan was on fire during that as she scored six points in a single match. In professional sports, that’s rad. She was unstoppable.

But listen, Maddy. I mean Madeline. That only got me onto the field. What keeps me in the game is the competition of it. It’s the feel of the crosse in your hands, and when the ball comes into play, the adrenaline is pumping, and the crowd begins to scream. The energy in the air — it’s just a fantastic experience.

But is six points in a single game that rare? I seem to recall that you scored six goals by yourself in your most recent game against the regional team Los Angeles Ladies.

We had to stop scoring that game for good sportsmanship, though. Los Angeles does okay in soccer and zephyr, but they don’t even try in lofting. No offense to any Los Angeles fans out there — it’s not what they try to do. My best friend Molly scored two goals, and she’s a defender. That spread isn’t something you see in pro teams, though — especially good ones. Those six points were the only points that the League City Angels put on the board that game. The other team answered with what — one point? That should never have happened.

But I know it’s not just Megan holding the team. Their defense is solid too. It’s just a great team overall.

Do I hear you want to play for the Angels if you get into the professional leagues?

I definitely wouldn’t say no when I get into the professional leagues. But I know how it works. You have to start at the bottom, and at least on this coast, many pro teams recruit from college. That’s my plan anyway. Protege College — down near Selwood, and then maybe the Seattle Hystericas. They seem like a lot of fun, and their approach to the game is the most unique I’ve seen in any league. That would help to round out my playing style.

But if the Angels reach out, I won’t say no.

That’s what I thought! I hope they do because it would be amazing to have you back here talking about the Angels and what goes on in the locker room.

Are you ready to change the subject? I’ve got questions from our audience that have been submitted in advance of the interview. Some are lofting related, but not all. No particular order, just one at a time. Ready?

I guess I’m ready. Yeah. I’m ready. Let’s do it.

Okay. First question. Is your brother available?

Ha! I figured you would at least start with more about the sport of lofting. But okay, here goes. Technically, I guess he is. But girls, if you want those dreamy blue eyes in your life, you’ll have to move fast. If I’m not mistaken, there’s a girl who he’s got his eyes on, and this girl moves pretty fast and will be hard to compete with. Trust me. So let’s say the window is closing quickly.

There you have it, ladies. If you want some attention from Mr. Oliver Marche, captain of the zephyr team and most likely to succeed, then now’s the time. But dare I speculate as to who the mystery girl is? Let’s see, moves quickly and hard to compete against? I’m guessing we’ve heard her name at once already in this interview.

I can’t comment on that, Madeline. But what I can say is I hope they are happy together.

Good. So good. But are you sure you don’t want to name names? This is only going school-wide. Your secret’s safe with me!

Nice try, Madeline. Nope. What’s the next question?

Ready for the next question? Here goes. Hmmm….how do I word this? I got it. So there’s a new boy in school who looks kind of like you. Some say exactly like you. Some say so much like you that they must be related. Is there any truth to the rumor that Elijah Grant is your long-lost cousin, or possibly you, Oliver, and Elijah are triplets?

Uhm… I wasn’t expecting that. First of all, Oliver and I are fraternal twins, not identical. We look nothing alike except maybe our hair. Elijah, we just met, the same as the rest of the school. Could he be a sibling? I doubt it. I mean, people look alike sometimes, right? I remember Oliver from day one, and I had this picture of us together before we could walk. There wasn’t a third stroller in that image. So if Elijah was one of ours, then where was he?

But isn’t it strange that he has the same birthday as you?

Wh-who said that? Coincidence as well, I’m sure. Oliver and I have been in Portland our entire lives. Elijah is from Our Lady Guadalupe in Texas. There’s no reason to believe that he’s got anything to do with us.

You and Oliver and your group do seem to spend a lot of time with him. Why is that if he’s not related?

He was trying to be nice to the new kid. And, if people would stop obsessing over the fact that he looks like me and start getting to know him better themselves, they’d figure out that sometimes he’s a funny guy. So no, not related. But yes, absolutely a friend.

So sorry! I didn’t mean to alarm you. It’s only a rumor, and that’s what we work in here. Brighton, you heard it here first. No relation at all. Let’s see, what’s the next question? Okay. Why do you spend your summers at Brighton Academy while most students return home? Wait, you don’t have to answer that one. I’m sorry.

It’s okay, Madeline. It’s not exactly a secret. Oliver and I have been here since we were five, and we’ve always spent summers here. Some others do as well, but you’re right. Most students go back home.

Oliver and I don’t have a home to go back to. Our father disappeared before birth, and our mother died shortly after. Our tuition and board here are paid for through a trust managed by some impartial benefactor or something. I never met him, either. We’re orphans; this is the only home we’ve ever known.

That’s what drives us so hard. Oliver wants to help do what he can to elevate Brighton Academy, so he’s on the student council, leads the zephyr team, and makes straight A’s on practically every assignment done. I work hard to accomplish this in the lofting field. My summers I spend drilling to get down the moves in preparation for next year. There’s never a time I’m not thinking of lofting because it helps put Brighton on the map when we win. It’s not just about me, Madeline; it’s about our school. It’s about our home.

That’s so touching, Larken. I think I speak for all of us when we say that the Marche twins are an excellent addition to our family here, and Brighton Academy wouldn’t be Brighton Academy without you. 

One more question to add a little spice. Who is your favorite teacher here at Brighton?

That’s easy. Ms. Carrish, no doubt. She makes genetics seem easy, never mind that we’re doing advanced placement work. I struggle in some of my classes. I’m not Oliver, after all. Math is a hard one. But in the genetics laboratory, I love it. Everything makes sense in how she explains DNA bonding, methylation, and epigenome. The best choice I ever made was taking her class. She makes me want to be a geneticist, and if it wasn’t for lofting, I bet I’d be heading that way too.

Thank you so much for your time, Larken. You represent us well, and we can’t wait to see if the Brighton Bison make it to the west coast championships again this year! I know with you on the team, we have a terrific chance.

Thank you, Madeline. It was great being interviewed here by you.

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Do you find Larken Marche as fascinating as I do? If so, you can follow her and her friends in your copy of series starter Brighton Academy on Amazon today!

5 Reasons That Sequel is Delayed

…and What You Can Do About It

You’re reading along that new first-in-series that you purchased, and decide that you love the characters enough to commit to the long haul: you buy the sequel. But wait, that’s not the last one either, so you go out searching for the third installment only to find that it doesn’t exist. The author, for whatever reason, hasn’t gotten around to publishing that last book. Why not?

That’s super-frustrating, though as an author myself, I understand why we sometimes have to delay. There are other reasons, but these are the top 5 that I could think of that have impacted my own writing.

1. The Author Is Really Busy

When I read George R. R. Martin’s series A Song of Ice and Fire, I remember that sensation of being blown away by the first novel, both as an author myself and as an avid reader. It was this feeling and some rather spectacular descriptions, along with delicious characters, that pulled me through the first several books of the series…until that last novel. Yes, I’m talking about A Dance With Dragons, where I read up until the last page, and then I reached (virtually, with Google Play Books) toward the final one only to find that it wasn’t there! Why not?

Well, as it happens, George R.R. Martin spent a great deal of time working on the Game of Thrones HBO limited series based on A Song of Ice and Fire. And if you look closely, he’s got multiple other projects floating about, not just Game of Thrones related.

Solution:

Being readers, we do feel your pain. Not much a reader can do about this either. Trust me, you don’t want your author to have less to do because that get’s into number 3 below. As an author, I try to plan my release dates which as much as a buffer as I can. On my upcoming works page, you can see my upcoming releases across different formats. At the very least, you can see what’s coming next and how long the next in the series will be.

2. Writing Sequels Takes Time

I like to plan out my series from the beginning. It helps me keep track of the characters and story arcs that weave throughout if I do at least a bit of planning. Even so, the majority of the work is in the writing and editing. For example, I can write about 1,000 words per day. That means that in any given year, I write 3 to 5 full-length novels.

But that’s only the beginning!

After that, I have to self-edit (add 1 month per), then editor-edit (add another month). I have to do the blurbs and potentially pitch the book to publishers or agents. Ignoring the unknown delay of pitching, it takes a good 3-6 months to get a quality book out, even with planning (at least for me). That means that even though I’ve got a backlog of around 5 novels deep (some with rough drafts complete), it’s still going to take a while to get that sequel out, right?

As a reader, this is super frustrating. Finish novels 1 and 2, and the next novel won’t be out until next year because it just takes that long to get a novel published, even if you’re fortunate enough to be an indy-author. I mean to say, if you care about quality, it’ll take you a longer time than just the 1-2 months to write the novel.

Solution:

As a reader, there’s not much you can do about this one. One way we authors work around this is to queue up several finished works. That’s what I did with the first 2 books of Virtual Wars, and I got them both out the same year (I’d meant to do the entire series this way, but couldn’t). Why don’t authors do this more often? Read on, dear reader! The solution to this problem can potentially be the same solution to #3 below.

3. The Series Isn’t Selling

This is a real problem, and part of why authors don’t typically release an entire series at once. You have to understand that authors are also book sellers, and they have to pay attention to things like read-through and such. Typically in a series, readership falls off (for even the best authors) from earlier to later books. (That’s one reason I write all mine to be stand-alone as well, so conceivably someone can enter my Reality Gradient series from any novel.)

A good read-through rate is 50%. That means that even for a good novel, the author will lose 50% of the readers between the first and second novel of a series. So if the first-in-series sells 200 copies, then only 100 will be sold of the second novel, and 50 for the third—if the novels are decently entertaining.

So what if the read-through rate from the first two novels is 10%? Or, knowing that the likely read-through rate is 50%, what if the first-in-series sells only 20 copies?

The author may not finish the series. Why bother if nobody’s going to read it? Remember: just because it’s your favorite series ever doesn’t mean it’s selling like hot cakes.

Solution:

Fortunately, there is something you can do about this one. Spread the word about the novels you love on your social media platforms. This will help others find it, buy it, and that will help justify the decision for the author to continue writing the rest of the series.

4. The Thrill Is Gone

Authors need inspiration! When we get the idea for a series, that’s amazing! It’s a whole new world that we’re eager to explore and see unfold. At some point in the process, that world is as much a surprise to use as it is to you as a reader. But after that first-in-series, it can get tedious to keep on keeping-on. We love the characters, but so much about the world and the situation is already in motion that it becomes harder to keep things lined up. And you may not know this, but characters are notorious for doing whatever they want, plot be damned.

So the second book is harder to write. The third book even harder, and so on through the entire series. It takes motivation to keep going, and this is where you come in.

Solution:

The one thing that as a reader, you can do to keep things moving, is throw accolades at the author. Send an email saying how much you’re looking forward to the next novel, or write a killer review that explains what you loved about the novel, and what you hated. That last part bears repeating: and what you hated. Why? The author may be suffering writer's block and often that means something isn’t working. The what isn’t working can be hard to find. Your words of wisdom may be exactly what an author needs to hear.

5. The Author Left the Business

Did you know that Frank Herbert never finished the Dune series? It was actually his son who finished it, with the help of an outline he found and some skilled writing friends. The same is true for Wheel of Time and others. These authors died before finishing. That’s a problem to which there isn’t a way to get the author to finish—because they’re dead.

But many authors get frustrated in this business. With artificial intelligence chomping at our heels, and powerhouses like Amazon, with which the author community as a whole has a love-hate relationship, and believe it or not, the ease of self-publishing, which has inundated the market with novels (not all of which are amazing, but that’s another blog entry).

So it’s not unusual for an author to leave the business altogether.

Solution:

Be the change you wish to see! This is one way that fan fiction really, really does help. If the author has left the business, then the only person who can finish it is someone who is as passionate about the material as the author was. So pick up the pen and start writing! If you need help, reach out to other authors and you’d be surprised at how easy we are to approach, honestly.

Conclusion

You do have some power in making sure the great novels that you love keep getting made. The chief among these are author feedback in the form of reviews and spreading the love you have for an author’s work through word of mouth or social media. Do either of these, and you’re helping an author more than you might know!

So go out today, pick your favorite author, and give them the energy to keep going by letting them know, good and bad, what you thought of their work. They will appreciate the feedback and it may be just the thing they need to get that next-in-series out the door!

A Foodie’s Guide to Reading

If you’re like me, you have a favorite restaurant, and at that restaurant you have a favorite dish. And if you’re like me, you order that same dish every time you go to that restaurant (for me, it’s filet mignon from Gino’s Restaurant and Bar).

As a reader, we tend to do the same thing. I have authors and genres I like and generally stick to. Being an author, my list is probably a bit longer than most, but here are some of my author highlights: Stephen King, Kazuo Ishiguro, Octavia Butler, N.K. Jemisin and it goes on. As genres go, I mostly read science fiction and horror. But let me tell you what I did a few years ago that broadened my horizons.

I noticed how narrow my author list was, and how many new authors are coming up every year. Being an author myself, I wondered if I might be missing anything. Surely out of the 300,000 new books being published annually, there had to be someone in there who can give these great authors a run for their money. And frankly, my favorites are aging a bit, so where am I going to get my fix when they’ve quit writing?

So for three years, I closed my author list down, and I took a chance. I selected books by authors who were completely unknown to me, some at the recommendation at friends and family, but some I just selected at random. I left my favorite restaurants behind, and ventured into romance, consumed more literature, and even grabbed some mystery novels. And I’ve never looked back, because here’s what I discovered.

Romance novels get deep into the character’s emotions (at least the ones I read). This is a refreshing change of course from the relatively-emotionally-shallow science fiction genre. I love science fiction, but it’s a bit strange how the world is ending and people are still psychologically functional and oddly getting along in many staples of the genre when most actual humans would be huddled in a fetal position (which would make a lousy novel and probably is why it’s not done that way). With romance, I could wade through the murkiness of relationships in a way that other genres don’t allow. For a good sweet romance, check out Misty Dreams by Josephine Strand.

It was also during this time that I picked up my first novel from Megan Lindholm, The Wizard of the Pigeons, which coincidentally (and I was unaware of this when I bought the book) was arguably the first urban fantasy novel before there was such a genre. Traipsing into my less-read literary novels, I picked up Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese, and although I haven’t finished it because frankly there’s so much happening that it’s a little difficult to follow, but I can see genius in the over-analysis of the lives of two cojoined twins who were separated at birth (born by a nun—scandalous).

Other novels I picked up during this foray include the Young Adult novel The Last To Die by Kelly Garrett. This one I was less than impressed with. I feel like the indy author Paityn E. Parque did a much better job with Madness if you want Young Adult wild ride (who, by the way, I interviewed when I was still doing Meet the Author podcasts).

I even stumbled across several greats you’ll recognize in my own favorite genres, but by more recent authors, like Patrick Ness who wrote The Knife of Never Letting Go and Cixin Liu, who wrote The Three Body Problem. I liken this to entering the same restaurant, and trying something new on the menu to see how it goes. In both of these cases, my mind was absolutely blown with the inventiveness and creativity in these science-fiction novels that touched at the core of humanity.

When it comes to eating (and reading), sure, it’s great to have that crème brûlée for the fifteenth time, but if you widen your horizons and look for other things on the menu, you might just find that Chocolate Lava Cake is exactly what your soul needs. It won’t make crème brûlée any less enjoyable, and trust me when I say there’s room in my heart for both!

My advice, and what I’d like you to consider taking away here, is that sure, eat at that one restaurant, and that one dish. But not all the time. Take a break, and make the intention, of trying out something completely different. Whether it’s another genre or another author, you never know where you might find that hidden gem that fills that need you never knew you had!

Wining about Writing

Forty plums, a massive bucket, yeast, and three pounds of sugar can produce four bottles of sweet, delicious plum wine. I’ve done this from using plums from my plum tree in my yard. It doesn’t really take much by way of ingredients. But how many people would know how to combine these to create a drinkable wine?

Novel writing is like that. You take a stack of paper, a pen, and that’s basically all you need to write a novel. But if you hand all of that to the first person you meet at happy hour or in your economics class, you’re probably not going to get that novel you’re looking for: not even if they actually do try to write one. Why not?

The secret is in the must. No, not the “you must do this or that.” The must is the mixture of wine, sugar, yeast that you pour into that bucket, and what you watch diligently for two months or longer. For a novel, the ingredients are the characters, the story, the setting, the tension, and the writing style of the author. The author takes all of these elements, pours them into a page, revising, self-editing, and sometimes screaming and crying (that may just be me), creating the must of a novel.

Afterward, the diligent author will let the work sit for a bit after the hard work of preparing the must is done. Just like wine-making, the “mostly finished” work still isn’t ready, even if all of the major pieces are there. How do I explain this next part?

Wine still works, actually. In wine, there are two fermentation phases. The first does the majority of the production of the alcohol, changing what began as syrupy fruit juice into something that can give you a buzz. The second fermentation is when the winemaker samples the wine, tests the alcohol content, and makes changes to the sugar level to get to the right desired content and flavor. Sometimes this means adding water, sometimes it means adding sugar, sometimes adding yeast is necessary.

Similarly, after a period of time, the author comes back to the story, a second writing if you will: removing words, adding words, sometimes removing entire characters and story arcs like I had to do in Human Pride, the second novel of my in-progress Virtual Wars series.

Unlike wine, the novel isn’t finished after round 2. There’s a third phase in novel writing: the editing. This is perhaps the most feared phase of the process. If wine had a third phase like this, it would be getting a sommelier to taste your wine and tell you everything they hate about it, and expect you to fix it immediately.

…when you purchase a novel from an author, independent or otherwise, what you’re actually buying is…months of a person’s life…

So when you purchase a novel from an author, independent or otherwise, what you’re actually buying isn’t a three-hundred to five-hundred page story with an appealing cover. What you’re actually purchasing is months and months of a person’s life, packed in between a front cover image and back cover blurb that will hopefully get enough attention so that someone will crack them apart, sample the contents, and decide: this one is mine.

I love a good red wine. In part, it’s the complexity that sells me, from the smooth start to the almost-dirty middle, through to a crisp tannin after the finish. And, of course, I love the flavor. Knowing how wine is made, and how easily it can go badly, I’ve learned to appreciate a well-brewed bottle all the more. And now you know what it takes to go from a paper and pen to a novel, so I hope that this knowledge enhances your appreciation of the contents therein.

Just like you can’t really tell a good wine from the image on the bottle or the description on the back, remember: the same goes for the finished novel. The only way to appreciate a good novel, or even know if it is a good novel, is to pull the cork and pour a glass…or something like that.

So when you’re scrolling through the pages and pages of authors’ lives on Amazon or Kobo, or even while browsing through your local bookstore, know that there’s sacrifice in each one of those works. And maybe, take the time to go for an ugly cover, or something with a weak blurb. You might just find the perfect novel that you never knew existed.

And I may have taken that analogy about as far as it will go. Happy reading!