Leftovers – A Books of Binding Flash Fiction

Jessie St. James felt a grin growing as she watched Justin MacDowell toddle around the worn wood floors of Otherworld Books, the stubby felt feathers on his turkey outfit sashaying with each bit of progress he made. She looked at Brian and found him grinning, too, teeth a flash of white against terracotta skin, before he leaned over and redirected his adopted little brother. “It’s hard to believe how much he’s grown in just a month,” she said, and decided to plant her plump butt in the doorway of the stock room to corral him a little.

Brian chuckled and nodded, bending to collect Justin. “Yeah, it is.” Justin objected loudly, gaze fixated on the Christmas display Brian was in the middle of assembling, and he patted the little boy’s back around the turkey accessories on his diapered tush in an attempt to distract and sooth. He sank onto the floor with Jessie and her insulated bag of Thanksgiving leftovers, and his stomach gave an appreciative grumble. A sheepish smile tugged at his lips. “That smells good.”

“Good!” Justin made grabby hands for the bag, evidently as interested in the smell as his big brother.

Jessie grinned at the toddler. “Oh yeah. About as good as it did the first time,” Jessie said, and gave a definitive nod as she unzipped the large doggie bag that Winter had so graciously provided. “I missed Winter’s cooking, you know, before everything,” she added with a glance over her shoulder, looking out for Norah MacDowell. While Brian’s mom was a wonderful person and incredibly kind, she was human and just wasn’t privy to what had happened in the last month—or some of the things that had come before. Jessie dug into the bag and came up with a Tupperware container and an itty-bitty spoon, handing them to her friend with a wry smile. “Winter also sent Justin some pumpkin pudding. Have to get him started young on that addiction.”

The young Black man laughed. “What else is in your goodie bag?”

“Hmm.” Jessie dug out stacks of plastic dishes, spreading them out between them. “Looks like the whole kit-and-caboodle. Winter likes to set people up in style, you know. Want to help me eat some of it?” It was almost like a date… on the floor… with a baby brother squealing for his share. So yeah, almost. Almost sort of counted when you were seventeen, right?

Now if only Brian wasn’t too good for her.

“It would be a terrible, terrible crime to turn down a Mulcahy plate!” Brian said, playfully scandalized as he got Justin settled into his lap for his snack—the gateway drug into all things pumpkin spiced.

“Wouldn’t it?” While Justin happily nommed away, Jessie took a few slices of Winter’s homemade bread and added some turkey and cranberry sauce before passing it along, feeling deliciously domestic. Then, Jessie’s lips pulled into a thoughtful frown when Brian took the sandwich.

Her friend tilted his head, his long, pencil-thin dreads swinging. “What’s wrong?”

Just as quickly, that frown quirked into a smile. “Just thinking. Wondering how you’re doing now that you’re in the ‘in-crowd,’ so to speak… Do you want to talk about it?” It was at least putting it on the metaphorical table.

Brian adjusted Justin on his lap and set the sandwich on his knee, deliberating in his answer. “I can’t say I didn’t suspect something was going on with you at the Theatre, but…” Brian shrugged one shoulder, “it’s a lot to swallow. I won’t deny that it’s nice to know I’m going to do something worthwhile with my life, and make an impact for the better. There’s more certainty in that than I can say I’ve had before.”

“Why’s that?”

The dark-skinned teen just shrugged, again. “Growing up out there,” he made a vague gesture to the streets with one hand, and gave his little brother another spoonful of pudding with the other, “sometimes you have to wonder.” Another sheepish smile immediately followed. “That’s not to discount what Norah’s done for me—and that’s been a lot. Being a Hero, though… that pays things forward in the best way, if you can believe in Destiny.”

“I do believe in Destiny.” Someday, that Destiny would take Brian from her, but she was determined to get the most of every day she had with him. Jessie found a smile for him and playfully nudged his knee with her sneaker. “But, you don’t have to be a Hero with emphasis on the capital H to be the everyday hero variety. Winter and I are ‘come as you are’ people. You know that. And Norah knows it without the rest of the picture,” she said, and scooted over to eat her lunch with him just in time to catch a flash of flush across his terracotta cheeks. Maybe…? Naw. “Now, after we go Jaws on this bountiful feast, what can I help you with here? Not really in the mood to go home yet.” She was never in the mood to go home, but that was another story.

He laughed, grateful for the excuse to move on. “If you need an excuse to be busy, you can help me with this display.”

“Perfect.”

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Ties of Blood and Bone Cover Reveal

We are thrilled to reveal the cover for our next full-length book! 

Preorders for Ties of Blood and Bone: The Second Book of Binding are available now. We are offering $1 off the list price of $3.99 to anyone who pre-orders before January 15, 2018. Click here to grab yours!

This cover, like our beautiful one for Faerie Rising, was designed by the incredible team at Deranged Doctor Design. We are just left speechless by them each time we work with them. You can find them here.

We are also working on print and audio editions for both books. We will announce once those are available.

And now, our beautiful new cover!

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Things Fall Apart – A Books of Binding Flash Fiction

He sniffed the air. The scent of burnt bones and under it—blood. A lot of it. And the outhouse smell of violent death.

He walked the utility area carefully, reconstructing the deadly dance from a lifetime lived among its devotees. The spatters of brown flecks. The dust-free smears where a body had been dragged, struggling. A broken fingernail caught in the chain-link. The cloying smell of burning hair and garbage, and just a hint of cucumber. Acetone. At least they had destroyed the body, but it meant the attackers were not human. A human gang might have doused the body with gasoline to throw off the authorities, but they wouldn’t have brought their victim all the way out here, and it wouldn’t have been acetone. They’d brought it with them to make sure the body was gone. He sighed heavily. Perfect. He didn’t have time to pity the dead. This was just one of the sites he had been sent to check.

He opened the dumpster, holding his black sleeve over his sensitive nose, wishing the leather were doing a better job of masking the stench. The inside was charred black, the sides a little warped from the heat, but the accelerant had done its job. Nothing remained to mark this victim as different. Just a lumpy sort of ash. Shattered bone fragments and the occasional tooth. He could have his team sanitize the area, but they couldn’t remove the smell. If the authorities didn’t find the body they could smell, there would be more questions than a few teeth, they would never find a match for, would pose.

This city was a mess. Its preternaturals were out of control. Just short of all-out warfare between too many factions. It was getting worse, and more importantly, it was getting sloppy. That was something his masters couldn’t allow. The humans could never know who lived among them. They were a panicky breed and the only thing they liked more than killing each other was killing anything else. It would be open season on them all, and as superior as many preternaturals liked to feel with their extra strength or speed or longevity, there were billions of humans in this world. No matter his people’s advantages, they would lose any concerted war.

He heard a car approach, its tires crunching the gravel. He lowered the dumpster lid soundlessly and scaled the fence behind it, dropping to a crouch on the other side. He heard the ding of the car as the occupants left the engine running and the lights pointed in his direction. He sprinted for the tree line, trusting the dumpster to block him from view. He hurtled past the first line of trees and hauled himself, hand over hand with the ease of practice, into a tall one a few feet into the stand, coming to rest about fifteen feet up. Any higher and his weight was going to be an issue.

He watched from his temporary blind as a man and a woman crossed through the beam from their headlights. The woman wore a long dress and carried a large, floppy bag, from which she was pulling a flashlight and a few small bottles. The man beside her had his hand across his stomach, fingers under his jacket. He would bet most of his not-insubstantial resources that the jacket held a gun. The man’s eyes never stopped moving, searching outside their pool of light—muscle then, which made her the boss.

“I don’t like this. It’s too exposed out here. Let’s come back in the morning.”

“Etienne, it has to be tonight. Do you smell that? Tomorrow this place will be full of families and someone is going to notice the smell.”

The man frowned, and he stopped his scanning to look at her for a moment. “I smell it. Why don’t you go wait in the car? I’ll take care of it.”

She sighed and seemed to be counting to ten. “I know that you think you’re protecting me. You seem to think I’m much more fragile than I am. This is not my first burned body, Etienne. Not my first murdered friend. This isn’t even my hundredth. I appreciate you coming with me, but this thinking that I’m the damsel you have to save has got to stop. This is my city. I’m the Mulcahy now. You have to let me do my job or I can’t have you come with me again. Tell me you understand.”

The man’s body was tense, his face a mix of frustration, anger, and a touch of fear. “Winter, you can’t seriously expect me to—”

“Tell me you understand or go sit in the car. This is my job, Etienne. This is what I do. None of that has changed. I am responsible for keeping as much peace as can be had in this city, and barring that, for keeping things under wraps enough to not have us all killed by the Eldest to keep the Veil of Secrecy intact. Sometimes that means stopping fights before they start. Tonight, it means making sure that a missing lion’s body has been destroyed enough not to raise questions. A fifteen-year-old lion.” Her teeth and fists were both clenched as she spoke. “Who belongs to a very good friend. Tonight, my job is to make sure his body is unrecognizable. Tomorrow, it’s to talk to his Queen and tell her that my need that she maintain the peace is more important than her need for vengeance. So, tell me you understand. Back me up and help me do this impossible job or stay home.”

The man searched her face, and sighed heavily. “I don’t understand.”

The woman raised her hand to point at the car. “Then g—”

He caught her hand gently. “I don’t understand, Winter, but I’m trying to. Do your job. I’ll back you up.”

The woman struggled to control her face, but nodded, and turned toward the chain-link fence.

Winter… this was Winter Mulcahy. Seahaven’s wizard. The man in the trees had heard of her, but never met her. She was out of her depth, but it looked like maybe she was recruiting some help. He hoped it would be enough. Seahaven was winding up on his masters’ radar too often. The Eldest were neither patient nor forgiving. They couldn’t be.

He slipped silently out of the tree and into the darkness beyond. Lions. He couldn’t help Miss Mulcahy comfort her friend, but he could make sure that whoever was attacking the lions was too scared to do it again. His smile was feral as he ran toward where his car was hidden.

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Filed under Fantasy, Flash Fiction, Urban Fantasy and Other Trifles, Writing

There’s A Monster at the Door – A Books of Binding Flash Fiction

The little monster crept toward the door of the enormous stone house. Maybe this was not such a good idea after all. Her friends had dared her to come here. They’d called her weak and scared. She swore she would show them that she was made of tougher stuff than they thought. But standing here, at the end of the mile-long drive, the house gave her pause—squatting here on the edge of the world, nothing but water as far as the eye could see on the other side.

She eyed the door and tried to summon her courage. It was just a house. Nothing to fear. She stepped away from the comforting shelter of the bushes, squared her shoulders, and climbed the stairs. She raised her hand and—

The door swung open. Light poured into the night and framed an angry man holding a struggling grey cat. “You have your own door, cat. Why are you screaming for me to let you out this one?”

The monster froze, her arm still raised like a startled statue.

The man blinked for a moment and set the cat down. The cat apparently changed his mind. He sniffed the monster once, twined himself around the man’s legs, and disappeared into the depths of the house. The man took in the diminutive monster—her horns, her claws, her spotted fur, her row of sharp fangs, and the spiked tail that hung behind her. He studied her with a perplexed look on his face, then turned to call into the house for help. “Winter! There’s a monster at the door.” He turned back to her. “What do you want?”

His words unfroze her and she turned to run back to the shelter of the bushes and away. Who cared what her friends thought? She had come when none of them dared.

A woman came to the door, white hair in a bun. She gave the man an exasperated look and called out into the night, “Don’t go. You’re welcome here, little one.” She reached back into the house and pulled out a small cauldron, filled to the brim with candy.

The monster turned back, uncertain. The woman seemed nice enough. She came back toward the pair standing in the light and held up a sack, uncertainly. “Trick or Treat?”

The woman smiled and held out the cauldron. It held candy, but not the normal cheap kind that most people had. The cauldron was filled with full-sized candy bars. “Take all you want. Very few people are brave enough to venture out here.”

The monster straightened and smiled. She was brave. Take that, third-graders of Room 31! She reached her blue-furred hand into the cauldron and took her favorite, looking speculatively at the woman.

The woman smiled and nodded. “You can take as many as you like.”

The monster grinned and took two more. She tilted her face up to the woman and smiled. “Thank you!” She spun and ran down the steps toward the bushes and her bike. She put the candy bars into her sack but stopped when she saw a glimmer of light—a symbol that glowed for just a moment then disappeared when it touched the other candy. She looked back to the woman.

The woman tilted her head a little but smiled. “It’s alright, little one. It will keep you safe tonight.”

The monster considered that, then smiled at the woman. She put the sack in the basket on her bike and pulled back out onto the long driveway. She called back to the pair, “Happy Halloween!”

The woman, Winter Mulcahy, turned back to Etienne and shook her head, pulling him and the cauldron back inside and shutting the door.

Etienne looked at the candy and back at the wizard. “Is that going to be happening all night, then? Monsters at the door until dawn?”

Winter set the cauldron on the side table and headed back to dinner. “Not a monster. A witch.”

Etienne glanced back at the door. “A witch?”

Winter nodded. “She saw the glyph of protection. She’s one of us. Now come eat.”

Etienne sat and picked up his spoon. The night was a cool one and the stew was warm and filling. He glanced back at the door and the purple-spotted monster. He hoped the little witch would be safe tonight.

A grey form rubbed against his legs under the table. He pulled a bit of beef from the stew, blew on it, and slipped it to the cat.

Winter pretended not to notice.

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Filed under Fantasy, Flash Fiction, Urban Fantasy and Other Trifles, Writing

Summiting Mount Writers’ Block

What is Writers’ Block?

Each writer defines writers’ block in their own way. To us, writers’ block doesn’t exist. We don’t actually believe in it. We believe in getting stuck. Often, to call getting stuck writers’ block is to give it a great deal of power over your creative process. It becomes an event. It becomes an insurmountable force standing in the way of you reaching your creative goals.

If Writers’ Block Doesn’t Exist, Why Can’t I Find the Words?

  6 factors getting you stuck

When you’re staring at the blank screen, but the words just won’t come, there could be one or more factors putting the brakes on your creative output. Most of these factors can be broken down into just six categories:

1.       Something is awry in your story

2.       Environmental factors are either not conducive to or actively stopping your writing

3.       You don’t have enough time to devote (or perceive that you don’t)

4.       Your stress level is too high

5.       Anxiety is overwhelming you

6.       Your block is actually depression

We’ll talk about each of these categories—how you can spot each one and ways to help you get unstuck if this is your challenge.

Its Broken—Something is Awry in Your Story

One of the primary reasons why authors get stuck is because something in their story isn’t working like they intended. There are three primary ways something can go awry:

·         You have fallen into a rabbit hole (and found dirt instead of Wonderland)

·         Your story doesn’t have enough conflict to drive it

·         A character (or characters) lack agency

Falling into a Rabbit Hole

Chasing Rabbits

Let’s talk for a minute about the pantsing vs. outlining debate.

There are two broad types of writers—those who start with an outline of the action to follow as they write and those who start with only a loose sense of where the story is headed. (This second group are called pantsers in reference to the idiom: flying by the seat of their pants.)

Outliners believe that carefully structuring the action before writing keeps them focused and on track. Many will prewrite important sections, much like a movie director creates a storyboard. Detail level in outlines can vary from those who know the general topic of a chapter to those who create a play-by-play of each scene. This method can be very effective, but critics feel that it can stymie creativity, locking in the action and leaving little room for exploration.

Pantsers believe that allowing a story to grow organically allows them to evolve ideas as they write. They may begin a story with an idea for who the characters are and what the cornerstone pieces of the action will be, but they allow the action in each chapter to lead them to what happens next. This method can lead to unexpected places—rabbit holes. Some rabbit holes lead to Wonderland—places that you never dreamed the story could go. These rabbit holes can enrich your story tremendously. On the other hand, some rabbit holes lead to a dirty hole in the ground from which your plot cannot dig out. These rabbit holes are the type we are talking about. (It is important to note that outliners are not immune from rabbit holes. They are simply more likely to have ironed out impossible plots before they began writing.)

If your words have stopped flowing, make sure that you haven’t fallen into a rabbit hole you can’t escape from. If you think you may have, you’ll need to figure out what about the plot has made it untenable. Follow the hole you went down backwards to find the last plot point that funneled you here. Examine that plot point. Was there another option available to your characters than the one they took? Try starting at that decision, but going in another direction. Giving your characters a do-over may be just what you need to get the words flowing again.

Not Enough Conflict

Beware the Overpowered Character

Another place where a story can run off the rails is where there isn’t enough conflict to propel the action forward. If you’ve found that you have pages and pages of characters doing inconsequential things or of characters doing much more talking about how past plot points made them feel, rather than participating in new plot points, your problem may be that there isn’t enough conflict in your story.

Look at each character and determine what they want. What is it that motivates them? What role do they play in this story? What characters or elements exist that stop your character from achieving their goals? You generate conflict in a story by putting characters in direct contact with characters or elements who want opposite things. Simply put—determine what your characters want, then throw increasingly difficult obstacles in their path.

This might be a good time to mention the concept of an overpowered character. Especially in speculative fiction, many characters have abilities that the rest of the world do not possess. It is tempting to keep adding power to your characters in order to make them able to overcome any obstacle. This can lead to problems because as a character gains power, unless the obstacles keep pace, soon the character has no risk in the story. Instead of conflict driving the plot forward, the story has become a scrapbook of your amazing character breezing through life. If you find yourself feeling like there is no energy to your plot, check to make sure that your character still has to struggle to succeed.

Lacking Agency

Characters Must Have Agency

The last place your story could be holding you back is if one or more of your characters lack the agency needed to affect the world around them. If you find that your writing is bogged down and you just can’t think of any way to move forward (and you’ve made sure that you haven’t fallen into the wrong rabbit hole) then check your characters to make sure that they have the means and influence to carry a story. Are they able to make decisions on their own? Are they merely reactive to the actions of others or are they proactive in their own story? Do your characters make decision that further the plot, or are they plot piñatas who are simply being battered about by the events around them?

If you find that your characters are far more reactive than proactive, you’ll need to take a hard look at the character and what function they serve in the story. If a character’s job is essentially set decoration and their only purpose is to react to the actions of other characters, that character—no matter how cute, tragic, attractive, or loved—is holding you back. Story thrives on conflict. If your character can’t contribute in a way that drives the action forward, then they are a prop. Stories can have prop characters as long as they are very minor. If you have a prop character sucking the energy from a large portion of your story, getting stuck is inevitable.

Locking the Door—Environmental Factors

Sometimes, what stops the flow of words has nothing to do with the story itself, but has triggers elsewhere in your life. Some of the most common factors that can derail you are components in your writing environment. These come in two broad groups: physical and social factors.

Physical Causes for Derailment

Check Your writing space for distractions

Some environmental triggers that can stop the flow of words are things that distract us that can be altered. Environmental factors like uncomfortable room temperature, distracting noises, constant phone calls, a disorganized space, and spending excess time on the internet can all lead to frustration which can build into an inability to concentrate and create.

These kinds of factors can be mitigated fairly easily. The use of fans or heaters to make your writing area comfortable, using music to help stimulate your creativity and drown out distracting noises, keeping your writing area organized in a way that makes sense to you, ignoring non-essential phone calls until you are finished writing, and setting boundaries for when you are working and when you can surf online can all do wonders for lowering your frustration and getting you back on track.

Social Causes for Derailment

Communicate About Your Needs

Some environmental triggers are not as easy to fix. The biggest is not having a social structure that is supportive of your writing or your need for a distraction-free time to pursue it.

When you live with others, it can sometimes be difficult for them to understand that writing is much more strenuous than it may appear. It requires a great deal of concentration. It may look like we’re “just typing” and that we should be able to stop abruptly then pick up where we left off easily. Nothing could be further from the truth. Most writers have some version of the writing trance. It is a lot like the zone that long-distance runners talk about. It is a place where the world around us falls away and we are completely present in our story with our characters. It doesn’t operate like a light switch. Like runners, most of us need a period to warm up and cool down around our emotional workouts. When people and animals in our environment continually interrupt this trance, it takes us far longer to get back into our trance than they may realize. This can lead to frustration and sometimes can derail us to the point where we completely lose our connection to the scene.

If you think that social environmental factors are affecting your writing, try talking to the adults in your life and asking for their help. Non-writers often have no idea how their “just a quick sec” interruptions affect us. Good communication may help you get the distraction-free environment you need. If the social factors are small children or pets, be proactive. Make sure that you have anticipated and tended to the needs of those who depend on you before you begin. In a hectic house, with constant demands from children and pets, changing the time of day you write might also help. Saving your writing time until everyone is in bed may give you the uninterrupted time you need to get words on the page.

Too Many Irons in the Fire—When You Don’t Have Enough Time to Write (Or Think That You Don’t)

It adds up fast

Sometimes, our lives are simply too busy to write. A new baby, a new job, and exams are all reasons why you really might not have enough time to get words on the page. But often, we fall into a pattern of believing that because we are active, but don’t have time to write. Chances are, you have more time than you think you do.

The average fantasy novel is around 100,000 words—probably more than you have time to do in a weekend—but it is not as many as it may seem. With an active schedule you may not have time to write 5000 words a day, but could you write 500 words a day? The average word length for the English language is 4.5 characters. If we round that down to 4 characters and a one character for a space, 500 words a day is 2500 characters, or the equivalent of 17.8 140-character tweets. That is easily in reach for even the busiest of us.

500 words a day might not sound like much, but if you find that small amount of time every day, in 200 days—less than 7 months—your 100,000-word novel would have a draft.

Saying that you don’t have time to write can be a lot like saying you don’t have time to exercise. There is a point at which it is a matter of setting priorities and deciding that your story is important enough to squeeze in your daily writing workout.

My Life Is Too Complicated—When You Are Too Stressed to Write

I just need it to be a little easier

We have all had those years, when the pressures of the real world—family obligations, trouble at work, money matters, illness, social upheaval, interpersonal strife—builds to such a head that it takes over every part of your life. These periods can make getting words onto the page a particular challenge. The brain power you need to bring to bear on your story is being used to process other priorities.

This type of stuck is one of the only times that it might be time to take a vacation from the story. You need to be gentle with yourself and do what you can to alleviate the pressure. If you’re not ready to call a vacation just yet, try some of the many techniques for lowering stress. Go for a walk, get a massage, take a hot bubble bath, play with a dog, meditate/pray. Find some time each day to do one small thing that is only for you.

Anxiety – When You’ve Talked Yourself into Being Stuck

Keeping Negativity at Bay

Sometimes we can’t get the words out because our fears about ourselves and our writing have taken over. Writing is not an easy thing to do. It requires an enormous amount of vulnerability as we lay ourselves metaphorically bare for the reader. We pour our whole selves into the page and then hand it to strangers and hope that is speaks to them. And fear that it won’t.

That fear—that tiny seed of doubt that you will never be good enough, that your writing will be rejected, that you will face ridicule, that you will never taste success—can fester inside you until you are locked up with it.

We all have tapes in our heads that play when we have doubt or when we are trying something new. Some of those tapes can be disruptive and lead us into a spiral of negative self-talk. We’re terrible. Our writing is bad. We have no original ideas.

Part of being an artist, of creating for others, is learning to insulate yourself from negativity. We love it when readers tell us that we have made a connection, but you have to know that your writing is good enough even without constant accolades. Bad reviews will come. You have to learn to tune them out, and more importantly to never keep a copy of the tape to play in your head as you work on the next story.

If anxiety has taken over and paralyzed your writing, you need to take control back. Remember why you began writing in the first place—because you love stories and want to share them with others.

Seek out the support of other writers. A writing group can be a wonderful way to realize that the tapes you are playing are wrong. Finding a supportive group to cheer your successes and help you when doubt rears its head can make a world of difference.

Make sure that your goals and deadlines are realistic. Demanding from your writing that you hit the bestseller list in two weeks is going to set you up for disappointment and doubt, but so is expecting that you will write 5000 words a day and finish a novel every 20 days. Set small, attainable goals and hold yourself accountable for your progress.

Depression—When It Is Not About Writing at All

You Matter More than you Think

Sometimes your inability to write doesn’t have to do with any of these things. Some of the hallmark symptoms of depression, especially the inability to concentrate and the lack of interest in activities you once found pleasurable, can be mistaken by authors as writers’ block. Depression is a serious illness that affects millions of people from all walks of life. With depression, it can feel as though your life is slipping away. That it is robbing you of everything you once thought was important. That you will never regain what you’ve lost.

If you are suffering from depression, please don’t suffer alone. There are resources available to help. You are valuable to the world. You make a difference in the lives of others, especially as an author. Depression will lie to you and tell you that no one will care. That you are a burden. That your contributions are not important. None of those things are true. You, and the stories inside you, are a gift to the world.

If you are struggling with depression, please ask for help. Here are some resources that might be of use to you:

·         https://www.nami.org/Learn-More/Mental-Health-Conditions/Depression

·         https://adaa.org/living-with-anxiety/ask-and-learn/resources

·         https://www.betterhelp.com/

·         https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

The Suicide Prevention Lifeline also has a telephone number that is staffed by people who understand and can help. Their number is: 1-800-273-8255.

You are not alone.

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Faerie Rising is on Sale for 99 cents to Celebrate Virtual FantasyCon 2017!

We are having a wonderful time talking about all things Books of Binding at Virtual FantasyCon this week. If you haven’t had a chance to stop by, there are plenty of games, writing discussion, and story details at our  VFC booth.

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To celebrate this year’s convention, the e-book for our first novel, Faerie Rising: The First Book of Binding, is on sale for only 99 cents at Amazon.com. If you haven’t had a chance to check it out, this is a great opportunity to save 75%. The sale is running from Oct 15-Oct 21. You can grab one here.

We are hard at work on the sequel, Ties of Blood and Bone: The Second Book of Binding. We’ll be talking a little about the next book in our booth on Saturday from 12-1 pm CDT. We’d love to see you there!

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Morning at the Vineyard – A Snippet from Ties of Blood and Bone: The Second Book of Binding

Alerich woke up to wintery sunlight filtering in through the gauze curtains and his grandmother’s lady’s maid, Odette, rapping on his door, her pretty, polite voice carrying through it. “Breakfast is served.” Alerich rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. Odette’s presence meant his grandmother, Hildreth, was here. And if Hildreth was here it would be non-stop wedding talk for the next two weeks.

He wondered if there was a trellis outside the window. Was it sturdy? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d escaped out a window and wouldn’t be his first trellis climb, but he was a big man and preferred to not have another one break halfway through his descent.

He sighed and pushed up onto his elbows and then swung his legs off the bed to take a sitting position. It would be no use. His grandmother had a tracking spell on him, much like the one she had on Elspeth. He could feel it, a subliminal tingling at the back of his neck. Hildreth would be able to find him no matter where he ran. He stood and hooked his thumbs into his red boxer briefs and slid them off over his hips, tossing them to the foot of the bed, and made his naked way to the en suite bathroom. A quick shower was in order, then.

After his shower Alerich went in search of breakfast, wearing a clean pair of black jeans and a red cotton button-down shirt with the top two buttons undone, his longish, black hair still damp. The house was large, but not so large that he could not find the dining room in short order. Even still, he was the last one to breakfast and his grandmother’s gunmetal blue eyes narrowed slightly with disapproval as he entered. Bloody wonderful.

“I’m glad to see you have finally decided to join us, Alerich.” Hildreth’s tone was arid, her clipped Dutch accent still present even after decades of living in Britain, and her crisp white hair was pulled up into some complicated coiffure of Odette’s doing.

Quiet conversation around the table stopped for a moment, all eyes on Alerich. His blood ran cold at the shifting sight of the demon, sitting in what passed for its human form near his father’s end of the table eating roasted bone marrow. Today, it seemed to prefer to be mostly male, and his form was something close to stable, though even as he watched it changed subtly.

Arariel.

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Filed under Excerpt, Urban Fantasy and Other Trifles

A. E. Lowan Will Be at Virtual FantasyCon 2017

Please join A. E. Lowan for a free week-long convention at Virtual FantasyCon 2017, October 15-21.

We will be in our booth daily for games, writing discussion, and, of course, all things Books of Binding. Our booth is located at:

https://www.facebook.com/events/330256554102386/

Here is our booth schedule for the week and what we’ll be talking about in each session. Can’t make it during those times? No problem! Please stop by whenever you are available, see what others have said, and play along when it’s convenient for you. Don’t forget to check out the Reader’s Corner to find the booths for all your favorite indie fantasy authors at:

https://www.facebook.com/VFCReadersCorner/

See you at the con!


Virtual FantasyCon 2017 Daily Schedule for the A. E. Lowan Booth

(all times are Central Standard Time: GMT -5)

Day one – Sunday, October 15th: Welcome to Seahaven
12 pm – 1 pm: Getting to Know You
4 pm – 5 pm: Navigating Seahaven
8 pm – 9 pm: Meet the Neighbors (The Denizens of Seahaven)

Day Two – Monday, October 16th: A Field Guide to the Preternatural – Part One
12 pm – 1 pm: A Field Guide to the Preternatural – Wizards
8 pm – 9 pm: A Field Guide to the Preternatural – Fae

Day Three – Tuesday, October 17th: A Field Guide to the Preternatural – Part Two
12 pm – 1 pm: A Field Guide to the Preternatural – Vampires
8 pm – 9 pm: A Field Guide to the Preternatural – Therian

Day Four – Wednesday, October 18th: Let’s Talk About Worldbuilding
12 pm – 1 pm: Writers Do Homework for a Living
8 pm – 9 pm: Rewriting History

Day Five – Thursday, October 19th: Let’s Talk About Speculative Fiction
12 pm – 1 pm: Suspending Disbelief (Without Taking It Bungee Jumping)
8 pm – 9 pm: A Character Like Me: Representation Matters

Day Six – Friday, October 20th: Writers Write
12 pm – 1 pm: Don’t Disturb Me Unless Something is on Fire: Writing Routines
8 pm – 9 pm: Summiting Mt. Writers’ Block

Day Seven – Saturday, October 21st: What’s Next
12 pm – 1 pm: Sneak Peek at the Characters of Ties of Blood and Bone
4 pm – 5 pm: Now’s Your Time to Shine (Let’s Hear About Your Projects)
8 pm – 9 pm: Ask Us Anything

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Liminal Space – A Books of Binding Flash Fiction

Etienne paused within the cold-flame-wreathed rift, within this liminal place between realms. Before him lay the Mortal Realm, and behind him, Faerie. He had spent weeks seeking a rift to pass through. He had wandered alone, his body aching with the agony of knife and fire that still wracked each step. His mind aching with the sting of humiliation, desperation, and betrayal. He had endured it all, looking for this passage—this escape. But now, he paused.

There was nothing for him among the mortals. Not anymore. Not since his beloved Bess had died. Not since the plague that had robbed him of her sweetness, of her kisses.

Of their children.

But behind him he was a hunted man, scarred by his enemies. By his sidhe step-father. Scarred by his allies for his own protection, because a sidhe magician had carved spell glyphs into his flesh—glyphs of compulsion and control—and the only remedy was to brand dwarven runes over each and every one.

And still his step-father hunted him. Still he could not rest.

That was the thought that propelled him forward, even as pain knifed through his chest. He had not set foot in the Mortal Realm since losing her. Losing them. Losing everything. But Bess would not want him to die at his step-father’s hands. She would want him to live, even as hollow as his existence had become.

He would persist for her.

With that, he shouldered the pack over his raw shoulders and threw his lot in with the mortals.

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Filed under Fantasy, Flash Fiction, Urban Fantasy and Other Trifles

Uh-huh – A Books of Binding Flash Fiction

Elspeth plunked down the last square tile with enthusiasm. “I’m out.”

Alerich eyed the pieces, trying to keep the corners of his mouth from twitching into a smile. He waved at the board. “You’re cheating.”

Indignation gave her voice an edge. “Am not.”

“Elspeth, ‘spong’ is not a word.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s really not.”

“Yes, it really is.” She picked at a speck of lint on her blouse. “It’s a potions word.”

“Uh-huh.” Alerich settled back in his chair and took a sip of his bourbon, then motioned at her with the glass. “Define it.”

“A spong is a … It’s kind of a … It’s like … “

Alerich was losing the battle with the corners of his mouth. “Uh-huh.”

“Will you shut up, I’m trying to figure out how to describe it to you. It’s kind of a specialty item. You have to know a lot about potions to have even heard of it.”

The corners won and he had to hide the smile in another sip of the bourbon. She was so much fun to wind up. “Uh-huh.”

“Look, I don’t care if you believe me. It’s a word. You can ask grandmother if you want.”

“Uh-huh.”

“God, you’re such a baby! Fine! I’ll just take it off the board. Here, ‘song,’ unless you don’t think that one’s a word either, Mister Never-cracks-a-spellbook-but-thinks-he-knows-every-word-ever-said. It’s a perfectly good word, but no. You have to be such a bad loser. So, fine! I’ll take it off the stupid board. There. Are you happy, Mister Game-police?”

“Uh-huh. ‘S.’ ‘Songs.’ I’m out.”

Elspeth glared at him for a moment, then produced a sound somewhere between a growl and a scream. She pushed away from the table and stomped off through the dim of the library.

Alerich watched her go. She was fun to wind up, but he would be paying for this one for a while. ‘Spong.’ Why does that sound familiar? He took another liberal sip and stood, carrying the heavy glass with him to the ancient dictionary on its stand. He turned the onionskin pages delicately. The smile came back, this time more rueful than wry. “‘Spong. Noun. A projection of land; an irregular, narrow, projecting part of a field.’” He glanced at where his sister had stormed off. She would most likely be in the greenhouse. He took another sip of the bourbon. She might throw a pot at him, and spong was definitely not a potions word. He settled into an armchair by the fire and picked up his book. He might tell her eventually.

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Filed under Fantasy, Flash Fiction, Urban Fantasy and Other Trifles