In case you missed it on Facebook and you don't yet get my newsletter, here's the cover for my new release, Raven Born! (Paperback full spread)
Isn't it amazing? It's sooo good. Of course, I can't wait until I can show you the cover for book two, Serpent Cursed. Dare I say it's even BETTER?
Speaking of Serpent Cursed, these days you'll find me revamping the plot and characters, getting ready for the release in August this year. If everything goes to plan, this series will be fully release by January 2021, all five books!
True to my busy nature, I have my hand in another honey pot...a new urban fantasy release I'm working on under the direction of the New York Times Bestselling author Rebecca Hamilton. I'm so pleased I scored a case study mentorship with her, and this new series is going to be EPIC. I already love the main character. She has the coolest magical ability with some serious costs, maybe I'll tell you about it next time...
Until then, stay safe, stay healthy, don't go too crazy, and pick up a book to beat back the quarantine blues. While you're at it, maybe join my newsletter so you hear about the release of Raven Born first thing next month.
Dear me in 2010...
I'm sitting here on my couch ten years from where you are. You're daydreaming about your handsome fiance (he makes a hot bald guy, fyi), and studying English Language at BYU. That degree you're thinking of getting but don't really want to get? Don't sweat it. You know your priorities well and you're going to make a great decision in about six months that will change the course of your life for the better.
You're not really thinking of being a mom right now, but I want you to know that writing and being a mom go hand in hand. You won't lose your ability to write when that first baby comes along (or the fifth baby, for that matter). You won't lose your creativity. If anything, you'll get better at balancing your schedule, balancing writing time with housekeeping and loving on your babies and husband.
One of the biggest questions on your mind is "When will I get published?", and you're dreaming of a traditional publishing arrangement. Let it go. (You'll get that reference later...) Your path to publishing will be nothing like you imagine it now, but on the way you'll meet a group of women who will become your amazing personal critique and alpha reading team, not to mention some of your best friends. You're going to go on this roller coaster ride of highs and lows. A few bad reviews will ruin your day, but the praise of a New York Times Bestselling author-mentor will bring you high again. Not everyone will love your writing. In fact, a lot of your friends and family won't care to read it. Just remember, they aren't your readers, and they can support you in a lot of ways without reading your books!
That's the advice I have for you. You're going to have an incredible ten years, and as your future self, I can honestly say that you won't regret very many things, and none of those need to be mentioned here. They're important for our growth as an author, as a mother, as a human being. Know that you're motivated enough to accomplish your dreams and that you'll make them happen because you are awesome.
This letter was super fun to write. What would you say to your past self 5, 10, even 15 years ago?
What did writing 50,000 words in a month teach me?
It taught me that writing isn't as hard as I make it out to be. As writers we're GREAT at making excuses about why we're not writing as much as we would like to be. Taking a month and writing 2,000+ words per day taught me that it's way more manageable than I tend to think it is. I am a super busy mom of four kids. My day is full before I wake up, and even when I don't have other commitments. During NaNoWriMo, I woke up an hour earlier. I asked my husband to hold the baby in the evenings, to put the kids to bed, to take the kids out of the house on Saturdays. I FOUND time. I MADE time. It was usually only two hours a day, but in those two hours a day, every day, for a month, I wrote more than half a novel. Half a novel that would normally take me 9+ MONTHS to write, when I make excuses instead of making time for writing.
It taught me that while I enjoy "pants-ing" (writing whatever the heck I want in any order I want with no prior organization), I'm much more productive when I outline. This NaNoWriMo I used a simple and straightforward outlining format that I learned in the book "2,000 - 10,000: Writing Faster, Writing Better, and Writing More of What You Love" and I discovered that I LOVE the freedom and fast pace that comes with outlining! It's beautiful! If you don't let yourself get caught in the black hole that outlining can become, it will DRAMATICALLY increase your productivity. No more excuses. Get this book, read it, and CHANGE YOUR LIFE, WRITERS!
Have you ever read a book that was difficult to get through? Not because the writer lacked talent, but rather because the content of the book made you uncomfortable?
I have. Many times. As a young, voracious reader I was at a college reading level by 8th or 9th grade. I regularly wandered into the adult section of my local library, seeking out nice, fat books (usually fantasy) to keep my attention longer than the bite-sized Young Adult novels I could read in a few brief hours. I was a book-devourer with a hyper-fast reading ability, and I always wanted MORE. (Anybody else relate?) Wandering into the adult section meant I had a higher chance of running into “adult” material. I am a good, Christian girl. Some of that adult content went over my head. Some of it didn’t, and it sank deep into my soul and made me feel VERY uncomfortable. At that moment, I would make a value judgement.
Was it worth reading? Even with that one sex scene, or that sexual abuse or rape, or that violence or language, was it WORTH something? Was it worth risking that there could be more scenes like it in that same book, if I continued?
Hello all! I attended a writing conference in Eagle Mountain, Utah today. It was a fantastic day! Started out with a carpool with fellow writer Emily Daniels and the rest was filled with great authors and presentations.
First class of the day: Earn that Kiss with the co-authors who write clean romance novels under the pen name Jo Noelle.
Here are some of the notes I took:
Types of Love stories/Relationships
This is the first scene we meet Guinevere. In this scene, Guinevere meets a certain famous king of Camelot in person, and also learns something incredibly mysterious about her own past, a past she wasn't aware even existed until this moment...
“Lady Guinevere, sit down. They won’t be in sight for another week, at least.”
“It shouldn’t have to be this way, Mary. Don’t women have the right to defend their homes and families as well?”
“You’re not saying you want to be out there fighting, milady?”
Guinevere turned away from the window, giving up the idea that she would catch a glimpse of whatever was happening. Her father would return and give her the full tale, complete with embellishments of his deeds and of his favorite men. If he returned.
“No, the sword isn’t for me. I just wish I didn’t have to pretend I was interested in sewing flowers on clothing and sheets while something so…important is happening,” she slumped into a chair, holding her embroidery, staring at the tiny blue flowers she had been so proud of the day before. “We don’t do anything, Mary.”
“Sure we do. We sew, make beautiful embroidery, we clean and cook and—”
“You clean and cook,” Guinevere said.
“You are more than welcome to help.”
“You know what father would say if he caught me at that! Besides, the maids don’t like me.”
“They don’t know you. If they did, they would love you.”
“Why do you think the men make all the decisions?”
“Not this again. Lady Guinevere, sit up and focus on your needlework, would you? We have talked about this many times. When you are married you will make most of the decisions regarding the way your house is run and how the land is cared for.”
“But not anything important!” Guinevere protested, threading her needle and pushing it through the cloth. It went through crooked, but she ignored that. It would only get worse if she tried fixing it. “Making sure the mead is well seasoned and the cheeses aged, solving domestic skirmishes between moonstruck pages and arguing cooks. It’s no way to live, Mary. Not when the men are deciding our fates on the battle field, or in throne rooms. Marrying us off to their friends or reluctant allies. Forcing us to bare heirs until our bodies go to ruin and we’re only fit for the solitude of nunneries. All while they drink and fight and take any woman they like any time they like. Even you can’t make that sound more appealing than it is,” she had been trying to embroider while talking, something she was clearly not good at. She had no fewer than three knots in her thread, and the flower she was working on looked more like a bird. A fat, lumpy bird.
“True, I have no experience in marriage. I’ve been too busy taking care of you, much less a husband!” Mary glanced at her, and Guinevere felt a small smile grow on her face.
“Have you ever wanted to marry?”
“Once. I was your age, a stable hand I fancied used to kiss me in the fields on our days off, and in stolen moments when we were alone. He promised to marry me someday.”
“What happened?” Guinevere asked, giving up on her embroidery completely. She would have Mary sort it out later.
The maid shrugged. “He became a page for your father, then a squire. His duties kept him too busy for me. By the time he joined your father’s men he had married another woman. Even so, he was killed very young in battle. I wonder if those few short years of happiness would have been worth being his widow the rest of my life.”
“I’m sorry.” Guinevere said honestly.
“No need.” Mary replied, shrugging her shoulders. “The way I see it, I’m better off unattached. That way, I can go to bed with whomever I choose and be none the wiser,” she winked and Guinevere laughed. A lady should balk at such talk, but Guinevere liked it. It was honest, real. None of the flowery chatter other ladies indulged in when they visited. It was good she would never be the wife of a mighty king; she hadn’t the manners for it. Or the patience.
Mary caught sight of her embroidery then, and tsk-ing at the knots she took it from Guinevere, who gladly relinquished it. She fidgeted, then glanced out the window. Something was happening.
“Mary, look! They’re back!” she rushed to the window, leaning out to see as far as she could.
“Already? Your father said this battle would last months.” Mary joined her at the window. “But you speak rightly. There they are, after a single moon, and far more of them than I expected. I better tell the cook.” The woman grabbed her skirts and ran from the room, leaving Guinevere staring at the approaching army. It was definitely her father’s, his flag was flying high on the standard. But next to it another standard blazed in the sun, a red dragon on a field of white. The red dragon of the Pendragon house. It was the High King’s banner; his Highness Arthur Pendragon had come all the way to Carmelide to help her father? The battle must have been terrible indeed to warrant the presence of the king.
The king. He was young, as kings go. And looking for a wife, if the rumors of several moons ago still held. Guinevere flew to her closet and pulled out her red dress. It was her favorite, for it complimented her black hair and fair complexion, giving her dark eyes a mysterious allure men couldn’t help but notice…or so she imagined. Since Mary was busy she brushed through her own hair, wishing she had time to put it up, and dressed herself, working her way into the flowing gown with some struggle. The laces weren’t as tight as she would like, but it would do. The king would be coming back from battle, after all. The sight of any woman half-pretty would be sure to please him. She had her hand on the dress, fully intending to wear it, when she stopped, a chill running through her. Was she really going to parade herself before the king like a jewel to be admired and added to his treasury?
Guinevere dropped the dress and turned, spotting her every day dress still on the floor where she had discarded it. No, she couldn’t wear that for the king. Something nicer, to show the proper respect. She went back to the closet and noticed a simple pale blue gown hanging on the far side. It was nice enough, though the color washed her out. It was one she didn’t particularly like and only wore if she had to.
It was perfect.
As was proper, Guinevere waited in her room until Mary retrieved her. The maid clucked without satisfaction at her chosen dress.
“You could at least try, milady. His highness has yet to choose a queen, and even you wouldn’t begrudge a crown, I wager,” she sighed. “I suppose there’s nothing to be done for it, they’re waiting for you downstairs.”
Guinevere allowed herself to be led. The hall was filled with men, unwashed and stinking of battle. Most of them had been out for well over two months. Guinevere tried not to wrinkle her nose as she walked through the crowd to where her father stood.
“Ah, Guinevere! It is good to see ye, daughter. A sight for sore eyes, eh?” He nudged the man next to him and chuckled. Guinevere curtseyed, ignoring the anger that flashed inside of her. Whether she prepped herself or not, she was on display. She tried not to think about the men that milled all around her, their eyes wandering unchecked and unnoticed in the crowded hall, lingering on her.
“As are you, father,” she tip-toed and kissed his cheek. “I am glad to see you return. Victorious, I assume?”
“Eh? Of course! Of course. King Rience never stood a chance, and the timely arrival of our king’s knights sealed the deal. He saved me, in fact, from many a death blow. It’s all thanks to him yer father is here alive, my dear.” he clapped the man beside him on the back as he removed his helmet and Guinevere found herself staring. He was by far the most handsome man in the hall, hair fair as the sun, eyes blue as a lake. And his smile, hidden though it was by a weeks-old beard, dazzled her mind so she could hardly find words to speak. His lips brushed her hand, which she didn’t remember offering, and a gentle tingle traveled up her arm. She almost regretted not wearing the red dress.
“Many thanks to you, my lord,” she stammered, curtseying.
“My pleasure, milady. He was loyal to my father and has ever triumphed in protecting this border of our kingdom from the Saxon armies. I am glad to have been here to prevent losing such a noble man.”
Her father’s chest puffed out like a red-breasted robin’s before it bursts into song. She wouldn’t have put it past him if he had, either. He was not subtle in receiving praise.
He managed to humble himself enough to bow, hand in a fist over his heart in a sign of fealty. “Ye’ll always have me and my armies, my king,” he straightened, armor clanking. “That is, if these blasted Saxon hoards don’t wipe us off the map! Where do they get their men, I want to know. They are endless. They must breed like rats!”
The king placed his sword back in its scabbard at his side. “This was not the work of Saxons, Lord Leodegrance. King Rience of Wales has wanted my beard hair to trim his cloak as long as I’ve sat on the throne. He made deals with the Saxons, bringing them into this army, but I recognized his insignia on many shields. We ride to hold him accountable for this battle after a brief respite here, by your leave of course.”
“We welcome the knights of Camelot,” Mary said, her grace almost effortless. “Shall I tell the cooks to prepare a feast?” Preparations were already being made, of course. But it would be improper to assume without inquiring of the master of the house.
“Eh? Of course! Fire up the...er...fires! Bring out our best and finest. Our swords have feasted well enough on the flesh of our enemies. Tonight we feed ourselves!” This he bellowed loud enough to be heard by all, and the men roared their approval, banging swords on shields and stomping their feet.
“Might I propose a requirement for dinner?” Guinevere shouted above the din.
“A bath before the stewards let you in the feast hall!”
Her father looked stunned. Beside him, the king burst into laughter, and Guinevere found herself blushing. Despite all her attempts to pretend his opinion didn’t matter, it pleased her very much that she could at least make him laugh, inappropriate though her comment was. Her father caught on after a moment and chuckled before sending her off to see to the preparations with Mary. It was all she could do not to glance over her shoulder to see if the king was watching her with those blue eyes.
The feasting began long after the sun went down. The cooks hadn’t had much time to prepare the meal, but it was among the finest Guinevere had seen. The hunting had been fair, despite the war, and meat was plentiful. Cider and mead even more so, and it seemed the men could drink endlessly the way they downed pint after pint, getting louder with every empty mug. Her father was possibly the loudest, and she wondered if the king, sitting at his right hand, wouldn’t go deaf. She glanced down at her plate and shifted in her seat. Mary had managed to convince her to change into her red dress, after all, raising her eyebrows at Guinevere’s poorly feigned indifference. The matronly woman sat beside her now, occasionally smiling to herself in a way that had Guinevere wondering if she had picked out her wedding flowers yet.
Guinevere let her eyes wander about the hall, skipping over groups of drunken men singing bawdy tunes. It wouldn’t be long before she was sent to her room, to be kept out of rough company. She might as well enjoy it while she could, and not draw attention to herself. One figure caught her attention, standing in the shadows, stooped over a cane. Guinevere squinted, trying to see who it was. None of the stewards or maids was so old, and it certainly wasn’t a knight. Though perhaps one emptying his stomach of alcohol…she blinked and the figure was gone, and though she scanned the crowd again she found no sign of the figure. She did, however, catch the eye of the dark-haired knight sitting across from her at the table. He grinned at her, not unfriendly, and she found herself smiling back. Maybe it was the wine, but his face seemed familiar to her, and she stared without concern for who might be watching, trying to place him in her memory. He said something to a burly knight at his side and they both laughed, and that’s when it happened. She was knocked her flat on her back, and in the brief darkness that followed she saw the same dark-haired man approach her in her mind, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her. Was it a dream? Or was it a memory?
She came to a moment later. It must not have been long, for Mary was the only one who had noticed her collapse.
“Oh dear, are you all right? I suppose it is time for bed.”
“No, I am fine.” Guinevere mumbled, and she reached for Mary’s arm. Only, it wasn’t Mary’s arm she grabbed. She was pulled to her feet and came face-to-face with the dark-haired knight. She looked down and away quickly, afraid to be pulled back into the vision. Her face burned with the force of it.
“I saw you tumble and came at once to your aid. Are you all right?” he asked. His voice was like a melody, gliding through her thoughts. Guinevere looked up suddenly, meeting his eyes. She was not disappointed. There, in the depths of his gaze, was a flash of recognition. It was fleeting, but she was not imagining it.
“I am all right, thank you for your quick thinking, sir…?”
“Lancelot. I am sir Lancelot.”
She realized she was still holding his arm and released it, folding herself into a curtsey. “Thank you, sir Lancelot. I am indebted to you. I believe I must retire now, however. The drink has gone to my head and I feel ill.”
“Very well.” he seemed disappointed. Guinevere was too befuddled by the heat and noise to reply. She nodded and curtseyed once more, then followed Mary from the room, her mind spinning. The image that had come to her mind had felt so real. But she had never kissed a man in her life, much less one of the king’s knights. There were those that believed in past lives, and that sometimes the very observant or very skilled could tap into them and see into the life they had lived. She had never put much thought into it, however. But now…what if they had known each other, not in this life, but in one long past? Her heart fluttered at the thought, and she shook her head, laughing. Soul-mates. Life-partners. Past lives. She was just being a silly girl, imagining herself in the arms of a knight. Ridiculous romance.
Mary finished undressing her and pulled a night gown over her head, Guinevere fending off her questions the entire time. Mary didn’t rest until Guinevere was tucked in bed, and Guinevere finally dismissed her. She closed her eyes and was nearly asleep when she saw a shadowed figure move across the room.
She sat up in bed. “Mary?” she hissed, clutching the covers. “Is that you?”
The lights were out, the fireplace burning low for the night. Mary had most assuredly gone by now. Perhaps the old maid was right, too much excitement in one evening could make one ill.
“The time has come.” A voice, so hoarse it might not have been used for a hundred years, rasped from a dark corner of her room.
“For what? Who are you?” Guinevere demanded. A fire flared up in the grate and revealed the stooped form of an old woman. The figure in the shadows at the feast sprang to Guinevere’s memory. Had it been this woman? How had she gotten in Guinevere’s room?
“So, you have forgotten everything? Fortunate that Mordred fared better.”
Guinevere opened her mouth to demand she leave, or perhaps scream for Mary, but the crone continued.
“Tell me, is Guinevere your true name?”
“Of course it is, it’s the only name I’ve ever—” she paused, frowning. Something itched in the back of her mind, just beyond her reach. Something about what the woman had just said...
Morgan. Her true name was Morgan. The thought came with no other information, but she knew it with a clarity she could not deny.
She looked back at the old woman, who revealed her missing teeth with a wide grin. “Yes?” The woman croaked.
“Morgan.” Guinevere said slowly. “But how did you—”
“How did I know? I know much about you. Far more than you do, apparently. The spell isn’t meant to take one’s memories, unless there was much you wished to forget.”
Guinevere’s head was starting to hurt. “Who are you?” she demanded again.
“My name is Niviane. You knew me once, and you will know me again, in time. For now, it is vital that you remember. Your name is a beginning. Do not be troubled as the memories come back. It will be a process, but I believe you will remember with enough time to finish what you started.”
“What are you saying? Finish what I started? My true name? What does any of this mean?”
The woman, Niviane, chuckled. “You will see, and you will understand. For now, sleep.” suddenly the woman was at her bedside, somehow without Guinevere seeing her move. The crone waved a hand over Guinevere’s face and her demand for answers left her lips as she lay down, eyes closing against her will.
“Sleep well, Morgan le Fay. Next time we meet it will be as friends.”
* * * * *
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We enter the story not quite at the beginning, but close enough you can begin to understand who Elaina is, and her plight.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
Elaina lay in bed, eyes shut tight against the light pouring into her room. Her body was rested after a rare night of uninterrupted sleep, and yet she was loath to wake. For a moment all was still, and she was left to her thoughts, to simply breathe and lay quiet. Outside, a bird began to sing. Elaina’s heart wrenched at the lovely sound. It sounded so close; if she only turned her head and opened her eyes, she knew she would see the delightsome creature, a blue jay by the sound of it. She turned her head towards the light, towards the window and the song, but her eyes did not open, and a tear streamed down her face at the cruel reality she faced. If she opened her eyes, the enchantment would be broken. But if she so much as glanced out the wide, circular window that looked out across a rushing river toward Camelot, she would die. It had been years since the face in the mirror told her that. Years since she had been caught up in the powerful enchantment. Mordred had not come for her. No one had. And yet still, she would not risk death to look. There had to be another way.
Turning her face toward the ceiling, Elaina’s eyes finally opened. Gray stone, through a haze of dust-ridden sunlight, met her gaze as from the far corner of her room soft harp music began to play. It was beautiful, and would have sounded like a happy tune to anyone else listening, but she had heard it enough to recognize the subtle, dark undertones of enchantment being woven around her.
No, Elaina thought, half-tempted to close her eyes again. Another moment…please.
Her hands and arms moved of their own accord, pushing her out of bed. Her feet traitorously dragged her across the floor, but she knew better than to fight. The music would win; it always did.
Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Elaina sat on the hard bench, facing what seemed a rather unremarkable wooden loom. She forced herself to look up into the glassy eye of the mirror. For the briefest moment she saw herself, hair mussed from slumber, eyes circled and weary. She grimaced as the image wavered, as if she were looking into a pond that had been disturbed by a leaping toad, and when it cleared she was staring at a field of young, green barley stalks, waving gently in the same breeze that rustled the trees outside the forbidden window. Her hand found the shuttle, and she passed it through the two rows of warp thread. Her foot on the treadle brought the beater sliding down to compact the new row. Magically, the thread had changed, and was now a bright, new-green color. She never changed the thread herself and yet, each day when the sun faded intricate images had been woven so incredibly that they seemed to come alive in the moon-cast shadows.
Often, when she was allowed a moment to sleep or eat, Elaina caught the shuttle moving out of the corner of her eye, weaving without a hand to wield it. As soon as she looked full on it would stop, but each time she returned to the loom, a new length of tapestry was woven. The loom did not need her, but it held her just the same.
As she worked, she inspected what had been woven while she slept. It was a night scene depicting the same stretch of road she was being shown in the mirror now. Calm and still, nothing of significance happening. Just the river, winding idly by the dirt road, headed towards the great city Camelot. Elaina sighed and looked up at a market scene happening outside the gates. It was some distance away, but the mirror had magnified it, as if to taunt her with what she could not have. Peasant boys ducked and weaved, snatching apples and tarts and stuffing them down their shirts or into hungry mouths. Stall keepers’ mouths were open in shouts as they paraded their wares, trying to convince the haughty, passing noblemen and women to open their purses and buy.
Elaina let herself get caught up in what she saw, pretending she was standing among them, actually smelling the freshly baked goods and hearing the noise of the market. The mirror only showed her these things—all she could actually hear was the bird, still trilling in the tree outside; all she could smell was the earthy wool beneath her fingers. Her only access to the outside world was the mirror, both a blessing and a curse. It showed her everything there was to see as the world passed by on its way to Camelot. It also showed her everything she had lost when she first came to the tower. She closed her eyes for a moment, not needing sight to guide the shuttle through the tunnel of threads as the enchantment wove the tapestry. When she opened them, a group of young girls were being shown in the mirror, their hair straight and shining and held back by jeweled combs. They wore long, beautiful dresses, made of colored, expensive cloth. She paused her weaving for a moment and watched them move, pretty mouths open in silent laughter and cheerful chatter in her mirror. Glancing down, Elaina smoothed her own dress, which now seemed rags compared to the finery the other girls exhibited. She had been one of them, once. Before…
A twig snapped outside her window and a male voice cursed, causing Elaina’s eyes to snap open, interrupting her reverie. She gripped the loom to keep herself from turning around and looking through the window. She listened in the stillness, hoping to hear another sound, another word, anything that might indicate someone had come for her at last. Leaves rustled, but that could easily have been the wind. Had she imagined the voice? Had she finally gone mad?
* * * * *
This story excerpt brought to you by reaching 25 contributors to the "publish my novel" funding campaign on indiegogo - click the link to be part of it! When we reach 45 contributors, you'll get to meet another main character and catch another brief glimpse of the novel.
Thank you to all of those who are contributing to the campaign to publish my book! Whether through financial backing, social media sharing, or cheering me on, your support is invaluable and I'm so grateful for all of you! We're 32% funded with 19 days left to complete the funding so I can publish "Woven", and I wanted to take this time to thank everyone who has contributed so far by name.
A MASSIVE thank you to all of you and your efforts to support this project. Thank you so much!
It's that time again - time to dust of goals from last year and get some shiny new ones (or resurrect the old) for 2017. This year I'm taking one down from my proverbial dream shelf, a goal that I have had since I was a wee lass in a fourth grade classroom, penning the words of her first novel.
Happy to say that my writing has matured greatly over the years, and in 2017 I will be publishing my first adult fantasy novel, titled "Woven".
Every writer imagines the day their book will sit on the shelf. Most of them give up before their book is ever finished, and the rest never make it past querying two dozen agents. Since finishing "Woven" I decided that I wouldn't be that kind of writer. I'm not going to let "fate," or the whims of a stranger decide the fate of my novel. I am going to self-publish my book.
Click the link for more about WHY I'm self-publishing, and to support my publication journey.