2019 Year In Review

Every year I think "ugh, why do we have to reflect on the year we've had?" And then I go and reflect on it, because not reflecting just isn't an option for me.

Here we go: a look back at 2019.

There were ups and downs. The downs were pretty down. But overall, I can say that I'm incredibly pleased with what I accomplished, and I suppose that's what counts. 

The Year's Writing

I ended 2018 feeling inordinately disappointed that I didn't manage to finish and publish Dragon Slayer when I'd originally planned. In truth, I never should have expected to make my original, self-imposed deadline. It was a massive book; it was the life story of not one, but two princes, one the Romanian ruler who's been turned cartoonishly evil by pop culture. 

After the holidays last year, I knuckled down, finished the novel, and had it out at the end of April this year. I've never been prouder of something I've written - I can only hope one of the future books in the series steals that crown. 

After DS, I jumped straight into writing Golden Eagle - which came out last week, incidentally, but you already knew that. The writing process for GE was much more streamlined - there weren't any major flashbacks or visits to the past - and I was able to work more quickly, despite the ever-expanding cast. There's lots of heads to keep tally of, but they tend to be very loud and insistent and they help with the storyline juggling in a way I've never experienced before. The end result: I managed to release two big, meaty fantasy novels in the same series this year, and I still can't quite believe I managed. 

Real talk for a second: I love being an indie author. I can't imagine a publisher giving me free rein with this series, and there's so much about it that I just wouldn't be willing to compromise on. I'm getting to write it my way, as particularly as I like, and that's an honest to goodness gift. BUT. Indie authors are generally expected to produce books at a much faster rate than traditionally-published authors. Most epic fantasy and historical fiction is produced, at the most, at the rate of one book per year. And it's not uncommon for it to take two or three per book. (That's not even to mention all the GRRM's of the world taking 10+ years between installments). With the cushion of an advance, and the help and reach of a major publishing house, those several-year gaps are more feasible. I don't have that luxury, so needless to say, I feel some pressure. I'm not compromising on story, though; this series is going to take as long as it takes; getting it right is my top priority, and I hope readers will continue to follow along as we go.

Those were my two releases, and you can find them here:

Dragon Slayer

Golden Eagle

But...there was also a book that didn't happen. A book that a corrupted flash drive ate, and which I was unable to retrieve. The intended Dartmoor Book 7, When In Rome, is just...gone. 80k words just - poof. Vanished. I was so furious when it happened. There was much cursing. But - and here's the ugly truth - the farther away I got from the unhappy shock of realizing the book was gone, the more I was able to identify my anger as that of time wasted, rather than the anger of lost art. Because honestly? I didn't love that book. I really don't think readers would have loved it. I can't get those hours back, and I wish I could, but I don't miss the book. There were some lines I liked; some snippets, particular scenes. But on the whole, that was a book I didn't want to write. So I'm not going to try to reconstruct it; I'm not rewriting it. Dartmoor Book 7 doesn't exist - and isn't going to. 

I am working on a Dartmoor book, though, never fear. After New Year's, I'll jump back into it and hopefully have it out this spring sometime. It's already a much better book. Much more dynamic and interesting, and, most importantly, something I find interesting. 

The Year's Reading

2019 was an excellent year for reading. I Instagrammed most of what I read (@hppress), and ranking it all would be impossible. But there are two standouts.

My favorite new book of the year was Gideon the Ninth, by Tamsyn Muir, which I blogged about here. Dark, darkly irreverent, lush, and vivid, this was a wild, imaginative sci-fi novel that bent and blended genres in a delightful way. It's violent, and creepy, and the most original thing I've read in a long time.

My favorite new-to-me read was actually an entire series: historical fiction master Dorothy Dunnett's Lymond Chronicles, which I blogged about here. The detail in her writing, the depth of research is truly staggering. Her characters are vivid, loveable, infuriating, and so very real - perhaps most especially her quicksilver lead character, who we mostly glimpse through the eyes of others; this mercurial, brilliant, beautiful, awful young Scottish noble named Francis Crawford. I adore the way Dunnett paints small, intimate scenes; down to the placement of a hand, or the glint of candlelight on ringed fingers. It's just exquisite. 

I read lots of nonfiction - history for research - but mostly historical fiction, and fantasy of all sorts. I've got a stack of books to read as we head into the new year, so brace yourselves for lots of posts. 

A Note on the Decade

Everyone on social media is recapping their decade - because holy smokes, it's the end of one - and my first instinct, as usual, was to say, "I don't guess I did enough."

But then I thought about it.

And thought about it.

10 years ago, I wasn't a published author. I didn't exist on social media. This blog didn't exist. 10 years ago, I was applying for HR jobs, and writing for a living was still a "some day" dream. 

This decade, I graduated college, started a blog, and indie-published 26 novels. 

As in all things in life, there have been missteps; there have been growing pains, and learning curves. Pulling back the curtain of an industry when you get inside of it always reveals some yikes-worthy truths. 

I can look back at my very first book, and cringe, because my writing is so much stronger now - but that means there's been growth! And, overall, I wouldn't trade any of it. Writing books is a lifelong dream realized, and I still have to pinch myself sometimes. Thank you all for being a part of the journey: for kind words, and ready encouragement. Thank you for letting me entertain you; for letting my characters into your hearts. Thank you for the reviews, and helping me spread the word; thank you for wanting my messy signature scrawled on a title page. 

I can't wait to keep going. I can't wait to see what the next decades brings.

Happy New Year! Cheers to a 2020 filled with more literary adventures. 

A Spoiler-Free Debriefing: Golden Eagle

Hello, Merry After Christmas, and welcome to what will doubtless be the first of several Golden Eagle debriefing posts - this one totally spoiler free. 

If you follow me on Instagram, you'll have seen me mention a time or two that this book felt like its central theme was that of identity: who we think we are, who we've been told we are, and who we actually are - and how that actual identity is sometimes influenced and informed by the first two. Every character struggles with identity over the course of the novel - Trina's slow-creeping dread is understated, and something that we'll explore more in depth as the series continues - but the two who struggle the most are, arguably, Nikita and Alexei. 

We've watched Nikita wrestle with his identity since White Wolf. He was born just before Tsar Nicholas was deposed in 1917, and his mother had worked for the royal family, so he grew up with his mother's stories - stories loyal to the Romanovs; the secret sentiments of White Russians. He joined the Cheka because he felt he had to, and his position among the secret police afforded him resources he'd never have had otherwise. He hated Stalin's government, even as he carried out its darkest orders. There's a part of him that will always be ashamed of that: it would have been braver, he thinks, to stand up to his superiors, rather than follow their orders, though he knows that would have meant immediate execution or imprisonment. Nikita's story is a timeless one: that of survival by ugly means, sustaining oneself on the dream that you'll one day make it right. 

He never did make it right, though. That's the sad truth of those kinds of stories. And, given Nik's anxious nature, it's a truth that plagues him still. He's relieved he got out, that he's free of all that, but the guilt weighs heavier on him that it would on some. He feels like he doesn't deserve happiness and peace; that he doesn't deserve to have anything good to call his own - and what's a better example of "good" than Sasha? Nik's a bisexual man born in 1915, hardwired to repress his sexuality, and very much in love with his best friend. When Golden Eagle opens, we find him in a dark place - but one I can safely say he finds his way back from, with the help of Sasha and the rest of the pack. There's a moment in the book when he and Sasha talk about the coat. The black leather duster he wore as a Chekist, and which he still owns, and dons still when he feels more like a weapon than a person. "That coat scares people," Nik says. And Sasha replies: "So do you."

For Sasha, that's an important thing to point out: Nik hates what he did as a Chekist, but there was always the capacity for violence inside him. He's killed, and he'll kill again, and not simply because he's a vampire, or because he was a state-sanctioned killer. It's Sasha embracing all parts of him, even the dark ones; it's Sasha, once a hunter and a trapper, now a wolf with blood running down his chin, saying "I'm not this golden angel you think I am. We're both dark, and that's okay."

*insert diabolical laughter* Gray morality for the win.

And then we have Alexei. The heir to the Romanov dynasty. A very sick little boy who grew up in the lap of luxury while a nation revolted beyond the walls of the palace grounds. An inheritor of all the glitz and glamour of St. Petersburg...just as that Westernized way of life was dying in Russia. By all accounts, Alexei's parents were loving spouses and parents. They adored their children and doted on them - but to say that leadership mistakes were made in the running of the country would be a vast understatement. 

Though the Alexei in my novels is a fictional character, at this point, I'm always trying to write from a perspective that feels the most likely, given the history of the real Alexei Romanov. It's a perspective that becomes, by necessity, layered, complex, and often contradictory. Because Alexei was a prince, yes, frolicking in gilded palaces, summering on yachts, tutored privately and paraded before the people of Russia as the heir to an empire. But he was also a hemophiliac who suffered terrible, near-fatal bouts of bleeding, one of which permanently crippled him. (At the end, when the family was murdered, Nicholas had to carry him down the stairs into the basement, because he was too ill to walk.) And as a vampire in my stories, he's someone who lived in exile for a time; who watched his family deposed, and who was shot by secret police in a cold, dank basement. The Alexei in my books is the victim of a massacre; someone who, as he reminds himself often, "crawled out of the pit." He's been living in America for decades now, and there's a realistic part of him who now knows that his family ruled poorly. that there are those who loathed the Romanovs. He's a jaded, cynical modern man - but he'll always be the prince, too.

In GE, he's trying to rectify the two sides of himself, and overcorrecting, definitely. The message of this series is not "empires are actually great and we should go back to that." Far from it. But in "growing up" finally, Alexei's going to have to lay firm claim on the adult he never got to be in Russia. His first step toward understanding, toward accepting what's happened to him, is to grab hold of his father's legacy, and, with genuine good intentions, strive to avoid his father's mistakes. 

Being a part of a pack helps. He has a long road ahead of him, still.

In the next week or so, I want to touch on our other characters. The way Val is rethinking "running away." The way Mia is...well, that's a spoiler! And we have Kolya, our most obvious example of an identity crisis, as he struggles to remember who he is. Lots more to talk about!

In the meantime, I hope you're enjoying the novel. You can grab it for Kindle HERE, and it'll be up for Nook, Kobo, and paperback soon! 

#GoldenEagle is live!!

Merry Christmas, everyone! Golden Eagle is live for Kindle! More platforms coming soon, but for now you can grab it HERE.

Reading Life: Niccolo Rising

1460.

In Wallachia, Vlad Tepes has ascended to the throne for the second time, and this time, he's cementing his rule. He's just impaled every boyar involved in the ousting and murder of his father and older brother, and he's building the reputation that makes him "Tepes" in the first place. 

In Constantinople, Sultan Mehmet is preparing a campaign to push farther up the Danube, finally capturing Romania and Hungary outright, his favorite kept pet - Vlad's brother - still at his side. 

In the first novel of Dorothy Dunnett's House of Niccolo Series, Niccolo Rising, which opens in Bruges, 1460 is a year of trade, money-lending, and commerce; of privately owned fighting companies and a Europe seeking to do business with the Ottoman Sultan. There are faint murmurings of a crusading effort - but that won't come to pass. Mehmet isn't beatable, but he is a commercial avenue to the East, and a wildly rich businessman in his own right. 

After over a year spent researching for my Vlad Tepes novel Dragon Slayer, I admit I had a full geek-out every time there was mention of Constantinople or Mehmet. Vlad never comes up, but he wouldn't - Dunnett's novel takes place before the infamous Forest of the Impaled incident, and, really, Vlad wasn't exactly seen as an important figure by the rest of Europe at this time. He was that guy that kept asking to have his personal revenge quest sanctioned as a crusade; and France, Italy, and Britain had bigger fish to fry. There was no time for a sad anime boy and his aforementioned revenge quest. 

Not that I've gotten my Vlad feels out of the way, let's talk about the actual novel I'm here to review. 

The basic premise, without giving too much away, is that of an affable dope, Claes, who works as a dyeshop apprentice for the prosperous widow who rescued him from an ugly situation as a child. He's bastard born, without influence or connection. Quick to laugh, always up for an adventure, and living a life of impulse and merriment alongside the widow's son, and the Charetty company heir, Felix. But, in true Dunnett fashion, nothing is as it seems, and each chapter pulls back the carefully-wrought veil another fraction. Until, at the end, the reader is stunned - not only by the transformation in Claes - now Nicholas - but by the deft weaving of story that led you to the finale. 

Dorothy Dunnett's approach to historical storytelling is one of total immersion. She isn't going to explain the workings of the past in careful asides; she drops you right in, headfirst, and while this can be overwhelming at first, it's an approach I appreciate: I'd rather go Google something obscure later than be pulled from the story in the moment. I mentioned on Instagram, when I started, that I felt this book was more accessible than her Lymond series, and I stand by that: the language is a bit crisper; the scene is set a bit more plainly. This series was written after Lymond, and you can see the small ways in which she tweaked her own work; the ways she grew, as we all do. In that sense, I want to recommend starting with this series, for ease of reading. 

As expected, the characters are distinct, carefully-drawn, and incredibly visual on the page. I'm still marveling at her handling of Claes/Nicholas. The way she presented such a particular picture, and then tweaked it, and twisted it. My God. Any writer who wants to work on their characterization MUST read Dunnett. 

Miss Dunnett never shies away from difficult situations or scandalous scenarios, and both are present in this novel. There's so much I want to say here, specifically, but I also don't want to spoil the book for anyone. Let me just say there were some marriages, some pregnancies, and some parentage reveals that shocked me. 

I want to take a moment to comment on her female characters, specifically: Dunnett writes very strong, tough, opinionated, flawed, driven female characters. Philippa in the Lymond Chronicles is one of my favorite characters ever. But she does tend to write them from the historical male perspective; the language is as brutal and demeaning as one could have expected for the time period. Women back then didn't have the freedoms we do now, and Dunnett is bluntly accurate on that front. I've always felt, though, that the ugly thoughts from some of her male characters are true to the period, and are the thoughts of those characters, not Dunnett's own perspective. In general, the women seen as vicious and meddlesome by some of the male characters end up the strongest, most steadfast and correct characters in the novels. 

Dunnett is - was, sadly - a singular talent. I can't help but feel it's important that I read her work. Her sprawling, meticulously crafted, hard-to-define novels offer a wealth of emotion and thoughtfulness. I'm so looking forward to continuing this series. 

I will say, though - and this is just a personal preference. There was something really magical - for me - about the Lymond Chronicles. I'm only one book into this series, and my opinions could absolutely change, but so far, I'm missing Francis Crawford - and his friends and family. At times I hated them, but I always loved them. It's been fun to see the ways Dunnett fans have a preference for one series or the other. I'm curious to see where I'll shake out, once it's all over. 

In short: please go read Dorothy Dunnett. Please keep her books alive for future generations. She truly has no equal. 

Reading Life: The Last Wish

This week, I finished the introductory novel to the Witcher Series, The Last Wish, by Andrzej Sapkowski, and it's one of those books that makes me very glad I don't do star-ratings on my reads. Not because I disliked the book - I liked it quite a bit. But because I don't have any idea how I would rate it, if pressed. 

The novel is, at first blush, a collection of stories; though, as it unfolds, you realize they are connected by the "Voice of Reason" chapters, and by the end, the larger picture has revealed itself. It's a true introduction, setting up the series that is to follow, introducing the main players, and the world. 

The author is Polish, and this was a case of a refreshingly-sharp translation. I've read novels translated into English from the original languages in which not a drop of artistry was preserved; you bungled through the prose for the story. But in this case, I think the imagery, meaning, and dry humor were beautifully preserved. 

And it is dry humor. In the first few pages, main character Geralt feels stern, stone-faced, and humorless. A stoic warrior type without much personality. But as the book progresses, you begin to catch glimpses of the life beneath: the droll humor, the flat-voiced jokes. As well as the pain, and yearning, and the carefully hidden emotions. 

The supernatural elements of the novel are heavily influenced by Eastern European folktales: vampires, strigas, and spirits. We glimpse the elves only briefly, but I LOVE elves, so I'm interested in seeing more. 

The prose of the book is fairly straight forward and blunt. Artistically, I prefer novels that are a bit more lush and descriptive; world-building that delves a little deeper. And, in regards to the romance, the book doesn't do much "work." It's very much an instant-attraction, little-build-up-on-the-page sort of affair. This happens frequently in fantasy and sci-fic, but I prefer a more subtle and nuanced approach.

All told, I enjoyed the novel, and plan to read the rest of the series. I'm very curious to see the show later in the month, and watch it unfold visually; I feel like the bare-bones approach of the book could be greatly enhanced through visual media. 

Now: with regards to my comments, please note that I'm only one reader. This book was a reminder to me of the ways in which no two people read the same book. Just because the language and style don't resonate as deeply with one person as another, it doesn't mean that won't be the exact opposite case with a different reader. That's the magic of books. It's also something I think about quite a lot in my own writing. For some readers, my prose is too verbose, too descriptive. But for others, it's a case of "just right." I feel like every book we read teaches us a lesson, and my most frequent lesson is this: Don't just write a book you think everyone will like. Spend your time writing books that a few people will love. 

I'm very much looking forward to The Witcher on Netflix, and exploring the rest of the book series. 

Nik

Untitled, 1950’s, Hans W. Silvester. Swiss, born in 1938.

I didn't have anything I wanted to post for Throwback Thursday, and then this photo popped up on my Pinterest feed, and I was arrested. Every inch of this photo screams "Nikita" to me. From the dark, tousled hair, to that bit of his expression we can see; the hand to his mouth; the emotion, the misery, the inner conflict; the heavy dark coat, as much costume as it is warming comfort; down to the cigarette held beneath the table, the vice that never calms him, but which he can't kick out of vain hope that one day it will. It could only be more perfect if it was a tumbler of vodka, rather than a pint of beer, sitting in front of him. 

The caption says it was taken in the fifties, and in canon, Nik and Sasha were living in LA in the fifties. Nikita was working for a gangster, and pining, and brooding, and all the charms of palm trees and warm nights and raucous clubs were lost on him. He belonged somewhere cold. Somewhere where the outer landscape reflected his inner landscape. 

On New Year's Day, 2017, I dragged my pneumonia-ridden self to my desk chair, and I wrote a scene about a man in a blood-splashed black coat striding down the halls of the Kremlin. I've written dozens of characters, and I'll write dozens more, but Nik was special from the first. I knew him, from the first sentence. I knew all his deepest fears, and his darkest secrets. I'm not the most patient of writers, so it's been an exercise in extreme patience taking him from that moment, to the hard-earned moments we see in Golden Eagle. I'm so happy for him. So proud of him. 

I can't wait to share the next chapter of his journey with you all in a few weeks. 

Endings Part Two; #WorkshopWednesday

It's funny the way you can start a post series, but take so long in between installments that what you wanted to say shifts over time. That's definitely the case here. Welcome to another infrequent Workshop Wednesday post, this one the second part, and conclusion, of this post about story endings. 

In my Part 1 post, I talked about the importance of audience expectation, and of maintaining the integrity of your character journeys. I talked about my dislike for the "shock value over substantive conclusion" approach to storytelling. And, in general, I like to talk about the ways the characters of our stories take on lives of their own and steer our stories. They do; they absolutely do. But there's one very important aspect of writing endings that I haven't discussed yet, and which I want to focus on here. 

It's this: no matter how real it feels, no matter how organic and human, a fiction story is, at its heart, fiction, and you the author are choosing to tell it. 

You choose the ending.

You also choose which aspects of the story to focus on along that journey. You choose that emphasis. The ending should carry forward the themes already established and it should preserve the emphasis you've already layered into the beginning and middle of your story. 

When I see readers and viewers come to the defense of a piece of media that has disappointed its audience, I often hear this phrase: "Not all endings are happy. Life doesn't always work out the way you want it to."

Yes, that's correct. But this wasn't real life - even if parts of it felt terribly real. This was a story. This was a construct that someone created with purpose, piece by piece. If the end was discordant, that wasn't a reflection of "real life." That was the creator dropping the ball. 

Every scene in a story serves a purpose, even the quietest and fluffiest of scenes. Each scene tells us something about the people, the characters, who populate the story. As an author or filmmaker, you get to choose what to tell your audience. If you want the audience to root for the romance, you have to build that romance on the page or screen. If you want the audience to revile a character, you have to show them the reasons to do so. Over the course of a story, you're showing your audience who your characters are, and the ending should underline what you've already said - not walk it back. 

Back in the spring, I went on a bit of a blog post rant (nothing "bit" about it. I ranted, friends) about the "final" film in the decade-long run of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, Avengers: Endgame. A film so mind-bogglingly out of step with every film that came before it, that it's soured every Marvel film property for me. In the wake of the film, there was a clear divide online between fans who thought it was wondrous, and fans like me, left with an ugly taste in their mouths. 

The thing about this superhero films is: I know they aren't high art. They aren't Oscar-worthy, and I never needed them to be. With each film helmed by different directors and writers, there's lots of inconsistency; the mash-up, ensemble films are messy and clumsy. It's been clear from the first that, until very recently, there was no effort toward a unifying ending; they kept making movies in an anthology format, building on what was already there as popularity allowed. I never asked them to be perfect. But I did love many of the characters - I wonder now if that was all tied up in the actors' dedication to those characters - and had managed, through the jokes and missteps, to understand the overarching narratives being built for each character. 

But the film billed as the "epic conclusion" doesn't only fail to underline what we've already learned about our characters - it seemed to purposefully strip away the qualities the audience found endearing. At times I've thought it was just clumsy on the writers'/directors' parts, especially given their nonsensical "explanations" after the film's release. But at other times it feels like Marvel intended to alienate some fans. It feels vicious. "Steve was this dork who needed to get a life," the writers joked, and that tells me they never had a clue what anyone loved about that character. 

There was no love in that film. It was a cash grab - a successful one. I guess I never should have expected anything more. 

Oh, the essays I could write on the travesty that is character development in that franchise, but for now, I'm officially divorced from any and all future MCU content. I would have rather watched all my favorite characters die heroically than watch them abandon the character arcs those same writers and directors have spent years trying to sell me as the most important. They retconned their own stories at the eleventh hour, and any writers' workshop would tell you that was not the thing to do. 

Endgame is my white whale of bad endings, but let's not forget Lost, and How I Met Your Mother, and Game of Thrones, and Dexter...the list could go on.

In each of these cases, I think the problem isn't a case of the audience wanting a happy ending - or any sort of specific ending. It's a case of the narrative dedicating itself to one thing, and then, at the end, revoking that narrative. 

It's one thing to be sad at the end; it's quite another to feel like the end of the story is a zero sum. Like you've become invested for nothing. Like all the things you loved about that piece of media were never true. 

People would forgive you making them cry. What they don't forgive as easily is making them feel stupid. 

Reading Life: The Queen of Nothing

"I honed my instincts in battle...Sometimes those instincts are still there when there is no more war."

~Madoc

You know who I didn't expect to end up loving in this series? Madoc. 

*ducks while you throw rotten tomatoes at me*

He's terrible, truly, but I can't deny that I did care about him, right up until the end - and I suppose Jude did, too, and that was the point, and you're very sneaky, Ms. Black, yes indeed.

The first book in Holly Black's Folk of the Air trilogy opens in dramatic fashion. And in those first few moments, I expected to spend the rest of the trilogy hating and fearing Jude's adoptive father, but that isn't what happened at all. Because despite the very inhuman world of Faerie, and all its unapologetically whimsical inhabitants, there's something incredibly human about the messy dynamics of the family at the heart of the series. I love that Jude can never hate Madoc, because in his own way, he does love her. And because, as she asks herself in this book, she can't decide if he made her what she is, or if she was only herself all along, and he nurtured her natural tendencies, rather than foisting his own ideals onto her. Jude is always one for self-reflection, and I love that about her. 

I don't want to offer any spoilers for The Queen of Nothing, but the quick rundown of the trilogy is: human Jude Duarte and her two sisters are taken to live in the realm of Faerie after their parents are murdered. They go to school with fairy children, and are expected to live out their lives in Faerie, though some precautions against magic must be taken, given that they're mortal. Of the three sisters, our protagonist Jude is the fighter; she longs to become a knight in the Faerie king's court, and she's not afraid to use all manner of violence, wiles, and court machinations to get what she wants. The Folk are pretty awful, and Jude is determined to become, in her own words, even worse. 

This is most definitely not a tale of heroes, and that's one of things I enjoyed most about this trilogy. It's not a tale of the good girl going bad, or the bad boy becoming better. Jude and Cardan are both clever, cutting, ruthless, and wearing layers upon layers of armor. Over the course of the trilogy, they reveal themselves to one another - usually not by choice - and by the end we the readers feel like we know them, and we love them, without either of them having sacrificed the sharp edges that piqued our interest at the first. 

2019 has not been a year for well-thought out, satisfying fictional endings, so I went in with a proper level of nerves. Unnecessary nerves. Deserved consequences are served, loves are confessed, and there's even some leniency shown. Hands-down a perfect conclusion.