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Where Is My Sister the Zombie?

7/29/2016

Keen observers may have noticed that a couple of months ago, I had a cover reveal for my upcoming book, My Sister the Zombie, on the main page of my website. Then it quietly disappeared. So what happened?

Back in October of 2014, when I felt MSTZ was at a point where it was sellable, I wrote and revised a query letter, crafted a synopsis I was happy with, and started shopping the manuscript around to publishers. I received a couple of offers on it pretty quickly, which was admittedly awesome. I signed a contract with Damnation Books, with an anticipated publication date of “late 2015.”

As “late 2015” approached with little activity from the publisher, I emailed them to find out what the heck was going on. No response. Then I found out on Facebook (which, FYI to everyone, is a HORRIBLE WAY TO BREAK IMPORTANT NEWS) that Damnation had been sold.

The new owner was full of apologies and promises. The backlog of unpublished manuscripts would be out “by July 31, 2016, at the latest.” He set up an author Yahoo group (antiquated, sure, but quaint) to keep everyone updated on the state of the company. Then, these sorts of messages started slowly popping up in the author group:

Authors complaining about not receiving royalties. (“We’re working on sorting out the previous owner’s records,” the new guy said.)
Authors asking why they couldn’t buy copies of their own books through the publisher. (“Just buy them off Amazon, send me your receipt, and I’ll send you a partial reimbursement,” the new guy said, assuming that nobody could do math and figure out he’d make a larger royalty on the Amazon sale than the author would get reimbursed.)
The new guy apologizing, because title releases would be delayed, due to his account at IngramSpark being frozen. (I have a friend who was also under contract with the same publisher, and we emailed each other as this horror show unfolded. “Do you think that means he hasn’t paid his bills?” my friend asked. “Yes. Yes, I do,” I messaged back.)
The new guy explaining why he was being taken to court for nonpayment of royalties. (It wasn’t his fault, of course.)
Authors complaining because their books had been taken down from Amazon. (“That was a mistake!” the new guy said with a laugh. “We’re working on getting them back up!”)
A notification that anyone who was promised that their book would be out “by July 31” would have to now wait up to two years, because most of his staff had up and quit.
The new guy reporting that the publisher’s Kindle account was now frozen. You know, the largest e-book distributor in the world. (“Kindle mistakenly believes I published material I didn’t have the copyright to,” the new guy said. It was hard to see him amid all the red flags, but I’m pretty sure he was sweating.)

I was alarmed. More than alarmed. In no way, shape, or form did I want this new publisher putting out my book.
My friend—you remember him, the one who was also with the same publisher?—emailed me early one Tuesday morning. “Did you see this message?” He sent the link.

Thankfully, the new publisher had a temper tantrum because so many authors were asking when their books were coming out, or why their books weren’t on Amazon anymore, or where their royalty payments were. “If you want your rights back to your book, email me, and I’ll let you buy them back!” he whined.

My author friend and I jumped at the chance. Although buying your rights back from a shady publisher is just about the crappiest situation an author can be in, I wanted to run—not walk—away from this press. I paid the fee. I got my rights back. And I ran.

And now . . . back to square one. I looked over my old query letter and polished it up, reviewed my synopsis (thank God I’d saved both), and started researching the open markets again, to see who out there in the publishing world was looking for young adult horror mysteries.

So where is My Sister the Zombie? In the inboxes of a whole bunch of agents and publishers, looking for a new home. It’s frustrating, sure. But I still think I dodged a bullet. And we all know, unless it's a head shot, bullets aren't going to take a zombie down. So stay tuned!

Just to clarify, my sister isn't *actually* a zombie.

No Such Thing as a Comfort Zone

7/21/2016

This is Melissa. Read her books because they're awesome.

I have some pretty fabulous author friends. This week, my friend Melissa—a fantastic writer and amazing woman—touched base and found me frazzled. She asked how she could help. I asked her for a blog post. She responded with this reflective gem of a piece about challenging oneself as a writer.

No Such Thing as a Comfort Zone
by Melissa F. Crandall

“So,” says She Who Must Be Obeyed—aka SWMBO or, for ease of reading, Swumbo—otherwise known as the Fearless Leader of our writers’ group, “I’m putting out an anthology in October of scary stories by Connecticut writers.” In addition to being a writer, she is also a small press publisher. “I’m lining up several authors, living and dead.”
You’d have to know her to appreciate my momentary frisson, and the fleeting image that whips through my head of her in Woodlawn Cemetery dragging Mark Twain from his grave by one leg.
“I want two stories from each of you.” Focused on her laptop, she speaks to the air.
“Okay,” sez Dan. He probably has a tattered Navy sea bag in his attic packed with so much stuff that all he needs to do is dust off a couple stories and submit them.
“Okay,” sez Terry, although how the woman finds time to write with the work schedule she keeps is beyond me.
“Okay,” sez John, with only a slight out-break of perspiration along his brow. He has so many irons in the fire that I’m pretty certain he doesn’t sleep more than one hour a night.
“Um …” sez I.
Swumbo’s right eyebrow twitches, although her gaze never leaves the computer screen. “Yes?”
The frost in that single word warns, “Be careful where you tread, bitch.” It’s enough to make Sauron reconsider.
“Well,” I say, being the sort of fool who presses on where angels fear to tread, “I don’t know if I’ll have time. I’m in the middle of revisions on the elephant book and need to make that my priority.”
I’m not weaseling and she knows it, but neither is she buying it. The eyebrow climbs a fraction higher. I can almost hear it creak.
“I can try.” Now I’m dithering. Swumbo has that effect on people. “I just can’t promise, and I don’t … really … write … horror.” This is true.
Swumbo doesn’t give a rat’s toches. Slowly, like a leviathan stirring in its primordial ooze, she lifts her head and fixes me with a gimlet eye. “Just do it.”
I wilt. “I guess I could rework an old piece.”
“F**k you,” she says without rancor. For Swumbo, this is a term of endearment. “Just do it.”

Horror writing scares me. Yeah, I know--duh. What I really mean is that it intimidates me. The writing of horror takes, I believe, a gentle hand on the tiller. I don’t go in for the slash-and-burn, splash blood on the walls variety, but give me subtlety and I’m hooked. One example that comes to mind is Stephen King’s The Shining. I tried to put down that book when the terror became immense, and failed. That stinking story kept me up all night … and for several nights afterward.
If I was going to write two stories for Swumbo, they needed to be my best work. Otherwise, I’d no business being in the craft. And, said a little voice at the back of my mind, if you aren’t a writer willing to challenge yourself, why bother?
Damn it.
One of the things I like best about being a writer is the opportunity to push boundaries—mine as well as other people’s—and conquer new territory. And here I was quailing at the thought of trying my hand at horror? Shame on me!
Somewhere, somewhen, I’d read that Stephen King conjured up the things that scared him when considering subjects to write about. I thought about vacant houses … dolls … clowns (well, we all know that one has been done up tight with a pretty bow) … nightmares … ghosts … vampires …
And I remembered the house I’d grown up in, a 500-year-old former way-station, a house so old the attic beams bore tree bark and were held together by hand-forged spikes. The field-stone cellar had a dirt floor and smelled of ancient dust, an odor like the grave. Cobwebs draped the ceiling joists. Shadows loomed in the corners where oddments of family junk were stored.
I walked closer; afraid, yes, but willing to take a look at what was piled there. A bone emerged. It was a slender one, a fibula maybe, but enough to build around, enough to stand on if I could only find a foot …
It took several weeks, but in the end Swumbo looked at me after reading my submission and smiled with pride. “I knew you could do it,” she said.
I grinned. Better yet, I knew it.

Melissa Crandall is the author of Weathercock, Darling Wendy and Other Stories, and four science fiction media tie-in novels. Her work has appeared in Allegory, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and on The Drunken Odyssey podcast. You can find more of Melissa’s talented musings at http://melissacrandall.writersresidence.com.

Here are some of Melissa's books. Read them because Melissa is awesome.

Living Less Large

7/14/2016

I used to be a lot bigger.

At my heaviest, I was carrying about sixty pounds more than I do now. (It might even have been more, but since I was at the point where stepping on the scale only added to my chronic depression, I stopped weighing myself.)

There are some things I should explain here: one, in the span of my life so far, the number of years I’ve been at a healthy weight far outnumber the years I was heavy, by about three to one. And two, those ten heavy years have done more psychological damage to my psyche than the positive effects of all those thin periods combined.

How can that be, you ask? Let me explain. There are some things that get ingrained in you when you’re a larger woman that just don’t go away once the weight is gone.

For example:

You don’t stop shopping for bigger-sized clothes. I haven’t been larger than a twelve in over a decade, and probably wear a six or eight now. However, I don’t know for sure, because I still automatically pull tens, twelves, and fourteens off the rack when I shop. “Those are too big,” whomever I’m shopping with will say. “They’re comfortable,” I’ll say. But really, what I’m thinking is What if the weight comes back? I want to still be able to wear this if I pack on a few pounds over the winter.
You’re still constantly counting calories. I don’t mean that I still order a plain salad, no dressing, every time I go out to lunch. I’ll indulge. But I can tell you exactly how many calories per mouthful every bite of the steak gorgonzola at Olive Garden comes to, and will adjust what I eat for the rest of the weekend to compensate for that. It’s a terrible habit, and exhausting. But I can’t seem to shut it off. Which sucks, because I also can’t fully enjoy a meal.
Sometimes you feel guilty about being thin. I was already at my Weight Watchers goal weight when I got sick recently. So now I’m about ten pounds under goal. Awesome, right? Except what I have is literally the crappiest possible way to lose weight. I’ve been wearing baggy clothes—not just because I bought them too big to begin with, but also because I’m trying to hide the skinniness. I don’t identify with being a healthy weight. Inside, I’m still a larger woman, marveling at my current scale numbers, knowing I didn’t earn the loss—it’s a side effect—and wondering when it will all end. Because ultimately, what it comes down to is this:
You no longer trust your body. It’s not like you did that much to get big to begin with. You only had one doughnut a day, not like that skinny girl Lisa who always ate three and even licked the frosting off her fingers afterward. But your body packed on the doughnut pounds like it was hoarding for winter, and Lisa never gained an ounce. Your body betrayed you. There’s a reason why the weight-loss industry is as successful as it is: because most people can’t figure how it works, and every single individual loses differently. The idea that losing weight is as “simple” (ha!) as eating less and exercising more is a myth. Yes, that should work. But there are so many other factors at play—metabolism rates, thyroids, stress levels, "starvation" mode, some cortisol crap, stages of ketosis, the cycle of the moon in relation to Mercury—that sometimes, eating less and exercising more does nothing. Let me tell you what happens when you eat leaves of iceberg lettuce and dry turkey at every meal for a week, walk every day, and don’t lose weight: you get mad. Mad at yourself. Mad that you missed out on real food. Mad at God. Because eating rabbit food and exercising is supposed to work. You no longer trust your body, because it gained so much on you to begin with, and didn’t lose weight when it was supposed to. So you buy the size twelves when you should be wearing a six. Because your own anatomy has failed you before.

I don’t want to sound like an ingrate. I am glad I’m much thinner than I was over ten years ago. When I was at the gastroenterologist last month, she asked me if I’d lost weight due to my illness. I answered that I had, and she said “Good.” Good? She quickly elaborated. “If you’d been going through all this and hadn’t lost weight, you’d be pretty mad.”

Excellent point, Dr. C. I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. But it’s sooo hard to trust that it will stay this way.

Before and after. Amazing, right?

Catching Up with Marilyn

7/8/2016

Recently, I had the opportunity to interview Marilyn Monroe. You might think this would be impossible, but I found myself one afternoon with some scented candles and an old Ouija board, unable to remember if I’d already taken my scheduled dose of painkillers. I took a second dose and soon found myself doing a little spirit-contactin’.

Marilyn was happy to talk. Here’s what she had to say:

Stacey Longo: Marilyn? Is that you? Or do you prefer Norma Jean?

Marilyn Monroe: What? Who is this? Where am I?

SL: Sorry to bother you. I’m using my psychic powers to contact you through this Ouija board.

MM: Sure you are. What is that you’re taking—tramadol? Good stuff. I was always fond of a nice hallucinatory painkiller . . .

SL: So, Marilyn. How have you been? What’s new with you?

MM: Mostly I’ve just been hanging out, moldering mostly. Things have been a little slow. Say, what year is it?

SL: 2016.

MM: Wow! I’ve been out for a while, huh? Tell me, how’s Joe?

SL: DiMaggio? He’s dead.

MM: Of course, of course. Makes sense. And Arthur?

SL: Also dead.

MM: Jack? Bobby?

SL: Kennedy? Dead and dead.

MM: Serves ’em right—they had me killed, you know.

SL: Aha! I knew it!

MM: I’m just kidding. Kind of gullible, ain’tcha?

SL: Hey. That wasn’t nice.

MM: Women don’t make it in this world on “nice.” So, what’s 2016 like? Do you have flying cars and colonies on Mars yet?

SL: Er, no. We have the internet.

MM: The what?

SL: It’s a—well, it’s kind of an . . . information system, really, that connects every household in the world to a giant brain of knowledge.

MM: Wow! I can’t believe you all haven’t used that to invent flying cars yet. So what do you do with it?

SL: Mostly just waste a lot of time. And porn. A lot of people use it for porn.

MM: Really? What do you mean, exactly?

SL: You can find anything online these days. Not that I use it for that, mind you, but there’s all sorts of kinky information out there. But—I hear—some people just use it to look up pictures of naked celebrities, tame stuff like that . . .

MM: What sort of naked celebrities? Not dead ones, right? Right?

SL: Um . . .

MM: Like, say, hypothetically, if someone had some very private pictures taken before they were famous, just to pay the bills, really . . . those kinds of photos would be long gone, right?

SL: Sure. Sure they would, yeah.

MM: So you have this huge wealth of knowledge out there at your fingertips, but nobody’s colonized Mars yet. Has society made any advances?

SL: We have Walmart now.

MM: Walmart?

SL: Yeah, it’s this one-stop shopping store where you can get poorly made clothes, cheap, shoddy electronics, and already-rotting produce, all in one place!

MM: That sounds just awful.

SL: It’s not so bad. Now that Walmart has put most everyone else out of business, we’ve kind of forgotten that there used to be places where you could buy bananas before the fruit flies hatched in ’em.

MM: You’re still not selling me on this Walmart thing.

SL: No, it’s really great. Sometimes the trashiest people shop there. They show up un-showered, unshaven, wearing nothing but a bathing suit and boots, and other shoppers take pictures of them and post them on websites like onlyatwalmart.com.

MM: You know, there’s something to be said for an old-fashioned girdle.

SL: Yeah, you have a point. We still have girdles, by the way. Except we call them Spanx now.

MM: Sounds like that porn you were talking about earlier. Say, I heard Elton John wrote a nice song about me. Did he sell a lot of copies?

SL: Absolutely. And then he re-wrote it as a tribute to Lady Diana, and it went double platinum or something.

MM: He rewrote my song? For someone else?

SL: Um . . . yes?

MM: Gee, look at the time. I really should be going. I have some more decaying to do.

SL: But wait! I have so much more to ask you! Like, were you really a size sixteen?

MM: Are you kidding? I gotta go. Bye.

SL: But—but--

MM: And don’t contact me again, please. My life was a lot better when I was still rotting in blissful ignorance. (Hangs an Out of Order sign on the Ouija board and disappears.)

SL: Well, that was rude.

There you have it: an exclusive update on Marilyn Monroe. I wouldn’t bother trying to contact her to verify my information here, by the way. She seemed a bit cranky.

"Please stop bothering me." ~ Marilyn

Vacation!

7/1/2016

Thank you, security guard!

I'm on vacation in Boston this week. Why Boston? Because hands down, it is the best city in the nation to eat your way through. This was, of course, before I had my recent health issue, in which my body said "Think you're gonna eat that? Ha!" This week, I countered with "Remember when I said I'd only eat things that were worth the pain? See that chocolate mousse cannoli? Worth it, lower digestive tract, so get ready for a hurtin'!" I fought with myself all week. Good times.

Monday, I trekked to the Massachusetts State House, because I'd spotted a statue of JFK. Here's the first thing I learned about Boston: your state house is really complicated. The stairs don't take you to the same floors as the elevators, and it is quite easy to get lost in there. Second thing: you sure do have some nice security guards. This one guy put me on the right path no less than four times. He only called me names under his breath twice. Sweet guy.

I stopped for a kielbasa dog, cookies, and chocolates. All worth it.

That's Rob. And no, I wasn't kidding about the Teddy shirt.

Tuesday was a trip to both the JFK Museum and the Edward Kennedy Institute. Finally—the perfect place for me to wear my Teddy Kennedy tee shirt! Then it was onward to the aquarium, which reminded me that for all that I knock Connecticut, Mystic Aquarium is pretty impressive. Later in the day, Jason and I met up with author Rob Watts for dinner and a trek to Mike's Pastry for the aforementioned cannoli.

Tuesday's food tally: Asiago bagel, peanut-butter-and-chocolate ice cream, fish tacos, chocolate mousse cannoli, Italian cookies. Worth it, worth it, worth it, so worth it, maybe not worth it but I ate the whole half pound anyway.

Found it!

Wednesday, my stomach was in full revolt. I woke up sick and stayed that way. We did trek over to the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, but had to make an emergency run to the Minute Man Visitor's Center, the closest place with plumbing facilities. Their composting toilets were memorable. I'm sure they'll remember me, too. I was there six times in two hours.

Wednesday's food tally: one half-melted Italian ice.

On Thursday, I was mad. I'd lost a full day of eating. We got up early to search for the Edgar Allan Poe statue, which by the way, is not exactly located at the corner of Boylston and Charles like the maps say. You have to search a little. I may have gotten lost. Incidentally, my friend the state house security guard found me wandering through Boston Commons, sighed loudly when he recognized me, and guided me right to Poe himself. Thank you again, Mr. John Doe! I'd email you to thank you personally, but the address you gave me keeps bouncing back.

Next up was the science museum. It was fine, but there were a lot of kids, and I am not child-friendly. I wanted to leave. I had something else on my mind.

This.

All week, my stomach had selfishly ignored my pleas for it to behave. At one point, it had even rejected coffee. It was the ultimate act of betrayal. And my stomach would pay.

We hiked on over to Quincy Market, where my well-planned revenge was waiting: rich, creamy clam chowder in a bulky, warm bread bowl. My gut clenched just looking at it. I did not care. That thing was gettin' in my belly, no matter how loudly my stomach protested. I rolled over a CD to pay for my chowder bowl, and sat down to eat.

I finished it in ten minutes flat. I was doubled over in pain twenty minutes later. And that, my friends, is how you vacation in my world.

Worth it.

Where Is My Sister the Zombie?

No Such Thing as a Comfort Zone

Living Less Large

Catching Up with Marilyn

Vacation!

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