I finished it a month ago—my latest novel, Dark Consequences. Normally, I self-publish. More creative control, no middleman, a say in the logistics of the book, the title, and the cover. The best part, I don’t have to wait a year for the final product to come out.
For reasons that escape me, I’ve decided to get this book commercially published. You know the rat race—finding an agent, finding a publisher, rewrites to fit someone else’s ideas of publishable, and a decrease in creative say in the book cover.
I know why—I’m tired of hearing self-published authors don’t count. Bull sh–! Tired of my lack of marketing skills, damn introversion.
Are these the real reasons, or do I suffer from imposter syndrome? I’ve never held a book opening event. Just quietly published, made some posts, and let it ride. People tell me both books, Death in Disguise and The Revelation, are gripping, with well-developed characters and plots and subplots that keep the reader engaged. So what the f—- is my problem?
Everything is ready: The synopsis, the query letter, the pitch. I think it’s a great story. Just hit SEND!
Did I tell you it’s the first novel of a four-part series—all of it written? Just hit SEND!
You want to know what the story is about? It’s a dark historical supernatural novel. Set in 1848 Maryland amid the upheaval of a quarry town, the story blends gothic atmosphere with folk horror and social tension. It explores superstition, grief, and the resilience of working-class families. There is no reason not to hit SEND!
Here I sit, everything ready to go, a destination picked out, and a fear of HITTING THE DAMN SEND BUTTON! Can anyone relate to this? If so, I’d love to hear how you overcame this affliction.
Call me morbidly curious, gothic—not goth, macabre, perhaps even a dark coper. They all mean about the same thing. Paraphrased from the dictionary, someone having a fascination for dark and unpleasant subjects, the supernatural, death, and melancholy. A dark coper, a person who uses scary media to process fear to gain a sense of preparedness for real-world dangers.
You would never know this looking at me. I don’t advertise. This leads me to a quandary: trying to explain my writing to people who view dark fiction (horror) as slasher movies and grotesque. Yes, there is a market for this type of film. It’s not my market, and it is definitely only a sub-genre of a vast cornucopia of artistic endeavors.
To me, a good dark fiction novel contains deep, well-rounded characters with strong arcs and meaningful relationships. They encounter, because of their own actions or the actions of someone or something else, a situation(s) leading them to a life and death situation. Physically or psychologically. A cause to reevaluate everything they thought they knew about life. A chance to make a difference. An opportunity to do the greater good—even if the result is self-sacrifice.
Yes, there are works of fiction where the antagonist is the main character. The twists and turns of a mind deliberately cause the protagonist to struggle. Even then, both the antagonist and the protagonist need to be well-rounded characters—why else would you root for success? Though in some situations, the result is disquieting as the antagonist wins, leaving the reader with their own sense of dread or self-evaluation. The Invasion of the Body Snatchers is a good example of this. Spoiler: the aliens win.
Someone asked me, “Why do you write horror? Why not write romance or dramas?”
All my novels contain historical drama and romance. However, my answer is simple. It’s a great way to have a safe place to explore fears and past traumas. It’s cathartic, entertaining. I like it when a character beats the odds and comes out whole. And of course, it harks back to Memento Mori. I’m drawn to it like a moth to a flame, unable to resist its calling. (Not today—at least I hope not!)
To date, I’ve written and self-published two fiction books. Death in Disguise is a dark murder mystery taking place in the 1950s in a small fictional town. The Revelation is a dark, supernatural tale set on an archaeological site in the 1980s. My latest finishedwork, currently vying for an agent, is called Dark Consequences, about an Irish famine victim, forced to come to America, where he makes a fateful decision bringing death to the small quarry community where he settles. It’s book one of a four-part series.
If you’re interested in well-developed characters living somewhere in history, a solid cast of characters and plots where the consequences of decisions are life-changing, exploring the world of the supernatural, give me a try. I’m really not that scary.
I’ve found myself a bit of a casualty in today’s world of misinformation and half-truths online. Okay—casualty might be a strong word. Let’s say: misunderstood.
I write what I know. Sometimes I embellish, sure—but it’s always rooted in truth, unless I clearly say otherwise. Maybe I should start putting disclaimers on each post: This is true. This is fiction.
Take my recent blog about the miracle fish story. It actually happened. As unbelievable as it sounds, it was real. It didn’t even occur to me that readers might think I made it up—until one of my daughters commented, “I remember this.” That’s when someone reached out and asked, “Wait… this actually happened?”
They were stunned when I said yes.
Why do I write this blog? To share information. To offer insight. To spark a laugh. To make people think. But most of all, to leave the reader with a genuine sense of me—the person behind the words.
Am I succeeding?
Writing can feel like a blind art form. I can’t bring a blog post to show-and-tell the way someone might with a painting or sculpture. Writers can’t always tell where they stand with their work until there’s engagement. And when that engagement shows that I missed the mark—especially when something true is mistaken for fiction—it’s a shock to the system.
How could someone not know this really happened? (I have to shake my head, I can definitely see how this example could be taken as fiction.)
Clearly, I need to rethink that. Maybe other writers have been here too. Maybe it doesn’t matter as long as people enjoy the story. But I’m genuinely curious: Do you think the truth vs. fiction distinction matters in a personal blog?
And, just for fun— How many of you thought the fish story was made up?
Let me know in the comments. I’d love to hear what you think.
Five years ago—somewhere between too many coffees and too many visits to the psychiatrist—I finally sat down to write the saga that had been spinning in my head for years. It was time. The stories, the voices, the haunted places—they wouldn’t wait any longer.
Since then, I’ve thrown myself into this world. I write every day, often for hours. I’ve researched until my eyes burned and the screen blurred. I’ve taken trips to key locations, walking where my characters walk, learning what they need to know to breathe fully on the page.
Now, five years later, I’ve written four books in the series. And for the first time, I think I’m done. The first book is ready—really ready—to send to an agent. That’s a step I’ve never taken before. Wish me luck.
My characters have taken on lives of their own. Sometimes they slip into my real world—I’ve caught myself calling friends by a character’s name more than once. Oops. I suppose that’s the sign of a story well-lived… but I’ll try to keep it in check. Maybe.
Now comes the business side of writing. The query letter. The dreaded synopsis. Somehow, I’m expected to distill a nearly 400-page novel (double-spaced!) into a two-sentence pitch, a logline, a tagline—a hook sharp enough to snag a stranger’s attention in seconds. It threatens to swallow me whole, but I’m doing my best to learn the ropes.
And then there’s the author website. I’ve spent two full weeks wrestling with it. Turns out, I’m a bit tech-challenged. Okay, more than a bit. But I’m determined to get it right—if it’s the last thing I do. The pages have to link up, the design has to make sense, and I will figure it out. Eventually.
This whole writing business is a wild mess. A beautiful, maddening, soul-stretching mess. I might lose a few hairs and collect a few scraped knees along the way, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Dr. Edwin Collins is a physical anthropologist who etches crosses on soda cans. He thinks he’s facilitating the end times as written in the book of Revelation in the Bible.
Michael English is a man of science. He is determined to rise above the insanity of his supervisor, Edwin Collins, by professionally excavating and documenting one of the country’s best preserved plantations. The only problem is that the Maryland plantation has a reputation for paranormal activity, and Dr. Collins has incorporated the local hysteria into his delusional thinking.
Tempers fly; personalities clash as English’s team of eleven graduate and undergraduate students in archaeology excavate. One by one, team members experience unusual events that no one can explain, and science is not equipped to solve.
Together, they must decide, is it hysteria, multi-dimensional time slips, a haunting or validations of Dr. Collin’s delusions. More important, they have to find a way to survive.
“You cheating son of a bitch!” Muriel screamed at him.
That’s the first line of my novel, Death in Disguise. It took me ten years to get that sentence on paper to my satisfaction—not because of writer’s block. I wrote the first draft in a few months. But then fear took over.
Not fear of rejection from publishers. That’s part of the business. This was deeper: fear that my story wasn’t good enough—that I wasn’t good enough. So it sat on a shelf.
We talk a lot about writer’s block, but not enough about writer’s fear. For me, it was perfectionism, tangled in the belief that my debut had to be flawless or it wasn’t worth sharing. That kind of thinking leads to silence.
In those ten years, I wrote constantly. I filled binders with stories, red-inked drafts, and characters I loved. But envy started to creep in. Artists hang their work. Musicians perform. Writers? We wait to be read. Unless we’re published, our creations often stay invisible.
Eventually, I took a class called Writing from the Heart. It broke through the perfectionism. I began to understand that perfection is a myth—and often a trap. Growing up as a performer, I believed hard work equaled flawless results. In writing, that’s rarely the case. Without feedback, I kept polishing drafts in isolation, terrified to let them go.
I tried sharing with family and friends. Some promised to read but didn’t. I took it personally—maybe too personally. I confused their silence with rejection. I let it hurt my relationships, when really, it wasn’t about me. People have their own reasons. I had to learn that support doesn’t always look like a critique.
Eventually, my parents read a draft—and loved it. My daughter even edited one and said, “Mom, I couldn’t put this down.” That was the moment I started to believe in my work again.
I decided to publish Death in Disguise independently—not because I wasn’t good enough for a big publisher, but because I wanted full creative control. It was a steep learning curve, but I embraced every part of it. After years of fearing imperfection, I took the leap. I made the baby—I wanted to deliver it myself.
We all have voices in our heads—old mentors, harsh critics, even well-meaning family members—who plant doubt. But writing isn’t about impressing anyone. It’s about sharing something true. Screaming into the forest and hoping someone hears.
My book is finally out. I’m proud. Nervous. Ecstatic. And yes, a little scared. But this time, fear isn’t the driver. I am.
That was the line my daughter hit me with when she came home from work. It was an interesting comment since I had just finished this blog on that very topic but was still looking for a title. I’m going to plagiarize her comment.
I hate technology. Designed to make my life easier but in long run I think it makes it more complicated. The goal of this morning was a simple task of outlining a curriculum for class this afternoon. I fired up the computer, started the voice recognition and sat down to do some dictation. The computer acted as if it had never heard my voice before.
I re-calibrated the microphone and started from scratch. The machine continued to act as though I’m was speaking Greek. This meant for every sentence I typed, I had to go back and find the correct words the voice recognition replaced for mine. On days when I have a lot of time this is not a big deal. Today was not one of those days.
Now I can hear you saying, why didn’t you just type? The answer is because I have a bum arm and am supposed to let it rest. Consequently, me and the voice recognition system went round and round.
I finally got it running fairly smoothly and sat down to type. I completed my paper and hit print. We have a Wireless Network in my house. That means I can be on the second floor hit the print button and the paper will print on the first floor. This did not happen.
Last week something happen with our router and the wireless stopped working. Since then, I’ve been dragging my laptop to the printer so I can connect the two by cable. Yesterday we thought we’d fixed the wireless router. So this morning when I hit the print button I expected to go downstairs and find my prints waiting. What I found was nothing.
I trudged back up the steps and checked my laptop. A message read, can’t talk to the printer. I think, so much for the wireless fix. I unplugged the equipment from my laptop and take it downstairs to try again. Nothing happened. I can’t get the printer to function at all. I think, there’s a new printer still in the box on the second floor, I’ll quickly set up that one.
I found the printer and set it up. It’s the exact same printer as the one downstairs so it should not have been a problem.
I hooked my laptop with the new printer and hit print. Nothing happened. I realized there was a disk that I’m supposed to install. I figured since they were the same printer I would not need additional software.
I popped in the disk and hit install. An error message occurred. It read, no drivers found, installation unsuccessful. It directed me to click on a link for more information. I did this and It read, you ding-a-ling you should not have your laptop connected to the printer while trying to install printer software. I didn’t know that.
I unplug the laptop from the printer and tell it to reinstall the disk. The computer cranks away and another error message pops. It read, if you really want to print do a dos-e-doe, twirl around, clap your hands and agree to sell your first born child. After you sign that you agree with this try to reinstall the software. So I signed and waited. Another error message popped. It said, I’ve decided we’re not printing today, so sorry for your bad luck.
I decided to write the information I typed onto paper. I’m in the process doing this when the computer tells me it’s going shopping to get software upgrades. There’s no time to think about the idea. It simply said goodbye and my screen went blank. I can no longer access my document.
I restarted the computer and it informed me it has to install all the upgrades it found before it abandoned me. Estimated time before I can use the machine is ten minutes.
Fine, I needed to eat lunch anyway. I heated up some leftover spaghetti from last night’s dinner and ate while standing at the kitchen sink. After all I only had 10 minutes before the machine allows me back to work and there was a lot I needed to do.
Everything complete, I restarted the programs but couldn’t find my file. I looked everywhere. It was as though I never wrote it. I suppose it’s possible I never saved the document; however, I typically save papers every so many paragraphs. In my frustration maybe I forgot this time.
After I searched files for about a half hour, I felt like throwing the printer and the computer out the window. Logic stepped in and instead, I put on my shoes and went for a drive. What I needed was a change of scenery. I decided the comic book store was the place to go.
At the comic book store, they were playing electronic music reminiscent of the group Tangerine Dream from the seventies. The store had lots of eye catching, multi-colored paper covers to greet my eyes. Titles that splashed the exploits of superheroes, imaginary universes and action, adventure films surround me. Familiar friends like X- men, Wolverine, Ironman, Star Trek, Star Wars and Dr. Who were only a few. The guy behind the desk was more than interested in shooting the breeze for a few moments.
Those few moments in a pop-culture environment with conversation having nothing to do with reality was exactly what I needed. Feeling refreshed I headed home to tackle my technology nightmares.
Back upstairs in my office I once again looked at the printer, laptop and thought, I’m going to give this one more try. Once again I tried to install the software and once again the computer complained. It told me to click this, click that, say three Hail Mary’s and eat a strawberry yogurt with granola. I’m not going to let you print. I’ll show the machine who is boss; I’m going to turn this over to my tech squad, hubby, when he gets home.
I returned to using the voice recognition program with another project. Like earlier, it continues to be uncooperative. Instead of typing sentences like, I’m going to drive to the store to buy milk. The voice recognition program typed… and runs were minimal. These were not the same sentence. They didn’t even sound the same. I don’t get it.
Maybe the moon is waxing or waning or maybe we are getting sun flares causing my equipment to run amok. I don’t know but I do know if I lived in an imaginary reality like in a comic book, I would find a way to have machines do their master’s bidding. Not the master trying to figure out how to communicate with the machine or the machine doing what it wants when it wants.
I worry sometimes about the level of dependence humans have on machines. Office machinery running amok is one thing, but I see those commercials for cars that park themselves and find myself concerned. I hate technology sometimes. I don’t know if I’m ready for a world more dependent on machines. Then again, machines probably aren’t real thrilled to work for people like me – technologically challenged.
This morning I discovered a wonderful and deadly secret, Burger King now carries Cinnabons. I love Cinnabons! Until this morning, I could only get them at the airport. Usually, I could resist them, too worried about making my flight or having oozing cinnamon sauce dripping down my chin and shirt.
Now, I can go less then a mile from my home, sit in my car and indulge in cinnamon-sugar ecstasy. Burger King has Cinnabons!
Like a cocaine addict, there I sat. Could have ordered the bacon, egg sandwich or better still, the oatmeal with fruit. No, I ordered Cinnabons, two of them. I deserved them, I told myself. Reasons why, I have no clue.
I ordered, paid and planned to sit in the parking lot eating them. My napkins in hand for the dribble mess that only a Cinnabon can produce. I opened the box. Two scrumptious, twisted, doughy circles dripping in brown cinnamon syrup and decadent white icing stared at me. Oh my!
My cell phone clock buzzed. I looked at the dash clock. It’s later then I thought. if I sat in the parking lot, I’d be late for my class on spiritual discipline. You know, learn not to over indulge. Keep an even-keel, that sort of thing. So, I have to eat the Cinnabons on the go. What could go wrong?
I turn out of the Burger King parking lot and the first gob of icing hits my jeans. It’ll wait. I can’t turn, hold a Cinnabon and grab a napkin at the same time. I’m not that coordinated. Not a problem. For the three miles it takes me to get to my class on discipline, I gorge myself on these overly-large, incredibly addictive, way-more-than-I-can-eat rolls. Pleased, that I only have that one glob of icing on my jeans to contend with.
At my destination, I pulled into the parking lot and found a spot. The rolls are eaten. Not something to be proud of, but next time, I’ll order the oatmeal. No one has to know I slipped up and once again found myself in a sugary stupor. I’d gotten away with it! Ha, ha, indulge today, disciple tomorrow!
I garb a napkin to remove the incriminating evidence from my jeans only to find… it is joined by five other considerable larger globs all down my shirt and jeans. Crap! Good thing they gave me many napkins.
Did you know napkins adhere to Cinnabon icing globs like flies on flypaper? Napkins ripped, shredding all over my shirt and jeans. I look like a kid just learning how to shave, ending up with toilet paper wads all over their face!
I should be in class several minutes ago! How in the hell am I going to clean this up and look dignified? No one is supposed to know I fell off the band-wagon! I wonder if I can lick some of it off. I don’t have any water and drowning myself in caramel-mocha coffee doesn’t seem like the answer!
There is a knock on my car passenger window. It’s a friend of mine also going to this class. Her gleeful expression quickly turns to confusion. I’d be confused too if I wandered up to her car only to find her sitting there with napkin shreds hanging off globs of icing all over her shirt, hands and pants.
There is really nothing to say here except, “Burger King now has CInnabons.” She still looks confused.
“I’m not really sure how to help you with this one,” she says. Her head cocks sideways the way my dog does when I’m trying to explain the concepts of karma to him.
“That’s okay, I don’t’ know either.” I wonder if I can claim this as a new grunge/bohemian look.
So, I’m going to class wearing shredded napkins and not-strategically placed globs of syrup and icing. A smile on my face. I’m taking responsibility for my actions. I’ll take the consequences, the tisk-tisks, the smirks, and the malaise when this sugar rush crashes.
I get out of the car and straighten out my newly decorated shirt and strategically hug my friend who says, “Wow, you smell like a bakery, like Christmas cookies! That’s not too bad. It could be much worse.”
And this is why I have her as my friend. Everyone should have friends like this.
Hello, my name is Deborah Sickle Hill, Burger King has Cinnabons, and I have a problem. Damn good thing I’m taking a class on spiritual discipline. I think I have a stomachache.
Suzie Worley hated liver. That included liver sausage. She was standing in the back room of her grandparents’ one-hundred and thirty-year-old meat market. It was now her market, handed down through the generations.
Almost daily she thought about closing the doors and selling the antiquated market despite continued faithful patronage. She had hoped Karly, her eighteen-year-old daughter, would become her apprentice and then take over the business when Suzie was no longer able to physically manage. Her daughter showed no interest in the family business and refused to help in the shop.
Times have changed, Suzie thought. She always knew she would fall in line with the family business. Suzie, like her own mother, understood the importance of family pride, responsibilities and tradition. That was why weekly, despite hating liver sausage, Suzie found herself in the back of the meat market pumping out and stuffing fifty-two pounds of liver sausage.
“Eat your liver sausage,” Suzie remembered her mother mumbling through lips that didn’t move. Her mother didn’t like liver sausage either. They were seated around the silver and red Formica kitchen table for another day of liver sausage and eggs over-easy with toast just shy of black, along with her father and maternal grandmother. It was 1965.
“Just place it in the center of your tongue,” her mother continued, “and you’ll hardly taste it.” Her mother’s eyes widened and darted from Suzie to her grandmother. It was face language for, your grandmother is watching; eat your sausage.
Her grandmother wasn’t looking. She never was. She was too busy nodding her head in approval while slurping liver sausage juice back into her toothless mouth.
“Oh dear, Oh dear, I’ve ruined another lovely blouse,” Her grandmother commented after dribbles landed on the cleavage area of her blouse. She grabbed her napkin and failed in her attempt to remedy the situation. All Suzie’s grandmother’s blouses where stained in liver sausage dribbles.
“My mother had the same problem when she ate liver sausage.” Her grandmother chuckled. “Well, it was worth it. Jesus himself couldn’t have…” Suzie mouthed the remainder of the sentence as her grandmother spoke. “… made liver sausage this good even if he used a miracle.”
No one had the heart to tell her grandmother that the pork in liver sausage is an abomination to God based on the Jewish tradition. Her beloved Jesus was a Jew and would be appalled if Mary and Martha served him liver sausage.
“Smother it in the fried onions and ketchup,” her father mumbled. Suzie estimated her father ate enough fried onions and ketchup to keep migrant, onion pickers and the Heinz ketchup company going single handedly.
She didn’t bother. It wouldn’t help. Once again Suzie slid the sausage under the table to her basset hound, Speedy. He liked liver sausage and ate a lot of it. This probably had more do to with his early death from heart failure than anything else, Suzie always thought.
1973 was the year Suzie graduated from Kemper Senior High School. She was going to drive her father’s old, mint-green, ’62 Dodge Dart with the big steering wheel and very un-cool side fins, to California. Since his stroke, it collected dust in the garage.
For months she secretly sent resumes to cruise ships berthed on the west coast for waitress positions. She was going to get as far away from the meat market as she could. She hated liver sausage and the family business. There was no way she was staying to rot and die like her grandparents and now parents. There was a world to see and it didn’t include liver sausage.
“California!” Suzie’s mother yelled. “When were you going to tell me this grand plan of yours?”
Suzie pulled her headband further back on her head so her elbow-length, brown hair stayed behind her ears. It was a nervous habit. They were standing next to the old extruder, caked in oil and cooked pate remnants. A sausage casing hung from the nozzle.
“I can’t stay here, Mom!” She pleaded, crossed her arms over her chest and flopped down on a worn, wooden bench against the wall. She hoped her mother would understand.
Her mother hated liver sausage and the meat shop too. Suzie was well aware of this. Thanks to her grandmother. Grandma had no difficulty reminding Suzie’s mother in front of Suzie about the squabbles they had over family business vs running away to nursing school. The family business had won.
In Suzie’s eyes, the store had been her grandparent’s and no one alive wanted it. No one dead cared. Suzie could feel the tears welling in her eyes. She couldn’t believe her mother wasn’t getting it.
“Your grandparents saved their money to come to this country and buy this shop,” her mother said with a catch in her throat. “Hell, that liver sausage recipe goes back generations before them. I wouldn’t be surprised if they got it from Jesus!”
“Mom, Jesus is a Jew!” Suzie sprang to her feet, twisting her ankle in her hot pink, high healed clogs.
“Don’t you think I know that?” Her mother turned away and wrung her hands on an apron she was wearing. It was floral with ruffles at the shoulders and once belonged to Suzie’s grandmother.
“I need you here,” said her mother. There was a moment of silence between them. “We need to get five pounds of chicken and beef livers, two pounds pork hearts and some pork belly trimmings from the refrigerator.”
Suzie felt her world come to an end. She thought, why did I bother to go to school, play the clarinet or get good grades? If my whole life is going to be this stupid meat shop, there is no sense in living anymore.
She had watched her grandparents slave over the machines, pumping out liver sausages. Watched her parents, who hated liver sausage, do the very same thing. It wasn’t a business. To her, it was a curse.
Karly, Suzie’s daughter, bust into the back of the meat market letting the door slam closed behind her. Suzie was startled from her reminiscing.
“I hate this crap, Mom!” Karly declared. She flopped herself down, arms crossed, onto a worn, wooden bench against the wall. Just like Suzie had done so many years ago.
Suzie realized she had become her mother, a thought that nearly paralyzed her. Maybe, times had not changed so much after all. “Then why are you here?” She asked her daughter. She opened up the refrigerator to pull out five pounds of chicken and beef livers, two pounds pork hearts and some pork belly trimmings.
“If I didn’t come help you, I’d feel guilty as hell. That’s why. I hate when you put me on a guilt trip.” She fidgeted causing the wooden bench to wobble. “Why are you here, Mom? You hate this stuff and this market too.”
Suzie paused inside the refrigerator door. The smell of raw meat once again caused queasiness. Her mother and grandmother were long dead. She remembered her own thoughts when having this conversation with her mother. No one alive wants it. No one dead cares. She shut the refrigerator door.
She wondered how many Worley women needed to devote their lives to ideas and traditions because the generation before had done so. Maybe, it wasn’t about tradition, pride or responsibility. Perhaps it was time to allow independent thinking in the family.
Suzie took off her apron and quietly hung it on the rusted nail that had held it for many decades. She ripped off a piece of cardboard from an empty, pickle jar box. “Do you have a marker?”
Karly looked at Suzie confused. She shrugged her shoulders, grabbed her back-pack set at her feet and pulled out a black marker. She stood and gave it to Suzie.
Suzie wrote on the cardboard in big, bold letters, CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. She pulled some meat-packing tape and walked out into the market front with Karley at her side. She tapped the sign to the front door and turned to her daughter.
“I think we’re overdue for a meeting of the minds over coffee. What do you think?”
Deborah Sickle Hill 