Today is a “worldbuilding is useless if no one cares about the people in it” post. Tolkien knew this, but I don’t feel like talking about Tolkien, I see it too often, done like dinner, stick a fork in it, etc, and you already know he did the conlang and map stuff way before writing LoTR, yes, master worldbuilder, but no one would care about Elvish languages without the Elves who spoke them, etc etc, so I don’t want to bore you.1

No, today I’m going to talk about the moderately successful2 1997 film Titanic.

“But Lisa that's a historical film, not scifi or fantasy.” If this is you, you don’t understand worldbuilding. Yes, all works of fiction require a world to be built. But Titanic wasn’t just a movie about a big boat. James Cameron knew that in order to completely dork out and get butts in seats at the same time, he had to make the audience care about the people on the boat. If the movie started when it hits the iceberg3 or was basically a series of boat facts (as if people want to go to a movie theatre for a documentary4) I wouldn’t have had friends claiming to see the movie in theaters 7 times and planning to go again. In grade 5. Every 3rd school project—speech, essay, magazine pictures cut and pasted onto bristol board—by boys in my class and girls, wouldn’t have been somehow related to the Titanic disaster. I, and many other children, wouldn’t have built a Titanic model kit, possibly the only time many of those kids ever touched a model kit.5

If you were alive in the late 90s, and old enough to remember, you know what a cultural moment this movie was. I remember watching it with my grandma in her living room with a bunch of family around the TV, all ages, men and women, boys and girls. Every time you popped it in the VCR it was an event.

All my films are love stories, but in Titanic I finally got the balance right. It's not a disaster film. It's a love story with a fastidious overlay of real history.

—James Cameron

The sheer volume of documentaries on TV, stories in magazines, because people wanted to learn more about the LORE (as my kids would say.) People were OBSESSED with nautical history all of a sudden! Like dinosaurs when Jurassic Park came out! Or… “What's your clan?” when Braveheart came out. (Everyone who is Canadian going back more than 2 generations is part Scottish. That’s just the rule.)6

So anyway, Titanic took up 2 VHS tapes. A good chunk of those 2 VHS tapes, there’s no iceberg. Just people walking around, talking, doing things like establishing your connection to them so that by the time the boat does hit the berg you are dreading what happens next because even the minor characters and extras mean something to you and it is visceral.7

You are made to care about what happens to the people, whether or not you were familiar with the history, because as people we connect with others, and that’s what keeps us invested.

For those unfamiliar with my writing, I am a “character first” writer. Sometimes I have a scene in my head first, but I immediately think “ok, who is this in the scene?” So is this post biased? Yes. Everyone has a different process, and I understand that. But if you are the “worldbuilding first” type (and, you are careful not to fall into the worldbuilding trap—you get so caught in making the world, you don’t actually start writing a story) it is still Very Important to make sure the characters will matter to the reader. Otherwise, your efforts will not be read. Unless you’re a known name, and the big fans demand MORE LORE! MORE LORE!! But, if they aren't familiar with you or your universe, what’s going to get them to care? Hmm…

Speaking of icebergs, only a fraction of what you have in your head, or sketched out in a notebook, should make it into the novel. There’s a whole ton of stuff that you, the author, need to know8, but the reader might not need the information, or it might step all over the story flow to include it. Some readers are ok with infodumps, but in my opinion, as someone who typically writes very close 3rd person, what would the characters notice? You ever read one of those scenes where the characters talk about stuff they should obviously know, and it’s really awkward? Or, in movies, a newscaster in the background9 is basically spelling everything out so the audience is speedily informed? This is lazy exposition. No one likes lazy exposition. It feels like being spoonfed. I do not enjoy it, and so I try not to spoonfeed in my writing. (But if you’re in the midst of one of my novels and have a question for me, hey, dm me.)

Portal fantasy, or a story about a stranger visiting a strange place, can give opportunities for characters to inform the newcomers, for some expository dialogue. Done carefully. But if the characters are born and bred on Mars they would treat the Martian neighbourhood the same way you treat your hometown.

So, back to characters. How do they interact with the world? This is dependent on their personality. How does one construct a fictional personality? You can look up “character arc worksheet” and fill it in, theres plenty of those things online, or messily brainstorm. Just like with worldbuilding, you may want to have a ton of notes about the character’s past, how it affects their present, their likes, dislikes, wants, needs, strengths, flaws, the name of their childhood pet, what happened to them when they were 5, whatever, but not all that info needs to make it into the narrative in obvious ways. We all like to groan at “show don’t tell” but really… show us. Through dialogue, through interiority, through their responses to events, how they interact with other characters.

You want them to feel real. So think of real people that you’ve known, or that you’ve read about. History is a great font of inspiration—even if you’re writing something in the far future, unless the characters aren’t human, people are still basically the same as they have been for thousands of years. We still connect with Shakespeare, because his characters have endured.

In my opinion, characters should affect plot, not the other way around. Unless they’re reacting to events outside of their control. That’s another way to make them feel real.

The realer they feel, the more the reader cares about them.

That will keep them reading to the end, and they’ll dm you if you make them cry.10

One big way to make characters feel real, is to have them interact with other characters. And every character has their own motivations and personalities. Does Character A like Character B? Are they friends, do they find each other annoying? Think about all this stuff as you write and the plot and world will evolve from the characters. Some of us don’t even thoroughly worldbuild until the second draft—with this method you’ve sorted out everything else and can fine tune the world to better build off what you’ve got. This is also a good way to avoid the trap.

Another really good example of character work is Rocky. I mean, how much of the movie is “just following Rocky around” and yet it also had a massive cultural impact. (Notice, in many many examples I could give, there’s a romantic element to the story? Hmmmmm I wonder why this works??)

Ok, that’s about all I’ve got for today. My point is, your characters don’t just exist to brag about all your worldbuilding or plotting work. They’re the entire reason for all the rest to exist, and the biggest reason readers will stick with a book, or a movie. Or drop it, if they don’t like the characters (see my Thomas Covenant review—excellent series, but lots of folks DNF because they do not like Mr. Covenant. But, this also proves that we have emotional connections to good character work, even if the character isn’t a “hero.”) But that's a risk any author takes when they put their work out there, but this post isn’t about “likable” it’s about how important character work is. Make them feel real, and make your readers care what happens to them. This really is the #1 thing.

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My books!

Pallas [Amazon] [Kobo]

The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick [Amazon] [Kobo]

The Ghosts of Tieros Kol [Amazon] [Kobo]

Pull Me Under — a novel serialized on Substack

Peace!

Yesterday it began before I even got out of bed. The fear. That thing that’s gone amiss, looping over and over in my head.

Wrongness.

Everything.

Cue brain siren noises.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder sucks big time.

And it’s constant.

I haven’t felt “normal” since October. I’ve got no writing done, barely any reading. The depression as I battle this is also kicking my ass.

Last time it was this bad was when I was postpartum with my youngest, over a decade ago now—an event that made my husband and I decide, if it's true that PPD (and it wasn't just PPD but also PPA—depression, anxiety, you get it) gets worse with each baby1, that we shouldn’t have any more (though often I wish we had, but now there would be a significant age gap between kids, and we’re both pushing 40—I’m glad we had babies in our 20s, boy oh boy. Here’s my subtle nudge to have babies ASAP if you haven’t yet because you aren’t getting any younger, either. But I digress.)

Maybe perimenopause has me going loopy. Who knows? Stress over other crappy events in my life? Whatever the reason is that this major spiral event started, here we are.

I've always been a bit of a “germaphobe” or “hypochondriac” but as I aged out of childhood things got worse, not all at once but little things, slowly accumulating. And then, as I approached adulthood, I started getting Really Weird Thoughts™ that started preventing me from doing Normal Human Activities™ like eating at restaurants, opening doors, touching crosswalk buttons (apparently they don’t do anything anyway), etc. I was really happy when most stores converted their debit machines to use the tap function so I didn’t have to touch any of those… disgusting buttons…

And it isn’t just “door handles are gross, ew.” It’s hard to describe. It’s like… if you have a grenade in your hand, and mentally pull the pin, and you’re holding the grenade thinking it’s going to explode, but you know (you don’t know) you only thought you pulled the pin despite the fear being the same as if you were holding a grenade that was about to explode, but what if you actually pulled the pin and maybe put it back somehow, are you sure, you won’t know until it explodes, it’s going to explode, why are you standing there you better go wash your hands or something… surely that will prevent the grenade from exploding.

The really frustrating part is knowing, being fully aware, that these thoughts that pop in my head and distress me are stupid. I mean, yes, wash your hands before you eat and all that stuff but these thoughts I get go way beyond sane. I’m not going to go into detail, so I’m just going to talk about my more… normalish… troubles navigating this mental illness. You see on the news about how gross shopping carts are and most people go “ew” for a split second and move on. But if you have the type of brain problem that I do, you get paralyzed with anxiety when it comes time to put your kid in the cart2 to the point where you can only go grocery shopping with your husband so you can just carry the child the entire time and hubby can grab the items (never the one at the very front, for silly brain reasons. Also, this strat falls apart with two kids, and your toddler will want to touch ALL THE THINGS that make your brain scream. My youngest had a habit of trying to put the dangling shopping cart lock in his mouth.) I was carrying Purell in my purse3 long before covid, when suddenly all the cool kids were doing it. And when it got worse, (pre-therapy,) just seeing a hand sanitizer dispenser in public spiked my anxiety because it was a reminder that everything is disgusting. (See, when you have OCD, and you engage in the compulsion, it only makes everything worse, the slight relief you get from checking the locked door once will eventually lead to checking the locked door 15 times and you will still feel like shit because nothing ever feels right and now you’re circling the block again to check if you locked the door for the 16th time.)

As a side tangent, by the time covid rolled around I had already gone through therapy, and suddenly I’m watching the ENTIRE WORLD engage in activities that my therapist would have scolded me for, it was… fascinating, for lack of a better word. (I actually did better during covid while most normal people started crumbling, because it really helped expose the theatre I engaged in for how ridiculous it all was. Yeah, wear a mask, go ahead, the cotton is just going to get moist and useless if you don’t change it all day but at least you’re keeping your filthy spittle to yourself, lol, and also yes please keep 6 feet away from me thank you, and also I’m sure the covid germs respect the plexiglass barrier between me and the cashier, yes. Lol. Or when we went bowling for my kid’s birthday and they put up shower curtains between the lanes. Health theatre!) Enough about covid, that was a silly time, and I probably shouldn’t make light of something that traumatized an entire generation.4

There’s a lot of stereotypes about OCD. Tidiness, for one. Nope. Listen, here’s a good way to tell if you’re “so OCD, teehee” or if you've got the real deal—not that I’m a therapist but because I have Lived Experience. Do you get physically distressed by thoughts? Beyond regular worry. Do horrible thoughts pop in your head All Day Long and they don’t feel like they’re yours but they make you SO UNCOMFORTABLE that you need to DO SOMETHING to feel better? Or maybe you worry they are your thoughts and that makes you Extremely Distressed? (Intrusive thoughts can be about anything, and can happen any time.) Can you not trust your own memory? Your own eyes? And not every form of OCD is contamination; you can have religious OCD, aka scrupulosity, or all sorts of fun thoughts about harming oneself or another if you don’t do the thing, whatever that thing may be. Many fun subgenres of OCD are out there! No, you don’t get to choose! Basically, you get The Thought, and you have to do something about it, and then you get The Thought again, and again, and again… You might have strange rituals, and you watch The Aviator (2004) and go “wow, I wish I had enough money so I could lock myself up in my personal movie theatre.”5

Trying to not think The Thought also makes it worse, so that's a lot of fun.

Before I got my diagnosis, I had no idea what was wrong with me, and that made everything so much worse. Now, at least, I can ask myself “is this a realistic response to [perceived threat] or is it my OCD?” Though, lately, it’s been really difficult to even do that.

But it will pass. It has to. It never fully goes away, but sometimes it’s just… more or less difficult to handle. Comes in waves. This wave is a rough one.

After that episode when I was postpartum, (and I didn’t think I would get better then either, I have to remind myself as much as assure the people around me) I went on to start a business, did that for a couple years, then I decided to get over my business closing (those who know, know how depressing that is, too) by focusing on my writing. Now you all are reading this, and maybe even my books, or my back catalogue here on Substack. And that’s very cool.

Writing all this is a bit embarrassing, but, I figure if there’s anyone else feeling like this, they might feel less alone. It is very difficult to talk about, especially when you’re aware enough to know that the thing you’re hysterical about in the moment makes you sound completely insane to the person you’re being hysterical around.6 And at the opposite side I can also be very self-isolating, keeping to myself and some of you may have noticed I haven’t been very active online. Too much stuff on the internet that stresses me out, and other reasons. I flip-flop between needing to call someone to rant and rave, or shut myself away.

So: bringing it all back to my writing, which is why you, dear reader, are here (for the most part)—how has this shaped what I’ve written?

Pallas, specifically Kylan’s ordeal, was heavily influenced by my dad catching blastomycosis when I was a teenager (it ain’t a fun thing to catch), which also significantly altered my dad’s behavior afterwards (see footnote 5.) Sometimes traumatic events can trigger these things. (See also, hoarding behavior, which some think might fall under the OCD umbrella and often happens after a trauma.) I suppose I used the fear I had for my dad, even though it had happened years before I wrote the book, when writing about Kylan’s illness.

In The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick, it’s very subtle, but Kennedy himself has certain habits. Now, all the characters in the book have bits and pieces of people I’ve known in real life—of course, because how else do we construct characters—but you’d be surprised how many people you wouldn’t expect to be this way, that are this way. (If you’ve read it, you might have noticed how many times he mentions laundering clothes.) Now, I’m not suggesting Kennedy had full-blown OCD (he certainly had other problems), however, he did have some very subtle quirks (overshadowed by those other problems) that probably only Tommy, Muggy and Anna noticed. In fact, I tackle quite a few mental illnesses through multiple characters in that book. I would say if you look past the fantasy elements, the book really is about mental illness. But, thinking back to my Thomas Covenant review and the essay I shared by Donaldson, isn’t that really what fantasy a genre has as a strength? Externalization of the internal?

My short story “Sunbonnet Sue” from The Midnight Vault collection was heavily inspired by the strange rituals we engage in for a moment of relief… and as a fun fact, Sunbonnet Sue is an embroidery motif often seen on vintage tea towels/cleaning cloths. Quilts moreso, but also tea towels. When I tried thinking of what the character could have as a repetitive behavior, those “Monday Washday, Tuesday Iron” patterns popped in my head.

I’m sure it has affected my writing in other ways—perhaps my imagination is a double-edged sword sometimes—but those are some things that immediately come to mind.

Anywho, thanks for reading, hopefully I get back to “normal”7 soon, and thank you to everyone who has reached out to me, noticing my absence online. It really means a lot.

But, other than an occasional diary post such as this, I am mostly here for talking fiction. So why not check my books out?

Pallas [Amazon] [Kobo]

The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick [Amazon] [Kobo]

The Ghosts of Tieros Kol [Amazon] [Kobo]

Pull Me Under, a novel I serialized right here on Substack, for free.

Peace!

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[Note, I’m getting the “post too long for email” warning so if the email is truncated please hit that “View entire message” button to see the whole thing.]

Books I’ve Read:

At the start of the year I was still struggling through a major reading slump. I set my Goodreads goal to a mere 24 books, not sure if I’d even hit that many. Some years I read a book a week, for reference. Yes, 24 is still a lot of books compared to Average People, but, are we striving for Average? Anyway, I’m happy to say I hit 30 the other day, and I’ll probably hit 31 or 32 by the years’ end. So, although the first half of the year was a struggle, I do seem to have overcome it (up until some life stresses slowed me down again… but I’m not getting into that right now.)

Some highlights:

At the start of the year, I read Riddle Master of Hed by Patricia A McKillip, which was, as usual with McKillip, very dreamlike and fairy-tale. I enjoyed it, but due to the slump I was in, I still haven't read the sequels. Read if you like shapeshifting harpists and poetic prose.

Strangers on a Train, which was very good, by another Patricia (Highsmith) though I think I liked The Talented Mr. Ripley better. Still, I don’t think anyone writes charming neurotic obsessive stalker psychos quite like Highsmith.

Reading some old-school bodice rippers helped the slump a bit, you can read the post about them here:

Thomas Covenant—and yes, I read ALL TEN—was excellent all the way through. Though, if you have a lot of nostalgia for the original 3 to 6, you may not like the last 4. And if you don’t like Linden Avery, don’t read the last 4. However, as I didn’t have that nostalgia connection, and I didn’t mind her character, I had no issue with the ending. I think I might have even cried. Read my post about the first trilogy here:

My first CJ Cherryh: the Morgaine Cycle—Gate of Ivrel, Well of Shiuan, Fires of Azeroth, Exile’s Gate—awesome. Just awesome. Covers by Michael Whelan, also awesome. I would happily reread all 4 of these books again. I really enjoyed how we view Morgaine’s quest through Vanye’s eyes, and their slow-burn relationship is just excellently written. The sci-fantasy-ness of the settings, the mysterious tech. Really fun. Narrative voice is captivating and Cherryh doesn’t spoonfeed—in a way it reminded me of the way Book of the New Sun feels like fantasy until you get hit with an “oh shit, it’s the future” moment. Vanye and Morgaine are somewhere near the top of my favourite fantasy/SF characters now. Highly recommend this series… another one time seems to have forgot.

Thorns by Robert Silverberg. Very odd, quick, new wave SF. Emotional vampire bad guy, brutal alien body mods, proto-reality TV relationship drama… Very good. Not for everyone, but very good.

The Stars My Destination by Alfred Bester. Read this because of and . Thanks guys! Count of Monte Christo but SF… but that description doesn't do it justice, you really have to experience the prose. Really cool. A very influential SF novel. They did a podcast episode about it so listen to it!

Another shout-out to Mr. Kidd, Medicine Woman is a wild ride. And another shout-out to my good friend who read like 30+ indie novels this year!! Including Medicine Woman—it was his review that inspired me to pick it up! So go to his substack and check out his reviews! Very good western with a touch of romance (but totally for dudes, don’t worry). Villain you love to hate. Great stuff! Get a copy and tell Kidd I sent you!

Comfort Reads… at one point this year I was so stuck and at a loss for what to read I read my own book for fun (The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick) which, I must say, is a lot different than reading it with editing in mind haha. Well, does it count as cheating for the Goodreads goal? Who cares. Not me. Technically it’s also another indie read, too, but like, it’s my own book, so, I won't count it this time. If I do say so myself, it’s very good and you should read it.

Currently reading Lord Valentine's Castle, another Silverberg, very comfy. It’s about a guy who might be the ruler of the planet Majipoor but he lost his memory so now it’s alien planet travelogue time. If you hate juggling you might want to skip it, but despite feeling like Silverberg might have phoned it in a bit, who cares, it’s an easygoing time and I’m enjoying it.

I’m also currently rereading Jack Vance’s Planet of Adventure/Tschai books (see my podcast appearance about it below!)—City of the Chasch, Servants of the Wankh, The Dirdir, The Pnume—and it is so much fun and so comfy, and also a kind of alien travelogue which makes me think Silverberg might have bit from Vance a touch, but that's totally OK. There’s some parts that are even funnier on my 2nd read. I love Vance, very few complaints (actually none. It’s great. Especially when our hero schemes money by cheating in casino games, or haggles with his landlord for half a book lmao). Do I like these better than the Demon Princes series? Not sure… I’ll have to reread those again to see. Of course, nothing tops Lyonesse, which I might reread again soon too.

Podcast Appearances

This year I found myself talking into a microphone quite a bit, having fun conversations with fun people. I enjoy talking to folks, although I always get nervous before recording, I think I’m getting used to it. The nerves will likely never fully go away, but once I get going it’s hard to get me to shut up. If you like hearing me talk, you can listen to any of these, give them likes and shares and do all that fun stuff. And, if you want me on more in 2026, tell them so. I’ll do my best!

Black Ibis Social Club

Black Ibis Social Club

S2E25: The Great Beauty

Listen now

a year ago · 9 likes · 2 comments · Alexandru Constantin

Black Ibis Social Club

S2E38: October's End

Listen now

7 months ago · 10 likes · 8 comments · Alexandru Constantin

Alucard's Fantasy Podcast

Fantasy Stories, Comedy & Horror By Alucard

Alucard's Fantasy Podcast S1 E2 - Dropouts, Personal Demons & Fantasy Crushes Feat. Lisa Kuznak

What makes a great writer—talent, trauma, or just sheer obsession? In this episode, Alucard sits down with author Lisa Kuznak to talk about the myth of formal education, how many legendary writers dropped out, and whether suffering really shapes better storytellers—or just scars you up for the sequel…

Listen now

a year ago · 11 likes · 4 comments · Alucard, Lisa Kuznak, and Finn-the-Huck

The Frank and Brady Show

The Frank and Brady Show

Episode 9 (w/ guest Lisa Kuznak): Jack Vance's Chad in Space, City of the Chasch

On today’s episode Lisa Kuznak joins us to discuss Jack Vance’s City of the Chasch, the first Planet of Adventure book…

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7 months ago · 10 likes · 4 comments · Frank Kidd, Lisa Kuznak, and Brady Putzke

The Xanadu Review

Dispatches From The Golden Horde

The Xanadu Review: Episode 31- Lisa Kuznak

Today on The Xanadu Review, I sit down with Lisa Kuznak. We talk the publishing industry and its discontents, the ins and outs of self publishing, physical books vs audiobooks vs ebooks, the literary merits of the creepypasta genre, Canadian cultural touchstones, the state of modern fantasy, the merits and sins of Brandon Sanderson, superhero fatigue, Joss Whedon …

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6 months ago · 7 likes · 3 comments · Prester John Andrews

My Substack Stuff

I didn’t post much this year, and more non-fic than fic which is a big pivot from my first couple years here. Averaged about one post a month, I find reading and writing slumps tend to go together, however, what I DID post seems to have resonated with a couple people!

Some highlights:

My only short story post this year (that wasn't autofiction or a poem!) And I think it’s a lot of fun, so do give it a read:

Here’s my number one post of not only the year, but of my entire substack post history!

And let’s not forget I released a freakin NOVEL!

Alright! That's about that. If you like what I do here, please consider supporting me by purchasing a book or three, leaving reviews, and telling other people to buy my books!

Pallas - SF/Horror - [Amazon] [Kobo]

The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick - Literary Fantasy - [Amazon] [Kobo]

The Ghosts of Tieros Kol - Adventure SF - [Amazon] [Kobo]

Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, Happy New Year, and all the rest.

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Share Mechanical Pulp

On my hands and knees, fingers numbed from searching under furniture, through the nap of the rugs and feeling along cracks of the stone floor—shuddering from panic, I pressed my knuckles into my eyes. What have you done—find it—find it! to myself, curses between my ears and more sweat soaking my nightshirt. The firelight dwindled as I checked the trunk at the foot of my bed, tumbling it over the floor. I tore through the dumped contents. I never kept it there, why would I look there? Look everywhere—To my bed, flinging off the blanket and sheets in hope it was hiding in a wrinkle—

But it was gone. Gone! I fell to my side, curled into my knees, wanting to vomit.

She was gone, too.

***

I kept a fine space for myself at the base of my grandfather’s tower. A tall thing it was, almost touching the clouds, and as the inheritor I had grown proud of its maintenance. My father slept further up, far up the winding stairs. He could watch over the landscape from his balconies and never leave. Frankly, I sometimes forget my father is up there, if it wasn’t for having to send him food and whatever else he asked for, tying baskets to ropes on pulleys or sending one of his little irritating homunculi up with a sack full of dirt or bees or whatever. Once in a while I get jolted awake at the sound of my father hollering as if in pain, reminding me again of his living state, and I run out to crane my neck up at his balcony thinking the tower was falling over, but he was just having one of his loudly insane moments. I never asked how he felt about living in a sorcerer’s tower, in his father’s shadow no less—my dear old dad was not much of a sorcerer, in comparison. More prone to the mind-bending riddles of grandfather’s old tomes—a lack of the mental fortitude required to read them. Sometimes he stared at the same page for hours, the old fool. How it was ever managed that I was begotten—I never knew my mother—was a mystery to me. I chose not to worry about it, otherwise I might start thinking that I, too, was a homunculus. And I would prefer to remain quietly sane. At least, as sane as the grandson of a notorious sorcerer could be.

I had no desire to take up the family business, though by necessity I learned the basics, but it was a very nice living arrangement and I spent a lot of time in the village where the people toasted my health for fear of a curse. Not that I would ever curse them, and my father didn’t care enough about them to bother with a curse, but my grandfather had made a few enemies—other sorcerers and lesser magic practitioners—that had, in the past, been pains in their necks. I let them believe treating my family well would stop further ruin from befalling their village. I kept trim with the arduous hike to and from, otherwise I would become bloated to the point of bursting from the free beer and bread.

I had never met my grandfather, either—other than the tower itself, the red gemstone was one of the few belongings of his in my safekeeping, and that was now gone.

I knew she took it—I didn’t want to believe it, but that was the only thought that made any sense. Beautiful, stabby bint. I fled from the tower so hastily I had forgotten leggings—the tops of my boots fell sloppy at my ankles, a hood thrown quickly over my head, my staff snatched from its leaning-place by the door, and my long shirt I had slept in. Off I sped, she couldn’t have left too long ago, I might catch up with her. Dawn had broken—surely she couldn’t get far in these dark woods. Get eaten.

Would serve her right, to get eaten.

But then I’d have to cut the gemstone out from the guts of something, and I really did not want to have to do that.

***

She and her small band of adventurers had been passing through, and she caught my attention the second she came through the door. I stood like a cockerel, a bit in my cups but I dare say I cut a fair figure even so, compared to the other greasy patrons of the inn—her eyes scanned the room almost nervous-like, until spying the innkeeper not far from me, and the way she swung those murderous thighs as she walked made all the men in attendance cease their breathing. I wanted to see what those could crush.

She removed her leather helm, boars tusks clicking together from around her neck as she tossed her flax tresses loose. The innkeeper, Kindrik, was a married man, and jolly, and it proved his immense fortitude in the face of such a dangerous being that he was able to speak and not stutter. “Unfortunately,” Kindrik said, moustache afrown, “we haven’t a spare bed. But you may sup and rest as ye like.”

“For a crown might we stay with the horses?” she asked.

I was furious at the suggestion. So I plunked down my mug and strode to scowl at gentle Kindrik. “Surely you would not have a lady sleep in the lousy straw—”

She turned to me. “Sir,” she said, chin jutted and dagger for a tongue, “my troupe and I are accustomed to rough accommodations, it is no insult to me.”

“But it does insult me. My family cares for this village and all who pass through.”

“You do not strike me as a lordling.”

Kindrik sputtered a choke, and hurried to fill mugs of ale for the newcomers.

I couldn’t help but smile. “That is because I am no lordling, no more than you are a lady. Did you spy the tall tower to the north of here?”

She glanced to her stubby little companions. “Aye, we saw it.”

I thumbed my chest. “My tower.”

***

She was a tad too eager to learn about the tower, but I just couldn’t help myself. It occurred to me at the time that she had a few too many rings. On her fingers, strung on cords under her jerkin. Maybe I held out hope it was a handy way for her to pay for things when out of coin.

Sadly, she was simply a thief. They all are! “Oh, here we are, a-questing, stumbling upon a tower,” idiots. Few of them were gorgeous, fiery tarts, though. Usually dull, neckless, beardy men I can fool into falling into an abyss for a lark. She had me twisted around her fingers...

But, oh, to go and steal the one thing—the one thing!—I warned her not to touch. I couldn’t help but feel a little guilty, if my warning to her was an unintended lure.

My bones and muscles were on fire as I bolted over the twisting path down from the hill.

I could smell what I dreaded on the wind as I finally broke through the edge of the trees. Hands on my knees, I gasped for breath in the fouled air. No one was in the streets—the baker hadn’t started baking, a few goats were bleating in confusion, a dog whined at a closed door.

“I’m too late.”

A shutter creaked open, just a crack, and I ran to it. “Sir,” a whisper from the other side of the slats. I recognized the voice, she was the daughter of a potter. I sternly explained the importance of my haste and asked what, if anything, she had seen. “I saw only a red light, a strange humming woke me before dawn. A red light, tall like a man, but blunted by fog. The woman from the inn I could not see. There was fighting—but I saw no more than that. Just a red light.”

I thanked her for the information. More frightened faces ducked from windows as I searched the silent village.

***

“In truth, we weren’t expecting to see such a landmark in this part of the country. We’ve just come from the coast—from the south.” Suddenly her demeanour had changed, smiling at me, and I couldn’t help but gesture to the table where we both took a seat.

“Really?” I said, pretending to be mildly offended she hadn’t heard of the tallest sorcerer’s tower for miles around. I leaned toward her. “We’ve had a few adventurers try to mount its stairs but few could handle the task.”

“Well, we saw it so far away... I’d love to see how big it is, close up.”

“Oh, it’s quite big.”

“Tall?”

“Very.”

“Sturdy?”

“Well-built, certainly. Totally upright.”

“And with a lot of magic in it, I would think. But what does a young man like yourself do with a tower like that?”

“Whatever I want.”

She brushed her fingers down my forearm as our ale came to the table.

***

Where would she have gone? Back to the inn, surely. That’s where she had left her companions... she wouldn’t have tried to run alone with the treasure, would she?

The door was unlatched—I pushed it open and out came the stench of gore.

Five bodies and not a one had kept his head. The heads weren’t even in the room, I had no idea where they might’ve gone, but if I remembered the stories of the gem correctly... the heads might not even be on our plane of existence, so there was no point in worrying about that part. I checked every body but she wasn’t amongst them. Kindrik—jolly Kindrik—in a pool of spilled ale and blood, the sight made me gag. Cursing under my breath and stepping carefully, I checked the siderooms and upstairs, every lodger was decapitated in the same manner, and then I wondered if her companions did wind up sleeping in the stable, or what had become of them...

There they were, headless in an empty horse stall. But she wasn’t there, either. Had she escaped somehow? Could she be so crafty, had I underestimated her skill in survival? Against the furious undead?

I searched the village, hoping with every step nothing was going to jump out at me and lop my head off.

A small boy, snotty but brave, popped out of his hiding place amongst some pigs in a sty. I asked him if he had seen a blonde woman, or a red light. “Aye, sir. The glowing man followed the lady into the Low Woods.”

Damn. That was the opposite direction from where I had hoped. “How was he following, very near or was she far ahead?”

A pig squealed, but the boy didn’t mind. “She ran. She was very quick like. Fleet. Like a hare. Then the glowing man—he ain’t got a head?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, he was not so fleet as she was. Are you going to fight him? He smelled bad.”

I swallowed. “Hopefully it won’t come to that. But I will stop him.”

“I recon you’re gonna get some bug bites on your arse.”

“Go inside, find your mother so she can wash your mouth out.” I turned towards the Low Woods. “And thank you, young man.”

***

The woods were thick, dark, mossy and rotten with life as small as the mosquitos after my arse and as large as elk and boars. But I was not out ahunting for a meal, nor did I want to be ahunted.

Crushed under boots, a trail of sodden pine needles and broken twigs. She wasn’t alone—the potter’s daughter had mentioned a fight. But she would not have survived a fight with the red light, and her partners in crime were all headless, so there must be other men in these woods I was unaware of. Giving chase or fleeing, it was hard to say, so I followed the path as quick as my staff could guide me, a gentle whisp of blue I asked to keep ahead of my feet, for even in the morning light the roots of trees were hidden in shadow and the last thing I needed to worry over was breaking an ankle or sinking into a mud pit.

But I felt a tenseness in the air, a vibration in my staff like a subtle heartbeat that had me pause to listen for a secondary sign I was on the right track. In the shadow of a yew, I quenched the light from my staff and listened, listened, an agonizing silence but for the noise of magic that only I could hear, feeling it from the smooth wood as much as the hum in my ears, sensing closeness of danger. My knuckles were white. I forced myself to breathe.

A heat, firelike, to the right of me. I turned to look, and saw a red glow broken by tree trunks in the distance. A call of men, as the overlarge will-o’-the-wisp wove away from where I hid. I followed carefully, both hands gripping my staff, sweat attracting mosquitos I couldn’t swat away, my feet steadily toe-heel careful through the undergrowth.

A woman’s scream—but it wasn’t her. Men shouting, cut short. It was done, silence as sudden as a lightning strike. The red light moved on.

***

All clad in strong leather. Three men and a woman. All armed, brigand-like. All headless. Gore soaked the moss, joined the frogpools. Sulfuric stench in the air, and I followed it, no footprints or other hints the undead had passed through—ignoring the bodies.

I wove between trees to where I knew a stream to be, a small stone crossing.

Before I could cross—so fixated on the undead I failed to notice the living—I was pounced upon.

The canopy heaved to and fro over me. Flaxen hair—

Cold water splashed on my face. I sputtered, and sat quickly, staff still in hand and I was prepared to swing it like a mallet.

But her hand was quicker, gripping my mouth to keep me silent. Her eyes darted, she was looking for something past my shoulder. But there was no smell of sulfur—the red ghoul couldn’t be too near.

I grabbed her wrist and she pulled away, as if I had stung her. Around her neck was the jewel—the jewel!—and I scowled all teeth at her. “You thief! You have no idea what you’ve done!”

“Shut up! I think we’re being followed.”

“By humans? You didn’t happen to notice the bodies not far from here?”

“Dead?”

I stormed to my feet. “Are you through with being stupid? We need to take the jewel back to the tower. Now. Before anyone else, including us, get their heads taken.”

She followed me upright. Glaring into me, and I forgot my tongue for a moment, damn her eyes. She wasn’t as speechless. “I was hired to find this, I swore an oath, and I intend to get my money for it. How far are we from shore?”

“You won’t make it! You have Its head! And I suspect It wants it back!”

She shook hers. “I’ll be fine. You worry about your own neck. But I’m lost. I don’t have any rings to protect against getting lost.” She pulled out one of the strings of them from under her armour. “These are all I need to keep me safe from that thing. And my employer can worry about the rest. Now,” she put a hand on her sword hilt. “Which way is the coast? Or I’ll bleed you like a hare.”

“A little boy named you a hare. Fleet, he said. How fleet could one woman be, I thought. Only by foot, it seems, by thought you’re a fucking slug.”

She tried hitting me, but I blocked her arm with my staff. Her mouth fell open at the spring of blue flame, her good hand leaving the sword hilt to grip the fresh bruise.

“Give me back the jewel!” Blue spurted from my staff at the roar of each syllable. I knew some tricks to intimidate.

Sooth...

Like a moan on the breeze, and with it came the smell. Like terrible breath. She and I were both frozen in wait. My staff began vibrating, as if it too shivered at the nearness of the undead.

She pointed a shaky finger behind me. Turning, I saw the headless shape of a man, clad in red, tendrils of bloodmist about it, lighting the nearby trees in Its glow. No birds sang, no toads croaked. All the life of the woods had fled, except for us two.

It once had been a man, and a fierce warrior was he, sworn to the service of a great but bloodthirsty king that my grandfather had bested in a battle of wits. The king, long dead, and my grandfather too, but the jewel around my foolish companion’s neck was all that kept this undead beast in our control, if control it be called. Former control. Loosely controlled, now, I hoped.

Brainless with rage; whatever drove It was pure, evil compulsion, as evil as the king that had once commanded it alive, to kill, maim, slaughter both innocent and guilty. My grandfather knew the threat of this evil, and bound this menace to the jewel, and to the tower, until such a time that it could be dealt with—but he was not immortal.

And I, prideful, boastful idiot that I am, knew the beauty of the gem—a terrible beauty, like the woman who stole it. But I had not known the dread that taking it from the tower would bring, until now, as the warrior—once known as the Slaughterer of Ulkar—stalked towards us through the wood. I could feel my neck tighten, as if a garrote was suddenly around my neck. Blood began to bead on my skin as if I was pricked by needles. Barely able to whisper my pleas to my staff to ward off the magics of the undead, the pressure subsided enough that I could breathe as the red man came nearer.

I decided then, to grab my companion by the tether—holding out the jewel, as if in promise or in threat, whichever turn the red glow’s mood might take. She unseathed her sword, awkwardly but swift, though it was useless, she must’ve known, but she too worked by brainless compulsion.

It had said “sooth.” Think, damn it.

“Is this what you’re after?” I asked.

Sooth...

Lord, what a stench. “We have the power to destroy it. Come no closer.”

It listened. My heart thudded in excitement that It could be reasoned with, and that It was too stupid to tell that I had lied.

“You aren’t giving this back to... That. I made an oath, and I intend to keep it,” she whispered.

Without turning, I hissed through my teeth, “Whatever oath you made is moot. This thing will kill you the second the gem is removed from your neck—and whoever paid you to steal it will be dead too, and anyone else in your wake. Let’s figure this out—It’s released now, and I doubt It will want to go willingly back into the trap of the gem—”

Sooth...

“You see?” I was sweating, now; my thoughts hectic and scrambling to come to a solution, and needing to concentrate on the power of my staff to keep my neck intact. I could feel the beast’s need to do whatever it was It did with the heads It removed, getting deeper as my exhaustion increased.

And I could feel her blade at my kidney. “Let go of the gem,” she said.

“I bested you last night, and I can best you again.”

“That was different.”

“Not really.”

Sooth...

“Liliana,” I said, looking her in the eyes, the blade at my ribs as I turned, but her face shone with sweat that told her fear. I bit back whatever lewd comment I was prepared to make. Back to business. “Who sent you to get this gem? Not many living know of it.”

She clenched her jaw. “Another sorcerer.”

Oh, how fascinating! “How many sorcerers are you acquainted with?”

“Enough to know I have no desire to be acquainted with any others.”

“Aren’t I the proud one, to cure you of your habit.” My staff fluttered blue, threatening to snuff out.

Sooth...

“Sooth yourself!” I huffed. “We’re stuck here unless we make a decision. I can feel It wanting to tear my head off. I’m positive you want to tear my head off. I promise it is in your best interest to keep my head on my own damn shoulders—at the very least it gives you the chance to kill me, which I would much prefer. And I promise another thing, I want your head on your shoulders as well. I quite like it there. The minute the necklace is gone... Your rings are pretty baubles, but useless—whoever you got them from was a fraud.

“Now that It has been taken from the tower, It will not want to return—but perhaps we can get It near enough, I can figure something out. It will follow you—”

“I’m not being used as bait!”

“Shut up! It will follow you because that gem is Its head, remember, and we will help It go to your other sorcerer friend.”

“And my payment?”

“Your contract will be technically fulfilled. The rest is up to your employer.” I shrugged. “Will you help me bring It to the tower?”

She hesitated. “How does It kill?” The blade at my ribs pricked slightly less.

I was ready to faint with relief. Then I gestured the act of tearing off a heel of bread, and crushing it in my fist.

***

“You see,” I had said to her, still holding the necklace like a leash as we walked back to the tower. The red light was at our backs, and I was stumbling in my exhaustion, every step the pressure around my neck tightened. “My grandfather told no one how he dealt with the Slaughterer of Ulkar. I find it very interesting that you were hired to steal a gem that no one knew of. Beautiful as it is, aye—but that it was the specific thing you were after is a puzzle to me. I might die before we make it up the hill. Satisfy me by telling me the name of the sorcerer who paid you to steal it, so I might haunt him for the rest of his blasted life. I wish you had just stolen it because it was pretty.”

“Maladoroth.”

“Malodorous? Does he stink?”

She laughed. “Not quite as bad as It does. But something was foul about him. I didn’t really care. I’m paid for my skill with sword and stealth—those sorts of skills don’t attract genteel society.”

“Well, the name is familiar.”

“He’s from Ulkar.”

“So, he wants to control the Slaughterer.”

“I suppose so. I didn’t ask. You’re the one doing the assumptions.”

“If I don’t, I’ll collapse.”

***

Once through the door of the tower, that’s exactly what I did. She couldn’t approach with the gem, something compelled her to stay away. But It paced, restless and hungry for heads, though it did not try to take the gem from her. The holder had some sort of control over It—and I wanted no control over such a horrible Thing. I wanted to be rid of It.

But something told me it was unwise to simply give the gem back to the Slaughterer. I don’t know what, but something, and I chose to follow my instincts, as so much of sorcery seems to go.

As soon as the magics of the tower eased my bones enough I pulled myself to my feet, and groaned my way to the tower stairs.

I needed to consult my father.

The stairs would take me far too long to ascend by foot, and I didn’t feel like answering the riddles the walls would shout at me, or fight the demon birds that perched high in the shadowy recesses ready to attack. So I said a few calm words to my staff and brought the door to my father’s quarters down to me.

Stepping through felt like getting yanked by the arm, popping from one location to another by magic—a doorway of instant travel only to be summoned thus on very rare occasions, because the door let me know its displeasure by jolting and pulling me until my very hairs were feeling plucked by the roots.

But my father didn’t seem to notice, or care, that I appeared by magic. He was... busy, with some experiment that required him to be totally nude but for a coating of some sort of thick green slime. I didn’t ask about it—even if I had wanted to know what he was up to, I didn’t get the chance.

This room was full of strange treasures and magical detritus, tomes and scrolls and bones of mythic creatures all strewn and without any thought to organization at all.

Seeing me, my father beamed, his mad smile lit his eyes, and his athleticism as he lept tables went against expectation, since he seemed so old and frail—and soggy with green.

“Papa!” he said, and tried embracing me, but I stepped to the side, uncomfortably chuckling. He seemed to understand I was avoiding the goo more than avoiding him, and he returned the laugh. “Oh, papa, I haven’t seen you in so long! And what sort of spell have you discovered, to look so young? Oh! Did you notice? I’m trying one of those spells you stole from the bog witches. Look!” He held out a handful of green goop. His words were those of a child, and suddenly I felt very sad, and I couldn’t explain it.

“Yes, it has been a while, and I’m very sorry.” That was sincere. “But I have a question for you, no time for talk.”

“You? A question for me?” He clapped his hands.

Quickly, I summarized—while omitting some information about Liliana—what had happened to the gem.

The second I named Maladoroth, the goo that covered him burst into flame and ashed around the room. Fiercely my father stood, the childish madness gone into the depths of hate in the back of his eyes, now so wide, if the ire was aimed at me I think I would run. “Maladoroth, that sonofabitch!”

“The very same,” I said, thinking I ought to play along like I knew what the hell he was talking about.

“You said to me once,” though he still thought I was my grandfather, “sorcery was a sport. Like men at a gaming table. I know I failed your expectations as an sportsman of magicianry in my younger days, but I warn, when it comes to besting that bastard, I will rise to the occassion!”

Extending an arm, a gust of sorcery brought his staff to hand, a robe of silver thread, and unseen hands dressed him for battle.

Once the dust and ash settled, he looked at me strangely. “In your regression into youth, something must have gone amiss. You should know what to do, and yet you come to me. Once I am done with dealing with Maladoroth, we will solve the puzzle of your loss of memory. You are the greatest sorcerer ever to grace the earth, and yet you know not the simplest trick.”

He snapped his fingers, and a homunculus stopped stirring at a cauldron to bring itself with shambling steps to where we stood.

“Take his head, I’ve no need of my servants on the journey I’m going. Stick the gem in it. I will take care of the rest.”

On one of the tables lay a dagger from some pit of unholy worship, but it was the nearest blade, so I took it in hand and cut through the clay of the homunculus’ neck.

It toppled to the floor, the upper right ride flattened with a wet thud.

“Good enough,” my father said. “With this I shall win your approval, father, after I best that third rate wizard, the schemer, the incredible blunderer, to think he can steal my woman—after all these years there shall be a reckoning!”

I stood dazed, holding a clay head, as he flung himself off the balcony, leaving the tower for the first time I can remember.

Once I recovered my senses, I took the door, rather than the aerial descent.

***

Sooth...

As my father guarded us three humans with his magic, I shrugged at Liliana’s questioning expression and asked her to remove the gem. She was shaking with exhaustion, trying to keep the Thing from wandering too near the village to do more harm. It hungered, I could feel the hunger like a fist over all of us, ready to punch through and crush us.

Yet, something was again telling me that this was what to do. Without waiting for instruction, I shoved the red jewel deep into the clay, and held out the head high up so that the blinking eyes could see, the mouth could drool, the body mere yards away could topple to Its knees.

The mouth moved, but there were no lungs to power the voice. Liliana looked ready to vomit.

I brought the new head to the body—

And as they connected a great roar shook us all off our feet. Years of speechlessness made up for in a deafening bellow, like every word it wanted to say came out at once, trumpeting anger and sorrow through the land, stunning all the beasts and birds to stillness, withering nearby flowers.

The red mist, the glow, was faded. A great, broad-shouldered ghoul, armour intact, flesh the colour of the homunculus’ clay, if it had been dug from a battlefield full of rotting corpses.

A groan of words, “For sooth, I have waited... I have waited—”

“Sooth! Sooth! I’ll tell you what is sooth! There’s a sorcerer by the name of Maladoroth, he controlled you once and he desires your evil again. But it is I who formed your new head, and you have this one debt to pay before you are free to return to the soil. Take me to Maladoroth, so we might both see vengeance done!”

Again, the force of my father’s words, and his clarity of mind, shocked me. I think I was clinging to Liliana’s arm as much as she was to mine.

I watched my father climb upon the Slaughterer’s shoulders, like a man might ride a horse.

Without a look back, they stomped off.

I burst out laughing—Liliana didn’t get the joke.

“Well,” I said as I wiped tears from my eyes. “I’m glad to see my father go and make a name for himself.”

She remained frowning. “I just don’t understand how you knew—how you knew It would go to Maladoroth. My oath will be technically fulfilled. How did you know?”

I shrugged. “Does it matter? He’s gone. Come inside, I’ve got some other treasures to show you.”

I drew her close, and she didn’t pull away, though she played stern with a purse if her lips. “I’m through with treasures.”

We began walking to the tower. “Are you sure? I’ve got heaps of gold in the basement. I think I remember the word to get the lock open. You’ll have to hold the key, though.”

“It is a very tall tower. Very sturdy.”

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Alright! Been a while since I posted one of these. If you liked it, you can check out my back catalogue here on Substack (including a completed serial available for free: Pull Me Under) or you can support what I do by making purchase of a book. And be sure to tell your friends, and leave reviews! Reviews are a HUGE help.

Thanks a bunch!

Pallas [Amazon] [Kobo]

The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick [Amazon] [Kobo]

The Ghosts of Tieros Kol [Amazon] [Kobo]

Peace!

My point is, I’ve been in bed. From my bed I can see my dad’s ashes. Morbid, perhaps, but if you know me you aren’t shocked at all.

Seeing his ashes, which is in itself a memento mori, while lying here waiting for a sign to go to the hospital because it might not be in my head—update as I edit this, it never came and I’m fine, my avoidance of emerge was proven the correct choice yet again—has also given me time to think. Uh oh! It’s memory time!

I deserve to be fed to wolves to be such a mopey, sentimental idiot.

[Author’s note: this whole post began as a memoir—and a few of my subscribers have been begging me for more stories about my dad, especially so this goes out to you. But, because there’s so much talk on Substack about antiheroes lately, what the concept means, I thought I’d combine the two.

If you don’t want to read about my personal history mixed with thoughts on fictional character analysis, as Curly Bill says—“Well, bye.”]

I was born under surveillance. Our phone was constantly tapped when I was growing up—the RCMP (they’re the red jacket horsey boys, for the international readers) apparently needed to know my thoughts on the most recent episode of Sailor Moon or listen to my sister cry to her friends when Kurt Cobain died. And ain’t it funny, I was so angry at that violation to my privacy when I found out, and now we all walk around with wiretap devices in our pockets, you’re reading this on one right now, likely, but I digress.1

The reason the RCMP were so interested in our household was because my father was an important member of the local motorcycle enthusiast association. I’ve given many anecdotes regarding my father’s habit of taking me to the bar with him, he day drinks while I munch fries and play pinball. Sometimes it was a normal neighbourhood bar, yes, but often it was the clubhouse. And believe it or not, the clubhouse was the safest place I could ever be.2 For those unfamiliar with motorcycle clubs of the 1%er3 variety, this was their gathering place. Of course, I wasn’t in attendance during the raucous festivities these places are known for, but I played on the pooltable while my dad did whatever business needed attending to in the back (entrusting my care to whoever else was hanging out), and that’s more than most normal kids can claim.

He would drop me off at school with his colours4 on, I’d hop off his Harley (a springer softail with a modified exhaust you could hear coming from miles away, and of course there was no sissy bar so I just clung to my dad’s back, wearing an adult-sized brain bucket with extra foam wedged in—he wasn’t going to get harassed over helmet laws in front of me I guess, so, bare minimum regard for them) and walk blissfully unworried to the playground.

(I didn’t think there was anything wrong with the imagery on his back—I learned to draw flames and skulls from copying his tattoos. Normal? Never in my life.) Sure, I got bullied on occasion, but nothing serious. You know? No one was fucking with his daughters if they were smart. MORE ON THIS LATER.

Another brief digression: some fun Canadian history.

Canada has had several Biker Wars, starting in the 1970s all the way through to the early 2000s. One of the largest clubs through this timeframe was the Satan’s Choice MC, at its ‘70s peak it was the 2nd largest club IN THE WORLD. (You understand that the population of Canada is not large, right? Yet, when we aren’t committing war crimes, we WILL cause a ruckus on our home turf. It’s the blackflies. Drives anyone mad.) Its founder, Bernie Guindon, was an Olympic-level boxer, but couldn’t go to the Olympics due to getting arrested all the time.5 He also had a cottage in Northern Ontario, fly-in only, where he cooked up all the PCP in the land—it’s kind of like those meth trailers in the desert, but with black bears and swamp poplar, and better fishing. Anyway, the first major biker conflict was between the SCMC and the Popeyes MC in the late 70s—this is the era my dad joins the fun—which resulted in the Popeyes patching over to the Hell’s Angels, giving the HA their first foothold into Canada. This is important, because in the 90s, when I was a little girl, the HA (and their allies, which wound up including the Choice) and Rock Machine had a bit of a falling out, which resulted in the deaths of over 160 people throughout Ontario and Quebec.

Remember when I said the clubhouse was the safest place I could be? When my parent’s split in the mid-90s and my mom hauled my ass 1000 miles across the province—toward the action of the fucking biker conflict instead of away from it—this was no longer an option. I was no longer kept safe by my father, in a worse spot geographically, and I had to figure shit out for myself.6 In total we spent five years there before returning to my hometown, but during that wacky ass time in my life some interesting things happened, to say the least. For example, when I was 12 I met a new friend, who quickly became my best during this weird 6 months when I was living in a stranger’s basement and practically homeless, whatever, when we met we were both too wise for our age. This is roughly the first conversation between me and her (I’ll call her C):

C: I don’t think you’ll want to hang out with me :(

Me: Why?

C: My dad is a biker :’(

Me: (Remembering the time I was the new kid in a new town where no one knew who my dad was, and a girl said her dad was a biker, but she meant like, bicyclist, and I felt like a fucking alien talking to her and could not bring myself to admit my dad was an Actual Biker so she would continue to be my friend and not be horrified)7 Not a problem at all, C!

But her dad was Rock Machine, and my dad …was not. C and I decided not to mention this fact, ever, at all, so that I could go camping with her at Wasaga Beach and Elora Gorge and have sleepovers at her dad’s place in Toronto and not be murdered. HOORAY Thanks for being my friend C I hope you’re doing well!

So, how does all this relate to the concept of an antihero?

From the Wikipedia entry:

An antihero (sometimes spelled as anti-hero or two words anti hero) or anti-heroine is a character in a narrative (in literature, film, TV, etc.) who lacks some conventional heroic qualities and attributes, such as idealism and morality. Although antiheroes may sometimes perform actions that most of the audience considers morally correct, their reasons for doing so may not align with the audience's morality.

From a StudioBinder article (read the whole thing):

Anti heroes have been used in stories for over four thousand years. Many of the most acclaimed writers from around the world have used them as their protagonists, such as William Shakespeare, Fyodor Dostoevsky, and Franz Kafka.

An anti hero is a narrative protagonist who lacks the qualities of a conventional hero. They may lack the strong morals, courage, or selflessness that we associate with heroes. Anti heroes often feel rejected by society, and veer down a self-destructive path that results in isolation or death. Over the years, anti hero characters have become one of the most popular types of story protagonists — in television (Don Draper, Tony Soprano) and in film (Michael Corleone, Daniel Plainview).

…No matter what they do, they’re destined to be rejected by society. This outsider mentality is something that’s come to define anti hero.

…

A great anti hero is just a great character, after all.

(Emphasis mine.)

My dad was such a great “character” he had enough friends for three funerals.

But here’s his antihero origin story:

He was a skinny little Jew boy growing up in an area of Ontario not known for liking skinny little Jew boys, statistically speaking. He watched a lot of cowboy shows, but the era of the real “cowboy” was as through as that of pirates—by the 60s the image of the biker replaced that bad boy, social outcast void in the hearts of disenfranchised and frustrated youth.

He was extremely intelligent. If I recall correctly, he was skipped 2 grades, which only exacerbated the bullying he received. He wrote poetry—though only 1 poem survived his passing, I’ve been told he wrote in secret his whole life. When he chose to BULK (and he did get really jacked!) he played football, he learned to box, dropped out of school to get a job in the mines—he was so strong he was carrying those big cast iron diamond drill thingimabobs down the shafts on one shoulder (they normally take 2-3 men to carry)—and he decided he was going to be the biggest, baddest Jew to grace the mean streets of peak-biker-era Canada.

And he was very, very good at fighting.

He took joy in it. Pleasure. Of all the tales I was regaled with after his passing, the most common was random people I’ve never met in my life telling me about how my dad kicked their ass on a lark. And he didn’t only beat people up for fun, he did it as a sort of job for the club.8 It earned him Respect.9 And people feared him. Once, our car was stolen. The word was spread who’s car it was and the thieves returned it to our driveway.

Never mind the area he grew up in, have you noticed that bikers in general don’t have an inclusive reputation? I don’t know exactly what he did to achieve his status, but there was a guy in the club that had a big, oak swastika that he had on his wall. When my dad went over, the guy would take the giant swastika off his wall to hide behind the couch. Out of Respect.10

I haven’t watched a single episode of Sons of Anarchy. I find biker shows/movies super corny. I witnessed it first-hand and that’s enough. I called societally bad people “uncle”—so it all comes off as major cringe. When I see people in SoA gear, it’s like watching the final boss of Posers trot by.

THAT SAID. I’ve told many people that the most realistic depiction of that sort of lifestyle, that I’ve watched, is Goodfellas. Why? I was the kid dragged along to listen to my mother scream into the girlfriend’s apartment buzzer. I’ve seen dangerous men who can crack good jokes. Dangerous men who made big mistakes. The mental and physical toll. You don’t see too many old bikers. Most my dad’s closest friends were already long dead before my dad died. Drugs, alcohol, shot, stabbed, bike accidents, jail, whatever.

Like I said before, I don’t know exactly what my dad did in the 70s/80s/90s to earn the respect he had, and frankly it’s better that I don’t know all the gritty details. What matters is he was MY hero, in my innocent naivete, and in literary parlance the fact that he was the villain to so many other people—directly and indirectly—puts him firmly in antihero territory. I think it’s an interesting thought that everyone should keep in the back of their minds when constructing characters, be they protagonists or whoever. It isn’t “pomo bullshit” or “deconstructionist trash” to consider this, it’s purely the truth: A Hero may not be Everyone’s Hero. As the author of your own work, I leave it up to you to decide the implications of this.

I’m not talking “morally grey” either. I’m talking facts.

My hero would never let anyone hurt me. It is also true that my dad hurt other people. Including my mother. He beat up cops, for fuck sake.

He was a very troubled man who made a few bonehead choices. Then his liver failed, and he died.

But when I was 7 years old, and my sister was 13—and I don’t remember if this was before or after her stint in juvie for stealing a car, my sister’s trials and tribulations are a topic for another day—my mom brought me along to a house where my sister’s “boyfriend” lived, and I watched my dad hang this guy out of a second story window, upside down, blood pouring everywhere, my dad is shouting at this fucking loser to stay away from his daughter, my mom is screaming “STOP IT ____ YOU’RE GOING TO KILL HIM” and me, I’m just watching this guy struggling against my dad’s fists until my dad pulled him back into the house where I could no longer see what happened to the prick.

I found out years later this “boyfriend” was much older than my sister. But all I knew at the time was that any-fucking-body who wanted to hurt my sister or myself would have to worry about my dad.

My parents splitting really fucked with my head in the “oh, I am no longer safe” kind of way, amongst other ways. Again, that whole period of my life is a topic for another day.

If there’s one thing people have commented about my work—especially The Highwayman and Ghosts—is my depiction of realistic men. Of course, not being a man, I always make sure to get male beta readers and I always ask if I slipped up at all. Unless someone is keeping their thoughts secret, I think it’s safe to say I construct fairly realistic men. (Which some female readers get mad about lol. Can’t please everyone!)

Observation of reality is key when constructing a fictional world populated with fictional people. The more you observe, the more “real” your world is able to be. That’s how your reader is able to become engrossed, emotionally invested, able to suspend their disbelief. Reminder: Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.

THE ONLY BAD CHARACTERS ARE THE ONES WHO ARE BORING. As a character-first writer, it drives me up the wall when I see people use “bad” to mean “this character doesn’t align with my morals” or something similar. See my previous post about the Thomas Covenant books.

In the Highwayman, the characters cuss. A lot. Compared to the amount my dad and his friends cussed, if anything, I toned it down. Like, when I watch Scarface, I’m not even phased. Swearing only stands out to me when the movie sucks and the acting and script suck—if it feels forced, it’s embarrassing. But if the writer and actors and director pull it off, it’s just like, normal dialogue, man. In books, it’s the writer’s job to do their best—dialogue can be poorly written without any cuss words, by the way, so this statement is bare minimum. Do your best, but first, observe people. Yes, this will require you to leave the house. Even standing in line at the grocery store, keep your phone in your pocket, and listen.

Not all people that you observe are going to align with your idea of a hero, or villain. Very few people are pure heroes, and very few people are pure villain. That’s just reality. Al Capone ran a soup kitchen.

And it isn’t just the actions of people that peg them as hero/villain, but how they are observed. We’re all constantly doing that science experiment with the electrons or whatever, while also interpreting the actions of people to match what we want to see. But consider this: Why do we romanticize cowboys? Pirates? Highwaymen? (See what I did there? Read the book.) Why do we love mob movies? The crime genre is ENORMOUS. All these things.

Because normal people do not have the guts to disregard society. They wish they could, but it’s a lot safer to read the story of Robin Hood than it is to be a Robin Hood. (Most people would narc on a modern Robin Hood, anyway.)

Because normal people are afraid to do good if it means doing bad. “I have a very particular set of skills.” Are you Liam Neeson in Taken? No.

Because most people don’t want to admit a hero can be frightened, reluctant, or otherwise forced to protagonist status by extraordinary circumstance outside of their control, and would really rather not.

But it sure as fuck is fun to read or watch stories about people we aren’t.

So stop shitting on antiheroes. You don’t hate them, you just hate hack writers.

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My substack is always free, if you like what I do here please consider buying a book!

Pallas [Amazon] [Kobo]

The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick [Amazon] [Kobo]

The Ghosts of Tieros Kol [Amazon] [Kobo]

I also have a completed serial, free to read on Substack! Pull Me Under

Which is really unfortunate, for the same reason I constantly rave about Jack Vance—few others of the millenial-and-younger crowds do, and he deserves to be spoken about more. Yet, these books fall under your favourite author’s favourites. Just like Vance’s books—there would be no BotNS without Vance, there would be no Malazan without Donaldson.

Because I went into these relatively blind (someone, and I forget who, recommended them to me, knowing I’d dig it “if [I] like anti-heroes.” I did indeed dig it. Rarely does a book recommendation hit the mark so fucking hard. I’m just so sorry I forget who told me to read them. If that was you, dear reader, thanks a bunch) and experienced how unique the books are—especially considering they were written during peak 70s Tolkien copycatism—I was shocked, shocked I say, as I looked up reviews after I completed the three novels, to find that Modern Audiences(tm)

MISS THE FUCKING POINT, YET AGAIN.

And I’m not just talking about the stereotypical “theatre kids that ruin everything” crowd. I see complaints from the woke and the moral crusader chuds. Left and right. Donaldson has been confounding people and making them super mad since 1977—a career achievement I envy a great deal. 1

Do you ever read reviews of your favourite books and think to yourself “mass literacy was a mistake?” This was me, facepalming my way through the sea of people who clearly can’t actually read.2 And why do I even bother looking up reviews? To keep myself abreast of the zeitgeist or something, I don’t know; but here’s something I talk about all the time, as much as a reminder to myself as an author but also as a reader who is a fucking freak apparently—find your next read via 1-star reviews. I promise, you will find a gem. (More on this later, also.)

These books are such a fucking FILTER it’s hilarious… But sad, because it speaks to a deeper problem with the fantasy fandom as a whole. (Harlan Ellison? Is that you? My spirit animal, scowling up at me?)

And, sadly, it also reflects on why so much in modern fantasy, both trad- and self-pubbed novels, misses the fucking mark. Falls flat. Feels empty. Fantasy has become trope-addled.3 In order to write the cool shit that stands the test of time you have to make people care about it, and frankly I had sworn off epic fantasy as a whole a long time ago because of this. It’s become the mental equivalent of high-fructose corn syrup, as it incestuously circles the drain, current writers and readers not reading anything but other current fantasy (except maybe Tolkein, and even LOTR has become books people lie about having read) and devolving the genre into single-cell amoebic slop.

But fantasy is more than that. Fantasy is capable of saying so much, about the human condition or real-life problems, precisely because we are able to frame issues in fantastical devices. Why do you think all the great myths through human history are, essentially, shelvable under Fantasy? (See footnote 8)

Before I elaborate further, allow me to speak of the books themselves, and gush.

(And, reminder too, as much as I am emphasizing the filters and dumb takes, there are plenty of people who DO love the books and the others I mention (including my own!) THAT is why you should ALWAYS be true to your vision, don’t write for people who don’t, won’t, or can’t understand your work. If you do your job right, those people will be in the minority. And then we can laugh at them.)

Without further ado…

LEPER OUTCAST UNCLEAN!

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

And he who wields white wild magic gold
is a paradox—
for he is everything and nothing,
hero and fool,
potent, helpless—
and with the one word of truth or treachery,
he will save or damn the Earth
because he is mad and sane,
cold and passionate,
lost and found.

As soon as I opened Lord Foul’s Bane I found myself reading with the same head-voice as when I read Vance, Wolfe, Patricia A. McKillip, Le Guin, Clark Ashton Smith, or even McCarthy, to go outside SFF—that is to say, Donaldson’s prose tickled a particular spot in my brain that hooked me immediately. His prose is the first of the Great Filters. Even when the books were first published people were saying things like “you gotta have a dictionary open as you read” (derogatory.)

Vocabulary expansion is a good thing, actually. Playing with language is fun. Seeing how others use language is fun, if you aren’t just reading to get to the fighting and/or fucking scenes.4 If you don’t want SFF to be looked down on and ghettoized, read outside the genre and work on your damn prose so whichever way your voice goes your prose can keep up. Minimalist, maximalist, whatever-ist, just please give a shit about it.

When I first read Lyonesse by Jack Vance when I was 13, I read it with a dictionary beside me. That series wasn’t my first foray into fantasy, but it was the first one that severely influenced my tastes.5

I read one review of Donaldson’s prose calling it “operatic” and “florid.” Do only British SFF authors get a pass? Seems every American SFF author that uses multisyllabic words gets accused of “purple prose” by people who have no fucking clue what purple prose actually is. (And I say this as a Canadian SFF author—we don’t really get a pass for anything, unless you’re Guy Gavriel Kay. The Canadian literary scene is not genre friendly but that’s a talk for another day.)

Donaldson does NOT write with purple prose. I will agree with operatic—in the past I’ve called Vance’s prose “like jazz” too—but Donaldson’s word choices are extremely deliberate. His descriptions are deliberate. I’m concerned over how much intentionality in his choices Mr. Donaldson probably tortured himself with. If a passage seems vague and/or contradictory, yeah, it is, that’s the point. (You’re going to see that phrase a lot from here on in.)

Get a dictionary out—hell, if you read the ebook, you’ve got a dictionary built in—and work through it. You will be rewarded.

Alright, back to the book. Thomas Covenant is introduced to us in Our World. He has leprosy, has had two of his fingers amputated, and because of his leprosy his community shuns him, fears him, is repulsed by him. His wife has divorced him and fled the state with their son. He is an extremely embittered man, after having spent months in a leprosarium being told there is no cure, this is your life now, don’t forget even a minor scrape can kill you, you’re impotent forever, and you might wind up deformed and stinking of rot like this poor bastard that thinks you should kill yourself before your disease progresses.

He collapses in the road, during an act of defiance to walk through town and be part of humanity, and wakes up in the Land, where he meets Lord Foul and Drool Rockworm6 and is given a message of doom to take to the Lords of Revelstone.

He then is found by a pretty, kind, generous young woman named Lena, who heals him of his leprosy with the power of the Land. And he really has a hard time handling the implications of this.

But Covenant continues on, out of spite (and here’s a masterful play on words and perception through the novel: Lord Foul the Despiser, the Gray Slayer, Fangthane the Render, operates through “Despite”—

—and this same Lord Foul may or may not be working through Covenant as the story progresses, which is one of the main internal conflicts, bringing me to my next point about how these books filter people.

Sure, yes, it’s Epic Fantasy. But it is extremely Character Driven. Which almost makes me hesitate to call it Epic Fantasy at all, according to modern “epic fantasy” trends. If the Land is real, Covenant is experiencing some wild shit, and it fucks with his head. If the Land is not real, the events are all in his head: we are witnessing him going insane. Existential crises, woah!

He calls himself The Unbeliever for a reason. Partly to shirk the responsibility that if it is real, the bullshit he does Matters.

Ur-Lord, Unbeliever, Halfhand, White Gold Wielder… Filterer of the Unready

One of the biggest complaints I see about these books is due to Covenant himself.

“He spends the whole book [LFB] whining”

That’s the point. Read the next two.

“He treats everyone like shit.”

That’s the point.

“He’s self-absorbed.”

“I can't get over the [crime] he commits.”

Yes. That’s the point. Neither can he. He hates himself. He hates what he is. He pushes people away who care for him as a preservation response after what happened to his life in Our World due to his leprosy.

“He’s unlikable.”

“He’s unrelatable.”

Ah, the phrases that summon my repulsion toward the Modern Audience(tm). A well-written character doesn't have to be likable. They don't need to reflect you, or your values. They don’t need to be paragons of virtue. They have to Feel Real. That’s the only job of the author, when constructing characters. Why is this so difficult to comprehend? How else is fiction supposed to teach empathy? If all you want to read are characters you can “relate to” then your reading habits must be boring as fuck.

And also: Have you (these reviewers) never felt self-hate? Have you never wanted to die from guilt? Have you or a loved one never been so self-destructive it affects the lives of everyone around them and yet they continue because they hate themselves so much? Never felt unworthy of love? Never felt irredeemable? Lucky you.7

We are reading a manifestation of his physical and spiritual leprosy. He is not a Hero in the traditional Epic Fantasy sense—a progenitor of the anti-hero (alongside Elric of Melnibone) before that character type went mainstream.

And, I’m sorry, but many many authors get anti-heroes wrong. Donaldson does it impeccably, because he shows us the beauty of all things and the potential of Covenant through the side characters.

The people of the Land are Good. Pure people, kind and trusting, willing to help Covenant no matter how much of an asshole he is. Mhoram, Foamfollower, Bannor and an uncountable number of others are willing to forgive him, help him, or at least tolerate/accept him, for the sake of the Land. There are people he wronged so badly it echoes over generations, and yet they will still help those who help him to save and preserve what they love.

And many of them suffer.

Warmark Hile Troy

I’ve seen these books called grimdark, but they really aren’t. I’ve even seen “torture porn” used a couple times.

Yes. There is a lot of suffering. Sometimes you might have to close the book and take a deep breath.

They’re tragedies.

I felt more dread reading these books, pure dread, than I have from any horror novel. Especially in the second and third books, The Illearth War and The Power That Preserves. Holy fuck. (You really do have to read all three as if they’re one book, like LOTR or BotNS.)

Enter Hile Troy at the start of book 2, another person from Our World that is summoned to the Land. He’s blind—born without eyes blind—but the healing power of the Land gives him sight, the way that it impossibly cures Covenant’s leprosy.

But Troy believes unflinchingly in the realness of the place. He never wants to leave. A totally different mindset to Covenant.

But is it better?

Troy worked for the military, think-tank stuff, during Vietnam. He wants to help the Land, as Foul readies his army, via strategy, crunching numbers, and going out to the field himself. We have X amount of people able to fight. They have to march X amount of miles. Military theory, abstract stuff—he couldn’t fight on the ground in Our World due to his blindness, but dammit if he isn’t going to try his best using whatever skills he had learned as a government spook and his newfound magic sight.

I won’t spoil anything, but:

Hile’s flaw is that he hasn’t experienced the guilt that Covenant has. He has too much faith in his personal cause. (A nod to Donaldson’s feelings about Vietnam.)

And he becomes desperate.

Only those who have sinned can be redeemed.

So let’s pivot. Why do people love these books so much that they were huge bestsellers in their day, won Donaldson a bunch of awards, etc?

Because at their core they are the most life-affirming fantasy novels I am personally aware of.

There is always hope. Just don't fucking kill yourself. Period.

THAT is why they are NOT grimdark. Despite the dread, the suffering, the tragedy, etc. They have Hope. Covenant is too fucking stubborn to die.

Stay alive.

And another point that reflects the Modern Audience is that, these days, people squirm at the thought that anyone who does wrong should ever be forgiven. Just look at cancel culture. I don’t believe I need to elaborate on this.

What is fantasy?

Put simply, fantasy is a form of fiction in which the internal crises or conflicts or processes of the characters are dramatized as if they were external individuals or events. Crudely stated, this means that in fantasy the characters meet themselves - or parts of themselves, their own needs/problems/exigencies - as actors on the stage of the story, and so the internal struggle to deal with those needs/problems/exigencies is played out as an external struggle in the action of the story.

A somewhat oversimplified way to make the same point is by comparing fantasy to realistic, mainstream fiction. In realistic fiction, the characters are expressions of their world, whereas in fantasy the world is an expressions of the characters. Even if you argue that realistic fiction is about the characters, and that the world they live in is just one tool to express them, it remains true that the details which make up their world come from a recognized body of reality – tables, chairs, jobs, stresses which we all acknowledge as being external and real, forceful on their own terms. In fantasy, however, the ultimate justification for all the external details arises from the characters themselves. The characters confer reality on their surroundings.

—From Donaldson himself89

Think about this definition for a minute.

Want to know why fantasy as a genre fucking sucks now? It isn’t Tolkein worship, or lack thereof. It’s not because we don’t RETVRN to whatever era is your personal favourite. It isn’t because of D&D (OK maybe a little bit.)

IT’S BECAUSE EVERYONE IS MISSING THE FUCKING POINT OF FANTASY.

Modern fantasy has simply lost it’s capacity to reflect real humanity. You know, THE WHOLE POINT. Everyone (just look at agent wishlists…) wants to hit checkboxes and make trope maps. They’re afraid to go there, to offend, or to be sincere. Fuck off.

To be human is to struggle. And sometimes struggling makes us show our not-nice side. Sometimes it pushes us to virtue.

Never mind just fantasy fiction, I once saw a review for Evangelion where they say the show sucks because Shinji is a crybaby.

Wow! What a take. It’s almost like Shinji not wanting to get in the fucking robot is the point.

“Wuthering Heights is so romantic”

You didn't even read the book, did you? This is a “positive” one, but it’s still essentially a “mass literacy was a mistake” moment.

One of my favourite books of all time is The Sorrows of Young Werther. Here’s a couple 1-star reviews plucked directly from goodreads:

“One of the worst books I've ever had the misfortune to read. So much whining and self-pity!”

“Werther was an idiot that set himself up for failure. He just wanted something to feel bad about. He set himself up for misery. Rarely have I been so pissed off at a character…”

Holy fucking shit. LMAO. These people are too stupid to breathe. Also, notice it’s a similar complaint with Mr. Covenant? HMMMMM REALLY MAKES YOU THINK.

I choose an awful lot of books based on 1-star reviews, it’s a winning strat for finding great books.

“Flashman is a sexist, cowardly pig.”

Yes, that’s the point.

“Ignatious was repugnant and gross”

Yes, that’s why it’s funny.

“Nothing happens (except Severian admiring boobs)”

FILTERRRRRRRRED

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And here’s some gems from my years of receiving feedback, for your pleasure (no, I did not change my books for these people. If you agree with my decision, great! That makes YOU guys my people.)

→“I had to quit half-way because Tanner was recklessly immature and promiscuous”

PULL ME UNDER free to read on substack!

→“Kylan is some random guy”

Yes he is!

PALLAS Amazon Kobo

→“Everyone in this book is an asshole”

→“Do they have to swear so much?”

That’s PRECISELY correct! And yes they do! They’re criminals!

THE HIGHWAYMAN KENNEDY THORNWICK Amazon Kobo

→“Their relationship is toxic… it’s all obsession and he’s unhinged.”

That’s the point!

THE GHOSTS OF TIEROS KOL Amazon Kobo

Peace!

I love shitty horror movies. I love grindhouse. Exploitation movies. Tits and gore. I went to Film School so I could sit around with friends and put in the stupidest movie I could find, and we’d all laugh our asses off, for way longer than the movie’s runtime because we keep pausing, rewinding, watching the stupid scenes again. (The pretentious douche portion of the film school students were way less fun. You know, the ones who chuckle condescendingly at you if you haven’t seen Citizen Kane1 but if you ask if they’ve ever watched a single foreign film they stutter “K-k-kurosawa” and that's it.)

If you’ve never done so, I highly recommend cultivating bad taste. Why do you think shows like Mystery Science Theater 3000 or Red Letter Media are so popular? Find a bad movie to watch with friends. It’s the best.

To understand bad taste one must have very good taste. —John Waters

This may upset some of you, but there is art in the lowbrow. Honest! And when I say read widely and take inspiration from everything to shape your voice as a writer, I fuckin MEAN IT, bud.

“But Lisa, sex and violence is revolting!”2

Real life is revolting. Good catch!

At least books, movies, video games and music help us explore the revolting safely. No danger or damage will befall you. Art is fantastic that way! You get to explore so many themes!

And anyway, since “sex in fiction” seems to be a topic lately, whenever people ask me why I have sex in my books:

BECAUSE IT’S SO MUCH FUN.

And, listen, not everything is made for everyone. Any movie, book or musical act that tries to appeal to everyone will appeal to no one. So we might as well all take risks with our art, and have fun.

I also want to point out, before I get to the real topic indicated in the title of this “article,” yes, I do consider myself a somewhat more literate stupid bitch vs some others. I do enjoy the highbrow, too, and if you’ve ever spoken with me you know I’ve read at least 3 classic novels. I will not list them, you can guess which ones in the comments (this is engagement bait.) But, maybe it’s the underdog appeal, I’ve just always been drawn to ghettoized genres. Science Fiction, Fantasy, Horror, Romance, you know, the genres for total dumdums.3

And Romance is an interesting one, because despite being constantly shit on from the left, right, and sideways, it manages to prop up the ENTIRE publishing industry.

But, what's even “worse” than regular Romance? Enter the bodice ripper. The subgenre that really, really kicked off the Romance boom.

(And for the cover art dorks like myself, a lot of the covers are by Robert McGinnis. He also did a ton of crime novel covers.)

What is a “bodice ripper,” anyway?

Not all romances are bodice rippers. It’s quite specific. These days you might hear “dark romance” and that isn’t totally inaccurate, but not all dark romances are rippers.

The 1970s and 1980s, a magical time. The ‘60s had catastrophically overed, paving the way for grimy cynicism, there were more women in the workforce, the Soviet Union hadn’t collapsed yet, and marital rape was still legal (in Canada at least, until 1993.)

Publishing moneymen were taking lots of chances with mass market paperbacks on the whole. As a collector of vintage SFF, I am very happy about this. New Wave scifi, for example. And, publishers were snatching up forgotten works from the early 20th century, repackaging them, hiring Frank Frazetta to paint some new covers, and giving them a re-release, making them available to a whole new generation of fans.

Movies in the 70s were in a low spot, which wound up being wonderful in hindsight: lots of films that otherwise would never have been greenlit were made, like throwing noodles at the wall. Butts in seats, that’s all that mattered! Do it on a tiny budget, too!

But women, these dumb broads—schlock pushers could be selling to them, too! Directly! They have jobs! What do they like?

Well, shockingly, we like a lot of the same things that men like. In fact, some women like grosser, nastier, darker subjects in their media than men do.4 I know more female gorehounds than males, for example. But we also love looooove stories, man. We just can't help ourselves!!

I’m digressing.

You will not find bodice rippers published much before 1970 or after 1989, mid-90s at the absolute top end. (Maybe there are some new indies out there on kindle, but I’m sticking with trad publishing, here.) And once I list the things that make a ripper a ripper, you’ll guess why:

• Historical setting (hence “bodice” instead of like, “shirt”) This, as a lifelong history nerd, is a big plus.

• Adventure, action, in the nonsexual way.

• Descriptive sex (though, often tame by today's standards of description.) This was a big deal at the time.

• Asshole protagonists (male and female, but especially male)

• Rape

• Violence

• Absolutely not palatable to Modern Audiences(tm)

• Rape

• Lots of rape

• Generally non-politically-correct scenes (take your pick of -isms)

• Abuses from the hero

• Really bonkers scenarios that make absolutely no logical sense (shock value!)

• Age gaps. Sometimes rather large ones. I don't think I’ve read one where the hero/heroine were the same age.

• Obsession

• Gang rape

• Trauma bonding

• Absolutely no normal communication. On the one hand, you want to strangle the protagonists. But on the other hand… “babe, you know I publicly humiliated you, and forcibly confined you to save you from that other way worse guy right? He was way totally worse, and super ugly. Very sorry to make you so angry. I am emotionally stunted, but I love you, actually. Ever since I took your virginity.” “Oh, wow, thank you for explaining yourself. I am very prideful and stubborn, which makes it difficult to keep me from escaping and getting entangled in things that make you need to save me all the time. It’s very silly and impulsive, so I should stop doing that. I love you too, you’re so strong and brave and incredibly handsome.” *smooch* *smooch* ~Fin~ . . . BORING! There shall be NO sensible, calm, or explanatory conversations until the last 5% of the book. Tension and threats, only.

Etc.

“Regular” Romance novels just don’t compare. Meet-cute? Please. More like meet-kidnap or meet-sexual-assault-because-of-mistaken-identity (“I was shitfaced in the saloon and she was dressed like a specific whore that I frequent, your honour!”)

The heroine of a bodice ripper just can’t ever catch a break, either. These ladies see some shit. Nonstop. Reminder these books are often like 600 pages LMAO

(“Lisa, how can you unironically enjoy books with so much rape and violence?!?”

Uhhh because I'm not a pussy, bro?! Because I know it isn’t real?! What the fuck is a content warning?!)

But the really surprising things that I find in these novels, despite the list above:

• Painstakingly accurate historical info dumps (not always, but often enough!)

• Sympathy for the hero even if he’s a huge jerk (there’s always a reason if you just sit and listen to him!)

• Cruelty toward the heroine perpetrated by other women (these days, I just rarely see cunty women in fiction, like we all have to be paragons of the wholesome, and that's just incorrect.)

• Forgiveness, even and especially when it’s difficult.

• Healing his hurt as female superpower5

• Did I mention the historical accuracy? In some of them it’s very clear the author gave a shit, even when taking some liberties for the sake of plot. (Again, not always, I warn.)

• Strong Female Characters who are strong because they have proven themselves, they can put up with all sorts of bullshit and persevere—not because they belittle all the male characters to look “strong”

• (Sometimes) Better prose than modern romances. Same with fantasy and scifi tbh.

• Men read books about slaying dragons, imagining themselves the saviour of the princess in the tower. Well, despite recent propaganda to the contrary, women like to read books about being the princess in the tower. In a ripper, even if the hero is the one who locked her in there initially, she becomes his reason to finally slay his dragons, and they’re both free. And they fuck a lot. Poetry!

If you think discovering these books when I was far too young for them is the reason I’m messed up, you’re cute. So adorable. I was raised in chaos. Books are books. I repeat: they cannot hurt you. Papercuts aside.

Anywho, reviews.

Love and War by Patricia Hagan

I fucking love this book, and I’m not sorry. It’s a rare one, even amongst ripper appreciators. A hidden gem. If you know me I have probably told you to read this. I don't remember how I found it, I read it about 14 years ago and again a year or two later. I’m writing this review by memory, so it might be patchy, but you’ll get the gist. I really should just reread it. It’s the most bonkers ripper I’ve ever read. Just fascinating.

Setting: American Civil War

Notice the two man heads on the cover? We have two heroes! Travis Coltrane, Yankee, and Nathan Collins, Rebel. Mr. Coltrane gives his name to the series, so you know he’s the worse (behaviour-wise) of the two.

Our heroine is Kitty Wright, a headstrong young woman raised by a somewhat progressive father in the South, much to the chagrin of her more conservative mother. Mother wants Kitty to be a lady, a southern belle. Kitty wants to be a doctor, and her father encourages her to be independent.

And then war were declared.

Oh, good golly, but the descriptions of civil war medical interventions will turn a stomach. I mean, yeah, she gets thrown around and raped and kidnapped and all that. But where the book shines is the war stuff! Honestly, I think this book has some of the best depictions of the war I have personally read in a novel—keeping in mind I haven’t read it in a while, but they’ve stuck with me. (And, we see it from a female perspective, for a book out of the 70s do you wonder why these sorts of books were so hugely popular? This stuff seems cute now—I’m an independant woman and I don’t need no man—but when these books were published, it was a big deal.) Kitty is amputating limbs left and right. Arms and legs, heaps and piles of them. You know, when she isn’t being kidnapped and raped.

Things happen in this book that are just… so bonkers. So, so over the top. It is a hell of a wild ride.

I’m definitely due to reread this one lmao

5 lice-ridden grody stinky lusty soldiers out of 5

The Silver Devil by Teresa Denys

The cover looks like a Gothic horror, I love it. But it isn’t a horror, per se... depending on your use of “horrific.” More like Game of Thrones, but without the dragons, and from a single POV of a woman purchased by a Bolton. This one is also rare and currently out of print with not even an ebook release, but it has enough of a cult following it’s easy to find on that Russian library website. (The paperbacks on eBay are $400-1300!!!!!)

Setting: Renaissance Italy, a made-up Dukedom. We even get an author’s note to set the scene:

The hero is one Domenico, Duke of Cabria, and he has a terrifying reputation. Yet, he also has the entire court by the short’n’curleys. Everyone wants his favour (and they get it by fucking him. Male and female. A bisexual main character in a bodice ripper is actually a big deal! You could get away with a lot of things but even implied homosexuality was super taboo.) Everyone is also fretting he might decide to just have them killed or tortured. Stretching a kid on the rack until he dies is a casual Tuesday.

The heroine, Felicia, had it rough from the start. As the shameful product of her mother's one-night-stand, and that mother dying when Felicia was young, she’s at the mercy of her repugnant half-brother and his ugly bitch wife, forced to work their inn as slave labour like some Cinderella story… except the Duke that spies her in the window and instantly falls in lust is only taking her from one shit-ass situation to another one. He purchases her from the half-brother, then for some reason has some henchman drug her and abduct her?? Seems excessive!

But, the henchman is killed for drugging her almost to the point of death. Domenico does not tolerate incompetence!

There is a ton, A TON of castle politics in this. Court intrigues, spies, war. The Dukedom vs the Spanish, on very unfriendly terms with the Pope… Also, I was actually surprised by the battle scenes, in a good way.

But, oh my goodness, the rape. The sex acts aren’t as descriptive as some other books, but the pre- and postcoitus parts… whew. Poor Felicia gets done so rough she’s battered and bruised. In most books that part is sort of… glossed over. Unless it’s done by the villain.

But Domenico is a very troubled man. Duh, right? But really. He has flights of insanity where he goes into fits and passes out, and has constant nightmares. So, he’s got a lot of trauma in his own past and needs to do some cycle breaking by the end of the novel!

He is absolutely obsessed/overprotective of Felicia which makes the rest of his admirers rage. So her daily life fucking sucks because she’s just a peasant girl thrown into all this royal court BS. Thanks Domenico! You horny, arrogant prick. (But, by the end of the novel, you sort of root for him?? Because everyone else is so gross?? Talk about sympathy for the devil!)

Good thing she’s such a nice girl, poor Felicia, helping him sort out his issues. (I actually really liked that.) Even with a war going on!

I gave this one 4 dashed brains out of 5. 4.5, rounded down for goodreads. It’s really good—but notorious for a reason. I only docked half a star because of one part that dragged.

Sweet Savage Love by Rosemary Rogers

Absolute classic. On any list of “top bodice rippers” you’ll see this, probably in the top 3. It’s also quite long, clocking in at 630-700 pages, depending on the edition. This is also regularly shit on by total weenies (As one reddit user says: “I hate it so, so much. I can't even describe how much I loathe this book.”)6

Steve Morgan is such a relentless piece of shit. Ginny gets absolutely no breaks. It’s great. Though, I would prefer if Rosemary had cut the wordcount by just a fraction. Sometimes Ginny’s interiorities get tiresome. Really that’s my only complaint upon rereading this for the first time since I was a teenager… though, it is really interesting how my perspective on certain scenes have changed—the whole brain development thing. The equivalent of when you watch a horror movie and think “no you dummy do NOT go in that basement!” But then they totally go in the basement and that’s great because why the hell else are you watching a horror movie?

Setting: Southwestern US and Mexico, 1866. Yeah, this could have been an adult, raunchy spaghetti western, if it had been adapted. Easily.

Our hero, Steve, (yes, Steve), is half-American, from an afluent Mexican family. He speaks French, Spanish, Comanche, fought for the Union during the Civil War, is a spy for the American Government, can shoot a gun real fast, and now fights for the Juaristas. He’s also a reprobate womanizer and a violent rake. People are still to this day shocked by how much of an asshole he is.

Virginia Brandon, or Ginny, raised in France, most beautiful girl in the whole wide world, we are reminded constantly, because every single male character outside her family wants to fuck her. Every single one. (Actually, including her family, I think even her cousin was crushing on her.)

Her father is some big shot in the US government and decides to send her and her stepmother on wagons across the American southwest with a bunch of cattle and a hidden pile of gold. WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG?! Especially when one of your hired guns is Sir Fucksalot Steve, the man who shoots, stabs, steals, and is generally so Oppositional Defiant Disorder you want to scream… but then, so is Ginny. A red flag couple if there ever was one! The amount of bickering in the novel, my goodness. If it isn’t rape, it’s hate-fucking. But, Ginny has every reason to complain: her life is so totally crapsack garbage since he showed up, you want her to stab him.

What carries you through the book, though, is wondering if he’s ever going to catch a clue, if he’s ever going to admit to himself that he’s a jerk… but I won't spoil anything.

There’s a lot of historical infodumping. Troop locations, stuff about Emperor Maximilian, the racial and class politics of 19th c Mexico, all the stuff with the French intervention, tons and tons. As I’m not familiar with Mexican history, I can’t say if it’s super accurate, but it’s certainly enough to be convincing.

What’s extremely funny to me is that Rosemary Rogers goes through all the lengths to set the historical scene, and then her Mexican characters all talk like Speedy Gonzales, and the French like Pepé Le Pew.

But I forgive her. It was the 70s.

Also, this is first in a series. Skip the others and go right to Wicked Loving Lies, a standalone with a different hero. I haven't read it in years, but I recall enjoying it!

5 forced confinements in a whorehouse out of 5

So that's that.

If you like what I do here and want to support me, you can purchase one of my books, ordered here by least amount of sex to most (but they all have somethin’!)

Pallas [Amazon] [Kobo]

The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick [Amazon] [Kobo]

The Ghosts of Tieros Kol [Amazon] [Kobo]

Peace!

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Ok, musical introduction is over. Now we begin serious talk.

(Maybe not too serious.)

I suppose this . . . Rant? Incoherent babbling? Is a follow-up to this previous one:

Specifically this part:

I repeat: it hasn’t been said BY YOU. The difference between original and hackneyed is if the author has trust in their voice or not.

If one were to actually stifle themselves creatively by getting hung up on “originality” instead of working on their voice, we would deny ourselves the very reason humans tell stories at all. We would have to come at our projects from a totally alien vantage. Or maybe you want to write a radio drama for a dolphin, using entirely clicks and whistles.

We tell stories because we are human. But we are also made more human because we tell stories. When we do this, we tap into an ancient power that makes us, and the world, more of who we are: a single race looking for reasons, searching for purpose, seeking to find ourselves.

— From a NYT article: “Why do we write stories?”

I was just having a conversation with my husband earlier today about how amazing it is that our brains are essentially the same as they have been for approx. 100000 years. It was a jokey sort of conversation, as we reminisced about early 2000s internet and sending our friends stuff to shock them like Tubgirl, Goatse, Cake Fart, etc etc. (No, I will not provide links here. Bunch of degenerates, yous.) And, laughing, I wondered what a medieval peasant would do to shock their friends in a similar way, because you know they would. If you doomscrolled too far today and saw absolutely bonkers shit, you KNOW people in the past had these, uh, notions in their head, they just didn't have the World Wide Web to share their brilliance. We—the 20th/21st Century We—didn’t invent the gross, nasty, heinous, or the fucked up. Just look at the Marquis de Sade. Read the poetry of John Wilmot. And people have always, always, enjoyed seeing the shocked faces of their friends when they’re surprised by a prank or when they’re disgusted by a rude joke. Especially if you got some sort of personality disorder that provides dopamine hits from this sort of silly shit.

Mae West’s lines were hilarious then and they’re hilarious now. Her archetype has existed for millennia. There were jokes like hers scrawled on the walls of Pompeii. When the aliens show themselves and turn us all into goo, dirty limericks will still remain sharpied inside portapotties.

Ok, more serious now.

Why do we study classics in school? Shakespeare was writing 500-ish years ago. If we couldn’t connect with his works, then what the hell would be the point?

One of the greatest feelings a reader gets is that of connection. The feeling of not being alone. Someone once suffered as you suffer. Loved as you loved. Laughed at the same things you laugh at.

For 100000 years.

The characters in Shakespeare still exist. They will always exist—until the microplastics in our brains outweigh the grey matter.

The Lord of the Rings is a classic for a reason.

The family dramas of the Icelandic Sagas.

Folk songs.

Arthurian legends.

Greek tragedies.

The Heroes Journey.

The Bible.

Handprints on rock walls.

Early in my attempts at taking my writing seriously, I worried over being “original” without understanding what that meant.

A couple years before I started writing the book that would become Pallas, I saw a clip of a nature doc about “zombie ants.” Ants infected with a variety of cordyceps fungus. I wanted to write a novel about this concept—and then the Last of Us game came out. It killed my want to write my idea, because I was too worried I would get accused of ripping off Last of Us, despite the fact my idea was actually quite different, but I lacked confidence. I stewed on it and stewed on it, but the idea in my head just wouldn't go away. My first draft of Pallas was vastly different from what it became (there were no mushrooms, even!) but it was terrible; I was so unhappy with it I let it sit for almost a year thinking I would never return to it.

But then I heard, on either a writing podcast or a YouTube video about the topic of “originality,” I don’t remember where it's from but it has stuck with me:

How many vampire books are out there?1

My cranium burst. A total mess on my keyboard. “Fuck it,” I said to my biowaste. “Write it.”

Yes, fungus has inspired plenty of horror and scifi books. But none of them were *my* book. So . . . I rewrote the book how I knew it should have been from the beginning.

I’m glad I did.

And I’m glad it’s in my authentic voice, which allows for a style uniquely its own, even compared to my other books.

Where we do have to be careful is where a piece might risk pastiche, or cliché. This can be prevented by reading widely.

If all you read is Lord of the Rings, and you think all fantasy spawned from Tolkien, not only are you wrong but you’re crushing your chance at finding your own voice. If people want to read Tolkien, they don't want dollar store Tolkien. They want the OG. If they want something similar, great, just make sure it’s Your Voice, because you must accept the fact that you are not Tolkien—you must be the best You, and your readers will be happy.

Fantasy gets a bad rap for how incestuous and tropey it tends to be. The problem comes from amateur writers not even knowing, or understanding, the potential of a novel: if you believe all there is to LOTR are elves and dwarves and shit, ignoring the depth of the characters etc, and as you go to write you think shallowly, you have no vision, no truth to share, and to make matters worse you think elves have to be depicted a certain way because Tolkien Did It, that's a problem.2

Read outside your comfort zone. Always push yourself to absorb as many varieties of books as possible. At least once, try reading a type of book you think you’ll hate. Never know, you might find a new favourite thing. Worst case, you'll know what you don’t like. Best case, you’re exposed to different styles, different voices, different story arcs, different types of characters, and these influences will shape your next work.

Using my own work as an example one more time, The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick has been praised for it’s unique setting. A pseudo-18th century place is unusual in fantasy. A prison break isn’t super common. But I didn't set out to try for these things: I had characters in mind, and I’ve always loved 18th/early 19th century history and literature. The Romantic movement, Sturm und Drang, etc. I wanted to poke fun at some prison reform ideas of the Enlightenment and touch on the actual history of the justice system (but in a fantasy setting.) The history of real highwaymen, etc etc. All very nice, but the book is Character Driven. So, these things all came together, and now I have a “literary fantasy” that, and this isn’t just me saying it but what readers say, is original in many ways, and I’m incredibly proud of what I was able to pull off. The voice is all mine yet the narrative style3 is reminiscent of the era of literature that inspired me. With some extra cuss words. (That’s the character stuff. Ever talk to a criminal? If anything, I toned it down.4)

One day I was thinking about prison escape movies. Papillon, Cool Hand Luke, The Great Escape, etc, this niche subgenre of crime film. Then I wondered if there had ever been a “fantasy version” of this. Now, if you’ve read the novel you know it grew beyond that original thought experiment, like, a lot, but that was the first seed of idea, just like the zombie ants with Pallas.

Take your ideas and instead of worrying if it’s “original,” practice your craft, read widely, and tell a fucking good story the way only YOU can tell it. Avoiding a story because you’re too hung up on “original” is just another version of being timid. Stop being a pussy. Just write it and worry about the rest later. Fix it in post.

There’s nothing new under the sun. That’s why good stories are eternal.

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My Substack is free, so if you like what I write and want to support me, I have books for sale:

“I love Retrofuture” Pallas [Amazon] [Kobo]

“Magic is allegory” The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick [Amazon] [Kobo]

“Knight errant in space” The Ghosts of Tieros Kol [Amazon] [Kobo]

On my Substack: Pull Me Under “it’s technically isekai”

My life has been a nightmare lately. And before you suggest I’m being silly about all this: I have a brain malfunction called Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I’m fully aware I’m being “dramatic.” That's why having OCD is so fun!

Anyway, on with the tale of the Stinkening.

Skunk

noun

ˈskəŋk

Any of various common omnivorous black-and-white New World mammals (family Mephitidae, especially genus Mephitis) related to weasels that have a pair of perineal glands from which a secretion of pungent and offensive odor is ejected

—Merriam Webster

On Tuesday morning, my dog—bless her stupid heart—decided to startle a skunk that had dug under my house and taken residence under this strange space that sort of connects to my basement stairs. Thankfully my dog didn't take a direct hit, but my house did!

If you don’t live in North America or maybe you live in an urban area and have never seen or smelled a skunk you may not comprehend just how powerful the smell of fresh spray is. I think, and I could be wrong, the only other smell harder to get out is Dead Body Smell.

Last time a pet was skunked was 20 years ago and I was finding objects in my house that still smelled like skunk MONTHS later. It’s penetrating!

If I could clean where the spray had directly hit, things might have gone more smoothly from here, but the pest control people with the LOICENSE to catch skunks can’t come by to set traps until after Easter weekend. Goody!!!

(And yes, we debated DIY skunk removal. But once a skunk dies you have a 45 minute window before the glands leak out and the smell is just… Astronomically bad. So, a live trap by people who know what they’re doing is better.)

To make matters worse, my furnace was, of course, on, as April is still very cold where I live. As soon as my initial panic of “AAAHHH THE DOG GOT SKUNKED”1 was over the damage had already been done: I turned the heat off, which did help “contain” (lmao we’re talking in relative terms) the smell to my basement, but over Tuesday and Wednesday nights we froze our asses off. Due to my family complaining about being too cold, and my husband’s fair concern over frozen pipes I had no choice but to turn the furnace back on.

It was like getting punched in the face with fresh spray smell, again. And again. And again. Every time the furnace kicked on.

The only product I could find locally that was suggested to me here or elsewhere was this tiny bottle of concentrated bullshit called Nilodor.

I DO NOT RECOMMEND THIS PRODUCT. At least not in the Battle vs Skunk Smell.

I would *almost* prefer my whole house and everything I own smelling like skunk. Now my whole house and everything I own smells like aniseed/fennel/mint/licorice + skunk.2 And, yes, you’re only supposed to use one drop at a time per room. I have a small house, so I shouldn’t have needed much. Tiny glass bottle. It’s concentrated!

But guess what, the bottle did not operate correctly and a big SPLORT came out in my basement and all over my hands. (This shit is so powerful I put the leaky bottle down on a piece of painted wood and it melted the paint. There’s a permanent oval where I sat it down, now.)

Oh my God. If I could describe the wires frying in my skull when that bottle spilled it’s like… “I have made a huge mistake. Also I should kill myself. Because of smells.” (As you can see, I did not kill myself.)

My husband took me for a drive because I was so upset at myself for overreacting to the skunk smell that I’d even try that Nilodor shit. Problem is, I’ve been running on survival mode since Tuesday. Washing laundry, hanging it on the line, airing out bedding, that sort of Task Mode. This new thing was just one thing too many and it broke my brain. I had a horrible mental breakdown in the car, so he drove me to my mom’s wherein I had to explain “no, no one is dead, I just hate thinking about smells. Do I smell? Sorry if I smell. Do I smell?” Like, I don’t know if anyone reading this has OCD but I was… Ugh. Hysterical melt down time over *smell* and I know, I KNOW, that I’m retarded for this. That's the thing about mental illness: it’s irrational!

(I just can't stop thinking about it! I woke up at 3:30 AM on Good Friday for some reason and now it’s 5am and I’m writing this because I can't sleep! Just constant thinking!)

So yeah, I had the worst OCD-related meltdown since… 2014? Probably? That's the year I got my diagnosis, anyway.

Also: to top everything off, my modem died. I have to wait for a new one in the mail and it’s a long weekend now. I’ve already gone over my shitty data allotment on my phone and I can't wait for Bell Canada to charge me up the ass for the data required to make this post. For those not in Canada, we have the most expensive data rates in the world. Talk about things that stink! Where’s our Luigi to call for CEO pest control?

My kids have a looooong internet-free Easter weekend ahead. Hey, if nothing else, maybe the detox will be good for them. After this post, I’m turning my data back off for a bit. Hopefully this helps me get some reading done, too.

If you’d like to support me and buy a fresh copy of my books, or maybe if you already read them but haven’t left a review… it sure would lift my spirits right now.

Pallas [Amazon] [Kobo]

The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick [Amazon] [Kobo]

The Ghosts of Tieros Kol [Amazon] [Kobo]

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Ta ta for now!

I feel like this advice also falls next to “write sincerely” or “embrace cringe” as acts of creative freedom. Your definition of “cool” might sound like the stupidest thing in the universe to someone else.1 Authorial confidence, or strength, lies in your acceptance that your version of “cool” will not appeal to everyone. It’s a paradox: to be cool you must be willing to be uncool. No one can teach this confidence, but I never, ever want to see you asking “can I [do this] in my novel” ever again, for a start. Every time I see these posts it’s the most amateur-ass signal. My kneejerk reaction is to just comment “no.” No, never ever try to write the thing you thought of in your own brain. “Is [this] a good idea?” No. Nothing is ever a good idea. Yet here we are!

Stop asking permission, for chrissake.

Getting critique partners so you can better implement your vision, good. Bouncing ideas around with them if you’re stuck, good. But don’t ever ask permission. Timidity, bad.

(Just remember: no one is obligated to read anything you write. Embrace it. Pat that thought on the head.)

One of the big reasons I detest things like “authortube” is that they’re all hacks they all come at the idea of “how to write” as clickbait drivel, and then go on to prescribe how they would write (and are probably just regurgitating the same information they got from each other, or from their MFA, or Save the Cat.) All of it is wrong. “Never do this, never do that.” Dumb. Do whatever you want. The wider you read, the more you’ll see someone before you has already done the exact opposite of whatever their “advice” is. No one is obligated to read it, but you can actually write whatever, and however you want. Develop Your Skill and Have Confidence. There, that’s my article in a sentence. If you write like these paint-by-numbers fools that are practically human chatGPT chodes, there’s zero chance you will ever be able to find your voice and allow your artistic soul to thrive. (Yes, writing books is art. “But I don’t write hoity toity literature.” It’s still art, numbskull. Why do I ever need to clarify this. I don’t care if you write reverse harem elf smut. Lowbrow art is still art.) You’ll never know if there’s anyone else out there yearning for your “cool”—and that’s the biggest sin, actually, to not allow them the chance to discover your voice. So craft it.

Here I begin elaborating on specifics:

doesn’t mean a chainmail-bikini-wearing, sword-wielding babe who probably fights wizards will automatically a compelling narrative make. This will put you in trope jail, and we (the reader) don’t want no bread and water.

She requires a story, or she might as well just be painted on the side of a van—and that’s cool too, but we’re talking about literature, here.

(Aside: “But Lisa how do I escape the tropes,” you cry, tearing your hair out. “I need to be original!” There is no escape: everything is a trope, and tropes are narrative tools, but they should not be the thing that defines your novel. Every time I see one of those trope maps on Instagram with all the squiggly arrows pointing to a book cover I want to vomit. Also, there’s no such thing as original. Everything has been said. That’s OK, because it hasn’t been said by you.)

Plot is not the same as story. These words are not interchangeable. You can outline a plot; you have to write the story outside the plot. You might not even outline the plot before you start, and anyway plot is the most overrated piece of what makes a book, it’s just “what happens” but not why it happens. Hell, you can have a whole book with no plot at all and it can still be really good, depending on execution. Story is what makes the book engaging. I’m not here to read a textbook, or a spreadsheet of events. This happens then this happens. Yawn. Story is how the author works with chainmail-bikini-babe to convince the reader she is cool, with all the freedoms the novel, as an art form, allows us. She should to live and breathe, she should fear and love and hate and weep. Maybe even all at once. She should feel the rivulets of sweat down her back from the exertion of lopping off goblin heads or whatever. Why is she lopping off goblin heads? I dunno, put the answer in your story.

Your cool might also be completely structural, and have nothing to do with chainmail bikinis. Do you think switching between 1^st and 3^rd person mid-sentence—to the confusion of some—is cool? Me too, I wrote a whole ass book like that. So, yeah, “folk horror in space” or “worrisome mushroom science” is cool (to me,) but again, ideas are a dime a dozen, the execution of those ideas, any ideas, is what takes it a novel. That, friends, is the hard part.

Cool could be actions, atmosphere, grammatical experimentation, anything. I wrote a fantasy book where there’s no magic in the entire first 3^rd while the characters banter in prison. Swordfights and bank heists are cool.

I wrote a book with so many Space Cigarettes that it triggers nicotine cravings in some readers. I know, because they DM me and type ferociously about it.

Alien heavy metal horse cavalry charges as a vehicle (ba-dum-tsch) for a coming-of-age story.

Just write cool shit.

Do you think Samuel Beckett gave a single fuck when he wrote half a book with only ONE paragraph break? How about when Cormac McCarthy doesn’t include quotation marks just because he doesn’t like how they look? “Figure it out,” says he. “Deal with it.” (So cool.) Could you imagine Michael Moorcock going on some internet forum and asking “Would you guys read a fantasy book about an emo, sickly albino?” No. He just wrote it2. And it’s cool as hell.

Back to plot: we must decide how much value we place on beginning, middle, and end. Do we prize it more than character? Do we place it below philosophizing through dialogue, or whatever? These are all your calls to make. The largest part of Writing Cool is having the confidence in the creative decisions that have nothing to do with swords OR wizards. Again, it’s a sort of paradox.

A satisfactory character arc doesn’t mean a gentle curve. Satisfying can mean a lot of things, and an arc can take all sorts of shapes. Could be totally flat—the character ends the book the same way he started. So how do you go about it? Write good. We like. (“But Lisa, define ‘good.’” There is no good, only subjective perception. Just like “cool.” Oh shit!!)

Am I a rambling mess? Maybe.

What do I mean by “write sincerely,” anyway? Death of Sincerity has been a topic lately, in the cultural analysis zeitgeist or whatever you want to call it. Here’s my sum up: think back to movie classics, before the Whedonization of dialogue.3 Now, imagine virtually any of those movies being made today. You can’t picture it, can you? Death of Sincerity is one of the reasons you can’t. “But those are movies, we’re talking about books.” It’s everywhere. If you’ve ever once thought to yourself “I don’t remember the last time I read and enjoyed a book published by the big 5 within the last 20 years” you may not realize just what it is that puts you off from new books/movies but Death of Sincerity is certainly a reason. If “Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth” but all we get are bad lies—you ever talk to a bad liar?—then the fictions/truths being sold to us are untrustworthy. And that feels gross.

Too many people have been conditioned to think genuinely enjoying something, enjoyment without irony, will get them ridiculed. So we get “Well, THAT just happened!” ad nauseum.

Gag. Definition of faking cool, which is incredibly lame. “I was just pretending to be stupid, right guys?”

We need art that takes risks. “Oh no, I might offend someone.” So? That’s the point. Stop caring. You might offend someone by giving your character a chainmail bikini. You might offend someone by having no chainmail bikinis at all. “What if no one likes it?” Are you an artist or what? I don’t personally care for giant mechas but if you write a book compelling enough, sincere enough, with the care and attention of someone who wants giant mechas in their work of fiction to be more than just a thing that is there for the squiggly trope arrows, thereby convincing me it is cool in the context of your universe, I will be more likely to read it—and so will many others. You love giant mechas—give them the narrative and fun sentences that they deserve. Some readers will be enticed simply by the giant mecha on the cover, true—some will be drawn in once word of mouth gets around that it’s more than just “giant mecha book.” Just look at all those wildly popular litRPGs. I don’t personally understand that genre at all, but apparently tons of people get a kick out of it. Maybe one day I’ll read one of them.

To sum up:

1. Think of the things that you believe to be wicked, this is easy.

2. The challenging part is the execution, have fun! I can’t overstate how difficult this step is! And no one can teach it!

3. Good implementation is what we (the audience) want. Work on your craft and confidence and you can get away with basically whatever. A blessing and a curse!

4. Cool people confidently utilize tropes without falling into pastiche or cliché! They probably don’t even consider if it’s a trope before they write it!

5. Be true!

And I, being unsure how to end an essay—if you can call this mess an essay—call this The End.

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Writing about writing also seems to invite a sort of “put up or shut up.” Don’t worry, as stated above I’ve got books out, I can take the heat (imagine the squiggly arrows here LMAO:)

Pallas - the one with the mushrooms in space

The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick - the one with the bank heist

The Ghosts of Tieros Kol - the one with the space cigarettes

Pull Me Under - the one with the heavy metal horsies

Do you remember when we walked along the railroad tracks?

To one side a ditch, plastic bags torn from the elements looking like summer snow; on the other a chain link fence, holding the leftovers from whatever the ditch weed didn’t catch.

I could hear the river. We were almost at the bridge. Both lost in thought.

You were taller than me but you hated being a tall girl.

We both had our hangups.

For you it was height, for me it was... lots of things. I dressed like a boy, and not just any boy but one that had to dig their clothes out of donation bins.

My hair was blunt cut to my chin, baby bangs, box-dye red—yours so blonde but for the embroidery floss hair wraps I put in that hung beaded, clicking as you moved.

Sounds of tumbling water, cats in heat, cars somewhere past the motley walls on the other side of the fence. Buildings of a hundred colours of brick and illegal murals.

“So when is your next chapter?” you asked, after a while.

“If I stay home tomorrow, I’ll be working on it.”

“Will you bring it over after? You can stay at my dad’s with me if you need to.”

I would need to. I hated your dad but hated being home more.

I hopped up on the rail, arms out—like what’s-her-name on the boat—wobbling to one side and then the other, then going back to the ties.

“I can’t wait! I hope you can get it done.”

It would depend on if J___ was home or not. It was hard to write if I was avoiding him. My mom was easy to tune out—just play my music louder.

A few nights before, you had come over to watch a movie. We had walked from your mom’s place—and I liked her even less than your dad—she had just finished insulting you and saying that I needed to pay rent if I was going to continue to sleep on her basement floor.

We got to my place and it was late, but not that late. 11 or so, I didn’t look at the clock. J___ and my mom were sleeping on the pull-out couch, which made no sense, since it was a 2-bedroom apartment and they had their own room... Not like the last place. But you and I played the movie anyway, so quiet we had to sit near enough to the TV the static tickled our noses.

But he woke up, and my whole body went tight like an instinctual fist. All it takes is a flash—just one movement—indescribable minutiae that only those who know, know, when they see someone who isn’t participating in reality.

God, how embarrassing. He thought I was someone else, I guess. Like he didn’t recognize me at all. That was the only way his ranting and raving could be explained, accusing me of whoring around some bar I had never heard of—I said I don’t even know where that is—you tried telling him I was with you. He was too out of it to hear either of us.

Then my mom woke up—tried telling him to calm down because it was me and not someone else but once she spoke his insanity switched directions. You and I just ejected the VHS and left. Across town, to your dad’s place, late at night, teenage moths.

I remembered as we made it to the bridge that I never told you about how the apartment looked when I got back. It was all smashed up. All smashed up. I had to step over broken glass to get to my room so I could work on the next chapter for you.

We tossed sticks and rocks into the river. Plunk. Joking about what would happen if a train went by, if it would smash us to bits.

Eventually we made it to the rental place to return that movie—some anime number we had to go to the weird, damp movies-slash-comic-books attic to find, the place where the guy creeped on the 13-year-old girls in his store instead of kicking us out for renting R-rated Japanese animated films about robots, tits, and gore. We would uncomfortably laugh about him and his warty neck once our shoes hit the sidewalk, hugging our flannel shirts tighter like chest bindings and feeling like we needed to shower.

Then we parted ways. You uphill, me downhill. I walked past the Zellers we were banned from.

Remember that?

Anyway. I get home, made some pop tarts, pretended I didn’t notice my mother’s black eye, but J___ was somewhere else, which was a relief. In my room, I was able to obsess over what was going to happen next in my story—and how you might react. I was close to the ending. You asked for a sequel.

You were the first to really care about my writing—

We almost went to high-school together but I moved away.

Last I heard you worked as an editor. Both our lives turned out to be for books. Pretty cool.

Forever yours,

L

PS: I still have it. Including your notations.

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OK, no more autofiction, just pure fiction! Here’s my books:

Pallas [Amazon] [Kobo]

The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick [Amazon] [Kobo]

The Ghosts of Tieros Kol [Amazon] [Kobo]

Peace!

The Ghosts of Tieros Kol - Lisa Kuznak

Let’s jump right in with purchase links (adjust to your locale as necessary!)

Amazon.com: Paperback Ebook

Amazon.ca: Paperback Ebook

Kobo: Ebook

Thank you to all of you!

Thank you to everyone who preordered, and thank you to everyone who grabbed an ARC!

As reviews are posted, I’ll be updating with links. You can also check out the Goodreads listing. Keep scrolling for the blurb and a sample chapter!

Ian Barr's Indie 25 review

John Carter's review

Blurb:

An ancient landscape, dotted with standing stones that sing for those who listen, metallic shards on the wind that glitter while they cut, and under the surface threads a blue mineral, tierosite—radiant, strange, and haunting.

King Cedri has gone mad, the palace is in turmoil, and Princess Brena hasn’t heard from her older sisters in ages. She suspects a man named Dene Eame is at the center of all her troubles—an antiquarian with an unhealthy obsession with the standing stones—but she needs real proof of his involvement.

Nikolai Lev, thief-for-hire, had a simple job to do: fake some mining contracts, steal some data, wipe all traces . . . but when his client attempts to kill him after the job is done, it makes it harder to pay the bills. To top it all off, a princess finds Lev while he’s too injured to run. What luck—now he has to keep himself out of jail, too.

As Brena questions Lev while he recovers, she finds the evidence she needs—but why would Dene hire Lev, and what does he want with the royal family? Brena and Lev must work together to answer Dene's riddles—and what they uncover might risk the future, and the past, of Tieros Kol.

Sample Chapter:

COLOURS, SHADOWS, LIGHT

1

What is data? It’s both tangible and intangible. It flows like oil, one can scoop it right out of the air, out from the void of space. It’s so plentiful it should be valueless and yet it’s treated like pure gold. It keeps everything about us, yet nothing—humanity is more than zeroes and ones. It’s worthless without someone to read it. We construct devices to keep our data from prying eyes—sorted like filing cabinets of old, and yet this too is imperfect, the yearning for that data is so strong no matter what we think of to keep it safe, someone is there to crack it. Yet it is nothing. As perceptively empty as space itself.

—Professor Alex Fleck, University of Ganymede

Server towers, conical and sleek, all lined up row upon row in the ship’s library, humming in welcome. Lev found what he came for, watching the rhythms of flickering blue lights from under the steel faceplates as he walked through. Data flung out in all directions, a hub searching for more to input, a constant exchange. Out of all the transfers, he was picking the winner.

He ran a hand through his hair and tugged his collar up, a dart of eyes around himself. Alone in the room, surveillance a risk. He felt along the edge of a faceplate for the latch and dug in a small knife to pry it open, twisting it slow to avoid the pop. Six slots for chips, but only one was occupied. He held his data pull against the chip, sweating through the seconds while the device heated in his fingers.

As Eggar Trent, he had just concluded a long business meeting to arrange a contract between mining firms, one real, one imaginary, though his host was unaware of that fact. Georg Savickas, a scythe of a figure, healthy radiance from good lights, had a habit of picking at his clothes and smoothing his lapels repeatedly and unconsciously. Earthen, spoke Lingua, but smoked Tierosan cigarettes—he admitted it was the only thing from his time on the surface he could never shake, an acquired taste that stuck. That got the two of them on the same page, agreeing on the pleasantness, the unique terroir, like burnt nostalgia, while shrouded in a haze that pillowed their lungs. Savickas had asked Lev if he had ever been to Tieros Kol as they first shook hands. Lev said he had, once. Then they reminisced for a while, with Savickas false-pining for his youth while complaining about those peculiar regulations on the surface. Too much red tape to effectively run a business. Eggar Trent’s affiliated firm could help with that, of course.

Lev could relate to Savickas’ frustrations, in an odd way, but had to appear at ease and sincere long into the night cycle. Savickas was a very one-sided conversationalist, and that only made Lev’s job easier.

They spoke of robotics—that was where Savickas’ heart lay, as an engineer. Unfortunately, specializing in robotics was useless on Tieros Kol, another reason to leave. “I should have listened to my father!” He had faith, though. Soon that hurdle would be overcome, and when it was, he was ready to do business on the surface again. Meantime, he was happy within the sector. There are always other worlds to mine of course, though Lev knew the Savickas family enterprise was somewhat lacking in fiscal optimism, but Savickas himself never spoke of it like that. Everything negative was flipped positive, that very specific language of misdirection, mastered by the perpetual businessman.

“Well, time to call it a night, eh? I’ll be glad to see you again, Mr. Trent. I hope your visit was worthwhile,” Savickas had said with a final handshake.

“Worthwhile?” Lev flashed a smile—Savickas was more right than he knew. “I’m confident our organizations can come to some sort of agreement. Thank you again for showing me around your extraordinary yacht. Quite the place.”

Lev was given a tin of the expensive cigarettes as a gift, with genuine appreciation, and walked from the humidity of the ship’s garden to the cool, dry interior decks and proceeded to avoid whatever crew was working the graveyard shift, retracing his steps to the library he had been graciously shown.

Now that the data was pulled, job done, he pushed the button on his cuff. “Be ready with the pick-up.”

“Got it.” The communications between himself and Tawny were all encoded. He’d be safe until the crew noticed Eggar Trent didn’t exist and some other asshole left his DNA all over their ship.

Out of the library, he walked to the shuttle launch and climbed in his borrowed craft. He tapped his pocket twice; the hotwire device sent the signal and his shuttle came to life with a lovely whirr of the engines. He piloted the craft from the departure deck. The airlock doors were taking goddamn forever. Leg bouncing, the first door took enough time he could dig into his coat pocket for the cigarettes and stuck one in his mouth before the shuttle was able to enter the airlock. First door closed, he lit the cigarette and breathed the heat deep—the second door opened up to an ocean of stars, thickest in a crystal stripe cutting the vastness in half. Forcing his attention from the beauty of the scene, he checked the coordinates on his display and dialled in the route, and he was off to meet his client on Tieros Kol.

Tawny hailed him once he was out of the airlock and making good time, her cropped hair, freckles, and smirk lit the screen. “Done with being Mr. Trent for a while?”

He put his boots up on the console, sinking into the pilot’s seat. “Forever, hopefully. Job’s done. That part.”

“I’ve already got your letter of resignation all written up. Mr. Trent is regretfully quitting the mining sector and won’t be doing business with Savickas Resources ell-tee-dee, how sad.”

“Heartbreaking.”

“Marco wanted me to remind you, you still owe him for the hacks to your data pull.”

“Tell Marco to fuck himself. I get paid, he gets paid.”

She shrugged a sarcastic defeat. “Have fun on Tieros Kol, stranger.”

He blew a gargantuan cloud and slapped the screen to disconnect the communications. Fuck, he was glad to be alone.

* * *

Lev didn’t expect to be as breathless as he was, seeing the planet so close for the first time in years. Tieros Kol bled memories through the surface scan, as enchanting as he left it, all the colours leaching into one another like a nebula of flora, of watersheds and farmland, deceptively virginal. A magic place. The cities were extravagant and delicate paint palettes; spots of silver flake, ivory black, and titanium white amongst countless brilliant hues. As he landed the shuttle, the chunk of countryside turned from palette to painting—every blade of grass made of blues and greens, pointillation that heaved in the breeze. Purple and orange lichens grew on rocks, the rocks themselves shimmered like tears. The air had that unmistakable tang. But it was drenched in nostalgia, real nostalgia that ached. Lev had to remind himself not to think back too fondly—it was wiser to remember the inside of a Tierosan prison, and move on once the trade was done.

Lev hopped from the gangplank with a crush of coarse pink sand, ancient shells, and went to the cave where his client waited. The portal was dark as space without the benefit of stars, no tierosite veins to light it. Lev paused to let his eyes adjust, hearing a man clear his throat from deeper inside the blackness.

“You hardly pass for a miner. I mean, maybe the ones down the shafts, but I am impressed you managed to fool that prat into thinking you had any authority at all.” His Lingua was thickly accented, an upperclass drawl.

Lev ignored the snickering as he climbed down the rough slope, his footfalls and tumbled pebbles echoing.

Their names were never exchanged, but the man had a long duelling scar down the side of his face that shifted with his wry expression, the pearlescent oils on his cheeks and down his neck of a Tierosan native. Despite dressing for wealth, there was a reek of alcohol on his breath, and his dark hair, slick from sweat, plastered his forehead. “The data?”

“Here, but not parsed.” Lev stayed at arms length from his client, brushing back his coat enough to show his pistol holster.

His client noticed the holster and flicked his eyes back up to Lev’s face, no hint of surprise or nerves, just business. “Not a problem. That’s what my parsers are for.”

The data Lev had pulled had been transferred to a ring, and he slipped it off his pinky finger to pass palm-up to the client, who slipped a credit ring from his thumb and the swap was made. Gold, with a flat disk of amethyst hiding the credit chip. Lev twisted the ring onto his own thumb and made to leave, but his client seemed stuck.

“Anything else?” Lev asked, the question punctuated by a flutter of bat wings over their heads.

“Yes . . . One thing. Do you discard the data once it’s transferred?”

“I don’t need it traced to me. You’ve got the only copy.”

“Yes . . . Of course. Very wise.”

It was also a lie—Lev always kept copies until the deal was truly done. “If this credit ring defaults, I’ll know where to find you.”

The scar shifted again as the client laughed. “You think I live in this cave?”

Lev turned to the bright outside and climbed the slope, knocking shells and pebbles and left the client behind to shiver in the dampness.

He needed to ditch the stolen shuttle and get back to Tawny and Marco, currently orbiting Tieros Kol on false tourist visas.

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Don’t forget, I have other books, too!

Pallas - Scifi/horror - Amazon Kobo

The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick - Literary fantasy - Amazon Kobo

Pull Me Under - Fantasy - Free on Substack

I startled awake this morning
     so here I am at 5
     sloppy writing in the dark
     got my phone light as a lamp.
I thought the doorbell rang.
     Dog isn't barking
     everyone else, still sleeping—
     doorbell still ringing my brain.

Night before last 
     was a doozy—thoroughly gone
     still awake but sweating
     awake but dreaming:
The way my dad sat on the side of his bed
     as he first woke up, every morning
     elbows on knees, head hanging,
     like he was still sleeping as he sat there—
But the room was nothing
     all black—black bed—
     empty space, void-like but solid—
I could walk around—I just didn't.
I could, but maybe I chose not to.

(There were bumps on my dad's forehead
     near his hairline
—"That's where they cut the horns off,"
     he'd joke*)

I don't hear his voice
     his mouth doesn't move
     as he asks,
     "How're you doing, kiddo?"
I tell him I'm sick so he says,
     "There's chicken soup in the freezer."
He's wearing his wool pj's
     and his necklace, and his rings,
     and his slippers
And there's the tattoo on his chest that
     he told his girlfriends it stood for 
     Royal Reserve Liquor
     but it was actually the initials
     of his wife and daughters.
The Star of David he wore on the gold chain
     pressed against his heart
     worn alongside an 
     Indian Motorcycle pendant.

Anyway, he never looked up.
Just a vivid dream
     —half memory
     enough to wake me
     pooled in my own sweat.
And it dawns on me, hours later,
     he was remembered in this dream
     at the same age I am now.
Shivering, aching, I had regressed into childhood
—"And if you don't want any soup,
     have some pickle juice."

*Jews were often depicted with horns in medieval art, so yes, he did frequently make this joke. Where do you think I get my sense of humour from?

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Strub’s was his pickle brand of choice. Might have to seek some out. Pickles really do cure everything.

I guess I’ve just been missing my dad these past few months. Anyway, going back to coughing my lungs out, now.

Cheers.

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My books:

Pallas [Amazon] [Kobo]

The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick [Amazon] [Kobo]

The Ghosts of Tieros Kol (preorder - ebooks for now, paperback upon release: March 4th) [Amazon] [Kobo]

Pull Me Under - serialized novel here on substack

In the last few days, I’ve seen a spike in subscriptions. This is great! Thank you! But, for those that are new, I figured I’d do a small intro post. Yeah, you may have read my “about” page, but I don’t remember the last time I updated that thing, so, why don’t I just do what I’m doing right here, right now?

Remember, if the email is truncated, open it in your browser of choice, or the substack app!

I WRITE NOVELS

My work is primarily SFF but always genre-bendy. Sometimes, I’m a bit experimental with my prose (Pallas) or I might mix historical influences in a magic blender (The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick.) Often, I can be raunchy, crude, crass, etc, even in my poetry, as a heads up. But of course, every reader and every piece is going to mesh differently.

Since my Substack is free, I encourage you to go through my archives (or the links I’m sticking at the bottom of this post) to see if the sort of stuff I write is up your alley. If it is, I hope you stick around, and maybe even choose to support me by purchasing one (or more!) of my books.

I link to Amazon.com, despite being Canadian, it’s just easier, so adjust to your territory as necessary.

In order of publication:

Pallas

Scifi with a horror bent

For Kylan Bence, hauling freight through the Belt is lonely work, and when his ship malfunctions that loneliness might kill him. Stranded on the asteroid Pallas, in view of a concrete dome long thought abandoned, he chances a distress signal—and gets a response.

As he enters the settlement, a secret paradise greets him. Lush and vibrant plants, real food, clean water—and a population desperate to keep him inside . . . with everything else they've kept hidden in the soil, the air, and under the skin.

Amazon Kobo

The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick

Literary fantasy

Framed for murder and horse theft, Tommy Fellham is stuck in Magelock Penitentiary, rotting like a bad pickle in too small of a crock. Capital punishment was banned, how convenient—instead of getting hanged he spends his time learning how to fight, steal, gamble, and drink. There isn't much else to do with himself until his best friend and teacher, the notorious highwayman Kennedy Thornwick, confides in Tommy his plans to escape.

When Tommy receives a visitor that promises fortune at the expense of a newly built bank, that settles it. He has to help Kennedy. But what Tommy doesn't account for is how much the prison has shaped him, and not only will he have to get used to magic outside the walls, but come to terms with who he has become . . . All while trying to avoid the mage hunters after the price on his head. Kennedy might have been too good of a teacher.

Amazon Kobo

The Ghosts of Tieros Kol

Coming March 4th! Planetary-romance-style scifi.

An ancient landscape, dotted with standing stones that sing for those who listen, metallic shards on the wind that glitter while they cut, and under the surface threads a blue mineral, tierosite—radiant, strange, and haunting.

King Cedri has gone mad, the palace is in turmoil, and Princess Brena hasn’t heard from her older sisters in ages. She suspects a man named Dene Eame is at the center of all her troubles—an antiquarian with a strange obsession with the standing stones—but she needs real proof of his involvement.

Nikolai Lev, thief-for-hire, had a simple job to do: fake some mining contracts, steal some data, wipe all traces . . . but when his client attempts to kill him after the job is done, it makes it harder to pay the bills. To top it all off, a princess finds Lev while he’s too injured to run? What luck—now he has to keep himself out of jail, too.

Brena needs Lev to help her find out why Dene is getting involved with the royal family . . . What they discover might risk the future, and the past, of Tieros Kol.

(Still tweaking the blurb.)

Preorder It’s out! Buy it here! Paperback will be available upon release!

I ONCE SERIALIZED A NOVEL AND IT IS FREE TO READ RIGHT HERE ON SUBSTACK

Pull Me Under

Metal-inspired portal fantasy.

I ALSO WRITE SHORT STORIES AND POETRY

Here are some of my personal favourites:

…And More! Don’t wait, call now!

That's all for today!

Peace!

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Painting by Mike Hoffman, all the rest by me.

COMING TO AMAZON AND KOBO MARCH 4th 2025!

Science fiction, in the vein of sword and planet/planetary romance. More details in the links below!

Blurb:

An ancient landscape, dotted with standing stones that sing for those who listen, metallic shards on the wind that glitter while they cut, and under the surface threads a blue mineral, tierosite—radiant, strange, and haunting.

King Cedri has gone mad, the palace is in turmoil, and Princess Brena hasn’t heard from her older sisters in ages. She suspects a man named Dene Eame is at the center of all her troubles—an antiquarian with an unhealthy obsession with the standing stones—but she needs real proof of his involvement.

Nikolai Lev, thief-for-hire, had a simple job to do: fake some mining contracts, steal some data, wipe all traces . . . but when his client attempts to kill him after the job is done, it makes it harder to pay the bills. To top it all off, a princess finds Lev while he’s too injured to run. What luck—now he has to keep himself out of jail, too.

As Brena questions Lev while he recovers, she finds the evidence she needs—but why would Dene hire Lev, and what does he want with the royal family? Brena and Lev must work together to answer Dene's riddles—and what they uncover might risk the future, and the past, of Tieros Kol.

(Still accepting feedback on the blurb!)

For more information on the book,

please see my other posts:

To all my early ARC reviewers, firstly, thank you! Secondly, feel free to start posting your reviews! I’ll be linking them here and in future posts! (The Goodreads listing will go live approximately when the preorders do, if you prefer to post your reviews there.)

If you would like an Advance Review Copy, a free copy in exchange for an honest review, there’s still time! Email me: lisakuznakbooks (at) proton (dot) me

March 4th 2025, folks! Kindle preorders should be ready soon! right now!

I hope you’re super hyped!

Thanks for reading!

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And don't forget my other books:

Pallas [Amazon] [Kobo]

The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick [Amazon] [Kobo]

Pull Me Under [Substack serial]

Ebooks today through Monday are only $0.99! Ninety-nine cents, folks! I don’t do this often!

Grab em, read em, leave some reviews!

Adjust the store URL to your locale as necessary:

Literary fantasy, tragicomedy. Snatch meets Barry Lyndon with magic.

Amazon.com Amazon.ca Kobo

Framed for murder and horse theft, Tommy Fellham is stuck in Magelock Penitentiary, rotting like a bad pickle in too small of a crock. Capital punishment was banned, how convenient—instead of getting hanged he spends his time learning how to fight, steal, gamble, and drink. There isn't much else to do with himself until his best friend and teacher, the notorious highwayman Kennedy Thornwick, confides in Tommy his plans to escape.

When Tommy receives a visitor that promises fortune at the expense of a newly built bank, that settles it. He has to help Kennedy. But what Tommy doesn't account for is how much the prison has shaped him, and not only will he have to get used to magic outside the walls, but come to terms with who he has become . . . All while trying to avoid the mage hunters after the price on his head. Kennedy might have been too good of a teacher.

Scifi with a horror bent. Retrofuture, The Wicker Man in Space vibes.

Amazon.com Amazon.ca Kobo

For Kylan Bence, hauling freight through the Belt is lonely work, and when his ship malfunctions that loneliness might kill him. Stranded on the asteroid Pallas, in view of a concrete dome long thought abandoned, he chances a distress signal—and gets a response.

As he enters the settlement, a secret paradise greets him. Lush and vibrant plants, real food, clean water—and a population desperate to keep him inside . . . with everything else they've kept hidden in the soil, the air, and under the skin.

Thanks a lot, Happy Holidays, support indie authors, and I love you all.

(The paperbacks make great gifts, too!)

Peace!

Subscribe now

And while I cracked a joke in Notes about Tyson's buttcheeks, here's the truth: the whole thing made me incredibly fucking sad.

It was like seeing my dad, walking around with cirrhosis of the liver and a back brace, after growing up with him as the biggest baddest motherfucker in town.

I'm not exaggerating. No one messed with my dad. In a school yard game of “my dad could beat up your dad” no one could counter my claim. He worked in the mines, and could haul heavy equipment on one shoulder up and down mineshafts, equipment that would normally take 2 or 3 guys together to lift.

He boxed a bit, but was more known for when he fought just for fun, and he earned himself a reputation. He was so feared, one time our car was stolen and the cops just had to spread the word that it was M's car and the thieves returned it to our driveway.

Ali was his hero. One item I kept after my dad passed away was a VHS tape of Rumble in the Jungle, my dad's handwriting on a brittle old label. I almost named one of my sons Cassius so my dad could remember the name (turns out being drunk for 40 years and too many knocks to the head can fuck a guy's memory up.)

And then M got sick. He passed away at 56 years old of liver failure.

Last time I saw him he looked 96, a few weeks before he died.

But when I was a little girl he was my hero.

I don't have a Netflix account but I don't think I could have watched the whole Tyson vs Paul fight anyway—technical difficulties aside. Just watching reels on Instagram of it gets me choked up.

I'm not the only one to cry. Lots of kids recorded their dads crying and posted them for likes. And I'm willing to bet those tears weren't just because watching your hero get old is really sad. I'm sure many of them were reflecting on their own greatest nemesis: time. The kids posting the videos don't understand that yet.

(By the way: I don't blame Tyson for agreeing to the fight. Everyone has bills to pay. Jake Paul, however, is a massive cunt.)

But what I have watched several times and I probably will again soon: The Wrestler starring Mickey Rourke.

Trailer

Even though it makes me cry. Maybe because it makes me cry. The father/daughter relationship hits way too close to home. “I just don't want you to hate me.” That line. I'm crying as I type this.

Whew. Breathe, Lisa.

Yes, my dad was my hero. It's also true that he was an asshole who routinely cheated on my mom, hit her a couple times, was a compulsive gambler, and was just plain not around for major events such as birthdays, holidays, etc. He would take me to the bar with him and let me play on the pool tables as a form of bonding. Instead of normal bedtime stories I got fight recaps, especially if my dad won his bets. But even that was pretty rare (the storytime, I mean—lets not talk about the gambling right now, that's a whole other post.) He really wasn't home a whole hell of a lot—working in the bush only accounted for some of the times I asked where my dad was. He did make it to my highschool grad though, which was nice. As my sister once put it, he was a great dad but not a great father.

And he had a lot of regrets about this fact. Just like Rourke’s character. Just like Mike Tyson.

(For those who have read it, you may have noticed I dedicated The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick to my dad. A couple characters in the book were massively influenced by him, or his friends. The book, in some parts, was a bit of a grief-write. Just a bit.)

What The Wrestler also shows really well is what we all saw with Tyson the other day, how a man's physical strength is sometimes all he (thinks) he has, and that time of peak strength is so incredibly short, when it goes a man can feel like he's already dead. (Here’s some nice Mike Tyson Existentialism.) And if your livelihood depends on your strength, being unable to work is a fucking blow to a man's sense of self. A fictional tale of an aging wrestler expresses this so, so well. Especially since, as a woman—yes we have our own hangups with aging—it's through fiction we can process what we can't really understand, just like a man can never understand what it's like to give birth, or a person from Germany might read about a person from Ethiopia to understand things better. Fiction is the most pure way to achieve this empathy. As a writer, when I write men, all I can do is absorb stories (especially the ones told to me in real life) and try my best.

A motorcycle fell on my dad's leg and wrecked his knee. I was still young when that happened, 7 or 8 years old, but between that and the fact all his friends were dropping dead from having similar rough lifestyles, I know now that his busted knee was like a physical reflection of the grief and regrets, and was the beginning of the end for him. He was still working, though, until I was 14. He was doing work for a highway project and caught blastomycosis, a fungal infection in his lungs that lives in soil and got churned up and breathed in (an influence in Pallas.) The fungus ate through his lungs, and his spine, and left crater scars on his back. He almost died—in a way he probably wished he did, because after that he wasn't able to work, he had fewer and fewer living friends, he could barely stand.

He couldn’t ride his bike.

He had a lot of pride, and having to live on workers comp crushed his soul.

All his bad habits became worse. He would joke about how the vodka helped his meds kick in faster. In the end, his liver gave up.

He didn't want to tell me about his liver, but I knew, because he was actually sounding drunk. See, when he was healthy, you couldn't tell he was starting his day with incredible quantities of Smirnoff. I've never known anyone else who could drink like that and function. But the liver can only take so much abuse.

I won't spoil The Wrestler for those who haven't seen it. But the abuse of one's body does catch up with us. Time is a bitch.

Watch The Wrestler, forgive Tyson.

Hug your dad, if you can.

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Obligatory book links:

Pallas

The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick

Sign up for an ARC of The Ghosts of Tieros Kol

Pull Me Under

I’ve just finished my almost-final round of edits—the last before I send it off to my proofreader/copy editor, so for those of you who are eager for a review copy of The Ghosts of Tieros Kol, now’s the time!

What’s an ARC, you ask? An Advance Reader Copy—a free copy in exchange for an honest review. So, you read GTK ahead of time, and post your review either before or on the day of release. Goodreads, Amazon, Substack, or wherever you post about books.

Check out this post for the blurb and description of the book to see if it’s something you’d like to read and review:

If yes, shoot me an email:

lisakuznakbooks (at) proton (dot) me

and tell me if you prefer .pdf or .epub.

There’s no cover yet, and as I said above the proofreading isn’t done so there may be typos—that’s the fun of advance copies! That, and getting to read it before everyone else, of course!

Release date is still being decided, but it’ll be within the first couple months of 2025. If I send you an ARC, I’ll send you a reminder too, so don't worry.

(Also: this is the last book I’m publishing for a while, I’m returning to drafting phase. I’ve been trying to get there for the past few months, but it’s been a struggle to fully commit while I still have books to edit/release, and I’ve been stewing on a few ideas. So! with this being the last of my “pre-substack” books, who knows what my next endeavours will look like?)

Alright! Not much more to add.

Cheers!

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My other novels:

Pallas - Old-school scifi with horror elements, Wicker Man in Space vibes

The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick - Literary fantasy like Snatch meets Barry Lyndon, but with magic

Pull Me Under - Heavy metal portal fantasy, free on substack

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Locations mentioned where I remember, as well as film stock/camera in the captions. As always, if you want to use any for a writing prompt or something just credit me/tag me in the post. If the email is truncated, click “view entire message” or open in browser.

The next four are all Santa Fe NM, Minolta X700, Wolfen UN54:

Now, here’s some fun: These next ones are all taken on a really neat film stock, Lomography’s LomoChrome Purple XR. Depending on how the film is exposed, the colour changes can be really wild! I love how they all turned out. All are taken with a Yashica-A TLR. (The first two are the exact same spot on the highway, but facing different directions!)

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If I didn’t have the bright idea to serialize it, a good chunk of you wouldn't be subscribers! So I can't help but gush about this “silly” nanowrimo project, that wasn't ever supposed to see the light of day. But it has, and here we are!

I just wanted to thank everyone who has given it a read, and I have a small request: because it isn’t a novel that has a goodreads page or anything, I would love to hear from you! Use this post to comment your thoughts and reviews on the book, honest reviews of course, and if you haven’t checked it out you can find the whole thing in a handy dandy ebook to download on the main post (linked below) or you can read the chapters here on Substack too.

An extra special thanks goes out to who has been a champion of PMU since day 1, when I was fresh and new here. Thank you, Jimmy!

And to , who read it before it even had a title. You rule!

There are a few who did comment as I was posting each chapter and THANK YOU for those! It’s just hard collecting them for readers to find in a nice tidy spot, so I decided to make this the place.

I also have a question, is it something you’d like to see a proper release for? Should I get it cleaned up, get a cover and put it on Amazon? Let me know! If yes I’ll have to schedule it after the release of The Ghosts of Tieros Kol (getting close to that release too!!) so it would highly depend on “popular demand”—if you want a copy for your shelf, speak up!

And, yes, I do have ideas for a sequel. Who knows what it’ll look like or when it’ll get started, but, the thought is there. Because…

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I still think of that world, the Dvarri and the characters I created. Tanner in particular was a very divisive character, some readers really connected with him and some thought he was a shithead, and I think that's why I love him. I do! Lauren, too, was initially a kind of subversion of the portal fantasy heroine trope I was seeing a lot at the time, but she wound up like I was writing about my sister smashed together with so many of my girlfriends growing up so she’s one of my favourite FMCs I’ve written. Ddun, I gave him a name I knew people would struggle to pronounce because I thought it was funny, and he's got that barbarian swagger that winds up getting humbled—and enhanced! We love barbarians in this house! And character arcs!—through his relationship with these two newcomers to his tribe. I even find myself thinking of the side characters and how they shaped the story. Really, I had a ton of fun writing it, WAY before I ever thought I'd publish anything.

The Dvarri as a culture was also a result of my utter frustration of seeing nomadic horsey cultures done super wrong in fantasy (looking at you, GRRM.) While I am poking fun at fantasy worldbuilding, it is all out of love. I also did a ton of research on nomadic steppe/indigenous cultures, and learned a lot. Put on some Tuvan throat singing in your metal PMU-inspired playlist, I highly recommend it.

So, watch Bakshi's LOTR or Fire and Ice or Wizards, and if you haven’t given PMU a read, consider it. It’s a ride!

Find the chapters or the ebook here:

And, if heavy-metal-inspired portal fantasy isn't your thing, I’ve got other books out:

Pallas, scifi with a horrific fungal bent

The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick, literary fantasy (you want divisive asshole characters?! It’s turned up to 11 here!)

And coming soon, The Ghosts of Tieros Kol, release TBA, scifi in the planetary romance tradition. ARCs going out soon!

Cheers!

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PS, go ahead and follow me on Instagram if you want. I sometimes post book stuff on there, and Substack crossover events: