Between Lost & Found - Chapter 1

‘Once upon a time there was a broken girl,’ the girl thought as she scrubbed the merciless wooden floor. She hated scrubbing those damned floors. Out of all the chores she had, it was the worst. The cold, hard floor bit into her knees as she worked the brush back and forth. It would soon be filthy again. People walked their muddy feet on it. How was it ever meant to stay clean? Nevertheless, she scrubbed. 

The brown bubbles of soap and grime clung to her bony fingers. Her clothes were a similar colour to the dirty bubbles, as was everything in the orphanage. Everything in the girl’s life seemed to be a variant of brown or beige, even the sky most days. Her life was a canvas and the artist painting on it had only one colour. She longed for more colour. She longed for rainbows and light and more. 

Sometimes, when the sun was still young in the sky, she would stare out the bedroom window, down onto the street below, just to feast on the many colours of the ladies’ dresses down below. But the feast would never last long, if the sisters did not find her spying first, the feasting would soon turn to daydream, and she would start imagining that one of those ladies was her mother. And day dreaming in a place like the orphanage was a perilous undertaking.

The daydream would start out simple enough. She was upstairs in the nursery of their grand home, the noises of the other children behind her would be the sounds of her brothers and sisters. She would be waiting for her mother to come back from the market. Some days her mother would be wearing red with golden hair, other days yellow with the hair of freshly roasted chestnuts. Sometimes, if she was lucky, she would see a woman with the same midnight hair as herself. 

She had received the strap one morning for accidentally waving to one of the ‘daydream mothers.’ The woman had complained to one of the sisters. The girl’s hands had to be bandaged for weeks. 

Now, the bandages were off and she was back scrubbing floors. 
While down on the floor, on this particular day, she heard a sweet clicking sound. It seemed to be coming from under a nearby chair. She subtly scrubbed her way over to the chair and, while the sister was not looking, she peered into the gloom under the chair. A sparkle of pearly blue caught her eye. 

She reached underneath and pulled out a beautiful blue-black beetle. Its shell shone in the flickering candle light as she held it out in her scarred palm. It was as pretty as a precious stone. ‘Don’t worry,’ whispered the girl. ‘I’ll keep you safe.’ She carefully tucked the beetle into the pocket of her brown dress and returned to scrubbing.

‘You! Ebony haired girl! Stop bloomin’ day dreamin’ already and scrub!’ screeched one of the sisters. 

The girl looked down at what she was doing. She had the brush in her hand and she was moving it back and forth. ‘I am scrubbing,’ she mumbled. 

‘What did you say?’ The sister’s tone was that of an alley cat on heat.

The girl cringed and closed her eyes. She looked up. All the other orphans had stopped scrubbing to watch. Some even had wicked grins lurking on their smug, dirty faces. 

The girl sat up on her haunches and looked the sister in the eyes. ‘I’m in trouble now anyway,’ thought the girl. 

‘I. Am. Scrubbing,’ she said loudly, pronouncing every syllable. 

The sister descended on her like a gray bat, all flapping robe wings and scratching claws. She grabbed the girl by the ear and dragged her to the Head Sister’s office. 

The girl kicked and squealed. She never gave up without a fight.
The sister flung the door open and threw the girl inside. ‘Mother, this one’s back talkin’ again,’ said the sister, prodding the girl harshly in the spine.

The mother, a woman as plump as a Christmas ham with snaggleteeth and no neck, growled at the girl. She slid her chair over to a drawer where she kept their files, the legs of the chair ground on the wooden floor like the claws of a giant beast from a fairy tale. The girl wondered how the spindly legs of the chair didn’t give way under the mother’s mighty weight.

‘What’s your name again, girl?’ asked the mother.
The girl went to speak but received a slap to the back of her head from the sister. 

‘Ouch,’ said the girl, rubbing her head. 

‘Ahh, yes,’ said the mother, getting out a file with the girl’s name on it. ‘Silly name for such a miserable, little urchin like you. Been ‘ere since you was a babe. Think you’d know better by now.’ 

‘I was scrubbing, Mother, I promise,’ said the girl, the word mother in relation to this woman tasted bitter on her tongue. 

‘And I s’pose you weren’t day dreamin’ t’all then?’ said the mother.

The girl paused for a moment.

‘See, Mother, the girl lies,’ said the sister, tugging hard on the girl’s hair. 

‘Ouch,’ cried the girl and, without thinking, she stomped backward onto the sister’s toes. 

The sister jumped around and hollered. The mother chuckled. She was not biased with her cruelty.

‘Compose yerself, Sister!’ The mother’s face changed into a hardened stone scowl. ‘You’re a feisty one, aren’t ya? Come, let’s see if we can break that spirit of yours.’

The girl hung her head and held out her hands, palms up. The red, raised scars that crisscrossed her palms still angry from the last time. 

The girl closed her eyes.




The girl sat outside in what little sun could make it through the smog. Her bones ached with the cold and the damaged skin on her hands stung. The bandages that the sister had wrapped around her hands were grubby, the same colour as the dirty soap bubbles on the floor she had been scrubbing, the same colour as the sky. 

She felt movement in her pocket and remembered the new friend she had found earlier. Standing up to have a walk around the small enclosed yard, she took the beetle out of her pocket. Its fluffy little feelers searched around in the open air and it clicked happily.

‘I told you I’d keep you safe,’ said the girl. And she began to sing quietly to herself as she walked.

Suddenly, she felt something large and hard strike the back of her head and she was falling forward before she could stop herself. Pain shot up through her hands as they struck the cobbles and it ricocheted up her arms.

She heard laughter behind her as a group of kids came over, the ones who had thrown the large rock that now lay in the dirt beside her. 
The girl’s head swam as she tried to blink away the black and white spots that swirled across her vision. Everything became shadowy.

‘Look at her, Richard! She’s presenting like a mare! Quick, in ya get,’ said one of the boys to another uproar of laughter.

The girl rolled over onto her hindquarters. The pain in her hands throbbed and she kept her eyes on the group of kids that had come over to taunt her, least they have more than one rock.

The boy that had thrown the rock pushed his friend, Richard, towards the girl. ‘Stop it, Thomas,’ said Richard, taking a swing at the rock thrower. ‘I’ll bloody catch something.’

The girl felt the pain in her heart as they all laughed at her. ‘Why don’t you all just sod off!’ Her voice broke as tears fell out onto her dirty cheeks.

‘Why don’t you all just sod off!’ they all mocked in high-pitched voices as they jeered and turned around as if she wasn’t even worth the effort of teasing. They all walked away and the girl looked to her bleeding palms to see the beetle that she had saved or what was left of its little carcass. Silvery wings and the scattered shell, nothing more than blue glitter and entrails.

Feel free to make any comments. I hold up to scrutiny! I'll post more next week.

Hugs AMC

xxx

I'm home!

So... For those who don't know, over a year ago I had a house fire. We have been moving around for the past 12 months and we are now... finally... back home! Halle-fucking-lujah!

This what my kitchen looked like and the rest of the house was not much fucking better. We did loose everything material, but we are all alive and healthy.

If you have ever moved house with children, then you will feel my pain. Trying to explain to your young child that 'No, sorry, we can't go home,' or 'Sorry honey, that toy is gone now,' is heartbreaking.

When we set out to the first lot of family with only the clothes on our backs, we told the kids that we were going on an adventure. 

That was all we could tell them.

It was not a lie. The past 12 months has been an adventure, alright! One that has tested my family and marriage to the brink. Tested my resolve and drive to continue my career. I won't lie, I have applied for a few jobs... I didn't get any of them, but I was still looking and sending my resume out there.

Anyway, I have gone off topic. We are home!

This is my new kitchen (& me in my PJs looking psychotic). It is black like my soul, and I love it.

So, I am starting a new project... well, technically, I will be sharing a new project. I will be sharing with you, as of next week, the story I have been working on... which happens to be the prequel to the novel I am working on.

So, stay tuned. Keep writing/making art/doing what makes you happy!

Hugs AMC
xxx

Juggling life while trying to write

Word Count: 33,875
Day: Sunny and Freezing
Mood: Not too shabby

A problem that I seem to notice a lot of novice writers and big names seem to share is the ability, or the art, of being able to juggle normal civilian life and being a writer. We can't do it all. But I think it all boils down to a few points I'm going to skim over. 

• Time management- Being a mother, I know something about time management. Something. Not a lot. This is a writing blog not a mummy blog. But all the same, we do have to learn how to manage our time. I have spoken before about setting aside time for our writing and sticking with it. This is so important. Think about the routine you already have in place. There is no need to try to shift things around if you already have a routine. And then think about where in that routine could you fit in your writing. It might be the hour when you put your child down for a nap or your lunch break at work or after you finish your homework or - in my case - I decided about 4 years ago that sleep was for the dead and started waking myself up 3 hours early than absolutely necessary. 
• Priorities- This works in with time management. I prioritised writing over sleeping in till 8am. You might watch TV before bed or sit on social media while eating breakfast or something of the like. You have to think about the things you do and pick something that is less important than the nagging story in your head. When you find it, throw that thing away and insert writing time in its place. You'll never look back.
• Habit- try to make it the same for every day. This way it will become a habit and soon you will feel weird or off if you missed out on your precious writing time.

This past week has been tricky. I have had builder appointments for our house (no, they haven't even started rebuilding the bloody thing yet #sigh It is still a burnt out little shell...) My son sliced his foot open, work was busy last week, I've had book covers to make... gaah. It's been busy. I missed a couple of days here and there and my weekly word count is not what I would like it to be, but I have still got something done. 

We, as a human race, tend to be way too hard on ourselves. We get down on ourselves if we don't live up to our own or (worse yet) someone else's expectations. 

Life happens sometimes and there is nothing we can do about it. The point is that we pick ourselves back up, we open that computer or notebook and keep on going. 

Sometimes we have excuses and sometimes we make them. Not having time is one of those made up excuses, I feel. I have missed out on my morning writing time before so I have made up for it by writing on my phone while on the loo. #truestory 

I have a friend with 3 children under 4 and a chronic illness, and even she finds time to write!

Juggle your life just make sure that one of those balls is for writing.

Hugs xxx

First Chapter - Dead Bunnies Make All Eight Of Me Cry

Chapter 1. All eight of me.

It was Uncle David who first decided to take me to therapy.

I’ve been to heaps of shrinks, tried so many different treatments and medications in my thirty-six years. Some work for a while, pushing the shadows aside for a time. But they always come back.

The drugs are just like sticking a band aid over the wound of a severed limb. The ones that do ‘work,’ leave me numb. I can’t function. I can’t hold a conversation or a job or a memory. I’m a tree without leaves in the autumn – I’m alive, but not.

‘I’m taking you to see a really nice lady, okay Suzie Q?’ Uncle David said to me as he took me by the hand.

I was seven.

By that time, I had been caught sleepwalking or been brought home by Jason (the young fella whose yard Violet seemed to prefer) so many times. It affected my aunt and uncle so badly that sometimes no one in the house slept but me.

He kept smiling at me the entire drive to the kiddie shrink. But his eyes weren’t smiling. Even as a small child I could see his worry. I took out my little black feather and stroked it against my face.

The doctor’s office was fake cheerful. It had partitions of kid’s paintings and cute little murals on the walls, a corner with used toys for us to play with and bright yellow curtains with happy little clowns performing all over them. But I could see through it. Under all the bright colours, it was just like the foster home. Sterile and shadowy.

Uncle David walked in to the office with me. I held onto his hand. I didn’t want him to go, but something in me just knew that the doctor was going to say that he had to.

The doctor stood at the door, holding it open for us as we passed through. She was very tall for a woman, taller than my uncle and wiry. Her office smelled like cleaning products and stale jellybeans. She had several bean bags in a corner and a bookshelf full of colourful figurines. They were all different shapes and sizes. There was music playing in the background, I recognised the nursery rhyme Baa Baa Black Sheep.

‘Hello, Mr O’Brien, my name is Dr Kerry Sonson.’ The doctor held out her hand to shake my uncle’s. He took it and she shook his hand with vigour, placing her other hand over the top of his. ‘And this must be little Suzie,’ she said, knelling down to me. ‘You can call me Kerry, okay?’

She stood back up and said quietly to my uncle, ‘It’s … necessary for the guardian to leave the room in my treatments. I apologise if this is not suitable for you, but … it’s the way I work.’

Uncle David nodded and smiled weakly. He bent down to me. He looked into my eyes, like he was searching for something. ‘I’ll just be out here, okay Suzie Q?’ He held my hand tightly.

Dr Kerry bent down too. ‘I have some toys over here that I want to show you. Would you like to come have a look?’ She held out her hand to me.

I turned away from her and flung myself into my uncle’s arms. He laughed nervously.

‘It’s okay, Suzie Q. I’ll just be on the other side of that door. I promise I’m not leaving you. Okay?’ He started to pry me off his body. Pushing me away from him hesitantly. The doctor took me gently by the hand and began to lead me towards the big bookshelf full of toys and I watched as my uncle stood up and exited the room, never taking his eyes off me.

I looked up at the seemingly giant bookcase. Figurines filling every shelf, all set out and evenly spaced. ‘Suzie, I would like you to pick out some toys to play with? Pick as many as you want. If you can’t reach one that you want, just tell me and I will get it down for you,’ said the doctor.

I picked out several toys, mostly from the top three shelves that I couldn’t reach. Dr Kerry showed me over to a sandbox that was on the opposite side of her room. She climbed into the sand, first flicking off her modest heels and placing her stockinged toes in the white sand.

‘Take off your shoes and come in, Suzie,’ she said holding a hand out to me. I looked at the sandpit. My mum had never let me go in them. She had always told me they were dirty.

I slipped off my shoes. I looked at the doctor’s outstretched hand and took it, stepping into the sand with the caution of someone stepping into a pit of fire.

‘Do you not like the sand, Suzie?’ the doctor asked.

‘Mum always told me that sandpits are dirty. She said cats … poop in them,’ I said, whispering the last bit.

The doctor laughed a kind, light-hearted chuckle. ‘I can promise you that no cats have pooped in this sandpit,’ she said.

I sat down in the sand and dumped all my toys onto its surface. ‘What do you want to play?’ I asked.

‘I want you to play whatever you want to play,’ she said.

I looked down at my choices and started to play. Making the toys interact with one another.

After a while, the doctor spoke. ‘Who’s this, under here?’ she said, pointing to a toy buried under the sand.

‘My mum,’ I said and continued to play.

‘And who are these three?’ she asked, pointing to some toys that sat atop a castle I had made.

‘Em and Aunt Miriam and Uncle David,’ I said, not straying from my play.

‘And these guys over here?’ she asked, pointing to a circle of toys.

‘That’s me,’ I said.

‘Okay, and this one?’ she singled out one of the toys in the circle.

‘That one’s me too,’ I said.

‘I thought you said that this one was you?’ she asked, pointing to the first.

‘They’re all me,’ I said.

I had begun sleep walking when I was six years old.

I still remember the first time they found me. I sat in a chair in the Police station, with no memory of what had happened previously, swinging my legs above the ground and clutching my pillow. There was a young man standing in front of me talking to an officer. The officer nodded seriously and wrote everything down. The young man had found me and brought me there.

I heard the slip slap of thongs on running feet. ‘Suzie!’ Uncle David had yelled.

I looked up to see him running towards me, dodging the rows of seats in the police waiting room. ‘Uncle David!’ I had never been so happy to see him in my entire life. I jumped off the chair and ran to him, hugging his legs.

The young man and the police officer looked at Uncle David with surprise and both walked over to him. The policeman was the first to talk. ‘Is this your niece?’

‘Yes, we woke up this morning and she was just gone.’ He bent down to me and looked me over. At this point I got scared. What if he was angry with me? ‘Are you okay? Where did you go?’

I started to cry and just hugged him again. I didn’t want him to be mad with me. And I honestly didn’t know where I had gone.

The young man stepped forward and cleared his throat. ‘She was asleep in my front yard this morning. My name’s Jason, by the way,’ he said, holding out his hand for Uncle David to shake. Uncle David looked at him suspiciously, but said nothing, shaking his hand anyway. ‘I woke her up to see where she had come from and at first she seemed fine. She told me her name was Violet and she had stopped to sleep under my tree, told me that she liked the funny mushrooms that were growing under it.’

Uncle David looked at me, waiting for an explanation.

‘I asked her if she had touched or eaten the mushrooms,’ Jason said, turning to the policeman. ‘Because they’re those poisonous red ones with the white spots, and she went strange, kinda off in her own world. Then she started freaking out, not knowing where she was or how she got there. Told me her name was Suzie Hugo. So I brought her here, I didn’t know what else to do.’

‘Where are the girl’s parents, Mr..?’ asked the policeman.

‘David O’Brien,’ he said as he picked me up. He turned me away from the officer and whispered. ‘I’m her guardian. Her mother’s dead. Come on, Suzie, let’s get you home.’

Uncle David walked out of the station and put me in the car. He watched me in the rear-view mirror as we drove around looking for Aunt Miriam and Emily. I stared out the window and said nothing. Later that day he bought a chain to fit to the front door.

Read the rest of Dead Bunnies. Also available for free on Wattpad. 

Please remember to feed an author, give a review!

Sorry for the lazy blog,

Hugs 

AMC xxx

Writer's Block

Hello void that is the internet!

Today I would like to discuss writer's block. I have been suffering from this a lot lately which sucks because I used to be able to conquer this dreaded beast so easily. I am not just writing this post for you guys out there in the void, but also for me, to remind me of the things I used to do to help me get over it and move on!

Tips for making writer's block your bitch.

1. Keep writing. I know. I'm a dick saying this one. But this
   
   seems to be the best way to kick writer's block in the nuts. So the gist of this is to just write anyway. Forget about what is worrying you (thoughts of not being good enough, the fight you just had with your significant other, not knowing exactly where your story is going, etc) and just write. Write anything. Because you know what? Your computer has a delete key and a backspace key. And you can use them. This is the thing that mostly gets me going. Because no one has to see what you have written if you don't like it the next day. 
2. Read a book. Or even listen to a book. Zoning out into another person's world can often just help you to relax enough to stop worrying and keep that writing train chugging. Also it can spark ideas, keep you motivated (I want to be the next Stephen King! you say to yourself as you read his words.) and, let's face it, most of us write because we love books. We don't want reality. Reality is for shmucks. Get out of your head for a while and go relax.
3. Plot. I hate fucking plotting. But it has really helped me when I get stuck so I make myself do it. It is harder to get stuck in a hole if you can see the entire road stretched out before you.
4. Have a shower. Not because you stink (well maybe you do, depends how long your writing slump has been going for) but because "shower thinking" is a real thing. Research shows that when doing any monotonous task your prefrontal cortex relaxes and puts your brain into autopilot. This clears the pathways for new, creative ideas. This is the same for exercising.
5. Exercise. Now I don't mean that you should go join a gym (you can if you want but don't say I told you to) but if you can go
   
   for a walk or do some yoga, something to get the blood moving, those endorphins going then that can be really beneficially to your writing. In the warmer months I would work out right before or right after writing time. Also, it is a good way to justify snacking while typing!
6. Have a coffee. because reasons.
7. Take a nap. see above.
8. Google images. This is a weird one, but hear me out. Sometimes I like to see what I am writing, which can be difficult to find. But I go on Google images and I find pics that represent
   
   something in my story. I also set these pics as my wallpapers so I can sit and stare at them and get ideas.
9. Use online plot generators. These can be helpful if you have zero ideas. but try to use them wisely. Remember that other people have also used the same things, so try to twist them a little. You can also do Brainstorming which I might discuss again in another blog.
10. Change stories. Sometimes a story hasn't fully revealed itself to you. Sometimes if you go away from it for a while and come back to it later you can see it with fresh eyes. Go write a short story or some poetry or start a new novel. The work isn't going anywhere. So take a break.

Treat yourselves kindly. Writer's block can suck hairy donkey balls, but just remember that it is only temporary. It will come back to you. The more you stress about it the worse it will get. 

hugs 

AMC xxx

Advice for newbie writers

Hello void!

Someone on Instagram asked me through the week if I have any advice for them as an unpublished author. They were looking for a little direction.

Now, I ain't no famous writer, but I have had some minor successes so far in my career and seeing as though I am still only a newbie myself I think any success is great. So, that being said, I am going to give you my top ten tips newbie writers.

1. Write! This may seem pretty stupid and simple, but writing everyday can be harder than what it seems. You need to get some sort of writing routine in place. Start out with small goals, say write for half an hour a day, and then you can build from there. And keep this routine every day. The only times I don't write are when I am too deathly sick I can't even get out of dead or if, you know, life happens and I can't do it. But if I miss days then I do try to make up for them.
   
2. Read! I love reading, but when I first started writing every day, I told myself that I was a writer now, not a reader. I didn't have time to read. This was wrong. And my writing suffered for it. You can't make a good coffee if you don't know how it tastes, you can't write a good story if you don't read. Reading gives you tools that you can use when writing your own books. It also lets you keep up to date with what has been done. There is nothing worse than being so engrossed in writing your own stuff and then going to submit/publish it only to find out then that someone else has just had huge success with something similar. (EL James, I'm looking at you)
3. Get a writing buddy. I think this is so important. You need someone that you can show that all important first draft to. Someone you can trust and someone who will be honest without being a dick. This person is not a Beta reader, this is that person that is your first reader. They could be a friend, a partner, a parent or someone you meet through writing groups or book clubs. But you need someone to bounce ideas off and to read your work and to even give you a little boost when the old hag in your attic (mind) comes down to tell you how bloody horrible your writing is.
4. Social Media. Get on that shit now. I mean get yourself on author page on Facebook, Twitter, whatever and start using them. Don't spam your writing stuff though, that's not cool. But post stuff that is interesting to start building that fan base. Some people say you should do everything. Get on Pintrest and Youtube and tumblr and anything else that has just come out. I think this is wrong. You should pick the ones that you want to do. The ones that you will be able to keep up-to-date on. If you have all these social media and never post anything because there are so many and goes into the too hard basket then what is the point? If you can keep up with all of them then go for it. If you think you can handle only a couple then I suggest the trinity of social media. Facebook. Twitter. Instagram. And if you can squeeze Google+ in there then that would be awesome. (Cause Google controls everything)
5. Freebies. About four/five years ago I started writing short stories as well as novels. But I give away most of my short fiction away for free. I have them on Smashwords, on my website, I even had them on Wattpad for a while (argh) I had them published in magazines/newspapers and it just got my name out there. People love free stuff. Who doesn't! And giving your stuff away is only going to help build your fan base. Even if it is giving away sample chapters for your novel away on your website, it is all helping towards getting new fans.
6. Learn how to self market. If you can go do a short marketing course, that would be great, but not all of us have this sort of time. so do your research and learn how to market yourself. As much as us artists don't like it, we are selling a product. And you can't sell it if people don't know it exists. And they find out by marketing. Start saving your money too because some things (like Facebook ads) can cost money. This is applicable for whether you are going to self-publish or traditional.
   
7. Dream Big! Someone once told me that I should start dreaming big. And by this they meant that I should start thinking and preparing myself to have a fan base. Get yourself a website and an author email and business cards and whatever else that you will need as an author. You want to be an author? Start acting like one now.
8. Make a decision. These days we have it easy, kinda. We have two main choices when it comes to publishing. We can go the traditional routine and submit to agents/publishers or we can self publish. Both have their advantages, so do your research. But you have to decide which one you want to do. It is okay if you change your mind (I did. A Lot.) but it is good to have some sort of goal that you are striving for. Either way you choose, start developing a thick skin. Rejections and bad reviews are coming your way and everyone of them hurt. It is up to you to decide how deep the wound is.
9. Research. This more of an actual writing one. There is nothing worse than reading a book that has factual flaws. well, there is. And that is publishing a book with factual flaws. I speak from experience. Although my main character in Dead Bunnies is very poorly treated when it comes to her mental disorder and that was part of the point, I still had her on medication, which is not what happens at all with DID. Now, I still stand by that her doctor is a D bag, which is why she is on meds, but still, I should have made more of a point in the story showing that it was not normal practice. I had planned on pointing it out in the sequel, but I didn't emphasize it enough in the first book. Of course this has since been pointed out to me... Do your bloody research.
10. Edit!!! Oh for the love of sweet holy fuck, edit. Edit until you know the words off by heart. Edit until your fingers and eyes bleed. Edit until you hate your story. Edit until you recite the words in your sleep and you freak out the people you live with. And then edit again. This includes, but is not limited to, first reader phase, Beta reader phase and PAID editor phase. Yes, you MUST pay someone to edit your work. Do your research and pick someone good. My very last editing phase, normally done the day before print day, is the read out loud phase, where I read the story out loud to my first reader or (even better) they read it to me. Soooo many things get picked up in this phase! Even after all this, Gaiman's Law will always apply ...

“Picking up your first copy of a book you wrote, if there’s one typo, it will be on the page that your new book falls open to the first time you pick it up.” – Neil Gaiman

Happy writing, annonymous void. I hope this has helped! If there is anything you would like me to ramble about, feel free to leave a comment or you can contact me on the social media.

Hugs 

AMC xxx

Still not home ...

Hello anonymous void that is the internet!

If you have ever read any of my blogs then you might know that I normally try to give you writing advice and things of the like. You may also know that, back in November last year, my house kind of got a little burnt. Yeah ... We still have not been able to move home.

This is why there have been no posts in the past seven months. We have been hotel hoping (which is not fun with children) and now we are living in a house closer to my children's school, but work has not even begun on our house.

So, this is mainly just a bitch post. 

I hate insurance companies. I don't understand why they can't just pull their fucking socks up and fix our damn house already! Anyway, Enough of that.


I got published! Yay!

So, my book Dead Bunnies Make All Eight Of Me Cry is an actual book, with a cover and pages and shit! Holy cow, right? (Insert shameless plug for own book right here: GET YOUR COPY TODAY!)

So, what is it like being a published author, you might want to know? Yeah, pretty much the same as being unpublished except for the fact that you are not just stressed about one agent or publisher liking your book baby. You are know completely anxious about the entire world and what they will think of your book baby.

Have I already done a blog post about marketing? If I have, I might have to go back and read it myself because I don't remember a thing!

This is also something that I debate with myself. Is it really necessary for new authors to go crazy on marketing? Because if your book is good, then it will do well, right? Word of mouth is probably the best form of advertising, so if it is good people will tell others and eventually you will sell books. But I guess first you have to tell people about your book... 

These are the problems we face today as authors. No matter how you end up publishing. Whether it be through traditional or self-published or small indie publishers, we still have to take care of our own marketing. 

Anyway! I am open to themes you would like me to discuss on here again. I will try to post regularly, but at the moment there are no guarantees! #sorrynotsorry Or I will just utilize this space as a cheap form of therapy and come and vomit my emotions all over you once a week. I'll leave that in the hands of the void.

Hugs 
AMC xxx