Dig Two Graves: My Debut Novel

I am officially a published author! Check out my debut novel: Dig Two Graves.

Jezebel is a court-appointed psychologist who runs an underground female trafficking empire. To justify her actions, her victims are solely those whom she deems immoral. Now, she is being framed for a crime she had only intended to commit. A detective has placed a target on her back, and her time to catch her predator is quickly running out.

This novel centers around an “anti-heroin,” who works in a business generally operated by males. The book creates a moral paradox to challenge the concrete conceptions of good versus evil. It is a psychological thriller that explores the effects of fictional representations we use to replace painful realities in our mind’s psyche.

Click the photo below to find out more and order!


Your Vanity Leads to Vanity, Where Dreams go to Die.

Yesterday, I was contacted by someone who led me to believe that “they” worked for a publishing company. I do not think I have ever been happier than I was at that moment. Finally. Finally, someone liked my work. It happened.

I thought.

In my excited state, sleep evaded me, and I spent a great amount of time researching the company. I am not privy to throwing my hands up in the air for just anyone. If nothing else, I am a skeptic with no intention of being bamboozled.

Yes, bamboozled. I’m bringing that word back.

Anyway, after hours of research, I discovered that this publishing company is really just a scam artist of the loveliest degree. It’s a pay-to-play. Spend $5000 first, and then see what they’ll do for you.

“Don’t worry. Just take our word for it,” they say.

Or some derivative of that, anyway.

So in summation, yesterday I was finally in touch with a publisher. Today, I woke up.

Life is funny in the most unfortunate of ways.

Let this serve as a warning to you. Be CAUTIOUS of vanity publishers. They will confuse you. They will tell you that other publishing houses ask for more money than they do.


Do your homework. Map this out. Don’t take the easy way out, because it rarely pays off.

As for me, this is just another let down to add to the list, and that’s okay. My skin’s gotten thicker in this regard. There comes a point where “no” is to be expected, and it doesn’t hurt as much, anymore.

May you never reach that point, my dears.


Books and Pieces: the Wasted World of Written Word

I have come to realize that I can no longer handle listening to other people talk about their favorite books. It is 50 shades of aggravating, watching them as they recommend “good” books to each other, not even knowing about the actual gems that exist in the world of written word.

Before I continue, I would just like to say that this is not a post dedicated to trashing 50 Shades of Gray or any other specific pseudo-literary work. Do I have a deep, resounding hatred for said book? Yes, but the rest of humanity has done that onslaught well enough as it is.

It is not subject matters that I find distasteful. Erotica, BDSM, romance, bastardized mythical creatures and the like are just fine to write about. It is the nature and quality of writing of the mass-produced stories that are problematic for me. Do I enjoy any of the aforementioned topics? No, but that doesn’t mean that I would trash something just because it isn’t to my taste.

The issue at hand is simply that we are awarding ingenuity to works that are remarkably subpar and making them a standard to which budding authors feel they must meet in order to get published and recognized. We are allowing ourselves to believe that there is positivity in mediocrity; We no longer care if our children grow up rejecting books of substance, and continuously applaud them when they pick up anything that isn’t computerized–as if written word of any kind is better than a video game.

Not true.

And more dismal still is that we entertain people who fancy themselves avid readers; who then laud and recommend tawdry creations to others, spreading their disease throughout the land.

But ask them of Seymour Hersh or Kafka. They’ll draw themselves a jolly old blank and look at you as if you yourself are drab. Pick up cooler books, you hag. Up with the times, they’ll say. Don’t read what is dated. Come to our side. We have Twilight 50 Shades of Gray!

You’ll have to kill me, first.

Lest I be considered a snob, I will say, I do not mind an “easy read” so long as it is well-written and at least a little original in some aspect.

However, no matter how much I wish it weren’t so, a book is a book, no matter how shitty.

Much like a person is a person, no matter how shitty.

No…that can’t be right.

Sorry, Seuss.

Therein the Theory of my Theatrical Thoughts on Theoretical Paper

The struggle inside of each living creature taking up a vastly underestimated amount of space to coexist with the ignorant and arrogant is war.The struggle to continue breathing despite the choking feeling that is more figuratively painful than physical damage, is war.

The fight between truth and desire to conquer the darkest of times is war.

In silence.

Violence in politics conceives a superficial consideration. No one cares about the government; their battle is not our battle, and the battle of their people is of minuscule importance to those in power.

In honest and completely unabashed truth, nary a place escapes the label, regardless of its population’s misguided belief in the existence of contemporary effective nationalism, religious freedom and conclusively inauthoritative free speech.

And the fictionally accurate tale that unfolds within the sequential, mildly related, pages of the compilation of my own creations will either be well-written or famous, possibly neither, and unlikely both.

But, at the very least, I will try to manage to escape becoming an attention-seeking sell-out who is celebrated for drivel that caters to an audience with the mindset of a hormonal child trapped in a whimsically unrealistic daydream.

Would that I become a writer to end all writers, a novelist to novelize revolutionary reads, a creator of plot line to be added to the seven, but ah, perchance to dream.

But I do appreciate the stereotypical arrogance that depict me alarmingly un-charming in the previous sentences.

Oh, how the tones of story-telling devolve.