When I decided to self-publish, I knew I’d be responsible for marketing. What I didn’t realize was how much it would compete with the very thing I wanted to spend my time doing: writing.

Every hour spent learning TikTok, designing Instagram posts, or trying to decipher an algorithm is an hour I’m not editing Book Two or working on my next novel. That’s the strange paradox of being an indie author. The better I become at selling books, the less time I have to write them.

I want to work on my YA beach ghost-hunting romance, not editing TikTok videos. Or fleshing out my adult contemporary forced-proximity Handyman WIP, rather than constantly brainstorming engaging content to attract followers on Instagram. I’ve already spent my creative energy on my stories. I don’t have much juice left over for social media.

Since I decided to self-publish, I’ve spent the vast majority of my free time across platforms trying to figure out the algorithms to build my audience before I publish my book. It is a lot of work. And I am already exhausted!

Maybe every writer has to make peace with this balancing act. The stories don't sell themselves, but the stories are the reason any of us started this in the first place. I'm still trying to figure out where that balance is. I just hope I don't spend so much time chasing algorithms that I forget to chase the next story.

Until next time…

Twice.

Sorta.

The first mistake was forgetting I still had to write the back cover copy for my book. Not that big a deal, but come on. That should have been the first thing I did after deciding to self-publish.

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The second mistake was also not so much a mistake as it was me naively believing that the cover artist I wanted to hire (after my Kickstarter campaign hopefully gets funded) would be available to whip up the cover of my dreams immediately and well before my publication date. Turns out, just today, she closed to commissions for the rest of the year. I’d been eyeing her for months. MONTHS! Why didn’t I just reach out then?

Well, because I was still holding out hope that I’d land a literary agent and get a book deal and they’d hire their own cover artist to do the job. See? Naive. Does that count as a mistake?

So, that leaves me in a bit of a pickle. Since I want to get this book out into the world by late September, early October, I have to decide to go with the cover I designed (it’s not awful, but it’s not stunning, either), or vet other cover artists and hope they’re available for a quick turnaround.

I’ll let you decide. I made two versions of my book cover. Tell me, honestly, what you think. Should go with A, B, or C (hire an artist)?

The Covers (🫣)

Vote for your favorite. Leave me a comment. Share with friends. Be honest. I want this book to get out into the world the best possible version of itself I can manage. You can help.

Be back soon…

The Pitch: When her lab partner turns up as a ghost begging for help, a prickly teen is dragged back into a gift she’s spent years suppressing—just as a secretive coven tries to resurrect a soul-devouring warlock that won’t stop until it’s consumed everyone she loves.

Out of all the stories I’ve written and all of the characters I’ve created, this one has gotten me the most excited. The story might even be one of my favorites. There is just something about a living person falling for a ghost that felt impossibly romantic. Maybe it’s that old idea of you always want what you can’t have. I dunno.

But this story is about so much more than just young love (though that’s my favorite part). In Between is a thrilling emotional rollercoaster that takes the characters (and hopefully readers) through the dangers of power-hungry witch covens, family secrets, high school, trusting people, and falling in love.

It’s been a long journey for this book. Not quite as long as some of my other unpublished (as of yet) stories, but long enough. Hence the reason I’m pivoting to self-publishing. This story NEEDS its audience now.

The idea came to me in 2022 when I had a dream about a dead classmate I’d once “dated”. In the dream, he showed up at a party, and I was the only one who seemed to recognize that he wasn’t supposed to be there. When I woke up, I kept wondering what it would have been like if a real-life ghost had come to me needing help. And that’s how the story was born.

Since then, it’s been through 11 revisions. Not a whole lot changed plot-wise. Just a whole lotta tightening and clarifying. The first draft was well over a hundred thousand words, which is a lot for a YA novel. Even a soon-to-be self-published one. So I cut it down as much as possible. It’s probably the part I’m most proud of because I hadn’t thought originally that I’d be able to cut 20k words without losing the story. It’s such a great feeling to know (deep within my soul) that my story is actually better without all those extra words.

I hope this story finds its place in this world. I remember reading books like this, as a teenager, that were spooky and thrilling and heartachingly romantic all at the same time. In fact, I still read those books. I would love for the next generation of readers to connect with Annabelle and Will the way I did.

So now that I’ve officially decided to self-publish this series—wait! Did I forget to mention that? Book 2 is already in the marination phase, and I’ve planned a book 3 and maybe 4 in the Seance Society series. Anyway, as I was saying… To make that happen, I'll be launching a Kickstarter campaign this summer. The goal is to give the book the professional treatment it deserves—from a custom cover and paperback formatting to early print copies readers can actually hold in their hands.

In the end, the goal is to publish by late September or early October.

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Close to a year ago, I decided to do something I had been dreaming about for more than twenty years. For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a writer. I stapled notebook paper, construction paper, printer paper (when it came around)—together to create my own books. When I was in high school, I started my first novel. I never completed that one—probably best for everyone—but then I started another. And another. And another. It wasn’t until 2004 or 2005 that I actually had two completed novels. Since then I’ve completed four more novels, one screenplay, a handful of short stories, and plotted out who knows how many others.

In all that time, in all that writing, I’d always dreamed of getting traditionally published. I had tried self-publishing with two of those earlier stories, but then took them down as they weren’t really ready. In the back of my mind, though, I always wanted to go traditional. Somehow, it just felt more legitimate. Like I was a real writer. I don’t feel that way anymore about self-publishing. It has changed a lot since then and so have I. So, in July of 2025, I decided to begin querying a project I’d recently finished and felt had a great chance of being the story that gets me a traditional publishing deal.

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Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.

To date, I have sent out 91 queries and received 91 rejections. Three of those initial queries were partial or full requests, but all ended up as a pass. None of the queries said I was a terrible writer and should keep my day job (sorry kids, you’re stuck with me!). Some of them said I was a strong writer but my story just didn’t resonate with them. Or they just weren’t the right fit.

Hard to believe that out of nearly 100 people, none of them wanted a teenage romance where the prickly teen medium falls in love with her ghost ex-lab partner while they’re trying to save the town from a coven of witches bent on resurrecting a soul-sucking puritan warlock.

Who wouldn’t swoon at that?

I’m only kidding—about the part where no agents want my story. It’s a fickle industry, and maybe a ghost romance is just a little too niche for today’s market. But if you liked Anna Dressed in Blood by Kendare Blake or If I Have to Be Haunted by Miranda Sun or The Dead Romantics by Ashley Poston…then there’s a good chance you’d want to read my story too.

And that brings me to my point. After nearly a year of querying, I’ve decided it’s time to pivot and share my story with the world through different means. I’m not exactly sure what those means are yet, but I’m taking matters into my own hands for this story…and the sequel… and the third one.

If you'd like to follow along as I figure out this self-publishing journey—and get a front-row seat to a ghost-filled romance involving witches, mediums, and entirely too many bad decisions—you're in the right place.

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Caroline gazed out of the window of her empty new London flat. It would be several weeks before her belongings from the U.S. would catch up to her. Currently, they were chugging along on a cargo ship somewhere in the mid-Atlantic. It was cheaper to ship all her furniture and personal belongings rather than buy everything new. To get by, she bought an air mattress and a cheap set of sheets. If anything, they’d come in handy when—and if—she ever had a guest. With nothing to unpack yet, and no cable or internet—she’d only arrived in the U.K. the day before—she simply watched people walk by, searching for any peculiarity that would remind her she was no longer staring down at the bustling streets of Brooklyn Heights. It wasn’t hard. The trees were different. The birds were different. The shouts and hollers from delivery guys on the sidewalk below were different.

Across the street from her apartment was an eight-foot wall of greenery that enclosed a garden. When she looked at the pictures her real estate agent had sent her back in the states, she liked the idea of a garden close by. Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park were not too far away, but having one just outside her building seemed quainter somehow. It was a key garden, her realtor informed, meaning the little park was just for the residents of the square and a key was necessary to get in.

“Privacy,” the realtor remarked in her refined British accent.

Privacy wasn’t high on Caroline’s priority list, but with privacy usually comes peace and quiet. That definitely was on her list. Sure, she probably could have moved to another neighborhood, county, or even a different state to escape the hubbub of the big city, but something else drew her across a vast cerulean ocean. A mugger—a filthy opportunist who had no purpose other than to steal from others—drove her out of New York. He killed Tom, her boyfriend, just off Fifth Avenue. The mugger had turned Caroline against the city. She met Tom in college while they both studied European history at the Ohio State University. Tom was a PhD candidate, Caroline an undergrad. They moved to New York so Tom could do his post-doctorate at the Met. She was wide-eyed and in love—with the city and with Tom. Bitterness now colored her vision of her once beloved New York.

Caroline walked downstairs to the main lobby. A young stringy-haired man sat behind the desk with a morose expression. He didn’t look at Caroline as she approached. Instead, he gazed out the front window. She tapped her knuckles on the counter, and he slowly turned his head. She could see his nametag, now. Nigel.

“May I help you?” he said with a soggy British accent.

“Um, yes. Can you tell me—I just moved in—is there a key here for me?”

“A key for what?” he said.

“The garden,” Caroline said. She pointed out the window to the wall of green vines across the street.

“Ain’t no key.”

“Then how do I get into the garden?”

“Dunno, do I?” Nigel gave her an impertinent look, then turned his attention to the computer screen. His fixed expression told Caroline it was the end of the discussion.

She walked out of the building and down to the next intersection. Painted on the curb were instructions, LOOK RIGHT, with arrows pointing in that direction. Caroline looked up and realized what the warning was for. A car was coming from the wrong direction, at least to her. It would take a while to get used to things, she reminded herself.

Across the street, Caroline walked along the garden wall. The vines of whatever plant it was brushed against her shoulder. She took a step further away from the vines, but they still seemed to be reaching for her. The wrought iron gate appeared in a gap in the vines. Caroline looked for a handle, but found only a large keyhole that looked like only a big iron key would fit in. She shook the gate. It didn’t open. She peered between the balusters to see if anyone could let her in. A giant bushy juniper tree obscured the whole of the garden. Nothing could be seen.

Each day, Caroline walked past the garden, reached out and gave the gate a shake. Whether she was walking to the Bayswater station or to the Westbourne House, the first British pub she’d found, she made sure to pass by the garden gate to check. It always remained locked to her. No matter whom she asked, the response was always the same. A shrug and a shake of the head.

The only view of the garden she could see was from the window of her apartment. She leaned on the windowsill, sipping her hot tea. Looking down, she saw an array of flowers of every shade. Blues, yellows, purples, and pinks. The trees towered over the garden, vibrantly green and billowing. In the center of the park was another tree. Caroline stared hard at it. It was strange. The leaves were black—at least that’s the way they looked from her apartment window. Caroline looked at the small black box on her windowsill. She looked again at the tree. Not black, she thought. Deep purple. The leaves must be a really dark purple.

She paced her empty apartment. As she walked, she mapped out the placement of her belongings in her head. Her belongings. His belongings. Their belongings. They had spent the first three months in New York scouring every antique store that crossed their path to decorate their first apartment together. Tom was particularly proud of an antique map of London he found. It was a steal, Tom said. It was her stuff now. All of it. Three years they found treasures and brought them home to each other. One always one-upping the other with their find. Caroline sighed as she thought of their life together, sailing across the ocean to meet her. She almost wished she’d left it all behind.

That night, Caroline tossed and turned on the air mattress. Unable to get comfortable, she kicked the blankets aside and clambered up out of the half-deflated bed. She paced around her small apartment, waiting for the kettle to whistle. The moon was bright in her window, drawing Caroline over. She pushed aside the sheer curtain and opened it. Cool night air rushed into her apartment. The moon was full. It was larger than the moons she was used to back in the States.

Her gaze drifted down from the moon and landed on the garden. The moonlight blanketed the garden in a soft glow. Everything was a different shade of blue. And there was someone in the garden.

Caroline ran to the bathroom and grabbed her robe. It was almost midnight, but if she was ever going to get into that garden, it was her best shot. She ran out of her apartment building and up to the gate and stopped short. She reached out a hand and wrapped it around the cold iron. A loud groan filled the air as Caroline pushed the gate open.

She stepped inside and let the gate close with a clatter behind her. She walked around the juniper tree out into the garden. It was much darker under the canopy of the taller trees. At the far end, there was a wrought iron bench. On it sat an old man. Caroline walked across the garden to the man.

“Excuse me,” she said quietly. He was holding a newspaper and appeared to be reading. The man looked up. “I live in that building over there.” Caroline pointed. “The super doesn’t seem to know where the key to the garden is, and I saw you out and figured I’d see if I could make a copy of your key. I’d really like to visit—.”

“Shhhh,” the old man said, holding a finger to his lips. He continued in a whisper. “The clock strikes twelve and behold.”

He waved his hand out in front of him. Caroline followed his gesture. Before her eyes, white orbs of light were appearing along the vine-covered walls of the garden. Caroline watched in amazement as the garden lit up with hundreds of balls of light.

“What are they?” she asked, sitting on the bench next to the old man.

“Moon flowers.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” she said in wonder. “It’s magical.”

“Indeed, it is.”

Caroline looked at the old man. He was pale in the moonlight with thin oniony skin that was almost transparent, but his eyes were keen and blue. He turned those eyes on Caroline and examined her so deeply she thought he might have been decoding her DNA.

“You asked for the key to the garden?”

Caroline nodded.

“I’m afraid there is no key to this garden. It only opens when and to whom it wants to.”

“To whom?” she said.

“You are a very lucky young lady,” he said. “You see that tree in the middle of the garden?” Caroline nodded again. “That’s a wishing tree. If you are granted entry, you are entitled to a wish.”

Caroline smiled at the old man. Clearly, he’d lost his marbles, she thought. But, nevertheless, the tree, the old man, and the moonlit garden intrigued her.

“And what would I wish for?” she said, wanting to humor the old man.

“Ah, that is not for us to decide,” he said.

“So, how do you know this tree grants wishes?”

The old man smiled and said no more. He stood up and walked toward the tree, then beyond it. He disappeared behind the juniper tree. The newspaper he was reading was still lying on the bench. Caroline picked it up and ran after the man, but he was gone. She looked around the garden. She hadn’t heard the gate open or close and wondered where he could have gone.

Outside the garden, she looked up and down the street. There was no sign of him. Maybe he lived nearby, she thought. She turned her back to enter the garden once more and found it locked. She gave it a frustrated shake, then walked back across the street to her apartment. Feeling tired enough to attempt sleep again, she tossed the paper on the counter, glancing at the clock. It was just after one in the morning.

A buzzing woke Caroline the next morning. She slapped around the edge of the bed for something, but then she realized her alarm clock hadn’t arrived yet, and she sat up. The buzzing was her doorbell. She stumbled out of her room, robe still on, and to the door.

“Who is it?” she said, holding the button that was a two-way intercom.

“Nigel,” he said drearily. “Movers are here, ma’am.”

“Oh, excellent. Send them up.”

“That’s what I’m aimin to do, innit?”

Caroline rolled her eyes and unlocked the door. She sighed with a mixture of relief and doubt at finally having her personal belongings. Now, she thought, this place could feel more like home. She turned on the stove to heat up the kettle. The newspaper on the counter reminded her of the night before and the old man in the garden. For a moment, she thought it had been a dream. She took the paper over to the window, opened the window, and unfolded the paper on the sill.

She stared at the masthead with a confused expression. It was a New York paper from six months ago. An uncomfortable feeling traveled from her throat down into her stomach. She flipped to the local news section. The movers came in and spoke to her. She barely listened as she read the article. It was about Tom’s murder. The reporter thought it made a great news story, revealing to the world that what got Tom killed was the little blue bag he carried as he turned off Fifth Avenue heading toward the 53^rd Street station.

The cops had returned the package to Caroline after they caught Tom’s attacker. She never even opened it. But she couldn’t get rid of it either, just like everything else that was Tom’s. It now sat beside her on the windowsill—minus the blue bag. She folded up the newspaper and set the box on top, shoving it away from her.

As the mover set down the last box, Caroline looked up from the window. He handed her a clipboard to sign for the delivery. She hesitated. The pen lingered above the paper as if she were debating. With a deliberate movement, she handed the pen and clipboard back to the man.

“Take it back out,” she said.

“Pardon, miss?”

“Take it back,” she said firmly. “I don’t want it.”

The man looked annoyed and bewildered, but did as she commanded. Caroline resumed her seat in front of the window and remained fixed, staring down at the purple-leaved wishing tree in the center of the garden. When the door slammed a few hours later, she turned to see the apartment empty again. She stared and stared until the sun began to set. Long after that, she remained as still as a statue. She finally turned her head to gaze, with bloodshot eyes and tear-stained cheeks, at the clock on the stove. It was nearly midnight. She snatched up the newspaper and the black box.

Outside the gate, she paused. Her heart pounded inside her chest. She pushed on the gate, and it opened as loudly as the night before. Right where she’d seen him the night before, the old man sat on the bench. No newspaper in hand. Caroline walked over and handed him the paper and sat down, holding the black box in her lap, her fingers wrapped tightly around it.

“You left that behind last night.” Her voice was hoarse and rusty from not using it all day. “I figured you might want it back.”

The old man didn’t say anything. They both sat in silence. Caroline tried to string together sentences but couldn’t get them out. She looked at the old man. His eyes sparkled. For the second night in a row, the moonflowers spread their petals to catch the moonlight. The sight emptied Caroline’s head of any meaningful thought. She watched the event in amazement. Once the blooms had all opened, Caroline felt more relaxed and serene. She looked down at the box in her hands and held it up, showing it to the old man.

“He didn’t even get a chance to ask,” she said, staring only at the box. “I had no idea he was going to. It would have been the happiest day of my life.”

“It still could be,” the old man said. “If that is your heart’s desire.”

Caroline looked at him.

“You mean I could wish to bring him back?”

The old man nodded. “If that is your heart’s desire.”

Caroline fell silent again. She stared at the Wishing Tree. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d entertained the thought, though she had never thought it was actually possible. She still wasn’t entirely sure this old man was telling the truth. But the chance to see Tom again, to let him know she would have said yes, even though she hadn’t even seen the ring yet.

Caroline lifted the lid of the box and pulled out the black velvet box inside. She cupped it in her trembling hands. A glistening tear trickled down her cheek. She opened the box. The moonlight flooded in and filled up the diamond ring. It glowed as if the light were coming from within. Flecks of color danced on the surface as she held it up in front of her. She stifled a sob.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. The old man remained silent.

The tears rolled down her cheeks as Caroline cried silently over the ring. Finally, she took a deep, settling breath and wiped the tears away. She stood up and let both boxes fall to the ground, and walked over to the wishing tree.

There was a crevice in the middle of the tree where two main branches went their separate ways. Barely any light from the moon shone down through the tree’s canopy. It was black and oppressive. Caroline inhaled deeply.

“The dead should stay dead,” she breathed. She placed the ring in the crevice of the tree. “I wish to forget.”

The moon seemed to disappear from the sky the moment she made her wish. Everything went black around her, and the crevice closed around the ring. Then, as quickly as it had disappeared, the moon was back. Caroline turned away from the tree and walked back toward the old man. He smiled warmly as she approached.

“What a beautiful place,” she said. “Is this your garden?”

Times have a-changed! Back then, it was still primarily email queries, and there wasn’t a great way to track submissions and rejections aside from an Excel spreadsheet. Now, with things like QueryTracker, it’s easy to keep track of all the agents who passed on my manuscript.

But I digress.

That’s not really what I want to talk about today. Let’s talk about rejection.

Rejections are expected. A friend sent me a quote from Stephen King that perfectly encapsulated this idea.

When I set out to query this new manuscript—a YA paranormal romance—I was fairly confident in my story. I’d prepared myself to wait weeks, if not months, for a response. I’m not a patient person by nature, but I convinced myself I could handle the wait. I sorted my query list from fastest to slowest response time and queried accordingly. But the moment I submitted that first query package, something totally unexpected happened.

I’ll get the suspense out of the way: the rejection came the very next day. But that wasn’t the surprising part. What caught me off guard was the flood of failure I felt before the “no” even landed in my inbox.

That’s some bull crap, right there, my friends!

I honestly don’t know what came over me—fear, self-doubt, etc. Then my mind began to spiral and spin around all the “what ifs” surrounding my writing life. What if nobody wants my story? Do I quit writing? Do I self-publish? What if no one reads it? Then what? What’s the point of continuing? (We’ll save that last answer for another post.)

I think it's called impostor syndrome. I’ve struggled with this feeling for a long time—long before I knew it had a name, and even before I started querying again. But I didn’t let it sink its claws into me … for too long. I queried that first agent and a handful of others, then stopped for several days. The rejection came in. I sat with it. Figured out how much it bothered me. Then I pumped out 25 more queries. (The grave mistake I made? That’s a story for yet another post.)

To date, I’ve received six “no’s.” But they really don’t bother me anymore. Most were form rejections, but one was very nice and personalized—even offering for me to resubmit once I trimmed my word count.

There is hope. And I’m not done yet.

Background:

My husband is Chinese and we’ve always joked about how China is taking over the world with all their products. It’s not as lighthearted as our jokes, but takes on a more dystopian vibe. This is a story I wrote back in 2011, during a time when I was writing more instinctively and less self-consciously than I sometimes do now. It remains one of my favorite things I’ve written, and re-reading it makes me want to return to that raw, story-first style. Let me know what you think—should I revisit this world someday as a possible novel?

Story:

Every window in the house rattled like a snake ready to strike. Seraphine Vincent grasped an etched glass vase with both hands to keep it from slipping off the shelf. While the whole house shook, she clutched the vase, eyes closed, waiting for the bombardment to cease. White dust and bits of plaster rained down from the cracked ceiling. Seraphine’s mouth moved rapidly in a silent prayer. It had been weeks of non-stop bombing at the range, but Seraphine reminded herself that it was only target practice…and for that she was grateful.

After it was over, every window that wasn’t cracked—which was only a handful—was opened, and the door stood ajar to let out the cloud of powdered plaster. Seraphine moved throughout the house methodically wiping down every surface, a futile attempt given she’d be doing it again the next day. That is, of course, if her house could withstand another bombing practice.

Outside, a truck pulled up in front of Seraphine’s little cottage. A man stepped out and shut the door. He was tall and broad-shouldered. He was built like a soldier. Only he wasn’t one, on account that the United States no longer had an army. Not since China had taken over. This man’s face was freckled, and his hair glowed copper in the sunlight. His name was Asher Roth.

Sera looked up at the sound of the truck. She leaned against the door and watched Asher walk up her flagged-stone walkway she’d laid herself. She folded her arms across her chest, dust rag still in hand. She smiled as he passed under the pergola, stooping slightly to avoid the jasmine vine reaching out to grab him. A smile crept slowly across his face as he approached. His arms opened up, and Sera gladly let him enclose her in an embrace.

“Asher,” she said. “Good to see you. You look good.”

“You look older than I remember,” he said. He took a lock of her usually sleek brown hair between his fingers. It was grey with dust.

“Oh,” she said, waving her dust rag back toward the inside of her house. “It never ends, these days. I’m sure my roof is going to cave in if they keep this up any longer.”

They both smiled grimly at the mention of them.

“What lands you on my doorstep, Asher?”

“I’m getting out.”

Sera stared up at him, scrutinizing his expression.

“Where will you go?”

“Montana. The Dakotas. Maybe even Canada if I can. They aren’t letting any of our kind over the border, but maybe there’s a way,” he said with a casual shrug of his shoulders. “Anyway, no point staying here any longer. This isn’t America anymore. Hasn’t been for a long while. They pretty much just gave it to them.”

Sera looked out at[DC1] Asher’s truck. A pair of eyes, beneath curly, carrot-red hair, peered out over the passenger door. She smiled at the girl.

“Jemie is okay?” she said, looking back at Asher. “This must all be very scary for a five-year-old.”

“She’ll be okay once we get out of here. I can’t keep hiding her forever. I can’t wait around to find out what they’ll do,” he said. Then he blurted out, “Seraphine, come with us.”

The statement caught Sera off guard. Asher looked surprised as well. But he recovered quickly and watched Sera, waiting for an answer. Sera knew she was blushing but stared back at Asher anyway. Asher was serious. She could tell. He was ready to leave town that very moment and head to the only territory they had given the former citizens of the United States. The line in the sand. The 40^th parallel. They would have 360 million people squeeze into less than half of the country they once lived. It was not desirable land for them, though they still controlled it.

“I want to beat the crowds. They haven’t started the evictions yet. If we hurry, we might get first dibs on a place to set up camp,” Asher said. “I think once we’re there, we can get organized—”

“Ash,” she said, cutting him off before he could carry on. She looked over Asher’s shoulder. The streets were empty. Cautiously, she continued, “You know I can’t leave. This is still my home. As long as it still stands, they can’t take it from me.”

It was his turn to interrupt.

“Don’t think you're safe because you look a little like them. They don’t care that you’re half the same as them.”

“I’m staying,” she said firmly.

Asher sighed.

“Suit yourself. Take care, then, little Seraphine.”

She smiled.

“Be safe, Asher Roth. Send word if you can. Let me know you’re okay.”

She gave Asher one last hug. He turned and walked back under the pergola and down the path. Sera waved at Jemie, who still peered at them from the car window. Her head popped up over the side as Sera waved and revealed a toothless grin. Sera laughed and gave a hearty wave. As Asher put his truck in gear and pulled away, Jemie slid down and out of sight. She was certain she would never see him or Jemie again.

Sera caressed her belly as she watched Asher drive away, a look of worry creasing her brow. The house wasn’t the only reason she couldn’t leave. With an affectionate pat on her belly, she turned and walked back into her house.

The dust had settled somewhat, making it easier to clean up. Sera picked up the vase she’d been clutching earlier to ensure its safety. Gently, she pressed the rag into all the crevices, pushing out the dust. She rotated it in her hand to get at the other side of the vase when she caught sight of the etching on the bottom of the glass. Flipping it end over end, she ran a delicate fingertip over it, feeling the tiny ridges on her fingers catching the grooves of the minuscule letters. She held it closer to her face, the letters becoming clearer, though she already knew what it said: Made in USA.

Her cheeks flushed as she read the words, the knowledge coursing through her that this vase, a gift to her mother and father on their wedding day, was considered contraband and anyone caught with something such as that could be jailed, or worse, exiled to the land north of the 40^th parallel. The land that was now barren and probably already crowded with other banished or fugitive American refugees. She quickly replaced the vase and instead picked up a picture frame that was face down on the shelf next to it. It had fallen over during the bombing drills. She dusted it off and examined the picture. The woman wore a cheongsam and the man a handsome military uniform. Sera ran a finger across the faces of the smiling couple in the picture. It was her parents’ wedding day. Her mother looked beautiful in her red silk dress with hundreds of tiny, embroidered flowers. Her shiny black hair was pulled back into a bun, which brought out her wide face with high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes. Her father looked down at his new bride, his blond hair cropped short in accordance with military standards.

[DC2] Surely her mother’s blood would be enough to spare her, she thought. Sera moved across the room to the mirror and examined her own reflection. Her hair wasn’t as black and her eyes weren’t as crescent-shaped, but to her, it was enough. She was clearly of Chinese descent.

There was a knock at her door. For a second, she believed it was Asher come back to beg her to go with him and Jemie, but Seraphine glanced at the clock mounted on her cheery yellow—currently dust-free—walls and knew who stood on the other side of that door.

“Just a minute,” she yelled. Quickly, she grabbed the vase and the picture of her parents from their shelf and ran them to the hall closet. She kicked a loose board along the wall, and it shifted aside. Carefully, she set the vase and frame inside and replaced the board. Outside the closet, she composed herself, patting off any extra dust, and strode across the room to the front door. On her doorstep stood a man in a dark green uniform. He was tall, like Asher, but not as broad. His hair was dark, eyes the same familiar crescent shape, flat, high cheekbones, and a devilish smile on his face.

“Ming,” Seraphine said a little breathlessly.

He swept into the room, taking Seraphine in his arms and draping her in a blanket of kisses. It was all she could do to break free of him in order to close the door.

“Please,” she said, almost frightened by his fervor. “Someone will see you.”

“I don’t care,” he said in imperfect English. “Let them see. They’ll only be jealous.”

Seraphine blushed as she let him wrap her up in his arms again. She had first met Ming, when the Chinese Acquisition Army first took over the town. They did door-to-door inspections, clearing out any illegal contraband. Ming had come to her house. The next week, he returned and continued to return week after week. It was always Ming. Seraphine wondered if his commanding officer or other comrades would get suspicious, but he merely waved off her concerns and assured her that everything was fine. They’d spend the entire hour that was allotted for inspection entwined in each other’s arms, breathless and dewy in her bed. It was after one of these inspections that Ming confessed that he was in love with Seraphine, and she too, admitted that she loved him.

Before he could carry her off to her bedroom for their weekly inspection, she wrestled her way out of his arms, laughing and trying to divert his passions if only for a moment. She took his hands in hers and pulled him back in, holding his hands against her chest.

“Do you love me?” she said.

Ming smiled. “Of course.”

She moved his hands downward and placed them on her stomach. She slowly looked up into his handsome face. His expression was confused, but as she felt a smile form on her own lips, comprehension dawned and his lips curled into a brief smile. A few seconds more thought, and his face twisted in disbelief and terror.

“No,” he said, wrenching his hands free from her stomach. “No. It is forbidden.”

He cursed in Chinese and turned away from Seraphine, whose hands now covered her mouth to stifle her sobs. Before any more could be said, there was another knock at the door. Seraphine yelped in surprise. Ming spun around to face her again, fear seeming to permanently etch itself on his face. “Who is it?” he mouthed. Seraphine shook her head.

“Answer it,” he commanded. The authority in his voice did not match the gentleness of his touch as he walked over and wiped away her tears. He straightened out her shirt to better conceal her slight bump and kissed her gently on the forehead. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered.

But afraid, she was. She walked slowly to the door for the third time that day and opened it. Her heart seized as another soldier stood on her doorstep. This one, though, was heavily decorated with sashes, cords, and medals. She heard Ming move behind her and turned to see him standing at attention, saluting the man in front of her. The man, who was older and more severe-looking than Ming, merely nodded, and Ming’s body relaxed. They exchanged words in Chinese, and the man stepped inside, removing his cap and placing it under his arm. He was shorter than Ming and bulging in the midsection, but this did not make him any less intimidating. He looked carefully around the small house and then turned to look at Seraphine. She stared back up at him, waiting for someone to explain to her what was going on.

The man, obviously a high-ranking officer, if not General Wu himself, broke free of her gaze and barked at Ming, whose face suddenly became impassive. He gave another shout, and Chinese soldiers began filing into her living room, lining the walls and trapping her in between. She took a few small steps toward Ming, looking for answers.

“Ming,” she said. “What’s happening?”

The general barked more orders, and Ming fell into line with the other soldiers, never so much as glancing in Seraphine’s direction. Now it was only the two of them standing in the middle of the room. The general finally turned and addressed her directly.

“As you may already be aware,” he said in perfect English. “I am General Wu. We will be acquiring your house for the purposes of the New Republic of China, and you are hereby evicted, effective immediately.”

“This is my home,” she said, somewhat stunned. “What about my things?”

“It all belongs to the NRC,” he said as he walked over to the shelf and picked up a miniature statue. He flipped it over and showed the bottom to Seraphine. “See? Made in China. This will stay.”

“Does my mother’s blood count for nothing?” she said, finding her voice.

“Your mother was Chinese, yes. But half of something means nothing to us.”

Seraphine stared at General Wu in disbelief. She then looked toward Ming for help, but he refused to look at her, his jaw firmly set.

“Where will I go?” she finally said.

“Where the rest of your kind who are of no use to us go. North of the 40^th Parallel,” he said. “You have half an hour to gather some clothes, and then you must go.”

He barked out more orders in rapid, unintelligible Chinese. Two soldiers broke out from the line and flanked Ming. His features mirrored the sudden alarm Seraphine felt. Each soldier took Ming by the wrists and just under his shoulders, twisting his arms behind his back. As they marched him toward the door, Seraphine watched Ming’s now stony expression, anxiously waiting for him to give her any sign that everything would be okay. Only, Ming never even glanced in her direction. He kept his stone-cold stare fixed on something many miles beyond her front door. Then he was gone. With one last ominous look, General Wu followed. Only two of General Wu’s men were left. They stood at attention until the last footfalls of the General vanished.

It was all gone. In one moment, she lost everything. She stood in the center of the

room with the two stone-faced soldiers at her side. Her arms folded across her chest, though

they provided no comfort. After a few moments, the soldier on her left gave her a shove.

“Move,” he said.

She stumbled and let out a cry of surprise. The soldiers moved to the front of the

house and stood at attention by the door. She looked around her room. What would she

take? Where was she going? Tears filled her eyes as questions bombarded her mind. She

grabbed a bag and began stuffing it with clothes without care. It didn’t matter what clothing

was in the bag. When it was half full, she moved over to the wall and knelt next to the

baseboard. Quietly, she pried it loose and removed the vase and picture frame. She placed

them gently in her bag and stuffed more clothing around them.

A shout from the other room alerted her that time was up. She presented herself to

the soldiers, unsure of what was to happen next. Her heart raced at the thought of this being

the last time she’d see her little house. She thought about fighting back, refusing to leave.

“Present your bag for inspection,” one of the soldiers said.

“What?” said Sera, clearly panicked by the request.

The other soldier snatched it from her hand without another request. Sera reached

out for the bag. The first soldier’s arm connected with her chest, sending her to the

ground. Dropping the bag on the ground, the second soldier held up the contraband.

“What is this?”

“Please,” she said. “It’s all I have. My parents…”

The soldiers fixed her with cold, uncaring stares. The second soldier then threw the

vase to the ground, smashing it into pieces. He followed it quickly and ruthlessly with the

picture frame. Sera sobbed as she tried to reach for the mangled photograph of her parents.

The soldiers laughed, kicking Sera’s hand away and stomping on the picture.

“Please,” she cried.

The first soldier grabbed Sera by the back of her head and pulled her to her feet.

He marched her out to the street and shoved her to the ground.

“You are nothing but a dirty half-blood,” he spat. “You are lucky we let you live.

Now leave, or your luck might change.”

Sera struggled to her feet, her knees scraped and bleeding, her hands flecked with

gravel. She turned away from her house—her home—and took a deep breath. She thought

about her last words to Asher before he left. Her reason for staying. Her home. She thought

about the things she didn’t tell him: Ming, the baby. It was all gone. All of it. And now it

was too late. Asher was already gone. Sera was on her own.

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Hello dear (future) readers.

I’m Cassie Cooper, and I’ve been writing for (you guessed it) as long as I can remember. Not breaking any new ground there, but that’s not really what I’m trying to do now, is it? The trail has already been blazed by countless others before me, so no need to reinvent the wheel, right?

Right. Enough with the idioms.

I’m at a point in my life where it’s time to do what I’ve been putting off for a very long time. Publish. I’m still torn between whether I want to self-publish (a la Substack, Kindle, or whathaveyou) or go the traditional route.

I started this Substack to not only test the waters with digital publishing but also to get back in touch with my inner writer. While I have managed to write nearly three novels since I started writing again in the Fall of 2020, it was an uphill battle, whereas before writing had been something I considered as easy as breathing. After I had my three children (the first of whom passed as a newborn), I no longer had the capacity to keep writing or reading…all my brain power and creative juices went to my children. It wasn’t until 2020 (wonder why?) that I felt the urge to get back to what I had loved so much before kids.

The world had screeched to a halt. We had to stay home. There were no more playdates, or school pickups or drop offs, no more REC soccer or swim lessons. We were stuck indoors. Life had suddenly become much simpler again.

It felt like the right time to pick up writing again.

But something had changed. It was different. It was hard.

Fast forward five years, and I still find it harder than I did before I had kids, but I’ve powered through, and I know I can find that ease in writing I once had.

What You’ll Find Here

Some of my old writing. Some new. Random musings about books, ghosts, love, and the things that inspire my stories. Eventually, serialized fiction. Some of it will be polished. Some will be messy. You can help shape it if you want.

If you love stories (especially ones with a bit of magic or romance) and enjoy peeking behind the curtain of the writing life, I think you’ll feel at home here.

For now, it’s free. Later, I’ll offer more for subscribers, like early chapters, behind-the-scenes posts, and a little community for book lovers and writers.

So—where do we start? Right here. Leave a comment, tell me what you’re reading, or just say hi. I’d love to get to know you.

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