“Fine, you win.” I might as well be saying that out loud as I type this. I never intended to cause controversy with Victim’s third chapter. What caused that controversy isn’t even the focus of the plot. In the original version, Rina and Mica do some world-building and express almost word-for-word some opinions they inherited. That was never intended to be political (in a real-world sense), cause controversy, or come across as clichéd. It was actually meant to be confronted in chapters 13 and 17. But the controversy has come to overshadow the story itself.

I’ve done too many blog posts on the subject. This will be yet another (and the new afterword once the book is republished under my new pen name). But, it is worth repeating that I wrote Victim during my senior year of college. Looking back, I can see why I included the scene in question. I actually went back-and-forth on it for a while beforehand. If I were to write this story today, I would do it differently. I’d probably scratch that scene and incorporate the murderscreens with the history of the Day of Remembrance better at other points in the book. But, overall, I’m not sure it’d be the same story. And I don’t want to dwell on it from that perspective. I’d rather pacify the situation, rerelease my book, and move on to conquer future projects.

There are certain creative decisions I will vehemently defend. An unintended controversy in my first book that I almost didn’t include, don’t really have a pressing desire to keep, and that enrages gun rights activists? In this case, I’m finally opting to edit chapter three. When this book is rereleased under my new pen name, it will have a (hopefully) controversy-free third chapter. Yes, it will still have the murderscreens and the Day of Remembrance. Rina’s motivations might make a bit less sense later, but so be it.

Now, as an author, I get to finally close this chapter. It’s no secret that something in Victim hasn’t sat right for me for the past few years. After its rerelease, the story can breathe. Anyone interested can find the original third chapter on my website (renjdorian.com), along with some reflections on it. The overall story is still intact. I hope you enjoy it.

-Ren J Dorian, September 29, 2020

You will likely want to read these reflections before continuing:

[Afterword (Victim)]

[Victim’s Stance on Guns]

[Looking Back and Looking Forward]

3

When she joined me in the kitchen, her hair was blue. It was a pleasant shade, with a bit of lighter green mixed into it. Her black shirt was too big for her, with the overly-long sleeves covering up her scars upon her arms. The long purple skirt covered up the rest of them, since her body was nearly covered. I personally did not care if she hid them or not, but I knew how much she worried that others would stare at her. She already got enough stares without the scars.

“Yes, I used the rapid heal.” She said, sending out a glare in the direction of both me and Ms. Henson, knowing that it was a question we both should be wanting to ask. ‘It itches’ she probably wanted to say, just so that she could show me her distrust of it. But the mother was in the room. Standing at my right, Ms. Henson was staring at her daughter now, no longer at the wall. I knew without looking that her eyes were blank, showing the ‘hollowness’ that had likely sent Rina’s thoughts into that spiral to begin with.

“Ready?” I asked, holding out my right hand. I angled my body a bit, playing a role for all three of us. In that moment, I was a gentleman of the movies, one who could come in and sweep the heroine off her feet. This was the hand that could carry her onto the dancefloor, or that could pull her from a fire’s flames. I could lift her up into the sky with me, or I could lead her away into the secrets of another world. For now, I just held my hand out there, ready to take hers in my own.

I could feel a smile lift itself upon my face. Perhaps this performance was for more than just me to do. Rina’s pose was different now, as she grabbed her skirt and bent down in an attempt at a curtsey. She leaned a bit to her left, trying to balance in the odd foot position. So this was the hand that would take her onto the dancefloor, in one of the parties of a royal court of centuries ago. Maybe that too could take us into another world.

She was smiling, the lightness of her eyes radiating out into the world. The demon voice must be quiet, now letting her experience some peace. Maintaining the performance, I pulled her towards me. I held up her hand above our heads, imitating a movie we saw together once. Turning towards the door, I took a step and bent my knees, lifting myself back up after. Was that how that went? I felt her twirl, spinning her hand in mine. Her heel crushed my foot, sending me a shot of pain. She removed her foot as I lowered my arm. The illusion was broken.

There was a pressure upon my arm. Turning my head slowly, I saw that it was Ms. Henson. Her skin was wrinkled, dry. Looking older than her years. I turned the rest of me, letting myself look back to face her. There was a desperation in her eyes, one that contrasted itself so vividly with the hollowness that I usually saw. It was her eyes that were crying out to me, since we both knew her voice no longer could say everything she needed to. She was begging me to help her. To help Rina.

“I know.” I said, letting myself be the voice. Even so, I saw her mouth open. She was trying to say something, just to get out the words. Patiently, I waited. Even as I knew how impatient Rina was becoming on my other side.

“Protect her.” I could hear the miniscule whisper, the cracking of her voice. We both knew how hard it was for her to speak sometimes.

“I will. I promise.” I said, meaning it sincerely. My mind would protect me; I would protect Rina. That did not change Ms. Henson’s eyes.

“Wait.” She mouthed this one. There was still the desperation in her eyes, as her hand still clutched my arm. On my other hand, Rina was pulling me, trying to get me out of there with her impatience. She barely had the time of day to breathe around the mother, let alone speak with her. I knew it annoyed her that I spoke to Ms. Henson, and that I acknowledged her existing. Even I did not know why I did.

She motioned with her hand. I leaned in, feeling Rina’s protest. Ms. Henson lifted her mouth to my ear.

“There are things you don’t know. Something bad is coming; I can feel it. I can hear it in the whispers. Please, please. Protect her.” The words tumbled out of Ms. Henson, more in number than I usually saw her try to speak. I pulled my head back, seeing her fear. She could hear it in the whispers?

“Let them go.” Mr. Henson’s voice. I turned, seeing him by the other door. “They just announced the trains are down.” His eyes were red, showing how little sleep and how many tears had crossed them there. His big frame and obvious beard stood in odd contrast to the kindness of his eyes, and the sadness always lingering there. If I had not known him and had passed him on the street, then I would have gone to the other side just to avoid him. However, I did know him. And that man appeared to have no temper.

Ms. Henson still clung onto my arm, trying to hold onto both me and Rina. I could feel Rina tugging my other hand more forcefully now, as I could feel how desperately she wanted to get out of there. Witnessing her mother break down was never a pleasant thing.

“Miri. Please. Just let them go.” He said, sounding weary of the world.

“They need to know. I have to warn them.” I could barely hear the whisper. Ms. Henson struggled a bit through the words, even as they tried to tumble from her. In her eyes, I could see the doubt begin, as she began to confuse herself over her own words. Right now, I imagined her wondering what she was talking about, as I had seen her ask mid-sentence before. I hoped silently that it would not come to that.

“Miri.” He said again, sounding calm and patient. I could see the gears shifting in her brain, slowly grinding back into place.

“Okay.” She mouthed, seeming so unsure of herself. Finally, she let go of me, as something on the wall seemed to catch her attention. Turning like a distracted child, she stared again at the paint. Rina nearly yanked my arm off, as she pulled me out the door. I let her take me.

“Let’s go.” Rina said, having pulled me onto the outdoors walkway. Before the door closed behind me, I saw Mr. Henson come up behind Ms. Henson and put his arm around her. That would not be me and Rina some day, would it?

Let’s hope things would never get that bad. And that’s if you two can both survive that long. My mind interrupted my wonderings, as Rina began to pull again on my arm. That last part seemed mean-spirited. Even for the trickster.

“Okay, okay. Calm down. The trains are down. We’ll have to walk today.” I said to her, turning again to face her. I started walking in the direction of the stairs, as I could see the smile on her face. She followed, hanging onto my arm. We walked together, leaving her building and heading towards the street. Other people were passing us. Most were in a hurry, some were taking their time. One woman was trying not to cry. We kept walking, turning the corner.

Rina started pulling on my arm.

I turned, seeing her eyes looking up. The gigantic view screen. But, this one was not a news screen; it was a murderscreen. The entire side of this building was covered in one screen that would broadcast the news constantly. Right now, it was covered in hundreds, maybe thousands, of pictures of people. A variety of ages, skin colors, genders. Every one of them had been murdered within the past year. The Day of Remembrance was approaching.

It’s the day after tomorrow.

“It’s illegal to publish the names of killers. Do you know why?” Rina asked. I looked back at her, seeing the fear in her eyes again. It was hard not to notice how many of the victims shared something in common with Rina. Many had the same skin tone, some the same gender. A few even had similarly-dyed hair. I answered her:

“Because of the revenge-seekers and the attention-seekers. They taught us in school that too many killers were trying to out-do each other, trying to get their name out in the media and earn their bit of fame. Or they were trying to glorify an institution, raising society’s fear of that particular group. Didn’t you learn about it?”

“I must have been out that week.” She said, her eyes on the ground. Her other hand was fidgeting with the bottom of her shirt, looking restless. Was she absent because of a time of hurting herself?

I gave her a quick synopsis of gun violence followed by the history of terrorism and school shootings. I felt my voice reciting what was probably almost word-for-word how we had been taught. Because of the Control of Information Act, the teachers had to recite just one blanket statement. They could not add or subtract anything on the most sensitive topics.

“I don’t like guns.” Her eyes still on the ground, Rina was looking a bit childish. In a good, innocent way though. Although, perhaps, she was being a bit naïve. Maybe we both were.

“I know. They’re a bad technology.” I said, quoting her a bit childishly. I saw her eyes jump back up to mine. I knew why she felt that way: she was at a heightened risk of dying by one.

“That’s what I said when I was little, and I still think it’s true.” She declared, emphasizing her strong (albeit, rather simplistic) view. “Guns are only made to kill. I know there’s a difference between hunting humans and using one to defend yourself. But even a wimp can hold a gun and suddenly find power within their hands. It gives them the privilege to do what they want since everyone else is so terrified of them. If I pass a random person with one on the street, how do I know they’re not going to shoot me with it? It’s better that they’re less common now.”

She passed here, having run so quickly through her words. I could see the energy, the fear in how she had talked. There was also a passion in her voice, a strength in her view. I could see the gears turning in her brain, a potential fight with the demon voice. She breathed in.

“What happened?” she asked.

“The Victim Remembrance Movement.” I said, letting my eyes wander back up the screen. “It’s the reason why they stop the trains the day after tomorrow: for Remember The Victims Day. Also known as The Day of Remembrance.”

We both knew what that one was.

Lingering there, our eyes gazed at the faces on the screen. There was so many of them. All of these pictures were of smiling faces, having been taken when they were happy in life. While we were standing there, the woman from before appeared. She was crying freely now, the tears running from her eyes. I watched her lay some flowers on the ground, adding to the make-shift memorial at the foot of the screen. She lingered there, just like we did. Looking back at the screen, I could hear her sobs. Rina tightened her grip.

“Let’s take a trip somewhere.” She said suddenly, interrupting the sound of the woman’s tears. She was pulling at my arm, calling my eyes to her. The woman became silent.

“Us? On a trip? Where would we go?” I asked, feeling a smile creep its way onto my face. The sadness was still heavy in the air.

“To the big city.” She said, her eyes so big and full of wonder. It was as if she was gazing over a world of falling cherry blossoms. Or, at the very least, as if she was staring at a wide, free blue sky, seeing things that I never could. Was she seeing beyond the grey?

There must have been some uncertainty on my face, even as I stared into her eyes. I was the one who suggested we go somewhere, but not that far. Maybe just the other side of town? She continued:

“A bit ago, you said let’s go anywhere but here. Why not go a bit farther?” I could still see the wonder in her eyes, trying to pull me in. The woman started wailing.

“How far would we really go? Would the big city really-” I started to say. But I stopped myself. I had to stop myself. Those were words that I could not say in front of Rina, words that I was not ready to say out loud. I just could not voice them to her. Not now. Not to her.

Would it really change anything? Would the big city really bring us closer to the bright blue sky? Or would we just lose her there instead?

I did not want to lose her. I had dodged the question before: could I survive without her? She had hurt herself today. I knew how highly she raised her expectations, and how devastating a blow to them could be. Would I really be able to protect her there?

“Would that really change anything? Rina, would it?” I could hear the desperation in my own voice. The words had just tumbled out. There was no way to take them back. The woman’s wails seemed to be getting louder. And louder. I could not lose her.

I did not think she meant it to be that serious, but I had taken it that way. She had meant it in the mood of ‘why not?’, and I had taken it as so much more than that. To me, it had to be so much more. I found my eyes looking down.

I had already lost someone else important to a ‘trip’. My brother was my legal guardian for so many years because of them. And because of their selfishness. Were they even still alive?

“Don’t just say yes, Rina. Give me a reason. Please. A good, solid reason. Please, I need to hear one.” That was true, even as my words wanted to set me on my knees, begging with all my might and all my cowardly strength. Would it really change anything?

“I don’t know.” Rina’s answer. I glanced back at her so quickly that I did not have time to blink. There I saw her face; her eyes were looking upwards, back at that murderscreen.

For the sake of consistency, this was also removed from chapter 11:

“Tell me what else I missed in school.” Rina said. She drank some of her water, keeping her eyes on me.

“Well, they’re closing transit tomorrow for the Day of Remembrance.” I stated, unsure where to start.

“You already told me that. Tell me some more about the day.”

“What, you never participated in it? I thought every schoolkid did?” Not every. Parents can opt their kids out.

“No, my parents forbade it. They thought it was too depressing.”

“Okay, well. . . ” My thoughts were wandering for a moment, trying to picture a younger Rina whose parents could find something too depressing. Things must have been very different then. Rina took a bite of her pizza, awaiting my response. I spoke:

“Every year, they put on this big parade. All known murder victims, for as long as we’ve recorded murders, get at least a schoolkid holding their photo, if there is one. These schoolkids then all march in various parades around the world. Combined, these parades represent the victims. We have too many to fit in one parade, so they all get divided out, I think by where they’re from.

“The more recent, or better known, victims usually get a float. There they have some relative or important person make a speech about the value of that person’s life. For example, Ann Marie always gets her own float, and at least one important person talking about her. We all know her name because of studying who murdered her. But, in order to talk about him, we can only legally do it by talking about her. So, she gets her own float and people who give out speeches.”

“Wait, how much do we really know about her?” Rina asked, interrupting.

“Enough for someone to get up there and talk. But no one ever questions a victim’s worth to be up there. No matter what, they’re still honored. But we still have murders today, even with all the effort of the Remember the Victims Movement. There are so many theories, and they undoubtedly come up at this parade. Some people even argue that the Remember the Victims Movement just deflects from the major social issues causing violence in our society. But no one ever agrees, all they do is debate and examine theories. How good is examining a problem if you don’t actually act to try to fix it?” I was rambling at this point, trying to follow where my thoughts were going.

[link to excerpt]

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Genre: Horror

Pages: [Not yet recorded]

Word Count: [~7.5k as of December 13, 2020]

Publishing Date: Pending plotting, editing, writing, more editing, more writing, a final readthrough, and then betas

Summary:

[Summary has yet to be written, but I have some ideas. There are more gory dream sequences than usual in my outline so far.]

Sum it up in one sentence:

(????)

About:

That’s a working title above, but it seems to fit reasonably well. I might keep it

This book mostly has a main premise. It was originally a little mini project I set aside after drafting the opening scene. I didn’t know where I was going with it at all! But I wanted to draft that first chapter after a weird encounter I’d had. There’s a real city I visited while working abroad where they are planning to remove some environmental clean-up domes from the harbor. I asked where the domes would go and got a strange non-answer. It occurred to me how frustrating that could be.

But then a friend of a friend came out during the pandemic lockdown. I read her post on social media where she used the term masking. I’d heard it before, but not in that context. It’s occurred to me how vigilant people are around neurotypes in the US, but not where I’ve been living abroad. It’s actually a nice respite. When I was walking on the beach later, a whole list of plotpoint-like ideas came to me for this side project. I had just finished a wonderful writing retreat on that beach (and, for obvious reasons, wasn’t planning to leave the area yet), so it seemed like a wonderful time to explore those ideas. This particular draft is currently a secondary project while I focus primarily on The Man on the Stage.

(By the way, that real city is actually a very pleasant place to visit. I wouldn’t want to live there for very long, but it’s actually really nice. I wanted to fit the horror tone better with some darker scenes for the book.)

Nate’s song? He should have one, but I haven’t picked it yet. That’s also a different name than I would usually go with. What do I mean by that? I’ve had some real-world friends named Nate. Usually I wouldn’t use that name for a main character because of it.

[link to excerpt]

[link to amazon page]

[link to return to novels]

[Victim]

As someone who loves horror, I sometimes lose touch with how people outside the genre view it. It’s no secret that something still nags me about Victim. I’ve done several blog posts on it:

[Victim’s Stance on Guns]

[Looking Back and Looking Forward]

Well, it’s getting reviews again. And I got two in a row that call Mica schizophrenic. Really? That’s time travel shenanigans. But you likely wouldn’t know that unless you read my [Balance of Souls] setting descript. The original intention was a separate character in the voidspace, a literal separate space Mica gets transported to via his own mind. I can see where they read schizophrenia, but some part of me panics about cancel culture and how much I detest the concept that authors must always be speaking directly to the reader. I’m not a preacher.

I remember that one early beta did express concern about Mica’s mental health, but she framed it in the context of anxiety. I actually tuned down and rewrote parts of the book because of that feedback. I don’t necessarily mind reviewers bringing up schizophrenia, but I worry about it being misconstrued. My grandmother was mentally ill (schizophrenia is a likely possibility, in all honesty, but we never figured it out). Aside from that, I have almost no knowledge of schizophrenia. And it certainly was not my intention.

In learning twitter, and in trying to promote my books more by maintaining a social media presence, I’m also learning how vicious it is. I was already aware of cancel culture and authors getting deplatformed, but we’re human just like everyone else. I cannot possibly read every possible angle something could be read from. And, even if I could, I’m not going to be able to please everyone. Thinking like that actively discourages me from writing since it expects an impossible level of perfection. But I’m getting off-topic.

Genre.

Specifically, Victim’s.

It’s been pointed out to me in the past that I don’t stay well in genre. This is true, but I don’t see it as a bad thing. Victim isn’t easy to describe in a traditional sense. One of the new reviews calls it “partly a quest, partly a morality play, and partly a mystery.” He (“scifiguy”) did get that the journey they’re one isn’t just a literal train to the city. But the literal train journey is the easiest thing to put in a book summary.

The original feel of the time point (before I started expanding on it to create my [Balance of Souls] setting), was modeled somewhat on 1984. That just happens to be one of my favorite books, right up there with Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. The setting moved away from it, but a lot of that feel remains. I have said before that I don’t think Victim can stand on its own as only a horror book. That’s still true, but I tend to go back and forth on it.

In fact, I’m still going back and forth on it. Roughly three years later.

The other review says that they only recommend it for readers who enjoy horror. It’s classed in both science fiction (general) and horror on amazon. I would class it in just science fiction horror if I could, but that’s not a real option. Part of this issue might be that pubby (the system I’m trying to use to get more reviews) wouldn’t let me class it in two genres. I went back and forth a bit before putting it in sci-fi. That being said, I just reclassed it in horror on pubby. I think readers will handle it better there.

The cover is, in part, a warning: this book is dark. It’s the darkest book I’ve published so far. The original Into the Unknown (the unpublished version) was so terrifying that I rewrote it. It Began with a Dream, in my opinion, actually varies in how dark it is. I’ve gone back and forth on IBwaD’s genre as well, but it’s so gorey that it makes that decision much easier. You can’t class Carrie as anything but a horror, and it’s the same for IBwaD. But that means that IBwaD is practically classed in genre for me. Victim isn’t like that.

And, ultimately, I’m tired of feeling unsettled around Victim.

I’m updating the site to only class it as a sci-fi horror (not just an S-H). And I’ll be keeping it classed in horror on pubby. Going forward, I’m going to do my best to only call it a sci-fi horror. Not just a darker sci-fi. I may even lean more into it being a horror. But I want it to finally feel settled.

Maybe the monster in Mica’s void will haunt some readers’ nightmares again. Mwahahaha!

(Here’s a positive thing about the pen name change: Amazon’s updated their system. I’m no longer as limited by the traditional BISAC codes, even though they’re technically still used. I can now put it in both sci-fi (general) and horror. When I first published Victim through createspace, I could only class it in one genre. Now I get two.)

Here’s the three reviews on Victim so far post pen name change:

Today I checked the results: 153 copies! That was much better than I expected. This number was split in between three different ebooks, but I’m still impressed. I hope my books are well-enjoyed

(By the way, I barely gained any more followers on twitter while undergoing the pen name change. From my perspective, anyone who was going to purchase a copy probably did so before I rereleased them. I don’t think this really impacted my sales, but I do hope that I gained some more readers from it.)

[It Began with a Dream]

TW: arachnids, bugs, don’t read if you’re squeamish

The stranger who served as Ahsi’s guest will henceforth be called R. Why? Because it’s his first initial. Aside from his opinions, and grandiose trying-too-hard demeanor, he was wholly unremarkable. Truly.

When Harvey dismissed him so blatantly from dinner, R wandered grumpily towards the entrance hall.

“D*mn sympathizers. Every last one of ‘em.” He grumbled to himself. They deserved his miserable mood, not him. From his perspective, anyway.

“It’s gotta be a house full of ‘em!” He declared, stubbornly kicking a table leg. “I’d bet this Gina is one too.”

Sllk! Sllllllk! Slllk! Slllk! Instinctively, R stopped walking. That was not a pleasant sound. Like a lot of little, metallic legs slipping by in the walls. He couldn’t help but let his eyes dart around. Nothing looked that out of place.

A cockroach scuttled by. Vindictively, R crushed it underfoot. Then he ground his heel into it, pushing it as hard as he could into the tile floor. He scrunched his lips into a pursed snarl, graveling his throat into a minor cord. He couldn’t stand Ekzers.

“D*mn sympathizers.” He repeated, grumbling to himself. He shoved his hands into his pockets, absentmindedly fishing his pinky finger through a hole. The tip of his finger contacted the skin on his leg. He could actually feel the hair there. In the meantime, he stepped into the entrance hall.

“Aah!” He exclaimed in an embarrassingly-high voice. At the exact same moment, he yanked his hands out of his pockets. A wasp was still attached to his pinky finger. A big, red, weltering sting was growing on the tip. Frantically, he started waving his hand around.

“Get off! Go away!” He yelled. The wasp was persistent, maintaining its determined grip. No matter how much he swung his hand around, the wasp just wouldn’t let go. He started stumbling around the room, trying to bang his hand into something.

Clang! He bumped into a wire umbrella stand. Several bugs scuttled away from underneath it: spiders, cockroaches, and ants mostly. It was unnerving how many of them he saw. When he blinked, he thought he saw movement on the steps. And that wasp was still on his finger.

“I need to get out of here.” He mumbled to himself. His adrenaline was surging in his blood. R stumbled for the door, but tripped over his own two feet. When he hit the floor, there was a wolf spider directly in front of his eyes. It wasn’t even two inches away.

The size of his palm, the furry, dark brown arachnid was staring right at him with big, black, beady eyes. It had what looked like two long, furry fangs protruding down from its mouth. As its body seemed to rise up, R caught sight of more wolf spiders behind it. They were running right for him.

“F*ck!” The stranger exclaimed. In an instant, he was on his feet. As he scrambled for the door, something slithered up his leg. He winced in pain when the bites started making contact: on his leg, his neck, his arms, and his hands. The door began to ease itself open. He thought he saw a dark hand on the outside handle.

Thump! He slammed into the floor. The tile was hard, unforgiving. Behind him, he caught sight of an army. The wolf spiders led the charge, climbing onto him with incessant speed. But he was so close! The bugs started coating his legs. Next was his chest and head. He tried waving his arms and kicking his legs, but they only weighed him down. Soon he could barely move.

R caught sight of the bottom of the door. Someone really had opened it. Desperately, he forced his hand through the mass of arachnid bodies. He felt their little hairs itching against his skin. As he pushed his hand through, he felt the firm, yet scuttling legs and torsos. As soon as he grabbed the door, he made the mistake of sighing in relief.

The cockroaches launched the next phase. They invaded his mouth, crawling down his throat. He could feel the antennae and insipid legs swarming into him. In no time, they were choking him. As he struggled to gasp for air, his hands flew to his mouth. He started yanking them out as best he could.

For every cockroach he forced out, another two were already in. It was a losing battle. In the meantime, panic set in. His adrenaline spiraled upwards into a lightheaded, pitiful, almost ghostly burst in his skull. He tilted his head back, his hands flailing. He was slowing down, unable to combat the swarm.

A shadow was in the doorway. He thought it belonged to a woman, the owner of the hand he’d seen on the door handle. When he blinked, the darkness came in around his vision. But he could still see someone there. Inside his stomach, he was cognizant of the cockroach army expanding to push out his gut. His lungs were enflamed, burning on the insides. This woman was his last hope.

Gina. He tried to say her name, but the mass in his throat was too large. When she stepped forward, he got a better view. The light was still behind her, so her face was in shadow, but he was seeing ripples moving along her skin. When she began to lean towards him, he finally figured it out.

She was a golem. A being made entirely of bugs.

The cockroaches began marching up her arm. They joined the worms and ants that made up her fingers, settling in at her knuckles. When more slithered up, they darted into her humble clothes. Slowly, the mass in his belly lessened. He still couldn’t breathe (and the world was growing darker), but at least they were leaving. The weight surrounding him was also lessening.

“You will leave.” Gina thundered like a million gusts of wind. “And you will never come back.”

The stranger tried to nod his head. But then the world went dark. He was out.

[It Began with a Dream]

“It’s a pity.” The (almost) naked artist whispered loudly to himself. He was staring longingly at the ceiling. Munching habitually on his apple core, he made sure to study the space above him in its entirety. I, meanwhile, was taking a break from packing. I had detoured to the entrance hall steps on my way to the kitchen.

As I approached, I sent my eyes to the ceiling. The basement mural was, once again, covered in the thick, grey, dust-like substance.

“Yeah, it is.” I said, coming up to stand alongside him. He jumped at least a good six inches, giving me immense satisfaction. It felt wonderful to scare a ghost for once, as opposed to the other way around. I smiled triumphantly at him. Admittedly, that felt a bit childish, but I was enjoying the moment. When he made eye contact, it still took him a moment to blink himself back to normal.

“We could always do it again?” He suggested hopefully, raising an eyebrow. His erratic hair seemed to stand further on end. That suggestion didn’t sit well with me.

“You can do it.” I decided, remaining strong in my resolve. I really didn’t want to stay here (not even for something that had piqued my curiosity so strongly). Maybe Gina would help him.

“But no one else can see me.” He lamented, his tone plummeting. He gave me a look that was, in itself, rather pitiful.

“Ahsi can?” I suggested halfheartedly. I realized a moment too late that I wasn’t certain that was true. I hadn’t said my goodbyes to her yet. In fact, I’d been purposefully dodging my uncle.

Hmpf. He scoffed, his eyes wandering off to my right. Yeah, I couldn’t really picture the two of them painting together either.

“Well. . .” I started to add to my thought, but no one else was coming to mind. I voiced a different idea instead:

“You might not need help.”

That sounded a bit uncertain out loud. His eyebrows burrowed in confusion, his gaze returning to intently stare into mine. His brown eyes were still hopeful that I’d help him repair it. I was recalling Lucy and Serena’s contrasting grips on reality.

“I just watched a ghost hammer wooden boards over a door. Surely you can figure out how to handle a paintbrush.” I tried to sound more confident. Although I didn’t intend to, I felt I might have sounded a bit condescending. But, it’d been said. If I gave him the courage, and I convinced him it was possible, then maybe it would work. Sure, Serena had trouble carrying an envelope or catching a plate of food. But she was just beginning to understand how to interact with the world. The artist might not even know it’s in his potential.

He looking longingly back at the ceiling. I saw his hands awkwardly rub against each other, his apple core sinking back underneath his grip. He stared a moment longer, sighing loudly. Then he brought his gaze back down to me.

“I’m not sure I can.” He lamented.

“So you’re not willing to try?” I asked. My reaction was almost instinctive. Inside, I could feel a certain energy surging in my blood. He blinked at me.

“Gina, bring the supplies.” I declared, waving my hand at the general direction of where the ladder should go. Maybe I really could give him the courage. I didn’t actually know if he could do it or not, but there was always the possibility.

Predictably, Gina brought in our supplies. I caught sight of her various creatures: spiders, cockroaches, and ants mostly. Once the ladder was set up, she placed various supplies beside it. At quick glance I could see paint brushes, mixing trays, cleaning rags, and some water. I poked through the pile to find what I was looking for.

“Try?” I asked, holding out a paintbrush. I had the handle towards him, just waiting for him to grasp it. Slowly, with tremendous uncertainty, he raised his hand. When he fingers bumped into mine, I felt the habitual chill. When I felt the weight transfer, I let go.

The brush didn’t fall. The artist held his grip.

That’s a normal part of the process. I like to return to it with fresh eyes.

I’d rather not try to do that readthrough while I’m abroad, so it’ll probably have to wait until I’m back in the US. That being said, I said that about my pen name change. So, maybe I’ll do it sooner? (It looks like I might be returning in January, but I really don’t know yet.)

Right now, I’m finding myself thinking about how long of a project this has been. IBwaD is my longest book to date, but it was plotted that way. I knew it’d be long when I started it. But I didn’t know it’d take me seven years. This was my first NaNoWriMo project in November of 2013.

I know why it took so long. This project has also suffered through the most rewrites. And the most drastic changes in my writing style. And the biggest volume of old writing I had to clean up (which was problematic for this project, even more so than Wing). It also got sent to the back burner frequently in favor of other works. And I’ve learned A LOT more about the inclusion of LGBT characters since my initial draft. These things weren’t intentional, but that’s what happened.

This is not my first book. It’s on track to be my fourth published book. If you count my unpublished books, then this is the sixth book I’ve written. The fact that I’ve finished another book actually feels a bit routine now. But, what doesn’t feel routine is that this is IBwaD. A project that’s been begging for completion for seven years now.

I can always look back on my work and see what was going on in my life at the time. To an outsider, a lot of that probably feels a bit random. For example, the way I describe a jet crossing the sky in Victim tells me that I watched FLCL with a friend that semester. The lion on the train reminds me that I was in a course studying Nietzsche. And the way Rina sits follows the pattern of my friend Madison. Reading Victim inevitably reminds me of these examples and a multitude of others that I haven’t listed out. But what I’m describing all comes from roughly one year in my own life. With IBwaD, what I see comes from about seven years.

That’s a big difference. Certain sections of the work favor particular times during those years (probably when I worked on the initial writing for that section the most). For example, the physical pain that Goren feels in phase one is based off of my real world experience of chronic pain. I no longer struggle with pain because of surgery I finally got access to in July of last year. But those pain reminders are in the same book as a line of dialogue that reminds me of my current roommate’s abusive ex. And, weirdly enough, Marvel’s Dr. Strange movie. Per IMDB, that movie came out in 2016. My pain was chronic from 2014 to 2019. And I didn’t even meet that roommate until July of 2020.

But this project was started in 2013. That was the first time I lived in a building with radiators. This is reflected once or twice in the book based off of random observations I remember having about them. For example, I remember being surprised by the smell that would accumulate when people tried to dry their clothes on the radiators on a humid day. That’s a very distinct smell, and it turned out to be perfect for describing the scent of a particular scene. Here’s another example: 2013 is when I finally asked my dad what a mimeograph is. One actually appears in chapter 17. Also, the woman in white is a not-so-subtle homage to my favorite Wilkie Collins book. I first read it in 2013.

All these reminders give me an oddly distorted time-view (for lack of a better wording). I’m more accustomed to seeing about a year in my life when I finish writing a book. Not seven.

But I’m glad it’s done. Finally finishing this old a project gives me a wonderful sense of completion. It’s also my first complete horror novel. What I’ve written of horror in the past was mostly short stories. I had the occasional longer draft, but this is the first time that I’ve successfully expanded one into a novel.

It’s now set aside for the final readthrough. I’ve already texted my betas.

And I get to take a break. TMotS will move up to become my primary project. I haven’t decided the new secondary project yet. But I have plenty of ideas and little drafts to choose from. Maybe a compilation of short stories? I could always set up a framing device. But first I’d have to . . .

I’m off to enjoy my break. The beach is calling.

(Here’s an odd side note: The Woman in White was Wilkie Collins’ fifth published book. It Began with a Dream will be my fourth. If I count Y (since it was initially published, but later unpublished), then they actually line up: my fifth book includes a homage to his fifth book. That wasn’t planned.)

(Another side note: time-view feels logical to my brain. I’m to the point that I joke about Shakespearing words whenever I run spellcheck on a document. But I don’t see that as a bad thing. I see it as an ability to be more versatile in my use of language )

[Victim]

Note from the future: this post is (sort of) about [Victim’s Original Third Chapter]. You may also want to read Victim’s [afterword].

I’m in a weird position by rereleasing my books under an updated writing name. I have found that, in looking forward, I’m also looking back. Especially around Victim.

Before I continue, you’ll likely want to read this blog post: [Victim’s Stance on Guns]

I still get some frustrating feedback on that subject in Victim. Since I’m rereleasing my books under my updated writing name, now is also a good time to clarify that in the book itself. I’m not doing anything major. In fact, I counted six instances where I added a line, rewrote a line, or deleted something. For example:

“Although, perhaps, she was being a bit naïve. Maybe we both were.”

I added that to what some of my readers have called the “preachy bit” in chapter three. That bit was never intended to be preachy – it was intended to show their simplistic view of guns while also doing some world building. Admittedly, I wrote this in college. I would probably approach it differently if I wrote the book now. (Don’t know what I’m talking about? Read the above link.)

Here’s another example:

“She declared, emphasizing her strong (albeit, rather simplistic) view.”

That breaks up what was a block of dialogue text. It helps clarify their viewpoint, but I’ve improved enough as a writer to see that I should have already broken up that text. I held myself back from making too many of those sorts of updates – everyone improves, and I am not an exception. Although I did take this opportunity to clarify one other thing:

“I knew why it was happening. But I just saw Rina, my girlfriend. Not . . . that. She was perfect to me.”

That change isn’t about gun violence. It’s about why a woman reacts so badly to Rina on the train. This was a common point of confusion amoung readers. I’m still not outlining the exact reason in the text, but now it should be clearer that Mica is not narrating every detail about her. I’ll still allow each reader to draw their own conclusion about why people see her in a particular way.

I stand by these changes. I have my reasons, and they are documented above.

But I’m also looking forward.

(I did, admittedly, fix three typos that have been pointed out to me by readers. Whoops.)

This is not typically a travel blog. Nor is it typically a baking one.

But congratulations if you got here from google! I’m an American science fiction writer who is currently backpacking in New Zealand. It’s a beautiful country and two of my roommates have brought home a lot of kiwi fruit. They just finished working at a packhouse for it, so I do mean A LOT of kiwifruit. Mostly golden.

We have three bins of it in the room while I type this. Each bin has at least three layers. So, again, A LOT of kiwifruit. This means that I decided to try something a bit different: baking kiwi pie.

But, how? That’s a good question.

I searched google and I asked around. I did get some interesting suggestions (like using it to top custard pie), but I ultimately decided to make my own recipe. It’s a combination of a gram cracker crust (tea biscuit edition), an apple juice variation of key lime pie, and cut golden kiwi fruit for the topping. I used apple since I don’t particularly like lime and I thought that it would go well with the kiwifruit.

The verdict? One of my roommates thinks it should be called a tart, I have now learned several variants for the word ‘awesome’ in Japanese, and everyone enjoyed it. I personally loved it so much I made it again. And I documented it a bit better this time:

Ingredients:

~200 grams crumbled chocolate tea biscuits. Personally, I got the countdown choc creams and removed the chocolate cream part (since then I could nibble on that while baking). If you do what I did you’ll need two packs of them.

1/3 cup sugar

~75+ grams butter, soon to be melted

1 can sweetened condensed milk. I couldn’t find any, so I made my own. You can find the recipe I used [here]. One can is (I think) roughly 3/4 cup homemade.

2 egg yolks

1/2 cup apple juice

~5 or 6 golden kiwi fruit

Directions:

1. Crumble the tea biscuits and mix with sugar in a bowl. This will become the pie crust. When ready, start preheating the oven at 180 Celsius (regular baking, not fan forced).
2. Melt the butter and mix it with the sugar / biscuit mixture. It’s listed as ~75 grams since the mixture needs to stick together enough to form a crust (but not so much that it becomes unworkable).
3. Prepare your muffin pan. I used a very light layer of cooking oil to try to prevent the crusts from sticking.
4. Press the crust into the muffin pan in the shapes of mini pie crusts. This means that the crusts should also come up around the sides (see above), and not just be on the bottom.
5. Bake the crust in the oven for 6 minutes
6. Make the filling by combining the sweetened condensed milk, egg yolk, and apple juice. Mix it quickly for about 2-3 minutes so it can thicken. I personally borrowed someone’s stick mixer for this, but you can probably whisk it.
7. When the crust is ready, remove it from the oven. Add the filling evenly to each mini pies. Carefully return the pies to the oven and bake for another 15 minutes.
8. When done, the mini pies will need to cool. When ready, put them in the fridge for 1-2 hours.
9. Remove from fridge and add cut golden kiwi pieces. Enjoy!