Guardian of Ruses | Cover Reveal and Pre-order

Friends, I’m so dreadfully pleased to make this official. My next book, Guardian of Ruses, releases on November 1, 2021. This third installment of my Ruses of Lenore series follows the adventures of a would-be assassin and the aimless magician she accidentally tangles with.

Lo and behold, the cover!

Guardian of Ruses cover: in shades of blue, a forest path leads to distant mountains

I’m in love, haha. I really liked the redesigns for the other two Ruses books, but this one is just… *chef’s kiss*

And, of course, here’s the summary:

Guardian of Ruses

An Empire in Decay

Rosia Domitius has lived her whole life in Melanthos, in the palace of Emperor Petronius Drusus and his heirs. She loves her homeland, but the magic that once infused it is vanishing, siphoned by Lenore, a small, defiant country to the west. When magical attacks begin along that border, the emperor dispatches an investigative party with Rosia in its midst—as a fledgling assassin. His expectations are clear: she can end her people’s suffering if she kills Lenore’s ruler, a mysterious figure known only as the Eternal Prince.

As soon as her party crosses the border, they encounter a nameless young man with a mischievous smile. Although he acts harmless, the creatures of the woods obey his whims. Rosia’s survival quickly depends on his goodwill, and perhaps on uncovering the secrets he guards with his pleasant façade.

For, according to this stranger, her homeland’s woes come not from Lenore but from within, from rituals lost and bonds betrayed. If she follows her original plan, she might save the dying empire. Or, she might destroy its only hope.

A True Sequel

Guardian of Ruses builds upon threads from both Kingdom and Tournament. It is significantly longer, and its events take place eight to nine years down the road.

Yes, little Edmund Moreland is all grown up and causing mischief.

The ebook is available for pre-order on Amazon.

I also released the first chapter back in June to my newsletter subscribers. That post is now unlocked for all who want to read it.

Grammar, Usage, Style: an overview

Title plate: Is it Grammar, Usage, or Style?In my local writer’s group last month, I had the assignment to teach a lesson on anything under the sun that was writing-related. And, being that my expertise lies in the sere landscape of language structure, I opted to explore the differences between grammar, usage, and style.

We often hear these terms used interchangeably. More often, people lump all things language-related into the “grammar” category, which kind of drives my pedantic self crazy. So, in the interest of better understanding all around, here’s a quick run-down for your reading pleasure.

The basics:

  • Grammar describes the system of patterns by which a particular language functions.
  • Usage outlines the application of language patterns in the standard vernacular of that language.
  • Style dictates the preferred language patterns of an individual, publisher, or industry.

Long story short (too late), many, many “grammar” complaints are actually a matter of usage or style.

Grammar

Grammar involves the building blocks of language: parts of speech, clause and sentence structures, and how those sentences tie to their surrounding contexts.

Building Blocks

Grammar: parts of speech listed according to whether they're functional or lexical

Look at all those pretty parts of speech!

Every part of speech has its own set of features and rules for how it interacts with other parts of speech. For example, verbs can have features of tense, mood, aspect, and voice. They also have agreement rules for when they combine with their subjects (nouns or pronouns), matching in number.

  • The cat walks. (singular subject, 3rd singular verb)
  • Two cats walk. (plural subject, 3rd plural verb)

Languages vary in how they apply their rules. Take the same example above, but in Hungarian:

  • macska sétál (“the cat walks”; singular subject, 3rd singular verb)
  • Két macska sétál (“two cats walk”; in Hungarian grammar, a number before a noun keeps the plurality feature to itself, so the subject and verb here remain singular; the listener still understands that there is more than one cat)
  • A macskák sétálnak (“the cats walk”; plural subject, 3rd plural verb)

(Also, apologies for my Hungarian. 1,000 days on Duolingo has not an expert made in me, haha.)

And of course, as parts of speech combine into phrases and clauses, additional rules of word order, movement, subordination/coordination, etc., come into play.

Value Judgements in Grammar

Because grammar is descriptive, it abstains from value judgements. It doesn’t even have to make semantic sense. Noam Chomsky’s infamous sentence, “colorless green ideas sleep furiously,” is 100% grammatical, even though the words repeatedly contradict themselves.

In addition, aberrations in grammar can signal a restrictive code (a different regional vernacular, for example). They are usually systematic in their own way.

I.e., they indicate a different pattern—a different grammar—at play. There is no such thing as an inferior language or dialect.

Common Mistakes

Common grammar mistakes in writing include the aforementioned subject-verb agreement, inconsistent verb tenses, and, on the broader structural level, misplaced modifiers or ambiguous sentence structures (where two separate meanings exist depending on how the reader reads the sentence).

If it’s not a structural issue, it’s not a grammar mistake. Which brings us to

Usage

“Usage” specifies how native speakers apply their rules of grammar. It defines the standard within a language community. In this realm you will find such enlightenment as

  • whether to use “affect” vs. “effect”
  • when it’s “less” vs. “fewer”
  • expectations regarding subjunctive “be”

Sometimes, usage actually defies the rules of grammar.

  • “aren’t I” vs. “ain’t I” (“ain’t” = contraction of “am not” but Usage doesn’t like it, so the 1st singular pronoun here takes a 1st plural verb in its preferred form)
  • “that’s them” vs. “those are they” (try saying that second one in mixed company and see the looks you get, hahaha)

Value Judgements in Usage

I can has cheezburger?

Oh, hey look! Perfectly acceptable usage in certain corners of the internet!

So because usage deals with predominant standards, value judgements abound. Dictionaries of Usage exist for the express purpose of explaining what is correct vs. preferred vs. incorrect.

Violations can be nonstandard, colloquial, dialectical, or informal. But note, none of these are necessarily wrong, except that they’re not commonly used or preferred by the community from which the standard originates.

Also, keep in mind that usage rules consider both past and present patterns, and are thus changeable over time. You might think “irregardless” isn’t a word, but usage contradicts you.

(It’s also why “literally” can now mean “figuratively.” Sorry, not sorry.)

Common Mistakes

There are too many to list, even in categories. I own a 971-page usage dictionary that expounds on correct vs. incorrect word choices, and it’s by no means all-inclusive.

To be blunt, no one has perfect usage. We each apply patterns as we understand them against an ever-changing standard.

And if you think that’s unsettling, just wait until you get a load of

Style

Here we have arrived at the bane of every writer’s existence. Style gives guidelines for preferred usage, particularly when multiple options exist. It is the method by which we choose what language will best communicate to our desired audience the nebulous soup of ideas that swirls around in our brains.

(Say that ten times fast.)

And it is subjective to whoever dictates it.

Examples of guidelines for preferred usage

  • Oxford comma: Chicago, APA, MLA all say yes! AP says no!
  • Since vs. because: “Since is more precise when it is used to refer only to time (to mean ‘after that’); otherwise, replace with because.” (APA, 5th ed., section 2.10)
  • Pied-piping (“Don’t end a sentence in a preposition; it’s completely grammatical and people talk that way all the time, but we don’t like it.”)
  • List structures (e.g., “start all list items with the same part of speech”)
  • And, of course, the tear-inducing requirements for citation formatting that vary from one discipline to the next

Personal Style

In addition to established style guides, every author has their own style. This is the arena of literary devices: irony, alliteration, litotes, diction, etc. Style includes how a writer chooses to employ (or ignore) tropes and figures of speech in conveying their message.

An author’s personal style

  • supports the building of their tone: formal or informal, light-hearted or heavy, serious or sarcastic, etc.
  • takes sentence variation into account
    • Someone who writes only subject-verb-object displays a simpler style, whereas the writer who varies sentence lengths and degrees of subordination will have a more developed style.
    • Variety of structure can indicate the intended audience of the work. (E.g., younger audience = simpler structures)

Value Judgements in Style

As with Usage, value judgements abound here, but also, STOP JUDGING PEOPLE FOR USING THEIR PREFERRED STYLES. JUST ACCEPT THAT YOU’RE NOT THEIR INTENDED AUDIENCE AND MOVE ALONG.

*deep breaths*

Style varies from guide to guide and author to author. It can always improve, because writing is a craft that we constantly refine.

Final Thoughts

Everyone has an individual perception of grammar, usage, and style. Everyone. None of us is infallible, because we speak a language in constant flux.

Combined, these three elements create your literary fingerprint. This is how linguistic analysis can determine whether an anonymous work was written by a particular author. It’s why no one else can write that story that’s burning inside of you the same way that you would write it.

By distinguishing these three terms from one another, we can better develop our understanding and proficiency in each. More importantly, I hope, we can exercise greater compassion toward others in their usage and style choices.

Best wishes to you all!

***

For more information on this subject, check out the Grammar, Usage, and Style tabs at Grammarist.com, Merriam-Webster.com’s Grammar and Usage topics, the Chicago Manual of Style, Strunk & White’s Elements of Style, the Publication Manual of the American Psychological Association, the MLA Handbook for Writers of Research Papers…

So many resources. Just type “grammar usage style” into the search engine of your choice and enjoy the deluge.

Sneak Peek: Current WIP | Newsletter Excerpt

Sunlight filtering through tall trees; caption: Oh, hi, it's a sneak peek Thank you for coming Please enjoy the excerpt

Welcome to a sneak peek of my current work-in-progress! A few extra details at the end, but for now I’ll let you dive right in.


Chapter 1: A Dangerous Expedition

The empire is under attack. Hardly a day goes by that doesn’t bring tales of death and destruction, inhuman creatures in the west descending from the mountain forests to wreak havoc on our borderlands. They scorch our fields and consume our cattle, and the people plead for imperial magicians to counter this devastating onslaught.

But our magicians’ hands are tied because the magic itself grows scarce.

I’m not supposed to know this much, yet rumors flood the halls of the imperial palace, whispering that the reservoirs are drying up across the empire’s expanse, and that this magical drought leaves us vulnerable to a degree that all our well-trained armies cannot counterbalance. Felix says it’s an exaggeration, misinformation sown by enemies to the crown. He thinks reports of the attacks are distorted as well, framed in a way to stoke our fears.

If so, the campaign is working. Tension stretches tight in every corner of the palace. The imperial prince is always on edge. Even the emperor himself is concerned, however much he hides his thoughts.

Melanthos has long been mighty, a protective force with dozens of tributary states within its fold. They depend on us for safety. If we fall, almost the whole continent will fall with us, and our only true adversary will rise to take our place, subjugating countless innocent lives into servitude.

Emperor Petronius has forbidden casual mention of that country, cautious of the fear it strikes when spoken aloud. Celina might cringe every time she hears its name, but I refuse to let such superstition dictate my life.

Our foe is Lenore, an insidious bastion of dark power ruled by a supernatural being they call the Eternal Prince. This monstrous creature governs in shadow, his face hidden from even his own people, his reach extending throughout the impenetrable forests that mark our western boundaries. The Eternal Prince directs these onslaughts that plague our people. He feeds off the magic that steadily vanishes from our land.

Therefore, the Eternal Prince must die.

And if the stars are on my side, I, Rosia Hilaria Domitius, will be the one to kill him.

***

A shift in the air indicated the exact moment they crossed the border. Rosia hunched deeper into her cloak, the hood falling a fraction lower over her dark eyes as her gaze flitted from one side of the dirt road to the other. She couldn’t pinpoint what exactly had caused that shift, only that an unseen something engulfed her.

A prickly, sinister something, as if a thousand needle-sharp eyes stared from the depths of the forest. It rippled over the whole company, from Captain Valerius at the front of the column to the very last soldier in the line.

Was it a warning? A threat? They had every right to investigate the source of attacks on their borderlands.

Not that a Lenorean patrol would agree.

Self-consciously she cast a glance behind her, to that invisible line and the land beyond. The trees thinned, with a glimpse of yellowing meadows between trunks that seemed oddly withered from this vantage point. The province of West Anrich, despite the early summer season, had displayed more brown in its landscape than green. Its fields—the ones not yet blackened by fire—grew only feeble, emaciated crops, and many of its people had already fled to better prospects.

It was worse than the reports had said. The local magistrates claimed that a month had passed since the last attack, but then, little remained to destroy. Logically, the enemy forces had already set their sights on a different target, leaving the area to lie in wait for the next strike.

She swiveled back for a second assessment of her surroundings. The trees here were sturdy, almost plump, with supple bark and dark green foliage. Sunlight filtered through the broad canopy above, caught in the webbing of leaves and branches so that only scattered shafts pierced all the way to the fertile earth.

And it was fertile, nothing like the desperate, half-starved terrain they had traveled these past three weeks.

A lump lodged in her throat. Like a parasite, this forest was sucking dry the land it bordered. She glanced to the woman riding alongside her. Tatiana, one of the emperor’s own magicians, swept her ice-blue gaze from limb to shrub. Surely she recognized the leeching. Surely she would know how to counter it.

But Tatiana made only brief eye contact, and she offered no reassurance in that fleeting look.

Rosia’s heart sank. The ultimate solution to their woes might be weeks more away. The empire needed help now. She craned her neck for a better view of the road ahead. With twenty of the emperor’s finest soldiers in this company, any opportunity to plunge further into Lenore, to confront the nefarious villain who drove this predation, would be difficult. The emperor had been most explicit: caution was to be their guide as they investigated.

Caution, however, would not spare those most vulnerable to Lenore’s attacks. Her hands clenched around her reins, the brown leather of her gloves tight against her knuckles. If she could somehow slip away, she could end this whole conflict. She had been trained in the imperial court, and even if she had never completed such a mission before, her inclusion with this party signaled Emperor Petronius’s expectations. Prince Felix and Princess Celina had bidden her a fervent farewell. Even their older brother, the imperial prince Blasius Drusus, had favored her with a solemn nod as she rode among the departing column, and Blaise had only ever scowled at her before.

If she could prove she was useful, perhaps she would never see that scowl again.

But first she had to survive this treacherous forest and reach the forbidden lands beyond. After that she had to accomplish her purpose without casting a shadow of disgrace on the Imperial Crown of Melanthos.

The rich earth dampened the clop-clop of horse hooves, the beasts’ ears swiveling to the side and behind. Birds and insects chirped from among the shrubs, but nothing larger manifested, though that sinister feeling yet loomed. Half an hour passed in this smothered unease, until, at the head of the column, Captain Valerius held up one black-gloved hand. The company halted.

No one spoke. The forest itself seemed to hold its breath. Pollen drifted through sunbeams, the only movement in an otherwise frozen vista.

After a silence that stretched far too long, the captain twitched his middle and forefinger to the right and promptly guided his horse off the road.

Rosia’s heartbeat spiked. What had he heard? An approaching patrol? A monster lurking in the bush? She strained her ears but could pick out only the burble of a river meandering somewhere through the woods.

And it was to the river that Captain Valerius led them, dismounting so his horse could drink. The trees stood back from the bank here as though to allow access to the flow. Soldiers’ boots landed in the soft, tufted grass, and irritation laced around Rosia’s throat like a tight-drawn court gown. It was barely afternoon. They could have pressed on further before resting.

“Patience,” Tatiana murmured, tucking a silvery lock behind one ear. Rosia swallowed the faint, instinctive growl that had betrayed her mood. Awkwardly she patted her own dark brown hair, wary that a curl might have fallen loose from the crown of braids she had worked it into that morning.

“Is it wise to stop so soon?” she asked, her voice low.

“Valerius knows what he’s doing. I’m not sure it’s wise to venture much further than this, and I’m almost certain he agrees.”

“Then I’m not imagining it, this strange atmosphere?”

Tatiana lifted her chin, her eyes shifting toward the twisted lattice of branches and blue sky above. “You’re not imagining it,” she said simply.

The pretty magician’s elegance never failed to make Rosia feel all the more like a fraud, like she would never be more than little dirt-smudged Rosie, scampering from the scullery to the stables and everywhere in between, hardly worth anyone’s notice. Tatiana was seven years her senior but had already apprenticed among magicians before she appeared in the imperial court almost a decade ago. She had slipped easily into their ranks at a mere seventeen, while Rosia, now nineteen, was lucky the emperor had finally seen fit to give her official employ.

She carried the vague and unimpressive designation of “imperial envoy.”

Granted, she couldn’t claim to be an imperial assassin until she actually killed someone, and even then, Emperor Petronius wouldn’t want to trumpet that event. Part of the reason he’d had her trained was the unpredictability of it: a slim young woman with a deceptively sympathetic face. No one expected a knife in the back from such gentle hands as hers appeared to be.

Even she didn’t expect it, but she would overcome her buried qualms for Melanthos. Anything for her home.

The river, narrow and swift, tumbled over slick black rocks and eddied in small pools. Her horse dipped its muzzle for a long draw among water-spiders, while tiny opalescent fish streaked beneath the surface, almost too quick to see. Rosia eased away from the group, glancing longingly toward the road, the path by which she should orchestrate an exit.

“Don’t wander off,” the captain called in her direction.

She bit the inside of her cheek. Grudgingly she pivoted back toward the others. 

Several soldiers had already tromped into the shrubs, taking the opportunity to relieve themselves. She lifted her nose in the air, too proud to use such an undignified excuse to escape.

Tatiana, meanwhile, had extracted a glass vial from her ever-present satchel and was catching river water into its depths. She held it up in a shaft of sunlight, studying the crystalline liquid.

“Is it safe to drink?” Rosia asked, suddenly worried for her horse and the dozen others quenching their thirst.

“Perfectly so,” said the magician, and she poured the water back into the flow. “It’s probably as pure a source as any in Melanthos. I’m surprised there’s no settlement along here. Unless…” She replaced the vial and withdrew a second one. A red wax seal held its thick cork in place. The pale contents sloshed against its glass prison, the faintest blush pink reflecting in its limpidity. Rosia caught her lower lip between her teeth, her shoulders tense, but Tatiana’s hand hesitated over the seal.

In the end, she did not break it. Instead, she wordlessly shook her head and replaced the vial in its pouch.

And Rosia breathed a careful sigh. Magic was too precious to waste on a mere suspicion, whatever that suspicion might be.

“According to every map we have,” said Captain Valerius, startling her from behind, “there are no settlements between here and Lenore’s capital, past the mountain ridge. We haven’t even discerned any army outposts—not that our spies have much luck beyond the border. Most of them don’t return.”

Those who did bore terrifying tales, of voracious beasts that attacked in the night, of vines that crept through the shadows to strangle victims in their sleep. Lenore didn’t need outposts if the Eternal Prince had magicked the land to defend itself.

“So we’re not likely to run into any patrols,” Rosia said, her mouth suddenly dry.

“It’s still possible, but I expected them more within the first mile. If they catch us this far onto their lands, we have our ready excuse.” His lips turned upward in a faint smile, the crow’s feet around his eyes drawing tight.

She nodded. Had the patrol caught them at the border, they could cite the attacks against their own lands. Now, two or three miles past that imaginary line, they would pose as an official delegation from the emperor himself. Such a ruse could theoretically give them passage straight into the heart of Lenore if the enemy soldiers honored their claim.

Yet another uncertain if.

“Tatiana, how long do you need?” the captain abruptly asked.

The magician glanced around. “An hour should suffice. We can be back to the village by nightfall.” Again she dipped her hand into her satchel, but this time she withdrew tightly rolled parchments, pre-formed spells that she could release with nothing more than a lick of her thumb and a whispered phrase. The other magicians had added to her store before the company left the imperial palace. Rosia had observed the simple dowsing spell several times already; Tatiana used it to trace the veins of magic through the land as they journeyed.

Last night, in the border village, the phosphorescent lines had been faint, barely discernible, and had faded to nothing almost as quickly as they manifested. What would they look like here, if Lenore’s predatory forest was truly siphoning power?

“Rosia, let her work in peace,” the captain said, crushing her expectations of observing such a display. A glance toward Tatiana showed no objection in that corner. With a controlled huff the younger woman turned away. She tucked her arms in her sleeves, stepping closer to the riverbank, but a casual glance over her shoulder showed the captain and the magician waiting for her to move beyond earshot.

Rude. Tatiana had let her watch every other time.

Still, she knew to make herself scarce when she wasn’t wanted. She kicked a tuft of moss into the flow and kept walking, past the soldiers settling in to play dice or take an afternoon nap, past the first line of trees at the edge of the clearing.

Again she sneaked a peek. Valerius ducked his head close to Tatiana’s, neither of them even glancing in her direction.

If she’d thought to lead her horse along, she might vanish into the depths of Lenore. She could plunge into the bracken without the creature now, though she wouldn’t get nearly as far before they noticed her absence.

Even ten steps into this gluttonous vegetation seemed enough to disappear, though. None of the plants themselves looked predatory, but they exuded a well-fed aura. With a deep breath, she ventured further into the trees.

Faint laughter followed her, the soldiers swapping stories as they wagered. A horse whinnied into the air. A few more steps, and the trees cut the clearing completely off from view.

If only she weren’t facing the exact wrong direction. At this rate, she’d be back in Melanthos by dusk. She twisted her path, circling around with the floating sounds from the clearing at the edge of her ears. She could cross the river further downstream and press through the forest, back to the road on the other side. The mountain pass into Lenore’s capital would take her two or three days on foot if she could survive a night in these insidious woods.

She stopped short.

Could she survive? She swallowed hard, taking comfort in the knife tucked into her boot, the extra rations squirreled away in one pocket, and the warmth of her cloak. Her wide-legged riding trousers would allow her to travel quickly, even to run if needed. She could rest in the late afternoon and travel all night.

“You can do this, Rosia,” she murmured.

Another glance in the direction of the river clearing showed no one tramping through the brush in search of her. This was her perfect window to press ahead.

The empire was dying. Its murderer lay in the heart of Lenore. If she could not sacrifice her own safety to free her nation from the evil that preyed upon it, she deserved every unkind word, every skeptical sneer she’d ever received.

“For Melanthos,” she uttered, and she started forward again.

Only to collide with a man who appeared out of thin air.


Author’s Note

Yeah, yeah, I know. I said back in January that if I wrote a third Ruses book it wouldn’t be for many, many years. But I’m also reformatting the other two, and I really, really don’t want to have to dig out an old formatting template/style guide however many years that is from now to make it match.

And since I wasn’t ready to wade back into my Namesake sequels yet, I figured, why not?

The working title is Guardian of Ruses. No word on publication dates yet, as the draft is still ongoing, but I hope you enjoyed the sneak peek of Chapter 1 anyway.

Edit (7 Oct 2021): The listing is up on Amazon! Guardian of Ruses releases November 1st!

Audiobook Release | The Legendary Inge

Good news, everyone! My first-ever audiobook is officially on the market, unabridged and narrated by the delightful Lillian Rachel! You can find THE LEGENDARY INGE on Audible and Amazon!

It should also become available on iTunes/Apple Books in the next few days. However, I am illiterate with that channel, so if the link is already up, I haven’t been able to find it. (Sorry ._. )

Audiobook cover for The Legendary Inge, written by Kate Stradling and Narrated by Lillian Rachel; A gray stone background with lines of runes and blue forget-me-nots scattered across it

Of all my published works, this is the last one I expected to break into the audiobook market. While INGE is technically my bestselling title, it also sports a whole slew of Scandinavian names with somewhat different pronunciations than a reader might suspect. When my narrator cold-contacted me with an audition last fall, though, and promptly nailed all the names in her excerpt, how could I pass up the opportunity?

So, if you’ve ever wondered about how to pronounce Inge*, Gunnar, Jannik, Signe, et. al, wonder no more! (And if you haven’t wondered, maybe you should…?)

Also.

While we’re on the subject, I sold the audiobook rights to THE HEIR AND THE SPARE. Tantor Media has acquired it for wide release, so that title should appear on the audio market sometime in the next year.

(The acquisitions agent said it’s usually 3-5 months. It’s on their timetable, though, not mine.)

***

*does not rhyme with “hinge, singe, binge,” lol

Release Day is upon us! | The Heir and the Spare

It’s Release Day, my friends! THE HEIR AND THE SPARE is now available in print and ebook on Amazon.

First of all, a giant thank you to the pair of readers who not only waited up until midnight for the pre-order to drop, but then read the whole book and reviewed it. I discovered this when I went to check whether the paperback had linked in to the main page yet, and it made my day.

(Addendum: As of the writing of this post, a third reviewer has added their voice. Thank you!!)

New release, The Heir and the Spare, opening line: "Only two people had to die for Princess Iona to become queen..."

Release Day Jitters

Full disclosure: my anxiety always flares whenever I push something new out into the world. I have a crippling fear of failure combined with a crippling fear of success, and I generally try to float between the two by aiming for mediocrity. (But not mediocrity of content, mind you, because I also have severe perfectionism at play. It’s a lovely cocktail.)

When I set up the pre-order, I made what I thought was a reasonable stretch goal, based on previous pre-orders and my intimate little author’s platform. If I reached that number, I could consider the book launch a success.

Well, multiply that “mark of success” by three. The response between my release announcement and today has overwhelmed me with gratitude and a fair degree of dread. I have been humbled again and again by how supportive and excited everyone has been for Iona’s story, and I truly hope it meets your expectations.

But if not…

(Haha, that’s the anxiety talking; I have to laugh it away. But seriously, if you hate this book, you have my apologies, and I wish you luck in finding a more palatable read.)

What’s this About the Author?

And now, for the actual purpose of this post. (Aside from the whole, “Yay! It’s Release Day!” sentiment.)

If you’ve followed my work for a while, you may have noticed that I like to play in the front and back matter. As a reader, prefaces and bios and such were the serious, official bits of a book that I always skipped. And then I started publishing and had to supply those for myself.

But I’ve never really taken myself seriously.

Long story short, I’ve put a different bio in 10 out of 11 books.

In the early days, this stemmed from my hobby-publishing status. I thought it funny to look at my life from different angles, twisted perspectives, etc. Since I haven’t done much more than education (boring) and writing (redundant information for a book bio), this ever-shifting self-definition helped me cope with having such a humdrum history to draw from.

When I formed my imprint in 2017, as part of my Official Publishing Persona, I decided to leave the quirky bios behind. I wrote a very staid, accomplishment-based summary and plugged it in for Namesake (2017) and Brine and Bone (2018).

And I would have continued on that track, except that my mom was like, “That’s so boring.”

My own mother.

Anyway, since then, the quirkiness has perhaps magnified. Soot and Slipper (2019) has a Shakespearean sonnet. Oliver Invictus (2019) has a mock-scientific field report. But if you’re looking at the back of the ebook for The Heir and the Spare, you’ll find a relatively tame, if not oddly ordered, account of my life.

That’s because the paperback bio is a crossword puzzle, and the ebook bio provides all the info you need to solve the starred clues.

I had considered leaving this as a fun little Easter egg for anyone who buys the paperback to find, but gosh darn it, that crossword was SO DIFFICULT TO MAKE AND I’M TAKING CREDIT FOR IT.

About the Author crossword in the paperback of Kate's new release, The Heir and the Spare

Here it is in all its glory. You’re welcome to try solving it if you can read past the blur filter I applied to the corners of the pic.

And that is that.

So anyway, in whichever format you encounter The Heir and the Spare, may you enjoy your sojourn through Wessett with Iona and Jaoven and Lisenn.

Seriously, everyone, thank you. This has been a lovely writing/editing/publishing experience, and I can now move onto the next project a happy little author.

The Heir and the Spare | Cover Reveal and Pre-Order

Well, folks, the cat is out of the bag. My next novel, The Heir and the Spare, will release on February 19, 2021.

This is my first-ever kingdom adventure (fantasy without a magic system), and today I’m excited to bring you the summary and cover reveal!

The Heir and the Spare: A Summary

An evil princess, a ruthless persecutor, a wretched match.

Tormented at home and bullied during her studies abroad, second-born Iona of Wessett hides in the quiet corners of her father’s castle. Her art and music provide refuge, but her cruel sister Lisenn ever lurks like a monster stalking its prey.

Such has been her life for twenty years.

However, a promise of reprieve and retribution arrives when the neighboring kingdom of Capria proposes an alliance between their new crown prince and Wessett’s heir to the throne. The treaty will rid Iona of the toxic Lisenn, and the potential groom is none other than her erstwhile bully, Jaoven of Deraval. The marriage could not be more poetic: each deserves the misery the other might inflict.

Except that Jaoven, humbled by the war that elevated his rank, appears to have reformed, and the fate of both kingdoms now hinges on the disastrous union he’s about to make.

And the wrapping paper…

cover image for The Heir and the Spare: a gold snake and bird face off against a leafy green backdrop

A big thank you goes to my brother, Russell. That’s his bougainvillea decorating the background. When he heard I was looking for a thorny, leafy shrub, he graciously volunteered it for the cause.

(I know you can’t see the thorns, but if you’ve ever encountered bougainvillea, you *know* they’re there.)

If you want a jump on this release, THE EBOOK IS AVAILABLE FOR PRE-ORDER ON AMAZON.

Some fun facts

This is the first time I’ve taken a full-length novel from idea to publication within a period of six months. It’s also the first time I’ve used an epigraph rather than a dedication. Because of the quickness of the drafting/editing/publishing process, when it came time for me to make that decision, my mind drew a blank.

See, the family relationships in The Heir and the Spare are kind of strained, so I didn’t want the dedication to come across like, “Hey, beloved family member, this one’s for you!” *wink*

(Although, I guess I could have dedicated it to my cat.)

Dedication vs. Epigraph: What’s the difference?

A dedication marks the book as a formal offering to a person, cause, etc. as a symbol of the author’s respect or affection.

An epigraph is “a quotation that is pertinent but not integral to the text.” (CMOS 17th ed, 1.37)

In this case, I used Luke 17:3 (KJV), because forgiveness vs. retribution plays a thematic role in the plot. Also, that verse uses the subjunctive mood in two of its clauses, and I highly appreciate such nuance. #grammargeek4lyfe

Anyway, this whole project has been a whirlwind of fun from start to finish. I truly hope you enjoy it!

The Heir and the Spare (Newsletter Excerpt)

Title plate: The Heir and the Spare, Chapter One

Author’s Note: This excerpt from THE HEIR AND THE SPARE is subject to change. Please excuse any grammar errors, typos, etc. that I haven’t caught yet.

Chapter One

Only two people had to die for Princess Iona to become queen: her father King Gawen, an aloof figure whose passing she would one day mourn, and her older sister Lisenn, whose grave she would gladly dance on should the occasion arise. Of course grave-dancing was frowned upon in Wessett and the likelihood of Lisenn dying first was minuscule, but that didn’t stop the younger sister from sheltering such an inclination in her heart.

And it had nothing to do with wanting the crown, because she didn’t.

“You look exceptionally nice today,” said a voice behind her.

Iona glanced up from the tray of art supplies she had been arranging—oil paints, brushes, pencils, rags—to her cousin leaning against the door casing. Aedan wore a kind expression in his drooping eyes, his brown hair framing his face in waves, perfect for a portrait. Shame he was supposed to be on the other side of the room, positioned between a pair of faux-marble columns instead.

“Thank you…?” she said, her intonation rising as though she were asking a question rather than accepting his compliment.

He pushed away from the jamb and strolled fully into her studio, hands in his pockets and a casual air about him. His dark eyes swept from the top of her head to the tip of her toes. “It’s your hair, I think. Your maid put in some extra effort this morning.”

Her fingertips ghosted against the style. Bina had insisted on working braids into her usual upswept knot, and Iona had been too sleepy to protest. While she preferred to keep her long blond hair in simple order, the occasional elaborate variation wouldn’t kill her.

Aedan shifted his focus elsewhere. “Sticking to your usual somber colors, though. You always seem like you’re in mourning.”

She looked down at herself and pitched her words to sound innocent. “The smock is white.” As if that counteracted the slate gray of the exquisitely tailored dress beneath it.

His mouth pulled to one side and he leveled her with a piercing stare. “Your sister doesn’t own the rainbow, you know.”

Iona suppressed a laugh and motioned him onward to his waiting perch. “I like my grays and browns.” When he made no move to ascend the set of his portrait, her nerves manifested in a warbling chuckle. “Bina did try to dress me in blue today. Heaven knows where she got the gown, but it was the color of a summer sky.” Wessett was barely halfway through spring, but the pale, incomparable blue had called to her nonetheless. It invoked warmth and brightness, a far cry from the thread of cool, damp breeze that wafted now from her row of open windows. Her studio, tucked into the ground floor of the castle’s eastern wing, had only an hour or two of good natural light in the morning, but never the warmth of the sun.

“You should have worn it,” Aedan said, with something akin to sorrow on his face.

Again she shooed him toward the set, impatient. “Why? I’d only get paint on it by day’s end.”

He gave her an odd look but finally walked on, hopping up onto the low scaffold to take his place between the columns. Iona, satisfied that they were beginning their session at last, picked up her palette and selected a long, thin brush from her collection. Before she could so much as touch it to paint, her cousin asked,

“What was the name you used when you were living in Capria?”

Her hand froze. A series of unpleasant memories flashed before her eyes. Carefully she broke the momentary trance and lifted her gaze to meet his. “Why do you want to know that?”

“Were you keeping it secret from me?” he asked, off-hand, and she had to concede the point. She’d told him four years ago, upon her abrupt return from the mainland, but she hadn’t spoken of Capria or her experiences there in ages. Plague her memory though they might, she refused to let them govern her life. Only her lady’s maid knew the full extent, and only because she’d witnessed it firsthand.

But refusing to speak of it when directly asked would only arouse suspicions. Even though Aedan knew a fraction of the truth, he needn’t suspect it still bothered her.

So, Iona focused on the half-finished portrait and quietly said, “I called myself Yanna of Ghemp.”

“Why Ghemp?”

She leaned closer to the canvas, adding daubs of white to highlight the yellow-gold of her subject’s sateen breeches. “Because it lies in the furthest corner of their kingdom, with only a lower set of nobles who rarely sent their children to the Royal College. Why the sudden curiosity?”

Aedan didn’t immediately answer, and she might have let the conversation drop if not for the charged silence that possessed the room. After three more daubs of white, she stepped backward and to one side, the better to scowl at him.

“You don’t keep up with anything that happens at court, do you,” he said.

She huffed a laugh and resumed painting. “Why should I? I’m just the spare, here to ensure that my father’s bloodline continues on the throne into the next generation. If you want to speak of court, go find Lisenn.”

She didn’t miss the sneer that crossed his face, nor could she blame him for it. Had they been anywhere but her studio—had someone passed the open door to the hall or observed from the garden through the open windows—she might have rebuked him, but since they were alone and she shared his opinions of her sister, she merely allowed herself a wan smile and continued working.

His sudden interest in her time at the Royal College of Capria—four years, starting at age twelve—niggled at the back of her brain, but Aedan often wondered aloud about random things. Surely her parents weren’t considering sending her back, even if it was safe again. She dismissed the very idea.

The breeze helped dissipate the scent of turpentine, but it also worked a chill into Iona’s fingers. She had to pause to rub some warmth back into her joints. Had Aedan’s father commissioned the portrait later in the year, they might have set it in the garden instead of using the lavish backdrop of drapes and columns and worldly gewgaws angled in artistic opposition to one other, but the older generation loved their pomp and polished mementos. Perhaps she would propose a more casual study once this official one was complete. Aedan had an excellent face for painting.

But not, perhaps, a mind for tact. He abruptly said, “They’re coming to negotiate a treaty.”

Iona, absorbed now in the interplay of light and shadow on his canvas double, asked, “Who?”

“Capria. They sent the request last month. Their ship docked in the harbor this morning.”

She frowned, the words tumbling senseless against her own thoughts. Capria had fallen into civil war, the cause of her abrupt removal from its shores when she was sixteen. Of course she knew that conflict had resolved—such news traveled even to her neglected corner of the castle—but that had been more than a season ago. Wessett had helped the Caprian nobles with only a pittance of support during the worst of their battles, but the pair of countries had a troubled past so that hardly surprised anyone.

“Why would they want a treaty with us?” she asked.

“Probably to preempt your father from invading and taking them over when they’re already at their weakest.”

She blinked.

“Io, sometimes I can’t tell if you’re truly oblivious, or if it’s all an elaborate act,”Aedan said. “Capria has proposed a marriage alliance, their new crown prince with your sister, and the two thrones to combine in the next generation. They’re coming today to negotiate.”

Her chest constricted tight. She sucked in a controlled breath, torn between alarm and a strange, blossoming hope. “They’re marrying off Lisenn?”

“They’re negotiating it, I said. You little fool, do you understand what that means?”

The epithet didn’t bother her. Aedan used it more as a term of endearment than a malicious slight. His question, however, spiraled her into visual confusion.

Her cousin released a long-suffering sigh. “They’re sending their crown prince. He’s only a year or two older than you. That means you probably know him, and your parents will expect you at court as a member of the royal family to greet his entourage.”

Again she blinked, several times in rapid succession. Who was the new crown prince of Capria? The former prince’s assassination had kicked off their civil war, and his younger brother had died within a year. Both had been in their thirties, already married with small children, but traitorous militants had targeted their whole families. It stood to reason that the crown had fallen to another noble house.

But who? Someone near her age…?

The elite of the Royal College paraded through her thoughts, a catalog of proud and callous youths, scornful faces that delighted in tormenting their lesser peers.

In tormenting a nobody from backward Ghemp.

She almost flung her palette to the nearby table, fingers quick to work the buttons at the back of her smock. “Help me out of this,” she said on a gasp.

Aedan darted to her aid, deftly freeing her of the over-garment. “Are you going to wear the blue dress after all?” he asked, a gleam of approval in his eyes.

“What?” Iona peered past him to the open door. From further down the hall a set of footsteps echoed against stone walls.

“To court, to greet the—”

“I’m not going to court!” She shoved the wadded smock into his hands and bolted for the nearest window.

Aedan followed her to the sill. “But your parents—”

“I don’t care! I’m not going!” She was already slipping past the leaden frame, intent upon the narrow space between the bushes and the castle wall. As she dangled her legs off the ledge above the gravel four feet below, she glimpsed a figure in her studio door, and the voice of her father’s steward, Kester, filled the room she was in process of vacating.

“Your Highness, your most noble parents, the king and queen, request—”

Iona hit the ground running. If she never received the summons, she didn’t have to obey it. No one would expect her to attend the actual treaty negotiations. Or if they did, she could make her absence more prolonged. Perhaps she could masquerade as a dairymaid in one of Wessett’s far-flung valleys, or help with the early-season planting. The island was certainly large enough to hide her for a solid week or two.

Regardless, she could not meet the Caprian delegation. The nobles at the Royal College had prided themselves on who lay closest to inheriting the throne, and the lower that number, the more insufferable the bully. The worst of the lot, nine places removed from his illustrious birthright, had spearheaded every horrible movement within the school.

The war may have wiped out Capria’s royal family, but it had gutted their noble houses as well. Maybe he was dead. Maybe the crown had fallen to the twelfth in line, or the thirty-seventh. It didn’t matter. If they had a number, they behaved as monsters.

Kester shouted behind her. She glimpsed his more robust figure struggling through the window as she rounded the corner and passed beyond his line of sight. If she could reach the stable and commandeer a horse, she’d have much easier luck getting away, at least as far as the forest. The stablehands wouldn’t know she was expected at court.

Bina must have realized, though. That would explain the more elaborate hair and the plea for the sky-blue dress. Iona would have stuck out like a crocus in a snowdrift wearing such a color, and her sister would have wrung her neck. She thanked the heavens for keeping to her sedate gray, which might have passed as a servant’s garb if its make were not so fine.

Skirts hiked in her hands, she dashed across the back aspect of the castle. Gardeners lifted their heads from among the rose bushes and the flower beds, but she paid them little heed. The stable, with its long gravel courtyard, lay beyond the next corner. If she was lucky, Kester would give up pursuit and return to report her absence.

But luck eluded her, as it ever had. His shout echoed, the words lost on the wind between them.

Perhaps she would have to bypass the horse and rely on her own two feet. She barreled headlong around the next corner, into the shadowed porch that lay across the courtyard from the stable, only to collide with a body—or a whole collection of them. Swift hands grasped her upper arms to steady her.

“I’m so sorry,” she blurted, but as she lifted her gaze to the nearest face, the rest of her apology stuck in her throat.

She registered dark brown hair—cut close to the sides of the head in the Caprian style—along with an angled jaw and a pair of fine, hazel eyes she could never mistake. It was a face from her nightmares, Jaoven of Deraval, formerly ninth in line for the throne of Capria. He opened his well-formed mouth, presumably to inquire whether she was all right, but his initial concern melted into recognition.

A chill shot down Iona’s spine. The grip on her arms tightened.

“Yanna of Ghemp,” said her captor through gritted teeth. The flurry of movement her abrupt advent had created suddenly stilled, the air around her stiff and crackling.

“L-let me go,” she managed to say, but she only feebly struggled. She couldn’t escape his grip. She already knew as much. A fleeting glance toward the others of his party revealed more familiar faces, men and women who, though four years older than her last encounter with them, she could never mistake. She fixed her eyes on the most sympathetic of the lot, Neven of Combran, a brunet who had shared several of her art courses so many years ago. “Please.”

He offered her no help, though remorse practically bled from him.

“The rats always abandon a sinking ship,” Jaoven hissed, leaning in close. “So you fled to Wessett? And you’ve been living a safe and pampered life here ever since, while your countrymen fought and suffered and died—?”

“Your Highness!”

Iona, cringing from her captor’s accusations, wedged open her eyes. Her father’s steward stood panting at the corner of the porch, one hand propping him against the stone wall as he gaped at the scene before him. His gaze traveled from Iona’s face to the hands that gripped her arms and then back.

Jaoven thrust her half-behind him, keeping a firm hold upon her as he said, with feigned cordiality, “Yes. I’m Prince Jaoven of Capria. We had the fortune of meeting one of our countrymen just now and were reacquainting ourselves.”

Kester’s attention flitted past him to Iona, a question in his eyes. She minutely shook her head, a silent plea for him not to name her as the true recipient of his message.

“You’re wanted at court,” he faintly said.

“Excellent.” A smile tinged Jaoven’s voice, his diplomacy on full display. “Do you lead us there?”

“Ah.” Kester looked again to Iona, but finding no command or contradiction, he skirted forward through the Caprian party. “Yes. Allow me to show you, please.”

Once the steward’s back was turned, Jaoven leaned close to her ear and whispered, “We’ll deal with you after this first introduction is over. You’re coming with us, but if you say a word out of line, you’re a dead woman.”

Then he passed her off to Nevan’s keeping with a muttered, “Do not let her out of your sight,” and pushed through his entourage to take the front position.

As the party moved together, bodies surrounded her on every side, men and women alike sparing her bitter glances. She didn’t recognize all of them. Some were certainly servants who would fall back before the official delegation crossed into the great hall, and others envoys who would participate in the negotiations but not this formal greeting. She picked out the nobles among them by the finery of their dress, six in total including Neven and the newly crowned prince. She could name five of them, fellow classmates from Capria’s Royal College.

Near the front, Elouan of Dumene—number twenty-four, in former years, and still as broad of shoulder and golden of coloring—pitched his voice low. “Jove, don’t let this put you out of temper. We need to make a good first impression on the royals here.”

“It won’t be a problem,” Jaoven replied, but the clenching fists at his side told another story.

Iona swallowed against a lump in her throat, her mind racing for any exit strategy she could formulate. To Neven she whispered, “You have to let me go.” As art students, they had shared many of the same woes four years ago. Surely he of all this group might sympathize with her.

Instead he dashed her fledgling hopes. “I can’t.” His attention flitted to the delegates and servants around them. “If your family abandoned Capria in its time of need, you have to face your punishment.”

With increasing dread, Iona buttoned her lips and marched. Strictly speaking, her family had abandoned the embattled noblemen of that land. What punishment it merited, though, was up for debate.

Neven’s hold upon her arm remained loose, but if she tried to break away, the others would dog-pile her. If he would only move to the edge of the group!

Ahead, Elouan and Jaoven continued their consultation. “Do you remember everyone’s name?” Elouan asked.

Jaoven snorted. “Please. I’ve recited them a hundred times since we got on the boat.”

“Say them again. If your mind goes blank at the wrong moment—”

“King Gawen, Queen Marget, Crown Princess Lisenn, Princess Iona. Happy?”

“I will be once this blasted meeting is over.”

“Because you’re looking forward to the days of negotiations yet to come?”

“Your father gave us very strict instructions.”

Enough, Elou. I have too much on my mind already.” He cast a scowl over his shoulder, briefly meeting Iona’s gaze before resuming his purposeful stride.

Morbidly she wondered how his posture would change in the moments shortly before them. It was almost worth provoking Lisenn’s wrath.

Almost.

They crossed the main courtyard and arrived at the entrance to the great hall. The Wessettan royal guards in their signature red cloaks lined the way. If any of them recognized Iona’s presence in the foreign delegation, they only raised their brows and shifted their attention elsewhere. No one meddled much with her doings, and because Kester led the group, her inclusion in it could invite no comments.

The steward paused on the threshold, turning back as though to speak. When his gaze met Iona’s her scowl prompted him to look elsewhere. “If you will wait here but a moment,” he said delicately to Prince Jaoven. Then, after a slight bow, he proceeded into the vast and airy room without them.

A crowd of Wessettan nobles lined the walls leading up to the central dais, where four thrones awaited the delegation.

“One of the princesses is missing,” said Elouan with a frown.

“Which one?” Jaoven asked, peering from the raven-haired young woman at the king’s right hand, then over to the empty chair at the queen’s left.

“The younger. That’s Lisenn next to her father.”

“Perhaps the other one’s absence explains the delay. They certainly left us waiting long enough.”

“Perhaps. Or she might not be in town. Our informants said they’ve housed their daughters in different areas of the country before, as a safeguard against any attacks upon the crown.”

Jaoven grunted. “Would that our people had been as wise.”

Iona bit her lips to contain a bitter laugh. She glued her eyes to Kester as he lightly hopped up the stairs to her father’s side and whispered in his ear. Lisenn’s pretty face contorted, proof that she overheard the hushed confidence, but she schooled her ire away again as her father responded.

Kester returned. He gestured inward with a grand, sweeping arm. In a voice that echoed from the vaulted stone ceiling, a cryer announced, “The crown of Wessett welcomes emissaries of Capria into its hallowed halls: Crown Prince Jaoven; Elouan, Duke of Dumene; Lady Denoela of Rosemarch…”

True to Iona’s expectations, the servants and untitled diplomats peeled away, leaving her and Neven near the back of the group, with only one man behind them. The list of names and titles continued as the official delegation processed across the checkerboard marble floor toward the waiting monarch. A murmur arose among the Wessettan nobles who noticed Iona in the foreign ranks. She resisted the urge to shrink out of sight, but it didn’t fully leave until she met Aedan’s gaze near the front of the room. He had every right to attend an assembly such as this, of course, but he must have bolted straight here the instant Kester followed her.

Which meant he either figured she’d get caught or else was curious about the Caprians himself.

When they locked gazes, he tipped his head, his brows cinched as though to ask if she had gone completely mad. She squared her shoulders and glowered at him.

The cryer finished his list of names and the delegation stopped ten feet in front of the dais. Prince Jaoven bowed and then straightened, waiting for his host to speak.

King Gawen, one hand tracing patterns on the arm of his throne, looked past the newly crowned royal to lock gazes with his own daughter.

“Iona, what are you doing?”

A stricken hush fell across the hall. The Caprian delegates exchanged confused glances, and Jaoven actually turned as though to discern where the king’s attention lay.

Iona, resigned to her fate, calmly extracted herself from Neven’s lax grip and skirted by the rest of the delegation. She spared Jaoven only a grim, sidelong glance as she passed, then she mounted the three dais steps and swept into the empty chair at her mother’s side. The fair-haired queen favored her with a smile.

Straight-backed and stoic, the second princess of Wessett met the horrified stares of her former classmates.

And she might have relished this wordless comeuppance had Lisenn’s glare not been drilling into the side of her head.


Thank you for reading Chapter 1! The Heir and the Spare releases February 19, 2021.

You can pre-order the eBook now on Amazon!

Bet It and Regret It | Halloween 2020

English proverb: "The best throw of the dice is to throw them away."I lost a bet.

For the record, my parents taught me that gambling is wrong and nothing good will ever come of it, and they were 100% right. Don’t gamble. You will regret it.

The Bet Backstory

Five years ago in a fit of cynical self-reflection, I told my sister that I had reached market-saturation with my books, that I fundamentally lacked the skillset needed for successful indie authorship, and that I should quit and pursue another degree. (You know things are bad when Academia provides the most attractive safety-net.)

I love writing, but I’m terrible at marketing, and expecting my readers to word-of-mouth me into a higher degree of success was illogical. I needed to fish or cut bait, and since I knew nothing about fishing, the choice seemed obvious.

It was time to cut bait.

And she, in true caring-sisterly fashion, said, “No.” We went back and forth. I cited my dismal track record, my six obscure books, and my reluctance to publish in the first place. She cited nothing more than her unfounded optimism.

In the end she said, “Keep going, and five years from now you’ll see I’m right.”

Then she proposed a bet, and with all assurances of my looming literary failure, I agreed to her terms.

I even tweeted about it to mark the occasion.

Tweet thread from September 22, 2015: @katestradling said, "My sister and I just made a bet. One of us has to dress up as Lady Kluck for Halloween 2020. The Internet never forgets, @Krissyloubird."

The Bet Progression

This bet should have been an easy win for me. All I had to do was EXACTLY NOTHING.

Or so I thought.

2016 was a quiet year. I didn’t publish. Instead I vented my literary biases, through Average Everygirl, on this obscure little corner of the internet. To this day, I don’t know why my sales started picking up.

Was it the mysterious Amazon algorithm? Or some truly faithful readers? Did the simple act of blogging get my name in more people’s heads?

Regardless, by the time 2017 hit, my sister was like, “You know you already lost that bet, right?” And my mom would pipe up with, “I’m already planning to make your costume!”

So helpful and supportive.

The Fulfillment

On the surface, my life looks exactly like it did five years ago. I didn’t change houses or even tax brackets. I didn’t buy a shiny new car or receive a windfall of sweet, sweet cash.

And yet, by every metric publishing-wise, I’m better off. More sales, more page reads, more reviews than my cynical 2015-self could ever foresee.

So to all my readers—those who were with me in my pre-2016 doldrums, and those who have found me since—I can only say this: thank you.

I lost a bet, but the truth is, you lost it for me.

May the next five years bless you as the last five have blessed me.

Happy Halloween, all.

Love,
Lady Kluck-for-a-night

Lady Kluck costume courtesy of my mom and a $5 sheet from Walmart

First time in my life I’ve worn a stuffed bra. Figures it would be because I lost a bet.

The Legendary Inge: A Book Redesigned

This week I completed my reformat of The Legendary Inge and officially transferred it over to Eulalia Skye. The revamped edition is now live on Amazon in both print and eBook!

Feast your eyes on this beautiful cover!

Cover image for The Legendary Inge by Kate Stradling

What’s new in this edition?

  • The cover! (obviously, haha)
    • Gone are the monochrome cartoon-style illustrations. The gray/blue color palette echoes the original’s cool tones, but with a more refined effect. (See further details below.)
  • An interior bleed!Interior of The Legendary Inge, including Ringerike chapter header ornament
    • The same ornament that graces the top corner of the cover repeats on pages within the print book: the title page, chapter headers, and front/back matter sections. This was my first time working with a bleed, and I love the result. It’s SO fancy.
  • Discussion Questions!
    • Handy for book clubs or other pondering purposes. Idk, guys. I wrote these up for a book club meeting a few years back, and I still had them. So, I tossed them in for funsies. You’re welcome.
  • eBook only: Links to my newsletter signup and my Facebook Page.
    • Oh, hey, I have a newsletter mailing list now (*cough* shameless plug *cough*):

FYI, if you’re new to this book and on the fence about whether to get it, the eBook will be $0.99 from July 3 – 5. I don’t do sales all that often, so take advantage.

Previous Readers

If you previously purchased The Legendary Inge as an eBook, you have the option of updating your copy in the “Manage Your Content and Devices” page of your Amazon account. Amazon deemed this a minor quality update, so will not be notifying previous readers. Consider yourselves notified here.

Bear in mind that, due to the new formatting, the kindle locations have changed within the interior file. So, if you marked any passages in the old version, they might map to the wrong section in the update.

(I don’t know how, but Vellum apparently condenses the locations. Maybe it has more efficient coding or something. I only deleted like two words in my typesetter’s edit, so the book contents itself is basically identical to the original, minus a few embarrassing typos.)

And now for something completely different.

The Legendary Inge: A New Cover

My original cover took its inspiration from the Franks Casket, one of my favorite relics of the ancient world. In planning this reboot, I looked to a different style of Nordic relic: runestones. These monuments dot the Scandinavian lands, patterned with Viking carvings and winding runic text.

With that inspiration in mind, here’s the breakdown of elements in this revamped book-skin.

Front and back cover: The Legendary Inge, with design features tagged by number

Not sure why this looks so green. Maybe because I made the .jpg from a CMYK-coded PDF.

The Breakdown

  1. Fonts:
    1. Primary: Frances Uncial. I think what sold me is how much the letter <d> looks like an eth <ð>. I love the stabby serifs and the inconsistency between upper and lowercase letters.
    2. Secondary: Avenir Book and Junicode. Avenir is a lovely, no-nonsense sans serif, and its Book style has a nice, light weight to it. Junicode was non-negotiable (see items 5 – 7).
  2. Ringerike style ornaments. These come from designer Jonas Lau Markesson, who has some absolutely gorgeous Viking vector art. At only $15 for a commercial license, they were worth every penny. The ornament on the front also repeats on Chapter Headers within the print edition.
  3. Sword ornament: the crossbar of the hilt comes from a second set of Markesson ornaments. It’s also Ringerike style, but I had to add my own handle and blade to complete this. I love how the end product turned out. The book spine was the only place it could go without cluttering the aesthetic, but it fits well there.
  4. Forget-me-nots. I had to do it. That’s my favorite dagger in the book, and I think it represents my heroine well.
  5. Runic Text A lists some of Torvald Geirson’s smaller blades. From the top: Daffodil, Cricket, Forget-me-not, and Firefly.
  6. Runic Text B names some of the Virtue Swords: Diligence, Patience, Wisdom, Strength, Loyalty, Mercy, Valor, Respect, and Obedience (cut off at the margin). There were a couple more beyond the top of the book, but I wanted the most important centered in the line.
  7. Runic Text C is a transliteration of Beowulf 947-949a, the inspiration for this (ig)noble book.

Fun with Futhorc

“Oh, hey,” you might say. “Those runes are pretty awesome.”

And you’d be completely right. The runic alphabet (aka Futhorc, so named for its first 6 phonetic sounds) served as the writing system for Germanic and Scandinavian languages 1200 – 1800 years ago. Its design, primarily straight lines, makes for easy carving into hard surfaces.

If you want to play with futhorc runes, look no further than futhorc.com. This site makes phonetic transliterations from modern English words. It’s a lovely tool for all your runic needs. You must have the Junicode font if you want to use those transliterations digitally anywhere else, but that’s a free download and an extremely useful addition to any font inventory.

I used futhorc.com to verify the weapon names. I had to do the Old English lines of Beowulf myself, but I got to use stan and ear, so I have no complaints. (Stan reportedly has only one real-world attestation, and ear apparently belongs to Hel. So metal.) Anyway, not sure why I’m so obsessed with runes, but I jump at any chance to use them, so.

In Summary

  • The Legendary Inge is now part of the Eulalia Skye crowd
  • The eBook will be $0.99 from July 3 – 5
  • Previous eBook buyers can update their old version to the new one
  • Futhorc is fun to play with

Procrastination in the Time of Quarantine

Procrastination quote: “Never put off till tomorrow what may be done day after tomorrow just as well.” —Mark TwainIn honor of the ongoing stay-at-home order in my state (now extended to May 15!), I bring you procrastination at its finest. And by that, I mean Kate’s List of Best Birds (now updated).

Kate’s List of Best Birds

#1: The Urutaú (Nyctibius griseus, aka Kakuy or Common Potoo)

Topping our list since 2018, this cross between an owl and a hand puppet finds its home throughout Central and South America. It doesn’t build a nest, but simply picks a post or upright trunk and lays an egg. Its finest feature is the self-satisfaction it displays when it tips its head skyward and pretends to be a piece of wood. While it doesn’t have the same spine-rattling moan as its cousin, the Great Potoo, its throaty little whistle is enchanting in its own right.

#2: The King Vulture (Sarcoramphus papa)

This beautiful scavenger silently judges you from a distance. Noted for his bright face and dignified plumage, he recently auditioned for the role of Hades in Disney’s upcoming live remake of Hercules. You may feel an unsettling desire to hug him, but resist the urge: his beak and talons can tear through human flesh. Like the Urutaú, he lives in Central and South America.

#3: The mockingbird who sings outside my window at night (Songus beautificus)

In a surprise upset, this humble singer rises to the third spot on our list. For the past week he has chirped his feathery heart out for hours on end, surrounded by darkness and an overwhelming desire for a mate. There’s something magical about birdsong at night, and since only the bachelor birds perform these little concertos, I’ll enjoy his musical etudes while I can.

#4 The Superb Lyrebird (Menura novaehollandiae)

I mean, “superb” is right there in the name. This Australian native brings new meaning to the practice of mimicry as he struts around his rainforest. His tail feathers, when raised upright, resemble a Greek lyre, but he can also extend them over his head like a useless umbrella. He is currently in contract negotiations with Lucasfilm to provide sound effects for the next wave of Star Wars titles. Well done, little bird.

#5 The Snowy Egret (Egretta thula)

These unassuming gentlebirds inhabit much of North America, including my local riparian preserve. Smaller in size than their cousin, the Great Egret, they present a delightful, dignified form that includes bright yellow feet and a long neck that disappears when they tuck it close. Almost hunted to extinction in the 1800s they now thrive thanks to protections enacted on their behalf. This fortuitous conservation has enabled them to continue their long-running cosplay contest to see who can best impersonate an albino Frédéric Chopin.

Honorable mentions:

Not All Procrastination

For the record I’ve also added 30K words to my current work-in-progress. That number should be higher, but I’m writing in 1st person POV, which I hate and which requires me to comb over a scene multiple, multiple times to make sure it’s not just talking heads and hand movements.

Hence, procrastination.

Did I mention I hate 1st person? I do. I can’t even stay present in my own brain for more than 5 minutes, let alone a fictional character’s. But, this story wouldn’t be the same in 3rd, so.

Anyway, which feathered friend tops your List of Best Birds?

(If it’s a shoebill, you can show yourself the door, and take that nightmare fuel with you.)

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