Nox is joined by Cynthia Gómez, author of Muñeca, to talk about all things Gothic literature. What makes a novel Gothic? Is it an itemized list of 14 requirements? Do women always have to be victimized in it? How do we get around these Eurocentric conventions? Nox and Cynthia discuss all of this and more in today’s episode.

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This episode was edited and produced by Renee Powers on the ancestral land of the Dakota people.

Original music by Amarissa

Welcome to the Ink & Ether September '26 Dispatch

What's been on my mind

I don't know about you but I am so ready for the -Ber months! This time of year is like the Super Bowl for booksellers. There's just something about the Fall and Winter season that feel like you should always be curled up with a good book. Maybe books and hibernation just go together.

I've been reading ARC's like nobodies business and there's a lot. So buckle up because the book releases over the next few months are a marathon, not a sprint.

Sidenote* it's my birthday month! That's right, Virgo crew where you at! So get it together and don't skim, read all the way through, preferably while taking notes.

What's new on the shelves

The hot Summer months brought a bit of a slow down for business so I'm sure there are plenty of new titles you haven't seen yet.

Flowers For The Sea by Zin E. Rocklyn - A Shirley Jackson Award winning novella. Set on a ship of survivors after the world has flooded, one woman carries a pregnancy that might not be entirely human, along with a rage that's been building long before the water rose. Gothic, visceral, and reads in a single sitting.

Buy from Ink & Ether | Buy from Bookshop.org

Assistant and The Villain Series by Hannah Nicole Maehrer - Evie takes a job as assistant to a genuinely evil villain, expecting paperwork and mayhem — she gets both, plus an entirely unplanned romance. Think Once Upon a Time meets The Office. Four books deep now with Adversary to the Villain, the newest installment, and it only gets more chaotic from here.

Buy it From Ink & Ether | Buy it From Bookshop.org

Verity Guild by Mai Corland - A Rome-inspired slow burn where a priestess hiding a dangerous secret and the investigator sworn to expose her end up snowed in with an actual murderer. Political, tense, and ends on a cliffhanger that will have you counting down to book two.

Buy it From Ink & Ether | Buy it From Bookshop.org

The Library at Hellebore by - A school for the dangerously magical, where graduation day doubles as feeding time. Dark academia if dark academia meant the faculty might actually eat you. Gory, sharp, and not for the faint of heart.

Buy it From Ink & Ether | Buy it From Bookshop.org

Witch Season by Julia Bianco - Magic that costs blood and pain to wield, an enforcer bound to the very coven she's sworn to police, and a rival determined to make her life so much harder. Dark, tense, and deeply atmospheric.

Buy it From Ink & Ether | Buy it From Bookshop.org

From the grimoire

Well you won't believe the card I pulled this month but I 100% did, I promise. This month's card pull is Death. Hand to heart, the Death card came up so let's get to it.

The Death card is probably the most misunderstood but that's what makes it fun. I see Death to represent the inevitable end of a cycle. That cycle might be easy or it might be messy, but be assured it will come to an end one way or another. There is no escaping death. But with the end of the old, comes the birth of something new. So we can read this as a transformation and letting go of an old version to make way for new possibilities.

Two titles that come to mind for this reading examine Death in different ways.

She Who Became The Sun by Shelley Parker-Chan

A girl who assumes the identity of her deceased brother and, in doing so, has to let every version of herself that came before quietly die. This is Death in its purest and most devastating form, not interrupted, not resisted, just fully accepted, because the fate on the other side of it is too enormous to turn away from.

Buy it From Ink & Ether | Buy it From Bookshop.org

She's a Doll by Barbara Truelove, out September 8th. Lucy McQuinn is murdered and refuses to accept it. She pours what's left of herself into an antique porcelain doll and goes looking for the man who killed her. This is Death interrupted. A transformation that was supposed to happen quietly instead gets redirected into rage, revenge, and eighteen inches of lacy, furious porcelain. Campy, sharp, and a genuinely fun read if you want your Death card with a little bite.

Buy it From Bookshop.org

There you go! Two very different takes on Death. One girl who refuses to let go. Another who let's go of everything.

The card poses the same question to you: what do you need to end so something new can begin?

Find Ink & Ether this month

Sep. 20th - Silent Reading Group at Communitea Coffee

Sep. 26th - Pop up at Rekindle Coffee

Oct. 2nd - Halloween Night Market at Communitea Coffee

Oct. 7th - Silent Reading Group at Communitea Coffee

Oct. 10-11 - Dragons and Dreams at Autry Museum

The Letter Corner

The Letter Corner is a hit! Thank you to everyone who has already stopped by and left a letter. We've seen letters come in from Singapore, England, and The Netherlands. We are definitely hoping for more Intro Letters to come in. Here's a quick recap of how things work:

1. Visit The Sunday Letter Project website and pick a shop participating in the Letter Keepers network.

2. Write your Introduction Letter and post it to the shop of your choosing. Be sure to include Ink & Ether in the return address.

3. Alternative option, you can find an Introduction Letter at Communitea Coffee to write to.

4. Take a picture of the letter and address, then go home and write.

Leaving the Intro Letters at the Letter Corner allows friends to find multiple penpals. The more the merrier right!

Need a writing suggestion? Why don't you share the best vacation you went on. Or share about something fun you did over the summer.

Before you go

If you made it this far, you have my gratitude! Hope Virgo season treats you well.

Friends,

I have been dying dying DYING to share this news with you!

Who is ready to get cozy?

Well, let me tell you about the book we just signed!!!

This information isn’t public yet, so please keep it here:

Meihan Boey's The Matchmaker of Club Street, a whimsigothic novel set in 1895 Singapore: an illustrious Chinese matchmaker has three days to find a new match for a British official's daughter to escape a betrothal to the wrong (very wrong) man, pitched as Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries by way of T. Kingfisher, to Boozhoo Books at Bindery Books, by Amy Bishop-Wycisk at Trellis, for publication in spring 2028.

I fell in love with this genre-bending book that is filled with such a memorable cast of characters. It’s a little historical, fantasy, mystery, horror and even a hint of romance. It is the perfect book to cozy up with a nice cup of hot chocolate or tea. It’s delightful and a teensy gory and somehow it really works!

i cannot wait for you all to read this!!!

Hello my friends, and happy Trans Joy Thursday!

I started the day off grocery shopping, but in the midst of that, I had to pause for my weekly grief therapy session and my therapist said something that made me stop and re-collect myself: "Your relationship with your Memaw hasn't ended, it's just changed." And I thought that was just beautifully poetic, and absolutely true. I have struggled finding a balance of my emotions and how to honor her while not completely being destroyed on the inside by my sadness, and that one sentence just kind of made me have a lightbulb moment. Therapy may not be for everyone, but it is for me, and I appreciated that greatly, and wanted to share with all of you.

This week is also my short week of work, meaning I only work 3 days this week, with a 3 day weekend quickly approaching. (Can I get an "Amen"?!) Lots of meetings, though, lol. I say that because my short weeks mean date weekends with Alisha, and I look forward to those immensely. They're also days where I can rest, read, catch up on chores, yes, but do things at a much more leisurely pace.

Can we also discuss that while it may be 80+ degrees outside still, fall decor is EVERYWHERE, and I love it! Football just started back last night, and while I'm still finding my joy in my hobbies again and rediscovering what that looks like for me, I am so geeked as this is my favorite season. (Go Pack Go!)

In addition to these wonderful things, Aiden Thomas' Cemetery Boys: Espiritu released Tuesday, and I am very (im)patiently waiting for my signed/personalized copy to arrive like any time now. I ordered from Always Here Books in Portland, Oregon.

I'm also still chugging away at our Quarter 4 Bookclub pick, Hijab Butch Blues by Lamya H.

Speaking of books, our Beyond The Rainbow chat with Anita Kelly is TOMORROW Friday, September 11, form 6-7pm CST. I'll drop the zoom information at the end of this newsletter. You can also find it on our Discord server (free to join, always) in the appropriate channel and an event is created as a reminder, as well.

The biggest thing I'm thankful for right now? It's definitely space to grow and become. I think we, as a society as a whole, think once we become an adult, that's it.. we're done growing and maturing and learning.. and I don't think that's the case at all. I am super grateful to have been able to explore my gender identity and transness, name change, pronouns, gender affirming-care, all in my mid 30s. And we should never stop learning - I'm just thankful for that. That I have surrounded myself with likeminded people that also never stop learning and evolving - it's truly a beautiful thing!

I also wanted to shout out YOU. Thank YOU for being here, for being in community, and being part of my launch of Not A Phase Books. I hope to one day be an imprint of Bindery to publish even more beautiful trans stories we so desperately need and deserve. And I couldn't do that without you all here with me. So, thank you.

As a reminder, here is the graphic for tomorrow's Beyond The Rainbow chat with Anita Kelly:

I hopefully will see you all tomorrow night with Anita! (I will do my best to record the chat for those of you that cannot attend live for playback.) The zoom information will be posted below!

With all my trans joy,

Sawyer Cole

Sawyer Cole (They/Them) is inviting you to a scheduled Zoom meeting.

Topic: Beyond The Rainbow with Anita Kelly
Time: Sep 11, 2026 06:00 PM Central Time (US and Canada)
Join Zoom Meeting
https://us06web.zoom.us/j/87806115120

Meeting chat link
https://us06web.zoom.us/launch/jc/87806115120

Meeting ID: 878 0611 5120

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What would you like to see more of as First Swords and Bright Stars?

What do I Who Have Never Known Men by Jacqueline Harpman and Colorado Kid by Stephen King have in common? They are two books that are unsatisfying by design.

Yes, you heard me right, the authors of both books went into it fully intending on never giving you an ending. Both books create a captivating mystery and fail to solve it, leaving you with something worse than a book hangover - a brain worm that will never go away. Why, you ask? Let's dig in.

King was trying to define what mystery was and step outside of that box, because most real mysteries never get solved - and each person lives in their own head, so the motivations of anyone can never be fully understood. Harpman's family fled the Holocaust when she was a child, so she wanted us to ask why? Not just how. It's more about the life lived within the story, not about what caused it.

But I'm not really here to talk about author motivations. I want to talk about it from the reader's perspective in the context of the year I'm writing this - 2026. The year of the release of AI into the world with no guardrails. The birth of the loss of human creativity.

Both of these books leave us with no ending, no solution to the mystery. And yes, the why matters, but the result is that our brains are forced to wonder, forced to continue thinking beyond the story, forced to think critically. Yes, this is another essay about critical reading. Why? Because everything leads back to critical reading. Yes, everything.

*Want me to prove it to you? Ok. Where would you start if you wanted to enslave an entire country - body, mind, and soul? Well, to really get them on board you'd have to start young, wouldn't you? Start when they begin to decipher the world and ask questions. Feed them lies about how this is the good place, all other places are bad and we are just lucky to be here, and anyone who doesn't feel lucky must just be on the bad people's side. Give them constant entertainment so they don't notice, they don't ask, they don't wonder what else their lives could be. Guilt them for disobeying. Start when they begin to understand media. Never teach them to think, watch, read, for themselves. Does this sound familiar? Do you understand?

In the mystery I Who Have Never Known Men (which I think must definitely have inspired the series Silo by Hugh Howey) a girl is in a cell with 39 other women. They don't know why they're there, and can't really remember how they got there. They do know they had lives before, but any attempt to escape, yell, touch each other, or even have big emotions results in the cracking of whips by the men outside the cell, who never interact with the women other than to watch them every day, every minute. I can't say I could spoil anything for you because the book is mainly about how the main character, and the only one who has no memories before the cell, is different from the rest. She's definitely autistic, but the main point is that since she knows no other life, she doesn't fight to get back to something that no longer exists. She fights for the current moment to mean more, to be better, to move forward.

We never do find out why she was in that cell. And I think that the beauty of that is that you will continue thinking, deciphering, imagining, long after you finish. You're not just consuming for the sake of consumption, grinding away at your daily dopamine quota to survive the agony of late stage capitalism and the fall into dystopia. You are feeding your neurons, which take this small story and make it blossom into a million new neural pathways. I bet that if you hooked up an EEG to your brain and compared it to reading a different book, you'd see much more happening after you finished than normal.

In the rise of the age of AI eating everything humans every created that was beautiful and churning out slop for the sole purpose of cheap consumption, most people seem to have forgotten that the beauty is in the journey. That we all can create, simply for the sake of creation. You can be an author without every selling a book. You can be a painter without ever making a dime on a painting. And when we admire someone else's art, we are getting to see a piece of their soul, exposed to the world. What else differentiates a sentient being from a fish, a rat, a tree? I think, therefore I am.

Don't fall for the AI propaganda. Keep thinking babes. You are human, and you have value just for existing, and you are a maker, a creator of art, just because you can. Go make something for the sheer joy of it. And I will love it, because it was you who created it. Not because it's good, but because it's a piece of you.

The intersection of Hollywood and the supernatural collide in this mystery from prolific sci-fi horror writer Tananarive Due. When Johnny—a filmmaker and grandson of the famous Black actress Mazelle Washington—brings his family to Mazywood, the secluded California mountain lodge left behind by his grandmother, he expects a quiet retreat. Instead, he uncovers a legacy of rage, secrets, and terror that has haunted his family for generations.

Set primarily in the present day, with haunting flashbacks to Hollywood’s Golden Age, Mazywood explores three generations while following Johnny as he pieces together the true story of his grandmother. As a young Black actress whose career spanned from the 1920s to the 1940s, Mazelle brushed shoulders with giants like Lena Horne, Clark Gable, and Hattie McDaniel. But beneath her public appearance, she carried a secret she had kept and nurtured since she was a child, when a dark wish came true and changed the course of her life forever.

Now, fifty years after Mazelle’s death, Johnny finds himself confronting the truth she buried—and the consequences she left behind. For a monster lurks outside Mazywood, hidden for generations, and Johnny brought his family to its hunting grounds.

Reading will commence Sept 14th!

Chapter 10

“For God’s sake, Icarus, stop carrying it like that!” Maren hissed at him, trying to keep her voice down as they worked. 

Icarus’s face twisted into a grimace. He held the burlap sack out in disgust. No longer bewitched, the flesh was beginning to rot. Quickly. Wetly. “Why? Does it look like I’m carrying a head in a sack?”

She sighed in consternation. A sickening crack punctuated by a wet thud marked the completion of her work--an iron spike straight through the heart of the body. Finished, her tools made their way back into her satchel. She faced him, hands on her hips, and scowled, “You are a child sometimes. If you don’t have the stomach for it, give it to me and you can dump the rest of him in the river. Your choice.”

He looked from the bagged head to the body lying atop the stretcher she rigged up. Tossing it beside the abhartach, he picked up one end and motioned for her to pick up the other, “Not keen on the dividing and conquering plan anymore.”

His shoulder protested the weight, but it would manage. Blood seeped through the bandage Maren hastily wrapped around it to remind him his body disagreed with this decision. Pain dulled to an afterthought as they moved in silence toward the river. Maren pulled the head off the stretcher and they tossed the corpse unceremoniously into the water. What remained of Dáire’s body sank like a stone. Icarus had expected something more dramatic. Steam, maybe. Disappointing.

She motioned for him to follow and they walked in the direction of the Church of Saint Lazriel--slower than they should have. Her eyes were fixed on the spires in the distance, his on the road under his feet. He broached the silence with caution.

“It called him the Deceiver,” there was no need to specify whom he spoke of. “What do you think that means?”

She glanced at him and met his disbelieving gaze. There was a long pause before she readied her answer, “I think it means there are a lot of things going on that make me open to many possibilities.”

His head swam, his chest burned. He rubbed a fist against his breastbone and tried to take a deep breath. It shook too much when he let it out, he was very weary of secrets. Something else was bothering him like a nettle chafing in his brain. He frowned, “Who the fuck is the Inquisitor? Does he mean Reed?”

Maren’s lips tightened. She said nothing. That, in a roundabout way, told Icarus everything. 

“You know what it was talking about.” 

Briefly, she looked like she might not answer. Then, “I know rumors. Nothing more.”

“Northing more, she says,” he chastised and rolled his eyes. “Like what?”

“Like there are lower chambers,” she played absently with the tail of her low braid, “Beyond what we’ve both been allowed to see.”

He huffed in irritation, “Yes, Mare. The Archives and storage vaults. Old converted cells where heretics like us used to languish until we died. An oubliette, even. Much to the great shame of the Church, I’m sure. What do we use it for now, tossing in rogue paperwork until it confesses?” 

“Lower,” she sighed, pointedly ignoring his targetless barbs. “The Sisters used to speak of something called lower vigils. I left for the priesthood and never learned precisely what they meant.” 

He studied her for any hint she was hiding something more. Of everyone, though, she was the one who did not lie to him. At least not in a way that mattered. Accepting her truth, he nodded. 

Maren had initially planned to become a nun, one of the various orders of Sisters who served the Pale God in different ways--salt magic, wax magic, a dozen other forms of calderism unique to their orders. He never asked about the details of her original path, she never offered them. Thus they existed in symbiotic avoidance.

“We should talk to Reed,” she muttered after silent consideration. “You’ve an outstanding favor to call in. Perhaps this is it.”

The church formed ahead of them like a stormcloud on the open sea. Black silhouette set against a blacker night sky overhead. No moon lit the path, but it did not matter. Icarus knew it by heart. They followed the walkways and crossed to the enormous iron gate set into a stacked stone wall. It seemed laughable to believe this low wall and a single gate protected the spirits of the dead from the disorder of the living. Yet here it was--miraculously unhaunted, if his sensitivity to that sort of thing could be trusted.

Rust flaked under his palm when he pressed the gate lever and pushed. It swung inward with a groan and Maren entered first, Icarus behind her. An enormous oak tree grew in the far corner of the graveyard. They made their way towards it and he grabbed the shovel from its half hidden position at its trunk. They had decided to dig where recently-turned earth would not be discovered until it was too late to say for sure when it had been disturbed. Most priests who wandered the graveyard were usually old enough to be shopping for personal real estate, Icarus doubted they would have the sight to notice something like that anyway.

Point firmly in the cold ground, he heaved his weight against the shovel with his good arm. It was only fair. After all, Maren had carried that disgusting head through half the city. When it was deep enough for her approval, she tossed the whole sack in and he covered it again. Dawn had begun to announce its arrival along the horizon line when their grotesque task was finished. He sighed, returned the shovel to its hiding place, and brushed the dirt off his hands. 

They watched the fresh patch of earth for a while before the risk of their discovery began to grow with the light, “Do we know this will work?”

She shook her head, “No.”

“Well. That’s unfortunate." They walked in silence--exhausted, not enough left for thought in either of them. Their office building materialized in the tired fog that began to whisper through the city.

“Mare?”

“Mm?”

“What the fuck do we do about Eilonwy?”

***

After a rather uncomfortable few hours on a couch not designed to support a sleeping human body, Icarus was stuck in a chair with his shirt around his waist. He yelped and jerked his arm back, but Maren’s grip on him was firm, “You should’ve been an executioner!”

“Torturer.” She corrected and pulled the needle through his skin in another precise stitch, “And if you keep flailing like a drunk seagull it’ll be worse.”

He made a warning sound between his teeth, but kept his arm still. He glanced at the now-empty cork board by his desk and tried to distract himself, “Do you think it was just too much? She took off into the dark? Made her way home?”

She paused to think before returning to her painful work, “I’m not sure.”

He frowned and fought the instinct to pull away when the needle pinched his skin, a half-empty glass of cheap whiskey his only anesthetic. He swallowed the rest with a shudder, “She did it on purpose, Mare. I know she did. I watched her look right at the salt and scuff it. Panic makes no sense. Who intentionally breaks a salt line and then panics about the results?”

“You’re overestimating how often the public use salt lines,” she mused with raised brows. She was right, of course. It was his bias to believe everyday Dubliners regularly cast down salt barriers to trap demons and fae on the loose, “We’ll dose when I’m done with this and then we can talk about it, yes?”

His sigh was full of drama. He pawed uselessly at the decanter just out of reach. Eyes wide and watery, he gave Maren a pleading look. An imperceptible twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her displeasure, but she poured him another measure anyway. 

“You’re turning into a caricature,” she warned when he drank half of what she had poured. 

He smirked, sticking a leg out to lounge in mock bravado, “A drunk Irishman? I’d never. Those pub degenerates drink because they’re Irish, I drink because I’m dying slowly. Big difference.”

She flicked her fingers in a targeted, sharp slap to his wound. He doubled over--mouth open in a silent scream, cold glass pressed against the newly-stitched cut. She pointed at him in accusation, “You’ll not disparage our heritage and reduce our people to drunks. That’s English propaganda.”

He hissed against the blur of pain, pulling the glass away to inspect the damage. Perfect sutures held it closed, blood beaded faintly between two of them. He whimpered in annoyance, “Fine! Pale Sons and Daughters, I was only joking.”

“Our people are not a joke.” She stood, hands on her hips, and motioned to the sofa, “Now, sit. We dose and then we go to the station.”

The decision to close the case in person went unspoken. Clouds of unease still gathered around Eilonwy--namely, the complete lack of her. Icarus glanced at the door on occasion, finding empty air. A woman so tormented by the loss of her family, her brother’s monstrous transformation, and now she was nowhere to be found was not a good combination. 

After the disastrous start to all this, he had not broached the subject of payment. Maren would probably have sent him into the river after the abhartach if he had tried to charge for their services. If it turned out Eilonwy had done something nefarious, however, he had every intent of demanding payment in full. He took the Eidolon Maren handed him with his blue-tinted fingers, dropping back against the sofa and waiting for the visions to kick in. 

The thunder of the faraway river hit him first this time, followed closely by asynchronous birdsong. Colors erupted--yellow gorse, blue amethyst sky, slate gray basalt. He peered down at the waterfall below, no rainbow rose to greet him this time. Shapes he never registered flitted about in the mist and he spotted them before he turned away. Petals kissed his fingertips until his foot caught the blasted root and sent him tumbling out of the otherworld. 

He sighed at the familiar longing in his chest. The urge to go back hit harder sometimes and weaker others, today it had chosen the former. Maren’s sclera still gleamed and he took the opportunity to finish the abandoned glass of miserable whiskey before she stirred. It seared the longing right out of his throat. Wiping her hands on the front of her black shirt, Maren stood and blinked away the last of her vision a moment after him.

“Ready?” If she knew he snuck another drink, she said nothing. He suspected she knew. 

***

The Fairview constable station was small, too small for the level of activity taking place inside it. Icarus grunted against the faint pounding in his temples and reached for his flask. He grimaced when his hand met empty space. Maren scanned the milling crowd. Someone shouted at a uniformed officer in the back, a line formed in front of a receptionist brimming with anxious tension, the curtains were drawn tight on the Chief Officer’s clear-paned door. Two investigator-priests with their red cords conferred with a separate line in the nearest corner, smaller and calmer than the poor addled receptionist’s. Priest frocks calmed people down, gave them a sense of order in the midst of disorder. 

Icarus tugged at the tab collar and pocketed it with a sidelong glance at Maren, “Air’s odd today. Let’s not make it odder.”

She did the same and followed him, still watching the slow-churning crowd, “Jumpiness after a murder.”

“I’m sure more than one saw Dáire just minutes ago,” he rolled his eyes. They walked to the Chief Officer’s door and Icarus rapped his knuckles on the glass, disregarding the closed curtains’ evident plea for solitude. 

The two investigator-priests eyed them with an expression of unplaced recognition, one paused to confer with the other. Icarus raked a hand through his hair and kept them in his periphery. He was not in the mood to verbally spar with a pair of ex-brothers while keeping a burgeoning mild hangover at bay. His arm itched. The door cracked open and they were let inside. 

The chief constable was a man clearly unaccustomed to putting so much effort into his role. Fairview was quiet, for the most part. It was a neighborhood of occasional pub brawls, the odd domestic disturbance, and some public intoxication. Not grisly murders and the wave of paranoia that followed them. He ran a hand over his rapidly thinning hair and sat down hard in his already strained chair behind a plain wooden desk. Weary brown eyes settled on them. 

“With the Church?” His brow furrowed when he noted the missing collars. 

Icarus pulled his out and waved it like a flag of surrender, “Didn’t want to impede the work of our brothers outside.”

The man grunted, satisfied with his answer. He opened a folder and scanned its contents in an insultingly poor performance of business. The two priests sat in the chairs opposite him and exchanged a look. Icarus shrugged. 

“Sir,” Maren offered, leaning forward to be certain he heard her, “we’re here about the Callahan case.”

He stiffened and raised his head to them. He futilely attempted disinterest, but the color had drained from his face. The folder closed slowly in his hands and he set it aside, steepling his fingers on the wood, “Everyone and their mothers. I’ve got no updates for you. We don’t have any word from the Church investigators yet-”

Icarus held up his hand in an imitation of a wave, “That’s us. We’re from the Church here to bring you word.”

The chief looked surprised, “Father Aaron and Father Colleen were assigned the case-”

“We’re independent investigators hired by the Callahan’s daughter,” Maren supplied, firing off a reprimanding look at Icarus. 

He frowned and drew out a thicker file, leafing through its contents. Icarus continued, “We identified the creature and set it to rights. Disposed of it according to well-sourced requirements. It was an old thing--an abhartach. Like a vampire from the Eastern countries too sentient for its own good. Its body is in the river and its head is buried on consecrated ground. Shouldn’t be bothering your fine corner of the world any longer.”

The man seemed perplexed for a moment. He scanned a yellowed piece of paper, flipped it over, flipped it back. He glanced up at them and Icarus recognized his expression--wariness. Icarus leaned back and stole a glance at Maren. She was watching the chief with a puzzled tilt of her head. Whatever bothered him neither of them liked.

“Hired by their daughter, you say?” The chief’s voice was an octave too high with suspicion.

Icarus nodded, “Aye, that’s what we said. Came to our office and hired our services direct after the eldest brother showed…signs. I can retrieve the contract if you give me-”

“The Callahans’ son perished in the attack.” His frown deepened. He ran a hand over his well-trimmed beard. 

Icarus stopped. He did not know what to say to that. How could he? He had stared into the malformed body of their eldest son. He had parted the once-man’s body from his head himself. Did the chief mishear him? Was this some residual bewitchment the abhartach left in its wake? A sign it was not truly dead?

“Their eldest son,” Maren spoke softly against the tightness in the air, “Dáire Callahan. He’s the one who went missing.”

The chief sniffed and turned the folder so they could read. A family tree and registration for all immediate family members, “They ain’t have a son named Dáire. Their daughter was eight. I doubt she’d have hired a couple exorcists, like. Pardon my skepticism. ‘Less she was a daring eight-year-old.”

Icarus stared at the records. He flipped through them. Then again. A third time. Maren took them from him and reviewed them more carefully. She turned each record over and took her time in the thick silence. The blood rushed in Icarus’s ears. He could not reconcile what he was seeing, what they had experienced. He fixed his eyes on the chief’s and shook his head in disbelief. He did not believe it. He could not. Not when his own eyes told him otherwise.

“Their eldest daughter, Eilonwy. She sat in our offices. Held hands with my secretary,” he rambled as if these moments could force a new truth into existence. The calculating hand he had run through his hair made its way back again, this time clumsy with self-doubt. 

It dawned on him slowly. Sun easing from behind a thick fog to shed light on crucial details he had not stopped to consider. He looked to Maren wide-eyed and bewildered. She met his wild stare and waited.

“We never took her address. We never took her fucking information.” They had never confirmed her identity, never established a mailing address. There was no contract to show the chief because they had never drafted one. Eilonwy had always--miraculously--found them. 

His head pounded. Sweat made his hands clammy. What the fuck is going on.

I’m working through line edits for the Yuletide Horror anthology right now, which is one of those behind-the-scenes publishing jobs that takes a lot longer than you’d probably think.

I go through every story line by line looking for the tiny things that are easy to miss: punctuation, capitalization, spacing, missing or repeated words, italics, dialogue formatting, paragraph breaks, and anything else that looks off.

With an anthology, there’s another layer to it because every story comes from a different author. I want to preserve each author’s voice while also making sure the book feels consistent as a whole. That means checking things like formatting, how scene breaks are handled, quotation marks, em dashes, headers, and all the little style choices that need to match from one story to the next.

It’s definitely not the most exciting part of publishing to show off, but it’s a huge part of what happens between receiving a finished story and having an anthology that’s actually ready to become a book.

It’s the kind of work nobody really notices when it’s done right, which is exactly the point.

Happy September, friends! It's time for our August disability release round-up, and this month I came across a lot of book releases starring disabled main characters!

And don't forget to fill out this Google form if you want your personalized recommendations for the month!

books by own voices or otherwise disabled authors

Everything Comes Back to You by Jackie Khalilieh

genre: YA Contemporary

representation: autism

These Vile Hearts by Melody Robinette

genre: fantasy romance, horror

representation: type 1 diabetes

The Fated Librarian by Melissa Whitney

genre: paranormal romance

representation: PTSD, anxiety

She Haunts Me Still by De Elizabeth

genre: horror romantasy

representation: mental illness

The Halls of the Dead by S.M. Hallow

genre: horror

representation: chronic pelvic pain

Ship Happens by Mason Deaver

genre: romance

representation: arthritis, cane user

Left on Read by Marissa Eller

genre: YA Contemporary

representation: chronic migraines

Unapologetic Love Story by Elle McNicoll

genre: romance

representation: autism

Rise Above by C.M. Stewart

genre: romance

representation: pineal cyst brain surgery survivor, PTSD

When in Doubt by Anna Harrison

genre: romance

representation: autism

The Torment of Tides by Anya Keeler

genre: fantasy romance

representation: multiple chronic illnesses and disabilities

Finding Gene Kelly (audio release) by Torie Jean

genre: romance

representation: endometriosis

books by non-disabled authors and authors of unknown ability

A Clash of Carnivores by Liselle Sambury

genre: YA Fantasy

representation: eating disorder, side character with limb difference

Concentration Play by Katherine McIntyre

genre: erotic romance

representation: OCD

Not Here to Make Friends by Casey Swan

genre: romance

representation: type 1 diabetes

Big Apple Farm by Megan Clawson

genre: romance

representation: anxiety, panic attacks

The Way We Used to Be by Amerie Wheeler

genre: romance

representation: autism, ADHD

The Poison Daughter by Sheila Masterson

genre: fantasy romance

representation: chronic pain, chronic illness

A Taste of Vanilla by Anna Noel

genre: romance

representation: endometriosis

The Minimalist by Kailee Pedersen

genre: horror

representation: c-PTSD

Worth the Fight by Laura Beth

genre: romance

representation: PTSD

Not on the Same Page by Allie Samberts

genre: romance

representation: anxiety

The Cowboy Cabaret by Delilah Cardinelle

genre: romance

representation: anxiety

The One Where They Fall in Love by Cristina Wolf

genre: romance

representation: OCD

Defend Her Heart by Jillian Arly

genre: romance

representation: chronic illness

Fall Risk by Julie Pierce

genre: romance

representation: osteogenesis imperfecta

Fruit Fly by Josh Silver

genre: literary fiction

representation: addiction

This week our contributors are diving into some great titles!

Jordy is reading Because I Killed Him by Edith Birde.

Rah is reading Cursed Bunny by Bora Chung.

Mhairie is reading Newbourne Park by Jennifer Thorne.

Renee is reading Lessons from the Housewives by Evie Psarras.

What book(s) have you picked up to read this week?! If you've read any of these titles, share your thoughts in the comments so we can discuss!

Get it on amazon, kindle, or audible here.

Get it from my favorite women-owned indie bookstore here.

Happy reading!

#BookPickAnnouncement 

Happy Tuesday, fellow Collaborators!

It's rainy and grey outside here in Green Bay, WI which means it's the perfect day to stay indoors and read/partake in hobbies. (I say, as I went to the work office for a few hours this morning, and my children/chaos/noise creators will be home from school in like 2-3 hours. One can dream. lol)

This past week (since last newsletter) I finished up the Heartstopper series, and in preparation of TODAY'S RELEASE of Cemetery Boys: Espiritu, I listened to the audio of Cemetery Boys yesterday. Y'all, I know I keep saying I'm not a fantasy/magical realism/etc. reader, but there's just something about Aiden's writing that enamors me. I loved the way he just writes in gender euphoria, and body dysmorphia without calling it that... like there's scenes that describe trans joy and validation, without the need to overtly name-call what it is. It just is. And I love that. The way he writes is just beautiful, and I'm so excited to get my signed/personalized copy of Cemetery Boys: Espiritu literally any day now. I keep watching out the window waiting on the mail person every day with both excitement and disappointment when I don't get the goods. lol I know I'm not alone in this, either.

I will also be starting Sonido Reyes' book To Our Untamed Core this week, too! (This is our Q4 book club pick, and we'll talk to them for our Behind The Book chat in November.)

I went to the Dollar Tree (seriously, they need to change their name because everything, at minimum is $1.25 and up now) and Five Below unattended twice over the last week, and I probably spent like $25 on journaling stuff? I want to go back and get some acrylic markers to test out, too. I have big plans to spend more dedicated time writing and journaling without the (self) expectation to have it monetized or future book related. If any of you are on board, we could absolutely set up a zoom chat to talk all things books, journaling/journaling prompts/etc. I'm always down to nerd out about these things. Just drop a comment if you're interested. I have a note in my phone dedicated to all the journals i want to create. We'll see how many stick.

I also want you to know, that, while I have been doing this Bookstagram thing since May of 2020, I still have to plead for some of the queer books that are on my radar. Here is just one of the many recent e-mails I've sent out pleading my case for Lamya H's upcoming book 99 Names For God:

I try to be lighthearted and funny... but like.. please, I beg. They responded very nicely, too, by the way. So, don't ever be afraid to shoot your shot to publishers! And have fun, always. There are some times I get into like, creative lows where I have zero energy to do anything content related - which happened to me when Memaw passed in June. I had to take some time to collect myself, but I also (eventually) pushed myself (gently) to do things that I knew would make me happy. So, don't be afraid to gently nudge yourself to start something you know you will enjoy, even if it takes you a little bit longer to find your groove.

Looking ahead, we will have our usual Trans Joy Thursday newsletter with the zoom details for the Beyond The Rainbow chat with Anita Kelly, Friday, September 11th, from 6-7pm CST. Next Sunday, our September Shenanigans, Week 3 newsletter will be focused on Latinx Heritage Month!

Anything in particular you'd like to see moving forward? Both here in your exclusive newsletters, or anywhere else? Always here to listen and brainstorm and see what works (and what doesn't.)

Reminder: If you're interested in a zoom meet-up to discuss books/journaling/etc. drop me a comment! We'll figure the best day/time.

As always, I hope you find joy in your day/week. Thank you for being here. I cannot wait to see where Not A Phase Books takes us.

With all my trans joy,

Sawyer Cole