HELP WANTED
Hey there, everyone! I know it's been a hot minute since I've posted anything (try ten years, maybe?!).
But I'm coming out of retirement for a brief moment to ask for your help.
While I haven't been writing SPN fanfic, I've been working on original stories and novels, and I'm excited to announce that I'm seeking publication for my fantasy novel, Hands of Fire. The publishing world is a very different beast than it was a few decades ago, and these days, social media is an important part of the process. Publishers look at an author's platform to see if they have an audience and if there are people out there who want to read their writing. The more followers and traction you have on your social media, the more likely you are to get a publisher to take a chance on you.
And that's why I'm here. Hands of Fire is currently a serialized fantasy novel on Substack. Subscribers on Substack look really great to publishers, and the more subscribers I have, the better my chances.
I am including the first part of the prologue here, as well as a link to the rest. At the bottom of the page, you'll see a subscribe button where you can enter your email. I know the odds of this even making it into your dash are slim, but on the off chance you see this, on the off chance you remember me, on the off chance you still remember the fanfic I used to write fondly and want to support me as a writer today, it would mean the world if you would click that subscribe button and help me gain traction with more publishers.
THANK YOU for your time. I hope all of you are well and thriving and living your best lives. While I haven't been active here, I'm still continuously blown away by how supportive and amazing this community is.
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She had a name once, before the tower. She had a life, and she had a family, and she had light and air and trees and space to run. She had the grass that tickled the space between her toes and the wind at the crest of the hill behind her home and the smell of lilies in the gardens mixed with freshly tilled soil.
There had been a woman, she remembers, a mother with cornsilk hair in a long braid and a voice that sang more than it spoke.
She had a name once.
She tips her head back until it thumps against the dark stone walls. She does it again. Again. Again. Again. The shadows wreathe and tighten around her, a dark caress in the still darker room.
She had a name once, and it is the loss of this that bothers her the most. She remembers the mother and the cornsilk braid and snatches of song that linger like fog, but she can’t remember her name.
Thump goes her head against the curved tower walls. Again. Again. Again. Again. The shadows whisper at the dull pain, hiss and whisper and beg for more.
She peers at the gap set high on the walls, the bars that block it, the small rectangles of blinding white that provide her only illumination. She watches the shapes change on the floor of her prison—watches them grow and stretch and fight for dominance, those three shafts of burning light. They stretch further across the stones, and when they’re close enough to touch—to show her the bare feet pale as fresh cotton except for the soles stained black with grime—she curls in on herself, wraps the shadows around her shoulders like a quilt, melts into the darkness so she won’t have to burn.
The light makes its slow journey across the floor of her tower.
It crawls up the curved wall.
It fades.
At least the Laughing Woman didn’t come today.
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