I hope everyone checks out my latest ebook release: Where Are You, Anne Bonny?
It's available now through http://www.roguephoenixpress.com/ .
If you love the idea of a lady pirate, you'll love this one.
Daniel (Danny) Lance Wright
Author of
"Paradise Flawed"/Dream Books LLC/2009
"Six Years' Worth"/Father's Press/2007
"The Last Radiant Heart"/Virtual Tales/Summer 2010
"Where Are You, Anne Bonny?"/Rogue Phoenix Press/ ebook available now 2010
Novelist
Daniel (Danny) Lance Wright, Author
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
"Trouble"
I was notified recently that a short story I wrote, “Trouble”, placed in a contest and would be included, along with all the winners, in an anthology. It’s published by Crossquarter Publishing Group of Santa Fe, New Mexico. It’s a 2500-word fantasy piece that crosses the line into religious territory.
The book will be available in late July at http://www.crossquarter.com/ and http://www.amazon.com/ .
I’m eager to read the other stories. Below is an excerpt of “Trouble”. Enjoy:
No salt had been sprinkled on the thin layer of ice in the alley like it had been on the sidewalk. Patches of it immediately robbed sure footing. Complicating matters, it was sloped to the center for better drainage; he did not have to step at all to slide to the middle of the narrow alley. Forward progress was now only possible by a flat-footed glide, arms outstretched as if tightrope walking. Chester slowed and picked his path. The iciest places were difficult to spot because the only illumination came from a single street light behind him.
Suddenly, a rat darted across his path.
His feet went airborne.
His head came down against a gas meter pipe elbow.
Pain exploded in his head and the concrete was cold on his prone body, but only for as long as it took to realize it.
He took a deep breath and sat up. He held his head with both hands and then checked them—no blood; furthermore, no pain. Opening his eyes, he danced fingertips over the side of his head in various places and felt nothing out of the ordinary. Not a gash, a lump, a sore spot—nothing.
Hey, how come I can see my hand so well? Why is it not cold anymore? What’s goin’ on?
He looked around for the source of brilliance but it simply could not be pinpointed. Light flooded the alley from all directions, not overhead and not from either side. “What the hell…?”
“Chester Wiggins?”
He continued the fingering probe of his temple. “Yeah, I’m Chester.”
Still dumbfounded, he did not care about the voice. Finally, he looked. When his eyes connected, he scooted on his butt until his back thudded against the brick wall of the building behind him. “Jesus Christ!”
“I wish.”
“Who the hell are you? You don’t look human!”
“I should hope not.”
“Then who… what are you?”
“I live here.”
“The alley?”
“It’s an alley to you. To me it’s a disgusting little crevice within a cranny under a smelly lump of dung... but I call it home.”
The book will be available in late July at http://www.crossquarter.com/ and http://www.amazon.com/ .
I’m eager to read the other stories. Below is an excerpt of “Trouble”. Enjoy:
No salt had been sprinkled on the thin layer of ice in the alley like it had been on the sidewalk. Patches of it immediately robbed sure footing. Complicating matters, it was sloped to the center for better drainage; he did not have to step at all to slide to the middle of the narrow alley. Forward progress was now only possible by a flat-footed glide, arms outstretched as if tightrope walking. Chester slowed and picked his path. The iciest places were difficult to spot because the only illumination came from a single street light behind him.
Suddenly, a rat darted across his path.
His feet went airborne.
His head came down against a gas meter pipe elbow.
Pain exploded in his head and the concrete was cold on his prone body, but only for as long as it took to realize it.
He took a deep breath and sat up. He held his head with both hands and then checked them—no blood; furthermore, no pain. Opening his eyes, he danced fingertips over the side of his head in various places and felt nothing out of the ordinary. Not a gash, a lump, a sore spot—nothing.
Hey, how come I can see my hand so well? Why is it not cold anymore? What’s goin’ on?
He looked around for the source of brilliance but it simply could not be pinpointed. Light flooded the alley from all directions, not overhead and not from either side. “What the hell…?”
“Chester Wiggins?”
He continued the fingering probe of his temple. “Yeah, I’m Chester.”
Still dumbfounded, he did not care about the voice. Finally, he looked. When his eyes connected, he scooted on his butt until his back thudded against the brick wall of the building behind him. “Jesus Christ!”
“I wish.”
“Who the hell are you? You don’t look human!”
“I should hope not.”
“Then who… what are you?”
“I live here.”
“The alley?”
“It’s an alley to you. To me it’s a disgusting little crevice within a cranny under a smelly lump of dung... but I call it home.”
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Editing My Baby
It’s interesting how the mind reacts when self-editing the newborn novel.
We stare lovingly with stars in our eyes and never see the obvious.
Before us is a helpless infant and we, as authors, have the power and the means to either relegate it to bastard stepchild status, even mutilate it, or give it sustenance and the right amount of care to help it reach its full potential as a story that propels readers to another place, another time and into another life twisting emotions to whatever end the author desires. It’s difficult in the beginning to see anything but the most beautiful baby in the world. In reality, it’s an embryo faintly resembling a novel.
As with any parent, it’s a difficult task to nurture without coddling or to discipline without harming.
This morning I sat at the keyboard going over a chapter in a novel now almost six years, by no means an infant, and still unpublished. It was one specific paragraph that spawned this line of thinking. In my opinion it was superbly written—just the right amount of narration to balance crisp dialogue without cumbersome adverbs or overuse of adjectives. It plucked a heart string the way I intended when first written in 2005.
The only problem with it, I came to realize, was that the entire paragraph, every well-placed word, was superfluous to the story. It didn’t need to be there. The story would not miss it at all. It felt as if someone had slapped me and that’s not just hyperbole; I felt a real sting. I loved that paragraph, usually reading it two or three times before moving on.
This is where the infant/parent comparison is most appropriate; when I decided that my only choice was removing it, I might as well have decided to amputate the pinky finger of an only child, a teenage child at that.
I now have a new opinion: When I’m finished with it, this eighty-four-thousand word six-year old novel may be ten to fifteen-thousand words shorter.
If, at some point in the future, the novel is blessed by some publisher, I’ll build a shadow box and next to the published novel will be placed a very well written paragraph. I’ll just let people ask me why.
Daniel (Danny) Lance Wright
Author of
"Paradise Flawed"/Dream Books LLC/2009
"Six Years' Worth"/Father's Press/2007
"The Last Radiant Heart"/Virtual Tales/Summer 2010
"Anne Bonny, Where Are You?"/Rogue Phoenix Press/Summer 2010
We stare lovingly with stars in our eyes and never see the obvious.
Before us is a helpless infant and we, as authors, have the power and the means to either relegate it to bastard stepchild status, even mutilate it, or give it sustenance and the right amount of care to help it reach its full potential as a story that propels readers to another place, another time and into another life twisting emotions to whatever end the author desires. It’s difficult in the beginning to see anything but the most beautiful baby in the world. In reality, it’s an embryo faintly resembling a novel.
As with any parent, it’s a difficult task to nurture without coddling or to discipline without harming.
This morning I sat at the keyboard going over a chapter in a novel now almost six years, by no means an infant, and still unpublished. It was one specific paragraph that spawned this line of thinking. In my opinion it was superbly written—just the right amount of narration to balance crisp dialogue without cumbersome adverbs or overuse of adjectives. It plucked a heart string the way I intended when first written in 2005.
The only problem with it, I came to realize, was that the entire paragraph, every well-placed word, was superfluous to the story. It didn’t need to be there. The story would not miss it at all. It felt as if someone had slapped me and that’s not just hyperbole; I felt a real sting. I loved that paragraph, usually reading it two or three times before moving on.
This is where the infant/parent comparison is most appropriate; when I decided that my only choice was removing it, I might as well have decided to amputate the pinky finger of an only child, a teenage child at that.
I now have a new opinion: When I’m finished with it, this eighty-four-thousand word six-year old novel may be ten to fifteen-thousand words shorter.
If, at some point in the future, the novel is blessed by some publisher, I’ll build a shadow box and next to the published novel will be placed a very well written paragraph. I’ll just let people ask me why.
Daniel (Danny) Lance Wright
Author of
"Paradise Flawed"/Dream Books LLC/2009
"Six Years' Worth"/Father's Press/2007
"The Last Radiant Heart"/Virtual Tales/Summer 2010
"Anne Bonny, Where Are You?"/Rogue Phoenix Press/Summer 2010
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Writer's Block
Where does writer’s block come from?
I suppose the question doesn’t have a pat answer but I think I have a handle on it in my case. It’s a matter of creativity choked off by everyday life—money worries, family problems, backed-up plumbing, and on, and on and on.
Here’s where that handle gets a might difficult to hang on to; I haven’t found the key to make creativity top of the heap. It’s just another thing in the heap.
Wine works well, but it’s certainly not a fix I care to lean on regularly. As time goes on, that cure will surely become the curse. I’ve seen and heard of it happening to many writers, musicians, and actors.
So, let’s start a meaningful discussion: When you hit a wall with your writing, what works for you?
Trust me, any technique offered will be cheerfully received.
Daniel (Danny) Lance Wright
Author of
"Paradise Flawed"/Dream Books LLC/2009
"Six Years' Worth"/Father's Press/2007
"The Last Radiant Heart"/Virtual Tales/Summer 2010
"Anne Bonny, Where Are You?"/Rogue Phoenix Press/Summer 2010
I suppose the question doesn’t have a pat answer but I think I have a handle on it in my case. It’s a matter of creativity choked off by everyday life—money worries, family problems, backed-up plumbing, and on, and on and on.
Here’s where that handle gets a might difficult to hang on to; I haven’t found the key to make creativity top of the heap. It’s just another thing in the heap.
Wine works well, but it’s certainly not a fix I care to lean on regularly. As time goes on, that cure will surely become the curse. I’ve seen and heard of it happening to many writers, musicians, and actors.
So, let’s start a meaningful discussion: When you hit a wall with your writing, what works for you?
Trust me, any technique offered will be cheerfully received.
Daniel (Danny) Lance Wright
Author of
"Paradise Flawed"/Dream Books LLC/2009
"Six Years' Worth"/Father's Press/2007
"The Last Radiant Heart"/Virtual Tales/Summer 2010
"Anne Bonny, Where Are You?"/Rogue Phoenix Press/Summer 2010
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Education and Common Sense
I experienced a true phenomenon yesterday—a university professor educated beyond common sense. Education and good old horse sense, I am now convinced, can be mutually exclusive.
The man is brilliant in his field and we had a fascinating conversation about the human condition. He eloquently quoted Fritz Perls and Freud, among others. I kept my chin in my palm enthralled with his expertise on what makes humans tick.
He is one of those people with degrees, diplomas and certificates of achievement framed and hanging on his office wall in numbers that left little wall space visible. He obviously had spent innumerable hours studying to have such wisdom available without referencing some dusty old text.
As his time for me dwindled, his mind clicked over to chores he had to get done when he got home, like mowing the lawn. That’s the one that got my attention.
He asked, “Since only the ends of a mower blade are sharpened, how does it cut grass in the center?”
I laughed.
He didn’t.
So, I told him that forward momentum takes care of it.
He had to think about it for a full second, maybe two and then the light in his eyes went on.
Later, while thinking about that odd transformation from enlightened guru to dim bulb within seconds, I visualized an eager young college student holding out a bag while professors, teachers, mentors and instructors filled that bag with knowledge within a very narrow range. The student kept his nose in that bag the whole time, years actually, never paying attention to the world around him. Questions came to mind.
If given the choice, would it be preferable to learn everything there is to know about a subject within a narrow range? Or, should we work at becoming better rounded in our education? Or, does it really matter? Simply asked: Is it better to know a lot about very little or to have some knowledge about many different things?
I’m sure the answer lies with where the passion is. As for me, I have a new respect for Texas rednecks.
Daniel (Danny) Lance Wright
Author of
"Paradise Flawed"/Dream Books LLC/2009
"Six Years' Worth"/Father's Press/2007
"The Last Radiant Heart"/Virtual Tales/Summer 2010
"Anne Bonny, Where Are You?"/Rogue Phoenix Press/Spring 2010
The man is brilliant in his field and we had a fascinating conversation about the human condition. He eloquently quoted Fritz Perls and Freud, among others. I kept my chin in my palm enthralled with his expertise on what makes humans tick.
He is one of those people with degrees, diplomas and certificates of achievement framed and hanging on his office wall in numbers that left little wall space visible. He obviously had spent innumerable hours studying to have such wisdom available without referencing some dusty old text.
As his time for me dwindled, his mind clicked over to chores he had to get done when he got home, like mowing the lawn. That’s the one that got my attention.
He asked, “Since only the ends of a mower blade are sharpened, how does it cut grass in the center?”
I laughed.
He didn’t.
So, I told him that forward momentum takes care of it.
He had to think about it for a full second, maybe two and then the light in his eyes went on.
Later, while thinking about that odd transformation from enlightened guru to dim bulb within seconds, I visualized an eager young college student holding out a bag while professors, teachers, mentors and instructors filled that bag with knowledge within a very narrow range. The student kept his nose in that bag the whole time, years actually, never paying attention to the world around him. Questions came to mind.
If given the choice, would it be preferable to learn everything there is to know about a subject within a narrow range? Or, should we work at becoming better rounded in our education? Or, does it really matter? Simply asked: Is it better to know a lot about very little or to have some knowledge about many different things?
I’m sure the answer lies with where the passion is. As for me, I have a new respect for Texas rednecks.
Daniel (Danny) Lance Wright
Author of
"Paradise Flawed"/Dream Books LLC/2009
"Six Years' Worth"/Father's Press/2007
"The Last Radiant Heart"/Virtual Tales/Summer 2010
"Anne Bonny, Where Are You?"/Rogue Phoenix Press/Spring 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Are There Degrees of Profundity?
Where do profound thoughts come from? Do we just wait for them to smack us on the head?
I learned that enlightenment can begin with an event no more complicated than watching seagulls.
Before we get to the gulls, it bears mentioning, there have been two occasions when seemingly benign comments created circumstances sending my life sailing off into new directions, like a pinball hitting that hundred-point bumper, lighting up all the machinery.
Through my teens and twenties, life was a rather steep uphill battle. At the time, concerns were limited to wondering whether my last ten dollars, three days before payday, would buy gasoline for the car, or a few more groceries. Looking back, those were happy times, the good old days. When the thirties rolled around, income increased and money worries leveled out, even disappeared to a great extent. Life was good.
It’s easy to see it all in retrospect. Living on a plateau, whether financial or from any other perspective, is only comfortable as long as no one pushes us from it. Funny thing about plateaus, no down escalator, only lethal drops. If we’re lucky enough to get there, the battle to keep the fruits of our achievements can be a killer.
Working in the television business in a small Texas market in the seventies and early eighties was a joy, until the station sold and management changed. Suddenly, I didn’t fit. Fear of losing what I had invested years to build pressed my Chicken Little button. It seemed calamity lurked just out of sight, but I expected it to come into view at any moment. I put in twice the time and thrice the effort to simply stay employed. No matter. My goals had been raised to unreasonable limits, support systems removed. They wanted me gone.
Friends came for a visit one weekend. I laid the oh-woe-is-me treatment on a buddy. He tired quickly of hearing it. “Nothing lasts forever,” he said flatly, “Stop worrying about it.”
Comments don’t get more basic, benign or non-threatening than that. But, for me, at that time, it was a life-altering revelation. Like a bullet between the eyes, it exploded the sacred myth that that job should be forever. What the hell was I thinking? He was dead-on right. Nothing lasts forever.
Then came profundity number two. Near the end of that situation, I learned to deal with inevitability, even joke about it. I continued finding or creating promotional vehicles suited to my clients. Admittedly, some of that was to impress my superiors to show them what they would be missing when they let the ax fall.
As I agonized over a proposal and worried aloud about it, a coworker said, “It’s just f___ing television, not brain surgery. Stop worrying about it.”
That’s when I discovered lightning could strike twice. That comment, made in passing, and in jest, scars my psyche to this day, but it’s a funny little blemish. It’s one of those guiding forces in my life I refer to, and say often, just substitute the word television with the flavor of the month. I never change the profanity. It fits all situations.
That former coworker holds a special place in my heart for that comment. He’ll likely never know that he provided me a springboard to another life’s change. All he wanted was a laugh.
When the mind is open, wisdom gets in. But, how does one go about opening a mind? It’s certainly not like flipping a light switch.
Sometimes, a simple summer vacation and a day at the beach can do the trick.
It was daybreak, my favorite time of day. I poured a cup of coffee, grabbed a lawn chair and walked to the beach, no other plan in mind than greet the day while listening to the crashing surf, ready to get my vacation underway.
The rhythmic sound of crashing surf and a steady breeze worked its magic. Troubles took flight—ah, sweet, sweet peace of mind. It felt good. I had nothing on my mind except letting the sound of the surf and sights of the ocean sweep over me.
Gulls gathered at the water’s edge looking into the rising sun, unmoving, even against the stiff breeze. They seemed to be refusing to relinquish a front row seat, like they saw something worth staring at.
I was reminded of a movie where angels gathered on a beach, all oriented east, looking into the rising sun, as these gulls did, greeting the new day. Did the director see this same sight, too?
A cloud drifted across the still-rising sun, shooting streamers of God’s light in all directions. That certainly didn’t settle my seeking mind.
It concerned me that I might be taking for granted what those birds saw as reverent. In their way, they must have been giving thanks for surviving long enough to see another sunrise.
The excited squeal of a small child startled me from contemplation. I looked. People were coming out to enjoy this sliver of paradise. As far as I could see in both directions, people walked to the beach, as if the hand of a director cued them to do so.
At that moment, it was as if God’s finger touched that sleeping part of my brain.
This must have been about the temporal nature of life. A hundred years from now no one on that beach would likely be alive—very few on the entire planet, yet the gulls would still greet each new day and the surf would still pound the beach.
I shuddered.
When life’s drudgery drags you down, someone close will certainly crack wise, “In a hundred years from now, who’s going to care?”
It’s true.
Enjoy.
Life’s short.
Daniel (Danny) Lance Wright
Author of
"Paradise Flawed"/Dream Books LLC/2009
"Six Years' Worth"/Father's Press/2007
"The Last Radiant Heart"/Virtual Tales/Summer 2010
"Anne Bonny, Where Are You?"/Rogue Phoenix Press/Spring 2010
I learned that enlightenment can begin with an event no more complicated than watching seagulls.
Before we get to the gulls, it bears mentioning, there have been two occasions when seemingly benign comments created circumstances sending my life sailing off into new directions, like a pinball hitting that hundred-point bumper, lighting up all the machinery.
Through my teens and twenties, life was a rather steep uphill battle. At the time, concerns were limited to wondering whether my last ten dollars, three days before payday, would buy gasoline for the car, or a few more groceries. Looking back, those were happy times, the good old days. When the thirties rolled around, income increased and money worries leveled out, even disappeared to a great extent. Life was good.
It’s easy to see it all in retrospect. Living on a plateau, whether financial or from any other perspective, is only comfortable as long as no one pushes us from it. Funny thing about plateaus, no down escalator, only lethal drops. If we’re lucky enough to get there, the battle to keep the fruits of our achievements can be a killer.
Working in the television business in a small Texas market in the seventies and early eighties was a joy, until the station sold and management changed. Suddenly, I didn’t fit. Fear of losing what I had invested years to build pressed my Chicken Little button. It seemed calamity lurked just out of sight, but I expected it to come into view at any moment. I put in twice the time and thrice the effort to simply stay employed. No matter. My goals had been raised to unreasonable limits, support systems removed. They wanted me gone.
Friends came for a visit one weekend. I laid the oh-woe-is-me treatment on a buddy. He tired quickly of hearing it. “Nothing lasts forever,” he said flatly, “Stop worrying about it.”
Comments don’t get more basic, benign or non-threatening than that. But, for me, at that time, it was a life-altering revelation. Like a bullet between the eyes, it exploded the sacred myth that that job should be forever. What the hell was I thinking? He was dead-on right. Nothing lasts forever.
Then came profundity number two. Near the end of that situation, I learned to deal with inevitability, even joke about it. I continued finding or creating promotional vehicles suited to my clients. Admittedly, some of that was to impress my superiors to show them what they would be missing when they let the ax fall.
As I agonized over a proposal and worried aloud about it, a coworker said, “It’s just f___ing television, not brain surgery. Stop worrying about it.”
That’s when I discovered lightning could strike twice. That comment, made in passing, and in jest, scars my psyche to this day, but it’s a funny little blemish. It’s one of those guiding forces in my life I refer to, and say often, just substitute the word television with the flavor of the month. I never change the profanity. It fits all situations.
That former coworker holds a special place in my heart for that comment. He’ll likely never know that he provided me a springboard to another life’s change. All he wanted was a laugh.
When the mind is open, wisdom gets in. But, how does one go about opening a mind? It’s certainly not like flipping a light switch.
Sometimes, a simple summer vacation and a day at the beach can do the trick.
It was daybreak, my favorite time of day. I poured a cup of coffee, grabbed a lawn chair and walked to the beach, no other plan in mind than greet the day while listening to the crashing surf, ready to get my vacation underway.
The rhythmic sound of crashing surf and a steady breeze worked its magic. Troubles took flight—ah, sweet, sweet peace of mind. It felt good. I had nothing on my mind except letting the sound of the surf and sights of the ocean sweep over me.
Gulls gathered at the water’s edge looking into the rising sun, unmoving, even against the stiff breeze. They seemed to be refusing to relinquish a front row seat, like they saw something worth staring at.
I was reminded of a movie where angels gathered on a beach, all oriented east, looking into the rising sun, as these gulls did, greeting the new day. Did the director see this same sight, too?
A cloud drifted across the still-rising sun, shooting streamers of God’s light in all directions. That certainly didn’t settle my seeking mind.
It concerned me that I might be taking for granted what those birds saw as reverent. In their way, they must have been giving thanks for surviving long enough to see another sunrise.
The excited squeal of a small child startled me from contemplation. I looked. People were coming out to enjoy this sliver of paradise. As far as I could see in both directions, people walked to the beach, as if the hand of a director cued them to do so.
At that moment, it was as if God’s finger touched that sleeping part of my brain.
This must have been about the temporal nature of life. A hundred years from now no one on that beach would likely be alive—very few on the entire planet, yet the gulls would still greet each new day and the surf would still pound the beach.
I shuddered.
When life’s drudgery drags you down, someone close will certainly crack wise, “In a hundred years from now, who’s going to care?”
It’s true.
Enjoy.
Life’s short.
Daniel (Danny) Lance Wright
Author of
"Paradise Flawed"/Dream Books LLC/2009
"Six Years' Worth"/Father's Press/2007
"The Last Radiant Heart"/Virtual Tales/Summer 2010
"Anne Bonny, Where Are You?"/Rogue Phoenix Press/Spring 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Chicken or the Egg
As a fiction writer, a concept or premise will come to me by way of something I’ve seen or read and then go about the business of concocting characters to bring the story to life. But, just yesterday, it occurred to me that I have several interesting characters rambling around in my head that have no story home. They’re just interesting people I’ve known, or know of, that would make excellent characters if only I had a story for them.
That got me wondering about other fiction writers. And, it amounts to the classic conundrum: Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Do other fiction writers build stories around strong characters or create characters to be plugged into a story after conceptualizing a plot line? Or, is there a mix?
As mentioned, I have characters in mind but I’ve never built a story around a single character.
I need to pause and say, though, I’ve yet to write a sequel. That, to me, is a different situation. The story must be built around the character(s). I’m confining this to the genesis of a brand new project.
Somehow, I have the feeling that this might be a polarizing subject if opened up for debate. Who cares? I think I’ll ask anyhow.
Which came first, the character or the story?
Daniel (Danny) Lance Wright
Author of
"Paradise Flawed"/Dream Books LLC/2009
"Six Years' Worth"/Father's Press/2007
"The Last Radiant Heart"/Virtual Tales/Summer 2010
"Anne Bonny, Where Are You?"/Rogue Phoenix Press/Spring 2010
That got me wondering about other fiction writers. And, it amounts to the classic conundrum: Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Do other fiction writers build stories around strong characters or create characters to be plugged into a story after conceptualizing a plot line? Or, is there a mix?
As mentioned, I have characters in mind but I’ve never built a story around a single character.
I need to pause and say, though, I’ve yet to write a sequel. That, to me, is a different situation. The story must be built around the character(s). I’m confining this to the genesis of a brand new project.
Somehow, I have the feeling that this might be a polarizing subject if opened up for debate. Who cares? I think I’ll ask anyhow.
Which came first, the character or the story?
Daniel (Danny) Lance Wright
Author of
"Paradise Flawed"/Dream Books LLC/2009
"Six Years' Worth"/Father's Press/2007
"The Last Radiant Heart"/Virtual Tales/Summer 2010
"Anne Bonny, Where Are You?"/Rogue Phoenix Press/Spring 2010
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