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Jul 15 2015

The Publishing Bitch-Slap: Porn Novels Have Ruined the Literary Marketplace

X-rated

Consider this scenario:

5 young men wake up one morning and decide they want to form a band and record a record. They have never played a musical instrument or written any songs before, but since they have listened to music their entire lives they are pretty sure they can learn how to do it all.

They spend 4 weeks learning the basic chords and functions of their instruments and can play those chords well, but they have no idea how to string those chords together into music. They know nothing about harmony or melody, nothing about the recording business, nothing about laying down tracks or how to mix the different instruments into a single track.

Despite this, they buy some recording software and record an album, without the benefit of a professional recording studio or the behind-the-scenes professionals that help create a quality album, opting instead to do everything themselves or hire “friends” who know a little bit about the process. Two months later, the album is complete and they start selling it on every available outlet that will allow them to sell it as an indie title. How do you think the record would sound, as opposed to those albums recorded by musicians who have not only spent years mastering their art, but who had an entire team of professionals who knew how to create, mix, and produce a quality product?

Let’s take this a step further. Imagine now that this band starts sending this record out to every small radio station and blog it can find. Under normal circumstances, it would never get a single spin. It would end up in the trash bin because it did not come close to meeting industry standards.

But now imagine that this record and the band gather a fan base. Small at first, but word of mouth spreads. Soon it’s all anyone is talking about.  It’s all over social media. So many people are tweeting about it that more and more people rush out to buy the album just to see what everyone is talking about. It’s not that it is particularly good, but with so many people talking, the curiosity alone sustains it. Soon the band and their album are being covered by magazines and blogs, it’s went from small town basement radio stations to national radio stations. It’s hitting the charts, outranking bands that have been playing music for years.

THIS is what it feels like to be a veteran author in today’s market. I can think of no other way to describe it, when someone who just woke up one morning and decided they wanted to be a writer and two months later upload a poorly edited, literary train wreck to Amazon and then demand the same respect and success as those artists who have spent YEARS of their lives honing their craft, learning the business, and sitting at the feet of their mentors taking notes. They have allowed their work, a piece of their soul, to be ripped apart because, even though it hurts, they KNOW that only by listening to those with more experience than they, can they truly become a better writer.

After 3 DECADES spent writing, I still do not consider myself to be anywhere near the same league as the greats of my generation (Rice, Crichton, Cook), yet I see authors who have literally pushed our 6 novellas in as many months with questionable writing ability act as if they are some great smut Tolstoy. So when you wonder why authors who have spent years learning how to create solid plot lines and rich, well-rounded characters , those who agonize over each word put to paper, those who edit and rewrite mercilessly, those who painstakingly go over each and every word of the manuscript for plot holes, get all bent out of shape over the likes of FSOG, it is because we feel like we have been virtually bitch-slapped by the entire industry.

It’s like being a doctor, spending all that time in school learning the trade, and suddenly that knowledge no longer applies because anyone who took health class in elementary school can now be a doctor … or a lawyer … or a teacher. You get the idea. Just because the usual gates that normally would keep out those without the technical know-how came crashing down doesn’t mean everyone who had a notion to do something should go out and do it now that they can. Just because you sing in the shower doesn’t mean you should start booking concerts and performing in front of people.

In other words, just because anyone CAN be a writer now, doesn’t mean everyone IS a good writer. It takes lots of practice to get good at anything. So exactly why do people think the very first thing they slapped into a word document is worthy of publication?

Veteran authors’ disdain for FSOG and the inevitable pile of porn it has encouraged has nothing to do with envy of success, but everything to do with the level of professionalism we expect not only from ourselves, but from our fellow writers. We feel since we care so much about our readers and providing a well-written tale, everyone else should as well. So while the likes of FSOG may have been wildly successful, it bears repeating E. L. James’s lack of technical mastery is a fact that should have barred the manuscript from ever reaching an editor’s desk.

Jul 2 2015

Amazon… A virtual marketplace, or Big Brother?

Yes, it is disgusting. By Amazon’s definition, I am best friends with Anne Rice, J.K. Rowling, Stephen King, Laurel K. Hamilton, and Charlaine Harris. But what do you want to bet that these same rules do not apply to the reviews that are being posted for trade authors? What do you want to bet that this same thought and review process does NOT apply to ANYTHING other than independently published books? I’m not going to bet anything, because I’m pretty sure that even though I follow Anne Rice across all social media outlets and have even had a few discussions with her through said media, I can post reviews of her books until hell freezes over because she is NOT an indie author.

It is times like this that I wish Amazon had never jumped on board the indie train. I made a lot more money and had a lot larger fan base BEFORE they made it so easy for someone to push publish, for fake reviews to be posted by street teams, and for dishonest authors to send their minions to wreck havoc on other authors’ works.

imysantiago's avatarimy santiago

A couple of weeks ago I read the third installment of a series I really loved. I will refrain from sharing the name of the novel and its author.

Like any reader, as soon as I finished reading, I wrote my review. When I tried posting it on Amazon (I did buy the eBook, just like any normal and decent human being would), I received a rather concerning email.

I will not share the screenshot of the email as it does contain the title of the book and name of the author. In its place I have copied the body of the email below.

Dear Amazon Customer,

Thanks for submitting a customer review on Amazon. Your review could not be posted to the website in its current form. While we appreciate your time and comments, reviews must adhere to the following guidelines:
http://www.amazon.com/review-guidelines

Here I was, thinking I had included an…

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Apr 10 2015

Artistic Struggles: Today, Tomorrow, Always

oak tree with sunlight

It is a struggle. Each and every day, each word put to the page, each post to social media, each Tweet poised to entice a reader into giving me just the smallest of chances, it is all a struggle.

There are some days, like today, when I have so much self-doubt and self-loathing with my writing career it is all I can do to not throw in the towel. Each time I check my dismal Amazon ranking and see the lack of responses to my FB status, see I have lost a few more Twitter followers, makes me question why I even bother to continue on this road. It gets harder and harder with each passing day, with each book written, with each new idea, to want to stay with this journey. Being a writer, an author, is not easy, and it does not grow easier with time. In fact, it does not become easier with more success, but it certainly becomes more depressing with the lack of success.

I’ve had more than my fair share of doubting moments in the past year, much less my lifetime. I’ve had days when I was tired and weary and just plain sick of trying to drudge out my own niche in the writing world. I was tired of pouring years of my life into a project I truly believed in, only to see it shoved to the side by so many. Writing was quickly becoming something I no longer enjoyed, but instead had become a daily reminder of just how unsuccessful I really am, not only in my writing career, but also in my working Evil Day Job, and my life in general. I could handle not being successful in one or two of those avenues, but not all three, not all at once, and certainly not for so long a period of time. It was becoming suffocating, to the point where I couldn’t stand to look at my computer when I came in from work, could no longer force myself to write, or do any type of graphic art work or even post to my social media accounts. I languished in this suspended state, unsure of myself, my talents, petrified by my lack of tangible success.

Today, it all came crashing down around me again. As I was scrolling through my Twitter feed, I was bombarded with more fan artwork from one of favorite bands. One of the reasons I follow Chris is because I love seeing him retweet messages from the fans and their awesome artwork. In all honesty, I would have to say Black Veil Brides has some of the most talented fans in the world. Today, as I sat admiring some of this work, the artistic side of my life suddenly gave way, the delicate glass house I had built around myself in an effort to protect my fragile ego exploding with enough force to send those glass shards slicing and dicing their way straight into my heart.

I have never claimed to be a good writer. In fact, I will be the first person to tell you I suck, that I butcher the English language. I don’t write because I think I’m good, I write because it’s more like a force of nature, an irresistible power which drives me to keep writing even when the odds are stacked against me. As much as I hate it, writing is the closest thing to a natural God-given talent that I possess. Today, while scrolling through Chris’ Twitter feed, the realization hit me hard, even that one talent, the one thing I had been so very proud of, I wasn’t even really good at. I like to play around with photography and do graphic art work and create book covers for both myself and for others, but I’m not any better at doing that than I am singing or playing a musical instrument. I may “like” to do these things, but I’m certainly not good at it.

So where does that leave me? What does this mean? Who am I if I’m not an artist? I’m naturally a very creative person, I like to always be creating things, whether it be beading bracelets or working on book teasers or attempting to get more work done on yet another book, I feel compelled to create something, anything, and when I’m not creating I have to immerse myself in something creative like music or a good book or a museum. It’s what fuels the other part of my soul, the part forced to be put to the side for twelve hours a day as I sit in a small, windowless cubicle putting together sales reports and fixing other peoples’ fuck ups at work. It’s what I consider the “real” me, the part I have to keep hidden from the world at large while I go about the everyday necessities of working my Evil Day Job and taking care of the house and doing all the mundane things which must be completed each and every day.

But if I’m not good at doing any of these things, if it’s no longer satisfying and I feel I’m not getting anywhere professionally with my writing career or anything else in my life, exactly where does that leave me? Does this mean I’m as big of a failure as I think I am? Has my entire life been a lie??? If I’m not Nicola, the writer and artist, then that just leaves plain, old Brandey, someone I have not liked for a very, very long time.

Then, out of the blue, like a sign from above, just like it always does, the message came to me when I least expected it, but when I needed it the most.

I was scrolling through my morning email stream at work and came across a post in one of the many publishing groups I am a member of on LinkedIn. I don’t remember who wrote it or even what the point of the post was supposed to be about. What I DO remember is the message was meant for me, a message I really needed this morning.

Writers, truly any artist, must be strong, and we must be steadfast in our pursuits of success. It is no easy journey, it does not happen overnight, and we must be ready, willing, and able to take on all the setbacks which will inevitably be thrust upon us. We are like the mighty oak tree standing tall against all odds, weathering the storm regardless of how hard the rain pelts us or how shrilly the wind howls. Our ideas are like the acorns dotting our branches, each one with the potential to grow into another mighty oak tree if given the right encouragement.

For you see, much like it takes time and nurturing for the tiny little acorn to sprout, mature, and grow into the tall oak tree, it takes time to create and nurture those ideas into a completed work. Each word put to paper, each rewrite, each round of edits brings us one step closer to completing our project until finally, one day, all our hard work comes to fruition and we hold in our hand the realization of all those long hours of agony as we toiled away, struggling to grow our ideas into something we could be proud of.

Success in any part of life is not a sprint, but a marathon we spend half our lives preparing for and the other half just trying to get our foot in the door. Being an artist of any kind is no different. There is no such thing as an overnight success. Those artists who seem to come out of nowhere and are on the top of the world spent years as nobodies honing their respective crafts, begging people to just give them a chance, countless hours spent laboring over every small detail until they finally had a finished product they could be proud of, and then they did it all over again, time after time, year after year, one foot in front of the other, until the day came someone not only took notice of them, but helped spread the word, and soon that “nobody” became a household name. It didn’t happen overnight, but then again, the industry rarely tells anything about all those years spent slaving away just trying to get our names out there.

Success isn’t something measurable by how much money you make or how many people know your name or even by how many projects you have completed. Success is something only you, the artist, can accurately measure within yourself. We spend so much time waiting for “the day” when we can finally say “I made it! This is what I’ve been working towards!” we forget to enjoy the small successes we accomplish each and every day. We so often forget to slow down and just enjoy the ride. We stress and worry no one will like our final product or we aren’t “good enough” yet to even try to put ourselves and our work out there. We forget to enjoy the learning process.

It doesn’t matter where you are in your life cycle, whether you are the tiny little acorn sprout struggling to break free of your shell or the mighty oak tree trying to nurture all your budding little acorns into other mighty oak trees. The point is we ALL have the potential to be so much more tomorrow than we are today. THAT is the real measure of success, to enjoy the ride, never take it for granted, and always, always strive to make today count, to look forward to tomorrow, to never stop believing in ourselves or in our ability to one day grow into an even mightier oak tree than we are today. Because even when we are gone, our legacy will remain, and even if that legacy is nothing but a tiny little acorn hidden away beneath the fertile soil, it has the potential to become the mightiest oak tree of them all, spreading our legacy far and wide to nurture those who will never forget we existed, that we were once where they are at, and we kept going, we prevailed against all odds, and we helped inspire another little acorn to reach for the stars.

Feb 20 2015

Black Veil Brides and Other Unfulfilled Dreams

Perhaps it is the dark shadow looming over me as my dreaded 40th birthday approaches, perhaps it is the mixture of joy and sorrow that I feel knowing that my eldest child is about to graduate high school, or maybe it is just me having a nice little pity-party, but over the past few days I have been giving a lot of thought into what I have accomplished in my life. Or, should I say, my lack of accomplishments in my life.

The creation of this new book has me delving back into a world I have both loved and worshiped since I was thirteen, the world of music and the wonderful people who create it for us, a world which has saved me from utter despair and self-destruction on so many occasions throughout my life. I cannot quite explain the mystical hold music has over me, the strange, ethereal connection that I feel with some of the bands I have encountered over the years, but I know I am not the only one, as I see the same euphoric expression mirrored back on so many awe-struck fans’ faces as they stare up in admiration at the creators of magic as they dash around on stage. All I know is music, and the musicians behind it, speak to me as nothing else in this world can, not even my beloved books. I see in these bright, young faces the same love for the creation process I have, share a kinship with them that has never been fully realized or appreciated by anyone who does not share the same feelings and love for music that I do.

I love finding new bands and music, love how it fuels my own imagination, gets the creative juices flowing again, gives me a way to just relax and let go for a while. In recent weeks I was turned on to the world-wide phenomenon that is Black Veil Brides, an absolute orgy of punk, rock, glam, and metal. It was love at first note as I like to say, and I’ve been eagerly watching YouTube, gorging myself during the thirty minute commute to my EDJ with some of my newfound favorite tunes (Coffin and Rebel Love Song are always playing on a loop), and reading Wikipedia like a woman obsessed. Growing up in the late eighties and early nineties, it is a breath of fresh air to once again see musicians playing their own instruments and having someone, anyone, under the age of thirty to not only know who Motley Crue is, but who appreciates the talent and creativity that fueled the decade long trip into glam rock. Call me old fashioned, but no amount of tight abs, hip-thrusting dance moves, and buzz cuts can possibly make me swoon like the sight of a lithe skater-boy body in skin-tight leather jeans, long hair, tattoos, and eyeliner while rockin’ an electric guitar.

Andy1

Seriously, I don’t know if I want to squeeze him or lick him.

Ashley1

Lick….definitely LICK 😉

As I started writing Put it in Red: Hell’s Ballad, it became clear I had been away from the rock’n’roll scene for far too long. Let’s face it, writers have a tendency to live under a rock. The closest thing to social interaction I get is social media, and I’m not too crazy about it. So yes, it was painfully obvious to me as a writer that I had been away from the whole music scene for way too long. I had missed out on some amazeballs bands, BVB included. And with the introduction of the adorable but oh-so-sexy young men that make up BVB, it was clear to me I would have to immerse myself into this world once again if I had any hope of connecting with my readers. And so started my crazy obsession with Andy Biersack, Ashley Purdy, Jinxx, Jake Pitts, and Christian Coma, and the absolutely mind-boggling story behind their sky-rocket trip into stardom. OK, so maybe it only seems that way to me. I doubt they felt like it was a skyrocket trip, more of a soul-crushing crawl through broken glass and drifts of salt (I can relate).

It’s a story unlike no other I have ever come across. Once Andy recruited the rest of the guys for this new edition of an old name, these guys’ career took off like bats out of hell – the kind that crawl through boiling tar and ash – and they are showing no signs of slowing down even after six years. Back in the eighties, you were lucky to last six months, much less six years, seven years. In this day of new-and-improved everything, including bands, six years’ worth of songs and touring makes you a veteran musician, and I am just one of the many who make up the #BVBArmy who is more than happy to see these boys stick around for decades to come (hint, hint Mr. Andy  “I drink like a fish and smoke two packs a day” Biersack. @ChrisABiersack can’t you do something with your son already? Seriously, he makes me want to break out my momma voice and snatch those things right out of his hand. Ugh, I’m officially the “band mom” now.)

So as I sat drinking in all this information and trying to get into the heads of this new-to-me band so I could get into the heads of my new characters (FYI, Jax Monroe’s physical appearance is actually coined after Ashley Purdy, I swiped the boys’ birthdays for the fake band, and I’ve managed to incorporate some of their antics into the storyline so far. I feel like a kid in a candy store!), I can only say that I sit in utter amazement of these young men. And I do mean young. Andy is just twenty-four. TWENTY-FOUR. I can barely remember being that young, much less imagine being in the situation of living out my dream each and every day. I find it hard to imagine what it must be like for all of them. How must our adorable, yet entirely too-sexy-for-his-own-good Andy have felt when he decided to move out to LA, not knowing that his decision to take his garage band on the road would be a sure-fire way to make himself into a rocking’ super-star by the time he was old enough to buy liquor.

Andy2

For the most part, I cannot fathom what they have managed to accomplish in such a short amount of time. Back in the day, some of the bands I grew up on had been around for years (not one or two, try eight or nine, sometimes longer) before they finally got their big break. Others have been around for decades and still have not really made a name for themselves. So naturally I cannot imagine being world-famous at their age. Hell, I can’t even imagine being half-way famous at nearly forty, much less have millions of fans all scrambling to get my autograph, screaming my name, all competing to get just a single second of my attention. I look at the photos they have posted on their social media pages at the massive crowd and I just can’t quite wrap my head around it.

concert

I know why I was not blessed with the ability to sing or play a musical instrument…STAGE FRIGHT!

I read their tweets and their posts on FB and their silly photos posted on Instagram of them just being, well, young men, and it makes me wonder if even they quite grasp the magnitude of the power they hold in their hands. It makes me wonder if they fully appreciate the type of life they are living, the fact that they are living the life that so many bands, so many people, can only dream about. They aren’t just living an American dream, they are living the dream of fame fortune that so many yearn for, that so few are able to hold on to for more than a few fleeting moments, a life that 99% of the population could only wonder about and marvel at. Do they get it? YES, they actually do get it, and that is another thing that endears them to me and the millions of others who make up the BVBArmy. You can see it in their eyes, in their faces, in the over-the-moon smile that Andy has every single time he hits the stage. They not only get it, but they are quick to thank the fans every single chance they get for continuing to support them, and allowing them to live out this wild and wondrous ride.

They have managed to accomplish something so amazing, so gigantic, it almost seems unreal. And the fact they weren’t living out of their cars for a few decades on end (I think the norm for moving to LA is living at least one year in your car, otherwise, you can’t really say you have lived the whole rock star experience 😉 while working four minimum-wage paying jobs just to be able to keep food in their stomachs all to pursue their dream is an accomplishment in itself because, let’s face it, in this day and age, the brighter your star burns, the faster it burns out. We have all seen those one-hit wonders that take the world by storm and quickly burn up like a super nova. Those quickly depleting lights happen a lot more often than the shining beacon of hope that is such bands as BVB.

Naturally, seeing such success in those who are still so young (jeeze, I’m not THAT friggin’ old) has me questioning my own life, my choices, and the complete lack of professional success that is my burden to bear.

I’m not rehashing my whole train wreck of a childhood. Let it suffice to say that when I say I KNOW what you are going through, I actually lived in that hell hole with the whole abusive parent and an UNpopularity at school that would depress even the most devoted EMO. Back in high school, when I lived the unpopular life because I preferred the glam metal bands to the pop crap that was Madonna at the time, all I ever dreamed about was finally graduating from school and going on to college. I had planned to study journalism and eventually boot Jerri what’s-her-name from Metal Edge Magazine as the top reporter for all the awesome bands in the world. I would finally get to combine my two favorite loves in this world, writing and being in the music world, interviewing the hottest bands, being around all those creative minds.

Looking back I often wonder just how great that would have been, how different my life would be had I fulfilled that dream. What I wouldn’t have given to accomplish that, to be around those kindred spirits, to be exposed to live music night after night, to be a confidant, to pick their minds, to share in their lives if only for a moment. Would I have been considered a friend? Would I have been someone they immediately thought of when they wanted to do an interview? Would we be able to connect on that higher plane of existence as only those who are in tune with the power that music holds can? What would it have been like? Would I have perceived my life to be any more fulfilled at age forty than what I perceive it to be now?

By the time May of 1994 rolled around (ok, ok, maybe I really AM that friggin’ old), I had already made a life-altering choice, and thus sealed my fate to the life that I am living today.

Love. Yeah, it sooooo is not what you read about in all the mommy porn books. My prince was not driving a Harley Davidson or riding a shiny, black steed. He was not rockin’ an electric guitar nor did he have any grand ideas about becoming famous. There was no sweeping me off my feet or the zing of electricity that had me practically creaming my jeans when he walked into the room.

No, my hunka-hunka burnin’ love came driving a beat up old Pontiac Grand Prix with zero interest in attending college and absolutely no plans for the future.  Sure, he was cute, sporting shoulder-length curly dark brown hair, he had eyelashes that I would have killed for, and freakin’ dimples on either side of full, soft lips. He was more than a foot taller than me and had the lanky build of a skater boy. He was the cutest damn thing to ever enter my life, and in a moment of weakness that was so very uncharacteristic of my straight-and-narrow self, I decided that for once I was going to be reckless and do something just to be doing it, and that something that I ended up doing, was him. Dumbass.

Yep, old Nic had planned on having her one-and-only one-night stand. And like most teenaged girls I wondered what all the fuss was about. So how did I go from being on the fast track to possibly being the rock’n’roll world’s leading journalist to living in suburbia hell with three kids and twenty years of marriage with a dead-end EDJ that doesn’t really pay the bills and unrealized dreams of stardom as a world-renowned journalist and trade published author? The jackass kept asking me out. Again. And again. And again. Yes, I AM a sucker for romance. Erotic romance author, remember?

FUCK YOU Middle Age

FUCK YOU Middle Age!!

And then one day, as graduation finally came and went and I found myself attending junior college pursuing a degree in fucking nursing of all things because my plans of traveling the world attending concerts was now a distant memory, I came to realize that somewhere between my high school calculus classes and my college algebra classes, I had stumbled across the one and only thing I had been crying over for so many years of my life, the one thing my heart ached for more than fame, or fortune, or a sky-rocketing career. Someone finally loved me. And in my young, idealistic eighteen-year-old eyes, that’s all I really needed.

Love. That fleeting, inconceivable thing that had eluded me all those years growing up had landed on my doorstep, and for the first time ever I had someone in my life that I couldn’t fathom living without.

But love did not come with happily ever after like it does in the books. We fought, like all couples do, and we fought often, about everything. We fought, and we got married, and we fought, and then we had a few kids, and we fought some more, we nearly got divorced on more than a few occasions, and we fought some more. Hell, we still fight about everything from kids to money to sex to him leaving the toilet seat up yet AGAIN (seriously, if my fat ass falls into the damn toilet ONE MORE FUCKING TIME…..)

But even after twenty-two years I still can’t fathom living without him. I was alone for so long growing up, and I kept thinking that getting married and having someone to love me would somehow make everything in my life better. But that’s not the way life is. Instead, I feel I have condemned another soul to hell, a hell of my own creation, condemned him to put up with the fucking crazy bitch that inhabits this body.

Because you see kiddos, Nic was alone for a reason. I’m chatty in real life, but I don’t let anyone really get close to me, don’t let anyone in, don’t let anyone really get to know the REAL me. Because it’s fucking scary as hell inside this head of mine. I’m not just weird and it’s not just that I have horrible mood swings and question everything around me. I have strange tastes in a lot of things, I’m attracted to dark, scary things, and if it were left up to me, everyday life would be like a BVB music video. Trust me, you do NOT want to crawl inside this head of mine.

And so I keep people at arm’s length, smile and laugh and try to fit in even though I stand out like an emo kid in a Pentecostal church. I have an extremely odd sense of humor that most people don’t get. And as much as I think a lot of the band members that I listen to would probably understand me, would understand that feeling of being an outcast even in your own skin, I also understand that chances of me actually finding anyone who would be willing to get to know me, especially someone famous, are pretty much zilch. And that’s okay. I’m scared of me too.

I look in the mirror and I don’t like what I see. I have had to change a lot just to survive. I’m strong, but that person staring back at me in the mirror is twisted, stained, crazed. I’m resolved to the fact that this is how I have become, that I am someone that no one really likes, that I don’t have any close friends, and in all honesty I could drop off the face of the earth and no one would care, no one would miss me, I’m pretty sure no one would even notice. I have not made any type of lasting mark on this world, and to the four people who have to put up with my crazy ass every day, the mark I have made on them hasn’t been a good one.

So that leads us back to my choices in life. I wonder if I would have been better off pursuing my dreams of journalism. Would my life have really been any better off? I can’t say that it would be. I believe that I would either be dead, strung out on drugs, possibly with kids that I either didn’t keep or who were taken away from me by the state. I would have been one of those brightly burning stars that burnt out as quickly as it lit up the night sky.

You see, all I ever really asked for growing up was for someone to love me. And for better or worse, no matter how nuts I get or how far off the deep end I go, I have someone who is willing to put up with my quirks and my craziness. I have the family that I missed out on growing up. I may not be burning up the charts in the publishing world, I think I can hang up any dreams of becoming any type of journalist at this point, I most likely won’t ever meet anyone famous, and I’m always going to have an Evil Day Job where I’m grossly underpaid and very unappreciated. I’ll live in middle-class suburbia hell where we can barely pay the bills and pray we don’t lose our home before we get it paid for, and that’s okay. I won’t even be a blimp on the radar.

But that’s the beauty of being an author. It doesn’t matter that I’m hitting middle age and live in a backwater state that has the highest poverty rate of the entire country. I may only have six readers who even remotely appreciate my talentless ramblings, but deep down, I know that one day, even if I’ve been dead for fifty years, someone will come along and appreciate those crazy scribbles inside my book covers. One day I might accidently meet someone famous and find myself suddenly behind the cameras who help make all these rock stars and actors famous. Maybe one day someone will like my ideas and want to put them onto film or in a comic book. Hell, maybe one day Andy Biersack might come across one of my goofy-ass tweets and strike up a conversation (yeah, and monkeys might fly out my butt!).

Let’s face it folks. I’m not much, and I don’t have a whole lot going for me. But I can appreciate the quirkiness that is life, and find myself oddly not bitter about it. Because I am the poster kid for Murphy’s Law, and my life couldn’t go any other way. I will laugh about it, and be happy for young men like those who make up BVB because they make my life a whole hell of a lot less depressing. And because, if nothing else, I am Nicola Chey Matthews, an author unknown to the world…

and I, my lovelies, am a survivor. And at this point, that’s about all I can ask for.

Feb 11 2015

Name that Fictitious Band!

I recently asked readers to toss out some cool metal band names for the fictitious band that takes center state in the upcoming novel that I am working on. I had so many good ones posted that I simply could not choose, so I decided that I would let my readers choose for me!

This poll is set to expire in 1 week so please vote and share! The band name with the most votes will become the band name fronted by the leading man, Jax Monroe, rock god!

Jax Monroe has everything he has ever asked for out of life. He is the front man for the world’s hottest metal band, his name on the lips of everyone between the ages of fifteen to fifty, he is the envy of everyone in the entertainment industry….but he also has a secret so dark, so destructive, that it will one day consume his entire soul. Deals have been made, his promise bound in blood, and soon it will be his turn to pay the ultimate price. He’s resolved to his fate, but when Eva Lane Montgomery walks back into his life, he begins to question his blood oath, suddenly unsure if he has made the right choices. In the end, there can be only one winner. Will his pact be too strong to break, or can love truly conquer all?