Writing

Trusting Your Writing Intuition

August 11, 2024August 11, 2024 Kara Jorgensen1 Comment

As some of you may know, my writing process is a delicate dance of two steps forward, one step back. I’m a writer who edits as they go, which I know is not how many authors or writers work. There’s a lot of advice thrown around in the writing community about when to edit. Some people overthink things and need to power through a draft to get it out before going back and fixing it. I am not one of those people. I don’t like mess. When I cook or bake, I clean pans and utensils as I go. The same applies to my writing.

Recently, I was working on The Reanimator’s Remains (TRM #3) and was finding myself slowing. Every time I tried to work, I sort of stalled out, and I couldn’t figure out why. I had an outline, I knew where I was going, I double checked the outline made sense, yet I still couldn’t convince my brain that we needed to keep moving forward. Sitting with the feeling, I realized I wanted to edit earlier parts of the book. Not a major rewrite, but I wanted to tidy things up again and reacquaint myself with the first half of the book. I kept telling myself no. No, you need to write forward, not go back and fiddle with the book, especially when I already knew act 1 was solid.

For a few days, I ignored this compulsion to edit, and guess what happened: I still didn’t write. Finally, after several days of stalling, I gave in. I had Word read the book back to me, and I edited through the entire first half of The Reanimator’s Remains. It took two days since it’s already been gone over several times, and during those days, I didn’t write anything new. At the same time, I’m kicking myself for not doing it sooner. My subconscious was begging me to edit the first half of the book and reacquaint myself with the major threads before going on, but I ignored it. My brain literally had to force me to stop writing in order for me to listen.

The worst part is that I understand why I refused to stop. I need to be productive. I need to write every day. FORWARD MOMENTUM IS KEY. But editing is a large part of my process that helps me maintain forward momentum, and somehow, I forgot that key point. Going back through that chunk of the story helped to remind me of all the threads and little details I need to pluck at in the second half of the book. I made a list as I went through the first half and went through the parts of the second half that I’ve already written to sprinkle them back in. Continuity is key, and my memory is certainly not infallible. Actually, it’s more like an internet browser with 123 tabs open, so going back through the earlier parts of the book was vitally important to not making a huge mess had I gone further into the story without checking what I needed to add in.

This whole do I or don’t I edit again debacle really comes down to trusting your intuition. If your brain is saying, hey, we need to slow down and refresh our memories and/or tidy up, we need to listen to it. Often, your subconscious knows something you don’t. Same thing with when you stall out while writing and can’t figure out why. It’s usually because you messed something up earlier, and you need to fix it before going forward.

After over a decade of writing novels, this is still something I need to remind myself: trust that inner voice when it’s telling you to stop and regroup. 99% of the time it’s worth it.

Writing

On Writer Hustle Culture

July 14, 2024July 15, 2024 Kara Jorgensen1 Comment

If there’s something I hate seeing online, it’s the glorification of hustle culture. For those of you who are not chronically online, hustle culture is the hyper capitalistic, you must be on 24/7, #girlboss, #productivity, work myself to death with a smile because I’m making more money than you attitude. As you can probably guess from my past screeds, I’m not a fan of capitalism for many reasons, but as an author/creator/artist, it’s particularly shitty to be expected to grind yourself to dust while supposedly doing what you love. Because if you aren’t, you’re apparently doing it wrong.

I believe artists should be able to make money from their art. I believe there should be social/governmental safety nets to allow us to do so as there are in other countries. I believe artists should be compensated fairly for their work and do it in a time frame that is aligns with their process and health. I feel like these are all very reasonable things to believe, but if you start looking at how people behave online, especially in certain online writing circles, you’ll see that is not the case.

Something I’ve noticed over the past five years of watching authortube (authors on YouTube), writertube (writers on YouTube), and writertok (writers on Tiktok) is the prevalence of hustle culture but in a way that is softer and almost more insidious because it is less obvious. I do want to preface this by saying that I see this more often with younger or less experienced writers than with people who have multiple books published, though I will touch upon some of those people later.

Beneath the aesthetic “A Day in the Life” or “Write With Me” videos is the looming threat of toxic productivity. No longer are authors writing in their pajamas gremlin style, they are out in the world writing and making content and recording B roll while doing it. The problem is that one must still write in order to have content to pump out into the world, and when your social media relies on you being a #writer, you must perform being a writer. The performance of writing is pretty clear in these videos, but the part that I find to be most toxic is the focus on large daily word counts.

Now, there are some people whose natural writing rhythm is 3k words a day or to fast draft. That’s totally fine. We all have our own pace. My problem is with the people who write for the sake of getting those large word counts, draft the same book ad nauseam, chasing their tail but never finishing anything. Or even worse, they beat themselves up over a no word or low word count day, even when the word count is perfectly normal for many writers. I’ve watched so many young or unpublished writers do this and burn themselves out. There are times when I’ve suspected a writer is burnt out and not writing, though they read off some giant word count while never talking about their project in any detail.

I’ve complained about Tiktok and the capitalist drive to produce content, but the mixing of word count and content does nothing to help writers. It gives completely unrealistic expectations to newbies, it’s fake in some cases, and in others, it drives people’s mental health into the ground when they try to maintain high levels of productivity for way too long. As much as the idea of NaNoWriMo started out as a good thing, I lay the blame for this trend at their feet. I think a lot of younger writer thought, If I can write 1666 words a day for a month, surely I can do more and for longer, without understanding that NaNo is not meant to set the pace for the entirety of their career or life. As with most things relating to hustle culture, it almost automatically excludes people without ideal circumstances, so people with lower energy levels, people with kids, with demanding jobs, etc. Those people can never be #AuthorGoals if they aren’t typing 3k a day while taking aesthetic B roll at a coffee shop.

My hope is that newer writers will understand that a lot of what they see online is not real or is heavily curated to make it look better than it truly is. There are ways to be productive and have goals without running yourself into the ground or creating a facade in order to live up to perceived expectations. The key is to focus less on content production or high daily word counts and more on what works best for you at this stage of your life. For some, it is fast drafting, but for many, a more moderate or slower approach is healthier. Don’t get caught up in what you think you should be doing because someone online tells you that you should or because you see someone successful doing it. You don’t know how much help they have or how many hours they have to work.

Going off this, be wary of people who consider themselves to be writing gurus or who churn out 10+ books a year. Many people whose sole job is writing can write 4-6 books a year, but if someone is publishing every month, be skeptical. Often, those people use ghost writers, people on Fiverr, or now, they rely on AI to do the heavy lifting with their books. They may also have assistants who run all their social media profiles or spouses who take care of all the day-to-day life stuff that you’re still doing. Don’t fall for the aesthetic hustle culture you see in online writing communities. Being a YouTube or Tiktok personality with never be a substitute for good writing or maintaining your sanity and health through good habits when it comes to a building long-term career.

Writing

Why I Will Never Be a “Brand”

July 7, 2024July 7, 2024 Kara Jorgensen1 Comment

I’ve been thinking about brands, online personalities, and sincerity a lot lately. Without harping on past posts, let’s summarize the reason for this rumination as recent-past online trauma (if you know, you know).

Something you hear a lot as a new author is figuring out your “brand.” What’s your author brand? Build your author brand in 5 easy steps! Build your brand!

What building your brand should be is targeting your product to your ideal reader. Note: I said product. Your book is a product; you are not a product. I do have an author brand. I call it being a romantic goremonger. I write books with some gory, highly descriptive gross bits (usually medical in nature or having to do with a cadaver) while balancing that with lots of emotional intimacy between the two main characters. My ideal reader also enjoys historicals and is probably queer (or enjoys queer books) since those are basically all that I write. If you like Anne Rice, KJ Charles, Jordan L. Hawk, Cat Sebastian, Allie Therin, and Arden Powell, you’ll probably like my books.

What I don’t like and have come to actively distrust is creatives who treat their social media as an extension of their brand. There’s a big difference between throwing your audience a bone by posting a smutty snippet or sharing some cool research from your latest project and treating everything you post like it’s a direct reflection on you. When the latter happens, often people start posting less about things they actually care about and more about things that will reflect well on them as a brand. It’s the same reason corporations only post rainbow stuff in June or Black history infographics in February. It’s not that they care about any of these groups or want to foster equity of any sort. It’s that if they don’t, it’ll reflect poorly on their public image.

Years ago, I saw this mostly when authors completely refused to post anything “political” on their pages by abstaining from every mentioning a problem a person of color might face or that LGBT people exist. This was mostly due to the fear that people wouldn’t want to buy from them due to their lack of a stance (or conservative stance) on an issue. Unfortunately, we’re also starting to see it happen in the other direction where people make token posts about Palestine or trans rights because they feel they have to, not because they actually give a shit about either group. The idea is once again a preservation of their audience rather than a sincere post about something they care about. I’m totally fine with someone saying, “Hey, I’m not going to post about X because I don’t know enough about it.” I’d rather someone step back and educate themselves than make a knee-jerk post because they feel they have to. You should be supporting people of color, queer people, disabled people, etc. because you want to, not because you feel social pressure to do so. The social pressure on social media can absolutely drive this sort of insincerity, and I hate it immensely. The worst part is how many people seem very happy to tick off the boxes that make someone acceptable before supporting them when in reality it’s all for show and they don’t actually care.

Kara, how do you tell if someone cares? Well, at a glance, you really can’t.

This is the internet where everything is online for all to see, yet nothing is truly real. I think the only way you can truly judge is by looking at patterns of behavior. Do they continue support after X month is over? Do they seem to genuinely care about this topic/group? Do they retweet people who aren’t themselves posting about X thing? At the same time, some people only use their social media accounts for updates about their own stuff, so you have to take that into consideration. At a time where many people want a black and white litmus test for goodness or good rep, I’m here to remind you that nothing is that straightforward.

Going off of this, I will say the one rule of thumb that hasn’t proven me wrong yet is anyone who gets online and touts themself as an authority on anything is probably full of shit. Anyone who acts like they are the most queer, the most trans, the most Latinx, the most whatever because it makes them an absolute, unquestionable authority is probably pulling a Wizard of Oz act and hoping you can’t look behind the curtain to see who they really are. Authority should always be questioned, no matter if it’s in the community or outside of it. I feel like most people who know anything about something know that there is still a lot left to learn, and they are open to criticism or open to new information or outside perspectives. If someone’s online brand is that they are trying to cultivate a following that looks only to them or sees them as the ultimate authority on a marginalization or topic (like publishing), I would be very cautious as those people are usually grifters.

Has the idea of an author brand gone too far? I do kind of think so. The problem truly begins once a person gets a large enough following online. It seems around 3k-5k followers on most platforms is enough for fans/followers to start treating them less as a person and more of some random avatar that they can say whatever they want to as if they don’t have feelings. It’s weird, but I’ve seen it many times where people will suddenly say things to a person with a larger account that they would never say to someone they’re friends with who has 500 followers. The size of the account means the intimacy disappears and with it the humanity of the person holding the account. When we do that, we reduce a real person to only their posts, which makes it easier for grifters to turn themselves into an authority or “brand” that posts only to appease rather than sharing things they actually care about. Ultimately, it’s a problem that lies with the fans/followers as much as the creators. People don’t magically attain a different status when they reach a certain number of followers, and they are never going to appease everyone. Expecting them to do so will only lead to heartbreak, so keep your expectations in moderation and check yourself for parasocial relationships.

The Reanimator's Remains · Writing

An Excerpt From The Reanimator’s Remains (TRM #3) Part 2

June 23, 2024June 23, 2024 Kara Jorgensen1 Comment

Last week, I posted the first half of the prologue for The Reanimator’s Remains (TRM #3), which you can read here. You can preorder The Reanimator’s Remains at all major retailers in ebook form. The paperbacks will be available in October, closer to the October 29th release date. Without further ado, here is part 2.

The hairs rose on her arms as she passed from the normal forest and into the other realm. When Joanna looked back, the path to the Allen’s was gone, and in its place stood a thick carpet of ancient trees and moss. Here, there was no smoldering house or in-laws to hunt her, and she didn’t know if that comforted or terrified her. The Lady of the Dysterwood did not like humans to intrude upon her domain, and those who did so uninvited rarely lived long enough to regret it. Joanna’s heart beat loudly in her ears as she tried to remember the direction she had come from, but everything seemed wrong. The trees felt different from the ones growing the Pine Barrens. The pitch pines and black oaks around her rose to monstrous heights, leaving only smudges of sunless, red sky. They seemed older, as if their roots ran far deeper than humankind, and they had tasted the marrow of the earth. The Dysterwood felt untouchable. No human would dare take an ax or fire to it, lest they be destroyed.

All around her the woods teemed with life. Moss, flowers, and scrubby brush grew so thickly on the forest floor that she didn’t dare move or disturb them. It should have been a peaceful place, but beneath its bows, Joanna felt a litany of unseen eyes watching her. Every tree and leaf housed the Lady’s retinue. Birds she had never heard before squawked high in the canopy while the insects and creatures on the ground clicked and hummed as if oblivious to her presence. Hesitantly stepping deeper into the forest, Joanna froze at the gentle patter of blood from beneath her petticoat.

More! the Dysterwood howled as the ground closed around her boot and yanked her to her knees. Intruder!

Joanna bit back a cry as she landed hard, her palms stinging with scratches. Blood wept from the cuts, and in an instant, all eyes were upon her. The creatures buzzed to the surface, and the trees hissed in anticipation of the Lady’s verdict. Before it could come, Joanna drew in a deep breath and ripped her foot from the muck.

Lifting her chin, she stared into the waiting forest and held up her hand to show the ring her husband’s family had passed down for generations before he slipped it to her. “Take me to the Lady. I would like to make a bargain.”

For a moment, the entire Dysterwood went still until, with a dull rumble, the forest floor roiled and parted. Wet, petrified boards and bleached, half-rotted bones rose through the moss, cutting a path between the trees like the spine of some ancient slumbering beast. Squaring her shoulders, Joanna stepped onto the first tread.

The Lady would see her.

***

Time flowed oddly in the Dysterwood. Joanna walked for what felt like minutes, and darkness descended thickly over the forest. Owls hooted and screeched in the pine trees, diving down on unseen prey. A flash of red or a flicker of motion would catch Joanna’s eye, but she didn’t dare step off the path or let her attention linger for too long. Keep to the path and no harm will come to you, Stephen had said to her, but she wasn’t one of them, at least not by blood. She had the Lady’s attention, but she didn’t doubt she would feed her to some creature for her entertainment if given the chance. As she passed through a thick copse, the sky brightened to the bruised red of sunset. The trees thinned, giving way to pockets of mountain laurel, bushes studded with white bearberries and fragrant, pink swamp azalea. Bees droned nearby, though Joanna couldn’t see them through the thickets of flowers.

Stepping onto the next plaque of bone, rusty red water pooled around the soles of her boots. Joanna drew in a ragged breath. The endless forest should have been a paradise, but beneath the cloying aroma of flowers was the earthy smell of rotting earth and peat. If she strayed from the path to pick a flower or follow an animal’s child-like cry, the hungry ground would swallow her up and drag her down. The bog yearned for more flesh, more iron, more, though she didn’t dare stop following the path of decay, even as her calves and core ached and the blood ran from her body in earnest. What other choice did she have? The Lady might toy with her and let her wander aimlessly through the forest for all eternity, but Joanna wouldn’t lay down between the pitcher plants and sundew and let the Dysterwood consume her until she finished her pilgrimage. Her thoughts flickered to Mercy and the baby, but she quickly banished them from her mind. In her domain, the Lady might know her thoughts, and she wouldn’t give her any more tricks to use against her. She had given Mercy and the baby the best head start she could. That would have to be enough.

When Joanna raised her gaze, she suddenly stood in the center of an empty glade, and the trees that had surrounded her only a moment ago now stood a furlong behind her. She shivered, despite the summer heat, at the wrongness of the clearing. Still water pooled on either side of her, leaving a strip of grass only wide enough to accommodate the treads of bone and wood. With every step, her feet sunk deeper into bog and the pounding of her heart grew louder in her ears. Her powers hummed a steady dirge as she crossed the narrow turf. Joanna told herself not to look, but she needed to know. Beneath the bog’s still waters, a man’s face stared back at her. He was pale and still as death, a ragged wound marring his neck. While his clothes were from decades before her time, the outline of his features reminded her of Stephen. She half-expected him to open his sightless eyes or rise to grab her, but he never moved. Bracing herself, she looked into the pool on her right, expecting to find another body. Instead, a woman’s reflection hovered beside her own.

“Do you like my collection?”

Joanna gasped and turned to face the Lady of the Dysterwood. Nothing Stephen had told her could have prepared her for that moment. The Lady felt limitless, too old, too much, magic made flesh, made shadow, a glimpse of something other that was beyond comprehension. Then, she pulled back and solidified into something approximately human. A shadow of a smile twisted the Lady’s lips as she watched Joanna’s breath hitch and her eyes widen with terror. She was beautiful in an uncanny way that Joanna feared hid sharp teeth or claws. Her copper hair had been woven into intricate knots and braids, while her heart-shaped face remained unmarred by age, she appeared far older than Joanna’s twenty-five years. Her clothes were a mockery of the sumptuous, crinoline-fluffed gowns wealthy women wore. The fabric of her dress was so deeply red it hurt Joanna’s eyes to look at, and the embroidery decorating the edges shifted patterns from flowers to hunting scenes to figures of death, and where there should have been a chatelaine or purse at her belt, a heavy gilt knife hung. Instead of a simple necklace or ribbon around her neck, she wore a heavy, golden, dragon-headed torc. When the Lady looked down at her, her pale eyes bore through her, weighing on Joanna’s heart like lead.

“You took something that belonged to me,” the Lady said, her voice as deep and cold as her domain. “Do you know what I do to thieves?”

Joanna’s throat tightened like a garrot as the Lady stepped closer. If Stephen’s family dealt with her for centuries, she could do the same. Her feet were numb in the cold water and her head swam with blood loss, but Joanna straightened her spine and met the creature’s gaze.

“I am not a thief. Stephen made his own choices. I took nothing he didn’t freely give.”

The Lady’s eyes narrowed, and the trees around the glen rustled with an unseen gust. “My patience wears thin, little thief, and your hunters draw near. All it would take is but a thought to bring them here. Tell me why you have intruded into my domain.”

“I would like to make a bargain.”

A chiming laugh escaped her lips. “And why should I bargain with you?”

“Because I have this,” Joanna said, holding up the signet ring.

“That ring buys you entry, not cooperation, child. Besides, what do you think you could possibly give me that I don’t already have?”

Rusty water lapped against Joanna’s calves as the Lady turned away. Joanna’s powers hummed in time with her hammering pulse. Something was down there, a hair’s breadth from her skin, waiting for the Lady’s signal to strike. Her mind raced. She had to say something. She couldn’t be bested by a capricious demon’s disinterest after all they had done. “Me. You can have me and all that comes with that in exchange for a new bargain.”

If you enjoyed this excerpt, I hope you will preorder The Reanimator’s Remains at your favorite retailer or add it to your TBR on Goodreads. If you haven’t read books 1 or 2, you can grab them in ebook, paperback, or audiobook. Keep your eyes peeled for the cover reveal in July!

The Reanimator's Remains · Writing

An Excerpt From The Reanimator’s Remains (TRM #3) Part 1

June 16, 2024June 16, 2024 Kara Jorgensen2 Comments

I’ve recently realized that I am sorely behind in doing promos for The Reanimator’s Remains (TRM #3). Well, technically, I have been, but only in my newsletter and on social media. The cover reveal for book 3 will hopefully be next month, but in the meantime, I hope you will enjoy this excerpt from the prologue of The Reanimator’s Remains, which comes out October 29th at all major retailers. You can preorder it now in ebook. Paperbacks will be available closer to release day.

Prologue

The Bargain

Clutching the baby to her chest, Joanna silently slid open the window and ran. Her breath rasped loudly in her ears, but it did little to block out the voices yelling out behind her in the house. Quick as a shade, she slipped between two buildings and sprinted for the cover of the churchyard. The old cemetery held its breath as the sun crept toward the horizon, though not a single soul gave her away as she picked between the crooked headstones and disappeared behind the old, abandoned church. The moment her back hit the blistered, whitewashed wood, a wave of pain ripped through her core. Clasping a clammy hand to her stomach, Joanna released a tremulous breath. She shouldn’t be running yet. If she was any of the mothers she tended to, she would have told them to get back in bed and rest as much as they can, but if she stopped moving, everything she and Stephen did would have been for naught.

Joanna bit her lip against the bitter burn of tears. Her husband was well and truly dead now, her mother beyond her reach, and the people she once thought might become her family hunted her. All she had left was the swaddled baby in her arms, and she wasn’t going to let anyone stand in the way of his safety. Peeling back the quilt just enough to see her baby boy’s face, she watched him puff out a sleepy breath. How he had managed to sleep through the chaos of their escape, she didn’t know, but she silently thanked the Lord for small miracles and sleepy newborns. If Joanna had her way, he would never know about any of this. He would grow up to live a normal, peaceful life.

He will grow up without you.

Her head snapped up at the rustle of leaves. Across the sea of graves, the forest beckoned in a hissing whisper. No breeze reached her in the old church’s shadow, yet the tallest black oaks stretched and swayed as if searching for her. The Dysterwood had thousands of eyes, thousands of roiling, susurrus servants eager to tell their master of the goings on of mortals. Joanna pulled the blanket close enough to obscure the baby’s face and tightened her grip. The wood didn’t know him yet, and it never would.

Peering around the edge of the church, Joanna confirmed no one had followed her to the graveyard before making a break for the cluster of mausoleums. All around her the ground hummed with the slumbering dead. If she paid attention, she could tell who they were and roughly how long they had been gone, but she didn’t have time to talk to them now. Her heart clenched as she passed the clustered rows of tiny headstones, some with nothing more than a surname and single date. If she had done nothing else during her time in Aldorhaven, she had tried her best to keep their number from growing. Hiding behind the second grandest mausoleum in the cemetery, Joanna bit back a whimper of pain at another yanking cramp. As if sensing her discomfort, the baby stirred. She patted his back and whispered sweet nothings into his ear until he quieted. Can he sense the dead too? she wondered.

Part of her had hoped he might have an easier life and grow up to be a plantmancer like his father, but she knew from the second she saw him that he took after her. Shutting her eyes, she inhaled the milky scent of his skin, and for a moment, she could pretend she had merely taken him for a walk to settle him and that one day she might stroll with him hand-in-hand through the graveyard and explain how their powers could be used to do good, no matter what anyone said. She pictured him grown with dark hair like hers and his father’s gentle, warm smile. He would be kind and smart and helpful. Her mother would make sure of it, even if she couldn’t.

Joanna flinched at the sudden shatter of glass followed by a cry of fire. Smoke rose over the far side of the hill as Stephen’s final trick destroyed their home and bought her precious time, yet she didn’t dare look back. The house and furniture the fire consumed were only things, things that could trace back to her life before Aldorhaven, she reminded herself, ignoring the lingering pain beneath her heart. From her high perch behind the tomb, Joanna could see the Allen’s cottage at the edge of town. She watched as the tall, stalwart figure of Jacob Allen ran out of his house and mounted his horse a moment after the fire bells sounded. Just as she hoped.

Gathering the remainder of her strength, Joanna sprinted past the empty tombs of the town’s founding family, away from the cavernous mouth of the Dysterwood, and through a loose bar in the ironwork fence. Half-sliding down the hill, she made for the shelter of the trees leading to the Allen’s home. In the normal thickets of the Pine Barrens surrounding the edge of the town, the creatures of the Dysterwood held no sway, though Joanna knew the eyes of the forest still trailed her as she reached the field behind the house. The knot in her chest loosened upon seeing Mercy’s chestnut Morgan standing in the field beyond. The horse’s ears stood erect and his eyes wide as he listened to the distant clang of bells.

The moment he spotted Joanna, the brown stallion ambled over from the pasture, eager to check her pockets for treats. For the first time all day, a genuine smile crossed Joanna’s lips as she patted Rasmus’s nose and rubbed the white streak between his eyes. The horse butted his head against her neck, and she hugged him tightly with one arm, wishing this didn’t have to be goodbye. Pulling back, Rasmus snorted and nosed the bundle in her arms curiously.

“Gentle,” she coaxed as she carefully pulled back the blanket to reveal the baby. The horse looked puzzled as he sniffed him, but when the infant briefly opened his eyes to stare up at the gentle beast, Rasmus lipped and snorted on him for good measure. Joanna laughed, but the sound was cut short by voices and smoke carrying on the wind. “Where’s Mercy, boy?”

“Over here. I’ll be right with you, Joanna.”

Joanna turned, her heart lurching at the sixteen year old’s sudden appearance at the barn’s entrance. No matter how many times she did that, Joanna never grew accustomed to it. Mercy’s dark blonde hair clung to her face in the summer heat as she set the pitchfork against the wall and wiped her hands against her well-worn trousers. Swallowing hard, Joanna tried to commit Mercy Allen to memory. She was only a few inches taller than Joanna, yet she was stalwart and strong in a way she could never be. She moved through the world with purpose, when she let people see her, but the more days she spent in Aldorhaven with her father, the more patches of her that became threadbare under his gaze. If she didn’t get out soon, whatever life Mercy yearned for when she donned her brother’s hand-me-downs and galloped full speed past the house and into the pine barrens would be gone. As Mercy quickly washed her hands and face at the pump, Joanna readjusting her grip on the baby and confirmed she hadn’t lost her purse or knife in her haste. No, Mercy and her son would have the chance to have a life they could never know here.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting. My father left to deal with some crisis in town. Did you hear the—” Mercy’s brown eyes brightened with excitement as soon as they landed on the bundle in Joanna’s arms. “You had the baby!”

“Sssh!”

“Sorry,” she said softer with a wince. Gently shouldering Rasmus out of the way, Mercy peered down at the baby as he yawned and hunkered further into the quilt. “Oh, Joanna, I’m so happy for you. What’s their name?”

“He doesn’t have one.”

“Why not?” Mercy asked, gently stroking his dark hair with two fingers.

“Because I can’t know it.” Mercy’s head shot up, but Joanna held her gaze and nodded toward the woods. When Mercy opened her mouth to speak, Joanna cut her off. “Stephen’s dead. For real this time.”

“We knew it was coming, but still, I’m so sorry, Joanna. Did he get to see—?”

“Yes, he did, but now, they know,” Joanna said, the words tumbling together as she spoke. There was so much to explain and so little time. “Within moments of Stephen dying, they showed up, just like he said they would. I don’t think they fully understand what Stephen and I did yet, but when they do, they’ll come for the baby. You’re the only person who knows he’s alive, besides me and Stephen, and I need you to take him far away from here. I have money for you.” Pulling the heavy purse from her pocket, she shoved it into Mercy’s hands. “There’s enough there that you should be able to pay for the ferry, board Rasmus, and buy anything you need to start a new life, the one you’ve always wanted. My mother will understand and help you. She will let you stay with her until you’re on your feet, but you must take him and ride to the Camden as fast as you can. If you leave now, you can make it to the last ferry to Philadelphia and be at my mother’s not long after nightfall. There’s a note for her in the purse that explains everything. Her address is on it.”

Opening the pouch, Mercy choked. “Joanna, this is a small fortune. I can’t take this. How will you—?” Her eyes widened in understanding. “No. You can’t do that. He… he’ll need his mother.”

“I have to. Once they realize what we’ve done, they will be out for blood. Mine or his. That’s why I can’t name him. If they get it out of me, they can find him.”

“Then, come with me,” Mercy pleaded. “We can all fit on Rasmus.”

“I will only slow you down, and you’ll need all the speed you can get.”

“But I don’t know how to hold a baby. What if I drop him?”

“Mercy, I’ve seen you ride with a basket of eggs. I’ll make sure he’s strapped tight to you, but you need to go soon if you have any hope of escaping.” Glancing at the smoke-streaked sky, Joanna calculated the meager time she had left and turned back to Mercy. “I’ve never had a sibling, but of all the people in this world, you are the closest I have ever had. I would never ask this of you unless I had no other choice, but you are the only one who can escape the wood’s notice. It will be hunting me after what I’ve done, but it hasn’t sunk its teeth into the baby yet. You both can be free.”

When Mercy’s features tightened with fear, Joanna pressed her hand to her cheek and whispered, “If you love me, you will leave this place and live well. That is my greatest hope: for my boys to live well.”

“Are you sure there’s no other way?” Mercy croaked. When Joanna nodded, Mercy sighed and hung her head. “I’ll get my things.”

“Please be quick.”

Grabbing her saddle bags from the barn, Mercy disappeared into the house. As the door shut behind her, a wave of exhaustion passed over Joanna. She leaned against the side of the house out of sight, letting the baby’s full weight rest against her chest. The fear that had propelled her from the mob had finally been spent. Her arms shook with fatigue and blood dripped down her leg and clung to her petticoats while cupboards opened and shut inside the house. With every second she waited for Mercy, the baby seemed heavier and the rippling pain in her core grew stronger. Joanna screwed her eyes tight and released a steadying breath. She only needed to hang on a little longer. Soon, it would be over, and it would all be worth it.

The wind blew down the bank and through the trees, bringing with it the acrid tang of smoke and the sound of Stephen’s sister yelling her name. Tightening her grip on her son, Joanna peered around the corner of the barn, but thankfully, no one was there. Daphne’s only allegiance was to her family, and no bond of motherhood or feigned friendship would stop her from dragging her back. The door to the cottage whined as Mercy stepped outside. Before she could call for her, Joanna emerged from the shadows. In her brother’s clothes with the too long trouser legs rolled beneath her boots and a derby squashed over her hair, Mercy could easily pass for a boy in the evening light. Giving Joanna a stalwart nod, she strapped her bags to the saddle and prepared Rasmus for their ride. The horse looked nervously toward the Dysterwood, but Mercy whispered to him and stroked his neck until he quieted. Stepping back from him, Mercy held Joanna’s gaze but neither moved nor spoke.

Joanna twisted her fingers into the quilt and swallowed against the knot in her throat. She knew the time would come to let him go, but it still felt too soon. Everything she and Stephen had done had been for this moment when they could send him somewhere far away, where he would never know of Aldorhaven or the fate that would have awaited him if he had stayed. He had the chance for a life his father never did, and she needed to let him go. Pulling back the quilt, Joanna tried to memorize his face as she had Mercy’s. He was so new. He had no name or features she could pin down as coming from her or Stephen, but he had his life. And it would always be his own. Joanna kissed his forehead and readjusted the blanket around him until he was swaddled tight. Beckoning Mercy closer, she pulled the shawl from her shoulders and threaded it around Mercy’s middle under her coat. She carefully tied the bundled blanket into it and stepped away before she could change her mind.

Embers blew on the wind as Mercy gingerly swung into the saddle and turned Rasmus toward the road. “You can still come, Joanna.”

“You know I can’t.” At the hesitance in her eyes, Joanna called, “Mercy, after you get settled, promise me you won’t look for me. Forget I or this place ever existed.”

“I promise I won’t look, but I’ll never forget.”

Joanna stood rooted at the gate as Mercy gave her one final, long look before spurring her horse to a trot. She tried to keep her gaze trained on Mercy’s back as Rasmus picked up speed down the road, but her eyes kept sliding off as if they weren’t there. When she could no longer find them beyond the distant clack of hooves, the pain in her heart lessened a fraction. If she couldn’t see them, then hopefully, the wood couldn’t either. Godspeed, Mercy. Tears burned the backs of Joanna’s eyes, but she quickly blinked them away and headed back to the road. At the top of Cemetery Hill, a lone figure appeared between the tombs. Joanna’s heart lurched in her throat as Stephen’s father stepped from the shadows. Before he could see her and call out to the others, Joanna took a deep breath and plunged into the Dysterwood.

If you enjoyed this excerpt, I hope you will preorder The Reanimator’s Remains at your favorite retailer or add it to your TBR on Goodreads. If you haven’t read books 1 or 2, you can grab them in ebook, paperback, or audiobook. Stay tuned for the second half of the prologue next week.

Writing

Kara’s Current & Future Writing Plans

June 9, 2024June 8, 2024 Kara Jorgensen1 Comment

As we head toward the end of the second quarter of 2024, I find myself starting to plan. Truthfully, I should be planning for the third quarter, but instead, I find myself thinking about all the writing projects I would like to work on and when I’m hopefully getting to them. To preface, none of what I’m going to talk about is set in stone. All dates and ideas are subject to change, especially due to work, extra projects, etc.

2024 Books

The Reanimator’s Remains (TRM #3)– Book 3 of the Reanimator Mysteries will be out October 29th, 2024. I’m hoping to have it drafted and done by the end of the summer for the late fall release. You can preorder it here.

TRM #3.5 short story– I still have no idea what this will be about, though I’m thinking it will be set during the Paranormal Society’s All Hallows Eve party. Depending on how long it ends up being, it will be released at the end of 2024 or beginning of 2025.

2025 Books

The Reanimator’s ________ (TRM #4)– As of right now, I think book 4 will be the last book in the Reanimator Mysteries series. I have ideas for it and hope you all will love how the series wraps up, and don’t worry, we will definitely revisit our favorites in future books. This will be my big project for 2025, and I expect it to come out in October as usual.

TRM #4.5– I’m not 100% sure if there will be a final short story, but I’m going to assume I will write some sort of epilogue for Oliver and Felipe. This story will come out after book 4.

Timeline Unknown

When I say “timeline unknown,” what I really mean is, “I haven’t committed to a due date, and I can’t be behind if I don’t know when they’re due.” Basically, these projects are marinating and will for sure be worked on, but they are not as high of a priority as the Reanimatory Mysteries books are at the moment. Also, due to job stuff, energy levels, etc., it’s hard for me to write more than one book a year, though I would love to work up to finishing two a year without sacrificing quality or my sanity.

Joe and Ansley’s Book– I’m 99% sure this will be novel length, so it will probably take months to write. I don’t want to shoehorn it in between Reanimator books like an afterthought, but it is coming! I have ideas for them, and I really want to write more within this universe as well.

A book starring Teresa Galvan– This one is a huge maybe. I have a sparkly idea, but I’m not sure it makes sense yet. Teresa is growing up in a time of immense change and possibility, so writing a story set during the Belle Époque from an artist’s perspective would be a lot of fun. Once again, still working out the bugs.

More Reanimator Side Stories– I have some ideas bouncing around for an Oliver and Gwen prequel short story, potentially a short story about the head inspector and Gale, and several others. Eventually, I would like to put together a collected volume of Reanimator Mysteries related short stories.

Trousers and Trouble– I am so sorry to my readers who have been waiting years for this book. Between burnout, covid, life stuff, etc., it was really hard to write a book about trans joy. Once again, after the Reanimator books are done, I will revisit this book, and this series to write books for other characters mentioned in this one and Kinship and Kindness.

Dinosaur Duology– So I think it’s a duology. In my head, that’s the structure of it, before and after a giant event, but that is subject to change. There are also some other things I would like to explore within the same time period, so I don’t know what the structure of this series will be or if there will be an off-shoot book. I have no idea, but it’s marinating.

Scandinavian flavored epic fantasy– the series that will be cooking the longest because I don’t know if I am smart and/or talented enough to pull it off yet. I have lots of sparkly ideas and aesthetics, but those do not make a book, unfortunately.

For now, these are the works I have on the docket and the backburner. I hope you will stay tuned as I talk more about my current and future projects!

the reanimator's soul · Writing

The Reanimator’s Soul Audiobook is Available Now!

May 12, 2024May 10, 2024 Kara Jorgensen1 Comment

the audiobook cover for The Reanimator's Soul written by Kara Jorgensen, read by Jack R. R. Evans

I am so excited to announce that The Reanimator’s Soul is now out in audiobook! It’s still trickling out to a few other retailers, but it’s now out at most major retailers and library systems.

Jack R. R. Evans, who narrated The Reanimator’s Heart and Kinship and Kindness, has returned to narrate The Reanimator’s Soul, and they have done an amazing job. I always rave about Jack’s work, but the way they did Ansley and Joe had me grinning from ear to ear.

You can grab the audiobook of The Reanimator’s Soul at

Amazon

Audible

Barnes & Noble/Nook

Kobo (on Kobo Plus as well)

And many more including Libby, which many libraries in the US use. It will also be available in other library systems and Libro.fm, but it takes a few weeks to appear.

The Reanimator's Heart · Writing

The Narratess Indie Sale!

April 14, 2024April 14, 2024 Kara Jorgensen1 Comment

a grid of book covers. in the center is a dragon and a planet, and around them it says, Indie Sale fantasy, scifi, and horror. April 13-15th

We will be back to our regularly scheduled blogging next week, but I wanted to let you all know that there is one day left in the Narratess Indie Sale, so if you are looking to beef up your to-be-read pile for Indie April, swing over to the Narratess Sale to check out over 200 indie books that are free to $1.99.

The Reanimator's Heart by Kara Jorgensen is on sale for $0.99 for a limited time at all major retailers. mm romance, food tour of 1890s NYC, unbury your gays, forced proximity, a lavender marriage, an autistic necromancer, everybody's queer, murder, magic and mysteries

The Reanimator’s Heart is also part of the sale and is $0.99 at all major retailers and in most regions, so if you’ve been looking to get your hands on it, now is the perfect time to start the series, especially ahead of book 3‘s release in October.

Writing

The New Book Blues

April 7, 2024March 30, 2024 Kara Jorgensen1 Comment

I have a confession: I hate starting a new book.

This probably sounds weird from someone who loves writing, their characters, stories, etc., but the actual starting part is the absolute worst for me. I’m not one of those writers who gets an idea and immediately dives headfirst to bang out 10,000 words in a few days before hitting the wall when they get to the middle. No matter how hard the spirit of inspiration strikes, I never get that sort of burst at the beginning of a story. The beginning is always the slowest part of the writing process for me. I’m constantly having false starts, stalling, reworking or clarifying things. The beginning of a book is about feeling things out and trying to get the shape of it in my mind before I get too far. My process is probably closest to a sculptor using a piece of a marble. They have to inspect the veins and natural curves and weaknesses of the rock before they get too far, lest they ruin it.

I’ve said it previously in other posts about my writing process, but I hate mess. I’m not the kind of person who can speed-run through a draft and deal with the problems later. If I have a super messy draft, there’s a 90% chance I will just chuck it in the bin and move on instead of dealing with it. Because I am mess averse, I tend to be a slower writer but a quick editor. My writing has been gone over so many times by the time I reach the editing stage that the draft is fairly clean. At the same time, I don’t have hyper-productive days with astronomical word counts because that would mean cleaning up a lot of mess later. Occasionally, I do have these days, but they’re often toward the very end of the story when I know exactly where I’m going and what needs to happen.

The beginning of a book is like standing at an eight-way intersection. I have too many choices and I haven’t puzzled out where they all lead yet, so I get decision paralysis. Some people will say just pick something and deal with the consequences. Yeah, no, I’d rather take a few hours or days to figure out what won’t work before charging down a certain path and making a mess for myself. I’m a careful writer, and the fact that the slow start is part of my process is something I need to remind myself each time I start a new project.

I often scare myself when I start a project because I am so slow at first. There’s a little, panicked voice inside of me that’s like, “At the rate you’re going, it’ll take two years to finish this book!” and then, I freak out more and freeze up. This time, I’m trying to remind myself that the speed at which I write exponentially goes up the further along I am in the book. The first five to ten thousand words are the slowest because my brain is still grappling with all the setup and moving pieces that need to be nailed down early on. This is part of the process, even if I don’t like how it feels, and at some point, I need to make peace with that.

The beginning of a book is like a road with nearly limitless paths, and the further I get into that draft, the more side streets are closed to me. The path becomes clearer, and the chance of getting lose diminishes. For now, I will keep going, albeit slowly, and try not to get lost.

The Reanimator's Remains · Writing

Introducing The Reanimator’s Remains

March 24, 2024March 20, 2024 Kara Jorgensen1 Comment

This week’s blog post is a sort of title reveal/blurb reveal/preorder reveal for book three of the Reanimator Mysteries series.

The title of book three is The Reanimator’s Remains! Book three will be out October 29th, 2024, and you can preorder it in ebook form now at most major retailers. Paperbacks will come closer to release day.

The cover reveal will be later this summer, but for now, you can read the blurb below.

An autistic necromancer, his undead love, and a town built on secrets

When the dead start rising and wreaking havoc in the small town of Aldorhaven, no one at the Paranormal Society wants to take the case; no one but Oliver Barlow. While he knows little of his parents’ lives, he knows he was born in Aldorhaven. Perhaps there, he might finally find out what happened to them or if he has any family left.

The last thing Felipe Galvan wants to do is go to a strange town in the middle of the woods, but for Oliver, he’ll go. From the moment they arrive, Felipe is haunted by memories better left buried and reminded that one misstep is all it would take for him to lose control and become the monster he was always meant to be.

But it isn’t merely the dead plaguing Aldorhaven, something far worse lurks in the woods and in Oliver’s blood. Together, Oliver and Felipe must untangle the magic hidden in the town’s past and destroy it before it can claim Oliver’s life.

What can you expect from The Reanimator’s Remains?

The Reanimator's Remains by Kara Jorgensen, cover reveal coming this summer. Preorder now, out October 29th.
autistic necromancer x undead adhd-er, mm romance, family secrets, the dead are out for revenge, "I would die for you" "Then, live for me.", a spooky forest, a creepy murder town, dealing with trauma, book 3.

I will definitely talk more about The Reanimator’s Remains (TRM #3) as I work on it, but at its core, it’s a story about fighting fate and expectations and breaking cycles. I hope you all will enjoy reading it as much as I’m enjoying writing it. You can preorder The Reanimator’s Remains at most major retailers, and if you haven’t read The Reanimator’s Heart or The Reanimator’s Soul, you still have time to do so before book three comes out in late October. You can also add it on Goodreads.