Thursday, April 20, 2017

November Snow Celebrates Read Self-Published Month

I've been participating in a wonderful event all month long. Read Self-Published Month celebrates the creative work being done by indie authors in all genres. Led by Zach Chopchinski, we are enjoying events galore, including this blog tour, giveaways, read-alongs, and Facebook takeovers.

And it's not too late for you to get in on the fun! Join the Facebook group for Read Self-Published month and discover a wealth of talent producing amazing work outside the traditional publishing system. Tomorrow, the blog tour continues with Lucy Felthouse, a U.K. writer of erotic and romance fiction.

Today, I'm sharing a short excerpt from the first novel in my November Snow Series, She Dies at the End. I recently completed the series with the release of my third novel, She Marches Through Fire. I want to give you a taste of my writing style. My protagonist, November Snow, is an eighteen-year-old carnival psychic who winds up in the middle of some very dangerous and supernatural shenanigans. I like to think of it as vampire fiction for the intellectual. ;-)  If you'd like to hear me read all of Chapter 1, click here.

From She Dies at the End (November Snow Book 1), Chapter 1

She watched them bury her again.

Four people stand in a garden. The short redhead, an impatient fireplug, has a dusty shovel in his large hands. His wide shoulders stretch his clothes. A tiny teenager with caramel skin stands beside him and places a hand on his arm, her tunic marred by drops of blood. A tall waif stands apart, distraught, shaking; blue tears fall from her eyes, eyes the same shade of electric blue as her hair. Closest to the grave is the bloody businessman: his dark suit stained darker still with blood, his white shirt ruined, his shoes dusty, his designer tie twisted, now turned more noose than accessory.

His face is stone. His eyes scream. His fangs catch the light. A girl is dead because she tried to help him. His girl is dead, just like the ones before.

Her corpse waits patiently, cradled in the gnarled roots of an old tree. Blood has soaked through her blue silk dress. It stains her mouth, covering the blue tinge of death. The businessman bends down and kisses her forehead. He lifts her up, leaps gracefully into the grave, and places her carefully into her resting place. Her dark blue eyes are still open, but she doesn’t look frightened. She looks relieved. He closes them gently, touches her cheek. A drop of blood wells in his eye, rolls down his cheek, falls silently onto her dark hair, evidence of his grief: her killer's grief.

She watched them bury her again.


November Snow awoke with the certainty that she’d overslept and promptly bashed her head against the bottom of her table. That was the one drawback to her little nest, but she’d take a sleeping bag on the ground and a knot on her head any day. It was far preferable to sleeping in her mother’s trailer and the consequent possibility of waking up to sounds she'd rather not hear. It was rather cozy, actually, along the lines of a blanket fort.

The girl crawled out into the dim light inside her tent and began to prepare for another day of work. She jumped to her feet; a quick glance at her watch confirmed that she had better hustle. Her oversleeping was no surprise, really, after the previous night’s shenanigans. She sighed inwardly and ran her hands through her long black hair, yanking out the worst of the tangles and steeling herself to face the day.

Her first task was to wash off the previous day’s dust and sweat, which she did with a quickness as the shower in her mom’s motor-coach lacked hot water. What I wouldn't give for a scalding hot bath, she thought. Pulling on her thrift store jeans and t-shirt, she caught brief glimpses of their former owners. Detergent could wash away many things, but not the imprints of those who'd previously worn the clothes. Thankfully, such visions tended to fade with time as she made her the items her own, but the first few days in someone else’s castoffs were always a real headache. She then attempted to wake her mother from her stupor, which this morning was a futile effort. Not that I'm surprised. The next job was breakfast.

She walked quickly down the midway toward the food stands. She grabbed an apple from Sally’s candy apple counter. Most everyone was busy preparing their games and rides for the influx of marks soon to ensue. Her few friends greeted her. More, however, crossed themselves, called her a freak under their breath, and kept on working.

Here's the blurb:

Bronze medalist in the Reader's Favorite Book Awards
Finalist in the IAN Book of the Year Awards
Short-listed in the Chanticleer Paranormal Awards
Finalist in the Wishing Shelf Book Awards
Second Place for the Rave Reviews Book Club Book of the Year

November Snow has seen her own burial a thousand times. It is the only thing she knows about her future.

In a war amongst vampires and fairies, a small advantage can mean the difference between victory and defeat. And a psychic who can peer across the globe, unspool the past, and probe the future is more than a small advantage. Everyone wants to use her for his own ends: the ancient king, the black sheep, the dutiful son, the lost boy.

But November Snow wants things, too, before death comes for her. She wants purpose. She wants friendship. She wants love. She wants happiness. She wants respect. And she will not settle for less.

Pulled into the midst of a royal family feud centuries in the making, she must forge her own path through violence, betrayal, first loves, and mortal peril as she struggles to come to terms with her gift and her destiny, even as she knows this for certain:

She dies at the end.

I hope you'll give my books, as well as those of the other participating authors, a try.  You can read She Dies at the End for only $0.99.  Happy reading!


  1. Congrats on finishing the series! What's next for you?

    1. Thanks! I'm working on a YA high fantasy inspired by the War of the Roses and the Tudor dynasty. I'm about 25k words in.