I lost Harry (aka “the Wonderpoodle”), a couple of weeks ago. 

​He had a tumor in his nose, an aggressive form of cancer that wouldn’t have responded well to chemo/radiation even if I could have afforded to pay for it. For a while, he seemed fine except for frequent bloody noses and loud snoring. 

Until a few days before he died, when he declined so quickly I knew it was time to call the vet. 

The house is really empty right now. 

I’m a dog person. I like cats fine, have had a couple over the years, and might again, but if I have to choose, I pick dogs. I’ve had three dogs as an adult. Winnie, Lobo, and Harry. 

Winnie was a border collie/lab mix who I got as a young puppy and who died peacefully fourteen years later of old age after an active and happy life. 

This post isn’t about her. 

This post is about Lobo and Harry. 

I adopted Lobo from a rescue group. He was a year old when I got him, and had suffered a traumatic puppyhood.

​The first night, he slept on top of me, afraid I might go away, but soon his happy goofball personality asserted itself. But every once in awhile the fear would come back and he’d stalk my every step, afraid to let me out of his sight. 

He was a handsome boy. Strangers used to roll down their car windows when I was walking him and shout, “Great dog!” He should have been cast as Tramp in a live action remake of “Lady and the Tramp.” Cocker spaniels regularly fell in love with him. 

He was a great dog, but not necessarily a good dog. If I wanted him to come to me, I yelled “Lobo, goddammit,” because that was the command I’d inadvertently taught him when he was ignoring me. 

My friends called him the Zen Dog, because every moment was now. If he’d been human he would have been Hansel from Zoolander. 

And he was a hairy beast. Golden retriever, German Shepherd, and I think part Chow. When he blew his winter coat there was enough hair lying around to knit another dog. Everything I owned was covered in soft golden hair. I bought lint rollers in bulk and had to have the vacuum cleaner serviced every couple of months. 

I’d look at Lobo from time to time and say, “In your next life you’re coming back as a standard poodle, right?” And he’d tilt his head in a quizzical way and wag his tail. 

At age seven, Lobo developed immune-mediated hemolytic anemia. For no discernible reason, his immune system began destroying his red blood cells. After a week in the vet hospital where he steadily worsened and didn’t respond to treatment, I had the vet put him down. 

I had six years with Lobo and because he’d died relatively young, I struggled with grief in a way I didn’t when Winnie died a few years later. She’d had her full life. She’d lived well and died well and you can’t ask for more than that. There was a sense of peace and completion with Winnie. 

With Lobo, I just felt cheated. 

After Winnie died, I got Harry, a standard poodle. At seven weeks old he looked like a fluffy stuffed toy. No actual dog should be that cute.

​He grew up handsome. And he knew it. 

When I’d yell at him for something he’d look back calmly like he was thinking, “I’m sure she must be yelling at that other dog named Harry who lives with us, the invisible one. She certainly can’t be yelling at me.” 

He may not have been obedient, but he was devoted. I was his person and that was that. He liked other people fine. But he was my dog. When I wasn’t there, he napped quietly on my bed until I came back, even if the house was full of people he really liked when I was around. 

Almost immediately, he began to remind me of Lobo. The same head tilt when I spoke to him, the same goofy charm, the same nonchalance when responding to commands. 

I started joking to friends that Lobo had been a good dog after all. He wouldn’t sit or come or stay or heel, but he did reincarnate as a poodle like I’d asked. 

My friends said there was nothing unusual about dogs tilting their heads or acting goofy. And they were right. But it was fun to joke about. They really were a lot alike. 

I used to walk Lobo regularly in an off leash park with a stream running through it. One day, a year or so before he died, Lobo ran into the middle of the stream, near the trail. 

Much to my horror, he turned three times, squatted, and took a dump. Right in the water. 

The stream was in a watershed area with strict rules about cleaning up after your dog. I ran at him, shouting at him to stop, but it was too late. 

A guy who’d stopped nearby to throw sticks for his dog said, “Wow. I’ve never seen a dog do that.” Neither had I, I told him. Lobo had never done that before. 

And he never did it again. 

When Harry was about six months old, I was walking him regularly in a different off-leash park, also with a stream running through it. 

We got to a popular stopping place, and Harry ran into the stream. 

He turned once, twice, three times, squatted, and took a dump. Right in the water. 

This time I didn’t shout or run. I just stood there in shock. 

A guy nearby, throwing sticks for his dog, said, “Wow. I’ve never seen a dog do that before.” 

I said, “I’ve only seen one other.” 

I got Harry home and took a hard look at him. “Lobo?” I asked in a whisper, “Is that you?”

Harry tilted his head and wagged his tail. And never took another dump in a stream. 

I quit joking about reincarnation. It was just too weird after that. 

I had Lobo for six years. I had Harry for nine years. That’s fifteen years, which is a good long life for a dog. Doing that math makes me feel a little better. 

(It hasn't been edited yet, so there may be some commas in wrong places, typos, etc.)

London, Anno Domini 1098

The cloaked man strode through the dark town. At this time of night thieves and cutthroats roamed freely, but the man had no fear. While no wizard, he was a gifted conjurer, skillful with certain smaller magics. If he couldn’t conjure away a hazardous encounter, odds were good he could talk his way out of it. 

Failing that, he had his dagger. Even with only average physical gifts, centuries of practice had made him lethal when the occasion demanded it. 

He pulled the cloak closer. Down here by the river, the mist grew thick, the dampness sinking into his bones, and he suspected he’d have a long wait. His cousin’s behavior had grown even more erratic of late. He knew, despite wanting to believe otherwise, that their long association was at an end. One last caper, one last magic sword, and then he planned to gather his earnings, retire from swindling, and head south.

Somewhere warm. The south of France perhaps, or Spain. Maybe Constantinople . . . 
Lost in dreams of sunshine and leisure, the cloaked man was oblivious to the small figure stepping from the shadows. 

“You know—” the figure said.

The cloaked man, startled from his reverie, groped for his dagger.

“You should never let a leprechaun sneak up on you.” The small figure threw back his hood. “We’re nefarious little bastards.” 

The cloaked man relaxed. “No, my friend, you’re a nefarious little bastard. Most of your brethren lack the imagination for anything but average wrongdoing. And you’re the only one in the worlds who can sneak up on me.”

“Good thing I’m on your side.” The leprechaun chuckled, then grew serious. “Where is he?”

The cloaked man sighed. “Where do you think?”

Now the leprechaun sighed. “In his cups telling tales of past glory. If he keeps this up, they’ll burn him for a heretic.” 

“He and my father both,” the cloaked man said. “The age of the northern gods is over. It’s time to move on.”

“What are you saying?”

“It’s time to get out of the magic sword and magic ring business and into something more modern. Sacred relics perhaps.”

The leprechaun nodded, pondering the cloaked man’s words. “With a convincing backstory and a little magical dazzle, some people will believe anything. Particularly when a god is involved.”

“Indeed. Plus, relics are easier to manufacture and transport. Add gullible and greedy buyers . . .”

“I like it. But what about him? How does he fit into this?”

The cloaked man sighed. “He doesn’t. His work hasn’t suffered yet, but it will. Provided he doesn’t end up on a pyre.”

“You don’t mean that,” the leprechaun said. “We can’t abandon him. His leg—”

“Is an old wound and a convenient excuse. The drink is destroying him and I won’t let it destroy us too.”

“Us? Is she—” 

“She’s at her breaking point.”

“If you both leave, it will kill him.” The leprechaun shook his head. “Are you sure about this?”

“Not in the least. I hate myself for even considering it. But if he’s intent on drowning himself in mead, should we let him drag us under with him? Should our loyalty to him make our lives forfeit too?”

The leprechaun stared at his small feet for a long moment. “No. I suppose not.” 

Neither spoke for several breaths.

An internal decision made, the leprechaun broke the silence. “On the relics thing—did you know it’s not only lone fools? I’ve heard that whole towns are banding together to get them.” The leprechaun chuckled. “They crow about stealing well-known relics from other towns to entice pilgrims and their gold.” 

The cloaked man smiled. “Because a relic somebody would willingly sell is not worth having?”

The leprechaun nodded, a wide grin on his handsome face. “And not being thieves themselves—”

“They’re willing to pay well to procure such services.” The cloaked man nodded.

“So, if we create a convincing relic, goosed with a little magic—”

“We can—guided only by our piety—reluctantly sell it to one town and get paid to steal it for another.” The cloaked man laughed. “You nefarious little bastard.”

“And we know a certain woman with lovely golden hair who might have reason to disguise herself—” 

In his excitement, the cloaked man had forgotten his dreams of retirement. “As a saintly woman who has shorn her hair to prove her modesty and humility—”

The leprechaun nodded.“Giving us several feet of lovely golden hair—” 

“To cut into locks from the Virgin Mother’s head. Pilgrims love holy hair.”

“Giving us an easy way to earn enough coin to eat well whilst we set up something grander for ourselves.” 

“Much grander,” said the cloaked man. “We could get paid at least three times on one relic if we steal it back from the town we stole it for. Or even more depending on how many times we can steal it before they grow wise." 

They basked for a moment in the glow of their scheme. Then the cloaked man thought of his cousin, the kinsman he had decided to leave behind, and felt a stab of guilt. But there was no alternative. For his own sake, for her sake, and for his cousin’s sake. It was only a matter of time before the drunken lout turned his frustrations upon his wife, only a matter of time before he lost what meager control he had over his magical gift and it destroyed them both. 

“Do we wait for him any longer?” the leprechaun asked. 

The cloaked man shook his head. “No. She’s waiting with the cart. At the church near the bridge. The one place she knows he won’t be.”

The leprechaun’s eyes widened. “You’re already packed? You’re really serious about this.”

The cloaked man nodded. “I am.”

“But what about tonight? We have a sword to deliver.”

The cloaked man gestured around them. “Do you see a sword? The drunken fool still has it. I don’t relish walking in there empty handed. This buyer won’t hesitate to cut us down with one of his many less than magical swords if he thinks we’re trying to cheat him.”

“I guess we can’t sell a sword we don’t have. Not to this buyer.” The leprechaun shuddered. “Better we disappear. But I have a few things to do before I can leave.”

“We were thinking about heading south.” The cloaked man sighed. “To be truthful, I was thinking about heading south. She wants to go north.” 

The leprechaun nodded. “Which means you’re going north. Norwich?"

The cloaked man nodded. 

“I’ll find you,” the leprechaun said.

“You always do.” With a final smile, the cloaked man turned and disappeared into the the fog.

It's been a hard year. 

Moving my dad and selling his house took a lot more out of me than I realized. Once I got settled into my new house, I was all ready to charge ahead with the writing. Then a bunch of stuff happened. The details aren't interesting. Just life happening, but not the fun parts.

Finally, my body decided it was time to take all those weekends I didn't get over the last couple of years, shut down my higher brain function, dropped my ass on the sofa, and turned on Netflix. 

I planned to write at least at least three books in 2015. Instead I'm writing one. Gods and Swindlers, the third book in the City of Eldrich series is now scheduled to be released sometime in late December. Provided no other major life upheavals occur. 

Thank you for your patience. 

The email list is marketing dogma. YOU MUST HAVE A LIST, they all say, IF YOU DON’T BUILD YOUR LIST, YOUR BUSINESS WILL FAIL!  

As an indie author, I hear over and over that developing an email list is an absolute necessity. That way I can cut out the middle man and sell directly to my readers. And I’ve been encouraged to give away free books or free stories to entice people to sign up.

As conventional wisdom goes, it seems valid. It seems like common sense. If you have their emails, you can contact your readers directly. It’s the ultimate targeted advertising. And you know they want to hear from you or they wouldn’t have signed up. 

But as intuitively correct as that sounds, as a consumer, I’m noticing something else. When I woke up this morning the unread emails in my inbox numbered over 160. That didn’t happen overnight, mind you, it was a couple of weeks of neglect, but for a variety of little reasons, I didn’t keep up with it. I meant to read them, but I never got around to it.

I’m not a promiscuous subscriber. But even taking a cautious approach to signing up for stuff has resulted in a wave of email I don’t have time to read. And it’s not spam. I’m either already a customer and got automatically signed up, or I voluntarily subscribed. 

Yes, I know, I just have to unsubscribe but inertia has prevented me. Until this morning, when I snapped, and, in hissy-fit mode, started unsubscribing. From everybody. Even people I thought I wanted to hear from. 

I’d been meaning to dump the newsletter pitch in my subscription sign up and change it to “get news about the next book.” As I tinkered with the copy, I found myself promising not to oversend and apologizing in advance for asking. When I realized I couldn’t figure out how to ask readers for their email addresses without pissing off the reader part of my brain, I deleted the whole damn thing,  

Is it only me? Does anyone else feel like your email is getting as bad as your snail mail—nothing but bills and people trying to sell you crap?

If you've visited this site before, you'll notice some changes: new covers for Impervious and Crushed! 

I was going to write a post about my thoughts on indie publishing and where the industry is going, blah blah blah. But you know, I have no idea where the industry is going and I haven’t sold enough books yet to give my business building strategies any credibility. And if you’re not an indie author, you probably don’t care anyway.

So, instead, here’s a recipe! I’m currently making it and it smells great and I’m hungry. Although I write about a locavore chef (Russ Keele) who buys only organic, grass fed, free range, heirloom ingredients directly from the farmer (driving his sister nuts in the process; read the books to see what I mean), I’m not quite so picky. Mostly because I can’t afford to be. 

Also, I’m a pantser when it comes to cooking as well as writing. I make it up as I go along.  I’m not great at providing precise measurements or specific cooking times. Sorry. If you find recipes that include  “some” or “until it’s done” annoying, you should probably quit reading now. 

Sweet Potato Sausage Soup
Sweet potatoes, peeled and cut into small chunks 
Diced onion
Chopped garlic
Curry powder
Dried savory
Chicken stock (If I don’t have homemade, I use Kirkland Organic from Costco)
Italian sausage (I do a mix of hot and mild) formed into small meatballs
Olive oil
Coconut milk (I’m dairy free, but cream or half and half would work too, although the coconut tastes really nice with the curry. If you don't want to open an entire can of coconut milk for a few spoonfuls, check out So Delicious Culinary Coconut Milk)
Salt and pepper to taste (the sausage is salty, so don’t add any additional salt until the end)

In a heavy bottomed stock pot or sauce pan (depending on how much you’re making), put a little bit of olive oil, enough for sautéing.

1. Over medium-low heat, sauté the onions and garlic until translucent, then add curry powder. How much depends on your personal taste. If you’re not sure, just use a little. You can add more later if you’d like. Stir the curry powder and onion/garlic mixture for a minute or so, to release the flavor a little.
2. Add chopped sweet potatoes. Add enough chicken stock to cover the potatoes completely. Add a teaspoon or so of dried savory. Cover and simmer until the sweet potatoes are soft.
3. When the potatoes are cooked, blend the soup until smooth. A stick blender works really well if you have one. Otherwise a regular blender works too. If the blended soup is too thick add more chicken stock. You need the mixture liquid enough that you can boil the sausage in it. 
4. Bring the blended soup to a slow boil and add the sausage. Simmer until the sausage is cooked through.
5. Stir in a few spoonfuls of coconut milk (or dairy milk or cream). Add salt and pepper to taste. 

The Science Fiction and Fantasy Marketing podcast has officially launched. Our very first podcast, featuring an interview with author Lindsay Buroker is now available. 

Lindsay is one our regular panelists, along with Joseph Lallo,  Jeffrey M. Poole, and myself. For our first four podcasts, we'll be interviewing each other, as an introduction to viewers (and to give us some breathing space to work out the bumps before we invite anyone to join us).   We meet every Tuesday at 9PM EDT, which is currently 6PM Arizona time (we don't do daylight savings time. Because we're Arizona. That's why.) 

Lindsay talks about the marketing benefits of writing books in series and about other writing and publishing topics. In addition to being a successful author, Lindsay's an experienced podcaster.  

(Me? Not so much. I know I tend to fidget but never knew just how bad it really is. I also tend to cackle when I'm nervous. And there's an inadvertent shot of Harry, the Wonder Poodle, bathing himself in a . . . certain area, which of course I totally missed because I was too busy fidgeting and cackling. And then there's the internet connection . . . I'm working on that, along with chilling out and sitting still.)

Our next episode will feature Joseph Lallo, talking about book cover art and how (not) to develop and merchandise book-related products, including the Saga of the Dragon Plush. Check out marketingsff.com for more info! 

I've been invited to participate in a weekly podcast focusing on how to market science fiction and fantasy books. I'll be joining authors Lindsay Buroker, Joseph Lallo, and Jeffrey M. Poole. I'd send you to the website, but we're still putting everything together. 

We'll be interviewing authors about what's working for them.  Whether indie, hybrid, or traditionally published, all authors benefit from better marketing. We want to highlight best practices and help authors develop the marketing strategies that work best for them. 

We're hoping to get up and going in the next few weeks. Sign up for my newsletter for updates. If you're an author interested in being interviewed, email me at info@laurakirwan.com. 

There might be some tweaking before final publication, but as of right now here's the opening chapter of Crushed:

     The dark trees loomed over the clearing where the small fire burned. 
     The rainy gray daylight barely penetrated the thick canopy of forest. It was afternoon in the rest of the world, but in the trees a murky twilight filled the air.
    Two figures hunched near the fire and peered into the small iron dutch oven that hung above the flames.
     “You’re doing it wrong,” said the first, a pudgy blond girl wearing jeans and a green polo shirt.
     “I am not. I’m doing it exactly like the book says,” the second said, tossing her tangled dark hair over her shoulder. She sat on a boulder next to the fire, a black leather jacket over her blood-red, velvet dress. A heavy silver pendant—a five cornered star enclosed in a circle—hung from her neck. It brushed against the large dusty book balanced on her knees. 
     “Then why does it look like cat barf?” The pudgy girl stuck an iron spoon in the dutch oven and scooped up a sample. “See?”
     “Well, maybe if you took this more seriously . . . ”
     “What’s that supposed to mean?”
     “Maybe if you tried to dress for the part a little? At least I’m trying to look like a witch.”
     The pudgy girl snorted. “It doesn’t matter how you look.” 
     The other girl twirled a strand of hair around a black-lacquered fingernail and squinted at the book. “Maybe if you’re not doing real magic.”
     The pudgy girl sighed. “Heather, you don’t—”
     “Circe,” the dark haired girl said impatiently. “Don’t call me Heather. Real witches aren’t named Heather.” She looked up and glared at her companion. “Or Dana.”
    Dana rolled her eyes. “What about Kady? Or Natalie? You’re telling me Natalie doesn’t do real magic? I’ve seen Natalie do big scary magic in sweaty running clothes. Using Gatorade in place of ram’s blood.” Dana grimaced at the dutch oven. “I bet Natalie’s version of this wouldn’t look like cat barf.” 
     Heather ignored this comment. “We have to make this work. How else will I convince him to pick me?”
     Dana rolled her eyes again. “He’s like thirty years old. And he’s gay. That was his boyfriend who died when his world blew up.”
     “I don’t think he’s all that gay,” Heather said. “I’ve seen him looking at me.”
     “Yeah,” Dana said. “Along with everybody else and the wall and the floor and—”
    Heather slammed the book shut and glared at Dana. “Why do you always have to be so negative about everything?”
     “Accepting reality isn’t negative. It’s grown-up. Like having a job.” Dana pulled a cell phone out of her back pocket. “Like the job I’m gonna get fired from if I don’t leave now.” She looked up at Heather. “Can you clean this up without me?” 
     Heather refused to meet her eye. “Whatever. I’ll clean it up. Go to your stupid job. If you really cared about the craft you wouldn’t bother with a job.”
     “We’re not in high school anymore. Witches need to eat and pay rent just like everybody else.” Dana paused a beat. “At least everybody not still living with their parents.”
     Heather gave her a sour look, but said nothing. 
     “Thank you,” Dana said in a syrupy voice. She ran to her small, beat-up car, and drove away without a backward glance. 
     “She’s just jealous,” Heather muttered. 
     “Of course she is,” a feminine voice purred. “All women are jealous. Particularly witches.” 
    Heather squealed, dropped the book, and nearly fell off her boulder. She looked up and saw a woman, dressed in black, standing on the other side of the fire. 
     The woman had thick flowing blond hair. She wore a tight fitting black leather jacket that plunged into a low v-neck. Underneath, black lace peeked through, accented by the emerald green satin scarf wrapped around her pale throat. Her black skirt was velvet like Heather’s dress, but tighter, falling to mid-calf. A slit in the front revealed a pair of black leather laced-up boots with a high spiky heel. 
     Around her neck, the woman wore a silver pentacle necklace identical to one Heather wore. Her eyes glanced on Heather's pentacle, and she smiled, small white teeth glistening behind dark red lips. 
     “You scared me,” Heather squeaked. 
     “I’ve been looking for you,” the woman said, in a low musical voice. 
     “Me?” 
     The woman nodded. “Yes. You. I can feel your power from where I stand. I could feel it before I arrived. Your power, your potential, led me here.” 
     Heather’s mouth dropped open. “How do you . . . who are you?”
     “Someone who understands that real magic requires real witches. Someone who honors the traditions of the craft. Someone not afraid to show the world what she is.”
     “You’re a witch,” Heather said, breathlessly. “A real witch. You . . . you get it.”
     The woman nodded. “I do get it. Much better than those work-a-day drabs who infest this town, with their sloppy demeanor and slipshod spell casting. Natalie Segretti, for instance. She is powerful, I’ll give her that, but she sorely lacks style. It denigrates the craft.” 
     Heather nodded. “Style matters. That’s what I keep telling everybody and they laugh and treat me like a dumb kid.” 
     “Even your friend,” the woman said in gentle voice. “The one who ruined your spell and left you behind to clean up her mess.” She shook her head. “Shameful, the way standards have slipped in this town.” 
     “Will you teach me?” Heather asked in a rush. “Please? I’m with this stupid rich woman who wears pastels and plays golf. She’s awful.” 
     The woman smiled. “Perhaps, but first you must prove yourself. Raw talent is not enough. You must show me that you have the necessary cunning and strength, that you understand the sacrifices that must be made to achieve true power.” She paused a moment. “And true love.”
     Heather flushed. “He’s . . .” She stared down at her lap. “They all want him. They tell each other he’s gay, but I know they all think they’re the one woman who can make him forget all that.” 
     “While they squabble, do you have the will to take him? To fight for him?”
     “Dana says it’s a crush, not love, but she’s wrong. I know I can make him forget that man and forget all of them too. If I could only get the spell to work.”
     “Here, little one,” the woman said. “Let me help you.” 

Impervious for Kindle is for sale on Amazon.com for $1.99 and Amazon.uk for £1.99 until July 16th! Celebrate summer lounging by the pool with a good ebook (or hiding in the A/C with a good ebook if you live somewhere where summer is unkind, like Phoenix).