As you might have noted with some of your other fav authors, a bunch of indie authors/self-publishers are moving to a direct sales/wide sales approach to selling our audiobooks. Mostly because we can give them to you at a much better price and still make more $$ than we have been making through Audible, etc. Audible doesn’t allow us to set our own prices and offers a very low ‘royalty’ rate percentage on their ‘net’ profit per sale. A quick and dirty example would be that you pay $15/credit, or say $24/outright, to buy an audiobook and I see approx. $2 of that sale.
So I write the book, pay for all the editing/covers/etc (approx $4-7k), pay for producing the audiobook (approx $4k), and I only see $2 of your hard-earned money.
So, as you can see, the math doesn’t really work to either of our benefits.
The solution? Direct sales (delivered to you via BookFunnel), starting with the Archivist Series, then the Dowser Series, and then (gradually as I have time) the rest of my audiobooks.
What does that mean specifically? You can now buy my audiobooks directly through me at a discount – $10CDN for full length novels (so currently approx $7USD/$7EUR) – and listen via the BookFunnel app or their website or sideload the files into your device of choice (please don’t ask me how to do it 😂). I make approx. 90% of the sale after paying taxes and processing fees (aka credit card, etc). BookFunnel does not currently charge for this service (because they are still testing it) but when they do they will charge me $10/month to host all my audiobooks ($25/month if I get real, real famous 😂).
Moving forward I will ‘soft launch’ the audiobooks here on my web site/store, then after about two or three weeks, I will also upload the books to all retailers, Audible, Apple Books, Kobo, etc. So you can totally choose to pay more for the books and stick with your fav platform.
Due to passport issues, Hailey and I have pivoted, rather sharply 😂, to a virtual event for Spill the Tea 2023. Whoot! The online event will take place via zoom on June 3, 2023 from 1 – 2pm PDT (4pm EDT).
The event attendance is capped at 100, including authors and moderator. There are two ways to join the guest list – a guaranteed spot with the purchase of one of the Spill the Tea 2023 Mystery Boxes (see more info/links below) or, if any tickets remain, we will invite readers via a first-come/first waiting list.
So to be clear:
One ‘ticket’ to the online event will be included in the purchase of each book box.
We are hoping to ship all the boxes by May 15, 2023 so that everyone has their hands on them for the event itself!
The swag that was supposed to be included in the in-person Spill the Tea tote bags has been divided into two separate boxes (because Meghan is in Canada and Hailey is in the USA). You are not obliged to buy either or both, but please look carefully at the different content. No swap/additions/or combined shipping. Please do not ask us to make changes to, or customize boxes for you. We simply do not have the time/bandwidth, etc.
Meghan’s Spill the Tea 2023 Mystery Box
1 autographed paperback (randomly selected)
1 spell pen
3 Adept Universe character cards
1 Spill the Tea 2023 name tag
1 specialty Chocolate bar (these were going to be part of Dim Sum w/ Meghan)
1 Spill the Tea 2023 Tote Bag
1 Spill the Tea 2023 branded ribbon
1 printed skull napkin
1 ‘ticket’ to the virtual Spill the Tea event on June 3, 2023.
$75CDN (including $25 for USA and CDN tracked shipping). Please contact MCD for a separate quote/listing for international boxes.
I will be contacting you to confirm your spot on the guest list. If you cannot make the event please let me know, then I can invite someone off the waitlist!
I’m peeking out from my writing cave to ready you for what is coming next.
I’m five chapters into my current WIP (Conduit Series) and I’ve already heavily leaned into the following trigger warnings: language and violence. And sex will most definitely be added to the mix, I just have to get through the bulk of the setup first.
And, ahem, speaking of ‘setup’, it’s the mixture of genre ‘tropes’ that might be slightly more disconcerting as you ready yourself for your first read. So far, I’ve got: road trip, kidnapping/rescue, attempted rape, gods/divinity/monsters (aka pretty much the same thing), shapeshifters, magical/mythical creatures, biker pack/gangs, magic/tech geniuses, food porn, milkshake porn, lost love, memory loss, coming of age/magical inheritance, reunification (gone wrong), mysterious past, traumatic pass, human/creature trafficking, found family, choice vs destiny, girl gang, fated mates, why choose, second chance lovers, enemies to lovers, etc, etc, and etc.
GIVEAWAY CLOSED (I’ve removed the signup form/link and deleted all the addresses, etc). I stuffed 100 envelopes, and I’ll drop them all in the mail on Monday. Remember I’m in Canada, so it might take some time for you to see if you get one!
Those of you might remember this same giveaway for Amplifier 5. I thought that it was crazy fun – over 75 winners – so I’m doing it again! And I’ve even managed to design/print the proper bookplates this time – sorry to everyone who got Amplifier 0 paired with the sunflower and not the ginger, as well as Amplifier 1 paired with the ginger and not the rose. I’ll set up a swap in the reader-run Facebook fan group for anyone who gets doubles from this round (or wants to swap for the proper bookplate/postcard pairing).
Okay!
If you want to win a random Amplifier Series postcard and an autographed bookplate* please fill out the Google Form linked below. I will randomly send out postcards, etc, until I either run out of energy, stamps, or postcards. You won’t know if you’ve won until you get mail!
Caveats: addresses collected on the Google form will all be deleted once the giveaways have all been mailed out. Forms filled out improperly will be disregarded. Open internationally. Up to 75+ winners will be selected randomly. OPEN INTERNATIONALLY.
*Postcards will not be autographed (so they are usable). Bookplates are usually pasted/stuck into paperbacks in lieu of an autograph.
The Amplifier Series is set within the larger Adept Universe but can be read separately. The main series starts with Demons and DNA (Amplifier 1) but there are also two prequel stories (bundled together). Click here for the full/recommended reading order of the Adept Universe.
Do I have any idea how long that series is going to be? Or how I’m going to brand it? Or if anyone will even read it?
No.
Do I vaguely regret making readers expect recipes from me every time I post a picture of anything dessert (or food) related? So much so that I actually carefully curate what I do post?
Yes. So much yes.
Am I considering using the main character of the new series’s (currently mild) obsession with ice cream (and milkshakes) as a way to justify buying an expensive (compressor) ice cream maker? And therefore, in order to fully justify the purchase, having to write up even more recipes?
Very much yes. On both counts.
😂😂😂
This post has been brought to you by MCD being pissy about having to wait 24 hours to chill her ice cream base and freeze her ice cream bowl. This dissatisfaction is also known in many philosophical circles as ice cream-blocking.
The dark-haired sorcerer swathed in black tactical gear at my side ran his hand down my spine — or as much of it as he could reach while I was wearing my dual blades sheathed across my back. His conflicting emotions filtered through to me even as I peered through the magically enhanced binoculars I had trained on a tiny, rocky island in the middle of nowhere.
Literally, nowhere.
Loaded into a heavily armored, magically fortified helicopter, we were hovering over what was practically the midway point between the Barents Sea and the Norwegian Sea, the southern extents of the Arctic Ocean. Though technically, we were off the northern coast of Norway, we’d left that coast behind two hours ago. I couldn’t see even a shadow of the mainland, not even with the enhanced binoculars.
Five days had passed since we’d been sent the first text message from Samantha and Daniel’s kidnapper, and the sorcerer who’d all but shackled himself to my side was still angry. At the situation, yes. But also at me specifically. That didn’t stop him from reaching out, though, or touching me tenderly in the very brief moments we’d grabbed on our way to finding — and hopefully liberating — my blood-bound teammates.
Aiden had his own pair of binoculars. They cut without difficulty through the gloom of the cloudy night — which wasn’t actual night, because the sun never set in this part of the world in June. But they also somehow highlighted magic, picking up the energy that emanated from the magically inclined as well as magical constructs, then tagging that energy in a medium shade of blue that was slightly lighter than the color of Aiden’s power.
It was closing in on 3:00 a.m. Despite the cloaking on the helicopter and the clouds obscuring the midnight sun, we’d waited until early morning to further minimize our visibility.
Even heavily cloaked in cloud, the sun sliding along the horizon, while never rising or setting, unsettled me. Not that I would ever admit that out loud. We’d been moving too quickly and crossing too many borders to do more than snatch a nap here or there, completely ignoring time zones as we passed through. So I blamed the jet lag for the disconcertion, then ignored it.
To my left, Christopher was outfitted in cool-weather tactical gear like Aiden and me, though with fewer pockets than the sorcerer. He wasn’t bothering to keep watch out his side of the helicopter. His magic was a constant low-grade hum on my upper spine while he shuffled his oracle cards and called out quiet commands to our ground team of two over the comms. Mostly, though, he had been content to allow that team to implement the plan it had taken us three days to cobble together, as they navigated their way to the island, then into the research station that occupied the site’s northern tip.
According to our intel, nine nonmagicals occupied the entirety of Bear Island. Researchers. But I had tuned out what exactly they were researching on a barren rock of an island in the Arctic Ocean, more interested in how we were planning to get them out of our way.
Endings and Empathy is the sixth and final book in the Amplifier Series, which is set in the same universe as the Dowser, Oracle, Reconstructionist, Archivist, and Misfits of the Adept Universe series. Click here for the reading order of the entire Adept Universe.
I wanted to share another chunk of my alt-universe urban fantasy WIP with you today (19,357 words and going strong), but I’m feeling just a teensy bit overwhelmed between writing new words and getting Endings and Empathy (Amplifier 6) off to the proofreader. Let alone all the regular admin, etc.
Oh! And Julie (producer) and Erin (narrator) just dropped the audiobooks for Dowser 1, 2, and 3 in my inbox! So, while those are going to take some serious time to ‘proofread’ (in the evenings), anyone who participated in the Kickstarter will be pleased to know they are almost ready!
Anyway, a friend of mine, Thomas, send me this old photo yesterday (like old, old) of Michael, me, and my darling friend Janine attending a salmon BBQ before taking in a play at Bard on the Beach (aka Vancouver’s Shakespeare in the Park).
First, ugh, we all look so insanely young. And second, yes, I’m eating. I’m always eating whenever someone randomly turns a camera on me. I suppose you’re all not that remotely surprised, but seriously?
😂😂😂
Photo by Thomas. From left to right: Michael, MCD, and Janine.
I could probably dig through my old photo albums and share a photo exactly like this one once a week and not run out for the rest of the year. My Dad especially specialized in these ‘perfect’ captures (like seriously, he deliberately stalked me during family gatherings to get shots of me eating)(a weird pastime)(that I won’t take the time to read any meaning into).
With two of the Five compromised, I had no choice but to go on the offensive. Hiding out — even if I was pretty much in plain sight these days — in the tiny corner of peace we’d carved for ourselves in the Pacific Northwest was no longer an option.
But the person or persons responsible for dragging me away from the life I’d fought to build, to protect? Well, they would regret every moment that I had to divert my attention toward them and away from what I truly wanted. They would regret forcing me to once again become the cold-hearted, sociopathic, genetically constructed magical abomination they’d bred and trained me to be.
The Collective was already done.
I’d destroyed them more than eight years ago.
But apparently, some of those who’d survived now needed a reminder of their demise.
When it was done, I would walk away with everything that was mine to have and to hold. And what I couldn’t outright destroy? I would absorb or claim for myself.
Because Emma Johnson was stronger than Amp5 had ever been.
I’ve been working on a new book/series/universe for a sum total of two days, and absolutely loving it. It might all come to nothing, but it will, at minimum, get my focus back on the creative and get me out of the slump I’ve been mired in for the last couple of weeks.
The raw, untitled excerpt below is unproofed, unedited, and offered up just for fun. My first present tense narrative, so it is undoubtfully a rough read in places, please be gentle with me.
Random shot of MCD’s backyard: the first crocuses of 2023. [A late bloom this year].
The girl at the counter is maybe fifteen. Tiny but long-limbed, her multicolored scraggly hair hides her face as she bows her head over a greasy plate of fries. But I’d seen her deep blue, almost violet eyes as she cast her gaze around the cafe upon entering. Her two companions, who couldn’t look more like stereotypical bikers if they tried — leather jackets, beards, and club patches and all — are easily three times her size. Their grip on her upper arms is beyond proprietary.
The violet eyes are as rare as the power the girl has simmering in her veins.
But it’s the glimpse of the raw skin on the girl’s wrists I catch when she pushes up the sleeves of her overly large, ratty sweater that disturbs me more than the eyes or the power I can feel all the way from the other side of the cafe.
I touch the amulet I wear under my own sweater. Unlike the girl’s hand-me-down, my sweater is a luxuriously soft, thin-knit black cashmere, intentionally oversized and tailored to be figure flattering. For spending the day in the car and the cooler weather, I paired it with merino wool-lined faux leather leggings and lace-up handmade black leather boots.
The girl’s legs are bare. And dirty. If she’s wearing shorts or a skirt, I can’t see either. She isn’t carrying a purse nor does she appear to have a phone. Though anyone else her age — magically inclined or not — is usually glued to at least one device at all times, even this deep into the so-called wilds of the Cascadian territories.
The cafe had gone silent when the trio had entered. And the murmur of conversation is slow to pick up in the aftermath of their bombastically noisy arrival. An older woman had hustled out from the back kitchen area, smiling broadly — wearing the expression like it was armor — and nudging the other, young, female server aside to take the bikers’ orders. She — the owner of the cafe, I assume — ignores the violet-eyed teenager.
Everyone ignores the girl wedged between the bikers perching on the stools at the front counter. Their huge thighs press against hers, caging her between them as they mow through their burgers.
The younger server, her curly blond hair streaked pink and pulled up in a bun, sets my Caesar salad in front of me, cocking her hip against the edge of my table, effectively blocking my gaze of the girl and the bikers. Deliberately?
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“Anything else?” she asks stiffly, her pad in hand and expression guarded.
I glance at the salad. It’s taken longer to make and serve than the burgers and fries the trio ordered. Served in a large bowl, the creamy dressing is so thick it’s difficult to discern the green of the lettuce. I should have known better than to order a salad in a roadside diner.
I open my mouth to ask for the bill. But then, my magic speaking for me, I say, “A chocolate milkshake and chicken strips … to go, please,” instead.
The server frowns.
Not completely aware of what I’m doing — born on an innate knowing, the certain to be stupid and utterly foolhardy plan unfolding with each choice I make in the moment — I reach into the side pocket of my bag, pulling out the fold of twenty dollars bills I’d shoved in the side pocket before leaving Seattle. The ‘Wilds’ aka the stretches of neutral, and not-so-neutral territory, between the major cities still prefer cash exchanges. Though the cafe is outfitted with a fairly sleek tablet set to the side of the cash register on the far end of the counter, near the front door. Peeling three green holographically stamped bills from my short stack, I set them on the edge of the table. “I’m actually in a bit of a hurry.”
The server’s gaze flicks over me, then across my table to take in the brand new top-of-the-line phone and the designer sunglasses set next to my elbow. Both items are ridiculously expensive, but though I could, now, rather suddenly, afford such things, I didn’t pay full price for them. I don’t pay full price for anything. Beyond the windows, the sky is gray, rain threatening. But I’d wear the sunglasses in the bright interior of the cafe if I could get away with it. My eyes are perpetually sensitive to light. And for those who know what they are looking at, they firmly mark me as other. In this small outpost, at least. The sensitive sight is one of the drawbacks of the type of power I wield as effortlessly as breathing. The other not-so-effortless castings and manipulations I can do, again a fairly new unlocking of my abilities, come with a far steeper price.
The server is still checking me out, or rather trying to figure me out, shifting her gaze to the large black leather bag on the bench seat beside me. It’s more understated but also worth more than the phone and sunglasses put together.
I add another twenty to the pile of bills on the edge of the table, though it is possible that doing so will make me even more memorable. My actions are being guided by that same flicker of knowing, and unless it comes with a miasma of death and destruction, I usually follow my own innate senses.
Hell, to be completely clear, if only to myself, I usually follow whichever way my magic leads, headlong into mayhem and heartache.
The server sniffs offishly then picks up the eighty dollars and tucks it into her bra in a practiced and minimal move. A tattoo rings her wrist. At first, it appears to be a string of daisies, like those necklaces that some kids make in movies and storybooks. A purely intentional choice, given that her name tag also reads, Daisy. But, hovering at the beginning of what is starting to feel like a major knowing, my unintentional focus reveals a shimmer of numbers hidden underneath, etched into the delicate skin of the underside of her wrist. The numbers are a slave tattoo. The shimmer only someone like me can detect is a twist of fate manacled around her wrist. It’s old and stretched, though she herself is in her early twenties at most, and she’ll wear it — her entire fate anchored in it — until she greets her death.
I look away quickly before she notices and understands what I’ve seen of her.
I shouldn’t have stopped for lunch, pulled so far off the highway. I should have driven straight through from Seattle to Portland and then cut out to the coast. Not because I’m vulnerable or memorable, but because I shouldn’t get involved.
The server tucks her pad in the pocket of her white apron, her gaze flicking to the window, to the parking lot. Two huge motorbikes — the massive noise makers the bikers pulled up on — occupy the spot directly across from the front door, but the server curls her upper lip at the 1972 Silver BMW 3.0 CSI parked in the very last spot adjacent to the windows, to the booth I’m currently occupying, instead.
“Nice ride,” she sneers, either pissed or jealous. Hard to tell.
“My uncle’s,” I say, only partly lying. Mostly because he’s dead, I never met him, and he’d been just a few more generations removed than ‘uncle’ implies.
She snorts, stepping away and crossing around the counter — instead of in front of it, which would put her in arms reach of the bikers — to input my new order on the tablet at the far corner of the counter, next to the cash register. She makes an obvious effort to gaze into the kitchen through the passthrough window, instead of looking ahead of herself while walking. Beyond simply ignoring the bikers and the girl, she’s actively trying to avoid drawing their attention.
I wonder how much market share the local biker club holds in the local slave trade. Then I shove the thought away. Not my business. Really, really not.
I, contrarily, instantly set my gaze on the violet-eyed teenager again, already knowing without actually formulating a plan, that I am about to do something really stupid. I am about to follow a prompt from the universe, snag a thread of fate and twist it to achieve an outcome that isn’t technically mine to direct. Likely more than one thread, and in hindsight, I’d already swayed onto this path rather thoughtlessly, from the moment I pulled off the highway and taken a fifteen-minute detour.
But at least I’d have a milkshake and chicken strips, right? Yeah, I just went with the random requests that occasionally filtered through me from the universe. Well, most of the time.
– Conduit 1, an Alternate Universe Urban Fantasy, first draft
