photo (2)“While the slinger sang, we waited. They don’t talk about that in the stories they tell – and someone, somewhere was going to be telling this story, although they wouldn’t tell it true. The fighting, the shooting, the magic-slinging – those are the easy parts. It’s the waiting that kills a woman.” ~excerpt from One-Woman Town


They’re here, they’re here! Paperback copies of The Lure of Dangerous Women have arrived, just in time for the new year!

The ebook version has gotten great reviews (Check them out here.), and I am so delighted to hold these beautiful paperback books in my hand. These stories are special to me for so many reasons — I talk about those reasons in the story notes (excerpt below for those who are interested) so I won’t go into them here.

What I do want to do here is offer a giveaway for the new year. I have two copies of The Lure of Dangerous Women to give away, which I will sign and ship to the winners.

How do you enter? Easy. All you have to do is leave a comment telling me about your favorite dangerous woman in fiction and why she’s dangerous/your favorite. (If it’s something written by a living author, please feel free to leave a link, so people can find the book — spread the wealth, I say!).

Deadline: January 5th. I’ll choose two winners and post the results here on January 6th.


When I came up with the idea for “Trill,” I was living in a friend’s flat on a nine-mile-long island in Scotland. It was spring, I could see the ocean from my bedroom, I was going through a divorce, and I had just been bitten by a tick carrying Lyme disease. For more than two weeks, I lay in a brass bed next to the ocean and knew I was dying.

At the end of two weeks, I was pretty sure I wasn’t dying anymore, but I was sick and angry and scared. I couldn’t write because my wrists sang with glass shards every time I moved them. I couldn’t read because my eyes were not working properly. I couldn’t have sex or an orgasm because the antibiotics were wreaking such havoc on my body. So I lay beneath the covers in a fever dream and I wrote brainstories. In one of those stories, I called my body a “burnt-out house.” In another, I traced the origin of the werewolf race. And in “Trill,” I scared myself as hard as I could. Then I imagined an ending that scared me even more, an ending that I knew I would never write.

It was another two and a half months before I felt well enough to rise and venture down the circular stairs of my flat. I sat next to the ocean and wrote “Trill” in one sitting. Writing it, I scared myself again. And I put in the real, true ending, even though I knew it meant the story would probably never get published.

I sent the story to a contest by Anthology Builder, and to my shock, “Trill” won first place. Despite the judges’ comments that the ending made them so uncomfortable that they almost didn’t want to place it.

Every time I read “Trill,” I wonder where that horror came from. And then I remember those weeks, when I was sure I was dying, and I have my answer.


Kiss kiss bang bang, s.