THE AWESOME Has Landed.

So, I was given the go ahead to announce that another of my books has found a home.  THE AWESOME, a comedy paranormal YA about loving yourself, your mom, and killing a bunch of creepy monsters was acquired by the faaaaantastic Jonathan Oliver for the UK publisher Ravenstone.  Jonathan’s done some really amazing stuff with Solaris/Abaddon (including a bunch of short story anthologies which I may or may not be contributing to in the future HINT HINT) and I am SUPER excited to see how he helps spunky li’l Maggie Cunningham dance on the page.  This is a good fit, people.

As Maggie is pretty much the ANTI-MARY, I am choosing to separate my comedy writing off under the pen name Eva Darrows, so you will be seeing websites and Twitter things coming from a second me.  It’s like splitting my personalities off into halves.  Which is strangely appropriate if you’ve talked to me for more than fourteen seconds.

At any rate, I’m very very pleased to make this announcement.  Maggie the character has a lot of really good things to say about positive body image and female sexuality, and she does it in such a way I hope everyone gets a giggle or twelve.  I’ve put a small snippet of THE AWESOME below and hope, when the time comes, y’all will give it a read.

Happy holidays!

So, as I was saying earlier, I am not the asskicker folks picture when they hear “monster hunter.”  For starters, I don’t own leather pants.  “What respectable bad-ass doesn’t own leather pants?” you may ask.  This one right here.  I don’t own a single pair, and if I did?  You wouldn’t want to see me in them.  There’d be weird lumps all over the place and a muffin top that resembles peach cottage cheese.

I also don’t wear tall boots.  They’re impractical.  Have you ever tried to run in anything with heels, or for that matter, anything squeezing your calves like sausage casings?  When you fight monsters, you tend to do a lot of short distance sprinting, and if my life depends on my capacity to get out of Dodge, I want sneakers with a good tread and nothing else.  You know those horror movies where the silicon inflated babe totters down the street in stilettos while a werewolf lopes after her at six thousand miles an hour?  All I have to say to that is “chick would have gotten away if she’d picked better shoes.”

So, no leather pants, no tall boots.  Oh, no wife-beaters or tank tops either because exposing the arms is stupid.  Monster Z With Huge Claws should have to go through something quasi-dense before it gets to maul my flesh.  Call me a wussy, it’s okay!   But I am all in favor of being intact at the end of a monster fight, not looking like I just got spit out of a paper shredder.  Getting raked, clawed, bitten, swiped, and maimed hurts.  Inviting further injury by compromising practicality for style is . . . well it’s stupid, like I said.

What do I wear?  Comfortable, broken-in jeans that let me move, a pair of antique sneakers, and a lot of ratty, hoodless sweatshirts.  My hair is cut short because long locks give a monster something to grab onto, and I like being handle-free.  It’s also brown, like baby crap brown, which is boring but I’m fine with that.

To answer a few of the standard questions about hunters and hunting in general:  can I throw a dagger from three miles away and hit a bulls-eye?  No.  Do I own a sniper rifle?  No, but Mom does.  Can I disconnect a bomb, or for that matter, build a bomb out of Bisquick?  No.  Sword fighting, no.  Scaling walls like Spider-man, roof jumping, hacking into mainframe computers, making Jason Bourne look like a loser;  no, no, no, and maybe on the last, but that’s only in ideal conditions and if he were a vampire.

Well, maybe if he were a vampire.

Okay, probably not if he were a vampire.  There was this whole thing about me going on vampire hunts.

“Not ’til you get laid,” Mom said.

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