A logo in white. Samantha Hund

a frozen lake

un hiver à tenir

January 28, 2026 / / 0 Comments

I must confess, this is my least favorite time of the year.

I know I’m not the only one who feels this way, but it isn’t just the barren, immutable cold that gets to me. Existentially, I feel just as frozen as the lake.

My writing tends to slow, poetry shrivels, and my world condenses inward. After the warmth of the holiday chaos—it all feels stagnant, like I’ve wandered into the waiting room of the soul. I wear tracks in the carpets, pacing the same rooms. My hands are too cold to play piano, the wind howls inhospitably outside.

This time of year, all we can truly do is learn to humbly endure. An important lesson, and not just a platitude. Endurance doesn’t mean waiting, it means preparing, building, so that you can emerge ready.

That’s what I’m telling myself at least.

I also just hate the fucking cold.

Ah but writing news, first and foremost. A new manuscript is bringing me a lot of joy, and now that I’ve cleared writing the first Act, I thought I’d share something about it.

The truth is I’ve wrestled with whether or not to take this idea seriously for some time—and ultimately, it’s bringing me such happiness I’ve decided to indulge myself.

Winter is long, after all.

It’s also motivated me to do something that I’ve been toying with for a long time but never truly committed to- learning French properly. Right now I’m spending my time waffling between Paul Noble’s French course (audiobook) reading Short Stories in French (with audio) and occasionally reinforcing with the Overbearing Owl App.

The good thing is, my brain adores language. The problem is, French is wiggly.

Now, why am I bothering to do this? Maybe the pitch will make things clearer:

The Patron

Gothic, Meta-Comedy, Lit Fic ~70k
(The Only Lovers Left Alive x Fleabag)

October is a jaded, struggling writer who thinks she’s landed a dream setup: an enigmatic sugar daddy who offers her rent-free life in Montmartre in exchange for weekly readings of her work.

She expected comfort. Maybe a little culture. Instead she got a brutally honest, overbearing French literary critic with fangs. What begins as artistic freedom becomes possession. And worse… feedback.

Her new patron, Bastien Renaud Saint-Cyr, is a centuries-old vampire with impeccable taste, brutal standards, and a talent for turning artistic critique into psychological warfare. Mentorship erodes into obsession as Bastien dismantles October’s bad habits and her defenses—pushing her toward the brilliance she’s always wanted, at a cost she didn’t expect.

As October’s work improves and long-denied success finally follows, the line between artistic collaboration and possession blurs. Bastien’s rigid ethics—never turning mortals, never keeping them—start to fracture when their volatile dynamic turns intimate. October must decide whether creative greatness is worth surrendering control of her life, her art, and her future to a monster who feeds not just on blood, but on ambition.

parisian apartment

I will readily admit that this one feels pretty outside my normal wheelhouse. It’s half self-aware comedy particularly aimed toward the ‘gifted’/ MFA / Art school kid crowd, and half a love letter to gothic vampire literature.

It also feels a little strange writing something set in a contemporary time, in a moderately realistic setting. I don’t get to hide behind multiple POVs or creepy atmosphere in this one, we’re stuck with October for the whole ride.

Honestly not sure this one’s going to have any querying legs, but I’m writing it more to stretch my muscles and enjoy myself than worry about market fit right now.

Bastien is a real treat to write, especially if you grew up enduring scathing critiques from European professors. I’ve also had some lovely input from native french speakers which has helped me so much in finding his voice.

(I may still have a little trauma from a German Drawing professor which certainly has nothing to do with this book. Not a thing.)

To stir the winds of the new year in my direction, I have decided to participate in #QuestPit later this week, so I’ll be shouting into the twittervoid about The Last Dawn and even shooting The Patron out there for a little gut check.

I still have mixed feelings about pitch events, but I learned some lessons from PitDark last year; mainly – schedule your posts ahead of time you giant idiot.

Otherwise, I got a little backed up on my reading over the holidays and for the first time in years my TBR stack is honestly way too formidable. It judges me every time I walk by my reading nook, slowly growing in power.

Until the snows thaw –SMH

Currently reading:
Katabasis by R.F. Kuang

I bought this knowing that I have zero time to read it, but I am literally dying to have a free moment to start. I just know this is going to be amazing.

Paris Spleen by Baudelaire

‘Be Drunk’ is the greatest prose poem ever written and I think every poet since then has been cursed with trying to recreate it.

King Sorrow by Joe Hill

Having never read Joe Hill’s work before I might have actually been converted because I saw him playfully dunking on Abercrombie via social media and I enjoy his cheeky humor.

Gardens of the Moon, Deadhouse Gates, Memories of Ice by Steven Erikson

My younger brother actually got me these three as a gift for Christmas and I confess I have zero idea what to expect, but I’m excited to see where these go, and what my brother thinks I read.

Empire of the Dawn by Jay Kristoff

Yes, I know I already mentioned this one. It has been marinating on my stack for a while. I’m going to do it.

I just…need.. time. I know it’s going to be good. I know I’ll probably cry. I just need a moment to do so. Also, wtf it’s a beast of a book.

Between Two Fires by Christoper Buehlman

This one is another I’ve been meaning to get around to, because all I’ve heard is amazing things and yes I’m a sucker for ‘grizzled man finds orphan and protects them with their life’ stories. See above.

What Moves the Dead by T. Kingfisher

I’m not usually a retelling girl (Though The Witch’s Heart kind of destroyed me so I could be lying) but I color me intrigued.

Mia Goth in Frankenstein 2025

Beautiful Monsters

November 25, 2025 / / 0 Comments

As the holidays rear their ugly head, I’ve been wrestling with the idea of posting. It seems everyone is a giant fan of doing the ‘End of Year Wrap-up’ post: tallying accomplishments, reflecting on the worth of their year. And while I think it’s always a good idea to take stock of yourself and your life for personal reasons, I feel slightly ick about doing it publicly, so I won’t.

Instead, I’ll talk about something I find endlessly more entertaining; our obsession with Monsters.

I have to admit this comes on the heels of thoroughly enjoying Guillermo del Toro’s rendition of Frankenstein (which I’ve already seen twice, and has achieved ‘comfort film’ status alongside Interview with the Vampire, Hannibal (the series), The Craft, Crimson Peak, The Witch, Heathers, Natural Born Killers, the list goes on…)

And, fair warning to stop reading here if you haven’t seen the film, as there are small spoilers ahead. You were warned.

I feel the need to call attention to one of the most underrated scenes in the film:

In an early scene, Victor’s father motions for the servant to bring him his wife’s plate. She’s left the gristle and juices from her dinner, and so, he deftly sops up the waste with a piece of bread and tells her to eat it. He watches until she does.

This moment unsettled me at my core more than gratuitous violence or gore ever could. In fact, I was smiling during the insanely jaunty creature assembly scene, as Victor enthusiastically works more diligently than any butcher to the rather twee backing track.

By contrast, the subtle nuance in the dinner scene established Victor’s father as something truly monstrous in one elegant, simple interaction.

This is the sort of character building that intrigues me. Then again, it’s a huge part of my own work.

But what really brings this to the forefront for me is—yes—I’ve started writing something new. Entirely new. I’m in full creative freedom mode, pantsing all the way—something I rarely allow myself. This story is terrible. The characters are worse. But it’s given me the freedom to explore a space that fascinates so many of us drawn to horror;

What makes a Monster?

I know this is nothing new if you’ve read my work, but I think this a theme I could return to endlessly, and still surprise myself. If The Last Dawn asks the reader; what if we empathize with the villain? Then my new story asks; can a Monster achieve redemption?

It also allows me to explore the terrors of casual cruelty in a way I haven’t truly touched before. I find the nuance fascinating. When apathy comes so naturally, that it hardly warrants a second thought. It becomes instinct. Is this more evil for its callousness? Or less because we can write it off as a thing’s nature?

I’m no philosopher, but this concept has haunted me for a while now, and I think I’ve finally found the right story, and the right characters to explore it. Though I do wonder if I’ll find readers brave enough to take the ride.

As always I can’t help but try to find a way, much like del Toro, to make the ugly beautiful in its own way. I’ve always admired this about certain art directors and cinematographers, even costume designers contribute significantly. Though I’ve always preferred novels to films, I very much respect the power of infusing story with aesthetic to reinforce emotional themes. I’ve heard the arguments that this style of filmmaking values ‘style over substance’ (every artist’s greatest fear!) and usually espoused by those who understand neither. I’ve always favored the romantics, the surrealists, and come out on the side that art is meant to elevate, to curate, to show beauty in all its forms.

I simply chose to do so, to the best of my ability, with prose. In the right light, the right context, blood can glisten as beautifully as any cut ruby. A scream can be as multifaceted as any soprano’s aria.

It’s all a matter of perspective, darlings.

That’s enough philosophy from me, I think. I’ll be crawling back into my crypt now to await the New Year and see what tidings it brings. Enjoy yourselves, have a cup of tea, and know that somewhere out there this humble author is stitching together her own beautiful monsters.

Decadently –SMH

CURRENTLY READING
The Black Carnival by Harlequin Grim

This was our book club’s pick, and I’m ecstatic to be reading it. Since my book club is comprised entirely of former and current circus artists, this one hits close to home. I can smell the rosin and tape.

Empire of the Dawn by Jay Kristoff

I admit I haven’t started reading this one yet, but it is sitting there on my parlor table waiting for me. I am saving it for the proper moment where I can enjoy it for maximum impact, I expect to be quite heartbroken by it.

Bury Your Gays by Chuck Tingle

This one has been haunting my bookshelf for a hot minute so I’m pleased to be finally getting into it. Chuck’s writing is so tight, and always a treat.

In the Mountains of Madness by H.P. Lovecraft

I’ve been on a bit of a Lovecraft tear lately (see also: my entire post about monsters) and this one is next up on the list. Eldritch horror gives me the wonderful heebie jeebies and well, this re-read of his work doesn’t disappoint. So little scares me these days, but somehow the unknowable horror still gets me. Also – tentacles will never not be creepy as shit.

a jack o' lantern at night

Tricks and Treats: Advice for Querying Authors

October 31, 2025 / / 0 Comments

It is of course the most wonderful night of the year; the fireplace is on, the wind rattles the windows, and crispy leaves scatter the streets outside. I hope this evening finds you with impertinent children at your door, and a heavy nostalgia for ghost stories in your heart.

I should probably preface this post with the fact that yes, to me, Halloween is the high holy day of my existence. Most years I spend an inordinate amount of time and effort on a costume no reasonable human would attempt (see evidence below) but this year I find myself celebrating in a quieter way—as strange as that is.

Maleficent
Maleficent - yes I sewed a gown.
a Devil
a Devil - because airbrush paint is fun.

In the spirit of a good scare, today I want to reflect on a topic that often terrifies me; the dreaded limbo of querying, pitching, and all around growing pains of the writer lifestyle.

Typically, I approach any discussion of querying with the same lip curl of someone who believes discussing politics and religion is a major faux pas. The problem of course, being that the discussion invariably opens up the opportunity for creatives to more or less neurosis-dump in public.

I will not be doing that. There is plenty of discourse online already about the terrors of the Query Trenches, and the horror stories about ‘Bad Agents’, and if that’s what you choose to feed your brain, please go right ahead—preferably somewhere else.

Yesterday was the #PitDark pitch event on the service formerly known as Twitter. I opened up my app to discover (just before noon) that it had started at 8 am. Well. No one has ever accused me of being well prepared.

So, in a flurry (between client meetings I might add) I wrote nine pitch posts for The Last Dawn of varying efficacy. Thus scheduled, I decided to go about my day, checking in occasionally to retweet a few pitches that I’d like to read, and of course tweaking my pitch posts a few minutes before they’d go out.

Honestly, I had no idea what to expect. I showed up to #PitDark like a chronically late student that missed the first three classes of the day and was hoping no one would notice. What did surprise me though, as I scrolled through the tag, was the variety of pitch styles. Lots of tropes. Lots of emojis. Lots of… confusion?

I tried to figure out if I’d misunderstood the pitch style, realized perhaps I did, but also ended up in a weird straddle. Should I reduce my novel to goth emojis and trope tags? Is that what agents really want?

Dear Reader, I could not.

Another thing that stood out to me, was the unexpectedly nice feeling of author support and community throughout the day. As someone who really wasn’t participating in the event with any goals of agent interaction (more on that in a moment) I was genuinely pleased to feel in a larger sense some kind of community around writing. Querying mostly feels very dog-eat-dog, the system essentially pits writers against each other anonymously—if you’re familiar at all with the QueryTracker ecosystem you’ll know what I mean.

Through the pitch event, I started assigning real people to manuscripts, and it was oddly refreshing to think of it that way. No longer was I up against faceless ‘Romance, Fantasy 80,000-89,999’ but real working writers with their own hopes and dreams. That was so comforting somehow.

That experience alone made participating worth it, though I’m fairly certain I won’t be getting any Agent attention as a result. Another thing about querying that I’ve learned, is you need to treat every experience as a win. I know that sounds trite and terrible, but if you don’t find some way to do that I fear you’ll never make it to the end.

For example, yesterday I got not one, but two query rejections from agents while I was at the same time very much trying to pitch my novel like a professional. Now, I’m not saying I’m immune to rejection by any means, but it no longer feels like an excuse to pity myself. It just isn’t personal and that’s the long and short of it. You simply need to keep moving on.

I know I’m proselytizing in rarified air as I type this, since I’m lucky enough to have my full manuscript under consideration with multiple agents that would be a dream to work with. But even if I had no positive momentum to stand on, I know this for sure;

  • Writers who get bitter,  are not writers anyone wants to work with.
  • Writers who feel entitlement to special treatment, are not writers anyone wants to work with.
  • Writers who throw tantrums, blame, and crippling insecurity around are not writers anyone wants to work with.

As a fellow querying author, the only advice I can give is this:

Be gracious. Be patient.

There are plenty of people who will encourage you to read more books on craft, find a writing group, find beta readers, hire an editor, hire an agent to critique your query materials, join publisher’s marketplace, pay for the pro querytracker subscription, have an author brand and website, etc, etc. But these are all academic things. They won’t help you keep your sanity, and they won’t help you forge the endurance required for this journey.

So be kind to yourselves fellow devotees of the pen and page, because at least one of your comrades is cheering you on from her firelit parlor on a dreary Halloween.

Hauntingly—SMH

P.S.

I should update that I have, in fact, received my author copies of a face full of flowers which is a true delight to behold in my hands. It’s a small victory, but there really is no comparison to holding your own printed words on real pages. Satisfying, transcendent, and of course slightly mortifying.

a box full of poetry chapbooks

I’m also a terrible salesperson. Copies are still available via Bottlecap Press here, but if you are a local and want a signed author copy (or just want me to mail one) do contact me over on the contact page or on my socials.

Full moon in the midwest

The Consequences of Sleeping in Moonlight

October 8, 2025 / / 0 Comments

This weekend realized for the first time with fierce clarity; I am hopelessly, toxically, in love with New York. I came to this epiphany after midnight, while crossing time zones somewhere in the Midwest. The moon was full, the clouds a mysterious Rorschach swirl, and Rufus Wainwright was crooning a Leonard Cohen cover over the car radio.

I’ve never thought of myself as a die-hard New Yorker. I think that sort of personality archetype is reserved for the denizens of NYC as portrayed in superhero blockbusters. I live nowhere near Manhattan. I have more in common with Toronto than Brooklyn, geographically speaking.

But as I found myself deep in the American Midwest, it was hard not be aware of what a hopeless Yankee I am. I had a critical eye on everything; from the tall, willowy, beautiful nordic girls that seemed to spring up from the hay fields like straw, to the crème brûlée that had gone sticky-soft in the humidity. Even the trees seemed weaker to me, less dangerous than those dark, sharp pines I know and love.

My homesickness was fierce. The quaint innkeepers were too kind and personal. The squat old dog that sidled up to me at the local bar was too casual, too at home.

I’d never been more desperate for sarcasm. I had come to a strange land, and here I felt like the cynical monster.

However, despite my longing for home, I realized something desperately (painfully?) poignant about being adrift and far from your particular comforts.

Writers inherently spend an inordinate amount of time in their heads. Writing is solitary, and the process insulates you against reality as a necessity. You draw upon your memories, your dreams, your fears—all of it—in order to create. But as an artist and a creative soul, I realize I can’t feed it just my own recycled thoughts forever.

I need experiences to feed the engine. Good ones, bad ones, doesn’t really matter- they all go into the soup. This is the best creative fodder I have, and why I always travel if I’m given the chance. My favorite pastime is to fall in love with strangers.

Maybe love isn’t the right word, but I can’t think of a better one. The English language disappoints me in that shortcoming.

I like to try on their life for a moment, to imagine what existence might look like through that person’s eyes. I notice the details, a unique pin or necklace, an unusual taste in shoes, a bag with a worn strap. I can’t help but fill in the rest:

She’s not just a flight attendant; she’s reading Flaubert for her online lit course in stolen moments after takeoff. She found those quirky silver-spoon earrings at a little boho shop down the street from her apartment and wears them on days she wants to feel more whimsical than her life allows. She knows she should call her sister, but she tells herself a flimsy excuse that it’s the time zone difference that keeps getting in the way and not her own guilt.

I do this constantly. I can’t help it, my mind just fills it in. Little stories about the strangers passing through my life. They’ll never know, but I’m taking an ephemeral photograph of them as I go on my way. This is how I know, despite any job positions, titles, or marketing—I have a Poet’s heart.

Listening to Rufus belt out the verse, I can imagine that too. My heart aches vicariously, yet my soul doesn’t know the difference. He is singing another man’s song about a woman he’s never met, and I can still hear the truth of it in his voice. We are mirrors, endlessly reflecting fragments of other people’s stories back into art.

Somewhere between Illinois and Infinity, another poet hurtles by on a dark interstate, driven half mad by the moon.

In writing news, I wish I had something more to report. Author copies of my poetry chapbook are… elusive. I suspect they may be sitting in a USPS warehouse somewhere between me and California to be forgotten and buried like the holy grail. Or they may magically present themselves at my doorstep tomorrow. Until then, they are Schrödinger’s Poetry books and I won’t worry much about them.

I am still in the no man’s land of querying my novel for the moment, somewhere between being read and not being read, neither of which I can do much about so I don’t see the sense in fretting over that either.

I’ve been submitting some new pieces, but I confess they are getting stranger and stranger. I have a particularly raw non-fiction piece out there that I’ve got some hope for, a small packet of mean-spirited poetry that may or not be anyone’s cup of tea (including mine), and I’ve got a little micro-fic that touches on love and string theory that I think I adore more than anyone else because I find metaphysics addictive.

I’ve also recently dipped back into a historical fiction idea that’s been rattling around in my brain for too long, and I’ve been secretly plotting a standalone novel for one of my favorite characters from The Last Dawn because truly he deserves it.

The moon is calling once again—SMH

Currently Reading
My Darling Dreadful Thing by Johanna van Veem

This is such a delicate, honeyed, sapphic story. Johanna’s use of imagery and metaphor is a delight.

Prince of Thorns by Mark Lawrence

Very grimdark, much revenge. The back and forth non-linear storytelling is interesting, but time will tell if it pays off in the end.

At Dark, I am become Loathsome by Eric LaRocca

This is one I’ve had on my TBR for a while now, and what better time of year to begin! I’m highly excited.

My Cousin Rachel by Daphne Du Maurier

Re-reading a classic, purely for October vibes. If you’ve only read Rebecca, please read this.

The Mousetrap by Agatha Christie

This was one of my childhood favorites and for the fall, a mystery like this is such a warm cozy sweater. Did you know Dame Agatha actually disappeared once from the public eye and threw the whole UK into a tizzy? Points for drama.

The Invisible Life of Addie La Rue by V.E. Schwab

Looking forward to this, I’ve heard nothing but good things. Since I read ‘The Near Witch’ I’ve enjoyed her writing, and the Shades of Magic series was terribly fun. Also, justice for Holland.

Arthur Rimbaud; Complete Works translated by Paul Schmidt

I always need a little more vicious ache in my life, and Rimbaud never disappoints.

Parking Lot church

This is My Body: a horror story

September 6, 2025 / / 0 Comments

As a kid, I never had a moment where I thought God was listening. The concept seemed flawed straight away, and my little six-year-old brain was ready to poke holes.

I had a hard time with the fact that people seriously believed in some Invisible Old Man in the clouds, presumably bearded, who just spys on people all day and guilts them if they don’t abide by his rules.

If I were God, I’d certainly find something more entertaining to do.

Still, I was mystified by the lengths people would go for this Invisible Old Man. The devotion, the fear, the righteous anger. The strange division between the various subsets of churches who all, apparently, thought they were the only ones really getting it right.

Catholicism especially fascinated me. There were so many rules! Strange clothes! Songs I didn’t know the words to! Every time I had to attend a first communion or a funeral mass, I felt like I was observing the most mysterious ritual.

People go into a cupboard, and confess their secrets to a stranger. People eat stale crackers and call it a blessing. Of course, as an unbaptized child I was a stranger in a foreign land.

Myself, I didn’t pray, I wished on stars. I plucked petals, and broke twigs. I made promises to trees and dirt and called it magic. I just couldn’t comprehend trying to strangle the concept of ‘God’ into a single entity.

I prefer the vast unknowable universe.

It makes me feel insignificant enough.

This is My Body Cover Image
A quote excerpt

But I digress.

Just yesterday, This is My Body was published by the wonderful folks at ExPat Press.

You can read the full story here: This is My Body

Every time someone says something kind about this story, I don’t know what to do with myself. It’s a hard thing to be proud of, knowing how some people feel about the subject matter. I suppose I expect the response to be angry, and when it isn’t, I’m a bit lost.

Though I didn’t write this to be controversial. Spoiler alert; the story isn’t about Catholicism, or even God, really.

If you want to know how this story came about you can check out my previous post about it here: My Byronic Horror Weekend

One last fun update, I have decided to attend StokerCon 2026 – though I have no idea what to expect. Now that I’ve published my first horror story, I can at least enjoy being among my fellow HWA members without feeling like a total fraud. I’m excited to meet all the wonderful horror folks!

From somewhere in querying limbo–SMH

StokerCon 2026
a coffin at sea

Bury Me in Pearls; or a Coffin Drifting out to Sea

July 30, 2025 / / 0 Comments

I am fixated on the last images of Lèvres de sang – a French film from 1975. A desolate windswept beach, dawn approaching. Two immortal lovers climb into a shared coffin, close the lid, and drift out to sea.

These are the kinds of stories I love. I find more romance in fantastique films and 19th century poetry than most other places right now.

I was born in the wrong century.

I realize that. My idea of coping mechanisms are; unironically wearing a robe, drinking excellent absinthe (it’s Pernod or nothing) and reading the 1818 edition of Frankenstein.

I am the anachronistic poster girl for 19th century artistic suffering and while I realize how ridiculous that sounds—I struggle to conceive of how it could be worse than what everyone around me does.

Phones. Netflix. Lawn-care. Crossfit. Microbrews.

We all pick something, don’t we? I just choose the most insufferable crutches, and I’m well aware of it. I own too many vintage robes, and listen to French jazz. I watch old poetic vampire films for the pure joy of aesthetic. I live paycheck to paycheck but insist on being buried in Prada lipstick and pearls.

You can’t take anything too seriously. That’s what I’ve learned. Life is a roulette wheel of misfortunes with the occasional, fleeting, elusive bright spot of joy.

We all lose in the end so we might as well enjoy the ride.

The real beauty of it all, is that we get to pick our poison. So no, I may not know who won the football game. But I did ache when I read Baudelaire’s love and hatred for his muse. I did tear up during J’accuse when the poet lost his soul. When Joan of Arc chose the flame.

My poison happens to be pretentious as hell. But it somehow feels more honest.

I am here. I feel. I am alive.

I am aware that society is unfathomable and insane. That we are the only species on this planet that enforce misery on ourselves over something so imaginary as the concept of ‘hustle.’ Let me have my drama, my poetry, my ache.

We’re all dying, and we only get this dream once. Is it so wrong to want it to be beautiful?

All melodrama aside, as summer winds down and I start hearing the whispers of autumn approach, I’ve got a few writing updates:

I’ve (finally) finished revisions on the third draft of The Last Dawn and am preparing myself to head back into the query trenches. I swear I’m not anxious about it at all.

However, I have to shout out Blake Curran (nouncertaintomes.com) for all of his help. Working with him has been an absolute necessity for me during this process. Thanks to his insightful, and meticulous critique, I completely reconstructed my novel. It is now deeper, bloodier, and more brutal – and at last, cuts just right.

Blake is a wonderful human (see also: possible Australian demon) and he’s been incredibly supportive throughout my many spirals. I really couldn’t have pushed myself so hard without his steadfast encouragement. Hats off to the editors, because without them we writers would simply be melodramatic nonsense puddles that use too many commas.

Also, my horror story; This is My Body is going to be published in September, but I’ll do a full post on that later. It’s an uncomfortable little story but if you like that sort of thing, I can’t wait to share.

I’ve also recently joined the Horror Writers Association, and it’s been exciting to become a part of that community. Also maybe a little overwhelming, but I am navigating.

In less serious news I’ve begun working on a meta-comedy novella, which may never see the light of day, but it has really been helping me laugh at myself. I will not further embarrass myself with the logline here, because I have been told repeatedly, I am not actually funny.

Back to the trenches I go—SMH

Currently reading:

Don’t Let the Forest In by CG Drews

Beautiful and visceral in all the right ways. Truly haunting, and the interwoven fairytale prose cut straight to my heart.

Frankenstein: The 1818 Text by Mary Shelley

Reading this makes me weep. For obvious reasons.

Carmilla by J. Sheridan Le Fanu 

Indulgent, gothic, atmospheric, sapphic, classic. What’s not to love?

The Devils by Joe Abercrombie

Absolute powerhouse. This man. How dare he be this good. How dare he just reappear and drop this blood-soaked joyride? How. Dare. He.

Also there is a crazy beautiful UK edtion of this that makes me angry to be American.

Exquisite Corpse by Poppy Z. Brite

Not my first time reading, will not be my last. This novel holds a very special place on my shelf as perhaps the most disturbing book I own. Not for the faint of heart or stomach, painfully indulgent and hyper-sexual, but still legendary in its audacity.

Zombie by Joyce Carol Oates

Again, an old favorite. This book… fundamentally changed me. And explains a lot about my writing. Highly disturbing, but what I find iconic is the narrative style and voicing. So chunky, stuttered, and painful to read. I love it.

Letters to Milena by Franz Kafka

I cannot describe how this book makes me ache. This is romance, I will accept nothing less.

a face full of flowers: poetry chapbook release

July 6, 2025 / / 0 Comments

Poetry was my first love.

Poetry to me was dream speak. Where you have the freedom to say what you are thinking, without the burden of explanation. Where a dream could become a memory could become a poem could become a spell. You could haunt people with words. The ghost of a moment lingering long past the reality. 

I fell in love with that blurry vision at a young age, and found there the truth I so longed for. I read Plath and felt like I was home. I devoured Sexton, Snodgrass, Whitman, Dickinson, Poe, Shelley, Baudelaire, Rimbaud, and Sappho like they all had something to teach me about the strangeness of being alive. 

So, despite the disapproving looks my childhood English teachers lavished on me during our ‘creative writing’ lessons— I have always written poetry. Terrible teenage confessionals, petty depressives, half-remembered nostalgia.

Poetry must be bad, at first. 

So must everything, if I’m being honest. If you mean to be good at anything you must first be terrible, accept that you are terrible, and keep going anyway. 

Yes, my early poetry was bad. But it was honest. And if I didn’t learn how to be honest through those trite confessionals first, I wouldn’t have written a face full of flowers.

I am equal parts horrified and proud to announce that Bottlecap Press has published my debut poetry chapbook, a face full of flowers, which spans poems from the past ten years. 

I’ve included 19 poems, under the themes of ROOTS, FEVER, and BLOOD, which explore motifs of detachment, manic obsession, and renewal of spirit. These poems are my tiny offerings, fragments of truth. The dregs of a dream you just woke up from.

This is my first work to be published in print, and it brings me so much joy that these poems are made tangible by sacred ink and paper. I’ve been criticized for my romanticism, but I will forever support the flesh and blood / paper and ink of printed books.

As a final note: to claim oneself as a poet in the current state of society feels anachronistic at best, and like the butt of someone’s starving artist joke at worst. But I think even with the current state of the world, despite it even, we owe it to ourselves to pursue art. 

We deserve a world with poetry, both great and terrible, and I’m very lucky to be able to make my own small contribution.

Oh, What a world—SMH

a face full of flowers

This 36-page collection features 19 poems that explore grief, inheritance, myth, and the uncomfortable beauty of decay. Fusing confessional voice with surreal imagery, a face full of flowers maps emotional wreckage with a sharp, intimate edge.

Bottlecap Press, based in Los Angeles, is known for championing bold new voices in contemporary poetry. Hund joins a growing roster of emerging authors whose work is reshaping the boundaries of small press literature.

The chapbook is available for purchase online in both print and digital formats.

Purchase Here
a face full of flowers poetry chapbook square
a fairytale poem
a pen with red ink.

Don’t Half-Ass Two Things

June 19, 2025 / / 1 Comment

Contrary to all of the advice I received in my formative years:

  • You can’t do that.
  • It’s too dark.
  • You’re too much.
  • Tone it down.
  • You’re too messy.
  • Too honest.

I have finally come to an important realization. The only time any of my art or writing seems to touch anyone, is when I am embracing those exact things I was told to fear.

It’s been a theme my entire life. Restraint. Filter. Polish.

I was once crowned the reincarnation of Emily Post by my respective friend group. At 27.

Look, this isn’t completely self-imposed de-clawing. I’ve worked in creative fields professionally for over a decade. Palatable has always been the name of the game. Clients don’t want too funny, too self-aware, too bright, too true. Safety nets, everyone.

Unlearning that conditioning though, is a superhuman feat. Writing a book while fighting that voice in the back of my head, that little nagging one that whines in a wheedling tone:

You can’t write that! Someone might read it!

But, as I enter into draft 3 of The Last Dawn, I’ve come to a kind of peace with it. I’ve spent a year developing these characters, this world, and exploring the awful consequences of their actions.

I don’t want to write the story that makes that palatable. It simply doesn’t interest me. There are writers out there who will do that far better than I ever could. Because they are actually passionate about it. The endcap at your local bookstore has plenty to choose from where the dark will never go too dark. No one will really break.

I’m not here to knock genre fiction. I love a good beach read as much as anyone. But I realized that I don’t have any interest in writing it.

Which made my revision plan fairly straightforward honestly. I’d done something weird where I wrote a Frankenstein of a novel; three parts romantasy, one part dark fantasy. I didn’t really mean to, but that internal filtering system I had going on just pulled my punches when it should have let me double down.

I was battling ‘this is going to be unpublishable’ with ‘maybe this will have crossover appeal’ with a dusting of  ‘let’s go full commercial candy’ and ended up with a novel that wasn’t really living up to my original awful vision.

I wanted to write something smart. Something toothy. Something that subverted expectations but still made you want more, like a slow-motion car wreck.

Instead of half-assing two genres, I decided to whole-ass one. Right now, as long as I remain brave enough, The Last Dawn is going to live up to my vision—and to hell with marketability. Filing off my claws wasn’t doing me any favors. If you want a happy ending, if you want redeemable anti-heroes, I’m going to recommend you move along for your own sanity.  

I’m telling a messy, tragic, tale of what happens when we reach for power instead of connection. When we tell ourselves it was a necessary evil. When there is no magic kiss to break the spell. Villains are made one baby step at a time, and each of those steps feels justified.

It won’t be neat. It won’t fit into witty little hashtags, and you’ll see no Canva book graphics about this one.

Wish me luck. Or better yet, guts.—SMH  

a girl with a nosebleed

Bloody Nose

June 12, 2025 / / 0 Comments

Writing requires a certain amount of masochism.

Even when you’re doing it all right, and technically doing well – your life is at least 95% hearing ‘no.’

I wonder sometimes if we’d all be much better humans if we were forced to fail that consistently. I confess, I don’t always take it elegantly. I do try, but I can also spiral into levels of melodrama Lestat himself would be ashamed of.

I always come back to that story about Hans Christian Andersen flopping face-down onto Charles Dickens’ lawn, refusing to leave. Dickens, the unwilling host, just anxiously wringing his hands like ‘Can you have your tantrum literally anywhere else?”

I can relate. I’m a lawn-flopper.

I try to remember writing requires some level of professionalism, though as a rule, you’re gift-wrapping your unfiltered thoughts, lobbing them at strangers and trying not to wince.

It’s brutal.

And yet, I get up, every morning, and keep going.

For example, this week I received 4 rejections in one day. Across multiple genres. That was a new all-time low.

I have previously experienced the slow-drip version of this, one rejection a day for a five-day streak. I assure you, both are awful in their own special way.

But the thing I keep coming back to, even when friends and family side-eye my lemming-like need to seek brutal rejection is this:

Technically, I’m still getting more yeses than I should be. By far.

Every ‘no’ hits harder, but when I do hear yes? Those beautiful, rare words of praise? The ones that actually get it? There’s nothing like it.

I’m not known for my smiles, it’s true.

Somewhere, there’s a picture of elementary school me, dressed in a black velvet dress with a white lace collar (thanks 1990s) and utterly bereft of a smile. In my defense, the photographer didn’t say ‘smile’ so I took it as optional.

However, when I hear anything that remotely sounds like ‘I liked your story/poem/novel’ I start grinning like a drunk. It’s rather unsettling.

So I guess that’s why I keep opening that door. I keep tossing work out there like it doesn’t matter. Because most times you get punched in the nose. But sometimes… someone hands you a flower.

Grudgingly—SMH

A chapel in the fog

My Byronic Horror Weekend

May 26, 2025 / / 0 Comments

Patience has never been one of my virtues.

Sometimes, I liken my brain to that of a shark. I can’t stop swimming or I’ll die. It makes me insufferable. So, I find myself with a holiday weekend, completely frozen creatively as I wait for feedback from my editor.

This isn’t something I can stand. I find myself itching for the pen, and writing anyway. Writing deep, dark lore for my series that should never see the light of day. This helps ease my twitchy fingers, but only slightly. I need more purpose. 

It’s been almost a year since I’ve written any short fiction, and I’m tempted to push myself. There’s something so inherently attainable about writing short fiction. Anyone can write six-thousand words. I’ve spent a year struggling to bear the creative weight of an ambitious trilogy narrative— and as soon as I conceive of the idea, I’m enchanted. Oh the exquisite freedom of unbound words.

Of course, you need an idea if you’re to write, and all of my ideas feel gobbled up by my current novel. Good thing I’ve spent the past two years learning how to reliably conjure them. 

For me, there’s a bit of a sacred ritual to it all, the summoning of these tidbits. I file details away in my brain, which may take years to resurface, but when they inevitably do, it often feels like kismet. 

I allow myself creative meditation. I pluck words, images, and concepts from those sleeping recesses of my imagination. Then, like my surrealist muses, I blindly combine them, rolling them around in my head until they take on a shape of their own. 

I love this process. This is where I feel closest to writing. It’s no different from the way musicians pluck out a tentative new melody that jangles in their mind. Or the way a painter holds the pencil loosely, allowing expressive motion to guide the first lines of a sketch. 

There is no commitment at this stage. I conceive of many ideas, but some sink to the bottom, while others float, worthy of my attention. And that’s where I found one.

Short fiction is the perfect place for me to challenge myself, to fail, to try a voice I don’t understand. It feels like a breath of fresh air when I’ve been languishing in four-hundred pages of structure for the last year.

That’s how my Byronic Horror weekend began at least. I conjured the demons on Thursday, began drafting on Friday, and completed the draft by Sunday morning. While all over America, families ready their yards for Memorial Day Weekend barbecues and beers, I sank myself deep into a haze of grotesque religious horror. 

It’s equal parts arrogance and amusement to imagine myself as a modern-day Mary Shelley, quietly obsessing over the darkest story my mind could conjure. In fact, it must have been catching because my wary husband also caught the feverish bug. We agreed to both write a short horror fiction, with a religious theme over the weekend, keeping the details secret from each other, until we could swap stories at the end.

So I wrote like I always do, half-mad, forgetting basic human requirements outside of caffeine intake, and dreaming of scripture I don’t understand. Even now, as I sit smugly, my finished manuscript printed and waiting to be read, I can hear my husband clacking away at the keys, occasionally catching him standing in the kitchen rubbing his face in frustration. 

This is the kind of creative madness I adore. In so many ways, this is what keeps me writing. I feel renewed by the ritual of completing something, even when it remains unread. I feel the possibility. I feel the terrifying fear that I wrote something I do not understand. 

Because if what I’m writing doesn’t scare me, I don’t know that I’ve been digging deep enough.

Fretfully—SMH

a printed manuscript

P.S. For those unbearably curious (and I applaud you for it) I will tease this about the aforementioned story:

“This Is My Body” 

A visceral religious horror story set in rural Pennsylvania, 1962. It follows Father Francis Callahan, a devout and repressed Catholic priest whose obsession with ritual purity and divine suffering spirals into self-mutilation.

Exploring themes of martyrdom, spiritual longing, and bodily violation, This Is My Body is both a meditation on Catholic devotion and a grotesque fable of faith gone too far.

Perhaps you’ll get to read it one day.

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