Tag: querying

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

July 30, 2025 / samanthahund / 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 19^th 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 19^th 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.

Bloody Nose

June 12, 2025 / samanthahund / 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

The Horrors Persist

May 14, 2025 / samanthahund / 0 Comments

Hello. Welcome to my dark corner of the internet. It smells like deadjournal in here. If you don’t understand that reference maybe find somewhere else to haunt. I’m still writing, and there is so much happening around me I’ve struggled to keep up.

It’s unseasonably hot at the moment, but I’m not sure if it’s just summer getting started or the dumpster fire in my head that’s keeping me warm. I’ll get to that in a moment; first— updates.

Post NYC Midnight (Summer 2024)

I started reworking my short story The Crossing, from the first round of the contest into an entirely different animal. It’s not that I didn’t love what I wrote, it’s just that I’ve always loved villains more— and that’s where The Last Dawn began.

Submitting Short stories and Poetry for small publications (Fall 2024)

I also decided to share some of my short stories; Something Like Love, and The Farm with some small publishers to see if I could get a bite. Spoiler Alert: a year later I’m a published poet in Crowstep Journal, so let’s check that off my starving artist bingo card.

Drafting The Last Dawn (Spring 2024-Spring 2025)

Looking back now, I have to say this all feels like it happened in a bit of a fugue state. I drafted half the novel lightning fast (to about 40k) before starting over and getting the color coded post-it notes out. I have pictures. It was pure madness. Then I was halfway through the next draft before I finally got two weeks to myself to finish it.

It was a lovely, insane two weeks in South Carolina, with no humans to bother me, only a small dog and plenty of girl dinner. Eat, sleep, write, repeat. A tornado happened, but I hardly noticed. Also I discovered how to write 5k a day consistently, and I honestly can’t recommend Rachel Aaron’s 2,000 to 10,000 enough for those struggling to boost their writing speed.

When I returned home to frigid NY once more, I had a finished first draft in hand, and I was absolutely delighted with myself. I thought maybe I’d earned a moment to take a break, and bask in the glory.

Then I remembered that I’m a monster, and dove straight into my brutal revisions. Let it be known— I do not have any qualms about strangling my darlings. I was almost horrified to discover that my ‘cuts’ folder was growing exponentially as I revised. At one point there were over 40k words in the cut folder, and the manuscript was barely more than 70k long.

But I stuck to my plan, make this story sharp as heck. So I committed. I rewrote so much. I tore out the spine of the main plot because I realized it was comically complicated. I thought my revisions would take two to three months. Imagine my shock when I realized— two weeks later, it was ready for betas. I had done it.

Now, hold on. I know what you might be thinking; you could not of possibly revised properly that quickly. That’s a fair assessment. But remember, I did not hesitate to rip my beloved child of a manuscript wide open with a box cutter. I prodded at it, poked at it, watched it squirm, and got back to work. I’m just unreasonable like that.

So- by March of 2025 I had the first beta-edition of The Last Dawn ready. I had already made up my mind to start querying agents in June if all went well. Then everything went… fast. I was querying by late March, and seeing interest by May.

Trust me, this makes it all sound simpler than it is. I’m intentionally leaving out my multiple imposter syndrome spirals, feral meltdowns, fear of handing other humans my trauma-ridden manuscript and—gasp!— letting them read it.

I’m also saving you the obsessive play-by-play of my querying journey so far; suffice to say, I’ve gotten too many “almosts” for my liking— and I’m still in the trenches.

The horrors persist, but so do I.

I should also add, I’ve been feeding my brain as many books as it can handle. I’m currently reading:

The Last Argument of Kings – Joe Abercrombie

I may name my next cats Glokta and Jezal. Really.

Mexican Gothic – Silvia Moreno-Garcia

Sinking into this like a well worn sweater in the autumn.

To Be Devoured – Sara Tantlinger

The reviews were promising. I love a book that horrifies people, but my standards are high.

Les Fleurs du Mal – Baudelaire

I am both reading this and listening to a man with a lovely voice read it in French. I highly recommend both. And a bubble bath.

Farewell for now, theres a manuscript that needs gutted—SMH