Maria Alexander's Blog

What a year.

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It started with that gut-wrenching Vulture article and part of Los Angeles burning completely to the ground, followed quickly by the presidential inauguration of one of the most loathsome people on earth. The air was literally and spiritually unbreathable. I couldn’t talk about anything, I was so overwhelmed with grief and horror. Friends lost their homes in the fires, and later our neighbors would be ripped illegally from theirs by ICE. Even a dear friend — a sweet grade school teacher — would be pepper sprayed by ICE at a protest. The United States would return to looking like The Upside Down, but somehow much worse than before. I participated in a number of marches, even leading chants at one.

After listening to a Hidden Brain episode about the ways that we mask our true identities and how that actually hurts us in the longrun, I made a decision. I’d been holding onto some major secrets in my life for a long time, giving people brief glimpses but never telling the true story except to a very small handful of close friends. One of those stories was about how I really met Neil Gaiman in 1996. I had a memoir that was supposed to be come out in late 2024, but I’d pulled the book from the publisher due to contract breaches.

And I think that was not only wise but also fortuitous.

As of today, my essay, “Neil Gaiman: The Wolf in the Walls,” has over 33,000 reads — far more eyes on the story than if I’d published that bulky memoir. (I’ve since reworked and reframed the memoir itself.) I followed up this essay with companion pieces detailing the profound, mystical experiences I faced 30 years ago in 1995:

“The Halloween that Still Haunts Me 30 Years Later“

“The Christmas Dream About Morpheus“

I also saw publication of my first creative nonfiction piece. Wordgathering published my essay about my bouts with disability and how I used technology to overcome them. “The Girl with the Silver Hands weaves my personal experience with the Grimm’s fairytale “The Handless Maiden,” and Clive Barker’s “The Body Politic.”

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On a less personal front, Nightmare Magazine published my essay, “Free Spirits: How Spiritualism Sparked American Feminism” in their column “The H Word.” I’d given a talk at Sunday Assembly Los Angeles on the topic that was well received. I think the subject matter is fascinating, taking something that’s been vilified and seeing it in the context of history and women’s rights.

As for fiction, Brimstone & Blades came out, which is my pride and joy. I got to share one of my greatest loves — Julie d’Aubigny — with the world, not to mention swords and blades of various kinds, but especially the European smallsword. The book went on to win three 1st place awards at The BookFest® this fall in YA Fiction, YA Fantasy, and LGBTQ+ Fiction. My TikTok channel features the sword stuff, as well as books and cats (of course).

And yesterday I came very close to finishing the 3rd draft of The Ascension, my supernatural thriller featuring Liyah Logan, who might be my most badass female lead to this day. I can’t wait to share her and her friends with you all.

Have a happy new year filled with victories great and small!

xoxo

Maria

Whether you have a Kindle, Nook, Kobo, or an Apple Book app, you can get (almost) any of my books for $0.99. I’ll make it simple with “Buy” buttons for each.

Brimstone & Blades

Amazon Kindle

Nook

Kobo

Apple books

Snowed (Book 1 in the Bloodline of Yule Trilogy)

Not only did this book win the Bram Stoker Award for YA in 2016 and receive an Anthony Award nomination for the same in 2017, the trilogy was optioned for TV/Film right before the pandemic shut down the world, with Lilla and Nora Zuckerman attached (they’re writing the new Buffy series).

Amazon Kindle

Nook

Kobo

Apple books

Snowbound (Book 2 in the Bloodline of Yule Trilogy)

Amazon Kindle

Nook

Kobo

Apple books

Snowblind (Book 3 in the Bloodline of Yule Trilogy)

Amazon Kindle

Nook

Kobo

Apple books

Mr. Wicker

This damn book won a Bram Stoker Award for debut novel in 2015, edging out some heavy hitters. It’s original and cinematic. Get it.

Amazon Kindle

Nook

Kobo

Apple books

No Rhyme Goes Unpunished

Okay, so this one’s under my pen name, Quentin Banks. It’s only available on Amazon because I’m lazy. It’s a silly crime novel.

Buy funny book pleez

It’s going to be a busy couple of months! Check back here as the list grows.

May 29th, 2025 at 7:00p.m. PT on Crowdcast

Mystery Writers of America, Historical Mystery Writers Event (Virtual!)

Join us on Crowdcast for a fantastic lineup of award-winning historical mystery writers:

Naomi HiraharaAnne Louise BannonAmy DunklebergerPaddy HirschMaria Alexander

We’ll each be reading excerpts from our work for 5 minutes and then there will be 5 minutes for Q&A. I’ll be reading out loud a bit of Brimstone & Blades for the first time ever.

Here’s the link: https://www.crowdcast.io/c/historical-reading

June 7, 2025 at 4:00p.m. PT at The Open Book

Brimstone & Blades Book Launch at The Open Book in Woodland Hills, CA

6320 Topanga Canyon Blvd.
Suite. 1680
Woodland Hills, CA 91367
Phone: (747) 226-0334

First floor, right next to Wokano!

Join us for an interview, reading, signing, and devouring of delicious French delicacies as we celebrate the release of this exciting new book featuring the historic queer icon, La Maupin!

You’ll love Brandie June, author of young adult fantasies such as Goldspun, Curse Undone, and coming in October Magic At The Grand Dragonfly Theatre, as she interviews me about the book. I’ll then be reading an exciting excerpt, answering your questions, and signing.

There might be costumes. Just warning you.

June 12-15, 2025 at StokerCon

I’ll be at StokerCon in Stamford, CT. Schedule TBD.

My books will be available at eSpec Books in the dealer’s room. Get yourself a lovely copy of Brimstone & Blades or even Snowed and bringing it to me at the mass author signing!

June 21, 2025, 2:00p.m. at The Avid Reader

Join me at The Avid Reader in Sacramento, CA as I return to read an exciting excerpt and sign Brimstone & Blades in my hometown. (I’m a Hornet, baby!)

1945 Broadway
Sacramento, CA 95818
Phone: (916) 441-4400

More to come. Stay tuned!

Many people are just discovering that Mark Zuckerberg has declared war on the intellectual property of all Meta users. The new terms of service for Facebook, Instagram, and Threads declares the following:

A highly misleading blog post by a well-meaning author recently went viral. It supposedly tells people how to opt out of Meta using our post and photos to train generative AI. The problem is that the well-meaning author conflates personal data (e.g., birthdate, address, phone number, etc.) with intellectual property (i.e., your posts and photos). They are absolutely not the same thing. If you follow the instructions she gives, she merely leads you to a place on Facebook where you can report that you have seen your personal data appear in output from Facebook’s generative AI.

The truth is: in the United States, Meta users cannot opt out of generative AI. It’s currently impossible.

But Who Can Opt Out of Generative AI?

Only people in the European Union and the UK can opt out of Meta’s generative AI. Thanks to General Data Protection Regulations (GDPR), they are protected.

Louder for those in the back: in the United States, Meta users cannot opt out of generative AI. It’s currently impossible.

So, if you live in the United States, what can you do about this?

There are answers. Some are hard and take action. I’m not gonna lie to you. I’m not gonna say I did the work for you so you don’t have to figure it out. You are going to have to do the work. And if you care about yourself and humanity, you will do it.

Option #1: Set your account to private

This isn’t a great option for those of us who rely on social media for business contacts. It’s especially shitty if you are an author or artist. But it is an option. And Facebook has gotten wise to this, so they’ve made it extra hard. You now really have to dig in the privacy settings, and it doesn’t say “set account to private.” It says friends-only.

Do it.

Option #2: Delete your account

I’m not being flippant when I suggest that you delete your account. Maybe you have lots of family and friend connections on Facebook. I get it. But maybe we need to dial back from this site that does nothing but violate us year after year. Maybe it’s not worth it. There must be other ways to stay in touch.

Option #3: Contact your representatives and senators

If you want this shit to stop forever, contact your congressional representative and your senator. Write an email to them and say the following:

Dear ,

Mark Zuckerberg is violating the copyright of his users with his latest change in terms of service for Meta. The new terms of service states that he has a right to copy our posts and photos into his generative AI product, Llama, without our consent. He gave no notice that this would start. And users in the United States have no way to opt out.

We feel deeply betrayed. This is very similar to what happened with Cambridge Analytica, the data analytics firm that exploited the personal information of millions of Facebook users without their consent. This time, however, it’s not a third-party. It’s Meta itself violating our rights.

Users in the UK and European Union are allowed to opt out of the generative AI thanks to the General Data Protection Regulations (GDPR). We in the United States need the same protections offered by GDPR. It is absolutely unacceptable that we are seeing a repeat of Cambridge Analytica, this time with our intellectual property. It’s clearly not enough that Mark Zuckerberg shows us ads. He has to steal our memories, too, all so that he can imitate us with his products. It is presumptive and hubristic that he declares generative AI is “good for humanity.” It’s only good for his bank account.

We demand that you immediately propose legislation similar to GDPR that will stop this abuse.

Sincerely,

Democracy is a verb, not a noun

Why should you believe me? I’ve seen some insanely great shit happen while working with grassroots organizations that have had a huge positive impact on California. I can tell you with 100% certainty that you can create change if you tell elected officials what you want. Repeatedly. That’s how they know how to act. That is how democracy works. If the elected officials don’t do what you want, you vote them out. But you have to let go of any shitty jaded thinking you have and tell them. You have to.

Otherwise, tech companies — and everyone else — will just eat us alive.

Stop being lunch.

Image by Tanja Schulte from Pixabay

This has been a splendid month. All artwork is used with permission. I’ve tried whenever possible not only to credit the artists whose work I’ve used, but also to donate to them for their work as requested. I thought I’d end by posting an old favorite of mine that I wrote on an international flight many years ago. It was first published in Dreams and Nightmares #67, January 2004, and republished a few times since.

Sighs from the Edda Over Iceland

God drags his knuckles
Over the vast drifts
Pressing his thumbs through
The pallid sheets
Until long splits run for miles.
Without warning,
The white hump of
A great snow whale
Breaks the clouds from below,
Shadowy ridges crisscrossing its back
Encrusted with below-zero barnacles.
And then I wonder…
What if these frost beasts truly
Swam beneath us in sluggish schools
Through milk and mist?
And what if the entire earth was
A puckered moonscape
Of powdered hills and craters?
Iceland conjures the palest sorcery,
A bleak, blissful nothingness
That threatens to turn everything
It touches ivory and alabaster.
So I place my chalky cheek
Against the window, close my eyes
And breathlessly envy the wing.

A very long time ago, when I was first playing with poetry, I wrote something that I posted for my friends on alt.fan.neil-gaiman. (Incidentally, don’t miss my husband’s The Gashlycrumb Endless poem, which Neil loved.) It was a wee poem that many there seemed to appreciate. Here it is. (Artwork by Lothar Dieterich.)

Souls

Souls do not have eyes
But rather consumption and digestion
Their diet of other souls
Blindly they eat
Blindly they know
Blindly they love.

For several years, I studied Japanese swordsmanship. My practice of bushido and identification with the onna-musha (a female samurai warrior) was soul deep. But I wasn’t able to continue that journey. I have over the last two years been writing a modest collection of haiku inspired by some of the most beautiful katana made by modern Japanese sword makers. Along the way, I realized I was also writing about my feelings of being “ronin.” Here are just a few haiku from that potential collection.

Grief

Deep grief stains the sky
After a long lonely night
Sun kisses cold cheeks

Blossoms

The tsuba blossoms
Its heart pierced through by the blade
Flower and stamen

Cut

The wakizashi
Is shorter but delivers
The ultimate cut

Beloved

When clay kisses steel
It leaves bite marks on the neck
The beloved blade

Okay, I dropped the ball. Consider it a break between the paragraphs or one of those multi-spaced gaps between phrases in some poems. I was actually super sick on an international flight home. Eleven hours, nonstop, with precious few masks that I sneezed into regularly, stealing tissues from the airplane toilet and stuffing them into my pockets before I returned to my seat. The crew took little pity on me. At one point, I did get cognac to put into my tea. So, that’s something.

I couldn’t read, my eyes were so watery and swollen. Instead, I watched one movie after another:

3000 Years of Longing (beautiful, although not well paced)

Bullet Train (2nd viewing, one of my all-time favorites)

47 Ronin (2nd viewing, a treat even on the small screen)

Last Night in Soho (eh)

Lady Bird (eh, although the comment that Sacramento was the Midwest of California resonated)

More poetry tomorrow, I promise!

A while back, I participated in the Infernal Salon. Using prompts from CSE Cooney’s tarot deck, we wrote poetry live on Twitch for 20 minutes. The card I chose as a prompt read “Pain is the opposite of thought.” Here was the result.

Web of Splinters

The icy morning brightens
Between the blinds
Frost crackling on the bedroom window
A watery web of splinters
I crave a handful of snow to
Douse the heartache 
That smolders in my chest
As I remember how
Your words cut me open
Slice by slice
You then dabbed your fingers
In my blood
And painted the words on my skin
This is the last
You wrote that night
Our last time together
My tears could never wash away
Those stains
Yet you were right
And I returned the favor
Slice by slice
The Damascus steel stormy
Like our blended flesh.
Sometimes, I sleep with this souvenir
This morning
My hand aches more than my soul
So I let the blade roll from my grip

Later, I’ll visit your secret grave

(Screenshot of me writing on Twitch. Yes, that’s a kitty wearing a stuffed watermelon slice as a cone of shame.)

A few years ago, I self-published a satire thriller called No Rhyme Goes Unpunished under the pen name Quentin Banks. It’s about how someone is killing the worst poets in L.A. and homicide detective Henry Cake is trying to stop them — even though nobody wants him to.

Here’s a quick outtake. Cake goes undercover as an emo poet to catch the killer at a poetry venue. Here he is delivering his first poem. Beside him is a goth girl he’s falling for.

Uh…

It was dark that night

We found the dead woman

Lying on the street

With her eyes open

Staring…at…the stars

She had lines on her arms

And bruises on her legs

I wondered if she’d had

Any family

A home

What her name was

But we never knew

What the heck happened

Just that someone

Probably didn’t pay

The piper on time

Meaning

The pipe person

You know

The guy who sells

Illegal stuff no one should

Be smoking

He gave them all a stern look, realized he’d just totally fallen out of character, and then slipped back into his fugue.

Uh…

Except cool people of course

Don’t get me wrong

And this woman paid all right

Paid with her life

One less star in the sky

One less light at night

Fallen from above

Lying on the ground

Like litter.

He paused, wincing at the truth of what he was saying, then added:

I’ve seen too much trash.

He put the microphone back on the stand and strode off the stage as the coffee crowd went bananas. Loud “Yeeeeaahs!” soared through the cloud of noise. All Cake saw was the look on Fuchsia’s face as he approached the couch: sheer surprise widened her eyes, her mouth slightly agape. It was the look that perps sometimes had when they realized they’d been caught fair and square while they were being handcuffed. 

“How’d I do?” he asked quietly.

“Did you just make that up?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow!” She planted a kiss on his cheek.

He grinned. The pink-haired girl was still looking at him. Crap! Did she recognize him? This was not good. He averted his eyes and flattened his smile until her coffee house fervor was re-ignited and she turned her attention fully to the roster at hand. They heard one poet after another — mostly bad although occasionally someone crept up to the microphone and read something that made Cake’s skin tingle. His hand moved closer to Fuchsia’s until he clasped it. Her delicate fingers clapsed back. He felt foolish worrying about whether or not a woman who’d tied him up and had sex with him twice liked him but he’d never met anyone like her before. Most women he’d dated were a bit passive, wanting an alpha male, which Cake wasn’t. Fuchsia’s general forthrightness turned him on.