Ava Morgyn's Blog

I am so excited to finally announce the preorder campaign for THE BANE WITCH! My team at St. Martin's Griffin and I have worked so hard on this, and it's really our pleasure to be able to share our gratitude and these amazing book goodies with you. I've had so many early readers and reviewers tell me that they preordered a copy for their shelves because they loved this read so much. It is the highest compliment. (If you're one of them, please be sure and let me know so I can send you a signed bookplate!)

For everyone else, be sure to place your orders through one (or all) of the following three bookstores to receive both a signed bookplate and a Myrtle's Cafe or Balsam Motor Inn retro art card. I designed these art cards myself based on vintage signs and advertisements, and I had a blast putting them together. They're so cheeky and fun! Behold! (If you don't get the humor because you haven't read THE BANE WITCH yet, believe me... you will. And you will love having this keepsake to go with your copy of the book.)

And marketing knocked it out of the park with this bookplate which is STUNNING. Feast thine eyes!

So, visit Interabang Books (Dallas, TX) and place your preorder for the Myrtle's Cafe retro art card (Strongest coffee in the Adirondacks!) + a signed bookplate:

Or visit Charm City Books (Baltimore, MD) or Morgenstern Books (Bloomington, IN) and place your preorder for the Balsam Motor Inn retro art card (You're in luck, a room just opened up!) + a signed bookplate:

Or preorder from both to collect them all and gift a copy to a friend! Stay tuned as THE BANE WITCH book tour is currently booking events and shaping up nicely. I'll be sharing dates and venues here and on my Instagram in the coming weeks. Can't wait to meet and chat with readers!

THE BANE WITCH: 3*18

PRACTICAL MAGIC meets GONE GIRL in Ava Morgyn's next dark, spellbinding novel about a woman who is more than a witch—she's a hunter.

"A compelling dive into the darker side of human nature, of good and evil, and the gray areas in between. Thrilling!" –Mindy McGinnis, Edgar Award-winning author of The Female of the Species

Macmillan  Books-A-Million       

Amazon  Barnes & Noble        

IndieBound  Goodreads

Read the first chapter here: READ NOW. 

This is screaming into the void. I know it is. I have zero confidence it will make one iota of difference, except in my own worried heart. I doubt anyone will even read it. But if I don’t get them out, put them to paper, the thoughts bounce around in my brain like a bullet ricocheting off stone. And they do greater damage. This has always been the way with me. The feelings—these enormous, unrelenting, godforsaken feelings—fester inside like sour milk until they come screaming back up. So here we are.

I hate elections. Goddess knows I hate them. I hate the biparty system, the hype and hyperbole, the inevitable “othering”. I hate the vitriol that follows. The way we delight in tearing each other down. I know this is an enormous privilege—to live in this country, to vote in a democracy, especially as a woman. It is not lost on me. But win or lose, I still loathe the general miasma that persists around the ballot box, the fumes of dread and ire, the apocalyptic threat that seems to escalate every cycle. It overwhelms me. So, know that I am not here, writing this, willingly. I do not enjoy adding to the diatribe.

I have heard a refrain of unease circling the internet, a repetitive and persistent dissociation that seems to be plaguing many people, particularly women. And I cannot hold my tongue any longer. That discomfort you can’t ignore, the feeling you are outside of time, misplaced in your own life, that you have lost something you can’t quite recall, like leaving the house and knowing you have forgotten something but don’t know what it is? That is the ground eroding beneath your feet. That is another chunk of earth falling away from your foundation, a crumbling you can feel even if you can’t see it. I know because I feel it too. Because I am having to regain my footing, restore my balance, with an ever-shrinking, ever-sifting pile of shit to stand on. It is the awareness that what has been lost will not be restored today, tomorrow, or in four years. Not that that was ever promised, but it was certainly hoped for. Now, the hope too is gone. And in its place a bald-faced fear is blooming, that what remains is not secure either. That another pound of your flesh might be carved away, fed to the wolves. That we are not safe. And maybe we never were. But we are certainly less so now.

If it isn’t yet clear, I am speaking about women’s rights, of which reproductive rights are a vital and inalienable core component. Though you could, with minor alteration, place almost any historically oppressed group at the heart of this essay—black, gay, trans... I have always said that a woman’s—and a man’s for that matter—most basic agency is the freedom to choose what they will, or won’t, do with their own bodies. This hit home for some men during Covid, when they took to the streets with our signs reading, My body, My choice, in protest to the even the whisper of a forced vaccine. And yet, they still struggle to make this minute calculation of empathy, to find the emotional and logical wattage needed to power the bulb of recognition in their brains. This isn’t a commentary on vaccinations or misinformation. I won’t get into that here. And I’m not claiming these are apples to apples scenarios. But I am drawing the parallels that seem so painfully, abundantly obvious and yet have been conveniently overlooked again.

I know so many men who voted, not only this time but in the past, for the side that is actively threatening and reducing women’s rights. Good men. They’re not murderers. They’re not rapists. They’re not even internet trolls. They bend over backwards for their families and would likely never dream of telling their wife or daughter what to do with her hair let alone with her body. At least, not directly. And yet they don’t see that’s exactly what they’ve done. Worse, in fact. Because they’re handing the baton over to a stranger. Someone whose values and ethics they don’t truthfully know, whose shadowed past may be riddled with acts they’d never conceive of, whose driving ambition might far out-blacken their own. Either way, good or bad, you gave a stranger a club, and you’re hoping he doesn’t beat me with it. Because of course, it’s understood he would never beat you.

But the economy! they cry. And listen, I get it. I live in the same capitalistic society you do. I count my money the exact same way, tangle with the same lenders and interest rates, shop at all the same stores, fill my tank at all the same service stations. But I’m not asking you to pay for it with your body in this case. You’re asking me to pay for it with mine. And I can’t help but wonder, were the shoe on the other foot, if you would so readily hand over the keys to the kingdom. The irony, of course, is that my body shouldn’t even be on the table. Whether I menstruate this month or next doesn’t really drive the stock market. What it does drive are the conditioned subconscious patriarchal fears of a subset of the American people. And everyone knows that fear is a great motivator. A motivator that might get someone who is overworked and undercaffeinated, who between lattes and SSRIs and soccer practice and insta-pot meals and rising property taxes and hurricane season and organic detergent and Tiktok duets and AHA versus BHA and colonoscopies and Taylor Swift’s twentieth vinyl release and snaking the drain and where the actual fuck is the gluten-free bread in this store? to take a little time out of their harried day and stand in line for thirty plus minutes to check a box next to a name that they hope and pray might actually make their lives a millifraction easier. And by extension, the rest of us who are compelled to try and cancel that vote in an attempt to hang on to the fragile liberties we have left.

And of course, there are the ones who espouse a woman’s right to her own body, though not enough to put their vote where their mouth is. They often cry economy! the loudest. I feel for them. I truly do. They have opened a wound within themselves, sold out their own conscience, made a reductive prioritization that they feel compelled to defend. But the men in this category have made a gamble not with their lives, but those of their mothers and sisters and wives and daughters. One that I am reluctant to believe they would have made at their own risk. It is a bet they hope does not come calling to collect at their door. One that will, most definitely, be paid in women’s blood and health and fertility and wellbeing. But if they are lucky, not their women.

And then there are the women in this category. They at least have the courage to throw their own bones on the table. Along with their daughters’, their sisters’, mine, yours. Most likely out of a profound need to right an immediate wrong over a distant one. They believe in bodily autonomy, sure. But they just want to be able to afford their fucking groceries again. They have mouths to feed. Doctor visits and prescription medications to pay for. Cars that won’t stop crying for gasoline. Rent that won’t stop rising. A cell phone they can’t work without and a subsequent bill they can barely pay. They’re voting for survival just like I am, but theirs is immediate. They’re facing the tiger head on right now. That one in the distance I keep clamoring is coming for us sooner or later? That one can wait. They’ll fight that battle when they get to it, if they get to it. If any of us do.

And then there are the other women. The ones who ceded their ground to their fathers and husbands and church pastors years ago. The ones who believe they have a moral obligation, nay a holy mandate, to see to it that we do too. Those of us who, in our wickedness, dared to value ourselves, our liberties and contributions, as highly as our male counterparts. Of course, even they are standing on privilege. Voting off the backs of the women who came and fought before them. Who made sure they had a right to show up at the polls, to open a checkbook, to own property. And yes, to safely tend to their reproductive health without government overreach and intrusion in whatever way they see fit. By all means, if I hand everyone a cookie and you choose to give yours to your brother so that he has two, be my guest. But I’m gonna eat my fucking cookie if it’s all the same to you (or if it’s not). I may even do it where you can see.  I’m free like that.

To be fair, those women often don’t see what they’re really giving up. They made their reproductive choice a long time ago, once and for all. And I would never try to change it. But they understand the anatomy of women’s rights only in terms of body parts. They don’t see the ligaments, the joints, the fascia. The way the leg bone is connected to the hip bone and the ribs are encasing the heart. They don’t perceive the body of rights as a whole, every piece torn away leaving us a little less stable, a little more vulnerable. They believe themselves to be the rib taken from Adam. We don’t need bones to stand, they insist. That’s what the men are for, to hold us up. I don’t know, maybe their men are spectacular specimens unlike any I’ve witnessed. But the men I’ve met, the ones I know and love and work with, who I whole-heartedly appreciate and am grateful for, are for sure going to drop me at some point. And I would say, based on this election outcome, they just did.

Besides, I would never ask them to do my heavy lifting because they have their own burdens to bear. That’s how we operate in my little corner of the world. In coordination, cooperation, as a team. You get the groceries on the way home. I’ll make sure the car registration is up to date. You pay the homeowner’s insurance on time. I’ll refill my birth control prescription so we can keep feeding the kids we already have.

The big issue none of these people see—or maybe see and don’t care about—is that every freedom, every liberty, every inalienable human right you take away from me, from women or any group for that matter, sends a message. A message that we are not as valuable. Not as needed. Not as worthy. That we provide less and therefore deserve less. That maybe, now that you mention it, we shouldn’t be protected in other ways—from sexual assault or domestic violence or bullying and harassment. Maybe we needn’t have our own bank accounts or drive cars or be allowed to seek a divorce. Maybe we shouldn’t be given contraceptives or fair trials or equal pay. Maybe, now that we’re careening wildly down this road, women really aren’t people at all. Maybe they’re just property, chattel, livestock. Maybe they always were.

That message isn’t voiced, it’s implicit. And we see its ramifications encoded in the statistics, in the history books, in the lived and shared experiences of women. Experiences of fear and violence and brutality and frustration and anxiety and exhaustion and depression and disease. So, if you’re a man, don’t stand there on your solid, unshakeable square of earth and gaslight me for crying not that the sky is falling but that the ground is quaking, ripping apart between my legs, and falling away in tangible, measurable clumps. Don’t tell me I’m overreacting or being dramatic when my mother, God rest her soul, was the first fucking woman in her family who had the right to apply for a loan without a male cosigner, and then only in the three years before I was born. Do not admonish me for “crying wolf” when every single female friend or acquaintance I know, myself included, has been a victim of sexual assault or partner abuse, often many times over while their perpetrators were never punished or even acknowledged and therefore free to go on and commit more crimes against women and children. Don’t pit your government games against my humanity and use me and my daughters as a political crowbar and then tell us to swallow or else. We have shouldered the psychological burdens of this country since its inception, done the emotional labor alongside the physical, eaten the poison of this culture time and time again, and born the shame of our men as our own, all to our detriment, often tirelessly and silently.

But it has never been my nature to stay silent. And I won’t do it now. You don’t get to have it both ways. You don’t get to fuck me over and tell me not to complain about it. I know this makes you uncomfortable. But I’m not interested in your comfort. Not when it—needlessly, foolishly—costs me mine. Own your choices, your gambles and bets (the women in your life will have to). Call it what it is. Don’t cheapen us all with excuses or semantics, which we are perfectly aware of. We showed up to the same election you did. We knew the stakes. I put my liberty and autonomy and that of my daughters before inflation, before foreign policy, before the cost of bread. Not because those things don’t matter but because I won’t pay for them with my freedom. I won’t lay down for the red wave to march over me when we can get ahead without trampling women underfoot. It’s a zero-sum game I was made to play. And maybe you were too. Maybe you hate it as much as I do. Or maybe not. Either way, own your move on the board, take my words and choke on them, or don’t. You can chalk it all up to hysteria as has been done countless times before. I am a woman after all. I’m sure everyone will believe you.

THE BANE WITCH: 3*18

PRACTICAL MAGIC meets GONE GIRL in Ava Morgyn's next dark, spellbinding novel about a woman who is more than a witch—she's a hunter.

"A compelling dive into the darker side of human nature, of good and evil, and the gray areas in between. Thrilling!" –Mindy McGinnis, Edgar Award-winning author of The Female of the Species

Macmillan  Books-A-Million       

Amazon  Barnes & Noble        

IndieBound  Goodreads

Read the first chapter here: READ NOW. 

It's here! THE BANE WITCH cover is being revealed TODAY, and I'm so excited to share this dark beauty with you. We worked incredibly hard on this one, trying to strike just the right note between beautiful and scary, witchy read and thriller. In the end, we got there, but how a cover progresses during the development process is definitely a journey. I love the colors of this one, the (poisonous) botanicals, the spooky cabin, all those mushrooms, the noxious chimney smog, and that cheeky little blood drip. What's your favorite element?

Many thanks to Olya Kirilyuk for creating it! Olya, incidentally, was also the cover artist for The Witches of Bone Hill.

Make sure you check out my reveal reel on Instagram! Also, visit @eviebookish on Instagram to see the beautiful reveal post she created for me. But that's not all...

Enjoy the first chapter of THE BANE WITCH free, an exclusive for my newsletter subscribers, by signing up below! (If you find yourself hooked, it's available for pre-order everywhere but Amazon, and will go up there in the next two days.)

PLUS, if you add THE BANE WITCH on Goodreads, you will receive an automatic email letting you know when it releases! Click below to add it now!

AND we have an amazing new blurb in from Edgar Award-winning author of The Female of the Species, Mindy McGinnis! "A compelling dive into the darker side of human nature, of good and evil, and the gray areas in between. Thrilling!"

Thank you for supporting my work! It's such a joy to do this for you.

THE BANE WITCH: 3*18

PRACTICAL MAGIC meets GONE GIRL in Ava Morgyn's next dark, spellbinding novel about a woman who is more than a witch—she's a hunter.

​

Piers Corbin has always had an affinity for poisonous things - plants and men. From the pokeweed berries she consumed at age five that led to the accidental death of a stranger, to the husband whose dark proclivities have become… concerning, poison has been at the heart of her story.

But when she fakes her own death in an attempt to escape her volatile marriage and goes to stay with her estranged great aunt in the mountains, she realizes her predilection is more than a hunger - it’s a birthright. Piers comes from a long line of poison eaters - Bane Witches – women who ingest deadly plants and use their magic to rid the world of evil men.

Piers sets out to earn her place in her family’s gritty but distinguished legacy, all while working at her Aunt Myrtle’s cafe and perpetuating a flirtation with the local, well-meaning sheriff to allay his suspicions on the body count she’s been leaving in her wake. But soon she catches the attention of someone else, a serial killer operating in the area. And that only means one thing - it’s time to feed.

In Ava Morgyn’s dark, thrilling novel, The Bane Witch, a very little poison can do a world of good.

"A compelling dive into the darker side of human nature, of good and evil, and the gray areas in between. Thrilling!" –Mindy McGinnis, Edgar Award-winning author of The Female of the Species

Macmillan Amazon Barnes & Noble Books-A-Million IndieBound Goodreads

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THE WITCHES OF BONE HILL: 9*26

Cordelia Bone's meticulously crafted life and career in Dallas are crashing down around her thanks to a philandering husband with criminal debts.

When her older, carefree sister, Eustace—a cannabis grower in Boulder—calls to inform her the great aunt they never met has finally died and they must travel to a small town in Connecticut to deal with the estate, she sees an opportunity to unload the house and save herself.

But once there, the sisters learn they are getting much more than they bargained for. The Victorian mansion they stand to inherit is bound in a dynasty trust controlled by their late aunt's aging attorney who insists they inhabit the house and retain it but keeps them in the dark about the peculiar rituals of their ancestors. Not to mention a sexy, tattooed groundskeeper with a shrouded past who refuses to leave the carriage house and a crypt full of dead relatives looming at the property line.

As both women grapple with their current predicament, they come face to face with a haunting family secret, the truth of what happened to their mother, and the enemy that's been stalking them from the shadows for generations. In a twisting torrent of terror and blood, the sisters must uncover the power within them to heal their fractured relationship, reverse their mysteriously declining health, and claim the lineage they wanted to escape but now must embrace if they are to survive at Bone Hill.

"Morgyn effortlessly weaves together supernatural, horror, and romantic elements to create a quick but compelling read." –Library Journal

Macmillan Amazon Barnes & Noble Books-A-Million IndieBound Goodreads

Subscribe to my newsletter for all the witchy updates, events, and free stuff. Subscribe to (very cool, not at all annoying) newsletter here: VERY COOL NOT AT ALL ANNOYING NEWSLETTER LINK.

It's not too late to take advantage of THE WITCHES OF BONE HILL pre-order campaign! From now until September 26th you can order your copy from East City Bookshop online and receive a signed bookplate, custom bookmark, and witchy postcard with your copy.

In addition, THE WITCHES OF BONE HILL book tour will soon be underway, and you don't want to miss out on any of the spectacular events. Links can be found on my "news" page, but all pertinent info is available below.

And as if that weren't enough, I've opened my very own Etsy shop, Witch Lit Finds & Designs, were you can purchase your very own "Being A Witch Is Easy" tee-shirt printed after the postcard inspired by THE WITCHES OF BONE HILL and designed for the pre-order campaign. It comes in four dope colors and sizes ranging from XS to 5XL.

Make sure you're subscribed to my newsletter for all the upcoming fun! And follow me on Instagram and TikTok to keep up with THE WITCHES OF BONE HILL content I'm continuing to post now through the release and into October. Things like Choose Your Haunted mansion, my recipe for a Bone Witch Bellini, and the trailers and reels I'm creating to introduce you to the Bone Family and their spooky estate.

THE WITCHES OF BONE HILL: 9*26

Cordelia Bone's meticulously crafted life and career in Dallas are crashing down around her thanks to a philandering husband with criminal debts.

When her older, carefree sister, Eustace—a cannabis grower in Boulder—calls to inform her the great aunt they never met has finally died and they must travel to a small town in Connecticut to deal with the estate, she sees an opportunity to unload the house and save herself.

But once there, the sisters learn they are getting much more than they bargained for. The Victorian mansion they stand to inherit is bound in a dynasty trust controlled by their late aunt's aging attorney who insists they inhabit the house and retain it but keeps them in the dark about the peculiar rituals of their ancestors. Not to mention a sexy, tattooed groundskeeper with a shrouded past who refuses to leave the carriage house and a crypt full of dead relatives looming at the property line.

As both women grapple with their current predicament, they come face to face with a haunting family secret, the truth of what happened to their mother, and the enemy that's been stalking them from the shadows for generations. In a twisting torrent of terror and blood, the sisters must uncover the power within them to heal their fractured relationship, reverse their mysteriously declining health, and claim the lineage they wanted to escape but now must embrace if they are to survive at Bone Hill.

"This wonderfully macabre contemporary fantasy from Morgyn deals in family secrets and bone magic...Readers will be spellbound." –Publishers Weekly

Macmillan Amazon Barnes & Noble Books-A-Million IndieBound Goodreads

Subscribe to my newsletter for all the witchy updates, events, and free stuff. Subscribe to (very cool, not at all annoying) newsletter here: VERY COOL NOT AT ALL ANNOYING NEWSLETTER LINK.

Ask any mother with more than one child if her pregnancies and deliveries were all the same and you will typically hear a resounding no. With my first daughter, I had oddly specific cravings for things like "mall pizza". With my second, I developed a powerful aversion to chicken, a bird I spent nine months believing was sent from the devil. With my third, I ate pretty much exactly as I always had. My first was born two months premature. My second was full term with the help of medication. My third was six weeks early, and at nearly seven pounds, was the biggest baby in the NICU. That's just how it goes. Every baby creates its own birth story.

Book babies are no different in my experience. Every book demands its own process. And it makes me kind of insane.

Because here's what happens: I come fresh off the last book, take a small creative writing break that can last anywhere from a few days to a couple of months, depending on what other irons I have in the fire, and then I sit down to start drafting, expecting everything to show up and flow through me exactly as it did before. But it doesn't.

I will spend the next few weeks just trying to orient myself to how this book is choosing to show up, how my writing flow is responding, and what I need to carry me through the disparities. Like, it will take me a solid week or two to remember, "Oh yeah. That's right. It's always a little—or a lot—different than the time before." And then I spend another week or two simply begrudging that fact. And then the following week or two actively trying to adjust. And then sometime after that, I am finally on board with the book I'm writing instead of stuck in the book I already completed.

For example, I am currently drafting a proposal for my publisher that includes a pitch, a synopsis, and a number of sample chapters. Which means I have to go ahead and begin drafting this story, at least through the first act—maybe more, just like it's full steam ahead. Only, my last novel felt smooth at the opening, those first several chapters flowing out of me with abandon. I knew exactly how that story was starting and where my character was going. That first act was mapped out in my brain organically. It was somewhere in the second act that things got sticky.

But this novel has been a pain in my ass practically from the word go. And I have no idea why. The pitch was there, the synopsis mostly easy, the characters fleshed out in my mind. The first chapter turned out to be a delightful breeze. But by the second, something didn't feel right. And it has been an agonizing few weeks just trying to inch my way through the first act of this novel, which I am not done with. My prayer is that this means the second and third acts will fly from my fingertips with all the speed and grace of a lubed-up falcon. That remains to be seen.

Adapting to this unexpected challenge has required a change in my routine. I have to take more frequent breaks, content with writing less at a time. I have to brainstorm more frequently, which means stopping the flow of writing to sit and ramble over various possibilities instead of automatically knowing what comes next. I've had to leave my laptop altogether at times and take a drive or go for a walk in order to shift the energy and get things moving again. And I've had to consider writing in other places—my dining table instead of my coffee table, a coffee shop, a friend's house—wherever I can invoke a change of scenery in order to inject novelty into my process and generate more ideas.

And all of that change is incredibly annoying to me. Because as a writer I am a creature of habit. And when that habit gets interrupted, I pout like a sulky, petulant cat. I get up and meander into my living room. Have my coffee or tea or whatever my current morning drink of pleasure is, and then I do my yoga, feed my dogs, and get started. My day unfolds as a series of starts and stops. I write for a few hours. I take a break to eat lunch. I write for a few hours. I take a break to have a snack. I write for a few hours. I recognize that my brain is turning to a pulpy mash and finally decide to push my laptop aside for the day. In there are about a hundred short breaks where I get up and down to let my dogs in and out and occasionally take a call or respond to an email or watch seven minutes of a show or read a page and a half of a book while I let my brain cognize the next immediate step.

But now, I have to do things like wear actual clothes and go outside into the oppressive heat and drive my car around the block because, for whatever reason, these characters don't want to tell me their next move. And I have to wait... Wait for fictional characters to respond to me. I hate waiting. Waiting may be my least favorite thing to do. Which is ironic because publishing is all about waiting.

Is there a point to this blog? I don't know. Maybe it's simply that however you are doing it is good as long as you are actually doing it. In other words, play the game however you need to—barefoot, with a helmet on, in the rain—just keep playing. The brain is an amazing organ, and writing is a magical act. But it's normal to run into complications when engaged with either. Don't feel bad if the only way you can get that first or tenth or twentieth chapter down is in your bathrobe at an all-night diner after seven pots of coffee. This is your story. No one can tell you how to write it.

THE WITCHES OF BONE HILL: 9*26

Cordelia Bone's meticulously crafted life and career in Dallas are crashing down around her thanks to a philandering husband with criminal debts.

When her older, carefree sister, Eustace—a cannabis grower in Boulder—calls to inform her the great aunt they never met has finally died and they must travel to a small town in Connecticut to deal with the estate, she sees an opportunity to unload the house and save herself.

But once there, the sisters learn they are getting much more than they bargained for. The Victorian mansion they stand to inherit is bound in a dynasty trust controlled by their late aunt's aging attorney who insists they inhabit the house and retain it but keeps them in the dark about the peculiar rituals of their ancestors. Not to mention a sexy, tattooed groundskeeper with a shrouded past who refuses to leave the carriage house and a crypt full of dead relatives looming at the property line.

As both women grapple with their current predicament, they come face to face with a haunting family secret, the truth of what happened to their mother, and the enemy that's been stalking them from the shadows for generations. In a twisting torrent of terror and blood, the sisters must uncover the power within them to heal their fractured relationship, reverse their mysteriously declining health, and claim the lineage they wanted to escape but now must embrace if they are to survive at Bone Hill.

"A simmering, supernatural tale that conjures a brew of legacy, sisterhood, and Scandinavian witchcraft..." –Katherine Harbour, author of the NIGHT AND NOTHING series

Macmillan Amazon Barnes & Noble Books-A-Million IndieBound Goodreads

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THE WITCHES OF BONE HILL will release in six months time. And while I can't wait for readers to meet Cordelia and Eustace, I also want to prepare them. I'm talking about trigger warnings. Those pesky little one-or-two-word clues that tell a reader what sensitive material they can expect to be confronted with when they pick up any given book.

Not everyone in publishing loves the idea of trigger warnings, and I don't blame them. The fear is that it will turn readers away and impact sales of a book they might otherwise love. But as a person living with PTSD, I feel an obligation to provide them, and always do my best to list trigger warnings on the book pages of my website. However, I think the issue here is that without context, trigger warnings can be met with shock or even outrage and do exactly what some publishers fear they will—turn willing readers away.

In my own experience, I've often been confronted with child loss in books or movies unexpectedly. Sometimes, the depiction is such that I can handle it. Other times, it is triggering and I have to stop reading or watching and then do damage control. It's not a fun experience. For me, just knowing that it's coming can make a massive difference in how I react to the material. Being caught off guard almost never serves my heightened nervous system. A heads up can make all the difference. So, I value trigger warnings and find they don't always turn me off. This is also why I provide trigger warnings on my website despite some publishers' protests.

But, I recognize that stripped from the story they belong to, these precautions can blow some material out of proportion and leave readers scratching their heads, wondering why anyone would want to read about something so terrible. The truth is, story doesn't happen without conflict, and we use books to explore themes and experiences we might not want to confront in our daily lives. For example, I keep telling everyone that THE WITCHES OF BONE HILL is a "fun" read, much more so than my other books. But the trigger warnings listed for it (sudden death, mutilation, hauntings, animal cruelty, sexual content, drug use, language) don't sound like much fun. So, to put it all in perspective, here's a context lowdown for each of these without spoilers to ruin the surprise.

Sudden death: This one is personal for me. Most people might not consider sudden death to be a trigger, but I know firsthand how it can be. I lost my daughter this way in 2017, and as a result of our experience and my blog on child loss, I am now connected to hundreds of parents who have lost a child similarly. That does not even include all the adults who have lost a spouse, sibling, parent, or friend to sudden cardiac death. For us, sudden death is all too real and all too triggering.

But let me frame the way it appears in THE WITCHES OF BONE HILL for you. For starters, we do not see the death take place. Additionally, it does not happen to a child or even young adult. There is only minimal discussion of it, and it never strays into real world statistics or facts around sudden cardiac arrest. So on the whole, I think even someone like myself would not be bothered by this in the context of the story.

Mutilation: I want to be clear that this is not referencing cutting or self-mutilation in any way. The mutilation discussed in this story is a part of our main characters' history—a clue in a mystery they desperately want to solve involving someone they very much loved. It is, as far as such a grim topic goes, relatively minor. And though a subject like this is always gruesome, it is not depicted here with gore.

Hauntings: I'm not even sure hauntings qualify as a trigger, but I usually prefer to err on the side of caution. Some people who have experienced inexplicable phenomenon are traumatized by it, and might find the subject of ghosts upsetting. But I think, overall, this is really not a great cause for concern for most, and in fact adds to much of the fun.

Animal cruelty: Please understand, I don't condone animal cruelty. That said, in a novel like this one, there is going to be collateral damage. The act is not depicted as it is happening, nor is it performed by the main characters. Bad guys (and girls) populate novels alongside our heroes, and they get up to all manner of sin.

Sexual content: To be fair, this is a plus for a lot of readers. It feels kind of silly to even list it here. But if you blush at the word "nipple", then this one's for you. Yes, this is an adult novel with consenting adult characters who engage in consensual sex. I hope it makes your toes curl in a good way.

Drug use: It's stated plainly in the book summary that one of my characters—Eustace Bone—is involved in the cannabis industry. This is the extent of the drug use. There's no hard hitting addiction themes or scenes. Just a middle-age woman who casually partakes of her own product and references cannabis use here and there throughout the story.

Language: It's not gratuitous, but the occasional four-letter word finds its way onto the page. If you're too sensitive for cursing, then what the heck are you doing looking into this novel anyway? Go back to the children's section.

THE WITCHES OF BONE HILL: 9*26

Cordelia Bone's meticulously crafted life and career in Dallas are crashing down around her thanks to a philandering husband with criminal debts.

When her older, carefree sister, Eustace—a cannabis grower in Boulder—calls to inform her the great aunt they never met has finally died and they must travel to a small town in Connecticut to deal with the estate, she sees an opportunity to unload the house and save herself.

But once there, the sisters learn they are getting much more than they bargained for. The Victorian mansion they stand to inherit is bound in a dynasty trust controlled by their late aunt's aging attorney who insists they inhabit the house and retain it but keeps them in the dark about the peculiar rituals of their ancestors. Not to mention a sexy, tattooed groundskeeper with a shrouded past who refuses to leave the carriage house and a crypt full of dead relatives looming at the property line.

As both women grapple with their current predicament, they come face to face with a haunting family secret, the truth of what happened to their mother, and the enemy that's been stalking them from the shadows for generations. In a twisting torrent of terror and blood, the sisters must uncover the power within them to heal their fractured relationship, reverse their mysteriously declining health, and claim the lineage they wanted to escape but now must embrace if they are to survive at Bone Hill.

"...this eerie tale will keep readers up well into the night." –Rachel Griffin, New York Times Bestselling author of THE NATURE OF WITCHES

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