M.S. Edwards's Blog

(and I’m not re-uploading the book)

So here I am. On the shore of my own shame.

Somewhere between formatting the manuscript, designing the cover, and triple-checking the print bleed, I forgot something kind of important:

The glossary.
You know—the part that explains all the terms I hurl at you within the first five pages of A Fierce Allegiance like a narratively over-caffeinated raccoon.

Is this world dense?
Yes.
Do I apologize?
Also yes.
Am I going to re-upload a new version of the b...

A behind-the-scenes look at how I fought Amazon KDP to make sure the right version of my book reached readers.

I thought the hard part was over. I’d written A Fierce Allegiance, edited it within an inch of its life, uploaded the final version to Amazon KDP, and approved a perfect proof copy on June 28, 2025. It was exactly what I’d envisioned—clean pages, crisp cover, the book I’d worked so hard to create.

Then I ordered my author copies.

What arrived was wrong.

The version Ama...

I am done with words.They used to be my best friends,made me feel powerful. worthy. alive.I wore them around me like a carapace of protective gerunds and adjectivesspliced just soto make me seem clever. invincible. untouchable.I strung them together like blasphemousrosary beads meant to ward offdespair and grief and the prickling in my nose that signals self-pity and tears.I thought they were impenetrable armorBut re...

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It’s time to rant.

Well, maybe not rant, per se, since I’m not really angry. Just tired. Oh, so tired. Tired of what, you ask? Let me count the ways:

I’m tired of living vicariously through my daughter. Of going to bed thinking of her problems and waking up still thinking of her problems. Like, high school was over two decades ago for me. WTF?

I’m tired of walking that razor-thin line of being involved in my daughter’s life and allowing her to find he...

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Where do we go from here?

I went off to the right
Without saying good goodbye
Where does it go from here?
Is it down to the lake I fear?

The tinny marimbas remind her of other 80s one-hit wonders and when malling was a pastime, not a destination. She thinks of the tart magic of a Hotdog on a Stick strawberry lemonade and plate-sized chocolate chip cookies from Mrs. Field’s. She remembers when department stores had names like The Broadway and Robinsons-May, and ...

“…until the end of the line.”

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The towheaded boy nodded with the solemn gravitas of someone far older than he. So many wizened children these days, two years into the war. Throw a stick in any crowd and you’d be sure to hit one. Is that offensive? Pardon me, but isn’t war offensive as well?

“And remember —”

The woman – who looked too young to be a mother, by the way, and certainly too young to be the mother of what appeared to be a seven-year-ol...

Roger Moore couldn’t fight his way through a troop of Girl Scouts.”

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It was a very boy discussion – Tara wouldn’t even consider it a man discussion even though her dinner companions were well over forty – and terrifically boring. The aperitif had made it diverting, the salad less so, and by the time the main entree arrived, Ingrid was stifling yawns that threatened to manifest as tears before too long. The only thing saving her dignity was the knowledge...

I mean, seriously, you’re just a dog.”

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Sisyphus had enough sense to stick his head out the window and ignore Randolph. He allowed the stiff Santa Anas to dry his eyeballs but did have the presence of mind to lick his nose every other blink to regulate his body temperature. It was at least a solid 98 degrees out and climbing, and with the a/c busted again and Randolph too fraught and too frugal to fix it, there really was no relief from the heat beyo...

…to become a superhero.

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Quenton was tired. Of being sick all the time. Of hearing his mother sobbing quietly behind the locked bathroom door. Of kids at school shooting him pitying glances. Of teachers thinking his bald head meant he was slow or hard of hearing. Of being small for his age already, which in turn made him look even more pitifully frail before people even knew about his condition. Of not being able to play football.

Sometimes, when he’...

…and finds himself in the middle of a heated debate between two employees.

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In retrospect, he should’ve gone a bit further down the block to the cafe, but he was in his favorite wool suit that had cost more than he could’ve afforded at the time, and he’d just gotten his brogues shined at the hotel – sitting at an actual, old-fashioned shoe shine station, no less! – and he’d forgotten his umbrella which was made even more aggravating by the fact t...