Alysson Dotson's Blog

“What are you working on?” My ten-year-old son asked from across the table at the barber shop where we waited while my youngest son got his hair cut.

“Oh. This?” I looked down at my purple ink scrawled across a journal page. “It’s just my ‘About the Author’ for a book signing I have coming up. I need something to put on the sign since people might not know much about me or my book.”

“Can I help?” Being the opportunist homeschool mom that I am, I never pass on willful writing practice. I explained the objective, tore a page from my journal, and slid it across the table along with an orange felt tipped pen from my purse. I tore out a second page for my twelve-year-old who was bored out of his mind, just to give him something to do. Ever the comedian, my oldest son finished in a hurry with something along the lines of, “Alysson is a human who lives in America. She is fond of the beverage known as sweet tea. She is married to a fellow human.” I had a good laugh and tucked the note away while my ten-year-old continued with his amateur hand and careful words.

After his brother’s humorous take on the impromptu project, I was expecting something similar from my ten-year-old. With a half-smirk, I began reading.

“Alysson is a small author, but big in my eyes.“

“Alysson is a small author, but big in my eyes. Whenever she got a box full of her books, I was disappointed when I saw they were put in there sloppily, but she was kind and gave me one of the not ripped ones. Whenever she gave me mine, I was all over her trying to get here to sign it. It took her thirteen years to write. I would give it a five-star rating if I could. I hope you enjoy this magical, yet breathtaking, heartwarming book called Winter.”

Dear reader, I am proud to tell you that I somehow managed to contain my tears and refrain from bawling my eyes out like a lunatic.

I love my readers and truly appreciate every kind thing that’s ever been said about me or my writing, but nothing, and I do mean nothing, will compare to the pride that swelled in my chest at those precious words. No glowing review. No number on my KDP dashboard. No follower count. Nothing.

This is especially precious to me because without him, I probably never would’ve finished writing my first novel, let alone a second. He wasn’t entirely correct when he said it took me thirteen years to “wright.” I hadn’t been writing the entire time. In fact, the first time I read it to him, I hadn’t written anything at all in a very, very long time.

Three years ago, I was cleaning up some files and transferring the ones I deemed worthy of saving to a folder in my Google Drive. A few weeks later, we found ourselves in the midst of a severe weather warning, something I always took probably too lightly before having kids. My husband was working a night shift, so the boys and I were riding out the storm at my parent’s house. When the power went out, my oldest and my youngest were fast asleep, but I was awake with my middle son. We didn’t have our books, electricity, or internet. What I did have was a terrified little boy who couldn’t sleep, a phone with service & a full battery, and a Google Drive with an old story I’d given up on ten years earlier.

“So it went, as all great stories do, Once upon a time…”

It started as a way to calm his nerves, but by the time I finished reading, he was even more awake than before I started reading and he just had to know how the story ended. Honestly, so did I. I didn’t have an answer, but I happened to be very close to the author, something he didn’t find out until I’d exhausted every single piece of the story I’d written over the years.

The story laid dormant for so long, I’d nearly forgotten it, until that wide-eyed little boy awakened within me a reason to finish it. Almost every night over the following year, I worked long into the nights after my boys fell asleep, writing the next part. The next night at bedtime, I’d read them what I’d written the night before. Sometimes they loved it. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes I’d take suggestions. Sometimes I wouldn’t. (Sorry about the mud monster, guys.) On and on it went until one day, we had a story.

Was it perfect? Far from it. I think if any author’s first novel is their best, they’re doing something dreadfully wrong. Writing, like any other craft, should be studied, practiced, and improved, something I strive for with each book I write. My greatest regret is that I was not the author that my first book deserved. Still, at the time of publishing, it was perfectly tailored to its target audience because I’d written it with them.

The fun thing about being an indie author is that I can do whatever I want with my books any time that I want. A year ago, I published a second edition of Winter complete with a map, cleaned up sentence structure, better pacing, a few additional scenes for character development, and a bonus epilogue.

September is my middle son’s birthday month, and he’s been asking for his own hardcover copy of our story. As of last week, the very special addition of my son’s precious letter officially became a part of both the eBook and print versions of Winter: A Tale of Cursed and Stolen Things. It’s for all my readers, but mostly it’s for the original intended audience of this book.

Every time I read this letter, I’m humbled by his childlike admiration. Throughout the years, I have been many things, but nothing has been as great an honor as being a mother. That’s probably something all the moms say, but anything true is worth repeating, no matter how many times it’s been said before. Still, I often I fall short. Besides “Well. Another day has come to an end and that basket of socks is still unmated,” or “Crap. Did I leave a hot dog in the air fryer?” my bedtime thoughts revolve around all the things I could’ve done better throughout the day. All the ways I could’ve loved and served my children better. In spite of these perceived failures, he believes in me. While this feels wholly undeserved, it also reminds me that my children are watching how I tend to and nurture my dreams. If I tuck them away under the premise that they’re “too big,” and let my light dim, I’ll teach them to do the same.

I hope they know that however loud they cheer for me, I’m cheering louder for them. As much as they believe in me, I believe more in them. I hope that any good in me is amplified in them. I hope when we open a box of new books with my name on the cover, they remember Marvin Whitaker and that sometimes, big dreams are still too small, and the truth is always worth fighting for.

Paper Walls by Nicole Feller is a closed-door, enemies-to-lovers romance with forced-proximity, plenty of angst, and relentless hope. It follows the story of college students and reluctant psychology partners Cole MacHendrick and Leighton Tucker. The story alternates between varying points-of-view. Leighton is bright and loving and passionate. She adores her childhood friends, Quinn and Wesley, and cares deeply about the brooding and mysterious Cole, with his bad attitude and a dark secret. Through the use of multiple points-of-view, readers see how each character views themselves in contrast to how they’re viewed by others. It allows us to see Cole through Leighton’s eyes, how she sees the best in him when he can only see the worst in himself.

We also get to experience the narrative through two additional perspectives. While some might find this jarring to the flow of the story, after finishing the book, it’s obvious why these perspectives were necessary. Each point-of-view is engaging, clearly labeled, and easy to follow.

Paper Walls so much more than just a love story. It includes plenty of light-hearted, feet-kicking cuteness, but it also addresses heavy issues including suicide, depression, anxiety, self-injury, loss, and grief. Nicole isn’t afraid to ask the hard questions or to answer them with such raw honesty. She’s woven her heart beautifully into every word and she does not hold back.

One thing I love about reading books by indie & self-published authors is the unfiltered way in which we can connect on a human level. There were so many moments when I had to stop reading because the pain was so palpable I could hardly breathe. Even as I sit here now reflecting on the story, I find it difficult to write without crying.

Loss and grief are a universal human experience and they come to us all at some point. Yet, as we experience them, we believe the lie that we are isolated in our pain. Good writers remind us that we are not alone. What Nicole has put to the page is understood by the heart. Only an author who dares to bare their soul on paper can connect in such a way. This is what good books are made of. Soul stuff.

Paper Walls is available in in paperback and on Kindle Unlimited. To learn more about Nicole Feller and her books, check out her website or follow her on Instagram!

March is Self-Injury Awareness Month.

Paper Walls is an inspirational, hope-filled story that contains accurate representation of self-injury.

Self-injury is the deliberate harming of one’s body without the intent of suicide. Common self-injury behaviors include scratching, cutting, burning, hitting, biting, ingesting or embedding foreign objects into the body, hair pulling, and interfering with the healing of wounds. Research shows that, often, self-injury is used as a maladaptive coping mechanism to deal with intense emotions. 1

If you struggle with self-injury, don’t suffer alone.

HELP FOR SELF-INJURY https://twloha.com/find-help/help-by-topic/self-injury/

SELF-CARE https://twloha.com/self-care/

MORE INFORMATION ON SELF-INJURY https://sioutreach.org/learn-self-injury/general/

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It’s been about a year since the idea for Burgundy Sky nestled itself into my brain. I was putting the finishing touches on Winter and wondering if I’d ever write another story again. I woke up one morning after having the most vivid dream, complete with a plot and character names. I texted my best friend and she said “God has laid this story in your lap. You have to write this.”

Since that moment, I have struggled.

I am, above all else, a Christian, but I cannot present this book as a work of Christian fiction. I’ve wrestled with the content. I’ve tried to make it more palatable, to tidy it up and present it with an ivory ribbon. But I cannot escape the persistent ache to tell this story as it is, to allow my characters to be human, to struggle with lust, anger, selfishness, and pride.

I had to let them struggle and I had to let them fail.

This has not been an easy story to tell. There are parts that are autobiographical and parts that are not. It is my story but is also the story of countless other women. Looking inward and reflecting on my own experiences has been difficult and at times quite painful. Looking outward, my heart has been crushed by the weight of silence bore by those women around me and those who came before me.

It would be easier to leave those things in the shadows.

It would be easier to distance myself from inevitable controversy with vague metaphors.

It would be easier to hide behind modest, tasteful accounts of heinous acts with veiled language.

I have tried and I can’t. I must do the hard thing. I must pull these horrific things out of the darkness and name them:

Abuse. Rape. Abortion.

May we never be so comfortable with those words that we don’t recoil at the sight of them.

I can’t write about these things with cold detachment. I write about them as someone who has survived emotional and mental abuse, who has listened to the stories of rape survivors, and who has been faced with the choice of abortion. I’m not the girl with a picket sign who has never had to choose.

Throughout the process of writing Burgundy Sky, I’ve remained grateful for my decision to pursue writing as an independent author, because it does not fit into neat little categories and genres and subgenres. It is unique in that it can’t be classified as Christian because it breaks from the traditional expectations of Christian literature. My characters cuss, face sexual temptation, and sometimes choose violence. It’s also unique from secular works of fiction in that despite all this, Jesus is the invisible thread that holds it all together.

It’s unique, yes, but it’s nothing revolutionary.

I’m not so arrogant to believe I will ever write anything new that has never been written before. All I can do is take a very old story and tell it in a new way.

I tell my children often as we study art and fiction that creativity does not exist without the Creator. There is one story. His story. Everything ever created by human hand acknowledges Him. Even that which seems to defy Him, serves to show the depravity that exists in His absence.

When we invite the Creator to create through us, our art becomes an act of worship. Writing this book has been an act of worship. I won’t shy away from that. But I beg you, do not read this book expecting straightforward gospel. I am not a pastor or a theologian. I write romance because I love love.

This is just a love story. Yes, there is angst but there is also plenty of feet-kicking cuteness, snarky humor, and swoon-worthy moments.

Above all, there is hope. As it is in life, that hope is found in the middle of a mess. Also, as it is in life, it’s not always easy to see it. But once you find the Source of that hope, you’ll find it in everything.

In every word.

On every page.