Tanner Reece Hintzman's Blog
November 27, 2025
New Horror Book!
My Suicide, Or: The Death of a Steppenwolf—For Mad People OnlyMy Suicide, Or: The Death of a Steppenwolf—For Mad People Only
Very excited to announce my third book, to be released 13 December:
My Suicide, Or: The Death of a Steppenwolf—For Mad People Only
From Barrel to Blood—An Odyssey Through Madness, Myths, and Multiverse Mayhem.
He put the shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger, desperate to end the endless war inside his skull.
He woke up somewhere far worse.
What follows is the most savage, beautiful, and brutally honest suicide note ever written, except the author is still alive, damned to wander the afterlife he tried his whole life to reach, and forced to confront the real price of the "peace" he thought death would bring.
The Suicide was a husband, a father, a soldier, and a nobody who hated the modern world with every atom of his being. Depression didn't just visit him; it moved in, turned the lights out, and whispered to him his children would be better off without him. One night, the whisper won. He ate a load of double-ought buckshot and expected oblivion.
Instead, he opened his eyes in a freezing river of blood beneath a tree made of severed arms and dangling eyes. His soul floated above him in a green orb, severed from his being. Thus begins a relentless odyssey across impossible after-worlds, each one custom-built to punish the exact regrets that drove him to the barrel.
Armed (eventually) with only a flaming sword and a winning personality, the Suicide fights his way through the bureaucracy of hell, kills god-like beings older than the stars, and discovers the horrifying truth: suicide doesn't end pain. It just changes the address.
This is not a redemption story wrapped up with a pretty bow.
This is not "inspirational" in the fake way of our world today
This is a war-cry from the other side of the grave.
Part cosmic horror, part love letter written in blood and skull fragments to the children he left behind, My Suicide is the book Herman Hesse's Steppenwolf would have written if he'd had seven kids, a military job, and a Spotify playlist full of Radiohead and Slipknot.
Readers are calling it:
"The most terrifying argument against suicide I've ever read, and the most convincing reason some mornings still feel impossible."
"This book is chaos--loud, neon-colored darkness, and I'm obsessed. My Suicide dives straight into intrusive thoughts, mental struggles, and identity with no filter. It's uncomfortable in all the right ways and weirdly beautiful in its honesty. If you like books that punch you emotionally and make you think about the world differently, add this to your TBR ASAP."
"Like if Dante's Inferno and The Shining had a baby raised by Lovecraft on a diet of pure despair and fatherly love."
"I finished at 11 p.m. and immediately called my dad. I've never done that before."
If you've ever stared at the ceiling at 4 a.m. wondering if anyone would really miss you, this book will grab you by the throat, drag you through every circle of your own private hell, and shove the truth in your face:
You're wrong about how little you matter.
Dark, unrelenting, shockingly funny, and soaked in more love than seems possible for a story that begins with a shotgun blast to the head, My Suicide is a book the Void doesn't want you to read.
Because some lighthouses are built out of corpses, and sometimes the only way to save the people you love is to show them exactly where you went when you tried to leave them behind.
Warning: Contains graphic depictions of suicide, self-harm, childhood trauma, cosmic horror, and the kind of love that survives all of it. If you are in crisis, turn to the back page; there's an email waiting for you.
For the Mad Ones. For the ones still holding on. For the ones who didn't.
Very excited to announce my third book, to be released 13 December:
My Suicide, Or: The Death of a Steppenwolf—For Mad People Only
From Barrel to Blood—An Odyssey Through Madness, Myths, and Multiverse Mayhem.
He put the shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger, desperate to end the endless war inside his skull.
He woke up somewhere far worse.
What follows is the most savage, beautiful, and brutally honest suicide note ever written, except the author is still alive, damned to wander the afterlife he tried his whole life to reach, and forced to confront the real price of the "peace" he thought death would bring.
The Suicide was a husband, a father, a soldier, and a nobody who hated the modern world with every atom of his being. Depression didn't just visit him; it moved in, turned the lights out, and whispered to him his children would be better off without him. One night, the whisper won. He ate a load of double-ought buckshot and expected oblivion.
Instead, he opened his eyes in a freezing river of blood beneath a tree made of severed arms and dangling eyes. His soul floated above him in a green orb, severed from his being. Thus begins a relentless odyssey across impossible after-worlds, each one custom-built to punish the exact regrets that drove him to the barrel.
Armed (eventually) with only a flaming sword and a winning personality, the Suicide fights his way through the bureaucracy of hell, kills god-like beings older than the stars, and discovers the horrifying truth: suicide doesn't end pain. It just changes the address.
This is not a redemption story wrapped up with a pretty bow.
This is not "inspirational" in the fake way of our world today
This is a war-cry from the other side of the grave.
Part cosmic horror, part love letter written in blood and skull fragments to the children he left behind, My Suicide is the book Herman Hesse's Steppenwolf would have written if he'd had seven kids, a military job, and a Spotify playlist full of Radiohead and Slipknot.
Readers are calling it:
"The most terrifying argument against suicide I've ever read, and the most convincing reason some mornings still feel impossible."
"This book is chaos--loud, neon-colored darkness, and I'm obsessed. My Suicide dives straight into intrusive thoughts, mental struggles, and identity with no filter. It's uncomfortable in all the right ways and weirdly beautiful in its honesty. If you like books that punch you emotionally and make you think about the world differently, add this to your TBR ASAP."
"Like if Dante's Inferno and The Shining had a baby raised by Lovecraft on a diet of pure despair and fatherly love."
"I finished at 11 p.m. and immediately called my dad. I've never done that before."
If you've ever stared at the ceiling at 4 a.m. wondering if anyone would really miss you, this book will grab you by the throat, drag you through every circle of your own private hell, and shove the truth in your face:
You're wrong about how little you matter.
Dark, unrelenting, shockingly funny, and soaked in more love than seems possible for a story that begins with a shotgun blast to the head, My Suicide is a book the Void doesn't want you to read.
Because some lighthouses are built out of corpses, and sometimes the only way to save the people you love is to show them exactly where you went when you tried to leave them behind.
Warning: Contains graphic depictions of suicide, self-harm, childhood trauma, cosmic horror, and the kind of love that survives all of it. If you are in crisis, turn to the back page; there's an email waiting for you.
For the Mad Ones. For the ones still holding on. For the ones who didn't.
