Author of romance with a body count
I wanna be nasty
I wanna be mean
I wanna be rude
I wanna be obscene
I'm sick of being a good girl
I wanna go off rail
I'm tired of playing safe
I want an epic fail
I wanna tell you to your face
What I really think
I'll make my mouth a haven
Every time I speak
Photo by Oleg Ivanov on Unsplash
What am I even doing here? I thought, backed into the dark alcove by the swarm of men, one of them armed. I really, really shouldn’t be here.
The foyer was huge but the house old and quirky with its oddly placed nooks. The one I occupied let me keep an eye on my fallen elderly neighbor without getting in EMS’s way.
At the moment, I couldn’t see her over the tops of the EMTs’ heads. The young one with the ponytail was saying he could give her a dose of something to keep her calm, and then they could transport.
“Let me know,” the responding officer said, and I begged my brain and body to please, please unfreeze.
I knew it was 2025, that I was standing in the foyer, that the person on the floor was my neighbor, not Mike lying unresponsive on the bottom of the stairs. My neighbor was deaf but otherwise very much present.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” she told the EMTs.
“We might have to dose her.”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek, my anxiety growing.
“I want my niece!” my neighbor wailed.
“Let me see how far away your niece is,” our other neighbor Carrie said, already redialing.
“If there’s no family or power of attorney,” the younger EMT was saying again, “and she can’t respond to questions, we have to take her.”
It was 2025, and not Mike, but something about the situation was eerily familiar. It wasn’t til later that I figured it out. When they were talking about taking her in even though she’d been loud and clear that she wanted to wait for her family, my brain cut to all the times I’ve been in the ER, fighting to advocate for myself or Mike to providers who don’t (for whatever reason) listen. Most recently, he’d fallen again due to an issue with his legs from the initial TBI in December 2023. We went to the ER by ambulance, and many hours later, when I went home to get some rest, staff left him in a forgotten corner, with a fall risk bracelet, full bladder, and no one to help him to the bathroom, go over his test results, or even just check on him. When I came back the next morning, their social worker tried telling me I needed to put him in 24-hour care, and that he’d forget all about me or that he was even there.
Mike was a little sleep deprived, dealing with a migraine after another fall, and (understandably) angry that he was being ignored. Despite the shitty situation, he was fully aware and alert. Not someone you’d put in long-term care.
Lightning doesn’t strike twice—usually—but I still wasn’t gonna let EMTs dope up my neighbor and take her to the ER. Best case scenario, she’d sit for a few hours, scared and stubborn, where they might not have the patience to let her self-advocate.
97 years old now, she was still working 10 years ago when Mike and I first moved in. I remember her and Mary giving me mums they’d gotten from work, just because I’d commented the ones on their porch were so pretty. Even then, I was impressed they were both still working at the factory. Impressed, and sad, because I know how hard it is to get by.
“Family is on the way,” I reminded the eager EMT.
“We’ll take our time, then,” the older EMT said, gently rubbing my neighbor’s back. They’d finally convinced her to let them help her up from the floor and onto her bed. She refused to admit whether she was hurt, stubbornly resisting.
Not that I could blame her.
Even though she’s 97, and deaf, and can’t really see, she’s very much still with it. She will cuss out anyone and everyone, keeps her apartment immaculate, and chats with the mailman every morning. Every time I’ve had to call EMTs for Mike this past year, she’s poked her head out and checked in, worried about us.
This is her home. It was also her home with Mary, who passed away a few years ago. That night, I heard her crying for Mary and went right down to check on them. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything we could do, other than sit with her until EMTs and then family came.
I felt even more useless yesterday. Because of my lupus and endometriosis, I tend to hibernate for long periods of time. One of my neighbors once jokingly commented, “I didn’t know you drive.” At the tattoo shop Mike apprenticed at, the artists busted Mike’s balls that he didn’t really have a wife. “I do exist,” I told them with a laugh the first time I was able to visit.
My neighbor didn’t seem to recognize me at all, but thankfully she’d become familiar with our other first floor neighbor, Carrie.
“We’ll take it nice and slow, as long as it takes to keep her safe and not scared,” the older EMT said. The others acquiesced, and I finally started to come back into my own body.
“Thank you, guys,” I said, hoping I inflected my words with the deep gratitude I felt. I knew I was potentially overstepping my role as neighbor seen and not heard, but I’ve seen firsthand how people fall through the cracks in the system. Some people even get shoved through the cracks. Carrie and I were doing our best putting the pieces together for the EMTs, but we aren’t family and we don’t really know her. I don’t know her D.O.B. or her medications, for example. I don’t know who has P.O.A. or what her rights as an elderly woman are.
I do know that if I were her, I’d want my sovereignty and dignity preserved. I definitely wouldn’t want to be drugged up, carted into an ambulance, and taken to the hospital without my consent.
In certain circumstances, they have to. If my neighbor truly had no one, she’d be stuck on the floor, unable to care for herself. If I hadn’t waited to take my shower, and heard her fall and calling out, and Carrie hadn’t happened to stop home quick for her dog, she could’ve been on the floor for days. So I got why the EMTs were considering that option.
But it wasn’t necessary.
Suddenly I understood exactly why I was there.
Even in my trauma brain state, I was able to advocate for her. She made it clear she wanted to wait for her family, and they weren’t really listening—they were asking me if she had dementia. Carrie and I looked at each other and laughed; she’d just cussed out our landlord the other day, but not because of dementia!
If I’d just called 911 from upstairs and continued about my day rather than going down, if Carrie hadn’t stopped home to let out her dog, the EMTs more than likely would’ve taken her under a PEER/PREE and she would’ve sat in a forgotten corner of the ER for who knows how long before family was contacted.
I kept going into freeze state with flashbacks, and evidently it was noticeable because that same empathetic EMT asked if I was okay. But I pushed through it, reminding myself that as awkward as I felt, I was there for a reason. My job, I understood, was to witness, and support whatever my neighbor wanted.
I’d enacted girl code.
It’s a thing we do, often without words exchanged. We have to, because the system isn’t structured for us. It doesn’t protect us. Often, it exploits us.
And now, more than ever, we need girl code.
So I’m enacting it, worldwide, right here, right now.
Often, we feel like, “What can I do? I’m just… well… me.”
This is what we do. We enact girl code, and we adhere to it no matter what happens. No matter how small a difference it seems. Because actually, girl code is everything.
The system pits us against each other, but girl code applies to all. I’ve seen girl code executed by and for complete strangers. Girl code defies the system. It’s the most basic resistance. We look out for each other just because.
Girl code shall be enacted from here on, for all girls and women, regardless of difference in color, race, ethnicity, ability, age, status, station, title, or identity (including transgender women and nonbinary people; girl code does not differentiate “wombyn”).
We are one.
We are legion.
This is it, ladies.
It’s go time.
Edit: In light of the presidential executive order that designates all American people as female, I’m enacting girl code worldwide for all. We now all have each other’s backs, no matter what.
Photo by Library of Congress on Unsplash
It’s hard to not feel hopeless now that Trump has been re-elected. I hoped I wouldn’t even have to type that sentence. My first thought, upon waking and seeing the election results last week, was “I woke up in the wrong America.” My second thought: “Actually, this is exactly right.”
This is who America is. And it’s time to face that truth, no matter how painful.
This country was happy to, yet again, put all of its problems and hopes onto a black woman. We wanted “Momala” to come in and fix all our boo-boos. And this country would rather elect a convicted felon and rapist than a black woman.
Tells ya everything you need to know about this wild, wacky place I call home.
Our society is so fucking dysfunctional, it’s hard to know where to start to address all of its problems. I hoped that we’d make the right choice, elect someone qualified and capable, and maybe start moving in the right direction. I mean, my local Fox news was actually talking about changing Columbus Day to Indigenous People day! Things really were looking up.
Now we’ve got climate change, healthcare, and other crises at our door, and there are no grownups in the room. I know from experience that we can’t rely on Trump or his cabinet to actually govern. And maybe this place is just too big to govern. Maybe it’s time states secede into their own countries. There are too many differences in ideals and approach, too little agreement on morals and values.
The next four years are going to be hard, probably in ways no one can predict. We’re already seeing the effects of global warming. In my home state Connecticut, there are currently over 100 wildfires because the summer and fall have been exceptionally warmer and drier than normal. The entire state is under an outdoor burn ban, because with the wind and dry conditions, and so many fires currently out of control, the risk of more fire is too high.
I can’t remember a time when my state was burning. Not like this.
Not to be an alarmist, but the climate isn’t the only imminent change. It’s just the one we can see, hear, feel, and smell.
I’m a survivor. I’ve survived much in my short thirty-six years on this planet, and I’ll continue to survive. I don’t know what the next four years will look like, but I do know within me I hold the capacity to hope, survive, and love. Those are things that can’t be taken away.
Photo by Almos Bechtold on Unsplash
Today makes five years since my Noni died. My grandmother was the absolute love of my life, my best friend, and I was devastated when we lost her in 2019. So much so, sometimes I wonder if it triggered my major lupus flare that began just a few months later. Her death was a major blow to my family and at the time, I had no idea how any of us would go on without her.
Noni was a constant presence in my life and my biggest support. We were both on chemo at the same time for different reasons, and compared notes on side effects and how at least we didn’t have to shave our legs. Of all my friends and family, she was the only one who understood how devastating it is to be chronically ill. She got my dark humor and I never had to sugarcoat things for her.
But before that, she was like a second mother to me. My parents had me just as they both turned 18. They were babies themselves, but loved me (and later my sister) enough to ask for help. (Not easy for teenagers to do!) The three of us lived with my grandparents and, when I was just a few weeks old, I went to the lake with Noni and Popi for the first time. We were inseparable in the years that followed. When I started my publishing career, she was my biggest fan and most constant reader.
Losing her blew me apart in ways I’m still putting together. I grew up without a lot of money but with a lot of love, and much of that is because of Noni. For the first few years without her, I kind of just fumbled through, suddenly doused in darkness. It didn’t help that a major lupus flare started, followed by the pandemic. Life seemed to pull no punches, and time after time I found myself in situations where I wished Noni was here. She always listened to me, never telling me what to do, letting me find my own way with her unwavering support. Her love felt incredible—everyone who knew her knows what it was like, the kind of love that carries you through decades long after she’s gone. I have been loved, and I have been loved well.
Realizing that was how I survived.
Now I sing to my niece the way Noni sang with me when I was little. I cook food and pack away extra for people like she did. I smile at strangers because the love that I hold in me from her is too big not to share. I’m building a beautiful little life that I’m proud of the same way my grandparents did.
Doing these things is how I’ll survive the next five.
Photo by Sandy Millar on Unsplash
For fuck’s sake, “sex” isn’t a bad word.
A few years ago, people started a trend of hate-reporting in the book/author community (similar to the one-star bombing of ye olde days). Basically, a petty person reports another post for abuse, getting it taken down while the social media person (or bot) reviews it. It devolved from there; with the explosive growth of social media during the pandemic and shutdowns, it was getting too much to manage, so companies started deploying AI to handle reports. If you’ve ever been in Facebook or Instagram jail, you know how poorly this system works.
Case in point: A couple weeks ago, one of my private accounts got banned from commenting. Whether I’m on my public persona (author) or personal accounts, I make it a point to always leave positive comments (or say nothing at all). So I truly have no idea what I said to upset the bots. (The comment that automatically got flagged and subsequently got me banned from commenting was, and I quote: “I swear the door only squeaks at night!” For context, the Reel was about how daytime sounds are a million times louder at night.) Over the years, I’ve heard a lot of similar stories akin to war tales about how various friends “got Zuck’d.”
We did this to ourselves.
To bypass the petty reports and bot flags, authors and readers alike started self-censoring. I get it; no one wants to deal with the hassle of a jailed account, especially if you get a high volume of engagement. Social media is now viewed as a currency nearly more valuable than actual money. It’s incredibly frustrating to watch your hard work get Zuck’d by AI that doesn’t understand context or nuance or sarcasm. The problem is, AI learns by what it consumes. Once we collectively started self-censoring, we unwittingly confirmed that “sex” is in fact a bad word.
As an artist, this really bugs me.
As a romance author, this enrages me.
Especially as a writer with a small social media following.
It was already challenging to get views on posts. It’s harder than ever now. I’ve noticed that when I post excerpts using any of the “dirty” words, I don’t get flagged, I’m just quietly stifled. Posts that perform well on one platform barely get 100 views on another. I refuse to self-censor to appease stupid AI or puritanical people. “Sex” is not a bad word. These platforms were created for adult use—most of them require users to be 14 years of age, and I know damn well my 14-year-old niece has heard worse than “seggs”—aimed at Millennials as we aged out of high school (RIP, MySpace). Facebook was originally made for college Millennials. TikTok, formerly known as musical.ly, was specifically created to share music (a form of art).
Books—yes, even romance, haters—are an art form. When authors and readers share excerpts, it’s a form of expression. When we self-censor (for example, turning “sex” into “seggs”), we’re stifling that expression. It also just looks ridiculous. (The irony of grown adults reading spicy romance while unable to bring themselves to type out the word “cock” doesn’t escape me.)
It’s gone so far, even Ariana Grande is self-censoring.
In her latest single, “Yes, And?”, she sings “say that shit with your chest and / be your own fucking best friend” in the uncensored version. In the same explicit version, she purposely bleeps out the word “dick” in the line “Why do you care so much whose dick I ride?”
This is an interesting choice since, just a few years ago, she released a song with the lyrics “wrist icicle, ride dick bicycle,” with the word “dick” loud and proud in both the explicit and radio-friendly versions of the song. It’s a sudden pivot from someone whose entire discography revolves around fiercely proud sexuality and lyrics to match.
It’s weird that Gen X and Millennials, who grew up flipping off the establishment, are now the biggest proponents of self-censorship, falling into line behind Gen Z (who seem overly sensitive to offending anyone, including AI).
I grew up in an era of fierce artistic expression. It kicked off in 1990 with the fight against Parental Advisory labels, continued with Prince changing his name to a symbol so that no one could own him, and escalated with gamers protesting the ESRB ratings brought on by the media blaming video games for violence. I so passionately believe in artistic freedom, I’m not even sure I love the wave of discreet romance covers. (Why are people ashamed to be reading romance and erotica in 2024? Ignore the haters and enjoy the smut!)
Maybe it’s because I’m an ’80s baby who cut my teeth on the ’90s no apologies attitude, but I just can’t get on board with self-censorship.
Fuck that.
Featured image via studiostoks / depositphotos
My husband left, and I was out of Dawn.
But I had a Benlysta hangover.
It wasn’t a bad one, compared to other weekends. Sometimes my injections completely wipe me out. Sometimes there’s diarrhea and muscle aches. I dragged my ass to the store, proud of myself for making it out of the house—and on my own, to boot. I’m never more grateful for everything Mike does for me than on the weekends he’s at a convention. It’s the little things like grabbing Dawn on his way home during the week that make life easier for me. It’s always empowering when I do something on my own, though, reclaiming pieces of myself that UCTD took.
I walked through the store saying hello to everyone I passed. I smiled at a pair of teen boys because their hairstyles reminded me of my oldest godson. That floppy, curly hair that every boy is currently rocking. I grabbed my $10 jug of Dawn and got in line. A lone cashier was checking out an elderly couple, and the husband of the pair kept apologizing to the rest of us in line for their long order.
“You are just fine,” we all assured him.
I was thinking about my next stop—mentally preparing, kinda just lost in thought. Tuning out those same teen boys talking shit to each other. Some boys/men have this weird love language where they playfully verbally abuse each other. I don’t get it, but when I gained a couple brothers-in-law, I learned it’s usually harmless. So I wasn’t fully paying attention until I heard, “You’re a fucking f*ggot, I’mma beat your ass. My brother’s a f*ggot, and I beat his ass for it.”
A white boy, using a blaccent, trying to sound hood and hard. I still thought maybe he was talking shit to his friend, so while I didn’t love what he was saying, and I’m kinda tired of small town white kids talking like that when they wouldn’t last ten minutes in the actual hood, I was trying to ignore it. Then everything happened fast.
Everyone acted at the same time. It was like all of us in the front end of the store discussed it and coordinated, but we didn’t. It just happened. You can’t tell me groupthink is a bad thing anymore. Not after what I experienced.
(FYI, I’m referring to people as how they presented, but please keep in mind I don’t mean it in any way other than just differentiating each person for clarity. Cool? Cool.)
The female cashier stepped out from behind the counter, calling for the male employee on shift. “John!”
“Yeah!” The way he said it, he already knew what she was going to say, and there was no need for her to finish. He came up front, along with a second female cashier who started ringing out the next customer.
“You can’t talk to him like that,” the first cashier said to the teen boys. “You gotta leave.”
“They started it,” they insisted.
“Nope. Out,” I said, along with the other customers in line. “Not cool.”
The other thirty-something woman in line, who’d already checked out via the second cashier, walked over to me and the first female cashier, also telling the boys they had to go.
As they slunk out of the store, the second cashier reminded them that we live in a small town; if she called the cops, they’d be at the store in two seconds.
Just as I was wondering where the other party to this was, two very scared looking teens inched out of the aisles and into the line.
“We didn’t even do anything,” the blonde teen girl said. “I don’t understand.”
“Yeah, like, am I going to get jumped out there?” The Latino teen boy, wearing a crop top, looked so young, even as he tried to laugh it off.
“No you’re not,” I said. “We’ll walk you out.”
“Did you guys drive here?” the other thirty-something woman asked.
“We walked,” the girl said.
“Then I’ll drive you. Wherever you’re going,” she said. “Just excuse my messy car and the kids in the back seat.”
“I guess we’ll go back to my house, then. We’re not far,” the girl said. “I don’t even know if they’re still out there.”
“I looked. They’re gone,” the mom said. “And I’ll drive you home.”
I walked out first, checking the parking lot again because I didn’t trust that they’d actually left. I don’t think I’ve ever shared this with you, but when I was in seventh grade, I was jumped by another girl. Twice. The second time, she stalked me home.
As suspected, I immediately spotted a car with a bumper sticker that said “I only get pulled over by gay cops.” No mystery who it belonged to. And just as I was watching the mom get into her car with the teen girl and boy, the other teens walked out of the adjacent Auto Zone and got into the car I’d clocked—with a third boy who I hadn’t even noticed in DG.
I waited until I saw the mom’s car pull out, then I left, too. Thankfully the assholes hadn’t noticed them get into that car.
I drove away shaking with adrenaline and anger/sadness that people are still so closed-minded that they’re teaching their children that this behavior is okay. Clearly they learned that shit somewhere. But I was also really proud of everyone in that DG. Especially the employees, who handled it calmly and quickly. What was wild was how everyone immediately stood together to protect that boy, without even conferring, without even seeing who we were protecting. We just jumped in, assisting as a team even though none of us knew each other. It truly was incredible. We were the adults I needed as a teen. The adults so many of us needed.
What got me was, the punks didn’t seem to even know the teens they were harassing. They apparently saw the crop top and were triggered by a piece of clothing. (By the way, who is allowed to wear crop tops? Because teen girls get called slutty, and thirty-something women get told we’re too old, and apparently teen boys can’t wear them, either? I don’t even know if he was gay, or trans, or non-binary, or just wearing something that’s currently wildly popular yet still somehow so very offensive.)
I like to think that it’s now cool to be queer, that the balance has shifted and those of us labeled as weird when I was in high school are now accepted, or even popular. Then something like this happens and reminds me that queerphobia is very much still rampant. But what has gotten better is how people respond to it. Even total strangers at DG.
Your local hermit author Auntie Liz has no problem washing dishes—or washing out potty mouths. That’s the power of Dawn.
Photo by Matthew Tkocz on Unsplash
Welcome to my ARC team! Whether you’re on a tight book budget or want to be more involved with my releases, I’m so happy to have you.
One of the retailers I’d really love more reviews on is Apple Books.
Looking to join my ARC team? Join my email list to be the first to know when more spots open up! Click here.
Apple Books is a little tricky. You have to have some kind of Apple device to use the app. Somehow I’d forgotten this little hurdle, so color me surprised when I went to put together this post!
If you don’t have an Apple device, that’s totally okay. I really appreciate your Amazon, Nook, BookBub, and other reviews!
If you do have an iPhone, MacBook, or some other Apple device, here’s how to post your review.
By the way, if you’re an Apple user and on my ARC team, please let me know! I’ve got Apple Books codes for all of my books, meaning you won’t have to use BookFunnel or otherwise sideload my books to read and review them. Email me at ARCteam@elizabethbaronebooks.com
My current goal is to reach at least 15 reviews for each book. Thank you so much for your help!
If you have any questions, send me an email at ARCteam@elizabethbaronebooks.com
If you’ve read A Fatal Prospect, please post a review! Reviews are for readers, not authors, but they do help me out quite a bit.
There are quite a few myths about reviews—sorry, 50 or more reviews don’t trigger Amazon marketing—so here’s how they actually help.
If you could post a review for A Fatal Prospect, whether you loved or hated it, I’d really appreciate it!
Not sure how to post a review? Here are some tips!
Where to post your review:
Thank you so much!
If you’ve read Her Mercy, please post a review! Reviews are for readers, not authors, but they do help me out quite a bit.
There are quite a few myths about reviews—sorry, 50 or more reviews don’t trigger Amazon marketing—so here’s how they actually help.
If you could post a review for Her Mercy, whether you loved or hated it, I’d really appreciate it!
Not sure how to post a review? Here are some tips!
Where to post your review:
Thank you so much!
If you’ve read A Risky Prospect, please post a review! Reviews are for readers, not authors, but they do help me out quite a bit.
There are quite a few myths about reviews—sorry, 50 or more reviews don’t trigger Amazon marketing—so here’s how they actually help.
If you could post a review for A Risky Prospect, whether you loved or hated it, I’d really appreciate it!
Not sure how to post a review? Here are some tips!
Where to post your review:
Thank you so much!