Chapter Twenty-Eight of Xiao Xiao

Something’s wrong with WordPress, but here it is:


Wolf At The Door will now be published under/by Fox Spirit Books.

So, right now, you have three days to get it (!) before it goes offline on Friday.

Chapter Twenty-Seven of Xiao Xiao

One of the saddest chapters I have written – I feel so sorry for her!

Chapter Twenty-Six of Xiao Xiao

The Wishes Fly Up To Heaven


Chapter Twenty-Five of Xiao Xiao

is up and running: Impasse!

Chapter 12 of Starfang is up

The final chapter is up and running: Chapter 12. Thank you so much for reading!

Holdfast Magazine Anthology

needs your help! In order to turn their first-ever print anthology to reality, they need your contributions.

And they are big on diversity!

“Read about a time-travelling law enforcer making a difficult choice, a cursed cycling tour that goes hopelessly and hilariously wrong, and what happens when the drugs don’t work on Sleeping Beauty in our fiction section. Discover what shark brains look like (spoiler: a human uterus), find out about the underrepresentation of Black women in science fiction, read a thank you letter to Margaret Atwood, and witness our attempts to convert a literary snob over to SFF in our non-fiction section.”

Chapter Twenty-Four of Xiao Xiao

The walls have eyes!

What I wrote last year and how it is still relevant in 2014

Robin Williams took his life yesterday. I heard the news on my way to school. To say that I am in shock is an understatement, but I hid it well at my workplace.

Depression is a cold-hearted beast, a Black Dog that morphs into a salivating hateful creature and stays with you. It hides, forcing you to think it’s back to normal. But it is always there. This is what I wrote last year:

There are moments when I feel trapped by circumstances and the resentment tastes like burnt gunpowder. Trust me. I want to attend cons. I want to attend big-ass literary festivals. Damn, I want to be recognized. But things like work and family are not going away. A writer needs to eat. A writer still needs to live. So when I see people talking about cons and geek stuff, I get… depressed and the real depression kicks in. Getting out of bed is a struggle. Getting myself to believe myself is a battle. How come I can’t do this? Why am I so unlucky? Why can I just shut up, pull my bootstraps up and “hang in there”?

For people who know me, I have hypertension. Then in the mid-2000s, I was diagnosed with depression. At the moment I look and feel ‘normal’, whatever ‘normal’ is. I hide it quite well, apparently, because people see the happy and cheerful Joyce.

At the moment I consider being alive a triumph.

What do all these things got to do with me as a writer? Writing helps me cope. Writing is breathing for me. Writing is an outlet, a world I can go in and be safe, feel safe. Yet the hydra of self-doubt is often lurking nearby. Sometimes I have it cowed. Sometimes I feed it and it grows bigger, more gnarly and hurtful. This will be a continual journey and battle for me until the day I stop writing and stop believing in myself.

So I keep on fighting, fighting and fighting.

Test-running a novelette

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