short story – J. V. Montague

I fall off the face of the Earth, then I crop back up again like nothing ever happened. Typical. Well, I’ve debuted! I’m now an ‘official’ author, doing official author things (like procrastinating on updating this site again).

What have I debuted?

On December 17, I released The Stolen Dagger, a short story that follows Montoya and Rose, two adventures, as they spend the holidays at home. Here is the blurb:

December 1920
After their first adventure of getting the Golden Heart, Montoya and Rose are ready for a quiet Christmas back home, in New York. Montoya invites Rose to his family’s estate to spend their first holidays together. But Rose and the Estate have many secrets up their sleeves–secrets that will destroy Montoya and his family. Friendships are tested and trust goes up in flames as gunshots ring through the air like sleigh bells.
The Stolen Dagger is a short story that follows the events of The Golden Heart, but stands on its own as a story.
The Misadventures of Montoya and Rose is perfect for fans of Indiana Jones and The Mummy.

If you’re interested in reading it yourself, you check check it out on Amazon here, and you can add it to GoodReads here.

So… where is The Golden Heart if this story follows that book? It’s uh, it’s in the works.

Then why release a short story that follows the events of The Golden Heart if The Golden Heart isn’t even released yet? Because I wanted to.

Absolutely fantastic marketing strategy, I know. However, they’re disconnected enough to where they stand on their own as narratives, and while there are references to The Golden Heart in The Stolen Dagger, you don’t need to have read The Golden Heart in order to understand the short story.

The Story Behind the Story

It was November 27, 2021, and I was possessed by the Christmas spirit (sounds rather violent when you phrase it that way), and I wanted to write a short story surrounding my beloved characters. I posted a poll on Instagram asking if people wanted to read it, and it was a 100% poll on ‘yes’.

Initially I anticipated the short story to be nothing more than 3k words and something I could post here. Low steaks, something fun, nothing big.

Wrong.

As I wrote, the story started getting more defined and it took on a plot and theme of its own. Once I surpassed it being 10k words, I seriously contemplated using it as my debut; polishing it up to the best of my ability, formatting it, and tossing it onto the wilds of Amazon to see how it’d fair. To finally say that I am a published author. I wanted to challenge myself, to see if I had the gull to draft, revise, edit, design a cover for, and publish my work in less than a month.

I have no idea what I was on because I knew full well that I have finals, and as the month progressed, I applied for a job, and I was wrapping up some major school projects.

Every morning, I woke up even earlier than I normally do (about 5:30 am) and worked on The Stolen Dagger. Whatever spare moment I had gone to the short.

I cried. A lot. I placed myself under an absurd amount of pressure to see how far I could go. And I sacrificed so much to make it to this point.

But I did it.

And I did it early.

Originally, it was supposed to be released on December 22, however, my beta readers were able to give me lightning-fast feedback. So, I was able to implement their critiques and get things moving. Even uploading the file to Amazon went much faster than I thought.

The Stolen Dagger released, much to everyone’s surprise, on December 17, 2021.

Lessons Learned

Don’t write and release anything in a month during finals, while applying for a job, while finishing up a semester, while Christmas encroaches, right after you finished writing a book. Bad idea.

TERRIBLE IDEA.

DON’T DO IT.
– Nike or something like that

Sorry to yell, I didn’t mean to sound rude, but the skinny of it is while I can push myself to those kinds of limits, I shouldn’t. If I thought I was sacrificing quality to published, I wouldn’t have done it, but for some reason, I could sacrifice my own well-being in order to pull of this bull-headed idea.

Some of the feedback I got terrified me, and I know that’s because I was in an altered state of mind. I was so keen on making it, that I broke myself.

A week before the story was supposed to publish, I was home alone, sitting on the couch, paper copy of The Stolen Dagger in my hand. I scrolled through the feedback on my phone. Under the glow of multi-colored Christmas light, hot tears rolled down my cheeks and landed on the paper, smudging the ink. I crumpled in on myself, falling into the chasm of panic and fear.

This is terrible and everyone will hate it. What makes you think you can publish? What right do you have to do this? Stupid, stupid child. No one will want to pay for this. No on will care. Everyone who has ever complimented you lied because you can’t face the truth, and this is proof.

I asked myself: is it worth it?

The answer was a quiet ‘yes’.

‘Yes’ because I love the story and I love the characters even more. A ‘yes’ because I’ve gotten this far, I just need to push a little more. A ‘yes’ because this is my dream, no matter how awake I am.

Something more practical I learned: feedback is confusing.

I thought that feedback would be more straightforward. Like, someone would just say “oh, I don’t like X” and then I would immediately know how to fix “X”. I didn’t even question if ‘X’ needed to be fixed in the first place.

Wrong, once more.

Feedback is vital to the creative process, duh. But in all of my research, no one prepared me for how absolutely and utterly maddening it can be.

If I don’t take this person’s perspective into account, then the story will be awful. If I don’t somehow incorporate the contradicting feedback, then the story will be awful.

Drawing the line between what is useful and what is opinion is a separate skill on its own. A skill I will need years and many projects to master.

Pride

I’m proud of myself. While I will forever have those deafening insecurities about my writing, and about The Stolen Dagger, I did it. Using the abilities I have, and nothing but the wind in my sails to achieve my goals, I did it.

And I feel fantastic.

Like just finished some intense sprints, fantastic.

Like climbing a mountain fantastic.

Like seeing an ‘A’ on my final paper fantastic.

I did it. But you can bet your britches I will never do it again.

Expectations

The Stolen Dagger is not going to sell well, it is not going to gain massive attraction, and it most certainly will not put me out onto the map. I’m not saying this to be self-deprecating, or to make you pity me, it’s just a fact of publishing with absolutely no marketing behind me, with no readership, and with no prior works; it’s the reality of self publishing.

And I’m okay with that.

I know that releasing a holiday-themed short story that follows the expository book that isn’t even out yet is a terrible marketing strategy, and goes against all of the advice I’ve researched. I’m willing to take that hit.

I don’t need to reach those materialistic goals because that’s not why I wrote and put the story out there. I charge for the story because I put in so much effort and I think it deserves to be paid for.

I understand that people will say that I shouldn’t place my work behind a paywall because this story is not something worthy to pay for. So, don’t buy it. I believe in the quality of my work right now, and I believe that it’s respectable, even if others don’t agree with me. It’s the internet, and everyone is opinionated.

Conclusion

I broke down a fortress for myself by writing and releasing a short story. And doing within the time constraints I gave myself made me shove past my insecurities and just achieve my goals.

If you’ve read to this point, thank you. Do or don’t buy The Stolen Dagger, but thank you for being here, and thank you for reading.

(Happy Holidays and if you celebrate, Merry Christmas. May you find rest and may you celebrate with those you love.)

So you have come again, little lamb? Tell me, where is your family? Your shepherd, your herd? You come so very alone, little lamb. You stomp through the forest like it’s yours, you gaze upon the trees like they’ll sing, you humm a tuneless tune to keep the shadows at bay.

I know what’s underneath your layers of clothing, under you skin and you muscles, I know what makes up your brittle, broken bones. Oh little lamb, turn back now my sweet. They’re searching for you. Of course you don’t hear them calling your name. You never listened before, so why listen now?

You’re going to save them, are you? You’re going to walk into my land and take back what was never yours, little lamb? Tell me, are you going to keep the screams that ripped out of their raw throats? You can have them; they’re still echoing around in the frosty air.

They won’t come to your calls, little lamb. They never could. They’re rotting into the soil as we speak. Their fluids are making the leaves underneath them soggy, the buzzards are pecking out their eyes, the wolves have ravaged their flesh. You’ll smell them before you could ever see them. Your stomach will twist into knots, you’ll go pale, you’ll have to lean up against one of my trees as you spew out your guts. I’m sure the maggots will be twisting and crawling around in their skulls. What good treats they make!

Oh little lamb, I cannot wait for you to fall. How long will it take you, hm? A week, a month, maybe three? Watch as the night grows closer, how the moon hides behind her clouds. Listen as my forest stills around you, as the leaves stop whispering in the highest branches, as a brave owl hoots — mocking your name. You’ll stumble around for shelter, hugging your thinning arms about you, shivering, chattering, wasting water with hopeless tears.

There’s nothing in the sky that wants to smile down on you, for there’s only the insatiable hunger of all that hides. They will eat you as they have eaten the ones that you love.

What now little lamb? You lay on the earth in a ball, still. But you breathe. You are nothing more than the dirt you lie upon. That’s the problem with creatures like you, always taking more, chipping away at me and what I am, for your own benefit. What of your mother? Will she follow you like your father did?

They would still be alive if it weren’t for you, little lamb. You would still be able to to have their warm arms wrapped around you, their soft words being whispered into your ears, you would be full, your cheeks rosy, you smile wide. But no. You had to take.

Now you watch as snow settles down onto your stiff body. You don’t have the energy to shiver anymore. Your blood is thick as sap as it settles. Ice snakes up your face, holding it like a mother would hold her newborn. Your heart is laying down to rest — the last thing to go.

It’s too late for you have killed another, little lamb.