Nightmare : The Monkey Queen

Nightmares aren’t all super scary to other people. In fact, when I say I’m scared of monkeys, people often laugh. But trust me, there is nothing funny about it.

A few years ago I was asked to write about my phobia for Hidden Thoughts Press and this piece describes exactly what sort of chaos monkeys can cause. To read the PHOBIAS book in its entirety, it’s available on Amazon.


The Monkey Queen

by Emerian Rich

As a little girl, I had this reoccurring nightmare. Everything started nice and innocent. I was on a tropical island at a big luau. The dream was extremely vivid and in color, which was rare for me. A volcano in the distance spewed pink ash into the bright blue sky. The jungles were vibrant with life and color. Happy calypso music played in the background. All in attendance cheered as I was carried on a throne of bamboo and deposited at the head of a bedecked table. Dressed in a Hawaiian frock of loud oranges and greens, I sported a banana leaf skirt and flowers around my neck. Atop my head was a wreath weaved from vines and hibiscus flowers. I was fanned by palm fronds and hundreds of exotic fruits were paraded before me.

I remember the taste of the mangos, grapes, kiwi, bananas, and papaya. The smell of the tropical flowers and fruit lulled me into a false sense of peaceful tranquility. Cool ocean air wafted over me as if Mother Nature had found my perfect temperature and set the island’s thermostat to please me. In a word, it was paradise.

I was the only human there, but that didn’t bother me, because I was amongst friends. Snakes massaged my toes as they slithered past. Panthers and tigers yawned as they lay in the late afternoon sun. Macaws and toucans sang gleefully along with the drums beaten by tree frogs in tiki masks.

And then there were monkeys. Hundreds of the primates sat at my table and ate fruit, chattering happily as they paid homage to me, their ruler.

Little groups of two or three monkeys danced before me, putting on a show. They spun and twirled and did death-defying trapeze stunts. Several would come up at a time to honor me, or kiss my feet, or mist me with fragrant water. Some even sang or played musical instruments.

As the sun went down, torches were lit and the festivities got more rambunctious. Soon the merriment became too much for me. The crowd got rowdy and I closed my eyes, thinking I might pass out from exhaustion. It was eight o’clock and I knew I had to get home before my curfew.

As I stood, the music stopped and all the monkeys turned to me. Hundreds of little beady eyes stared, their tails curled upwards into question marks.

They asked a flurry of questions.

“What can we get you?”

“Are you well?”

“Do you need something to eat or drink?”

“Where are you going, my queen?”

I smiled and patted the one closest to me on the shoulder as I said, “It’s been lovely playing with you all, but now I must go home.”

The monkey put his tiny fingers on mine and said, “Oh no, you are our queen. You can never go home.”

I laughed at first, thinking he was joking, but as his fingers tightened on mine, I realized he was serious. Panic filled my heart and I screamed. I jumped down from my royal perch to the damp jungle floor. I ran as fast as I could through the dark jungle, trying to find my way home. I felt like Alice, running from all the cards. Vines tangled in my hair and lashed across my bare arms and legs as if trying to hold me back. I heard chattering and scampering of thousands of little monkeys chasing after me. The path never seemed to get clearer and as I looked around, I saw the menacing stares of red beady eyes at varying levels on trees, vines, and bushes. Every once in a while, I’d feel a scratch on my shoulder or tickle on my ankles and I could never find my way home.

With the touch of a whiskery kiss at my neck, visions of being pulled apart by minuscule monkey nails shook me awake.

My scream would bring Mom. I recounted the tale between labored breaths as my adolescent heart raced and tears blurred my eyes. She’d assure me that no monkeys were or would ever be in the house. Glancing around the room, I would spot several places they could squeeze in. Through the ripped screen on the open window, under the closet door, or from the heater vent leading to the basement. I knew the creatures would invade my home. No matter how harmless or accommodating monkeys seemed, they were out for blood.

I don’t know why I had these dreams. They were so real, they seemed like memories, not simply nightmares. Could they be a product of watching Jungle Book as a child? Were they past life memories or perhaps…a premonition?

As I grew up, my childhood nightmare blossomed into a full-blown phobia. Cute “Hang in There” posters on office walls featuring a monkey can conjure all kinds of horror stories in my mind. They are everywhere! Waiting to pluck out your eyeballs and juggle them for tips.

If you haven’t been terrorized by a hoard of primates chasing you through a jungle, you probably don’t realize just how many damned monkeys are around us every day. Curious George, Bubbles, Planet of the Apes, Barrel of Monkeys, Donkey Kong, Chunky Monkey, monkey emojis, monkey bread, sock monkeys, marmosets, orangutans, baboons, the list just doesn’t end! And don’t even get me started on those friggin’ cymbal clacking organ grinders.

When I hear in the news that some lady’s face was ripped off by a monkey, I’m not shocked. Did you ever see that movie Monkey Shines where a shoulder monkey terrorizes a man in a wheelchair? It should be turned into a public service film. I say, anyone who wants to own a monkey must watch this movie before adopting, because the things are evil, people!

I’ve tried to get over my primate aversion, but I just can’t do it. Photos of the creatures make me shiver. While other people fear typing a word in on Google and having porn or blasphemous content pop up, I panic about the possibility of seeing one of those fanged mouths open in what some would say a laugh, but I say an evil shriek. I wait in fear of the day they will attack, tiny nails digging into my skin, creating infested blotches all over my body. Have you seen the pygmy marmosets that are so small, they wrap themselves around your finger? My skin crawls at the thought of their little bodies embedding themselves under my skin. Chilling!

Despite my distaste for primates, one of them infiltrated my monkey-proof perimeter a few years back when my son was a baby. Being an alternative lifestyle, child of darkness, city dweller, people don’t normally give me things that might have monkeys on them. The Nightmare Before Christmas décor, spiders, and jack-o-lantern gifts abound, but primate nonsense? Not a whisper. I enjoyed this fact until I became pregnant with my son. Suddenly all sorts of cutesy baby gifts poured in, many of them monkey themed. Most of them went straight into the giveaway pile, but there was one soft, fuzzy blanket I fell in love with by touch before I realized its sinister side. When my fingertips found the blanket at the bottom of a pink polka-dot box, it felt like wisps of cloud from heaven. I held the blanket to my cheek for fully five minutes, breathing in the deep scent of baby lotion before my husband said, “Um, did you notice it has a monkey on it?”

Fear pierced my chest. I started breathing heavy and felt a tingle up my spine as if I were being watched. My first instinct was to throw the evil blanket across the room–to distance myself from such a vile, ghastly object–but the touch of the baby soft fabric made me hesitate. Was I being too judgmental, to chastise an item of such sensory enjoyment, just because some manufacturer had wrongly decided to decorate it with the image of my nemesis?

I ultimately put the blanket in the keep pile, somehow knowing my newborn child would adore it. As predicted, it’s become my son’s favorite blankie. Since his birth, I’ve had to endure hundreds of movies containing monkeys. I keep my head turned, eyes focused on something else, praying not to hear the shrill monkey squeals from my dreams. If I happen to miss the appearance of one of these creatures on the screen, my son will point and squeal with delight, “Momma don’t like monkeys!”

You would think my son’s innocent delight of the vile creatures would make them more acceptable in my eyes. That with every trek through the zoo or watching of a primate cartoon, it would get easier to see them, easier to push my fear in the background. No such luck. I’m still just as much a Pithikosophobian as ever.

I guess you could say a smidgen of the fear has gone, but is tolerance the same as acceptance? I don’t think so. I still get nervous when people start talking about marmosets or pretend to be a monkey as they hand me a banana. And every time I wash that blanket, I wonder if the monkey is mocking me. Perhaps one day, the little bugger will peel himself from the plush fleece and hop onto my shoulder, pledging his undying love and pulling at my hair ’til I scream. He may even take me back to Monkey Island.

But for now, the blanket can stay, as long as it behaves, keeps my son happy, and doesn’t sprout miniature fingers.


Update: The blanket did get thrown away (finally) much to my relief. My son is now fourteen and my home is once again a place of tranquil monkey-less bliss. Yet, every so often someone who doesn’t know me sends a monkey emoji or posts a monkey meme and my fear spins once again out of control.

My biggest fear is not the apocalypse. It’s an apocalypse where I am, alone with only primates as my companions. I’ve been told to write that book, that it would be the scariest tale I’ve told yet, but I’m afraid the only one it would instigate nightmares in would be me. And it’s just not worth the price.

Dark Dreams Excerpt Fiction Friday Emerian Rich

Read a free excerpt from Mark Slade’s anthology Dark Dreams.

product_thumbnail

Through the dark recesses of the dreamworld come strange stories of horror, terror and wonder, with a mysterious question: how can so many people have the same dreams?

Read Emerian Rich’s “Vampire Therapy” in this anthology of dream terror, Dark Dreams from Rogue Planet Press

Here are the stories from the minds of: Mark Slade, Thomas M. Malafarina, D. S. Scott, John C. Adams, Emerian Rich, Jason Norton, P. J. Griffin, Mr. Deadman, David Ludford, Joseph J. Patchen, Mark Tompkins, E. S. Wynn, Shawn Clay, Kevin Rees.

Cover and Art by Cameron Hampton

Read a free excerpt from Emerian Rich’s story, “Vampire Therapy” below.

***************************

Vampire Therapy

by Emerian Rich

“And how’s work?”

“Crap, as always.” Amy sat back on her therapist’s couch with a definitive slouch.

“And the dreams? Still the same?” Dr. Whitefield studied her with the same non-judgmental, impartial serenity she always did.

“Yes,” Amy answered. “I mean mostly, yes.”

“How do they differ?” Whitefield shifted in her chair and leaned forward. Perhaps interested in the change, or just interested to hear something—anything—different after three years of therapy. Maybe grasping at a straw, a small sliver of hope that she’d helped.

“Well, it still starts with Thomas. He’s in the park, it’s snowing as always and he is happy, walking through the winter wonderland. But he realizes the snow falling is ash and he runs. What’s different is now, when he turns the corner in the path to go through the tunnel, you know, where I am and he can’t ever get to me, there is a bed. One of those royal beds with curtains and all done up in red velvet.”

“Interesting.”

“And I’m there on the bed and there’s a man looming over me. He’s got long auburn hair and these eyes that…Well anyway, he’s good looking and he keeps covering me so Thomas can’t see.”

“And?”

“And that’s it. I wake up.”

“How does Thomas respond?”

“I don’t see his reaction. I just feel the man hovering over me.”

“Well, Amy, I think this is progress. I think your dreams are telling you, you are ready to think about dating someone new. As if your subconscious is telling you it’s okay to move on.”

“You think?”

“Yes, I do.” Whitehead sat back, a self-satisfied grin on her lips. “The next step for you, however, is to allow yourself to explore the possibility that there could be someone else in your life.”

Amy smiled even though she had no hope of shedding her grief. She wanted to tell the doctor that when she wakes up, she sees the man’s face in front of her. He looks her in the eyes and she feels herself lose all willpower. Those prismatic golden eyes. Then he plunges to her neck and disappears.

A chime from Whitehead’s desk signaled the session over and she stood to shake Amy’s hand.

“You’re doing very well. I’m proud of you. You’ve turned a corner, and I’m excited to see where this breakthrough will take you.”

“Me too.” Amy shook hands and stood, moving to the door.

“See you next week. And good news, soon we could be meeting less frequently.”

Amy smiled and turned on her heel. It had been three years since Thomas… Her nose started running before tears streamed down her face. Well, that was new. Usually her tears were the first to come. Thomas was gone. Passed away when terrorists targeted his law firm’s building in an attack. Everyone kept giving her the same line. She should be happy, they caught the bastards. But where did that leave her? Just because the criminals were caught didn’t mean her pain suddenly disappeared. She hadn’t even been able to bury her husband, there wasn’t enough left to recover. It was almost like Thomas would walk through the door at any moment. Like he left to pick up milk and just took the long way home.

“Sweet-ums, I’m home and I brought cookies!” she could hear his voice in her head as clear as day, but it was just in her head. Thomas was gone.

As she readied for bed, she remembered the first night without him. It had been horrible sleeping alone. Her therapist suggested a full body pillow to make it seem like someone was there, but no one was there. Dating or finding a new man was out of the question. Thomas had been her soul mate. They met in their thirties, both knowing they had never met anyone like each other.

“One of a kind,” he used to say. How would she ever find another one of a kind?

#

Amy stared up at the ceiling for thirty minutes, forty, fifty. The clock ticked by. When she hit the hour mark, she turned on the light and switched on a meditation CD her therapist suggested to calm her nerves.

Lights off, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The sounds of flute and ocean waves did, if not calm her, give her something to concentrate on besides the fact the only person who made her life worth living had died.

The waves reminded her of the summer before Thomas’ death when he took her to the beach off the coast of Mendocino. They walked the sands, held hands, and at sunset, he took her in his arms and kissed her. She felt a tear run down the side of her cheek. There was no reason to wipe it away, it would have brothers. Perhaps the only children she would ever have, the tears of her grief.

She heard someone breathe and her eyes flew open, staring blindly into the darkness before her. It was just her own breath.

She reached over and turned on the light. She’d leave it on. No reason to worry about the electricity bill. She had nothing extravagant left to spend her paycheck on anyway. She closed her eyes and thought about the ocean again.

“Enough, Amy. Remember…focus on the future, not the past. The future not the past. Future not the past…”

She floated into a light sleep. She didn’t want to overreact, but this was the earliest she’d been able to sleep yet. As soon as she began to relax, she felt the heaviness from her dream. A kind of pressure and coldness came over her.

Her eyes flew open and before her was a man’s face, so close she couldn’t focus. It was blurry, but it looked like the man from her dream, the one who was always kissing her neck.

“You’re real?” she asked.

His eyes widened and he drew back, sitting so quickly in the chair next to her bed, she thought she must still be dreaming. Yes, he was there, real, and she was awake. She stared at the man.

You can see me? He had a British accent.

“Who are you?” She drew the covers up to her neck, feeling more naked than she was. She had on Thomas’s Giants T-shirt, it wasn’t like she was nude. But there was a man in her bedroom! “Why are you…how did you?”

Good God! She can see me and she’s wondering how I got in? He laughed. Priceless.

“Hey, buddy, you can’t just… I’m calling the cops!” She reached for her phone, but he was at her side in a moment and grabbed her hand. Or tried to grab her hand. She felt a cold breeze as his hand passed right through hers. She drew in a big gulp of air. “You’re a…a ghost?”

Damn it all to hell! He turned and paced the room.

It was her turn to laugh at him as he attempted to kick the garbage can, the chair, and the bed. None of his effort caused the items to budge. He whipped around and came close to her, the look of fury causing her laughter to stop. Her breath caught in her throat.

Don’t you dare laugh at me, do you hear me? Or I’ll…I’ll never let you sleep!

“You can’t threaten me.” She scowled as he backed away. “You can’t do anything to me! You can’t even touch me!”

Oh yes? How’ve you been sleeping lately, eh? Had any good dreams?

“You! You’ve been causing my insomnia?”

Well it’s not Thomas, whoever the hell he is.

“Shut up! You don’t know anything about him.”

Happily. He rolled his eyes.

“How dare you speak of my deceased husband like that! Get out!” She grabbed her lotion from the bedside table and hurled it at him. The lotion flew right through him and landed on the floor. “Get out!” She picked up a magazine and it joined the lotion on the floor, never touching him.

Now who’s frustrated, love?

“What do you want?”

I’m really just here to steal your energy, but now you ask, I do have a message for you.

“You’ve seen Thomas? Where is he? Is he here? Why can’t I see him?

No. Cease your needless mourning. If he’s gone, he’s better off, believe me.

“Bastard! He loved me!”

Sure he did, but anyway—

“Shove it up your—”

Careful now. He stood close to her again, giving a serious threat stare. She felt a coldness emanate from him and pulled the covers up.

“This is my house. You need to leave and find someone else to keep up at night.”

Ah, but you’re the only one who can see me, so you’re the one that will do an errand for me.

“You mean, you steal others energy too?”

What, are you hurt? How quaint. Little Amy’s dead husband left her and now she’s being two-timed by her resident ghost. What do you care if I suck a couple of zaps off Mrs. Murphy?

“Mrs. Murphy down the hall? Yuck! No, not really?”

Yes, and Pam and Stella downstairs, and a few of the girls in that college apartment, you know the one with the strapping young buck who beds them and makes them get their own brekkie? Now he’s a man after my own heart.

“Why don’t you go suck from him, then.”

Him? No, no. My tastes have never run to the male persuasion. Plus, his little conquests come so full of energy, I nearly have my fill every time.

“You’re sick.”

No. I’m dead. And don’t have a choice. I’m trapped here.

“How are you trapped?”

I can go about town, but every evening I wake in the spot I died.

“You died in my apartment?”

Not technically. In the hall, in front of 6B.

“This must have been ages ago, I never heard of a murder in this building.”

It was but two months ago. That brat Sammy did it.

“Sammy Olsen killed you? I don’t believe it. He’s seven years old.”

He’s a slayer. He used a common everyday Number 2 pencil, the blighter.

“Wait. Huh?”

Keep up, love. He smirked. Not the sharpest nail in the box are you?

“You’re talking nonsense.”

I’ll spell it out for you. I was a vampire. He opened his mouth and tapped a fang. Sammy punctured me, stabby, stabby, yeah? With a bloody pencil. Now I’m stuck outside your door for eternity.

She stared, unsure she was really awake. Was this some kind of elaborate dream?

Hello? He snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Jesus…what a waste. You know, you aren’t bad looking, but this dense stare has got to stop. You’ll never get a new husband if you—”

“I don’t want a new husband. I want Thomas.”

Clearly, he’s gone.

She just stared, he was right. Thomas was truly gone.

Blimey, she’s gone rigid.

“What do you want from me?” Amy asked, defeated. “Oh yes, energy.” She laid back spreading her arms out as if on the cross. “Go ahead, get it over with.”

Just what a guy likes to hear. You take all the fun out of it. When I come back to flesh, I’ll be sure to kill you first so you can be with your beloved Thomas. You are truly a waste of life, you know that?

“You’re dead. There’s no coming back.”

Watch me. I did it once, I don’t see why I can’t again. I’m getting stronger every day. Why last Thursday all I could do was sway the curtains, now you can see me and I knocked over the plant in the hall. Soon, I’ll have enough power to kill the slayer and return to my throne.

“Kill little Sammy?”

Why not? He killed me didn’t he?

“You’re right. He can defend himself. Perhaps he’ll have his pencil with him again.” She smirked, happy for once she got a cut in on him. He looked burned. She’d really hurt him. He swished to her side and stood very close, still intimidating in his translucent, ghost form.

He won’t have another chance. His voice rattled out from the grave. Coldness wrapped around her like a glove, sending a chill up her spine and causing goosebumps to break out all over her body. Before her teeth chattered, she clamped them shut, trying to think of another jab that would piss him off enough to go away.

“The way I see it,” she said, her voice shaking despite her attempt at control. Her breath puffed out before her as if it were the middle of winter. “You weren’t a very smart vampire if a seven-year-old could outsmart you.” Amy saw a flash of anger on his already enraged face. Fire burned in his eyes and his jaw clenched. A sudden whoosh sound signaled him entering her body and she felt a pressure in her brain, as if it were too full, like a sinus infection, hangover, and being underwater all at the same time. His echoing voice came from her lips.

Listen here, you dimwitted, widowed, sadsack. I am Jamison, Baxter, Antonio the Third, King of Vampires, and I will suck you dry. Suck you dry!

The pressure in Amy’s brain reached an unbearable level and just as she gasped for breath, blackness overtook her.

Find out how the story ends in Dark Dreams from Rogue Planet Press.

Emz’s Library: The New American Dictionary of Music

Writers must have reference material, and here is one of my favorites.

The New American Dictionary of  Music, by Philip D. Morehead

musicdicWhen I was training to be a jazz singer, I would have loved to have this book in my library. In fact, when I was in high school, I took a dictionary and went page by page, writing my own musical dictionary, listing every word in the English language that had to do with music. I also had an old-fashioned recipe box with index cards for all the great jazz masters of history. At the same time, I was writing my Sweet Dreams Musical Romance novels. For me, if I was interested in something, I would submerge myself in the subject. I know a lot of writers who do the same thing. I’m not sure you can be a writer without loving research.

When I came across this musical dictionary a few years ago, I thought I might have misread the spine. In no way could someone read my internal desires and create a book such as this! Not only does this book have detailed definitions of my favorite words such as allegro and madrigal, but it lists the names of every great musician from Armstrong  to Zwilich. There are diagrams of commonly used musical instruments as well as bagpipes and dulimers. There are diagrams of conducting patterns as well as graphic notations made popular in the 1950’s.

I could sit and read this book for hours on end. It’s really a must-have for anyone writing a musical book. Not for the purpose of boring your readers with long descriptions of 1800’s operatic stars or little known instruments of the alps, but to submerse yourself in the knowledge and culture of music. Sprinkling in the terms you learn here and there will be helpful and might add a sense of reality to your text.

Now… If only I could find a dictionary of artists terms!

The Sirens Call – Issue #13 – Women in Horror

Free Women in Horror Fiction!

Sirens Call Publications is pleased to announce the release of the 13th issue of The Sirens Call celebrating women in horror and Women in Horror Recognition Month!

Packed full with fiction, poetry and photography by Dark Angel Photography, the 168 page issue also features an interview with Angie Gallow, author of The Coven. If you’re interested in giving it a read and supporting all of the wonderfully talented women who contributed their work, you can download it for FREE!

The Sirens Call – Issue #13 – Women in Horror (Second Annual Edition)

2014_February_ezine_cover_V5

HorrorAddicts.net 089, Julianne Snow

Horror Addicts Episode# 089

Horror Hostess: Emerian Rich

Intro Music by: Cancer Killing Gemini

———————————————

julianne snow | the raven | edgar allan poe

http://traffic.libsyn.com/horroraddicts/HorrorAddicts089.mp3

Find all articles and interviews at: http://www.horroraddicts.net

| dan – raven medley | mimi – fashion | band poll |

| after the fire | raven quiz | horrific history |

| the raven live baycon | free fiction friday – matters of blood |

| david – books | black magic | kbatz – cat people |

| cassandra curtis – ghosts | kbatz- gothic tea society |

| marc – events | saph – julianne snow | mental ward |

———————————————

BayCon 2013 Raven voice work:
Marc Stephenson, Davey Mollander,

Lynette Raygoza, Cathy Raygoza,

Heather Stephenson, H. E. Roulo

& Emerian Rich

———————————————-

h o s t e s s

Emerian Rich

s t a f f

Sapphire Neal, David Watson, Dan Shaurette, Marc Vale, KBatz, Mimi

Want to be a part of the HA staff? Email horroraddicts@gmail.com

c o n t a c t / s h o w . n o t e s

http://www.horroraddicts.net

m u s i c

http://www.graveconcernsezine.com

HorrorAddictsCon: The Wicked’s, Are Submission Guidelines Important?

Are Submission Guidelines Important?

by Emerian Rich

“Writers who don’t follow the rules aren’t worth our time.”

This is what most editors think and you should listen to them. Why? Because you’ll never get past the submission pile into the pile of stories they are seriously considering for publication.

I’ve heard editors say that they won’t even consider a story if the author hasn’t submitted it according to their guidelines. Writers think this sucks. Why should the way it’s presented mean anything? If it’s a good story, it should be considered on the plot merit, right? Being a writer I tend to agree, but we have to look at it as a job. If you were going to a job interview, you wouldn’t wear stained pajama pants and a bleach-spotted Kama Sutra t-shirt, even if you were a Harvard grad with excellent references. Think of the submission formatting as your foot in the door. Once you’ve dressed it up, then it’s up to your writing to break out of the pile and wow them.

Now, I am by no means a pro editor and I am still stuck some of the same piles you are. However, I did run a ‘zine called DarkLives for ten years. Nowadays, I receive on an average, 20-30 pieces of work a month from various collaborations, critique groups, and for my podcast HorrorAddicts.net. Having read hundreds of submissions I can tell you some things that make them difficult to handle.

First, always read the publishers website to see what their guidelines are and follow them precisely. Yes, they will notice if they asked for an outline and you give them a synopsis instead.

Second, don’t email them the next day to find out how they liked it. Especially if you are emailing another writer or a small publication, they probably have a “real job” and family that they have to work their writing dream around.

Third, if no guidelines are listed on their site or you are sending a manuscript to someone in the industry who doesn’t have submission guidelines (like another writer), PLEASE follow the standard submission format. I always change stories I receive into the proper format before I print or crit them. Mostly because someone will send me a twenty page story with no page numbers on it. If I drop the story, I’m in trouble. Trying to piece together someone else’s rough draft is insane. The author’s name and story title should also be in the header of each page for this reason.

So what is the “standard manuscript format”? Let me reiterate that you always need to follow the submission guidelines for the publication you are submitting to. If none are stated, go with these guidelines below:

  • Number pages in header or footer. It’s also nice to put the number of pages like so: 1/13
  • Courier font, 12 point, never in italics or bold
  • 1 inch margins all around
  • Double spaced
  • Use the # sign (centered) to indicate viewpoint change
  • Use left paragraph text (never justified)
  • Include your name and story name in the header of every page.
  • On the first page, list your name and a way to contact you. I don’t feel you have to include the info below if you are sending it to a critiquer, a simple email address should suffice, but if you are submitting to a publishing house, unless otherwise instructed, you should include: your name, address, phone number, email address, what type of story (Horror Novel or Fantasy Short Story, etc…), and computer word count.

There are more detailed formatting descriptions on publisher’s sites, in writing books, or online. If you are thinking about submitting, I strongly suggest you do your homework first so that you are put in the pile to read and not the recycle bin. If you don’t format it correctly, it won’t be read, and you might as well save yourself the trouble and cost of sending it out in the first place.

One word of encouragement. You’ll never be published if you don’t send it out. So… WRITE, SUBMIT, WRITE, SUBMIT and repeat as often as you can.

Emerian Rich is the author of Night’s Knights vampire series and Sweet Dreams Musical Romance Series. She’s also been published in a handful of anthologies and written everything from non-fiction reviews to Science Fiction. As a Horror Hostess, she heads the HorrorAddicts.net podcast and attempts to promote the Horror Addicts lifestyle from the fan point of view. For more information on Emerian, go to: http://www.emzbox.com 

Meet Emz at the Sonoma County Book Festival

Free Admission!

The 12th annual Sonoma County Book Festival, the oldest general interest book festival in Northern California, features a full day of literature, poetry and entertainment for the entire family.

Come meet Emerian Rich


at Sonoma County Book Festival
in Santa Rosa, CA
Santa Rosa Downtown Courthouse Square and Central Library
this Saturday
September 24
10 a.m. to 4 p.m.

Emerian will be reading at Redwood Writers Village at 11 a.m. during the Broad Universe: Rapid Fire Readings. She will also be seated at a table during the rest of the festival, so come up, say hello, and check out the freebies she has with her.

Also in attendance will be this year’s Wicked Women Writer Winner, Laurel Anne Hill.