Reappear and Rant

It has been 23 days since I posted, thank you WordPress for the reminder. But not only do I not have a lot to say, I DON’T HAVE THE TIME TO SAY IT.

I haven’t given up on writing so much as I prioritized sleeping, eating, and going to the bathroom. And sure, I hear you saying, “Eda, if you were really dedicated to your writing, you’d be racking up the word count typing on your phone with your thumbs while you pooped,” but that time is RESERVED… for 5 minute Spanish lessons on my phone. And I don’t actually sleep; I nurse. And I don’t actually eat; I inhale while I work. And actually, everything kind of sucks since I got my new day job and whole big chunks of my life are falling apart.

I recently had something to say to a relative about the concept of “making time”. I have to “make time” for myself, she says. It always seems like there isn’t enough, so you’ve gotta MAKE IT.

Bitch, no. You cannot MAKE time. You can reprioritize. You can delegate. You can quit your shitty day job. But there are consequences, you see. Not for her. Not for any of the people who give me the unsolicited advice about time management (to whom, I repeat, I do Spanish lessons in five minute increments on my phone while I poop TO FREAKING RELAX. I know how to manage time).

You know what I really need? One freaking job that pays ALL the bills. Affordable health care. Affordable childcare. Everyone I work with to do their own jobs. My husband to do his. My parents and in-laws to do theirs. If everyone else–all those jackholes telling ME to manage MY time better–could spend a little bit of their time doing anything useful, then maybe MAYBE I could just… freaking… sit there and poop.

So no, my postpartum book didn’t do well commercially (see my last post, 23 days ago) but maaaan, if I’m gonna go down the memoir road again, do I got stories. Funny, insane, heartbreaking stories. I’ll call it Chicken Soup for the Anus, subtitle: We’re All Full of Shit.



Eda and the Terrible No Good Book Reception

Be forewarned, I’m going totally Poor Me, Alexander and the Very Bad (whatever whatever) Day on ya’ll right now and if you’re not interested, back away slowly before it drags you down with it.

Also, please read this in your whiniest four-year-old on his sister’s birthday not getting enough attention voice:

Well I TRIED but nobody wants to read a first-person narrative about a woman suffering from postpartum depression even if it’s super funny in parts because really, it’s super annoying in other parts and now is not the best time for a true story about mental health because EVERYONE’S doing their true story of mental health and mine isn’t, by comparison, all that revolutionary or different or interesting or remarkable. 

And I TRIED to put my real realness out into the world as an expression of my most authentic inner self but there are so many other people doing the same thing–or some less authentic but in an Instagram aesthetic kind of way that people are drawn to–and my story just isn’t as COMPELLING as other people’s and I don’t wear floppy hats on beaches or really have any kind of photography/photo manipulation skills, at least not good enough to catch anyone’s attention so my book doesn’t even LOOK as good as something that’s less authentic but aesthetically more pleasing so no one wants to read it.

And my BEST FRIEND read it and hates it because it reminds her of all the ways my husband failed me both then and before then and in many ways since then so she doesn’t feel like she can review it in an objective way and I don’t blame her at all because editing it made me super cranky with my husband as well because for real, like I so didn’t deserve to be treated like that ever but really, it’s my whole life experience to be treated like I’m either kind of invisible or a total burden on the people who love me who have to try REAL HARD to love me despite all of my big emotions and penchant for thinking of myself as a person who deserves to be loved by my family so I guess my inability to even GIVE AWAY my book is just like every other time I’ve been ignored for just trying to be myself and live in the world and I shouldn’t even be disappointed so much as relieved that my world view doesn’t need to change.

And I’m definitely feeling totally DISCOURAGED about writing and about putting my true self out there and I’m back to thinking that if I ever want to make any money as I writer, I’ve gotta write erotica or at least romance and while I’m ok with either, it just kinda sucks that I can’t just write what I feel like writing and get anyone to read it.

And I might as well just move to Austraaaaalia. 

Ok, I’m done. I’m ok. I’m not completely discouraged and I will keep writing and I WILL maintain some perspective but yeah, I was disappointed with the reception of this book but it wasn’t for everybody–as I as a person am not–and that shouldn’t be a surprise nor a obstacle to further attempts to get my writing out into the world.

But sometimes, you just have to pout and whine and threaten to move to Australia.


Image result for alexander and the terrible horrible day book




Why Not Me?

I’ve been working on advertising my books for free or cheap over the past few weeks, trying to figure out what works and what doesn’t for me (specifically for me because I do not have the time to follow the handy 9 step whatever advice I keep seeing with the guest posting and the author networking. I HAVE TWO JOBS, damnit) and I’m finding that Facebook ads kinda work but also are a pain in the ass.

How’s that for useful advice from me? Kinda work in a mostly sucky way. Thanks for reading my clickbait author advice article.

Anyway, during my 15 minute lunch break at my new job this morning, I checked on a Facebook ad that didn’t even freaking start yet because… I did it wrong somehow? Ugh, I don’t know.

Here’s what I do know: Giving away books for free ain’t easy. It’s a saturated market, I guess and a lot of the stuff out there is garbage.

It’s funny, I used to work in publishing and we had a saying in my department when we got stuck with a crap book: Any Asshole Can Publish a Book. We even planned on starting our own publishing company someday called AA Publishing (as in Any Asshole). And here I am, like an asshole, self-publishing my own books.

Started at the bottom and all that.

So, if you’re interested in reading some asshole’s book, this one’s free for the next few days:

Lay Her Ghosts Facebook free promo


Lay Her Ghosts to Rest free on Amazon Aug 6-10.


I finally submitted my new book as a pre-order on KDP… with a spelling mistake on the cover. It’s in review now so I can’t change it. So… that’s awesome.

Way to be professional, Eda.

Fully Functioning Cover v6

Let’s call this a cover reveal and pretend it’s exciting.

Crazy Lady Writes a Book!

I’m happy to announce that my self-publishing slump is over! I have another coal in the fire and it’s ’bout ready to burn!

I just finished editing a story I started writing for NaNoWriMo 2017, during the height of my postpartum depression and it is… a lot. I mean, I write and often think in little metaphors but when I’m experiencing big emotions and don’t know how to describe them… well…

Fear like a bat-winged demon–its gaunt body belying its otherworldly strength–wraps its claws around my throat and squeezes. I choke and sputter, clutching my stomach with both hands, trying to hold everything in place.

It’s not all like that. That would be terrible. But the bits where I feel like a total hormone-raging bag of nuts? Demon death threats and bat-winged fears, ya’ll.

Some of it’s funny. Some of it is feminist AF and a calling out of health professionals, family members of new mothers, and most especially my husband. It’s not a tell-all and you better believe I’mma market that thing as fiction to protect myself from my in-laws but there’s some real deal shit in there and I’m ready to throw it out into the world and let my story be seen.

Maybe I’ll dedicate it to Hannah Gadsby and Brene Brown. Not Beyonce, though. That goddess already knows.

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You can, but you can’t feel readers clicking out of your author page so it hardly counts.

How Those Parts Started Peeling Off

I’ve been watching/reading/listening to some inspiring stuff lately. It’s pretty much all I’ve been able to do with my new work schedule and baby girl’s penchant for chaos. But I’d really rather be writing my own stuff. I want to be sending my thoughts out into the universe to see if anything sticks to the debris floating around out there long enough for anyone to notice.

Meanwhile, I’ve got Beyonce, Brené Brown, and Hannah Gadsby all echoing in my head,  telling me I’ve got to be my authentic self if I want to put something real into the world.

Then I finally finish reading that thing I wrote right after my daughter was born. 53,000 words of mostly true postpartum insanity that basically ends with me sliding on my sun glasses and almost running my husband over in my driveway. And guess what.

That might be it. That might be my big authentic story.

I’m still in hardcore editing mode and all the stuff that comes with self-publishing a book doesn’t seem doable in less than bite-sized chunks over the next couple of weeks and/or months. But I feel like I need to release just a little bit of that tension out into the world.

So here it is, Chapter 1 of Fully Functioning Fangirl: a postpartum decent into absurdity

Superwoman with Needles in Her Pores

That little dance you do with a stranger when you both attempt to pass through the same space at the same time? My husband does that. Constantly. Inadvertently, though, so I can’t even yell at him. Every annoying thing he does is inadvertent. Doesn’t make it any less infuriating.

This morning, he has managed to subconsciously anticipate my every move and finds a way to stand exactly where I need to be exactly when I need to be there. I wish he was the kind of mathematical genius who could apply this talent in other areas, but he’s not. He’s just an oblivious dude who’s always in the way. He gets it from his dad. That man stands in doorways and plants himself in the middle of small spaces. Again, he doesn’t do it on purpose; he just has a sixth sense for maximum spatial disruption and minimal awareness.

When it happens for the sixth time, I’m holding a full bowl of water for the cat which, because that little bastard’s hovering around my feet trying to trip me again, he gets to enjoy externally. His hiss begets a “What the hell?” from my husband which prompts a squeal from the baby he’s holding which is what makes his getting in the way extra annoying. If it wasn’t for her, I think, maybe I could just push him out of the way.

And I want to. I want to push him. I want to grab him and shake him and scream in his face, “I’m so sick of this! I’m so sick of you! None of this is what I thought it would be!” That flash of anger, the sudden flush followed immediately by a thorough loss of energy, that’s my world right now. Nothing makes sense, nothing seems real, and nothing feels good anymore.

Now my socks are wet, as are his pajama pants, as is the top half of the cat.

“Jesus Christ, dude!,” I actually say out loud. “Why are you even here? There is no reason for you to be hovering over the cat food with the baby. Can you just get out of the way for once?”

“I was just walking her for you so she wouldn’t cry,” he snaps back but he’s been on his phone the whole time. His “helping” me with breakfast time means wandering around holding the baby and checking sports scores on his phone while I do all the actual work of making breakfast and loading the dishwasher and feeding the cat.

“The baby is asleep. Put her down in the bassinet and do something useful.” I mutter.

This is what mornings have become. Before the baby was born, we had a routine. Everyone had a job. Things got done. That was what, a few weeks ago? And since then, everything has fallen completely apart. Now it’s just chaos. And by “it”, I mean me. My brain, my emotions, my reactions to everyday events are all freaking chaos. I shouldn’t be this angry. Things have never been perfect with my husband but it’s never made me feel like this, like I want to throw things at his stupid head every time he speaks or acts or breathes in my direction.

“I was trying to help,” he grumbles but he does what I ask. The baby is asleep in the bassinet, the toddler is sitting quietly playing and I’m melting into the floor like a plastic toy egg set on fire, just bubbling and steaming and reeking toxic fumes into an otherwise sterile environment.

“I’m going to shower,” he says without even noticing. He doesn’t want to see it because if he did, he might have to do something about it. And he doesn’t know what to do.

The toaster dings and that sets my toddler off. “Mom, that my waffle? That my waffle, Mom? Mommy, me want my waffle.”

“Yes, baby boy. Hold on a minute!” It would have been nice if my husband had helped clean up the water, or the cat, or stayed in the kitchen for two minutes so he could get the waffle to the whining child, but of course he didn’t. Of course, he left everything to me.

It’s the lack of sleep, I keep reminding myself. It happened with my son when he was a newborn too. Sleep is the glue that holds sanity together and without any of the sticky stuff, all my parts are peeling off.

I need to eat. I haven’t eaten. Why do I keep forgetting to do that?

I take the kid’s waffle out and throw a whole English muffin in. It probably won’t cook in the middle and I’ll probably eat it anyway, along with any leftover waffle my son doesn’t eat. When he first started eating solid foods, whatever leftovers of his didn’t end up on the floor ended up in my face. There never seemed to be enough time to feed myself in those days.

But that’s another of the million things I said I’d do differently this time around, along with an epidural during delivery and pumping milk as soon as possible.

Pumped milk meant independence. If there was baby sustenance readily available without my presence, I’d always have an escape route as long as I could get some other adult to come to my house for a couple of hours. I’d settle for the mailman some days, I swear. Just drag his skinny ass and safari hat into my house, hand him a bottle and a box of LEGOs and finish his route for him so I could take a break.

Today’s going to be one of those days, I can tell. The mailman better cross his fingers that he shows up while I’m in the bathroom or elbow deep in baby poop or he’s going to find himself on the wrong side of a kidnapping.

I’m so irritable, I think as I yank open the toaster oven, I can feel it prickling my skin, the anger forcing its way out like needles through my pores. If I had a moment to sit down and suss it out, maybe I could figure out its root, but the baby’s crying again because she’s cluster feeding and no amount of milk is enough. The waffles are too hot and my son is having a stomp and scream fit. And the cat is crying because apparently, he wanted to drink his water, not shower in it.

“Mommy, foo my waffles!” the boy cries as I plop down on the loveseat with the baby. My nursing pillow is missing again and between the crying and the tantrum, I don’t have the patience to look for it. I hike up a knee, prop that little bundle up on an elbow and pop a boob out of my V-neck. One problem, at least, has been solved. As always, on to the next. In the amount of time it takes for me to get my son to stop crying and bring the damn plate of waffles over to me, it’s already cooled, but I blow on it anyway.

*ffffooooo* “There you go, bud. Now you can eat them.” It’s good enough. For him. For her. For everyone else who doesn’t seem to be complaining. But not, so my gut keeps telling me, for me.



Stock photo image searches of “sad woman” result mostly in beautiful women posing in the rain. Search for “peeling” and you FIND some stuff.

The Book OG Ghostbuster Fans Will Hate

I started re-reading one of my books recently and realized pretty quickly that I have mislabeled that poor lady and perhaps that’s why it don’t sell for shiz.

Also, am I too glib in my book descriptions? Is it so totally obvious that I do not take myself seriously as a writer? Is that why no one else does either?

Read all the cutesy and inspiring Pinterest quotes you want about #writinglife and #authorproblems to make yourself feel better about making your DREAMS come TRUE but when it comes down to it, you have to be dedicated enough to get things done if you want to be taken seriously as a writer.

And when I say “dedicated”, it’s not “to your craft”. It’s not “a writer WRITES” and “put on your black beret and tweet about coffee”.

If you want to make money and/or be taken seriously, apparently you have to be dedicated to all the boring crap no one wants to do: social media, self-promotion, paying for ads, writing promotional copy that doesn’t come across as self-deprecating.


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A REAL writer doesn’t write glib promotional copy that comes across as self-deprecating.


Ugh, book descriptions. UGH, ad copy. UGHHH, self-promotion! Why can’t we just write the stuff we want to write and then people just find it and buy it for a nominal fee?

All this is to say that I will be re-writing some of my book descriptions in the near future and I’m not happy about it.

Lay_Her_Ghosts_to_Rest_Self_Care_and_Spirit_GuidesLay Her Ghosts to Rest by Eda J Vor

This book isn’t a fun sci fi/occult adventure in ghost removal so much as a blatantly feminist critique of gender imbalances in the work place.

Sorry for the confusion, everyone! I was trying to make it fun when really, I’m just sick of not being taken seriously or paid fairly in any job I’ve ever had.

But also, there’s ghosts! (Some of those are feminist too!)

Keywords: Angry feminist ghost book, gay supporting characters, patriarchy in the workplace, corporate irresponsibility

Buy it on Amazon!

Oh My 4.5 Stars!

What… how… when…

The crappy hateful bigoted review of my book LIKE TWO OPPOSITE THINGS is no longer on Amazon.

Check it out! There’s only the two good reviews left:

LTOT reviews


Did Amazon finally decide that some assholes shouldn’t be allowed to review books? Is there a new policy against reviewers requesting molestation in future books (because there should be. Seriously, who does that? Other than that one person whose review is no longer on my book.)

However it happened, thank you. Thank you Amazon or Gods of Book Reviews or conscientious book reviewer who recognized a doucherocket and called them out. Thank you!

Also, I should check my book reviews more often because things happen and I’m not even aware of it. Why isn’t that a KDP feature? Telling authors what’s happening with their books. Did someone buy it, review it, remove a homophobic review? It would be helpful stuff to get emails about, my peeps. Think about it.

$.99 Book Sale Up In Here

Summer fades but teen love is eternal… ish: LIKE TWO OPPOSITE THINGS.

Post-apocalyptic chick-lit about a found family struggling to survive:

Institutionalized ghost therapy causes widespread workplace stress:

Eda Novels 99c this week

Did you get an Amazon gift card for the holidays? Are you starting your 2019 Reading Challenge? Do you love me and want to support me in my hobby noveling?

GREAT! Buy a book or three on sale this week for $.99.

Visit the links above or my Amazon author page. Happy reading, friends!

Similar Homecomings

For the record, I started writing The Homecoming Effect in the summer of 2013 at my shitty desk job for a company that was crapping out and yet somehow paying me to answer their mostly silent phones and collect their mail. Also, unbeknownst to them, to write a book. It took me 3 years off and on to finish it, edit it, and self-publish it on Amazon.

So… now that that’s established (and yes, I have proof), let’s talk about this:

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I haven’t seen this nor have I heard the podcast yet but… it has been suggested to me that this could be like, a prequel to my novel. Only, you know, better written and performed in two mediums with super famous people and resulting in money made for all of the people involved. Whereas, I sold a copy to my mom and a couple dozen strangers.

THUS it is yet again proven that there are no truly original ideas and if there are, I don’t got ’em.

But, you know, if you’re interested in a possible future scenario with a similar basic premise, you could be one of the dozens who’ve read my first novel.

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The Homecoming Effect by Eda J Vor available in ebook and paperback format on Amazon.

Not at all affiliated with or plagiarized (I have proof) from the Amazon Prime show starring Julia Roberts, The Homecoming Effect is a post-apocalyptic chick-lit novel about a found family struggling to survive in a new town after their old world is blown apart.

What starts as a meaningless fling between Bunny, an emotionally-conflicted older woman who just left her battle-scarred husband and Daniel, a hopelessly infatuated younger man recently graduated from college, is curtailed by a series of explosions that destroys schools and hospitals sending the couple 200 miles from home with three children in tow. When the found family seeks safety in a strict religious community, they are forced to concoct a web of lies to appear legitimate and avoid being exiled, or worse. Can they maintain their ruse to avoid suspicion and keep their family together or will the secrets they keep from each other drive them apart? And how much of the trauma they discovered her husband and his father shared upon returning from war was ultimately responsible for the tragic events that lead to their new lives?

Cheaper than Amazon Prime and featuring several sexy scenes, my book is not at all a reasonable substitute for anything involving Julia Roberts.