Killing Me Sloth-LY Chapter 1

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Hope

“I didn’t kill him,” an elderly woman quavered as soon as I pushed open the door of emergency exam room #4. “You have to believe me. Are you Dr. See?”

I’ve never had a patient greet me by talking about homicide. My heart stuttered while I gazed down at Ms. Danielle Upton. Even though she stood beside the exam room table in high heels, I still towered over this miniature woman who held out her right, wrinkled hand for me to shake, her eyes wide with trust and a judicious amount of eyeliner.

So. Many. Questions. I defaulted to my usual routine. “Hi, I’m Dr. Hope Sze.” I nudged my wheeled computer workstation inside the room and closed the door behind me, sealing us in with the faint smell of hand sanitizer and disinfectant. Her triage note said only 78 y.o. female, headache 7/10, wants to speak to MD. “I’m the resident doctor on neurology today.”

“Hello, Dr. See.” Ms. Upton shook my hand with more firmness than I’d expected before resting her fingers on the sizeable black purse taking up the bottom half of the exam room table. Her purse matched her simple sheath dress and contrasted with her pearl necklace. “Is that a Chinese name?”

I nailed a smile on my face. “Sure. Please tell me about your headache, Ms. Upton.”

“You can call me Danielle, Ms. Upton, musician, even ‘cat lady.’ I’ll answer to most things.” She smiled and bobbed her head in agreement with herself. “I didn’t kill him. It may look like murder, but it wasn’t.”

“Let’s start at the beginning. Do you have anyone with you who can help tell your story?” I asked while I fought with the computer to open her file.

Usually a caregiver will accompany someone with dementia to the emergency department. Even though I knew it was futile, I glanced around St. Joseph’s Hospital’s white exam room that barely accommodated my computer “workstation on wheels” (WOW), the black exam table, and the sink attached to the wall to the right of the table. Someone had already stolen the plastic chair I could’ve sat on.

“Goodness, no. I’m all alone.” Ms. Upton touched her purse again.

She might look ready for a cocktail party, but she hadn’t known to change into the hospital gown that still lay neatly folded on the table, squashed under her massive purse.

“That can be a problem,” I agreed, still waiting for Sarket, our electronic medical record system, to load her previous charts and help me figure out what was going on. The useless emergency physician who’d referred her had barely written “worst headache of life” before consulting neurology and ordering a CT scan of her head. Ah, the joys of working in a decrepit teaching hospital in Montreal, Canada. “How can I help you today?”

Closer up, Ms. Upton’s lipstick was slightly crooked on the right. “You can prove that I didn’t kill him, of course. But I’ll need to speak to a doctor first.”

“Yes, I’m your doctor. Dr. Sze, remember?” In fact, I’d recently started my second and final year of family medicine residency. In less than twelve months, I’d be fully licensed to go, although I’d applied for the emergency medicine program for another year of punishment.

Ms. Upton blinked at me. “A lady doctor!”

“Yes, we come in XX chromosomes now.” I couldn’t resist making a genetic joke, even if she might not understand it.

She clasped her hands together. “Oh, that’s wonderful. Perhaps you can help me with my murder charge.”

“Perhaps,” I said, instead of jabbing 911 on my cell phone. I’m a doctor. Throughout my training, my job is to stay calm, sort of like the eye in the tornado. First of all, you’re no longer supposed to argue with delusions, just listen and redirect. 

Secondly, even she had shot someone, I’ve witnessed weirder crap in my life. I mean supernatural, never-speak-of-this-stuff like ghosts and dragons. A maybe-murderous grandmother would hardly make the cut.

“Thank goodness.” Ms. Upton wrinkled her forehead at me behind her wire rimmed glasses. If I elbowed her in the ribs, she looked like she might topple over. How could she have killed someone?

At long last, her previous records loaded up on Sarket. Danielle Upton, 78 years old. No recent blood work or brain scans, only a reference to a hysterectomy nine years ago. The Sarket EMR system didn’t connect to other hospitals or to family doctors (of course. See decrepit hospital, above), so I asked, “Did you bring any of your medical records with you?”

“No, I don’t take any medications,” Ms. Upton said, then cocked her head. “I suppose you’d consider me mentally ill for committing a murder. I believe that’s what’s giving me such a headache.”

I began the laborious process of closing her previous file and switching Sarket over to her current medical record. “Why don’t you tell me about that?”

Ms. Upton clasped her hands, her dark eyes still gazing deeply into mine. “I thought you’d never ask. I shot him six times in the head.”

“Hope” you enjoyed the opening chapter to Killing Me Sloth-LY, Hope’s Seven Deadly Sins Thriller 3: Sloth

Grab your early copy on Kickstarter until October 10, either on its own or paired with the art-poetry book Cthulhu’s Cheerleader in Cthulhu’s Duo Exclusive Edition.

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Prologue: Killing Me Sloth-LY

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I’m standing in a shower, warm water sluicing over my hair, with no idea of how I got here.

I touch the glass door of the shower. A white towel lies folded on the metal rail on the outside of the door. Three rectangular glass bottles hang in a rack on the door, one for shampoo, one for conditioner, and one for body wash, all made by a designer named H.A. Wilcox for the Innsmouth Hotel.

I bend over to pick up a green and yellow squeeze bottle called Dagon’s Swimmer Shampoo that promises to remove chlorine from my hair. I must be a swimmer. I glance down at my body, which does seem toned.

I dredge up vague memories of salt water stinging my eyes, and my arms cutting through waves. Yes, I must swim. I cling to that, pressing my fingers into the pristine grout between the grey tiles of the shower wall.

I have never heard of the Innsmouth Hotel. I’m not certain who I am. I should scream or cry or pound on the grey walls on three sides of me.

Instead, my hands reach for the metal shower knobs facing me. I spin the one on the right, and the water cools. I frown and twist the one on the left, cutting the stream to a few slow drips on top of my head, swiftly fading to nothing.

“Hello?” I call softly, securing the towel around me. I don’t want anyone to answer if I’m naked, and there are no clothes in the bathroom. I must have walked in here unclothed or in a towel, for reasons I no longer know or understand.

I wait for palpitations and panic. Instead, water drops roll out of my hair, onto my back. The ceiling fan drones, and my brain settles into a similar dull hum that I struggle to resist.

I step onto the white cotton mat in front of the shower stall, scanning the misted mirror and the countertop for clues. The side mirror’s built-in ring light already gleams, geared up for me to examine my pores.

I bend for the bath mat. I’ll wipe down the mirror to take a good look at my own face. That should teach me who I am.

I lift the mat, careful not to lose the towel wrapped around me, or to hit the two toothbrushes standing on the countertop.

Two toothbrushes. I glance from one to the other, both expensive electric models, one with a red plastic ring and one with yellow.

Who else checked into the Innsmouth hotel with me?

Outside the bathroom door, a phone begins to ring.

Author’s note: Thanks for checking out the prologue for this blood-congealing, Lovecraftian thriller, Killing Me Sloth-LY.

Soon Dr. Hope Sze may succumb to the deadly sin of sloth while surrounded by killers.

But wait! There’s more. Dive into art and poems that make you shudder in Cthulhu’s Cheerleader. 

Back each book separately, or together as Cthulhu’s Duo in a single exclusive, stunning, art-studded edition. Either way, brace yourself for Cthulhu’s wrath, Iä!

The campaign is scheduled Sept 17-Oct 10, just in time for spooky season.

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Original art by Sara Leger, commissioned for Cthulhu’s Duo

Indie Publishing, Buddha Style

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You’re a writer and you’ve decided to start your own publishing company.  But in the first three months, you’ve only sold three copies of your book.  You

a) start making fun of all the bestsellers. A bunch of hacks. They all sell their stuff for 99 cents. And the traditional publisher’s fat cats have publicity machines behind them. They’re all bastards;

b) start hiring people to make more beautiful, sophisticated covers or edit your novel again–the first two versions obviously didn’t cut it;

c) run to the Kindle boards and start posting and PM-ing, meeting writers, tagging each others’ work, trying to get a review or make friends with a self-professed avid reader who has 5 bucks to spend on one book (but you’d give them a coupon from Smashwords to they could save that 5 bucks!). Just, somebody, somewhere, buy my book!  Please!

d) start troubleshooting. So many things could be wrong. The cover. The formatting. The language (how unfortunate that most Estonians don’t seem to have e-readers yet). The lack of reviews. The one two-star review. Should you make it free? What about 99 cents?  Is that too much?

e) realize it’s a waste of time. No one makes any money at this anyway. Take the book down and walk away.

The five Buddhist hindrances (mental mind states that lead you away from enlightenment) are

Aversion (anger, ill will)

This one is pretty self-explanatory. It’s easier to blow up at other writers than to deal with the fact that no one wants to read your book.

Lust (sensual desire)

Everyone else has a nicer cover, a better proof-reader, or a more dedicated bunch of friends who buy their books and tweet about them.  If only you had that, or the money for that, someone would read your book.

Restlessness (worry, remorse)

I can’t stand it. I’m checking my numbers again. Argh! Still no one’s bought it in the last 12 hours! I hate you all! I’m going to call my friend! Shoot, no one’s home. I’m going for a run. Okay, now let me check my numbers. Still nothing! Aaaaargh!!!!!!!

What’s wrong with my book? I should post it and ask people for help tweaking my cover.

Again, it’s easier to stomp around, creating a lot of sound and fury, instead of dealing with the fact that no one has bought your book in the past 8 seconds.

Doubt

Because everything from content to cover to publicity is under your control, that leads to a lot of doubt and a lot of things you can fiddle with while waiting for people to buy your book.

Sloth and torpor

It’s easier to pull up your stakes and walk away than deal with the fact that very few people are buying your book.

Okay, so I’ve gone through all these things myself.  This is what I’d advise intellectually, in a “do as I say, not as I do” thing:

1. Low expectations.

Three people bought your book? Wow! Good for you! They spent their hard-earned cash on your words. That’s an honour.

Nobody bought your book? Well, that will just make it even more exciting when someone does!  (And by the way, if you go through Smashwords and wait for their premium distribution, etc., it will take six months to hear about any sales, so you may be selling without knowing it.)

2. Take the long view.

You have years, not days, to connect with readers and make your money. Your copyright lasts for a lifetime plus 50-70 years. Dean Wesley Smith points out that five books sales a month on the Kindle can equal $10,000 after 10 years; one book a day for 10 years can equal $30,000. (I can’t find this link right now, so please ping me if you can find it.) Sounds good to me.

3.  Stop letting the numbers determine your self-worth.

From what I see, writers used to obsess about rejection by editors and agents. Now that we can easily publish ourselves world-wide, we’re obsessed about our sales.

You are not your numbers. They’re just numbers.

My husband told me to stop looking at my numbers.

This just made me more desperate to look at them and fret, and no matter how good or bad they were, I wasn’t satisfied.

I know some people input their numbers into spreadsheets every day. It’s just data. My friend Genevieve encouraged me to do this, so it would be like, “Oh, do I have to input my numbers again today?” Since then, I haven’t looked. It works better for me.

4.  Write more.

The more content you get out there, the better.  My Kindle sales jumped as soon as I put up a bunch more short stories. And it just feels good to create something brand new that hasn’t been rejected yet.

5.  Publish more.

Now get your work out there. They can’t buy it if they can’t see it.

This takes courage. I didn’t want to go indie. I dreamed of traditional publishing, with an advance and a beautiful book I could hold in my hand. Just jumping in, with no guarantee anyone would read anything I wrote? Especially when I only sold three stories in my first two months? Yikes.

Two sayings I hung on to were a) “past performance does not predict future performance” (so even if I sucked now, I might not later), and b) “a rising tide lifts all boats.”

Independent publishing is rising. I can see it lifting all the boats. It’s a beautiful thing.

Copyright Melissa Yuan-Innes, 2011

P.S. I’m writing a book about the Unfeeling Doctor and Buddhism and decided to detour into Buddhism and indie publishing. If this article helped you, please consider buying my books. Thanks!