It all started with manhwa. Which, to this day, I’m still not 100% sure if it means Korean comics, Korean novels, or somehow both. (If you know, don’t tell me. Let me live in the mystery.)

Then came manhua (Chinese comics). That’s when my Instagram algorithm decided my entire personality was “divorced heiress seeking revenge while rescuing stray cats.” Which, honestly, isn’t the worst rebrand.

Manhuas are chaos incarnate. Characters teleport across continents. Entire casts appear out of nowhere. And there’s always—always—an evil mother-in-law threatening to break someone’s legs. Madam, calm down. One of my degrees is in Mandarin Chinese. I’ve studied the culture, I’ve taught ESL students, I even admin’d at an acupuncture college. And I can say with absolute certainty: it is not legal in China to break your daughter-in-law’s legs.

Novel Apps: TMZ, But Make It Fiction

Then came the novel apps, which are basically the TMZ of fiction—dramatic, trashy, impossible to look away from. Reading them feels like eavesdropping at Olive Garden: you didn’t want to, but the couple at the next table is fighting about infidelity while you’re trying to keep your breadsticks intact.

Every story has the same recipe:

• Rich cheater.
• White-lotus villainess.
• Female lead destroyed in chapter one, fully healed by chapter four.
• Love interest who’s either a childhood sweetheart or a mysterious billionaire whose cat controls the stock market.
• Optional twist: the female lead herself is a forgotten billionaire heiress. Surprise!

Thirty chapters of humiliation later, justice arrives in a single paragraph: every villain goes bankrupt, dies, or gets carted off to jail. The End™.

And the kicker? They’re not even similar. They’re the same damn story with a new wig. My Fair Lady, reheated. Sometimes they set it in 2029. Sometimes they add werewolves. Sometimes—God help us—it’s in Montana. Which apparently now lives in Chicago.

Montana… in Chicago?

Yes. One novel confidently placed Montana in Chicago. Like it was a hip new neighborhood.

For a brief moment I thought maybe I was the problem. I’m Canadian. Geography is not my strong suit. Maybe Montana applied for annexation?

But then I remembered Michigan: Report from Hell, the 2004 PS2 horror game that was—despite being called Michigan—set entirely in Chicago. This is not new. This is a proud tradition of geographical gaslighting.

Trash, Treasure, and Murdered Imaginary Friends

Here’s the problem: whether they’re good or brain-melting, these stories plant ideas in my head.

Take My Derelict Favourite, which I genuinely love. It’s sharp, funny, and brilliant. It made me wonder: what if an author fell into her own book, thrilled to meet her characters, only to decide—nope, you’re all annoying and I’m going to kill every last one of you. That’s my spin: an author horrified by her own creations, gleefully offing them one by one.

Then there’s The Black Widow Society. That came to me after seeing a reel about Mean Girls 2—a cinematic crime that made me want to cry almost as much as realizing Titanic 2 is real. So fine, if we’re greenlighting unnecessary sequels, I’ll do one worth it: a society of glamorous widows who are suspiciously good at making sure their husbands don’t survive long enough to collect pensions. Morticia Addams would be proud.

The Silver Bell Society? Still locked up, but think Victorian London plus maids plus secrets. That’s all you get. It’s my pizza slice. Back off.

And then, The Lady of the Lake. Born during a road trip with my friend Rhi, blasting Weird Al’s “Horoscope” in her car (affectionately nicknamed Zombie Killer). I spotted what I swore was a graveyard across from a campground. Spoiler: lumber. But my brain latched onto it anyway: graveyard + campground = horror short.

I fed it through the horror blender (Pet Sematary, Friday the 13th, Ringu) and got “Lady of the Lake.” Problem was, I remembered I hate camping. No plumbing. No central heating. The only thing scarier than ghosts is other campers. And worse—I can’t bring myself to kill imaginary characters in a campground. If they’re sleeping and pooping there, they deserve mercy. So the story flatlined. Maybe it’ll come back as “Lady of the Heated Pool.”

Side Quests (Powered by Mom)

Some of my best detours come courtesy of my mom, who is not chaotic but the reason I survive my own chaos. She suggested we watch The Thursday Murder Club (the TV show—because Helen Mirren is immortal). Then we spiraled into Quartet, then RED. Which is how I ended up plotting Straight Up G: badass grandmas running organized crime. Golden Girls with silencers. Bingo Night with blood diamonds. There will be a golf cart chase.

And then there’s my personal horror story: the janitor at work. He whistles while making eye contact. Already unsettling. But then he mops the floor, dips the same mop in the toilet, then drags it across the sink counter. I pee at home now. End of story.

Real Talk

Here’s the serious part. Writing is terrifying. I’ve been scammed. I’ve cried over edits. And I’ve bled too much money at Chapters trying to trick myself into inspiration. Because every time I see a cute notebook, I think: this is the one. This notebook will make me prolific. This notebook will be my salvation.

Instead, I’ve created a pastel army of half-finished stories in half-written notebooks. They glare at me from their pretty covers like judgmental ghosts of plots that didn’t survive past chapter two.

And don’t get me started on the home section. Who is out here affording $60 throw blankets? Can you mortgage it? Do you need a co-signer? They’re either woven from unicorn tears, spun out of leprechaun gold, or stitched from the crushed dreams of broke writers like me.

But here’s what matters: despite the scams, the edits, the avalanche of shame notebooks—I wrote the damn book. My name is on it. Even if it ends up in a Value Village bin, it exists.

Postscript: The Mom-ager Pact

Back to my mom, because she deserves it. She’s not just the best person I know—she’s my “mom-ager.” The deal has always been that Hell Hound Alice, if it makes money (which isn’t the point, but still), doubles as her retirement fund.

Our “business meetings” are high-stakes: Brad Mondo on YouTube, Papa John’s pizza, and, when things are dire, her dragging me to Winners or Walmart for tough-love retail therapy. Stressful? Absolutely. Effective? Weirdly, yes.

I want this book to do well, not for me—I can live on Diet Dr. Pepper and bad decisions—but for her. To pay her back. Everyone thinks they have the best mom. But I actually do. Don’t tell anyone else. Let them live in ignorance.

And that’s why we have the Jason Momoa Pact. When she’s older, I get her a Jason Momoa–type nurse. Must be allergic to shirts. Must make soup. Must carry groceries while she roasts him mercilessly. That’s the promise. That’s the dream.

👉 So tell me:Have you fallen into the manhwa/manhua/novel app rabbit hole? What’s the most cursed “Montana-in-Chicago” twist you’ve seen?

(Also, if you’ve ever bought one of those $60 Chapters throw blankets… what are they made of? Unicorn tears? Leprechaun gold? Crushed writer dreams? Explain yourself.)