In a couple of novels I’ve written I referred to an election or a pandemic, not in order to make the story about those events but to add context for a character’s actions and attitudes. I used them as factors affecting the character’s decision-making.
Inevitably a few people complained. There are some readers who will stop reading a book at the mention of an unpleasant era they’ve experienced. They want to get as far as possible from the memory of it.
Version 1.0.0
In the case of “We’re All In This Together” (published in Vastarien: A Literary Journal), COVID lockdown inspired the story. This was a time when we lived in a rambling, four-storey apartment building in a part of town that could only be reached by one bridge or one small ferry. The dark green polished concrete floors and putty-colored walls of the lobby and halls echoed strangely. Delivery people brought groceries as well as mail. When the unreliable elevators broke down, elderly neighbors and parents lost patience. Where were the nice husband and wife team managing the place and making repairs with their usual expertise and good cheer?
Well into the uncertain and paranoia-inspiring days of the pandemic, with a drawer full of whimsical cloth masks intended to take the edge off existential dread and hands constantly blistered from over-washing, our building managers had disappeared. Not entirely. They turned up on the community page on Facebook, and they were soon replaced by two obnoxious middle-aged people with a dog that looked like Phyllis Diller.
Underneath it all, the absurdity of being stuck in a building full of people who could only communicate via social media. The ridiculous, lonely, reverberating horror of it all came together in a story. You are forewarned. – S.P.
Originally titled Muscadines, the novella now features gorgeous cover art by Harry O. Morris, and a new introduction. In addition to the beautiful print edition, Grimscribe is publishing an ebook.
After a long and mysterious absence, Alma Parker returns to her rural Georgia home, setting off a violent emotional conflict with her sister Martha over control of the household. Raised on brutality and familial sacrifice, the sisters have taken different paths following the death of their mother. Together, the women must decide how to live in the shadow of their mother’s monstrous legacy.
“Narrated in prose as languid and deceptively dreamlike as a Georgia summer afternoon… Nobody does very bad women like Miskowski, and this deeply disturbing story further establishes her as a master at exploring the psychological terrain of the kind of women who aren’t supposed to exist.” – Lynda E. Rucker, Shirley Jackson Award winner and author of You’ll Know When You Get There and Now It’s Dark
“…the return home of a prodigal sister is the catalyst for a series of searing family revelations. Alternating between memory and confrontation, the narrative lays bare the secrets and sins that have bent and warped the lives of the three Parker sisters.” – John Langan, author of Lost in the Dark and Other Excursions
“…a glorious, heady rush of red clay dusted prose… Miskowski has created a story that will linger in the darkest rooms where you store your secrets.” – Kristi DeMeester, author of Dark Sisters
“A propulsive, engrossing thriller. I really enjoyed the mix of narrative styles, using audio transcripts and letters to deliver some of the story from the antagonist Ann Mason’s point of view. Excellent storytelling from Miskowski to utilise aspects of the modern freelance journalism scene and some of the effects of the COVID-19 pandemic. But the real stars of the book are the main characters Parker and Ann. The extent of Ann’s disconnect with reality unravels along with the mystery of her past and her obsession with a washed-up TV star. And Parker makes for a compelling counter to Ann, while also mirroring Ann in some of her decision-making. The similarities between the two is even more intriguing than the difference and it makes for a fantastic read. 5🌟 Loved it.” —Thomas Joyce
“The setup is killer… This is easily a strong candidate for a top ten book of the year.” — Dave Simms, Cemetery Dance Online
“Horror author Miskowski shines in this inventive psychological thriller…This is a winner.” ―Publishers Weekly
“If You Knew Me is a twisty tale that will stay with you for a long time.” ―Alma Katsu, author of Fiend
“S.P. Miskowski has created my favorite villain since Hannibal Lecter scarfed some fava beans. If You Knew Me is one insanely compelling read!” ―Lisa Morton, six-time Bram Stoker Award winner
“Dark and hip and funny. Highly recommended.” ―Polly Schattel, author of Shadowdays
Here’s something you might not know. Two of my books have been finalists for a Bram Stoker Award® for Superior Achievement in a Novel including my 2017 grunge noir novel I WISH I WAS LIKE YOU.
My fellow nominees that year? Christopher Golden (who won for Ararat), Steve Rasnic Tem (Ubo), Josh Malerman (Black Mad Wheel), Owen King and—wait a moment, wait, yes, it’s all coming back to me—STEPHEN KING (Sleeping Beauties).
Write your heart out. Edit mercilessly. Believe in your book. You never know what might happen.
While studying the living room rug and finding it grubby.
Two things I learned from my mom: housekeeping and etiquette. I can tell you right now, I do not live up to her example when it comes to cleaning. The Rosalie Gold Standard included daily vacuuming, dusting, and mopping. Washing dishes (sans dishwasher) and toilet cleaning were pretty much ongoing. She ran a daycare business in our home, and she’d read enough nursing and health care books to be fanatical about cleanliness. When I lived with my parents I showered twice a day, washed clothes and towels as soon as there was a load, and accepted the then-normal fact that my mom would only let our dog in the house after vacuuming her fur.
About the etiquette. I don’t go around telling people how to do things. I’m a post-hippie-era democracy-hugging slacker. Do your thing your way.
Except.
Thanks to Rosalie, I can’t help zeroing in. I see someone post a Facebook invitation to a public event, probably afraid no one will show up, and invariably someone says something like, “Too bad. Can’t make it, I’ve got a chalk drawing class that night.” Instead of going the Rosalie Way: “This looks great. Have a wonderful night!”
Basically my mother’s core attitude was, “Who do you think you are, the Queen of Sheba?” Meaning, if there’s a line, get in line. Strive for what you want but also acknowledge you are not the only person on the planet, or in the room.
I will never live up to Rosalie’s Gold Standard but I’m glad I know what she would say about the rug today.
Everything I write contains at least a little horror.
Growing up, I was a sensitive kid. Not for myself, I wasn’t very self-aware. My mom had the power to hurt my feelings, but I don’t remember taking anyone else’s opinion seriously. I was sensitive to the cruelties I observed.
Not that nature is cruel. The hawk isn’t cruel, it simply has to eat. But the agony of its prey was something I found hard to bear.
As I gradually realized how much of human life is propped up by institutionalized brutality—we raise animals for slaughter, they’re born to die to satisfy our appetite—I knew I had to toughen up. I started thinking in terms of survival because even the thought of a baby bird fallen or pushed from the nest, knowing no kindness, injured and in agony, waiting alone to starve or to be torn to shreds, a shivering, unwanted living creature, could make me cry uncontrollably, could make me wail at a terrifying and unforgiving world that eats its young.
My new novel If You Knew Me is due from Thomas & Mercer on September 23rd. This psychological thriller will be released in ebook, paperback, and audiobook editions, and is currently available to pre-order onlineor via your favorite bookstores.
If You Knew Me is also available to reviewers via NetGalley.
In this twisted psychological thriller a novice reporter walks a perilous tightrope between ambition and obsession.
Parker Dillon can’t win. Just as she’s trying to start her journalism career, her aunt sells the website where she works, and the new owner is keen to replace employees with AI. But her luck seems to turn when she discovers an intriguing cold pitch buried in her aunt’s files.
Ann Mason claims she did something terrible and never got caught. She’s also weirdly infatuated with a long-forgotten TV star. Desperate for a spectacular feature, Parker tracks Ann from Seattle to her home in Arizona. But as she interviews neighbors, coworkers, and friends, her quarry grows increasingly elusive, and her story turns deadlier than she ever imagined.
Parker can’t shake the feeling that she’s the subject, not the author, of this macabre piece—the prey, not the hunter. The more she learns about Ann’s obsessions and drives, the more it’s like looking in a cracked mirror. And Parker’s not sure she likes what she sees.
Thanks to Mike Thorn and Miriam Richer for inviting me to chat with them at Craftwork Podcast. I enjoyed it very much. If you like the episode, follow the podcast for more conversations about the art and craft of writing.
At first the spell was nothing but a game designed by little girls. As far as they knew, it was only of interest to the three of them. They never imagined what they did that afternoon would matter to anyone else.
For most grownups in Skillute, Washington in the late 1960s few events rose in significance above the routine of work, Sunday worship, and the weekend six-pack. The prospect of someday joining this world of quietly unhappy adults made the girls long for useless adventures.
They were awkward, slender, average height, age eleven to eleven and a half. They came up with the idea to swear an oath against having babies after another girl, whose mother was overdue with twins, whispered a few mortifying details of the pregnancy while they slouched in the darkened back row of their classroom during a hygiene film.
“For two whole weeks Mama hasn’t moved off of the couch. Just sits there all day, breathing.” The girl affected a ragged intake of breath. “Grandma brings her ice chips soaked in Budweiser.”
“Why?” Ethel asked.
The storyteller was poor, her green-plaid cotton dress threadbare at the collar and cuffs. After each question she grinned before doling out another bit of knowledge, savoring the discomfort of her audience.
“That’s to stop the pain when Mama’s gums bleed. They get so raw they break open and her mouth fills up with blood. Then she’s got to spit into a cup.”
“Sick,” Beverly whispered.
“All she does is cry and tell Grandma these twin babies are a curse, and if she could, she would cut that man from Wenatchee.”
The girl wrinkled her nose. She lifted her hands to form a loose circle around her neck.
“Mama’s ankles are this big around. She can’t sleep at night. She can’t wear shoes because her feet are all puffed up.”
Mrs. Coffey shushed the class from her dim corner at the front of the room, near the chalkboard. A few silhouettes moved restlessly in the flickering light. The girls ducked lower in their seats.
“Her hair kept falling out of her head until she was bald except for one patch on the side.”
“Did it grow back?” Beverly asked.
“Yeah,” said the girl. “But now there’s hair on her stomach, too, like the fur on a dog’s belly.”
“No!” Ethel said.
The girl nodded: It was true.
“Grandma shaves it off, but it grows back thicker every time.”
“I’ve never heard of that,” Beverly said.
“Doctor says it’s pretty common,” the girl informed them.
Now Ethel and Beverly turned to Marietta, whose aunt was a midwife and a fortune-teller. They waited while Marietta made up her mind to speak.
“Some pregnant women grow hair in places they didn’t have it before,” she said solemnly. “That’s true.”
A shiver ran through the group. All turned their attention to the film screen at the front of the room, where a young woman with pigtails was demonstrating the proper way for a lady to wash her hands in a public bathroom.
The conversation had its effect on all three girls. Later that day, during lunch break, Beverly announced: “I’m not ever going to have fur on my stomach. That’s not even human.”
She sniffed disdainfully and picked at her bracelet, turning over each miniature charm until all the painted shamrocks faced outward. The bracelet accentuated a single stroke of pink polish dabbed on each of her nails.
“We’re doomed,” said Ethel.
All three girls looked down at their untouched sandwiches on the cafeteria table: Egg salad, peanut butter with grape jelly, liverwurst. Knowing what they knew about the world and what it held in store for them had ruined their appetite. They could only sigh and stare at the food with jaded smiles. They were considering never eating again.
The Complete Skillute Cycle by S.P. Miskowski will be available from Broken Eye Books in 2025. Stay tuned for more information.
S.P. Miskowski 
