The missing section

Hi all!

As you know Ursa Minors was released yesterday. As you may not know, there was a section missing! (Trust me, no one is more upset about this than me.) I have updated the manuscript so any downloads as of this morning should be correct (how do you know if your version is correct? If there is a drop cap in the first word of a new chapter, you have the correct version.


If your copy is drop capless and you don’t want to wait a week for amazon to update your copy (I have the request out it might take longer than a week I’m so so soooo sorry). I have included the missing section here.

There isn’t any major plot spoilers but it’s a nice character moment for Trinity that I’d hate for y’all to miss out on.
I’m going to add a few irrelevant images so there isn’t any accidental spoilers in RSS feeds then the missing section will be right below it.

I’d like to than Julie again for bringing this to my attention yesterday. And apologize from the absolute bottom of my heart that this major error slipped through. I’m so embarrassed that I missed this, I try to improve with each new release and I just dropped the ball here.

If your version looks like this, you have the version with the missing section and my deepest apologies!

If you have the drop cap, you have the version with the inclusion below and you shouldn’t miss a beat.

Here is the missing section:

I didn’t know what to think. I needed help on all of that, but I wasn’t sure if I was prepared to accept help from them.

“I’m doing what I can with what I have. My cubs are cared for, and we’re making it work.”

“Oh honey, we’ve been young parents too, we know what it’s like trying to balance working and a family. You don’t have a pack to rely on. What are you –“

I held up a hand to stop my mother from continuing her speech, “Money is tight. But I have a plan.”

My dad raised an eyebrow. He didn’t say anything but the careful way he tore a hunk of bacon before devouring it told me all I needed to know. His doubt stung.

“What’s your plan, dear?”

I sat up straighter, “I’m going to save up money and purchase a plot of land at the Bearden.”

Mom nodded, “With your job as…”

“We don’t have much, Trinity, but we can offer you something,” dad said, putting down his bacon and pulling out a his wallet.

“I don’t want your money. I’ve been given enough charity for the time being.”

“You’re a mother now, Trinity, you need to put your pups er cubs first. Set aside your pride and take the help we’re offering.”

“It’s not pride keeping me from taking your money. It’s what you expect from me for it. I can’t just waltz you into the cubs lives like a ready made parent-approved home life. The cubs have already lost too many people for that. I can’t risk you – “

“You were the one who ran out on us Trinity.” She said, reaching to grasp my hand, I pulled away. It would be too easy to accept mom’s warm embrace. To have her pet my hair and tell me everything was going to be alright.

It was going to be alright.

I had the cubs. The RSC helped as best they could. I had Evan.

I had Evan. He was more than just a helpful friend or absent parent to the cubs. I bet if I asked him to spend more time helping out with the cubs he’d jump at the chance. In fact, he’d practically begged for more cub responsibilities.

“I’m the cubs guardian but they don’t think of me as their mother,” Mads in particular, “Give me time to get them used to the new normal and we’ll bring you into their lives. Okay?”

Mom smiled; it was a small one. Clearly, she hadn’t gotten what she wanted, but it was more than I’d been prepared to offer when I entered the Bunk and Galley.

“I think we’ll take the offer of the pack in Grand Portage. You have our number, let us know when you’re ready.”

I ate the rest of the meal with my parents in awkward silence. We’d become strangers yet they were so familiar to me. I’d long since lost their respect as the perfect Beta Princess, as they had lost my respect as my perfect parents.

“When did it all get so complicated?” I asked my donut.

Dad rubbed my back, “It’s just part of growing up.”

Evan had the cubs as ready as he could get them when I returned to the cabin. Dinny was racing around with no shirt, crying at Penny who was wearing a shirt that wasn’t hers. Odi was under the table eating something I wasn’t sure was food, and Mads was nowhere to be seen.

“How’d it go?” I asked Evan.

The poor grizzly’s ears and neck were bright red, “I swear they were behaving like perfect angels until five minutes ago. It’s like they heard your car coming down the drive.”

I patted him on the back, “They’re all still breathing and I don’t see any blood. I say you did a pretty good job.”

He seemed a little relieved at that, “I have a few hours before I need to be at the Tooth and Claw, if it’s okay with you, I’m going to take Odi and put all the camping gear away.”

“He’s all yours.”

The Impostor

On the Eve of the release of my eighth book, I’m going to talk about my biggest insecurity.: being found out as an Impostor.

It’s more than doubt. It’s more than insecurity. It’s more than anxiety. It’s a constant nagging feeling that you don’t belong. That your life is a lie. That everything you’ve worked hard for to achieve wasn’t earned. 

Every critical comment is truth and every bit of praise is a lie. It’s pervasive. Daunting. Paralyzing. 

And you’re supposed to pretend you’re not feeling it. Because faking it until you make it is what you’re supposed to do, right?

Let me tell you about Impostor Syndrome. 

In a few hours, my eighth book, Ursa Minors, will be out on Amazon to purchase or borrow using Kindle Unlimited.  I was fortunate to have dozens of preorders. Fans of the books reached out after it was delayed and sent good wishes along to the proofreader for whom I delayed the publication. 

I have over 1,500 ratings on Goodreads and hundreds of positive reviews on Amazon. I’ve been a full-time writer for almost a year. 

Long story short, I have the success that many self-published authors hope for in their “dare to dream big” fantasies. 

And I feel like a fraud. 

I feel like a failure. 

I feel like every 5 star review is a person being way too nice and all the one star reviews aren’t brutal enough. And that is my Impostor Syndrome. 

I feel guilty all the time that the books I love to write are the books that people want to read. 

I feel guilty that those books aren’t better. That I didn’t put more of my heart, soul, or editing budget into them.

I struggle as a self published author balancing investing in more expensive editors, getting a proper formatter, and other experts versus the return on that investment. And the fact that I am fortunate enough to even be able to ponder that while authors I’ve read and enjoyed are working three jobs and are happy to sell a single copy of their books. 

Impostor Syndrome cuts hard, it cuts deep, and is so common. I can’t even say it’s rarely talked about, because it’s not some deep dark hidden secret in the author world. My writing group talks about dealing with Impostor’s Syndrome all the time. And the tragedy of this is that sometimes I feel like an Impostor for even talking about having Impostor’s Syndrome because I don’t feel good enough  to even have it. Impostor Syndrome is for people who are good enough to be in a position of relative success but don’t think they belong there. 

Let that sink in for a second. I feel like an Impostor for even daring to admit I have Impostor Syndrome.

There are many better definitions of Impostor Syndrome, but the only one that matters to me is fucking fuckety fuck this. 

So why bring this up? Why post this on the blog instead of a teaser for Ursa Minors or a plea to buy my books?

I think so much of my life as an author is hoping that my books get seen, read, and reviewed, that I’ve forgotten that I am a person. I’m not an author. I’m Lynn Katzenmeyer. I have insecurities and flaws. I have hobbies and favorite foods. 

Since going fulltime, I’ve lost myself to my Impostor Syndrome. Fighting to prove to myself that my books and through that I’m worth the time and energy and money that people spend with my books. 

My books are a part of me, I’d be lying if I said they weren’t. But I’m not just my books. 

I think authors are pressured to maintain an image. The public face for their authorial empire. The perfect narrative machines. We cultivate the imperfections we allow to show. A picture of a messy office on Instagram, a mention of procrastinating on a deadline on twitter, a Facebook post apologizing for a delay. Because being honest with our readers that the book we’re shilling isn’t our favorite, or we were convinced into a developmental change that we aren’t 100% confident in, or that the book the readers are begging for is beyond our current creative grasp. (Of course none of these are things I’m dealing with because all my new releases are my favorite and I’m totally confident in every word of every book........)

Long blog post short TLDR:  Impostor Syndrome sucks. Ursa Minors is great. #buymybooks?

If you are experiencing Impostor Syndrome, here are things I have found that help me. 

• Talking to people in the field I’m in. For me, it’s other authors. I’ve read their books. I know how amazing they are. Hearing them have similar doubts and insecurities as me helps. A lot. 

• Memes. Google Impostor Syndrome Memes and feel all the feels. (I would link them or have them here but I’m not sure about how embedding other people’s work is with the legalities and while I’m happy to pay artists to license stuff I’m not paying for memes for a blog post sorry)

• Watching Chef Stephanie Cmar on Top Chef. Yup, I know that sounds weird. Let me explain. Season 10 episode one, she doesn’t make the cut to be on Top Chef. Does she disappear into obscurity? No, not our girl Stephanie, she comes back in Season 11. After a brutal controversial elimination in Season 11, she again, returns. Stephanie then comes into Top Chef Season 17 All Stars. This woman opens up this season fangirling about the other chefs. Her interview cutaways throughout the season are about her self doubt and insecurities. Her personal failings but she goes back every challenge and does her best and has fun. There is a brilliant interview where she talks about making it to Italy and just being excited to have done it. To be happy with her food and to do her best. 

  • I’m tearing up just writing this which is how much I’ve relied on Top Chef for my Imposter Syndrome. But she is such a treasure and I wish she had a restaurant so I could try her food! 

• Knowing what is Impostor Syndrome and what is genuine self criticism. Am I being hard on myself because I don’t feel like I’m good enough or am I being hard on myself because I need to improve?

  1. Where is the criticism coming from? Am I editing? ~Might be something to work on. Am I laying in bed at night trying to sleep? ~probably Impostor Syndrome. 

I am so grateful and humbled for every person who has ever picked up one of my books, even if it was to read a half a page and say “nope, not for me.” The past year has been a wild and crazy year and I don’t know what’s coming next. But whatever comes next, I’ll still write. I might just be slower at it ;)

Ursa Minors releases Feburary 22nd. Full Disclosure: Fallen Lorde is still my favorite of all the books I’ve written, but Ursa Minors is a pretty close second. For those of you that choose to read it, I hope you enjoy it.

I love you all.

World of the Syndicate-- Origins of Calliope Weathersby

This fall really got away from me. Don’t fret, I’m still hard at work on Ursa Minors, Secrets of the Void, and a few other side projects that I can’t quite tear myself away from, including the backstory of the empathic councilwoman who kept Adrian and Iris on their toes in Mark of the Void.

Don’t worry if you haven’t read the second Syndicate book yet, there are no spoilers in this snipped of Callie’s story.

Neon museum Las Vegas photocred: Lynn Katzenmeyer. Oh yeah, I took this pic, bask in my photographic mediocrity.

I wove my way through the crowd of tourists rubbernecking at my fellow buskers. A family with a stroller stopped right in front of me to watch a group of street artists fold corn husks into elaborate roses. I ducked around them and nearly ran into a group of college students watching a break dancer starting their intoxication early or still drunk from last night. For a Monday morning in late March, the Fremont Street Experience was hopping. I found my circle and set up for the day. 

I hadn’t planned on making my living busking in Downtown Las Vegas, but I quickly found it paid more than the grad school fellowship program for which my ethnographic research led me to Vegas in the first place. Initially, I came looking to study Las Vegas street culture. A year later, I was a part of it. 

“Good morning Calliope,” my favorite security officer, David Martinez waved as he passed on his three wheeled scooter that 

I’d dubbed the chariot. 

I waved at his receding figure and continued my setup. Any street performer has their own unique schools of thought to draw in crowds. Some rely on their talent, others loud music, sex, jokes, but I rely on gimmicks. I had a rotation of gimmicks.  When I worked overnight, I dressed in all manner of get up and took photos with revellers for tips. My standard was Vegas showgirl, but my most lucrative was slutty nun. During daylight hours, when the street was quieter and the crowds thinner, I got to be more creative. Today I had hoped to use my innate talents and try my hand at empathic reading. 

Dressed in an elaborate fortune teller robe complete with a purple turban with giant jeweled feather brooch atop my head. My makeup was intense, even for Vegas. My light green eyes were framed with heavy dark liner that was more reminiscent of raccoons than human female, but it helped sell the look. I sat on my trusty paint bucket and sat on the cute clawed ottoman on the opposite side of the circle. As long as my visitors weren’t giants, our knees wouldn’t touch. 

Finally, I set my sign out. I’d spent a good portion of the previous night carefully painting it in a Ye Old English font. “Calliope the Magnificent palm reading.” And I waited. 

Once the street performer has their crowd, the trick is to get them to pay. Back when I was just a grad student, the performers I interviewed had a few methods to get the cash out of the wallets of bystanders and into their tip jars. The traditionalists relied on their talent. They trusted they were good enough at their craft tourists would willingly part with the cash. The pity-ables carried their handwritten cardboard signs with their story. They relied on either pity or generosity, depending on who you ask. My style of street performance leans to what I’d called in my ethnographic research as “active sales.” 

I closed my eyes and opened my third eye, sending my tendrils of empathetic understanding out into the street until I found my target. I sought the curious, the lonely, and the ambivalent for this act.  Opening my physical eyes, I saw her clearly. I stood up and pointed at her, making intense eye contact. 

She stood in a group of drunk women, one had a sash reading birthday girl. But my target was sober. Her brown eyes widened when she realized I was pointing at her. The drunk girls pushed her toward my circle. 

“You have a question for Madame Calliope,” I told her in my best Eastern European accent. For a girl from Iowa, I’d yet to be called on my affected accents. My third eye tendrils sensed the girl’s unease, “Not to worry,” I soothed, “Madame Calliope is here to help. Come, sit.”

She didn’t want to sit. Her apprehension tasted sour on my tongue, but I knew better than to worry. The drunk girls moved her closer to my circle and sat her down. 

“I need your palm, child,” I croned. The girl cautiously moved her hand out to me and I cradled it in my own hands. Her emotions flooded into me. Touch always intensified my third eye, I closed my eyes as visions of her flooded my sight. Visions of the girl in her most emotionally intense moments. Love, loss, fear, I eased my way through the cacophony of this girl’s emotional turmoil until I found bits I could use, “You did not want to come to Vegas,” it was a statement, I opened my eyes and leaned in close so the drunk girls could not hear, “You are not friends with your friends, no? Just one? But you don’t want to be her friend.”

The girl’s eyes widened, but she said nothing, “Let Madame Calliope look closer now,” I traced a finger over her palms, searching deeper. Moments flickered into my consciousness, I used my tendrils on the moments, the feelings of others for the girl in my hands, “You came here to be with your love. An unrequited one. I’m sorry to say dear, it will never be requited. You need to look further out. The young woman, in the coffee shop, the one with the tattoos that scare you. She is the one for you.”

Panic flooded the girl, and she pulled her hand from mine, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Damn it, I was usually better at reading these situations, “You can hide from your true self for only as long as you wish. But Madame Calliope promises you, open your heart, let fear in, and you will find happiness.”

The girl slowly stood up and backed away from my circle. I turned my attention to the group of drunk girls sending my tendrils out until I found the one I was looking for, “Your boyfriend has a surprise waiting for you when you get home.”

In a matter of seconds, the girl with a besotted boy at home was on my ottoman hand in mine. Ten minutes later I’d gone through the entire group, was sixty dollars richer and a crowd had formed. 

Hours later the DJ’s turned the volume up, which was my cue to pack up. That’s when I felt them. I say them, but really it was him. One man with two emotional resonances inside of him. I paused my pack up to find him in the crowd. He was around my age, maybe older than my 21 years. His deep brown eyes met my gaze and he crossed the crowded street to me. 

His gaze briefly left mine to glance down at my sign, “Palm reading?” his deep voice was skeptical. 

I nodded, “But I don’t need to be psychic to know what you’re looking for.” I said, using what little was left of my brain to keep the accent in place. I was overwhelmed by them. 

“And what am I looking for, Calliope?” the corner of his mouth quirked up.

“Me.”