It started out in different parts of the world. One would use the name Saga Press to self publish her own book while the other would use Alainn Epub to self publish hers. Both in other niches of the big wide world of publishing. All the while the third toiling with her own writings from the center of her community hub, in fact the very same one the first shared with the third.
Then, by happen stance, or perhaps not so much but more fate would have it. A call. A singular call for a book cover for once and for all. That call rang out on a Facebook group for all to hear. The second would find the first and the first would bring together the third and second. One became two, two became three.
From the very humble beginnings of one or two books to soon to be over thirty. Alliances and partnerships come and gone and new ones forming even today, oh how they fawn. The three would grow not only as a company but as a sisterhood with brawn.
Tri-JuJu are they and three small but truly fierce – as the saying goes and as people would remark – a set of triplets powerful as an arc so electric.
Now, as you can see – an LLC. Three beautiful and gracious women, independent and driven. They will strive for the best, never any less. Challenges and trials, nothing too small or far away in miles. These three women, not giving up is a given.
…And then some.
I remember the day I saw the post for a cover. Embracing Heathenry. I figured, why not help a fellow weaver of stories out. Turns out we have quite a bit in common. From the toils and strains of being a woman in an entrepreneurial setting to women with our own personal battles both from our past and in the present – babies, bottles, families, businesses, writing, publishing. We found ourselves, revolving around all of that and each other.
Then I met Sarah, Larisa being the go between and introductory person between us. The moment I heard her voice with Larisa’s on that phone call I knew we were a force to be reckoned with, a powerhouse together – Tri-JuJu (I can hear them both giggling at that). We’ve co-authored, we’ve created, and helped others create. We are the three who blaze trails instead of follow set paths. Between Larisa and Sarah I don’t think I could have asked for better partners, friends, family…and ultimately sisters.
It grew, like one of our children, it grew. From one to two to three. From one book to …well you’ll have to wait to see how many (let’s just say …we grew exponentially fast across many genres). Now it’s Three Little Sisters (now LLC) … We slew a giant (project), learned new swordsmanship (skills), won battles (went to bat for other authors), and are winning the war (we are a publishing house, small but fierce).
I went from cover artist, to executive assistant and now with great honor I am now Executive Coordinator. Not that titles matter to us three very much but you know the business world asks for them and we aren’t allowed to use princess unicorn catcher so…right, Exec Coordinator it is.
So, I raise my glass and bid thee, my fair sisters, many more years, no, decades of crazy conversations, gut searing belly laughs, shoulders to lean on when the waters get murky and so much more. To the family you can pick, I say here, here!
First I start with the base template from KDP for a full cover, I’ll either use a front, spine, back method or a full wrap around method depending on what suits your written work best. I usually get a feel for your work from the mini synopsis that you provide to me.
I ask the author for their trim size and page count for the sole purpose of the spine width that KDP will calculate based off of those two numbers. Without it I can’t do a proper set of KDP files for you to upload (PDF and JPG).
Next comes your background image, in this case I’m using Junked that I wrote under my pen name Tabitha Todd:
I will leave a space for your ISBN barcode on a full cover, for the digital edition (JPG) only the front cover is needed.
Above is the front cover typography that includes the title of the book and the author of the book. Below is the back typography of the cover that explains the plot of the book to the reader.
After all that I then convert the file to a PDF, crop the file to just the front page image and export that to a JPG file for your digital edition. I will also export as a PNG file for my portfolio.
There is the gist of how the process works. There are many more steps and man hours involved in the whole process. Including a brainstorming session prior to the work beginning and at least one session where the client can ask for changes. I do include up to 3 sizing adjustments for KDP because they can be a little finicky on the for print cover sizing. All my work is in 300DPI for resolution which I’ve found is the sweet spot for KDP’s preferences on images.
Covers are 175.00$ CAD (about 131 and change USD). I take cash (local only) and interac email transfer for the BCE services portal. The TLS LLC services portal accepts PayPal. Contact me for more information here.
Most people these days have more than one resume that will match a specific industry where their work skills are best suited. The cover letter will also match the colors and theme the resume has. Sometimes this can be a harrowing task that can confuse and frustrate people. Let me, a document technician, help you navigate creating stunning industry specific resumes and cover letters that will catch the eye of the potential employer and put you at the top of their pile and top of your game!
I will take your old resume and update it to the current standards that employers look for today. Gone are the days where we leave our contact information on our resumes among other out dated habits. If you don’t have a current resume, I sit down with you (either physically or virtually) and go over all your relevant information and build you a shiny, spiffy new resume.
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I can also make your cover letter match your one page resume. Something a little like this:
If you don’t know who she is, well she is the “better half” of Stephen King. Yes, that horror writer Stephen King. Recently Mr. King posted about his wife being pissed about a journalist who lacked the common sense to give credit where credit was due. Mainly, not crediting Mrs. King with the fact she had made a hefty donation to a charity – instead that journalist referred to her as “the wife of Stephan King”. If you didn’t know her name it might behoove you to ask her what her name is, wouldn’t it?
Some people think, rich people being prissy and that she is acting like a princess. It has nothing to do with being rich, not in the least. It’s about credit where credit is due. It’s about a husband who supports his wife as a separate human being from himself regardless of his notoriety. She made that donation, she is not a non-being just because she is his wife. That’s a basic right as any human being regardless of social class, rich or poor, lifestyle, etc…your name, in the end regardless of who you are, is truly all you have besides your word while you are living. To be without a name or having your name removed from you is cruel. Acknowledge a person by their name, they have one – if you don’t know it, ask what their name is. It’s common sense.
In a bigger sense, it’s about women as an individual. It’s about relationships and how women are not behind men anymore (like it used to be). Have we not grown from the old adage where women toiled barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen to women stand beside their men (sic partner) rather than behind them. Are we not in 2019 rather than 1909? Women have names too, we have hopes, aspirations, careers and are as powerful and knowledgeable as men are. We are not the silly little hysterical girls that we have been so long labelled as. We are people too.
It truly shouldn’t matter what you’ve got between your legs to at least be called by your given name and credited by that given name. Being a husband or wife, as Mrs. King – Tabitha – put it is not an identity, it’s a relationship status.
Well that was original wasn’t it. How many people have ripped off iPhone\Apple like that…
I write, I write fiction and non fiction alike. I prefer fiction of the horror variety. My very first book I both owned and read was Desperation by Stephen King. Dad was a bit of a King fan to say the least. I’m worse than him, I’m more than a King fanatic and that’s making an understatement (you should see my collection! It collapses book shelves, ask the husband).
I love writing, it’s as soothing as reading a good novel. It takes me away, immerses me into this world that no one else can see or hear where I can be as creative as I want. When I write I can “see” the world I’m creating in my mind and it flows to the screen, building itself stone by stone, blade of grass by blade of grass, character to character, word to word.
One of my short stories was used here in town (circulated) to help lobby the town to remove something called a kill box. It’s a terrible invention, it’s made to mass kill wildlife and stray domestic animals such as cats and dogs. We all get it hammered into our heads that carbon monoxide poisoning is a terribly painful way to die. Yet, we build kill boxes for creatures we, as a species, think and believe are beneath us. Strange ideology us humans come up with at times isn’t it.
Now I warn you, if you are squeamish at all or have a proclivity to sensitive stomach or heart this short story may disturb you as much as the notion of kill boxes do. So without further due I present you:
The smell in here is over powering. It permeates everything around me. It’s the smell of fear that coats another smell I can’t identify right away with a sweet yet sickening odor. My eyes dart back and forth and I pant uncontrollably.
I’m in a small cell, a cell not even fit for a dog in all honesty. My other cell mates howl and scream with indignation, screaming for freedom and howling their protests of innocence. No one listens, not even the man that put us here.
My family is gone, abandoning me to this hell hole. I don’t know what I did wrong for them to leave me in this sick and dank place. The only thing I’ve ever been guilty of is loving them unconditionally and thinking that love was mutual. The darkness is over whelming and the urine and feces around me attaching their stink to my body, suffocating me with the stench.
One of my cell mates cringes as a guard walks by with restraints in his hands. The guard pauses, looking at a clip board then at my cell mate. I scurry to the back of the cell unsure why I’m so afraid but knowing I should be afraid. My cell mate cries out as the guard steps closer to the door and stares down at him. As the guard opens the door he lassos my cell mate with his restraints, they are designed to restrain us by the throat so that we don’t thrash about as they drag us down the white corridors to the only other door in the room at the back.
The throat restraints cause my cell mate to choke back a cry as he thrashes against it and tries to pull away. I scream bloody murder, trying to tell the guard he’s choking him to death. I end up bashing against the cell door as it slams shut behind them and the guard drags my cell mate down the corridor to the dreaded white washed door at the end.
The voices behind the door are whispered under the mechanical drone of some unseen monster machine I’ve heard rumors about in here. They call is the bad room, the room that no one from our masses have ever returned from. I don’t quite know what or who is in that room that illicit so much fear from the old timers here but it’s a palpable fear that catches like wild fires of mass hysteria.
As the whispers fade I can smell that other smell. The one that the fear tries unsuccessfully to cover up. I know that smell, how do I know that smell, I’ve smelled it before. It has the same sweet sickly smell of rotting meat that’s been left in the hot summer sun too long. Spoiled meat with a sickening undertone of urine, vomit and feces. I strain to see into the room, to catch a glimpse of what fate belies my cell mate. He’s cowering in a corner, snapping and biting at the air between him and the guard that dragged him there. There are others there dressed in white lab coats, but the door slams shut with the sound of inevitable and impending doom before I can see anything more than that.
The screams and howls of anguish that come from behind the thick, white washed metal door on the end of the corridor never really get drowned out that well. They haunt our dreams, creating nightmares that can’t be imagined. The mechanical symphony of a generator comes screaming out from behind that door once a week, reducing most of us to cowering and sobbing slumps of our former selves in our cells. Huddling in the back of the cells to avoid the all seeing eyes of the guards, trying to make ourselves small and unseen. Most are never successful at it, very few escape from the clutches of that room, that evil, horrible room.
An acrid smell puffs up from under the small crack at the bottom of the door. It is a chemical smell that irritates our eyes and noses. The cell mates closest to the door end up sneezing and coughing from it. Getting the worse of the acrid smoke from the evil place. My nightmares are filled with it, torturing me anytime I may close my eyes. The nightmares dancing across the back of my eyelids like little trolls, sticking and jabbing my consciousness with fear and hopelessness. Startling me awake at every turn day and night.
The guard is walking back down the corridor, I beg an unseen, unhearing god that I’m not even sure really exists to spare me, spare my life and I’ll be better. Do better, I’m innocent, I swear that I am. I howl my protests with the other voices of the innocent as the guard unlocks my cell door. It seems my turn has come, my end at the hands of the evil room is here. I quake and shiver uncontrollably. Panting and cowering in the corner of my cell as the noose of the restraints land squarely on my shoulders and tighten around my neck. The first yank from the guard chokes me, cutting off my breath before I can scream and pull away.
I’m being dragged down the corridor, the sounds of the other cell mates drowning my own screams out. The white washed door slams open and I am shoved into the glaring lights of the florescent bulbs in the room. The two others with white lab coats stare at me with unfeeling round dark eyes. There is no emotion, no compassion, not even a glimmer of care in those dark, deep pools of their eyes. Nothing but weariness and disgust. I look around, eyes straining against the light trying to make sense of the room. My cell mate lays on a cold metal table on his side with the life drained from him.
That smell, that horrible sickening smell gags me as I struggle and bite at the air between the guard and myself. Then it hits me, I know what that smell is now and I am terrified. It is the smell of death, the smell of inevitable demise. It is my demise, my death I am smelling. Then I see it. The wire cage on wheels, three other cell mates scream and fight for space in that wire cage. Gnashing and gnawing and writhing against each other. Droplets of blood spatter on the floor from them struggling against each other and biting themselves to escape. There is no escape, none to be had. This is the end, the final curtain, the brutal exit from life.
The guard yanks me forward and I scream, trying to pull back but I am too weak to resist. He grabs me by the nape of the neck releasing the restraint and shoving me simultaneously into the wire cage of cell mates that have become a ball of gnawing sharp teeth and insanity. In the mass hysteria of that wire cage I lose my individuality, my being and become another gnawing set of teeth. Slashing and biting at anything that comes across the path of my mouth. Screaming and howling at the indignation and injustice, losing my mind to the insanity, becoming nothing but rage and fear boiling over from the wire cage.
The wire cage on wheels gets pushed into a box, it’s small and stinks of spoiled life. The smell of death and the acrid smoke that haunts my nightmares bubbling over my senses, driving me all that more insane with fear. My mind breaks from all sense of reality and sanity and I become a heap of howling tissue, muscle and bone. Quaking in my skin as the inevitable end is nearing. The generator kicks up and we all scream. Then the door slams shut behind us and the darkness is utterly complete with shear terror.
The acrid smoke fills the tiny box, choking us all and quelling some of us to silence. I feel like I am drowning, my insides are on fire and my lungs scream as the hot foul smoke fills them to over flowing. I gasp and twitch, still conscious though barely. The others are beneath me twitching and convulsing causing the wire cage to rock on its wheels with a torturous squeak. Is there no peace even in death, the shattering sound of those wheels in the small confines of the box shatter the last remaining pieces of my mind, leaving me with nothing but fear, hopelessness and insane terror. As my eyes roll back I beg for death, for mercy and for anything but this. I beg for remand even from my captors and tormentors that put me here. My howls fall on no ears, no one wants to hear it and the only answer is the hum of the generator and the whoosh of the foul smoke that suffocates me so mercilessly.
The darkness finally comes after what seems like an eternity. My vision fades behind my eye lids and my gasps for a futile attempt at self preservation of my life drain away sweetly. I grunt the last few breaths from my body and give in, let death take me away from here. Let death be my salvation. My last thoughts as my heart thuds against my rib cage for the last time are of my family. Where are they, why have I been forsaken by them, why did they turn their back on me, where did they go. What did I do so wrong that they would no longer love me and want me.
“Geeze, that last set of dogs slated for the gas chamber were rough” The guard grunted.
“Next week we have twice the amount to gas, we’re going to need to double stack some of the females with their babies” The man in the white lab coat said in disgust.
“Damned city needs to fund us for a bigger gas chamber” The other lab technician spat vehemently
“Like that would ever happen, damned crying shame about that last dog. He was a good looking dog” The guard whispered, “too bad the family couldn’t keep him and there’s no shelters to send him to anymore”
“Yeah, too bad, so sad”