Real Life Paranormal Activity.

I find the fantasy fiction genre fun and exciting because I get to stretch the limits of my imagination. Incidentally, I’ve found that I have no limits…but that’s another story for another day.

My point is–the paranormal elements I write about originate from my brain. Right off the top of my head. But my brain is stimulated by outside forces. Environmental influences. Conscious and subconscious input…and real life experiences.

Now, where was I going with that… Ah, yes. Paranormal activity. We’ve probably all encountered something we couldn’t explain with science. Or thought we saw someone standing in the corner when there was really no one there. Or maybe we’ve had a dream that actually came true.

While I have yet to meet a vampire (keeping hope alive) or ghost or goblin or angel (not that I know of), I have to say I believe both friendly and unfriendly spirits walk among us. The unexplainable happens. I’ve seen it with my own two eyes, even dreamt events before they occurred.

But enough about me. I read and write the stuff. Maybe that makes me more prone to belief. There’s a chicken or egg debate in there somewhere, but let’s get on to more important things…

I wanted to know whether someone, who didn’t usually write or read paranormal/ fantasy books, believed in real life paranormal activity.

Today, I have an answer from CJ Johnson (copywriter, ghostwriter, researcher, and blogger):

“New Orleans is an experience. It always begins with the tingling that makes its way down my spine, every time that I step foot on its soil. That tingling, the warmth, the sense of unsettled harmony from our past. It just creeps up on me and then past me in all of seconds, and then again, until I just accept it and embrace it. For me that tingling is just not the physical and emotional joy of vacationing. It’s the metaphysical. I symbol it to mean that “we” welcome you, “we” being those from another time. I know that all of this country, the world even, has its pockets of mysticism, but New Orleans is its own world, in of itself. It has a history that’s complex and mixed. Its people are born from those hailing from the Caribbean, France, Canada, Africa, and Spain. And up until today, a lot of Shit has went down (pardon my French) in regards to New Orleans history.

It is no wonder that the paranormal can be accepted, and almost expected in such a city. It is the largest city in the United States where one can visit a plantation. I mean can you imagine the sense of unsettledness there? So many people from today traipsing around on quarters that should be closed chapters of our historic fabric. In my opinion those spirits just travel the city, roaming, and in their subtle way letting each passerby and resident know that we are all just “visitors” in their world.

One of my favorite books is, The Feast of All Saints, by Ann Rice, and she writes with clarity on the lives of the Creoles of color in New Orleans in the early 19th century. Those Creoles have maintained a haunted existence and their legacy is spirit filled. The paranormal in New Orleans, is not from just the ordinary, it’s not “Ghost Busters” or other cheesy Hollywood dreamed of notions of the paranormal. It is very real and unfortunately derived from sorrow, miscegenation, and broken promises. But is also real because it celebrates a city with a long history of people that are resilient, unbroken, and authentic. All of that culminates to a city bursting with people from times past laying claim to their city. The paranormal of New Orleans is dreamy but real, nuanced but arresting. I can’t quite describe it, but its real, its here to stay, and it’s their world, and the city’s Grandfathers will never let anyone forget just how much the city is their own. So the tingling down my back will never cease when I visit New Orleans, and I am sure each of us can claim a little truth in the same sentiment.

How does New Orleans put you in a paranormal state of mind?”

A-ha! So I’m really not crazy.

Leave a comment. And if you missed her interview with me, check it out here.

Happy Birthday To Me–Free Ebook For You!

Birthday Cake

In honor of me turning one year closer to forty, I’d like to celebrate by giving YOU a free copy of my ebook. That’s right! I will send a free download code to the FIRST FIVE people to comment on this blog post. Be sure to include your email address so that I can send you the code.

Your birthday gift to me? Weeeell, since you asked– Two things:

1. Tell everyone you know that SLEEPY WILLOW’S BONDED SOUL: The Narcoleptic Vampire Series Book #1 will officially be released on October 1st and they should visit,, or to get a copy. I will also post links here on my site to make access more convenient.

2. Consider writing a review on one or more of the sites so that others will know if it is a book they’d be interested in reading.

“Happy Birthday” to Me!

Big “Thank You” to You!

Interview With Dicey.

You’ve heard about this awesome new fiction author, Dicey Grenor, and you want to know more about her, right? Maybe you’ve even read the first chapter of Sleepy Willow’s Bonded Soul: The Narcoleptic Vampire Series here and you’re curious about the woman behind the madness. Right?

Well, CJ Johnson, took the time to post an interview with me on her blog to answer some of your most pressing questions. The questions that will keep you up tonight unless you get them answered right this minute.

How do I balance family and career? Do I still practice law? Why do I write under a pen name?

Check it out here.

And then sleep well.

Book Teaser.

Ten more days until SLEEPY WILLOW’S BONDED SOUL: The Narcoleptic Vampire Series Book #1 is released! In honor of that, I’m posting a teaser. It contains one expletive, so stop reading now if that offends you! You’ve been warned…

“He’d walked in fine as hell—tall, dark, and crazy. I knew it the moment he’d pinned his metallic blue, silver-looking stare on me. I’d wanted to bite him, fuck him, and run away at the same time.” (Willow referring to Remi)

Remi happens to be my favorite character because he’s so complex. The more layers to a character, the more fun they are to write. My mental image of him is gorgeous as hell, so that doesn’t hurt either. I’ve used photos of Israeli model, Nir Lavi, in my promo video to depict Remi.

See what I mean? Absolutely gorgeous. Fun, fun character!


Risky v. Risque’

I’ve described my books as sexy, daring, wild and risky.  The first three adjectives may be self-explanatory. But you may ask yourself whether I really meant risqué in lieu of risky.

Nope. I meant risky.

Merriam-Webster defines risky as: attended with risk or danger, hazardous.

And risqué: verging on impropriety or indecency, off-color.

While risqué may apply to my books, I prefer not to use this word because it implies judgment and I try not to subscribe to what is considered indecent or off-color. It’s just different strokes for different folks in my world.

I prefer the idea of danger. Of hazard. As in, “read at your own risk”. You may read and feel like something inappropriate occurs within my story, something that you would never in a million years do or say. But you were forewarned about the content and rose to the challenge anyway. You risked the possibility of reading something offensive.

Same goes for me, as the author. Since I risk offending someone with each story line I write, it’s risky for me too. I risk gaining or losing a new reader every time I make a book available. Some may be ready to read something different. Others may be appalled. I take that chance with each word I write.

And I love it!

“To win without risk is to triumph without glory.”(quote by Pierre Corneille, French poet)

Rest assured, selecting the pen name Dicey was no accident. According to Merriam-Webster, it means: risky, unpredictable. That’s exactly the kind of writer I am and it precisely describes the kind of books I write.

Chapt. 1 of SLEEPY WILLOW’S BONDED SOUL: The Narcoleptic Vampire Series Book #1

WARNING! Graphic content follows! Do NOT read if bad language and gore offends you!

You’ve been warned…

Chapter 1

The club became completely quiet as I lay in my coffin, tightly wrapped like a mummy from my crown to my toenails. I knew it was packed though because I heard pitter-pattering of at least seventy-five racing hearts. Some sat at tables, some stood along walls, and VIPs watched anxiously from the balcony.

Once I heard the smoke machine fogging the stage and felt the spotlight center on my coffin, I slowly raised the lid and held it there to give their human eyes a moment to adjust to the fog. To focus on me in the darkness.

Couldn’t see Remi through the white wraps across my eyes, but I smelled him. Sensed his essence, his soul. He was alone at his usual table on the far left near the stage, wearing his usual intoxicating cologne. I smelled his cigarette in the ashtray and liquor in his glass. Knew I’d taste a hint of both in his blood later, but it would still be hot, thick and delicious.

I waited until the deejay started the music then slowly lifted my upper torso to Marilyn Manson’s “You and Me and the Devil Makes 3”. Planting my palm on the coffin’s edge, I brought one stiffly wrapped leg up and then the other, draping them across the side facing the audience.

Spilling out of the coffin like running water, I left a trail of cloth behind and landed on the floor gracefully. Then I rolled and rolled in time to the music, gradually unraveling layers of cloth until various parts of my nudeness peeked through. The white cloth looked like puddles with overflowing water glowing against the black coffin and black floor.

My almond-shaped hazel eyes remained closed while I danced to the music and writhed on the floor, allowing my hands to explore first my plump breasts, then flat tummy, and lastly, my trimmed bush. I rolled again, allowing more cloth to fall away revealing more caramel brown skin.

After slowly spreading my knees apart, I teasingly undulated in front of patrons closest to the stage while lust oozed from their pores. They were entranced by the gyration of my hips, the rhythm of the music, the fantasy of sex and death.

My necrophilia clientele comprised of those aroused by corpses, death, near-death experiences, mutilation and…sometimes murder. Sometimes in self-inflicted circumstances. Knowing mummy wraps titillated them more than Victoria’s Secret lingerie, I rolled around in the cloth, letting some drape around me loosely. It fed their frenzy, their passion. Gave them the illusion of death coming to life. Of living deadness.

Ironically, what they perceived as illusory was in fact, reality. The hallmark of my existence.

As the song ended, I lay across the coffin lid intimately, as if it were my lover, and licked long strokes across the surface. Then I moved seductively until I straddled the coffin.

In one swift motion, I pulled the wrap from around my head that released long black tresses unto my lower back and across my breasts. Leaning forward, I stretched until I got the dagger from my coffin bed and raised it skyward with both hands. I ground my hips across the lid as if I were fucking it and moaned loudly. When the music stopped, my moans took over, becoming the music, setting the tempo.

Remi’s heart almost leaped through his chest with palpitations so loud, it must have been strapped to a microphone and amplifier. Since my finales were his biggest turn-ons, he’d make his way to a private room in back, if one was available, and jack off afterwards. He had enough social grace to do it in private, but at Pit of Hades Fetish Club, he really didn’t have to. Here, there was no shame, no taboos.

Considering how often I’d performed sex and death scenes with guns, nooses, and swords, you’d think the audience would be ready for anything. But they gasped and screamed, and in some cases vomited, when I plunged the dagger’s stainless steel blade into my chest. They’d known it was coming, yet they were still horrified and awed. And ready to fuck.

But it wasn’t an act.

I grunted on impact. It hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, but I’d heal. Realism was most important in pulling off a death scene, after all.

Once I withdrew the dagger, I plunged it again, and then again, grunting from pain each time the blade went into my chest. The sound of the hilt slamming into my skin repeatedly seemed to echo throughout the club.

Slumping forward, I let my blood run down the sides of the coffin onto the floor, taking comfort in knowing Remi would replenish it later. I kept falling until I slid to the floor in a heap.

Bright flashes went off left and right as people snapped pictures. Security was everywhere frantically grabbing cameras, admonishing patrons. This was a no-photo-taking establishment unless you paid the club’s photographer to take authorized still shots of or with entertainers in the designated booth. Performances were never recorded or photographed due to graphic content and patrons were never filmed unless they consented. The owner’s respect for privacy gave patrons freedom to let their hair down and enjoy whatever deviant sex they were in to. Everyone knew the rules. You didn’t get in without an invitation, signed contract and approved membership…and definitely no cameras. Violators had their memberships revoked immediately.

I liked the rule. It prevented patrons from having incriminating evidence of my supernatural powers. So far, everyone assumed I used fake blood and props. Didn’t want anyone to start thinking otherwise and having proof to boot. They’d wonder how I recovered from fatal wounds night after night. I could be practicing witchcraft or be some other legal supernatural being. But if anyone happened to suspect I was a vampire, I would be clawing myself from a pile of shit as deep as the Grand Canyon with nothing but a fingernail file as my tool.

Suddenly, I felt strange. My fingertips numbed, my tongue dried. I began trembling and feeling light-headed, but I wasn’t alarmed. It wasn’t a reaction to me stabbing myself. It was my illness, my body’s inability to regulate its sleep cycle. My narcolepsy with a side of cataplexy was about to carry me away to a deep, short sleep.

Considering I was at the end of my set, it was good timing.

Hades was silent again as the audience held its breath.

I inhaled deeply. Exhaled completely. Exaggerated several more deep breaths then spasmed wildly for the sake of dramatizing my finale, my death.

Then, as if on cue, darkness engulfed me and my narcolepsy put me to sleep.

When I awoke a short time later, the first thing I noticed was standing applause, cheering, whistling. Next, I noticed a commotion at the corner of the stage. Punch, Hades’s head of security, was dragging Remi back to his table, threatening to put him out. Remi’s jeans were undone and blood was smeared all over his arms and face. My blood.

Remi had been a regular Saturday night patron for over a year and knew it was against the rules to touch performers while we were onstage. I just hoped he didn’t make Punch put him out of the club. Or make Punch beat him so badly I wouldn’t be able to take blood from him later.

Punch was a huge Godzilla-size dude, nearly seven feet tall with biceps as wide as fucking watermelons. His smooth dark chocolate skin emanated a wild animal don’t-fuck-with-me warning scent. And though I didn’t know what he was exactly, I knew what that meant. It meant Punch was not someone Remi wanted to fuck with.

I felt famished and Remi was supposed to be my dinner tonight.



If you’ve made it to the end and think you can handle the rest, get the ebook or paperback on

Yes. I Am Different.

When I tell people I’ve written a few books, they usually assume it’s something scholarly because of my background in academic writing. So I’ve tweaked my intro and now tell folks I’ve written a few novels. Which leads to a whole nother set of assumptions, the first being that I must write urban fiction.

No, I do not.

I don’t know if they find it intriguing or disappointing to learn the answer is no, but the response is usually, “Oh, really?”

Yep. Really.

My novels are a reflection of who I am. And I am different. My characters are different.

When people assume my characters are African-American because I am, I quickly inform them my characters are multicultural. So, yes. There are African-American characters. But there is so much more than that.

My novels will appeal to people who want something different. To people who think outside the box. To people not easily offended…and like sarcasm and dark humor. My target audience is people who enjoy unconventional romances, gritty story lines, action with bloodshed, and a deviation from dull, everyday life. I follow no formula other than my own:


You say–“But Dicey, maybe your novels loosely fit within the urban fiction genre.”

Well, let’s see. According to wikipedia: “Urban fiction, also known as Street lit, is a literary genre set, as the name implies, in a city landscape; however, the genre is as much defined by the race and culture of its characters as the urban setting. The tone for urban fiction is usually dark, focusing on the underside. Profanity, sex, and violence are usually explicit, with the writer not shying away from or watering-down the material. In this respect, urban fiction shares some common threads with dystopian or survivalist fiction. Urban fiction was (and largely still is) a genre written by and for African Americans.

The underlined part does fit. However, “SLEEPY WILLOW’S BONDED SOUL: The Narcoleptic Vampire Series” is dark sci-fi/ fantasy and SHAMEFUL is written in first person voice of the Caucasian protagonist. Therefore, I think it’s safe to say neither of them qualifies as urban.

Urban fiction is no more me than Christian fiction or Young Adult. And I have to be true to myself.

Don’t be mistaken–I’ve read some urban fiction that I loved: Omar Tyree’s “Flyy Girl“, Sister Souljah’s “Coldest Winter Ever“, Zane’s “Addicted“, Eric Jerome Dickey’s “Friends and Lovers“, Michael Baisden’s “Maintenance Man“, E. Lynn Harris’s “Not A Day Goes By“, and Terry McMillan’s “Disappearing Acts“. And being the book addict I am, once I read one by the author, I read them all. All of them prior to 2002. Ah, yes… I LOVED these books. (click on the titles for more info about each book.)

But I’m a different kinda writer.

Am I African-American? Yes. You’ve seen the photo or know me personally. But I know nothing about the streets. I’d have to call around to find someone to find me someone to sell me some weed. I got no cool swag. I just walk. I’m the girl who picks hip-hop music based on the beat ’cause half the time I don’t understand what the artist means. Yeah–I hear what they’re saying, I just don’t get the street lingo. For instance, these are lyrics from DJ Khaled’s “I’m On One”:

“Two white cups and I got that drink
Could be purple, it could be pink
Depending on how you mix that shit
Money that we got, never get that shit”

Cause I’m on one
I said fuck it I’m on one”

Someone please tell me what the heck this means because it went over my head. Is he referring to a particular well-known drink that I should be familiar with or just a hypothetical drink? What does “I’m on one” mean period?

Psst. Lean closer. Let me tell you a secret…

My entire high school graduation class consisted of fifteen people…and I was the only African-American. When I was a teenager, I moved to a neighborhood where we were the only African-American family. I went to a church where the pastor was Caucasian and the congregation was mixed. I did cross-word puzzles and other geeky stuff instead of watching BET music videos. Now, these things were not by choice, mind you, but a part of my reality nonetheless.

I find lines like “Is you wit’ me?” and “conversatin’ on the phone” irritating because the bad grammar sounds like fingernails dragging down a chalkboard. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I understand it’s usage for emphasis sometimes like when Lafayette on “Trueblood” says, “I is”. And yes, just like my usage of “nother” and “kinda”, some of it is stylistic. But it still gives me cause to pause when I hear it. I still cringe involuntarily.

So you see? I may be black (happily so). But I’m no urban fiction writer.

Honestly, do I seem like someone you want writing your urban fiction? I didn’t think so.

Vampire Obsession?

I’ve made it clear by now that I love vampire stories even though I write in other genres as well. I love body art like tattoos and piercings too. So I wondered what kind of vampire body art was out there.

Drum roll please…

Here are the top six I found from a google search:

And the winner is:

You may be surprised to learn my winner is Maria Jose Cristerna, also known as “Vampire Woman”. She is a Mexican mother of four and a lawyer who has transformed herself with dental fangs, titanium horn implants, and over thirty piercings. She started her transformation when she was 21-years-old.

Click here for my source.

I admire the self-expression, but think it’s a bit much for me.

What do you think? Too much or just right…or not nearly enough?

What I’m Jamming

I’m still basking in the glow from a concert I went to two weeks ago here in H-town: Mint Condition, Anthony Hamilton, and Jill Scott. Jazzy Jeff and Doug E. Fresh did their thing between the main acts and Paul Wall even made an appearance. It was all the way live.

I love music. Sometimes I listen to it while I’m writing to really get in the groove.

If it’s a fight scene, I like to hear some upbeat hip-hop. If it’s a deathly, wicked, vampire-I’m-about-to-do-some-killing scene, I like to hear heavy metal. If it’s a sex scene, nothing compares to smooth jazz. Mostly, what you’ll find on my Pandora station, in addition to those mentioned above: Eric Benet, Trey Songz, Sade, Kenny G., Robin Thicke, Avant (“Read Your Mind” happens to be playing right now), Keyshia Cole, and Lil’ Wayne (I absolutely LOVE “How to Love”). I also play a lot of 80’s and 90’s music.

The music doesn’t influence my mood. My mood dictates the music.

Yes, I listen to all kinds of music, but I never EVER want to hear country. Just saying.

Remembering the Fallen…

I don’t fear dying nearly as much as I fear what it would be like to continue living after someone really close to me has died. Hell, it saddens me a great deal to learn that someone I’ve never met, or barely knew, has gone on. And though I feel terrible he or she has lost his or her life, it pains me more to imagine the agony whoever’s left behind must feel. The grief. The hollowness. The void from the missing soul.

I personally don’t know one person who perished in the 9/11 attacks, but I see their faces and the faces of their loved ones across the screen every year. My heart goes out to the family and friends left behind. The ones who had to pick up the pieces and move on.

Yes, I have lost friends and grandparents and other relatives, and that hurt. Badly. I can’t imagine anyone closer than that because even the thought hurts too much. So every year when the news reports the death toll and how people have learned to cope with the devastating aftermath of 9/11, I am saddened again.

And then I am inspired to live every day to the fullest.

Tomorrow is not promised. Not for me or for anyone close to me. I must live every day like it is my last or like it is their last. I must tell people I love them. I must be kind and compassionate. I must put away my phone or my laptop and actually spend quality time with those I love. Because if something were to happen to them, I would regret not having spent one more second with them.

I write death scenes in my books just like I do sex and romance and happiness and joy. They are all a part of life. And just like the cheerful aspects of my plots are intended to invoke deep emotions, so are the gloomier ones. But it’s not to get readers down. It’s not to make them sad or angry. It’s to remind them that life is fragile and we have to make the most of it. With the ones we love. While we can.

Death is certain. Death is final. And for those who remain, it can be sad….despairingly so. Those who believe in an afterlife usually find some comfort in believing they will see their loved ones again. But regardless of where one receives comfort, finding the strength to carry on is even more important.

Dedicated to the brave…the courageous…the strong survivors of the fallen on  9/11.