Welcome to my weekly Author Spotlight. I’ve asked a bunch of my author friends to answer a set of interview questions, and to share their latest work.
Today: Vonnie Winslow Crist is author of Beneath Raven’s Wing, Dragon Rain, The Enchanted Dagger, Owl Light, The Greener Forest, the “Shivers, Scares” series, and other award-winning books. Her writing appears in Asimov’s Magazine, Amazing Stories, Weirdbook: Witches, Chilling Ghost Short Stories, Cirsova, Black Infinity, Faerie Magazine, and elsewhere. Over 1,000 of her illustrations have been published in books and magazines. Believing the world is still filled with miracles, mystery, and magic, she strives to celebrate the power of myth in her writing and art. For more information: www.vonniewinslowcrist.com
Thanks so much, Vonnie, for joining me!
J. Scott Coatsworth: Have you ever taken a trip to research a story? Tell me about it.
Vonnie Winslow Crist: First, thanks for having me. Now, about that research trip… No, I’ve never taken a trip to research a story, but every trip I take ends up giving me lots of information and ideas for stories. Every place I visit and person I encounter is potential research. When I visited Iceland and Norway, I was inspired by the constant references to trolls and elves. Several stories I wrote after that trip were populated by trolls. And one of those troll tales is just aching to be a novel. When I visited Valley of Fire State Park, NV, I was enthralled by the rock carvings made by the Ancient Peoples of the area. That experience resulted in a story where a spirit of the desert and those Ancients dealt with teens defacing some carvings. Even the arched and rounded doors of some of the homes in Basel, Switzerland are due to make an appearance in my stories!
JSC: What do you do when you get writer’s block?
VWC: I don’t believe in writer’s block! If someone finds themselves unable to make progress on a story/poem/book, it means you need to take a break from that piece of writing and move onto something else. Even if it’s revising work, writing letters, journaling, jotting down a family story, doing an interview of someone for a blog, or taking notes on an interesting subject – work on another piece of writing. When the time is right, you can return to the original project that seemed impossible, and begin to make progress. I think writer’s block is a person’s reaction to deadlines, stress from life, grief, and a dozen other outside influences. Rarely does a creative person run out of ideas, but often our creativity wants to go in a different direction than the one a writer plans.
JSC: Do you use a pseudonym? If so, why? If not, why not?
VWC: Yes. Vonnie is a nickname for my middle name, Yvonne. I was named after my mother, and have never used my first name (and I’m not sharing it here). So, I’ve always been Vonnie (or more formally, Yvonne). I include my maiden name, Winslow, because I did quite a few illustrations prior to marriage. Some editors have chosen to only use my married name for my byline. Therefore, there are poems, illustrations, and stories by Vonnie Crist. I suppose it’s all a bit confusing, but that is often the case for female writers.
JSC: Are you a plotter or a pantser?
VWC: Eek! I hate those terms. I much prefer the terms used by George R.R. Martin: architect or gardener. An architect is someone who plans everything out. They carefully build a story. A gardener, while planning some things, allows the work to progress in a more organic manner. Using those definitions, I am a gardener. I do some general planning, but allow the creative process enough room so a character, who demands to do so, may grab more page-time than I thought he or she would occupy at first. But like any gardener, I also prune branches of the story which become unruly. And who know? That unruly branch might be the cutting I use to grow a new story from.
JSC: What is your least favorite part of publishing?
VWC: I’m betting many writers say the same thing: promotion. I enjoy dreaming up the world, story line, characters, locale, etc. I love to write the actual poem, story, or novel. I don’t even mind editing and rewriting (unless the editor is very picky). I love hearing feedback from readers and interacting with them. But I don’t like the promotion process. For me, it’s a distraction from creating new work. Alas, promotion is part of publishing. So, I grit my teeth and do it!
JSC: How did you choose the topic for Beneath Raven’s Wing?
VWC: Beneath Raven’s Wing is a collection of short stories. Each story features a raven or a group of ravens (an unkindness of ravens) and a nod to Edgar Allan Poe. I’ve always been a fan of crows, ravens, and other corvids. These darkly feathered birds found their way into several of my stories from a Medieval mystery set in a castle to a modern-day transformation tale to vampire story set in Baltimore in the 1800s. Decades ago, I’d attended a writing workshop led by poet Michael Fallon. He told those in attendance to “always write for a book.” So, recalling his advice, I consciously included ravens and a link to Edgar Allan Poe in the next dozen stories I wrote. I must have done something right, because “Beneath Raven’s Wing” won The International Edgar Allan Poe Festival’s Visiter Award for a book inspired by Poe.
JSC: What were your goals and intentions in this book, and how well do you feel you achieved them?
VWC: In Beneath Raven’s Wing I wanted to not only reference Edgar Allan Poe and his writings, but tell stories which were varied, entertaining, and firmly planted in the science fiction, fantasy, and horror genres. I’d hoped the book’s readers would then search out some lesser known works by Poe. Fingers crossed that I achieved that goal. Still, it bothered me BRW was too mature for younger readers. So, my most recent book, Shivers, Scares, and Chills, is a collection of short, short stories once again inspired by Edgar Allan Poe and his work. This book is for Middle Grade readers and older. Of course, there’s a raven on the cover. But I don’t think I’m finished with Poe inspiration quite yet!
JSC: Tell me one thing hardly anyone knows about you.
VWC: I tell people, but I doubt they believe me, that I’m a cloverhand. A cloverhand is someone who can find four-leafed clovers with little to no effort. Supposedly, a cloverhand can also see creatures from Faerie. I will neither confirm or deny this! An example of the weird cloverhand thing: in August 2024, we were driving through a little town in West Virginia in our RV. We needed to stop and walk our dog. While walking the dog beside a basketball court, I looked down and spotted 3 four-leafed clovers in a clump of clover. I picked, pressed, and then added those 3 to my collection of hundreds of four-leafed clovers. Also, mushroom rings grow in my woods and the local murder of crows recognizes me when I go outside.
JSC: What other artistic pursuits (it any) do you indulge in apart from writing?
VWC: I stepped into the publishing industry as an illustrator and currently have over 1,000 illustrations in print. While I still do drawings and paintings for various publications, writing has taken over much of my creative time. I also like to do needlework: embroidery, knitting, crocheting, etc. In fact, one of the book ideas churning around in my brain is based on a piece of embroidery done by my great-grandmother and her family and friends in the 1890s. Every time I look at her lovely penny-square coverlet, I remind myself it’s a book I need to write.
JSC: What are you working on now, and what’s coming out next? Tell us about it!
VWC: I chose to focus this interview on Beneath Raven’s Wing with a nod to Shivers, Scares, and Chills. Both were influenced by Poe. I’m currently working on a science fiction adventure novel which began as several short stories published in various speculative magazines. It, too, has strong Poe influences. At the same time, I’m working on the third book in the “Shivers, Scares” series. I had such fun writing and illustrating Shivers, Scares, and Goosebumps, that I created the second Poe-inspired book, Shivers, Scares, and Chills. Now, I’m scribbling away on Shivers, Scares, and Nightmares which is influenced by the writings of Washington Irving (of Sleepy Hollow fame). My publisher for the series, Dark Owl Publishing, plans on releasing the book in spring 2026. Of course, there are other projects begging for attention. It’s all a matter of time.
And now for Vonnie’s book: Beneath Raven’s Wing:
A collection of 16 raven-filled tales that take readers on a flight of fancy through genres, mythos, and time. Fans of dark fantasy, science-fiction, and Edgar Allan Poe will find something to treasure and keep them up at night between the covers of Beneath Raven’s Wing.
Amazon
Excerpt
From “Adventure,” the sixth story in Beneath Raven’s Wing:
‘November is the perfect time for a summoning, thought Adventure as a speckled crab with something dangling from its mouth scuttled across the sand near her feet. She knew, like all barter magic, a summoning was best done in the dark with a sickle moon slicing the sky.
Tonight was the first sickle moon since her father’s beheading. So tonight, Adventure would summon her sire and attempt to reunite his scattered parts.
Adventure seemed an odd name for a girl, but it fit Addy. Though she liked to think her father’s last ship had been named for her, in truth, she’d barely known Ed Teach. Always off to sea or wintering in another port, her father was more legend than man. Yet, Addy believed only she could make him whole again.
After glancing seaward at the shimmering Atlantic, she returned to the task at hand. She adjusted the lantern mounted on the back of the unshod horse patiently standing beside her. The mare nickered, swished her tail, then stomped one of her front hooves.
“Easy, girl,” Addy patted the palomino’s neck. “We’ll be off as soon as I make sure the lashings are tight.”
The gold and cream horse exhaled loudly.
Addy couldn’t suppress a smile. Stony was probably just trying to get rid of an aggressive fly, but it sounded like she was frustrated with Addy’s slowness.
“Let’s go, Stony.” She wrapped the leather lead around her right hand and began the walk up the beach. The mare moved beside her at an easy pace.
This was Addy’s favorite time of the day: the sun balanced on the edge of the ocean sending streaks of orange and red light across the water. Before long, the bloody colors would deepen to purples and deep blues. Eventually, the shiny surface of the salt tides would mirror the moon and stars. Then, night creatures would appear both on the shore and below the waves.
It was the below the water’s surface creatures that worried her. She’d witnessed sharks tearing apart the unlucky crewmen of many a merchant’s vessel in her thirteen years—their toothy maws gaping wide before each bite. She’d heard tales told by leather-faced men as they sat around a dwindling fire of other monsters of the deep. Tales of webbed hands, tentacles, fangs, slithering bodies, and mouths like a sucker fish’s mouth were only the beginning of the horrors the sailors described. Even the tiny sand fiddler crabs that scurried away at her approach were shadows of their larger, sharp clawed cousins who fed on the bloated bodies of the drowned.
In the distance, Addy spied a light bobbing on the Atlantic. With luck, it was a brigantine loaded with valuable cargo their settlement could use. Or better yet, filled with abundant plunder the settlement could retrieve then sell to mainlanders.
“I’m going to tie you to this bit of hull, Stony,” she said to the horse. She lashed her to a pile of debris from last month’s wrecked brig. “The light from the lantern on your back ought to lure that boat into the shallows for sinking and salvaging. Plus, there’s some sea-grass here for you to eat.”
The palomino nodded her head in apparent agreement.
“As for me, I’m going to keep a promise,” she said with a last scratch of Stony’s neck.
The promise, made to her grieving mother, was to put the pieces of Edward back together so he could seek his revenge. She’d never called her mother Mama or some other term of endearment. Like everyone else, she’d called her Dolls, which was short for Dolly. Dolls Drummond suited her petite, sweet-faced mother.
Just like Adventure suited her—even though most people called her Addy.
Addy climbed to the top of a sand dune, withdrew the assorted odds and ends necessary for Ed Teach’s summoning from a pouch hung over her shoulder. She faced the rising autumn moon.
She put a silver bowl taken during the Spanish War from a wealthy merchant by her father while a privateer in the waters near Jamaica on the sand. Then, she placed a pinch of dirt from a newly-dug grave into the bowl while chanting, “No soil to rest below, only sea.”
Next, she laid the dried remains of an eye cut from the face of one of her father’s steadfast crew into the bowl. Big Sid hadn’t sailed with Teach in over a decade. It was not because Sid had lost an eye in a knife fight fourteen years ago, but because he was also her father’s ears, eyes, and sword while Teach was away. Her father had instructed Sid to stay behind on the island, watch over Dolls, and to look out for his little Adventure.
For years, as a macabre souvenir, Big Sid had kept his dried eye in a leather pouch dangling from a cord tied around his neck. When Addy asked him this morning for the eye, the old pirate had squinted at her, nodded, then handed over the body part.
“Won’t ask why you be needing my eye. I expect it’s for spelling,” Sid had said. “I know you’ve been meeting with that devil woman on the other side of Ocracoke. So, I expect you wanting my eye ain’t for nothing holy.”
“I’m bringing Ed Teach back,” she’d called over her shoulder as she strolled away.
That was still her intent on this late November evening as she chanted over her silver bowl, “Your body and spirit, I call to me.”
Then, she spat upon the sand. A part of Addy wanted to call up a curse to go with the summoning. A curse that would last for seven generations. A curse on Virginia’s Governor Thomas Spotwood, the British Navy, Lieutenant Robert Maynard, the man Demelt, and the rest of the crew of the Jane and the Ranger. But her mentor, a weird woman who lived in a driftwood hut and went by the name of Sadie, had told her the price for such magic was too high. She’d learned over the years Sadie never lied. So, Addy set aside her dreams of revenge.
Next, Addy poured a splash of sea water collected in the hollow of a beached conk shell by the dark of yesternight’s new moon into the bowl while chanting, “Your headless corpse I summon to this beach.”
The headless part irked Addy. Even though her father had been wounded two dozen times, Maynard and his men were not satisfied until they had lopped off Teach’s head. Determined to celebrate the pirate’s death further, they hung her father’s head from the bowsprit of the Jane.
Maynard claimed it was done as both a warning to other pirates and as proof to Spotwood of Teach’s death, so they could collect the bounty. Worse still, the crew had laughed as the head dangled in the breeze and birds had their way with its soft parts. They’d even composed a spiteful rhyme celebrating her father’s decapitation before tossing his headless body into the water.
But they hadn’t counted on Ed Teach’s discarded corpse swimming once around their ship before vanishing below the waters of the Pamlico River. Addy was certain they hadn’t known a bitter daughter would call those desecrated remains from the waters of the river, into Pamlico Sound, around the lower Outer Banks, and onto the shores of Ocracoke Island. Then, using a pinch of magic, attempt an imperfect union of bones and flesh.
With a slight curl to her lips, Addy placed a shiny black feather into the bowl. Crows and ravens were day birds. But this evening, corvids would answer her call—though they’d rather be roosting. Next, she laid a white gull’s feather atop its darker twin. Gulls flew and feasted day and night, so they were key to the reassembling of her father’s head.
With arms spread wide, Addy chanted the next line of the summoning, “Birds, black and white, bring me the head of Teach.”
As she sprinkled a mélange of dried water creatures, herbs, and black hairs snipped by Dolls years before from her father’s head into the bowl, Addy chanted, “Return skull, beard, and flesh by bits and bites.” After adding three shark’s teeth, she continued, “to reassemble my father this night.”
Though she couldn’t see them at work, Addy knew a flock of corvids and gulls were retrieving pieces of her father. Soon, they’d be winging their way to her.
Now, came the painful part. She pulled a dagger from beneath her shirt, pressed its shiny blade against her forearm, then pulled it lightly across her sun-browned skin. Addy held her arm above the bowl. Her blood splatter the sharks’ teeth, dried mixture, birds’ feathers, seawater, eye of Big Sid, and graveyard dirt. When she was satisfied enough blood had been spilled, she told the quavering shimmer that hung in the air before her like a swath of iridescent fog, “Pirate’s daughter, I draw blood with Father’s knife.”
After placing a curl of Dolls Drummond’s hair upon the sticky spell ingredients, Addy paused. Dolls knew the barter price for Edward Teach’s return. She’d eagerly offered to pay it, even though she was but one of his many wives. Yearning for revenge, Addy had agreed to her part in this devil’s deal. So, it was with both sadness and excitement she chanted the final line of the summoning, “In trade, I offer ten years of Dolls’ life.”
Suddenly, a shimmering fog surrounded Addy and her spell bowl. With a sound like sails billowing with a strong gust of wind, the fog disappeared. When she glanced down at her silver bowl, Addy saw it was empty. She barely had time to pick up the metal container, slip it into her sack, bind her arm with a strip of cloth, and take a few steps towards the water’s edge before the ocean near Stony began to churn.
From out of the frothy surf, the body of a tall, broad-shouldered man strode. The man’s clothing marked him as a seafarer, but not just any seafarer. The belt strapped around his middle bristling with daggers, pistols, and a familiar cutlass, and a bandoleer boasting six cocked pistols stretching from shoulder to waist confirmed the corpse was that of her father. The undead pirate moved to stand before Addy.
She gasped. She’d imagined the appearance of a wispy version of her father, not a specter of substance when she’d planned the summoning. The ghost of her father’s laughter from years ago, after one of Addy’s escapades had gone terribly wrong, echoed in her ears. Then, in her memory his voice whispered, “Remember, nothing ever goes as planned.”
Before she could step away from her father’s headless ghost, a rustle of wings signaled the arrival of Teach’s head. In a blur of feathers, beaks, and claws, crows, ravens, and gulls stacked teeth, skull, jaw, and neck bones on the sand at Addy’s feet. Next, a second flock of birds placed hanks of hair and braided strands of beard upon the bones. Then, the third whirl of birds dropped bite-sized chunks of skin, tongue, eyes, and brains on top of the grisly heap. Some even going so far as to regurgitate mouthfuls they had consumed. Lastly, an uncommonly large wave sluiced across the beach. It washed over the pile of head parts depositing dozens of pale crabs onto the sand.
Quicker than the swish of Stony’s tail, the crustaceans rushed to the pieces of Teach’s head. Bone by bone, tooth by tooth, bit by bit, hair by hair, they put together most of her father’s head. Once his head was as whole as possible, Teach’s body bent down, picked it up, then set the patched-up head upon his shoulders. The ghost crabs lifted their eye stalks and watched. Satisfied their work was done, the strange creatures scurried into the foam. Then, like scraps of a nightmare, they floated out into the Atlantic.
“Daughter,” said the reassembled Teach as he reached for her with a worm-ridden hand…’