One final plug for my short story “The First Crime Scene”.
Remember? Or maybe I “Tweeted” about it…
Anyway, I entered it in an on-line contest because I liked the site, Inkitt, and its founder was nice enough to issue a personal invite. I’m a sucker for civility.
You can check out the story here, decide for yourself if it’s worthy—and if the answer is “yea”, please click on the little red heart to register your vote.
It’s a good story and if I get a few more tallies, “The First Crime Scene” might sneak into the top five.
It’s not prize money I’m after, my name in lights—no, I genuinely believe this little, itty-bitty tale manages to accomplish a lot in 500 words. Have a look and you’ll see what I mean.
I’ll close off this brief post because, well, I can’t sit here any longer. My first really serious bout of sciatica. A week of pain and finally the meds and my wife’s TLC are starting to make a difference.
I get quite a number of notes from individuals requesting my advice on matters relating to publishing, indie or otherwise.
Recently, two or three people queried me about how to better “monetize” their writing.
Folks, anyone who has spent even a brief period on this site or has read a mere handful of my Tweets would know that I hold such attitudes in absolute contempt.
Trying to break into writing to make money, seeking fame, fortune and bestseller-dumb? Sorry, you’ve come to the wrong place.
If you’re a purveyor of fan fiction, you should have your hands burned off with an acetylene torch. You are the shit real writers scrape off the bottom of their shoes.
If you concoct shapeshifter/paranormal romance you are a literary pornographer. You exhibit Grade Six-level writing and, it’s clear, retain an absolute horror of penetrative intercourse. As Bill Hicks would say: case fucking closed.
If you “lease” your talent to some franchise, averring that your penny dreadful writing subsidizes your “good” stuff, you’re only fooling yourself…and the gods of Literature can be very, very cruel. Regardless of how you rationalize it, you are whoring your Muse, peddling her ass for a fistful of loot. Your self-righteousness, the ferocity of your denials, only reveals the depth of your insecurity, your secret shame. You disgust me.
A twenty-something twat knows fuck all about life and has no right to claim an authoritative view on anything. You are also far too young and insignificant for a memoir. No one gives a shit about the suffering and pain (largely self-inflicted) you’ve endured during your brief existence. Your life is not unique or particularly interesting. You are part of a growing demographic: an egotistic, narcissistic non-entity with delusions of self-importance. There’s a lot of that going around nowadays and no vaccine in sight. Pity…
Demanding correct spelling and competent syntax is not “old school” thinking.
Unless you approach your craft with devotion and seriousness, work tirelessly and daily at improving yourself, you are a dabbler. A wannabe. Your efforts the equivalent of macaroni art: the gold paint may be slightly more gaudy, the noodles more generous, but it amounts to the same, unsightly mess stuck to the front of your fridge.
This blog is dedicated to a higher purpose, a celebration of the power and majesty of the printed word.
There are plenty of sites for people who compose in crayon, scribble on walls or any available surface and congratulate themselves for their artistry.
If that last sentence describes where you’re at, I think you’ve overstayed your welcome.
There’s the door.
Don’t let it hit you on the ass on the way out.
A gratifying response to my last post, a couple of the writers I cited reaching out and offering words of thanks.
No problem, folks.
But I also took some stick for neglecting to include some other neglected authors on my list and for that let me say merely mea culpa.
Here are some more names to ponder and, hopefully, seek out. These wordsmiths are/were absolute masters and deserve to be discovered (or rediscovered):
Past (Honorary) Members:
M. John Harrison
Compared to the junk currently being excreted by traditional publishing, these fine scribes are like brilliant flowers growing out of dung. Help save great works from obscurity and superb writers from the bottomless trash can of history.
Awhile back, I exchanged some e-mails with my colleague Andrez Bergen, both of us bemoaning the sorry state of the publishing biz. Andrez is a superb writer, his novel Tobacco-Stained Mountain Goat a stunning blend of Phil Dick at his best and “literary noir”—if you haven’t read it, you don’t know what you’re missing.
Which is kind of the point of this post.
In one of my final missives I joked to Andrez that I was going to start an association called The Neglected Authors Alliance (NAA), and that the two of us would be charter members. Over the ensuing weeks, the idea kind of stuck with me and sometimes, as I passed my bookshelves, I’d take note of an author or two who weren’t household names, who had either slipped into obscurity or had never been widely read in the first place. I started putting together a roster; the living and the dead.
It was a depressing task; once I saw the sheer amount of raw talent represented, I felt sick. If these guys and gals couldn’t garner the rewards and praise and posterity to which they’re entitled, what chance do I have? Thirty years I’ve been putting pen to paper and my literary profile isn’t exactly where I want it to be (he says, choosing his words with extreme care).
And so, in tribute to Andrew and some other very fine scribes who deserve(d) far, far better from fickle readers and negligent publishers, I would like to recommend to you the following authors who have labored selflessly and courageously to produce innovative, literate prose, and who I am honored to add to the rolls of our oddball “society”:
Paul Di Filippo
Abraham Rodriguez, Jr.
Steve Rasnic Tem
Past (Honorary) Members:
Louis Ferdinand Celine
Adolfo Bioy Cesares
Notice to any authors on my list who come across this post: drop me a line if you’d like to have your own, official NAA button, with all the perqs and benefits that implies.
And, in the meantime, don’t give up, don’t stop producing great work, refuse to cede the field to the hacks, “share-croppers” and pornographers plying their trade today.
We need you.
The barbarians are at the gate…
Photo by Sherron Burns
Seven cartons, containing 160 copies of my novel Disloyal Son were deposited on my doorstep mere days ago. Not long afterward, my brand new 27″ iMac was delivered, unboxed and set up.
I was fortunate, ladies and gentlemen, because for the last couple of years I’ve been backing everything up on an external drive. When I had problems transferring files from the old Mac via ethernet cable to the new model, I called Apple Support and outlined the situation. When the Apple guy heard the age of the software in my source Mac, he whistled in dismay. Bad sign. He wasn’t too sure exactly what to do…until I mentioned that external memory. He sighed, relieved. No problem. Dump the ethernet cables, plug the external directly into the new Mac and voilà. Mission accomplished.
But let this be a lesson to anyone else out there running an obsolete operating system: that external memory was (at $125) one of the best investments I ever made. Saved me a huge headache. Think about it.
There have been a few minor glitches but so far I’m impressed by this new monster. Can’t wait to give it a real test drive. Unfortunately, the MIDI keyboard/synthesizer I ordered is still en route and I don’t have the nerve to tackle Final Cut Pro yet. So I’ll bide my time. Meanwhile, try to get acclimatized with the larger screen, slightly different configurations, the peculiarities of its machine brain.
Spent a couple of days tidying up this blog, updating some of the pages, slimming things down a little. I’m a bit taken aback by the sheer amount of fiction, music and even short films I’ve uploaded here over the years. It’s quite the hoard of strangeness. Sherron says it’s time for a new theme and I suppose she’s right. Still want to keep the picture, though. I find it…haunting.
I’ve been flashing copies of Disloyal Son around town, pleased by how taken folks are with the cover. People wanting to know how to pick it up, where to order. Answer: everywhere…but, preferably from your nearest independent book store (McNally-Robinson, Powell’s, etc.).
Weird how everyone responds to the book’s central theme of family secrets. Think I’ve hit on something here, purely by accident. I’m getting goosebumps and the hair on my arms is standing up. Maybe because of close proximity to the zeitgeist.
Now, whether that will translate into some decent book sales, who knows? Hard to tell in this era of shapeshifting-sado-masochistic-paranormal-romances.
Ay yi yi. What will they think of next? (No, please, don’t tell me, it’s probably better if I’m not privy to that information.)
But we forge on, boats against the current and all that.
I remain convinced that there are still smart readers out there, a small but devoted demographic desperate for a transformative experience when they open a book.
They want to believe in magic and too often are poorly treated by contemporary scribblers.
Here at Black Dog Press we offer something different, an intelligent alternative to corporate publishing.
Books for bibliophiles and devotees of the printed word.
Written and published with love.
Or maybe that should read: reverence.
Well, here it is.
My tenth full-length book.
We “leaked” the cover to Facebook earlier this evening so why not post it here?
What do you think? Is Disloyal Son Chris Kent’s best cover design yet?
The release date has been moved up to mid-April.
(Click on book image to see enlarged view.)
Celebrated putting the final touches on my new crime/mystery novel Disloyal Son last night and am definitely feeling the effects this morning. I’d swear there are a couple of mice playing a spirited game of ping-pong just behind my eyes.
Ah, but it was worth it. Killed most of a bottle of a reasonably priced, single-malt scotch (McClelland), listened to music, had a great supper and a long, frank discussion afterward with two longtime friends. Apropos my book, it was all about family secrets, unacknowledged sins of the past. Then I opened my binder and read an excerpt from Disloyal Son, just the first four pages, but was encouraged by the feedback. Think I’ve got a winner there…
Some unexpected news this morning: my short story collection Exceptions & Deceptions was shortlisted for a 2014 ReLit Independent Press Award. It didn’t win but it’s the second year in a row one of my books made the roster. This despite the fact that “self-published” books are technically not eligible for consideration. Now how ’bout that? My only quibble, I wish the administrators of the ReLits would contact authors and let them know they were included on the list. I found out purely by accident.
In the coming days/weeks we’ll be moving into production mode re: Disloyal Son, the interior (text) and cover files prepped and finalized for submission to Lightning Source. Still clinging to that May 1st release date.
Are you ready for Disloyal Son?
And, please, help me out, won’t you? Let’s see if we can generate some real buzz around this book. It’s a thrilling read and deserves the widest possible readership. Tell friends and fellow bibliophiles, let folks know there are still good books out there…and still a few authors with a real appreciation of literature’s illustrious legacy, and who possess the courage and desire to contribute works of originality and grace to the eternal canon.
“A novelist is like God in the universe, present everywhere but visible nowhere.”