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Well, folks, those words rise again. And once again, they shall not fail you.
Behold! Best of Apex 2006, available for pre-order now! Featuring, "That Old Sandlands Fever" by this guy. And, quite exciting for me, what the Apex folk are calling an 'appreciation,' which in my case will be written by the talented miss Mari Adkins. THAT I am greatly looking forward to. Mari's a smart lady, I can't wait to read her take on Sandlands.
Pre-order price? I'm glad you asked... A mere $8.95. And what will you find therein? Why, Steve Parker! Bryn Sparks! Jennifer Pelland! All sorts of gruesome, spooky shit. So please, go git it. Show us writers, and Apex, some support!
It's hittin the streets soon...limited to 100 copies...get it while it's hot!
BLOOD COVEN
http://deadletterpress.com/Site/BLOODCO
On the filthy streets of Victorian London’s East End, a centuries-old evil is amassing its forces. Only one man stands in its way: a legendary vampire killer called The Catcher. He’s been trained from childhood by a secret society within The Holy Church. He’s fast, efficient and totally professional. He’s also totally on his own … working undercover in the darkest quarter of the city … outside the law. Can he succeed where those before him have failed? Not even he knows for sure.
BLOOD COVEN The new vampire novella by Christopher Fulbright and Angeline Hawkes
Limited to 100 copies. Art by Allen Koszowski
BLOOD COVEN arrives in three weeks, but you can save $2 per copy by ordering now. Advance orders BLOOD COVEN. But hurry. Offer ends June 6, 2007. More information: http://www.fulbrightandhawkes.com
Pretty neat comic. Cyborgs, booze, bikinis, conspiracies, and big, big guns. Fabricari is the lovechild of Philip K. Dick and any late eighties Kurt Russel movie.
Poor Chester. When we meet him, the guy wakes up in a pool of his own vomit after a hard night of booze-fueled nihilism. See, Chester's going crazy. We know this because Chester's being haunted by a psychopathic eyeless cowboy riding a dinosaur.
My buddy Shawn's book. Not a comic, but a self-pubbed young adult novel. Haven't really started it yet, but the first chapter's got some spot-on dialogue in it.
This page is from Ryan Gelatin's "The Orgasmic Faces of Lucifer." Picked that one up and "The End of Comics," which is considerably weirder and features the most terrifying Bob Ross depiction ever. Plus, GG Allin.
EUTHANASIA CLINIC
I couldn't find any pictures of the cover of this amazing comic, which is a real shame. This sucker rocks my socks. The art shows a clear influence by Sam Keith (who you'll remember from The Maxx). I wanna work with this guy, he's friggin' great!
In other news, Matt Wallace's new website looks great, check that shit out (link to your left, doofus).
Got a response to a query sent to Dark Wisdom. My story is on the "Reccomended" pile.
Got a rejection from Dark Discoveries. They say the story ought to be a novel. Which is very nice of them, but I'm having trouble wrapping my head around that concept. The story always seemed like a short to me. I'll give it a shot some time.
Rosemary and I bought wedding rings yesterday. They're gorgeous. She's gorgeous. I'm a lucky motherfucker. I wonder what it says about me that I have to swear everytime I feel like a wuss?
Well, ladies and gentlemen, gotta go eat some pizza. I hope you enjoy your respective days. Seacrest out.
Well, time for an update... You want the good news or the bad news first?
Good News
Got an e-mail from somebody the other day regarding a new publication. I don't know if I'm at liberty to discuss it, since I haven't seen it announced elsewhere yet.
I think I might be in a good ol' fashioned rock'n'roll band. Which will eat up even more of my time. Which I need right now.
The wedding planning is coming along well. Invitations are done. I need a suit.
Bad News
I still have no fucking clue what's going on with my dad. Any day now we hear whether he'll need surgery or chemo. Fuck. Add to that the phone calls I've been getting from relatives I don't even know who want me to let them cry on my shoulder for a while. Sorry, folks, if I come off as heartless, but these people don't really know my dad, and they sure as shit don't know me.
I'm smoking alot now. Which makes absolutely no sense. It's like hearing someone you loved has been in a car accident and vowing then and there never to wear your seat belt again.
I'm not sleeping.
I'm getting pissed off at people who've done nothing wrong (see the above note regarding the family members I haven't spoken to since I was twelve).
I'm fucking broke.
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Okay, end of transmission. I hope you'll all excuse me for waxing LiveJournailian. I feel like the sixteen-year-old goth kid I once was. Whiny and self-indulgent. Now I'm going to go smoke and listen to Nick Cave. See ya.
Bladaw!
Anyway, here's the shit part. I found out this week end that my dad has been diagnosed with prostate cancer. They found it early and they say it's totally operable, one of the most survival kinds of cancer, but that seems to be the same as saying, "One of the least painful kinds of bee-stings." It's fucking cancer. I'm trying to stay positive and crack jokes when I can, but Jesus, this is scary. He's my dad. My dad has cancer. And I know in the most clinical way that everything is going to be fine, but that pragmatic part of my brain seems very small and weak just now. Anyway, if I'm shitty to you in the next few weeks, I hope you won't take it personally. I'm pretty fucking preoccupied.
Thanks to everybody for their support and their thoughts.
Baltimore was warm most of the week-end. My dad and his wife picked me up from the airport and dropped me off at my hotel (it was 2 miles away, a shitty Ramada which I will elaborate upon shortly) and were gracious enough to give me a ride to the Sheraton where the con was being held...
DAY 1:
Lots of aimless wandering. Introduced myself to Jack Ketchum and Michael Laimo. Met Tom Monteleone, who is an absolute rockstar. Fantastic writer and a super nice guy whose proclivity for early morning bloody marys rubbed off on me throughout the weekend. Went to some readings. Smoked outside with Scott Falkner and Jack Ketchum, who promptly told all in attendance to call him Dallas, because "we're friends now." Tried not to pee my pants when Dallas Ketchum called me his friend. Got drunk with Mike Hughs, who's killer Snoop Dogg karaoke slayed the great beast of the audience. Rocked out to some Bowie karaoke myself. Doug Bradley watched, smirking. The rock, for those of you who don't know, is in the mutton chops. Got back to hotel room via taxi. Saw little white guy running past me looking terrified. Right behind him, a chubby tan-skinned guy in green hospital scrubs. He looks at me and says, "He's in a hurry." He does not smile. I nod and agree and then go to my room. Down in the parking lot, some kids are yelling. I watch them beat hell out of one another til the cops come. Walked down to the lobby to get some matches, was accosted by drunk high school kids from after-prom telling me not to walk in the street or they'd call the cops. I wasn't walking in the street, but I told them I'd do my best. Narrowly avoided getting punched in the jaw (which would later incur injury anyway) when one kid called me a smart-ass Jew. I told him I wasn't Jewish, and that I'd try to walk on the sidewalk from now on. His friend told him that I was cool, and he seemed to believe it because he gave me a hug and let his friends drag him to bed.
DAY 2:
Walked to the Sheraton. Saw some guy grab some girl by her hair, watched the girl mace the guy. She was smiling. I mentally pumped my fist in the air for her. Hung out in the dealers room with Tomo and Jacob Haddon. Watched bad Batman fan movies, perused Turkish remakes of Hollywood classics, considered the purchase of a German Supergirl porno. Went to readings by Ketchum, Monteleone, and F. Paul Wilson. Got fucking epically drunk at the bar with Tomo and Jacob. Went to Tomo's room, hung out with he, Jacob, Mark Seiber, Kelli with an I, her sister (whose name escapes me), and Norman Prentiss. Drank Absinthe. Tomo read from the latest novel by the Visionary Overlord of American Horror. Passed out on Tomo's floor. Woke up when Nikki hit me on the ass with her belt. Fell back asleep. Stumbled outside and called a cab. Cab showed up. Took a header into the fountain in the courtyard, bashing my chin on a rock. Nikki found this very funny. Got home. Passed out in own hotel room.
DAY 3:
Fell asleep in the back row of the movie theater. Norman Prentiss held my shit in his car. Was hung over. Left.
It was a good time, and I'm leaving out alot of classic shit, but that's the majority of what happened. Tomorrow, I'll post part 2, wherein I get some of the worst news of my life and would have crashed were it not for my very fun weekend and the support of my family.
Or for Matt Wallace. He's cool too.
I've been up all night. Working on final papers. I gotta go pack for Horrorfind. Seeya!
I haven't written anything in weeks.
On the plus side, all of this will seem much less serious tomorrow. Today, it feels like I woke up inside a giant ass. And I have to eat my way out.
Just got word that Murky Depths has bought my story, Come to my Arms my Beamish Boy! This is my personal favorite of my stories right now, and god damn if I'm not excited to see it in print! Now I just have to figure out how to set up this fucking PayPal account so I can get my grubby hands on that scrilla. Technology eludes me.
Running tab of 2007:
Months in - 2
Sales - 2
Rejections - 2
Not bad. Not bad at all.
New rejection today. Clarkesworld passed on my story, "Come to my Arms my Beamish Boy." This is the kind of rejection I love. Filled with stuff like "if [certain things were changed] this would be an excellent story instead of merely quite good." Can't beat that with a stick. Not even with a sale. If the story's not as good as it should be, not as good as it needs to be, thank Christ someone liked it enough to tell me so.
Tonight I drink and smoke and watch Carnivale again. Tomorrow, I revise. "Come to my Arms" is a good little story and it deserves to live somewhere.
