Links below for review and Interview.
Yo.
I’m gonna make this short and sweet because those dog day’s of summer mixed with a release date in only 20 days (Cop The Furies Sept. 1) is getting ya boy a little brain dead.
All things considered it’s a hell of a lot smoother than last time. We have had time to actually make some marketing material for social media, send off a ton of books to the far reaches of the English speaking world and not get my ass stood up and my ankles shook by artists and shady motherfuckers I met on job boards through necessity and not knowing any better.
Networking and word of mouth, you smug sons of bitches…
The review was dope. It was perfect. I can’t argue the shit. Who wouldn’t be happy with a crisp number like that.
What’s even more, is that they got it.
I hope you didn’t picture a dude in a turtle neck loudly sipping a latte when you read that. But, it was really nice to read the article and have the person reviewing my work hit upon a lot of the things that I was trying to do with the novel and the remarked about the issues that I was raising and arguing. It doesn’t go super-mega in-depth, but it’s still a refreshing couple of cents I can drop in my piggy bank. Hear it rattling in there? So satisfying.
I ain’t gonna say that some stranger’s opinion don’t mean shit. It does in the sense that if people are looking for a way to entertain themselves for a hot weekend, they might happen upon this site and find the cover cute in a socio sort of way, then maybe they are then persuaded to pick up a copy of my beautiful boy and tell their friends. And they tell two friends. And they tell two friends. And so on. And so on…
But really, it sucks a veiny one to have to care. I would rather just remain ignorant and write for the sake of not going banana town crazy, but it’s important. Crucial, in fact. So painfully and inextricably linked to my success and ability to keep creating at this rate. I can’t sit down and hope to write or read or write on my walls for hours on end whenever I please; which would be every moment that I’m awake. That cruel dominatrix of living and her basic necessities for prolonging my stodgy vida keeps showing up at my door looking like Catwoman.
Fuck it, right? What am I complaining about: It’s normal. Only a select few earn the ability to work without interruption, whenever they please, on the things they feel burning in their hearts and minds.
To do this, I am going to venture a guess and say they earned that ability through one of several means. Perhaps the most likely, and briefly located, was that they understood themselves and their work, they sucked up all the pride in to their bones, and chose to be judged based on what they do best so that they could generate a buzz, get their name out and make their work known.
They elected to be reviewed, scored or judged because they believed that they could survive based on the merit and success of what they made, what they created. They believed that self-sufficiency could be obtained by sticking their necks out and getting people to read and share their weighty opinions on what they held sacred.
We’re evaluated constantly and much of the time without our own consent. Everyday that we stroll through a public sphere and dip our toes in the river with our colleagues and rivals, we are putting ourselves in a position to be clocked an analyzed dozens, if not hundreds of times.
I sent them a copy (and paid for postage) so I was waiting for this judgement like a beast behind some tall grass.
The point is, I have to get out there to get my name out and have the public become interested, even the slightest bit curious about my work. It’s a passion to me but still a product to consume. That consumption is not the end-all be-all, but it makes doing what I love more within my grasp. The business wrangling consumers is a slippery mistress. I have been grinding on the requisite platforms and feel a sharp pang of guilt with every post, every story, every little picture of me or quote or godforsaken plethora of hashtags.
But: I hasta.
Otherwise… Beyond than having a mattress stuffed with blue-lines that I consider prolific, what’s the point? I want to tell stories, I want to entertain others with something that I think I do better than anyone else. And, I mean the fuck out of that. Test me. I would thoroughly enjoy not having to leave my writing desk, but rather wanting to get a break from my station because I’m getting isolated and weird again and finding it difficult to reciprocate small-talk with the grocer. Again.
The interview has a lot of revealing information about Coward and the shit that was buzzing through my head at the time of writing it. The title is pretty nuts, shout out to the cool title. It’s a good read and I forgot that I did the interview when I read it. It was all-new and jesus that guy is weird. They asked me some really precise questions and it was a great exercise to figure out my own feelings about the book.
I don’t know about y’all, but I always forget to ask the little alien-thing in my head what he thinks about his own work. I move on from something I just completed to something that I want to do next quickly. Too many ideas struggling to make their claim to the exit known, I guess. I tend to get so deep in to a topic or thought (not even just with writing) that I almost never want to see it again, like being shipwrecked with some jerk that annoyed the fuck out of you, but you needed each other to not end your own life. Companionship. I overload myself with the topic and study it, marinate until I’m flooding at the gills. I don’t stop thinking about it. It reminds me of the way parents would for their kids to chain-smoke a carton of darts when they get caught puffing, and it’s supposed to make them never want to pick up a cigarette again.
Just too much to get out of the old skullet. There is so much pulling at my attention, so many things that I try to work out, I never stop to smell the flowers, mostly just get yelled at for standing on them. It’s a neat scrimmage to ask yourself about the motivations of your own actions after the red has fluttered out of the iron. What do they call it in acting, post-mortem? Harder when it’s a one person act.
Check out the interview, it’s pretty motherfucking tight. Or not, besides my mom I think I’m my biggest fan.
I’m hoping to have the shorts up ASAP and forgot how easy it is to space out and leave the linear focus I had when I punched in the title. I think anyone, especially those in a vocation where listening is crucial, would start to reflexively spill.
I’ll try to have a more connected bushel of thoughts. Things have been crazy, but only 20 days. The book will most likely be available for a free download on August 28th through kindle. I anticipate some fuck shit with the Canadians getting hose(red eh) again because Amazon hates it’s children like a dad that never made it past being a varsity back up. I’ll keep y’all posted.
Follow the social media pages, or not, you might already or it might not be your thing. That’s cool. And, if you have read Coward, feel free to review it on amazon or send papa a few lines if you are cool with me using for some marketing.
Thanks for your time and support,
As always – sorry for cussing,
Papa
