Grant Jerkins is what a literary writer should be: An alchemist of empathy. The short stories in this collection introduce us to characters we know exist all around us, and, in some cases, characters who reflect exactly who WE are. There's the woman embarrassed by having to pay for groceries with her EBT card, parents dealing with the horror of a child in danger of dying from disease, a quiet pervert whose inability to communicate in a "normal" manner turns him (I assume it's a him) into a stalker, a wife who discovers her husband is cheating in a most oddball manner, and a husband dealing with a wife who hoards remarkably useless things. This is not middle-class literary fiction, this is not naval-gazing. The people who populate Grant's stories are, in spite of their very human construction, dealing with situations that border on (and sometimes surpass) extraordinary situations. This is why these stories work--the human element is there, and so is that tiny step beyond reality, into fiction, required to make a short story worth reading. I made my way through this collection rather quickly because, like all good writers, Grant has taken the time to craft readable prose and stories capable of holding the reader's interest. This isn't a book you read before bedtime, it's not going to put you to sleep. This is a book you read to remind yourself that, while we are all born alone and we will all die alone, in the meantime, we are all, in one way or another, suffering, and this single fact should be the one thing that brings us together. It doesn't, of course. Humans, while capable of tremendous beauty, are basically idiots. Books like A Scholar of Pain, however, grant (no pun intended) us a brief reprieve, where we're reminded our squabbles with our neighbors, ultimately, mean nothing.
Just taking stock of how someone who works from home could possibly have stress. Here's what's going on with the work I do to satisfy my great existential fear that life is meaningless:
Just finished the rough draft of Breaking Glass, the followup to Down on the Street. It's a delightful, epic novel about Chelsea Farmer and how she tries to get out of the life of a junkie. If all goes as planned, it should be published in early summer, 2018.
I've been asked to adapt Down on the Street for the screen. So, in the evenings, I work, beat-by-beat, on making this most status quo-unfriendly novella screen-ready. It's a neat little challenge, to say the least.
I'm doing the NaNo thing, writing a rough draft of a novel. I still haven't revised the rough draft I wrote last November, but, what the hell. This year, I'm writing something lurking halfway between dystopian science fiction and magical realism (I fucking HATE that term). I had to do something radically different from Breaking Glass. Both books are depressing, but dystopian fiction is depressing in a light, whimsical manner.
And, of course, amidst all this, I am working with Richard Krauss to produce another issue of Pulp Modern. By the way, I'm planning on changing the guidelines a bit for the next issue, so keep an eye out on that. I'm working to makePulp Modern a publication that will allow writers published in it to apply for membership to the various writer's associations. That should give you a hint as to what changes you'll be seeing in the guidelines.
Well, that's my November! Sounds like I need a hobby!
No, I'm not going to lecture you about patriotism. I'm not going to browbeat you about "social justice." It's time to stop watching the NFL for other, better reasons.
Last night, on a Thursday Night game, the Baltimore Ravens shutout the Miami Dolphins, 40-0. This comes a few days after Week Seven, in which there were three shutouts on the same day. I've never seen this in my entire life. The nice thing about the NFL, traditionally, is that it represented the very best players in the game. Thus, even teams that couldn't be considered good could generally compete because the talent level was, roughly, the same. This year, we've seen the usual failure of the Browns to field a decent team, but we've also watched teams normally capable of competing fall well into the gutter, including my hometown Indianapolis Colts (they were shutout this last weekend for the first time since the 1980s, which is amazing, considering early 1990s Colts were amongst the very worst teams ever fielded). This is boring stuff. This is Ohio State vs. Akron-level boring. I expect that sort of nonsense in the early weeks of the college game. Once college teams get into conference play, however, the games become infinitely more competitive and fascinating (for a nice example, catch a replay of last night's Oregon State v. Stanford game).
Bad play is not enough of a reason to stop watching NFL football, however. It has been acknowledged that NFL referees have descended to depths of incompetence astonishing even for...NFL referees. As a Colts fan, I endured many seasons of watching NFL referees decide games against the Colts on blatantly bad calls. In Indy, we recognized this as payback for "stealing" Baltimore's team. The refs were old dogs from the NFL's glory days, the 1960s and 1970s. For an excellent example of what I'm talking about, find a copy of the 1996 contest between the Colts and the hapless San Diego Chargers. You will witness cosmic levels of incompetence as you watch the referees hand the game to the Chargers. Instant Replay was supposed to 'correct' the many mistakes made by the officials. It's done nothing but add to the downtime in the game (which defeats the purpose of putting a ball control offense on the field) and allow referees to make the same bad decision twice.
The real reason, however, NFL football has to go is, of course, the issue of CTE. CTE is not a conspiracy theory. Research the science and you will see it's a legitimate condition and it explains the violent, erratic behavior of football players during and after their careers in the NFL. The unfortunate fact of the matter is: Professional football cannot be played the way it's SUPPOSED to be played AND maintain the safety of the players. People watch professional football to see grown men who have turned themselves into weapons attempt to destroy each other. Yes, it goes back to Rome, and yes, it satisfies some deep, human need to witness brutal violence in a safe environment (safe for the audience, that is). I'm no mamby-pamby "SJW," I'm not here to ruin anyone's good time. The simple fact of the matter is, the human brain cannot be protected in a way that preserves the purity of the sport. I suspect our global, corporate slave masters are aware of this, hence, the obvious push for Americans to suddenly have an urge to watch soccer, the way the rest of the world does. But we can resist this. We have a sport here that's exciting in its own way and, for the most part, doesn't ask its participants to sacrifice their mental health for a paycheck.
That sport is called baseball. We used to call it America's Game. Football took over as our military-industrial complex became our primary export and the need to glorify violence as part of the American character became necessary. But We the People are better than that. Anyone who watched Game 2 of this year's World Series is aware that baseball is capable of providing more breathtaking suspense than even the best football games.
Football is very important to me. When I sobered up in the end of 1996, I had developed an obsession with football that replaced my previous, unhealthy obsessions. It got me through the darkest years of my life. Training myself to stop watching it will be difficult. I cannot, however, in good conscience, derive entertainment watching young men sacrifice their future mental health (current, in some cases), no matter how much they're paid in return for it. It will be just as difficult for the rest of the country to leave the sport. But we don't really have a choice. If we are to become a nation that values humans over profit, we must abandon this barbaric sport.
In addition to movies on Friday nights, when I was a kid, Butler University would often have a specialized series of movies on Sunday nights. When I first discovered what my family and I called "the free movies" at Butler, I was in the fourth grade. In the spring semester of that year, Butler ran a James Bond series on Sunday nights. For a 10 year old boy, this was pretty damn close to heaven. They showed the majority of the Connery films and a few with Roger Moore. I grew up with an appreciation of the James Bond movies as, first and foremost, FUN. No matter who played Bond, as long as the film was enjoyable, it passed the basic test. Now, I've been lectured about how different those movies were from the books. I don't give a shit. Books and movies are separate mediums. Let me go through my track record with the Daniel Craig Bond movies:
Casino Royale: Fell asleep halfway through it.
Quantum of Solace: Fell asleep, literally, within ten minutes.
Skyfall: Managed to make it through the entire thing. Was thoroughly disgusted by its attempt to be a Chris Nolan movie.
Spectre: Refuse to watch it.
What a sad, woeful day it is I decide I'm not going to watch a James Bond movie. I endured the 80s and 90s Bonds. I should be able to endure this Bond. But I can't. The filmmakers have done what so many filmmakers have done with older properties that were once fun, dare I say, cheesy good times. Popcorn movies, if you will. They've decided the only way to keep them "relevant" is to make them "serious." And seriousness, in the universe of James Bond movies, is not allowed.
Well, wouldn't you know it...
A few weeks ago I began reading articles on the Internet about how the Kingsman movies are "conservative fantasies." Needless to say, I was intrigued by the very thought of a major Hollywood film somehow getting past the dragons at the gates without a feel-good, "politically correct," rainbow brigade message to further indoctrinate the masses. I had to see what the hell a conservative movie actually looks like! So I used my AMC membership to plop down five bucks on a Tuesday afternoon and watched the Kingsman movie currently in theaters. As with a lot of movies today, it was difficult not to be swept up by the spectacle. Hollywood puts all its money in the flash and bang of its product these days. One thing became rather obvious as soon as the movie got going: It is most certainly not conservative. I doubt I'll remember much of it in a year from now, but I can tell you the one thing it has going for it that the current James Bond movies do not: It is a fun movie. Pure, stupid fun. Exactly what I look for in an action movie.
I rented the first movie this weekend and it reinforced my opinion that the Kingsman movies have replaced the James Bond movies with respect to fun, goofy spy films. They're a little bit more hardcore than the classic Bond films, but that should be expected. The flippant attitude these movies have for polite society is refreshing. I hope to see this series continue and, hopefully, the producers of the James Bond films will either learn a lesson and go back to making fun Bond movies, or, simply, put the series to rest, once and for all.
I remember the first time I saw Blade Runner. It was shortly after its theatrical run, at Butler University, on a Friday night. My dad and I watched it. I was in the fifth grade. My head kind of spun afterwards. The level of atmosphere created had somehow made me drunk. I thought about it quite a bit. Later that school year, when my dad bought our first VHS player, I tried like crazy to rent Blade Runner and watch it again. It was always checked out and the wait list was forever. Contrary to what many contend, Blade Runner was a hit as soon as it was released on video. Over the years, I would look for it every time I went to the video store and it would always be checked out. It wasn't until my sophomore year of high school that I just happened to be renting something else and noticed the damn movie was finally in. I rented it and watched it for a second time. That was the viewing that absolutely blew my mind. I hooked up our (then) two VHS recorders and copied the tape. I wore out my copy of that movie over the next few years, watching it in various environments (and states of mind) and always being mesmerized. To say that it was influential in my development as an artist of several trades is an understatement. The first feature film based on a script I wrote, the god-awful Mr. Id, takes place almost entirely at night. It's a contemporary film noir. It's obviously directly influenced by Blade Runner (don't bother watching it; the profits go to the producer and he still owes many people who worked on the film money and he refuses to pay them; also, as stated, it's god-awful).
So now we have Blade Runner 2049. What I had, up until very recently, predicted would be just another Hollywood cash grab in the wake of Tinsel Town's complete lack of originality has turned out to be an enjoyable film with one plot element I really, really don't like.
The movie moves at a thoughtful pace. That right there should win it some awards for bravery. Whereas the typical modern Hollywood film has bulldozed its way into the second act by about minute five or six, 2049 really takes its time. And that's okay. The filmmakers have created a world we don't mind loitering in while the characters work their way through the plot in a meticulous manner. I was reminded of 1970s science fiction. And that's a good thing. The environment in 2049 is a little different than the original film. The original film feels very boxed in. Despite the magnificence of the buildings looking down on the masses of people, Ridley Scott managed to make it very claustrophobic. The new movie does the opposite. There are places to go in this film. Different landscapes entirely. It's like a video game with all the levels unlocked. That gives the movie a broader, more epic scope. I just happened to go to the theater for a showing on the "Big D" screen, which meant a massive screen and a sound system that literally shook the seats. It was impossible not to be in awe of the effort put into the film. Once the mystery gets going, I was rooting for the movie to come up with something spectacular in the third act.
Here's where the spoiler comes in: Hampton Fancher, who wrote one of the original drafts of the original film (and also Clint Eastwood's Unforgiven), returned as screenwriter on 2049. You can tell, too. The film's most poignant moments have little to do with the actual plot. There are wonderful lines of dialogue such as, "Sometimes to love someone, you gotta be a stranger." But Fancher, or someone else, does something a little odd toward the end of the film. The Big Reveal, when we learn the protagonist is not the lost child of Deckard and Rachel, the movie borrows directly from The Dark Knight Rises. Now, this may just be my own problem, but I was very disappointed that this is where they took the film. The build up to the reveal was so magnificent, I wanted that reveal to be something I (or anyone else) would never have though of.
So there it is. My sole complaint about the movie. Overall, it's a very immersive 2 hours and 43 minutes and you could do a hell of a lot worse. Is it the masterpiece some are claiming? No, it's not. Is it the boring cash grab cynics are calling it? Not by a long shot. It's a good, entertaining, sometimes thought-provoking popcorn movie with images you will probably think about long after it's over.
Surely you've experienced this: You're discussing something of importance to you and someone in the group, at the table, whatever, jumps in with a stream-of-consciousness contribution designed to derail and redirect the conversation. Example:
Me: It's time for liberals and conservatives to get back to a spiritual understanding of the First Amendment.
Jaggoff: You know what I'd like a spiritual understanding of? Beer. It's time we got back to a spiritual understanding of beer!
Conversation suddenly becomes about beer...
Okay, so maybe my example exposes my bias against booze. Hopefully, you get the point, regardless. It is NOT cool to change the subject of a conversation before the conversation has properly played itself out (I believe George Costanza had a similar complaint on Seinfeld; and if you haven't figured out George Costanza is ALL of our "ids" properly expressed, you haven't been paying attention). But why do people derail the conversation in the first place? I have a few theories:
1. They're dumb. Dumb people cannot stand a conversation that wades into water higher than an inch. The moment they sense a conversation is going somewhere they can't handle, they derail it. Observe, if you will, a dolt like Jimmy Kimmel the moment someone brings up something as challenging as, say, reading. He'll make a joke about his own illiteracy and change the topic. He's not the first TV moron to do that. Jay Leno, who's actually an intelligent person when he's not in front of a camera, used to do the same thing. Notice, if you will, how few authors actually appear on Kimmel's show (compared to, say, David Letterman, who had both a Hoosier intellect and sense of humor and therefore was not threatened by the likes of Hunter Thompson or even Stephen King).
2. They disagree with what's being said and, rather than argue the point from their perspectives, find it's safer to simply change the subject. These people are fucking cowards and should have been drown at birth. There's nothing wrong with disagreement. Disagreement should be talked out. Even the goofy dumbasses who still spew murderous Marxist Theory agree there should be thesis and antithesis in any dialogue.
3. They disagree with the topic and they're too dumb to explain why. This, of course, combines the first two topic derailers and, in actuality, probably explains ninety percent of the topic derailment that occurs in conversation.
We need to get back to conversations that have a purpose. Constantly changing the subject when the subject is an uncomfortable one will leave us in an intellectual tar pit and, like the dinosaurs, we will eventually die out because of it.
Oh my brothers and sisters, they're everywhere: People who think it's okay to finish your sentence for you.
Where the fuck did this come from?
When I speak, I take my time. I make sure the words I choose will do the best possible job of articulating what it is I'm trying to communicate. That means there are, occasionally, pauses. These pauses are not an invitation for someone else to jump in and interrupt. I am not playing Mad-Lib (or whatever the hell that game is called). I am taking my time to make sure I say exactly what I mean to say.
And it is, of course, during those pauses that the dreaded sentence finishers of the world leap in and attempt to complete others thoughts for them.
And here's the rub:
Sentence finishers, in my experience, NEVER complete my sentences correctly. In fact, they are often spectacularly off target. Perhaps this is what makes the sentence finishers I've encountered especially annoying. Here's an example:
Me: I was thinking about...
SF: Buying new tires for your car?
Me: ...looking for a translating job in Botswana.
That's the most common thing you'll hear a sentence finisher say--"Oh." And you'd think the sentence finisher might learn the first or second time he or she has to say "Oh" and feel foolish for posing as a mindreader (and for anyone who says, Well, sometimes you can predict what someone's going to say, realize this: Anyone who is that predictable isn't worth talking to).
The most notorious sentence finisher in my life is a woman I've known since we were both small children. I'll refer to her only as KJ in order to avoid any possible lawsuits. When we were kids, KJ referred to me as her "little brother." She had no siblings of her own and I was the oldest sibling in my own house (and, at the time, had no sisters), so I went along with it. This allowed me to have one safe, platonic relationship with a female and I attempted to use this relationship to glean information about women in general. But KJ, I learned over time, was not an ordinary female. The advice she gave me with respect to women was awful and cost me more than a few dates and relationships with women I really liked. KJ never moved out of her mother's house and she is now a middle-aged spinster whose impressions of the world are manufactured entirely by the garbage she sees on television. She has also, for reasons I couldn't begin to comprehend, blossomed into a hardcore sentence finisher. Most people in my family will no longer hang out with her for a number of reasons. One of the main ones, I suspect, is that KJ has NEVER, NOT ONCE IN HER LIFE, correctly finished anyone else's sentence.
There, I had to get that off my chest. Don't try to finish my fucking sentences. Be patient and wait for me to finish my thoughts on my own. You'll be rewarded, I promise, with something much more interesting than you could possibly predict in a split second.
So I am going to edit a charity anthology of short stories called NAPTOWN NOIR. The stories will take place in my hometown, Indianapolis, Indiana. Anything dark. No detectives or mystery-solving stuff. The profits will go to the Indiana Literacy Association. The anthology will be released through Down & Out Books. That's all the info I have at the moment. If you have a story that takes place in Indianapolis that you think would be appropriate, let me know and we'll discuss it.
In attempts to make this blog just slightly interesting, I shall begin a new series on Things That Annoy Me. I'd like to start with a discussion of public restrooms. In particular, the behavior of my fellow brothers in the human race.
I write in the library and work at the radio station at the University of Montana. Across the hall from the radio station is a coed bathroom. A real coed bathroom, meaning, men and women use it at the same time. Initially, I didn't think much of it. The first couple of times I used a toilet in it, no one else was present, so the ramifications of men and women sharing a public restroom didn't make themselves clear.
The third time I used the coed restroom, however, I noticed someone was in another stall. I began to wonder--if it's a woman, will she mind hearing the sounds I make when I use the restroom? It was also at that point I noticed the remnants of piss around the toilet, a sure sign that men had used it and, as is often the case, had betrayed their supposed superior visual-spatial intelligence by failing to hit the bowl (calm down, potheads!). I took care of my business, making sure I didn't add to the moat developing around the outside of the toilet, and went to wash my hands.
The occupant of the other stall, indeed, turned out to be a young woman. We didn't make eye contact as we washed our hands. I thought, at that moment, that maybe coed bathrooms, as much as the campus idiots may think them "progressive," are not such a good idea. On my next trip, I encountered another young woman who seemed to have a better sense of humor about it. She managed to grin as she passed me at the sinks to wash her hands. But in both instances, I couldn't help but wonder, Do women really want to spend time positioning their feet on the toilet so they don't step in the puddles left by men who cannot do something so simple as aim for the interior of the bowl?
Here's another thing I've seen way too many times recently--Men using the bathroom and not washing their hands afterward. This is disgusting and, ultimately, dangerous. Who the fuck raised these barbarians? Oh my brothers, you must do better in the public sphere. Hit the fucking toilet dead on and wash your goddamn hands when you finish!
So I must make this request once again -- as many who read this blog know, a book does much better on Amazon once it has 25 reviews. If you haven't already done so, please buy, read, and review Down on the Street, my latest novella. Even if you absolutely hated the book, leave a review letting people know why you didn't like it. You won't hurt my feelings. In attempts to convince folks this is worth their time and money, I am having a contest. Once the book has 25 reviews, I will take the names of all 25 people who were kind enough to help me out, drop them in a hat, and randomly choose three to receive copies of the follow up to Down on the Street when it is (hopefully) published next year.
Well, we're getting to that time again. Thanks to those of you who contributed to volume two, issue one, and a big thanks to those of you who purchased and reviewed the book. For those of you interested in submitting stories for issue number two, the submission window will be October 1 to October 10. Please read the guidelines. Submissions that do not conform to the guidelines are rejected without being read.
George A. Romero passed away this last Sunday. My facebook feed is filled with tributes. I must belong to all the right "groups," otherwise it would be nothing but cat pictures and histrionic parroting about "Russian collusion" and whatnot. I'm guessing Romero meant a lot of things to a lot of people. He absolutely transformed horror cinema. That would be enough to make him a legend. But he did so on his own, without any blessings from the Overlords of Hollywood, the suits and ties in the movie business who think they get to decide what will and won't be produced. This spirit of independence, to me, is Romero's most important contribution. As a writer who has been completely shunned by the mainstream publishing industry, I've had to go the independent route and it's not easy at all. Easy is selling out. Easy is "giving the people what they want." The difference between the corporate media and truly independent artists is the artists understand what the people want and what the people need are two different things. In 1968, the people may have wanted more pandering drivel like Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, but Romero gave them what they needed. Unlike a mainstream product, Night of the Living Dead wasn't made to be, ah, consumed over a weekend or two and then relegated to secondary markets. It took a while to build its steam and eventually became what the mainstream calls "a cult classic." That's their way of saying, "Gee, we really missed the fucking boat on that one!" In this day and age, when the corporate media cranks out nothing but one pandering, cloned product after another, that spirit of independence is more important than ever. The best thing we can do to honor the work and legacy of George A. Romero is to continue giving the public what it needs, even if it infuriates our corporate overlords.
And then, of course, when we're dead, we can come back to life and feast on our corporate overlords' guts!
So I declared summer, 2017, the Summer of Horror at Drive-in Radio on KBGA. I spent the first month talking about the Golden Age of the Slasher Film. All four episodes are now archived at YouTube for your listening pleasure:
This month I'll be talking about George A. Romero, Wes Craven, Tobe Hooper, and John Carpenter.
If you want to tune in live, the show airs on KBGA Missoula, 89.9 FM, available for streaming here, on Tuesday nights from 10PM to Midnight, Mountain Standard Time (That's midnight on the East coast and 9PM on the West coast).
If you ever hear anything on the show your disagree with or want to discuss further, feel free to do so in the comments section here. Just don't write anything stupid!
So just over a year ago I started writing horror stories (I should say I RESUMED writing horror stories since I wrote horror stories when I was a kid, before college poisoned me with idiotic aspirations to become an "intellectual") and a few have finally gotten published. The latest, "EMUQ," can be found in the new issue of Massacre Magazine. Like all my horror stories, it takes place in the Lake County region of Indiana in one of several towns I've invented. It's only 99 cents on your futuristic kindle device. Enjoy!
And if you want to read some more horror by Mr. Cizak, be sure to check out "Creepy" at Beat to a Pulp and "Atomic Fuel" in the latest issue of the outstanding Digest Enthusiast.
In case you missed it on my other social media advertising devices, I host a radio program on Tuesday nights called DRIVE-IN RADIO. It's a mix of me saying outrageous things about b-movies and various strains of 'billy' music--psychobilly, rockabilly, hellbilly, etc.
For an example of outrageous things I say, in the STAR WARS show I declared only the first Star Wars movie worth watching. Yes, I dismissed even THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK. Unfortunately, somehow I managed to lose that show.
If you want to listen live, you can tune in on Tuesday nights from 10 to Midnight (Mountain time, which seems to be the same as Central Time) at KBGA.ORG. If, by chance, you are in the Missoula area, you can listen on your radio at 89.9 FM. I log the songs played at Spinitron, where you can also chat with me during the show.
Mark your calendar and make your travel plans! On June 21, 2017, at 7PM, I'll be reading from DOWN ON THE STREET at Shakespeare and Co. in Missoula, MT. Sean McDaniel will be reading from his book CRIMINAL ZOO. Be there for the invasion of the Great Northwest!
So let me take a break from pushing PULP MODERN Vol. 2 No. 1 to tell you about THE DIGEST ENTHUSIAST #6. I was interviewed for a previous issue of the journal to talk about PULP MODERN. This happened just as I had lost all faith in the reading public's interest in TRULY independent publishing (and I gotta' say, it hasn't picked up all that much; I'm editing PULP MODERN now for the sheer sake of providing an alternative to the crappy corporate digests and touchy-feely boring-ass "literary" digests out there).
ANYWAY, earlier this year, when I started getting the itch to produce more PULP MODERN issues, I happened to be flipping through one of my contributor copies of the THE DIGEST ENTHUSIAST. I realized the editor, Richard Krauss, seemed to know a whole hell of a lot more about putting together a professional-looking journal than I ever did. I wanted to see some of my fiction in a future issue of THE DIGEST ENTHUSIAST. I contacted Richard, sent him a story, and he said he liked it and would run it in the next issue. That's how the conversation about PULP MODERN started. The rest, for those of you with the money and good taste to purchase the latest issue know, is history.
SO, let me implore you to buy and read the latest issue of THE DIGEST ENTHUSIAST. Not only will you get to read a fun story of mine about conformity ("Atomic Fuel"), you will get to see why I asked Richard Krauss to join the PULP MODERN crusade. THE DIGEST ENTHUSIAST is the best of its kind. No debate about it. Buy it, read it, and, of course, as always, review it on Amazon and help the squares get hip to the independent scene.
Dear non-writer friends, family, lovers, and enemies:
I recently re-launched PULP MODERN, a fiction journal filled with short stories by some great, independent writers from around the world. I’ve teamed up with Richard Krauss, who also produces an equally impressive journal called THE DIGEST ENTHUSIAST. Richard’s contribution has lifted PULP MODERN above the ranks of the thousands of independent journals out there by giving it a very professional look. The journal has been out for a week and, frankly, I’m very disappointed with the sales figures thus far. To be clear, this is not a profit-seeking venture. This is something I do to help my fellow writers by providing a non-corporate-influenced market they can send their work to. Sales figures, to me, represent how well the journal is read. Everyone involved is not doing this to pat themselves on the back, they are doing this to bring YOU, non-writer readers, something different from the vanilla, stale fiction journals you see on the stands at Barnes and Noble and other mainstream booksellers. You see, about thirty years ago, corporations started buying all the entertainment outlets that had any influence with the masses in effort to promote a singular, narrow-minded point of view. That’s why today, television, movies, and books and magazines are bland and uninteresting. We’re trying to provide an alternative to this neutered narrative the corporations want everyone to buy into. We can’t accomplish this without your help, though. Most of my friends, family, lovers, and enemies claim they like and support independent art. When I look at the sales figures for PULP MODERN, however, I know most of those who say they support it aren’t actually doing it.
Here’s what we need you to do:
1. Buy the journal. The journal is available in print for those of you who like to hold books in your hands, and in digital form for those of you who like to read on a kindle or similar such device. The price of the print journal is as low as I can go without the printer charging me extra for printing the book. Now, I understand Oprah doesn’t promote PULP MODERN. Nobody on the E! channel talks about PULP MODERN. The wonderful women on The View never discuss this journal. You probably think that means the journal is defective. No. It means it’s independent of any and all corporate influence. It means you’ll be reading fiction that hasn’t been watered-down to be “polite” or “politically correct.” That means you’re reading a REAL artist’s work. As I said, Richard Krauss has made sure this journal looks professional, so you can be seen in public with a copy of PULP MODERN and people won’t think you’re part of some cult or involved in some other unsavory activity. Reading a truly independent fiction journal won’t give you kooties or raise your property taxes. You will never be accused of being a communist or a “terrorist” by a House on UnAmerican Activities for reading PULP MODERN. This is not an example of “self-publishing,” so you don’t have to worry about the old fashioned stigma associated with self-publishing. You will be entertained, you will be enlightened, and you will be putting your money where your mouth is when it comes to supporting independent art.
2. Post a review at Amazon. Once you’ve made the great leap into the New Frontier and purchased and read (and thoroughly enjoyed) PULP MODERN, we need you to go to Amazon and post a review. Amazon promotes books according to the number of reviews a book has received. The first level starts with 25 reviews. This is very difficult for an independent journal to achieve, so we need ALL of you to do this. Whether you loved the journal or hated it, PLEASE take the time to post your thoughts at Amazon.
3. In order to encourage all my non-writer friends, family, lovers, and enemies to participate in this important endeavor, I will put the names of the first 25 people to review the journal into a hat and draw three to receive prizes. These prizes will be out-of-print books that are very hard to get now.
I thank you for your participation and hope that you will share this post with your friends, family, lovers, and enemies.
Pulp Modern vanished for a year because I felt the efforts of myself and the writers were not appreciated. Let's make sure this resurrection is successful. Please purchase a copy, read it, and review it at Amazon. The goal is to get fiction to a broad audience that has not been pre-approved and sterilized by corporate-owned publications (fake fiction! fake fiction!). THIS is the revolution. It's now or never...
Also -- Pulp Modern makes its triumphant return on Tuesday, May 9.
Finally -- check out my radio program DRIVE-IN RADIO on KBGA 89.9 FM Missoula, Friday nights at midnight (MST). I will begin posting archived shows on youtube in the next few days. I talk about b-pictures and play psychobilly and rockabilly music.