I was going to do one of them posts about writing you see on other, proper blogs, but in the end decided to go for some shameless self-pimpage instead. Yes, the new issue of Subterranean (Skiffy magazine to the stars) is hitting the presses as we speak -- well as I type and you read... OK, so technically we're not both doing those things at the same time, unless you're in the room looking over my shoulder (in which case I should probably put some clothes on), but you know what I mean -- and look what they've put on the cover:
Look -- there's my name! Me! Bwahahahaha! Oh the ego, the EGO! I'm really looking forward to seeing if there's an illustration to go with the story on the inside: A FINITE NUMBER OF TYPEWRITERS. Hope so, that'd be, like, you know, cool. Huh, huh.
Annnnnnnnnnd we're back. If you've not already rushed out and done so, you can order your very own copy of the above magazine of wonder right now! Be the kid on your block all the crack ho's and junkies look up to! Impress members of the opposite / same sex! And ducks*. Makes a perfect pretend telescope (some assembly required), a wasp swatter, or something to make paperweights feel useful. Order today and get a free envelope/plastic bag thingie to keep it in!
Looking back on it I've had a pretty good year for short stories. I gave a dozen away on the website at Christmas, had one published in the first Spinetingler Anthology, another's coming out soon from Busted Flush Press (so there will be more shameless self-pimpage on the way), and two have been bought by some lovely people in Holland: the first features a junkie trapped in a septic tank, and the second opens with the hero pissing on someone's grave. All very wholesome.
I went off shorties after my marathon binge of stupidity for Christmas -- I am never, ever going to write 12 short stories on the trot again -- but I'm beginning to see the appeal once more. Anyone looking for stuff? I'm not proud... ;}#
They get lonely too, you know.