For every one piece of awesome “indie publishing,” you get ten, twenty, maybe even a hundred pieces of nonsense floating around. For every satchel of diamonds you get ten poop-encrusted toilet seats. For every Geoffrey Chaucer you get a hundred brain-sick spider monkeys.
I see it from time to time: this sense of flipped-up middle-fingers, this iconoclastic anti-establishment vibe, this sentiment of, “Fuck writing advice, the only way to learn writing is to write, only those who can’t do teach, blah blah blah, suck my butt-pucker, pen-puppet.” I dig it. I get it. Once in a while I […]
See, you’re over there thinking that being a writer is one big giant sack of squirming misery. That the only way to be a writer is to be a starving, broke, syphilitic lunatic whose flesh is branded with the countless rejections he hath received. No. Bzzt. Hell no.
So, here’s your chance to win that very flying cat figurine (value, $15.00) and a $10.00 Amazon gift certificate (value: $10.00, duh). Wanna know how? Buy IRREGULAR CREATURES. Leave an Amazon.com review for it. Then tell me that you did so I don’t have to use my psychic powers to discern your involvement.
You have 120 hours to become part of the story. Tweet with the hashtag #pandemic11. Whether with your own account or another of your creation. Tell your tale. Whether it’s one tweet or 100, maybe what you tell the world can save it from the spreading sickness.
I continue to dig, build, and explore. Fact is, I want to find another dungeon. The dungeon made me feel like an intrepid hero-architect, a builder of great things but also a slayer of demons, a gatherer of treasure. I find my second cavern opening not far from the first: just a quarter-day’s walk.