In 1965, a certain magazine began publication in an attempt to compete with Hugh Heffner’s Playboy Empire. In 2016, that same magazine followed the pattern of many iconic print publications, and closed their physical publishing facilities in order to relocate themselves to a strictly online market. When PENTHOUSE magazine did so, it stopped a long-running, albeit, friendly beef with me. I’m admittedly, sad that it’s over.
The word PENTHOUSE used to mean an additional attached house, and not necessarily one all the way up on the top of a high-rise apartment. It was apparently New York that started charging extra for those luxurious upper floors as a marketing tool, and it worked, making penthouse synonymous with luxury.
Well, let me tell you that not all penthouses are glorious first-class living quarters.
Mechanical machines, such as elevator winches, air handlers, and boilers are often installed on rooftops of tall buildings. In order to protect all those lovely mechanical, pneumatic and electronic doodads from the elements, walls and ceilings protect those vital machines, and those huts are also called penthouses, and it’s those structures that I still find myself working in almost every day.
Let me tell you, it is NOTHING like the magazine that shared the namesake bragged about. Penthouse magazine was a softcore turned hardcore pornographic magazine that also featured urban lifestyle articles. As time went on, Penthouse would lean more and more heavily into its racy nature, publishing anthologies like the write-in-and-confess Letters to Penthouse. They would even assist in producing an erotic retelling of Emperor Caligula. As a teen, I often found myself allured by the sultry covers, although I never purchased a copy until I was much older, and I swear I only did it to get the address.
It was the end of a long day of laboring 16 stories high. I had spent 14 hours getting three boilers working, and when I was done I felt exhausted instead of elated. Stopping in at the local convenience store to guzzle down some Gatorade, I spied the Penthouse magazines for sale behind the cashier. Grumbling over how that magazine had raised my hopes and expectations of what I would discover working in said structures, I purchased a single copy.
Once home, I wrote a letter ins a tongue-and-cheek style for no other reason than to blow off some steam from my day.
“Dear Penthouse Magazine” It began. “As a mechanic, I often find myself working in structures that share their name with your magazine. Curious, I had purchased one of said magazines in hopes that it would illuminate further insights into my career of maintaining rooftop mechanical equipment. While I certainly found the pictures enticing, and the articles fascinating, I must suggest that you change the name of your magazine as it does not accurately represent what real mechanical penthouses are like.
“Thank you for your time and consideration
“Sincerely
“Stephen.”
Chuckling, I sealed the message in an envelope and mailed it off to the United States for just over the cost of a cup of coffee.
I didn’t think anything of it. It was me being sarcastic, silly, and a message that I hoped would be received as the joke I thought it was.
Apparently, someone else shared my sense of humor.
Weeks passed, and I received notice that a parcel was waiting for me at the local post office. Curious, I opened it to find two of the latest editions of the magazine falling into my lap, as well as a very nicely typed letter.
“Dear Stephen
“We here at Penthouse International pride ourselves in professionalism and accurate reporting. Needless to say, your request was taken with grave consideration and did spark an internal conversation. Unfortunately, we must apologize as changing the company’s name now would impact too many of our clients who are now familiar with our brand.
“We are glad that you appreciated the articles. Please, feel free to enjoy these magazines and share them with your associates in the hopes that we can all get along regardless of the confusion that we have caused you.
“Sincerely
“Penthouse International.”
Sadly, I gave the magazines away long ago, and the letter is lost in my various files and folders I have filled over the years. While my thoughts remain mixed on the impact Penthouse international has had on society, I will never forget the fact that someone, somewhere, in that empire of eroticism, shared my sense of humor.
While I write LOTS of fiction, with a severe stress on the word FICTION, there are elements of real life that I often include in my stories as a way of keeping them grounded and relatable, at least, to me.
In reality, I work and live on the border between the (Mostly) English speaking province of Ontario, and the French speaking province of Quebec. While I do believe I have a fairly comprehensive understanding of English, my skill level in Français Québécois is best summed up as almost nonexistent. I can order a coffee, and ask for the washroom, and I can READ Québécois HVAC instructions, but it takes me a long time, and often is assisted with the aid of a dictionary.
So, naturally, language plays a part in my works. Characters often face language barriers (which relates to me,) or are multi-lingual (Which is something that I am honestly jealous about.)
There is also a culture shock when working between the two provinces. I was raised in English Ontario, I know what to expect, what is offensive to say, where to keep my mouth shut, and where I can cuss like a Navy Marine Mechanic without expecting an ass-whooping…
That wasn’t always the case when I started working in Quebec.
The first company I worked for in Building Automation was Quebec based, and one of the first jobs I did SOLO, was to verify several ventilation units inside a Quebec public school.
I was up on a ladder, cordoned off from a group of kindergarten students. My head was in the ceiling as I tried to figure out why a pressure sensor wasn’t reading properly, when I heard a student cry out, “Madame, Madame, mon jouet ç’est Fucké!”
<Teacher, Teacher, My Toy is F*CKED!”
I froze, uncertain what I had heard, and peaked out from the ceiling.
The teacher knelt on the carpet, held out her hands to the little child, and I expected to hear the equivalent of “We don’t use that word in the classroom.”
Instead, the professeure asked “Comment est- çe que tu Fucké ton jouet?”
What a wake-up call.
I nearly died laughing, because I almost fell off the ladder. Despite literally being separated from an English culture by a river, passable by ferry and bridge, the Québécois culture didn’t, and still does not, consider English swear words as, well, swear words.
No, you want to swear in French, than you are going to have to use terms regarding Catholic faith. Bodily functions swear words, in English, just do not mean the same in Quebec.
So, that’s why lots of my stories feature culture and language barriers, because it reflects my personal experiences with such situations, and by including it, my stories feel REAL to me, and I hope, real to many readers as well.
Despite multiple safety measures, construction persists as being one of the most dangerous jobs in the country of Canada. As a mental defense against the threat of injury, many of us in the field have developed a gallows humor, which means we try to laugh at grim situations.
Combine that with a looming sense of nuclear destruction, and the bitter humor gets cranked to 11.
Automation systems provide comfort and efficient temperature control, so that was why I found myself visiting such a facility.
When you first visit a site, one often has to undergo an orientation. These are vital to providing facts such as meeting locations in event of trouble, points of contact, and where and when we are not allowed to take pictures or have our phones on us.
It was during such an orientation that I heard the best plan ever if there would be a critical disaster while on site.
“Here are the emergency shelters.” Our guide, one of the facility operators said, pointing to a site map. “In the event of the alarm sounding, you have minutes to get to there.”
I listened intently. Although Nuclear power is incredibly safe, the meltdown of Chernobyl and Fukishima was always present in the minds of those who worked on that certain CANDU reactor in a particular Ontario town.
Curious, my coworker who was with me asked the operator, “Can the reactor actually explode?”
The operator laughed. “Look, just because we were the first facility to suffer a partial meltdown in the world, we’ve switched production to making medical isotopes. The shelter is more to protect your lungs than shield you from a nuclear blast.”
He paused, smiled, and then said, “Although, if a nuclear blast ever will occur here, I guarantee you the shelter will do nothing to save your lives.”
Concerned, I asked, “So, what can we do?”
“Put your head between your knees and kiss your ass goodbye.” Was one response from the small crowd in the room, and the tour guide laughed.
“What would you do?” I rephrased my question, still not understanding the lack of danger I was in.
Unable to wipe the grin from their face, the operator announced, “You know about nuclear silhouettes?”
I nodded.
His face was almost split in two as the operator continued.
“I have a contingency plan. If we EVER face a meltdown, I’m going to grab a baseball bat I keep under my desk, stand against a concrete wall, and hold that bat like it was my dong. I will die a hero, leaving my shadow as both the man with the biggest dick ever, while looking like, in my last moments, I was rubbing one out for all eternity.”
Ya know what, if nothing else, the operator is a legend in my mind, and it’s something I know I’m NEVER going to forget.
School Crud is a thing, and in the modern age of Covid, it’s only more of a threat than ever before.
With three kids in elementary, and one of them being special needs, I know what’s coming, a season of snotty noses, fevers, coughs, aches, pains, and general misery.
YAY for public education. (I’m all for it, I just dread communicable diseases)
Two years ago, I ended up with a cold that robbed me of my voice for weeks, much to the gratefulness of my long-suffering wife, however it presented something new to bother her.
I started communicating in American Sign Language.
She wondered how I had learned it.
Admittedly, I should have learned it sooner. Growing up, one of my best friends had grandparents who used it as their sole means of communication, but I didn’t learn it then.
I learned it instead, from an old Italian plumber who smoked a carton of cigarettes a day. Since his voice box was little more than a nicotine and tar coated cancer risk, and yelling gave him a headache, and, as he put it, he “ALREADY TALKED WITH HIS HANDS”, he forced anyone and everyone who worked with him to learn some basic ASL so we could communicate with him over distances and the many loud noises of a jobsite.
Granted, ASL is an ever-evolving language, and some things I learned were more homebrew and colloquial than what is actually used, but it was a good foundation for what has followed.
I am by no means, fluent, but I can use enough to understand my friends who have to rely on it when their hearing aids fail.
Mississauga, Ontario is a large city by Canadian standards, and it hosts a very grand commercial and industrial community. As such, it comes with its own housing issues, homeless populations, and when those combined, let to me being a witness to a suspected murder.
High rise buildings cannot operate without support, and a key member of ensuring comfort for everyone in the building’s superintendent. For a reduced living expense, and a pay check, they maintain the land, survey the parking, and deal with emergencies as they arise.
One autumn day, I, the controls contractor, was working in an apartment’s basement when the building’s new superintendent runs into the mechanical room. They’ve only just started two weeks prior, and it’s their first time working such a job.
When I first met him, he was happy, and excited to help, but when he found me he was panting, and his eyes are wild with panic and fright.
“You have to help me!” He begged, leaning on the wall for support. “Oh, God, you have to! I think I killed someone!”
Unwilling to abandon the clearly traumatized man in such a time of obvious need, I followed him to the elevator and we begin the ascent. When the elevator opened onto the top floor, I was greeted with crimson fluid dropping from the hallway ductwork.
“I didn’t look. I should have checked. Oh God, I’m going to get fired for this!” the superintendent moaned. Trying to be a voice of reason, I asked him to tell me what happened as we climb the stairs to the roof.
A paper had been circulated within the landholding company. It stated, “Please be advised that, due to the rapidly cooling temperatures, people without lodgings may seek warmth and shelter in all parts of the buildings. This includes HVAC equipment. Before starting up any air handling system, please ensure that all doors are sealed and that no one is in a position to endanger themselves or the occupants.”
I was beginning to understand.
A Makeup Air Unit (MAU or MUA) is a ventilation system that draws in outside air using a fan, treats it so it’s not too cold, and projects it into the structure so the occupants don’t spend all day breathing each other’s smells, farts, and exhalations.
I’d already seen the Makeup Air Unit in suspect. Most MAU’s have a bird screen, but this particular one had been without since it had been removed months ago. Most MAU’s had filters, but they had been sucked in and had ruined the fan, and they had not yet been replaced although the fan and belt had been. Most MAU’s had dampers that closed when not in operation, to prevent unwanted infiltration, but those had been locked open as the actuator had failed.
The unit had been offline all summer and the ductwork that traveled across the roof had been separated because they were installing a new electric heater downstream of the MAU. It had only been replaced earlier that week, and with the cold weather approaching, the new superintendent had been given the order to start the unit.
“I turned on the disconnect switch,” He gasped, “And there was this horrible grinding noise, and splattering over by the new coil, and then blood just started pouring from the unit.”
Dread and morbid curiosity led me to the service hatch just upstream of the heating coil. Twisting the catches, I pulled out the maintenance door and peered inside with my flashlight.
Blood and flesh and shattered bones were stuck to the coil, but they were not the only culprits; feathers were mixed into the nightmarish miasma.
Relief flooded my body, and I laughed as I walked back to the unit and opened the fan-chamber’s doors. There, ground into the scroll-cage, were twigs, eggs, and the broken bodies of dozens of pigeons.
It wasn’t hard to guess what he had killed.
Without a screen, filters, or dampers, and with no one inspecting the belt for months, a plague of pigeons had made the MAU their home, but they had done so in the worst possible spot, because the moment the superintendent had flipped on the power the MAU had started without warning, and had blended the birdies into the gory paste that now saturated the ductwork.
Apparently it took quite the cleanup effort to ensure no one got sick from the various bird bits that had infiltrated the ductwork, but, on the positive, no human was harmed, and the MAU got a full retrofit, so there were some good things to come out of that, including the lesson to always inspect the fan chamber before a startup.
My job takes me to a variety of locations. I’ve worked on mountain tops, deep underground below the foundations of complexes, where only dirt and rock is underfoot, to small attics, and fancy laboratories. Often though, my job takes me to more mundane structures, like high-rises or apartment penthouses. Just because they feel run-of-the-mill, does not mean that those buildings do not stick in my mind for one reason or another.
Some of them are secured in my mind because of the work I did, others, because there was someone whom I shared tea with, or a cute dog that just wanted petting, but there’s one site I’ll never forget because it’s where one of my tools was used as a murder weapon.
It started innocently enough. I’d worked on enough halfway houses and low–income buildings to fight through my middle-class bias. They are people who deserve as much love and respect as anyone, and when the air-handling unit that fed the ground floor failed, I went to site to fix it.
There were two ways inside the mechanical room. The painful way was to leave via the front door and walk ALL THE WAY around the outside of the building to where I was allowed to park my work vehicle. The other was much shorter: exit out the back stairwell, the same stairwell that the mechanical room opened into, but in order to keep the door open I had to jam it with something, because it only opened from the inside, and there was no key to open that exterior door as it was a rated fire escape.
It was evening, cold, and I needed my drill from my car. I was already in the stairwell, my vehicle was only about fifty feet from the side entrance, but it was out of sight of the doorway.
Back then, I wore a tool belt. I don’t now because Crohn’s disease leaves me easily agonized if I put too much force around my gut. Scrambling through my tools, I selected something beefy enough to hold the door open, my trusty FULLER Screwdriver.
Big Blue was special to me. As an installer, I had learned how to make a hole in tin using a screwdriver and a hammer. In order to make it easier, I had sharpened one corner of that giant tool until it was as keen as a good knife. It had served me well, and had stuck with me as I graduated from college, labored in the field, and moved on into controls. Like any good tool, it was multi-purpose. It could be a chisel, a pry bar, a tin cutter, and that moment, it was a glorious door stop.
Running to my car, I grabbed my hammer drill and extension cord, only to return and find that my screwdriver was GONE.
SOMEONE HAD GRABBED BIG BLUE!
But, to be fair, whoever had, at least had the decency to shove an old coat in the door, so I wasn’t locked out of the building in below-freezing weather.
Sighing at my own stupidity, I ran inside and finished the job.
I lamented the loss of Big Blue for a while, and bought a replacement large flat-head that I still have today, but the handle is soft rubber, and is wearing out.
Well, months go by, and I move on.
I tend not to watch TV, but I just so happened to have it on in the background one morning while making my breakfast, and I was reminded of Big Blue in an all too bitter fashion.
“A young man has been charged with homicide. Mr. ****** was a guest at a party when an argument became physical, and Mr. **** attacked his offender with a screwdriver and stabbed him to death.”
Glancing up from my scrambled eggs and toast, I very nearly did a spit-take all over the table. There, on the screen, was BIG BLUE in all its gory glory, and I knew it was mine because of a distinct band of scribing ink I had painted around the shaft.
My elation that Big Blue was found was immediately squashed by the realization that Big Blue was now a murder weapon.
I had missed that screwdriver, almost badly enough to waltz into the police station and demand my stolen tool be returned to me…
Almost
But even I don’t feel that privileged.
So I had to bid adieu to Big Blue again, but at least I have closure, and know what has become of my favorite screwdriver’s fate.
After twenty years in the HVAC industry. I’ve seen some weird things, and witnessed others through a computer screen. When it comes to ghosts, I’ve apparently been involved in more than one, but the ones where I supposedly saw a ghost I never felt as threatened or as confused as the time I missed out on seeing a ghost,
but the two electricians who were with me that night, did not.
Boo!
You can’t always work on a building during the day. Some structures only let you labor away at night, especially government buildings, and especially government buildings that are over 100 km from the office.
That late autumn night, there were 4 of us in total that occupied just such a structure:
A security guard
2 electricians
And little ol’ me…
We were working as a team to install the building’s new building automation system in the basement. The security guard and I were in one room, and the sparkies were wandering the halls, installing temperature sensors, and then blasting them with Dust Bane.
This caused the sensor to drop to almost freezing, and allowed me to verify that it was working and it was where we needed it on the system, so I was essentially locked in the room, sitting on a bucket, my computer on an impromptu desk.
It was just after midnight…
We were tired…
We were fighting the desire to do body shots of Tim’s double double off of each other when all of a sudden, the rooms at the very end of the hall dip to nearly freezing
Then the next rooms
Then the next
Each one getting closer to me, and closer to the hapless sparkies who were elsewhere on the floor.
And it’s not happening slowly, but FAST, RUNNING SPEED FAST
The furthest rooms are only just rebounding as the closest room to me drops, and that’s when I heard the electricians’ screams of terror
I jumped from my chair, my breath fogging as I ran into the hall…
Only to see the backs of the fleeing electricians as they charged into the stairwell, ran up the stairs, slammed through the emergency exit and scrambled for their work truck.
Which a screech of rubber, they peeled out of that parking lot and were GONE.
They’d left their tools.
They didn’t answer their phones.
Without them, there’s no point staying. Being sympathetic, I began cleaning up their tools. The rooms are warm again, but everything metal is wet with condensation.
They ghosted me, and refused to return my calls all the next day.
Finally their boss offers to come and finish the job and collect his employees’ tools.
We got the job done, and as I’m thanking him I ask why the guys didn’t return to site.
With a shrug he tells me they’re never going to come back to this site.
It’s not me, it’s the building.
Turns out, the building had once been a sanitarium and rumor had it that, back then, a nurse had gotten too close to a cell at the end of the hall. The patient inside the room had reached through the bars and grabbed her, tearing her face to the bones in a fit of rage. Savaged, she had run the length of the basement, screaming in agony, only to die of infection a few days later.
Apparently, she never quite left that hall.
I never “saw” her, but I had the trend logs from that night as proof that something had occurred.
I’ve never been back there at night, and I’ve changed companies since, but I still hear that there’s a high turnover anytime work is done, and security guards warn each other not to be in the basement at a certain time of night.
It’s Querying season again, the season when agents open up to submissions and thousands of hopeful authors and writers inundate inboxes in hopes that their manuscript will be selected as one of the few gems that the agent will fall in love with, champion, promote, and make famous.
This is also, inevitably, the same season where most of that multitude is going to receive something dreaded….
REJECTION
Let’s face it, most of us will not receive the golden ticket of acceptance, most of us will instead face rejection, either in the form of an all-purpose form letter, or a nice custom message, or no message at all, leaving us wondering if they ever received our manuscript in the first place.
“NOOOOOOOOOOooooo!” You scream, until your lungs ache, your eyes burn, and you are consumed by the strongest of desires to burn your manuscript and give up on a literary career forever.
Sadly, this is the reality. I’m certain we’ve all heard of someone who started a band, has played in bars, pubs, various social events, practices in their garage and has made sacrifices their whole lives, but never broke out into a luxurious album deal…
Music and writing share a lot in common.
There are so many of us who are looking for representation, and getting an agent requires not just skill, but also relies on the work being in a style that the agent likes, being something that they’re willing to devote their lives to, and, let’s face it, a ^#%#%! ton of luck.
Most of us are not just going to face rejection, MOST of us are never going to land an agent, it’s just statistically impossible.
BUT, DO NOT PANIC, Do not Despair, do not torch your manuscript, pack your belonging, and flee into the wilderness…
Because an agent is not the only way to get published.
It took me a long time to get there, lots of sleepless nights, lots of agony, and yeah, I’m not famous, but I am have multiple stories out there, ranging in size from flash fiction, all the way up to an entire trilogy.
And I had to learn most of this the hard way.
My Sorry Story:
I wrote my first full MS (Manuscript) when I was 18. I’d already been writing for a few years to impress my girlfriend-at-the-time, and it would be a few more years before the love of the written word would outlast the relationship.
By the time I was 22, I’d written 7 full length manuscripts, and I sucked up the energy and courage to submit to agencies, publishing houses, and independent presses. I didn’t care who I signed with, I just wanted to be published.
With 7 full manuscripts being sent out, I was certain I could make a name for myself, right?
Well…
I didn’t sign a single contract until 12 years after I started.
It was only then, after hundreds of rejections, lots of rewriting, learning the craft, a few attempts at short stories, lots of screaming into pillows, AND ACCEPTING THAT I AND MY WORKS WEREN’T PERFECT, that I tentatively signed with a small indie house, and that was only with the condition that I would work with their in-house editor to clean up my disastrous writing style.
I agreed, and working with the editor proved to be a real eye-opener. I had lots to learn.
I can touch on that another time, but my writing was, and still is, RAW and imperfect, and is one of the reasons why I am not confident enough to self publish.
However, I am published now, and find it a lot easier to get works published because I have changed and evolved both as a person and an author.
WHAT can YOU do?
Getting published isn’t always about landing a big deal with a dream agent. Getting published is about finding a place for your work to shine with. Some, and I stress, SOME agents will read the bio part of a submission, in hopes of seeing that the writer whose piece they are reviewing is famous or established enough already, or has won accolades for their works in the past.
PROMOTE:
So, something you can do is, promote yourself to get noticed.
For most of us, myself included, this is the suckiest part, promoting.
But, you have a persona to maintain, and an audience that may want to read a book from an author or writer who shares their views and promotes safety for their readers.
Get on social media, share your views, BLOG, build a website, post updates of your wips and projects, and you may, MAY, find that others join you, uplift you, and sometimes, guide you to places to sign.
WRITE small, dream BIG
Not everyone can land a full manuscript, and not everyone’s manuscripts are right or perfect, or whatever excuse they want to make.
Sometimes, we have to learn to walk before we can run.
This is where flash-fiction and short story writing is really helpful. I personally LOVE writing short stories and novellas and novelettes because they help ME to improve. For some of us, shorts are the gateway into the big things.
Publish for free
Let’s say you write a short story, post it to a reading site, and… you get horrible reviews, what does that mean?
Well, you may have pissed someone off, or become targeted by trolls, or maybe your writing needs some improvement. THIS can be a real eye-opener.
Publish to an Anthology
There are also ANTHOLOGIES you can write for. Like mixtapes in the music industry, these let readers enjoy a selection of stories in one theme, and maybe, just maybe, they will find an author whom they fall in love with.
An old mixtape audio cassette. Yeah, I’m THAT Old.
But, that’s not the only point of an anthology. Anthologies are generally created by smaller houses, and smaller houses are often more willing to work with an aspiring writer and help them edit their work. Sure, big houses and big names also publish anthologies, but they can be harder to get into.
So, you write a small story, it gets accepted, what does that mean for you? It means that your work is now going to be reviewed by the in-house editor, and they are going to show you the flaws you need to polish to turn your story into a work-of-art. This is a chance to learn from someone (hopefully) experienced, and a chance to be peer reviewed.
It will also be something you can put in your bio the next time you write a query, and it will show to whomever you are writing to, that you are now published.
It’s also a great way to build relationships with a house, and editor, and those in the anthology itself. That alone, can lead to many wonderful opportunities.
ACCEPT that YOU aren’t perfect.
Maybe, you’re not as perfect a writer as you think you are, or maybe your manuscript might not work for the masses.
It might be time to look for BETA readers and Critique Partners who you can trust to give you HONEST advice and feedback.
I cannot stress THIS enough. I WAS NOT A GOOD WRITER when I was 18, and I’m still FAR from perfect although my ego let me think that I was.
This, THIS IS STILL ME TO THIS DAY
Oh yeah, my ego got in my way. I selected beta readers who praised me, and sent my manuscripts to friends who were afraid to be honest with me about HOW bad my writing was.
It wasn’t until my wife, the most honest person I know, tore the first chapter of my first full MS a new one, that I swallowed my pride, researched, rewrote, until it made sense to her.
That edit from her, was the introductory chapter that landed me my first signature.
Shoot for the stars, but land on the moon.
So, you’ve submitted and queries and wept and etc. etc. WITH THE BIG FISH.
Well, maybe it’s time to look for a less grandiose home than one of the big houses. There are lots of smaller presses out there, and they are more willing to take chances with works than those big name brands.
As always, there is some Caveat Emptor when signing with a smaller press. Most are great, some, not so much. Do your research, ask around, contact the house if they let you, and establish if that house will work for you.
You might sign with them in the end, and don’t think that by signing small you gave up the chance to be part of the big leagues, because there are success stories where small presses get little names big attention.
Take matters into your own Hands
Confession: I DO NOT HAVE THE COURAGE NOR DESIRE to self-publish, but some people do. If you believe your work is ready, there are options out there to self-publish.
Good for you if you chose this route, but I cannot stress this enough, GET EDITORS WHO ARE TRUSTED TO REVIEW YOUR WORK!
JUST keep Swimming
Okay, you may have a brilliant work, a fantastic plot, perfect prose, and still get shot down. It happens. As said, you have to find someone who has the time, energy, desire, and ability to showcase your work to others, and that in itself is a one-in-a-million shot.
THIS ISN’T Dorey, Disney. Don’t Sue
Suck it up, and sub again, and again and again.
One day, you might just find someone to represent your work. Accept that today is not that day, smile, and move on.
After all, those who give up, will never succeed.
In Conclusion:
Just because you didn’t land your dream agent and a multi-billion dollar advance doesn’t mean it’s the end of your literary career. There are many avenues to get your work into the world.
You can do it. yes, it can be a struggle, but if I can do it, so can you.
Family day, February 21 of 2022, my hometown hosted its annual comic convention, and for the first time in my life I was behind a booth as an author hawking his own books.
It was nerve racking. The first convention since the pandemic, so many people, but they were masked, vaxxed, and social distance was maintained.
This is just a little blog on my participation in the event.
Firstly, there was preparations for the day before.
It was held at Carleton Place Arena, and Vendors were encouraged to show up the evening before to set up. I decided to go there that evening and scout out the show space, but I couldn’t go there empty handed.
Time to assemble my primary works.
It wouldn’t look good to just have those sitting on a table. They needed to be sitting up tall and proud. It’s probably the only convention I will get to this year due to my wife’s health so I’d best do it right.
Trying to be socially and environmentally conscious, I built a stand out of packing Styrofoam that had come with some already-delivered packages, and some hot-glue.
Looking Good
It was nice, light weight yet tall… And that proved to be a problem because I brought it with me on the 20th to recce my booth position, and the wind was so strong it broke my display rack into while I was walking the 15 feet to my car, so I hastily repaired it.
Well, there goes day one’s con-flop. There has to be an issue every day, one bad thing for the rest to go well. If that was all there was, great.
So when I arrived I found it already bustling, with a bunch of bright young volunteers eager to help. After scanning my vaccination’s QR code I was let in and encouraged to set up.
And yes, that’s not a white table cloth, but a shower curtain. Why? BECAUSE IT WAS LESS EXPENSIVE and washable.
#smart
I did have a little help, but I didn’t need as much as some of the other vendors. Still, I hope my positive and cheery attitude was infectious.
Infectious in the right way. Here’s a few of the volunteers checking out everything EXCEPT 50 Shades of Neigh…
After mounting my rebuilt display and my 2022 cover banner,
I realized that I needed to mount Devon J Hall’s “Welcome to My Worlds” banner better. Time to head home and hot glue something together, while pre-loading my books into the vehicle.
After a hearty breakfast I arrived the next morning bright-eyed and less bushy faced, having shaved the night before.
And after bringing in most of my books I realized I had left Nobilis: Seedling at home.
There’s that day’s con-flub. I had more than enough time to head home, grab it, and set up before the opening.
Sanitizer, check. Bookmarks, check. Books prices?
There was one thing left to do. Set the prices of the books.
Because I don’t self-publish, but instead rely on indie presses, I had to set the con-prices in a way that wouldn’t undercut the publishers too drastically, so I logged into their websites, and set the books just a little lower.
There were some familiar faces in the crowd. Kobold’s Corner has long been my go-to comic-stop, and I was happy to see them represented.
And to my left, (con-goer’s right) was the charming Cruzie’s Nerdy Games & Apparel
And my backdoor buddy, I mean, the vendor behind me, and someone who shared in some antics of the day, was Liam Gibbs , author of the superhero-meets-spaceballs adventure comedy series, “In a Galaxy Far, Far Awry”
Right at 10, on the nose, guests began arriving. It didn’t take long for the hall to fill. People were eager to get back to conventions, and be nerds in the crowd once again.
The view from my booth only seconds to go. The Geek community is masked, alive, and well.
And then it got busy, a bit too busy for me to be looking at my phone. Still, in the moments I could I appreciated the costumes and con-flow.
And the one costume that amused me to no end was TIK-TIK ON GROWTH HORMONES!
Giant-Ass EWOK
And the first time I’ve actually seen an inflatable dino!
By 15h30 it had wound down, and I had survived. I hadn’t broken the bank either way, but I had met some awesome people, made some new friends, and hopefully some new fans.
I may not make it to another Con this year, but I will cherish this one, and hopefully, at the next con, present myself with lessons learned from this one.
In less than a month, one of my biggest dreams — and also biggest fears – an an author will come to pass. Two year ago I stared at a story of mind, bit back my fear, wrote a pitch, and submitted the idea of a world swarmed by monstrous hordes, where the dead outnumber the living to Kyanite press.
That wasn’t the part that frightened me, but rather, the idea of what it was to become is what gave me anxiety. Part of my literary goals is to create worlds and universes that other authors would want to write within. Remnants was my first sandbox, and to my pleasure, others joined me and played with their creative grains.
I couldn’t be more amazed and proud as I put faces to the stories, and thrived in the shared horror, bittersweet victories, and personal tragedies that have slathered the pages. Each creator has taken the initially proposed ideas, added their own spin, and taken me on an emotional and personal roller coaster ride that has left dread in my stomach and pride beating in my breast.
J.D Sanderson has created a short and savage introduction to the chaos that is to come. His story is that of desperation, confusion, much like what I imagine the opening hours of the monster apocalypse would be like for individuals who find themselves lost, confused, and inexperienced.
This, in turn, is followed by Aaron Lee’s Heatwave, which takes us out of the confusion of J.D.’s work, and instead shows us the modern global society dealing with the certain gloom of a world going mad as it struggles against an unbeatable foe. What I thought would be an overview, still keeps itself personal, dealing with specialists who find themselves caught in the fray, and the relations of those who make it their goal to share the truths the world tries to hide.
P.S. As an HVAC mechanic, I approve of the story, and its monitoring system.
Only for us to fall into the relationship of an out of love family, with characters you might despise, but care for all the same. J.D. Kellner’s Megan is of people, flawed, toxic, but human, attempting to survive together in a relationship that had long ago fallen apart. Here, for the first time, we are introduced to the threads of hope, and the nature of those too restless to simply leave the world behind.
This brings us to Rachel Ford’s Love Song. I won’t lie. I may have pictured a young Blake Shelton belting out a soft country love ballad, and in the moments of the sweetness that contracted Kellner’s Megan, I felt for the main character. There is, in some worlds, a word for love that ends whilst it’s still sweet, a special love, and that is what I felt throughout.
I had hopes when I pitched Remnants that others would integrate their own terrors, and I am not disappointed. Ian Fairgrieve’s debut published work, The Brood, introduces us to a new monster. Different, yet frightening, the click of The Brood will send a menacing chill down readers’ spines as they find themselves facing the menaces of the new world through the eyes of a cruel survivor, who is perhaps an example of the heartlessness needed to survive.
Michael D. Nadeau’s Other Side, in contrast, shows us the new world from those who might not have fully survived, and, for the first time, we are introduced to a global view of the world lost, yet also, the hops that not just individuals,, but communities can still thrive as the best of humanity shines like a beacon through the darkness.
P.S. I cheered for Tah and his people, literally.
Just as things are looking up, however, Benjamin Hope gives us a tense, claustrophobic tale. I felt the tight terror of horror flicks where the monster pursues the few heroes, forcing them to survive on their wits. Sweat did grow on my brow as, for the first time, we see one of the beasts played to its strengths. All the other stories up until now have been of the horde and the swarm, but readers are treated to the true menace that just one of the monsters can cause.
Alan Provance’s Echoes of Faith takes us south of the US, and it feels gritty, vibrant. I could taste the effects of a city gone dead in my mouth. The introduction of this small band, and the realities of post-traumatic stress numbing those who escaped the initial massacre reminds me of war refugees, and their thousand-yard stares.
Then, Enter Crystal Kirkham and her very Canadian addition. Having been through Red Deer before, and knowing the type of people she mentions, I actually cheered out loud over the victories the few survivors have made for themselves.
Only to be sucked from the triumph, to be reminded, in D.W. Hitz’s Rien’s Path, that not all of humanity and communities are the utopias we wish them to be. I felt the history of sieges, and the desperate choices made by groups in the darkest of times with raw and honest shock.
A.A. Rubin’s the Forgotten changes that again, as imagination conquers over indoctrinate attitudes. I felt the stirrings of an optimistic retelling of Lord of The Flies, or John Wyndham’s The Chrysalids, but it too, is a gritty war drama that faces the reality of once more dealing with an incident one thought recessed.
