Over the years – for those who have been exploring my vituperative ramblings on-line (still in situ) – I have given the impression, at least to myself, of falling between various stools. Stools that would have supported me – or provided me seemly relief from a sense of scatological unworth.
Even as Weirdmonger, I was so far between stools, I’m not in the 800 pages of the book here or in the previous ‘New Weird’. Can’t complain, though.
Now Chômu Press has for me become an evolving Venner for these radiations of fiction force.
Please also see here for my most recent yet effectively pre-Chômu ramblings on this field-theory of weird-palimpsest.