Just dip your nibs into the inkwell and write: readers write as well as authors, I say. And until you read the rest, it was never written at all. Reading something ensures it will be written. But writing something does not ensure it will be read. Any old fool knows that!
(That is an extract from my real-time review of ‘The Wolves of Calla’ by Stephen King.)
WEIRDMONGER: The Nemonicon: The Synchronised Shards of Random Truth and Fiction – Prime Books 2003 / Prime-Cold Tonnage 2004
As of today, the only copies of WEIRDMONGER remaining – other than the 3 or 4 that I am personally holding back for future free competitions (eg here) — are shown on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com, as follows (paperback unless shown):
$29.99 (used – condition seems debateable)
£100 (Abe books, same copy also shown as used on Amazon site)
£250 (Abe books – signed hardback)
EDIT (14 Apr 2012): The £52.99 copy has now vanished!
As far as I can see, the £100 copy has my signature on it?
Please note, as I have confirmed before, ‘Weirdmonger’ will never be an ebook or reprinted.
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.
the abolisher of roses
by Gary Fry
Spectral Press 2011
Reviewed by DF Lewis (14 May 11 – a few minutes after reading it)
Struck by the title and the cover of this neat slim volume – I decided to buy its last copy, as documented elsewhere. It had to be the last copy available, for reasons that will one day become clear, if not before. I’ve also reviewed much of Gary Fry’s short fiction, during the intially brave and personally exciting days of my real-time reviewing experiment.
And I was not to be disappointed. A didactic fable of an ill-seasoned marriage that has grown into cross-purposes of emotional/intellectual/artistic (dis)loyalty and mutual condescension. What a great idea to have a country trail of art installations. Brave in itself, knowing the British weather, but opportune in its being published during the current drought. Damien Hirst has nothing on the haunting horror that these displays play, re-play, un-play, dis-play…. Hmmm, obliquely, I’m glad this is symbolic of the final exhibit in the current spate of erecting gothic-gantries or word-pictures for a contiguously serialised dream-trail each night…. A sort of exorcism or excoriation. Bringing perspective and understanding back into all our relationships. An understanding-indeed-out-of-horror into new alchemies of souls. An efficacy of terror. A polisher of roses. Both.
“Oh, for God’s sake, I was just trying to make the point that we go to art to be challenged, to have our . . . our sedimented habits shaken up.”
I wrote this here yesterday before reading this story. (It only arrived this morning in the post). END