Failing, yes, but failing UPWARD!

O Gentle Reader, your faithful correspondent thought it would all go so well. Taking the Greyhound Bus (now with alleged Wi-Fi and power outlets!) across the country from Las Vegas to Providence, Rhode Island over 3 full days would be an honest homage to H.P. Lovecraft, who traveled by bus back in the day before regular commercial flight (and, apparently, quixotic attempts to write a novel draft on two cross-country bus trips).

Yes, folks, “riding the dog” across our fair land was a FAIL creatively and even makingsensely. Even when the Wi-Fi appeared AND the plugs were working (“A fuse musta blown,” several drivers in a row said, and also said that only mechanics at a major stop could flip the breaker back into the “Keep bored passengers from forcing the bus off a goddamn cliff” position), did you know that a bus is an incredibly distracting environment to work in? This is why you rarely read historical reports of Vincent van Gogh or Hieronymus Bosch doing their best work at 70 mph seated next to a sweaty farmboy.

hieronymus-bosch-das-weltgericht-191083For example, Bosch originally intended this to be a still-life of a bowl of fruit.

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Cthulhu Attacks! gets a bloody thumbs-up from The Horror Fiction Review!

The unimpeachable taste of Christine Morgan strikes once again with her Horror Fiction Review take on Cthulhu Attacks! (I just want to say that the typos she mentions were definitely in the Advance Reading Copy she had, but are fixed now in the finished book.) Have a look and then buy a copy, or maybe two—the holidays are fast approaching!

CTHULHU ATTACKS! by Sean Hoade (2015 Severed Press / 220 pp / trade paperback & eBook)

Dear Hollywood: THIS is the Lovecraftian movie you need to make, the surefire big-budget blockbuster special effects extravaganza. This book, right here. It’s perfect. Gets around the various issues of directly adapting one of ol’ H.P.’s works, while acknowledging them in glorious triumphant homage. Plus, geek-cred galore.

And seriously, the scene describing Cthulhu’s emergence … best I’ve ever read. So beautifully done. Short, sweet, simple, evocative, and haunting.

A lot of giant monster or cosmic horror fiction struggles to express the sheer sheer size and scale and scope. Sean Hoade nails it, not only nails it but takes it several steps beyond. Reading this book is to shiver from an overwhelming sense of immensity, of alienness, of strange inhumanity so far outside our comprehension as to bend the mind. I think Lovecraft himself would be impressed with just how well that’s all conveyed.

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Publicity! or How Ima Get Everybody To Know My Name

Gentle Readers, I must apologize. it has been inexcusably long since I have sattened down and written a true “Sean the Writer” blog entry. Actually, I do have a good excuse, one that many of you writers out there may be familiar with: I had come down with a serious case of employment. It lasted for eight months and three days, but I underwent a sudden remission on March 31st, when my boss cured me of this particular strain.

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“Good news, sir. We have removed every trace of that dastardly ‘affluenza.’ “

Now, while this has had a somewhat negative effect on my immediate financial situation (on a totally unrelated note, did you know that a LOT of people at McDonald’s don’t finish all their fries?), I have been free since the end of March to do the following:

  1. Cry into my booze.
  2. Finish getting the books that were supposed to be published by a certain press actually out there into the world.

The Perdition of Self-Publication

Fortunately the former took up only a couple of days, and I’ve been concentrating on the latter since then. So now I have five—count ’em, FIVE—self-published books out there in the libraverse. Self-publishing is kind of like hanging out outside the gates of Hell, you know? You refuse to abandon all hope and enter, but it doesn’t look like you’ll be experiencing Heaven any time soon, either.

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Kinda like this, only while you were in there the doctor retired and the building was condemned.

You are probably nauseatingly familiar with these books, but what the hell, get a bucket while I provide a bit of background on the shocking story behind the self-pubbing of each of them:

  1. Ain’t That America. I first put this out in 2000, before the current craze of everybody who has an email address writing and publishing a book-like entity. It did all right, but I was never really satisfied with how it looked and felt. So in 2014, I changed everything up and published a second edition with CreateSpace. This edition is beautiful and also $14.99 instead of iUniverse’s (the former publisher) kind of extortionate $19.95. It is my most exciting book–find out why by reading the first 150 pages free on my website. Then you will SO want to buy it.
  2. Darwin’s Dreams. Too experimental for mainstream publication, too historical and pensive for genre publication, my tale of Darwin and his Beagle captain came out in 2008 and I still think it’s the best thing I’ve ever written. I did this with CreateSpace as well, which gives the author complete control over all aspects of the book’s presentation. (I stayed with CreateSpace for the next three as well.) Take a look at the first half. I believe it will leave you spellbound and wanting to read the rest.
  3. Inappropriate Behavior. My weird collection of stories from pornographic to literary. It came out in 2011 to no fanfare, but those who have bought it seem to have enjoyed it. Want to read a story from the collection? It’s perfect to buy if you’re tasteful and eclectic and generally cool.

Sean dancing at SLCCC

Like me.

  1. Deadtown Abbey. Okay, this is where Permuted Press’s utter anal abuse of its authors comes into play. They contracted with me for this and for 9 other books, but then pulled their shit and I canceled the contract. However, before that happened, I had “published” the advance reading copy of this to sell at Cons and use for reviews and such once the actual book was close to coming out. Now that it will never be coming out from those jerks, I have a new jacket design, have made a few corrections to the copy, and republished it just this past week. It is a riot but also has good horror elements too. Judith O’Dea (“Barbra” from Night of the Living Dead) read it and called it “hilarious.” (I love Judith O’Dea.) You can read the first 100 pages of it for free (and then buy it if you like it) right here.

Me and Judith O'DeaDid I mention I’m a fan?

  1. Reviva Las Vegas! Okay, as much as I despise that joke of a publishing outfit now, I must admit that this book probably wouldn’t exist without the impetus of their (now I know) phony contract. I don’t know if people really get the gag of the title, so I will explain it here: It’s a story about Las Vegas after the zombie apocalypse. Zombies are “revived” corpses. A famous saying (and song) is “Viva Las Vegas!” So I put them together and made it RE-viva Las Vegas! Semi-interesting factoid: This is technically subtitled Book 1: Dead Man’s Hand. That’s because it was originally going to be the first book in a trilogy. That isn’t the case any longer, but Amazon won’t let me officially change the title. Ah, well. I self-published an advance reading copy with a cover I just threw together, but once the contract fell apart, I redid it and made it right as rain. Now it’s available with a real cover, correctly formatted interior, and truly magical words inside. Want to read the first half? Then I bet you’ll want to buy it—you’ll love it.

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You, after reading the samples. I can totally shut up and work with you on the money thing.

Next time: The actual publicity what is happening!

MINOR WRITER SEAN HOADE DIES AT 46, PROBABLY

“Death, where is thy stingOUCH!!!”
1 Chicagonthians 25:6-4

People, listen up: It would seem, according to the science of numerology, family curses, and my own magical thinking, that I will die sometime in the next 366 days. Yes, I am marked for death.

Hey, don’t cry. That doesn’t do anyone any good. Just quickly cycle through your denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance so you can move on with your life and read the rest of this blog.

You see, February 5 is my birthday. My FORTY-SIXTH birthday. This is an age fraught with danger in my experience. It could be a piano falling on my head, it could be a school bus driver distracted by a spitball running me over, it could be cleaning my plugged-in toaster with a fork. But mark my words: By February 4, 2016, it seems I will have shuffled off this mortal coil. I will be an ex-person.

The world will remember my beautiful plumage, though.

Let’s look at the evidence, shall we?

Writers who kicked the bucket at 46

First off, my theory is poetically sound. If I croak at the age of 46, I will be in the company of most of my literary heroes. It’s like age 27 for rock stars. To wit:

Howard Phillips Lovecraft, 1890‒1937. One of the first Lovecraftians, H.P. created a body of work that follows an exponential curve where the X axis is time following his death—at 46—and the Y axis is popularity of his writing and his concepts. He died horribly of stomach cancer, but we all should be so lucky to have such an literary impact.

Albert Camus, 1913‒1960. The world-record holder for most cigarettes smoked in a disdainful manner, Camus was a hugely influential and controversial existentialist who wrote world-shaking essays, novels, short stories, and plays. His own existence came to an abrupt end—at 46—when he died, absurdly, in an automobile accident. Ah, c’est la mort!

Oscar Wilde, 1854‒1900. I am in love with the décadents of the late 19th century. Truth be told, I’m a bit obsessed with them. And had I been alive back in the day, I would have been (even more) obsessed with Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde. [Note: That really was his real name.] While I am too rotund and bearded and bald to have been attractive to Wilde (as is the case with most humans, sigh), I think we could have had a great time sitting around and trading bons mots and drinking absinthe and shit. The brilliant wit died—at 46—after losing his health during a gaol term for falling in love.

(Note: Artist’s conception.)

David Foster Wallace, 1962‒2008. A brilliant story writer, a confounding novelist, a piercing laser beam of an essayist, and an accomplished amateur mathematician. DFW, despite sharing an acronym with one of the nation’s busiest airports, reached heights of literary fame that every writer dreams of when s/he decides to go for publication. Unfortunately, it was not enough for Wallace, who died—at 46—by his own hand.

Each of these men was a huge influence on not just my writing, but on my conception of what it means to live a literary life. My own natural timidity, not to mention the legal requirement that I work enough to pay child support, has kept me from living a fully literary life, but it isn’t for lack of strong and beautiful examples.

My family history

This is where it gets a bit spooky. I think there is evidence of this family curse in the Kabbalah of Melvin Schmeckelhof, a work currently little known due to its lack of existence. But in that book, I found that I would most likely buy the farm at 46. Check it:

  • My paternal grandfather died at 46. His middle child (my mom) was 21.
  • This year I will be 46. My middle child (my daughter) is 21.
  • Um … that’s it.

Convincing, non? It’s the circle of life, Simba, so give up now and become one with the grass or whatever the hell Mufasa was talking about. I was so stoned when I watched that movie, all I remember is hyenas disemboweling Jeremy Irons for some obscure reason.

Oh, right, that’s why.

Sean’s Magical Thinking™

This is, at least to me, the most damning evidence of all. I have sleep apnea so bad that I never, and I mean never, feel rested. I’m always drowsy, not to the point of being narcoleptic but definitely to the point of doing nothing except my job because after that I either go to sleep at home or sit on the couch and mumble to myself. It’s no way to live. Also, sleep apnea can kill you. Hence, I am doomed. (And I know there’s the CPAP machine, because I actually did use that for about six months in 2009‒2010. However, it gave me horrible headaches, made me feel intensely claustrophobic, and made me feel like I was in my brave final days hooked up to a goddamn intrusive life-support machine.)

Just look how well-rested I was.

Also, I have a job I enjoy, some small but wonderful publishing contracts, a lovely wife, my kids are all adults now, and I am a member of the community of Lovecraftians and Bizarro writers who accept me and love me as I am. It would be the most ironic time to die, hence the most likely time to die. (See Morissette, A.)

It’s not that I want to die, seriously

A death obsession is not the same as a death wish. I like life, even love it sometimes, despite my incredible fatigue and lethargy. I enjoy my literary relationships (which includes my wife, who reads so much she makes me look like I’m still learning the alphabets). I enjoy my family (from a safe distance). And I know there ain’t nuthin’ after death, so life is better than death in most cases (unless you find you’re a Kardashian or something).

Actually, let me amend that last statement. I don’t know there’s nothing after death—but I do feel very confident that if there is anything, it will be along the lines of the King In Yellow and utter, gibbering madness and excruciatingly painful torture.

Or maybe it won’t really have one goddamn thing
to do with the King In Yellow.

So what I’m saying is that I want to live. I WANT TO LIVE!!!

(Cue falling piano.)

♫ Back near the saddle again ♫

I have regaled both of my regular readers with the sad tale of the Press that will henceforth be known as the Publisher That Sucks Dick, or PTSD for short. My fellow authors of that soon-to-be-former e-book factory will agree that this is a fitting acronym. Anyway, I have promised myself and others never to refer to that place by name again, so PTSD it is.

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“What was that? A c-c-contract? OH GOD, IT’S HAPPENING AGAIN!!!”

Moving on … or trying to

Frank Sinatra once crooned that after being shat upon by the bird of paradise, one should pick oneself up, dust oneself off, and start all over again. Never one to flout the instructions of Ol’ Blue Eyes, that’s just what I’m doing after the PTSD debacle. How? Oh, let us count the ways.

Firstly, I have worked to find new publishing homes for the books I’ve already written.

Deadtown Abbey

You may recall that the fantastical Deadtown Abbey was the book that landed me the contract—emphasis on the “con”—with PTSD and inspired them to “buy” that and my next 9 books. So I said to myself, “Self,” I said, “what should we do with Deadtown Abbey now?” And I sat on a stump in the yard (disclaimer: I did not literally do that) and went down the list of what makes that book awesome and more specialer than a kid running with his pants on backwards winning a gold medal:

1. It is Lovecraftian. It’s got your Yog-Sothoth and your Cthulhu the Great Old One, not to mention a thoughtful (seriously!) meditation on what religious faith means in a time of monsters and a serious imbalance of money and power.

Republican leaders Senator Mitch McConnell and John Boehner speak after a bipartisan meeting with President Barack Obama at the White House in Washington

Not that anything like that could ever happen in real life.

2. It is funny. It plays with expectations both readers of eldritch horrors and viewers of the BBC show Downton Abbey, with references and Easter eggs galore for horror and zombie aficionados. That said, you don’t have to “get” any of the references to enjoy the book on its own as a horror tale. But it’s still pretty amusing.

3. It has vampires, werewolves, zombies, witches, imps, and possessed people shitting themselves. It takes each concept and turns it on its head in the service of this apocalyptic story.

4. But most of all, it’s Lovecraftian.

It was this final point that told me I must send it to the new Lovecraft eZine Press imprint helmed by the indomitable Mike Davis. He had already read it and recommended it on his 175,000-follower-strong Web page, so I thought it would be perfect for his new Press. I bought the first release in print from his publishing arm, The Sea of Ash, and was impressed both by the content and by the perfection of its design and presentation.

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A box stuffed full of my former publisher’s beautiful print offerings.

I haven’t heard back from Mike yet—he’s a bit busy with his duties both on and off the computer-based Lovecraftosphere—but if Deadtown isn’t brought on board there, I will send it out to other dark presses, of which there are many in the land. Still, Lovecraft eZine Press would be my number one choice.

Reviva Las Vegas! and the Cthulhu trilogy

This marvelous addition to the pantheon of landmark zombie fiction was sent out after PTSD’s implosion to Severed Press, an excellent horror publisher that gives its readers what they really want and has been quite successful, receiving rave reviews from both those readers and its authors alike.

But sad face! Reviva was praised by the editors, but they had to pass on it because it was a more character-based zombie tale than the good ol’ visceral chomp-a-thon that many zombie fans want in their genre fiction. Think of what they wanted as the parts of Jaws with the shark eating people and boats, and what I wrote as more the scene where Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfuss, and Robert Shaw are sitting drinking in the boat and talking about their scars while waiting for Bruce to attack again.

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“And this one’s from when Spielberg cut me for leaving Seaquest!

However, happy face! Because Severed did like my (one-third finished) Cthulhu: Book 1 and contracted with me for the whole Cthulhu trilogy plus a sea monster book—Severed Press readers love their sea monsters and kaiju—to be written later. Severed stepped up to the plate and, um, swung for the bleachers? Wait, am I the pitcher? Oh, metaphors, you tricky devils!

Ain’t That America

Friends and neighbors, the first edition of Ain’t That America was self-pubbed by Yours Truly back in 2000, with a revised “second edition” being self-pubbed in 2013. It’s a comic thriller along the lines of Elmore Leonard and Carl Hiaasen—suspenseful, yes, but also very fun to read for the despicable characters and how they interact (read: fuck each other over). The whole PTSD experience sent me seeking out other (legitimate) publishers, and so I have sent out Ain’t as well, to the extremely exciting crime fiction publisher 280 Steps.

It’s a great book—why not send it out and make an honest author out of myself? Self-publishing is great, don’t get me wrong, but I’m aging like a time-lapse of a rotting tomato. I want to go legit before I drop dead. I haven’t heard back from the folks at 280 Steps yet, but I know some genre publisher will ultimately take it on and love it like a child who’s going to make them pots of money.

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“I’d kill you all if I could! Tee hee!”

Darwin’s Dreams

By far the most literary and worthy book I’ve ever written, Darwin’s Dreams is the only non-“genre” book in my lineup, and thus the hardest to figure out where to place it. I self-pubbed it in 2008, and it has made a sizeable impression on everyone who has read it. It’s history, philosophy, drama, all in one 45,000-word package. The only place I can think to send it, the only alma mater for this book, is Prometheus Books. If, however, they pass on it, my head will be unbowed. I’ll keep searching.

Inappropriate Behavior

A collection of short stories ranging from erotica to Buddhist meditation to hookers rubbing the eye sockets of retards in motel rooms, Inappropriate Behavior was self-pubbed in 2011 and will probably never, ever be sent to a legitimate publisher. It’s on Amazon, so peeps can buy it. But it’s so horrifyingly outré I doubt it’s legal to even submit by email in some localities.

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“WHY DID I OPEN THAT ATTACHMENT? WHY? WHY?!?

The other books

Some of the books that PTSD contracted for were “sequels” to Reviva Las Vegas! and even Deadtown Abbey. They really weren’t meant to be anything other than standalone novels, but I may just write a prequel to Reviva called Pawn of the Dead, the story of how the zombie apocalypse started … right here in Vegas, of course. And I had sold PTSD on another sorta-kinda pop culture and Lovecraft mashup called Grim Acres, the story of a staid lawyer and his eastern European bride moving to the sticks and encountering the community of Innsmouth, Massachusetts.

The other two books, How to Train Your Dagon and an unnamed (and unnecessary) second sequel to Reviva, are just going to fade into the aether. Like much of what happened with PTSD, they really never had any reason to happen.

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Pictured: A reason for them to happen.

So what, if anything, have we learned?

Remarkably little. No, I kid—we have learned that there’s got to be a morning after, if we can make it through the night. (If you get that reference, make sure the orderly at your nursing home mashes your canned beets the way you like them.) As disheartening as the whole PTSD experience was, I’m a wiser author. I’m the same writer I always was—FUCKING BRILLIANT—but as an author trying to get his babies out into the world where they can be sold for money, I’m much wiser.

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Look at those faces! They couldn’t be happier if they were in color!

 Coming soon: A death obsession is different from a death wish.

About Sean Hoade!

Ehrmagerd, check this out, guys.

My diatribe about that Willy Wonka-esque factory of abused authors, Permuted Press, has brought my blog thousands of new views and dozens of new followers, all of whom woke up this morning taller and—although I know it scarcely seems possible—even more attractive than when they went to bed.

Brad-Pitt-smiling copy

Results totally typical.

Because of the burden I must take on now to keep my new followers entertained and also enlightened, I have been converting my award-winning (Note: not really) website, SeanHoade.com, over to the magic that is WordPress. I have completed by “About Me!” page, which honestly will change your life and win you lots of money if ever you are on Jeopardy! and your category is “Writers Who Flailed Futilely For Attention” or “Shit Heads,” in which the correct response will have words starting with S and H.

Please have a look and have your friends over to have a look and then sign everybody up like it’s a Tupperware party from Hell. At least the content will always stay fresh! (Note: not really.)

Check out About Sean Hoade!

And now for the thrilling conclusion: How I got pummeled by the pistoning prick of Permuted Press, Part 3

gwtwPart 2 of my series has received comments from critics around the globe!

    • “I’m going to buy some of Sean’s books and read them.” — Kevin Strange, amazeballs author of Strange Vs. Lovecraft, among other vastly entertaining works
    • “While Sean’s language may be provocative, his accounts have so far been the most in-depth and revealing over the Permuted issues.” — Jeff Burk, Bizarro fiction icon
    • “There are other fish in the seat.” — Author W.J. Lundy

fish

I assume this is what he was referring to.

There are a couple of more slights I would like to make against the soon-to-be-former publisher Permuted Press, and then I’ll share rainbows and sunshine and shit in telling you where I’m planning to go from here.

Final Gripe #1: Publicity

When I spoke to the owner of Permuted back in January, one of the things we discussed is why going with Permuted would be more advantageous to me as an author than self-publishing. I now know that this gentleman is the Permuted equivalent of the put-out-to-pasture Mister Bigweld in the movie Robots, but at the time, I didn’t realize his unfortunate irrelevance to the company. They apparently allowed him to say whatever he wanted to authors, possibly while wandering around the office doing the banana dance in his underwear, and it didn’t make any difference to the people running the business. They probably told visitors to the Press HQ that he was the janitor and that his unfortunate outbursts should be ignored.

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“Jim? Jim Henson? They told us you were DEAD!

As far as the day-to-day managers of Permuted were concerned, their Mister Bigweld could say I would be emperor of the moon. He could say I would marry his daughter and forge our business bond through blood. Hell, he could say that Permuted Press was committed to making a contract with them worthwhile due to the amount of publicity and promotion their authors’ books would receive.

Oh, wait, he did say that last one. And, as usual, it was not just wrong but bizarrely wrong, like answering the question of “What day is it?” with “That would be the ampersand.”

In the giddy days/weeks/months after signing the contract with PP, I didn’t even notice that I never saw an ad for Permuted Press books anywhere other than in their weekly email newsletter announcing the latest spate of books they were releasing that week. No follow-up, certainly no ad placement in print or in any other medium or even website that wasn’t PermutedPress.com. Now I see this. Now I get it. Right on time, just after the horse has gotten out, I realize that in Permuted’s shell game, there is no pea under any of the shells. Not only can the author not win in this game, but it’s literally impossible for the game to be won. Except by the (publishing) house, of course.

They do no publicity. They have stopped doing printed books. They do a cash grab whenever possible by fucking their authors with contracts chock-full of unethical business practices. They communicate bad news to their authors at 10 pm on the Friday night before a three-day holiday weekend. Permuted Press … I don’t even have the words anymore.

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Oh, wait, yes I do.

Final gripe #2 (the final final gripe): Pay not to play?

This one doesn’t affect me personally, but it was so close that dodging the bullet singed my hair and left my ear ringing. I have been told by trustworthy sources that if one’s Permuted book had already entered the POD phase (but was not yet released, so no books had actually been produced) could cancel their contracts if and only if they paid PP between $2,000 and $4,000 to compensate them for … what, exactly? Emailing a graphics file? Paying proofreaders and graphic artists and layout people? The whole thing is fishier than Abe Vigoda.

Abe

If you are old enough to get that joke, please check yourself into the nearest mortuary.

Basically, Permuted has held these writers’ books for ransom: You can keep your book with us, knowing we won’t support it, or you can pay us money not to publish it and we’ll allow you to go to another publisher. (Remember, Permuted has made it very clear that they are under no obligation whatsoever to actually publish any of their authors’ works; they merely have contracted for the option to do so, should it please their fancy.) This is not the work of an ethical publisher or even one that is likely to remain solvent.

Fare thee well, Permuted Press. You coulda had class. You coulda been a contender. You coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what you are, let’s face it: a bum.

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“I also charged too much for my e-books.”

Where do we go now, sweet child o’ mine?

I ain’t gettin’ any younger, my eye doctor this week telling me that I have been “incurring nearsightedness” because of all the close-up work I do on computers and reading books and other things that make life worth living. My right eye is nearsighted, but my left eye makes the right one look like the Bionic Man’s. But, even though I will still be sloughing into decrepitude at a rapidly accelerating pace much like that senator in the first X-Men movie, I am a member of the amazing Lovecraftian community now, full of writers and readers and artists. I belong. So I shall continue writing, because this is who I am now.

After the ink was dry on the dissolution of my contract, I started sending out my books again, a bit sadder but a lot wiser. I have sent Deadtown Abbey to Mike Davis’ brand-new Lovecraft eZine Press imprint, and also have been invited to be a guest blogger on his site (which reaches 175,000 people, by the way). I don’t know if it will be accepted, but I am optimistic about its chances.
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“Dear Mr. Secretariat, thank you for giving us the opportunity to read your recent submission …”

I have sent Reviva Las Vegas! out to Severed Press, a great small horror press that the Powers That Be at Permuted never ceased to attack and insult. So, if for no other reason that Permuted hates them, I’m giving them a shot at publishing my book.

I got into the submitting mood and am now sending out my thriller novel, Ain’t That America, to a new and hot noir publisher; and my literary novel, Darwin’s Dreams, is headed to Prometheus Books. These all may pan out, or they may not. Either way, I’ll keep on truckin’. Permuted has not destroyed me. I shall keep on keeping on as long as I can.

Through this whole debacle, I have also been asked to contribute stories to a number of Lovecraftian and otherwise spooky book anthologies. Things are looking up. This has been an exhausting experience for both body and soul, but from the fertilizer of Permuted I will rise like a mighty dandelion. And then I shall shoot my spore things and take over the whole lawn. This, my old friends and new, is my destiny.

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First the lawn AND THEN THE SKIES.

I’m really glad so many people have found my blog through this whole debacle, and I hope to entertain and enlighten all my new friends. I’m really glad to know you all. Please feel free to visit me at SeanHoade.com or on my Facebook page or drop me a line at hoadewriter@gmail.com!

Read Part 1: How I got anally violated by the thorny cock of Permuted Press, Part 1

Read Part 2: How I got rectally rogered by the barbed behemoth belonging to Permuted Press