Authors Electric

It happens to the best of us on both sides of the Pond: we sigh goodbye to our Sexy in time. Then we wonder endlessly how to get it back. Now, of course, in an elegant group like AE we're far more likely to discuss our plumage than our poundage. Nor do we begrudge the few who never lost their Sexy: Tom Wolfe                      Donna Tartt George Bernard Shaw                   Yukio Mishima Still, as some Italian or other once said, I found I'd come to a dark wood. And in that wood I feared the loss of the wild young stallions who'd coursed through my soul. You know, those writing Glory Days: before we find ourselves saddled with rules laid down by addle-brained agents...and fear of rejection or failure. Pay attention. This next part's important:  You may not know your Sexy's gone until it's hit the road. Or as some say in the UK: until it's upped and left ...

            Do your squirm in your chair at the prospect? You should.  The APE’s a beast made up of three horrific parts. Each in undiluted form is toxic—even lethal—so let’s give thanks we seldom encounter them as concentrates. Most toxic of all: the ACCOUNTANT. In the pure state the Accountant would prefer to peddle widgets than slave over troublesome word-things; he’d rather have his teeth pulled through his dick than sit and write*. He’ll sit at his computer screen and monitor his sales all day, comparing his numbers with those of his foes. At night he dreams of oracles who tell him better ways to move the units he produces.             Only a little less toxic: the PRIEST , a beast who’s obsessed with perfection. He dreams of writing books that readers must put down repeatedly—to gather a tan in the sun of his style or savor a tryst with a fo...

     Dark dreams afflicted me: torn throats and treacheries beyond the heart's endurance. I saw a blur of fur and fury, a red mist of spiritual rot on the rip. I saw myself discovering the lone wolf in my heart.     You can imagine my predicament, since I don't even like wolves. I once called a wolf a thug in a hair suit and I stand by that assessment. Wolves in packs aren't any better--a step up from hyenas--though they have the sense to bounce the thugs out only for themselves. No, I don't like wolves at all and I believe Jack London was probably pure wolf himself.     Nevertheless, there I was at the end of 2012--with 4 ebooks that hadn't sold five copies and hadn't attracted too many more reviews. As I glanced about EbookLandia, I saw a frightening, icy terrain with lone wolves lording over hoards of starving beasts scrounging for crumbs. The lone wolves loved attention; and they loved reviews; and above all they loved their fat paycheck...

Hey, where’s the illustration ? Chill.     You all know me by now as a serious guy, with no passion whatsoever for pranks, jokes, hoaxes or even harmless word play. Not the man that some call Reb Babe. Nooooo. And to reinforce your sense of how deadly earnest I am, I’ve done the thing that isn’t done: published this post with no illo. Think of this as a horror film without an accompanying score or F/X. No creepy little  ooo-eeee-oooo ’s to spook or weird you out. We don’t need that, as you’ll now see. For the horror itself is so low-down, so downright big-time dirty, so caked with slime and gook and mold, that anything extra would give so much less.     You’re on the money if you’ve guessed:     Literary thievery.     But you’re off the money if you’ve guessed:     Plagiarism. C’mon, how’s about an illustration? Hush.     I've been ripped off, as have many of you. And I'd rather die than romantici...