John Carter: The Adventure Continues

Posted on February 18, 2012 by Steven

Welcome back to our celebration of the 100th anniversary of Edgar Rice Burroughs’s epic science fantasy novel, A Princess of Mars. Originally appearing in 1912 as “Under the Moons of Mars” in All-Story Magazine, it was Burroughs’s first sale as a professional storyteller and set the stage not only for Burroughs’s next and most famous character, Tarzan of the Apes, but also for the countless stories, novels, movies, and comic books that have been inspired by this timeless science fantasy. Ever see James Cameron’s Avatar? Uh-huh.

As we count down to the release date for our special edition of this classic tale, we here at The ’Warp have temporarily returned Earthman John Carter to his serialized roots, with a four-chapter preview right here at this blog. Today: chapter 2!

When we last saw John Carter, he’d been pursued by a group of angry Apache Indian warriors and sought shelter in a cave. Thinking himself safe for the moment, Carter had suddenly been overcome by a mysterious force that caused him to pass out. What new danger awaits him? Read on!

A Princess of Mars goes on sale February 21, 2012, from StarWarp Concepts.

A Princess of Mars, by Edgar Rice Burroughs

Chapter 2. The Escape of the Dead

A sense of delicious dreaminess overcame me, my muscles relaxed, and I was on the point of giving way to my desire to sleep when the sound of approaching horses reached my ears. I attempted to spring to my feet but was horrified to discover that my muscles refused to respond to my will. I was now thoroughly awake, but as unable to move a muscle as though turned to stone. It was then, for the first time, that I noticed a slight vapor filling the cave. It was extremely tenuous and only noticeable against the opening which led to daylight. There also came to my nostrils a faintly pungent odor, and I could only assume that I had been overcome by some poisonous gas, but why I should retain my mental faculties and yet be unable to move I could not fathom.

I lay facing the opening of the cave and where I could see the short stretch of trail which lay between the cave and the turn of the cliff around which the trail led. The noise of the approaching horses had ceased, and I judged the Indians were creeping stealthily upon me along the little ledge which led to my living tomb. I remember that I hoped they would make short work of me as I did not particularly relish the thought of the innumerable things they might do to me if the spirit prompted them.

I had not long to wait before a stealthy sound apprised me of their nearness, and then a war-bonneted, paint-streaked face was thrust cautiously around the shoulder of the cliff, and savage eyes looked into mine. That he could see me in the dim light of the cave I was sure for the early morning sun was falling full upon me through the opening.

The fellow, instead of approaching, merely stood and stared; his eyes bulging and his jaw dropped. And then another savage face appeared, and a third and fourth and fifth, craning their necks over the shoulders of their fellows whom they could not pass upon the narrow ledge. Each face was the picture of awe and fear, but for what reason I did not know, nor did I learn until ten years later. That there were still other braves behind those who regarded me was apparent from the fact that the leaders passed back whispered word to those behind them.

Suddenly a low but distinct moaning sound issued from the recesses of the cave behind me, and, as it reached the ears of the Indians, they turned and fled in terror, panic-stricken. So frantic were their efforts to escape from the unseen thing behind me that one of the braves was hurled headlong from the cliff to the rocks below. Their wild cries echoed in the canyon for a short time, and then all was still once more.

The sound which had frightened them was not repeated, but it had been sufficient as it was to start me speculating on the possible horror which lurked in the shadows at my back. Fear is a relative term and so I can only measure my feelings at that time by what I had experienced in previous positions of danger and by those that I have passed through since; but I can say without shame that if the sensations I endured during the next few minutes were fear, then may God help the coward, for cowardice is of a surety its own punishment.

To be held paralyzed, with one’s back toward some horrible and unknown danger from the very sound of which the ferocious Apache warriors turn in wild stampede, as a flock of sheep would madly flee from a pack of wolves, seems to me the last word in fearsome predicaments for a man who had ever been used to fighting for his life with all the energy of a powerful physique.

Several times I thought I heard faint sounds behind me as of somebody moving cautiously, but eventually even these ceased, and I was left to the contemplation of my position without interruption. I could but vaguely conjecture the cause of my paralysis, and my only hope lay in that it might pass off as suddenly as it had fallen upon me.

*          *          *

Late in the afternoon my horse, which had been standing with dragging rein before the cave, started slowly down the trail, evidently in search of food and water, and I was left alone with my mysterious unknown companion and the dead body of my friend, which lay just within my range of vision upon the ledge where I had placed it in the early morning.

From then until possibly midnight all was silence, the silence of the dead; then, suddenly, the awful moan of the morning broke upon my startled ears, and there came again from the black shadows the sound of a moving thing, and a faint rustling as of dead leaves. The shock to my already overstrained nervous system was terrible in the extreme, and with a superhuman effort I strove to break my awful bonds. It was an effort of the mind, of the will, of the nerves; not muscular, for I could not move even so much as my little finger, but none the less mighty for all that. And then something gave, there was a momentary feeling of nausea, a sharp click as of the snapping of a steel wire, and I stood with my back against the wall of the cave facing my unknown foe.

And then the moonlight flooded the cave, and there before me lay my own body as it had been lying all these hours, with the eyes staring toward the open ledge and the hands resting limply upon the ground. I looked first at my lifeless clay there upon the floor of the cave and then down at myself in utter bewilderment; for there I lay clothed, and yet here I stood but naked as at the minute of my birth.

The transition had been so sudden and so unexpected that it left me for a moment forgetful of aught else than my strange metamorphosis. My first thought was, is this then death! Have I indeed passed over forever into that other life! But I could not well believe this, as I could feel my heart pounding against my ribs from the exertion of my efforts to release myself from the anaesthesis which had held me. My breath was coming in quick, short gasps, cold sweat stood out from every pore of my body, and the ancient experiment of pinching revealed the fact that I was anything other than a wraith.

Again was I suddenly recalled to my immediate surroundings by a repetition of the weird moan from the depths of the cave. Naked and unarmed as I was, I had no desire to face the unseen thing which menaced me.

My revolvers were strapped to my lifeless body which, for some unfathomable reason, I could not bring myself to touch. My carbine was in its boot, strapped to my saddle, and as my horse had wandered off I was left without means of defense. My only alternative seemed to lie in flight and my decision was crystallized by a recurrence of the rustling sound from the thing which now seemed, in the darkness of the cave and to my distorted imagination, to be creeping stealthily upon me.

Unable longer to resist the temptation to escape this horrible place I leaped quickly through the opening into the starlight of a clear Arizona night. The crisp, fresh mountain air outside the cave acted as an immediate tonic and I felt new life and new courage coursing through me. Pausing upon the brink of the ledge I upbraided myself for what now seemed to me wholly unwarranted apprehension. I reasoned with myself that I had lain helpless for many hours within the cave, yet nothing had molested me, and my better judgment, when permitted the direction of clear and logical reasoning, convinced me that the noises I had heard must have resulted from purely natural and harmless causes; probably the conformation of the cave was such that a slight breeze had caused the sounds I heard.

I decided to investigate, but first I lifted my head to fill my lungs with the pure, invigorating night air of the mountains. As I did so I saw stretching far below me the beautiful vista of rocky gorge, and level, cacti-studded flat, wrought by the moonlight into a miracle of soft splendor and wondrous enchantment.

Few western wonders are more inspiring than the beauties of an Arizona moonlit landscape; the silvered mountains in the distance, the strange lights and shadows upon hog back and arroyo, and the grotesque details of the stiff, yet beautiful cacti form a picture at once enchanting and inspiring; as though one were catching for the first time a glimpse of some dead and forgotten world, so different is it from the aspect of any other spot upon our earth.

As I stood thus meditating, I turned my gaze from the landscape to the heavens where the myriad stars formed a gorgeous and fitting canopy for the wonders of the earthly scene. My attention was quickly riveted by a large red star close to the distant horizon. As I gazed upon it I felt a spell of overpowering fascination—it was Mars, the god of war, and for me, the fighting man, it had always held the power of irresistible enchantment. As I gazed at it on that far-gone night it seemed to call across the unthinkable void, to lure me to it, to draw me as the lodestone attracts a particle of iron.

My longing was beyond the power of opposition; I closed my eyes, stretched out my arms toward the god of my vocation and felt myself drawn with the suddenness of thought through the trackless immensity of space. There was an instant of extreme cold and utter darkness.

Tomorrow: My Advent on Mars

A Princess of Mars text copyright © 1912 Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc. Artwork copyright © 2012 StarWarp Concepts.

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John Carter: Celebrating a Martian Milestone

Posted on February 17, 2012 by Steven

It was 100 years ago this month that John Carter, gentleman of Virginia and American Civil War veteran, made his literary debut courtesy of his creator, Edgar Rice Burroughs, and a pulp fiction magazine called All-Story. Originally titled “Under the Moons of Mars,” the six-part serialized story introduced readers to Carter as he is transported to the red planet, where he finds nonstop danger in the form of Tharks—a green-skinned warrior race—giant white apes, and humanoid red Martians.

And then he meets Dejah Thoris, princess of the city-state Helium. The eponymous Princess of Mars. It’s love at first sight for them both, and nothing—absolutely nothing—is going to stand between them. Not even a world constantly at war.

To celebrate the 100th anniversary of this acclaimed story—which you may be aware has been adapted for the screen as Disney’s upcoming John Carter movie—The ’Warp is publishing a special edition that features an introduction from Mars expert John Gosling (author of the nonfiction book Waging the War of the Worlds: A History of the 1938 Radio Broadcast and Resulting Panic) and black-and-white illustrations by Eliseu Gouveia, illustrator of SWC’s previous classic release, the vampire tale Carmilla, and artist of The Saga of Pandora Zwieback #0 and the forthcoming Lorelei: Sects and the City.

In order to whet your appetite for Burroughs’s fast-paced science fantasy epic, we’re also going to temporarily return John Carter to his serialized roots. Right here at this blog, starting today and running through next Tuesday, February 20, we’re presenting the first four chapters of A Princess of Mars for your reading pleasure—absolutely free!

So sit back, relax, and get ready to accompany John Carter on the adventure of a lifetime—or two…

A Princess of Mars goes on sale February 21, 2012, from StarWarp Concepts.

A Princess of Mars, by Edgar Rice Burroughs

Chapter 1. On the Arizona Hills

I am a very old man; how old I do not know. Possibly I am a hundred, possibly more; but I cannot tell because I have never aged as other men, nor do I remember any childhood. So far as I can recollect I have always been a man, a man of about thirty. I appear today as I did forty years and more ago, and yet I feel that I cannot go on living forever; that some day I shall die the real death from which there is no resurrection. I do not know why I should fear death, I who have died twice and am still alive; but yet I have the same horror of it as you who have never died, and it is because of this terror of death, I believe, that I am so convinced of my mortality.

And because of this conviction I have determined to write down the story of the interesting periods of my life and of my death. I cannot explain the phenomena; I can only set down here in the words of an ordinary soldier of fortune a chronicle of the strange events that befell me during the ten years that my dead body lay undiscovered in an Arizona cave.

I have never told this story, nor shall mortal man see this manuscript until after I have passed over for eternity. I know that the average human mind will not believe what it cannot grasp, and so I do not purpose being pilloried by the public, the pulpit, and the press, and held up as a colossal liar when I am but telling the simple truths which some day science will substantiate. Possibly the suggestions which I gained upon Mars, and the knowledge which I can set down in this chronicle, will aid in an earlier understanding of the mysteries of our sister planet; mysteries to you, but no longer mysteries to me.

My name is John Carter; I am better known as Captain Jack Carter of Virginia. At the close of the Civil War I found myself possessed of several hundred thousand dollars (Confederate) and a captain’s commission in the cavalry arm of an army which no longer existed; the servant of a state which had vanished with the hopes of the South. Masterless, penniless, and with my only means of livelihood, fighting, gone, I determined to work my way to the southwest and attempt to retrieve my fallen fortunes in a search for gold.

I spent nearly a year prospecting in company with another Confederate officer, Captain James K. Powell of Richmond. We were extremely fortunate, for late in the winter of 1865, after many hardships and privations, we located the most remarkable gold-bearing quartz vein that our wildest dreams had ever pictured. Powell, who was a mining engineer by education, stated that we had uncovered over a million dollars’ worth of ore in a trifle over three months.

As our equipment was crude in the extreme we decided that one of us must return to civilization, purchase the necessary machinery and return with a sufficient force of men properly to work the mine.

As Powell was familiar with the country, as well as with the mechanical requirements of mining we determined that it would be best for him to make the trip. It was agreed that I was to hold down our claim against the remote possibility of its being jumped by some wandering prospector.

On March 3, 1866, Powell and I packed his provisions on two of our burros, and bidding me good-bye he mounted his horse, and started down the mountainside toward the valley, across which led the first stage of his journey.

The morning of Powell’s departure was, like nearly all Arizona mornings, clear and beautiful; I could see him and his little pack animals picking their way down the mountainside toward the valley, and all during the morning I would catch occasional glimpses of them as they topped a hog back or came out upon a level plateau. My last sight of Powell was about three in the afternoon as he entered the shadows of the range on the opposite side of the valley.

Some half hour later I happened to glance casually across the valley and was much surprised to note three little dots in about the same place I had last seen my friend and his two pack animals. I am not given to needless worrying, but the more I tried to convince myself that all was well with Powell, and that the dots I had seen on his trail were antelope or wild horses, the less I was able to assure myself.

Since we had entered the territory we had not seen a hostile Indian, and we had, therefore, become careless in the extreme, and were wont to ridicule the stories we had heard of the great numbers of these vicious marauders that were supposed to haunt the trails, taking their toll in lives and torture of every white party which fell into their merciless clutches.

Powell, I knew, was well armed and, further, an experienced Indian fighter; but I too had lived and fought for years among the Sioux in the North, and I knew that his chances were small against a party of cunning trailing Apaches. Finally I could endure the suspense no longer, and, arming myself with my two Colt revolvers and a carbine, I strapped two belts of cartridges about me and catching my saddle horse, started down the trail taken by Powell in the morning.

As soon as I reached comparatively level ground I urged my mount into a canter and continued this, where the going permitted, until, close upon dusk, I discovered the point where other tracks joined those of Powell. They were the tracks of unshod ponies, three of them, and the ponies had been galloping.

I followed rapidly until, darkness shutting down, I was forced to await the rising of the moon, and given an opportunity to speculate on the question of the wisdom of my chase. Possibly I had conjured up impossible dangers, like some nervous old housewife, and when I should catch up with Powell would get a good laugh for my pains. However, I am not prone to sensitiveness, and the following of a sense of duty, wherever it may lead, has always been a kind of fetish with me throughout my life; which may account for the honors bestowed upon me by three republics and the decorations and friendships of an old and powerful emperor and several lesser kings, in whose service my sword has been red many a time.

About nine o’clock the moon was sufficiently bright for me to proceed on my way and I had no difficulty in following the trail at a fast walk, and in some places at a brisk trot until, about midnight, I reached the water hole where Powell had expected to camp. I came upon the spot unexpectedly, finding it entirely deserted, with no signs of having been recently occupied as a camp.

I was interested to note that the tracks of the pursuing horsemen, for such I was now convinced they must be, continued after Powell with only a brief stop at the hole for water; and always at the same rate of speed as his.

I was positive now that the trailers were Apaches and that they wished to capture Powell alive for the fiendish pleasure of the torture, so I urged my horse onward at a most dangerous pace, hoping against hope that I would catch up with the red rascals before they attacked him.

Further speculation was suddenly cut short by the faint report of two shots far ahead of me. I knew that Powell would need me now if ever, and I instantly urged my horse to his topmost speed up the narrow and difficult mountain trail.

I had forged ahead for perhaps a mile or more without hearing further sounds, when the trail suddenly debouched onto a small, open plateau near the summit of the pass. I had passed through a narrow, overhanging gorge just before entering suddenly upon this tableland, and the sight which met my eyes filled me with consternation and dismay.

The little stretch of level land was white with Indian tepees, and there were probably half a thousand red warriors clustered around some object near the center of the camp. Their attention was so wholly riveted to this point of interest that they did not notice me, and I easily could have turned back into the dark recesses of the gorge and made my escape with perfect safety. The fact, however, that this thought did not occur to me until the following day removes any possible right to a claim to heroism to which the narration of this episode might possibly otherwise entitle me.

I do not believe that I am made of the stuff which constitutes heroes, because, in all of the hundreds of instances that my voluntary acts have placed me face to face with death, I cannot recall a single one where any alternative step to that I took occurred to me until many hours later. My mind is evidently so constituted that I am subconsciously forced into the path of duty without recourse to tiresome mental processes. However that may be, I have never regretted that cowardice is not optional with me.

In this instance I was, of course, positive that Powell was the center of attraction, but whether I thought or acted first I do not know, but within an instant from the moment the scene broke upon my view I had whipped out my revolvers and was charging down upon the entire army of warriors, shooting rapidly, and whooping at the top of my lungs. Singlehanded, I could not have pursued better tactics, for the red men, convinced by sudden surprise that not less than a regiment of regulars was upon them, turned and fled in every direction for their bows, arrows, and rifles.

The view which their hurried routing disclosed filled me with apprehension and with rage. Under the clear rays of the Arizona moon lay Powell, his body fairly bristling with the hostile arrows of the braves. That he was already dead I could not but be convinced, and yet I would have saved his body from mutilation at the hands of the Apaches as quickly as I would have saved the man himself from death.

Riding close to him I reached down from the saddle, and grasping his cartridge belt drew him up across the withers of my mount. A backward glance convinced me that to return by the way I had come would be more hazardous than to continue across the plateau, so, putting spurs to my poor beast, I made a dash for the opening to the pass which I could distinguish on the far side of the table land.

The Indians had by this time discovered that I was alone and I was pursued with imprecations, arrows, and rifle balls. The fact that it is difficult to aim anything but imprecations accurately by moonlight, that they were upset by the sudden and unexpected manner of my advent, and that I was a rather rapidly moving target saved me from the various deadly projectiles of the enemy and permitted me to reach the shadows of the surrounding peaks before an orderly pursuit could be organized.

My horse was traveling practically unguided as I knew that I had probably less knowledge of the exact location of the trail to the pass than he, and thus it happened that he entered a defile which led to the summit of the range and not to the pass which I had hoped would carry me to the valley and to safety. It is probable, however, that to this fact I owe my life and the remarkable experiences and adventures which befell me during the following ten years.

My first knowledge that I was on the wrong trail came when I heard the yells of the pursuing savages suddenly grow fainter and fainter far off to my left.

I knew then that they had passed to the left of the jagged rock formation at the edge of the plateau, to the right of which my horse had borne me and the body of Powell.

I drew rein on a little level promontory overlooking the trail below and to my left, and saw the party of pursuing savages disappearing around the point of a neighboring peak.

I knew the Indians would soon discover that they were on the wrong trail and that the search for me would be renewed in the right direction as soon as they located my tracks.

I had gone but a short distance further when what seemed to be an excellent trail opened up around the face of a high cliff. The trail was level and quite broad and led upward and in the general direction I wished to go. The cliff arose for several hundred feet on my right, and on my left was an equal and nearly perpendicular drop to the bottom of a rocky ravine.

I had followed this trail for perhaps a hundred yards when a sharp turn to the right brought me to the mouth of a large cave. The opening was about four feet in height and three to four feet wide, and at this opening the trail ended.

It was now morning, and, with the customary lack of dawn which is a startling characteristic of Arizona, it had become daylight almost without warning.

Dismounting, I laid Powell upon the ground, but the most painstaking examination failed to reveal the faintest spark of life. I forced water from my canteen between his dead lips, bathed his face and rubbed his hands, working over him continuously for the better part of an hour in the face of the fact that I knew him to be dead.

I was very fond of Powell; he was thoroughly a man in every respect; a polished southern gentleman; a staunch and true friend; and it was with a feeling of the deepest grief that I finally gave up my crude endeavors at resuscitation.

Leaving Powell’s body where it lay on the ledge I crept into the cave to reconnoiter. I found a large chamber, possibly a hundred feet in diameter and thirty or forty feet in height; a smooth and well-worn floor, and many other evidences that the cave had, at some remote period, been inhabited. The back of the cave was so lost in dense shadow that I could not distinguish whether there were openings into other apartments or not.

As I was continuing my examination I commenced to feel a pleasant drowsiness creeping over me which I attributed to the fatigue of my long and strenuous ride, and the reaction from the excitement of the fight and the pursuit. I felt comparatively safe in my present location as I knew that one man could defend the trail to the cave against an army.

I soon became so drowsy that I could scarcely resist the strong desire to throw myself on the floor of the cave for a few moments’ rest, but I knew that this would never do, as it would mean certain death at the hands of my red friends, who might be upon me at any moment. With an effort I started toward the opening of the cave only to reel drunkenly against a side wall, and from there slip prone upon the floor.

Tomorrow: The Escape of the Dead

A Princess of Mars text copyright © 1912 Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc.

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A Blast From the Past

Posted on February 13, 2012 by Steven

Well, here’s something I hadn’t seen in a store in a long time: the first-ever edition of Lorelei: Building the Perfect Beast, Vol. 1, released by The ’Warp in the summer of 2005. And yet there it was, just the other day, among the remaindered graphic novels being sold at the Times Square location of Midtown Comics, one of New York’s premier comic shops. Man, that really takes me back…

Perfect Beast 1 was a collection of the first Lorelei comic series that ran from 1993–95 (issues 0–5), and began the origin story of the redheaded succubus who now stars in our soon-to-be-published graphic novel, Lorelei: Sects and the City. It featured art by David C. Matthews and Kevin Tuma, a cover by Bob Larkin, and an introduction by Charles de Lint, World Fantasy Award–winning author of such urban-fantasy novels as The Blue Girl and Widdershins.

(Funny story: When I started publishing the Lorelei comic, I offered subscriptions. One of the first subscribers was some guy named de Lint who lived in Canada. Imagine my surprise when I later discovered he was a big-time author—who liked my writing! And then, of course, I wasted no time in asking him for an introduction to the trade collection.)

Don’t worry if you missed out on this Perfect Beast 1 trade collection, though—it’s scheduled for re-release in 2013, with a new cover by Larkin and a new chapter drawn by David C. Matthews. The concluding volume is scheduled for 2014, featuring art by Eliseu Gouveia, who’s been stunning everyone with his work on The ’Warp releases A Princess of Mars, Carmilla, The Saga of Pandora Zwieback #0, and Lorelei: Sects and the City.

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The Publisher/Author Relationship

Posted on February 9, 2012 by Steven

A Guest Post by James Roy Daley

When a publisher publishes an author’s short story, novella, or novel they are entering into a relationship. I suspect that all publishers that have been around the block understand this. I also have reason to believe that many writers do not.

As a writer, I know about that “me against the world” feeling that finds its home inside your heart during those first few years—nobody is on your side, nobody is saying your name, nobody seems to care. You are all alone and prepared to work with anyone, become partners with anyone. In many ways you are like that pimple-faced kid leaning against the wall at the high school dance, thinking, I wish someone would dance with me… I don’t care who it is… I just want to dance. When you send your work to a publisher—know it or not—you are asking, Would you like to dance? Would you like to go steady? Won’t you be mine? And between the time the question is asked and the answer comes you can’t help but wonder—after all, nobody likes to be kept waiting.

There are so many publishers that come and go. One day they’re putting out their first book, quite possibly talking about their unrealistic publishing schedule—we’re going to put out 25 books in our first year, and 50 in our second… oh boy! Or perhaps they’re bragging about things beyond their control—I’m going to make sure that all my books are bestsellers, and anyone that submits to my press will find out if they are accepted or rejected within 30 days, you betcha!

Doesn’t this press sound absolutely perfect for you? This is a match made in heaven, for sure!

But life isn’t like this.

Pretend YOU are the publisher. That first publication is almost easy. You have no fan base, no track record, and in some ways, nothing to lose. The amount of people that care about what you’re doing is at an all-time low, the amount of people contacting you can be counted on your thumbs, and the number of projects you need to maintain, promote, and answer for, is zero.

Things change.

You’ve signed a few authors, sent out a wave of contracts, put out your first anthology. No sweat. After all, if the first book doesn’t sell it’s not the end of the world; you only paid the writers 1¢ per word. You can bounce back from this. Of course you can! You’ve got a job, some money in the bank. You’ll survive.

Good news: you don’t fail.

Things are going well. Your first book —The Giant Two-Headed Lobster —looks good. You’ve made a few sales and gained a few fans. You’ve got an anthology to promote and you’re doing a great job promoting it. Hey everybody, do you want to buy my book? It’s my first one; help a brother out! Time moves on. People are contacting you. One book becomes five. Promoting becomes tougher, but things are still good; you landed two reviews in one day and both are saying that you’re the best thing since sliced bread. Congrats! However, you’re now juggling a handful of things: emails, formatting ebooks, creating paperbacks, watching your sales reports—what’s working, what not—got a blog? Good for you, better keep that shit up! Got a website? Why not? Don’t you want to be taken seriously? Get on it! Before you know it you’re getting 10 emails a day.

Sales for Werewolf Slumber Party are up, sales for The Vampire & The Hobbit are steady, and sales for The Creature from the Blue Baboon are nonexistent. That 1¢ per word is starting to feel different. Why? Because 80,000 words @ 1¢ per word is $800.00. Plus you’re working with different editors, more cover artists, new graphic designers. All of them want money. Each book is costing over $1,500.00 now, assuming you DON’T include the time you’re working on them. Five anthologies at $1,500.00 equals $7,500.00—and you know that number’s low because you paid some of the writers more than 1¢ per word, and sending out contributor copies—you’ve realized—costs a shit-load: 20 authors, $8 per book plus shipping? Damn… should have seen that one coming. Lets be honest—are the books costing $2,000.00 each? Try not to think about it.

Two more books out the door. One book is making money; one book is losing money. Something needs to be done, but what? Now the big names are calling. Fantastic! You just signed who? You’re putting out what? You offered an advance of how much? Do an interview here, help a publisher there—hey mister, won’t you read my manuscript? You know what would make a great anthology? Can I get a blurb? More emails, more books out the door. You should feel great except you received two reviews today and both readers agree that you suck monkey-balls, and you’re losing a thousand of dollars a month because the tax-man is fucking you. This needs to be dealt with right away. If only you had more time!

An idea comes… it’s so simple! Quit the day job! Why work for someone else when you can work for yourself? Sounds great, so you quit your day job. After all, it’s the only thing you can do – too much work and not enough time, don’t you know. But now you don’t have enough money to pay the people working for you, and you need to pay them anyways. Are you going to do it? Are you going to pay them, or are you going to let everything fall apart? Can you keep it together? Are you ready for the next step? Or are you going to fuck everyone over, edit every book, read the 500 stories that landed in your slush pile, and learn about graphic design?

Screw it. Something must be done, so you dig into your savings and pay the people their share. You feel good about this. It was the right thing to do. Now sales are really important, because its not just you anymore… it’s us. You are becoming someone’s paycheck.

Take a deep breath. Focus on the important things, like paying your “novel” authors every three months. You don’t want to get behind on that, even if making up those royalty reports is a real bitch. But things are okay; you’re not worried. You are—however—willing to admit that keeping your head above water is becoming a full-on achievement. Why? Because you’ve got real-life bills to pay. You’ve got to eat, don’t you? Isn’t it time for an oil-change? Happy birthday… here’s your gift! Payments are made on the 15th… and the 30th. There are holes in your underwear and you haven’t bought a new shirt in three years.

This is just the tip of the iceberg. Remember that extra time you thought you were gaining when you quit the “real” job. Where is it now? The fact is—you’re working 12 hours a day, 7 days a week, and you’re wondering, How does anyone manage to promote 15 books at one time?

Uh-oh… there was a problem with a contract—one of your authors is pissed! Better deal with that soon. Another author is upset because you sold 5,000 copies of Sex with Robots, Volume One, and he wants to get paid more. After all, shouldn’t the authors get paid more if the book is selling? And no—he doesn’t care if you lost your shirt releasing Harry, The Homophobic Hippo. He was not part of that anthology. Real life steps in again—your girlfriend wants nothing to do with you because you’re never there. Can your love life be salvaged? Probably not. Cry yourself to sleep and keep looking ahead… you don’t need a relationship anyhow.

Are you going to WhateverCON? Oh man—you need to go to that one. Everyone will be there! Book your flight, gone for a week, and when you get home there’s so much to do that you don’t know where to start. One of your authors is upset because it has been 3 months since she signed Gillian’s Island of the Dead with you, and the book hasn’t been released. What’s taking so long? Another author is upset because you’re not doing enough to promote Blood Orgy and sales are sliding. Don’t you care? Why publish Blood Orgy if you’re not going to promote it properly? You published 15 books in 15 months? Bravo! How did you do it? What is this… fan-mail? Awesome! But what’s this… hate-mail? That sucks. Here’s your new book cover, and it looks like shit!

Now you’re getting 35 emails a day, and one of the guys you rejected in Zombie-Knife-Fight 3 has given a one-star review to every book you’ve released. You feel sick. Your computer crashed. This is a major problem. Deal with it. An author you never heard of with “neurotic tendencies” decides to take cheap shots at you and your company online, and when you let him know that you didn’t appreciate it you get called arrogant and he sends you a long-winded email. There’s no apology, of course—why would there be?—but he wants you to get back to him so you can work things out. Someone asked you about your marketing schedule and you realized that you do not have one. Maybe you should work on that. Maybe you should put together a publishing schedule, too. Because—be honest, now—you’ve been “winging it”, haven’t you?

The Legal Deposit Division has decided to suspend all of your ISBN numbers until you fill out the proper paperwork and send them 2 copies of each book. It takes 2 hours to fill out the paperwork and shipping costs $65.00. Good news: people are starting to notice you! Bad news: your books are now showing up on 75 different sites as free illegal downloads! Decision time—become the publishing version of Metallica and fight these soulless bastards, or let it slide. One of your favorite authors is promoting his new book, and it has YOUR cover art! How the hell did that happen? Contact the publisher—Hey asshole, don’t make me phone my lawyer. 

You decide that it’s time to do some promotion. In your opinion, the very best horror magazine in the world is Rue Morgue. They are awesome, and the idea of having a half-page advertisement in the next edition makes you feel extremely excited. Or maybe even a full-page advertisement! Wouldn’t a full-page ad be amazing? After a little bit of investigating, and a pair of unbelievably polite emails from the excellent people that run the head office, you are surprised to find that a single full-page ad costs $2,800.00 plus tax. Without a doubt, that is not within your budget. A half-page ad is $1,595.00 plus tax, but they are willing to drop that price down to $1,420.00 plus tax if you buy 6 ads. Several sleepless nights later you decide to go for it. You pay your graphic designer $100.00 to build the first of 6 ads, and you sign up for Rue Morgue’s half-page, 6-ad special. You have no doubt that business will soon be booming! When the issue hits the newsstand you are so excited you think you’ll burst! The ad looks great! Your friends are patting you on the back. Time to celebrate—this is the big time! Sadly, as the month marches on you realize that sales are not going up. Oh well. The second ad will do the trick. You pay another $100.00 to your graphic designer and another $1,420.00 plus tax to Rue Morgue before submitting the file. The next issue comes out and sales are up! Yep—sales are up by thirty-five copies. When it’s time to create the third ad you ask your graphic designer if he wouldn’t mind doing the third ad for free. Reluctantly, he says yes. And you pray to God that sales go up.

Which is better, Lightning Source or CreateSpace? How do you know, have you tried them both? Smashwords rejected your file again. One of your cover artists is mad at you for promoting your book using the image they sold you. Your mother called and she wants to know what you plan on doing after the ePublishing bubble bursts. The paperback version of The Headless Dwarf arrived in the mailbox today, and it looks great! But wait—is that a typo on page one? That doesn’t say, “Hello, sweetie!” That says, “Hello, sweaty!” You bought 1,000 books to sell at Gigantic-O-Con. The table cost was $1,100.00. You sold 80 books. Now there’s a warehouse in your basement and your credit card is cranked.

Your sister lost her job over the Christmas holiday and is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. To make life better she has taken up writing. Today you received a short story from her, and it’s the worst piece of shit you’ve ever read. Publishing her sorry attempt at the English language is not an option, but rejecting her might push her over the edge. You seriously wonder if the rejection letter will make her kill herself. You hope not, because you’re sending out a rejection letter with her name on it tonight. One of the books you published was still under contract with a different publisher. Do something. The doctor called: you have an ulcer. Heard the news? Nobody is taking you seriously because you’re only offering 1¢ per word. Shit. Okay. Better make it 2¢. Now books are costing $2,500 each. If you don’t sell 2,000 copies you’re in big trouble.

Remember those contributor copies you sent overseas? They got lost in the mail. Send them again. Question: what happened to your own writing? Are you still doing that? You’ve got fans, you know. You better find time to get some writing done—after all, didn’t you want to be a writer? You haven’t published a book in 3 months? Is your press finished? What’s going on? You published 4 books in 10 days? How is that possible? Running a press must be easy! Your author page says that you’ve only released two books. Do you plan on updating your profile anytime soon? You probably should. You sold 500 copies less this month than last month. Are you worried? Should you be?

Somehow the files you uploaded are corrupted, and all your new ebooks look like shit. Reformat. Republish. There’s a new small press in town, and they’re stealing every idea you come up with. There’s an old small press in town, and they’re bad-mouthing you on Shocklines because you sell more books in an afternoon than they do in a month. You’re a better editor now than you were when you started. You should re-edit every book. It finally hits you: Twitter is important. You have 18 followers. You need a whole lot more. Three months after you release Attack of the 50 Foot Water Buffalo, Penguin Publishing releases a book with the exact same name. You spend 5 days reading a 140,000-word submission called, Chewbacca Dies at the End, and it’s fantastic! You let the author know the good news: you want to publish the book! Sorry. She signed with someone else.

One of the biggest writers in the industry decides that you’re cool and he lets people know it. This pisses off another big writer, who decides to tell everyone that you won’t last a year. Now some of your peers are treating you differently. Will you Facebook “like” me? Can you sign an autograph? Will you be my friend? Lets start a small press union! I know you just read 600 zombie stories, but I decided to send you one more. I don’t want you to publish it; I just thought you might like to read it. Can you help me get my book nominated for a Stoker? Awards mean so much more to me when I ask everyone I know for a fake vote. Do you mind promoting my books inside your books? Why can’t I make my ebooks free on Amazon the way you did? People are saying that the only reason you got into publishing was for the money. Is this true? After spending 5 painful days attaching your newly purchased midi-controller to your computer, you are finally ready to build your very first audiobook. A month and a half later you realize that building audiobooks is beyond your skill-set. You have spelling mistakes within your blog, you know. How can you call yourself a publisher if you don’t know how to spell discombobulate?

There’s something wrong at the printers, and books are being sold with a screwed-up interior. Create new files immediately. You got paid $6,000 this month? That’s awesome! You’re going to be rich! You owe $8,000 this month? How did that happen? Don’t you know what you’re doing? How long has it been since you posted on your blog? Better get on it. Sick for a week? Keep focused. You had a nice, big brain-fart and you said something stupid. Now people think you’re a jerk. Your new cover artist pushed your current project back for the third time this month. Is there something going on that you don’t know about? One of the short stories you accepted turns out to be a turd. Are you going to publish a turd, or go back on your word?

You tell one of your oldest, dearest friends that you sold 2,300 units in the last 20 days, and she suddenly doesn’t like you. Apparently your ego is the size of New York City. One of your short story authors doesn’t want to use PayPal; you decide that paying by check might not be so bad. The check amount is $14.50. Of course, you live on different continents… with different currency… and the money-order the bank forces you into purchasing—after you make a special trip to the bank, and wait in line for 20 minutes—costs you an extra $16.00. Plus postage. And the check becomes lost in the mail. You need to do it again. Your uncle has a great idea for a book. He wants you to write it for him. You’ve got a Facebook stalker, and he keeps sending you crazy messages. Is it okay to tell him to get lost?

Congratulations on that 2¢ per word thing. The Horror Writers Association says the professional rate is 5¢. The International Thriller Writers won’t take you seriously unless you distribute your products in brick-and-mortar stores, or fill out a bunch of paperwork, answering questions that haven’t been relevant for 10 years. You know from personal experience that having a book inside every bookstore across America doesn’t mean much these days. And somehow you’re the only person that understands that paying for a review in Publishers Weekly will not equal one extra sale. You believe that having your books inside the few remaining Borders is an ego move, not a business move, but explaining this is pointless. Every unknown author disagrees, and so do the bestsellers. Ex-Midlisters, on the other hand? Ex-Midlisters agree 100%. Lets face it it. You sold more units last month than many of them did last year.

Amazon introduced a brand new everything—do you know about it? Is it working? What are the other authors saying? Are you keeping up to date with the way the market is swinging? Is it a good idea to sign with Amazon Select? Have you pulled your books out of Barnes & Noble, yet? Here’s an idea: have every book translated into German, Spanish, and French! What is an Alsobot? Are Alsobots important? You should lump your books together into sets of three and sell each set as a single file. Have you joined Prime? Is your ereader outdated? What does KDP stand for? What are the pros and cons of enabling Digital Rights Management? Is Lightning Source making Smashwords irrelevant? Do you fully understand the copyright laws in each country? This just in: 5 more terrible reviews came down the pipe and two of them are from people that haven’t read the book; the urge to respond is overwhelming. After mailing your completed W-7 form, the IRS rejected your request for an ITIN number… again. This means you can’t fill out the W-BEN form, which is important. People are telling you to call the US Embassy, but that doesn’t seem right. Will your accountant know how to deal with this? They screwed things up last time.

And by the way, what’s taking so long with that Barfing Dead story I sent you three months ago? Don’t you care? I thought we were going to dance?

Bloody hell.

Authors and publishers that work together are in a relationship, a partnership. Partners need to be part of the solution, not part the problem. I like to work with people that are part of the solution, not part of the problem.

If you’re an author that has signed with a publisher, help them. They can’t do everything.

If you’re an author that has submitted to a publisher, be patient. You have no idea how difficult things become.

If you like what a publisher is doing and you don’t want them to stop, support them. This means buying some books, posting positive reviews, and telling your friends.

But whatever you do—don’t attack the people you are trying to build a relationship with in public for not being everything you want them to be. Trust me, you have no idea. If you did, you’d say nothing but good things. And why say bad things about the people you want to have a relationship with?

What kind of dance will that be?

JAMES ROY DALEY is a writer, editor, and musician. He studied film at the Toronto Film School, music at Humber College, and English at the University of Toronto. He is the author of Terror Town, Into Hell, 13 Drops of Blood, Zombie Kong, and The Dead Parade. In 2009 he founded Books of the Dead Press, where he enjoyed immediate success working with many of the biggest names in horror. He edited anthologies such as Zombie Kong—Anthology, Best New Vampire Tales, Classic Vampire Tales, and the Best New Zombie Tales series.

“The Publisher/Author Relationship” copyright © 2012 James Roy Daley. All rights reserved. For more information on Books of the Dead Press and its titles, please visit: www.booksofthedeadpress.com.

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Hey, check it out: Tomorrow we’ll be hosting our first Guest Post!

Posted on February 8, 2012 by Steven

If you’ve ever wondered just how insane the life of an indie publisher can be, then you need to read “The Publisher/Author Relationship,” a fantastic article written by James Roy Daley, publisher of Books of the Dead Press.

I first Inter-met (Ha! See what I did there?) Roy back in 2010, when he was compiling the first two volumes of his Best New Zombie Tales anthology series. He was looking for previously published zombie apocalypse stories, and I happened to have one: “Laundry Day” (seen first in Padwolf Books’ 2007 anthology The Dead Walk Again!), which takes place at an all-night Laundromat and… goes to some interesting places, plot-wise. It’s also a very adult story—I drop F-bombs like I’m razing Dresden, and there are some fairly gory deaths for it. This is definitely not recommended for younger readers—The Saga of Pandora Zwieback, it ain’t. Still, Roy liked it so much he included it in the second volume.

He wasn’t the only one who enjoyed it, though. As the review site Paperback Horror said about “Laundry Day”:

“Laced with a brutal humor and some seriously gory violence, this one is a slaughter-fest crowd pleasure for sure. Action from the get-go, with a surprising twist ending that I really didn’t see coming.”

Why, with a recommendation like that, maybe you should purchase a copy and find out for yourself just how good it is… he said modestly.  😉  The other authors involved in the collection are no slouches, either: Mort Castle, Cody Goodfellow, Tim Waggoner, Nate Kenyon and a host of others—Roy put together a winner in this one.

Best New Zombie Tales, Vol. 2 is still available in print and Kindle editions here.

So, now that you have a better idea of who Roy is, be sure to come back tomorrow and find out what publishing is like—from the publisher’s point of view!

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StarWarp Concepts Webstore Now Open

Posted on January 30, 2012 by Steven

Not a dream, not a hoax, not an imaginary story— the SWC webstore is waiting for your business! Now if you have trouble finding any of our titles, you can order them directly from us. Here’s what we’re offering:

Blood Feud, Carmilla, and The Bob Larkin Sketchbook: Print editions of all three of our 2011 titles are available. And since the sketchbook is an SWC exclusive not available in stores, the webstore’s the only place you’ll be able to get it, not counting when we sell it at conventions—but you’d rather have it now, wouldn’t you?

The official Pandora Zwieback T-shirt: Available in both men’s and women’s sizes, it’s the same devil-girl T that Pan wears on the cover of Blood Feud, and an essential piece of clothing for all stylish monster hunters.

The Blood Feud Art Print: Bob Larkin’s cover art for the first Pandora Zwieback novel is presented in full color on 11” x 17” cardstock, without text. Limited to 100 copies.

There’s also a bonus art book for sale: The Savage Art of Bob Larkin! We’re helping Bob straighten up his studio, so we’ve arranged to offer his personal copies of this 64-page, full-color collection of cover painting masterpieces, which was published by SQP Inc. in 2009. As a special treat, if you buy it together with The Bob Larkin Sketchbook, you get 15% off your order!

What’re you waiting for? Get shopping today!  😀

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“Pandora Zwieback” Cover Artist’s Online Gallery Launches

Posted on January 19, 2012 by Steven

This is fantastic news! Bob Larkin—the legendary artist whose work graces the covers of the Saga of Pandora Zwieback novels, as well as the pages of his own Bob Larkin Sketchbook—now has an online gallery, and it’s open for business!

Bob Larkin: The Illustrated Man was launched on January 6 by two of Bob’s biggest fans, Courtney Rogers and Scotty Phillips, and it showcases a wealth of painted covers, movie posters, and toy packaging that Bob has created during his long career.

From pulp hero Doc Savage to superheroes like the Hulk and the X-Men (even the Toxic Avenger!) and horror icons like Dracula, the Wolfman, and Godzilla, one look at the gallery and you’ll see why Bob has been such an inspiration to a generation of artists.

Just click on the logo above to get started, and prepare to be amazed!

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It’s Friday the 13th!

Posted on January 13, 2012 by Steven

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The Queen of Queens

Posted on January 11, 2012 by Steven

Well, this is a nice way to start off 2012—with further praise for Blood Feud: The Saga of Pandora Zwieback, Book 1! This time it’s from D. W. Jones of the online horror magazine Blood Moon Rising:

“Roman brings horror to NYC and spins a tale that keeps the reader enthralled….  I recommend this book for all horror readers and especially to young girls.”

The fact that Blood Moon Rising’s offices are based in Queens, NY—Pan’s home borough—makes the positive reaction all the sweeter. I mean, who doesn’t love a monster-fightin’ hometown girl?

You can read the entire review—as well as a review of Carmilla, StarWarp Concepts’ first classic reprint (with illustrations by The Saga of Pandora Zwieback #0 comic artist Eliseu Gouveia)—by clicking on the cover. Don’t forget to check out the rest of the magazine!

Blood Moon Rising is also the sponsor of The Institute of Horror, Fantasy & Science Fiction, a one-day gathering being held this March at the main branch of the Queens Public Library, which is located in Flushing—a neighborhood that is immune to all your petty, childish jokes about toilets, so don’t even bother!  😀  Click the link in the Events listings for more information on the show.

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Back to Business

Posted on January 6, 2012 by Steven

Happy New Year! Hope you folks had a restful holiday season these past few weeks, and thanks for joining us for what we hope will be an exciting 2012 (end-of-the-world prophecies notwithstanding).

While you were unwrapping presents, eating until you passed out from monumental sugar highs and tryptophan-laced turkeys, and keeping the family dog from noshing on Christmas-tree tinsel, the Krampus and a horde of ghoulish, undead elves were busy getting our house in order. Check it out:

E-books

At last, Blood Feud: The Saga of Pandora Zwieback, Book 1 is available for your e-reader! And for the incredibly reasonable price of just $3.99! If you’ve been holding off from buying the print edition, or know someone who might be interested in giving Pan’s literary debut a read, then here’s where you’ll find it:

Amazon.com: Available at the Kindle Store.

Barnes & Noble: Available at the Nook Book Store.

DriveThru Fiction: PDF edition available at the StarWarp Concepts store.

Smashwords: Apple iPad-, Kindle-, Kobo-, Nook-, Palm-, and Sony Reader–compatible files available at the StarWarp Concepts store.

Critical Acclaim

Yet another positive review for Blood Feud, this time courtesy of reviewer Melissa Voelker at HorrorNews.net:

“Far and away one of the best young adult supernatural fantasy novels released in the last few years…. [Pan is] exactly the kind of teen heroine that readers should be standing up and cheering for.”

Read the entire review by clicking on the HorrorNews link above.

The SWC 2012 Catalog

The final version of The ’Warp’s publishing list for the entire year is now available for download. Go read it—you might find a surprise or two in there!

Author Info

SWC’s resident idea factory Steve Roman (that’s me!) now has his/my own Author Page at Amazon.com. The Saga of Pandora Zwieback is just my latest project; the Author Page is where you’ll find all the others listed and for sale (if available). Zombies, superheroes, Doctor Who, Final Destination—is there nothing cool that I haven’t written?  😉

And there’s more to come. Standby for action—we’re just getting started!

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