Snow White: An e-Fairy Tale

As I discussed back on December 19, 2011, in the post “How About a Nice Shiny Apple, Dearie?” fairy tales have never been more popular—at least according to recent Hollywood TV and movie trends—and nineteenth-century writers Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm (The Brothers Grimm) are the source of this mania.

Just how hot are fairy tales right now? Try two movie versions of Snow White, one of the Grimms’ most famous stories—both set for release this year! Mirror, Mirror debuts on March 16th; Snow White and the Huntsman opens on June 1st.

To introduce the classic tale to a new generation of readers and moviegoers, and to celebrate its 200th Anniversary appearance in the Brothers Grimm’s 1812 collection Children’s and Household Tales, we here at The ’Warp will be publishing Snow White as our first e-book-only title—a PDF download for the low price of $1.99.

And what an edition it is! Behind that great cover by designer Mat Postawa that you see here, you’ll find five full-color illustrations that were originally published in 1883. Check out the book’s product page for samples.

Great story and art, coupled with a great price? How can you say no to that?  😀

Snow White goes on sale February 28, 2012, from StarWarp Concepts.

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Chatting About a Goth Adventuress

Today at the book-review blog Fiction Fascination you’ll find an interview with me, conducted by the site’s owner, Carly. It’s one more part in my ongoing effort to make fans of dark urban fantasies aware of the exciting world of Goth adventuress Pandora Zwieback, starting with her first novel, Blood Feud. And since Carly is a major fan of Ms. Zwieback’s, how could I say no to a chance to talk about her?  😉

Carly and I cover such topics as my favorite books, my personal quirks, and what some of my writing inspirations are (a topic I’ll be discussing further at the Pandora Zwieback blog in the days to come). And then there’s this:

“At some point I became obsessed with a TV show on the Food Network called Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives, and I’ve been experimenting with recipes. I haven’t killed anyone yet…”

Not expecting a comment like that in an interview about a monster-hunting teen, were you? Hey, it can’t all be about gun-toting vampires and heroic Goth chicks, y’know!  😀

In addition to the interview, we’re giving away a signed copy of Blood Feud (still on sale in print and e-book editions). If you haven’t gotten around to picking up a copy, here’s your chance to get one for free!

Read the interview, and find out more details on the giveaway, by clicking on the Fiction Fascination logo.

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John Carter: A Princess of Mars Now on Sale

It’s here—the official release date for our very special edition of Edgar Rice Burroughs’s science fantasy epic A Princess of Mars!

Now you can pick up a copy of this classic adventure, which features six incredible black-and-white illustrations by artist Eliseu Gouveia (Carmilla, The Saga of Pandora Zwieback #0) and an introduction by science fiction expert John Gosling. This first entry in the “John Carter of Mars” series is about to make its motion picture debut on March 9th as the Disney-produced John Carter, so what better way to spend your time waiting on line at the theater than by reading the novel that inspired the movie adaptation?

A Princess of Mars is available for order from brick-and-mortar stores, as well as from such online retailers as Amazon and Barnes&Noble.com. Or you can buy it directly from the StarWarp Concepts store.

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John Carter: A Fighting Man of Mars

And now we reach the conclusion of our celebration of A Princess of Mars 100th anniversary. As you know by now, Edgar Rice Burroughs’s epic science fantasy novel debuts in movie theaters on March 9th as the Disney-produced John Carter—so what better time to read this classic pulp adventure?

The StarWarp Concepts’ edition of A Princess of Mars features an introduction by John Gosling, author of Waging the War of the Worlds: A History of the 1938 Radio Broadcast and Resulting Panic (McFarland, 2009), and six amazing black-and-white illustrations by Eliseu Gouveia. If you’ve seen his work in The ’Warp’s 2011 reissue of J. Sheridan Le Fanu’s vampire tale Carmilla or the comic book The Saga of Pandora Zwieback #0, then you know what a talented artist “Zeu” is!

We’ve been counting down to Princess’s February 21st release date with a four-chapter preview of Burroughs’s classic adventure right here at this blog. Today we present the finale.

Transported to Mars by unknown means, Earthman John Carter has been captured by the green-skinned Tharks, a nomadic race constantly at war with the more human-looking red Martians—and with each other. Carter, however, is like no human they’ve ever seen before, which means he must be brought before the Tharks’ chieftain…

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

A Princess of Mars, by Edgar Rice Burroughs

Chapter 4. A Prisoner

We had gone perhaps ten miles when the ground began to rise very rapidly. We were, as I was later to learn, nearing the edge of one of Mars’ long-dead seas, in the bottom of which my encounter with the Martians had taken place.

In a short time we gained the foot of the mountains, and after traversing a narrow gorge came to an open valley, at the far extremity of which was a low tableland upon which I beheld an enormous city. Toward this we galloped, entering it by what appeared to be a ruined roadway leading out from the city, but only to the edge of the tableland, where it ended abruptly in a flight of broad steps.

Upon closer observation I saw as we passed them that the buildings were deserted, and while not greatly decayed had the appearance of not having been tenanted for years, possibly for ages. Toward the center of the city was a large plaza, and upon this and in the buildings immediately surrounding it were camped some nine or ten hundred creatures of the same breed as my captors, for such I now considered them despite the suave manner in which I had been trapped.

With the exception of their ornaments all were naked. The women varied in appearance but little from the men, except that their tusks were much larger in proportion to their height, in some instances curving nearly to their high-set ears. Their bodies were smaller and lighter in color, and their fingers and toes bore the rudiments of nails, which were entirely lacking among the males. The adult females ranged in height from ten to twelve feet.

The children were light in color, even lighter than the women, and all looked precisely alike to me, except that some were taller than others; older, I presumed.

I saw no signs of extreme age among them, nor is there any appreciable difference in their appearance from the age of maturity, about forty, until, at about the age of one thousand years, they go voluntarily upon their last strange pilgrimage down the river Iss, which leads no living Martian knows whither and from whose bosom no Martian has ever returned, or would be allowed to live did he return after once embarking upon its cold, dark waters.

Only about one Martian in a thousand dies of sickness or disease, and possibly about twenty take the voluntary pilgrimage. The other nine hundred and seventy-nine die violent deaths in duels, in hunting, in aviation and in war; but perhaps by far the greatest death loss comes during the age of childhood, when vast numbers of the little Martians fall victims to the great white apes of Mars.

The average life expectancy of a Martian after the age of maturity is about three hundred years, but would be nearer the one-thousand mark were it not for the various means leading to violent death. Owing to the waning resources of the planet it evidently became necessary to counteract the increasing longevity which their remarkable skill in therapeutics and surgery produced, and so human life has come to be considered but lightly on Mars, as is evidenced by their dangerous sports and the almost continual warfare between the various communities.

There are other and natural causes tending toward a diminution of population, but nothing contributes so greatly to this end as the fact that no male or female Martian is ever voluntarily without a weapon of destruction.

As we neared the plaza and my presence was discovered we were immediately surrounded by hundreds of the creatures, who seemed anxious to pluck me from my seat behind my guard. A word from the leader of the party stilled their clamor, and we proceeded at a trot across the plaza to the entrance of as magnificent an edifice as mortal eye has rested upon.

The building was low, but covered an enormous area. It was constructed of gleaming white marble inlaid with gold and brilliant stones which sparkled and scintillated in the sunlight. The main entrance was some hundred feet in width and projected from the building proper to form a huge canopy above the entrance hall. There was no stairway, but a gentle incline to the first floor of the building opened into an enormous chamber encircled by galleries.

On the floor of this chamber, which was dotted with highly carved wooden desks and chairs, were assembled about forty or fifty male Martians around the steps of a rostrum. On the platform proper squatted an enormous warrior heavily loaded with metal ornaments, gay-colored feathers and beautifully wrought leather trappings ingeniously set with precious stones. From his shoulders depended a short cape of white fur lined with brilliant scarlet silk.

What struck me as most remarkable about this assemblage and the hall in which they were congregated was the fact that the creatures were entirely out of proportion to the desks, chairs, and other furnishings; these being of a size adapted to human beings such as I, whereas the great bulks of the Martians could scarcely have squeezed into the chairs, nor was there room beneath the desks for their long legs. Evidently, then, there were other denizens on Mars than the wild and grotesque creatures into whose hands I had fallen, but the evidences of extreme antiquity which showed all around me indicated that these buildings might have belonged to some long-extinct and forgotten race in the dim antiquity of Mars.

Our party had halted at the entrance to the building, and at a sign from the leader I had been lowered to the ground. Again locking his arm in mine, we had proceeded into the audience chamber. There were few formalities observed in approaching the Martian chieftain. My captor merely strode up to the rostrum, the others making way for him as he advanced. The chieftain rose to his feet and uttered the name of my escort who, in turn, halted and repeated the name of the ruler followed by his title.

At the time, this ceremony and the words they uttered meant nothing to me, but later I came to know that this was the customary greeting between green Martians. Had the men been strangers, and therefore unable to exchange names, they would have silently exchanged ornaments, had their missions been peaceful—otherwise they would have exchanged shots, or have fought out their introduction with some other of their various weapons.

My captor, whose name was Tars Tarkas, was virtually the vice-chieftain of the community, and a man of great ability as a statesman and warrior. He evidently explained briefly the incidents connected with his expedition, including my capture, and when he had concluded the chieftain addressed me at some length.

I replied in our good old English tongue merely to convince him that neither of us could understand the other; but I noticed that when I smiled slightly on concluding, he did likewise. This fact, and the similar occurrence during my first talk with Tars Tarkas, convinced me that we had at least something in common; the ability to smile, therefore to laugh; denoting a sense of humor. But I was to learn that the Martian smile is merely perfunctory, and that the Martian laugh is a thing to cause strong men to blanch in horror.

The ideas of humor among the green men of Mars are widely at variance with our conceptions of incitants to merriment. The death agonies of a fellow being are, to these strange creatures provocative of the wildest hilarity, while their chief form of commonest amusement is to inflict death on their prisoners of war in various ingenious and horrible ways.

The assembled warriors and chieftains examined me closely, feeling my muscles and the texture of my skin. The principal chieftain then evidently signified a desire to see me perform, and, motioning me to follow, he started with Tars Tarkas for the open plaza.

Now, I had made no attempt to walk, since my first signal failure, except while tightly grasping Tars Tarkas’s arm, and so now I went skipping and flitting about among the desks and chairs like some monstrous grasshopper. After bruising myself severely, much to the amusement of the Martians, I again had recourse to creeping, but this did not suit them and I was roughly jerked to my feet by a towering fellow who had laughed most heartily at my misfortunes.

As he banged me down upon my feet his face was bent close to mine and I did the only thing a gentleman might do under the circumstances of brutality, boorishness, and lack of consideration for a stranger’s rights; I swung my fist squarely to his jaw and he went down like a felled ox. As he sunk to the floor I wheeled around with my back toward the nearest desk, expecting to be overwhelmed by the vengeance of his fellows, but determined to give them as good a battle as the unequal odds would permit before I gave up my life.

My fears were groundless, however, as the other Martians, at first struck dumb with wonderment, finally broke into wild peals of laughter and applause. I did not recognize the applause as such, but later, when I had become acquainted with their customs, I learned that I had won what they seldom accord, a manifestation of approbation.

The fellow whom I had struck lay where he had fallen, nor did any of his mates approach him. Tars Tarkas advanced toward me, holding out one of his arms, and we thus proceeded to the plaza without further mishap. I did not, of course, know the reason for which we had come to the open, but I was not long in being enlightened. They first repeated the word “sak” a number of times, and then Tars Tarkas made several jumps, repeating the same word before each leap; then, turning to me, he said, “Sak!” I saw what they were after, and gathering myself together I “sakked” with such marvelous success that I cleared a good hundred and fifty feet; nor did I this time, lose my equilibrium, but landed squarely upon my feet without falling. I then returned by easy jumps of twenty-five or thirty feet to the little group of warriors.

My exhibition had been witnessed by several hundred lesser Martians, and they immediately broke into demands for a repetition, which the chieftain then ordered me to make; but I was both hungry and thirsty, and determined on the spot that my only method of salvation was to demand the consideration from these creatures which they evidently would not voluntarily accord. I therefore ignored the repeated commands to “sak,” and each time they were made I motioned to my mouth and rubbed my stomach.

Tars Tarkas and the chief exchanged a few words, and the former, calling to a young female among the throng, gave her some instructions and motioned me to accompany her. I grasped her proffered arm and together we crossed the plaza toward a large building on the far side.

My fair companion was about eight feet tall, having just arrived at maturity, but not yet to her full height. She was of a light olive-green color, with a smooth, glossy hide. Her name, as I afterward learned, was Sola, and she belonged to the retinue of Tars Tarkas. She conducted me to a spacious chamber in one of the buildings fronting on the plaza, and which, from the litter of silks and furs upon the floor, I took to be the sleeping quarters of several of the natives.

The room was well lighted by a number of large windows and was beautifully decorated with mural paintings and mosaics, but upon all there seemed to rest that indefinable touch of the finger of antiquity which convinced me that the architects and builders of these wondrous creations had nothing in common with the crude half-brutes which now occupied them.

Sola motioned me to be seated upon a pile of silks near the center of the room, and, turning, made a peculiar hissing sound, as though signaling to someone in an adjoining room. In response to her call I obtained my first sight of a new Martian wonder. It waddled in on its ten short legs, and squatted down before the girl like an obedient puppy. The thing was about the size of a Shetland pony, but its head bore a slight resemblance to that of a frog, except that the jaws were equipped with three rows of long, sharp tusks.

To be continued… in A Princess of Mars, on sale TOMORROW from StarWarp Concepts!

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

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John Carter: Across the Void

Welcome to day 3 of our celebration of A Princess of Mars 100th anniversary! Edgar Rice Burroughs’s epic science fantasy novel is set to hit movie theaters on March 9th as the Disney-produced John Carter, but you can prepare for it by reading the novel that serves as its inspiration.

StarWarp Concepts’ edition features an introduction by John Gosling, author of Waging the War of the Worlds: A History of the 1938 Radio Broadcast and Resulting Panic (McFarland, 2009), and six amazing black-and-white illustrations by Eliseu Gouveia, the artist for The ’Warp’s 2011 reissue of J. Sheridan Le Fanu’s vampire tale Carmilla.

As a special bonus, we’re counting down to Princess’s release date with a four-chapter preview of Burroughs’s classic adventure right here at this blog. Today we present chapter 3.

Yesterday, John Carter collapsed inside a mysterious cave in the Arizona desert. Unable to move, he struggled to escape—only to have his astral form (or soul?) disconnect from his body! Then he turned toward the night sky and saw a bright red light among the stars. It was the planet Mars, and it seemed to be calling him…

Now, John Carter arrives on Mars!

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

A Princess of Mars, by Edgar Rice Burroughs

Chapter 3. My Advent on Mars

I opened my eyes upon a strange and weird landscape. I knew that I was on Mars; not once did I question either my sanity or my wakefulness. I was not asleep, no need for pinching here; my inner consciousness told me as plainly that I was upon Mars as your conscious mind tells you that you are upon Earth. You do not question the fact; neither did I.

I found myself lying prone upon a bed of yellowish, mosslike vegetation which stretched around me in all directions for interminable miles. I seemed to be lying in a deep, circular basin, along the outer verge of which I could distinguish the irregularities of low hills.

It was midday, the sun was shining full upon me and the heat of it was rather intense upon my naked body, yet no greater than would have been true under similar conditions on an Arizona desert. Here and there were slight outcroppings of quartz-bearing rock which glistened in the sunlight; and a little to my left, perhaps a hundred yards, appeared a low, walled enclosure about four feet in height. No water, and no other vegetation than the moss was in evidence, and as I was somewhat thirsty I determined to do a little exploring.

Springing to my feet I received my first Martian surprise, for the effort, which on Earth would have brought me standing upright, carried me into the Martian air to the height of about three yards. I alighted softly upon the ground, however, without appreciable shock or jar. Now commenced a series of evolutions which even then seemed ludicrous in the extreme. I found that I must learn to walk all over again, as the muscular exertion which carried me easily and safely upon Earth played strange antics with me upon Mars.

Instead of progressing in a sane and dignified manner, my attempts to walk resulted in a variety of hops which took me clear of the ground a couple of feet at each step and landed me sprawling upon my face or back at the end of each second or third hop. My muscles, perfectly attuned and accustomed to the force of gravity on Earth, played the mischief with me in attempting for the first time to cope with the lesser gravitation and lower air pressure on Mars.

I was determined, however, to explore the low structure which was the only evidence of habitation in sight, and so I hit upon the unique plan of reverting to first principles in locomotion, creeping. I did fairly well at this and in a few moments had reached the low, encircling wall of the enclosure.

There appeared to be no doors or windows upon the side nearest me, but as the wall was but about four feet high I cautiously gained my feet and peered over the top upon the strangest sight it had ever been given me to see.

The roof of the enclosure was of solid glass about four or five inches in thickness, and beneath this were several hundred large eggs, perfectly round and snowy white. The eggs were nearly uniform in size being about two and one-half feet in diameter.

Five or six had already hatched and the grotesque caricatures which sat blinking in the sunlight were enough to cause me to doubt my sanity. They seemed mostly head, with little scrawny bodies, long necks and six legs, or, as I afterward learned, two legs and two arms, with an intermediary pair of limbs which could be used at will either as arms or legs. Their eyes were set at the extreme sides of their heads a trifle above the center and protruded in such a manner that they could be directed either forward or back and also independently of each other, thus permitting this queer animal to look in any direction, or in two directions at once, without the necessity of turning the head.

The ears, which were slightly above the eyes and closer together, were small, cup-shaped antennae, protruding not more than an inch on these young specimens. Their noses were but longitudinal slits in the center of their faces, midway between their mouths and ears.

There was no hair on their bodies, which were of a very light yellowish-green color. In the adults, as I was to learn quite soon, this color deepens to an olive green and is darker in the male than in the female. Further, the heads of the adults are not so out of proportion to their bodies as in the case of the young.

The iris of the eyes is blood red, as in Albinos, while the pupil is dark. The eyeball itself is very white, as are the teeth. These latter add a most ferocious appearance to an otherwise fearsome and terrible countenance, as the lower tusks curve upward to sharp points which end about where the eyes of earthly human beings are located. The whiteness of the teeth is not that of ivory, but of the snowiest and most gleaming of china. Against the dark background of their olive skins their tusks stand out in a most striking manner, making these weapons present a singularly formidable appearance.

Most of these details I noted later, for I was given but little time to speculate on the wonders of my new discovery. I had seen that the eggs were in the process of hatching, and as I stood watching the hideous little monsters break from their shells I failed to note the approach of a score of full-grown Martians from behind me.

Coming, as they did, over the soft and soundless moss, which covers practically the entire surface of Mars with the exception of the frozen areas at the poles and the scattered cultivated districts, they might have captured me easily, but their intentions were far more sinister. It was the rattling of the accouterments of the foremost warrior which warned me.

On such a little thing my life hung that I often marvel that I escaped so easily. Had not the rifle of the leader of the party swung from its fastenings beside his saddle in such a way as to strike against the butt of his great metal-shod spear I should have snuffed out without ever knowing that death was near me. But the little sound caused me to turn, and there upon me, not ten feet from my breast, was the point of that huge spear, a spear forty feet long, tipped with gleaming metal, and held low at the side of a mounted replica of the little devils I had been watching.

But how puny and harmless they now looked beside this huge and terrific incarnation of hate, of vengeance and of death. The man himself, for such I may call him, was fully fifteen feet in height and, on Earth, would have weighed some four hundred pounds. He sat his mount as we sit a horse, grasping the animal’s barrel with his lower limbs, while the hands of his two right arms held his immense spear low at the side of his mount; his two left arms were outstretched laterally to help preserve his balance, the thing he rode having neither bridle or reins of any description for guidance.

And his mount! How can earthly words describe it! It towered ten feet at the shoulder; had four legs on either side; a broad flat tail, larger at the tip than at the root, and which it held straight out behind while running; a gaping mouth which split its head from its snout to its long, massive neck.

Like its master, it was entirely devoid of hair, but was of a dark slate color and exceeding smooth and glossy. Its belly was white, and its legs shaded from the slate of its shoulders and hips to a vivid yellow at the feet. The feet themselves were heavily padded and nailless, which fact had also contributed to the noiselessness of their approach, and, in common with a multiplicity of legs, is a characteristic feature of the fauna of Mars. The highest type of man and one other animal, the only mammal existing on Mars, alone have well-formed nails, and there are absolutely no hoofed animals in existence there.

Behind this first charging demon trailed nineteen others, similar in all respects, but, as I learned later, bearing individual characteristics peculiar to themselves; precisely as no two of us are identical although we are all cast in a similar mold. This picture, or rather materialized nightmare, which I have described at length, made but one terrible and swift impression on me as I turned to meet it.

Unarmed and naked as I was, the first law of nature manifested itself in the only possible solution of my immediate problem, and that was to get out of the vicinity of the point of the charging spear. Consequently I gave a very earthly and at the same time superhuman leap to reach the top of the Martian incubator, for such I had determined it must be.

My effort was crowned with a success which appalled me no less than it seemed to surprise the Martian warriors, for it carried me fully thirty feet into the air and landed me a hundred feet from my pursuers and on the opposite side of the enclosure.

I alighted upon the soft moss easily and without mishap, and turning saw my enemies lined up along the further wall. Some were surveying me with expressions which I afterward discovered marked extreme astonishment, and the others were evidently satisfying themselves that I had not molested their young.

They were conversing together in low tones, and gesticulating and pointing toward me. Their discovery that I had not harmed the little Martians, and that I was unarmed, must have caused them to look upon me with less ferocity; but, as I was to learn later, the thing which weighed most in my favor was my exhibition of hurdling.

While the Martians are immense, their bones are very large and they are muscled only in proportion to the gravitation which they must overcome. The result is that they are infinitely less agile and less powerful, in proportion to their weight, than an Earth man, and I doubt that were one of them suddenly to be transported to Earth he could lift his own weight from the ground; in fact, I am convinced that he could not do so.

My feat then was as marvelous upon Mars as it would have been upon Earth, and from desiring to annihilate me they suddenly looked upon me as a wonderful discovery to be captured and exhibited among their fellows.

The respite my unexpected agility had given me permitted me to formulate plans for the immediate future and to note more closely the appearance of the warriors, for I could not disassociate these people in my mind from those other warriors who, only the day before, had been pursuing me.

I noted that each was armed with several other weapons in addition to the huge spear which I have described. The weapon which caused me to decide against an attempt at escape by flight was what was evidently a rifle of some description, and which I felt, for some reason, they were peculiarly efficient in handling.

These rifles were of a white metal stocked with wood, which I learned later was a very light and intensely hard growth much prized on Mars, and entirely unknown to us denizens of Earth. The metal of the barrel is an alloy composed principally of aluminum and steel which they have learned to temper to a hardness far exceeding that of the steel with which we are familiar. The weight of these rifles is comparatively little, and with the small caliber, explosive, radium projectiles which they use, and the great length of the barrel, they are deadly in the extreme and at ranges which would be unthinkable on Earth. The theoretic effective radius of this rifle is three hundred miles, but the best they can do in actual service when equipped with their wireless finders and sighters is but a trifle over two hundred miles.

This is quite far enough to imbue me with great respect for the Martian firearm, and some telepathic force must have warned me against an attempt to escape in broad daylight from under the muzzles of twenty of these death-dealing machines.

The Martians, after conversing for a short time, turned and rode away in the direction from which they had come, leaving one of their number alone by the enclosure. When they had covered perhaps two hundred yards they halted, and turning their mounts toward us sat watching the warrior by the enclosure.

He was the one whose spear had so nearly transfixed me, and was evidently the leader of the band, as I had noted that they seemed to have moved to their present position at his direction. When his force had come to a halt he dismounted, threw down his spear and small arms, and came around the end of the incubator toward me, entirely unarmed and as naked as I, except for the ornaments strapped upon his head, limbs, and breast.

When he was within about fifty feet of me he unclasped an enormous metal armlet, and holding it toward me in the open palm of his hand, addressed me in a clear, resonant voice, but in a language, it is needless to say, I could not understand. He then stopped as though waiting for my reply, pricking up his antennae-like ears and cocking his strange-looking eyes still further toward me.

As the silence became painful I concluded to hazard a little conversation on my own part, as I had guessed that he was making overtures of peace. The throwing down of his weapons and the withdrawing of his troop before his advance toward me would have signified a peaceful mission anywhere on Earth, so why not, then, on Mars!

Placing my hand over my heart I bowed low to the Martian and explained to him that while I did not understand his language, his actions spoke for the peace and friendship that at the present moment were most dear to my heart. Of course I might have been a babbling brook for all the intelligence my speech carried to him, but he understood the action with which I immediately followed my words.

Stretching my hand toward him, I advanced and took the armlet from his open palm, clasping it about my arm above the elbow; smiled at him and stood waiting. His wide mouth spread into an answering smile, and locking one of his intermediary arms in mine we turned and walked back toward his mount. At the same time he motioned his followers to advance. They started toward us on a wild run, but were checked by a signal from him. Evidently he feared that were I to be really frightened again I might jump entirely out of the landscape.

He exchanged a few words with his men, motioned to me that I would ride behind one of them, and then mounted his own animal. The fellow designated reached down two or three hands and lifted me up behind him on the glossy back of his mount, where I hung on as best I could by the belts and straps which held the Martian’s weapons and ornaments.

The entire cavalcade then turned and galloped away toward the range of hills in the distance.

Tomorrow: A Prisoner

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

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John Carter: The Adventure Continues

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

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

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

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!

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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