Coming October 29

I'm releasing a horror story this Halloween. All new. Teens and up. PDF. For free. Here.

Stay tuned.

 

 

Txutxemància

Mètodes d'endevinació moderns, capítol n. (Coses que vaig fer per a El Jueves, ara en català). #Ciència

I tried translating this to English, but failed: candy referents are too local.  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Make It

My last book was published four years ago today.

That was one amazing summer. This Body's first edition and the Meddling Kids paperback came out in the same month. The photographic evidence of that period on my phone is a stream of hotel rooms, bookstores, comic cons, and Kimrean cosplayers. I had the time of my life.

And then.

There is a pervasive habit of discussing a writer's success, or any artist's, by saying that they "made it". I always bridle at questions using that phrasing. First, because "making it" conveys that there is some sort of bar to be cleared separating hopefuls from achievers. That's false: like most things once believed to be binaries, success is a spectrum. And second, "making it" seems to imply that it can't be unmade. But it can. One underperforming book, a couple bad decisions, a sprinkle of bad luck, and a recession to top, and you're all the way back to struggling artist. Juggling jobs, rent, and scrambling for people's attention. In four years, I've gone back to my 25. Eat my ass, Estée Lauder.

We talk about art like it's a race. We encourage each other to never give up, never relent, until we reach some goal, but there is no goal. Summer 2018 was not my goal; it was just an extraordinarily good thing that happened to me, all the better because I got it by doing something that I would've done anyway. I still do it: I write what I like. 

Forget about "making it": art is the purpose, not the means. If your purpose is to get rich, just eat richer people.

This

Image credit: Kerin Cunningham

Well, fuck

Heaven Park, the work previously known as the Disaster in Progress that was my endeavor for over four years, is not happening. 

Although the book was signed on with a publisher back in September 2020, long delays on their side had already put a huge strain on my relationship with the editor. Earlier this year the book was finally slotted for publication in September 2023--three years after acquisition, which is both unprecedented and untenable. The editor's insistence on making sizeable cuts nearly two years in was the last straw. So I'm walking out.

I do not make this decision lightly. Canceling this contract means delaying my next book even more, whichever it is, and it puts me in a terrible position financially. While teenage me is proud I stood up for the integrity of my work, adult me is about to jump out of a fucking window. 

But Heaven Park is personal. Its real counterpart, the place the novel is based on, has become my perfect vacation spot much faster than Los Angeles is becoming a nice place to live in. Heaven is square one, but it's a very comfortable square one. Crawling back to die in it is not that bad a deal. 

What I regret most is not being able to share it with you guys yet. But I will. It belongs to Heavenparkers already.

More images at @heaven_park_snaps