I couldn't figure out how to get permission to use the mouth of this clown for the cover of my new book, Curse Babbler, which is composed of 45 short stories, 4 previously published, 41 otherwise. My guess is that the woman who took the picture, if she finds out about me, is totally within her rights to take me to some sort of civil court, just as I am within my rights to admit to nothing, which rights I have unwisely waived, and also admitted to waiving. I might have looked for certainty that I'm allowed to self-publish the four stories that also appear elsewhere, but I didn't, so I'm going to jail twice. But it's like the millenials say: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
It was a Mountain Dew Code Red-like rush to self-publish Astonishing Tales Of The Sea in 2012, but at this point, after five years of continuously adding to that mound, I've acquired a tolerance, and need to self-publish more and more to achieve the same effect, or achieve a less intense effect with the same dose. Back then, I was the vessel of a hopeful spirit: I'd just won a wooden thing from a radio show for a silliness that I wrote, and I thought because some guy on the radio read a sentence and a half of my story that I would get any kind of attention at all from even more strangers, but sadly, the only people who ended up paying attention/giving me a good-job award were the people who already knew me and loved the person who I was: a human being made out of actual reality.
I thought adding to this avalanche of radio-press a charming sea-volume would make my meteoric rise faster than a volcanic tornado on acid, but it didn't work at all, and so I kept trying, and now so much of my fiction is for sale on Amazon that it hardly seems like any, like how the first blogs got millions of hits just by being online, whereas modern blogs get none. Plus I'm embarrassed to even tell people to their face that I put my writing on Amazon, because that site isn't even punk. And also it's one thing to self-publish a novel on Amazon, but Curse Babbler is a bunch of short stories which I should have just turned into somewhere between 10 and 45 punk-rock-music-style 'zines, because even though I did it myself (D.I.M.), nobody can, in a punk manner, buy an eleven dollar book from the website of a multinational corporation.
An Englishman bought It Spits You Out and sent me an email about how much he liked it and some of my other media content. His website is www.andrewwalter.co.uk and you ought to contact him if you want any of his materials, such as EXPECTORATING ENCRUSTOR. "Tell him Schranz sent ya."
I should have made all those 'zines, and asked my sea of visually artistic friends, such as Andrew J. Walter, to draw the art for the covers, but I fell victim to the cycle of fame-desire where I think I just have to self-publish one more online collection/novel, and I'll finally get the attention from strangers which my society has tricked me into craving.
My imagination informs me that this attention was supposed to take the form of the Review of Contemporary Fiction asking me to write, while I'm still in my twenties b/c of my extraordinary precocity, a 22,000-word essay on some shit like the history of topics in literature. Naturally I would begin with the Topics, by Aristotle, inventor of the topic. I would cite passages of dialogue in dozens of highbrow works of classic fiction from the past twenty years, and describe how in each passage, topics are discussed. I guess I wouldn't be allowed to write too much about Aristotle because he's no longer anybody's contemporary, and may not even have written fiction, but I could suggest that perhaps the topics covered in Robert Heinlein's mind-altering time-bending short story '—All You Zombies—' makes the point moot that contemporaneity isn't just fake news, while adding another problem to my essay in the shape of the fact that Heinlein's story was written in 1958, which is outside the range of stories covered in the topic 'fiction from the past twenty years,' and then mooting that point too, when it finds the time.
The unclear thought patterns I have accidentally exposed above are the exact reason why, not only would the Review of Contemporary Fiction never ask me to write a 22,000-word essay on the history of topics in literature, but they wouldn't even ask me to write an essay of that length on any topic at all, nor an essay one-twentieth that length, nor do I believe--I should gain hundreds of humility-points for admitting--even were I to send them such an essay, which they didn't even have to go to the trouble of asking me for, they would even choose to print it at all.
No--I shall demonstrate a "cogent" proof that I have even the most basic understanding of the Review of Contemporary Fiction's mission: everyone knows how important it is to use the active voice in your sentences instead of passive voice. Take for example these sentences:
1. "I'm being followed by a moon shadow."
This sentence gets an F.
2. "A moon shadow is following me."
This sentence gets an A.
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