Round Them Up

As far as the "date modified" column in my story folder is telling me, it was on Valentine's Day, 2002, that I began writing with the intention of eventually not having to exchange any actual work for money, a day during which I happened to be twelve and a half. This was the day, it seems, that I wrote my story, "Aliens." Here is an unforgettable scene from its rising action:

I got my Swiss Army Knife and jumped out the 2nd story window and landed on an alien. I stabbed its head and ichor came out of it. It was 8:36 PM of spring break and we were dropping fast. Finally the cops arrived. They had their riot shields and armored cars and machine guns but were killed.

However it took nine years of honing my craft like so much blade before anyone felt like it was a smart move to part with cash over anything I wrote. Chainbooks in 2011 gave me twenty five bucks for the first chapter of a book that no one ever wrote a second chapter to. Their whole plan was to compile novels whose chapters were all by different authors. There are hundreds of authors associated with Chainbooks, and among them possibly thousands of first chapters. I have been unable to locate a single second chapter for any of these books. This is partially my fault.

In the Fall of 2012 my collection of six stories of varying lengths, Astonishing Tales Of The Sea, was accepted for publication by a publisher named Peter Schranz, who published it on a free self-publishing platform. publish This same thing happened a year later in the fall of 2013, when my collection of thirteen stories, It Spits You Out was made available in paperback. So far the royalties that have rolled in over the years amount to $93.21.

The Deimos Ezine gave me three bucks for Elizabeth in April 2013.

After I graduated in 2011 I figured my senior thesis, Pump Retrospective: 2049 2053, was good enough to sell as an electronic book for three clams. Twelve suckers bought it since then but I only shook $22.44 out of them. One of my marks was from Canada and my story is about Canadian performance artists from the mid-twenty first century so oh no.

Without any further ado, it is my very special honor to present--at this preciousest of moments--die...


Meaning that I make an average of $5.75 a year from writing fiction, calculated from the year of my birth rather than the year of "Aliens."

It's just that, the only thing is all those links, though