I went nuts a week ago and sort of self-published myself, I guess. It's just a tiny anthology of three of my best short stories to date. It's called Trailer Trash Confessional and I'm mailing copies of it out to a few friends. I went to Elliott Bay Book Co. on Friday and left a copy with them (I actually wanted to leave more but they wouldn't let me). They do allow self-published 'zines and poetry chapbooks on their shelves. I'm guessing if I go back later this week, they'll let me leave more. I'm expecting zero return on my investment so I'm hoping they'll set these out marked FREE or nobody will read them.
I went by Hugo House too and unloaded a half dozen on them. Don't know if anybody will read them before they disappear into their 'zine archive ... which I'm pretty sure nobody reads.
I hope they aren't too depressing.
The first short story is typical coming-of-age, sorta Tobias Wolff meets Mark Twain meets ... Pink Floyd. (Not that my writing even approaches that level!) The third short story is hopefully the most humorous. It's written in a very sarcastic, kind of Christina Ricci in The Opposite of Sex narrative voice.
But the middle short story may rattle some cages. It's a work of fiction but I'm wondering if people will read more into it than they should? I can't emphasize enough that it is fiction, NOT autobiographical but it is very loosely based on a teenage girl I knew years ago who did go through a similar horrific experience.
To the best of my knowledge, she is now married (to a man), doing well and living some where in a suburb of Las Vegas.
I would have liked to have included some sci-fi/fantasy short stories but none of them are complete. I've had the first 50 pages of Dark Engines kicking around my harddrive forever and also the first 112 pages of Life Among the Dead but none of my sci-fi stories come in under 100 pages. I'm incapable of writing sci-fi without a cast of thousands and about fifteen different plot threads. It's enough to give Frank Herbert a headache.