Monday, December 10, 2012


Howdy and hello,

Just a quick note to say that Too Late to Call Texas is on sale in Kindle format from today (the 10th) until the 15th. Only $1.99. That's four bucks off. Pretty sweet, if you ask me (not that you did).

Also, the good folks at Nightscape Press are having a sale on ALL of their titles, which includes my novella Butterfly Potion, in Kindle and paperback.  So hop on over to Amazon and get some gifts, or get yourself some treats.

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Shadows and Reflections: A tribute to Roger Zelazny

Shadows and Reflections: A tribute to Roger Zelazny Edited by Trent Zelazny and Warren Lapine

Shadows and Reflections is a tribute to the fiction of Roger Zelazny. We are looking for stories set in any of the various universes that Zelazny created in his short stories and novels, with the exception of the Amber universe. As you probably know, Zelazny’s work covered a very wide range of genre fiction so we are open to most genres. The only limiting factor is that a story must either use one or more of Zelazny’s characters or be expressly set in one of his milieus. Zelazny was one of the most literate and inventive writers that genre fiction has ever known. Your Story submission should reflect that.

Length: up to 10,000 words.

Payment: 5 cents per word for unsolicited stories max $250.00 and 10 cents per word for solicited stories max $500.00 on acceptance. (Note unsolicited subs are contingent upon our hitting our primary Indiegogo goal and may increase to the same amount as the solicited stories if we hit our secondary Indiegogo goal.

Submissions: Stories should be e-mailed to

Trent Zelazny is a Nightmare Award winning author and the son of Roger  Zelazny. Warren Lapine is the publisher of Wilder Publications and has been nominated for a Hugo Award, a World Fantasy Award, and a Chesley Award.

Roger Zelazny was very important to both Trent and Warren. Trent for obviouse reasons and Warren because it was the work of Roger Zelazny that first made him gravitate towards a career in publishing. With this anthology we are hoping to keep the memory of Roger Zelazny and his wonderful work alive.

At first we had considered doing this project as a short anthology featuring stories form Roger’s better known friends. Both Trent and Warren really wanted to let other, lesser known writers who were influenced by Roger participate as well as fans who aren’t writers. That desire lead to this Indiegogo campaign. If we reach our primary goal of $10,000.00 we will open the anthology up to unsolicited submissions. If we reach our secondary goal of $15,000.00 we will pay the unsolicited writers the same rate that we are paying for solicited stories. If we hit our third goal of $20,000.00 the anthology will come out not just in trade paper back and as an e-book, but also in hard cover. So please join us and help celibrate the memory of Roger Zelazny and all the amazing universes he created and get some cool perks.

Even if you can't contrubte you can help by helping us get the word out and sharing the link to our indiegogog page. Thanks Everyone for helping us make this dream happen and for allowing us to let more people in on it.

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Ebook Sale!!! Price lowered, only a couple days!!! Hurry before the Bunyip gets you!!!


Just a quick note to say that, through November 28th (my birthday), I am selling an ebook package deal right on this here blog. For eight six bucks (that's about two one and a half Starbucks drinks, maybe not even that) you'll receive a copy of my new novel Too Late to Call Texas, as well as a copy of my first anthology, Mirages. Simply go to the "Donate" button, send $8.00 $6.00, and specify if you'd like the books in ePub (Nook compatible) or Mobi (Kindle) format. Soon as I receive, I'll immediately send you both books.

Basically, this way, you save $4.00 $6.00 (about the price of a Starbucks drink).

Essentially, it's a two for one deal.

It's as simple as that.

Mirages contains 17 tales of darkness and dread, brought to you by some of the best voices in dark fiction. Tom Piccirilli, Jeffrey Thomas, Barb Lien-Cooper & Park Cooper, Lee Allen Howard, Tina Swain, Joseph S. Pulver, Sr., Gerald Hausman, Billie Sue Mosiman, Scott Bradley & Peter Giglio, Kealan Patrick Burke, Lori R. Lopez, Jason S. Ridler, Leigh M. Lane, Joe R. Lansdale, Curt Jarrell, E. A. Black, Edward Morris.

 The Bunyip song from Dot and the Kangaroo.

Saturday, November 3, 2012

SCIENCE FICTION LAND {A Stranger Than Fiction Doc}

Greetings from (ecstatic) SCIENCE FICTION LAND! Wow! Did this really happen? Fact or fiction? Reality or imagination?

The truth is, you made our dream come true! 

We’re humbled and grateful for your generosity and support for our project. Beyond pledges, our backers have inspired us with their enthusiasm and passion for this project. Thank you!
So...with 12 hours still to go, let’s keep going! We’ve created a stretch goal of $60,000! Our $50k goal was the minimum we needed to finish the documentary - and we achieved that thanks to almost 700 people from around the world! We know it is ambitious, but everything about this story is over the top - so let’s go for it! This amount will help us finish to promote and publicize the film and help cover the costs of DVD, prints, and festival submissions, which are considerable. These steps will enable us to share SCIENCE FICTION LAND with a wider audience.

We still have 27 first edition copies of Roadmarks by Roger Zelazny donated by Trent Zelazny. And we also have copies of Michael Hearst/One Ring Zero’s phenomenal album, As Smart As We Are (The Author Project). These go to backers who pledge or increase $25 or more. Let people know about these awesome rewards and help us get to our new goal!

Have we mentioned that we have the best backers in the world? We do! We were happy to have so many great backers in the UK. We leave you with a video made by one of our UK comrades, Ravi Kumar. Thanks to Ravi for all of your support and for sharing this video with us!
Most of all, thank you to each and every one of our backers. You made this possible. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

The Science Fiction Land Team

Friday, November 2, 2012


I'm meeting today with the editor of the SF Reporter. I hope it goes well. Honestly, I've lost a lot of interest in even bothering, be it in a positive or a negative way. I'm still doing it, though it won't be the conversation it could have been. And yes, it's mostly because of the sociopath comment. While that is not the editor I'm meeting with (the editor I'm meeting with has been nothing but kind and courteous), that personal attack comment really said a lot about someone who is a supposed professional, and that someone is affiliated with this paper. I never mentioned any names, and I don't believe I singled anyone out and called them names.

Pointing out you don't like a paper (giving an opinion), which, other than ads, is primarily an opinion paper, and being personally called a sociopath by one of its editors for it (that editor should look up what the word means, and should also understand that artists of any ilk are typically eccentric and weird) is, well... it tells me the likelihood of this meeting doing anything for anyone is very slim.

But, as I said, the editor I'm meeting with has been nothing but kind from the get-go. If nothing else, maybe there will be an enjoyable cup of coffee or something.

Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Live interview coming up shortly


Join us at She Never Slept this evening at 6:30 (Eastern). You can call in with questions any time during the broadcast. Be sure to listen closely ghouls and boils, you can win a Halloween treat!

 Click the link below.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Two somehow managed Amazon Reviews for Too Late to Call Texas

5.0 out of 5 stars Macbeth Meets Reservoir Dogs

What? Likening this upstart's work to Shakespeare and Tarentino? Has the reviewer lost his mind? Those are two separate questions, to which I answer: 1) Yep, and: 2) ...well, yes, but not in relation to Too Late To Call Texas.

I'm not a spoiler-type reviewer, so I won't give many details, but just let me say this: Not since Jack Bauer have so many characters been in so much danger. The body count is high, the feel-good quotient low. But this is what Zelazny seems to know and do best, which is to deny us relief, shun our pleas for leniency. If you're looking for sunshine and roses look elsewhere. On the other hand, if you like tragedy (Shakespeare) and ugly, in-your-face grit (Tarentino), then look no further. Zelazny knows this territory, maybe too well. And he's not afraid to grab the reader by the scruff of the neck and say, "Pay attention, this is what despair feels like; what it looks, and smells and tastes like."

I find all of this immensely refreshing. We are being told and shown the truth. I don't know the man, so I am going out on a limb in saying Zelazny is not slanting for any particular market, he is stilling some very aggressive personal demons. If I ever get to meet him, I'd like to talk with him long over coffee and beg him never to stop writing. At least until the demons have had their say.

I've raved about Trent Zelazny before, and this latest work only proved my previous rants. This boy can write. You should be reading his work. 
5.0 out of 5 stars Great Read! 

This is my first time reading Trent Zelazny, and I was surprised. The book is well-paced with action, mystery, and suspense. The book is a well-written ride into a dark situation, and gives the reader insight into the hearts of the characters. I am now a fan of Zelazny's work, and want to read more of his books.

It's Freedom of the Press, not Freedom of Your Opinion of the Press

"For a paper that is supposedly founded on the idea of people saying what they want, for them to act like a wrist-slapped child is beyond hypocritical." --Rick Carroll

So, yeah, last night I made a Facebook comment on a local paper here in Santa Fe, New Mexico. It was not a nice comment, and maybe the timing of my comment was shitty, as I have a local book signing coming up in a week.

The story actually begins some fifteen years ago, when, in 1997, Portland, Oregon's Willamette Week purchased The Santa Fe Reporter. What had been an interesting alternative weekly newspaper rather quickly turned into a weekly newspaper catering solely to the northeast (wealthy) section of Santa Fe. As I read it, I watched Santa Fe grow smaller and smaller. Most anything west of Saint Francis Drive (the wrong side of the tracks, for some reason) became seemingly off limits. Most any alternative shows and events, be they art, music, books, what have you, faded out of their listings, and rather than a paper about what was going on in Santa Fe, it became a paper of what was happening mostly downtown that might appeal to high-income people who reside in the northeastern part of town. It picked its favorite people and places, and has pretty much stuck with those. If you wanna know what's happening at Site Santa Fe, on the historical Canyon Road, or who is playing at the Cowgirl Hall of Fame, The Reporter is the place to look. There have been rare exceptions to this, but as a general rule, that is what you will get.

What will you also get? You'll get movies reviewed when no one on the staff has actually seen the movie. A good example of judging a book by its cover (I'll get to books in a moment). For example, the movie Drive, starring Ryan Gosling and Bryan Cranston. They wrote it off as a claptrap action film, giving an inaccurate summary of what the movie was even about. A friend of mine, after she and I saw the movie together, wrote them and explained what the movie was, and that reviews should not be written about movies no one has seen. They corrected it in the next issue, so I will give them that.

Okay, books. Rarely is a book featured (or even mentioned) if it does not deal with one of two certain subjects: New Mexico history, or better living through valerian extract enemas (or equivalent). Mary Higgins Clark came to town and got a tiny little line about her appearance, almost unnoticeable. Joe Lansdale was coming to town. Same thing. Joe wound up not coming in the end, but that was not the paper's fault.

Every year there is a Best of Santa Fe. The winners are pretty much always predictable, though I'd like to point out one instance, while the subject of books is still nearby. Tony Hillerman, rest his soul, a fantastic mystery writer who knew more than just about anyone when it came to the Southwest, won for best Santa Fe writer a couple of years before his passing. All fine and good, and he very much deserved a "Best of" acknowledgement, but not Best of Santa Fe. Why? Because Tony Hillerman did not live in Santa Fe. He lived in Albuquerque, which has their own weekly paper with their own "Best of". It was seeing this that, as much as I love and respect Hillerman, officially decided me on the fact that this paper was full of crap.

I don't want to ramble too long here, so let me now just try to bring up what this is all about.

The Reporter has ignored me forever. That is fine with me. I don't care if they want nothing to do with me. It's their paper (well, technically, it's Portland's paper) but they can do whatever they want with it. Over the years I've had two of my signings mentioned (less pronounced than Clark or Lansdale), both with my name spelled wrong and one with incorrect information on the book. Again, that's fine, as I find the paper, much like they assumed of the movie Drive, to be claptrap. The difference being I've read the paper, whereas they didn't see the movie.

So last night, seeing online a tiny little mention of my upcoming signing (again, name misspelled), I found myself annoyed. Maybe that was the catalyst, but I looked at other articles on the site and found it to be more and more exclusive, catering to only a few, and so I posted on Facebook:

"The Santa Fe Reporter really needs new writers and editors and needs to stop living in the fantasy world where all of the news created by them is simply for them, and only covering about eight square blocks of town."

Okay, maybe not the nicest thing to say, I'll admit that. We are all human beings, and all human beings do or say inappropriate things at times. But I stand by it. A few locals actually said I was way too nice in my comment.

About a month ago my good friend and PR rep (who helps me as a friend, because I never have two dollars to my name) sent a copy of my new book, press release and all. Like with all of my other titles, the whole thing was basically ignored. No one ever got back to her, but I guess they figured they'd throw us a bone by essentially tucking my signing in a small corner of their site (name misspelled) where no one is going to see it.

This morning, my friend and PR rep received, from The Reporter: expect for us to help you promote this event, when the person that you are representing is publicly bashing the Reporter on Facebook?

And now, they want nothing to do with me, and refuse to promote anything I'm a part of.

Okay, honestly, no, we did not expect you to help promote the event. Already knew you wouldn't, for the simple reason that you don't promote events which don't involve New Mexico history, better living through valerian extract enemas, or the new charming "shocker" Why are Faggots Afraid of Faggots. No, we--maybe I should say I--never expected a damn thing. It was sent, just as my books are sent to many places.

Email sent. Email ignored. I make comment. Email gets response. In other words, "Yeah, yeah, whatever, put this in the junk folder... Wait! He said something bad about us? On Facebook? Get that outta the junk folder and tell them to fuck off."

I pulled the comment down to keep people's asses from twisting up too tight, but it was reposted in a later thread, in which I'd announced that I had pissed off the paper.

I liked very much what one friend--a local--had to say: I think that comment is pretty much dead on. In the four years I spent out of NM, I found myself missing the SFR, in what I came to realize was an overidealized way. When I returned, and actually read the thing again, I was sort of blown away by how empty and meaningless it is, outside of a very, very small subset of Santa Fe. If it wants to have any relevance at all, it should take your advice to heart...perfectly sums up how the Reporter works: ignore anything outside of its miniscule circle of influence/comfort zone until it does something that the Reporter perceives as annoying. Then attack.

 While another friend said: I mean, seriously, who the hell actually listens to anything in the SFR? And, let's face it, I'd go with a recommendation by Neil-Fucking-Gaiman over the SFR. Go anywhere in Santa Fe... fuck it, go to the office of the SFR, and ask anyone standing around, if given between the choice of Gaiman's blurb or the SFR, who they would go with...For a paper that is supposedly founded on the idea of people saying what they want, for them to act like a wrist-slapped child is beyond hypocritical.

 So, basically, this is a very long way of me saying that I said what I said, it was taken how it was taken. I've managed to piss off a local newspaper with a Facebook comment I made last night on my personal page. They refuse to promote anything having to do with me. Thing is, they've blown me off and ignored me my entire career, so how does this change anything?

Answer: It doesn't.

Friday, October 5, 2012

Snobs: a story or a fable or a mindless rant or something

People turned their noses up at Dickens. They shunned Poe. Van Gogh was utterly and indisputably ignored, while Kafka died from starvation. At the time of his death, Thoreau had published only two books, which were not well received. The Ramones were mostly a joke until the end of their career, and William Blake died poor and unknown and buried in an unmarked grave.

I could use this as a form of encouragement, but I’m not going to. What I’m using it for it to simply say:

Hey, snobs, get over yourselves. Get out of your dumbass high school mentality cliques and look at things for what they are.  Art is art.  You can take it or leave it. Liking it or not liking it does not make you a better person, and who you like or dislike results in the same thing. You’re just as great as Dickens or Van Gogh but you’re no better than the poor person working the graveyard shift at the Seven-Eleven (in this case I think Dickens and Van Gogh and the poor person working the graveyard shift at the Seven-Eleven are all interchangeable). Snobbery might sometimes look cool, like smoking, but the end result is usually a repelling one.

Don’t really know where this all came from, but there it is.

Hope to see you at the Sock Hop.

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Thank you for your help, Amazon

---- Original message:

09/25/12 11:11:04 : Trent Zelazny

This was the option that seemed best to write to. I have a book coming out on October 31st of this year. Rather than pre-order, it has 'email to be alerted when book is available.' It says on the page publication date October 31st, 2012. Could this please be switched to the pre-order option?

Thank you.

Trent Zelazny
Paperback: 226 pages
Publisher: Black Curtain Press (October 31, 2012
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1617208434
ISBN-13: 978-1617208430

From: " Customer Service", To: ""

Date: Tue, 25 Sep 2012 23:40:01 +0000

Hello Trent, I'd love to help make your book "TOO LATE TO CALL TEXAS" available for pre-order before its release date on our website. However, I recommend discussing this request with your publisher or distributor, as the availability of your book is communicated to us by them. They can work with their representatives at Amazon in order to set this up for you. I'm sorry we're unable to carry out your request, but I hope this information is helpful to you. We look forward to seeing you again soon. Thanks for using Author Central and have a wonderful day!

This e-mail was sent from an address that cannot accept incoming e-mail. To contact us about an unrelated issue, please use our Contact Us form found here:

Best regards,

Sammy B.


---- Original message: ----

'Trent Zelazny' (

Thank you for getting back to me. I just don't understand why it would say the available date then. I've spoken with the publisher. There was no issue with Barnes and Nobel or any other retailer, only Amazon.

---------- Original Message ----------
From: " Customer Service" <>
To: "" <>
Subject: Your Author Central Inquiry
Date: Wed, 26 Sep 2012 11:17:59 +0000

Hello Trent,

I regret that we haven't been able to address your concerns to your satisfaction.

We won't be able to provide further insight or assistance for your request.

Thank you for contacting us.

Best regards,

Esha S

From: "" <>
To: " Customer Service" <>
Subject: Your Author Central Inquiry
Date: Wed, 26 Sep 2012 12:26:08 +0000

So, basically, what you're telling me is to fuck off.

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

You'd like to make my book into a movie? Great! Wait, what's that...?

I dunno if every writer gets this or not, as I'm not every writer--I'm just me--but I've been both touched and a little surprised at the number of messages, both electronically and on this old thing we once called paper, telling me how much they'd love to turn Fractal Despondency into an indie film, or To Sleep Gently could be a blockbuster.

Really? Cool!

But wait, my first question is, "Who are you?" followed by "Have you ever made a movie before? Have you ever written a screenplay? Have you ever gotten coffee for Matt Damon's double?" This is then followed by my asking, "How much?"

"How much?"

"For the film option?"

The two most common responses:

1. Oh, well. we were hoping we could have a free option, and if it makes money, we'll share it with you.

2. The person laughing self-consciously with an otherwise vacant look in their eyes.

I try very hard to be a nice person. No, I do not always succeed, but I try. A lot of people can attest to that. But here's the thing. My sole income is from my writing, and clearly I'm not a best-seller or even generally in the mid-list. This should give one a little idea of how much money I make. And no, this is not entirely by choice. There are no jobs. If I could get a job, I would. And no, I'm not looking for sympathy on that. What I'm saying is, whether I like it or not, writing is how I make my living, and it is a very non-glamorous living. I work my ass off to receive sporadic checks that, on average, cover a tank of gas and some groceries. And just to get this, I work 25 hours a day, 8 days a week.

So you want some of the most valuable rights an author holds, and you won't pay them anything for them?

Another response:

Oh, but we know this guy. He was a grip on an episode of Breaking Bad and he stood around and chatted with Bryan Cranston for ten minutes.

Good for this guy you know. And you clearly must be close if you can't even call him a friend.

I've worked in Hollywood. I've done work with NBC and with major big-time producers who, if you heard their names, your jaw would drop, then slowly detach from the rest of your face and plop on the floor.

Another response:

I just really, really believe in the material.

Cool. So if you really, really believe in the material, and you think you have the talent and ability or connections to adapt and have this work made, then why aren't you willing to pay the creator anything?

A colleague, Weston Ochse, whom I've met but don't actually know, just had wonderful news.  Metro Goldwyn Mayer just bought his new book SEAL Team 666

First, Congrats to Weston! Okay, now, you never ask someone what they've been paid, but I guarantee you that they paid him for it (and I hope very well). Weston was in the U.S. Army and became an intelligence officer. He was stationed in the Republic of Korea, Fort Jackson, Fort Gordon, Fort Bragg, Fort Carson, Fort Huachuca, Presidio Monterey and Los Angeles Air Force Base. Hell, the dude has peed in the Danube. What does he do now for a living? He's a writer. I promise you when he wrote this book, which I'm very much looking forward to reading, he didn't say to himself, "This book will be awesome to give away. But you know what would be even cooler? If someone optioned the film rights and paid me no money."

Okay, enough of that. I just wanted to pitch Weston Ochse there because he's a great writer and, in our limited encounters, a hell of a nice guy.

One of my titles has some brew ha-ha going on in Hollywood as we speak. I'm not holding my breath even for a second. The point of all this is, this is what I do. As much as I'd love to be in a position like, say, Stephen King, who is kind enough to at times give indie filmmakers free options, I am not in that type of position. My bank account currently has $4.03 in it, and you love my work but you want it for free? You mean you won't even offer me $4.03? I'm not saying you need to have millions of dollars (unless you're looking to option my father's work, but that's a whole other story), but to offer nothing but false promises is insulting as well as ignorant. This goes for many writers, I'm sure. Weston, in this case, talented as he is, was blessed and fortunate and also lucky. It's the way the television and movie business works.

Back to Stephen King, you can take his hugely successful Dark Tower series, attach Brian Grazer to produce and Ron Howard to direct and, still, in the end, it goes down the toilet. It's what Hollywood does.

Okay, long rant that seems to now be going nowhere. Too late to make a long story short. It's flattering, but I/we need to eat.

Friday, September 21, 2012

Help to Promote Too Late to Call Texas

From master wordsmith Peter Giglio:

Trent Zelazny is easily one of my favorite new writers. His work shines bright in the dark corners he explores, but this is a tough market. Trent's looking to take his new release to the next level, and I only wish I was rich and had a bunch of time on my hands, because then I'd take this champ to the big fight and be Mickey to his Rocky. Now, I know money doesn't grow on trees -- authors need no reminder of that -- but please consider Trent's campaign. Many of you, I know, love his work, too, and if you think he deserves a wider market, vote with your wallet. Time to click on the link and let Trent take over. Thanks for your consideration. Cheers!

You can click on the cover to read more about it.

Not everything there is donations of money. A smidge of time, a quick mention, anything and everything is welcome and appreciated.

Friday, September 14, 2012

Free promo weekend from Nightscape Press

Today through Sunday, the first three Nightscape Press releases on Kindle are free, free, FREE!!! Butterfly Potion, World's Collider, and A Requiem For Dead Flies. Pick them up, and pass the word along :)

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Be grateful, not a douchebag.

To all writers when you do a signing somewhere: If it does not go well. If no one shows up, do not, I repeat, DO NOT, take out your frustrations on the bookstore. They work hard enough, and when you come in to do a signing, they are working extra hard, and they are genuinely pleased that you are there. The more people the better, more books sell. You win, the bookstore wins. But this does not always happen. I'm writing this because a good friend of mine who happens to own a bookstore here, which is the store I prefer to spend my money at and, when promoting, prefer to do readings and signings at, just got shit for this reason. She just had a local author tell her that she's unprofessional and childish, and that her business is going to fail because no one came to her reading, and then continued to verbally abuse her.

It is not my friend's fault. It is not any bookstore owner's fault. These things happen. I don't know this writer personally, though I know who it is. I've watched very big names sell between 0 and 1 books at a signing. Doing a signing does NOT MAKE YOU A GOD. Be appreciative that the store welcomes you, that they're putting in extra work to try and help you, and allowing you to hold a promotional event in their store.

Be grateful, not a douchebag.

Monday, September 10, 2012


Lori rated it 5 of 5 stars

Trent Zelazny writes dark, and that's okay with me. As a matter of fact, when I finished the last page of "Too Late to Call Texas," I sat there and wept for a good long while. And it wasn't one of those sweet, dab-your-eyes-with-a-hanky cries either. It was good, hard sobs, snot and sorrow. Still, I can honestly say I enjoyed reading every word.

Trent dredges up those rock-bottom moments in life that bring us all to our knees, then he pours emotional salt into the wounds until all a person can do is cry. You might have nothing in common with his protagonist, Carson. You probably don't. But you'll feel his pain and you'll feel the futility that can make a man take desperate chances. And you'll think "Man, this guy can't catch a break" and remember how many times you've been right there yourself. And his wife, Brittany, bears a lot of the same battle scars from a life lived paycheck-to-paycheck, disappointment-to-despair. You'll feel her pain, too. Trent does that -- he draws his characters so clearly, so painfully honestly, that anyone will find something that makes their own heart-of-hearts ache.

Trent is relatively young, and I predict he'll be turning out more and more high-quality, dark-as-pitch stories in the future. And if he doesn't, why, that would just break my heart.

Enter to win a copy of Too Late to Call Texas before it's even out.

Yeah, kind of neat, huh? All you need to do is go to and enter. The winner will get a signed copy before it's official Halloween release date :)

Saturday, September 8, 2012

Goodis, Spurlock, Writing and Writers and How Non-Writers View the Occupation, All Thanks to False Time Travel

So, I'd posted a goofy time-travel picture of me annoying my favorite writer David Goodis on Facebook, and friend and fellow scribe Neal Alan Spurlock made some observations I really enjoyed, and felt worth sharing. He said a lot of things I think very often, and he said them well, so, here's the picture, followed by what he said:

So that's Goodis, huh? I remember his name being on the old Superman stuff I was into (I'm a huge superhero nerd). Never knew what he looked like, though. I know the legend of his prolific writing regimen, of course, and often wished I had the same discipline. I envy the writers from the early 20th...they had it hard, in many ways, but at the same time they had a rather simple life with few distractions. It made sense to them, and everyone around them, that they had a job just like anyone else, and that they were going to spend the same amount of time on it as any other job.

Now we have typewriters that are our own biggest distractions (while I enjoy corresponding with my fellow scribblers, words here are words I'm not writing on either MSS...the new short or the new novel), and the whole world seems to think that writing happens automatically and quickly, which means we can also spend our time being full-time PR people, marketers, etc, ad infinitum, ad nauseaum, and we don't REALLY need to work.

About six months ago I was despairing about that, and was considering setting my office up to mimic the setting of a pre-information age working professional author. It just turned out to be too impractical...there is no other place to put my computer and assorted junk, I need it for reference and research, etc. In addition to this, no one seems to think of writing as a "job" anymore...people think it means I'm just screwing around all day, thus it's okay to call me, text me, etc., because it's not like I'm "busy" or "at work" the same as other people. Even trying to suggest that it should be seen like this gets sneers and amusement out of people.

It's a strange world. People know that other people must have jobs in these fields, because where else would all those books, TV shows, and movies come from? But they consider any attempt to actually do those jobs as unreal. You have to be Stephen King before they assume that being a writer is a hobby, something we do for fun. There are editors and publishers out there like this, as well, who keep wanting us to do things "for the love" and get to stand on a moral high-ground about it where we shouldn't really expect or want to get paid for our's not really "work", and thus deserves no respect or expectation of compensation.

Thursday, August 16, 2012

FB Stress

This will be brief. I find that I let Facebook stress me out way too much. There are reasons beyond my own emotional state, but you get down to it, it's me doing it. I allow the crap to affect me. So, that, said, I'm going to be trying very hard to seriously limit my Facebook time. Being addicted to it, like so many of us are, it's gonna be a challenge, but a simple 12 hours or so away from it (much of that I was sleeping) and my stress level is already lower. I'll still be there, but hopefully it will be in a very limited capacity. I'm on Twitter, which doesn't have the same affect on me, so you can follow me there, if you feel so inclined.

We'll see what happens, but between the weirdos and my own sensitivity to it, I really need to spend less time there. Plus, I'll likely get more work done.

Wednesday, August 15, 2012

As always

Since I've been trying for a very long time to get any kind of job and had absolutely no success, and I have no choice but to rely on the income I get from my books, which is slim to nil, please feel free to check out the stuff I have for sale on Amazon. If you're really rich, which most of us are not, buy the expensive stuff :)

Sunday, August 12, 2012


Also in the news today, my first anthology, Mirages: Tales From Authors of the Macabre will be available this week, so be on the lookout for it :)

Something illusory, without substance or reality. The sticky threads that communicate the meaningless in a thousand different ways.

Collected here are 17 tales of darkness and dread, teetering on the edge of reality and unreality, nightmares and dreams, brought to you by some of the best voices in dark fiction.

Tom Piccirilli
Jeffrey Thomas
Barb Lien-Cooper & Park Cooper
Lee Allen Howard
Tina Swain
Joseph S. Pulver, Sr.
Gerald Hausman
Billie Sue Mosiman
Scott Bradley & Peter Giglio
Kealan Patrick Burke
Lori R. Lopez
Jason S. Ridler
Leigh M. Lane
Joe R. Lansdale
Curt Jarrell
E. A. Black
Edward Morris

Fractal Despondency T-Shirt

If you know me, you know that I'm a T-shirt slut. I LOVE T-shirts. And now, thanks to Groovy Sam at Scurvy Ink, you can get an awesome hand-printed Fractal Despondency shirt. This, my friends, makes me feel like a rock star.

Thursday, August 2, 2012

Too Late to Call Texas, First Chapter

So, here is the opening chapter to Too Late to Call Texas, due out in late September.

It was just before midnight on a Friday in mid-July when Carson came out of Lucky’s Lounge with a couple of beers in him.  He wiped the fresh outbreak of perspiration from his brow and headed down the sidewalk, still hearing the music from the bar.  After a block he got into his truck, pulled onto the street, and drove toward Dead Brook Road.

The headlights pierced the night as the road went from blacktop to dirt.  Cottonwoods, juniper and piñon trees flanked the timeworn path, and an aged barbed-wire fence ran haggard along the right side.  The truck’s radio played a static-laced version of “Kitty Waltz.”

Against a pole of the fence leaned a small black shape.  From Carson’s angle it looked like a hat, a cowboy hat, possibly a Bailey or a Stetson.  He pulled alongside the road and got out.  His headlights sprayed on trees and fence and hat.  He crouched down and picked it up by the brim.  It was sticky on the underside and he turned it over and held it in the headlight beams.  The stickiness was dark and glistened and there was more of it in the crown along with little hard bits and a hole he could have put his finger through.

He scanned the darkened landscape.  Other than the running engine of his truck, things were quiet.  He threw the hat into the back of his truck and looked at the disturbed ground.  On the bottom wire of the fence was more blood.  He went into the floor of his cab and got his flashlight and hunting knife, then switched off the headlights and the engine.  He clipped the knife to his belt, then pressed the bottom wire of the fence down with his foot and pulled up on the wire above and stepped through and turned on the flashlight.  There were footprints and drag marks and dark splotches in the drag marks.  He shielded the light beam with his hand and looked around again.  There were some stars and a hint of the moon.  He kept his hand cupped around the flashlight’s end and followed the trail.

Down a ways he reached a ravine.  Not three feet down a body lay on its side, wearing jeans and a pair of roper boots and a plaid shirt under a denim jacket.  A chunk of his head was missing and there was a small pool of blood beneath it.  Carson crouched and looked closer at the man.  It wasn’t anybody he knew, and it was difficult to tell if he was Anglo or Mexican.  Whoever did this seemed to have been in a hurry, otherwise they would have pushed him further down the ravine and gone back to the road and retrieved his hat.

On the other hand, maybe they just didn’t care all that much.

He climbed down and found a solid place to sit and began going through the dead man’s pockets.  No wallet, no money, no keys, nothing.  Just a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and a tin of breath mints.
He sat back and wiped his brow and the sound of a closing car door echoed.

He fumbled and turned off the flashlight as the car’s engine turned over and revved.  He kept himself lowered and watched the night where he thought the sound was coming from.  For a while nothing happened.  Then the sound of rocks grinding under tires, and, in the dark, the moving orange glow of parking lights popped up.

Carson kept his breathing steady but it shuddered.  His foot bumped the dead man every so often.
The car went slow, crept along like a patient predator.  The engine was sound but made a soft clinking noise.  The orange lights were moving toward the ravine.

Carson looked around him.  There wasn’t much to see in the darkness.  He knew the ravine went down probably thirty feet and there were rocks and trees and shrubs on the descent.  He stayed as low as he could, keeping watch of the vehicle.

The car was a truck as it got closer, one of those 4x4 hatchback things.  A sport utility vehicle.  He couldn’t tell what kind or how many were in it.  When it was two dozen yards away he moved down past the dead man and searched blindly for solid footholds.  Rocks slid and tumbled down.  He found a tree and tucked himself behind it.

The truck came to a halt at the top of the ravine and the headlights blasted to life as doors opened.  Carson could see a ways below him but the bottom was pitch-black.

Above came voices.  They weren’t speaking loud but it sounded like Spanish.  Two people from the sound of it, maybe three.  He waited, his back pressed against the tree.  He closed his eyes to listen but couldn’t make anything out.  A minute passed and then a rock hit the ground to his right.  His heart skipped but he didn’t budge.

Another rock hit the opposite side of the tree, bounced and then rolled down past him.

“Dónde te escondes, cabrón?”

He chewed his lower lip, rested his hand on the hunting knife sheathed at his side.  They weren’t just going to go away.  They knew he was here, knew he’d seen the body, knew he had to be exterminated.  He looked down into the darkness of the ravine as another rock landed far off to his left.  They were trying to scare him out of hiding but he’d seen the missing part of the dead man’s head.  These guys were equipped with better than rocks.

“Dónde estás, amigo?”

From what he could tell it was a piss-poor slant to the ravine’s bottom.  He pivoted and faced the tree, chanced a look around it.

Two men stood in silhouette before the car.  One cradled a rifle; the other held a handgun.  Behind them, alongside the car, stood a third man with a rifle.

The one with the handgun pointed.  “Está allí,” and the two riflemen took aim.

“Shit!”  Carson pushed away from the tree and headed downward, traipsing over loose rocks and cacti and fallen branches.  When the first shot fired he lost his balance.  He fell and rolled into the fall and tumbled down the hill, sharp things poking and scratching him.  He fumbled over the edge of a five-foot drop and landed hard on dirt, then sucked a deep breath and got to his feet.  The men were calling to one another above.

At least two of the men were heading down, flashlights lit in their hands, while the truck began to pull away from the cliff’s edge.

Carson jammed his flashlight into his belt and ran as another gunshot rang out.


He veered right.  It was a mere slope here and he scrambled and weeded his way up through bushes and branches.  Twenty feet up he stumbled and fell, rolled off his shoulder and faltered to his feet.  He hobbled, then dropped behind a large rock and watched below.

A beam of light towed a blurred shape.  The rifleman slowed from a run to a patient tracker’s walk, flashlight slicing the darkness from side to side.

Carson crouched low and slid out his knife.  He could hear the 4x4 driving up top but didn’t know where the second man was.  The man below appeared to be at a loss, kept cutting the light back and forth.

Time was a heavy cross.

Carson pulled a cactus spine from his ankle, made a point of breathing through his mouth and an eternity seemed to pass before the man moved on.

When the voices were unintelligible echoes, he rose from behind the rock, slid his knife into the sheath, and made his way back down the slope.  He went left, walking at first, then picking up to a jog.  He came to a clear spot that led upward and climbed, using trees for aid.
At the top he saw the 4x4 two hundred yards to his right.  One man stood before it while another climbed out of the ravine and joined him.

With a deep breath Carson pulled himself up, stooped and moved, and headed in the general direction of Dead Brook Road.  The sliver of moon was jaundiced and the stars were pale and dim.  When he had gained some ground he uprighted and ran.  The world before him was opaque nighttime and his lungs filled with fire and his throat felt like chalk.


There came another gunshot.  The 4x4 revved and began to move.

There was a quaking in his left knee, the sad reminder of an old basketball injury.  The headlights sprayed him.  Another shot rang out and the bullet couldn’t have been more than a couple inches from his ear.  He did a quick zigzag then cut left as another shot fired and ricocheted off a rock.
The ground beneath his feet softened into sand.  More strain on his calves and ankles but he pushed through the pain and powered ahead.  The trees closely congregated as behind him the 4x4 slowed and the tires spun in the loose earth.  Another shot, then the truck made a ka-chunk, and began moving again.  The ground beneath his feet solidified and he entered the thickening wilderness.

“Ande alrededor,” one of them said, and there was another loud crack and wood burst from a piñon.
Carson stooped again, negotiated trees and shrubs as the headlights turned away from him and darkness filled where the light had been.  His foot caught a rock and he slammed down hard, the wind shooting out of him.  The 4x4 was a good distance off to his left now, and he rolled onto his back and gasped, pulled air into his reluctant lungs.  He got back to his feet and moved with more caution, and finally managed to locate the barbed-wire fence without cutting himself.  It was more of a struggle climbing through it this time.  When he did he saw his truck a ways down to the left.  The 4x4’s headlights were pretty far off.

As his truck came into better view he saw a car parked behind it, lights out, engine either quiet or not running.  Puffs of smoke fluffed into the air between the vehicles.  Only a few yards from the front of his truck, Carson bent down, picked up a rock, and flung it over both cars.  It landed with a thud in the road and he heard the smoker move around for a better look.  Carson reached the side of his truck and crept to the back of it.

The smoker was alone and had his back turned.  His left hand held a cigarette and his right hand held a pistol.  Carson withdrew his blade and rushed the man, who spun around and cried out as they went down and grappled, the cigarette, gun and knife all dispersing.  The man was big and got Carson onto his back and put his thumbs into his throat.  A crimson darkness filled Carson’s eyes as he tried to pull the hands away.

“Carajo,” the man said, spittle spattering from his mouth.

Carson managed to get his knee between the man’s legs and brought it upward.  The man let go of his throat and rose up, and when he did Carson drew his leg back and then shoved the man away, into the hood of the car.  He got to his feet and saw the pistol on the ground, picked it up, then pointed and shot.  The man went down and flailed, then stopped flailing and was still.

Not too far away was the sound of the 4x4.

Carson located his knife, took both weapons and tossed them and the flashlight into the cab of his truck, then hopped in and drove down Dead Brook Road with the headlights off.

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

What a shocker

As I'm broke as fuck and there is absolutely no work available to me here, I'm doing what I can to get by. Being a writer doesn't make you a millionaire, while at times it serves you fine. It is not serving me fine at the moment, almost to the point where I considered auctioning off some prized possessions, things of mine and things that were my father's. But I've decided against that for the moment. So, for all the good it'll actually do, I've opened two shops at Cafe Press, where you can buy goofy stuff sporting either Fractal Despondency or To Sleep Gently. The shit's expensive, but what can ya do? Also, as always, I have the little donate button on here, for all the good that will likely do. This is no one's fault (no, not even my own, I don't think), it's just the way it is.

This is also another opportunity to not sound like a douche but please stop asking me for free copies of my books. This kind of situation might happen a bit less if you just bought them.

Fractal Despondency Store

To Sleep Gently Store

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

Out of the Gutter Online: Trent Zelazny Interview

Out of the Gutter Online: Trent Zelazny Interview: Author Trent Zelazny has earned wide acclaim for his noir writing and prose style. With works such as Fractal Despondency and To Sleep Gent...

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

Interesting and a little sad

So I did a little social experiment, I guess you could call it. I did it solely for myself but decided to share the results here. I'm not going to make any conclusions or judgments other than what the title of this post is. Really, that's all it was, interesting and a little sad.

So, a friend of mine (a good friend) has been in dire financial distress, and appealed to the good nature of Facebook friends for help in order to survive the month. Having no money myself, I auctioned a couple of books to help. But, for my own amusement, what I did was post about the friend's troubles, and talked about the two-day auction I was doing to help her. I don't know how many people saw this post and didn't comment or anything. Within twenty minutes of posting this, I then posted a picture from I don't usually post pictures from

Results: Three people liked the post about a friend in distress, and I received one bid on the books (thank you very much to that person, by the way). The picture I posted from lolcat only about twenty minutes later received twenty likes.

My immediate thought in a nutshell. We constantly talk about helping one another, and it's great in theory, but just like Mildred in Fahrenheit 451, most of us would rather just look at lolcat than acknowledge that there's really something going on. When I see Facebook posts about compassion, helping others, or those grizzly pictures that are intended to give us perspective, I'm going to remember this little personal experiment I did.

As I said, interesting and a little sad.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012


Hooray! Here is the final cover for Mirages, my first anthology as an editor, created by the fantastically talented Neil Jackson. Pretty spiffy, eh? Look for it in August, in paperback and ebook.

Monday, July 9, 2012

Trent, write a fucking novel

I hear this a lot. "Your stuff is short, why don't you write a fucking novel?"

This is very easy to answer. Do one smidge of research and you'll find I have two full-length novels out with a third coming in September. Like everything else in the world, before you ask a question of this type, simply check first. What you're really saying is "I don't really give a frog's fat ass about what you write, but I've heard you write a lot of short stuff. Here I can sound smart and big by asking this guy a question that will make him feel uneasy, and, shit yeah, I don't even have to do the simplest research."

And I do appreciate how often people swear when saying this to me.

“You are not entitled to your opinion. You are entitled to your informed opinion. No one is entitled to be ignorant.” ―Harlan Ellison

Too Late to Call Texas

Yeah, neat.

Coming September 25th, 2012 from Black Curtain Press.

          A Novel By
        Trent Zelazny

If only he hadn't found the hat.  Or the dead guy.  Or the steamer trunk.  Or the rag doll.  If only he hadn't found any of these things, everything might have been okay.  But he had found them.  All of them.

Now Carson Halliday is on the run, trying his damnedest to keep one step ahead of a dangerous gang of outlaws and mad men.  A run leading him from town to town in the dry wasteland of the southern New Mexico desert, over dark hills and dangerous plains, through shantytowns and city streets, and, most frightening of all, into the mysterious depths of the human heart.

“Trent Zelazny’s work is as powerful as a .45 slug and as memorable and pleasing as a scar obtained during feverish sexual activity. One of the best of the new breed of writers.”
                                                               —Joe R. Lansdale

Friday, July 6, 2012

Butterfly Potion Afterword

As I wrote this a bit late, it will likely find its way into a later edition of the book, but for those of you who purchased it already (thank you), or for those of you just simply interested, here is the afterword I've written for Butterfly Potion.


It’s been nearly three years since my life began going down the shitter, and just over two years since an ethereal hand depressed the flush handle.  I was clogged in a toilet of alcoholism and self-loathing, seeking something, kidding myself that I could make a better life for myself if I could just find a place to be.  This was the going down the shitter part.

So, what do a lot of people do when their brain is tainted with poison?  They try to run away from it, and in the process make a lot of bad decisions.  You see, I was also in love.  Deeply in love.  And the woman I was in love with was in love with me too.  Fantastic!

And so I ran away from what I thought my problems were.  I moved to Florida and was in love.  But there’s the old adage, “Wherever you go, there you are.”  I had escaped nothing, only brought my troubles with me and incorporated my Floridian friends into it, as well as the woman I planned on spending the rest of my life with.  I took my shit and, never meaning to, like a monkey, I flung it at them.

I’m not going to get too much into the story, but the problems I thought I could escape wound up putting me in jail.  They put me on the street and in flophouses, where I was once offered a $20 hooker, which I passed on, even with nearly a fifth of rum in me.  Before I left New Mexico for Florida, my friends had been concerned.  I figured if I could just get out, everything would be okay.  But the title of a Richard Stark novel became very true for me: Nobody Runs Forever.  I lost many of my friends, and my fiancé currently wanted little to do with me.  Two friends, Gerald and Loretta Hausman, were the only ones who saw the severity of my problems.  Unlike some of the others, they didn’t shut me out.  They brought me in and did what they could to help me.  I still struggled with drinking but it tempered itself a bit, and I got set up in St. James City, which is not really a city, but half of an island.

Then it happened.  I received a phone call from my fiancé’s mother.  My love had put a pistol to her head and pulled the trigger.  That was in April of 2010.

I don’t want to bore you, the reader, with my tales of woe, so I’ll wrap this part up.  I struggled along for another two months, then decided to give up.  On the 4th of July I hacked at my wrist with a serrated kitchen knife until there was more blood than in a Herschell Gordon Lewis flick.  My life was saved by a freak occurrence.  There’s more to this story but that’s all I feel like telling you right now.

I came back to New Mexico and started writing—something I hadn’t done for a while.  I was still drinking, but getting more and more tired of it.  The first story I wrote had no title.  It was a novella and it dealt with my addiction, and with the loss of the woman I loved.  In the end I decided to self-publish it on Kindle, and it was later picked up by a small press for print release.  Ten minutes before I posted it into the nebulous Amazon database, I realized I still didn’t have a title.  I shrugged and said, “Fractal Despondency.  Yeah, sure, that sounds good.”

Immediately after I wrote another novella with a similar theme, though less addiction and more dealing with loss.  I called it Shadowboxer.

Eventually I wrote a follow-up to Fractal Despondency, hoping to give that character a somewhat happier ending, called A Crack in Melancholy Time, though I hardly even count it in the catalog of my work.  Where Fractal Despondency and Shadowboxer worked, A Crack in Melancholy Time utterly failed, in my opinion.  But there was a theme in these stories.  A clear theme, and that theme was grief, shame and blame, self-reproach.

I blamed myself for her suicide for a long time.

And then I got sober.  I realized there was nothing I could have done.  I miss her more than words can describe, but it wasn’t my fault.

My writing began to change.  Still on the dark side, still self-analytical and critical, but I wasn’t wallowing anymore.  I wrote a couple of books and some short stories and began attempting to put together an anthology.  Things seemed to be getting better, mostly because they were getting better.  But something nagged me.  Fractal Despondency and Shadowboxer, the characters continued speaking to me.  They no longer haunted me like they once had, but they spoke to me, and eventually convinced me to head back down that painful road again.  But this time, as I started to write, I noticed how, though similar in many ways, my perspective had changed.

Butterfly Potion is the literary finale in a treacherous time in my life.  One I wish I’d never had to experience, but one I did experience.

As I said, even though it’s out there, I don’t much count A Crack in Melancholy Time.  Fractal Despondency started me on my journey.  Shadowboxer took me down even deeper and darker, and Butterfly Potion, to me, is the cork in the bottle of an emotional wine I’ll keep down in my own personal cellar, reminders of what was, what could’ve been, of how weak I can be, and how strong I truly am.

I’ve rambled long enough.

Writers & Publishers, Bill & Ted

The biggest publisher I've worked with fucked my ass with a red-hot poker so deep and hard I was pissing shit-laced fire for months. A couple of the others, while not especially bad, have been rather disappointing. This is just a short little rant, and while I'm no literary god, I think it's important to say that if you genuinely like a publisher, even if the terms aren't always perfect, be thankful.

A problem with a lot of the small presses these days is that they want to think of themselves as big publishers, because, well, the big publishers at the moment aren't even publishers, but factories. So, yes, it's cool, that some of the smaller guys are trying to step in and be actual publishers. One problem I see, though, is that many are turning into a cross between actual publishers, and factories with few slaves to work in their sweatshops.

One great thing about small presses should be (and still is in a lot of ways, with some of them) that they actually care about the books they put out. They're putting the book out because they genuinely like the book. But several are starting to behave like the big ones, where they just turn you into another number, and the rights to your work gets tangled up with people who, while human, thank God, basically toss it aside.

Again, I'm no super genius or anything. I'm just speaking from my own experiences and stories I've heard from other writer friends.

So here it goes. My advice to small press publishers. Give a damn about the books you're putting out. In this day and age, with the technology that is now available, people can do their own books and don't necessarily need you. Most of the same distribution channels are open whether you're labeled as "Publisher" or "Guy Who Writes and Masturbates a Lot." I'm not saying we don't want or need small presses. We very much do. But if you're not even offering an advance (or are offering a very small one), don't treat your author's poorly. A small press is too small for any author to simply become a number. If it wasn't for writers there would be no publishers.

We still need you, yes. And yes, we still very much want you. But it's a bit like when you fall in love. If the other person doesn't love you back, it doesn't do anybody a damn bit of good.

And a quick note to writers: if you are with a small press, treat them like people. They're working hard. This almost comes off like a contradiction, but it's a two-way street. If you don't wanna be one of those numbers, don't bitch at them and treat them like they owe you. They don't have to take on your book.

Okay, I guess this was a long way of saying something I could have simply said by quoting Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure:

"Be excellent to each other. And...PARTY ON, DUDES!"

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

Butterfly Potion now available

Yes, it is finally available. Might I suggest picking up a copy, either at Amazon or direct from Nightscape Press? Ebook everywhere, and while Amazon will have the print version, it isn't up yet, though you can get a paper copy from Nightscape. Huzzah!

Saturday, June 30, 2012

Reading and Signing

Thursday, July 26th at 6:00 pm, I will be reading and signing books at opcit Books in Santa Fe, NM. Stop by if you get a chance. Or even if there's no chance in hell, stop by anyway.

Saturday, June 23, 2012


You should see that, hopefully, the arrow points to the Donate button. I need a two-bit ho. Feel like kicking in for it?

A Splintered Mirage, Splintered Mirages, Splinters, Mirages--No, we won't call the whole thing off

I'm notorious for being flaky. Ask anyone. I'm punctual as all get out, but a complete and utter flake. In other words, if I say I'll be somewhere, I'll be there on time, or even early, provided I remember I'm supposed to be somewhere.

Why am I opening this post with this statement? Honestly, I'm not sure. Sometimes I simply like to admit my flaws.

So, the anthology I've been editing is finished. Every story accepted, edited, placed in the order I feel works best for the collection.

Hooray, you say?

Not quite.

This has been an ongoing project for some time. Everyone involved has seen the cover, knows the title of the anthology, and that their payment was video footage of me dry-humping a lamp. So it's gearing up to go to press, should be out in roughly five or so weeks.

Hooray, you say?

Almost.  With all I've just said, it now comes to my attention as of yesterday that the cover is "fucking awful" according to one author, and it became a bit like the Emperor's New Clothes.  A few who had said what a great cover it was suddenly said, "Yeah, it's not that great."

Okay, fine, I can easily accept that. My only real question is, why wait until it's almost ready to go to the printer?  I could be a jack-off of an editor and say, "Whatever, folks, you got the footage of me humping a lamp. I can do what I want." But I don't aspire to be a jack-off editor (and with the exception of one other anthology I've already contracted to do, may never want to be an editor again; being a jack-off is for another post). I want the author's in the collection to be happy. To have a book they can hold up proudly and say, "That's right, I'm in this muthafucka." So, doing my best to be cool and not a douche, I've agreed to other cover options, even though time is limited.

Wow, Trent, that's cool of you.

It is, or is it?

No sooner have I agreed to this when I get an email telling me to change the title of the anthology. Really? Now? I mean, very good points were made, and again, I'm not against it. Like I said, I want everyone to be happy and proud to be in the book.

This is a long way of saying, If you had a problem with these things, why didn't you mention it, four, five, ten months ago, instead of waiting until it's officially been announced? I'm not slamming anyone here. I'm just curious why it took so long for anyone to say anything.

Maybe I'll change the title to Writers Write Awesome Stories in Exchange for Footage of Trent Dry-Humping a Lamp, and have a cover that fits accordingly.

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Hey, manipulative publisher douchebags

If you aren't interested in my work based on its own merit, don't feed me spoonfuls of shit telling me you are, then mention how you'd love to reprint some of my father's work. It's low class as hell, I've been through it enough times. If you wanna reprint some of my father's work, contact the fucking agency that handles it. Don't try to use me. Your promises as well as your deals are shit, your marketing always sucks, based on my research, and I'm established enough that, frankly, I don't need your "help". If you are interested in my work because you like my work, cool. If you think faking interest in my work will get you somewhere with my father's stuff, the only thing it's going to do is put word out that you are a manipulative fuck (or fucks, depending). It makes me sick and would make my father sick. Sorry, but the next publisher, big, small, mid-list, who tries to pull this crap on me will get an article written about them, will be blogged and reported to the major writing organizations for poor business practice. Even some of you bigger guys who think you're immune, I hold more cards than you know. So don't fucking insult me.

And, really, if it's that important to you, treat me like a god first, make a big fucking deal about my work, buy it for real money, and publicize the shit out of it.  And even then, don't expect a fucking thing. You aren't doing me any favors. You're not helping me. You're using me. How would you feel if you really wanted to publish one of my books and I said, yeah, okay; oh, and by the way, you also should publish this book by my friend. It's his first book and he's never read a book in his life, but it'll be good for you and your company. You will have "discovered" him.

Fuck it, whatever. Just keep my father's work out of my work. We don't even write in the same genre, for fuck all's sake.

Friday, June 8, 2012


So, I've deactivated my Facebook account. No, not forever. Only until crazy drama settles. Whether it comes to me or I attract it or whatever, just not worth it at the moment. You can follow me on Twitter, though.


Tuesday, May 29, 2012

A Crack in Melancholy Time Audio Book

So, yes, A Crack in Melancholy Time, the sequel, or as I prefer to call it, the follow-up to Fractal Despondency, is now available as an audio book, read by Clifton Satterfield. I'm quite pleased with how it turned out, and it's affordable, too. If you are an audio book person, check it out.

It's labeled as science fiction, for some reason, but if you are familiar with Blake Gladstone, you will know that it is not.

Sunday, May 20, 2012

James Lofton

James Lofton, the only kid my age on the same street growing up. Our paths crossed many times over the years, my friend. I'm very proud of you and all that you accomplished. The world is now a much sadder place without you in it. May you rest in peace, my friend. ♥ I already miss you.