3 Things I’ve Learned as an Indie Author

by
Daulton Dickey.

Life as an independent author is different than life as an author published by a transnational corporation. You’ll make little money and find few opportunities to travel to promote your work—and if you do, you’ll probably pay for it yourself. You’ll also see little-to-no mainstream exposure. If you’re lucky, your readers will number in the hundreds. With writers publishing more books now than ever before, thanks in large part to self-publishing, your book could disappear in a universe of white noise the moment it’s released.

If you’re not prepared for the realities of existing as an indie writer, the prospects might appear bleak. They might even thrust you into an existential crisis as they did me: I assumed my books would find readers, I assumed I was meant to write, I assumed I could focus on my writing while other people helped me along the way—and I was wrong in every case. Continue reading

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How to Write a Novel in 4 Steps

by
Daulton Dickey.

Writing is hard. Sometimes it’s harder and sometimes it’s easier. Putting words to paper—or producing them on screens—takes blim blam a paramanam focus and attention. Boy you don’t know nothin about anything, ya hear? Aside from the actual work, and writing requires work, you’ve got to find time and motivation, and fight voices shouting doubt and producing anxiety. All day anxiety. Fuck, what the fuck is wrong with me? Why can’t I sit down and just do something without turning it into a catastrophic, life or death scenario? Jesus.

READ READ READ

Before you attempt to write, you’d better read. A lot. Don’t read casually or for the sake of entertainment: study short stories and novels. Dissect them as you read them. Approach a novel as a mathematician might approach a seemingly unsolvable problem. Break it into parts, analyze each part, search for underlying presuppositions. Learn to clench your eyes and crack your neck and scream in tongues. You might even consider 20160601-230511.jpgapproaching text like the exhumed corpse of a flower wilting on decayed flesh. You dig? Nothing means anything and we’re all going to die. Let that sink in. But most importantly: read. No writer worth his or her or their weight in salt should choose not to read—or should forego reading texts closely. The best way to experience and understand the inner workings of a machine is to tear one apart and examine it. Continue reading

Unpublished Novelist Daulton Dickey Interviews Failed Novelist Daulton Dickey

transcribed by
Julius M. Henry.

Daulton Dickey is a nobody. No one’s interested in him. Yet he runs around the Internet begging for attention and whinging about how no one will publish his artsy-fartsy novels. In a blatant and unapologetic act of theft, I’ve decided to ripoff Kurt Vonnegut’s interview from the Paris Review and track down Daulton—spoiler: he wasn’t hard to find—to ask him questions about life, writing, philosophy, and whatever else popped into my head. Knowing Daulton, I expect pretentious answers. And bullshit—spoiler: he’s an asshole.

Daulton Dickey [DD]: So. Here we are.

Daulton Dickey [Dd]: Indeed.

DD: I wanted to start by filling the audience in on a few things.20160601-230511.jpg

Dd: What audience?

DD: The audience reading this.

Dd: Are you high? No one reads this.

DD: This blog has had over 18,000 views.

Dd: Maybe so, but no one’s going to read this twaddle.

DD: Let’s agree to disagree. [Pause.] Now why don’t we start by telling the audience a little something about you?

Continue reading

Notes on Failing as a Self-Published Writer

by
Daulton Dickey.

Selling books is a Sisyphean task. Without a budget, without a name anyone knows or cares about, or cares to know, you’re certain to fail. Bereft of a marketing department at a major publisher, bereft of a publisher altogether, in fact, puts you in an interesting position. How do you get your book out there? People won’t read it if they don’t know it exists, and people won’t read it if they don’t feel compelled, in some way, to read it. So this is the question you must ask yourself as a self-published writer: how do you create awareness for your book? And—this is a two-parter—how do you inspire people to want to read it?

Imagine you’re a writer in Indiana trying to get noticed. You’ve written and published several books. Few people have read them. You ask yourself why. Why haven’t they read them? Have they browsed them online without finding anything to pique their interest or do they not know your books exist?

The former remains aloof, always a possibility. Bracketing it for a moment, you try to gauge awareness of your books. How many people know they exist? It’s an alarming question, alarming because you don’t know any metrics by which to answer the question.

In your limited experience, you’ve discovered one thing, a dirty little piece of trivia: a self-published writer is full-time marketer, and those who don’t practice and perfect the art of marketing will not succeed as a writer. It’s a sad state of affairs when a writer must set aside his or her craft in favor of creating an image and a brand, but such is the pat20160601-230511.jpgh you chose.

To create awareness of oneself is to open the possibility of inviting readers into your world, to coaxing them, to luring them, to seducing them. —But how do you create awareness, you might ask? —How do you introduce yourself to the world? How do you persuade them to try what you’re offering?

As a self-published author, I have failed in my endeavors. For several reasons. I don’t have a brand, I don’t have a consistent online persona, I don’t have money—and I don’t have loyal followers and readers. I have failed to penetrate the online world in a meaningful way. Continue reading

Nine Writers and Performers Who Influenced Bastard Virtues

by
Daulton Dickey.

In 2003, my cousin died in a car accident. I received the news while loafing around in New Mexico. I had traveled there earlier in the year, and, after a brief stint in Las Vegas, felt lost. But I had left Indiana—hopefully—for good, and I was determined to start a new life somewhere else. Jobless and low on money, I resisted giving in. I resisted going home.

Then news of his death arrived, and it hit me hard. I felt isolated. My determination to stay transformed into a desire to leave, to go back home, to spend time with my friends and family. To fill the hole my cousin had left.

Although he was a year younger than me, we grew up together—and we were close: we made the same mistakes together, tried alcohol and pot together, developed a similar sense of humor, and developed similar tastes in movies and music, in pop culture in general.

Rage filled me when he died, and I felt the urge to write about it. I tried and failed several times before I hit on the opening chapter of Bastard Virtues. My desire to honor my cousin gave way to my anger and rage, which consumed me whenever I thought about his death. Early on, I realized the novel wasn’t about him as much as it was about my anger, my rage, my sadness—emotions transformed into themes which dominated the novel.

On embracing the anger and rage, I decided to pick influences for the novel which reflected my relationship with my cousin. Some of the influences are mine alone, and reflect nothing more than my preoccupations at the time. Other influences, however, represent shared interests between my cousin and me.

Hunter S. Thompson

Thompson’s influence is apparent early on in the novel, the opening section of which was inspired by The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved. Although Thompson’s story meant nothing to my cousin, it was a starting off point for me. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas connected my cousin and me to Thompson, which is what inspired the setting early in the novel. Thompson’s cynicism and vitriol hit a nerve with us when we were teenagers; it was the language we had already used, and in Thompson we’d found a sort of spiritual guide. Continue reading

Another Thinking Animal

by
Daulton Dickey.

 

—So tell me why you’re here.

—I’m tired. Not exhausted, but … just, I don’t know, tired.

Sarah’s wearing that gray face sad people wear, that mask with dead eyes looks like an unpainted statue.

—Can you describe it? “Tired” is so …

—Not clear?

—Mmm Hmm.

—I didn’t want no attention, she says. —Some people, I think, will think I did it for attention. But it wasn’t attention I wanted. Continue reading

Bastard Virtues Now Available for Pre-Order

Jeff O’Brien Answers the Proust Questionnaire

Jeff O’Brien writes fantasy and horror, weird and absurd novels and stories. For more 13508885_10154140920775926_1024170234206822858_nabout his books … actually, skip reading about them and just read them. You can find them here.

1.What is your idea of perfect happiness?

A utopia with myself, my wife, my dogs, beautiful green women, and the small band of people who grasp our concept of perfect happiness. In my backyard there would be a transport to the magical land of Xanth, and I could go and hang out with the gorgons, nymphs, zombies, ogres and puns. I love a good pun.

2.What is your greatest fear?

The possible repercussions of sharing my greatest fear with the general public. Nice try, Dickey!

3.What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?

Probably vanity, as I can’t think of one.

4.What is the trait you most deplore in others?

Lack of conversation etiquette. I have no use for someone who talks over others.

5.Which living person do you most admire?

Piers Anthony. I mean, I don’t know much about what kind of guy he is, but his virtually endless bibliography has pretty much been the greatest thing I’ve ever discovered.

6.What is your greatest extravagance?

Books. I live rather frugally, but can’t seem to restrain myself in the purchasing of books. I have more than I can possibly ever read, but I don’t plan on stopping any time soon. Continue reading

6 Tips for Writers Who Want to Break the Mold

by
Daulton Dickey.

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, step into any bookstore or library and you’re bound to discover at least one book professing to be capital-t the underscored book to learn how to write a book that publishers and agents and readers and Hollywood producers and the Dalai Lama and maybe the Pope or some low-rent Mafioso will recognize and idolize and adore. Fiction, according to the reality in which these writers write, is an algorithm. Replace variables with values and, viola, book is done. Sale is imminent.

And that might work for some people. But if you have any ambition and integrity, then you should buy or borrow that book, tear out each and every page, and use those pages to roll cigarettes or joints. Smoke that inhales the words fermenting on the pages. Those rules are better to inhale and exhale, they’re better as permanent scars on your lungs, than they are to absorb and incorporate into your writing.

Now let’s make a distinction. Some rules are useful, such as word economics or showing in lieu of telling. I’m talking about structure. I’m talking about form. I’m talking about what information is necessary, what isn’t—but I’m modifying it: ambiguity and disconnection constitute important information as well. I’m talking about the algorithms writers and agents and editors and authors of ‘How-to’ books drill into your head. The algorithm of fiction is what we want to avoid. How else are we going to invent new ways of storytelling—and new ways of seeing ourselves—if we stick to the same tired rules?

Which leads to a question: How do we invent new forms of storytelling?

Which leads to Tip #1:

Experiment. Break the mold. Try to write in new ways, try to shake things up, to use a cliché, try to change how sentences and paragraphs and chapters flow. Try to alter what information you find necessary and what information you don’t find necessary. Continue reading

Wittgenstein, Art, and Random Prose: Excerpts from Notes and Journals

by
Daulton Dickey.

Oceans above and eyeballs below: the slant of the horizon twists and sways. Nothing forgotten, nothing forgiven. The detriment of the darkness settles on the hands of gloom. Night cracks. Fright moans. Terror settles into the white gold, a diamond crusted experience.

Daulton sits on a windowsill staring at the sky, all loose and soiled, cracked and broken. Fear and anxiety courses through him. Trees in the distance rattle and crack, and the oceans churn and spit out waves that break and collapse onto the starry evening.

—–

The diamond maze
The din of haze
Mocks the crooks
In superior air

Shadows splay
Darkness stays
In meadowless brooks
Behind the trees

—–

The superior air of the sanctuary in the sky cracks bolts and stows jolts and splays shadows across the faces of buildings and the hazy maze of cemetery trees. Through spirals of fire fucking wood in a funeral pyre, the rate permeates in nostril cells. Bile glows and bows inward, upsets the system and rusts the machinery. All parts are glowing and fatigued, and the darkness lingers and sways—air batted between trees.

The world in an eggshell hooks the yolk and cooks the fat, and daylight cracks and drips, staining the planet with opaque sulfur. Charcoal roasts the dawn, spawns the fawns, the dour-like opinions of inward looking faces.

Lightning blasts the kerosene and gasoline burns and bubbles and burps a cacophony of slivers and terrors and sounds melting the earlobes and scarring the prefrontal cortex. That atoms grow and merge and explode, that neurons tremble and shiver, that all life is a dream funneled into the gaps of nothingness frames hallucinations nestled into a head of sweat forming in the brows of agnostic spinsters.

Blow the horn. Slow the storm. Strong arm the national fervor. Sell the whores. Replace the stores. Burn the engine in despair. Sell the machine to repair the rotten eggs and the faceless cunts and cocks breeding ignorance and death. Fuck the lame and suck the stable. Cannibalize Cain and dismember Able. Chew the gristle of fantasies until you’ve secreted their proteins. Then discard them. You don’t need them anymore. Continue reading