Vapormage Will Drop in 2025
At the start of this year, I decided that it was time to stop waffling. I had a book I believed in and had put a lot of effort into, I had a query letter, I had a huge list of agents. I was gonna spend 2024 trying to get representation. Trying to make it big.
I’ve failed.
I mean, most people fail. Can’t be too surprised. And yeah, I could’ve tried harder or done better, but I also could’ve said “fuck tech” back in 2009 and switched majors to film when I wanted to. “Could’ve” and “should’ve” are two different contractions.
So now I’m staring down a rough future without someone in my corner on this whole topic, the one thing in my life I honestly give a shit about. What else can I do? If nobody will help me publish it, I guess I’ll have to do it myself, like I do everything else myself.
I know, I’ve self-published before (though, these days, I feel like I shouldn’t have). But half the tools I used are gone, and the other half are owned by Amazon, and fuck them. So I’m at square one.
Fortunately, I’ve done the research. I can’t change who I am, and “who I am” is “awful at marketing” so that part’s gonna be rough. But I can get the assets I need made, I can get the book in non-Amazon stores, I can put it on libraries and bookstores’ radars. I can make the attempt.
So there’s a website now. Y’all will be the first to know when it’s available for pre-order. And if there’s any interest whatsoever in a special, hardcover edition, do kindly let me know. I would love to do it, but I’d hate to do it and find out nobody wants it.
Look at these things
Currently reading: Bestiary by K-Ming Chang. I admit, I judged a book by its cover. (It was on sale!) K-Ming is a poet and a few pages in you can absolutely tell.
Currently listening: Death Breath by Giraffes? Giraffes! I couldn’t tell you why I skipped over this when it first dropped, the guys are great at what they do (and what they do is chaotic).
Currently playing: Magic the Gathering. For the first time in like 25 years, maybe ever. I can’t remember ever actually playing with those cards I had as a kid.
A little story
I didn’t do NaNoWriMo for a bunch of reasons, but I was having regular calls with another local author who encouraged me to go back to some of my old, shelved work and see what I could do with it. The text of my 2009 novel has been lost to time, but I remember vaguely what happened. And, in the intervening 15 years, I’ve picked up reasons for those things to happen. What started as a weird lark is being rewritten as a trans allegory and critique of masculinity. Here’s the first draft of the first chapter.
They call them strawberry boxes. Little bungalows, built during the war. You know, the war. Supposed to be the war to end all wars, but they said that about the one before it. Don’t know how many people actually call them that, though. Only ever heard a real estate agent describe a house as a strawberry box, and judging by the guy who got me to move into this office, those folks are all for dressing up something run-of-the-mill so you can feel good about having the same thing as everyone else.
Point is, the neighborhood is full of those houses. Get a block away from Stark and all its businesses and it might as well be the suburbs, quaint little cottages and tires swinging from trees. It’s a quiet, old-fashioned area. Whoever lives in that green two-story on 79th set up one of those little free library things last week. Stuffed it with Stephen King novels and Christian romances. Hell of a combo. The Running Man is nothing like the movie, by the way.
It was early spring, so of course it was wet. But that lazy, noncommittal kind of wet, like the sky doesn’t know what it wants to be when it grows up. I didn’t bother with an umbrella. I’ve heard people say that locals never bother with an umbrella, whether it’s the most subtle forgotten mist or absolutely pissing down. I wasn’t bothering because I had my hat and coat on. I’m always ready for things to turn bad.
There were two calls waiting for me. I knew about them since I woke up, but I don’t do business until I’m at my office. There’s a ritual to it. Shirt, tie, slacks, loafers. Gun at my hip. I mention that one because some people seem to believe Chekov’s Gun applies to real life. That everything in the world is there for a reason, everything has a purpose, every gun is going to be fired. I’ve had mine since I got licensed as a private investigator and never shot it once. Some things don’t mean anything in the real world.
I zig-zagged into my office and hung up my overcoat. I waited for my phone and laptop to connect. Then, tap tap, and my voicemails started buzzing out of my office laptop while I went to the little lobby, hovering over the coffee machine, waiting for Kirkland’s signature.
“Sam, it’s Walter.” Because of course it would be. “Just wanna make sure you didn’t piss off the wrong people tonight. Call me back.”
Walt wasn’t asking for my sake. He hates when I talk plainly at the Business Association meetings. I think he doesn’t consider me to be a real businessman. I provide a service and I get paid for it. That’s business. Anyone being honest will agree. And if I run a business, then the ladies who swing by the street every evening to offer their services run just as much of a business.
I’d call him back when I was good and ready. Another tinny beep came from my laptop’s overworked speakers. “Hey, uh, Sam? Yeah, it’s Miles. Warren. I don’t know if you remember me, it’s been a couple years, but uh…. I dunno. I dunno, something weird is going on and I kinda need to talk to someone. Let me know if you’ve got time today. Thanks.”
I vaguely remembered Miles. He wasn’t the wildest case I worked, or the most lucrative. Wasn’t exactly an everyday case, either. See, this town’s gotten invaded over the last couple decades by folks like Miles. Smart folks, many of them, but they have their own attitudes and ideas. Get enough of that around and it changes a city.
Miles seemed like a good egg, though. Just following the money. He did tech work for one of the little startups that came in and spread their kudzu tendrils across downtown. Apparently, he was really good at it. Or really early, or both. Point is, he was owed a little something in his contract. He got paranoid that the business boys were trying to screw him out of it. I proved he was right, and his lawyer rewarded me by taking care of my rent for a solid year.
Would’ve preferred a bottle of Pappy, but beggars can’t be choosers.
I told Walt I was alive and not much else, then texted Miles to say I had time for him. He sounded too nervous in his call, and I didn’t want to work through all that stammering over the phone. I don’t recall him being the nervous sort, but I suppose he’s changed in the last few years.
When I heard the knock about 10:30, I pulled open the door, expecting to see Miles standing there in the hallway. Instead, it was the FedEx guy with a small rectangular package. He looked surprised that I looked surprised. I was surprised. I wasn’t expecting any deliveries, and deliveries never come at a reasonable hour. The package had my name on it, coming from some distribution center I’d never heard of.
I accepted the delivery, but I didn’t open it straight away. I didn’t figure I’d made enemies—not big ones—but I knew enough to stay diligent. Could be something toxic, could be a bomb. I looked up the name of the distribution center. They ship hard-to-find liquors, it turns out. I cleared off my desk, sliding my laptop and phone into a drawer, and sliced off the tape with a letter opener. All that was inside was a thank-you letter and a bottle of Macallan No. 6. Fancy stuff. Gwen probably just liked the blue label.
While I wrote an email to Gwen thanking her for the gift and reminding her to tell me if she’s going to do something involving me, there was another knock at my door.
“Come in,” I called from my office. “Be with you in a moment. Feel free to take off your coat.”
“Is it alright if I don’t?” From the nervous warble in his voice, I was sure it was Miles.
“Suit yourself.” I put the scotch in the liquor cabinet I kept behind my desk. I don’t pull from it very often, honestly, but it helps sell the atmosphere. Same story as the typewriter. I use my Smith Corona about as often as I use my Smith & Wesson, but they add to the romance of the job, and if people are coming to me I want them to be reassured that I’m not just some failed cop. There’s a history to the work.
I heard Miles step directly into my office. I’m the fool for leaving that door open, I suppose. He just stood in the doorway until I turned around. He still dressed like a typical tech guy. Hooded sweatshirt, dark jeans, New Balance. He had his hood up, drawn tight, hands in his pockets. He stood like he was ashamed to exist. He was wearing a mask, a proper N95.
That was the first thing I noticed. The rest of his outfit was anonymous. “Feeling alright?”
He shook his head, hardly moving. He looked up a bit at me, and I could see that his eyes weren’t quite where they should’ve been. They seemed a little too spread out. And the skin around them, well, it didn’t look like skin. It looked like his beard had started adventuring out to new lands, and that the stress of exploration had turned it gray. I could tell it was Miles, but the little of him I could see didn’t look like Miles.
“Something… happened,” he managed to say, his mask constricting and expanding with nervous breath. He pulled his hands out of his pockets. It looked like he was wearing mittens. He pulled back the hood from over his head. Slowly rising from the top of his head as he did were two large, gray rabbit ears. One of them turned slightly as he looked down in shame.
I stood still, trying to take in the sight. Standing in my office was a giant, talking rabbit. Bugs freakin’ Bunny, Miles was. He unhooked the mask and let me see his face. It was all there; the small pink nose, the whiskers, the chattering fearful teeth. If he was playing a joke, his acting was impeccable. I’ve never seen a man so afraid in his own skin. Or his own fur, I suppose.
I stared at him for a good long time. “Would you like some scotch?” I asked.