FROM THE WRITING FRONT

I hate to start with a cliché, but this year is going by so fast. March already. How did it happen?

Is it World War Three yet? But I digress . . .

I haven’t done all of the ambitious things I wanted to get done before March got here, but I’ve accomplished a few. Doing them all is probably impossible. My to-do list is always trailing out of the frame. Days, hours aren't long enough for me.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve flirted with a silly theory that we die when we run out of things to do. If it’s true, I’ll live forever.

One of those things for me is my writing career. I don’t have to worry about it. It took on a life of its own years ago, and will probably keep on trucking long after I croak. I’ve got stories in a new anthology and will have one in another that will come out soon. I’ve neglected my recently finished novel, but am getting ready to start bugging publishers again. I’ve diddled around with working out the Paco Coen, Mariachi of Mars, novel. Then there are those short stories.

I’ve been expecting short fiction to die for about forty years now and to my surprise it keeps chugging along. It won’t make you much money and the whole business is frustrating, it seems to have a future.

I get fed up, wondering if anybody reads any of these publications, and dreaded sending anything out into the abyss.

Unfortunately, I’ve trained myself during my formative years to react to life by writing stories . . .

And I’ve been spoiled but I’ve sold a lot of stuff in the 21st century as the result of publishers approaching me.

To make matters worse, I consider my writing to be worthless if it doesn’t get read. 

So I’m looking over my recent stories, and the modern markets.

All while the world is . . . well, you know: Is it World War Three yet? I feel like the writers in the “Hey, anybody want to buy a book?” meme. 

To my horror, I found that a lot of these recent pieces were actually unfinished, not in a final form that can be sent to an editor.

So I’m going over them all and will be going over them all at least one more time after that.

Argh!

The thing is, they’re pretty good, and having created them makes me feel better.

I am doomed to forever pursue my dreams of glory.

At least it’s not boring.

And it beats checking to see how the war’s going.

Maybe I'll try looking outside the box, like trying to sell these stories as a book without looking for magazines or anthologies to take them first. When in doubt, break format, I’ve said.

Face it, we’re gonna see a whole lotta breaking going on in the near future.

And maybe, in the insane process, I’ll make some people feel better, in my twisted way.

CHICANONAUTICA DREAMS OF A SURREALISTIC BURRITO WESTERN

 

Chicanonautica exposes my secret mind movie, at La Bloga.

El Topo is my favorite western, so it's not an ordinary burrito:

So why not some outré spaghetti?

Or maybe some acid?

And other weirdness . . .

CACTUS JUNGLE REVELATIONS

 

The jungles in my life owe more to Max Ernst than Edgar Rice or William S. Burroughs. The pulp/B-movie ambiance is mostly in my head. The brutal, sometimes beautiful surrealism is reality. My sense of beauty gets further warped each time I deal with it.

I hack away at the alien, invasive crab grass. Why do people, mostly from cooler climates that get hotter every year, want grass? Why don’t they appreciate the incredible desert? 

Surviving here is both a struggle and a miracle.

Cacti bite and draw blood as I uncover them. They aren’t pampered potted plants leading lives of luxury indoors or in the manicured gardens of obsessive-compulsives. They bear scars, decaying, cracked skin, still-attached dead limbs. They tilt at awkward angles while new growth reaches for the sky. 

It’s a decaying, struggling, decadent beauty that I wallow in.

What a friend called “cactus porn” I used as a metaphor to illustrate my rants about Arizona politics. Now the fascist mind set has taken over the country, maybe ever the entire planet.

In the war between the cactus and the grass, I’m with the cactus. Over the years, living with these . . . dare I call them beings? I’ve become aware of a kind of cactus intelligence, and there’s nothing artificial about it, though it does hallucinate. My beloved Peruvianus Monstrose taught me a lot during her all too short lifetime. At least her children survived.

I never know what I’ll uncover on these expeditions (there I go to my default pulp sci-fi setting again). There have been disintegrating cactus limbs, avian corpses, ant colonies, lost toys, fallout from fireworks and fast food orgies. Someday I’ll find a lost city. Or be captured by the Amazon guards of a clandestine subterranean civilization. 

Meanwhile, I slash away at the crab grass to keep the lawn police happy. Who knows, with the the way things are going, they may decide to report us to the New Gestapo, and they’ll cart us off to one of the “detention” camps they’re building, confiscate the house and land, and have an excuse to let developers level the entire neighborhood and install more dystopian apartments for workers of not-yet existent industry, or parking lots for the entertainment center that is growing like a cancer around the State Farm Stadium.

They better watch out. We’ve been getting too much rain with the changing climate. The rattlesnake Agua Fria Freddie saw his shadow, so it’s gonna be an early summer (again).  I’ve got that oh-boy-it’s-almost-summer vacation feeling. Mutation is in the air. There’s a new world coming. Heh-heh-heh . . .

So I continue my search and destroy mission, while listening to Venezuelan and Colombian radio stations via radio.garden.

Ice melts fast here. Evaporates.

Gods and cacti need their blood offerings.

 

CHICANONAUTICA SACRIFICES FOR THE AZTEC EMPIRE WITH CHANO AND CANTINFLAS

 

Chicanonautica investigates an old Mexican movie at La Bloga.

It's El Signo de la Muerte from 1939:

Starring Cantinflas:

Directed by Chano Urueta:

Who acted in some American movies: 

DON’T FORGET THAT GUERRILLA MURAL!

I am not trying to predict the future. 

Like Ray Bradbury, I often write to prevent futures. I never expected to live in a world similar to my stories, and I can’t shake the horrible feeling that it’s about to get worse.

Believe me, I understand that need for escapism, but for me it’s often not enough. I enjoy fiction that shows people fighting back, to help me imagine that it’s still possible.

I recommend books like Rudy Rucker’s Juicy Ghosts, and if I can be so bold as to exploit the current predicament for self-promotion, my own work, and not just High Aztech, Smoking Mirror Blues, and Cortez on Jupiter.  

When I read my collection Guerrilla Mural of a Siren’s Song I was shocked by how much anger I was expressing. Yeah, I’ve lived all my life in a society that has been oppressing me, but didn’t realize it was a major theme. Some might call it an obsession.

I’m not the only one who thinks so:

It particularly comes out in  “Uno! Dos! . . . One! Two! Tres-Cuatro!,” “Flying the Under Radar with Paco and Los Freetails,” and “Skin Dragons Talk,” but it’s there in the other stories. 

I guess that’s just who I am.

I can only hope that it provides some insight or at least some amusement to my readers. We all sure need it now.

And let me take this opportunity to remind you that EzkaOne actually did the cover painting as a mural:

Meanwhile, don’t let the pendejos keep you down!

CHICANONAUTICA ASKS "WHO THE HELL IS PACO COHEN?"

Chicanonautica is about my character Paco Cohen, Mariachi of Mars, over at La Bloga.

So here's some of my favorite songs:

My dad had a Charro Avitia album that he played a lot:

 

Then Dr. Doctor Demento introduced me to Lalo Guerrero:

 

And Flaco Jimenez:

 

These days I listen to Cancion Mexicana on KUVO.org on Sunday mornings. They play this a lot: 

THE INSIDE DOPE ON “DOULA”

In case you haven’t been paying attention the last few months, I have a new story out, called “Doula” in Sound Systems: The Future of the Orchestra. Yippie!

I think that everything I write is going to rock the world. It feels great when I publish something. Then . . . well, reality tends to be different. Turns out most people just don’t give a damn about short stories. 

And if I don't get any feedback, I get nervous. Did anybody read it? Was all my hard work for nothing?

I’ve found that besides going on and writing something else, the best thing to do is self-promotion.

Like this post.

“Doula” is different from most of my other stories. It was written for the Center for Science and the Imagination. First there was an event at ASU where some science fiction writers were each teamed with three people who had insider’s knowledge about the subject.

I was teamed with Paul D. Miller (aka DJ Spooky), experimental/hiphop composer, multimedia artist and writer; Garrett McQueen, bassoonist, radio host, an activist working to decolonize classical music; and Ashley Lauren Firth, violist, songwriter, educator, activist, and death doula (yeah, that’s where I got the word). This was the first time I was the whitest person in a group.

They had amazing experiences, opinions, and ideas. I put away the stuff I had prepared and took a lot of notes on the fantastic conversations we had over the next two days. This story was going to be about what they had to say, rather than my usual obsessions. I found myself committing an act of Afrofuturism, rather than my usual Raza-centric, Xicanxfuturist view.

It was refreshing and invigorating.

There is one Chicano, or rather Chicana character, but this is me assembling something out of the material I was provided. Being a hired gun, so to speak. 

Did I mention that it also paid well?

In “Doula” a wood from Tanzania used to make a musical instrument, with the help of fungus, and plugged into the network that is used for a world-wide concert, becomes intelligent, and wreaks havoc on corporate civilization, changing the world as well as some character’s lives. These things are always so hard to capsulize, and I really don’t want to get lost in a labyrinthian synopsis.

Better I should give you a taste. Here’s the beginning:

*****

The file opens with static, 03380, head hidden behind a huge mask and distorted video filters, twitched.

“It’s happening again.”

 The voice was also distorted into an electronic growl.

 “I’m trying to work! Leave me alone!”

 Then 03380 laughed, and the head shook.

 “As if you’d listen to me, whoever you are. You’re probably trying to prevent me from doing this job.”

Jump cut.

“I was going to cut that out, but you need to see that. Just an example of how difficult this job is and why it’s been taking so long. This . . . I don’t know what to call it. Like the incident, event, whatever . . . Maybe I should start at the beginning . . .”

*****

A classic sci-fi encounter with the unknown–a different kind of alien intelligence!

Not only that, be there are essays from my three collaborators, who I am indebted to for triggering this creation.

And there are three other stories created in this manner with essays from the rest of the teams. Warning: The way you think about music may be altered!

It’s available free in e-versions,or bought as a print-on-demand paperback! Order now!

I'd still like to see  a short story go viral and take the world by storm, changing the world, or maybe even saving it.

It's a dream, but ain’t dreaming what science fiction is all about?

 

CHICANONAUTICA MAKES PLANS FOR A XICANXFUTURISTIC YEAR

Read about those plans in Chicanonautica, at La Bloga.

Meanwhile, a certain creature has plans for Greenland . . .

That are getting sci-fi . . .

And getting ugly . . .

 

Watch out, America . . .

M. CHRISTIAN . . .

Dammit, 2026! You take M. Christian on your first day!

For those of you who don’t know, M. Christian was a prolific, bestselling, award-winning author. I hate using the word was . . . They died January 1, 2026 of heart failure.

I’m reminded of what my high school health teacher liked to say: “For a lot of people, their first indication of heart disease is their death.”

What cruel universe!

They also saved my career, which I thought was over back in the 2000s. I was self-publishing ebooks of my novels, hoping someone would notice, and they sent me an email, asking if I was interested in putting out paperback versions.

After some correspondence, Cortez on Jupiter, High Aztech, Smoking Mirror Blues, and eventually, Guerrilla Mural of a Siren’s Song: 15 Gonzo Science Fiction Stories became available in professional-looking e- and trade paperback editions from Strange Particle Press. Meanwhile, La Bloga found me and I became known as the Father of Chicano Science Fiction. Some say I created a genre, but I was just trying to carve out a niche for myself, and I turned out to be the tip of the iceberg, and what was perceived as a ghetto was actually a galaxy.

But enough about me, M. Christian has written a lot of books; their Book Notification list is blurred out with a note:

THIS AUTHOR'S WORKS CONTAIN EXPLICIT ADULT MATERIAL.

PLEASE REGISTER OR LOGIN TO CONFIRM YOU'RE 18+

Ah yes, the sort of folks that publish me . . .

They've written science fiction, fantasy, horror, thrillers, and nonfiction (they were a Senior Columnist for The Future of Sex) 

They also are responsible for a number of anthologies. In the Science Fiction by the Numbers series, I was allowed to indulge in extreme abuses of the genre: Seven to the Stars, has my Victor Theremin story “Radiation is Groovy, Kill the Pigs,” a light-hearted romp about the dangers of radioactive marijuana. Five to the Future has “Uno! Dos! One-Two! Tres! Cuatro!” inspired by the creature currently infesting the White House. Nine to Eternity includes “The Great Mars-A-Go-Go Mexican Standoff,” a perverse take on Mars colonization. There are also excellent stories by M. Christian, my wife Emily Devenport, and several other authors of note.

I also recommend their gay erotic thriller Finger’s Breath–one of the most outrageous novels I’ve ever read–their collections, Love without Gun Control and Hard Drive: The Best Sci-Fi Erotica of M. Christian.

At least we still have these, and their many other books. I need to do some re-reading, and buying . . .

Did I mention that it really pisses me off the way writers tend to be forgotten soon after they die? Especially when they are friends of mine.

Meanwhile, the world-wide dystopia gets more apocalyptic every day without any new M. Christian books or stories . . .

CHICANONAUTICA FACES THE YEAR 2026 C.E.

It's Chicanonautica vs. 2026 over at La Bloga.

Is the world ready for it?

 And then there's the writer's life . . .

Is the publishing industry doomed?

And what about Xicanxfuturism?