herocious

Just for fun let’s look at Andrew Dabb’s previous episodes to examine how he is secretly competing with Jeremy for “biggest Destiel shipper on the writing staff”

Andrew gave us:

What Up, Tiger Mommy? Creek scene. DeanCas HUG. “To much heart was always Castiel’s problem.”

Hunter Heroci “Talk to me” scene. Adorable hunter Cas. 

Clip Show: Angry silent treatment boyfriend Dean. “I NEED PIE.” Kicked off the angel trial mythology with the product of the love of a human and angel.

Devil May Care: “I’m not good with the whole Love and…love.”

Road Trip: The whole damn ep. “So we’re a couple of dumbasses?” “I prefer trusting, less dumb, less ass.” (all that’s left is couple).

Bloodlines: David and Violet re-enacting The Man Who Would be King.

Stairway to Heaven: Wrote Cas’ heaven as full of naked Deans. Cas refusing to kill Dean. “He’s in Love…with humanity.” “You just gave up a whole army for one guy.”

And lets no forget that Dabb is by all account the second-in-command in the writer’s room…Oh, and he also wrote Dean’s giant Rainbow Slinky.

59.0 :: 'austin nights' by herocious

‘austin nights’ by herocious/Michael Davidson // tiny toe press, 2011


59.0

 

read this book if you believe in self-determination

 

“If I must run according to a clock, I want to run on this clock…the one of shifting tectonic plates, creeping oceans, imploding stars, and winding rivers.”

 

'austin nights’ doesn’t bother with ‘conventional’ plot;

the novel functions like the ocean: themes, motifs, people,

reflections, philosophical inquiries, and the ever-present

desire to find or make meaning out of one’s life briefly

wash up into the reader’s proximity before receding again

into sea and sky, character and description; herocious masters

the ebb and flow of observations referenced, set aside, referenced again

 

Keep reading

An interview with Michael Davidson (herocious) // Author of Austin Nights


1)  Where are you from? Why?

I was born in Miami.

Why? At a swimming pool for everyone who lived in the Mariposa, which is an apartment building in Coral Gables, Florida, a girl who would become my mother was with a girl who would become my aunt, both Colombian, both in bikinis. A boy who would become my father, a mid-westerner in a speedo, was the only other person at the swimming pool.

The Miami sun put smiles on the girls’ almond faces. I think even the boy smiled, though he was reading something very mathematical.

The girls took out a point-and-shoot camera and took photos of each other. The girl who would become my aunt took one of her sister, my future mother, at the same time as the boy, my future father, was poised on the diving board directly behind her. My parents didn’t know each other then.

3-5 days after this decisive picture, the boy and the girl went on a date. When they got back, the girl’s entire family was locked out of their apartment. The girl’s father (my future abuelo) said he thought the sliding glass door was open. They lived on the 4th floor. Considering the options, my father immediately scaled the Mariposa’s facade, swinging from balcony to balcony. My mother’s family met him at their front door. They were very relieved.

2)  Generate a relevant formula.

Mojan el arroz con un poco de aguacate
Pa’ cosechar nalgas de 14 kilates
-Calle 13

(rice + avocado = 14k booty)

3)  How has your recent transition from Florida to Austin informed your writing?

New places always feed me. I write a lot during transitions. It’s strange, but somehow staying in one place for too long strangles a part of me, and movement brings me back to life. Austin made me love My Home in a new way. Austin unstopped a geyser in my soul, and some of what came out was fresh and sweet, but some other things were more like shit. Austin let me become a pedestrian again. Yes, this medium-size city reminded me how much I love writing from the perspective of a pedestrian. Thank you, Austin, for getting me to walk again.

4)  What did you find out after finishing your first novel, AUSTIN NIGHTS? What weren’t you expecting?

Everything about AUSTIN NIGHTS started on a blank screen.The same one I’m writing on now. Absolutely no plot. The first sentence came from nowhere, or from somewhere so distant. It was all very free, very freeing, the process of writing. Story came in spurts and I had no idea what this thing would become. I’d say during this time I was attentive. My eyes were always recording, my ears were turning dialogue into audio tracks, I spent every day hunting for clues. When I found something memorable, I’d turn it into words without trying to fit it into the so-called larger picture. My loyalty was to each spurt, hoping the sum of these would at least add up to some kind of chunk. But at some point the story discovered its universe, and it had to operate according to certain laws, and I realized how brutally I had turned a very free world into something with walls.

What wasn’t I expecting? I wasn’t expecting to be saved.

5)  Tiny TOE Press is interesting. Talk a bit about them.

My girlfriend’s dad has a shed with tools and plenty of spare building material. Whenever we’re in there, we listen to dub reggae and make very approximate drafts of ideas. {Tiny TOE Press} happened inside this shed. We built it out of wood scraps and screws. Now it sits on the far edge of our kitchen table. It looks like a very old machine.

As far as electricity, it’s powerless, but when touched the right way, this jig makes books. DIY style. Every book {Tiny TOE Press} makes is handcrafted. I feel like they should have their own alcohol content.

6)  What is there, and what should we do about it?

We should fix world hunger.

7)  This is the visceral question. Take this opportunity to describe something in your immediate experience and get us to feel something.

I’m digging this hole into the center of my body.

I’m doing it because I want to become an intense person, extract my intensity and lay it bare for everyone to see and feel and gnash.

There’s meaning in intensity.

It’s not for the weak.

It’s not for the safe people with layer after layer of security net, just in case they should fall from their middle land.

I live with nothing underneath me, nothing to catch me.

And one fine day I could lose everything and I’d have no backup.

That’s why it’s important I pull everything out of me right this second, straight from the center of my body, everything that is really me and not some security feature, not some entitlement.

This is what I think as I dig this hole into the center of my body.

*Interview originally appeared on FictionDaily

direct website sales...

In response to my previous post about some aspects of indie/small press publishers, herocious asked this:

herocious said: How can more sales happen directly from websites?

And it is a good point because the writer and the press get the most $ from a direct sale and most of those are done via a website nowadays, at least for indie/small presses that are the size of Scrambler Books. This post called “There are exactly zero defensible reasons for authors to link to Amazon” at MobyLives the Melville House blog by Dustin Kurtz is a good read/start although it is asking writers/anyone to link to an indie bookstore (which is probably the next best place for writers/publishers to get fair share of $) that is not directly from the publisher. But that may be debatable depending on the size of the publisher since even though I love them and support them, most indie bookstores ask for a 20-40% discount for the books to be sold there, which is understandable because they have to make money as well. And of course, there are all the benefits of a good indie bookstore in a community, that is part of a community, and that is why I have no problem supporting them. We also do not want those bookstores to disappear or go out of business so that is one main reason why Dustin’s post and the large amount of other publishers, writers, readers would rather support an indie bookstore over Amazon or Wal Mart or Target for books.

Back on topic, I think that direct sales from websites is a matter of publicity and also having a platform that is easy to order books from. Those 2 things (and now familiarity/habit) are why Amazon is “the place” to order books for most people. So publicity is always a problem for indie/small presses or else they wouldn’t be indie right? Or maybe not. When we let indie bookstores buy books for a discount, we are also paying not only them but paying for publicity.

Having a platform that is easy to use is something that a publisher can directly affect and have fairly easily. Paypal works well and most people that buy online are familiar with it and even if you don’t want to make an account, you can still purchase the book. But remember too that Paypal takes a cut on the transaction. So really, you always have to pay someone else, and one just needs to be aware of that. But for Scrambler Books, direct sales from websites are definitely the way that the writer and Scrambler recoup the most money.

**Also, I just want to say that all the money that is “made” off of books, which maybe should be rephrased as the little money that is recycled back to Scrambler via sales, is all put back into Scrambler for the next books, publicity, etc… and even much more money than is actually “made off” of Scrambler is put in by yours truly. And I know from talking with other publishers/editors it is pretty much the same for most places that are similar size and even larger than Scrambler. So there it is.

Probably more thoughts/ramblings soon. And all of the above are not complaints, just trying to write these things out since I am constantly thinking about them.


 

 

ALT LIT CAR WASH READING IN AUSTIN

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During lunch at work I sit outside and use social media to promote the event. I tweet: I’m reading a tiny story aloud today at a car wash on MLK and Airport in Austin. Come say hi at 7pm :) I don’t tell anyone I work with about the event, not even to make small talk in the copy room. At home I practice reading aloud the story I plan on sharing at the event. I delete words I don’t like, then I delete entire sentences I don’t like. When it feels bare enough I put books in my messenger bag, say goodbye to our dog and cat, and walk to the bus stop. On the bus the idling engine puts me to sleep. I don’t salivate, which is surprising. The ringtone on my phone sounds faraway, insistent. I bounce back to reality. I dig in my messenger bag’s side pocket. “Hey,” I say. I say, “I’m on the bus, about to reach MLK.” “Cool,” you say. You say, “I’m by Wheatsville.” “Have you passed it yet?” I say. “No,” you say. “Can you get me some Guayaki?” I say. “Okay,” you say. We discuss a meeting place. We decide on 21st and Guadalupe, the same corner with the Daniel Johnston alien frog. I get off the bus then cross Guadalupe. I stand in front of the famous graffiti and take a picture with me in it.

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I take this picture because it happens to be consistent with the story I’m about to read aloud at a car wash. You call to say you’re by the CVS. I walk north along the line of traffic until I find you driving our Honda. The Guayaki is cold. I drink it fast, bomb myself with caffeine and sugar and the magical powers of yerba mate. “Thank you,” I say. “I also bought this t-shirt,” you say, handing it to me. It’s green and very soft. I want to smear my face in it. I want to see you in it. I feel focused. At a stoplight on MLK, heading east, you change your shirt. A few minutes later we take a right into a car wash. Alicia Fyne, the event organizer, is in her car in the far left bay, just like she said she would be. There are people packed into her car. You park off to the side, grab your Buddha’s Brew Kombucha, and enter the world. I follow. We introduce ourselves to the people inside Alicia’s car. They get out and, like that, SAD SAD SAD FEST in the far left bay of the car wash on the corner of MLK and Airport starts. We meet Alicia Fyne, Andrew Hilbert, Joseph Green, Cheryl Couture, No Glykon. There is beer. There are flasks of whiskey. In other bays at the car wash, people are washing their cars. A friend shows up: David Nguyen. Other people enter the far left bay, lean against the tiled walls, introduce themselves. It’s fun. No one gives a shit. We’re here to make something beautiful on our own terms, but I think that’s always been how beauty gets made. Around 7pm Alicia corrals everyone to the area around her trunk. She introduces the event. Last month they read at a Taco Bell. This month a car wash. Next month, maybe, a cemetery. I’m the first to read. I stand up, set my messenger bag on Alicia’s trunk. I may or may not thank Alicia for organizing this event, but I’m thankful. I say something about Tiny TOE Press, show one of our handpressed paperbacks. People seem to be listening. “I’m going to read something called Cardboard,” I say. Then you start recording.

I sit down on the curb next to David Nguyen. He offers me some whiskey from his flask. I take a pull. “Tasty,” I say. I say, “Thanks.” “No problem,” says David. “It’s Canadian.” Next to read is Cheryl Couture.

Cheryl sits down on the curb to give everyone a chance to recover from their laughter. It takes awhile. I put my hoodie on because it’s in the lower 50s. It feels good to be laughing in the cold with other people. Next to read is Andrew Hilbert of SlagDrop.

This event starts to feel like it’s all times happening at once. Against my will, I think about the meaning of this event. Taking something that’s done in private and, usually, consumed in private, i.e. writing and reading, and bringing it to a car wash, where people come to clean their cars, not to write our read. In search of meaning where there’s no meaning: a pitfall, a character flaw. David Nguyen takes his flask out. You drink some just to taste it, and I take another pull. Next to read is No Glykon of Reality Hands.

I watch someone put their car in reverse then realign it into the bay. Another person smacks their doormats against the concrete. Soapy mist blows out of the farthest bay. To hold a reading where you least expect it. To hold a reading where it doesn’t fit in. Is this a tribute to freedom? to doing what you want? Again: searching for meaning where there’s no meaning. Next to read is Joseph Green.

Behind me I hear people ordering from Popeye’s. Someone driving by wonders what’s happening at the car wash. It’s a non-exclusive event. Come listen if you want. You accidentally pause the recording then start it back up again.

And last to read is Alicia Fyne of wait…what?, which is actually the name of this monthly reading series, not SAD SAD SAD FEST. I look to my right, then to my left. I look behind me. People still seem to be listening.

The spell of words takes awhile to wear off. Then, it does, and that’s it. People huddle to socialize, congratulate, followed by minor dispersal. We say thank you, goodbye, thank you, and plan on seeing most of them Saturday night at SlagDrop’s release party. Inside our Honda, it’s quiet until we start talking.ious