TW: no trigger warnings in the land of the dead.

XO, mom It's okay, it's alright, nothing's wrong Tell Mr. Man with impossible plans to just leave me alone In the place where I make no mistakes In the place where I have what it takes

author photo pre-emptively taken for Big Five photoshoot; it’s not over til it’s over, NYC Parks.

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TW: No trigger warnings.

All of this equals just writing as authors have done since the dawn of time. Anyone who tries to insert their opinion into anything you have to say is impugning on the writer’s time. Anyone who finds the subject matter going back or is offended by the fuck-word or takes umbrage with, I don’t know, the average rainfall in the Amazon basin or the mating habits of the Koala Bear or whatever it is you have to say can simply. close. the. book. 

It is not the writer’s responsibility to do this. Our job is the mirror opposite - we have enough trouble trying to get readers to not only open the book but to stay engaged, every sentence, two or three hundred pages until the end - and hopefully, think reflectively about what we have to say long after you are done with us and we with you. 

How dare anyone try and shovel more responsibility onto the pile of truly emotional labor that steadily grows larger for us scribblers? 

At present: 

We must write the book, edit the book, market the book, build a target market for the book [hello substack readers!], find an agent for the book, get them to agree to represent us by both the strength of our work and proposal and the chance there is a hole in their schedule wide enough to accommodate us. If we come to terms, we must comfortably pay the agent 20% for their effort off the top of all future earnings, and somehow prau they have both the mojo and can-do to go up this beanstalk all the way to the only publishing houses that can carry us anymore [the conglomerate, patched over [MC version of merger & acquisition] the so-called Big 5, and their umpteen imprints sprinkling down to earth], where, if we just happen to win that particular lottery, we may be graced with an editor that is not only talented but actually believes in what it is we are trying to do [as well as her/himselves own drive in the industry and love of the game] like a legend, such as Maxwell Perkins or a Bill Thompson [Stephen King from Carrie to The Dark Half in 1991; you do the math on whether or not that helped or hindered his work from an editorial perspective], that will place the book at the tippy top of their booklists and hope to Christ they have quality veteran soldiers in their ranks who can do the proper PR and promotion — basically living on the telephone day and night — to ensure we are seen and our voices get heard. Because without that, you have lost. 

To get to this stage will place our books on shelves and in online retailers warehouses if we are smart, agile, hardworking enough — and hopefully have a concordance/body of work at this time that is large enough to keep our bettors buying our work and contracting our rights to those who might deign to pay us an actual living wage, one day - if we are lucky enough. If we don’t get remaindered. If we aren’t out of print before the first edition print run even completes its lazy jog around the press.

Now — to add insult to injury — you want us to advertise that our book might be harmful to those who pick it up prior to the first actual, creative word being struck? Like we are cancer causing like a pack of cigarettes or deadly, like a firearm? Are you actively betting against us? Do we look like we *need* another handicap? 

Begging your pardon, but you can suck a fart out of my asshole.

You have problems? So do I. So does everyone. Welcome to real life. My job is to write books. There’s already a warning label on what we do in every library and in every bookseller. It’s called “Children’s Books” and “Adult Books.”They are conveniently placed in separate sections for your ready reference.

If you can’t deal with shit fuck satan death sex drugs rape [in the immortal words of Scott Ian], then get the fuck out of my house and go pick up Ann M. Martin and read about the Babysitter’s Club or maybe if you’re feeling extraspecial racy and it’s a Friday night a Christopher Pike thriller in the Young Adult section. I promise you won’t have to contend with very much reality there. No bad words. No racial epithets. No naughty fuck scenes.

Other than that, how fucking dare you.

With gratitude and grace,


lchristopher.


-or, as the man in all things Christopher-related, I give Mr. Tracy Marrow, known more colloquially to you all as the musical polymath Ice-T. [I got my first kiss at a Body Count show, you cannot doubt my sincerity to this man.]

Freedom of speech, let ‘em take it from me
Next they’ll take it from you, then what you gonna do?
Let ‘em censor books, let ‘em censor art
PMRC, this is where the witch hunt starts
You’ll censor what we see, we read, we hear, we learn
The books will burn
You better think it out
We should be able to say anything, our lungs were meant to shout
Say what we feel, yell out what’s real
Even though it may not bring mass appeal
Your opinion is yours, my opinion is mine
If you don’t like what I’m sayin’? fine
But don’t close it, always keep an open mind
A man who fails to listen is blind
We only got one right left in the world today

Let me have it or throw the Constitution away.

-ICE-T; [JELLO BIAFRA/DEAD KENNEDY'S] BODY COUNT - FIRST ALBUM