In the resounding blackness of the fluid abyssal bottom that the eldest Davyjones called home, there was a ripple of strange noise. It was also familiar, perhaps the echo of a voice from a chamber plus a specific, known heartbeat. It was that thing, that structure, moving in an unusual fashion. The dragonspeaker was inside it, the strategic human Draig.
There were no refracted wavelengths from it, just a couple sparkles of electricity on the streams. Still just motion in the water, there would be light soon – that thing is very bright. The Davyjones could tell by the movement where they were looking to go, and how far, and how well they were doing. There were a number of currents that radiated from here that he knew and could feel. The massive building-sized boltcutter claws sent off a thundering few beats of aqueous percussion.
This subtly noticeable vibration reached the Arch in motion, and Draig Claymore recognized the feel of those stony gates crashing shut nearby. It was the inimitable, unsurpassed, majestic crustacean dragon friend, the Eldest Davyjones. What was he doing here? Upon his request, they darkened the Arch except for operating information. There was a lot of ocean on this planet, and here they were, crossing paths. Draig could think of a few possible ways to go from here, and was balancing likely propulsion allowance within the meteoric depths. They might want to see the Davyjones if they could, if only to dodge its gigantic bulk.
A light kindled in the darkness, a shade of blue that Draig recalled from the time that the Dragon Arctyri had introduced them. This time, as they neared enough to discern it, there were only some visible parts of the intricate lines of bioluminescence on the Eldest. Draig saw the convergence point of these lines, as well as their radiant angles. He understood. They had come to an understanding during that introduction, and it was still there. Judging from where they’d been going, Claymore could figure out where those lines went. Those were currents, in the facing direction. He did not doubt the Davyjones. Draig instinctively determined their course with this. The Woollibees set the Arch as requested, and they were rewarded with a surge of following current. Draig cackled, and pounded his knuckles on the viewing pane in a chipper answering beat.
The Eldest Davyjones perceived the rhythmic answer, and blinked his eye bouquets at the calculus curve of the passing Arch. With one crash of a claw, the encounter was concluded. He returned to spinning a profound eternity of deep blind contemplations on the great ocean.
Dragon Food had always been eventually expelled on an out-breath, after spending some time being eaten and fully digested, in the way that happens inside a Dragon, for Dragon Food. A Dragon is like a plane between planes, and this digestion was like becoming a part of every innumerable plane touching this Dragon’s intraplane of elemental existence. Expulsion velocity occurred in rate of experience; interestingly, of course interestingly, velocities varied as Dragon Food careened in a personal form of interdimensional propulsion.
During this ‘time’ of being part of the Dragon’s breath, he/‘e (he’e?) was still part of a part of the Dragon, on a draconid meta-analytical level. While ‘moving’ (which was also being) along a course through the element, the Kao-Sidhe’s existence was in the form of the element, and still in the invert-D bas-relief pattern imprint gestalt of Dragon Food. So Dragon Food existed as himself, with little control except flight posture, in the form of another’s existence in the shared set of tonal keys and ability effects.
And so there were places, experienced in this specific manner; maybe not even as a place, but as an aspect of a place and the realm that encompasses. It may not even be a place at all, but something that happens in many places – sort of like a Dragon’s extended elemental circulatory system. Betimes, Dragon Food would be exhaled with some greeting of awareness, sometimes not. This time it was an energetic all-encompassing sigh of remembrance of all that had just passed; Dragon Food was always glad to hear that sound of the moment after a really excellent meal.
Akralnar was as new in existence as er twin Acamar; between hatching and the meeting of the self, the story of this one was unknown and undoubtedly different. Dragon Food was now a part of a small piece of that story, and knew Akralnar and er element through this part. Describing and understanding the newly hatched element would take people some time, but they had certainly discovered it and been discovered by it. This was the new universe, once again.
Dragon Food recalled while in constant transformation that it was during the experiment, when the two Dragons met their same-self, that he was eaten by an extradimensional as an appealing piece of music which literally transcended dimensions, making the same possible for Dragon Food. He wasn’t worried much about translation of being, since he was still himself. If eaten by a Dragon, Dragon Food is Dragon Food. Once the Dragon’s breath dissipated and he was no longer a part of it, he believed that his being could only resolve in his own dimensional set… surely! Meanwhile, Dragon Food was everywhere within the breath, swirling and unfurling.
“It is I, my good bros of the snack den,” announced Derringer in leisure suit glory, with a strolling gesture of magnificence after having been let in to the only occupied office suite in the small building. “Have I got a list of links for you. We’re going to read some diaries, go through drawers of underthings, and send them their underwear in a gift box with a note of introduction and a token of our affectionate esteem.”
Fred DeWalt turned from the bank of security monitors he was maintaining. “That sounds ethically dubious.”
“Alas, it’s the line of work we’ve gotten ourselves into,” Derringer said, shaking his head helplessly.
“Have a seat,” gestured Chad Dremel. “Have a slice. Tell us what kind of trouble and/or opportunity we’ve got on our hands, thanks to you.”
Derringer took a seat in front of an active screen in Dremel’s ceiling-mounted setup. “I’m too excited to eat yet. It involves ladies.”
“Utterly terrifying, yet I am not surprised,” quipped Fred.
“Pull up a chair next to me so I can show you how to do this, while I can remember it all.” Chad and Fred did so, facing Derringer’s screen. “So, list.” With a finger he selected a random item. “Public address.” He opened a business page of what looked to be an outgoing life coach. Derringer pointed to the corner of his list, where an address endtag was written. “Secret portal. Some might not have it.” They added the address tag, which took them to a page with a background and nothing else. “Go to the source code.” The page switched from graphics to code. Derringer pointed at the other corner of his list sheet, where there was an alphanumerical string. “Search for this string. It bookends a sequence specific to the site. Record or copy it. Get the admin contact from the source code, and send them this sequence in an encrypted message. Use the subject line: ACTIVATE PORTAL. Then something will happen, with which we need not concern ourselves.”
“And all of these sites belong to… ladies?” Chad worked his logic.
“Should we be worried?” Fred muttered almost under his breath.
“No, this won’t come back to haunt us at all,” Derringer said with loud confidence. “This is all we were asked to do, by our employer and associate. I was not warned of any potential repercussions whatsoever. We have top level authorization, and I am told this is programmatically consensual, and does not constitute a breach. Unlike an actual panty raid.”
“Wow… Splendid.” Chad Dremel had been rapidly flipping through the page links. “They’re all gorgeous and powerful.”
“We have nothing to fear,” Derringer said soothingly. “And now I will have that slice.”
There was a draconid melee in an unaffiliated corner of the sublimated Level Plaine, a particular kind of interaction that suited certain elements in certain situations. It was a chaotic simultaneity that tossed various merits of ideas to the top level of awareness, but in retrospect could be re-examined from many sides as a complete dimensionality. The complexity of this one classed it as a concrescence, and Arkuda had decided to join in on this intensity, upon its invitation to er consciousness.
focus / \ channel / \ ignite / \ excite
Arkuda now dreamed in cross-temporal observance, amidst flowers in an unpopulated living corner. The living memory engaged the senses of comprehension like the lingering vapors of incense after the ember is gone, something one can still describe.
balance / \ wind / \ coordination / \ fuel
The Red Nexus ancients had apparently not been eating any Humans since returning from exile. Whether that was a strategic wait, or because they were receiving sufficient direct human communication, was unclear. They were entertaining possibilities for new modes of interaction, more open-mindedly than Arkuda had expected – maybe even moreso than the entrenched authority in the Pan-Galactic Imperium, who had already lost more in refusing to discuss rebalancing power structures by acknowledging new peoples.
scour / \ cleanse / \ renew / \ regrow
Perhaps the Red Nexus were being changed by their current alliance with Hirylienites, Aureny, Vedani, and Kao-Sidhe; having one’s value appreciated can change the nature of destructive opposition when facing others.
reset / \ rebuild / \ reorganize / \ revelation
There was another cross-temporality adjoining to Arkuda’s stream of consciousness. It was abutting to er sphere of rumination, sublingual from the Dragon’s vantage but distinctly verbal. This energetic attention was invited to involvement with these matters. The sunlight Dragon could neither break through to listen without a beckoning, nor ignore it.
I want to cross-post this interview here, for its relevance to Bones of Starlight’s life as an online serialization. Without serializing, Bones of Starlight may not have come this far, or it may have become a very different thing. Twice at least, serializing online saved the amount of work that had been achieved when disaster struck my equipment. A couple key influences brought me around to serializing Bones of Starlight; firstly Creative Commons and their flexible creator’s rights work that allows me to reserve rights to correct attribution while allowing my work to be broadcast by others and myself over the open web and world – but I’d also heard about it being done once before, with this really wacky story that I first saw as a movie, which turned from a popular blog into a new and celebrated writing career. That was John Dies At The End, a interdimensional psychedelic save-the-world misadventure that had me cracking up through my first watch. I got a copy of it from my video rental job, and heard the legend in a living room. The author, David Wong, is also actually named Jason Pargin. He did this interview with me over email, in pre-release of the fourth John Dies At The End novel: If This Book Exists, You’re In The Wrong Universe (coming out in October). Enjoy!
(The Martian also serialized online, and I learned about that while already underway with my first book’s continuous release.)
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So a publisher picked you up eventually, and then they edited. What was that like, did you and your readers mind the changes much?
Editing has always been painless for me, but I have no idea if that experience is typical.
Like I’ve actually never had an editor demand changes, it’s always more of a collaborative thing where they explain issues and you kind of work together to figure out the best way to fix them. But I also had some leverage during that process, too. By the time I was working with an editor for the 2009 St. Martin’s release of JDatE, the online version had already gone viral several years before (some 75,000 readers saw it for free online starting around 2000) and I’d self-published and sold a substantial number of print-on-demand copies (something like 6,000). So the one time they did suggest a big change (cutting a certain chapter) I argued that existing fans would see this as an incomplete edition, and would rebel. And those existing fans were the ones we were depending on to build hype for the hardcover release and leave reviews etc. But it wasn’t some huge argument, they suggested it, I explained why I didn’t want to do the change, that was the end of it.
Every other suggestion from the editor was less substantial but always made the book better (pointing out plot or continuity errors, incorrect phrasing, confusing action descriptions, quoting copyrighted song lyrics – stuff you can’t really argue with).
How many groans were there when they took the serialized story offline? Did you feel like that changed your way of relating to your audience?
Well, there’s some additional context there. Completely aside from the book, I was a mildly famous blogger starting in the late 90s (not that I made any money from it, but I had a lot of readers and was pretty well known-among other online creators). So I gave my work away for free for years and what you find is that the most passionate fans do feel some sense of entitlement, even when they’re getting all of the content for free (for example, there were constant complaints about the banner ads, even though they barely covered my costs and in no way paid me for my time/work).
I don’t even mean that in a negative way. It’s just the way it is, fans will always demand more, so any change (say, if I switched the publication schedule to be less frequent, or took a few weeks off, or ran something they disagreed with) there would be loud complaints and messages implying that I owed them now, that I needed to make up for my mistake, even though again they’d paid nothing and about a third of them were using ad blockers. They just assumed that because I was so widely read, I was surely getting rich off it thanks to them, and that I thus owed them.
So the angry messages that came from me pulling the free version of the novel offline were there, but those kind of messages are always there – if not about that, then people complaining that the site was slow, or that they were getting error messages on the forum, etc. Often I’d have to pull old articles because something would be broken with the formatting (due to an update to web browsers or Flash version or whatever) and as soon as it came down, a bunch of angry people would claim it was their favorite article and why didn’t I pour hours into fixing it instead.
It doesn’t take many years of that before you kind of grow numb to the complaints. Not that you don’t care or stop listening to feedback, but that you realize that’s just kind of the background noise of your life and you don’t let it cause you stress if you know the change was one you had to make. Complaints are just the noise an audience makes sometimes.
What has novel publishing been like since, are you still with the same publisher?
Same publisher, same editor. What happened was the hardcover of JDatE sold pretty well (I earned back my advance in seven days) and then they signed me to do a sequel, which came out right when the movie did in 2012, so the hype/press around the movie put the second book on the NYT bestseller list. After that, the publisher signed me to a multi-book deal for a legitimately huge amount of money. I’m on a schedule where I publish a novel every two years and it takes me every bit of that time to write one, that’s just the speed at which ideas occur to me. Still, I had a full-time job separate from novel writing until early 2020 at Cracked, and had intended to always do that. Things just didn’t work out that way so I’m writing novels full time but that’s not by choice. I assume I’ll get another day job at some point.
Is serializing something you only did that once, would you again? Why did you serialize in the first place? You were working in insurance, right.
Here’s where I’m worried my advice might not be relevant in 2022 or, more importantly, to someone trying to start a paid writing career. In the late 90s to early 2000s, I was working two office jobs (doing data entry for an insurance company and filing/billing for a law office, jobs I was just getting through a temp agency) and was blogging on the side with some hopes that I could get popular enough to turn it into a side job via banner ad revenue (that never happened). The first “John Dies at the End” post wasn’t called that, it was just another blog post, one I did for Halloween in I think 2000, a standalone haunted house story in which “David” and his friend investigate a haunting and get chased around by meat.
Back then, the blog was just any kind of humor essay I felt like writing, sometimes reviews or fake news stories, other times comedic narratives starring David and John. So this Halloween post wasn’t out of character, occasionally I’d just have a funny story starring these two guys, and the format of the site was that each story would start off with some kind of normal setup and then wind up somewhere extremely stupid.
That next Halloween, leading up to the holiday people started asking when the “sequel” to the previous year’s scary post would be up, and that was the first time I realized I was going to have to write another one. So those stories became an annual Halloween tradition until I wound up with something novel-length. Then in 2005 or so I put them all together with their own navigation and section of the site, and heavily edited the whole thing, going back and retconning changes and adding foreshadowing to events I wrote later, so that it all appeared to be on purpose. It was written over the course of five years and those posts were basically my fiction writing school; I’d barely done it before that. I think I’d written a total of two short stories in my entire life prior to 1999. But I’d written plenty of silly fiction as part of the blog.
But I can’t make this clear enough: I never aspired to be a full time novelist, and actually never thought I’d like doing that as a job. I have never shopped for an agent or publisher, I literally don’t know what that process looks like. I’ve never researched the industry to find out what’s hot or what genres are selling, I’ve never kept up with trends or looked into the best ways to get a foot in the door, it all just happened to me mostly on accident (more on that later).
I was super happy for you to hear that you were subsequently hired to write for Cracked, and it looks like your career continues smoothly.
Yeah I got the Cracked job in 2007 but that was due to a whole bunch of good luck and circumstance (there were more famous writers up for the job, but I was friends with the guy who had it before me and his reference went a long way). It was absolutely a dream job that any friend of mine would kill to have (working from home writing blog posts full time, with benefits). But when I got hired, I assumed it wouldn’t last more than 1-2 years, dotcom startups had a bad reputation for flaming out and I was taking a huge risk by taking the Cracked job and quitting my much more secure insurance job. My rationale was that if nothing else, it would build my resume and allow me to get other writing jobs in the future.
Instead, it was a huge success for the first several years. Then around 2014 the industry started to change and in 2017 the site was sold to a new company, who fired pretty much the entire staff (aside from me) less than a year later. But we were always understaffed, I think I averaged 100 hours a week for five straight years, putting in at least some hours on every single weekend, holiday and sick day.
I held on until 2020 but it was a steady process of budget cuts and layoffs and constantly feeling like every day would be my last. I left in early 2020 because they basically eliminated my position and I just didn’t feel like pivoting to a new one, because at that point the years of stress had taken a massive toll on my health (I still need medication to digest food normally). I only recently stopped having stress dreams that I’d overslept and missed some important meeting or deadline.
Do you now find it easy to write a book in secret and release it the traditional way, now that you have industry support?
The industry support is great, but that extends to them working with bookstores to make sure the book gets stocked, and doing some of the promotion. The rest of the promotion is up to me, and it’s literally a full time job (this is true of any author). In order to maintain a network of connected readers I can announce books to, I maintain three Facebook pages, a Twitter, an Instagram, a Mailchimp newsletter, a Substack blog/newsletter, a Goodreads page, a website and a YouTube account:
I maintain all of those myself, for the most part. I also do publicity year-round, in 2021 I guested on about 32 hours of podcasts; that’s all unpaid, it’s purely for book publicity:
The video trailers I release for my books are arranged entirely on my end, for the last Zoey book I hired a production company here in town, writing the script myself, approving every aspect of the production down to the props, and paying for every bit of it out-of-pocket:
For each book, I’ll spend about $20,000-$25,000 of my own money on promotion, plus several thousand hours of my own labor in updating socials or doing guest posts. So the industry support is amazing, I know every author would kill for it, but I can’t emphasize enough that my life is 80% publicity/promotion and 20% book writing.
Is serializing something you only did that once, would you again?
Well the issue is that I don’t actually write my novels in order, I do an outline and frequently skip ahead to write some part I feel more like working on that day. The process of circling back to change the beginning (to add foreshadowing or to set up payoffs) continues right up to the end of the editing process. So the only way I’d release something in serial form today is if I wrote and edited the entire thing, and then released it a chunk at a time. And at the moment I don’t know that there’d be any advantage to that. But if I was starting my career new, I might consider it (but even then would probably release it primarily as an audiobook or podcast, with the text version as like a bonus for those who prefer it).
Bones of Starlight 3 : Greater Beyond 