Afterward for My Babylon, Book One: Body
“Oh the demon monkeys that live in my hair will have their message heard!”
— Patton Oswalt
If you’ve made it this far you can blame Stephan Michael Loy. Steve, my friend, my fellow writer, my best critic, said something that shocked me to the core last November.
“I’m going to self-publish my books from now on.”
Understand, this is a man who gets up at 4 am every morning like clock-work, weekends included, so he can write. He mows the lawn, bakes his own bread, and lives clean. He lives firm by the principle that money flows to the author, not away. He is not apt to be swayed by fads. He’s not the kind of guy who wants to spend hours promoting a book. Yet even he had seen the writing on the wall.
The publishing industry is changing, has changed. Amazon has blown everything up, and the pieces have yet to land. I’m not going to prognosticate about what’s going to happen. I don’t see the big publishing houses fading away anytime soon. But the small guys, the weird guys, guys like me, now have a chance, even if it’s a tiny one. Fuck, it’s always been a chance in Hell.
Steve turned me on to the Self Publishing Podcast, and things snowballed from there. My fellow self-publishers have struck out on their own for lots of reasons. Some appreciate the royalty scheme, a lot more goes to the author because you cut out the middlemen. Some people just don’t like being told when and how to publish, I fit in that category. And, let’s face it, a whole lot of self-publishers suck. They refuse to learn and hone their craft. They’re never going to make it past the gauntlet of agents and editors because their stuff is just not that good. I may fit in that category as well, you’ll have to be the judge of that.
While I considered the virtues of self-publishing, I wrestled with another problem. I wanted to tell a certain story. I had a theme I wanted to conquer, but after two false starts, it seemed a no-go. Then the light bulb went off. Self-publishing not only meant I didn’t have to beg and scrape to the gatekeepers, it meant I could write the kind of stories I wanted to write. I didn’t have to care if they were commercial. I didn’t have to tone them down so fourteen-year-old girls could read them. I could write about the things I cared about without layer upon layer of allegory.
That’s how we got to Michel. Every author puts some of themselves in their characters. I hope he doesn’t come off as some kind of adolescent wish fulfillment. I would never want to be Mike. He’s horribly flawed. So am I, but I have my own, I don’t need his as well. In a way, this book is all about my horrible flaws. Things I can never be forgiven for. I think all good fiction should be about themes that important. The publishers have lost sight of that in their rush to find the next Stephanie Meyers.
My beta-readers have panned my main character, especially how he was presented in the first chapter. They’re probably right. I should have listened to them. But I share more than a couple of traits with Mike. I live in my head all the time. I detest malls. I also identify with his long dark night of the soul, when everything turns off, and you become an automaton. As my guru Trent Reznor says, “The me that you know is now made up of wires….” You live for a glimmer of hope. A chance in Hell. Killing the Mike in the first chapter felt too much like killing myself, like lying. Once again, you’ll have to be the judge. Maybe I should have had the courage to kill my darlings. Or maybe you’ve been there. Maybe you’ve had your own dark night of the soul.
Ave Babalon
James L. Wilber
04/22/2013
I/III/I
