Book

When I started writing in 2018, it was a blast I was creating these cool little stories about weird shit like old people turning into gargoyles and a person being in Leviathan’s belly. It was all really just me trying super hard to be Lovecraft and Clive, that’s all I wanted. I shared the stories with friends, not really anything else, they thought it was cool. Whatever. 

I was playing in some pretty shitty Coalesce rip-offs at the time. We’re talking one after another. When I wasn’t doing that, I was skating, or working at this blues bar in town for $6/hr. It was a stupid life, but I had fun every now and again I guess 🤷‍♂️. My wife, Breanna, Bre for short, who will show up a lot, was in the same boat, we were just sorta struggling to get by and figuring out who we were. Dumb ass kids doing dumb ass things like maxing out credit card debt to go to the mall because we were bored and depressed and the only thing that would help was buying stupid stuff that we didn’t even think about after two years. 

Whatever. 

We survived. 

I started really getting into writing, like REALLY into it. I quit all my bands, sold my gear, the whole thing. Anyone who knows me knows that when I decide I’m done with something, I’m Doneskies. I am not going to go back to it. 

I started a book called PUP, I had about 10k down all four times I deleted the whole thing. Trash. The first four drafts were about a dog catcher hunting a werewolf that was sort of a rip off of everything Lansdale has done mixed with some Clive stuff. 

It may have not been as bad as I think, but, fuck it, it’s gone now to never be seen again. 

Somewhere through that process one of my closest friends(who will remain unnamed here, as will anything personal not about Bre or I), was supposed to come over to my house, have some drinks, watch some shitty Bigfoot movies and just enjoy the day off. He didn’t show up for his morning shift, didn’t call off, no one could reach him. So me, concerned citizen and breaking and entering expert (the window was unlocked, just sorta slid it open) decided the police in my area would probably sit on their hands about it for three days because they had some people to pull over for broken taillights or some skaters to tell to leave a fucking abandoned building and just wouldn’t get around to it for ten days. 

Long story short, he was there, he wasn’t okay, drug addiction never goes away even if someone has been clean for ten years, and I miss my friend. 

Without getting all sad boy “hold your loved ones close” here because that is NOT what I’m yapping about, this spurred me to write my first release, Aphid. It’s a personal book, maybe not a good one, but a personal one nonetheless the less. 

It didn’t do well. I was new to this whole community and the concept of self publishing was wild. I could just do whatever and release it as a book? Fuck yeah. So I went on Fiverr, paid $10 for a cover that I could have made if I were a little more patient, and threw it out there. 

That was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made in my life, and also the best decision I’ve made. 

I had no idea how to promote. 

I STILL have no idea how to promote. 

I didn’t want to make money. 

I STILL don’t care about the money. 

I wanted people to read my work, disconnect from whatever dogshit is going on in their life, have a connection with another human, and enjoy a couple hours. That’s it. 

That’s genuinely STILL all I want. 

The worst part about being a published author is wanting people to read your work. That will always be where I stand. I love when people read it, I love seeing good or bad things said about it. I love feeling like someone decided to spend time with something I created. That’s all I’ve ever wanted as a writer. 

As time has gone on, I’ve grown to love being apart of this world. I love working with other authors, with pubs, meeting readers, and my favorite is going to cons. 

My least favorite: feeling like I can’t figure out HOW to get my work out there. 

It’s probably pretty natural to want to have your work out there, authors function in only two ways in my opinion:

They want to make money from their stuff and have a career.

Or, they want to share the work they created as an artistic outlet and receive some sort of doggy treat for doing a good job. 

Both are great, both produce fantastic art. 

I’m unfortunately a golden retriever in this sense. 

What’s even worse, I have no clue. 

I have zero idea how to advertise this stuff. My books aren’t horror, they aren’t comedy, and they damn well for fucking ass bastard sure are NOT splatterpunk so PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE stop calling me that! Nothing wrong with the genre, but it isn’t me. 

My work isn’t marketable. 

I have had more bad experiences with pubs and other writers because of this than probably anyone. 

I have a book right now that’s been with two pubs and working on a third possibly fourth.

I trust too easy, I defend too quickly, and I’m a bad person. I’m an awful person. To distort a Black Flag quote, my writing career is a piece of shit that got stuck in the bottom of my shoe and I’ve been grinding at it trying to get it out for a long time. 

I can’t though. 

I don’t want it to go away. 

Despite being lied to by people I’ve considered friends, misled by publishers who I thought believed in my work, and monetarily ripped off more times than I should have been… I keep going. 

I’m a dumb ass. 

I really am. 

I keep writing weird little stories, then I let someone hype me up, then they use me for whatever they need me for, then I’m cast aside like the used greasy hamburger wrapper I am. 

I was raised by parents who ingrained in my head that this is how I deserve to be treated and I struggle to think otherwise. I’ve been taught that my parents, the people who are supposed to love me unconditionally, will drive 6 hours for multiple small town bands playing on a riverfront, but not bother trying to mend things with their son they haven’t spoken to in years. They will tell me I’m a spoiled asshole instead of saying, “yeah, maybe your father shouldn’t have mentally and physically abused you, maybe we should have… helped you instead of treating you like a disgruntled roommate.”

They won’t. 

I struggle to accept this. 

It’s made me think that yes, any small problem I create, anything I do, it’s all doggie doo that I deserve to have treated as such, and in turn, I deserve to be treated as such to the point that after I’m used up the other person can use the love and care I’ve built for them to make me feel like I’m in the wrong forever. 

I still beat myself up over a publishing fiasco from 2021, despite everyone around me telling me I didn’t do anything. 

I went through too much of that with people in 2024. 

I was hyped up, I signed contracts, I stood up for people when I shouldn’t have, I was treated like an asshole by both sides of every DRAWMA in the book world. It fucking sucked. I may never recover from it. I lost friends, I lost support, I lost opportunities. 

Whatever. 

I fucked up, I admit I fucked up. There were things I should have done, that I did, but I should have realized at some point the tables had turned and it IS possible for two bad people to be being crummy to each other. Trust me, I’ve seen lies first hand from every side of every DRAWMA I’ve been in. 

I am sorry to every single person who felt I want listening to them in anything. Except the two dudes who blocked me, told people I was being an asshole, when in truth, I was not, I am not apologizing to them ever, so they can keep telling lies to keep me away from places they have decided are “theirs.” 

I also jump to conclusions and I know I do. So take all of this with a grain of salt as it’s coming from the mind of a person who always assumes the worst case scenario, and always thinks people do not think he exists. 

It’s been a struggle since then to get anything going. I am trying to get back to enjoying writing. I am making it a point to celebrate the victories of those around me and be the biggest cheerleader I can be. Is it a bummer to feel like my writing has no place? Does it suck seeing people get deal after deal after deal that gets followed through on with excitement while I have to struggle to get commitment on the smallest things from people who told me yes already?

Absolutely. 

I may never be taken seriously, and I have to accept that and be thankful for the people who do take me seriously. I have to be happy to be in the orbit of some of my friends as they blow up and get to live the dreams we’ve all shared-

Anyway, my 20 minnow timer went off. Lemme set one for an extra 2 to wrap it up. It’s my blog, I can make up the rules, and I want to end this on a positive. 

I’m not doing it anymore. If I had a problem with you over something that doesn’t involve bigotry, it’s gone. Whatever. Interact with me if you want to, don’t if you don’t want to. 

In the same way Wonder Woman or Mercedes Varnado, my two personal heroes, I will be doing things differently. I’m here to help you. I don’t want anyone to feel the way I’ve felt my whole life. If you need help with a cover, edit, format, or just feeling down, reach out and I’ll do whatever I can to help. 

I have made a few friends in this place. People I would do anything for and that I love dearly. They’ve dealt with me crying over the dumbest shit, they deal with me photoshopping them into stupid pictures, they deal with reading my stupid books every single time, they deal with drunken messages of affection. 

To those people, I love you, I appreciate you, you are the only people who have kept me going. 

Also, please teach me how to advertise, these memes I keep making aren’t going to last forever and I doubt Sabrina Carpenter is going to see the ad I made of her holding my books and say, “yeah, let’s read Damien’s books, he seems… not like the worst person alive… I guess.”

Times up. 

Much love. 

Extra love if you read all of this dumb shit. 

🫶🫶🫶

K thx.