Friday, April 20, 2012

New Chomu coming! !!!

I stole the following from Anna Tambour! !!

Warning: CRANDOLIN to be served up by Chômu Press
To be released in time for the feasting season: my novel CRANDOLIN.
"A fairy tale Dostoevsky would have liked … It's like it was written by a demented chef"
David Kowalski

The fit with Chômu Press is so perfect that I have hesitated to say anything here, for fear the feasting season will fall off the end of Time, or the End of the World will come at 2:00 the day before the release. So I hereby invoke the Writer's Prayer:

Please, Fate(s) or Who(m)ever,
Let The End of the World come the day after the release of my Important novel.
Chômu Press doesn't publish me-too fiction that you've read somewhere before wrapped in another title. They do publish the most intriguing and readable stuff. And they care about presentation. The productions are luscious, partly because they get some of the best artists involved as well as the superb designer, Anil D.Nataly. And mostly because they do insane amounts of work themselves.
Sure, I could have gotten CRANDOLIN published somewhere, but I have wanted the best, and the context I can put this press into, to show that I really do admire what they do as well as their guts, is to say that they're the Blaft of the UK. And anyone who's followed my love affair with Blaft knows that they're my favourite publisher in the world.
Quentin S. Crisp as editor is just what I always wanted for CRANDOLIN, and me! He's like a rain of vinegar hitting the mountain of me, a pile of bicarbonate of soda. He's what all great editors are — insidious drugs. I've been tripping for weeks. (And if you haven't read Crisp's own fiction, you're missing something major. He's a writer of classics, given the readership. I've just finished Shrike, and think it should be rereleased as a Popular Penguin, though it's hardly been read by anyone yet.)
Finally, CRANDOLIN is too original for agents to have been any more use than a sautéed umbrella. And I wouldn't have approached Chômu Press though it looks mouthwatering, because I grew too cynical about the whole fiction scene. So thank you, dear Starburst Poet (Joseph S. Pulver, Sr.), for not only picking me up from the muck of my own depression, but for being yet another wonderful editor; and then, after that, for turning out to be a big hairy yenta — a meddling matchmaker!
Of course, there are other brave readers to whom I am also indebted. They donated their blood to CRANDOLIN and their shoulders (at least) to me, without ever charging me for their earplug expenses. I shall reveal them as the novel turns.

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