The Ghoulish Times | 02/14/23
The Ghoulish Times | 02/14/23
Like Real - Ghoulish Love Haikus - Eldritch Horror Brunch Market
Hello and welcome to the latest issue of The Ghoulish Times. My name is Max Booth III and this is my spooky newsletter celebrating everything spooky. Thank you for joining me for another week of “me sending blocks of text to your inbox.”
First, in case you missed it: Last week I had Alex Woodroe and Matt Blairstone of Tenebrous Press on the GHOULISH podcast to discuss New Weird Horror. We also talked about managing Twitter drama, finding new voices, and our pulp preferences for orange juice.
You can listen to the episode HERE or wherever you typically download podcasts.
Next, if you are a writer of short horror fiction, I must remind you that tomorrow (February 15, 2023 11:59 PM CST) is the deadline to submit to our new magazine Ghoulish Tales. Thanks to the success of our recent Kickstarter, payment for accepted stories is $0.10 per word. We are also looking for non-fiction. More details HERE.
As I write this newsletter (6:00 PM CST on Tuesday, February 14th), we have received exactly 1,106 submissions. I’m pretty sure this is the largest slush pile we have ever received in such a short amount of time for a single project. We are hoping to have all responses sent out by the end of the month, but I’m sure you can understand if we don’t hit that goal in time.
In case I don’t get to write another newsletter on Friday, I must quickly share that we have signed up for a new spooky vendor event this upcoming Saturday (February 18th) in San Antonio: the Eldritch Horror Brunch Market located at Brick @ Bluestar from 11:00 AM to 5:00 PM.
We have purchased both a corner space and a regular table space for Ghoulish Books. If you’re local, consider coming down and saying hi!
And now, for the main reason you are receiving this newsletter on a Tuesday night:
We are very excited to share the first 2023 release from Ghoulish Books. Like Real is officially out today, and we guarantee you’re going to have fun with it.
In Shelly Lyons’s debut novel, Like Real, Vic Moss—kenjutsu hobbyist and clueless Lothario—lets vanity dictate his decision to acquire an experimental new-tech prosthesis that promises to evolve into a seamless, realistic looking hand. Instead, it tears from his body, transforms into his clone, and pursues a relationship with the same woman Vic has in his crosshairs—forcing Vic to kill or be replaced.
This mind-bending body horror rom-com is a rollicking Cronenbergian gene splice of Idle Hands and How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. It’s freaky. It’s fun. It’s LIKE REAL.
To celebrate the release, we asked Shelly Lyons to write a note to our very awesome newsletter subscribers, and here is what she sent us:
Dear Ghoulish Newsletter Readers,
How resonant it would be if I had some tale of physical catastrophe that led to my idea of a man with a machine hand that wants to be human. I do not.
Maybe my story sprung from seeds planted in my youth by that asskicking scene in Evil Dead 2 in which Ash fights with his possessed, disembodied hand. Or it could be a product of the depression dogging me my whole adult life. In a fun way! Yay for fun stuff resulting from depression! For years, I’ve understood that depression is chemicals, and those of us whose chemicals run amok cannot simply will them to behave.
During my childhood, thanks to the chemicals and some daunting external life events I couldn’t control, I found comfort in lists, in planning what I should do with my life, or at least a single day. Most important were worlds and stories I created and was in charge of. At age seven, I spent an entire sick-day afternoon wandering around the living room, which I’d imagined was a restaurant, with invisible guests and their food orders I knew from my mom’s kitchen. Two orders of lasagna, please. One helping of disgusting liverwurst for the jerks!
I’ve been writing stories since I was eight. My first book was a tale of flying around on a four-poster bed having adventures. Derivative, right out of the gate!
I segued to poetry and short stories and long epic verse about Peter Pan and the Beat poets. My favorite short story was called “The Odious Stink,” based on a true story. The real-life incident happened in 9th grade. A girl in class apparently hadn’t changed her maxi pad and in the hot Los Angeles bungalow classroom in late spring, it resulted in a pungent aroma nobody could ignore. I used that as the punchline, but set it in an apocalyptic world wherein an odious stink might also be deadly chemicals. Sorry I went here. The teacher handled it delicately, sent the boys out of the room and had a just-us-gals talk.
Plays and screenplays came next. Some were produced, some written for-hire, most never saw the light of day. This was a world offering me very little money and no sense of control over my direction. The remedy was to get corporate gigs, and writing/copywriting/research/blah-blah-blah/money. I straddled both the business and artistic worlds, but money won most often out of necessity.
Then, something definitely outside of my control happened: a big layoff. And that’s when I decided to pretend I was a full-time writer, at least as long as my savings held out. In this time, I met John Skipp, wrote three books; met Garrett Cook, took several of his exceptional workshops, which birthed short stories that wound up in anthologies.
So far, the control theme I’ve written about in this piece has focused on how I use my time, but it’s also glaringly obvious in my tastes and my work. Favorite Universal Horror monster? The Wolfman, a man who loses control thanks to a curse. In fact, my second book, June Bride, for which I’m trying to find a home, is a Wolfman story starring a Reptoid, involving a loss of control thanks to the bite of a reptilian human.
The control issue occurred to me a few years back, when my beloved long-time partner Ron brought it up in an argument. He is so gentle a soul that it came out as an offhand remark with no anger attached. But it got me thinking about something I’d long suspected and had never confronted. I’m a control freak. Aahhhh! On the upside, my fear of losing control is probably why I’m not the alcoholic that all my relatives became, or why, when a bunch of ‘bad kids’ (I being one of them) dropped LSD in high school, I’d surreptitiously spit out the tab within a minute of placing it on my tongue, resulting in a buzz akin to drinking eight cups of coffee. It’s also why I was always the designated driver.
Like Real is about a man who loses control of a prosthetic hand. It’s a comedy and sort of love story. I’ve written tons of female characters, but this one felt like it needed to be a dude.
The story began in a Max Adams’ screenwriting class called ‘First 30 Pages’ (highly recommended for any screenwriters out there), and several scenes were workshopped in her excellent 5150 screenwriting group. I finished a first draft, then let it sit for eight months until I saw a post on Facebook from John Skipp about how to turn a screenplay into a novel. Skipp’s foreword on my book contains all the cool deets, so no need to walk the same trail.
Nervous, rusty, I walked into his place and found a lovely group of writers, which due to life circumstances, whittled down to myself and Brian Asman, whose stellar prose blew me away. Each week I’d bring in a scene based on one of the beats of the screenplay, but quickly found that the story was moving in directions I hadn’t considered. The biggest transition from screenplay writing to prose fiction was interiority. For screenplays, you write what can be filmed. No internal thoughts, no extensive tours of the environment. You get in with some action verbs and a couple adjectives and get out as soon as the pertinent dialogue and action ends.
Okay, I’ve now lost control of this here narrative, so will bring it to the end with a note on my characters.
I absolutely love fools, weirdos, assholes, creeps, braggadocios, rat finks, extroverts, unstable introverts -- the endless banquet of so-called losers. I consider myself amongst them and therefore know how different each one can be. It hurts to watch a movie or read a book and find a two-dimensional ‘loser,’ who’s only there for comedy purposes, and is never all that funny. punchline. In this and all my work, I try to cast these freaks as the stars.
In summation: although I have no control over whether you buy Like Real or read Like Real or review Like Real, I will hope that you do so. At the very least, please never forget the title “The Odious Stink.” 18-year-old me was quite proud of that title.
Thanks for your time and attention,
Shelly Lyons
ADVANCE PRAISE FOR LIKE REAL…
“A hilarious bizarroid science fiction horror thriller, with great vivid characters, crackling first-rate dialogue, nonstop momentum and unguessable plot twists galore. Rarely does a book make me laugh out loud this often, while keeping me engaged in the delirious drama unfolding.”
—John Skipp, Wonderland Award winning author of Don’t Push the Button
“Cyborgs, self-improvement, and the horrors of the LA dating scene collide in Like Real. A side-splitting, ass-kicking, and oddly tear-jerking good time.”
—Brian Asman, author of Man, Fuck This House
If you pre-ordered a paperback from our webstore, copies should be shipping throughout today and tomorrow. If you ordered a copy through our Kickstarter, copies will ship out next month (along with Andrew Hilbert’s XCRMNTMNTN) once we’ve been able to send everybody backer surveys and collect the essential information we need for shipping.
Also, if you happen to subscribe to Little Ghosts Bookstore’s monthly book bundle, Like Real is included in February’s box! Stay tuned.
All paperbacks ordered through our webstore will receive a signed author sticker from Shelly.
Order HERE.
Otherwise, Like Real can be found on Bookshop.org, Indiebound, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon.
An audiobook will be released in the near future.
Track your reading on GOODREADS and STORYGRAPH.
Reviewers can check out BOOKSIRENS for potential e-ARCs still available.
One last thing, ghouls. Since it’s Valentine’s Day and all…Shelly Lyons, author of Like Real, was cool enough to write up a ton of original love haikus for you to share with whoever you wish. Are you ready for this? You definitely aren’t. But that’s okay. Let’s just jump into them, anyway…
HIM>
Harvest Moon
When the moon comes out
and the winds tickle your cheeks
I’m your sexy freak.
Tannins
You are sweet fine wine,
through the lips onto the tongue.
You don’t make me itch.
Games
I’m under the bed
if you want to pull me out.
Your dusty lover.
Progressions
First date Vic is ‘Meh’’
Second date Vic brings magic’
Third date Vic is ‘Yeah!’
DM-ing
You seem really smart
so I sent you a picture
of my uncut junk.
Romantic Question
I gaze at the moon,
full with love’s happy promise.
May I touch your poon?
The Nature of Love
Love can be lemons:
one bite is sour, one bite sweet.
I adore your your feet.
Playground
Can I climb on you
like a jungle gym, until I
fall and break my arm?
Admission
When we met, we hugged,
Legos clamped together tight.
I have a strange hand.
Peeper
Your lovely duplex–
much better with you inside,
where I watch you sleep
The Sweet Ruining
Unfurling blossoms
fall to pieces, scented sweet
It’s too much, our heat.
Rodent
Gonna climb your tree
like a handsome ‘lil squirrel
holding giant nuts
Stakeout
You purloin my breath
even from across the street
sitting in my car.
Reproach
Drowned by love again
You don’t care who you hurt, or
what we could have been.
Up!
Mad, fun adventures.
One of us dies young.
I’m solidly hung.
TimeSuck
All those ‘heys,’ for naught.
For months I’ve stalked you online.
I put in the time.
Wolfman
If I sniffed your neck
and said I was a werewolf
would you call the cops?
Bounce, Bounce, Pffffft
Gonna get in you,
oh sexy bounce house baby
Till we both deflate.
HER>
Aberration
Eyes drift to the zit
On my cheek, under makeup;
So big i named it.
Attention Span
You stare at my boobs.
while I speak of a good book.
Go hump a tree, creep.
Standards
I would not date you
If you were the only dude
in the entire mall.
Too Much Sugar
You are like ice cream
A frozen sugar headache
Dripping on my shoe.
Two Things at Once
Poor boy, you try hard
to tell relatable tales
while perving on me.
Scrutiny
Those roses are red
but your eyes remain focused
on my unmade bed.
After the Dodger Game
No, I will not spoon
I don’t know what sporking is.
Now I want ice cream.
WTF?
What are you hiding?
Your perspiring face tells lies,
a sweaty disguise.
DM-ing
He said I seemed smart
So he sent me a picture
Of his uncut junk.
WTFF?
Why does your hand hide
underneath the table-side
Flopping on the booth?
Wasted Labor
Why’d I shave my legs
For a lecture on Star Wars
And tour of your toys?
No thanks
My eyes say: no way.
My nipples bid you farewell
And my womb shouts: nay!
Bait & Switch
Your tinder picture:
Wearing scrubs; holding puppies.
You here, now: soft, sad.
Awww.
Crying on my lawn
Has changed my mind about us
Just kidding. Fuck off.
Relocating
You must stop begging
You can’t live between my tits.
Not on a first date.
Okay, that’s it for this week. You can support us on Patreon, browse the books in our webstore, and follow us on Instagram, YouTube, Facebook, TikTok, and Twitter (PMMP | Ghoulish Tales | Ghoulish podcast | Ghoulish Books | personal).
Or just click on our LINKTREE for all relevant links.
Reserve your ticket for Ghoulish Book Fest 2023.
You can also join us on the Ghoulish Discord.
See you next time, ghouls.