February at the Gates of Hell
/In the dead of winter Hekate is managing to push out a few books! Taking the B36 back and forth to work, up and down Surf Avenue, then after a slice, falling asleep by 730, clothes, shoes, on (waking early, fully refreshed, only needing to pat hair down, stuff tea bag into shirt pocket and prance out the door). Aye, pushing books out like pushing rock hard stool out the ass, rock hard dingleberries, splashing Hekate’s buttocks as they land in the pristine bowl with a plip plip plip! Offended? Hekate doesn’t care. She pushes those books out and leaves them smoldering at the Gates of Hell with a sneer. That’s publishing!
Having a good bowel movement, by the way, what I telI people at the office, is all about “making time.” You need to sit there, on the pot, and read your book or play at least one full level of Thug Life. By the way, what level of Thug Life are you? I’m level forty: Detention. What level are you again? You call yourself a writer?
You know some guy tried to fake his own death in order to get me to publish his book. I’m serious. I’d still publish it. I don’t care. In fact, kudos to him for trying. Guy, if you’re reading this, write me, my man. All is forgiven. You’re the king! We’ll have your sum bitch done and dusted before sundown.
Anyway, here are a few covers and some random previews, whatever tickles our fancy.
Hekate is entering an experimental phase, a we dont give a fuck about your expectations of what a publisher is or isn’t phase, a we are not here to stroke an ego which can’t fit through the fucking front door phase. And in that, we are no longer taking “submissions.” Hekate, for one, obviously, does not take itself that seriously, and has grown SICK of the word submission as it relates to publishing. It’s demeaning to a writer and indicative of this river of luke warm diarrhea publishing has become. Writers come to its banks and ladle it into their mouths, willingly.
“Click on the submission button.”
“Use our submission manager.”
Hekate no longer takes SUBMISSIONS. Listen. The world is dumb as fuck. What we want is your RAW SEWAGE, without pretense. We want to smell your STINKY STINKY ARMPITS. If you don’t know what I mean by this, don’t send anything. Go away. Or at least, don’t send your bullshit unless its edited. I say again: Edit your writing. I NOW understand why publishers say this. I used to think its was crass and overbearing. No. I have received festering yeast infections. Aside from casual literary conversation, don’t send rough drafts. Control yourself. Take the electrodes off your nipples. Be a writer. Edit-your-bullshit. Take your time. Learn how to write.
Hekate is cresting the Swiss Mountain top and twirling. She is free, spinning through the green grass, snow capped peaks in the distance, having escaped Nazi occupation, understanding full well the cadence of their thunderous goose stepping was all in her head.
DAVID GOMBAC, The Nathaniel West of Chicago’s South Side
Domenico Ghirlandaio 'St. Lucy'