Planet Purgatory: a comic strip

Writers Are Weird

There Ain't No Magic Potions

Why I Hate Parties

I think there's supposed to be something romantic about being an indie author. You know, the artist so devoted to his craft that things like people actually reading your work don't enter the equation.

That's not me.

I want the world to see what I do, and I want the world to love it.

Another Thank-You for the Review Cartoon

I'm currently at 11 reviews. And they're all good. I'm feeling pretty pumped.

It's probably not healthy keeping score like that. If I was more disciplined I would check once every few months. But I have OCD. Checking is what I do.

Another Thank-you Cartoon

I'm enjoying making these cartoons. There's something almost meditative about the process.

Remember, folks: review one of my books and I will make a cartoon about you.

On a side note, I stepped in dog poo today. I'm not pleased.

A bad review (cartoon style)

Little cartoon of mine. (I'm working on my thin-skinnedness.)

I've never been good at dealing with criticism. Even if it's of the constructive kind. It's immaturity, I think

It was suggested to me to do something badly on purpose. Then I would have no choice but to deal with the inevitable criticism.

Makes me sweaty just thinking about it.

Robots and Androids

Little cartoon of mine making light of an android's plight. (Of course, they're all nuclear powered these days)

Why did I choose to write Charlie Robot? It's not as though I'm enamored with mechanical things. In fact, I find them puzzling, maybe even a little intimidating. That one little broken piece could somehow ruin an entire machine is mind boggling. I see that with cars all the time: a tiny part breaks, and what used to be a powerful vehicle capable of speeds well over 140 kilometers an hour is left standing useless in the driveway.

Computers, too. They might as well run on magic, that's how much sense they make to me. But they're made up of all these little pieces, all working in concert to create this thing capable of making games, editing photographs and writing blog posts. It's one, long magical chain, and if one of those links breaks, I'm left screaming fuck you staring at an empty screen.

I suppose the same can be said about the human body. After all, what is a body other than a series of machines? But there's a difference, a body can heal itself. Machines can't. Or at least, not yet. 

But getting back to my original question, why did I choose to write about a robot? Maybe it's fear. Not of robots in particular, but of finding myself stuck inside a machine. There's something comforting knowing you exist within a natural cycle. You're born, you grow old and you die. A machine on the other hand...

I know I said mechanical things are only as strong as their weakest link, but on the flip side, a well-made machine has the potential to run for a very, very long time. That scares me. I mean, what if you woke up one morning and discovered that body of yours you assumed was made of flesh and blood was, in fact, artificial? And providing everything worked the way it was intended, you could live upward of ten thousand years?

I don't know. Maybe some people would like that. I, on the other hand, wouldn't know what to do with myself. Birthdays would become irrelevant, maybe even annoying.

(Could you imagine? Those drop-down boxes on websites asking what year you were born in would become never-ending exercises in downward scrolling. "I'm three-thousand-years old, dammit! Of course I'm old enough to watch this video!")

And unless your friends were androids too, your social life would be a never ending procession of funerals.

And then there would be the ultimate in horridness: being trapped in a chimney for a thousand years.

As you can see, the possibilities for misery are endless...

Of course, there are other reasons to write about androids, but those, I think, I'll leave for another time.
 

Poor Archie the Android has been stuck inside this chimney since April of 1976, but embarrassment has kept him from calling for help.

My Hunt for Reviews.

I've come up with a cunning plan. In return for reviewing any of my books on Amazon, I will immortalize that person in the form of a cartoon. It's sad, I know, but I need reviews. They're like food. Or maybe drugs are a better comparison. Whatever the case, if you leave me a review, I will make fun of you. I promise.

Reviews (How I Need 'em)

One of the most important things for an indie author, any author, really, are reviews. People, it seems, don't want to risk their hard earned dollar on some unknown weirdo with access to Microsoft Word. They look for reviews. But the thing is, you're not going to get any if no one is reading your book. I think they call that a vicious circle. Or is it a pain in the ass?

Whatever it is, it's maddening.

But there is a silver lining in having no reviews: my feelings don't get hurt. I suffer from thin skin. I'm working on it. I know I'll get nowhere as an author if I can't weather insults from anonymous souls on the internet. (speaking of which, wouldn't it be weird if one way spirits can communicate with the physical world is by leaving reviews on Goodreads?)

So I made this cartoon. It's pretty sparse. Just ink on some paper. I didn't even bother erasing the pencil underneath. It served two purposes. One, giving voice to the frustration of having nearly no reviews, and two, combating that most evil of traits, perfectionism.

What can I say? The drawing's rough. The perfectionist in me wants to take it down and rework it until it's all crisp and lovely. The thing is, that requires time, and if I'm going to be able to continue writing and still show off the odd cartoon, I've decided I've got to loosen up, and if that means having pencil lines showing, oh well.

But I want to get back to the book reviews, or more specifically, the lack of them. I'm hoping one day I can look back at this time and smile. "Oh, you silly Benny," I'll say, "you're going to get loads of them. Not all of them will be nice, but don't worry, those people, we burned down their houses.  :)"

Selling Myself

I'm pretty awful when it comes to self-promotion. I'm always worried I'll cross that line, turning off potential customers. So I do the opposite: none at all. And guess what happens? Nothing. As in, no sales. No downloads. Nada.

So I've decided to be a little more aggressive in my approach. Nothing too brash, but I've decided I can put my cartooning skills to some use. I mean, something's gotta work, right?

Forgotten Treasures

I was flipping through one of my sketchbooks and came across this little gem. I'd completely forgotten I'd made it. I drew it soon after moving to Ottawa. We were into the whole geocaching thing. That's faded, though. Mostly because the geocaching app I use is crap. That and I'm lazy.

I've updated it (the app) but it still doesn't work very well. Often it will send us walking in circles, the only treasure being an old Walmart bag. Wait a sec, maybe that was the geocache...

Looking at this cartoon has got me thinking we should take it up again.

Noodles. Oh, Those Lovely Noodles

First cartoon I've done in a while. Did it using my Intuos drawing tablet and an unholy mix of Photoshop and Sketchbook Pro. Not quite the same as drawing with pen and paper, but I'm getting the hang of it.  :)

Tales From the Sock Drawer: Little Ralphie Ning

I used to like Little Ralphie.  He's one of those genuinely nice guys: someone who'll always say 'hi', even if it means crossing the road.  When he discovered I was writing a book, he took a real interest in how it was progressing, asking to read the various drafts and posing all sorts of questions about the back story.  It made me feel good.

So when Ralphie asked me whether I thought he should try writing a novel too, I told him, 'absolutely'.  Every second Tuesday he would e-mail me what he'd written, and I would respond with 'awesome!', along with a quick note on how he could make something better.  Never once did I think it would actually go anywhere. After all, I was the writer with the quirky imagination.  He was just a kid with a stupid story about vampire mermaids.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered he'd snagged himself an agent.  Now he was the one offering me encouragement while I sat at home wondering if this whole writing thing was a waste of time.  And if that wasn't bad enough I just discovered his book is due to be published this Spring.

Outside I pretend to be happy for Little Ralphie's success, but inside I hate him.

My Novel, Escaping Entry, is Free Today!

If you like four-armed demons, omnivorous bulls and thousand foot giants, you'll love Escaping Entry.

You can download it free in the US and Canada here.

You can download it free in the UK here.

Have a lovely day, and careful walking the stairs.

Tales From the Sock Drawer: Philip Tumba

Philip Tumba is a member of the Bulgoni Tribe.

Bulgonis are famous for starting life as senior citizens, aging backwards until approximately the age of forty-one, and then spending the rest of their lives aging like everyone else.

Meaning Philip Tumba is either three years old or eighty-five.

(I'm too embarrassed to ask.)

Tales From the Sock Drawer: Vince O'Malley

Vince O'Malley always had a knack for the scientifical, yet for whatever reason never pursued it.  Then one day he decided to enter my Sock Drawer's Annual Science Fair.  He did surprisingly well, placing third with a display showing what happens if you leave a nail in a container of cola. (it dissolves, apparently)  For someone who had never competed in anything before in his life, this was a huge achievement.

Unfortunately he didn't have long to enjoy his time in the sun: he'd only just received his commemorative plaque when his future-self jumped out of a time machine and viciously attacked him with a 2x4, nearly beating himself to death before escaping back to wherever it was he came from.

Vince vowed revenge, and once he was released from hospital he immediately began teaching himself everything he needed to know to build a working time machine.  His plan, you see, was to inflict the same damage to his attacker as he'd received that fateful afternoon, right down to blindsiding him while he was accepting his very first science award.

Perhaps if he'd been less angry he would have understood how pointless the whole thing was; he was only hurting himself, after all.  But he felt it was his destiny, and the moment he finished his time machine he was gone, setting in motion a vicious circle that even to this day I'm not certain I understand.

Tales From the Sock Drawer: Katie the Book Blogger

It is my experience that to be a book blogger you must a) be named Katie b) profess a love for chocolate and c) have a deep and abiding hatred for people who mix up 'they're' and 'their'.

Katie the Book Blogger is all of these.

In fact, her hatred for the grammatically challenged has turned her into a serial killer, stabbing them to death and stacking their severed heads in a pile as a grim warning to those who would continue butchering the English language.

I assumed her fellow book bloggers would be horrified by her actions.  Instead they're quite supportive, even sending her the names and addresses of grammar offenders in the hope she'll sort them out. 

So the next time you're on Facebook and you're commenting on a friend's photo of their darling dog, remember: too has two 'o's in it.  It just might save your life.

Tales From the Sock Drawer: Haiku Stu

Inside my sock drawer

A strange man speaks in haiku

Nobody likes him

Tales From the Sock Drawer: Kenny Chu, Tea Painter

Meet Kenny Chu, world famous artist and genius.  I say that sarcastically because while he is world famous, he most certainly is not a genius.  The guy literally wipes a used teabag across a canvas and then has the gall to show it in a gallery.  The only people dumber than  him are the morons who buy his crap.  Can you believe an original Kenny Chu Tea Painting sells for over $250,000?  In this economy?!?  If that's not bad enough, get a load of this quote of his I found on his web site:

"Painting with tea is a wonderful pursuit.  It’s expressive, relaxing and inexpensive. All you need is a teabag, a stick and a desire to communicate with something other than words and hand gestures." 

What a bunch of pompous garbage.  It makes me mad just reading it.  Seriously, if I ever snap and start flushing cherry bombs down public toilets, this guy's the reason why.