I miss the olden days when we had scores of “Little Presses” from which to choose. Digging through the Writer’s Market, searching for something that suited my style was a hoot.
There was little or no money to be earned dealing with back room editors and printers. Had their efforts produced tangible objects like bowling balls we might have referred to them as Midnight Engineers. But their products were ideas, entertainment, and mood-swings – intangibles – novels, pulp fiction, and everything in between.
One listing I recall published only two novels per year. Yet they always took time to respond to my queries.
One of my favorite markets, a quarterly publication, recorded the winter issue in audio tape. Such ingenuity. Such skill. I’ve tried “writing” to tape. For me it’s a lost cause. A waste of time .
Some of the stories I read were obviously chosen from a depleted slush pile. I recall one writer who claimed he worked in a national park kitchen and boasted of pissing in the dish washer every chance he got. Why would I recall that single statement after nearly two decades? I wish I knew.
The little presses now lurk on the Internet world. They’ve morphed. Rather than relying on verbal, descriptions to paint a picture they prefer scanned Illustrations and photos.
A serious loss.