Archetype, Warm | Excerpts from Scratches

7-22-21 | Archetype

Bookmaking log: finalized through page 156 of Flowers, 59 pages remaining | TBN +1614 words

• • •

Flowers is so much better than I remember it being. Like, I’m fixing a lot of typos and Existential continuity errors and whatnot – nothing bookbreaking, but all worth fixing – but that doesn’t take away from the story. The story is solid. I’ll never claim to be the most talented writer. I’m a damn good writer, like, I write like it’s nobody’s business (because it’s not, it’s mine, as I am the bookmaker), I write like it’s my goddamn job (because it is, as I am the bookmaker), I write like I’m the goddamn bookmaker, for Christ’s sake. I am a good writer, as in I get my work done, but I can’t claim to be talented. Talent is like beauty – it exists only in the eye of the beholder.

As far as stories go, though, I’m not to be fucked with.

You don’t know what the fuck is going to happen in my books. Take The Monksville Chronicles, for example. Just a fun story where all the characters are animals and they have fun names like Lord Hilaetos and Vorcolt of the Klaww and it’s a fun story celebrating the gorgeous Monksville Reservoir, right? No. There are aliens from the future, they brought a dwarf plesiosaurus with them, and the only reason the village’s storyteller is telling the story is because a plague swept the village and killed the adults and only the kids and the storyteller were left and he wanted to distract them from their impending death so he told them a story about where the plague came from, a story about aliens from the future and an unending cycle that is finally broken. A story that’s just as good as any other reason for the plague.

Take Convenient Incidents for example. The second part of the book is called The Incense Salesman, so it’s about a normal incense salesman, right? There have been robberies and disappearances in the area recently and an incense salesman is contacting random folks trying to give out free samples, so he obviously has something to do with it, right? NO, there are djinns involved, fucking genies, he is a djincense salesman and he has nothing to do with the robberies! The robberies were all done by the burglarman in the black ski mask, and I can’t even tell you what happens to that son of a bitch because then I’ll have to mention The Serpent, and partner, you ain’t ready for The goddamn Serpent!

Let’s just say the town of Treeburg got a big influx of German immigration in the late 1940s and early 1950s, y’smell what I’m steppin’ in here?

Take Untitled Bigfoot Project, for example. It’s a novel about a writer who writes a novel about bigfoot, and I wrote the entire goddamn novel about bigfoot and stuck it in the back of UBP! It’s called The Face of Fear and one of my favorite subchapters posted today, it’s the one where Albey the Mad Poet takes a voyage guided by the hand of The Flower and bares witness to all of Existence. Note about that, actually, I misnamed one of the astral planes he sees. It’s not supposed to be called The Garden, it’s supposed to be called Planet Eden. The Garden is… something else. The Garden will play a role in the coda of Over the River: The Emancipation of Jonathan Knox, book 3 of The Fall of the Seven Earths, due out real soonish. Get excited, ‘man, lest you be forced to play catch-up. I’m playing catch-up right now, and it fucking… well, it doesn’t blow, because I’m very happy to be doing it, but it’s not fun. Speaking of which, though…

As far as making the TG->PE correction (along with the rest) in UBP, I’ll get to it. After OTR. When OTR is out I’m going right into finalizing UBP, and when it’s done I will be 100% current. Then I can mayhap let you know about what’s coming next in W-2222, and W-428, and W-### (ooo sneaky – PS, to the hypothetical readers who bought copies of what I didn’t realize at the time of publishing was the unfinished version of UBP: you might already know what the third universe is), because you better fucking believe I have shit planned for multiple universes at once. I am the bookmaker, you sloppy illiterate fuck! I’m the fucking guy! This is what I do! I spend more time in my Existence than I do in Reality, and the distinction between those 2 is also coming in OTR.

A lot is coming in OTR. OTR is kinda huge. Like, it’s only 70,000ish words (100,000+ with the flash fiction anthology in the back), but canonically it’s huge. Fucking massive. Jonathan Knox ain’t the only one gettin’ his emancipation, noted readers (((((((;;;;;;;

Speaking of which, I’m really excited for Reality book #2. That will be The Fall of the Seven Earths, as in Flowers, Under the Hood, and Over the River all collected into one book – along with the flash fiction anthology I’m hiding in the back of OTR, I’m not fucking around, this The Hillside Commons shit is not a fucking game Oh-KAAAAYYYY?!?!?!? – and presented in a novel way, which in this case means in the correct canonical order. Which means stories and novels interspliced. Not like, not literally interspliced – like, it’s not going to be *10% of Flowers*, *story*, *remainder of Flowers* or anything like that. All the writings will be in their full form, just presented better.

I won’t lie, I did not plan out the story of The Fall of the Seven Earths at all. The description of the Reality book – and the spiral, when it’s done – is going to be A highdea that went as far as it could, like, literally. It’s a damn good story, don’t get me wrong, but not in the traditional sense. It’s, uh… it’s really hard to describe, genre-wise, unless you use the word I made up to describe my work, that word being Psychephrenic. Coined the shit in my 3rd book, a satirical poetry anthology called A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game. I am the bookmaker, harbinger of psychephrenia, I’m the fucking magic man, you sons and daughters of human things. I’m not saying I’m any better than you – fuck no, we’re all shit waiting to be shat in my eyes – but rather that I am different and thus deserve to be treated differently. That’s not to say I want you to kiss the ground where I stand or anything of the sort, don’t be a fucking idiot. What do I want, then? It’s simple: I make a book, you buy it. Is not hard. Is all I ask for. Making books is equivalent to eating, drinking, breathing to me. I literally don’t eat unless I’ve bookmade for at least an hour in the morning, sometimes more. Sometimes I just straight-up don’t eat, sometimes I literally sit on my computer all day converting massive amounts of pot smoke into ridiculous interconnected fiction that nobody else could write because if anybody else was me they would have killed themselves by now.


5 days of smoking a strain of cannabis called Hippie Crippler.

BUT DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT TOOK FOR MY LIFE TO LEAD ME TO SITTING DOWN IN MY RECLINER AND SMOKING THAT HIPPIE CRIPPLER FOR 5 DAYS??? I LITERALLY FUCKING DIED! AND SO DID MY CAT! EXCEPT MILKSHAKE DIDN’T COME BACK TO LIFE, I DID, and so I dedicated both The 2020 Event |The Sideshows| and The Highest One Writing to him. He’s also the inspiration behind Mu’Tinny, Eden Incarnate, one of my Astral Gods. He appears in OTR too, all the Astral Gods do. One of them only appears by name, but there’s a reason for that. And a couple of them are just kind of there. It’s an “oh yeah, these guys have been here the whole time, but they’ve been doing other shit” kind of thing, it’s like “oh by the way, if you think you know what’s going on, uh, keep tellin’ yourself that. I don’t care what you think.”

So, to recap: there are 2 things and 2 things only that you can expect when going into my books. The first: you have no fucking idea what to expect. The second: more is coming, and likely soon.

I think you’ve had enough. Y’know, it’s probably pretty easy to look at this post and all the work I’ve done and hate on it. Like, who the fuck do I think I am? The bookmaker or something? What, do I think I’ve created a new human archetype for myself and then embodied that son of a bitch? No, I’m clearly just a hopeless lost cause who doesn’t know what he’s doing and should just stop before he says the wrong thing again and really ruins his reputation in this glitchy iteration of human society where our children are bought, sold, sexually ravaged, cooked alive, and then eaten – sometimes not in that order, sometimes with an audience present – by the same folks we’re all forced to pay taxes to lest we be locked in a cage!

Yeah, it’s probably pretty easy to say all that. Probably pretty easy to write me off as crazy. Here’s the thing, though, here’s the real bitch about the fact that I exist:

If I’m crazy, you’re a fool.

And that’s just the cold hard truth.

Since you’re there, noted reader, thank you for being there. From this day on, we move forever forward~


i wake up in my bed
a cloud surrounds my head
and my feet feel colder under the covers

when i stand my blood sloshes
feet are warm but i am nauseous
and that’s after at least an hour of sleeping in

but i’m not really sleeping, am i?
lying on my side with one eye
smushed closed against the soft fabric
that sheaths this sheeted pillow
whilst i brëath’ and leak a billow
of steamy breath from my paired and airy lungs

bored of the baseboard
based on basting hordes
with hot air borne in uniform,
i throw back the covers
and brace as i’m smothered
by cold air that makes me feel warm

Scratches is part of the Schizophrenia epoch of The Garden. Book 13. It contains a series of blog posts made by the author who eventually shoots himself in the head – one Big Bookmaker Hunter A., if you’re familiar – and then a poetry collection behind that – also by Big Bookmaker. This has been one said blog post, and one entry from said collection of poetry. Hope you dig it (-:

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