evan fuller

the journal of my foray into self-publishing

New blog post about The Hunger Games and stuff.



A little rant on why I’m not quite as enamored of The Hunger Games as everyone else.  

Really, I’ve figured out that I have to start participating in the online community if I want to direct people to my site (and hopefully get them to buy my book).  I figured I might as well comment on the most popular book in my genre (I think it’s my genre?  What’s my genre, exactly?).

^Signal boosting myself.  Luv ya.

(Source: evanfuller)

Mutt now available for Kindle!

Dearest friends, acquaintances, people who have never met me but are amused by my posts:

My debut novel, Mutt, was published to the Kindle Store earlier today.  It’s on sale for only $2.99 for the first month of its release, and it would mean the world to me if you went and bought a copy.  I believe you’ll quite enjoy it.  

If you don’t own Kindle hardware, you can get a free Kindle reader for your iPhone/Pod/Pad, Android, or computer.  It’s also available on Smashwords in a variety of file formats.

Mutt on Kindle

Mutt on Smashwords

Please reblog this to help spread the word!  k thx ily

Saying vs Doing vs Both

Long time no update!  I mean to post on here every day or two, but it’s turned out to be a surprisingly busy month, what with the revolution and all.  

I’ve been involved with Occupy Philadelphia, which began at City Hall two weeks ago today.  I’ve been there as much as possible between work and school and occasional downtime for things like sleep; I think I’ve attended about half of the evening General Assemblies so far.  

As the twenty-five or so early readers of Mutt are aware, the book deals with a lot of issues surrounding inequality of wealth and resource access, one of the main things the Occupy Wall Street movement is protesting.  It’s a subject that is very close to my heart, and I’m proud to be a part of a group that’s at least acknowledging the problem and making some effort to envision possible solutions.  Unfortunately, every hour I spend marching or at GA is one hour I’m not working to get Mutt published.  

It’s a bit of a dilemma: one of my goals in getting the book out there is to prompt conversation about these issues (there’s also, of course, the ulterior motive of people buying my book and reading it and hopefully thinking it’s awesome.)  On the other hand, if I spend all my time writing about problems but don’t work to fix them when there’s finally an effort in which I have some hope of doing so, I’m just a person who has good ideas but doesn’t live them.

Basically, I’m still trying to publish Mutt before the year is out.  I’ve decided that saying (using art to talk about a problem) and doing (working on the ground to try to fix it) are sides of the same coin.  It’s going to be a much trickier process dividing my time, bu what this boils down to is that I’m still hoping to have this book in your hands in two months-ish.  I’ve also outlined the second book in the series and have begun drafting the first chapter, which means once Mutt is published, readers (I hope I get some of those) won’t have to wait forever to read the next volume of the story. In the meantime, you can probably find me in a big red Coleman tent at 15th and Market.

Be good to each other,


Art and Editing and Stuff

I’m happy to announce that my friend Dan Govar will be doing the cover illustration for Mutt.  Dan writes and illustrates Azure for DC Comics and has done splendid work capturing everything from the DC and Marvel universes to Lord of the Rings.

I have a few leads in my search for editing (more on that when I have an actual agreement.)  Editing is the last major step in getting the actual manuscript where it needs to be for publication.  After that, I format the print and e-book versions of the novel, submit them for release, and begin the much harder work of marketing the book and getting it before as many pairs of eyes as humanly possible. 

The past couple weeks have served to remind me that while self-publishing can be a much faster process than conventional publishing, there’s another side to that coin. If you’re not doing anything, nothing’s getting done.  Between work, the beginning weeks of the fall semester at Temple, and most pressingly landlord troubles leading to an emergency move, I’ve fallen behind my self-imposed schedule for securing editing services.  Hopefully things will calm down enough for me to get back on track and still have time for sleep.  But even if life stays hectic, I’m going to have to buckle down and release this book.  As the saying goes, there will be rest enough over winter break.

Hooray, business ownership!

Encouraged by my best friend Justin Livi and informed by Zoe Winters’ wonderful book Self-Publishing: Becoming An Indie Author, I’ve decided to begin the process of self-publishing Mutt (and eventually its forthcoming sequels.)  Today I completed my registration to do business in the state of Pennsylvania.  Three months ago I created Lords Of Autumn, Inc., an imaginary business whose primary function was as an inside joke.  As of today, Lords Of Autumn is the trade name under which I’ll manage my self publication.  

I’ve never been a business owner before; even though Lords Of Autumn presently comprises only me and has no assets, it’s kind of a breathtaking feeling.  I have a lot of work to do in order to get Mutt released, but I couldn’t be more excited.  

I Swore I Wouldn’t Spend Another Fall (full version)

This is a poem I wrote last fall.  The first section appears in Temple Ambler’s 2011 issue of Parable, so I thought I’d post the full version here (I wrote the rest of it after submitting to the magazine.)  The formatting here is mostly right; I need to figure out how to make Tumblr format my writing the way I type it.

I Swore I Wouldn’t Spend Another Fall

I don’t want to say
Lethargic,” because it’s not like I’m
Doing nothing. I just don’t have the drive
To drive from here to the bar
To hold a conversation.
And when I do make it out,
I sit lock-jawed at the dim-lit
Table in the back, waiting for someone
Else to initiate conversation.
And when they don’t,
Antipathy festers.
So I stay at home
Sometimes; I stay in bed
Sometimes. I go whole days
Without speaking
But I write. And that
Counts for something, right? I
Write enough to make up for all
The things I don’t do.
Last weekend I wrote five
Sonnets in a day and twenty
Pages for my novel the next
Monday I was doing better:
Between pages I asked the coffee
-shop girl how her day had been.
I think I even smiled.

I don’t know what’s gotten
Into me, but I’m writing more
And faster and better
Than I ever have before.
Weekdays after school
And weekends before work,
I’m pouring out pages a day.
The last time I tried
To write something this immense,
It was an exercise
In frustration, patience,
Sporadic forward motion.
This story is almost writing
Itself; all I have to do is drink
My coffee and let it happen.
It’s an incredible process,
And really,
It’s all the excitement I have to
Look forward to, now that I’m
Living alone. 

My progress these last few
Weeks has been astounding.
On my best days, I feel
Almost that the keyboard is an extension
of my fingertips, and my nerve endings
All run through my fingers into the
Wires and my thoughts spring into
Being wholly formed on my laptop screen –
And my hands always linger
For a moment when I try to pull them
Away. Other people say they get
Writers’ block
And I’ve forgotten what that is,
But I’m almost certain it stems
From the distractions of speaking,
That take their minds
Off the only thing worth doing.
I wrote my first novel in three
Years, and my second
Will cost me only three
Of course I miss
You terribly, but I want you
To know that your going away
Was the best possible thing for me.
I never had this kind
Of dedication before.
I’ve lost five
More pounds this month.
Every day my body gets
A little smaller, and it’s that
Much easier to slip out of it
And back into my work.

My steady caffeine intake
Keeps my mind sharp, but some days
I can’t stand the cafe. I no
Longer have any way to drown
The cacophony out: I have
No money to replace my headphones.
My focus is assailed by the buzzing
Of human conversation,
By the distractions of mere life,
The speaking and eating and sleeping
That preoccupy those
With no higher aspiration.
I’m almost halfway finished
Now. Recently,
My object has changed:
It matters little to me at this point
Whether anyone ever reads this.
My aim is the process itself:
In writing, I think, I’m becoming
Something other than that which I am,
A being of pure intention,
Surpassing every concern of my flesh,
The lulling calls of sex and hunger,
The shackles of the mundane.

I want to write
As poems.
I want these words
To brand themselves
On your retinas.
When you lie in bed,
Stomach churning with
Some ache whose cause
You do not know, remember:
I’m inside you, gnawing
Tunnels through your gut.
Those echoes of me –
My gaze, my taste, the threats
That plate my fingertips,
Will never leave you.
And if I ever become
A famous writer,
I want you to know I’m
Doing it so my voice
Will haunt you too.

I woke up in the early evening today
And got in my car and drove
And drove until I could see nothing
But an endless line of trees
Dressed up in the radiant colors
Of autumn and the radiant light of
The setting sun.
I haven’t been this awake
Since the last time I really slept;
I have a lot of catching up to do
On a lot of things, and rest seemed
Like as good a place as any to start.
You know as well as anyone
That I wasn’t always like this.
I used to smile more; I used
To be the opposite of who
I am here. I was deeply happy once,
And I’m going to do my best
To get back to that place.
When you left, or maybe
Before you left, you tore
A hole in me, but right now
It’s no one’s job but mine to mend it.
When you return, we’ll repair
Whatever we can, but until then I’m going
To rebuild myself as best I can manage.
Tomorrow I’ll neglect
My work to make conversation
At the cafe, and hell,
Maybe this time I’ll even laugh.

The Head Of Christ

This is a poem I performed at Babylon on 3 February.  The piece is written as a meditation on Warner Sallman’s famous painting of the same name.

The Head Of Christ

My Messiah is a painting of a white man

With auburn hair and honey-brown eyes.

A straight nose, perfect brow,

That immaculate Roman beauty you and I

Both know must be the face of God.

My Messiah has a message for all people,

And a mission for my people to deliver it.

We are the light of the world, the city

On a hill, and we will carry the torch

Into the heart of darkness.

My Messiah sends us to the ends of the

earth, bringing civilization to the barbaric,

Knowledge to the ignorant, casting out

Their old gods and tired ways, replaced

By the gifts of Truth, Progress, Industry.

My Messiah is a Warrior King, triumphant

In battle, and we are his mighty army,

Commissioned to destroy the

Strongholds of the enemy, to build an

Empire whose glory will never fade.

My scripture was written by dark-

Skinned men half the world away, but

My Messiah is a painting of a white man.

Spell Hamartiology Backwards

Spell Hamartiology Backwards

I don’t want to go to hell.

I mean, I don’t think I will. But it all seems to depend on what guy you’re rooting for, like some sick sporting event. And it’s not even just Christians and Jews and Muslims; it’s Christians and Christians and Christians, Jesus people versus people who get horny when they read the Ten Plagues.

So I don’t want to go to hell. But if your God sends me to hell, it’ll be martyrdom, not retribution, a culmination of a moral destitution so perverse it says Rock N Roll is worse than ignoring poverty, sees Satan in science and psychology, and the Spirit of the Lord in holy, bloody war.

If your God sends me to hell, my flesh will burn, but my eyes will see camaraderie in a field of flower children, petals crumpling, who never learned the difference between God and good. And I’ll turn to hear seraphim trumpeting, miles above this pit, signaling His return.

But I’ll stay in my seat. Because if your God sends me to hell, there’s no heaven above, just another, brighter lake of fire, where your vindictive deity watches gold streets greedily, a flaming, roving eye.

So if my God sends you to hell, I hope you know why.

Evan Fuller