Probably the best part of my managing editing duties at Chiasmus Press is getting up close and personal with amazing writers whose work I deeply admire and then helping them shepherd their books into publication. Over the past nine months I’ve been lucky to work with Colette Phair, Davis Schneiderman, Carlos Hernandez, Lou Rowan, Mark Amerika, Kevin Sampsell, and Lily Hoang, and Chiasmus has birthed books by all of them over the same amount of time. No small production for a small press, for sure, especially considering that we do Chiasmus in the sparest of spare time.
If there’s a line between the real and the digital, between meat and the game, between past and present, then hold this book close to your mouth and whisper it into the pages. Please. Maybe the kid in there’ll hear you. His name is Nolan Dugatti. He’s lost, see, running down hall after hall, something both ancient and not-yet born galloping up behind him on a hundred legs, each individual footfall a sound he knows, a way of shuffling that he’s always known. His father? Except it can’t be. Unless of course this is another novel from Stephen Graham Jones. Not quite horror, not quite science fiction, but like his five or six other books, a story trembling at some pupal stage between meat and the game, where words will sometimes stop their crawl across the page and crane their neck around at the sky, nod about what they see there-you- then unfold their wings, drift up into another world altogether.
Check out Stephen’s latest blog post here, in which he explains the method and madness of a novel written—yes—in a 72-hour blast of fright and delight. It was nothing but a pure pleasure to work with Stephen, who was absolutely an editor’s dream. Congrats, Mister Jones, and thank you.