CFP for Book on Steve Aylett

To Unearth the Bruises Underground: The Fanatical Oeuvre of Steve Aylett (Essay Collection)

Anti-Oedipus Press (

D. Harlan Wilson
Bill Ectric


A fanatical satirist and provocateur, British author Steve Aylett writes in multiple genres, usually simultaneously, combining elements of science fiction and fantasy with comedy and a high literary aesthetic. As a result of his unique method of narrative hybridization, Aylett has not garnered much of a readership beyond devotees in underground circles who tend to worship him like a bogie in the sky. He is simply too clever and grandiloquent for genre readers, and he’s too genre for literary readers, infusing his meta-pulp fictions with intricate networks of hi-tech and/or bizarre novums. Like J. G. Ballard, Aylett belies, if not capsizes, formulaic methods and ultimately constitutes a genre in and of himself. A comprehensive study of his singular body of work is long overdue.

Anti-Oedipus Press will publish To Unearth the Bruises Underground, the first collection of critical essays on Aylett. We seek articles between 2000-5000 words on one or more of the following works:

The Crime Studio

THE ACCOMPLICE SERIES (collected as The Complete Accomplice):
Only an Alligator
The Velocity Gospel
Karloff's Circus

Bigot Hall
The Inflatable Volunteer
Fain the Sorcerer
Rebel at the End of Time

And Your Point Is?
Tao Te Jinx

The Caterer
Get that Thing Away from Me

LINT: The Movie

Format submissions according to MLA style and send them to Bill Ectric at The target publication date is June 2014. Submissions will be accepted until October 2013.

Diegeses on Nook

My new book, Diegeses, a doubling of two novelettes, is now on Nook as well as Kindle. If anybody is interested in reviewing it, I'm giving away free ebook and .pdf copies; just send me a message via Facebook or Twitter. A full press kit will be available from Anti-Odeipus Press soon. The paperback edition will be published on June 1.

Cover Reveal for Peckinpah

Here is the full jacket for the upcoming second edition of my short novel Peckinpah: An Ultraviolent Romance beautifully designed by Matthew Revert

Raw Dog Screaming Press will release the reprint this summer in paperback, Kindle, Nook, and other ebook formats.

Review of Diegeses

Jamie Grefe has written a great review of Diegeses over at Shredded Maps. Here's the short version:

"[H]aunting, perverse, pornagraphic, ultraviolent, funny, and touching."

Here's a longer excerpt:

"D. Harlan Wilson’s Diegeses features two interconnected whirlwind pieces, THE BUREAU OF ME and THE IDAHO REALITY, both of which present a hallucinatory (ir)reality of the self as a performed act caught in the blades of a hyper-Lynchian science-fiction dreamsphere where reality might just be a play . . . Wilson’s prose, constructed through bursts, images, shards and hints, uses bizarre Gordon Lishian connections (Antic Behavior) and beautifully rendered dialogue to keep readers turning pages . . . If this is Wilson’s “Viole(n)t objective” then let me continue to be baffled at how skillfully he has pulled off an undefinable and gorgeous piece of fiction."

Goodreads Giveaway for The Kyoto Man

There is a Goodreads giveaway for three signed paperback copies of The Kyoto Man, currently available for preorder in several formats from Raw Dog Screaming Press. Enter to win a copy. Winners will be announced on April 1.

Diegeses on Goodreads

Diegeses now has a page on Goodreads. Closer to the publication of the paperback edition (probably in June), I will set up a giveaway for a few signed copies.

Diegeses on Kindle

Diegeses, an anti-oedipal double (i.e., two interconnected novelettes), is now available on Kindle. This is the debut book for my new publishing company Anti-Oedipus Press. In the next few weeks, Diegeses will be available in most other ebook formats. The paperback edition is slated to come out this summer. Amazon, Goodreads, etc. reviews are welcomed, encouraged, and very much appreciated.

We've lined up books from a few other anti-oedipal authors for publication in 2013 and 2014. More details soon. Right now we're hand-picking authors, but in the not-too-distant future we plan to open up the press for general submissions.

I'm offering free Kindle editions of Diegeses to anybody who might consider writing a review somewhere. If you're interested, feel free to contact me at

Herman Melville Prefers Morlocks

The following chapter is a draft from my novel-in-progress, Outré:

The chase. Second day.

Curd poured himself 5 oz. of pinot grigio and stared into space.

He couldn’t get a clear view. Every satellite he jumped to was blocked by the tendrils or the hull of another satellite.

He went to Sputnik-98, a good one.

From Sputnik-98 he observed Fobos-12, an even better one. Russians made the best satellites.

He jumped back and forth between Sputnik-98 and Fobos-12, noting elements of wear-and-tear. Then he turned off the screen and got out his compact cassette tape player.

It was old. Older than him. A Califone International 3132AV Desktop Full Size Cassette Player Voice Recorder. He wished he had a ghetto blaster, the kind you walked around with on your shoulder. But those were virtually impossible to come by, and whenever he did find one, it cost too much.

The cassette tape, also an antique, was transparent and made of non-biodegradable plastic.

He inserted it.

He rewound it.

He played it.

The voice of Herman Melville said, “A. Gordon Pym? Sounds made up.”

It might not have been Melville’s voice. Another voice said, “It is made up.” It might have belonged to Edgar Allen Poe.

Melville (if it was Melville) said, “Shut up and let me read this thing. Is that thing working? Fine. All right what chapter?”


“Twenty-two. Why?”

“I don’t know. There’s action.”

“I don’t care. All right here we go. Chapter twenty-two.” He cleared his throat. He cleared it again, hawking up phlegm. He spit out a phlegm-ball. Cleared his throat. “Our situation, as it now appeared, was scarcely less dreadful than when we had conceived ourselves entombed forever. We saw before us no prospect but that of being put to death by the savages, or of dragging out a miserable existence in captivity among them. We might, to be sure, conceal ourselves for a time from their observation among the fastnesses of the hills, and, as a final resort, in the chasm from which we had just issued; but we must either perish in the long polar winter through cold and famine, or be ultimately discovered in our efforts to obtain relief.”

There was a long, crackling pause.


“I don’t know. I guess it’s bad. This isn’t action. It’s exposition. Do you know the difference?

“Yes. Of course I know the difference.”

“I don’t think you do. And savages? What’s a savage?”

“I don’t know. A black person?”

“That’s too abstract. If you turn off the lights, I’m black. Right? Look, you ought to put some Morlocks in there. I mean, this is a science fiction piece, right? Morlocks would be great. They live underground and are like these devolved hairy supercreatures—the products of mankind’s technological ‘dark side,’ as it were. Every now and then they climb up to the surface and eat people. You should have them eat your protagonist halfway through the book. Nobody would expect that. Then you’d have to replace your protagonist, of course, but that’d be easy enough. Then you could have the Morlocks eat him. You could keep doing it. Keep making your readers comfortable with somebody new, and just when they relax and kick up their feet, unleash the Morlocks. That’s good storytelling.”

“Morlocks,” intoned, allegedly, Nathaniel Hawthorne. “That sounds familiar.”

“Melville” replied, “No it doesn’t. It can’t be familiar if it hasn’t happened yet. Understand?”

“I think it’s an allegory,” said “Hawthorne.”

Blast of laughter. Possibly choking. Disdainful in either case. “Melville” said, “Allegory? What are we, two years old? Grow up.”

“Well I like it like it is,” said “Poe.”

A crinkling and flapping of papers. “That’s fine. I’m not sure why you wanted me to read it. I suppose you simply wanted me to say it’s good. Well it’s not. Savage? That could be anything. Pym is a weak name too. Weak and little. Pick something strong. The Narrative of A. Gordon Blackpool or something. Jesus.”

The voices came out of the recorder’s holes like wet, shredded reeds, as if from a cave, or the grave, or another dimension. In a sense, they were from another dimension, “lost” recordings of the nineteenth century American authors, twenty minutes of idle conversation that Curd purchased at a flea market. The vendor provided him with a certificate of authenticity that was itself authenticated despite the fact that recording technologies didn’t exist during the time when the tape was purportedly made. The vendor underscored the authors’ relationship with various mechanical engineers and other technicians who had been secretly manufacturing ghetto blasters for government use, but Curd didn’t care. Disavowal would suffice. The cassette was probably a forgery. He elected to believe it was genuine. He hadn’t bought it as an investment, after all. He had bought it for his own piece of mind. Specifically, he had bought it to get closer, in some capacity, if only by way of the illusion of a real, bona fide voice-text, to the man and his whale.

Unfortunately there was little if anything about Melville. Mostly he just read from Hawthorne and Poe’s works-in-progress and told them what he didn’t like about them. At one point, however, near the end of the recording, he read from his own writing, a passage from a novel-in-progress entitled The Clockwork Man, which later came to be called The Confidence-Man, Melville’s final novel, although it bore no resemblance whatsoever, in form or theme, to the work-in-progress from which he presently read, an entirely different book with the exception of its traumatic kernel.

“Poe” was blubbering about something and you could tell he just wanted to start drinking and “Melville,” bored, interrupted him. “All right that’ll do. My turn. Christ. All right so I’m going to begin in the middle of things. Intermezzo. In medias res. Nothing begins at the beginning.”

Twenty seconds of static.

Then: “But that would be impossible. The Clockwork man was the realization of the future. There was no evading that. The future. Man had evolved into this. He had succeeded somehow in adding to his normal powers some kind of mechanism that opened up vast possibilities of action in all sorts of dimensions. There must have been an enormous preparatory period before the thing became finally possible, generations of striving and failure and further experiment. But the indefatigable spirit of man had triumphed in the end. He had arisen at last superior to Time and Space, and taken his place in the center of the universe. It was a fulfillment of all the prophecies of the great scientists since the discovery of evolution. Such reflections flitted hazily through the Doctor's mind as he strove in vain to find a practical solution to the problem. What was the clock? He knew, from hearsay, that it was situated at the back of this strange being's head. Tom Driver had seen it, and described it in his clumsy fashion. Since that episode the Doctor had visualized something in the nature of an instrument affixed to the Clockwork man's head, and perhaps connected with his cerebral processes. Was it a kind of super-brain? Had there been found some means of lengthening the convolutions of the human brain, so that man's thought travelled further and so enabled him to arrive more swiftly at ultimate conclusions? That seemed suggestive. It must be that in some way the cerebral energy of man had been stored up, as electricity in a battery, and then released by mechanical proc—“

The tape came to an end and the cassette player stopped.

As Curd rewound it, he fretted about his audition, which was only days away. If he didn’t get the role he would probably have to kill himself. And he probably wouldn’t get the role.

The sound of the authors’ voices, especially “Melville”’s, soothed him. In fact, they were like a drug. He listened to them and his anxiety escaped him, fading into the wallpaper.

Curd hit the stop button. He hit the play button.

For an indefinite time, he faded into the wallpaper.

Limited Hardcover Edition of The Kyoto Man

Today, complements of Raw Dog Screaming Press, I received 50 copies of the limited hardcover edition of The Kyoto Man, the final installment of my Scikungfi Trilogy, which I will sign and send out to readers who have bought it. Thanks so much. There are still some copies left for anybody who's interested. You can contact me at or go to; I'm happy to personalize my signature. I must say I'm overjoyed with how the book looks. Even the texture of the cover jacket feels good. Special thanks to the unflappably talented Brett Weldele for his artwork, as well as Jennifer Barnes, who did the layout, inside and outside. Brandon Duncan, too, provided some artwork for the interior. You guys are the best.

The standard hardcover and paperback editions of The Kyoto Man will be out in a few months as well as the ebook. Preorders are still being taken here.

A final thanks to all of the behind-the-scenes folks who made The Kyoto Man possible. You know who you are. It took me about five years to write it and that's the longest I've spent on a book and probably will ever spend on a book again in light of my new motto: Try less, win more.


In February, Diegeses, a tête-à-tête of two darkly irreal novelettes, will mark the debut of my new imprint, Anti-Oedipus Press. It will be published at first in ebook form with the paperback edition following in the summer. Here's the cover description:
“Judge Schreber has sunbeams in his ass. A solar anus. And rest assured that it works: Judge Schreber feels something, and is capable of explaining the process theoretically. Something is produced: the effects of a machine, not mere metaphors ... There is no such thing as either man or nature now, only a process that produces the one within the other and couples the machines together. Producing-machines, desiring-machines everywhere, schizophrenic machines, all of species life: the self and the non-self, outside and inside, no longer have any meaning whatsoever ... Judge Schreber ‘lived for a long time without a stomach, without intestines, almost without lungs, with a torn esophagus, without a bladder, and with shattered ribs; he used sometimes to swallow part of his own larynx with his food, etc.’ The body without organs is non-productive; nonetheless it is produced, at a certain place and a certain time in the connective synthesis, as the identity of producing and the product: the schizophrenic table is a body without organs.” D&G
And here's the full jacket cover featuring artwork by Matthew Revert and Brett Weldele:

Signed Limited HCE of The Kyoto Man

For the next 48 hours, you can order a signed limited hardcover edition of The Kyoto Man at a $15 discount straight from Raw Dog Screaming Press. Only 50 copies of this edition have been printed. It includes a custom dust jacket designed by Surrogates and Southland Tales artist Brett Weldele as well as bonus material including outtakes, reboots, meta-sublimations, and the controversial Bushido chapter. The Kyoto Man: Rated M for Metromorphic.

The Kyoto Man Availability

When you search for The Kyoto Man on Amazon, there are 618 results, the first four of which are slip-on shoes. I can assure you that my book is not a shoe. For those of you that have emailed me about its availability, the paperback will be out in April and the Kindle/Nook later in the year. Also, any day you will be able to purchase the signed limited hardcover edition, which should cost you about as much as one month's rent or mortgage payment. Details here. Thank you.