DREAD Reviews 14
Dad Reads and Examines Authors While Distracted
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Your past is a hypocrite. It hounds you, unrelenting, chasing you everywhere. Yet it also never lets you go back. The most your past allows is meeting it half way - and only in a heartbreaking manner we call “nostalgia.” You can physically visit an old place, but they mean it when they say “you can never go home.”
All that to say I’m sorry I ate the last donut.
I liked some stuff:
T.P. Kaaos has designed a canine translation device. Now we can know what our pets are thinking. This is how your dog feels about you going to work in the morning, for example:
Perpetually grumpy Ardysseos has been spearing Lamonites since he was in diapers. His nation hates an ancestral enemy, and they’re weary of war, so you think they’d be glad when this glittery biker gang (AKA Nine Tribes of Shor-Dahn) roll in with a divine eviction notice - poof, no more Lamonites! But this ambassador that comes next is so oiled up and smarmy everyone’s still on edge, especially when his geriatric sidekick Hashmael drops a prophecy so vague it could double as a fortune cookie filler.
You can tell this god “Jor” these brother nations worship is the ultimate micromanager. Some gods just shift-click draw a lasso over their whole army and ctrl-a mash the walk and attack button. Not Jor. He misses the cozier times earlier in his campaign when he could zoom in and watch the attack animations instead of worrying about the larger strategy! So he wants exactly 40 warriors each from his starter base and all the expansions to go on a crusade into the eponymous cursed valley. This RTS is about to go back to its RPG roots, baby!
The link below is only part 1 of 2 parts so far and I can’t wait to see more. I won’t spoil it, but I daresay this Ardysseos fellow, brave as he is, might be regretting not calling in sick for this quest:
Every fantasy tale kicks off at an inn. A cozy fireplace, a bard strumming a lute, an unlikely mix of heroes including an elf and a dwarf listening closely to the dire warnings of a stranger in a hooded cloak.
Forget that noise - when James point us at an inn it’s because we’re effin’ storming the joint. Get out your shields and your lightning spells and hope this warlock’s weather tantrum doesn’t douse your torch - this haunted motel of old has a mutilated corpse for a welcome mat and a dive-bombing winged demon for a barmaid:
Haha yeah, I totally relate to this. Because I have a child of my own. Children, actually. Yeah, that’s totally why I like it, haha. Um, when’s the sequel? Asking for a friend. Heh:
An immortal dimwit mows your lawn:
(Author) (Publication)
Revenge is a dish best served cold. And by that I mean it’s important your explosives await the proper moment to detonate:
(Author) (Publication)
I’m a natural contrarian so I thought I would do some hard-hitting journalism to prove Joan wrong about these biker fellows - they can’t be all that bad. I decided to track down a few folks in their alleged habitats to get their sides of the story.
But I got more than I bargained for - not only is Joan 100% correct about these… people, but I, personally, am a sad, walking summary of these archetypes’ worst aspects, all wrapped up in one.
First I caught up with this guy named Eddie who rides an electric bike. One point for Joan; I spotted him because of the striped Sambas he wore. I asked him his opinion about riding the tram and he just stared at me, mid-sip, and said: “Bro, this is the U.S., we don’t have trams. I just enjoy the breeze.” I nodded along, smirking, thinking haha take that Joan, and asked what he’s drinking: “Rhubarb-custard ale.” Not only did he order this, I thought it looked good, so requested a sample, and liked it myself. %@#$.
But I could still win two out of three. I found a man named Mick revving his loud motorcycle engine outside. He wasn’t moving yet, but somehow wind already tousled his hair as if in ready pose for an action movie poster. I yelled, “Why no helmet?” over the noise. He smirked and said: “Helmets are for nerds!” and roared off. I stood there coughing on what at first seemed like some alternative fuel exhaust based on a red beet derivative, but in reality it was just his bad breath detectable from across the parking lot! I realized not only is this guy never getting laid, but I too haven’t felt the loving caress of another person - at least not since the birth of my second child. My notebook felt like a prop at this point; nobody was really talking to me. I was completely out of my element: my first two interviews combined hardly got to ten words and Joan had won again.
She won two out of three. BUT - I could technically still claim overall victory if I could single out one error on her lengthy laundry list of a roast. I cornered “Scooter Sam,” as the locals called him, hanging out near a gristle-pie stand. Good start, I think, he sticks out like a sore thumb at this place. But he had knee pads bulging under his jeans, a bad sign. I tried forming a question in my mind about his “Italian dreams” when he interrupted my thoughts and whined: “Hey man, can I borrow your phone to call my mom? I forgot my curfew.” I fumbled for my phone a moment then thought, wait, I still check in with my mom. I threw my pen and notebook on the floor and left Sam hanging. My project was a bust, and I’ve got some personal reinventing to do.
Maybe I’ll just buy a bike:
This is what happens when Kafka has a baby with the world’s sweatiest call center. With the remote broken, an infomercial plays at max volume 24/7. I’ve never read a more convincing argument for the legalization of firearms - shooting up this workplace is the moral decision and any rational person would support it:
It was a hot day and the hills where I live are pretty steep. On my way up one particularly grueling slope I pulled out my phone and read Graeme’s “Desert Elemental.” Before I knew it my skateboard had transformed into a war chariot pulled by galloping lions. I waved my phone around like a scimitar on my way down the reverse slope, slaying fools left and right - at least until I dropped it and cracked the screen. Just imagine how crazy it would have gotten if this wasn’t simply an excerpt:
Steve’s got an oli-riffic tale here. Sheriff Tom’s brought out his posse, my favorite and least favorite member being Joe, a redneck who would shoot a vending machine if he though it’d looked at him funny. But the best part has got to be the description of this overgrown city - it’s perfectly preserved by machines so advanced they almost seem magical, yet it’s as empty as my fridge on a Monday. All the bones of its disappeared people are outside, not within. Mysterious enough to pull you along against your will - and spooky enough to guarantee you’re probably going to die doing so:
(Author) (Publication)
I think love and hate should attend marriage counseling:
How do I explain this nigh-impenetrable riff on language in a way anyone could understand?
“Dinner planning, stubborn English pride, and a sneaky history lesson.”
No… that’s too confusing.
Eh… how about: “why wonderful English things suddenly go - WHAM - and become French as soon as they hit the dinner plate.”
No, still not it…
“Pat takes it further than most Englishmen. He’s not just miffed by Napoleon, no, the source of his acrimony doesn’t even trace back to the mere Hundred Years War. Pat’s bitterness goes deeper - all the way to the very source, the very beginning of the Anglo-French divide. Who the hell is William the Conqueror, and why does he act like he still runs the place? What a jerk.”
There it is:
Water you doing fishing upon a star? Never let the dreams you cod-le flounder - you’re manta be salmon, man, and one day I’m surfin you’ll hook a whale of a gig. One minnow-te you’ll be struck with trout in a chalky backwater dive, scraping by on a plaice of nothing, the next you’re reeling in the biggest catch in the tuna-verse. Just mullet over - no matter how shallow your pro-fish-sion seems, kelp net-working, and you might get a reef-erral that perch-es your bass on a seat in a wave-making star-yacht adventure just like our gill Neave. Now get your bass in m-ocean before another oppor-tuna-ty can disa-pier:
Bradley Ramsey has frequently featured in DREAD Reviews so it was only a matter of time before something of his made it to my top spot (which, if you think about it, is a meaningless concept in galactic three-dimensional space).
Which do you want first, the good news or the bad news?
Good news first? Okay!
While it may seem like there’s a ton of writers treading water here on substack, there’s also an infinite demand for good fiction. It’s somewhere out there - we just have to reach out and touch it! We can all succeed! How? Bradley’s got us covered! I’ve linked his wonderful article, “The Writer’s Guide to Self-Promotion” and you can read it free. Just follow the link below!
BUT… Then there’s the bad news:
While his advice may have universal application, there is one tiny little exception. And I’m afraid, dear reader, that exception is you.
Everyone else will benefit from this article, but reading it would be a waste of your time. You’re a lost cause. I’m sorry, but it’s better someone told you now rather than later. Listen, I know you’re a writer. You’ve got the tortured soul, the caffeine addiction, and that first manuscript that’s been rejected more times than a telemarketer’s call. You’re determined to succeed, I know. You’ve gotten coached, you give yourself all the pep-talks, you bribed a couple friends to alpha read and say: “It’s pretty nice for people who are into that sort of thing.” Heck, you even got your sweetheart’s blessing to take Fridays off so you could polish your work to a brilliant shine at your favorite coffee place.
But you’re unmarketable. You’re not simply difficult to sell, you’re a complete and utter branding black hole.
Craft a compelling hook? After reading Ramsey’s advice, we’re all writing elevator pitches that are nailing us a deal on an episode of Shark Tank. We’ve got people believing we’ll revolutionize the genre and giving us advances in the 100k ranges. You? Your hook will be the equivalent of a link dropped in a spam folder - one assumed to be a virus. “It’s about stuff… for people, I think? And I tried to make it good…” Yeah, that’s not how you do it, but it’s the best you’ve got.
Your “Author HQ?” It should be impossible, but your presence somehow brings a sense of homelessness to the internet. We’re all creating amazing banners full of star-studded galaxies or leafy roses and other amazing literary-themed eye-candy. Then there’s you over there screaming at an empty white screen: “I’m a writer, dammit!” We’re laying the foundations for a hyperconnected Substack empire while you’re just a poor neglected vagrant camped out beneath an abandoned overpass. Most of us at our worst are slapping together a tidy organized page of our works. You? Your online presence will be a link to a haunted MySpace profile from 2004 and a Twitter bio that says “I write things?” Both will have zero followers because not even the ad bots can find you. We’re setting up shop like pros with Bradley’s help while you’re still googling: “What’s a domain name?”
Bradley reminds us to be context-aware, pushing ourselves to get noticed in places where we’ll be appreciated for our work. But you? Your spirit animal is a spam bot. Bradley reminds us that link-dumping is a cardinal sin, and he’s right. Meanwhile, you’d paste your substack profile into a funeral guestbook if you could. Context? We know what that means, but for some reason you don’t. We’re here sliding links into relevant conversations like social media ninjas and counting new subscriber milestones by the week. You’re talking too, trying your best to be suave, never realizing your mute button’s still on 30 minutes into your latest zoom monologue. No matter, all 2 guests excused themselves well before that.
Oh man, and don’t get me started about personality. Wait, let me catch my breath before I continue-
Okay, okay I’m better now - you’re the writer’s equivalent of a beige wall. Bradley’s got us all flying our freak flags high in the sky - emojis, puns, wild tangents, let me tell you, it’s great being us. But it’s not great being you. Everything you say is so bland! It’s like watching paint dry in greyscale on YouTube - in fact, your one unlucky viewer is only there because they’re bedridden and the hospital remote is broken - they’re waiting for the nurse to find new batteries and praying for an ad to roll just to break the tedium. You’re out here posting “Uh… here’s my story” while everyone else is dropping fiery emoji-stuffed rants about surviving that one time we were trapped on a communist tropical island together and how that experience influenced our gritty dystopian epics. We’re memorable, you see. Meanwhile you’re just the “nice weather today?” of the writing community.
We’re not assuming people will just stumble onto us - Bradley’s got us taking proactive measures to get noticed! Yet your best efforts amount to a decaying, yellowed, floating message in a bottle trapped in a circular ocean current last visited and mapped by Charles Darwin’s expedition in 1831. Bradley’s teaching us you can’t just sit back and hope. He’s spot-on, and we’re all learning from him! You’re trying, I know, but while everyone else is hustling, optimizing, and networking, you’re truly nothing more than a forest valley hermit shouting “Find me!” into an empty bear cave.
Bradley’s guide is gold for the masses. Every other writer will take his “Dos and Don’ts,” and do olympic torch runs with it, reliably watching our audiences consuming the world in wildfire. We pitch like pros, build HQs, and charm the internet with our quirky vibes. But not you. You’re so ignobly unmarketable that no amount of dream power, twisted logic, or far-fetched rationale can dig you out of the hole you were born in. Your best bet is hoping you’ll be so sub-par that you accidentally go viral because people can’t believe how bad your writing is. While we’re out there flipping through earmarks of Bradley’s playbook and getting tired of winning, you’ve misplaced the printout you smuggled from the copy place you can’t afford, unaware you left it on the living room floor, tripping over it and falling out your window and into a dumpster fire. I suppose you can fan the smoke and hope the smell goes viral.
Bradley’s “Writer’s Guide to Self-Promotion” is amazing. It’s succinct, to the point, covers all the bases, and it’s got all the tips needed to turn us shy scribblers into marketing mavens - except for you. For you, it’s a comedy script.
Go forth and fail spectacularly, if you dare, my sweet and humble friend. I know you will try regardless of what I say. I’m praying for you (and I hope hearing your doubts spoken aloud will help you hear how ridiculous they sound):
Lastly, my inevitable attempt to mention that I don’t just read, I also write!
I write a lot, actually, and I’m even capable of being serious - can you believe it?
Bellageist: Chains of a Demigod Part 6 closes the second of three planned story arcs following Nyl, a warrior forged by battle and trapped in a surreal world where normal rules and logic don’t apply. Unknown forces with godlike powers use trials of strength and heart to shape individuals towards a mysterious purpose. Catch up if you haven’t read it, or drop a subscription to Bellageist and get notified when it’s complete!
Bellageist: Chains of a Demigod Part 6
A macabre reunion and a battle to annihilation. Can Nyl and her companions find serenity? Or, more importantly, answers?
Thanks for reading!
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Another phenomenal entry in the DREAD series! I can only imagine the amount of time it takes to curate all of these incredible entries, but then your reviews are absolutely hilarious on top of it.
Phenomenal work, as always, and I truly appreciate the kind words! That being said, I do not envy the writer you roasted in my review. That being said, I haven't laughed that hard in a while. 🤣
I was going to say something smart but the idea of something I wrote making someone play like an eight year old has me strangely emotional and a bit teary... Thank you dear friend.