Coming very soon, the moment all you Pseuds out there have been waiting for... That's right, the best selling episode of the Pseudodoxology Official Pseudcast, Episode 7: "My Other Publishing Deal is a Gold Plated, Jewel Encrusted Ford F-150," is now available as a microfictive Patreon podcast episode description section. Relive all your favorite moments of award winning, best selling, self-published alt-lit sweethearts Delicious Tacos and Sam Pink discussing the travails of literary nano-celebrity. Experience the frustrations of creative self-doubt, the heady peaks of outrageous literary ambition, and the inevitable disappointment when you never get that limo ride you expected to a banquet celebrating your latest magnum opus, let alone that awesome fucking gold plated Ford F-150 someone once promised you on a podcast episode.
And while you're at it, if you liked the chart topping podcast episode, and can't wait to read the description section alt-lit adaptation, consider checking out the books from which the original Pseudcast Shill Network Episode was actually first adapted. Delicious Taco's new Savage Spear of the Unicorn. And Sam Pink's The Ice Cream Man, and Other Stories.
As a taster for the picofictive literary adaptation of the record breaking Pseudcast Episode based on the best-selling books by Sam Pink and Delicious Tacos, enjoy the following free excerpt, and subscribe to the Pseudodoxia Shill Network for more updates about its forthcoming release, and a list of retailers where you can buy the full Patreon Podcast Episode Description Section when it finally hits shelves. Which will be never.
Excerpt from the Upcoming Femtofictionalization of the Best Selling Podcast Episode from the Pseudodoxology Pseudcast Patreon Podcast Network:
My Other Publishing Deal is a Gold Plated, Jewel Encrusted Ford F-150: The Podcast Episode: The Attofictive Patreon Episode Description Pseudoliterary Adaptation
By Absolutely Nobody
The limousine, shooting like an void bolt across Manhattan, speeds to its stop, outside some five star hotel deep downtown, where impatiently awaiting it, the best selling alt-author is eager to board the ship that at long last finally come in for him. Having expressed intently their interest in his work, the big shot literary agents that brought him here have certainly spared no expense in making a good impression. Believe me, for those of you who've never had the pleasure, but there's no other way to feel, when you pop open the mini fridge equipping the private compartment of one of those black beauties, and see the treasure trove of canned frescas for yourself for the first time, except to finally know you've made it, baby. Welcome to the big time. You're a famous writer now.
Smartly, the publisher has stashed a few copies of the finished book atop the little TV next to the mini fridge. So here it is, the now great author admires, picking up one of the slim volumes and inspecting it. Already all the papers are hailing the arrival of his masterpiece, and the triumphant author, reveling in the glory of his great moment, mentally runs through all the ubiquitous names of the publications which have so far lauded his accomplishment. Who hasn't at least heard of this or that paper praising him, the author considers with the most delectable sense of self-satisfaction. The limousine, as it penetrates ever further into the champagne soaked night, unfurls behind it quickly evaporating crimson standards of fame, which but for a moment only, illuminate the deepening darkness, before forever burning out like the dead embers of some ancient warrior's funeral pyre -- suffocated into nothingness by the ruins of the overtaken city he, only hours previously, had died defending, as all the towering white walls of well masoned marble crash down atop his charred and indistinguishable remains.
Thinking nothing for tomorrow, the author, thumbs through the novella that finally brought him to the apex of his career, that he knows for certain, has undoubtedly earned him a venerated place in the future history of literature, and quickly paging over the copyright information and title page and the generous preface the publisher had arranged some supposedly very famous other author he had often enough heard of, but never actually gotten around to ever reading, the author comes at last to the opening lines of his own masterwork, and to pass the time, allows himself to relive a little the novel combination of words his genius had allowed him to assemble. A combination unique to him. Unique to this very soon to be best-selling book of his. A combination all the supposedly brilliant minds of literary history before him had failed to make. Despite no doubt a great deal of trying. And indulging fully for a moment in this last bit of half-ironic self-aggrandizing, he allows a single word to force its way through the anxious tangle of his uncertain impressions and half formed thoughts about the promise of the night to come...
Ever since you can remember, you dreamed of being a writer. Not just a writer, but an author. A wordsmith. A literary visionary. You stroll the isles of some Barnes and Noble somewhere. The embossed covers, shrink wrapped with a pallid sheen, tile the short row of shelves comprising each topical section. The faces of the famous peer at you as you slowly pace the corridors of the childish maze retailers have assembled for you. Tan France from Queer Eye seems to sparkle with pride and joy on the cover of a ghostwritten memoir. Someday, you think, you'll be a great writer like him, and your face likewise will brim with the sense of accomplishment you imagine one must feel over writing something great, something worth selling, something worth buying, something that someone like you will see on the shelf at a Barnes and Noble somewhere.
It's dark out. It must be nighttime now. Was it before? You can't remember. Across the room your childhood bookshelf seems to grow larger and larger the more attently you contemplate it, and for a moment, as your eyes filter across the small library of titles, the melancholy dread you sometimes feel, in moments such as these, seems to be held briefly at bay. These are your books. It's easy enough, for a moment, to stave off the sadness you so often feel, to convince yourself for a few fleeting seconds that you really have read them all. That you know every page. And when your conscience peeps through, and reminds you of the truth, you find it equally easy to forget the whole thing ever happened at all, as you quickly reach for whatever distraction happens to be closest at hand.
Time may or may not be passing now, as you load websites on your phone's internet browser, close them, load other sites, close those, and then load again the one you started with. Your finger compulsively, again and again brings up different writing forums, which you quickly and apathetically scan over and over again searching for something new. Wouldn't it be great, to write something, to have it discussed somewhere online, by those capable of appreciating your special talents? This you feel profoundly.
You know a genius or two, others out there, in cyberland who've written things, and made their mark. You have one of their books. You don't really know whether you enjoyed it. Maybe, maybe not. Do you enjoy anything? You have to, don't you? You must. Though you feel unable to connect any experience you've ever had with a feeling you can call for certain enjoyment. No one is around. The chatrooms you frequent stand silent, and you sense in yourself the building need to speak to someone, brimming up from out of the shadows of the deep well God must have driven, like a railroad spike of negative nothingness, down into the center of your soul with his celestial sledge.
Back and forth your mind paces, edging towards capitulation, before you finally relent and open up the window to send a private message to one of the writers you and all your friends most love to praise. He responded to something you said once. He could be your friend. Maybe he might even recognize in you all that potential you insist to your innermost doubting self you truly have. Then, with his mentorship, you can begin in earnest, doing all the things you're sure you want to, but no one has ever so far given you permission to pursue. After waiting so long already, who can hold it against you, that you grow a bit impatient at the prospect of further delay. He only needs to answer, and your long lingering in the interminable stasis of creative purgatory will all at once be brought to a swift end, and in imagining the possibility, you feel yourself launched on mighty pinions into the far flung heaven of fame and fortune.
He'll answer you tomorrow, this time he has to.
Feeling the slight weight of an invisible wreath of laurels crowning his head, as he subvocalizes these final words, the limousine lurches to the curbside, to destiny, to the beginning of the future of literature. Infinite prospects open up like trumpeting angels at the swirling cloud gate of the highest heaven. Peels of thundering brass blasts sound above, as the godly alt-lit darling bathes himself in the waves of applause that pound him like the roiling surf of a crystal clear sea he dives headlong into on some exotic getaway.
(Intro Theme: "Spirits" by Cor Serpentis, from the album Atria. Outro Theme: "Lifetime of Grey Skies" by Nishiki Prestige, from the album XOXO. Interlude: "I Don't Feel So Good" by Painted Worlds, from the album Oh, the Places you Won't Go. All music courtesy of Lovecrypt. Episode mastered by Tryppocales Records)