I'm very happy to announce that my novel, Her Gilded Voice will be published next year by Elsewhen Press. 

I can't wait for everyone to meet the story's flawed characters and the world of "voyces" they inhabit. It's a mix of Squid Game, 1984, Hunger Games, and so much more. It's an underdog tale filled with thrilling action, passionate romance, confounding riddles, and urgent warnings about the technology we rely on. 

I'll be releasing more details when I have them, but 2024 is the year the world will hear Her Gilded Voice. I can't wait.   

Writing has often felt like something I needed to do but lacked the time to do it well. For this reason, a lot of my early work was not unlike a kind of guerilla warfare. I was always looking for an opportunity to write: to dive in, drop a few creative bombs, then get out before I was late to any real-life responsibilities. I wrote at the DMV, the car wash, in the garage. I scribbled on notebooks while I got my teeth cleaned and carried a pad of paper with me whenever I went on a jog. My wife grew tired of all the times I woke up in the middle of the night and rummaged through the nightstand drawer for a piece of paper and something to write with. I could not control when the inspiration would strike, so I had to be ready.

            I wrote a lot of stuff in the beginning that was pretty terrible. The online community at CritiqueCircle was very good at tearing my work apart. Strangely, realizing I was a horrible writer turned out to be very helpful. It prompted me to begin searching for the idiosyncrasies that irritated readers, tear out the bad stuff by the roots, and finetune other aspects that went over well. Slowly but surely, the negative comments about my work grew more and more positive. The online strangers provided a great deal of insight I couldn’t get from cautious friends and family. Online strangers are not worried if they crush your soul, and my writing has improved because of it.

            In 2012, my writing entered a new phase in which I created a garage-office by cannibalizing discarded yard sale furniture. I am not sure if Virginia Woolf would have been proud, but for me, it was the best place of my own I could find. I began scheduling time to write keeping to a tight schedule with mandatory daily word counts. By doing this, I was able to finish my first novel in 2015. Binding Program was a ninety-thousand-word story that was sort of a mix between Isaac Asimov’s I, Robot and Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale. At nearly the same time of the book’s completion, I received word that a small sci fi magazine wanted to buy a short story of mine. “Remember the Sunflowers” became my first paid submission.

            Getting a story published and finishing my first novel was a huge boost in confidence. I took this over-inflated ego to a writer’s conference in Irvine, California. Gathered in a Wyndham conference room near the John Wayne airport, I met hundreds of other hermetic introverts like myself. I had a blast meeting new people with similar interests. And aside from all the friends and critique partners I made at the conference, I was also able to glean lots of insight on how to break into the publishing world. One speaker in particular emphasized the need to create an online persona. She explained how important it was to treat your writer identity like a marketing tool. This got me thinking because I already had a career. At this point, I had been teaching seventh grade for seven years. I taught adolescents, but my writing was clearly targeted toward adults. While not explicit by most standards, it still isn’t kid friendly. So that’s why I created the pen name, K.C Aegis. The ironic thing is that soon after I created the pen name, some other writer, a dude named—you guessed it—Mark LaMonica published a book called Renaissance Porn Star. So even though I changed my name to avoid awkward questions about my work, fate stepped in and made it happen anyways.

            After the contest, I used my online persona to seek out writing contests and potential markets for my work. I got organized, systematic, and stalkerish. I began following the online habits of potential agents. I paid attention to what they were looking for and drafted queries based on their interests and “wish lists.” At the same time, some of my new friends from the conference let me know about some writer contests on Twitter. Through these, I got a lot of practice pitching my work in short tweets. This got the attention of a few editors who offered help refining my query and suggested other places to pitch. This led to me discovering the small publishing house, Del Sol Press. They offered a First Novel competition in which the two finalists would win a trip to New York where they would get to meet a bunch of big-name editors in which to pitch their work. I figured, what the heck? I didn’t think I would actually win.

            In addition to the incredible trip to New York, the contest judge offered to be my agent and began actively pitching my story. We got several bites and near misses. Several editors expressed interest, but said they could not build a consensus with the other editors in their publishing house. Things were not looking good for my first novel, but then an unusual thing happened. My agent informed me that an imprint of Penguin Random House was impressed enough by my writing that they wanted to know if I would be willing to flesh out an idea for them. What I really wanted was for them to publish my first book, but figured this might be the way to do it. Also, the money they were offering was very real and hard to turn down. Signing the contract meant I wouldn’t have to spend my summer slaving away in a poorly ventilated tool and die shop.

            I had to drop out of the Master’s program to work on the book for them. I was thrilled and terrified. I received weekly encouragement and praise from the editor, but in the end, the project sort of fizzled into an empty void in which I lost a year’s worth of time. Everything about the book deal was strange, so I guess I shouldn’t have been so surprised when it ended strangely as well. My agent assures me that the failure wasn’t my fault, but I think it stands without question that if I had written a better book, or understood better what exactly the imprint wanted, then maybe they would have let me finish what I’d started.

            In any case, the death of the book deal allowed me to get back to my original pursuits. I threw myself back into the Master’s program and the novel I had been working on for the Master’s project. I had finished the first half of it during the 2017-2018 semesters. Now, the prospect of finishing the thing was enough to distract me from the soul-crushing disappointment at having achieved and then lost the fabled book deal. 

            By the end of the Master’s program, I should have my next novel ready for query. I don’t know what will happen, and I am not holding my breath. All I know is that this writing journey I am on seems to be picking up speed. Whether the destination is just around the corner or somewhere far off beyond the horizon, I figure I won’t know until I get there.
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            Thanks for reading. 

            When I was a sophomore in high school, my English teacher gave me a zero on a writing assignment and accused me of plagiarism. Having written the story entirely on my own, I was baffled. After class, I inquired about the grade and asked who she believed I had copied. Her response did nothing to alleviate my confusion. She said she did not know who I had copied, but there was no way a sophomore like me could have written it. To be fair, I was not a typically good student. With most my focus spent on sports and girls, my classwork was frequently half-assed and disorganized. So while my teacher’s assessment angered me, I had to admit her prejudices were not unfounded. 

            In hindsight, this episode would become a pivotal moment in my life as a writer. Because while my teacher believed I was not capable of writing anything of merit, her doubt planted some unusual ideas in my head. Primarily, by saying the writing was “too good” for me, it meant that on some level, the writing was good. I had been devouring fantasy and sci fi novels for over a decade, but it took my teacher’s doubt to convince me that I might someday become a writer myself.

            This pursuit would dictate my future. After high school, I got a degree in English from Cal State Fullerton, then later earned a teaching credential. All of this was with the understanding that I would teach to support my wife and kids, then spend summers pursuing a writing career. Since 2008, I have been actively pursuing this goal. It was my Prime Directive. In the time since, I have realized that the road traveled by writers is often a lonely affair. The way is marked with dangerous pitfalls, dizzying highs, and soul-crushing lows. The last few years have presented some mild victories. First starting with my first paid publication in a Sci Fi magazine, followed by contest recognition, agent representation, and an on-again-off-again book deal, I find myself with just enough encouragement to keep going.

            Along the way, I am grateful for the English program at Cal State Fullerton. It has provided me with a foundation in literature and theory that I could not get anywhere else. As French essayist Joseph Jourbert once said, “One who has imagination without learning has wings without feet.” The CSUF program has given me the “feet” in which to stand. Over the course of both the graduate and undergraduate programs, I have been exposed to all sorts of literature that has helped shape my understanding of the medium.

            Dr. Caldwell’s presentation of Medieval Literature made me fall in love with episodic storytelling within a larger frame narrative. Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales has been a huge influence on my writing. This brand of storytelling mixed with the fantastic, sci-fi elements found in Dr. Sander’s Romanticism courses have helped establish the kinds of stories I want to write myself. And while Medieval Literature and Romanticism have helped me develop a flavor of writing, other courses have provided knowledge and confidence on how to present my ideas. Some of the many highlights include speaking at the 2018 Acacia Conference, Dr. Blaine’s course on ancient comedy, Dr. Stanton’s course of the Sonnet form, and Dr. Ruiz-Velasco’s course on shifting perspectives within the American novel have all contributed to my love of reading and writing. In addition to these courses on literature, Dr. Kelman and Dr. Westgate’s courses on theory have helped me understand how literature works and communicates across global paradigms. Their courses have only deepened my appreciation for this field of study.

            Looking to the future, I cannot foresee any reality in which I am not writing. Shortly after beginning the Master’s program in the Fall 2017 semester, I began working on a novel-length project. My studies in Classical Mythology, Medieval Literature, Shakespeare, Romanticism, and Critical Theory have all played a part in its development. I am excited about the project, but if anything, the last few years have taught me to be cautious.

            Near the end of the Spring 2018 semester, my literary agent contacted me with an amazing opportunity. Apparently, the publishing house, Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Random House was interested in my writing. My agent had previously submitted one of my stories to them for consideration. I was asked to pitch several ideas to them about a sci fi thriller they wanted me to write. I spent a month drafting and editing proposals and was pleasantly surprised when they offered a book deal. This was definitely a high in my writing career, but it would not last. After working on the project for a year, the contract was terminated. To say this was devastating is perhaps an understatement. But oddly, just like my sophomore English teacher, the rejection has only encouraged me to try harder.  
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            By the end of the Master’s program, I should have a completed novel ready for query. Dr. Sander’s Creative Writing class and Dr. Norton’s Project Writing class have both served or are serving to help workshop the project so that it can be as good as possible. I have already pitched the project to my agent who expressed confidence. That said, I hold no illusions about my prospects. I understand how difficult it is to get into the publishing world. The good news is that whether the book is published or not, I know I will not stop trying. Writing is in my blood and I will forever be thankful to CSUF for giving me the confidence and motivation to keep going. 

One of these days, I’ll get around to writing in detail about the time I got stranded in Mexico when I was eight. My dad had thrown me and two of my sisters in the back of his Ford pickup truck, and we were headed down to San Felipe for a fishing trip when we were hit by a drunk driver.

It happened on a long stretch of road in the middle of Baja California, both sides of the two-lane highway falling off into an empty desert stretching off in either direction as far as you could see. My dad had pulled over to help a family with a stalled vehicle. It was the middle of the night, so I was trying to sleep when the entire world exploded in a spray of gasoline and crunching metal.

The drunk driver smashed his head up pretty good when he slammed into the windshield, but besides that, miraculously, my sisters and I had only a few minor bruises. The rear end of the truck where we had been sleeping was smashed in but still drivable. So, with the injured drunk bleeding on the highway and the family stalled in the middle of nowhere, my dad drove us into town to look for help.

The Mexican police didn’t understand English, and in their misunderstanding about what had happened, they arrested my dad. That night, my sisters and I stayed up all night sitting on a bench outside the police station. The thing that stands out the most about that night was the dogs. The street was filled with a pack of famished dogs. Their ribs were showing as they ran up and down the street all night, barking at cars. I clearly remember the painful cry of a puppy. It’s yelp was cut short when a car ran over it. The car wasn’t moving fast, nor did it slow down when it made contact. It simply kept rolling, treating the dog as a speedbump as it went. Bump, bump.

The next day, my sisters, aged twelve and ten, got ahold of my dad’s wallet and were able to get us a hotel close by. I spent the next several days wandering around the small Mexican town, looking for things to occupy my time.

I probably should have been worried about my dad and what might have happened if he didn’t turn up soon, but I was a kid. I didn’t have the maturity to worry.

My sisters didn’t want to leave the hotel, so I was left to explore the town on my own.

It was hot, so I decided to go swimming. I found a swimming pool, but when I got in, there was some sort of darting creature, about the size of a fist zipping around in the water. It was hard to tell what it was because it was moving so fast, but occasionally, it would pause long enough for me to make out several pointed appendages. I don’t know if this sort of thing was normal down there, but it was enough to convince me to get out of the pool.

Still determined to go swimming, I headed out into the ocean. I was amazed because the entire beach was empty. Not a single person was on the sand or in the water on such a hot day, but I didn’t care. I was too dumb or too young to realize what this meant. After swimming in the warm waves for over an hour, I realized that a man was on the shore, waving his arms frantically and trying to get my attention. At first, I tried to pretend he wasn’t yelling at me, but after a couple minutes, he was impossible to ignore.
Once I got back on shore, the man started yelling at me while pointing at a large pipe hanging out over the water.

I shrugged my shoulders and said the only Spanish words my dad taught me. “No comprendo Español.”
So the man closed his eyes in frustration and seemed to dredge his limited English for a word I would understand.

“Shit!” he yelled while pointing at the pipe. “Shit!”

And then I realized why no one else was sharing this wonderful beach with me on such a hot day. I had been swimming happily in raw sewage for close to two hours.

After that, I figured it would be best to stay away from the water. This same man brought me into his store and convinced me to buy a bag of m-80’s. He gave me a lighter and showed me how to light the fuse. The loud explosion that followed ignited the pyromaniac that lives inside every young boy. I took my bag of fireworks and went in search of a place to use them.

Eventually, I found a dump on the outskirts of town. The place was littered with rusted machine parts and, discarded bottles, oh, and dead bodies.

The dog I had seen killed a couple days earlier was there, rotting beneath a cloud of buzzing flies. I kept my distance and stayed focused on the finer things in life—like blowing shit up.

I found an old car exhaust pipe and converted it to a cannon by dropping a lit m-80 down the pipe and setting old cans over the opening. The cans rocketed several hundred feet in the air. I felt like I had found my calling in life.

In the midst of my artillery fire, I noticed a trio of vultures watching from a dead tree nearby. Whether they were eyeing me or the dead dog, I couldn’t say, but it was enough to spook me out. I headed back into town.

Along the way, I passed by a odd looking building. It was a large blue structure with a strange billboard on top. A ball of curly hair with eyeballs was at the center of two long legs ending in high heels. Beneath this picture, were the only English words I had seen all day. “The Bearded Clam,” it said.

It would be several years later, when I was much older and much less innocent, when the meaning of this place would finally strike me like a hammer blow to the stomach. But, as an eight-year-old kid, I was curious. I decided to go see what was inside this bearded clam place. It must be something interesting considering how it seemed to be the busiest place in town.

I started walking toward the building, and that’s when I saw my dad. He pulled up along side me in his smashed in truck. Sitting beside him with a bandaged head was the drunk driver who had almost killed us.

My dad’s explanation was a little hazy, and I suspect I didn’t grasp most of it because I was so young, but I guess my dad was only let out of jail if he agreed to help the drunk driver pay for all the damages he had caused.

I didn’t think much about it at the time, but years later I would wonder why my dad and this stranger had been driving toward the bearded clam place when they, by pure chance, found me. I asked my dad about it later, but he “couldn’t remember.”

I would have liked to say that my dad’s arrival ended this strange time in Mexico, but it was just the beginning.

Some other time, I’ll have to write about the other bizarre things that happend on this trip in Mexico. Like the night I stumbled upon a lion in the dark, or when I got stabbed, or the time my sisters and I were nearly killed by hammerhead sharks.

It amazes me that this all happened and that we all survived.

Writing a novel can be viewed as a stroll through schizophrenia. There have been, and still are, many times over the years when I suspected I might be losing my mind. This is mainly because most people I know don’t stay up all night in a darkened garage, talking to the voices in their head.

But it’s okay, I plead. I’m being creative, right?

I can’t remember who said it first, but writing a book is a lot like thinking you left the oven on—all the time. The characters are perpetually inside, shouting to be let out, and it’s only through getting words onto the page that the urgency subsides to tolerable levels.

The year I wrote Binding Program was insane. In addition to teaching full time, coaching football, and waiting tables five nights a week; I had three little kids to take care of. But the need to write—to get the voices out of my head was so strong that I was willing to forego sleep to get it done. I can honestly say it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but not writing would have been much harder.

Even so, I think it’s common for writers to lose faith in themselves. So much of what we do happens in solitary confinement, making it easy to get lost in your own head. So, any writer who doesn’t occasionally doubt their own work is either delusional or gleefully naïve. This is why self-doubt is such an important tool in any self-respecting writer’s arsenal. It forces you to temper your prose until it is fit for human consumption.

Just be careful to keep self-doubt at arm’s length so it doesn’t transform into self-loathing. That’s not good for anybody.

And always know that whether you write for yourself or others, it's a way to stay sane. So often, writing can be the release valve that lets all the crazy out of our heads. So go on, find a quiet spot and talk to the people that have taken up residence inside your skull. With a lot of hard work and self-reflection, you can finally coax them to come out.

Thanks for reading.

---K.C. Aegis

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I'm happy to report my first published story will appear in Issue #14 of Encounters Magazine from Black Matrix Publishing. Woo-Hoo! 

I'm a bit nervous about it, but that's expected, right? 

"Remember the Sunflowers" will appear in Encounters' May issue and I can't wait. You can read a preview of this story under my stories tab, but besides that, I don't want to give anything away. If you want to know more about the story, you'll just have to read it yourself. The funny thing is that I originally wrote this story about 2 and a half years ago as kind of a response to the Occupy Wallstreet movement. It's gone through several rejections and subsequent revisions before it arrived in a state suitable for publication. It would have been easy to give up, but somehow I just knew that if I kept making improvements, it would evetually find a home.

Anyways, probably one of the greatest things that comes with finally getting published is the affirmation that you might not be as crazy as you were beginning to suspect. Seriously, most writing takes place in the solitude of your own mind. I do a lot of my writing at Starbucks not because I can't write at home, but because I feel the crowds often act as a counterweight to all the spelunking inside my own skull. 

Besides that, sometimes it takes weeks, months, or even years before you have a story strong enough to stand on its own beneath the harsh eye of others. Even when people compliment your work, you think that maybe they're just being nice or worse, they truly like it but have poor taste. In any case, publication is sometimes the only form of validation that proves genuine. 

This little victory has only fueled my writing even more. I'm a few more chapters away--about a month--from finishing my next novel. Then, I'll revise revise revise before I ship it out for the world to see. All I know for sure is this is just the beginning.

Thank for Reading,

K.C. Aegis
 

      Stephen Hawking once said, "If time travel exists, where are all the tourists from the future?" It is a simple question and one might think that any lack of future tourists automatically disqualifies the existence of such temporal transportation. 
     However, who is to say time travelers would want to come to our time anyways? Would it make sense for highly evolved beings to travel to a time as polluted and dangerous as ours when there are endless amounts of time more suitable for leisurely travel. 
    I mean, if I wanted to swim in the untainted waters near Cyprus, the same place where Aphrodite rose out of the sea, would I want to do it in a time when that land was surrounded by commercial development and societal upheaval, or would I travel to a time in the more distant past? 
     Or, to take the idea further, if I wanted to retire, would I want to do it in modern or ancient times? In the present, a time traveler could only impress the authorities so much before he/she was put on lock down and milked for all their technological know-how. On the other hand, ancient societies might see their technological advances and revere them as gods. 
     this aside, there is the question of a universe-destroying paradox to think about. Theoretically, a paradox occurs when changes to the past make those changes impossible to begin with. Such as, going back in time and killing your grandfather before he met your grandmother. Or, in the case of Back to the Future, having your mom get the hots for you instead of your dad. In any case, the new future would spawn a world where the time traveler wouldn't exist, thus negating their effects on the past.
     Confusing? Yes, but it makes for interesting fiction at times.
     Who knows, someday we might discover that our first civilizations ranging from Minoan to Egyptian were merely the retirement homes for more advanced time travelers. Far fetched? Perhaps, but I wonder if it is any more likely that nomadic apes evolved into empires led only by survival instincts. 
    As for me, I'm no Billy Pilgrim and I have no choice but to ride the one-way time train into the future. By the time you read this, I'll already be there.

---K.C. Aegis