Oops is right…

Hi, Folks-

It’s never fun to admit when mistakes are made, but it sure beats letting people think it was all intentional.

Just days before publication, we made some last minute edits in Of Mortal Creatures. In doing so, we introduced some glaring typos. Anyone who has purchased the digital copy, a revised update is forthcoming. For anyone who purchased the hard copy, email us proof of purchase and a photo of your book and we’ll mail out a proper replacement once the new batch arrives.

Send proof of purchase and photo of your book to editor@cadreonepublishing.com

We’re also having some difficulties with our printing company. Reports have come in of bad bindings, weak cover color (not black but mottled gray), and blown out contrast for interior images.

IMG_2733IMG_2732IMG_2731

Please rest assured, we’re not OK with this…

We’ve alerted our printer (who normally does amazing work) so that these issues can be solved ASAP.

Thank you!

C.O.P.

Branching Out

Day Job

Howdy, folks.

Being a micro publisher means we can try a few things to maximize efficiency, experiment with them to see how they work. Another way of saying it is that our day jobs keep getting in the way, so we do as much as we can in the time we have.

One distributor seemed to offer our biggest bang for the buck: Kindle Direct. Biggest market, national distribution, easy set up, nice automation, and strong returns for exclusivity. But recent events are a tad concerning.

Why should Amazon have any say whatsoever in what a publisher charges for their books?

We have no affiliation with Hachette. And to be frank, we do think their ebook prices are high. But who are we to say? If that’s what the market will bear, then let them charge what they like. There just isn’t any sense in Amazon trying to strong arm a publisher into a pricing model.

So we’re branching out. Something we should have done ages ago, in fact. As of today, all three books from Cadre One Publishing are available for download from Barnes & Noble Nook Books:

Angry Ghosts

Black Hawks From a Blue Sun

The Exhausted Dead

Next stop will be iBooks. Would be there already if Mavericks OS would run on our old Black MacBook. We’ll let you know soon as they’re up and available.

MORE IMPORTANTLY, work continues on Plasma Rain. We know this one’s been a long time coming. Bringing the series to conclusion will take many pages, and we want to make sure it never turns preachy, never drags. Hang in there, folks. We’ll make certain it’s worth it.

In the meantime, keep that hate mail coming! We use it to keep the fire going under Farnham’s feet.

7

-C.O.P.

Our First Moonbase will be a Casino


Here we are, back again for the booze-soaked meet and greets, cross-pollination, and bad decisions that make Las Vegas a must for our seedy little dealings.

Last time we flew in at night, so all we saw was the luminous ‘Strip’. How a pilot can land in all that glare is nothing short of miraculous.

This time, we approached in daylight over a desert landscape of hills, crater-like calderas, and ancient lava flows. It was a topography more suited to the moon than to human habitation, yet there the city shined in spite of itself–proof that money is the most nutritive of all fertilizers.

Sure, breathable air is a pretty big difference from moonscape. The sun seemed just as bright, though. And while Las Vegas may not exist in a vacuum, it wields a powerful vacuum effect on pockets, lines of credit, home equity, retirement accounts, and dignity. From the second we touched down until our escape flight home, we felt a constant draw on our wallets like we were standing in front of a jet intake. It wasn’t until our detox on the long flight home that our addled brains came to terrible revelation:

Outer space is airless not because of molecular scarcity and gravity, but because the fabric of the universe is made of casinos.

We release this hypothesis to the scientific commons in hopes it may finally lead to a breakthrough in String Theory.

Now, having said all that, one might think we didn’t enjoy ourselves.

Hardly.

As we’ve noted in the past, we love going places where others are paying. There are advantages in being a small press, you see, so long as you have good business partners. And our partners took excellent care of us.

The pinnacle of the trip was dining at Twist in the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. We entered through a long stone hallway lined by candles and fresh tulips like the entrance to Pharaoh’s tomb. Inside, the place was intimate, tasteful. The service was prompt attentive. The food… The food was as alien as the city. Culinary Philistines that we are, we tucked right in.

In short, the flavors were complementary, harmonic, and synergistic in effect. From Zezette Broth to Mediterranean Sea Bass to Chocolate Latour cake, the experience was of being in the presence of great art. Seldom are we acquainted with the truly unique and special, so it was with sadness and shame that we reflected upon what it would become in eight hours.

Business (mostly) concluded, we opted for a more familiar bacchanalia:

From our taxi, we spied a Bavarian-styled building rising up from the avenue like a beacon of hope to the common man. Naturally, we stopped in to pay our respects to the landlord.

After two liters of German courage, our author found himself on stage with staff, hat, and a hot mic. Whatever he was shouting, it sounded like outtakes from the movie Das Boot.

For a performance that bad, punishment was inevitable. Not like it took much convincing to get the waitress to throw him over a table and beat him with a wooden bat (A lady can take only so many bad pick up lines, you know).

We saluted her Teutonic vigor and slipped her a twenty to ‘Put some stank on it’.

As for the new book, progress on Exhausted Dead continues. Barring any serious mishaps (like sudden disappearance of the author, for example) we expect a finished manuscript by April with a final production release by end of June. Ambitious goals, considering we said the exact same thing this time last year.

C.O.P.: Any smart comments, Farnham?

Farnham: …

C.O.P.: Good. ‘Cause if you miss this deadline, we’re shipping you to Bogota in your underwear and a DEA T-shirt.

Ever forward.

-C.O.P.

The NYC

There’s no getting around it. If you’re in publishing, you will eventually go to New York City. Nowhere else will you find such a concentration of publishing houses with such a diverse local readership. We had to go, not just out of practicality but also out of devotion: a Hajj for the literary faithful.

Once arrangements were made, we hosed our author down like a prized pachyderm and dressed him for a two-day pilgrimage. Mind you, we used to call the north shore of Boston home, so we’ve seen big cities…

Actually, we haven’t.

At street level, looking down the avenue, we were in a canyon with sheer brick cliffs on each side. The sensation was of being among massive mineral and metal organisms–the kind which form mountains when left to go wild. Here, in this place, they are cultivated, cut, shaped, nurtured and fed like trees in a Titan’s orchard. Here, geology has been tamed and a very specific, crystalline form imposed upon it.

There is no other place on Earth like this. It could never be mistaken for anything but the epitome of collective will, being so far removed from natural process that everything visible feels as though it must’ve fallen from outer space. That goes for the inhabitants, too, as people far too attractive to be found in nature crowd the pavements. Everywhere we went, it was like we had blundered onto a movie set.

Business done, we retired to a modest hotel. That’s when we discovered (with some delight) that the hotel windows open. All it took was a glance at the drop to get Farnham sweating like old dynamite.

Seventeen floors up, the breeze carries the omnipresent smell of vaporized metal and diesel fume. It’s a smell of industry and energy, the exhalation of millions, both man and machine.

Millions out on their own particular missions. Delivery trucks defying their own dimensions and needling their way through impossibly narrow lanes. Honking cabs, advancing and pressuring pedestrians out of the crosswalk. Pedestrians halting in front of honking cabs, turning with a killing look and a credible oath to shoot the cabbie’s f***ing head off…

It’s an exciting place. Seductive. Indifferent. And productive, we should add. Absolutely worth the trip. While we’re not contemplating a move here, we’ll certainly be back…

…assuming we survive the fatwa for comparing New York to Mecca, that is.

Onward.

C.O.P.