AUTHOR’S NOTE: as you may or may not have heard chuck has signed horror novel publishing deal with NIGHTFIRE what a treat. part of this deal is to keep writing self published tinglers AT THE SAME TIME so of course had to write a tingler about the deal itself. but this exciting moment seemed too important to CHARGE A DANG FEE after all the support you buckaroos have given chuck over the years. therefore this tingler is free for all as token of appreciation and gratitude from chuck to you. thank you for supporting my unique way and for proving LOVE IS REAL to me just as much as i hope i have proved it to you.
and if you REALLY want to support chuck then go ahead and write chuck an IOU to PRE-ORDER CAMP DAMASCUS when pre-order is available this is very important for authors and i will explain that more when the time comes. heck ill probably write a tingler about it
until then PLEASE ENJOY THIS FREE TINGLER OF APPRECIATION thank you buckaroos LOVE IS REAL – chuck
Buck Trungle has written the great American novel, a perfect amalgamation of every literary trend titled The Time Traveler’s Martian On The Wild Road With A Hunger For Twilight Games Of Grey. He’s ready to sell this book to a major publishing house at Bookbudcon, but things go sideways when Macmilton Publishing announces their new deal with notorious erotica and romance author Chuck Tingle.
Now Buck is forced to quickly rewrite his story to match the latest trends, titling his new version Pounded In The Butt By The Time Traveler’s Martian On The Wild Road With A Hunger For Twilight Games Of Grey.
Unfortunately, Buck’s new book still doesn’t sell, but a chance meeting with the physical manifestation of Chuck Tingle’s publishing deal helps Buck realize the importance of cultivating his own literary voice. Soon enough, the layers of The Tingleverse are peeling back to reveal there’s a unique and important story in each of us, and that Buck and Chuck may have more in common than they initially thought.
***
As my ride pulls away and I gaze up at the bustling convention center, I try my best to register a mental snapshot of this important moment. I’ll remember today, always carrying this image close to my heart.
I’ve been to San Diego Bookbudcon before, but my previous adventures on this hallowed ground were nothing more than an entertaining vacation to Southern California, a time for me to let loose and enjoy myself over one special weekend every year. I was here to kick back and let the good times roll, which is, of course, a great reason to attend any convention.
This year, however, things are different.
I glance down at the satchel by my side, this unassuming leather bag containing a hidden treasure that will, most certainly, change my life forever.
Tucked safely within are several printed copies of my completed novel, a literary masterpiece the likes of which this world has never seen. I’ve poured everything I have into this tale, studied every industry trend and boiled them down into a perfect concoction of seventy-five thousand words.
This is the great American novel, hitting every beat it needs and checking every box a publisher could possibly look for.
I stroll towards the convention center with confidence, shoulders back and head held high. As usual, this gathering is flooded with an assortment of costumes based around famous literary characters, a tradition I’d typically participate in if not for the fact that I need to stay focused this year.
Still, I marvel at the various outfits as I stroll past, impressed by the ingenuity of my fellow book nerds.
Once inside, I’m greeted by a single, massive room divided into several aisles and paths that stretch on forever. These glorious lanes feature booths on either side, artists and vendors who are all here to connect with their adoring fans.
Having downloaded the map ahead of time, I know exactly where I’m headed.
First on my list is Random Boat publishing, one of the largest publishing houses in the world. Their accomplishments are made all the more impressive when you learn they work entirely out of the cabin of a single houseboat.
I approach the booth, my heart slamming within my chest as I prepare to make my introduction.
A plesiosaurus locks eyes with me and offers a cheerful wave, the dinosaur just one of the many aquatic reptiles who happen to work at Random Boat.
“Hey there! How’s your con going?” she offers.
“I’m Buck Trungle, nice to meet you!” I reply. “This will be the best convention of our lives.”
The dinosaur smiles. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because I’m gonna get a huge publishing deal for my novel,” I exclaim.
The prehistoric reptile’s expression faulters slightly, but she holds it together. “Oh,” she stammers. “We don’t usually just take submissions like this but… you’re in luck. We’ve got our resident speed reader over here, and he might be able to take a look at your manuscript.”
“Trust me, he’s gonna want to see this,” I retort.
The dinosaur waves me over to the other side of the booth where another plesiosaur sits quietly, diligently working his way through a large stack of manuscripts. The dinosaur is light green, and a pair of thick-rimmed tortuous-shell glasses sit high upon the bridge of his nose.
“Hey there,” I offer. “You must be the speed reader.”
“The name’s Tork,” he replies. “Nice to meet you. If you drop a manuscript off I should be able to get around to it by lunchtime and have some notes for you.”
“Oh, you should probably read it now,” I scoff. “Trust me.”
The dinosaur just stares for a moment, his expression frozen awkwardly until it finally twists up into a bemused grin. “Okay then,” he offers skeptically, tossing his current tale to the side. “Hand it over.”
“Wait, what?” I blurt, a little surprised by his reaction. I’d told myself this was going to work, but seeing my plan come to fruition so abruptly is still a little shocking.
“I’ll read it right now,” the plesiosaur continues. “Hand it over.”
I immediately spring into action, scrambling to tear open my bag and pull forth a copy of my perfect manuscript. I give it to the dinosaur and watch with beaming pride as Tork scans the title page.
He furrows his brow a bit.
“The Time Traveler’s Martian On The Wild Road With A Hunger For Twilight Games Of Grey,” he reads aloud, then glances back up at me. “Sounds like there’s a lot going on here.”
I nod enthusiastically. “There is.”
The dinosaur cautiously opens to the first page, hesitating just a moment before diving in and beginning his speed read. The next thing I know this prehistoric creature is tearing through my manuscript, whipping past page after page of text with jaw-dropping efficiency. I watch his eyes dart over my text with rapt attention.
I’m already emotionally preparing for the moment my life will change forever.
Finally, the dinosaur finishes and closes my manuscript. He takes off his glasses for a moment and rubs his brow, thinking long and hard about something before returning his specs to the bridge of his nose.
I can tell he’s struggling to find his words, not quite show how to break the news that this is, in fact, the greatest thing he’s ever read.
“I’m sorry,” the aquatic reptile finally states. “I don’t think this is what we’re looking for right now.”
I can’t help the chortle of laugher that escapes my throat, surprised this man can find the time to make a joke at such an important crossroads. “That’s funny,” I offer.
Tork just stares at me.
“Wait, what?” I finally blurt. “Are you serious? This is a prank right?”
“It’s not what we’re looking for,” the dinosaur repeats, handing the manuscript back to me and then returning to his pile of stories.
“Come on now,” I retort, stopping the dinosaur in his tracks. “This is the greatest thing ever written. You’re reallynot looking for a masterpiece like this? What don’t you like about it?”
Tork lets out a long sigh. “Fine, I was trying to be nice, but do you really want to know?” he questions.
I nod.
“This is very, very convoluted,” he reveals. “It’s like you took a plot point from every bestseller over the last fifteen years and smashed them together.”
“Thank you,” I reply, gushing.
“That’s… not a good thing,” Tork clarifies. “You’ve built some kind of amorphous super book that’s not actually super, nor a book. This is unreadable.”
I gaze at the man awkwardly, my brain struggling to comprehend this unexpected review as my emotions stumble through confusion, then anger, then defiance. Eventually, I straighten up and return the manuscript to my bag.
“Well, that’s your loss,” I retort.
With that, I continue on my way, marching deeper into the swarming mass of writers, agents, editors and fans. I weave through the aisles on a mission, trying my best not to let this moment of rejection get to me.
After all, there’s an objectively right or wrong answer here, and Random Boat Publishing is on the losing end of this equation. It took me years to craft a perfectly sellable masterpiece, a book that hits every bestselling keyword and picks up an audience from each demographic quadrant.
That’s not something to be taken lightly, but if they don’t understand my achievement I’ll be just fine: there’s always Macmilton.
Macmilton publishing was always my top choice, a perfect home for this literary masterpiece. They’ve been around for ages, one of the big four publishers who have plenty of incredible novels under their belt. They’ve worked with some of my favorite authors, and I have no doubt my manuscript will have them falling all over themselves in an effort to strike a deal.
It’s not long before I arrive at the Macmilton booth, but unfortunately this space is untended. There are plenty of books sitting out on display, but the staff is missing.
I glance down to find a small notecard sitting before me, a written message carefully etched across the paper in stark black pen.
“We will be right back, we are currently hosting a panel in Hall T” I read aloud.
Glancing around, I noticed that Hall T is located nearby and I swiftly head over, peeking my head inside to discover a room full of eager audience members. The place is humming with excitement, everyone’s attention trained on a low stage up front where a panel of authors and publishers sit. Next to them is a massive projector screen, which features the brilliant cover art from one of their upcoming releases.
I settle in against the back wall, watching this scene unfold.
They have no idea that after this panel I’ll be presenting them with the greatest story of all time.
A large, sentient printing press is addressing the audience now, speaking into a microphone as she floats back and forth across the front of the stage.
“And finally, we have one last book to announce for you all,” she calls out, the audience hanging on every word. “We’ve just signed a new deal with this author and you might’ve heard of him before, although this is a fairly new genre for this author to be writing in…”
The printing press trails off for a moment, letting the tension build even more.
A new cover erupts onto the projector screen, a vision of an eerie mountainous landscape drawn in tones of lush, surreal red. A small cabin sits in the bottom corner of the image, while the open mouth of a screaming woman settles along the top, flies erupting from her throat. It’s a beautiful cover, strange and unsettling but also tugging a string of curiosity deep within me.
It’s only then I notice the author name.
“Chuck Tingle!” the sentient printing press calls out.
A figure suddenly erupts through a door near the stage, a man in a white uniform with a pink bag over his head. He bounds onto the platform sporting dark sunglasses and waving to the crowd, the words love is real written across his forehead.
The energy in this room is palpable as this audience loses their minds with excitement, but there’s one person here who’s less than thrilled: me.
Chuck Tingle is far from a literary scholar. The man with the pink bag over his head is a hack, mining the absolute depths of romance and erotica and self-publishing the most sensationalist titles he can conjure. Although I’ve never read one of his “books”, I can only imagine what kind of thoughtless dreck I’d discover between the pages.
How the hell did Chuck Tingle get a publishing deal and I didn’t?
Before this presentation has a chance to continue I turn on my heels, leaving the room in a huff. I pull my manuscripts out of their bag and toss them into the closest trashcan I can find, marching towards the exit.
If absurd sex scenes are what it takes to get a publishing deal, then absurd sex scenes are what they’re gonna get.
Returning to the convention center for day two of Bookbudcon, I find myself feeling a little exhausted. On the inside I’m hardened and battle ready, but after staying up all night to add seventeen new sex scenes to my manuscript, my body is starting to ache.
I push through it.
Fortunately, my hotel had a business center, allowing me to print out several more copies of the greatest novel ever written.
While Random Boat and Macmilton are giants of the industry, I’ve decided these two publishing houses are no longer in the running for obtaining my masterpiece. They had their chance and they blew it.
Instead, the second I enter the convention center I head directly towards the Carperholland booth.
“Hey there!” offers a unicorn as I arrive, the bright pink creature smiling warmly as they witness my approach. “How’s it going?”
“Cut the small talk,” I retort with a smirk. “Where’s your speed reader? They’re gonna want to check this out before someone else snatches it up.”
The handsome creature seems a little taken aback by my attitude, but he points to the side of the booth where another unicorn sits quickly in a folding chair, working his way through manuscripts.
I stroll over and pull a fresh copy of my masterpiece out of the bag, flopping it onto the table next to him. “Are you ready for the greatest story you’ve ever read?” I question.
The unicorn gazes up at me skeptically. His skin is light blue, and his mane shimmers with a dazzling, silver sparkle.
“You’re in luck,” the unicorn replies. “I just finished this one, so I’ll give yours a chance next.”
The unicorn picks up my manuscript and reads its title aloud. “Pounded In The Butt By The Time Traveler’s Martian On The Wild Road With A Hunger For Twilight Games Of Grey,” he states flatly.
He glances up at me for a moment, but his expression is hard to read. Eventually, he flips to the first page and dives in.
I watch with rapt anticipation as this unicorn speed-reader works his way from page to page, imagining the glorious journey he’s currently traveling on. Every beat of this story is perfectly crafted, an undeniable structure for what’s certain to be the next big literary hit.
It’s not long before the unicorn finishes up and closes my manuscript. He hesitates a moment, collecting his thoughts.
“Uh… that was a pretty bizarre story,” he begins. “Did you actually cut and paste sections of other bestselling novels into this text?”
“I rewrote those sections,” I counter, already aware this isn’t going the way I expected. “Technically speaking they’re in my own words.”
“Okay, well, that’s kind of odd,” the unicorn continues. “Mostly, I’m concerned about the sex scenes popping up every few pages. They don’t really add much to the story.”
I scoff. Clearly this unicorn isn’t keeping up with the publishing industry newswire. “Didn’t you hear? Chuck Tingle just got a publishing deal. Everyone is gonna add pounding to their books now.”
The unicorn crinkles his nose awkwardly. “I did hear about that, actually. Chuck isn’t writing erotica for that deal, he’s writing horror novels.”
My heart immediately sinks as a wave of nausea washes over me. “You mean all that time spent adding sex scenes to my book was for nothing?” I stammer. “It’s not even trending!?”
“Did your book need sex scenes?” the unicorn retorts.
“I mean, I thought it did!” I blurt. “How is this thing gonna sell if I don’t hit all the booktok hashtags?”
Feeling the tears well up inside me, I turn and sprint away from the booth. I’m running as hard as I can, escaping the convention center early for the second day in a row. My heart is slamming within my chest, feeling as though it might leap out through my mouth at any moment.
Before arriving here at Bookbudcon, it seemed like everything in my life was finally making sense, that I was about to take my place as the best author in the world. Suddenly, however, that world has turned upside down.
Outside, the air doesn’t feel any less heavy.
I stumble down the sidewalk a bit, moving away from the crowd. Eventually, I find a place in a quiet alleyway, wandering over to some concrete steps and taking a seat. I’m crying even harder now, not even trying to hold back my tears.
“Hey, are you alright?” comes and unexpected voice.
I immediately sit up, awkwardly wiping away my tears. “I’m fine,” I blurt. “Totally fine.”
I glance over to find a large, floating publishing deal announcement floating towards me, this physically manifested concept wearing a concerned expression.
“Mind if I sit down,” the living traditional publishing deal offers. “I just stepped outside for a chocolate milk.”
I notice now that my new friend is holding a tall glass of the sugary sweet beverage.
“I’m Buck,” I offer, introducing myself.
“Pubber,” the sentient publishing deal replies, reaching out and giving me a firm shake. “I’m not one to intrude, but I just wanted to say it can be good to get things off your chest sometimes. Just talkingabout our feelings can make a big difference.”
I consider his words for a moment, hesitating slightly. “That’s normally true,” I finally reply. “Problem is… you’re part of the reason I’m upset.”
Pubber’s eyes go wide with confusion. “Wait, what?” he blurts. “Really? I’m not sure what I did, but I’m so sorry.”
“You’re fine, you’re fine,” I retort, waving away his concern. “It’s just… I worked really hard on my novel and nobody seemed to like it, then I look over and Chuck Tingle – of all people – is getting a traditional publishing deal. He writes about stupid memes and stuff. He’s a joke!”
Pubber listens, nodding along. “You know, Chuck isn’t actually a joke,” he finally offers in return. “Even if his titles and concepts can seem like a lot, there’s a throughline of love and acceptance that’s actually pretty compelling.”
I take a deep breath, then let out a long, defeated sigh.
“So what’s your novel about?” the sentient publishing deal questions.
“Which version?” I reply. “I have to rewrite it every time some new literary trend comes along.”
Pubber cringes as I say this. “That’s not a great way of going about things, but for the sake of answering the question, tell me about the version you’re happiest about.”
I think back over my drafts. “There’s one called The Time Traveler’s Martian On The Wild Road With A Hunger For Twilight Games Of Grey,” I reply. “That’s the best one.”
The sentient publishing deal hesitates when I say this, a wave of shock and amazement washing through him. Suddenly, an excited smile erupts across his face. Pubber reaches behind his rectangular form and pulls forth a familiar manuscript.
“This is by you?” the living concept blurts excitedly.
I nod.
“I love this book,” Pubber offers, gushing to me with genuine enthusiasm. “It’s amazing.”
“Wait, really?” I stammer in return, a little shocked.
Pubber nods, then settles a bit. “Can I be honest, though? I have one critique.”
“Of course,” I reply, listening intently.
The living concept steadies himself a bit, getting serious. “Your central story is incredible, so heartfelt and original, but I feel like there’s all kinds of unnecessary stuff piled on top of it. When I read your book, I start getting into the groove and then suddenly there’s some book trend popping in out of nowhere. You even have suggestions for social media users to make videos about your novel right there in the text!”
I nod. “Yeah, maybe that was a bit much.”
“The heart of this thing is golden, though,” Pubber continues. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. You’ve got something special.”
“So… what do I do?” I stammer.
The living concept considers this a moment, thinking it over. “Whatever it takes. Probably start from the top and tell this story from your heart. It’ll guide you where you need to go.”
A surge of panic erupts across my body, faced with the blunt reality of this situation.
“There’s no way I can rewrite this whole thing in time,” I reply. “I already stayed up all night adding sex scenes. I’m just too exhausted.”
Pubber raises an eyebrow. “Why’d you do that?”
“It was silly,” I reply. “I should’ve focused on the art.”
“Hey, there’s plenty of great art that’s sexual and erotic, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that,” he reminds me. “Just focus on being you. If your story happens to be about one night on Zorbus with a lustful space raptor, then so be it.”
The physical manifestation of Chuck Tingle’s publishing deal takes one final pull of his chocolate milk, finishing off the tall glass. He puts his hands on his knees and stands back up.
“Welp,” Pubber begins. “I should probably be getting back in there.”
“And I should probably get to work on this novel,” I offer in return, standing up along with my new friend. “I think I’ve had enough of this year’s Bookbudcon. I’ll be back next year with something I’m really proud of.”
The year flies by in a blur, but that’s bound to happen when you’re immersed in creating a piece of art that hits you deep in the pit of your soul.
I started rewriting my story immediately after that night at Bookbudcon, working through it over and over again as I refined every edge and pouring my raw emotions into every line of text. Once I pulled away from inserting every publishing trend I could manage, I found myself with a powerful reflection of my own soul, an expression of my own truth unlike anything I’ve ever created.
I took my time with this piece, but even at this slower pace I was ready for action well before the next Bookbudcon arrived.
That’s when I made my biggest leap yet.
Instead of submitting to one of the major publishing houses, I decided to head out on my own first. I self-published my novel and the praise was immediate. It was original and fresh, and soon enough there were people I’d never met who were begging for more.
So I obliged. I wrote another story, then another one, and soon enough I’d built up a large self-published catalog. I even built a fanbase to go with it.
By the time I arrive back at the Bookbudcon convention center, I’m carrying a manuscript that people are actuallyexcited to read.
But that’s not the best part of my journey.
The best part is that it’s a raw, real, honest expression of truth that nobody else could craft but me.
“And that’s how I got the publishing deal with Nightfire for my first full-length horror novel, Camp Damascus,” I finish, gazing at my friend Sam from behind my dark sunglasses as we sit under the blazing California sun. “Available everywhere in July of twenty-twenty-three, preorder coming soon.”
Buy the Book
Camp Damascus
It’s tough going out in the heat dressed like this, wrapped in my gi with a pink bag over my head, but it’s worth the privacy. Still, it’s getting a little warm in here.
I close the final page of my manuscript, a short story titled Not Pounded By The Physical Manifestation Of Chuck Tingle’s Traditional Publishing Deal Because He Writes About More Than Just Pounding However If This Book Was About Pounding That Would Be Okay Too Because There’s Nothing Wrong With Sexuality In Art, then slip it back into my bag. I take a long sip from my chocolate milk, leaning back in my chair at this hip Silverlake coffeeshop.
“Wait, what? That’s how you got your publishing deal?” Sam questions, utterly confused. “You were just telling me a story about a guy named Buck Trungle. You were a side character who came out for that book announcement on page four.”
“Well, the story you just heard is what happened on a nearby timeline. In this reality it’s an artistic abstraction,” I reply. “I’m Buck and Chuck. We’ve all been on either side of that equation, up on stage and watching from the sidelines. I’m also neither, because in our current reality none of that story happened in a literal sense. The feeling is absolutely true, though. It’s a pretty good summary of how important it is to find your own voice.”
“Well, you certainly have your own voice,” Sam retorts, taking a sip from his coffee and eyeing me over the rim.
I smile, realizing now that my friend has stumbled onto something very important.
“And that’s why Buck or Chuck could be anyone, even you,” I offer. “I have my own voice, but guess what… everyone has their own voice. It doesn’t matter how you get it out there, whether you self-publish or traditionally publish or make a web serial or a graphic novel or a zine for your friends. What matters is that you speak from your heart.”
Sam nods along, a grin creeping its way across his face as I make my case. He has no rebuttal when I finish.
“I’ll drink to that,” my friend finally offers, hoisting his coffee as I raise my chocolate milk in turn.
Originally published July 2022 on Chuck Tingle’s Patreon
