Tag - science fiction

I`m Looking for a Publisher
Sci-fi Nightmares
Bedtime stories and how they can screw you up

I`m Looking for a Publisher

I`m Looking for a Publisher

19 August 2018 / Frank Maddish

A British publisher would be preferable, however I am more than open to offers from international publishers. Having tried to self-publish my work with little fanfare, I think it’s time I leave the marketing to the professionals.


I am currently working on my third novel, and would like to think that at least a few people will get to read it, and that it doesn’t merely fall by the wayside like the others. Despite many disappointments I have found encouragement from the occasional fan. Some of which insist my genre is closer to visionary/experimental/dystopian fiction than bare-bones sci-fi. Those who have read my latest novel, Build-A-Burger, have made comparisons to Philip K. Dick, amongst others, although it must be said, with a liberal dose of humour added into the mix.


By a quirk of fate, the central character, Billy Griffin, finds himself lost in a parallel world, mistakenly credited as the creator of the world’s first all-beef patty. He is now rich and influential, and sole proprietor of the highly successful fast food chain, ‘Build-A-Burger’. He branches out into independent media and soon makes contact with a secret cabal called ‘The Alumniaiti’. As Billy’s success takes on a life of its own, he discovers he is trapped in the seven circles of hell, and that his growing success comes at the price of his soul.

The work is approximately 100,000 words long and has a good potential for transatlantic reach, seeing as the story is in part based in America, and  the protagonist influenced by a well known, and highly controversial American DJ. However, these parallels soon fade as the narrative twists and turns into rarely explored territories of science fiction.

Can you help?

Those who have read the book strongly believe it deserves to be published, and after several attempts to contact suitable publishers, I have decided to write this open letter to bring industry attention to the novel. If you have purchased one of the many digital versions out there, i.e. Kindle, I would truly appreciate your review. If you are an agent or publisher who would like to discuss the matter further, please contact me at maddish@gmx.com.

Kind Regards

Frank Maddish.

P.S. I should make it clear I have no interest in using the services of vanity publishers or any related paid services.)

Sci-fi Nightmares

So, when I was a kid, probably beginning with Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, and generally encouraged by my father’s blind optimism, I was sucked in by science fiction. Throughout my teens I gorged on sci-fi literature, everything from Dick to Gibson, and even with a dash of Burroughs thrown in for good measure.

Eventually I knew that what I and my late father had been looking forward to, was our technological downfall. He didn’t live to see the end of nature, or the death of our innate freedom of expression, he died wondering if he’d just missed flying cars or holidays on the Moon. Some still think it’s just an upgrade, the technological homogenisation of the human race, one primed for cut-price intergalactic travel. But the future isn’t a Wild West story, no one on this planet will grow up to be brave pioneers of strange new worlds. It’s all there, laid out as plain as day, from Orwell’s fears to Matrix memes. We’re trapped, we’re screwed, we’re absolutely finished, and like the slaves that built the pyramids, if that’s even true, no one is going to remember us.

Judging by popular opinion, the only way forward and out of this sociological time bomb world, is through the death of the natural, and a blind obedience to scientific vision. I’m afraid we’ve been duped, they promised us the stars, but it turns out they’re just coloured lights on a screen. Our new way of life, engineered for the convenience of the few, has already hit its peak. It’s all downhill from here, just another lousy dystopian tome, like every other religious text, it doesn’t exactly make for light reading.

The new world has arrived and we never moved an inch, we just sat and stared as integrated systems of logic spun their web, dividing us into subcategories of being, concentrated together in accelerated time. Nobody has to think anymore, they can look it up. No need to fall in love, there’s sex on tap. Don’t bother creating useful tools for independent living, just design another app. But whatever you do, if your thoughts are divergent, if you can’t tow the line and stay within the preset social parameters defined by the all-seeing, all-knowing technocratic gods on high, keep your head down and your mouth shut.

Bedtime stories and how they can screw you up

As a young child my mother used to read my sister and I bedtime stories, but we soon tired of the usual guff. Fantastical accounts full of colourful characters, following their highly predictable journeys, and inevitable encounters with two-dimensional villains. Back then, children’s publishing was for the most part tat, with more pictures than words, simple tales for small folk. So she tried Dickens, and for a while we were satisfied, the plots appeared slightly more involved, and the antagonists somewhat believable. But then, by say three or four years old, we asked if she’d read us the paperback by her bed. It was a horror novel, one of the mainstays. Although I cannot recall which, perhaps something along the lines of James Herbert’s The Rats.

For some strange reason neither of us were scared by what we’d heard, it was as if we’d arrived on Earth fully prepared for the worst. Where nowadays you’ll find news footage far more terrifying than any imagined horrors, for the future isn’t sci-fi, it’s the conjured fears of yesteryear reaching their obvious conclusions.

What I find strange about fiction, which after all is pure imagination, is how many writers fixate on the process of killing and dying, but only up to the moment of death. The shocking truth is that few on this Earth have any idea how far the story goes, unless you’re in the habit of talking to the dead. But each and every one of us will upon our demise, witness the gross collectivism of a living past. A race of lost souls traipsing in circles in the mire of an ethereal reality.

A place outside the remit of time and space, where the dimensional rift of the dark universe, the deep waters of consciousness without form, can mutate beyond recognition. A psychic phenomena where mutation remains unbound by the limitations of physicality, unable to fall back on the humanity’s equilibrium.

There is no science or religion beyond mortality, there really is no need to keep up the illusion. For those who subsist in the spectrum of light beyond our narrow perceptual field, have witnessed such horrors and delights, that had they been alive, the mere experience would have sent them to an early grave.

The horror is the awful truth, that the human race is little more than the inkling of an idea, as fragile as a flower, and brief as the setting sun. We are near to nothing in the scale of life, we come and go like insects, buzzing around a veritable Eden. There’s no true horror here on Earth, for we know from past mistakes what’s coming next. Only more pointless suffering, futile sacrifice and torture, and the constant threat of imminent pain, before our inevitable demise before the looming spectre of our own mortality. Don’t worry about death, it’s the process of dying that kills the spirit. The demeaning wretched subsistence of ageing, the gradual degradation of bodily functions, and those last few years spent in dotage, watching the world go by as we reminisce our regrets.

When you get there, to the other side, ignore the tunnel of light. Make your own, it doesn’t take much imagination to conjure up a candle or a torch. Take as long as you need to acclimatise, you have all the time in the universe. When you die, be bold and cross the very limits of human imagination. For without a body or a mind, there is no pain, but your own conjured fears. Because the horror was only ever in your head.

Copyright © 2017  Frankmaddish.com.