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Our Story

Input/Output Enterprises is an independent publishing house. The brainchild of Katherine Emily and Brett Salter, I/O Enterprises is built on two simple beliefs: the inviolability of the individual and its corollary, the sanctity of the creative process.

We believe the individual has a productive mandate, that the soul cries out not only for the anchor of belief, but for avenues of expression, which serve the dual purpose of bolstering individual worth and advancing one's values in the world at large.

This producer ethic unifies the various projects pursued by I/O Enterprises.

 

Our Founders

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Katherine Emily

Scoffing at the idea that reality is a computer simulation, Katherine Emily is daily more sure in her belief that reality is one drawn out episode of The Twilight Zone.

A changeling placed in a family of engineers and practically-minded realists, Katherine is, philosophically, an intransigent idealist, a malady that only worsened upon discovering the novels of Ayn Rand.

A brief bout of insanity led to her conciliatory attempt to temper her beliefs, not in substance, but in manifestation: she briefly pursued a career in higher education. A recovering academic grown weary of the intellectual torments of petty professorial Torquemadas, Katherine retains her love for political theory, the more esoteric the better. Among her more sane theories is the idea that political issues are best addressed through the creative, where suspended disbelief allows otherwise controversial issues to be explored.

Her soul is Gothic, her mind Aristotelian and her demeanor disgruntled. She champions anything that reflects the productive capacity of the individual, particularly if it comes in the form of progressive rock, speculative fiction or the art nouveau aesthetic.

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Brett Salter

He was born beneath the tumultuous falls of Niagara. The infant was swaddled and protected between the deluge and the immense rock face. His mother was the effervescent Maid of the Mist, from whom the famous ferry claimed its name. She taught him at a young age to depend on nothing but personal proficiency. Before he turned fifteen, he fled the sovereign nation of Canada for the industry of the United States. Erie, Pennsylvania disappointed him.

After relocating to the rocky coast of Maine, Danger Callahan abandoned his birth name and adopted the identity of Brett Salter. With a falsified birth certificate and inspiration from the salinity of the Damariscotta River, the intrepid, wayfaring chronicler evaded the grasp of America’s border control and solidified his position as a citizen of the United States.

Much to the annoyance of his peers, the fatherless teenager spent his days investigating his surroundings, often interrupting the recreation of the ignorant highsc hoolers. Damn them, he strove for knowledge and truth. As he honed his skills, he tore through miles and tires on his inappropriately heavy mountain bike. His network of information grew, as too did his endurance. His ongoing engagement with Scotch has led to many allegations of belligerent harassment and phantom bickering, all denied.

After high school, Salter experienced a brief stint of higher education, quickly observing that “higher,” should be contained within quotation marks. And “education.” He took to the road, traveling to destinations of fancy. He funded his projects working as a consultant, referring to no specific field. After exchanging his bicycle for a yellow 1970 De Tomaso Mangusta (look it up), he began pursuing the most obscure stories of intrigue. Rumor suggests that the daring writer executed an eldritch ceremony to attain sight across time, sacrificing his own delicate sanity.

To this day, Brett Salter uncovers the most ephemeral folk-tales and clandestine eye-witness accounts. Once, Danger Callahan could have been described as enigmatic. Brett Salter defines incredulity. Random and excessive, his proclivities are technically legal; his purpose is inane, and his eyes are literally made of sapphire. Eccentric and enlightening visionary? Perhaps. Erratic drunk? Mind your own business.