Secret Dead Blog Contest: Sound the Drum!

Tomorrow Philadelphia will be graced with the presence of Anthony Neil Smith. God help this city.

You'll find the official details here, but here's a little extra info for Secret Dead Blog readers who live in the Greater Philadelphia region: I think Neil and I will be knocking back a beer or two before the event. And rumor has it we'll be joined by Cort McMeel, co-editor of the forthcoming Murdaland crime mag. We'll be around the corner at McGillin's Ale House, the oldest continuously-operating beer joint in town. Stop in. I'm sure we'll be able to strong-arm Neil into buying you a beer.

And for the Secret Dead Blog readers who live nowhere near the Greater Philadelphia region, I have a little contest for you:

Leave a question for Neil in the comments section. At 3 p.m. tomorrow, I'll pick the best question, and throw it at Neil during the Q&A; portion of his event.

The author of the winning question will receive a copy of The Drummer, which I'll force Neil to sign (and personalize, if you like) at the event.

That's it. Come up with one profound, weird, or profoundly weird question, and you stand a chance of nabbing a signed copy of Neil's second novel. It's even better than sitting down to have a beer with us. Really!

Okay. Let's hear those questions.

(Right now, somewhere in Minnesota, Neil is cringing.)

UPDATE (3 p.m.): So many questions, so difficult to pick just one. So I'm going to print these out and have Neil determine the winner. Hang in until tomorrow morning when I announce the winner. Who knows? (Maybe Neil will even think Terrenoire's drummer jokes are funny.)

You'd Think He'd Want Me Busy Writing

David Hale Smith is my literary agent, so you'd think he'd have my best interests at heart, right? So why does he point me to this crackin' podcast, Out of the Past: Investigating Film Noir, curated by Shannon Clute and Richard Edwards? The stuff is seriously addictive. A side-by-side comparison of Chandler's The Big Sleep and the Chandleresque The Big Lebowski. A study of Kubrick's The Killing and Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs. Batman Begins and its hardboiled influences. Gun Crazy as the first New Wave noir flick. The significance of the dead pet monkey in Sunset Boulevard.

For those of you who have a lot of time to kill, and not, you know, in the middle of writing a novel, I recommend it highly.

Thanks, Agent Smith. Thanks a whole hell of a lot.

Secret Dead Blog's Book Report Friday!

If this is to be an ultra-dorky mystery blog, I really need to up the "dork" quotient. So let's try a new feature for Fridays: a look at what I've been reading, what's stacked high in my TBR pile, and what I've recently acquired for the Swierczynski Library.

After all, books are a major obsession of mine. When given a choice between clothing and a book, or food and a book, or malaria medication and a book... man, you've just gotta go "book." Is it ever even close?

One thing I don't want to do: turn this into a review forum. If I dig something, I'll say so, certainly, but I don't want to feel like I'm kick-starting a review column. Too much pressure, and there's no quicker way to suck the fun out of pleasure reading. Many books I pick up go right back down after 30 or 50 pages. Life's too short to force it.

The first installment's easy. Because yesterday I made my semi-quarterly trip to Whodunit, Philly's only mystery bookshop.

Co-owner Art Bourgeau was on the premises, and whenever Art's there, he takes me around the store, making at least a dozen suggestions. I usually end up buying a mix of stuff I was looking for, and stuff Art recommends.

I also usually end up carrying home a huge shopping bag full of used paperbacks and hardcovers, and the Bride eyes me like I'm trying to push a wheelbarrow containing a dead hooker and six bales of pot into the living room.

Anyway, here's yesterday's damage.

Books I selected:

Halo for Satan, John Evans
Halo in Blood, John Evans
The Empty Trap, John D. MacDonald.
The Price of Murder, John D. MacDonald (one of those sweet Dell First Edition editions!)
The Mourner, Richard Stark (one of those cool Coronet editions with the cut-away cover!)
Killer in the Rain, Raymond Chandler (I've been in the mood for Big Ray's "cannibalized" stories)

Books Art selected for me:

Heist Me Higher, Bill S. Ballinger
The Broken Doll, Jack Webb
An Infinite Number of Monkeys, Les Roberts
Final Notice, Jonathan Valin
A Secret Singing, Richard C. Smith
Death Out of Focus, Bill Gault
30 for a Harry, Richard Hoyt
The Red Right Hand, Joel Townsley Rogers
The Tall Dolores, Michael Avallone
Sleeping Dog, Dick Lochte
Deadline, Thomas B. Dewey
Slashback, Paul Levine

I know, I know -- it's a very testosterone-heavy list. What can I say? When I get together with Art, it turns into this manly man kind of thing.

Anybody read any of the titles from Art's list?

And could the cover of that Ballinger novel be any cheesier?

Warning! Novel May Induce Jitters or Nausea

The Wheelman has been out for quite a few months now, so I'm always pleasantly surprised when new reviews come in. Even when the reviews are... um, mixed.

This week reviewer Marilyn Dahl, writing in the popular email newsletter Shelf Awareness, said that The Wheelman should come with a warning label:

You know those signs posted outside rides at Disney World that caution people with bad backs, weak hearts and general jitters to consider other options? That sign should be made into a sticker and slapped on the front of this book ... The writing is sardonic and violent, but not gory. What makes The Wheelman best of show are the constant surprises and shifts as Lennon attempts to get both the stolen money and revenge. If you could get whiplash reading a thriller, The Wheelman would do it. Sit down, hang on, and make sure there's a lid on your drink.

Meanwhile, over at A Writer's Life, novelist and screenwriter Lee Goldberg thinks that my novel deserves a different kind of warning label:

At first the dizzying, relentless pace of the plot is exhilirating, funny and addictive...full of quirky characters and sudden violence... but about 3/4s of the way through, it becomes tiresome and repetitive (it doesn't help that the characters themselves are going around in circles). While there's much to admire in Swier[c]zynski's tight prose, sharp dialogue and colorful characters, he gets too caught up in his own cleverness, letting his plot spin into nothing.

Sure, I wish Lee liked the last quarter of the book, but I do appreciate the kind words about the writing. If you've read Lee's blog for any length of time, you know he always calls 'em how he sees 'em.

That said... Lee missing the "c" in my last name (see above) is unforgivable. You don't know us Poles. We take our consonants seriously.

This means war, Golberg!

Go For the Gold

Slipping in under the radar at Mystery*File is the best damn news I've heard in weeks, courtesy Ed Gorman:

Well, thanks to the help of Barry Malzberg, Stark House is going to try an experiment. We’re going to offer three excellent Gold Medal novels in a single volume for $19.98. These will likely appear in early 2007.

The titles included are Dan J. Marlowe’s The Vengeance Man; Fletcher Flora’s Park Avenue Tramp; Charles Runyon’s The Prettiest Girl I’ve Ever Killed.

If the first book is successful, we’ll do more.

I've been secretly praying for someone to do this for a few years now. I love me my Gold Medals, but the problem is (as any collector of Gold Medals or Lions or Dell First Editions or any other vintage paperback will tell you) the damned things tend to fall apart as you read them. Charles Ardai's hugely successful Hard Case Crime series was a partial answer to my prayers, but I also hoped someone (like Stark House) would group two or three Gold Medals in sweet omnibus editions, like New American Library did with Mickey Spillane's first six Mike Hammer novels.

So here's the deal: when this comes out, buy the living shit out of it. Because we need more Gold Medal novels back in print. And while I'm unfamiliar with Flora and Runyon, I can say that Dan J. Marlowe is worth your dime any day of the week.

Update (9:55 p.m.): More good news for Marlowe fans. Ed emailed to say: "Early 07 we should have the first one out. Then we plan on doing Name of The Game is Death and Strongarm in the same book."

A Pole Grows in Chinatown

This photo was snapped by my agent, David Hale Smith, outside of Tony Cheng's Seafood Restaurant in Washington D.C. At first, I didn't know what David was doing. All I knew is that he was holding his digital camera at crotch level, and it was vaguely pointed in my direction. Which was weird, because I couldn't help but think: Is David Hale Smith taking a photo of my crotch?

Instead, he was going for this little artistic statement. Meanwhile, I was beaming like a fool because we'd just had dinner with my film agent, Angela Cheng Caplan, and a long-time literary hero of mine: George Pelecanos. (Strangely enough, Tony Cheng's is located right across the street from where Pelecanos grew up.) What you've heard is true: Pelecanos is ultra-laid back, extremely nice, and most importantly, a huge David Goodis fan. What else do you need to know, right?

I was down in D.C. for Book Expo America. For you non-book nerds, BEA is the big publishing industry trade show. An author walking around BEA, Laura Lippman told me, is like a cow taking a tour of the slaughterhouse. And she was right. There are an absurd number of book published every year. To know that your precious little novel is just a flyspeck on the rear window of a busted-up Toyota Tercel parked in a lot next to a superhighway that's embroiled in the mother of all traffic jams... well, it's more than a little humbling.

Still, this little flyspeck had a lot of fun. Aside from Pelecanos, I was able to shake hands with another literary hero of mine, Dennis Lehane (thanks to Laura). It's funny how mystery folk tend to flock together. I ran into Sarah Weinman, David Montgomery, John Connolly, Ed Kaufman from M is for Mystery, Chris Mooney, Bobby from L.A.'s Mystery Bookstore, Mary Reagan... and heck, that was just standing in the back of Laura's impressively huge signing line.

I was also in town to meet Angela, who has foolishly agreed to pimp The Blonde to Hollywood (as well as other strange creations of mine). We ended up hanging out at Madam's Organ with Angela and her sister Stephanie, who I definitely want behind the wheel during my next bank robbery. (If you saw a Mercedes making a crazy-as-hell turn on 18th Street in Adams Morgan Saturday night, that was Stephanie.) There, we ran into Reed Coleman, Jason Starr and fellow Gumshoe nominee Denise Hamilton. Like I said: mystery people tend to attact other mystery people. Then again, there was a lot of cheap beer on the premises.

"Grandpa, I Don't Have Time For This."

I'm already tired of The Da Vinci Code, even though it's not even out yet, and I have no intention of seeing the movie. (Nor have I read the book.)

But I would pay handsomely to read the complete version of this: a Da Vinci Code parody written in the style of Richard Stark, written by Ethan Iverson of The Bad Plus (over at the band's blog, Do The Math.) I mean, check out this hard-hitting action:

The albino said, “Grandpa, I don’t have time for this,” and fired a bullet into Saunière’s stomach. The shot echoed in the gallery. Saunière’s mouth opened and he buckled at the knees. A small pool of blood began gathering on the parquet floor.

The abino cocked the revolver again. "The next bullet is going into your brain, unless you tell me what you know."

Richard Stark's The Bible, anyone?

Secret Dead Blog Interview: Who's the Gran?

I am jealous of Sara Gran for at least three reasons. One, because her name is so short and perfect. You could fit at least two or three "Sara Grans" on the spine of a book and still have room left over. (You think they'll ever misspell "Gran" on the spine of a hardcover?) Two: In the span of, oh, two books, she's conquered both the horror and mystery genres. And thirdly, those two books, Come Closer and Dope, are stone brilliant. Especially the former, because to me, the hardest trick to pull off on the printed page is a true scare. And let me tell you, Come Closer is a white-knuckle creepfest. You put that book down, and man... you just won't feel right for days. There are no M. Night-style fake-outs, no cheap gore-soaked shockers. Just an unsettling vibe that gnaws at your mind throughout the book... before snapping hard at the top of your spine.

Fortunately, here at Secret Dead Blog, we don't let professional jealousy get in the way of heaping praise at Sara's feet. Or lobbing some questions at her, for your amusement.

Secret Dead Blog: Reading Come Closer made me think an awful lot about the voices in my head. When you were writing the novel, did the voices in your head say anything strange to you?

Sara Gran: Isn't writing a novel all about the voices in your head? Please don't tell me it's just me... Really, though, I think there is something about the experience of writing that is as close as most of us will get to a spiritual possession.

SDB: There's a lot of great insights on marriage in this book. Based on friends? Your own experiences? Oprah?

SG: It's funny, because when I was writing come closer I was totally going through a phase of watching Oprah and a lot of other ladies' daytime TV, and I never thought about it before but there probably is some causality there. All those shows are just a parade of negligent husbands and bad relationships and these strange ideas of what women are all about, which must have informed the book to a large degree because I don't know anyone quite like that in real life.

SDB: Did you set out to write a horror novel? Or did the novel you were writing suddenly become horrific?

SG: I did set out to write a scary book, to a degree. But it never crossed my mind, in the beginning, that I would be able to pull off something that really scared people. I was really surprised when I started hearing back from the first few readers that they were genuinely frightened by the whole thing.

SDB: I love that Come Closer and Dope are very short novels. Short novels rule. Do you ever feel any pressure to write a doorstop-sized thriller?

SG: Yes and no. My first book (Saturn's Return to New York) was also really short, and for a long time I and the people I worked with perceived the tiny-ness of my books as a problem, until come closer started to do well. Now I think that, although a lot of readers really dig the short length, it's still a little bit of an issue in terms of being taken seriously. If I could write a doorstop-sized thriller I would do so in a heartbeat; then I would put the money from that in the bank and spend the rest of my life writing even stranger, tinier books.

SDB: What are you working on now? You've conquered two genres with a one-two punch. Will you still be slumming in the horror/thriller/mystery back alley, or do you have your sights set somewhere else?

SG: Well, thanks, you've made me sound so virile! What I'm working now is a little different and not so genre-oriented. But I would call what I'm doing now, something more "literary," slumming, rather than the other way around. Writing in the mystery and horror genres is, I think, much harder; there are rules to follow and needs that must be met. I won't do that again for a long time, I think. "Literary" work is much easier.

Big thanks to Sara for wasting her valuable time at Secret Dead Blog. For more Gran goodness, be sure to check out her blog.

Gaywad Gossip Blog Dubs Secret Dead Blog "Ultra-Dorky"

Ah, how quickly we regress to our Catholic grade school days.

But yeah... Joey Sweeney (left) who runs the ship at Philebrity.com (kind of Philly's version of Gawker) today "discovered" Secret Dead Blog, even though it's been running for close to two years now. I tell ya. Joey has stones, considering he's a City Paper contributor. Good thing I'm not the vengeful type. (Note to self: have Russian mob beat and torture aging hipster character named "Joey" in next "dorky" crime novel.)

Oh, I kid Joey. He knows that. And if not, then I guess I'll see him after school, under the El tracks.

Good God... it's GoodisCon!

Funny how idle speculation in a Port Richmond taproom can quickly become reality. Just a few months ago, Greg Gillespie (the man behind the fantastic Port Richmond Bookstore), Lou Boxer (friend of Secret Dead Blog for Life), Deen Kogan (producer of many a Bouchercon, friend to the mystery community) and Secret Dead Blog were talking about the lack of Philly-area mystery conventions. And then someone... maybe it was Secret Dead Blog, maybe it wasn't... mentioned that this coming January marks the 40th anniversary of the death of noir legend David Goodis (at right).

From there... well, things just went haywire, just like in a David Goodis novel.

Here's the skinny, straight from Lou.

David Loeb Goodis Convention (GoodisCon)
Plus: Deen and Jay Kogan Award for Writers of Importance and Distinction

Who? DLG was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania on March 2nd, 1917 (90th Birthday). He died in Philadelphia on January 7th, 1967 (40th Anniversary of his death). David Goodis is best known for his major contribution to American hard-boiled crime fiction via pulp fiction writing (Dark Passage [1946]), hardback novels and paperback originals (Cassidy’s Girl [1951]).

What? A seminal meeting celebrating Philly Noir, featuring David Goodis and those influenced by his work.

Why? This conference is the first planned yearly symposium to spotlight writers of significance and importance. It will be a unique opportunity for writers, fans, collectors and friends to get together and discuss fine writing in a collegial setting. The intention is to allow all attendees to meet, revel, discuss and experience the Philadelphia Noir in a brand new way.

Where? Philadelphia is the setting for GoodisCon 2007. Several different venues will be utilized to capture the “spirit(s)” of David L. Goodis and his wonderfully dark writing. These include, but are not limited to Temple University, The Legendary Blue Horizon Boxing (#1 Boxing Venue in the World), Yards Brewery and the Port Richmond Bookstore (PRBS).

When? January 5th, 6th and 7th 2007. Hotel, registration fee and schedule of events TBA. The intention is to have three fun-filled days to celebrate the life and writing of David L. Goodis in the spirit with which he would have enjoyed it.

Contact: Lou Boxer (lboxer1@comcast.net) and Deen Kogan (shp@erols.com)

Such a tribute is long overdue. I originally sought out Goodis' work because he was a hometown boy, writing about the neighborhoods I knew. (K&A;, represent!) Then after reading Black Friday and Cassidy's Girl and Down There, I realized he wasn't just a Philly boy. He was a fucking genius.

This is a good time to be a Goodis fan. This summer brings a Serpent's Tail edition of Black Friday, including some uncollected short stories. Rumor has it that the debut issue of Murdaland, due out this fall, will also include a Goodis short. Still other rumors have it that a certain wildly popular mass-market paperback fiction line has just secured the rights to a long sought-after Goodis novel. And now, GoodisCon. It's almost enough to make a noir writer giddy.

More news on GoodisCon as it unfolds, live, from that Port Richmond taproom.

The Wheelman: Not a Total Wreck?

Well, the contest deadline has come and gone... and not a single person wrote in to tell me that "Swierczy, You Fucked Up." This either means that my book is not as error-riddled as I thought. Or it means the people who actually read The Wheelman were lulled to sleep halfway through, and didn't notice any mistakes. Either way, I'll take it!

Okay, okay... one intrepid Secret Dead Blog reader did send me an email. But it was only to point out that I had a stupid typo in my actual contest post. (I tiptoed in here and fixed it yesterday, hoping the rest of you didn't notice.) So props to eagle-eyed Karin Montin. Though she didn't spot an error in the book, I'm going to send her a signed paperback anyway. One can never have too many beer coasters, right?

So back to your regularly scheduled life. But be sure to log on to Secret Dead Blog first thing tomorrow morning... there's a big announcement coming! Seriously!

Secret Dead Blog: Where suspense is king.

Contest: Spot The Wheelman Fuck-Ups!

Much goes into the production of a crime novel. First, there is the plotting. Then, the writing. The rewriting. The drinking. The wailing and gnashing of teeth. The fine-tuning. The drinking. The editing. The copyediting. The proofing. The drinking.

Obviously, I was drinking a little too much when I wrote The Wheelman, because some annoying little fuck-ups made it into the finished book.

(Besides my last name being misspelled on the spine of the book.)

Thankfully, I have the chance to set all right again. There's a spiffy new trade paperback edition of ol' Wheels due out this November, and I can correct pretty much anything I want... except for the bits of lousy writing, stupid character names, the ending, etc.

I think I've caught most of them. A St. Martin's production editor was kind enough to comb through the book and noted a few odd details here and there (like the fact that in the opening getaway sequence, Bling Crosby appears to be sitting both in the passenger seat and the backseat... ). My editor, Marc, also noted some things, too.

But you can't be too careful. Hence this contest, open to anyone who's polluted their mind with my crime novel.

Send me any mistakes you caught in The Wheelman in an email with the subject line, "Swierczy, You Fucked Up."

If I haven't already caught that mistake (believe me... I'll own up to it), I'll send you an autographed copy of the trade paperback and I'll thank you on the acknowledgements page.

Marc's barking at me, so I need all of my fuck-ups by Monday, May 15, high noon, EST. (You'll find my email address on the "view my profile" page.)

Remember: my lame metaphors and attempts at literary flourishes do not count. I'm looking for honest-to-God factual foul-ups.

Happy hunting!

City Paper: The Clog Mythos

The big news at the City Paper this week is the appearance of The Clog, our staff blog. Yes, in addition to posting ridiculous stuff here at Secret Dead Blog, I'll be sharing blogging duties with my CP co-workers. You can read about the making of The Clog in my editor's letter. (As soon as I can figure it out, I'll build a permanent Clog link in the right-hand column.) Cute little fella, ain't he? Impressive gums, if nothing else.

Elsewhere in the CP, Mary Patel checks in with White House Press Corp legend Helen Thomas, who's not shy about saying that "the press fell down on the job" in the run-up to Iraq.

Our Paper Doll takes on 15,000 teenagers who refuse to have sex.

Brian Howard talks with local cyclists who refuse to speak.

In "The Agenda," we check in with some real choosy mothers.

And elsewhere on the web, I talk about scotch, my father-in-law and my married life over at the latest, booze-soaked installment of Professor Barnhardt's Journal. Check out Tribe's fantastic piece on counry music and alcohol. It makes me actually want to like country music.

For Those About to Block

Lawrence Block, that is. I spent my commute to and from work yesterday reading After Hours: Conversations With Lawrence Block by Ernie Bulow (University of New Mexico Press, 1995). It's an excellent book, largely consisting of a conversation between Bulow and Block, along with some cool bonus chapters, such as Block's first published story ("You Can't Lose") and some rare autobiographical essays. Two things from the interview, however, really hit home for me. At one point, Bulow asks about the appeal of cities, and Block replies:

On every walk there's something. Every time I go out to buy a paper there's people around. There's life happening. It's very easy for me to be constantly soaking up things, some of which ultimately winds up between book covers. Transmuted a whole lot. But when you write a lot of books, you certainly run out of whatever you were originally drawing upon. There has to be some kind of continuing input. If the input is from other books, there's something wrong with that. Then you're just reworking other people's material.

Amen, Brother Larry. This certainly rings true with me. I consider cities (in my case, Philadelphia) to be creative batteries. Cases in point: I wrote Secret Dead Men while I was living in New York City. Not long after, the Bride and I moved to Forty Fort, Pennsylvania (long story), and I wrote... um, a couple of short stories. Then in May 2001, we moved to Philly, and not long after did I start playing around the story that would become The Wheelman. Maybe some writers work better in the country, but I need a dirty, gritty city. NYC. L.A. Philly. Houston. B'Mo. Chicago. Whatever. I just needs to be big, messy and full of people and weirdness. In other words, material.

Later, Block talks about how long it takes him to write a novel, and he describes the ideal situation:

What would be really marvelous is if you could really get inspired and write the entire book in five minutes so that it came out entirely from the same state of mind. The more one can foster that, the better it is. That's one reason I like to write a book in a short overall span of time, rather than over the course of a year or two years or ten years. That way I am in the same with it throughout.

Even more ideal: crank out the novel in five minutes, then put it away for five months, then come back to it with a fresh, cold eye. Problem is, nobody types that fast. Not even James Patterson.

But Block hits on a problem that's plagued me. If you take too much time away from a book, it can die on the vine. I have at least six novels in various stages of completion sitting on my hard drive. In every case, each novel stopped because I spent too much time away from it, and it died on the vine.

Of course, this may be natural selection at work. Maybe the idea wasn't viable, after all. But I do suspect that the problem wasn't the idea, but intensity.

If only I could perfect this sleepwriting thing...

My Concession Speech

BREAKING!

GUMSHOE 2006: NOMINEE SWIERCZYNSKI DELIVERS REMARKS

MAY 9, 2006

SPEAKER: DUANE SWIERCZYNSKI, VICE PRESIDENT OF SECRET DEAD BLOG, GUMSHOE AWARD FINALIST

Good morning.

Just moments ago, I spoke with Laura Lippman and congratulated her on becoming the fifth winner of the Gumshoe Award for Best Mystery, and I promised her that I wouldn't slash her tires or drop Visine into her iced tea.

I offered to meet with her as soon as possible so that we can start to heal the divisions of the mystery awards season and the contest through which we just passed.

Almost two years ago, Ken Bruen told Ian Rankin, who had just defeated him for the Edgar, "Ah, bollocks. Fookin' hell. Gra go mor."

Well, in that same spirit, I say to Laura Lippman that what remains of partisan rancor must now be put aside, and may God bless her stewardship of this Gumshoe.

Neither she nor I anticipated this long and difficult road. Certainly neither of us wanted it to happen. Yet it came, and now it has ended, resolved, as it must be resolved, through the honored institutions of the mystery genre.

Now Mystery Ink has spoken. Let there be no doubt, I strongly agree with the institution's decision. I mean hell... Laura rules. So I accept the finality of this outcome which will be ratified next Monday in David Montgomery's home office. And tonight, for the sake of our unity of the people and the strength of our democracy, I offer my concession.

Let me say how grateful I am to all those who supported me and supported the cause for which we have fought. The Bride and I feel a deep gratitude to Al and Donna Guthrie who brought passion and high purpose to our partnership and opened new doors, not just for our careers but for our souls.

Let no one see this contest as a sign of noir weakness. The strength of American noir is shown most clearly through the difficulties it can overcome. (Or not, as it were.)

I personally will be at Laura's disposal, and I call on all mystery writers -- I particularly urge all who stood with us to unite behind the Gumshoe Winner. This is Mystery Fiction, folks. Just as we fight hard when the stakes are high, we close ranks and stick a shiv in somebody when the contest is done. And then we dump the body somewhere near the Jersey Turnpike.

As for what I'll do next, I don't know the answer to that one yet. Like many of you, I'm looking forward to getting absolutely stinking drunk. So I'll probably do that later.

As for the battle that ends this morning, I do believe as my father once said, "What the hell is a Gumshoe?"

Now the Gumshoe struggle is over and we turn again to the unending struggle for the common good of all mystery readers and for those multitudes around the world who look to us for entertainment. And lots of dead bodies.

And now, my friends, in the words of Otto Penzler, it's time for me to "suck it up, big guy."

Thank you and good night.

I mean, morning.

(Big congrats, Laura. I was rooting for you all along.)

Sleepwriting

I had the strangest experience Saturday night. I was up late, writing like crazy. Earlier that day, I'd cranked out 1,300 words. Which for me, is not bad. I consider 1,000 words in a single day a very good day. But by 8 p.m., the children were asleep, and the Bride wanted to watch some chick flick that I had absolutely no desire to see (Shopgirl), so I hit the ol' iMac for another round. I hit it hard. After a while, my hands seemed to disappear. The words were beaming directly from my mind to the screen. By midnight, I had cleared the 4,000-word mark, almost a record for me. I kept writing. Go, Swierczy, go.

Then it happened.

You ever nod off in the middle of a movie? A movie like, f'rinstance, Peter Jackson's King Kong (which is probably the most boring action/adventure/monster movie ever made)? Your mind says, Sorry, need to take a pause for the cause, see you in a few seconds and you're out... but for only for a few seconds. And then you jolt awake, feeling a bit like an idiot, because you nodded off, and there's a little bit of drool collected in the corner of your mouth.

Well, I did that. Nodded off.

While I was writing.

And here's the creepy part:

Far as I can tell, I kept on writing.

Yes, that's right. While my conscious mind decided to take a break, another part of my mind missed the memo. And told my fingers to keep going.

All told, I was probably out for a few seconds. Maybe 10, tops. But when I looked at the screen, there were two sentences there I couldn't remember writing. They weren't American literature's most breathtaking sentences... but they weren't half-bad, either.

If only I could harness the power of my unconscious mind like this on regular basis... well, shit. I'd be kicking out novels like James Patterson.

For the writers out there: this ever happen to you? Or should I worry about my own personal George Stark showing up at my door one of these days?

It's a Gas Gas Gas

I was pleased to see The Wheelman included in a roundup of car-related crime novels over at Bookslut.com. "Mystery Strumpet" Clayton Moore takes a spin through my novel, as well as James Sallis's Drive, Andrew Vachss's The Getaway Man, Timothy Watts's Grand Theft, James H. Cobb's West on 66 and Joe Gores's 32 Cadillacs.

And how's this for a nice bit of blurbage...

It’s brief and nearly absurd in its violence -- Peckinpah animated by Warner Brothers, let’s say -- but it’s fine fodder for an afternoon spent at the beach, or say, doing surveillance or something equally numbing.

Cheers to Moore for the kind words.

City Paper: Heart Attacks, Hammett and Traffic from Hell

You heard part of the story a few days ago on Secret Dead Blog; now read the blow-by-blow account of driving Allan Guthrie (and his lovely wife) to JFK Airport. It's this week's editor's letter.

In the mood for a heart-breaking story about a neighborhood torn apart by a single bullet? Brian Hickey serves up just that in this week's cover, The Wrong Place.

In the mood for a heart attack? Soon-to-be college grad (and former CP star intern) Drew Lazor walked a mile in a fat man's shoes to simulate the experience.

Writer-director Rian Johnson blends Hammett and homeroom in Brick, which sounds cool as hell. Click here for Cindy Fuchs' review.

And finally... I know I've already pimped one Drew Lazor story, but it's tough to resist an short bar review that features the line:

The bartender told me that earlier in the evening, some psycho drove all the Sue customers away by ranting about how Christ was gay.

Here's Drew on A Bar Named Sue.

What a Scam!

The Wheelman received a nice plug in Maxim magazine in this month's (May) issue. A while back... shit, this might have been last October or so, a staffer named Dan Avery did an email interview with me on the topic of scams. You see, I wrote a book called The Complete Idiot's Guide to Frauds, Scams and Cons, which allegedly qualifies me as an expert. The result was a single quote--click on the box at left to read the whole thing--but a plug is a plug. Dan could have quoted me gargling and choking to death... so long as that sweet little plug was in place, and my name was spelled right.

I probably should have plugged the Frauds book, but the book is three years old, and didn't receive much support from the publisher to begin with. (And it just went out of print.) Better to have unsuspecting horny males across the U.S. wonder about this intriguing Wheelman book, right?

That is, until they flip the page and see seven blondes in bikinis.

Edgars Weekend

Okay, so I'm really bad at this "recording things as they happen" thing with the blog. Lot of exciting stuff over the past few days, but not a hint of it has shown up here. What can I say? Sometimes, you've got to live life instead of writing about it.

Let me give you some highlights of the Edgars Banquet, the Friday After, and the Weekend With Mr. and Mrs. Sunshine in that oh-so-popular bullet format:

* Sunshine picked the hotel, which was The Wolcott. Over 100 years old. Buddy Holly stayed there once. (While he was alive, I believe.) Right in the middle of Koreatown, just a few blocks from the Empire State building. Decent rooom. Two twin beds, though. Felt like the Bride and I were rooming in college.

* I told Mr. and Mrs. Sunshine (a.k.a., the uber-talented Allan Guthrie and his lovely wife Donna) they should just hop a cab to the Grand Hyatt. Leave at 5, be there in plenty of time for the 5:30 nominees' reception. What I didn't know is that some jackass had smuggled base-jumping gear beneath a fat suit into the Empire State Building. A retired cop grabbed his legs just before he was able to jump. The building was partially evacuated, snarling traffic all the hell over. No cabs. The Sunshines were forced to walk. Mr. Sunshine in uncomfortable tux shoes, Mrs. Sunshine in heels. Meanwhile, I enjoyed a lesiurely stroll to the 6 train, which I rode for one stop before it delived me to the Grand Hyatt's basement level. An elevator and escalator later, I was there, cool and calm and ready for Edgar goodness. Sometimes, my advice really sucks. You should know this before taking advice from me.

* The Edgar Ceremony... um, good, in the sense that I was able to see a bunch of my favorite writers (and people) all dressed up 'n purty. I sat at the Hard Case table, along with Charles Ardia, his wife Naomi, Anthony Rainone, the Sunshines, as well as the Schwegels -- parents of the super-cool Edgar WINNER Theresa Schwegel. But I'm getting ahead of myself, aren't it? Talk about a suspense killer.

* Our table was near a wall. Two tables over was Otto Penzler. At one point, Otto passed behind me, and I had to scootch my chair in so that the edge of the table was pressed up against the outer lining of my spleen. "You picked the wrong chair, big guy," Otto said as he passed by, patting me on the shoulders. Upon his return, Otto again patted me on the shoulders and said, "Suck it up, big guy." These are words I didn't think I'd ever hear from Otto Penzler.

* The Edgars were kind of slow. I decided not to drink any alcohol. This was probably a tactical error.

* After approximately 4.7 years, they finally got to the Big Three: Paperback Original, Best First Novel, Best Novel.

* Sunshine lost, which sucked. I would have suggested we kick the crap out of winner Jeffrey Ford, but we met him before the awards, and he's a really nice guy. And lives near Philly. So that was out.

* Still, would have liked to have kicked SOMEBODY'S ass. I mean, Sunshine's my boy. Ah, hell.

* Best First Novel, however, went to the very cool and mega-talented Theresa "T" Schwegel, another member of the David Hale Smith Galaxy of Stars. You should have seen the smiles on her mom and dad. That made the evening worth it.

* Best Novel went to Jess Walter, and Sunshine nodded and pointed out that Citizen Vince had made his personal "Top 5 of 2005" list. So did The Wheelman, for that matter. So, in a fit of ridiculous association, I tell myself that my book made the same shortlist as an Edgar winner. And then I think: Yeah, I really should have had something to drink tonight.

* Afterward, saw Jeffery Deaver. Was too nervous to say hi.

* Earlier, saw George Pelecanos walk by. Again, too nervous to say hi. (Again, should have had something to drink.)

* Then again, Otto Penzler did tell me to "suck it," or something like that. So there's that.

* In the hotel bar, Ken Bruen gave me a Heineken. It was appreciated, but far too little, far too late. Also, I learned that Wallace Stroby (later dubbed "America's answer to Allan Guthrie") bought a suit specifically for the Edgars. So did I. Before last week, neither of us owned one.

* Sunshine and I hit a cafe at midnight for eggs and coffee and some shop talk. I heard a small bit of his next novel, untitled at the moment, and already I'm jonesin' to read the whole thing. Such a tease, that Sunshine.

* The next day (never thought I'd get there, did you?) I had breakfast with the Sunshines at a joint called "Pax" near 23rd and Madison. Afterward, I stopped by the St. Martin's Press offices to bug my editor, "Marquis" Marc Resnick. Saw the layout of The Blonde, which was cool. Received the fall Minotaur catalog, which was also cool. Then I glommed some free books (Patrick Quinlan's Smoked, which looks terrific, along with a copy of Ryan Nerz's Eat This Book and The Best of the Best: 20 Years of the World's Best Science Fiction, edited by Philly's own Gardner Dozois.) This is one of the best perks of being a St. Martin's author.

* Over lunch, I pitched an idea for my fourth St. Martin's Minotaur novel. I'm happy to report that Marc really loved the idea, despite the fact that while I was pitching it, I was sipping a girly drink called a "shark bite." I mean... the fucking thing came in a champagne glass. Nice move, Swierczy.

* I'm surprised Marc didn't beat me up on general principle.

* Later that afternoon, I hit the Strand at 12th and Broadway. Oh, how I love this store. Hadn't been here in years, despite popping into New York on a regular basis. Had many Details magazine flashbacks. (Our office was nearby, close to Bleecker Street.) Picked up a reviewer's copy of Robert Ferrigno's The Horse Latitudes, one of my all-time favorite crime novels. Also, Ferrigno's Dead Man's Dance, in hardcover. And a copy of Simon Kernick's Die Twice, an omnibus edition of his first two novels, even though I own both in hardcover. (I'm a sucker for omnibuses. Or is it omnibi?) And finally, a copy of H.R.F. Keating's Crime & Mystery: The 100 Best Books. All for under $20. Sometimes, I really fucking miss New York.

* Met the Bride at the train station. She's not so much a fan of New York. She tolerates it, because I love it. To appease her, we hit a Starbucks. Iced coffee helps her cope with the city.

* That evening, we had dinner with the Sunshines, Charles and Naomi, the supercool Megan Abbott (author of the Edgar-nominated Die A Little), Pat Lambe, Dave White, and my new favorite person, Stona Fitch, author of Senseless. I could dedicate an entire blog post to Mr. Fitch, but let this suffice for now: the man is a former crime reporter, member of a country punk band, and currently runs a farm that feeds the poor. And... if that's not enough... his novel Senseless is being made into a movie as we speak. All other resumes shrivel by comparison.

* Dave White will want me to mention that he wore a lime green sweater that made him look a lot like Kermit the Frog... so much so that I couldn't get the melody of "The Rainbow Connection" out of my head... but I won't.

* We all hit the bar at the Mansfield Hotel at 9 p.m., with the promise of a possible Bruen sighting, but alas, no Ken. We drank in his honor. Mary Reagan joined us. As did Wallace "The American Al Guthrie" Stroby.

* I spied a copy of a Jason Starr novel on the bookshelves at the Mansfield. "Oooh, look," I said. "A Jason Starr novel in Italian." Sunshine took a look at the book, and said: "Strange that it's printed in German." This became a running joke for the rest of the weekend.

* Much later, the Bride and I had a couple of Papaya hot dogs. Not recommended.

* Saturday morning: the Sunshines and the Swierczynskis had breakfast, then packed up and drove down to Philadelphia. Thanks to construction on the NJ Turnpike, what should have been a two-hour pleasure cruise through scenic Central Jersey turned into a four hour annoyance.

* Mrs. Sunshine finally met Parker and Sarah, and the three of them hit it off famously. Meanwhile, "Uncle Al" was cool, but clearly old hat. Mrs. Sunshine was where it's at.

* I won't bore you with the domestic details of the Sunshines' stay in Philadelphia... other than it was fantastic, and my kids desperately miss them already. (So do we.) It's a cruel joke to have your closest friends live an ocean away. But of course, this just means we'll have to invade Edinburgh sooner than later.

* Sunday evening, I drove the Sunshines from Philly to JFK. What should have been a two-hour pleasure cruise through scenic Central Jersey turned into a seven hour nightmare, round trip. If there was a traffic jam, we were in the middle of it. I mean, we were in Staten Island long enough for it to qualify as a stay. When we finally arrived at Terminal 8, my knee was like, Fuck you. Get some other body part to push the gas and brake pedals. I'm done. On the plus side, I was able to enjoy Sunshine's company for a few hours' longer, so it was worth every minute of bumper-to-bumper stop-and-start highway hell.

* Not to completely wuss out here... but I do miss my friends desperately.

So that was the weekend. Like all great weekends, it was gone in the blink of an eye. All I have to show for it is this blog entry, a pile of really cool books, and the memory of it all.

Which is all we ever really have, anyway, right?