Drawn Back to the Gutter

Blame David Terrenoire. He posted a second piece o' flash fiction over at Tribe's relentlessly addictive Flashing in the Gutters. So that made me want to do it, too. Check out "Number Two" if you have 50 seconds to spare, and don't mind a little cartoonish graphic violence.

But this Terrenoire guy, though. He started something. Because Pat Lambe offered up a second story, as did "Smokin'" Anne Frasier.

Pretty soon, all of crime fiction-dom will be slaves to the Gutters. All work on current and future novels will cease. All creative output will wend its way to the Gutters. Viva la Gutters!

Screwing Your Way to a Story Idea

This past week I found this gem -- The Mystery Writer's Handbook, a 1956 guide to writing "detective, suspense, mystery and crime stories" produced by the Mystery Writers of America. It was buried in the science fiction anthology shelves at the Book Trader in Old City, which is probably why I hadn't noticed it before. One glance at the contributors (Fredric Brown, John D. MacDonald, Harry Whittington, Anthony Boucher) and I was sold. Okay, I would have been sold anyway. It was only eight bucks.

Anyway, Fredric Brown, my main man, contributed a piece called "Where Do You Get Your Plot?" It contains a bit of wisdom I haven't heard quite this way before:

A writer plots by accretion. If you've forgotten what the word means I'll save you a trip to the dictionary--it means increase by gradual addition... The first thousand steps of the process may be subconscious. In most cases at least a few of the steps are subconscious and that's why writers who haven't analyzed the process fail to realize that certain steps have already taken place by the time they start consciously working on the plot in question. They are in the position of a woman who suddenly learns she is pregnant, but doesn't know how it happened.

I did mention this book was 50 years old, right? Anyway, Brown continues:

Yes, I know, that woman would have to be pretty promisicuous in order not to know, but the simile still holds; the human mind is promiscuous in its thinking, never true to a single thought or even a single train of thought. And by the time it recognizes that it has a plot idea which is ready to start whipping into shape as a plot, it has forgotten where the plot idea came from.

Makes sense to me. It's tough to pinpoint the moment of conception for any of my novels or stories. The Wheelman, for instance, had many fathers. I used to have a recurring nightmare about being dumped headfirst into a pipe. Around the same time, I cased out my local bank branch for my nonfiction book on bank robbery. During rides on the Frankford El, I used to kick around the idea of a character who was so bad-ass, he didn't have to say a word. But there were also a billion little random observations and thoughts and jokes and notions that also worked their way into the manuscript.

At no point did I say, "Eureka! My next novel!" It was more like the elements were already swirling around in this primordial soup in my brain. And when I decided to write a novel, I dipped a ladle down into this junk, tasted it, thought it maybe needed a little pepper, then dumped it into a bowl. The book was built, one spoonful at a time, from this strange batch of ingredients.

For the writers out there: does this ring true for you?

Hellraisers

Here's a blast from the Swierczynski past for your Saturday morning. This is a photo of myself and Clive Barker, circa October 1991. I was 19 at the time, a junior at La Salle University, and working as the managing editor of the school paper, the Collegian. A former Collegian editor named Mike Sepanic called one day to tell me that Barker would be speaking at Rutgers University in Camden. Not only did I have the chance to hear Barker speak, but I was granted a one-on-one interview with him in a Camden diner afterward. (This was snapped in the diner by my pal Susie Calkins.) Here's the intro from my Q&A; with Barker that recaptures the special madness of that night.

There are stranger things than chasing Clive Barker’s limo through the streets of Camden, New Jersey. Not many, though.

“Blow the light!” I screamed at my faithful driver, Susie. “We’re gonna lose him! Blow the light!”

“Oh…” Susie groaned as she hammered her ‘72 Maverick’s gas pedal and flew us past the intersection. However, the sound of relieved sighs was cut short by the cry of police sirens.

“Oh no,” Susie said. “I’ve never gotten a ticket before.”

I don’t believe this, I thought. I’m going to miss the chance to interview my lifetime idol because a Camden cop has a quota to fill.

Our guide from Rutgers University, Armand, added from the backseat: “Don’t worry. We’ll just tell him who we’re following.”

The cop waved us over to the side of the road. I watched the limo speed away into the distance. I wondered if the cop knew that he was not only going to fill his quota, but also see a college student break down and cry.

“Can I see your license and registration, ma’am?”

“Excuse me, sir?” asked Armand from the backseat. “Could you let us go? We’re chasing the world famous writer, Clive Barker.”

“Yeah, Clive Barker,” Susie added.

I’m going to cry. I really am.

The cop shined his flashlight in our faces. “Clyde who?”

“Clive Barker,” repeated Armand.

“The world famous writer,” said Susie, offering up a hardback copy of his latest novel, Imajica.

I'm going to jump out of the car, steal the cop’s gun, and shoot myself.

“We were just at a lecture and he said it was okay if we followed him to interview him,” Susie explained.

“Hmm,” the cop said, studying the book. It featured an illustration of two androgynous humanoids wrapped in a passionate, upside-down embrace. “You guys journalists or something?”

Susie and Armand nodded enthusiastically.

The cop smiled. “Well, then. I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of journalism.” He handed back the book. “Just take it slower.”

“Yes sir!” Susie said.

He’s letting us go?

True enough, we were on our way. Miraculously, Barker’s limo had pulled into a diner only two blocks down the road. My belief in God (and New Jersey law enforcement) was renewed. I was about to interview, face-to-face, the man Stephen King proclaimed “the future of horror.” My favorite writer. The guy I worshipped in high school--and in an all-boys Catholic high school, you don’t worship guys.

Here’s what happened...

(If anybody wants to read the whole Q&A;, I'd be happy to post that, too.)

UPDATE: Full interview posted below.

Clive Barker, Camden, 1991

By popular demand... well, the demand of Ray Banks and Cranky Prof... here's the complete 1991 interview with Clive Barker, where we discuss drugs, William Blake, tranvestite rabbits and Japanese porn. (I still can't believe this actually ran in the student newspaper of a Catholic university.)

Duane Swierczynski: I read somewhere that you once held a casting call for a gay, tapdancing cartoon duck. Would you care to explain that one?

Clive Barker: It was a transvestite rabbit. Let’s get our facts straight. Yes, I did a play called The Secret Life of Cartoons, which preceded Roger Rabbit by many years. It was about a cartoonist who’s thrown out of his job at the studio and comes home to find his creation, Roscoe Rabbit, waiting for him. I was trying demonstrate how anarchistic cartoons really are. The cartoonist’s studio had been trying to calm him down, and suppress his creations, and at one point Roscoe says, “The trouble is that they cannot deal with the concept of a transvestite, tap-dancing, pacifist rabbit.”

DS: Hmm. I can’t see why.

Barker: Well, look at Bugs Bunny. He’s an absolute pacifist; he won’t fight back until he’s driven really hard. He loves getting to drag—cartoon after cartoon after cartoon. And of course, he does a lot of tap-dancing. So it seemed to me to be a positive thing to say about a cartoon rabbit.

DS: You mentioned that you write everything longhand. That’s incredible, considering your output.

Barker: Part of it is that I’m a technophobe. I’ve only learned to drive six weeks ago. I’ve never really taken technical stuff seriously. There’s always the possibility that the stuff will break down on you. Your hand is always right there.

DS: Worried about arthritis?

Barker: It does get tiring, but you volunteer for the job, and there you are.

DS: You combine a good deal of humor with your horror.

Barker: Well, I haven’t really written horror for a long time. Weaveworld is not horror, Great and Secret Show is not horror, and Imajica is certainly not horror. There’s humor in my work because humor is a good balancing tool for my darker, stranger material. People like to laugh -- I mean, I want people to have a good time. There’s plenty of room to be serious, plenty of room to talk about the thing that matter to you, but you don’t have to lay it on with the reverence of a pulpist. There are ways of saying things which are entertaining and humorous. “I enjoyed myself” is the first thing a person should say when coming to the end of a book.

DS: In your own words, how did an “introverted, rotund Liverpudlian” become such an excellent public speaker?

Barker: If you talk to 300 people, it really shouldn’t be different from talking to one or two. Basically, you’re there to communicate your ideas. There are things I want to say about the world, and about the fiction I write, and about the relationship between the fiction I write and the world. I’m always looking for a way to personalize large ideas for audiences—each member of the audience should hear my voice as an individual. You can be intimate with 300 people.

DS: How?

Barker: You don’t think about it being 300 people. You think about it being selective individuals with whom you are communicating your ideas. The business that you’re in, and the business that I’m in, is communication. Later, you’re going to be writing these words down, trying to make a whole bunch of people who you don’t know feel something, something intimate to you. Your voice will be an intimate voice, but you’ll be whispering differently to each of those people. I think that’s what you hope to do. You want people to walk away thinking, “I know a little more about Clive Barker. And he wasn’t a high-falutin’ son of a bitch.”

DS: Certainly not. You’re talking the same now as you did on stage tonight.

Barker: Of course. Any other way is boring. It’s bullshit. Other people feel anxious about presenting themselves, for fear they will be found lacking in some way. Maybe in my arrogance, I sort of assume that what you see is what you get. I’m not everybody’s cup of tea, but that’s cool. You can’t be all things to all men.

(Now, Susie takes the lead and asks something that’s been on her mind all night.)

Susie Calkins: Can I ask a question that’s not really an “interview” question?

Barker: Ask away.

Calkins: You’ve probably been asked a million questions. Which stands out as the stupidest?

Barker: It may sound like I’m flattering my fans, but I really don’t get asked too many dumb questions. The material I write is not particularly easy; it requires some thought, and tends to attract people who are bright and articulate. Occasionally you get people whose motives are not exactly honorable, such as people who ask “What kind of underwear do you wear?”

Most of the time, the questions are pretty straightforward and intelligent. Reading is difficult process, as opposed to watching videos or something. The percentage of readers in the populace is very small; the average American household contains two books. People who are drawn to speaking engagements, who are fascinated by books, are a very small percentage of that already small percentage.

Calkins: Last semester we were reading something in our Eastern Religion class and I remember turning to Duane and saying, “Gee, this sounds like Clive Barker.”

DS: That’s right. The Baghavad-Gita reminded you of the story, “In the Hills, the Cities.”

Barker: There are all kinds of place where stories come from. That particular story was influenced by a Goya painting called, “Colossus.” Many times you don’t consciously know. It’s common for people to say, “That reminds me of...”

Calkins: But you know that it’s going to be in the “Clive Barker Seminar” that they teach someday.

Barker: Hmm. I don’t want to sound too aggressive and say teaching sucks, but English classes do have a tendency to over-analyze everything.

(By now, our food has arrived. Barker chows down on a turkey club, and I try to finish a cold roast beef sandwich without getting mayonnaise on myself. The talk turns to less serious topics.)

Barker: How much time did your English teacher devote to William Blake?

DS: Oh, about two class periods. Not much.

Barker: Are you tempted to go back to him?

DS: Uh... (floundering for an intelligent answer) ... yeah. I like his dark vision. Kind of reminded me of Jim Morrison’s stuff.

Barker: Right, right. There is a great quote from Blake over Morrison’s grave. Have you seen The Doors?

DS: Yeah. It was like doing drugs in a dark room for two hours.

Barker: Hmmm. I liked the movie, too. It got a bad rep because it was an eccentric piece of film but it works very well, I think. I have this terror of drugs, and it’s kind of interesting hearing you say that it was like doing drugs...

DS: Not from first-hand experience.

Calkins: Sure, sure.

Barker: (Laughing) Do we believe him?

DS: (Changing the topic... fast) Have you seen Terminator 2?

Barker: Ugh, yes, unfortunately. My favorite film of the summer, actually, was Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey. It was very funny. Another favorite was Paris is Burning. It’s an amazing documentary about transvestite voguing.

DS: What did you think of Barton Fink?

Barker: A piece of pretentious crap. It was one of those movies where the directors like showing how clever they are.

Calkins: Do you like to watch gory movies?

Barker: I don’t look for that kind of stuff when I see a movie. Films like Total Recall have too much senseless violence, so much that you lose sight of what’s happening on screen.

Calkins: Will you ever make a cameo in your own movies?

Barker: Absolutely not. But I have done a recent appearance in an upcoming Stephen King picture, Sleepwalkers, where I play a coroner and Stephen plays a graveyard keeper.

DS: How about Mel Gibson as Hamlet. There’s a terror.

Barker: What an appalling thought! That movie was like watching paint dry, it really was. No, watching paint dry is marginally more exciting compared to that...

Calkins: Or Kevin Costner in Robin Hood.

Barker: Terrible. The worst performance of the summer. I don’t think he’s a very good actor. (Deadpan, imitating Costner:) He-doesn’t-sound-too-terribly-interested-in-anything, really.

(We all have a laugh at Kevin’s expense. I take a bite of my roast beef sandwich, but a piece of roast beef flips ungracefully to my chin. As I struggle to suck it up, Susie asks another winner of a question.)

Calkins: Are there any subliminal messages on the cover of Imajica?

Barker: No, not really. I wanted this to be my White Album. There is a strange lesbian alliance going on in the picture, however. One of the things that interests me is Japanese pornography.

Calkins: (Half-disgusted) Yes, I remember it from the lecture.

Barker: The Japanese have the most extraordinary lesbian S&M; videos: they’re just wonderful. And they have this digital thing which blurs choice parts of the image, so every now and then this blur appears, this little squiggle which dances over the pubic regions of the girls. It’s strangely erotic because it comes on like this Brillo pad and it disappears and reappears...

(Susie is blushing furiously.)

Barker: Oh, I’m sorry. I’m embarrassing you.

DS: Remember—you have kids from a Catholic college here.

Barker: Well, the pornography industry in this country makes more profit than the cinema and music industries together. This is a country that loves it titillation, but is afraid to admit it.

Calkins: They wouldn’t have those 1-900 sex lines if there weren’t people who wanted that kind of sexual outlet.

Barker: Yes, yes. There’s a huge marketplace for that sort of thing. And it’s not just men, either. There are a lot of repressed people out there.

DS: That repressed sexuality comes out in weird ways sometimes.

Barker: Actually, when it comes out weird, it is most interesting.

Vin Diesel... Is... Not The Wheelman

My Wheelman, that is. Instead, as this item at Ain't It Cool News reveals, there's an action movie/video game called The Wheelman in the works. Far as I know, it's a completely different story:

The plot of the flick being developed for MTV Films and Paramount centers around an expert driver who comes out of retirement to protect a woman from his past.

Not sure how I feel about this. My book was optioned by director Simon Hynd and Plum Films about a year ago; if our project makes it into production, we'll have to change the name, at the very least. And what if Vin Diesel's Wheelman blows? Would that kill any future movies about getaway drivers (namely, um, mine)?

Then again, the optimist in me thinks: Hey, maybe it'll translate into some accidental book sales, thanks to confused Vin Diesel fans. (And let's face it: if you're a Vin Diesel fan, it's a safe bet that you are confused.)

Thanks to Dave White for the tip.

Oldboiled

Yeah, today's my birthday. At 8:22 this morning, I turned 34. Way I figure, I have one more year until middle age--because once you hit 35, you round up, right? And that's pretty much 40. Stranger still: I've doubled my age since I first met the Bride. (I was 17.) Christ, does time leak like a colostomy bag.

Here are some other strange Swierczynski Birthday Facts:

* I share my brithday with George Washington, Fredric Chopin, Drew Barrymore and Jeri Ryan, the hot Borg from Star Trek: Voyager.

* Because of the Washington thing, my parents used to always put a cardboard-and-foil hatchet, along with plastic cherries, on my birthday cake every year. Yes, a hatchet. And bloody cherries. Like that didn't screw with my mind.

* For my 18th birthday, my parents threw a kegger at their house for my college friends. Not exactly the most legal thing in the world, but everyone had a blast. Especially my grandmom Bernice, who played drinking games with my friends clear past midnight. Within a few months, however, she'd be diagnosed with brain cancer. She was dead by Christmas. My next birthday absolutely, positively, fucking sucked. I still miss her very much.

* When I turned 26, I was out in Los Angeles. The magazine I worked for, Details, had flown the staff out for their annual "Hollywood Issue" party. On my actual birthday, my editor took the staff out to dinner in Santa Monica. Celebrating her birthday, in the same restaurant, that very night? Drew Barrymore.

* One of these years, I'm going to celebrate my birthday with the hot Borg. I just know it.

* When I turned 27, and we were living in New York, the Bride gave me the best birthday present ever: indulging me while I browsed for books at Murder Ink on the Upper West Side, watched Mel Gibson in the grossly underrated Parker adaption, Payback, then settled in for beer and hot roast beef sandwiches at a quiet little bar near our apartment in Brooklyn. It was even better than the Drew Barrymore thing. Seriously.

* The Bride threw me a surprise party for my 30th. I was extremely surprised. So were the three people I shot at point blank range because I thought they had broken into my apartment.

* Just kidding. Only one person died. The other two are in wheelchairs.

* I'm now older than Jesus.

I've taken the day off and plan on celebrating with the Bride and Brood. We're bringing Parker and Sarah to their first movie in a theater. I'm still trying to decide between Hostel and Brokeback Mountain. Oh, and maybe Curious George. Guess we'll see which has the shorter line.

Time. It really does leak away, you know. Faster than you think.

Here's One Way Around That Pesky "Award" Thing

Yesterday I received a copy of Noir Reunion (Active Bladder, $10), the second novel from Johnny Ostentatious, a fellow Philadelphian. I don't know Mr. Ostentatious, but the premise seems like something I'd dig: four friends get their hot little hands on $4 million after their junior prom in 1983, then meet up 20 years later to recover the dough. And that gang of four, according to the back cover copy, is made up of "a failed actor, a zookeeper, a punk rocker and a computer tycoon." (My money's on the zookeeper.)

But what really makes me smile is the claim at the top of the book: SPENSER AWARD WINNER. Because on the back cover, in a small box in the lower left corner, is the disclaimer: "The Spenser Awards do not exist."

Which is kind of an existential statement. I mean, do any awards truly "exist"?

(Then again, maybe I'm just bitter because I've only been nominated for the Spenser three times and never won. Sigh.)

The Gutter, the Files and the Circus

Got 40 seconds to spare? Check out my short-short story, "a la King," over at Tribe's excellent Flashing in the Gutters site.

Got a few more minutes? Read the other sterling (and in many cases, way disturbing) pieces of flash fiction by Allan Guthrie, Sarah Weinman, Megan Powell, Pat Lambe, Anne Frasier, Daniel Hatadi, Olen Steinhauer, Stephen D. Rogers, Gerald So, Iain Rowan, John Weagly and M.G. Tarquini.

Got an hour or so? Dip into Ed Gorman's crackin' "Pro-File" series, which is the crime fiction equivalent of the Actors Studio--except that Ed keep himself backstage, and could probably beat the hell out of that Lipton guy. Up today: a Pro-File of that loveable scamp, Paul Guyot, who breaks a nice bit of news halfway through. (Congrats!)

Got a few hours, possibly days? I can't recommend John Rickards' new Mystery Circus site, especially the "Peanut Gallery" forum, enough. It's like crashing a house party of the cool kids of mystery fiction. I've been lurking for a few days, and it's already become as addictive as Sarah Weinman's joint. (I'm nervous about delurking, lest someone stuff me in a locker.) What I love best are the topics that pop up: dealing with editors, the perils of self-promotion, blurbs, cat torture, and of course, flying monkeys. Sweet stuff, Dr. Rickards.

The Souls of Old Machines

I bought a new computer this past week--one of those new iMacs with an Intel chip in it. This is supposed to be revolutionary, like dogs and cats marrying or something. I'm just impressed with how much the Apple people have crammed into one sleekly-designed slab. And I'm happy to have a machine that can run Google Earth. (Which is simply mesmerizing. I've been plugging in all kinds of addresses and swooping down from the skies. Hello, Skiatook, Oklahoma!)

Going downstairs is the old iMac, one of those table lamp-looking deals. I bought that in the summer of 2002, when Parker was just a few months old. The machine was well-used and loved; I wrote both The Wheelman and The Blonde on it, as well as The Big Book O' Beer and The Spy's Guide: Office Espionage and a bunch of stories and half-baked ideas. I dig the upgrade, but I'm also sad to see the old sweetheart go.

This got me thinking about all of the writing devices I've used over the years.

First was an old Sears manual typewriter that my parents had shoved in the back of a closet. One day I lugged it out and just stared at it, thinking it was the coolest machine I'd ever laid eyes on. Mom and Dad took the hint, had it cleaned, replaced the ribbon, and gave it to me for Christmas. This must have been 1980 or so; there's a quick 10-second snippet in an old home movie when I'm perched in front of the typewriter, pretending to suffer through the Great American Kiddie Novel with cigarette in hand (real, by the way--it was probably my Dad's) and tumbler of booze (fake; no need to call Child & Youth Services) at my side. Oddly prescient. Except for the smoking part.

I didn't write anything of real consequence on that machine. I remember retyping a lot of lyrics from albums and enjoying the look of hammered ink on soft paper. The ribbon had two colors, red and black, and after a while I got the idea to type the verses in black, and the chorus in red.

When I wrote my earliest stories, I used copybook paper and blue Bic pens. I'm left-handed, so the ink would smudge unless a took a piece of loose leaf, folded it in half, and placed it under the flat of my hand, just above whatever I was writing. I looked through my grade school papers not too long ago, and found dozens of loose leaf pages, folded neatly in half, among the stories.

My sophomore year of high school I worked a long humid summer as a newspaper bundler for the Northeast News Gleaner, conveniently located just around the corner. My hands and arms and t-shirt were covered in ink by shift's end, and I had dozens of ultrafine paper cuts up and down my forearms--see, you had to grab a stack of 50 papers, shuffle them with your arms, then drop them on the bundling machine, which would seal the stack with a yellow plastic band. Anyway, I saved up a good chunk of my salary from this special hell to buy a Commodore 64, along with a disc drive and dot matrix printer. This is when I started writing stories like crazy: horror stories, mostly. All saved to disc, then printed out. My files are jammed with stories from this era.

During my senior year, I also bought a cheap Smith-Corona electric typewriter. I'm a little fuzzy on why the Commodore 64 fell out of favor, but I think it had something to do with the primitive word processor not working as well it used to. Many stories were written on this machine, too, including some of the first I submitted to small horror mags like David Silva's The Horror Show and Cemetery Dance and Tense Moments (got a sale there!) and New Blood.

By the time I graduated high school, my parents and grandparents pooled their money to buy me a Panasonic Word Processor--a hulking slab of a machine that included a black and white screen, disc drive, printer and brains, all in one unit. The keyboard even snapped on the back, to make it easier to lug around... not that it was practical to do so. This machine became my most prized possession, and saw me through my first two years of college. Every paper I wrote flowed through its guts, as well as every piece of fiction. I saved everything on little blue discs that I still have, even though they're unreadable. Finding replacement print cartridges could be tricky; I remember one desperate afternoon my freshman year when I took a subway to a typewriter shop in the middle of North Philly that was rumored to have one. (They were closed when I arrived.) I was so fond of this machine, I kept it around for years after it had stopped working. The Bride probably remembers this machine, sitting in my office closet in Allentown, Pa., still draped in its vinyl gray cover. Some boys had dogs. I had my Panasonic.

But as I mentioned, this machine could last forever. It started acting up my junior year, and by that time, I was an editor for the school newspaper, and we had a pool of PCs in the office that I started using for papers... and eventually, fiction. The laser printer was sweet, too.

After college, I was computerless for a few months. I landed a job at a magazine, and I used my PC there, but I wanted something to use at home. I found a place that sold off old PCs from companies who'd upgraded, which is how I found my Dell PC. Color screen, but no speakers, no modem. Cost me $700, and looking back on it, I probably overpaid. I used a word processor called XYWrite, which featured green type on a black screen, because I was able to pirate a copy from work. I used it to tinker around with a science fiction novel I was calling Frank Vs. Bob, a tortured noir screenplay called Nobody Knows, and an odd bunch of stories.

This was 1993. The Dell hung around until 1997, when I was in New York, finally making decent money, and could afford an upgrade to a machine that had speakers... and a modem. It was a Compaq this time. I was a devoted PC guy, though at work we used Apple Power Macs. Which were great. But at the time, I thought Apple was about to go under. (This was before the dawn of iMacs and iPods and everything else.) Plus, the machines were much more expensive. So screw that, right? I used the Compaq, along with a laptop I was test-driving for a month or so, to write Secret Dead Men, and a couple dozen stories--mostly horror and science fiction.

Just a few months before Y2K, I upgraded to a faster IBM machine. I used it to write my first non-fiction books, countless magazine stories, and play an awful lot of Doom and Half life.

But by the summer of 2002, reasonably confident that Apple wouldn't tank in the next year or two, I switched to Macs, and I've been in goo-goo eyes love ever since. I don't want to turn this into an Apple commercial... but these machines are everything you could want: intuitive, powerful, and easy on the eye. It's probably no coincidence that once I went Mac, my fiction career started taking off...

(Okay, that probably is just a coincidence.)

So here I am, typing my first blog post on the new machine. I wonder what I'll be using five, ten years from now. Or eventually, I'll be able to buy an Apple iMplant (TM), beaming my thoughts from my skull to the screen instantly. Christ... I wonder what Parker and Sarah will use someday.

How about you? What do you use to write? What have you used? Anything really freaky?

Writers Who Are Damn Near Dead

A while back I announced that I would be editing a crime fiction anthology for Busted Flush Press called Damn Near Dead, a collection of hardboiled tales with senior citizen protagonists. Not cat-loving, tea-sipping, whoops, there goes another dead body in the parlor seniors; I'm talkin' bad-ass Lee Marvin, Laurence Tierney and Bea Arthur (you heard me) seniors. Geezers who soak their dentures in Jack Daniel's while they're field-stripping an assault rifle.

Anyway, I'm pleased to announce the final lineup, and I'm still a bit stunned by the wildly talented folks attached to this project. I mean, come on. Take a look:

Jeff Abbott
Megan Abbott
Charles Ardai
Ray Banks
Mark Billingham
Steve Brewer
Ken Bruen
Milton Burton
Reed Farrel Coleman
Colin Cotterill
Bill Crider
Sean Doolittle
Victor Gischler
Allan Guthrie
John Harvey
Simon Kernick
Laura Lippman
Stuart MacBride
Donna Moore
Zoe Sharp
Jenny Siler
Jason Starr
Charlie Stella
Robert Ward
Sarah Weinman
Dave White

All of the stories are in, and I'm busy editing and assembling the manuscript now. (The antho was invite only, though a few people did lob in some stories over the transom -- I just wish I had room for more. There were some truly fine stories I had to take a pass on.)

One cool thing: I'm going to be running the stories in age order, from whippersnapper to grandmaster. So readers will finally be able to tell who's older: Megan Abbott or Jeff Abbott? Charles Ardai or Charlie Stella? Gischler or Guthrie? White or Weinman?

Sure, I'm biased... but I think you're really going to like what we have in store. Look for Damn Near Dead in hardcover this May.

A Charles Willeford V-Day Buffer, Especially for Jen Jordan

From Pick-Up (1955):

I never thought I'd hear a woman say that... love is in what you do, not what you say. Couples work themselves into a hypnotic state... by repeating to each other over and over again that they love each other... They also say they love a certain brand of tooth paste and a certain brand of cereal in the same tone of voice.

Leave it to Chuck W. to set us straight.

Love Is All Around Us

Secret Dead Blog wishes everyone a very Happy Valentine's Day.

And in case you're not already coupled up, Secret Dead Blog offers the following dating advice:

* Never let them see you sweat.

* Fellas, remember: "no" means "yes"; a restraining order means "no."

* Ladies: the way to a man's heart is through his chest cavity. But you have break through the breastplate first, so pack your bone saw.

* At the end of a first date, seal the deal by leaning in close and saying, "Dead or alive, you're coming with me."

* If you lure someone back to your love lair, nothing beats Nine Inch Nails' "Closer" to set the mood.

* Forget the two-day rule. After a date, call immediately and run a quality-control check. Ask about every single aspect of the date. If the person seems shocked or upset by this level of attention, tell them, "Hey, I'm just trying to improve my dating skills. You're trying to hold me back, aren't you? Aren't you?"

* Never despair; in the arena of love, there is someone for everyone. However, sometimes that someone is inflatable.

(For more groovy Law & Order: SVU Valentine's Day greetings, created by artist Brandon Bird, check out this brief article, then click through to the main site.)

And the Winner of the "Win a Prayer Contest" Is...

... going to be announced in just a second. Hold your thunder.

Fact is, I received a dozen truly funny entries. I couldn't decide, so I e-mailed them to Robert Ferrigno. He was able to narrow it down to two, but admitted: "God damn you have some hilarious correspondents. Seriously, they all fucking deserve a book."

However, there can only be one, so I had The Bride break the tie.

The winner?

Libby McLaren, who wrote:

I offer South Dakota to Islam. This state never truly belonged to our Nation's forefathers to begin with. South Dakota was taken from the Sioux. I can assure you Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse would surely smoke some peyote to that. It also offers many amenities. Hiding out in the Black Hills of South Dakota would make any Islamic terrorist feel right at home. Never ending rock formations. Barren wastelands. What better way to say "Kiss It Hard America" than assuming residence in the hollows of Mount Rushmore?

Congrats, Libby. Your copy of Prayers for the Assassin, which officially drops tomorrow, will be mailed to Robert, who will then sign it and send it to you. (Remind me of your mailing address when you have a second.)

A very special second place Secret Dead Blog No-Prize goes to Rob Smith, who wrote:

Florida. Not only is it where every reprobate in the United States goes to escape prosecution but dealing with the snowbirds from other states would totally wipe out the Islamic Republic's desire to rule America.

And finally, here are the states the rest of you would sacrifice. Sorry I don't have more prizes to give out... but I'll tell you what. Mention you entered this contest, and I'll buy you a drink the next time I see you. (And I'm sure I'll see most of you in the coming year.) In no particular order:

Sanjay: "My pick - Rhode Island. Big in name, small in reality. Should suit them just fine."

David Terrenoire: "Which state would I sacrifice? Easy. Ohio. Just to piss off those uptight assholes in Cincinnati. Texas comes a close second."

Janine Wilson: "I'd give up the great state of Texas because that's where Crawford is, and that's where the ranch is, and need I say more? (Hey, I'm not the writer...)"

Lou Perseghin: " I would offer up Utah, for two reasons: one, it is a vast salty desert, so it will feel much akin to the arid cities and towns popularized by Fox News. Second, it has a veritable army of willing servants who would be more than willing to offer up any and all services in the name of Islam for the price of the promise that their actions will help eliminate sin and non-believers. Come on, Muhammad is much more convincing (not to mention reputable), than Joseph Smith."

David White: "Me? I'd offer up Alaska, first off it's not really a state. It's just a piece of land far away from the US we have so we can say stuff like 'Hell we own Alaska motherfucker.' You know at a bar or something. Second, I'd love to see how Muslims handle the cold... they're always been in the desert, so let's see how they do in the cold..."

J.D. Rhoades: "Texas, for two reasons. 1) Payback for inflicting Bush on us. 2) The fuckers couldn't hold it for long. Hey, I'm pissed but I'm not vindictive."

J.T. Ellison: "My vote is Alaska. Take a look out your window at your pretty snow, and imagine that for 6 months out of the year. It might slow them down. Plus, no worries that the women are wearing bikinis under the burqas!"

KRKohl2: "I'd offer up Arizona, there EVERYBODY (man, woman and child) believes in the right to bear arms. There's probably more arsenals stashed there than any other state. Maybe there's a chance for a rebellion or an uprising. Kind of like the old RED DAWN movie with Sheen, Swayze and Howell."

Ed Pettit: "First, I thought I'd vote for one of those "blue states." You know, a little revenge for this sorry-ass presidency. But there's too many to choose from. And I'm sure I would like the rest of the people in those states, if I ever met them. Well, at least some of them. Then I thought I should vote for a state in which a significant portion of its population watches NASCAR (formerly known as "them cars that go real fast," but NASCAR sounded cooler, so they changed the name). But then I thought these would just be the same states anyway. And I also realized I live in a state that voted for Rick Santorum. Twice. And I figured my own state could very easily be a good choice. I know for a fact there are a lot of people here that I don't like (readers of my blog excepted, of course). And then I really got to thinking. If it was my own state, I could lead the resistance. Start an underground movement. Free the populace from these terrorist oppressors. Taliban this, motherfucker! I'd wipe 'em all out. We'll make this land safe for freedom and democracy. Then I realized I was turning into a Bush Republican. Man, this is so depressing. Go ahead, take Pennsylvania. A salaam Alaikum. (P.S. I'd still consider Delaware.)"

Aldo Calcagno: "Ohio - for all the usual reasons. This would probably piss Jim Winter off though."

Big thanks to everyone who entered. Damn, people. You make me want to run more contests. (And thanks to Robert, for offering up his extremely valueable signature for this goofy little blog contest.)

She's Due in November

No, not The Bride. The Blonde. I talked to my St. Martin's editor, "Marquis" Marc Resnick," Friday afternoon, and it looks like both the hardcover of the new one and the trade paperback version of The Wheelman will drop this November -- just in time for all of your holiday shopping needs! The only downside is that I'd been hoping to have copies of The Blonde on hand for Bouchercon in early October. Maybe I can convince St. Martin's to let some out early.

I also saw the cover for the first time on Friday. I called Marc right away. "Don't take this in a Brokeback kind of way," I told him, "but I'm sitting here, and I'm absolutely hard." It's that awesome. Somehow, the art guys managed to retain what I thought was cool about The Wheelman cover (an iconic character, the off-center title text, the stark colors) and kick it up to a new level. I've posted a clipping of the cover at the top of this post, because I don't want to reveal the whole thing just yet. After all, it's not out for nine more months; I wouldn't want you to get tired of it.

Though this was the first version I saw, it wasn't the first attempt at a Blonde cover. About a week and a half ago, Marc told me he saw a version, but sent it back to the shop -- it looked a bit too much like a "regional science fiction novel." Of course, this made me want to see it very badly, but nothing doing. Then last Wednesday, Marc told me the cover was almost there, but he had another suggestion or two. Argh, he was killing me. But by Friday afternoon, all was forgiven. The Blonde was a beauty. (I'm also glad I didn't run with my alternate title, Proximity. That would have looked awful.)

Wetumpka Leftovers

A winter storm is raging outside. Pretty soon, I'll be doing some serious snow shoveling, and Parker and Sarah will be doing some serious snow-angeling. In the meantime, hop in the ol' Secret Dead Blog Time Machine to the recent past... this past Sunday, as a matter of fact, when I was in Wetumpka, Alabama for "Murder on the Menu." Tammy Lynn was kind enough to send these photos yesterday; now you can see the "bad boys" in action for yourself. (Click on any of these photos to enlarge them.)

First, here's a group shot. I'm the tall guy in the back. I'm always the tall guy in the back:


Here's me, boring unsuspecting conference-goers into a blind stupor. Note the shameless product placement, thanks to the eagle-eye of Tammy "Snap" Lynn:


Finally, here's a shot from the signing room after the event. Sean Doolittle's busy charming the socks off somebody, while Victor Gischler and Jeff Shelby find it amusing that I found something so amusing. No idea what it was, though:


Ah, good times, good times. Now I've got to find a shovel.

Secret Dead Blog Contest: Win a Prayer!

I got excited about Robert Ferrigno's Prayers for the Assassin the moment I heard the concept: a series of devestating terror sneak attacks turns much of the United States into an Islamic republic. (See map above.) Ferrigno's novel is the best of all possible worlds: a literary hardboiled intelligent action-packed futuristic thriller. It's also easily his best book, and that's saying a lot for a guy who gave us Horse Latitudes, Heartbreaker and The Wake-Up.

I want you to experience the fun for yourself. Hence, this nifty new SECRET DEAD BLOG CONTEST, in which one of you will win an autographed copy of Prayers for the Assassin, mailed to your home directly from the Ferrigno Lair, somewhere in the heart of the Lawless Zone of the Pacific Northwest.

To enter, simply shoot me an e-mail (duane.swier [at] verizon.net) answering this question:

If you had to pick one U.S. state to surrender to the Islamic Republic, which would it be? And why?

(Me, I'd offer up Delaware... c'mon, it's hardly a state... but don't let me sway you.)

Shoot me your answers all weekend; be sure to put "Prayers Contest" in the subject line. I'll pick a winner this Monday (2/13) evening and post it on the blog.

In the meantime, definitely check out the extensive and somewhat frightening website (Jihad Cola!) that Scribner has set up at www.prayersfortheassassin.com. And if you haven't already, start reading Ferrigno's blog at the same site.

Robert Ferrigno: putting the "rad" in radical Islam.

Good luck!

A Gratuitous Stallone Pic for Charlie Williams

Sly is here shooting Rocky Balboa, of course, so the city is going Stallone cold crazy. Here's a photo snapped at the Philadelphia Palm Restaurant and e-mailed to me at the City Paper. We usually don't run this kind of thing, so Secret Dead Blog is happy to pick up the slack and present it here. However, Secret Dead Blog is not a real journalistic enterprise, and frankly, I couldn't be arsed to run the proper caption info, including the names of the two women standing next to Stallone. (Hell, the Palm's lucky Secret Dead Blog mentioned them.)

So yeah... I'm mostly running this photo for Charlie Williams -- avowed Rocky fan and author of King of the Road, out from Serpent's Tail this week -- who probably wishes he could be in Philly right now. Best thing you can do is pick up a copy of King so Mr. Williams will make tons of money from this, the third installment in his brilliant Mangel series, and use the proceeds to fly to Philadelphia, so he can kneel down and kiss the Art Museum steps or something.

The Bad Boys Head South

There we are. "The Bad Boys." This photo, totally swiped from Susan McBride (thanks!), pretty much says it all about this past weekend in Alabama. I'm at the far left; right next to me is Jeff "Killer Swell" Shelby. To his left, looking incredulous, is Sean "Rain Dogs" Doolittle. To his left, Steve "Mr. Deadpan" Hamilton. You can practically feel the testosterone, right?

And this is not even the complete set of "Bad Boys." We're missing Victor "Way Past the Lemur Thing" Gischler. Harry "Thank God I'm Not in the Same Hotel" Hunsicker. Jim "Headed to the Bestseller List, One Insult at a Time" Born.

What's funny is that we were branded the "Bad Boys" within minutes of our arrival in the lobby of the Drury Hotel. I think "Murder in the Magic City" mastermind Margaret Fenton was the first to use the phrase; from then on, it stuck to us like felt toilet paper at the bottom of a Velcro shoe.

And, of course, it's completely ridiculous, unless wearing jeans (and in my case, looking like an overfed bouncer at a roadhouse dive) constitutes "bad."

"Murder in the Magic City" was my first small conference, and if this is any indication of how these things can go, please sign me up for more. I loved how relaxed and intimate everything was... and I don't mean that in a "holding hands with Jeff Shelby by candlelight" way. Whereas B'Con is big bad and wonderful, it's also hard to carve away time for meaningful conversations, mostly because you're busy trying to do everything and say hi to everyone. Not the case this past weekend. There was plenty of time to talk shop with familiar faces (Gischler, Doolittle, Hunsicker, Born) and new friends (Shelby, McBride, Pari Noskin Taichert, Sarah Stewart Taylor, Harley Jane Kozak, Kathryn Wall, among others).

I also lucked out and made it onto the first panel Saturday morning, which featured these folks:

The topic was something like, "plot a novel live," which had me worried until it actually started rolling. For a complete account, check out Susan's blog entry over at the Lipstick Chronicles, but I think we did ourselves proud. And in the signing session afterward, more than a few people said they were buying my book because the panel was such a riot. (This, of course, makes me worry that those same people will come back to me later and say, "Um, yeah, this book isn't funny at all. I'm going to be needing my money back.")

"Murder on the Menu," Sunday's event in Wetumpka, Alabama (where they shot Tim Burton's Big Fish) was also fun, but more work than I realized. The basic idea was that each author would spend the afternoon table-hopping; all of us hit six individual tables. Now I'm not exactly the best salesman of my own work. And there's still part of me that is extremely shy around new people. And on top of everything else, I speakridiculouslyfastevenforaYankeeespeciallywhenI'mnervous. The poor folks at each table probably didn't know what to make of me.

Every two tables, we'd pause, and four/five of us would address the crew at large. Now the day before, Jim Born had gotten a few of us good during his panel (ask him some time to explain the phrase, "Taking a Gischler"). So it was time for a little payback. Shelby took shots at Born. I took shots at Born. Even people who didn't know Born took shots at Born.

The last laugh, however, was on us: we'd accidentally made him infamous. And the signing afterward, Jim sold through his entire stock of his new Tasker novel, Escape Clause, in something like seven seconds. Shelby and I cursed him under our breath, then decided that he needed to buy us plenty of alcohol later. (Which Born did. He may be a bastard, but he's also a gentleman.)

Big thanks to Margaret Fenton, the Southern Sisters, Sisters In Crime, Tammy Lynn, Karen Cunningham (for the rides), Joan Kennedy (for the other ride), the entire state of Alabama, and everyone who showed up this weekend to hang with the "bad boys." Even though we're really not.

At Long Last, The News

Who would have known that a throwaway, hurried, I'm-about-to-fly-to-Alabama post would lead to such hostility in the backblog? (Looking at you, Lombardi and Terrenoire.)

Maybe I did leave you hanging too long. But I had to do it, because I didn't have the official word on the good news until minutes before I stepped on the plane. And the news is so good that I was half-convinced the plane would burst into flames somewhere over the Deep South, because that's how it would happen in a Duane Swierczynski novel.

Which, speaking of...

There will be more of them.

Yep, the good news is that St. Martin's Press has offered me another two-book deal, and I'm more than happy to take 'em up on it. (The Wheelman and The Blonde were the two books in my original deal.) The first will be a crime thriller I'm calling Violent Type; the second will be another stand-alone. So if all goes well, you'll have Swierczynski novels to kick around clear through 2008.

Needless to say, this news makes me giddy as a toddler who has eaten a box of powdered sugar. Because the thing I want the most, more than power, fame, loose women named "Ivy" and/or a 24-hour RoboCop marathon on TBS... is the opportunity to write and publish more novels. That's what it's always been about.

(Though a RoboCop marathon would be neat.)

Okay... later we'll have Alabama reports, because Murder in the Magic City was an absolute blast, and yes, that Secret Dead Blog Contest. Terrenoire, don't get your knickers in a twist, okay?

Sweet Home You-Know-Where

Tomorrow I'm headed to Birmingham for a mystery conference double-header: Murder in the Magic City, on Saturday, and then Murder on the Menu on Sunday (in Wetumpka). Who would have thought that the Wheelman tour would be making one of its last stops in the Deep South? (Nancy French would be so proud.) I'm very much looking forward to meeting the good people of Alabama (it'll be my first time there) and catching up with Gischler, Doolittle, Hunsicker and Born and the rest of the gang.

I'll be back Monday with updates... and a very special SECRET DEAD BLOG CONTEST... and possibly a bit of really good news. Is it cruel to leave you in suspense like that? Sorry!