Not to Put Too Fine a Point On It...

... but someday when I'm dead, this is what I want made from my cremated remains. The average body, according to artist Nadine Jarvis, yields about 240 pencils. First come, first served, everybody!

(Via BoingBoing.net.)

Happy Birthday, Parker

I look at this photo, taken nearly five years ago, and I still can't believe I used to be able to gather him up in my arms like this. Today Parker is five years old, and dressing himself, and just starting to read, and expressing his musical and literary preferences, and asking questions... oh, the questions that stop us both in our tracks on a daily basis. Like he's trying to pick apart the universe, one question at a time. Nobody ever can really explain it to you, that simultaneous feeling of your heart expanding and breaking at the same time, a constant explosion/implosion every time you look at him. And even though he's probably getting too big, I love that I can still gather him up in my arms now and again, and he'll hug back... really hug back. I've got sorry news for my son: I'm going to be trying to gather him up in my arms for as long as I have arms.

Happy Birthday, my beautiful boy. What's crazy is that by this time next year, you'll probably be able to read the blog entry I write about you.

Before They Were Famous: Laura Lippman

When I interviewed Laura Lippman for the City Paper a few weeks ago, she was merely the mega-talented, award-winning, supercool Laura Lippman. Now, of course, she's the mega-talented, award-winning, supercool New York Times Bestselling Laura Lippman.

So click here to enjoy a rare glimpse of Ms. Lippman in the early days (i.e., two weeks ago), before the fame... the bling... the late nights at Graydon's place... the gold-plated laptops... the yachts... the gold-plated yachts...

Duane Louis Lives!

Not two days after I post about the 1989 death of my pseudonym "Duane Louis" comes his name on a book cover, for the first time ever. Ah, life has a perverse sense of humor.

This is the cover of the German edition of The Blonde, which has been retitled Blondes Gift. Translated, that means "Blonde toxic" or "Blonde poison." Which is fucking awesome, either way. It will be published this August by Heyne, a division of Random House which also publishes two of my favorite writers, Charlie Huston and Jack Ketchum. (In fact, we all share the same editor, Markus Naegele.) Such great company to be in.

So why the name change? Well, they asked me to. And I don't think it's a huge deal, especially considering that I'm being introduced to a new group of readers. (I also take heart in the fact that fellow Philadelphian Lisa Scottoline is published as "Lisa Scott" in Germany.) If German thriller fans dig shorter names, so be it.

Anyway, this is the first foreign translation of any of my novels, and I couldn't be happier. Even if this Duane Louis chump is taking all of the credit.

Dead Men Rise Again!

I know what you've been thinking. You been thinking, You know, I'd really like to get my mitts on a copy of Swierczy's first novel, but it's like, only available as a way-pricey ($31.95!) hardcover, or an almost as pricey trade paperback. And that's a print-on-demand style paperback. Which annoys a lot of people.

Well, friend, the wait is over. Because Point Blank Press has relaunched a few select titles in a brand new, affordable ($12.95!), way groovy offset edition, and Secret Dead Men is among those titles.

SDM will always be the red-headed stepchild of my oeuvre. It's doesn't quite fit into the Swierczy-verse (that so far includes The Wheelman, The Blonde, Severance Package, Redhead, and yes, even The Crimes of Dr. Watson). It's a genre-bender. It takes place in the 1970s. And it's very much a first novel, not unlike a first sexual experience: memorable, yet more than a little shaky in places.

Still, I'm very proud of the book, and I think you'd have a good time with it. So I'm very happy there's a new edition for all to enjoy. Ask your favorite independent bookseller or comic shop to order a copy or two through Diamond Comics. Or, if you're into instant gratification, there are discounted copies ($10.36!) for the taking over at Amazon.com.

Why I Never Changed My Name

"Duane Swierczynski" is quite a handle, isn't it? But hey, don't blame me. I've tried to change it before. Throughout my senior year of high school I submitted short horror stories to whatever markets I could find, including markets way out of my grubby little immature reach. Markets like Weird Tales, probably the oldest and most respected horror and fantasy magazine in the world. But I was a punk kid who noticed they were based in Philly, so I thought: What the hell, right? The story I sent Weird Tales was called "Submission," and I gave it that title because I thought it would be fun to open up a cover letter with the sentence: "Dear Editor, please find my submission, "Submission," enclosed with this letter." (I was 17. This is what passed for wit in my teenaged mind.) I also asked about internships or assistant-type jobs, figuring that maybe I could work my way up from the mailroom or something. And finally, I decided that a "Duane Swierczynski" could never make the pages of Weird Tales. I needed something snappier. So I lopped off my last name and became "Duane Louis."

A while later I received a rejection letter, but it contained a great piece of advice from co-editor George H. Scithers:

Use your full last name. It's real, and people will remember it.

(Click the letter above to read the whole thing.)

So, nearly 18 years later, big thanks to George Scithers. Or blame. Whichever you prefer.

An Adrenaline Shot of Inspiration

Today I was a panelist at communication workshop at La Salle University, my alma mater. The audience was full of high school students and their parents, and our job was to tell them what it's really like to work in broadcast and print journalism, film or mass media. The panel did a great job of telling the truth (e.g., "Newspapers are dying") while still encouraging the young people who want careers in these fields.

I would know. I used to be one of those kids.

In April 1989, nearly 18 years ago (as impossible as that sounds), at the tail end of my senior year of high school , I attended a similar workshop at La Salle. The topic: newspaper journalism. I went because I was a staffer at my high school paper, even though I only wrote book reviews of horror novels I liked. A budding Woodward and/or Bernstein I wasn't. Newspapers were boring. Except for the comics and movie ads.

Midway through the morning, I shuffled into a classroom to hear Frank Rossi, then a Philadelphia Inquirer columnist, talk about his job. I expected it to be deadly boring. And when he started discussing one of his recent columns, which was about the plight of watermelon farmers, I knew I was right.

In fact, if you had asked me to come up with the most boring topic for a newspaper column, like, EVER, I would have said:

Um, how about the plight of watermelon farmers?

But as I listened to Rossi speak, something astounding happened. I started to put myself in the heads of those watermelon farmers, and goddamn if it wasn't tough. There were business pressures. Environmental nightmares. The hope of a full crop, and the harsh reality of that season's yield. For a few minutes, the fate of the crop was the most important thing in the world.

And that was the moment when it clicked for the first time: You could actually do this kind of shit in journalism. Go inside someone's head. Take the reader to a place where they wouldn't (or couldn't) go otherwise.

I thought only fiction writers had that kind of fun.

Between the end of my senior year and my first day of college, all of this stuff was kicking around in my head. Rossi's lecture had sparked something in my brain. A few weeks after that workshop, I sat down and typed Rossi a thank you letter.

A short while later, I received his hand-written reply, which I've pasted above. (Click it to enlarge.)

It was like a sign. Or a benediction. Or something.

But it jazzed me all summer, and when I entered La Salle for real in September, I brought a bunch of writing samples up to the Collegian office on the third floor of the student union building and applied for a job as a news reporter. Eighteen years later, I'm the editor-in-chief of a weekly newspaper, and talking to kids about careers in journalism.

Frank Rossi passed away only a few years after that workshop. I never had the chance to thank him in person. I very much wish I could have.

But I think about Rossi whenever I talk to a student about my day job.

And, of course, I think about those watermelons.

The Return of Devil-Bug

This week's City Paper is extra special to me because it marks the cover debut of my good friend Edward Pettit. (You know Ed, Secret Dead Blog reader. He's the guy who mistakenly believes he lives in the 19th century.) Ed wrote a great profile of George Lippard, Philadelphia's first best-selling author back in the 1840s. But beyond that, you could even say that Lippard was the Pete Dexter of time, stirring shit up in his own penny newspaper on a weekly basis. Far as we know, nobody beat the hell out of Lippard, but he did die young. Oh--you know that whole myth about the Liberty Bell cracking on July 4, 1776? Lippard wrote that, too. But forget my shorthand version. Check out Ed's piece for the real thing.

(The cover illo is by CP regular Bill Westervelt, and depicts "Devil-Bug," a nasty creature from The Monks of Monk Hall, Lipppard's best-known novel. I was talking this over with Reseca Glasser, our art director: Doesn't Devil-Bug need to have his own plush doll?)

From Drew Lazor

First Look: The Crimes of Dr. Watson

Could this be the cover of the Sherlock Holmes novella I've been blabbing about? Why yes, I believe it could be. If you think this is cool (and I do), wait until you see the rest of the book. The art folks at Quirk Books are going all out for this one. They even nailed the waterstain on a 110-year-old envelope. What's really fun is that I have two wildly different books appearing this November: The Crimes of Dr. Watson, which is Victorian-era whodunnit, and Severance Package, a modern-day thriller. And yet, both feature dismemberment. Go figure.

Life is Hard

It's been nearly two years since we've been able to savor a new Allan Guthrie novel. With the forthcoming publication of Hard Man, the drought is finally at an end. American readers will have to wait until June to snag a copy, but those lucky fucks in the UK will have the Polygon edition in their hands within a few weeks. (Even luckier fucks, such as Secret Dead Blog, were able to score an advance edition.)

Along with Hard Man, of course, comes a sweet little media blitz for Al. You've got Sunshine on all fronts, such as...

Audio: Namely, the latest installment of Behind the Black Mask: Mysery Writers Revealed. That's right: Clute and Edwards strap Sunshine to their operating table of the mind, and, with their usual surgeon-like precision, they dig beneath the skin to unearth many gems. (Including: "Somebody actually described the book [Hard Man] as being a love story between a man and a dog.")

Print: Dig today's Evening News in Edinburgh, which reveals what we've suspected all along--Sunshine's a softy.

Video: Now I haven't been able to access this, but if you go to Meet the Author you'll be able to watch Sunshine in glorious Quicktime. (Or Real Player, if that's your thing, you pinko bastard.)

Coming soon: Allan Guthrie breakfast cereals, action figures, plush lovies and low-fat yogurt. And if they aren't coming soon, they damn well should be.

Seriously, though, all of the hoopla wouldn't be worth a bowl of lukewarm haggis if Hard Man didn't bring the goods. Let me tell you right now: Al's delivered the most finely-muscled, shock-filled, page-turning thriller I've read in years. About halfway through this sucker (and I refuse to spoil it, so don't ask), you're going to be begging Jesus for mercy. Quite literally. Order a copy now, or Secret Dead Blog will be very displeased.

Me Again

It's been a crazy run for interviews hasn't it? Okay, I promise, here's the last one for a while. Today I'm a guest at Writer Unboxed, a cool group blog that studies the craft of genre fiction. Part One is up now; Kathleen Bolton has promised to unleash Part Two next Friday. Enjoy, and while you're there, check out the rich pool of interview subjects past, including Jason Starr and P.J. Tracy.

(I'm very happy Kathleen used the photo I supplied, instead of fishing one off the interwebs that makes me look like a serial killer who just watched his Airedale get creamed by a speeding Lexus. Ahem.)

Update: Part two is now online!

Required Reading, Vol. 4: Say Everything

It's been a while since I read a piece that split me down the middle. Such was the case with Emily Nussbaum's "Say Everything," in this week's New York magazine. Nussbaum details what she calls the new generation gap: kids, teenagers and 20somethings who think nothing of baring it all online (sometimes literally), and their horrified elders who think armies of anonymous perverts are ready to pounce. This gap, Nussbaum writes, may have been years in the making:

It’s hard to pinpoint when the change began. Was it 1992, the first season of The Real World? (Or maybe the third season, when cast members began to play to the cameras? Or the seventh, at which point the seven strangers were so media-savvy there was little difference between their being totally self-conscious and utterly unself-conscious?) Or you could peg the true beginning as that primal national drama of the Paris Hilton sex tape, those strange weeks in 2004 when what initially struck me as a genuine and indelible humiliation—the kind of thing that lost former Miss America Vanessa Williams her crown twenty years earlier—transformed, in a matter of days, from a shocker into no big deal, and then into just another piece of publicity, and then into a kind of power.

I'm torn because on one hand, I keep a blog. Thus, baring part of myself to the three (maybe four, if you count Brian Hickey) people who read this blog. And I read a lot of blogs, mostly to get to know other people. I'll never forget the strange sensation at Bouchercon '05 when I sat in the hotel bar, surrounded by people I knew well but had never actually met. And just last week, Daniel Hatadi launched the very cool Crimespace, meant as an online meeting place of people who dig crime and mystery. It's like a Bouchercon without the airfare.

In other words: I think the internets is cool.

On the other hand, as a parent, I can understand the whole "horrified" thing. I never post photos of my son Parker or daughter Sarah online. I rarely discuss my family or day job here (at least, in any real detail). In fact, it's a pretty narrow focus here at Secret Dead Blog: books, writing, and other assorted geekery. There is a photo of me in the upper left-hand corner. And if you check my profile page, you know my age, astrological sign, gender, and weird affinity for RoboCop. But that's it. Only a tiny sliver of ol' Swierczy. Sharing anything more feels... well, weird.

So there you have it. I'm straddling the new generation gap like a drunk Philly cop on a Sybian.

What about you guys? Which side of the gap do you fall?

The Roots of Redhead

Okay, I finished a first draft this past weekend, so I can talk about the novella without fearing of being a "cuntjobby."

The novella is called Redhead, which is a sequel to my novel, The Blonde. I pitched it to St. Martin's back in December saying (more or less), "Hey, wouldn't it be cool if I included a bonus story in the paperback edition of The Blonde?" (New cover pictured.) Happily, St. Martin's dug the idea. I love it when paperbacks include a bonus story. The best example I can think of is Jack Ketchum, whose Leisure Books editions of his novels (Red, Off Season, among others) often include extra stories or bonus material. Comics are doing it, too. Ed Brubaker's Criminal--a brilliant, tough hardboiled series about a heist gone way, way wrong--includes DVD extra-style essays and notes about film noir and crime fiction. Some editions of certain Marvel comics (Wolverine: Origins, The Immortal Iron Fist) are even labelled "director's cuts," which means they include extra art, sample script pages and notes in the back of the book.

Again, this is awesome. I love the extra stuff.

I would actually buy a book of nothing but "extra stuff."

I had an idea for a Blonde sequel the moment I finished it. There was an idea I wanted to work into the story, but the opportunity never presented itself. So I filed it away, thinking that if I ever tackled a sequel, it'd be there for me. The idea, however, wasn't quite enough for a full-length novel. What I needed was something that was the size of a long short story. Or, a novella.

What is a novella? Beats me. Stephen King once said that any story more than 7,500 words was edging into the strange terrain known as "the novella"; make it past 50,000 words or so, you know you're hitting novel country.

That's a wide, wide range, partner.

Not too long ago I read an ultra-hardboiled novella called Fuckin' Lie Down Already by Tom Piccirilli, who's probably best known for his work in the horror genre. It was an absolutely stunning revenge story. The best I've read in years. It knew exactly where to reach in and twist. Hard.

And it was probably no longer than 15,000 words.

Could Piccirilli have paddded it out to 50,000? Sure. But it wouldn't have had the same muscle. There are some stories that demand to be novellas. Tell it too quick, it doesn't work. Pad it out, it's overstayed its welcome.

Redhead, I think, is one of those stories that belongs in the strange terrain of the novella.

I've literally just typed the last line a few hours ago, so it's hard for me to be objective about it. But I think if I'd tried to make Redhead a novel, it would have fallen on its face. What I had in mind was a couple of short jabs to the brain, not a 60,000-word torture session. (Redhead ended up being a little more than 12,000 words.)

We'll see what you think come November, when the trade paperback edition of The Blonde is published. (If you've already bought the hardcover edition, don't worry. I'm going to make Redhead available as a free .pdf download, too.)

Worse case scenario: it sucks. But hell, it's a bonus story. What do you have to complain about?

An Evening With CHUD

This has to be the quickest turnaround of an interview, like, ever. Earlier this evening, I had a fun chat via IM with Cameron Hughes of CHUD.com. Now, just a few hours later, the complete interview is already up. CHUD doesn't screw around, folks. Check out the interview if you have a few minutes to kill (it's presented in its raw, original IM form), then check out the rest of CHUD while you're there, including the interviews with directors Zack Snyder (300) and Bong Joon-Ho (The Host). This crazy joint has quickly become one of my favorites. And not just because of the cool green sewer motif. Though that's a plus.

The Philadelphia Rock and Roll Coffin Blues

In my editor's letter this week, I talk about why I'm never hurting for novel ideas and why I'm thinking about fleeing Philadelphia (sort of), along with a little bit of shameless self-promotion.

Every week I'm treated to a cornucopia of plot ideas that seemingly belong in the world of crime thrillers, but routinely happen in real life. My problem is that I can't use very many ideas from real life, because no book editor would believe them.

In this past week alone, we've had ...

... the mayor's brother, currently indicted by the federal government, and who recently spent a few hours in jail for unpaid traffic tickets, standing outside City Hall, draped over a coffin of unknown origin, belting out a religious song with the emotion and vigor of an Italian opera star.

... private eyes, partially bankrolled by a casino, knocking on people's doors because they signed their name on a petition.

... teachers routinely being slapped, punched and beaten to the point of needing dental surgery at West Philadelphia High; meanwhile, a Germantown High teacher is recovering from having his neck snapped by a student.

You can read the whole thing at www.citypaper.net. And while you're there, take a look at the kick-butt music package, assembled by Patrick Rapa and shot by Michael T. Regan. Especially you young crazy kids who are into the rock and roll. Or, if you're a bracket-head, sign up for Nick Norlen's Philly Madness! Or, if you're into machine guns and blow, go on a Scarface date!

Dexter-ity

The Philadelphia Weekly (our noble competition) has a cool profile of Pete Dexter today. Writer Steve Volk traveled out to Seattle to interview the legendary columnist, and even dug up some new details on the infamous night when Dexter had has ass handed to him outside a bar in Grays Ferry. There's a great little scene that sounds like it belongs in 300:

The only one in Dexter’s entourage who stayed and defended him was Cobb, the heavyweight. He stood over his fallen friend, pushing away the men who were striking him, and absorbing blows with an arm that was ultimately broken in the fight.

I think every newspaper columnist needs a Hawk/Joe Pike looking out for him.

Sweet Home Pennsylvania

I would hear about these cool literary festivals everywhere and wonder, Why don't we have one here? Well, Larry Portzline emailed recently to answer that question. He's the executive director of the very first Keystone Book Festival, announced just yesterday. And yes, I'm so there. (Pettit, you in?)

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
March 5, 2007

PENNSYLVANIA TO LAUNCH MAJOR LITERARY FESTIVAL IN FALL 2008

Annual "Keystone Book Festival" to Feature Renowned Authors, Writing Workshops, Tips from the Pros, and Awards Program

HARRISBURG, PA -- Three days of author events, writing workshops and publishing tips will highlight the launch of the annual Keystone Book Festival in Fall 2008, the festival's board of directors announced today.

Pennsylvania's first state literary event will take place in several locations in downtown Harrisburg, Friday through Sunday, October 10-12, 2008. It will join 35 other state book festivals currently held around the country, organizers said.

"Pennsylvania is long overdue for a state literary event like this," said Larry Portzline, the festival's executive director. "An annual celebration of the book is a terrific way to promote reading and literacy in Pennsylvania, and to bring together people who share a love of the written word."

International Mystery News!

Wallace Stroby, who has been described as "the American Allan Guthrie," recently started a blog: Live at the Heartbreak Lounge.

Meanwhile, Allan Guthrie, who is the Scottish Wallace Stroby, just started a newsletter. Sign up here.

Cassidy's Girl: The Movie

You know what a David Goodis junkie I am. So I was happy to receive an email from writer/director Ed Holub, who's been working on a film adaptation of Cassidy's Girl, one of my favorite Goodis noirs. (How can you not love a story about a bus driver who falls in love with a Philly lush?) Secret Dead Blog lobbed a few questions his way, and Mr. Holub was kind enough to lob 'em back.

Secret Dead Blog: What drew you to Cassidy's Girl? Was it your first Goodis novel, or the one that just stuck with you?

Ed Holub: Well, I shoot book covers for a lot of Vintage Black Lizard titles. I did some Jim Thompson, Dashiel Hammett, Ross McDonald, etc... So, I got a hold of tons of original paperbacks to check out what the original art looked like. Then I wondered what the covers were trying to say. I read like hundreds. I've found tons of stories I think would translate well to films...

When I first came across Goodis, his work just stood out. His endings are never "happy" or conventional, and I've often been left more confused than satisfied by the novels. But I think that's why his work leaves such a lasting impression. Even with Cassidy's Girl, it's taken me a long time to truly understand the subplots and psychology involved. Also the existential philosophy is as strong as Camus, so his stories don't just make you think, they make you grapple, writhe around a bit, and contradict yourself a bunch before you can let go.

Cassidy's Girl in particular hit some personal cords in my own life, along relationship lines, and ironically I find myself fighting to regain my glory as James did. The concept of rediscovering hope in the face of uncertainty is a strong message. Well, this title has many other themes, subplots, subtexts, and difficult human emotions, all great stuff to work with in film. I think that's why most actors who read it, love it.

SDB: Can you tell us a little bit about the development process been like? Is there a screenplay ready?

Holub: The development process is a hell I don't wish on my worst enemies. I've had financing twice. Both times, producers egos have destroyed the project. I've found some good people along the way too. Michael Arata, though he's losing patience with me, has been there all along, and Jimmy Woods did boards and schedules for the whole film. I owe him for that.

The best thing going now is the script. I've made some deliberate changes from the original book. And this answer will segue the next question too. I wanted to bring significance to setting the film in the 50's. Besides the dialog and social morees (broken and unbroken), that is. So I wanted to bring in the McCarthy hearings, because CNN is pushing terrorist hype on us as much Senator Joe ever did, so I wanted to say that through metaphor. Then I also wanted to expose urban decay in all its grimy beauty, so exterior setting became the utmost in considerations.

SDB: And now the controversial question. You've decided to set Cassidy's Girl in New Orleans, even though it's a Philly novel through and through. But you seem like a nice guy, Ed, and I'm willing to forgive you. So tell us: why New Orleans?

Holub: Now the Philly thing was hard for me. I came up through the tough streets of New York, so originally I was all for Philly. But as I watched Times Square turn from the Big Apple Theatre to Disneyland East, I also saw a lot of the charm of the 50's leave the entire region. I was especially disenchanted by the urban renewal efforts of Dock Street. I simply felt the overall vibe of the 50's wasn't there, not the way I feel it deserves to be. I started hunting up and down the East Coast looking for that vibe and feeling of the time period.

It wasn't until I hit New Orleans that I found it. I walked into a bar, and there was Mildred standing there. Same hair. Same gum snapping brovado. Then I found a barefoot Pauline ranting on about something or other while sipping something strong. Spann threatened to kill me once (true). Goodis characters live and breathe in New Orleans. And of course, it IS the biggest alcoholic city in the world. I decided it wasn't just the physical place, but the overall emotional zone... and New Orleans has it. Especially the ninth and seventh wards. Besides, the streets look especially creepy at night, when haze floats through the air, grabbing artificial street light filtered through the trees.

And I can't afford to rebuild Dock Street anytime soon... I think David could live in New Orleans, as long as he has air conditioning. But remember it's not the heat that gets you, it's the stupidity.