And Now, the News...

Ray Banks is going to kill me, announcing news like this in the middle of the English night, when he’s fast asleep. Come to think it, Donna “Kafka” Moore won’t forgive me, either.

But what can I do? Right now it’s 9:00 p.m. in Philadelphia. Both children have been fed, bathed and properly sedated for the evening. It’s pretty much prime time for blogging, writing, listening to music, and killing a bottle of champagne…

Yep, champagne. No, that’s not the usual evening tipple in the Swierczynski home, but tonight’s a special one.

That’s because tonight I signed five copies of a contract with St. Martin’s Press, which will be publishing Smell the Roses next fall.

Am I stunned? That’s not even half of it. I’m utterly gobsmacked, overjoyed, tied, dyed, swept to the side… fuck, it’s not everyday a dream you’ve had since you were 14 years old (which in my case, means I’ve had this dream since the Civil War) comes true.

So tonight, I decided to celebrate in style: the Bride, Parker, Sarah and I gathered ‘round for a champagne toast. Parker and Sarah are two and one, respectively, so it was actually a little bit of fizzy Canada Dry for them. However, it was served to them in classy little plastic champagne glasses. Sarah bolted hers one-handed. Parker asked for seconds, then thirds.

(Of course, this might backfire someday. Parker might recline on some psychoanalyst’s couch and recover the memory of how Daddy used to mumble something about “roses” as he force-fed his toddler son champagne…)

I have so many folks to thank, but instead of blowing it all on one blog entry, I’m going to do it long and slow over the coming year. (Right now, Sunshine is giggling.) And I’ll also try to report on the sure-to-be-surreal process of taking a novel from “sale” to “sitting in your local Barnes & Noble.” It’s what I’d want to read in a writer’s blog, anyway.

In the meantime, I’ll be busy writing novel #3 (I’m happy to say, it’s a two-book deal with St. Martin’s) and preparing my liver for Bouchercon.

Namely, by killing this bottle of champagne sitting on my desk…

Third Post, Last Case

Boy, this blog is already coming in handy. The latest issue of Plots With Guns just went live, and I’m proud to report that my story, “Hilly Palmer’s Last Case,” is on the lineup. It’s a seedy little slice of bar noir that includes three of my specialties: fact-checking, cheap beer, and cranky old men. If you have some time to kill at work, take a look.

Especially if you’ve ever tossed back at a few at McGlinchey’s on South 15th Street. (Am I right about the cobwebs, or what?)

I haven’t dipped into the stories yet, but I’m looking forward to the offerings from Pat Lambe and Mark Conard. Mark and I have a bit in common: we’ve both set crime novels in Philly, and people are always misspelling our last names. (I’ll bet Mark wishes he had a quarter every time someone referred to him as “Mark ConRAD.”) But I do understand people botching “Swierczynski.” Hell, even my mother messes it up half the time.

Big news later tonight, I swear… in fact, I’m looking at a certain contract, sitting on my desk…

Bubbles the Cat

First, let me clear up a few things: the mega-talented Al “Sunshine” Guthrie (see introduction, below) doesn’t drink, smoke, or own a cat. If he did own a cat, it certainly wouldn’t be named “Bubbles.” Plus, Sunshine is a vegetarian. A tough-guy vegetarian, as a matter of fact. He only eats vegetables with hardboiled names like “okra” and “Swiss chard.”

With this in mind, you can make your own judgments about the factual accuracy of his introduction.

Still, blatant lies aside, I am thankful to Sunshine for introducing me to the blogosphere. Truth be told, I was scared to take the first step. If I had my way, I’d run a series of guest introductions—maybe, say, seven weeks’ worth—then post a few lines of my own before retreating to the shadows.

That’s not to say that I’m new to journal-keeping. I used to keep one back in my early 20s, when I was young, single and broke. Not surprisingly, the entries revolved around being young, single and broke. Aside from an amusing Ramen noodles anecdote or two… you didn’t miss much. Trust me. (Hopefully, my children will have the good sense to torch the damned thing when I die. Come to think of it… kids? Just toss the file onto the top of the coffin before it rolls into the Big Oven. Thanks!)

But now that I’m not-so-young, married and still broke, what do I have to say?

Luckily, I have the example of some excellent writers (The K-Buster, Sarah Weinman, Dave White, Charlie Stella, Jim Winter, Brian Keene) blazing the trail for me. After enjoying these blogs, I’ve come to realize that readers come to writers’ online journals for a bunch of reasons: insights into the literary life, book recommendations, useful links, and of course, Ken Bruen drinking stories. So that’s what I intend to provide, too. I may not be able to do much in the way of insights, but I can certainly promise a good Bruen drinking story. (After all, Bouchercon is less than two weeks away.)

Also, as Sunshine hinted, there is some really cool news in the not-so-distant future about Smell the Roses. I’m a superstitious guy, so I’m not saying anything until I’ve signed on the dotted line…

Besides, I need something to bring you back for updates, don’t I?

(Psst, Sunshine: I’ve forwarded payment through your local produce dealer. Give Bubbles a kiss for me.)

An Introduction by Allan Guthrie

Let me introduce the magnificent Duane “Leblanc” Swierczynski. Leblanc, as his writer friends like to call him (I’m sure he’ll tell you why at some point), is the author of several non-fiction books. He’s mainly explored true crime territory with This Here’s A Stick-Up, The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Frauds, Scams and Cons and The Encyclopedia of the FBI’s Most Wanted List. But he’s not averse to writing books about alcohol either, from The Perfect Drink For Every Occasion to his latest, The Big Book O’ Beer. From his bibliography, you might be forgiven for thinking his favourite things are crime and alcohol.

Back in October 2003, Leblanc submitted the opening of a heist novel, Smell The Roses, to my authors’ showcase website, Noir Originals. It blew me away. But it wasn’t until March 2004 that I was introduced to the full power of the Swierczynski imagination. By this stage I’d become commissioning editor for a new crime line, PointBlank Press. Leblanc asked if I’d looked at a novel he’d written a little while ago that was now tucked away in a drawer. Like a fool, I said yes (‘fool’, because I’m now a Swierczynski addict). I knew within twenty pages that Secret Dead Men was a winner. The premise is typical of Swierczynski’s comic book-bizarro mind: Del Farmer is a PI who collects the souls of the recently dead and stores them in a hotel in his brain.

See?

Shouldn’t work. But it does. Because alongside his imagination is his other great gift: humour. He knows how to make you laugh until you cry.

Secret Dead Men is one of the most original PI novels you’ll ever read. If it doesn’t at least make the Edgar shortlist for best paperback original, I’ll stop smoking and drinking. I’ll even skin my cat, Bubbles. Okay, I’ll become a vegetarian.

At the start of August I was lucky enough to read the final version of Smell The Roses. It had the same kind of impact on me as Dead Men. In Roses a bank heist goes wrong, generating an intricate plot that straddles the best parts of Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction. I read it in a sitting and immediately passed it on to Ken Bruen. He cancelled an evening out to finish it, he’d become so gripped by the first 100 pages. We both recognised a master at work. Both said big things would come of it. Both crossed our fingers that Leblanc would get the publisher he and the book deserves. And maybe he has.

Watch this space and we’ll see. When, and if, he decides to tell us. His fault, you see, is his modesty. Which is why he couldn’t introduce himself on his own blog. Well, ladies and gentlemen, he’s asking for it.

I give you the one and only, truly original, incredibly modest, outrageously generous, completely brilliant, wonderfully talented, hilarious, genuine and smart-as-fuck king of the bizarre and master of the blindside, Duane “Leblanc” Swierczynski.

Al Guthrie

Psst, Leblanc. PayPal’s fine for the fifty dollars.