Literary Hymenoplasty

Over at Likely Stories, the new-ish blog by Booklist reviewer Keir Graff, you'll find this line about my third novel, The Blonde:

"[The Blonde] richly evoke[s] the interior lives of people living in the American West."

Beautiful, isn't it?

Of course, Mr. Graff is joking. (Keep reading through that paragraph.) But he does seem to have enjoyed The Blonde, which is a huge thrill and relief. Last year, Mr. Graff gave The Wheelman a very positive review, and it's good to know he doesn't think I've cocked up the follow-up.

It's fairly surreal to read the blog entries of a reviewer who's just submitted a review of your next book and is blogging about the experience of reading and reviewing your next book. I feel like a third-grader who's accidentally wandered into the teacher's lounge, and they're sitting around the table discussing you.

Later in the post, Mr. Graff raises a good question:

One odd thing about The Blonde: it’s the second novel of Swierczynski’s that I’ve reviewed, and the author bio on the back of the advance uncorrected proofs says, “This is his second novel.”

Yet the author’s blog has a link to “the first novel,” Secret Dead Men, on Amazon.com. It’s published by Point Blank Press, though, not St. Martin’s/Minotaur, as are The Wheel Man and The Blonde. A simple error by St. Martin’s, or a petty refusal to acknowledge the firstborn novel?

The straight answer: The Blonde is my third novel; I'm working on my fourth right now, which is the first in a new contract with St. Martin's (and which I confusingly refer to as "Castle #2," but never mind that for now.)

Part of the confusion probably starts with me. When we sold The Wheelman in August 2004, I remember St. Martin's asking if this was a first novel. It wasn't; I'd agreed to a deal with Point Blank Press in April 2004, making that my first novel. Of course, it would have been better if Wheelman had been a debut novel, because St. Martin's could have been like, Hey, look! We're debuting this guy! But they couldn't. Because Secret Dead Men would beat Wheelman to press by 10 months.

Never mind that The Wheelman *felt* like a debut. I mean, the books were written six years apart. And (I think) they're wildly different in style and voice. But still, you can only lose your virginity once. I've made my peace with that.

Somewhere along the line, though... St. Martin's kinda sorta forgot about Secret Dead Men. Or never really thought about it. Or maybe forgot about it accidentally-on-purpose. Because when I saw the press release for Wheelman, it said something about it being my debut.

And things kinda snowballed from there.

I admit it; I probably didn't help matters. I found myself telling friends stupid shit like, "Well, it's my first straight crime novel, so I guess it's sort of a debut." I would also think, "Well, this is like my major label debut; Secret Dead Men was indie." But all of that was crap, and I knew it.

I tried to set the record straight when I submitted The Blonde. In the book, you'll find an "also by" page, and it lists my first two novels, along with Damn Near Dead. But the mistake persisted. In the catalog, The Blonde is referred to as my "second novel." The press release probably says the same thing; I haven't seen it.

However, I just saw the dust jacket for The Blonde, and it looks like the mistake will be laid to rest, at long last.

So, for the record: I have written three novels, The Blonde being my third.

Unless you count the novels I write under the name "Dennis Lehane." But that's another story.

Angle: Behind the Scenes

Every Tuesday, City Paper photographer Mike Regan walks into my office with a photo or two for his weekly "Angle" column. I love these sessions. We kick around what makes a photo work (or not work), and I end up learning a bit more about the art of photojournalism. (Or, as some of my colleagues refer to it: "pushing the little button on the box.") Part of our task is to come up with a title for each of Mike's photos. They used to run sans title, but I thought that was a missed opportunity. Every "Angle" should tell a story, and the right title can help spin the tale.

Of course, we often spend a few minutes coming up with entirely inappropriate titles. Some I wouldn't even dare run on Secret Dead Blog.

The photo above, which ran last week, was titled "Migration Blues." It's moody. I dig it. But that wasn't the original title.

For a good while there, the title was: "Pull!"*

Ah, good times.

(* If this doesn't make sense, ask a skeet-shooting friend.)

Friday Book Report: It's All Good(is)

It's been a while since I've done one of these. And what better way to kick it off again than with some excellent news from our pals at Hard Case Crime. Charles Ardai and company will be reprinting a lost noir classic: The Wounded and the Slain, written by David Motherfucking Goodis. (Sorry--can't seem to shake the "Snakes on a Plane" vibe.) There are only two Goodis books I need to complete my collection, and this is one of them--printed once by Gold Medal, and that was it. (The other is Street of the Lost, in case anyone is doing any early Christmas shopping.) Faithful readers of this blog will know that I'm a unapologetic Goodis junkie; when Charles told me he was reprinting this book, I almost dropped to my knees and started kissing the wet sand. (No, Charles and I weren't vacationing together; I meant that metaphorically.) We have to wait until next May to read Wounded and the Slain, but in the meantime, we can worship the cover and enjoy an excerpt on the Hard Case website. One hundred years from now, when mysterious cloaked figures show up once a year to leave roses on the gravesite of one Charles Ardai, they'll operating at my behest, largely because Charles reprinted this book. (And of course, because of our time together on the beach.)

Meanwhile, I've been catching up with the funnybooks. Or, as CP managing editor Brian Hickey sneers: "Graphic novels." One you must read is Brian K. Vaughan's Ex Machina, which is about a former superhero who decides to run for mayor of New York City... and wins. No, this ain't Rudy G. in red tights, duking it out with street thugs. This is a smart, topical, violent and thrilling series that reads like a blend of The West Wing and Batman Begins. I gulped down the first three collections this week (The First Hundred Days, Tag, Fact Vs. Fiction), and I'm already wishing the fourth was out already. Don't be put off by the covers, which make the series look a little bit like space opera. It's so not. Want to try the first issue for free? Download a copy here.

Also highly recommended: Brian Wood's DMZ (the first collection, On the Ground, is out now). Fans of Robert Ferrigno's Prayers for the Assassin would especially dig this tale of the U.S. after the second civil war, in which all that remains of the original U.S. is Brooklyn, Queens and Long Island. And you thought Park Slope rents were high now.

I've also tracked down issues one, three and four of Charlie Huston's Moon Knight run, but I'm still missing two, which really blows. Comics are like malaria pills: skip one and you're screwed. I'll have to get back to you on this one.

And yeah, yeah, I'm reading actual novels, too. We'll get to those soon enough. It's August. Let me enjoy my funnybooks.

More Good News from Foreign Lands

Germany isn't the only country on my good side. Japan's up there, too. Here's a review of The Wheelman that appeared in Hayakawa's Mystery Magazine in Japan. The author, Shinji Takaramara, was kind enough to send a copy; he's working on the translation as we speak. (Huge thanks, Mr. T.) If any Secret Dead Blog readers are fluent in Japanese, click to enlarge and please feel free to let me know what the heck it says. I'm dying to know. (My guess: "The author's last name has way too many consonants. And here in Japan, we don't even have consonants.") Hayakawa's, by the way, is one incredible looking mag. Take it from me. a guy who once toiled in the glossy fields of Rodale and Conde Nast: this digest-sized, info-jammed, sleekly-designed monthly is a thing of beauty. It makes you want to learn Japanese just so you'll be able to subscribe. And I'll stick by that, even if the review turns out to be tearing me a new one.

Hey! What are you doing here?

Don't you know that George Pelecanos is guest blogging over at Sarah Weinman's place today? Grab a sixer, your favorite soul album (preferably on 8-track), and head on down the hall. George popped into say hello last night, and warned everybody he wasn't going to be doing any links or anything. But do we really need links when we've got the author of the widely-acclaimed (and brilliant) Night Gardener in the house? The guy who gave us Nick Stefanos, Derek Strange, Dmitri Karras and Marcus Clay, along with some of the best and most original crime novels of the past 15 years? We don't need no stinkin' links.

(I love how Sarah kept this secret until the last minute. Kind of like showing up to a college apartment party and hearing the host say, "Hey, I'd like you to meet my friend, Paris Hilton." Not that I'm comparing George Pelecanos to Paris Hilt... ah, never mind.)

Snakes On A Single

I have a new guilty pleasure. It is called "Snakes on a Plane."

No, not the Samuel L. Jackson flick. I'm talkin' about the theme song to the Samuel L. Jackson flick, which is called "Snakes on a Plane (Bring It)". It's only three minutes and nineteen seconds long, and it's the most gloriously cheesy summer soundtrack single you'll ever hear. Forget motherfucking snakes on the motherfucking plane. This song that sounds like the B-52s, Kelly Clarkson and Evanescence teamed up to write a James Bond theme while huffing spray paint fumes and licking toads. The result? Lines like:

Times are strange/we got a free upgrade for/snakes on a plane/fuck 'em, I don't care

Midtown/downtown/snakes on the block/I suggest your grab your ankles/and kiss your ass goodbye

Ladies and gentlemen/snakes are slitherin'/with dollar signs in they eyes/with tongues so reptilian

This industry's venomous/with cold-blooded sentiment

Those last two lines are from a mid-song, snake-themed "rap." No, I'm not motherfucking making this up. It's genius.

The song is bookended by lines from the film. The first, of course, is the oft-quoted Samuel L. Jackson classic: "That's it, I've had it with these motherfuckin' snakes..." etc. And second is another classy, if not as well-known, bon mot: "Hah hah hah! Who's your daddy now, bitch?"

This song contains everything I want from a totally mindless mid-August movie theme song: Choppy fuzzed-out guitars, chugging along. High-hats ticking like a time bomb. A chorus like the National Anthem on Free Beer Nite. And snakes. Plenty of motherfucking snakes on the motherfucking single.

And never mind that the chorus...

So kiss me goodbye/Honey, I'm going to make it out alive/So kiss me goodbye/I can see the venom in your eyes

... makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. I mean, break it down, bitch: If the narrator (female, in ths song) is trapped somewhere dangerous, how is her "honey" supposed to kiss her goodbye? And beyond that, why would there be venom in her honey's eyes? Wouldn't this "honey" be concerned about his lady making "it out alive"?

But I don't care about logic.

This song moves a part of me I don't know could be moved.

The song is credited to a mishmash of performers: "Cobra Starship" (somehow, I don't think Grace Slick is on board this particular Starship), with "The Academy Is..., Gym Class Heroes and The Sounds." I haven't heard of any of these bands. But I'm their newest, biggest fan.

"Snakes on a Plane (Bring It)." Buy it. Download it. Live the motherfucker.

Duane Swierczynski Is Dead

In Germany, at least. Let me explain.

First, the real good news portion: I've just made my first foreign fiction sale. The remarkably wise editors at Heyne, which is an imprint of Random House in Germany, has made an offer on the German rights to The Blonde (or, presumably, Das Blonde). No word on the pub date yet, but it will be a mass market paperback, and I'll be joining folks like Charlie Huston, which thrills me. This afternoon I'm raising a big-ass stein of German brew to my uber-agent, David Hale Smith, along with his gang of foreign rights agents, for making this happen.

Now, the weird news portion: They want me to use a different name.

This is not the first time I've encountered this. In the U.S., no one flinched when they saw a novel with the name "Duane Swierczynski" slapped on it. I thought St. Martin's might bring it up after they bought The Wheelman ("Wouldn't you prefer something a little less... Polish, perhaps?"), but nope. Not a peep.

When pimping the foreign rights to both Wheelman and The Blonde, however, more than a few UK and European editors thought my last name (and who knows? maybe the first, too) would be a problem. Don't get me wrong; I have no evidence that my last name prevented a sale. But I'm sure it didn't help matters, either.

(Quick aside: Years ago, fresh out of college, I was lucky enough to have lunch with Jamie Malanowski, then an editor at Spy magazine. I loved Spy, and idol-worshipped Malanowski, not only for his talent, but becaused he dared to show his Polish in a sea of Anglo-Saxon surnames. Malanowski bought me a burger and plate of frites, and told me he had three pieces of advice. The first? "Change your name.")

Anyway, back to Heyne: I asked David if keeping my name would be a deal-breaker. He seemed to think not, but they really, really, really seemed to want me to change it.

So, being the people-pleasing motherfucker that I am, I'm changing it.

Don't look at me that way. I'm not selling out. And actually, I'm really not changing my name at all. The name that will appear on the cover of Das Blonde?

"Duane Louis." Which is my first and middle name. See? I'm not changing a damn thing. I'm just truncating.

This is something I've considered doing before--way back when I was about to be added to my first magazine masthead (Philadelphia Magazine, July 1993). Back then, I balked. I wanted my real name there. Call it a Polish pride thing. When I started doing fiction, I figured I should keep the name, since it was already out there, you know? And I am proud to see my real name on the books I've had published.

But secretly, I've been jealous of the Starrs, Fords, Hustons, Colemans, Grans, Abbotts... hell, even the Gischlers of the world. Short, punchy names that everybody can spell and nobody mocks. (Except for maybe "Gischler.")

So this is an experiment. See how it flies.

Maybe I'll make it a rule that all of my foreign editions are published under the name "Duane Louis."

Even Poland. Just to mess with their minds.

And for the past 24 hours or so, I'm wondering... should I make a clean break with the next book and just truncate my name permanently? It'd be like pulling a John Cougar Mellencamp. Only in reverse.

Any opinions would be greatly appreciated. In the meantime, I'm going to back to work on the novel, no matter what name ends up being slapped on it.

Update: Certain German intelligence sources say that the correct translation is Die Blonde, which is just totally fucking cool. Can any German-speaking Secret Dead Blog readers confirm this? On the other hand, the German translation of "Duane Louis" turns out to be "David Terrenoire." So weird.

Self-Monitoring

When I wrote my editor's letter this past Tuesday (which appears in today's City Paper), I had no idea, of course, that this madness at Heathrow would be going down. Now that it has, let me amend my statement: I think surveillance devices that can detect liquid explosives are a fantastic idea. Let's put them everywhere. In airports. In delis. In bars. In my garage. In my sock drawer. On baby strollers. On babies, for crying out loud. Because really, there's no excuse for any civilian walking around with liquid explosives. Even if you live in a really shitty neighborhood. Fact is, liquid explosives just aren't effective in hand-to-hand urban combat. Flamethrowers, on the other hand, work like magic.

And while I'm thrilled this apparent plot was foiled. I hope this doesn't mean the airlines will permanently ban iPods and laptops and... please sweet Jesus, no... books from airplane cabins. Can you imagine a New York to L.A. run without so much as a battered paperback original to keep you company?

Move Along Now, Nothing to See Here

Literally. My apologies for the lack of posts. But as you may have guessed, I'm in full-on assault mode on the next novel. (Which is not called Castle #2. It does have a proper name. But I don't want to reveal it yet, lest Vin Diesel steal it.)

And the novel is shaping up to be even more violent than The Wheelman. Here's a sneak preview, plucked at random from the first draft:

A few months after they started dating, Paul confided in Molly how much he missed Grandma Stell’s potato salad. She said little; just smiled at him and listened, which is what she usually did. But inside, she had been thinking. And in the weeks that followed, Molly Abbott -- later to become Molly Lewis -- did some research. The following Easter, Molly presented her fianance with a Tupperware container. Inside was a potato salad that defied imagination. It tasted just like Grandma Stell’s, down to the sweetness of the mayonnaise and the cut of the celery. This potato salad was the surprise hit of the Lewis family. Molly was cemented into their hearts, now and forever more.

Okay, so maybe that isn't the most violent passage in the book. But trust me. It's really, really bloody.

What else what else...

Oh, there have been some really great -- albeit early -- reviews of The Blonde. Clair "Answer Girl" Lamb read it last week and dug it. Brian Lindenmuth posted a really sweet review over at FantasyBookSpot.Com. And over at The Rap Sheet, Jeff Pierce talks about how the cover could have been a whole lot sexier. For the record, I very much like the cover as is. But what do you guys think? Would a shapely bottom boost sales, you think?

(A voice shouts from the back row: No, Swierczy, but chopping 27 consonants out of your friggin' last name might help!)