Kicki Ass!

Today, the paperback edition of The Blonde (along with bonus novella "Redhead") hits finer bookstores everywhere. Secret Dead Blog highly recommends picking up at least three copies of this title: one for you, one for a friend, and one for pets and shut-ins.

Some of you, however, will only have to buy two copies. That's right... we have some contest winners!

The Secret Dead Blog Gaming Commission & Public Relations Board met for hours last night, and after much fevered debate (and broken cigars and spilled beers and even a sloppy, half-hearted fistfight) decided upon these winning entries for "Best Fake Redhead Blurb":

"Never has a book about the life and times of Ron Howard been so unabashedly sexual." —Shewan

"Not your usual bag of Polish pulp. Kicki the balls and ass! Get some." —Colman

(Honorable Mentions: David Terrenoire's "Shower With Your Wif'e's Friend" blurb; Mike MacLean's Tipper Gore/Hairy Man Ass blurb; Terrill Lankford's "blow" blurb; Felix Cruz's alternate universe blurb; Daniel Hatadi's duck blurb; Rickards' "Modern Hairstyling" blurb. You are all sick people. Oh, and special thanks to Tiffany, who wrote a blurb I really wish I could use.)

Big congrats to the winners, and thanks to everyone who wasted a few brain cells coming up with an entry. Winners: please shoot a mailing address to duane.swier AT verizon.net so Swierczy can get signin' and mailin'. We don't want him just sitting around here, drinking Red Bull and talking about RoboCop all damn day.

Your Monday Moment of Noir

"I lay there, thinking about the sunset, trying to remember what color it was. I don't mean the red, I mean the other shades. Once or twice I almost remembered; it was like a name you once had known but now had forgotten, whose size and letters and cadence you remembered but could not quite assemble. Through the legs of my cot I could feel the ocean quivering against the pilings below. It rose and fell, rose and fell, went out and came back, went out and came back... I was glad when the siren blew, waking us up, calling us back to the floor."

They Shoot Horses, Don't They?
by Horace McCoy
(Simon & Schuster, 1935)

Secret Dead Blog Recommends: The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

"Big as a telephone book" is a cliche, but you don't understand. This is as big as a telephone book. It is not a book to be carried; it is a book to be transported. When you open it somewhere in the middle, the weight falls on your hands and makes you think you're holding two separate books. Fact is, The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps was originally published as three separate books, each of them big and fat and glorious on their own. But Otto Penzler and Black Lizard have done something crazy. They've defied the laws of book binding and time and space and glued these three books--over 1150 pages of classic pulp stories--into one physical object. It is too big for your briefcase. You're going to have to bring a backpack, or just haul it around in your arms. Which might be useful in certain parts of town, because this slab of hardboiled noir pulp goodness is thick enough to stop a bullet. (In fact, a bullet may only make it two-thirds of the way through before stopping at Laura Lippman's introduction to the "Dames" portion of the book.) That is, if you can lift this sucker fast enough to catch that bullet. I'm telling you, it's heavy. Heavy as a telephone book.

And I haven't even told you about the treasures inside: a new, never-before-published Hammett. Three Chandler stories. Three Woolriches. Two complete novels. (Two!) Both Cains (James M. and Paul). Horace McCoy. Steve Fisher. And dozens of unfamiliar names that will thrill you, because even if you've been a serious student of pulps and pulp anthologies and pulp studies, chances are you're going to discover someone/something new.

And there are illustration all the hell over the place. Classic Black Mask-style pulp art, plucked right from the pages. You could flip through the book, just savoring the art, and it'd be worth the cover price alone.

So yeah, The Big Book of Pulps. I was lucky enough to receive an early copy of this book, I've been gnawing on it like a starving dog with a 76-ounce steak. Hands down, it's my favorite book of the year. It makes me happy just knowing this book exists.

It's out November 6. Yes, you definitely need a copy.

Hardboiled Fridays!

"As Polynice slashed at me, I fell back and went through the glass and out the apartment window. I fell hard and fast, hitting the soggy pavement two stories below with a resounding crash and a shower of glass. The chair shattered, a couple of bones broke, and I lost some skin, but I was alive. I shook the ropes and shattered wood off and ran back in the building at full speed."

Guns, Drugs and Monsters
by Steve Niles
(IDW Publishing, 2002)

The Cable Guy

Remember a few weeks back, when I said I'd be writing a monthly comic for Marvel? And a few of you tried to guess which one?

Well, at long last, Wizard Magazine lets the mutant cat out of the bag...

An Inspirational Message from David Goodis

"I do not hold to the premise that a writer must live his own story. If I did, I would be writing about a fourth-rate football player, a frustrated racing driver, an unsuccessful landscape gardener and an unhappy automobile mechanic."

—David Goodis, in an author bio accompanying his short story, "Caravan to Tarim," in Collier's Weekly, October 1946

Secret Dead Blog Contest: Blurb Me!

Yesterday a big box of Blonde trade paperbacks arrived (out in stores next Tuesday!) and as is custom here at Secret Dead Blog, I want to give a few of them away. Remember: this isn't your grandmother's paperback reprint. This edition contains a brand-new, never-before-seen, 13,000 word novella called "Redhead," which is a direct sequel to the crazy shit that happens in The Blonde.

But since it's brand-new, and never-before-seen... and almost nobody reviews paperback reprints... or weird-ass stories the author stuck in the back... I won't have any snazzy "Redhead" blurbs from the trades.

Which is where you come in.

The rules of this contest? Simple. Write a fake blurb for "Redhead" and post it in the comments section below. Yes, sight-unseen. (Unless you've somehow scored an early copy.) The blurb can be positive, negative, funny, dark, or just plain bizarre. It can play around with the fact that you haven't read a single word of "Redhead." In fact, it probably should. The contest will run until this Friday at noon (EST); the coolest, funniest blurbs will win free signed copies of the new edition of The Blonde.

Easy, right? May the best fake-blurbist win.

Man, You Should Have Seen the Kick in Edgar Allan Poe

Yes, the Poe Wars are still raging. Yes, Ed Pettit refuses to surrender. Today, our favorite hardcore book nerd took his crusade to public radio: he was a guest on Marty Moss-Coane's RadioTimes at WHYY. You can listen to the whole thing right here.

And while you weren't looking, the war went international. German crime site Krimiblog.de mentioned the Poe War this past weekend. I can't read much of it; maybe Duane Louis could help me translate.

Update (8:01 p.m.): Holy fucking shit—looks like Ed's bringing the Poe Wars to NPR's Morning Edition or All Things Considered next week.

Your Monday Moment of Noir

"All at once he flung his cigarette down, with a long overhand shoulder-roll that had in it both exasperation and final, wearied capitulation. Even the paper of the cigarette had been a little soggy, made it difficult to draw on it satisfactorily. Abruptly he struck out from the doorway, started walking the long diagonal toward his own doorway—and the figure waiting in it so complacently, so sure that in the end he would have to do just this."

Fright
By George Hopley (Cornell Woolrich)
(Rinehart, 1950)

Note: Now available as a sweet new paperback from Hard Case Crime under Woolrich's own name.

Wilkes-Barre, PA Is Burning

Or at least that's what it looked like, winding down the side of the mountain, looking down into the Wyoming Valley. I told the Bride: "Ten bucks that's Genetti's."

Thank God, of course, it wasn't, because that really would have put a damper on the first-ever Author Fest 2007, presented by the Luzerne County Library System and the Tudor Bookshop, and held at Genetti's Best Western Hotel in downtown Wilkes-Barre, PA. Which was a lot of fun. I met a bunch of cool new writers, as well as some of my heroes (Stephen Hunter, William Lashner). The highlight was the cameo appearance of Mr. White, Dave White's father. He graciously said that "Marty" will do, but c'mon. Like I can call him anything other than "Mr. White"? Dave, meanwhile, in a shameless bit of self-promotion, wore a white sweater-type thing. I mean, really. Did Stephen Hunter show up with a rifle and orange vest? I think not.

I also had the chance to hang with Keith Gilman, winner of the 2007 St. Martin's/PWA first novel contest. (And his father, Mr. Gilman.) I first met Keith at GoodisCon earlier in the year, and rumor has it he'll be at next spring's NoirCon. Very much looking forward to reading his winning novel.

The only slight bummer was that neither paperback copies of The Blonde nor hardcovers of The Crimes of Dr. Watson were out yet (I always seem to get invited to these cool events just before my new books appear). But some brave souls pre-ordered copies and asked me to sign book plates, somehow trusting that the forthcoming title won't completely suck.

Thanks to everyone who ventured out to the event—which was sold-out, by the way—and who stopped up to say hello.

(Oh, and the fire? Just an abandoned warehouse. Though my second guess was "my mother-in-law's kitchen.")

Update (10/22/07, 8:02 p.m.): Yep. It was an abandoned warehouse nobody liked much.

Hardboiled Fridays!

Ned Beaumont was driven back against the wall. The back of his head struck the wall first, then his body crashed flat against the wall, and he slid down the wall to the floor.

Rosy-cheeked Rusty, still holding his cards at the table, said gloomily, but without emotion: "Jesus, Jeff, you'll croak him."

Jeff said: "Him?" he indicated the man at his feet by kicking him not especially hard on the thigh. "You can't croak him. He's tough. He's a tough baby. He likes this."

The Glass Key
By Dashiell Hammett
(Alfred A. Knopf, 1931)

For Appearances' Sake

After a long time slackin' off, I finally have some reading/signing-type things on the horizon.

This Sunday, October 21, I'll be at Author Fest in downtown Wilkes-Barre, PA, along with fellow Philadelphian William Lashner, the kick-ass Stephen Hunter, and Paul Giamatti sound-a-like Dave White, among others. Tickets are $16, but you get a $5 coupon off a book, snacks and drinks, and merriment all around. If you live anywhere near Northeast Pennsylvania, I hope you can stop by.

On Saturday, November 3, I'll be pulling a double-header. First, at 3 p.m., I'll be honored to introduce Jamie Malanowski at a reading of his new novel, The Coup. (The tagline: "Godwin Pope is Vice Presisdent of the United States. He wants to move up.") Malanowski—a former SPY staffer and current Playboy editor—is a longtime journalism hero of mine, and not just because he kept his Polish surname. Catch him at Robin's Bookstore, 108 S. 13th Street in downtown Philly.

A few hours later, I'll be putting on a tux (and the Bride, a dress) and headed to the Free Library of Philadelphia's Borrowers' Ball. This is a private event, unless you want to a.) donate a lot of money to the Free Library, and b.) put on a tux or gown. I'm there as a local author guest, and yes, my tux will be a rental. But this will be our third Borrowers' Ball, and every year is a blast. It's kind of like prom for book nerds.

Further out... it looks like we'll be throwing a Blonde/Crimes of Dr. Watson launch party at the Port Richmond Bookstore on November 18 at 2 p.m. (That is, if the neighborhood will have me.) More details to come, but I'm sure it will involve books, good food, beer and wine. And yes, you are invited.

Finally, on December 1 I'll be flying out to Murder By the Book in Houston, Texas to blab about "Redhead," The Crimes of Dr. Watson, and maybe even my Moon Knight one-shot, "Date Night," which will be out by then.

Hope to you see you in one/some/all of these places...

An Inspirational Message from David Goodis

"I'm 49, and my first novel was published when I was 22. It was nothing, and the same applies to most of the 16 others published since then."


David Goodis, in a letter to William David Sherman, August 16, 1966.

(From the Yale Collection of American Literature, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, by way of Lou Boxer.)

The Poe Wars Rage On

Almost two weeks have passed since Ed Pettit made a claim for Edgar Allan Poe in the pages of the City Paper, and the ensuing battle seems to show no sign of letting up.

Last week, Baltimore Sun columnist Laura Vozzella pretty much swiped the thesis of Laura Lippman's rebuttal (well come on, she did) then ran with it, taking cheap shots at Philly in the process. We're talkin' cheap, even for Baltimore.

Then, bloggger A.J. Daulerio at Philadelphia Magazine asked City Paper if we'd care to comment, and we did; managing editor Brian Hickey said he "expected nothing less from the syphilis capital of the universe."

This weekend Vozzella defended her town, claiming that Baltimore was only fourth on the list of syphilis capitals of the world.

And then last night Carlin Romano of the Philadelphia Inquirer jumped into the mix, offering up an original poem entitled "The War Over E.A.P." as well as a citywide poll: Should Edgar Allan Poe be exhumed and reburied here in Philadelphia, or left to rot in B'Mo?

Pick a side while you can, my friends. I have a feeling this shit's about to turn as dark and murky as a cask of amontillado.

Your Monday Moment of Noir

"Finally Hart climbed back into the cot, propped the pillows to make himself comfortable, sucked smoke into his mouth, filled himself up with the smoke and it seep out between this teeth.He wondered why he wasn't sick. He thought maybe he was beginning to get tough. He told himself it didn't really make any difference, because he didn't give a hang, but underneath he knew he did give a hang and it made a lot of difference and no matter what he kept telling himself he was really afraid of what was happening inside him."

Black Friday
By David Goodis
(Lion, 1954)

New Coolness from Hard Case

This weekend Charles Ardai leaked word about two forthcoming Hard Case Crime titles. First up, in July 2008: No House Limit, a novel by pulp maser Steve Fisher, who hasn't seen the light of print (correct me if I'm wrong) since Black Lizard reprinted I Wake Up Screaming back in the early 1990s. Count me in.

But I'm especially excited about the second title:

Later in '08, we'll be publishing a brand new book called GUN WORK by the fine horror novelist and screenwriter David J. Schow -- who, entirely coincidentally (I didn't know this till after we bought the book), was once married to Christa Faust. (All together now: "It's a small world, after all...") Schow's years in Hollywood show through in GUN WORK -- it's one of the most action-packed novels we've had the pleasure of publishing, and man oh man can the guy write a great gunfight! But it's not "just" a shoot-'em-up -- this is an intense story with a lead character in a perilous predicament, and the emotional tension runs high from beginning to end. I'd be shocked if this one didn't end up on film some day -- but you'll be able to read it here first...

I've been a Schow-head since the late 1980s (color me Splatterpunk), and strangely enough, just went through a Schow jag this summer, re-reading his story collections Seeing Red and Lost Angels, as well as Crypt Orchids, now available in a nice trade paperback edition from Babbage Press. (All highly recommended.) I even just nabbed a copy of Schow's second novel The Shaft, which was only published in the UK. Can't wait to see what he's cooked up for Hard Case...

I Had the Same Reaction, Too, When I Learned That Dave White Would Be Doing a Reading in Philadelphia

(Courtesy Ed Pettit.)

Senseless

(Here's my editor's letter from tomorrow's City Paper. Simulcast at www.citypaper.net.)

Tuesday morning, Oct. 9. It's covered in flowers now.

Bouquets of tulips and lilies wrapped in thin sheets of paper, or in clear plastic. And stuffed animals — brown teddy bears, pink apes. An American flag, draped over some of the flowers.

You don't often see a makeshift memorial at an ATM machine.

•••

Earlier, Tuesday. The Daily News reports that the guy who reportedly confessed to the crimes has robbed banks before. He served seven years for a string of heists in the early '90s.

Now he has three kids, all under the age of 4. Works hard, according to his neighbors. They don't understand it. Quiet, but he didn't seem the type. They never seem the type.

On a window of his apartment in the Far Northeast, there's a sticker warning people that the premises are protected by Brinks Home Security.

•••

Saturday afternoon, Oct. 6. My wife withdraws some money from the ATM built into the exterior of the bank, just across the driveway from where it happened. She wasn't sure she'd come back here, but it is the closest branch of our bank, and it seems silly to drive farther.

Mid-transaction, some teenage kids walk up, looking behind her. "That where it happened?"

My wife nods.

"So cool."

She looks at them. "There is nothing cool about it. Two men were killed there."

They skulk away.

•••

Late Friday, Oct. 5. Police arrest a man who allegedly confesses, tells them where to find the murder weapon. It's buried in a small hole under an industrial park, beneath a stone.

Police credit tips from citizens, including an auto dealer in Bucks County, who said the alleged killer bought his getaway car with a bad check.

•••

Early Friday morning. Television news vans still crowd the small parking lot, broadcast antennas thrust high up in the sky.

The entire front of the ATM is still cranked open, as if lifting its own front panel in surrender. Take what you want. Just don't hurt anybody.

You can see splotches that look like bloodstains on the bottom of the machine.

•••

The day before. Thursday, Oct. 4. Thirty minutes after it happened.

My wife, kids and I drive by, see the flashing lights. It's hard to tell what's going on. My first thought: car accident.

But no. Something else.

Flashing red everywhere. Cops on the roof of the OTB joint across the lot. Yellow crime scene tape blocking off the area. People standing, pointing and murmuring.

Two bodies under white sheets.

Just a minute before, a few blocks away on Bleigh Street, I ask my wife if she'd mind stopping at the ATM.

•••

Thursday morning. A little after 8 a.m.

It happens.

Five shots, in a matter of seconds.

Usually a bank robber will threaten you. Give them the money, nobody gets hurt.

This guy didn't give the guards a chance. He shifted right into hurt.

•••

Wednesday night. Two retired cops — now working for a security company in Pennsauken — go to bed for the last time.

•••

Before all of this: There's a man who decides he needs money.

He knows the daily routine at the Wachovia Bank in the Roosevelt Mall. He knows how the ATM cash delivery run works. Knows one guy stays in the truck, two guys work the machine.

At some point, this man comes up with the idea to overwhelm to the two guards working the machine. Yeah, that's the way to do it.

Later still — maybe it's the night before, maybe it's in that split second when he runs toward them on Tuesday morning — the man decides that the best way to do this is to shoot the two guards. Just squeeze the trigger until they go down.

When he comes up with this plan doesn't matter.

Something in his brain clicks, and suddenly, it all makes perfect sense to him.

An Inspirational Message from David Goodis

"Nothing I did in the Hollywood studios is worth mentioning. Very few of the major characters in my novels operate on a criminal level. They live in neighborhoods of low real estate value, which is a different thing entirely."

David Goodis, in a letter to William David Sherman, November 11, 1966.

(From the Yale Collection of American Literature, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, by way of Lou Boxer.)

Your Monday Moment of Noir

"The winter came, and dragged right through, and went again. You knew it was winter because it was colder, and the skies when you saw them were nearly always covered over, and it got dark early. Those were the ways you had of knowing now. Those were the things prison couldn't hide from you. It could take everything else. It could take away your touch with life. It could stop you from seeing and hearing and feeling the pulse of the world. It could kill the inside of you. It could make you stay still when everything inside you was pushing you to get moving. It could make you move when everything inside you was tugging you to stay still."

Kiss the Blood Off My Hands
By Gerald Butler
(Dell, 1946)

What I Saw at the Pulp Fiction Expo

Today I hit the NYC Paperback & Pulp Fiction Expo -- Gary Lovisi's annual festival of all things good and holy in this world -- with Ed Pettit. We left Philly a little after 8 a.m. and made it to Manhattan by 9:44 a.m. (Gotta love the non-traffic on a Sunday morning.) By 10 we had slipped the front desk a pair of fins and made our way to the main room, which looked like this:


But wait. You really can't appreciate the lurid, yellowed, slightly-mildewed splendor of a pulp paperback show until you venture a little closer:


The trick is to know how many vintage paperbacks you can buy before your wife digs up the name of a good divorce lawyer, then subtract $50.

Nonetheless, Ed and I did some damage. He found the steal of the show: a $5 copy of Charles Williams's The Long Saturday Night (the only other copies I saw were $25 and $30). Fuckin' bastard. But I found some fairly sweet titles, too, including They Don't Dance Much by James Ross (which Joe Lansdale has recommended in a few places over the years); Prelude to a Certain Midnight, by Gerald Kersh; Very Cold For May, by William P. McGivern (Philly represent!); The Fifth Grave, by Jonathan Latimer (to make up for the copy I almost snagged at Chicago B'con two years ago but missed by two seconds); Go Home, Stranger, by Charles Williams; Everybody Does It, by James M. Cain (a paperback collecting "Career in C-Major" and "The Embezzler"); and the true prize of the day, Somebody's Done For, by David Goodis (the last novel he ever wrote).

And celebrities? Oh, yeah. There were celebrities. Such as these two familiar characters:


Jason Starr (right) was there to sign copies of Slide, his newest Hard Case Crime collaboration with Ken Bruen; Charles Ardai was there to point out some cool finds in the $1 boxes. (And okay, to promote Hard Case.) Charles was also giving away cover flats of two hot upcoming HCC titles: Money Shot, by Christa Faust, and the Robert Bloch double novel, Spiderweb and Shooting Star. At one point, I told Charles about an obscure British crime novel by Gerald Butler called Kiss the Blood Off My Hands (really worth checking out, if you can track it down). Charles thought I said Kiss the Blow Off My Hands. Which then morphed into Lick the Blow Off My Hands, and then finally, an hour later, Lick the Blow From My Septum, which I intend to pitch to Charles a few weeks from now, when he forgets this conversation.

But the celebrity I was really dying to meet was Jack Ketchum (a.k.a. Dallas Mayr). Huge fucking fan here. Off Season is on my Top 10 list of Favorite Novels Ever, and his name triggers an automatic purchase. So like a raving fanboy, I not only asked Dallas to autograph both Off Season and Offspring (the sequel), but to also pose with my large Polish self for a photograph:


I found that copy of Off Season, by the way, just 10 minutes before Dallas showed up to sign. It's the original Ballantine paperback from 1981, which I've wanted for years now. (I already own the Overlook Connection Press expanded edition, as well as the Leisure Horror reprint.) Yes, the Paperback Gods were smiling upon me today.

Meanwhile, the Elder Gods were smiling upon Mr. Pettit, as he lucked upon a copy of his favorite magazine:


That's Cthulhu Sex, for the uninitiated. In this photo, Ed has just turned to the centerfold, where Y'ggoth, Devourer of the Babies, is chained to a bed, and slathered in... oh, never mind. This a family blog. You'll have to read the issue for yourself.

Good times, good times. I highly recommend next year's show, if you're anywhere near New York. Just don't go finding $5 Charles Williams novels before I do, or I'll have to kick your ass.

This Happened...

... just a few blocks away from where we live. It's our local bank branch, in fact. And we drove by about a half hour after it went down.

My heart goes out to the families of the guards who were killed. The Bride often takes our kids there first thing in the morning, whenever she needs to hit an ATM or deposit a check, and would regularly watch the armored guards, doing their jobs, protecting the morning deposit.

The four perpetrators are still at large.

Update (11:10 a.m.): According to the Philadelphia Inquirer, police are seeking only one gunman.

Update (Friday, Oct. 5): The Philadelphia Daily News has the whole story.

Update (Sunday, Oct. 7): There is a suspect in custody, and reportedly, he has confessed.

For Love of Edgar

Mystery fans/goth nerds/teenagers who wear too much black eyeshadow... this is the City Paper you've been waiting for. Ed Pettit makes a strong case for why Edgar Allan Poe should henceforth be known as a Philadelphia writer. Meanwhile, Laura Lippman offers a hilarious rebuttal on behalf of her hometown, which currently lays claim to Mr. Poe. And you really need to click on this cover to see it in its full glory. (Yes, life at an alt-newsweekly sometimes involves having a Poe impersonator bound and dumped into the trunk of a Lincoln Town Car, down by the river, under the glow of a full moon.) Since it's our Fall Book Quarterly, you'll also find a bunch of fiction and nonfiction reviews. Dig in!

Taking it to the MAX

Got a buck? Are you anywhere near a comic shop? Then stop in and pick up Marvel's MAX Sampler #1, which is a 32-page preview of the goodness that is to come from Marvel Comics' "adult" line. There's a preview of Foolkiller, along with an interview with its writer, Gregg Hurwitz. Garth Ennis talks about his forthcoming World War I actionfest, War Is Hell: The First Flight of the Phantom Eagle. David Lapham talks about Terror, Inc. (my new favorite horror/thriller comic). Richard Corben gets all H.P. Lovecraft on yo' ass.

And yep, there's a short interview with your friendly neighborhood Pole, talking about "Force of Nature," a one-shot comic I wrote that will appear as Punisher MAX Annual 2008 sometime next year.

The Punisher is, hands down, my favorite Marvel character. Has been since 2001, when Garth Ennis reinvented Frank Castle in a stunning run of issues within the Marvel Knights imprint... and then did it all again with the new MAX version. All of it is required reading, especially if you like your revenge stories absolutely pitch black. (New to the Punisher? Pick up the first trade collection: In the Beginning. It's got everything you need.)

So to be given a shot at a Punisher MAX story... yeah, major fuckin' dream come true. "Force of Nature" was my first comic script, and I can't tell you how giddy I was that it happened to be a Punisher story. There's no release date yet, but you can check out seven pages of kick-ass artwork (from Michel Lacombe) in Max Sampler #1, along with some yapping from me.

Buried in the interview (and alluded to in an earlier comment on this blog) is the news that I'll be writing a monthly super-hero comic, starting off next spring. I can't tell you who; my editor (Axel Alonso) would have me hunted down and killed if I gave even the tiniest hint. But I think you're going to dig it. Stay tuned; all will be revealed in a few weeks.

An Inspirational Message from David Goodis

"At first I wanted to write very solemnly and handle only the most important issues. But of course the most important issue of all is putting food in one's belly and in order to do that I deviated from the track most of the time and complied with the wishes of various editors and publishers. I admit this was weakness. I should have taken a job digging ditches, and because I was too lazy to do that, I threw away a lot of valuable time."

David Goodis, in a letter to William David Sherman, August 16, 1966.

(From the Yale Collection of American Literature, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, by way of Lou Boxer.)

Secret Dead Blog Recommends: Dark Harvest by Norman Partridge

It's October, and man, have I got a book for you. Scan the back cover copy of Dark Harvest (Tor, $12.95) and you'll see phrases like "Halloween, 1963" and "small Midwestern town" and "he rises from the cornfields." You might think: Okay, I'm in Ray Bradbury country, and that's a nice place to be this time of year. But no. It's not nice at all. Because Dark Harvest isn't about some quiet horrors playing out in the shadows of the American heartland; it's a full-tilt, mash-the-accelerator-into-the floorboards horror novel that you'll either read in one gulp... or clearly, you don't have a pulse. I don't want to go too much into the plot, because the joy of this short, moody shocker is enjoying the twists and turns as Partridge throws 'em at you. He grabs you from the first paragraph:

"A Midwestern town. You know its name. You were born there."

And from there, you'll be strapped in for 169 pages of the best horror movie you've never seen, trapped in a town with the strangest rite of passage you'll ever encounter.

I've been a Norman Partridge fan since reading his stories in Cemetery Dance and the various Best New Horror anthologies over the years. (Not to mention his two Jack Baddalach hardboiled crime novels, which are not to be missed.) But this one really made my jaw drop. Like any great novel, it'll ruin you for many others for a while.

Your Monday Moment of Noir

"Then I noticed an odd thing. The rain had started to bounce. It fell on the shiny black pavement and leaped into the air like tiny pellets of white shot. It had turned to sleet. That settled it. I was soaked all the way to the skin and I'd freeze to death before morning if I didn't get inside somewhere. A long-shot chance was better than none at all. I pulled the coat collar tighter about my face, yanked down the brim of my hat, and crossed the street."

Man on the Run
By Charles Williams
(Gold Medal, November 1958)