Bouchercon Day Two: Sex, Drugs and Fried Walleye

It's 7:03 here in Madison. Sunshine is gently snoring in the background. I'm up because 7 in Philly time is actually 8, and the Bride and I pretty much never sleep beyond 7 a.m. There's no excuse for Sunshine, though, because right now it's about noon or so in Scotland. Like, hello... L-A-Z-Y...

Yesterday was cool for a multitude of reasons:

1. The "Three Guys Talking" panel with Ken Bruen, William Kent Krueger and Don Winslow was a blast from start to finish. The conversation started out with sex, quickly devolved into drugs, and then hit agents and money and editors along the way. Winslow, once and for all, put to rest the rumor that writes S&M erotica novels under the name... well, Don Winslow. It's some other Don Winslow. He swears.

2. I ran into Busted Flush impressario David Thompson in the hallway and he gave me a cool Fifth of Bruen t-shirt. We also decided, on the spot, that the t-shirt for Damn Near Dead shouldn't be a t-shirt at all, but a bowling or old man polo shirt.

3. Jon and Ruth Jordan gave me copies of their Bouchercon mix CD, which are terrific. Jon and I might be fellow comic book geeks, but I think I share Ruth's taste in music. (I thought nobody else in the world liked Elvis Costello's "The Other Side of Summer.")

4. More B'Con goers asked for copies of The Blonde! Holy crap, people... you really do read this thing! I have exactly six copies left, if anybody's interested. One is earmarked for my BFF, Christin "Timberlake" Kuretich. But the rest are fair game.

5. Early in the morning, I ran into Jeff "The Other Male Erotica Writer from San Diego" Shelby, who was suffering a wicked (note: subtle plug) hangover, courtesy Lori Armstrong. Later that morning I ran into Lori Armstrong, who claimed to be suffering a hangover courtesy Jeff Shelby. Karen Olson plead the fifth.

6. After tossing back some coffee with Theresa "T" Schwegel and Megan "Don't Call Me Meg" Abbott, Sunshine and I parted ways. He joined Megan for the "Four Olives and a Twist" panel, while I follow the nerd herd into Jon Jordan's excellent comics panel. Max Allan Collins had some jaw-dropping war stories (after the success of Road to Perdition, everybody called, begging him for another graphic novel... until they learned that artwork actually costs money). Gary Phillips revealed that he's a Marvel man, and in his neighborhood, the surest way to get your ass kicked would be to pick up a D.C. comic. Denise Mina explained the true appeal of writing Hellblazer: "It's all about Catholicism and cigarettes." And finally, David Morrell talked about how he landed the gig to write Captain America: namely, by writing two spec scripts. Yes, two. David Frickin' Morrell!

7. Sunshine and I were reunited (cue Peaches and Herb song) just in time to have lunch with David Thompson, David "Hale" Smith, T, Stacey Cochran and Declan Hughes. For some reason, much of the conversation revolved around 80s music and C. Thomas Howe.

8. We left lunch early to meet Sandra "Voice of Killer Year" Ruttan and Bill "Lost Dog" Cameron for beers and a serious round of Dave White mockery. (Boo! Dave Boo!). Problem was, we found it hard to keep a straight face after saying things like, "I was more concerned with the safety of the goat, frankly" and "His stench is legendary." At one point, actual beer came out of my actual nose. Holy Christ in a chicken basket. Look for the results on Sandra's blog at some point, unless she comes to her senses.

9. OkaY, Let me say itAGAIN FOR THe record: UK keyboards fucking sUCK.

10. Before we knew it, it was time for the Minotaur party, which was held in a former church. Like this stopped me from drinking scotch? I think not.

11. And finally... the walleye. Friday night is apparently fish fry night in Madison, so how could I resist? I found myself trying to clog my aorta one forkful of fried fish at a time at a table with DHS, T, Sunshine, Dr. Sean Doolittle, Mitch Bartoy, James Patrick "Pat" Hunt and a friend of T's who wore a knit cap. (Sorry! I missed your name.)

12. At some point in the evening, I informed Sunshine that he had to write two plot germs for this (Saturday) morning's panel. Now mind you: Sunshine's not even on this panel. But he did it anyway. That's the kind of guy he is. (Easy.) Thing with Sunshine is, he never takes these assignments lightly, and he stayed up until 1 a.m. working on four sentences, pretty much burning through all of the paper in the hotel memo pad.

Speaking of Sunshine, it's time for our usual morning check-in.

Me: "How's it hanging, Sunshine?"

Sunshine: "[moaning, grunting]... ardent mischief... young whippersnapper..."

I think somebody stayed up too late...

Bouchercon, Day One: The Adventure of the Pussy Snorkel

The thing about Bouchercon is that it's very hard to go anywhere. Take five steps and you're bound to run into someone you know, have traded e-mails with, or read their blog. And if two people stand still long enough in a public place, then they'll naturally attract more people who will start talking. It's kind of like watching mold grow at hyperspeed.

Not that this is a bad thing. I mean, hell, that's why we're here. But it is kind of funny to look up from a conversation and realize that you meant to head to the book room, oh, two hours ago...

The "X-treme Writing" panel was a success, by all accounts. Bill Crider was one of the first in the room, and for a while, I thought it would only be Bill Crider in the room. But soon the place was nearly packed, and I lobbed the first question at Sunshine:

"Do you care to tell us about your t-shirt?"

For the first day of Bouchercon, Sunshine had chosen to wear a Pussy Snorkel t-shirt ("Don't Go Down Without It"), a gift from Dave "Giamatti" White. For those of you who hadn't read it, Sunshine's Kiss Her Goodbye features said Pussy Snorkel, and the reference has taken on a life of its own.

So Sunshine, God love 'em, was forced to describe the Pussy Snorkel to a room full of unsuspecting Bouchercon-goers.

I love doing this to Sunshine.

Fellow panelists Michael Robotham, Chris Knopf and Russel "Badger" McLean were smart and funny, and made the whole damn thing a joy.

Afterward it was time to hit the signing table across the room. I am very happy to report that about 12 faithful Secret Dead Blog readers approached me to ask to "spend a night with a blonde" and received signed arcs of my next one. Huge thanks to all of you.

I still have more copies, and will be loading up my green book bag today. So don't be shy.

The rest of the day was a fun, frenzied blur of catching up and hanging out. I finally met Tribe, writer, blogger and Gutter-Flasher extraordinarie, along with his lovely wife, who was introduced as "Mrs. Tribe." Shannon Clute from "Behind the Black Mask" could be seen snagging vintage paperbacks by the armload in the book room. The lovely lady Weinman was there, of course, along with Ed "Bat Segundo" Champion. Sunshine finally met Brian Thornton, even though they'd been trading e-mails and opinions on Rara-Avis for years. Steve Brewer was knocking back a beer in the MWA hospitality room, preparing to launch his latest Bubba Mabry novel, Monkey Man. We stopped Lee Goldberg on the hotel staircase and started a conversation that eventually included Gary Phillips, Wallace Stroby, Maggie Griffin and Lee Child. (See what I mean about hyperspeed mold?) Later, Joe Konrath stopped Sunshine to tell him how much he enjoyed Fade to Blonde. "Yes, Fade to Blonde was excellent,"Sunshine said. Joe stopped, then said, "You didn't write that, did you." Sunshine: "No, I didn't." But all turned out fine; Joe indeed had read Kiss Her Goodbye, and had enjoyed that, too.

On the way here, Sunshine and I agreed that we'd spend at least an hour or two each day writing. I'm on the home stretch of my fourth novel, which has the working title of Severance Package; Sunshine is also wrapping up his fourth novel, which has a title I can't reveal.

We were so freakin' tired, though, that we ended up only futzing around with our manuscripts for about an hour or so. I spent most of that time changing three character names via find and replace. I think Sunshine did some web surfing for new improved models of the pussy snorkel.

Okay, it's almost eight here, Madison time, and I want to catch the Ken Bruen/Don Winslow panel at nine. Sunshine's still asleep on the cot. Should we wake him up, see how's doing?

Me: "How's it going Sunshine?"

Sunshine: "Forty seven. And a skinned cat."

I think Sunshine needs coffee.

Bouchercon, Day Zero

Don't fall over. I'm actually blogging from my Bouchercon hotel room in Madison, Wisconsin, thanks to Sunshine's laptop (with a wireless modem) and the free wireless access in the hotel.

Sunshine's laptop is great, but it's a fucking British PC, with keys in the wrong place. I've accidentally hit the caps locks a hundred times now. And who the fuck thought it was a good idea to put the double quotes over the goddamned 2?

aNYWAY.... (fuck! see?)... It's about 7:55 here in the Badger State. Sunshine and I had fun getting here. Our van to the hotel was a half hour late. Our plane to Chicago was delayed by almost two hours. Which meant we missed our connection to Madison, and had to find a new flight. Which was also delayed. And then sat on the runway longer than the actual flight to Madison. Oh, and then our luggage was lost for like, a half hour. All told, we arrived four hours later than we thought we would. Sunshine took it in stride. I think he expects these things.

After checking in, we wandered up to the Madison Concourse Hotel, where B'Con is being held. It didn't take long to run into some usual suspects: the lovely Donna Moore, the... um, lovely Reed Coleman. David Corbett. Jon and Ruth Jordan. Laura "Hitch" Lippman. Twist Phelan, who made fun of David's shoes. Then we dragged that Russel McLean guy out to State Street for coffee and/or beer. We failed to find a place that offered both, so we settled on coffee. Well, Sunshine and Russel settled. I sulked.

So that was yesterday. I woke up in a state of panic about moderating the "X-Treme Writing" panel with Sunshine, Russel, Michael Robotham and Chris Knopf. (Today at noon, in case you're reading this from B'Con.) This is par for the course for me: whenever I have an appearance or signing, I wake up absolutely terrified. I should be okay after my third diet Coke.

Sunshine just rolled out of bed. Let's ask him a question.

Me: "How's it going, Sunshine?"

Sunshine: "It's good. I'm just putting my pants in a bag. Don't turn around now, or you'll get an eyeful of Scottish cock."

Me: "Um.... okay."

Time to get ready for the day's activities...

Special Bouchercon Offer! No, Seriously!

Right now, Al "Sunshine" Guthrie is making his way across the Atlantic Ocean. Possibly in a plane. Possibly on the backs of dolphins, skipping and jumping across the icy waters of the North Atlantic. You just never know with Sunshine.

Anyway, after a night in Philly, we're headed off to Madison for Bouchercon. Last week, the Bride mailed a box of ARCs of The Blonde to my hotel. Provided that they arrived in one piece, I'll have a limited number of copies on me at all times. Want one? All you have to do is walk up to me and say:

"Hi, Duane. I want to spend the night with a Blonde."

And I'll hand over a signed copy. Yours to keep (or eBay) forever. Offer limited to people who haven't already received an ARC. Otherwise, no purchase necessary. (Well, there's the purchase of airfare to Madison, and a hotel room, and the B'Con registration fee... but you know what I mean.)

Damn Near Dead is a Bestseller!

No, not on the New York Times, USA Today, or any of those other so-called "bestseller lists." Feh. I'm talking about the Independent Mystery Bookseller Association, which reports that Damn Near Dead was the sixth bestselling paperback in August, based on sales figures from fine indie mystery bookstores everywhere.

Thanks to the contributors who made this anthology a must-read, and all of the booksellers who somehow found a way to hand-sell geriatric noir.

If you haven't picked up your copy yet, and you happen to be heading to Bouchercon, no worries. Busted Flush Press mastermind David Thompson will be there with a ton o' copies. And an astounding array of DND contributors -- Jeff Abbott, Megan Abbott, Charles Ardai, Mark Billingham, Steve Brewer, Ken Bruen, Reed Coleman, Colin Cotterill, Bill Crider, Sean Doolittle, Allan Guthrie, Laura Lippman, Donna Moore, Zoe Sharp, Jenny Siler, Jason Starr, Robert Ward, Sarah Weinman, Dave White and some Polish nerd -- will be running around the scene, free and loose. That's 20 out of 27 contributors! Remember: Whoever gets the most signatures wins.

Honey, Stock Up the Iodine

(This column appears in today's Philadelphia City Paper.)

Ten 5-gallon collapsible water containers.
Three months' worth of canned food.
Flashlights.
Emergency crank radio
Personal radiation detector
Key-ring photon light.
First-aid kit.
Bleach.
Latex gloves.
Key-chain whistle.
Potassium iodine pills.
Quick Escape Mask.
Relenza.
Ibuprofen.
U.V. air purifier.
Plastic barrier sheeting.

These are the things I sometimes think about asking my wife to buy on her next trip to Target.

I don't even know if Target carries potassium iodine pills — which are handy in the event of a radiological attack.

(Then again, maybe there's a Target brand.)

I've even gone as far as to print out this list, which comes from Slate magazine's "Survivalist" series. In it, journalist David Shenk walks you through various natural and man-made disasters with large helpings of practical advice, even if the situation ("360 million deaths globally") at times borders on the extreme.

Just last week, as I sat here late on a Tuesday night, waiting for final proof pages to make their way to my desk, I freaked myself out by reading the latest "Survivalist" entry on "How to Survive Avian Flu, Smallpox or Plague." The most horrifying details weren't about the actual diseases, but the traumatic rips in the social fabric we all take for granted. Things like wearing a mask to go food shopping — that is, if your local Super Fresh still has food. Wiping down your mail and copy of City Paper with a rag and bleach. (That is, if we're still filling the orange boxes every Thursday.) Home-schooling your kids ... for two years.

Listening to the rain pelt the windows of my office, Shenk's advice about buying a rural cabin far, far away seemed like a good one. The H5N1 strain can't get you there, can it?

Still, I didn't give my wife the list the next morning.

If memory serves, I instead complained about a certain marinade she used on a chicken dish the week before.

Clearly, avian flu wasn't on my mind.

That's the thing — nobody's thinking about avian flu unless someone shoves a photo of a dead chicken in your face. We read something like "The Survivalist," then get back to our regularly scheduled lives.

Admirably, the city of Philadelphia is trying put the dead chicken in our face on a regular basis with their new "Ready — or Not?" campaign, featuring spot ads and a new Web site (ReadyRegion.org).

I just wonder if the chicken is dead enough, you know? I poked around the site and failed to find anything truly useful, aside from a hotline number. The "current advisory" link points you to a page that tells you: "There are currently no impending threats." (I beg to differ; see our cover story this week.) Maybe the Web site is beside the point; maybe it's the idea of "Ready — or Not?" spokesperson David Morse reminding us about the dead chicken from time to time.

Meanwhile, it's tempting to dismiss the campaign as a Homeland Security scheme to "keep 'em afraid, keep 'em compliant."

I think that's what keeps me from handing this shopping list to my wife. Not that she'll mock me (she has plenty of other material to draw from). But that I might be buying right into some good ol' fashioned GOP midterm election fear-mongerin'.

I've decided to give that list to her anyway.

Because the things that really worry me — or should worry most of us — have nothing to do with Bush or the fact that the rest of the world thinks we're doodyheads. It's the flu. The earthquakes (actually possible here in Philly). The hurricanes. The Wrath of God-type stuff.

Ryan Singel at Wired News recently crunched numbers and built a Homeland Security-esque alert system, with threats rated from "severe" to "low." Acts of terrorism? Very "low." Driving off the road? "Severe." Dying from the flu is "elevated," while walking down the street is "high."

So go ahead. Listen to David Morse. Get your "go bag" on, stock up on the canned goods and don't worry about playing into the evil hands of the Bush administration. This has nothing to do with them.

One last survival tip for you:

Never complain about your wife's chicken marinade.

Echo Park: The Movie

The ten-minute movie, that is. Terrill Lee Lankford has filmed the opening chapter of Michael Connelly's next Harry Bosch novel, Echo Park, and posted it on You Tube. Kind of surreal to see an actor playing Bosch, isn't it? Also, fans of Robert Altman's The Long Goodbye will want to pay close attention to the setting. And finally, as David Montgomery pointed out over at Crime Fiction Dossier, check out the crime novelist who's playing Harry's partner...

This Is What I Get For Editing Damn Near Dead

Lot of good stuff in the mail today. Latest issue of Crimespree, featuring Greg Rucka. Two books: Sympathy for the Devil, by Brian Keene, which is a collection of the best posts from Hail Saten, Keene's must-read gonzo horror blog; and Douglas E. Winter's The Art of Darkness, which is an early look at the fiction of Stephen King. And then, in the middle of all this crime/horror goodness, came this letter, from a place called Deer Meadows:

Dear Mr. Swierczynski,

As I was thinking the other day, there are moments in everyone's life when it's time to close one door and open another. Life changes and, to stay happy and secure, we must change with it.

As a true Philadelphia classic operating for over 137 years, Deer Meadows has always offered our area's older citizens a secure haven at a reasonable price...

Yes, that's right: I received an invitation to an open house at a fucking retirement community.

(Looking at you, Bill Crider.)

Like Marty Scorcese on Crack

A day late, but hopefully worth it: the "Behind the Black Mask" podcast featuring yours truly is finally available for downloading. You can hit it via iTunes, or download it directly here.

I just listened to it, and I'm (again) blown away by the incredibly perceptive questions from Mr. Clute and Mr. Edwards. They almost fool me into thinking I wrote something profound. (Shannon, I'm totally using that "ganglia" line as a blurb.)

I also realize howincrediblyfuckingfast I talk, like Scorcese face-down in a mound of cocaine, or something. And I slowed down on purpose for this interview! Clearly, I need to work on this. (If you need a translation of what I said, feel free to ask in the comments section.)

Michael Connelly's "The Overlook"

It's on. At about 7:30 a.m., like a kid on Christmas morning, I ran down my rainy front steps to retrieve the NYT. (Yes, I am that much a hopeless crime fiction dork.) My daughter Sarah laughed at me.

I had considered waiting--hanging on until the serial was complete, then gorging myself all at once. Yeah, right. I apple-juiced the kids, gave them the funny pages of the Philly Inquirer, popped the top of a Diet Coke (I don't drink coffee) then sat down at the dining room table to savor this fresh hit of Bosch.

What's interesting is that this serial seems to take place after the events in Echo Park, the next Bosch book, which is due out in early October. There's a reference to "that mess over in Echo Park." Hmmm.

Anyway, it's only one installment in, and I'm hooked. The only problem with a serial, of course, is that I need to wait until next Saturday for the next hit. Which is sort of like being a junkie on the layaway plan.

We Deal in Nerf, Friend

(This column appears in today's Philadelphia City Paper.)

Bloody hypocrite, I am.

I write extremely violent novels. In my latest, which will be published in a few months, an angry man stands on a rooftop in South Philly, waiting for someone to finish a slice of pizza so he can take him out with a sniper rifle.

In my previous book, a pregnant woman pistol-whips a middle-aged guy.

People are hurled from moving El trains. Heads explode. Corpses are smeared with peanut butter and left out to be feasted upon by rats.

(Doesn't Jennifer Weiner write about this stuff, too?)

I won't delve too much into my obsession with fictional violence; basically, it boils down to my fascination with the idea of a person on the worst day of his or her life. Through fiction, I can experience it/deal with it vicariously.

Plus, I admit it: It's fun.

When people complain about America's thirst for celluloid violence and bloodshed ... dude, I'm the guy with the cup, trying to push it under the tap for another gulp.

Give me graphic violence.

Give me guns.

Give me liberty...

... so Hollywood can give me death.

Here's the hypocrite part:

I am totally freaked out by the idea of my kids playing with toy guns.

This past Saturday my son pulled his toy car out of the garage — the only car we park in there — with his little sister in the passenger seat. The high-pitched whine of the battery-powered engine was like a clarion call throughout the block; kids started coming out from everywhere. Behind bushes. Decks. Doors. Trapdoors in the grass.

And they were armed to the teeth.

I don't think I've ever seen toy guns like these before. One resembled a Vietnam-era helicopter-mounted machine gun — only in bright white plastic. This gun dealt in Nerf, friend. Puffy little Nerf-style bullets. Two other kids were draped in armored gear, which featured some kind of sticky surface that would catch the bullets, so you could easily see who lived, who died, and who would lose part of their spleen.

I didn't catch the entire exchange, but I think my kids were pretty much carjacked with a high-powered Nerf gun.

My son was a little freaked out.

"I don't want you to shoot me," he said.

Now if this were a novel, the fictional me would have trained my fictional son to field-strip that plastic deathdealer in two swift moves, then incapacitate his attackers with the driver's side door and the clunky metal ashtray, plucked from the dashboard.

However, you can't go around paralyzing the other kids on the block.

(This is one of the many ways being a crime novelist doesn't do dick to prepare you for parenthood.)

But the situation was even trickier.

My wife and I agreed, early on, to banish toy guns from our house. I was fine with that. While my childhood toy box didn't exactly look like it was stocked by Colosimo's Gun Center, I did own a plastic pistol or two. My parents weren't about censoring; I pretty much saw and heard everything I wanted to, no matter how violent. And I was willing to concede that maybe there was another way. So no toy guns, no shoot-'em-up video games.

But how do you deal with another kid sticking a toy gun in your own child's face?

This past Saturday, we balked. We packed up the kids, drove to a park, let them kick around a soccer ball. Away from the guns.

Talking about it later, my wife and I realized the answer was staring at us point-blank. We need to teach our kids how to use the same weapons I do:

Words.

Our job is not to shelter them from violence, but to teach them there is another way. Reaching for a gun is not the way to settle a disagreement. Talking through a disagreement is the way to settle a disagreement. You can say it's just a toy, and fine. But toys teach kids how to manipulate reality.

And you know, I didn't tell you the worst part about what happened on Saturday.

Later that evening, our 4-year-old son was thinking about that afternoon. And then he said something that stopped us cold:

"Next time, I'll get a gun and shoot him."

We've got to do better than that.

More Swierczy Than You Can Possibly Stand

Every day this week, Jason Boog over at The Publishing Spot is lobbing a different question at me. Monday, he asked about Secret Dead Blog. Tuesday, it was editing Damn Near Dead (in which I reveal that I'm a yellow-bellied coward.) What will today bring? (Update: Wednesday is up now.)

Tomorrow, I'm headed to New York City for something I'm not allowed to talk about yet. Let's just say it involves a giant heist, a video camera and a green screen. I'll reveal all soon enough... but it's a pretty cool opportunity.

Friday brings the third instalment of Behind the Black Mask: Mystery Writers Revealed podcast feautring... yeah, you're way ahead of me. Co-hosts Shannon Clute and Richard Edwards taped this interview with me in early summer. It's been so long that I've forgotten what I said. (Hope I was witty.) On Friday you'll be able to download this single podcast right from the site, but I highly recommend subscribing to both Black Mask and Out of the Past: Investigating Film Noir.

And finally Saturday brings the long-awaited Damn Near Dead Group Chat over at Gerald So's joint. I'll be joined by Charles Ardai, Ray Banks, Bill Crider, Sean Doolittle, Jason Starr, David Thompson and Sarah Weinman. Think about it as the ultimate Bouchercon panel... where pants are optional. The madness begins 6:45 p.m., EST. See Gerald's site for details.

Yes, I am sick of me.

David Hale Smith Shows You His

His blog, I mean! Such a dirty mind you have. But yes, superagent David Hale Smith (whose Galaxy of Stars includes Greg Rucka, Sean Doolittle, Victor Gischler, Michael Koryta, Theresa "T" Schwegel, Gary Phillips and some dorky Polish dude) has started his own blog entitled DHS Literary Show + Tell. Agent Smith promises it won't be all client pimpage. He'll also talk smack about the publishing world, as well as file odd slices of life from DHS Worldwide Headquarters in Dallas, Texas. Assisting David will be the wonderful and lovely-voiced Shauyi Tai. (I've never met her, only talked to her on the phone.) And I think some DHS clients will also guest-post from time to time. (Note to Schwegel: We're set on "Operation: Photos of a Drunken DHS At Bouchercon," right?)

Anyway, welcome to the blogland, guys. You have no idea how much time is about to be sucked away from you...

The Shocking Truth About James Ellroy's Mother

Ruth Andrew Ellenson of The New York Times spent a night out with James Ellroy (pictured at left, on the spot where Elizabeth "The Black Dahlia" Short's body was discovered). After downing his signature drink (four shots of espresso in a single coffee mug, ice) and joking around with his closest friend, novelist Bruce Wagner, Ellroy allows a disturbing truth to come to light:

“My mother’s cooler than yours,” countered Mr. Ellroy.

“Watch, you’ll be the new James Frey,” was Mr. Wagner’s quick retort, referring to the memoirist who fabricated parts of his autobiography. “James Ellroy’s mother wasn’t murdered. She’s happy and living in Kansas.”

(Somebody'd better check the Kansas phone directories for one "Geneva Hilliker Ellroy," just in case.)

Also in today's Times: Sara Gran's funny essay about being a writer in Brooklyn, where apparently you can throw a rock and hit a writer, then watch three other writers rush to her aid. (She's dead-on. Hell, even I used to live in Brooklyn.)

And in next week's Times (did I mention this blog post was brought to you by The New York Times?): Michael Connelly's new serial begins. After years of reading the paper online, this serial prompted me to subscribe to the NYT at long last. (I regret not doing it with the Elmore Leonard serial.) I don't want to curl up with my monitor on a lazy Sunday afternoon; I want to savor these installments in print. I can't wait.

A Different Blonde Every Night of the Week

I didn't choose the title of my next book just so I could make all of these stupid jokes. I swear.

Anyway, my editor at St. Martin's just told me about a cool promotion for The Blonde. If you hit DearReader.com, then click through to the Prepublication Club, you'll can sign up to receive free, daily emails containing chapters of forthcoming books. The Blonde will be the club pick of the week of October 23rd. (The actual novel won't be available until mid November.) I'm told that the five emails will cover the first 23 pages, which is good, because there's plenty of blood, booze, blondes and bile (seriously) in those pages.

Hmm. Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned the bile. Anyway, sign up now... it's free!

PW & Me: A Love Story

For the longest time, Publishers Weekly treated me bad. Called my Big Book O' Beer "disorganized" and "choppy." Took one look at Secret Dead Men and said it was "muddled." Said my little ol' Wheelman was "confusing." Dang.

But now, with the publication of The Blonde, all that's changed. Looks like PW got tired of smackin' me around. In fact, according to the September 11th issue, she's sobered up and is giving me a little love:

Rapid-fire pacing, hard-boiled dialogue and excellent local color make up for the unlikely twists and turns of this entertaining thriller.

She's sweet on me! She's really sweet on me!

The rest of the review is plot recap, which is cool, even if the anonymous PW reviewer bungles one important detail. I'm not complaining. It's nice to enjoy a little bit of love.

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Here's a sneak preview of my editor's letter in tomorrow's City Paper. I usually don't simulcast these suckers, but I thought you might like to read this.

It's been five years, but still, I feel nervous about speaking the words aloud.

Does anybody else miss the days immediately following 9/11?

Don't misunderstand me; autumn of 2001 was a season of horror and uncertainty. The morning of 9/11, I was working on the 36th floor of a Center City office building. Being so high up and watching both towers crumble to the earth was unsettling. Even more unsettling was thinking about my wife, elsewhere in the city, standing in front of a classroom of third graders. How was she explaining this to her students? What was she thinking?

That morning, she was two months pregnant.

That day was also our fourth wedding anniversary.

(At least I'll never forget, right?)

We both made it home by midday; schools and work had let out. We spent the day like most people: staring at the television, waiting for the story to stop. Our anniversary presents sat on the kitchen table, unopened. Instead, I opened a bottle of wine.

Two years before, we both worked in Manhattan. The view outside of my office at Broadway and Bleecker was of the silver towers of the World Trade Center. We would often meet at the mall below the towers to do a little shopping or just wander around. (The Borders there was awesome.) We were newly married, living in New York. The Twin Towers were at the center of our new universe, positioned almost equidistant from our jobs in Manhattan and our tiny apartment in Brooklyn. No matter where we wandered in the city, the silver towers were our locus. We were here. Living in the most important city in the world.

We watched both towers disappear, 10 seconds at a time, in a sickening free-fall that looked like slow motion.

We thought about the child we were going to have, and how we would explain this someday. (That someday is now; just two days ago, our 4-year-old son saw a photo of the wreckage in a newspaper and asked, "What happened?" My wife and I looked at each other, struggling for the words.) We thought about the world we were bringing him into.

The next morning, I walked down my block and took the 33 bus back to work. I was an editor at Philadelphia magazine then, and we decided to rush a story about the attacks in the next issue, which was October, even though it was about to ship. A quirk in our production schedule allowed us to be the first monthly magazine with a 9/11 story on its cover. (Across town, City Paper would also throw together an incredible last-minute issue that hit honor boxes within 48 hours of the attacks.)

I was in charge of a team of reporters who built an oral history that morning, told from the perspective of Philadelphians. Last week, I unearthed that issue and reread it for the first time in five years. The stories, which seemed raw and fresh while we reported them, now read horribly familiar. We've all become accustomed to the two kinds of stories that came out of that day: the near miss, and the unspeakable tragedy. There seemed to be nothing in between.

What strikes me now, though, looking at those pages, were the images we selected. Unabashedly patriotic images: children advertising "free flags" on a cardboard sign. A man with a swirling stars-and-stripes hardhat. An American flag jammed into the radio antenna slot of an old junker.

We had focused on the national pride and brotherhood that everybody seemed to be feeling. I had forgotten how fast that feeling had manifested itself.

Even my morning commute on the 33 bus was different. Pre-9/11, we were all just commuters who didn't see much reason to talk to one another, not first thing in the morning, for Christ's sake, jammed up against one another, trying to hold on to the rail until the bus opened its doors and we stumbled out onto Market Street. But after the attacks, the vibe was completely different. People would look you in the eye, and there would be no challenge. Just camaraderie. Just a feeling of yeah, I'm feeling it, too.

It was real. Can you remember it?

Did you enjoy it while it lasted?

And now, as we are about to commemorate the most horrific day in U.S. history, are you struck by its loss?

Feeling that maybe we've squandered all of that?

Or maybe, that our political leaders have squandered that in our good names?

It's been five long years since 9/11.

But collapse can happen so, so fast.

Sick in the Head

Secret Dead Blog spent the entire holiday weekend sick. Even worse, Bride of Secret Dead Blog has now come down with the same nasty cold/flu/government-created supervirus. It's probably only a matter of time before the Spawn of Secret Dead Blog catch the same thing, and then the Gates of Hell will be fully open. I thought the Gates of Hell were at least cracked part-way open this weekend, as Parker and Sarah delighted in watching Herbie: Fully Loaded, the Lindsay Lohan-fueled reinvention of the popular (?) "Herbie: the Love Bug" franchise. But you see, with preschoolers, it's not as if they watch a movie once, savor it, then discuss it in great detail over peanut butter crackers and sippy cups of Sunny D. No, no. Preschoolers need to experience a film again and again. And again. And again. Your humble narrator -- who wandered around the house in a feverish fugue state most of the time -- came out of the weekend having watched the final 15 minutes of Herbie: Fully Loaded at least twice, and the opening 20 minutes of Herbie: Fully Loaded about four times. I now can quote dialogue from the opening of Herbie: Fully Loaded, with some degree of precision. What happens in the middle of that film, however, is only left to my imagination. Unless it involves Herbie losing its automotive mind and running down the cast of Herbie: Fully Loaded one by one (unlikely; in the last 10 minutes, everyone in this G-rated film appears to be disappointingly alive), I'm not sure I care to see the middle.

In short, Labor Day Weekend kind of sucked.

There were two tiny bright spots, however:

1. David Morrell's Creepers was a kick-ass, stay-up-way-late -even-though-my-Polish-ass-should-have-been-resting thriller. The best thrillers have at least one moment where the bottom drops out from under the main characters. This book has like, a half-dozen of those moments. Highly recommended. If you're too cheap to buy the hardback, the paperback should be out very soon-ish.

2. One of my favorite sci-fi/pulp writers from the 1950s, Emerson LaSalle, has launched a blog! Okay, I exaggerate when I call LaSalle a favorite, seeing that I've never actually read an Emerson LaSalle novel. But I once saw a drunk kid at Dirty Frank's in Philly wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the cover of LaSalle's 1957 paperback classic, The Black and Blue Dahlia. That was enough; I was sold. I'm sure Bill Crider has the complete LaSalle collection. Maybe someday he'll scan 'em all and assemble 'em in one of those nifty slide shows.

Or maybe the fever has completely taken over...