An Unhealthy Tolerance for Mayhem

Last night I went to bed with two questions on my mind. Was there going to be a citywide transit strike? And did Washington Post's Patrick Anderson dig The Wheelman? (Ms. Weinman had tipped me off that it was scheduled for a review this week.) I braced for the worst on both counts, and somehow, my worry crept into my dreams. I imagined the Mayor of Philadelphia standing at a podium announcing a transit strike, then adding: "Oh, by the way, The Wheelman blows chunks. Like, big time."

Woke up at 5:30 this morning, fired up the iMac.

Yep, SEPTA was indeed striking, meaning that 400,000 Philadelphians would have to find some other way to work. Including this Philadelphian.

And Anderson did indeed enjoy the novel.

Even a SEPTA strike can't take away the thrill of a review like that. I'm especially happy that Anderson pointed out that while there's plenty o' violence, the book doesn't exactly wallow in it:

Yet I found the violence unobjectionable, even amusing. This may be because I have developed an unhealthy tolerance for mayhem, but it's also because of the way the author handles the elimination of various villains. Swierczynski doesn't deal in the stomach-churning cannibalism of the Hannibal Lecter novels or in those gruesome autopsy scenes that Patricia Cornwell and others inflict on the unwary. His killings are brisk, matter-of-fact, potholes on the road of life.

Anderson also called the book a "slice of bittersweet noir" and a "delight," which will go a long way in comforting me during my long-ass commute home in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

Life Behind the Wheel

Inspired by the adventures of these guys, I hit the open road this afternoon to do some drop-in signings at bookstores in the Philly suburbs. Pessimist that I am, I expected to find zero (at worst) to two (at best) copies of my book at any given location. I expected that sales people would take one look at me and call for security, who would tune me up with brass knucks before depositing me in a dumpster behind the store. I expected small children to gather around me, laugh, poke me with sharp sticks.

What can I say? I write noir. This is what noirists expect from life.

So imagine my surprise to find at least two copies of my book in every store I visited today, and in some cases, many, many more. The official tally:

Number of stores visited: 7.

Number of books signed: 58.

Value of having your ego spared: priceless.

I started at 1 p.m. After elbowing my way past hungover groomsmen at the tuxedo rental place, I hit Route 1 South, took City Line Avenue to Route 30, turned left, headed for the Borders in Wynnewood, PA. During the drive, I developed a sudden and violent case of the hiccups. No idea what caused it; I suspect it was nerves. The only hiccup cure that works for me holding my breath until I'm ready to pass out. By the third or fourth time, the hiccups usually cease. However, it's generally not a good idea to deprive your brain of oxygen while operating a motor vehicle. So I tried the "holding my breath, junior" version, which meant slow and shallow breaths. Didn't work. I could see it now: "Hi, my name is Duane HIC Swierczynski and I wrote HIC this novel and I was hoping I could HIC sign the copies you HIC have in HIC stock HIC... motherfucker!"

God took pity on me; as I pulled into the parking lot, the hiccups were gone.

Inside, I found five copies of The Wheelman: two in the mystery/thrillers section, and three out on the New Fiction display tables, which was cool. It was a shaky beginning. I forgot to ask the manager her name, and forgot to stick my little postcards in the books after signing them. And I think the manager forgot to put the "Autographed Copy" stickers on the book. But I was still working up my nerve, and still afraid the hiccups would return, so I left without saying anything.

Further up Route 30 is the Bryn Mawr Banes & Noble, where many fine mystery writers (Jim Born, John Connolly, Lee Child, among others) come to read when they're anywhere near Philadelphia. That's thanks to Kathy Siciliano, a manager who's a big mystery fan and past Bouchercon attendee. Kathy wasn't in the store today, but manager Celia was, and she happily brought out 14 copies of the book for me to sign. This time I remembered the postcards. I also (duh) remembered to ask Celia for her name. We had a nice chat, and I learned that the Bryn Mawr B&N; customers bought a lot of hardcover mysteries. I always knew I liked Bryn Mawr B&N; customers best.

Up the road a piece, the Borders in Bryn Mawr had four copies, tucked away in the mystery/thrillers section, and manager Greg was cool enough to a.) let me sign them, and b.) give me a great shortcut to my next destination, which was...

The King of Prussia Mall. Or maybe they call it the Mall at King of Prussia. All I know is it's a monster, and I parked at the end of the mall opposite Borders. And it was lonnnnnnnnnnnnnnng walk, let me tell ya. I crawled in, met manager Amanda, and signed four copies they had hanging out on the new fiction shelf.

Next, I hopped on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, which the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation seems to insist on rebuilding every two years. Took the 309 North exit, which is also in the process of being completely rebuilt, and made my way to the Borders in North Wales, Pennsylvania. Only two copies here, but I met store employee Jamie, who handles the new fiction tables. "You're in luck," he said. "A spot just opened up." So those signed babies ended up on the display table right in the front of the store. With postcards sticking out of them.

The biggest surprise, however, was when I stopped at the B&N; at Montgomery Square, which had stocked 19 copies. As I signed, I talked with manager Kathleen and employee Justin about Sin City, Reservoir Dogs (Kathleen thought Dogs was too bloody; I told her she may not exactly enjoy The Wheelman) and other local authors who have popped by the store in the past, including Sean "Green Grass Grace" McBride. Despite the violent content of my book, Kathleen invited me to do an in-store signing in early December, during the holiday shopping season. I promised her I'd refrain from hacking off the ears of the patrons with a straight razor.

The sun was setting (friggin' Daylight Savings Time), and I was tired of driving, but I pulled it out for one last visit: the B&N; in Jenkintown. This was my second trip here. Two weeks ago, I dropped by to sign the nine copies they had in stock. I wondered: had any sold? Or were they being used to prop up the Sudoku paperbacks?

Turned out, only four remained, and in the meantime, the store had ordered 10 additional copies. Had a cool chat with manager Mike, another hardboiled mystery fan -- in fact, almost every manager I encountered told me they themselves were mystery fans, or that their customers bought a lot of mysteries.

Made it home by 5:30. I did a quick tally, and realized that I'd signed 135 books this weekend (58 today, 45 copies for M is For Mystery Bookstore in San Francisco and 32 for The Poisoned Pen in Arizona, both of which have named The Wheelman as a monthly pick). All that, despite my hand being torn and broken from assembling that stupid IKEA thing.

It was a good day. But I couldn't see myself doing this every day for an extended period of time. What if the hiccups come back?

Smashed Up, Punctured, Shot and Mutilated

In today's Chicago Tribune, Dick Adler begins his review of The Wheelman with a question:

How much physical punishment are the lead characters in thrillers supposed to absorb before they collapse, die, or have to spend months in the hospital getting skin grafts and reconstructive surgery?

And geez, I thought I was relatively easy on Lennon (the novel's protagonist). I guess this is what you get when you read too many skin-flaying, claw-hammer-fu Clive Barker novels as a teenager.

Aside from the fact that all of Chicagoland now thinks I'm a total sadist, I was thrilled with the review, especially this bit:

Swierczynski has an uncommon gift for the banal lunacy of criminal dialogue, a delightfully devious eye for character and a surprisingly well-developed narrative engine for a beginner. I hope he also has a good health-insurance plan he can share with his hero.

Thanks, Mr. Adler. But I think Lennon's on his own. You know how much my premiums would skyrocket if I added him to the plan?

Today I'm off to rent a tux (don't own one, but I have this Free Library fundraiser next weekend) and then do a bunch of drop-in signings at Borders stores 'round the greater Philly area. Shame I couldn't wear the tux for these. It would certainly make a statement: "well-dressed sadist."

Speaking of sadism, I've got nothing on IKEA. Spent hours last night assembling a CD/DVD wall-mountable storage unit called a "Markör," which I believe is Swedish for "wooden unit with 117 screws that will make your hands bleed."

A Blurb From My Former Hairdress... Um, Hair Stylist

Last week, at the Tudor signing, I was pleasantly surprised to see Mary Cerski, a friend of the Bride's family who used to cut our hair when we lived in Wilkes-Barre. Mary bought a copy of the book, and then sent me this note, which arrived yesterday:

Duane,

What a guy -- a great family and a quasi Hollywood look -- and a book that was so twisted it seemed like it went through a meat grinder. I love this sick side!!!

Good luck...
Fantastic job,
Your Hairdresser in W-B,
Mary Cerski

P.S. I have a book idea (Titled: Behind the Chair)
I know a lot of shit!! (HA HA)

A couple of thoughts:

1. So glad Mary enjoyed the book.

2. Um, "quasi Hollywood look"? Is this because I didn't shave?

3. Men don't have hairdressers. We have barbers, or if push comes to shove, hair stylists.

4. Furthermore, I have so little hair, there's really no "styling" or "dressing" required.

5. Mary might be onto something with her idea: barber noir. No one's really ran with this idea since Sweeney Todd.

6. "Quasi Hollywood look"? It was the fur coat and light dusting of cocaine under my nose, wasn't it?

Hearing Voices Again

In just a few... holy shit, less than two hours, Christ on a cracker, where does the time go... um, I'll be doing a little reading and gabbing at Voices and Visions Bookstore, located on the ground floor of the historic Bourse Building, just one block from the Liberty Bell. If you live or work in downtown Philadelphia, here's the plan: at noon, stop what you're doing (you shouldn't be surfing blogs so much at work anyway, it's just not good for you), grab your brown bag of PB&J; and hop the Market-Frankford El to 5th Street -- you know the one painted all red, white and blue, can't miss it, right? -- and walk to Fourth Street. Voices and Visions is right there, next to the Ritz at the Bourse. Don't be shy. Come on and down and say hello.

You Want It Which Way, Exactly?

All of this posting about writing and noir and tours and crap... I feel bad. It's easy to forget that people read blogs for their sheer entertainment value. So my agent, David "Hale" Smith and I scoured the globe for a musical act appropriate for Secret Dead Blog. And by gum, I think we've found them.

Ladies and gentlemen... I give you The Hack Street Boys.

(The best part of this? The dude in the background, completely oblivious.)

Tudor Style

Book Tour Tip #17: Toddlers and book signings don't mix.

That's not to say that the Tudor Bookstore in Kingston, PA, doesn't go the extra mile in being kid-friendly. There were two boxes of toys, and still another box full of pop-up books for the perusing. That's why the Bride and I felt okay about bringing the Brood (Parker and Sarah, who are 3 and 2, respectively) to my signing yesterday. It all seemed so simple. The Bride and Sarah would hang out, drink coffee and read Cosmo, while Parker would help me at the signing table, handing postcards to unsuspecting passersby. Who can resist a cute kid pimping his father's violent bank robbery novel?

Of course, we forgot The Toddler Factor.

That is: toddlers, being relatively new on this earthly plane, must investigate everything in any given space. Which means running and pulling things off shelves and screaming and laughing and pulling more things off shelves and setting things on fire and ...

You get it the idea. About 40 minutes into the hour-long appearance, the Bride decided to strap the Brood into the car and go for a drive. A nice, long drive.

The Bride deserves a medal for lasting that long.

Meanwhile, the signing went well. The most fun was meeting a mom and her two pre-teenaged children, Annie and Will. Annie reminded me a lot of myself at that age (probably 12 or 13); painfully shy, and utterly entranced by books. She spent a good half hour planted in front of the young adult section, carefully thumbing through various books. Her mom told me that Annie wanted to be a writer someday. I told her, "I started writing at your age. If you have fun with it, keep at it." I signed postcards for Annie and her brother, which... okay, not to get sappy here, but meant more to me than signing 100 copies of the novel. I think I'm still very much in touch with that 12-year-old inside of me. And he knows how lucky I am to be doing this.

This morning, the Bride and I dropped by the Barnes & Noble at the Arena Hub to sign copies. This was entirely thanks to my mother-in-law. A few weeks ago, she stopped by B&N; to buy a copy of The Wheelman. She couldn't find it. The clerk told her, "Oh, we're sold out." Really, my mother-in-law said, thinking this was fantastic news. How many did you have in stock?

"One," the clerk said.

This sent my mother-in-law into a frenzy. "One!?" she bellowed, pounding her fist to the counter, which resulted in a fine fissure not just in the formica, but deep down, in the abandoned coal mines beneath the store, and quite possibly, earth's molten core. "You stocked just one copy of a novel by a local writer?"

(Note: Mom-in-law is overplaying it here. While I did live in the area for almost two years, I'm by no means a "local writer." Still, I do appreciate her fervor.)

The clerk's jaw dropped. "Um... uh... yeah... uh... let me call a manager."

Meanwhile, I had no idea this was going on. The next day, an e-mail appeared in my in-box:

Hi Duane,

Congratulations on the new release! I've ordered copies of The Wheelman for our shelves.

Donna M. Wench
Community Relations Manager 2996
Barnes & Noble Booksellers
421 Arena Hub Plaza
Wilkes-Barre PA 18702

I was shocked. How did she hear about the book? And how could she have possibly known I used to live in the area?

Only later did I fully appreciate the power of The Mother-In-Law Factor.

Yeah, I know I've bad-mouthed the woman in the past, but she really came through for me this time. I had no idea that her venom could be harnessed for the forces of good.

Book Tour Tip #18: Every book tour needs a mother-in-law.

More on the Tour

My Barnes & Noble signing the other night was cool, but it flirted with disaster. As the clock struck 7 p.m., there were 30 seats... and only two people sitting in them. And one of them was an old friend of mine from Philly Mag. So here it is, I thought. My first real dud. It didn't help that the event coordinator at the store told me that last night's author, Philadelphia Inquirer columnist John Grogan, had packed the house with 45 people. Oh. Um. Er...

But before long, six more people joined in, and the event turned into a relaxed chat, which turned out to be a lot of fun. The questions were really interesting (such as, "Did the publisher let yo have a say in cover art?" and "Did you mean for Philly to be a character in this book?"). So big thanks to Lou, Drew, Matt, Sam, April, Shirley, Lee and one woman whose name I didn't catch for dropping by and listening to me flap my gums. I'm especially grateful, considering that at the same exact time...

a.) there was a free Roots and Fishbone concert at City Hall

b.) Charles Burns and Chris Ware were speaking at the Free Library (I would have ditched me to catch those guys if I could)

c.) a soon-to-be indicted City Coucilman barricaded himself at the top of City Hall, stirring local media into an absolute frenzy.

So yeah, a little competition. (I wondered why traffic was so bad getting to the store.)

Today I'm headed to the Bride's hometown of Wilkes-Barre to do signings at the Tudor Bookshop and the Barnes & Noble at the Arena Hub. Both stores were my lifeline when we lived there 'round the turn of the century (1999-2001). Check out the full report tomorrow.

Yes! We Have Mute Irish Getaway Winners!

This is guest blogger Ed McMahon. When I'm not filming Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes commercials, or preparing yet another exciting episode of TV's Greatest Bloopers and Accidental Deaths Caught on Tape, I like to announce the winners of blog contests. So when this doughy Polack asked me to do just that for his lame little "Imitate A Mute Irish Getaway Driver" contest, what could I do? Tell him to fuck off? (Believe me, I tried. Dough Boy just wouldn't take no for an answer.)

Anyway, here's the deal: There were 45 entries. The Secret Dead Blog staff painstakingly printed each one out, then assigned each a number. Then, the Secret Dead Blog Math Department logged on to this random number generator and selected the first three numbers. Then, we painstakingly matched those numbers to the original e-mails, and presto, Three winners. Yadda yadda, me and you and a dog named Boo-Yah.

Without further rambling... heeeeeeeeeeere they are:

GRAND PRIZE:
Nienke Hinton, Ontario, Canada

NOT-SO-GRAND PRIZE #1:
Kjeld Baxter, San Francisco, California

NOT-SO-GRAND PRIZE #2:
Rob Kramer, who's like, in the military, so all I have is an APO address.

But that's not all! The other 42 entrants will receive an autographed Wheelman postcard, which may or may not be worth something someday. (But let's put it this way: I asked for cash for this gig, not signed postcards, if you catch my drift...)

Anyway, the Polack wants me to thank all of you for entering, and says to keep your feet on the ground, but keep reaching for the stars. Okay, that wasn't him. That was me. He doesn't have any decent tag lines. Such an amateur.

Okay, now where's my crack pipe...

Swierczynski here: That's the last time I hire McMahon for anything. I should have gone with my first choice, Leif Garrett. Ah, live and learn. But thanks for playing. Prizes go out Monday. Shut up, Quertermous.

Banks (Not Ray)

This past Sunday, the Lansing State Journal's Ray Walsh had bank heists on the brain. He reviewed both The Wheelman and Steve Brewer's Bank Job, and had extremely nice to things to say about both.

On Bank Job:

... a fast-paced, hilarious book that's a solid candidate for best crime novel of the year. It begins when three losers - Roy Wade, Leon Daggett and his dumb brother Junior - embark on a crime spree in Northern California. Their luck changes for the worse when one of the owners of a liquor store breaks a fifth of whisky over Junior's head during a botched robbery.

Any heist novel involving whisky is my kind of heist novel. I can't wait to read this.

And I was very happy that Walsh thinks that The Wheelman's "oddball cast of characters is reminiscent of the Donald Westlake's Dortmunder Gang -- on steroids!"

Steve and I will be doing a joint reading/signing at Murder by the Book on December 8th (unfortunately, Noir Night II had to be postponed until next spring). Stop by if you like bank robbery and booze. And, um, live near Houston.

Rare As a Sasquatch Photo

Here's something you don't see everyday: a photo of myself and Al "Sunshine" Guthrie (along with Steve Miller, left), snapped at Bouchercon. Sunshine claims his face looks like it's made of putty, but I disagree. This is simply how Sunshine looks when he's amused.

You can check out more B'Con picks from Chris Aldrich at Mystery News (yeah, I'm a month and a half late to linking to it; consider it nostalgia) right here. Be sure to look for the shot of the ever-handsome Ray Banks, which reveals him to look an awful lot like Shane from The X-Factor.

Which Means January Will Be An Busy Month in Philly, What With Mannequin 3 and Philadelphia 2: Andrew Beckett's Revenge Also Shooting

Sylvester Stallone announced that he would return to Philadelphia this January to start filming the sixth Rocky flick, which will be called Rocky Balboa.

Charlie Williams, I think you'd better plan a visit to Philly. They might be looking for someone to play Clubber Lang's grandson.

The Easiest Contest You'll Ever Enter

A while back I joked about running a contest where if you breathe air, you win. Here's the next best thing.

I have copies of The Wheelman looking for a good home, so it's my pleasure to introduce the...

Imitate A Mute Irish Getaway Driver Sweepstakes!!!

Note: Any similarities between this contest and authentic mute Irish getaway drivers are purely coincidental. No mute Irish getaway drivers were injured during the making of this contest.

The rules couldn't be simpler. Just shoot me a blank e-mail... natch, because mute Irish getaway drivers don't say much... that includes your name and mailing address. That's it. Nothing fancy in the subject line. Nothing at all in the body of the e-mail, except your name and address. No creativity, no wit, not a scintilla of effort on your part. Piece of cake, right?

And my my my, look at the prizes:

Grand Prize: A signed copy of The Wheelman, a signed copy of This Here's A Stick-Up, the nonfiction book about bank robbery that inspired the novel, a signed photograph of the Wachovia Bank branch featured in the opening chapters of the novel, and a grab bag of assorted noir goodies.

Two Not-Quite-As-Grand Prizes: Signed copies of The Wheelman. Ho hum.

Everybody Else Who Enters: An autographed Wheelman promotional postcard. Which will be worth at least thirty-five cents on eBay someday.

Winners will be chosen at random by my children, who will draw names out of a hat or a bucket or whatever else we have handy. Multiple entries will be disqualified. In other words, you only have one chance to say absolutely nothing.

Contest Deadline: Thursday, October 20th, at midnight. That's almost four whole days. Like I said: zero effort.

So when you feel like you're up to it, send that nearly blank, lame-ass e-mail to duane.swier AT verizon.net (remove the "at," replace it with an "@" sign... ah, you know the drill). Winners will be announced by Friday evening.

Good luck!

Oh, the Punishment

Check out Bill Crider's kind words about The Wheelman over at his blog. A highlight:

For one thing, the title character, Partick Lennon, absorbs more punishment than just about anybody I can think of in recent fiction. Even more than Declan MacManus of D. Daniel Judson's The Bone Orchard. Until I read about Lennon, I considered MacManus the champ, but Lennon, well, you should just read the book and find out.

Somewhere out there, Lennon is beaming with pride. And spraying Bactine on his multiple sutures.

Home Invasion: The White House

Dave White and I came up with the idea of the "Home Invasion" after I asked him about bookstores in the North Jersey area, and he said, "Well, you could always sign in my parents' basement." (I wonder if Tupperware started this way?)

Anyway, if yesterday's event at Dave's house is any indication, the idea certainly has legs. I brought along 12 copies of The Wheelman and five copies of The Big Book O'Beer; I sold everything, save one copy of the novel. I know what you may be thinking. Sure, Secret Dead Blog, you may say. Any joker can sell books to his friends. Thing is, I only knew Dave... and I'm not even sure he likes me very much. Seriously, though: the 15 people in attendance (except for Pat Lambe) were complete strangers, and not many of them were hardcore readers. I don't know if they bought the novel because it sounded interesting, or Dave blackmailed them into it. But I would have been happy selling three or four.

However, the "Home Invasion" isn't about sales. I see it as a way to generate some word of mouth and have a little fun in the process. Some pizza, some beer, some yapping about crime fiction? That's not a bad way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

Let me walk you through some highlights.

First, I was greeted with the name of my book spelled out in blocks, on top of the White Family mantlepiece. (Dave told me he was worried that he'd run out of Es, and would have to resort to using a "W" sideways.)



Since it was too nice a day to sit in a basement, Dave decided to hold the event on the back deck. Below is Dave's father, making a hand gesture that I can only assume means something to the sniper hidden on a nearby rooftop. The Polack gets long winded, take him out.



Early on, we agreed to read each other's work. I chose the first chapter of Dave's forthcoming Jackson Donne novel, Promises to Keep, which was absolutely powerful and so much fun to read out loud. Here, Dave flips through The Wheelman at random, looking for the chapter with the most cuss words:



Dave supplied the beer (Yuengling, Molson and Amstel Light, excellent choices all) and I supplied the pizza. We took a chance and ate before we read, but shockingly, nobody took the opportunity to dine and dash.



Here I am signing copies of The Wheelman. This is probably my favorite photo of myself. It captures my best side.



Afterwards, we retired to the White family living room, where I learned that Dave's father -- a big Ross Macdonald fan -- not only has one unpublished novel sitting in a drawer, but two. The second, a private eye novel called Blood Tells, sounds terrific. Some enterprising agent (ahem, cough cough) should snap up both father and son and sell both as a package deal. Could you imagine the buzz around something like that? Two generations of crime... one North Jersey household. That's a better family act than the Kellermans. (Or the Partridges.)

Big thanks to the White Family for hosting me, and everyone who attended (Pat and Mary, Craig and Andrea, Jill, Mary, Bob and Vanessa, among them).

There's a third Home Invasion in the works, by the way. Actually, it's less a home invasion than a city invasion. I'll let you ponder that one. Details coming in a few days...

Taking Manhattan By Storm

New York was miserable yesterday. When it wasn't pouring, the rain was blowing sideways. When it wasn't blowing sideways, gusts of wind would turn my umbrella inside out... and then it would start pouring. It was alternately chilling and humid. I was frequently in the path of those really fat raindrops, the ones that when they hit, seem to soak your entire head.

And I didn't care a damn bit. Because dropping in to sign copies of The Wheelman at the NYC mystery bookshops was one of the greatest thrills of this Polish boy's life.

First was a quick visit to my editor, "Marquis" Marc Resnick, and we chatted about the next novel, tenatively titled The Blonde. We were joking about book endings, and Marc said: "When in doubt, throw in a bunch of strippers." I looked at him and said, "I just want you to remember those words in a few weeks when you read the manuscript." Hmm mmm mmm...

Then I hopped the 6 train to 86th Street and made my way to Black Orchid Shop on 81st. My umbrella blew inside out at least six times. By the time I arrived, I felt like I needed to be wrung out. But Bonnie and Joe, two of the sweetest people I've ever met, made me feel right at home. And look who else was around:



Yep, that's Megan Abbott, author of Die A Little and her friend Mitchell Bartoy, whose The Devil's Own Rag Roll is out from St. Martin's this month, too. I sat down at the table, dried off a bit, and signed copies. I'm learning that some bookstores like books signed a certain way. For instance, Bonnie and Joe wanted me to sign and date half of the copies, and just sign the others. Mysterious wanted just signatures, and Partners & Crime preferred a signature and street date (which is tehcnically this Monday). Nobody asked to have it signed in blood. Which is good, because I'm squeamish.

Here we have Bonnie and Joe engaged in some oh-so-subtle product placement:



Next it was off to the Mysterious Bookshop, which just re-opened this week at its swank new Tribeca location (on Warren Street, between West Broadway and Church). In this photo, you can see Otto Penzler along with a new mystery writer, Michael Connelly, who's working hard to make a name for himself in the field. Keeping plugging away at it, Mike. I know it will happen.



I kid Mr. Connelly, of course. I was stunned by two things: that he remembered me by sight (I interview him for the City Paper wayyyyy back in May), that he was able to sign 143,293,000 copies of his latest, The Lincoln Lawyer, and still hold a coherent conversation. He also bought a copy of The Wheelman and asked for it to be signed, which was a bit surreal. What do you inscribe to someone like Michael Connelly? I was tempted to write something like, "Keep plugging away, something will come of it...", which is a classic Al Guthrie gag, but I didn't have the cajones. So I ended up writing something like, "I hope you enjoy this even a fraction as much as I've enjoyed your work." (However, thinking back, I'm wondering if I wrote the word "even." If I didn't, the inscription becomes kind of absurd. Argh.)

The new Mysterious digs are great, by the way: spacious, bright, and stocked wall to wall. I am going to miss the old, cramped joint on 56th (some very fond memories of book purchases there). And I'm mourning the loss of the old bookshelves, which were built by Donald Westlake and Brian Garfield. I asked Otto about them, and he nodded. "Yep, they were out in the trash. All of them." Ugh. I would have killed for a plank of wood cut by Donald Westlake.

Finally, after another lashing of rain, I caught the 1 train up to Greenwich Village and staggered into Partners & Crime, where I was welcomed by co-owner Maggie Griffin, who didn't mind that I was dripping all over her desk chair. Here's Maggie, demonstrating the insensity of yesterday's storm:



After signing books, Maggie and I met up with Sarah Weinman for dinner at La Dolce Vita, a very fine Italian joint in Soho. Maggie told me it was a short walk away from the store, which I suppose it would have been, had it not been raining sideways and had my umbrella not flipped inside and out the entire time (memo to self: next time, purchase an umbrella made of adamantium). Still, there's nothing to warm the soul like penne and meatballs, a glass of scotch, and excellent conversation.

Then, in a blink, the day was over. I ran to catch a NJ Transit express train to Trenton, only to learn that I had a 50-minute layover before the next R7 train to Philly. And after that, I waited 45 minutes for a bus or a cab, whichever came first. The cab won. The cab also reeked of underarm deodorant gone wrong. Got home by 11 p.m, just in time to climb into the dyer and put myself in a low tumble cycle.

This afternoon: Home Invasion! Dave White's parents' basement! Mr. White is probably hiding the good silverware as we speak...

The Wheelman Hits New York

Today I'll be up in New York City doing drop-in signings at Black Orchid, Mysterious Bookshop and Partners & Crime (at left), so you won't be hearing from me until late tonight or first thing tomorrow morning. But I'll be back then with a complete report.

The Bride and I lived in New York for two years, and what I miss the most are the bookshops: the Strand, Shakespeare & Co, Book Court... but most of all, the mystery bookshops. Whenever I had a spare hour, I'd hop the subway up to Otto Penzler's joint, or if it was nice, walk over to Partners & Crime and marvel at their Top 100 List. I'd gaze longingly at the first editions I couldn't possibly afford, but take solace in the cool paperbacks, used and new. So to be spending a day visiting these stores again... and having it be, like, part of my job? Like they used to say in that beer commercial: it doesn't get better than this.

If you happen to be in the NYC area, stop on by and say hello. I'll be at Black Orchid a little after noon, Mysterious Bookshop around 3, and Partners & Crime by 5 or so.

Good Word from The Bad Plus

I was thrilled to see The Wheelman mentioned over at Do the Math, the blog of controversial jazz trio The Bad Plus. As it turns out, pianist Ethan Iverson is a huge fan of Donald Westlake, just like me. Unlike me, Iverson has been photographed with Mr. Westlake. Jealous? As hell.

This is going to sound like logrolling, but it really isn't: If you haven't heard The Bad Plus cover songs like "Smells Like Teen Spirit," "Every Breath You Take" and (this one's for Gischler especially) "Knowing Me, Knowing You," you need to get yo' ass over to iTunes and start downloading. Or better yet, pick up their latest, Suspicious Activity, which features the best version of "Chariots of Fire" you've never heard.

Best Blog Promotion Ever

When I was a mere lad, I dreamed of the day when I would see a novel with my name on it, available in bookstores everywhere in this great land. But even more than that, I dreamed of the day two hotties from Gurnee, IL would see my book on the shelves and pretend to be excited by its appearance...

Well, that day has come. Even if it does look like Christin's sister is shoplifting a copy. (Hey... as long as people read it!)

Props to Christin, my longtime BFF, for that awesome display of shameless promotion.

Though I Walk Through the Valley in the Shadow of Paul Giamatti...

Closed the paper, ran the edit meeting, stepped out for some fresh air. Wandered up to Big Jar, the used shop on 2nd Street I've blogged about in the past. There, I overheard the clerk tell a friend, "Yeah, you just missed Paul Giamatti. He was in here a little while ago."

That would be Paul Giamatti, Dave White-sound-a-like, who's in town filming M. Night Shyamalan's Lady in the Water. (And don't go fussing, Mr. White. Even Wallace Stroby says you sound like him when you're exasperated.)

I took my purchases to the counter. (C'mon, I'm in a used bookstore. Like I'm not going to have purchases?) "Excuse me," I say. "Did you say Paul Giamatti was here?"

"Yep. He was over by the science fiction section for a while, but he didn't buy anything."

"Too bad."

"Yeah."

Her friend asked: "Did you say anything to him?"

"No."

I shoved a fistful of cash at the clerk and ran down 2nd Street to the Book Trader, which has an even bigger science fiction section. But no Giamatti. Maybe he was called back to the set. Maybe he decided to get a cheeseburger. But we will meet up at some point. I know we will. I have no idea why I want to meet up with him, mind you. This has become one of those epic quests where the original reason for the quest has been lost to the mists of time.

Until next time, Mr. Giamatti...

(Curious about those purchases? I know the Bride will be. Let's see... I bought two Andrew Vachss paperbacks, Blossom and Blue Belle, two John Harvey paperbacks, Cold Light and Lonely Hearts, and two Dr. Seuss books for the kids: Mr. Brown Can Moo! Can You? and I'll Teach My Dog 100 Words.)

Offers You Can't Refuse

Over at Ink Slinger, Paul Guyot treats us to a lengthy but fascinating look at his recent TV writing career. The part that really jumped out at me:

So this year I was again at peace with the idea I was out of the biz. Because I told my agents this spring that I would never do that again - never take a job where I'm flying myself all over, leaving my family every week, etc. If someone wants me, they can pay to fly me out there.

Well, oddly enough, the network that I wrote the pilot for was doing another pilot, and there was a deal in place - an executive producer, a studio, a writer, and a script. But the script came in and it wasn't what those in charge were hoping for. So they went looking for a new writer and the head of the network called my agents and asked if I was available...

So I got the gig based on my work for TNT last year. And in my deal I was able to get what I wanted - that if I go anywhere outside the St. Louis city limits, the studio's got to pay for it.

[end]

I've had a similar experience. A year ago this week, I started my gig as the editor of the City Paper, and the job came up just a few months after telling everybody: You know, I think I'm done with this journalism thing for a while.

My professional career had been spent at magazines, starting in May 1993, when I was hired as the fact-checker at Philadelphia Magazine. (Think Bright Lights, Big City, only minus the cocaine and models.) By Fall 2002, I was a senior editor at the same magazine -- after stints at two men's magazines -- but was feeling a little burned out, and more interested in writing books. I had just signed a contract for The Perfect Drink For Every Occasion with Quirk Books, and I had just started teaching a journalism course at La Salle University, my alma mater. So I left Philly Mag full time, agreeing to edit certain service packages and contribute occasional stories.

But over the next year and a half, the last thing I wanted to do was magazine work. Especially service packages. You know, those "how-to" and "what to buy" type pieces. Real estate roundups. "Best of" issues. I'd spent much of my career writing/editing pieces like these, and it was really getting old. (Plus, I've never seemed to live down the infamy of writing sex stories for Cosmo...)

By July 2004, Philly Mag and I parted ways amicably. It was a loss of income, but I was secretly relieved. I loved teaching, and I had just started to shop around a novel that would eventually be called The Wheelman. I was offered a full-time gig at La Salle. I announced to the Bride and everyone else within earshot: Yeah, me and journalism? We're calling it quits. Books and teachin'. That's where it's at. It'd have to be a really sweet deal to get me to return to the folds. Amen, Alleluia, and pass the Tylenol.

Just a few weeks later, the headhunter called me about the City Paper job. (My name had been thrown into the ring by a good friend of mine -- a columnist at one of our daily papers.)

I said, I'm flattered, but no thanks, I'm happy.

The headhunter persisted.

I said, really, no, I'm cool.

The headhunter persisted.

I agreed to go in for an interview. Why not, right? At the very least, it's an educational experience. Something to tell my students about.

And once I did, it was all over. I fell in love with the place -- the paper, the staff, the creative vibe. Everything that seemed so limiting about jthe business fell away, and I saw the job as something fresh and exciting. Even better, I'd be editing all kinds of stories. Not just the service ones. And once that happened... well, me and journalism patched things up. As I've said before, it's going on a year now, and things are still fresh and exciting. Even better, the paper doesn't mind if I cheat on it with this whole fiction thing. Editing nonfiction by day, writing fiction by night? It's this Polish boy's dream career.

Not quite sure if there's a moral of this story, other than: be careful what you say out loud. Because someone's usually listening.

Someone with an interesting sense of humor.

Golden Colorado

Here's my review of The Colorado Kid that ran in the paper last week. I think Stephen King is one of our most gifted storytellers, and I applaud the fact that he always takes chances. In this slender novel, he takes perhaps the biggest chance of all.

(And yes, that's the Polish cover. What the hell, right?)

For other reviews and a cool discussion of the "nature of mystery," check out Sarah's site.

The Colorado Kid
by Stephen King
Hard Case Crime, 184 pp., $5.99

Stephen King has broken every publishing rule he can. And why not? He's Stephen King. Whether it's a serial novel published in six installments one month apart (The Green Mile), two strangely connected novels under his own name and a pseudonym (Desperation, The Regulators), or an Internet-only novel that survived only a few installments (The Plant… and frankly, Steve, I'm still a little pissed about that), he's confounded expectations time and again. And now with his latest novel, The Colorado Kid — his first since completing his seven-volume Dark Tower — King goes us one better. He's written a short mystery that turns out to be something new in the genre: the anti-mystery.

You've got all the classic ingredients in The Colorado Kid: a dead body, missing identity, incompetent cops, a young woman eager to find the truth. But that's where the similarities with other mysteries end. The majority of the book is a conversation between two elderly newspapermen and a college intern in a coastal Maine office, discussing the strangest cold case to hit their town: the discovery of a man, just a few hours dead, sitting on a beach, a chunk of slightly chewed steak in his throat. That's not especially remarkable, but as the details unfold — again, this all takes place in conversation, and it's absolutely riveting — the man's death seems increasingly unlikely. The oddities build, but before we find ourselves in, well, Stephen King territory, we learn that…

Ah, this is where it becomes an anti-mystery. The Colorado Kid will either strike you as a fresh bit of thinking in an often-tired genre, or you'll want to feed your copy to Cujo. (I'm in the former camp.) If it's the latter, here's a tip: Give it five more minutes and read the afterword. Playing Columbo, King steps out from behind the page to explain himself. But he can do that kind of thing. After all, he's Stephen King.

There's No Escape from Myself

Are you sick of me yet? I sure am. But in case you haven't quite reached the point of nausea, and need something to take you over the edge...

Here's a terrific review of The Wheelman that appeared in Friday's Rocky Mountain News. I'm really glad reviewers are picking up on the humor in the book. Part of me was worried only I found this stuff funny.

This past Thursday, my neighborhood paper, The Northeast Times, ran this very flattering profile. Come to think of it, this is first time I've ever been profiled.

And finally, sinking to a new all-time low, here's the Q&A; my own paper did with me. Shameless, shameless, shameless. But check out Lori Hill's killer first question. I'm still speechless.

Another Crushing Defeat in the War Against Country Music, One Which May Have Turned the Tide Forever

So it's Friday night. We're driving down Aramingo Avenue, headed to Nancy French's swank apartment building for the book party. The Bride's cell phone rings. She driving, but fishes around in her purse, finds it, flips it open.

"Yes?"

I'm thinking, it's probably the babysitter. She can't find the diapers or something.

The Bride has a look of confusion on her face, and then says, "Swierczynski."

A pause.

"What!?" the Bride says.

I'm thinking: the kids are unconscious, marinating in a pool of their own blood.

"OH MY GOD! ARE YOU SERIOUS! OH MY GOD! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! OH MY GOD!"

Now I'm really worried. I haven't heard the Bride shout "Oh My God" since... well just you never mind since when.

As it turns out, the caller was "Cadillac Jack," a disc jockey at WXTU-FM, the country music station here in Philly. The Bride had won a Jo Dee Messina CD earlier in the week, which qualified her for the grand prize, and right now, Cadillac Jack was telling her that she had, in fact, won the grand prize.

Which is a guitar, autographed by Jo Dee Messina (pictured above).

Which, brothers and sisters, will most likely be hung on our wall. One more step in the Nashville-ization of the Swierczynski home.

"OH MY GOD! ARE YOU SERIOUS?"

Somewhere, Nancy French is laughing.

The French Connection

A while back I mentioned the idea of the "Home Invasion Tour." The basic idea: Instead of sitting inside a mall chain store where customers will desperately avoid making eye contact (not that this isn't a valid way of selling books), you bring a pile of books to reader's home, Tupperware-style. At the very least, you have some drinks, you have some laughs. Maybe you sell a book or two.

Last night, writer Nancy French and her husband David hosted my very first Home Invasion stop, and... well, look at this, for Pete's sake. She even baked a cake:



After some chicken wings, wraps and a fine selection of local brews (are you catching this Mr. White? No pressure or anything) David read a chapter of Nancy's book-in-progress, One State, Two State, Red State, Blue State, which was just excellent. It detailed the culture shock Nancy experienced when she jumped from an extremely conservative Christian college into the ultra-liberal halls of NYU. The room was full of people with various beliefs and political bents, but every one of us was riveted. Nancy is a powerful and sharp writer, which is why I love publishing her columns in the City Paper, even if I don't agree with half of them.

Back when Nancy agreed to host a Home Invasion party, I made her promise to read a small chapter of The Wheelman. Knowing that Nancy is stil very much a conservative Christian, and hesitates to even type foul language, let alone speak it, I gleefully selected a chapter called "The Bastard."

A sample line: "Let Andrew fuck the Russian asshole, he prefers his company to mine."

Another: "Karyn was now drinking a vodka and cranberry, but even that didn't have a prayer of killing the taste of vomit."

Still another: "Dropped Cynthia home with a lame apology, then back to the townhouse with puke breath."

Here's Nancy struggling through it:



You could practically see Nancy's soul being pulled between Heaven and Hell. The room was howling with every f-bomb, every off-color reference. It was a goddamned brilliant. If there's ever a Wheelman audio book, I want Nancy to do it.

And let me say, this really is the way to do a reading: letting other people do the reading for you.

But eventually, they made me stand up and answer a few questions.



At one point, I was talking about how hard it was to sell Secret Dead Men because it was multi-genre. "Publishers would tell my agent, where would we sell this? Mystery? Horror? Science fiction? Romance? Christian lit?" That got a laugh, and Nancy suggested a mystery with Jesus as the protagonist.

"Jesus P.I.," I said. "He may have been dead, but now he's back. And he's the wrong man to Cross."

We even came up with titles like The Meek Shall Inherit the Corpse and The Case of the Loaves and Fishes.

Yeah, it was that kind of night.

Let's see... what else... oh, here we have Nancy's friend Renee, David, the hands of Anonymous City Girl, who is obscured by City Paper Managing Editor Brian Hickey, and David's co-worker Michael.



Yes, it's true; ACG's identity has finally been revealed to me. Once I figure out who really killed JFK, I'll be set.

Huge thanks to Nancy for the party, for being such an excellent sport, and for gathering such a fun group of people (Les, Carol, Sonja, Renee, Michael, Amy, Jane, among them). If this is the way Home Invasions are going to roll, sign me up for a dozen.

(Don't worry, Mr. White. You don't have to bake me a cake.)

Festival of the Two-One-Five

If we can trust Dave White on these matters, last night's "Bullets, Bylines and Beer" panel at the 215 Festival was "awesome... just awesome." I have to agree. But that's only because of my fellow panelists, who managed to be funny and profound, and the audience, who had some great questions, and kindly laughed at my goofy jokes.

Here are some photo highlights. All photos by Mr. White, except for the first one. (Yep, I trusted him with my camera for the evening. I was a little worried about seeing a classic down-the-pants, "hey, I gotcher photo right here, pal" shot, but Mr. White kept it professional.)

First up, the ubiquitous Mr. White and Laura Lippman. A few years from now, there will be a coffee table book full of photos of Dave and Laura, gleaned from various blogs.



Then there's me, introducing the panel. (Meanwhile, Wallace Stroby searches for an escape hatch.)



Panelists Bill "Flip" Kent, Solomon "I Opened for Will Smith" Jones, Wallace "Jersey Boy" Stroby, and Laura "Mary Tyler Moore" Lippman.



The audience at McGlinchey's. I must say, I heartily recommend beer for all book readings/signings from here on out. Nobody threw a single bottle, or shouted for "Free Bird."



And here, Pat Lambe wishes a good night to all in his own special way:



Huge thanks to the panelists, the good folks at the 215 Festival (Celeste, Elisa, Jesse), and everyone who ventured out to hear us gab -- especially Dennis DiClaudio and Tom "A.C." Namako.

Next up: Home Invasion at Nancy French's swank apartment. Updates later tonight! If I'm still awake!

We May Know Him As Sunshine, But His Clients Can Call Him Al

Secret Dead Blog rarely gets to break news. We were late on Watergate, completely missed the Iran-Contra thing, and unfortunately, Secret Dead Blog was dating Monica Lewinsky during the late 1990s, so that would have been a serious conflict of interest.

However: Secret Dead Blog is able to bring you this fresh bit of literary news, and amazingly, I think we're even scooping Sarah Weinman. The news?

Meet Al Guthrie, literary agent (shown at left standing in front of the historic David Goodis house).

Yep, that's the same Al Guthrie who's already been lauded as one of the shining stars of noir, both here and in the UK. The same Al Guthrie who's an editor for cult fiction imprint PointBlank Press. The same Al Guthrie who portrayed Arthur Dent in the most recent adaptation of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. (At least, we think it looked like him.)

But it's true: Al has joined the prestigious Jenny Brown Associates. Secret Dead Blog asked Al to explain the newest peg on his hat rack.

Secret Dead Blog: Why did you want to become a literary agent?

Allan Guthrie: Cause I'm no good at plumbing.

SDB: No, really. why?

AG: Writers of dark material tend to get short shrift from agents, on a content basis alone. Happened to me enough times, and I know many other authors who've had the same experience. I think those agents are missing a trick. Crime fiction is expanding, and nowhere faster than the darker, harder-hitting variety. Dark crime fiction is, as you know, a particular area of interest (some might say, obsession) of mine. What with my editorial and writing experience, and my inability to shut up about books I love, along with my view that hard-edged crime fiction is about to blossom (it already is, it's just cleverly disguised), becoming an agent seems to make a lot of sense. Whether I'll be any good at it is another matter entirely, of course, but I'm delighted Jenny Brown Associates have given me the opportunity. It's very, very exciting.

SDB: What kind of clients are you looking for?

AG: Stunningly gifted writers of intelligent dark/comic crime/literary/thrillers (and if they can write great flap copy, even better).

SDB: Who's a better lover: you, David Hale Smith or Mark Stanton?

AG: That's not for me to say. You'd need to ask Paul Guyot.

[end]

If there's one thing you need to know about Al Guthrie: he conquers whatever he sets his mind to. If I weren't so googly-eyed in love with my own agent, I'd be tempted to jump on the Good Ship Guthrie. Of course, that would be another huge conflict of interest...

But I'm extremely jealous of the people he's going to be signing up. They have no idea how hard he's going to work for them.

The Inky on The Wheelman

This morning I stopped at the corner store to buy three copies of The Philadelphia Inquirer and a bottle of Orangina (which one of my co-workers insists rhymes with "vagina.") Why three copies of the Inky? Why, because of this pretty damned spectacular review of The Wheelman, written by David Montgomery.

I'm thrilled about the whole thing, but I'm especially proud of these observations:

Swierczynski writes with an economy of language that hones his prose to a razor's edge. He doesn't waste words, doesn't spend time on superfluous details or flowery description. He just hunkers down and focuses on what he does best: writing a crisp, taut and active story that keeps readers holding their breath to see what's going to happen next.

Despite the noir undertones, The Wheelman is also a surprisingly funny book, not least because the title character views the world and the terrible things it contains with such wry, sardonic detachment. (And the author uses that comic relief to good effect, partially offsetting the nasty events that keep taking place.)

If that comes across to readers, I'll be a happy, happy boy.

And the timing couldn't be better, with my 215 Festival Panel with Laura Lippman, Wallace Stroby, Solomon Jones and Bill Kent happening tomorrow night. Talk about a confidence builder.

I just hope Paul Giamatti sees a copy of this review...

Country Music Star's Next Song Practically Writes Itself

From the Associated Press this afternoon:

Country Star Cagle Says Baby Isn't His

Chris Cagle was excited about becoming a first-time dad, only to learn after the baby was born that he isn't the father.

In a posting on his Web site that asks for privacy, Cagle told fans: "As many of you are aware, I had been anxiously awaiting the addition of a new baby to my life. The baby has been born and both mother and child are in good health.

"Since the birth, however, we have discovered that biologically, the child is not mine."

There were no other details. The mother was believed to be the girlfriend of Cagle, who is not married.

Giamatti: A Mystery Fan?

As I mentioned way back when, Dave White sound-a-like Paul Giamatti is in town to shoot the next M. Night Shyamalan flick, Lady in the Water. But I was stunned to learn that Giamatti has been hanging out at one of my favorite haunts. As reported by Michael Klein in yesterday's Philadelphia Inquirer:

Paul Giamatti (Sideways, American Splendor) is a fan of thrillers and science fiction. In town shooting Lady in the Water, he's been spending hours at a time amid the racks at the Whodunit bookstore. Clue: It's on Chestnut Street, near 20th.

Yes! That's my Whodunit! Where I first suckled at the teat of hardboiled crime fiction! Oh, what I would give to hear a conversation between Whodunit co-owner Art Bourgeau and Giamatti... (Of course, I could simulate such an experience by bringing Dave White into the shop someday.)

I wonder what he bought?

A Little Dispatch

Yep. It's happened again. I've jumped genres. For a while there I was on the 1950s Gold Medal/vintage paperback vibe, gobbling up classic noirs like Line of Fire, Never Live Twice, Hardman, and of course, I'll See You in Hell. But ever since Ed Gorman mentioned Horror: Another 100 Best Books, I've found myself looking for novels on the creepier end of the spectrum. I've found exactly that in Bentley Little's latest, Dispatch.

I've been read Bentley Little's work since his days contributing stories to David Silva's fondly-remembered The Horror Show, which was also the early stomping grounds of writers like Poppy Z. Brite, John Skipp and Craig Spector. His stuff has always been delightfully odd. And he's been writing a horror novel a year, more or less, since the early 1990s -- the best of which (The Mailman, The Ignored and now Dispatch) are idiosyncratic black comedies unlike anything else in the genre. They say that many horror readers used to be outcasts in high school. If that's true, then Little's novels seem to be about outcasts the other outcasts avoided. Yeah. Those poor geeks.

Dispatch's protagonist is Jason Hanford, a habitual letter writer who finds that his words have the power to influence all kinds of people -- pen pals, civic leaders, business executives, even President Ronald Reagan. (Really.) Free meals and hotel rooms, naked photos of young women... Jason wins them all with the power of the pen. Of course, this eventually lands him all kinds of trouble, especially when Jason discovers he's not the only Letter Writer out there. ("Dear Jason, I watched you last night as you ate your dinner. Macaroni and cheee. Was it good?") But to Little's credit, it's never quite the trouble you expect. The thrill of Dispatch is watching a story that's practically mainstream devolve into the surreal. We're talking badger badger badger surreal. Some may be put off by this kind of thing; I loved every bit of it. I admire writers who stretch believability to the breaking point, then use it to strum "Louie, Louie." A twisted imagination can pardon many, many sins.

Domestic, Violence

A few weeks ago, I was whining about balancing home life and the writing life. Today was proof it can work.

We got up early. The Bride took the wee ones over to my mother's house. We set out to look at carpet samples and floor laminates for our living/dining room.

I know, I know; sounds pretty frickin' awful, right? I mean, did I accidentally snap my neck at some point, die and go to Hell? But the selection process turned out to be relatively painless, and right after, we drove to the Barnes & Noble in Jenkintown, Pa., where I signed nine copies of The Wheelman.

Secret Dead Blog Scorecard: Bride: 1, Me: 1.

Next we hit a chain furniture store up the street to pick out a new sofa and easy chair. Something that will resist the destructive tendencies of the wee ones, but look better than the hand-me-down furniture from my grandfather circa 1982 -- and even then, with Dexy's Midnight Runners playing on the radio, it wasn't all that attractive. Once again, the selection process is hassle-free and quick, leaving us time to drive five more minutes up the road to... ah, you're ahead of me. The Barnes and Noble in Willow Grove, Pa., where I signed five copies of the novel, but also booked an appearance. (I'll be hanging out all afternoon on November 25th, a.k.a. Black Friday, trying to convince unsuspecting shoppers that The Wheelman is the perfect gift for toddlers and seniors alike.)

Secret Dead Blog Scorecard: Bride: 3 (hey, it's two pieces of furniture), Me: 3 (signing plus booking).

We tried to go for extra points in the final minutes -- eating lunch out in a non fast-food restaurant -- but after a call to my mother, we realized time was running out. So we settled for food court chalupas and drove home.

So yes, (married) brothers and sisters, it all can work. I may wake up in a completely different-looking house by the time I finish my tour. But so be it.

Moral of the story: If you're a working writer, learn to say the words, "Why, yes, I think the Winchester Oak flooring will definitely tie the paint and rugs together.

Welcome to Collingswood

You couldn't have asked for a better day for a book festival -- warm sun, a cool breeze, and the only clouds in the sky were those of the white, puffy and harmless variety. If I didn't know better, I'd say the organizers of the Collingswood Book Festival sold their collective souls to the Devil. Which would explain the slain goats and pentagrams... oh, I'm just kidding. I mean, look at this. Can you imagine a more idyllic scene?



Even better, here's a quick snapshot of the people waiting in line to buy a copy of The Wheelman...



Okay, I'm kidding again. That was the line for Larry Kane.

But seriously: Here's a photo of the festival-goers who endured 40 minutes of me gabbing about bank robbery, writing, editing and other assorted nonsense:



Thanks to each and every one of you. You made a nervous Polish boy feel right at home. And thanks to all of the festival volunteers who worked their butts off to make sure every writer was fed, watered, and knew where to sit. This is only the festival's third year, but with such pros at the helm, it clearly has staying power.

In case you were wondering, I did read a small sliver of The Wheelman, and about halfway through, I noticed a seven-year-old girl in the audience. Alarm bells started clanging in my brain. Did I remove all of the cuss words? Were there any mentions of violence, torture or blood? My God, I thought, did I let a "pussy snorkel" reference slip in there somewhere!?

As it turned out, all I had to do was change a "hell" to a "heck" (which actually made the line funnier) and I was golden. But consider me scared straight. Next time I'm worried about dropping an f-bomb, I'll approach the seven-year-old ahead of time and ask permission.

Sunshine in the Scotsman

Ladies and gentleman, meet Allan Guthrie, Maestro of the Mean.

The profile in today's Scotsman nails the man we all know and love as "Sunshine." After reading his novels, one could easily think he'd be the most dark and brooding Scot this side of Orkney. Actually, he's a fun-lovin', chipper, easy going conversationalist who has a tendency to giggle... oh yes, giggle... when something really strikes him funny.

My favorite line of the piece:

On the contrary, he's an affable sort, who, despite his deft grasp of the darker echelons of the criminal mind, wouldn't so much as move an old lady's plant pot into the middle of the street.

My favorite Sunshine quote:

"Not too much introspection, descriptions of sunsets," Guthrie grins. "No gratuitous scenery. And it seems true that this kind of book does work out better short. There aren't many writers I know turning out 400- or 500-page novels. There's only so much pain you can bear."

Right on, Brother Sunshine.

But... the bassoon? For real?

Suds and Signings

Last night's event at the Grey Lodge was a rousing success. I met some very cool people (not the least of which were my fellow authors; Lew Bryson has an amazing, bellowing laugh that could knock down a woodshed), drank some very fine beer, and sold a surprising number of books. I think more writers should consider signings in their local watering holes. Worse case scenario: you sit there and drink beer while you wait for people to approach. But since you're in a bar, people are much more likely to approach you. Then you can sit and bullshit, no pressure.

Some visual hightlights:

Here's Brian O'Reilly, brewmaster at Sly Fox Beer in Phoenixville, PA, talkin' hops and barley with Scoats, Grey Lodge owner and our host for the evening. (Note to Sunshine: Isn't Scoats a dead ringer for David Goodis?)



And then we have Lew Bryson with Tracy Mulligan, sales rep at the Victory Brewing Company in Downingtown, PA.



Finally, here's me signing The Wheelman for my brother Gregg, after strongarming him into buying a copy. Poor kid never knew what hit him.



Next up: the Collingswood Book Festival. Unlike last night, I'm expected to read and speak this afternoon. Without the help of a nice pint of IPA. Yikes. Check in later for a report...