In 2021, I blogged here about book publishing for 134 consecutive days.  Then ended the postings on June 24th.  In that final post (image below) I hinted at possibly returning with something “mysterious.” Well, I’m back!  And hoping most of you are still there. Recall that what I most enjoyed about publishing was doing the…

I entered the University of Pittsburgh (aka Pitt) as an industrial engineering major because in high school I got good grades in math and physics, and lousy grades in English. Also, the engineers I knew took family vacations to the Maryland shore, had two cars, and a paneled room with a pool table in their…

There were about 40 of us in Pitt’s writing program, some focused on journalism, some on creative writing.  We all hung out together, drank together, and worked together on the school newspaper, The Pitt News. All of our writing buddies hung out at 113 Chesterfield. There was lots of beer and smoking. The place stunk. …

For several years, Matt and I were both in the Boston area.  He went to Harvard Law School and got deeply involved in an initiative known as “Reinventing Justice.”  And I was Director of Marketing for Addison Wesley’s trade division. That trade operation was small but when it came to top-notch nonfiction, we traded punches…

Six months later it’s pub date for Matt’s book, Reinventing Justice.  The cover wasn’t a winner, Matt was an unproven author with no sales records, and the title was a wee bit of a yawn. Yet Matt and his colleagues (mostly from Harvard) were well-connected to influential policy makers.  You could sense a buzz.  The…

A couple of years after Rich’s headline-stealing resignation from the Washington Times, he gave up on journalism for good.  Done.  Enough.  Over. He had covered Three Mile Island, the U.S. Supreme Court, Strom Thurmond, and the Reagan White House (he nearly fell out of the press helicopter—seriously—as it followed Reagan’s helicopter out of London and…

Over lunch, I told Rich that I could make him a bestselling author but he could never, never, never tell anybody how it happened.  That I would deny, deny, deny.  That’s why the lunch, and not a phone call or email.  I needed my deniability moment.  (And now with this blog post these many years…

Early in my career, Macmillan published Murder by Contract: The people vs. “Tough Tony” Boyle by Arthur H. Lewis. It should have been Freeman’s book.  He broke the story about the corrupt mine workers union.  He was the reporter who pissed off Tony Boyle and got Jock Yablonski killed. But this Murder by Contract book,…

Freeman called me.  “Senator Heinz is looking for somebody who knows book publishing.  And also writes books. I thought of you.” I was immediately curious.  A powerful senator.  An up-and-comer, with a hell of name. “What is he—” “I have no idea.  I’ve told you everything.  I’ll have him get in touch.” My favorite school…

1.     By some miracle, you first get an agent. 2.     The agent then submits your manuscript to editors at various publishing houses. 3.     If an editor is interested, she/he takes the proposal to a “Pub Board” meeting where sales, marketing, rights, and manufacturing staffs discuss the project’s likely costs and income. 4.     A P&L is…

Well, this is weird.  Today I was going to write about death and book publishing.  And then this morning I was threatened with death. In my mail was a small box.  And in that box, an Albert Einstein doll.  A little toy knife stuck through Albert’s heart pinned a Post-It note to him.  The note…

So this writer walks into a bar.  No, make that a writer walks into a dark, smoky bar.  No, let’s try a writer, looking furtively around the bar, walks into it.  That doesn’t work, how about a lanky, tanned writer with a prominent chin walks into…nope. The bar beckoned to the writer and finally he…not…

I write this blog late at night.  (It’s 1:34 a.m. right now.)  When I need a pause from yapping about book publishing, instead of having a smoke like in the old days, I click on Twitter or look at the webcam in my hometown of Ligonier (PA). The webcam points at where East Main Street…

This just happened (per The New York Times): Holy shit!  A damn good senator is suddenly dead.  As is the guy who actually wrote the hot dog cookbook I pretended to write.  Now what?  Because no reporter knew Heinz better, Freeman’s reporting was all over today’s newspapers.  It’s weird how college buddies keep showing up…

A writer returns home after a long evening’s work of waiting tables, only to find his house a pile of smoldering rubble. Policemen and firemen poke grimly through the remains. The writer leaps out of his car and runs over to a detective.“Oh God!  My house!  What happened?  Where are my wife and children?” The…

Old buddy/roommate Rich was in New York City to see one of his clients.  We had drinks. He said he’d like to do a revised edition of his crisis management book.  “Social media changed anything.  I gotta update it.”  I thought it was a good idea.  I reminded him that one, I was no longer…

SHIT! Damn it! Freeman died yesterday.  Matt called me. I can’t believe it.  I’m heartbroken.  I’m shocked.  He was such a good guy.  Truly a best buddy. Matt was leaving his Pitt Law School class when he saw the ambulance outside of Freeman’s apartment building. Freeman’s son, Joey, had found his dad when he came…

Weird thing is that what I was going to blog about yesterday, before learning that Freeman died, is maybe an even better thing to write about now that Freeman’s died. Being fans of Robert Parker’s Spenser books, Freeman and I got a special kick out of Spenser’s dog, Pearl.  And smiled that Parker’s own dogs…

It’s late.  I’m just back from Pittsburgh.  I was there for Freeman’s services. They were simple.  Freeman wasn’t a religious guy.  About 12 of us gathered along the Monongahela River.  A mile further down from where we stood, the Monongahela joins with the Allegheny River to form the Ohio River.  I stood with Rich and…

Breaking news this morning! It’s announced!  Matt is running in the special election for John Heinz’s former senate seat.    So how about that! My college housemate, my Boston buddy while at Harvard Law, and my bestselling Reinventing Justice author, might be a United States senator! I emailed Matt my congratulations.  And suggested he update…

Ligonier’s Police Chief Jim and I looked at the tape.  Jim zoomed in. The guy shoved into the backseat was a young man, a kid, maybe in his early 20s. Jim zoomed in on the faces of the two shovers, “I don’t know them.” “So not locals?” I asked, “Not a drunk cousin thing?” “Nope.”…

I decided to take a train back to New York City from the Ligonier writers conference.  Service between Pittsburgh and New York is limited and always way behind schedule. But I have a fondness for trains, even the not-so-reliable ones. I spent large chunks of my life traveling between Boston and New York.  Publishing will…

“Joey!” He was as stunned to see me as I was to see him. He sat next to me, and we talked our way across Pennsylvania. It turned out that Joey was on the train to New York to see me. His dad told him that if anything happened, “Go see Brallier. And be sure…

After about ten minutes, Joey came back and again sat next to me. “So what happened when you were jumped in Ligonier,” I asked. “Those guys put a hood over my head.  They didn’t drive far, maybe just out of town.” “They kept saying they were going to burn me.  They lit a match.  And…

Police Chief Jim was surprised to hear that I had a license plate number for the mysterious person-jacking.  He wasn’t pushy about how I got it.  I think he was sort of getting into this one.  He promised to track down the car’s owner and call me back.  It was time to find out who…

Last night, as I drank and thought about Matt and Freeman and Ace’s son and Senator Heinz, Ligonier Police Chief Jim called.  He had an owner for the car. “The car’s owned,” he said, “by Chesterfield Enterprises on Duke Street in Alexandria, Virginia.” I quickly thanked Jim, cutting him off in the middle of his…

So how’s this work?  I live in the Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan. Do I walk over to the police station on West 20th and the tell the officer behind the counter about a guy name Ace, some condoms he had 30 years ago, a dead senator, Spanky’s ashes, my old letterman’s jacket, a corrupt coroner,…

I’ll find a top-notch reporter who works for a major newspaper and tell her or him about a guy name Ace, some condoms he had 30 years ago, a dead senator, Spanky’s ashes, my old letterman’s jacket, a corrupt coroner, and a Steelers license plate. Oh god, that sounds so stupid when I type it. …

So, here’s the thing. Rich knows the print and broadcast press. Thoroughly. And his job is to control it to the benefit of his clients.  Nobody does it better than Rich.  I cannot trust the media. Nor the police or prosecutors.  After all, Matt is the bestselling author of Reinventing Justice.  He knows all the…

So here we go.  In short form, this is what I turned over to Joey.  It’s all so unbelievable.  Is this really my life? I know… I suspect… Phew! Tomorrow:  The end

Joey and I again stood along the Monongahela River in Pittsburgh. This time just the two of us.  Joey tossed his dad’s ashes into the river. We both cried a bit.  And didn’t care that we did. Freeman turned out to be my one good friend.  And now he was gone.  I nodded toward the…

At one point I headed up marketing for the book publisher Little Brown back in the day when it was Boston-based, housed at 34 Beacon Street, in an elegant building on Beacon Hill, first built as a home in 1825 on land belonging to John Hancock. Our big Spring 1983 title was Norman Mailer’s Ancient…

Back in the Mailer years, Little Brown also published Herman Wouk. There had been changes in Little Brown’s management, including me.  Wouk lived outside of D.C., so when I went there to visit accounts with sales rep, Sandor Szatmari, we thought it would be a good idea to swing by Wouk’s home, to show ourselves…

It wasn’t just the authors that made working at Little Brown a great experience, it was also going out on the road with Alan Fairbanks, the New England sales rep.  Alan had the best territory!  The quality of bookstores throughout New England was unmatched.  As was the beauty of its geography. Alan was calm and…

At Little Brown, we often took authors to lunch at Locke-Ober’s. The restaurant was a short walk across Boston Common, down Summer Street, and onto Winter Place (which was really an alley). We enjoyed showing off the unexpected place with its intricately carved mahogany paneling, brass fixtures, huge plate glass mirrors, paintings, and stained glass….

I know, I know.  This stretch of this blog seems to be all about old white guys.  But hey, they were big back then!  One of the old white guy authors went seriously off the tracks. Although James Doyle wasn’t that old back in those days. Which was all part of the tragedy. Doyle was…

It sucks to be the marketing guy at a publishing house. I could never do enough, always being yelled at about books published two years ago, a week ago, next week and six months out. Editors, sales reps, agents, authors, the mailroom, always yelling at me.  “These plans are embarrassing!  I worked a lifetime on…

So yesterday I drove to my hometown of Ligonier (PA). I parked on the Diamond and purposely walked over to a specific street corner.  I paused where Joey Freeman had stood, back when this blog was crazily disrupted, and the friends of a lifetime ended up scaring the shit out of me.  I should have…

There will be no joke today.  This isn’t funny.  At all.  Damn it!  I stayed at the Ramada Inn.  (Yep, same place where the annual Ligonier Writer’s Conference is held.)  I slept in.  Then grabbed a coffee and muffin at Abigail’s and sat, peacefully, on a bench in the “Diamond.” (Which is known as the…

I walked back to the bookstore with Police Chief Jim. He entered slowly. I didn’t go in.  I stood outside, near my vomit.  Jim came back out after a few minutes.  “This one,” he said, “is out of my league.  I just called the state police.” Another Ligonier police car arrived. Police tape went up. An…

The first guy says, “So yeah, I make about $300,000 a year after taxes.” Second says, “What do you do for a living?” First replies, “I’m a stockbroker.  How much do you make?” Second answers, “I should clear $160,000.  I’m an architect.” The two of them turn to the third guy, who is quietly staring…

Geez, as if things don’t suck enough, pissed-off-Einstein guy commented on yesterday’s posting:  “Your joke sucks.  I’d pay that loser writer $3,000 just to kill you.”  At times, pissed-off-Einstein guy does make me nervous.  Like now, when every time I close my eyes, I see that bloody bookstore floor in Ligonier.  Geez, just give the…

I did posts on Mailer, Wouk, and Shirer. In another post I recalled the words Doyle screamed at me. I also mentioned I was going to Ligonier. Doyle correctly figures I’d visit the town’s bookstore.  He’d then swings by the store.  Probably mentions to Laurie that he knew me or worked with me. She’d kindly…

In the early 1990s at Addison-Wesley, we were about to publish Accidental Empires by Robert X. Cringley.  I loved the book’s importance, its cynicism, humor, voice, and insider’s view.  Just consider its subtitle: How the Boys of Silicon Valley Make Their Millions, Battle Foreign Competition, and Still Can’t Get a Date. And note its wonderful…

I couldn’t say it better than did Grove Atlantic publisher Morgan Entrekin, “George Gibson is admired around the world as a brilliant, gracious, passionate publisher and editor.”  I’ve known George since his early days at David Godine (a much respected Boston-based house).  Better yet, like many, I can call him “a good friend.”  George was…

George’s niece and I talked. She choked up a couple of times.  Vanessa told me how a co-worker found Barbara dead on the store’s floor first thing in the morning.  There were no security cameras.   (These are bookstores. Homes to literature. Not banks, bodegas, or liquor stores.).  Nothing seemed to be stolen.  There had been…

In 1982, at Little Brown, we published Blue Highways, by William Least Heat-Moon. I loved everything about that book.  Its clean, tight, reflective, nearly poetic writing.  Its clever title (travel the blue lines on a map, not the heartless interstates). And the author’s name. Everybody on the publishing team felt likewise.  It was our passion…

Vanessa called. She talked to her co-worker. Guess what books were scattered on the floor next to Barbara’s body? They were paperback editions of Mailer’s The Naked and the Dead, Wouk’s Marjorie Morningstar, and Shirer’s The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. And then with no nudge from me, Vanessa said, “And there was…

So as promised, I called back Ligonier Police Chief Jim. They did find James Doyle.  He was already in custody.  Sort of.  At Blue Sky Monastery in Colorado.  He’s a monk in training, has been there the last six months, and has not left the Monastery at all.  Not even once.  Forty-seven fellow Jesus-loving monks…

1991 was an awful year! Until August. We (wife/Sally, son/Max, and me) relocated to Pittsburgh so that I could launch a regional publishing company. I was so frustrated by the large bookstore chains (bullies) that were key to successfully publishing nationally.    So instead of going wide with book distribution, I liked the idea of…

So I found myself thinking about… I sit up. I go to my computer. I start to Google. Tomorrow:  I’m back!

I again Googled Barbara Franks.  And again news of her death came up in the Boston Globe, the Vineyard Gazette, and the book publishing journals.  Because Barbara had a former husband who was influential in regional and national bookseller associations, and a vibrant bookstore with customers including celebrities, politicians, authors and book publishers (like gentleman…

Around 1978, I discovered Robert Parker’s Spenser books.  He had me by the 800th word of The Godwulf Manuscript.  He stayed my favorite author for 30 years (a large chunk of my life) until he suddenly died, writing at his desk, in his Cambridge (MA) home, in 2010. Spenser was a Boston-based private eye who…

Remember my posting several days ago about my Lawyers & Other Reptiles book?  20 years after its publication I got called to jury duty in New York City.  I’m good with jury duty.  It’s the right thing to do.  I’m a good citizen.  But there were personal issues this time.  I couldn’t get stuck on…

I’m working with colleague and friend Jack Keely on developing a children’s book series.  I’m smiling as I type that sentence because it’s the best thing I’ve ever worked on.  Really.  But it’s now in submission to several publishing houses so I can’t say much about it.  But here’s a hint: Anyway, Jack’s written a…

I called Ligonier Police Chief Jim.  Stuff’s happening.  But I’ve been warned not to post any of it.  As I suspected, it looks like one of you folks reading this blog is the killer.  (I’m about as lucky at this blogging stuff as I was at the high school dating stuff.) Anyway, yesterday, I mentioned…

The first says, “So yeah, I make about $300,000 a year after taxes.” Second says, “What do you do for a living?” First replies, “I’m a stockbroker.  How much do you make?” Second answers, “I should clear $160,000.  I’m an architect.” The two of them turn to a third woman, who is quietly staring into…

So here’s what was happening while I blogged about Grossology and three women in a bar. Remember I was thinking about motive?  And that there was no apparent motive for the murder of the booksellers. Except when it came to the killing of Barbara at Grapes of Wrath. Her ex-husband, Bill Franks, had motive.   With…

I’m of course curious as hell about the final draft of Under the Rose that the now-under-arrest Bill Franks prominently placed at the scene of each murder.  Just what is it?  Is it blank? Full of favorite recipes? Did he actually re-write Doyle’s original Under the Rose?  Ligonier Police Chief Jim was kind enough to…

“Frankly, I have no use for Messrs. Little and Brown . . . it’s the ‘and Company’ I’m fond of.” — Ogden Nash With my first job in book publishing at Little Brown and Company’s Medical Division, I had to agree with Ogden. The division’s publisher was Fred Belliveau. The word “gentleman” may have been…

What Curtis (as mentioned in yesterday’s post) did with OEM was make business of an opportunity.  He spotted the market’s need for something, and provided that something.  In Curtis’s case, it was the emerging need (due to both corporate and public policy) for occupation and environmental medical books.    Curtis secured the best OEM authors,…

Randy quickly moved to secure the license to produce books bound-on-the-right-for-left-handed readers.  He tossed $100 per title to book publishers for the exclusive global license to publish editions bound-on-the-right (although he skipped the Hebrew market, as that got complicated).  For decades, he grabbed that license for most every fiction and nonfiction bestseller.  At the same…

Randy was a one-person shop, except for a paid internship he annually offered to a lucky graduate of the Columbia University Publishing Course. Randy’s internship was a deep dive into subsidiary rights, the global network demanded of it, and a lawyer-like understanding of contracts.  Of the largest eight book publishers today, six of them have…

Recall 1) my job in Little Brown’s Medical Division where I met Curtis and Randy, and 2) that I grew up in Ligonier, a small town of 1,500 in Western Pennsylvania. My family only left Ligonier for the hour’s drive to Pittsburgh to see relatives or a Steelers game; and for our annual one-week vacation…

Hold on! No funny memory to post today. It was an awful day. A worst-ever awful day. Most every Monday, Randy and I have drinks near my home in Chelsea, at the Drunken Horse. The Drunken Horse is everything we both love about New York City.   The place is owned by Azman, a Turkish…

I felt like shit.  Our apartment stunk of cigarette smoke. But Sally understood, she too is heartbroken.  We sat. We sipped tea. We said little.  We held hands.  Nothing else seemed right. I got a call from Peggy, Randy’s attorney.  I had met her several times. She asked if she could drop by. Peggy showed…

Randy loved this story.  I owe it to him… So, several decades after my first airplane ride ever at age 20 (Pittsburgh to Baltimore) and my first bite ever of Chinese food at age 23, I had a six-hour flight to London then a quick connection for a 13-hour flight to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, where…

I went there today.  Bob Niegowski was now on board.  We met with Holly.  Her eyes, I swear, were still red from crying.  The two of them would wind down the business.  I’d keep Holly on for another three months. She’d have her full year of paid internship.  And I gotta say, shutting down something…

I was promoting my Hot Dog Cookbook which was really the late Senator John Heinz’s book. (If you skipped the blog entry that makes sense of that last sentence, see this posting. My New York-based media tour caused me to hang out (literally) with Rolling Stones drummer Charlie Watts. We were both booked on “Regis…

I went back to Randy’s loft today, after Holly and Bob left. Randy once mentioned how he always thought it would be cool to have a secret room behind a bookcase.  That’s gotta be what’s going on.  Behind the one wall of bookshelves, there must be a secret room with that sixth window.  The one…

I closed the window and thought about how right there, on that windowsill, Randy made the final decision of his life. In the room’s center was a large, worn reclining chair, with room on its seat for a body and a manuscript, side by side.  Obviously, this was where Randy did his reading. Suddenly it…

I don’t know what’s going on.  I’m confused.  Randy’s dead.  That damn manuscript from decades ago just showed up.  I feel like it’s now, and like it’s then.  Like I’m with the living, and with the dead.  I don’t deal well with stuff like that.  I’m a pretty simple-minded guy. I’m pulled to go for…

After Bob and Holly left for the day, I stuck around at Randy’s. I had decided to look at the fatal manuscript, no matter how dangerous a decision that might be. I again lifted the copy of Lefty, the bookcase door opened, and I went into the secret room.  I took a very deep breath,…

Hey buddy!  If you’re reading this, you’ve done as I expected.  You showed up, you figured out there must be a hidden room (pretty cool, right?), you spotted Lefty, you found the room and what we called “the fatal manuscript” (awful writing, right?) and now, this note. If one can smile from the other side,…

Yesterday’s post was difficult to do. Reading Randy’s note. Then reading it yet again as I typed it into the template for this blog. I thought it best to skip on including any photos.  You know me, the photo of the open window would be something stupid like a random product shot from the Anderson…

Sally left this afternoon to visit with college friends on Cape Cod.  Which was perfect timing. I wanted to think too much, drink too much, then crash at Randy’s. I packed an overnight bag and returned to the loft after a dinner with Bob and Holly.  When this is all over, I’m going to miss…

My publishing roots go back over a half a century.  Things weren’t fair for women back then. It was a privileged gentleman’s industry, nearly a hobby for wealthy Princeton men.  (And yes, even though I was an un-wealthy hick from Western Pennsylvania, I benefitted from my gender.  I participated in the wrongness, innocently or naively…

I told Pat what I was thinking.  I said maybe the bicycle courier with the second and only remaining copy of the “fatal” manuscript was not followed.  Maybe no creepy spy from either side trailed Gen home.  Maybe it was as simple as Tim Cory assaulting and killing Gen.  Then Tim grabbed the manuscript of…

I’ve not posted on this blog for nearly a week.  I couldn’t.  I’m busy and I’m grieving and I’m pissed, all at the same time. Today I got the DNA results.  It was Tim Cory who killed Gen. Pat said he knew New York City’s current District Attorney.  They had already talked about Gen.  Pat…

This little old blog about book publishing has caused me more death, fear, and loss than I ever imagined possible.  I’m trying to take deep breaths, stay focused, and get back to the joy of my professional. So in that spirit, I accepted the invitation of 192 Books (at 192 Tenth Avenue in Manhattan’s Chelsea…

Everybody wants to write a book.  And everybody thinks they can write a book worthy of publication.  Perhaps they’re considering a memoir (“Wait until you hear what I did in college!”), or a cookbook (“People love my meatballs!”), or a mystery (“Get a load of this – the book’s narrator is actually the killer!), or…

It’s around 2004 and I’m looking for a book-ish story to publish online to our millions of kids on Funbrain. The “book” needed to be visual, enjoyed quickly, and funny.  Sort of like a newspaper’s daily comic strips in which brilliant creators, in tiny spaces, establish characters, tell stories, and make readers laugh. In my…

I had lunch with Liz Hammer today.  She’s a senior editor with Macmillan. Liz and I first met years ago when she was on the staff of Spy magazine and I placed an article with her.  We became good friends and have stayed so since. Before lunch, I looked up that Spy article.  And hell,…

Book editor Gene Young died in 2020. But because of the pandemic, news of her death was slow to emerge. It turns out that dying was the only thing Gene every did quietly. Last evening, I attended a small memorial service for her. I had the good fortune of working with Gene at Little Brown….

Early this evening, I grabbed drinks with Dan, an agent with Writers House.  We sat at the bar at The Drunken Horse, where my late, great friend Randy House and I met once a week (see this post). I first engaged Dan to rep branded book properties spun off of the Funbrain and Poptropica properties…

Years ago I was in a bookstore looking at a display of Running Press’s miniature books.  And it dawned on me that an unexpected—and irreverent—stocking stuffer gift book might be a winner.  Does every gift really have to be La La sweet or some licensed thing? How about something for your crabby uncle? Like a…

I bought train tickets today.  Round trip up to Boston on Friday, to spread Randy’s ashes on Boston Common.  I’ll take the 8 a.m. Acela from Penn Station. That gets me into Boston’s Back Bay station at 11:35 a.m.  Then I’ll grab the 2:06 train from Back Bay and head home to New York. That’ll…

The police told me to show up today, to make a statement about the killings of Tom and Orlando. I went over to the police station on West 20th. Detective Josephine Rocco took my statement. She started to explain why she had to, “Somebody wrote these two books—”  “Manuscripts,” I corrected her, “they’re not books…

I took the PATH train from Manhattan over to Barbara Mauriello’s in Hoboken.  Barbara’s an ingenious, imaginative, artsy bookbinder who works out of the basement of her townhouse on Garden Street. My favorite innovation exercise is to remove something vital from a product.  And then see if you might have another product.  For example, remove…

Dan from Writers House (the literary agency) called. “Did you hear?” “What?” “Fred’s agency got a submission. The manuscript gets Freddy killed.” I paused, then went ahead and said it, “I like it.”  “Me too,” chuckled Dan. Freddy had crossed both of us.  He couldn’t be trusted. Publishing would be better without him. “So, did…

I took the train up to Boston today, as I’ve done so many times over the last few decades.  But this time, I sadly carried Randy’s box of ashes in an old canvas boat bag. The train was on time, weather was good, I walked from Boston’s Back Bay station over to the Boston Common. …

All I wanted to do was share my love for book publishing.  A blog seemed like a good idea. A few friends and colleagues agreed.  Then some strangers started reading this.  And now some good people are dead.  I really don’t know what to say.  Maybe I should just shut down this silly little blog. …

This post is coming soon! If you’ve made it to this point – hang in there with me!

Detective Josephine Rocco agreed to see me. I explained.  All those killings, well, just happened.  They weren’t murders.  Tom was actually killed by some unknown driver.  Orlando actually jumped off his roof, he wasn’t pushed.  Harris was actually run off the road, it happens.  Linda was actually strangled when she was mugged.  And Tony actually…

Going through airport security, I lost the small 5-inch comb I always carry in the back pocket of my pants. So on my walk over to the conference, I stopped at a convenience store which only had a longer, 7.5-inch comb. What difference could 2.5 inches make?  I bought the comb and slipped it into…

That next-to-the-last posting of mine, the one with Detective Rocco, in which I revealed how some whacko simply took advantage of innocent deaths, well, wow, that got a lot of attention.  Every meeting here in London, that’s the first thing mentioned.  And the UK-based Bookseller magazine led with the reveal from my blog.  Pretty cool. …

Roscoe Franks beat me to it.  Yep, that’s the prick’s name. The little shit revealed himself on social media, wearing his flowered visor.  He reads this blog, he knew I was going to identify him from the attendance list for the 192 Books writers conference. So he got out thee first. He took notes and…

In October 1992, Addison Wesley published Touchpoints: The Essential Reference: Your Child’s Emotional and Behavioral Development by T. Berry Brazelton. You know how you thought Brazelton must have been the kindest and sweetest guy ever?  He was.  Touchpoints sold well, but short of bestseller rate.  That was OK.  Our publishing was solid, and we were…

In 1984, when L.L. Bean refused to stock the book, The Uncensored Guide to Maine, its publisher stickered the book with, “Banned by L.L. Bean.” And according to The New York Times, sales sky-rocketed.  I’ve always enjoyed that one.  (And Roscoe Franks’ hijinks has me thinking about this sort of stuff.  Can’t quite get him…

(It is somehow fitting that this posting is my 100th. Lots of love in this one.) People not only ask if I’ll look at their writing, they also often ask if I can help get their book published.  Me: “What’s it about?”  “My life.  It’s what they call a ‘memoir.’”  Me: “Why did you write…

OK, I must admit.  I’m having a difficult time not thinking about Roscoe and his stupid mysteries. As I predicted, every publishing house had zilch interest in publishing the sick bastard.  And that’s the end of that. Or, it would have been, in the good old days.  With no publishing house to PAY to print…

Yesterday, depressed by the current state of book publishing, I promised to start a blog about the hardwood floor business. But damn it! There’s already a terrific hardwood flooring blog out there. This Dave guy absolutely nails (get it?) the flooring business. With great guidance like, “Keep your dog’s nails trimmed” and “Seasonal floor squeaking…

I know, I know, I go on, about the late great Robert Parker. From his autographings (see post) to his house (see yet another post). But the thing is, not only did I love his writing, but he was so damn prolific.  Every year this impatient fan could look forward to at least two of…

It seems odd, nearly wrong, to be 104 posts into a blog about publishing and writing and yet not one mention of the Algonquin Hotel and the writers — aka “The Algonquin Round Table” — who regularly hung out there in the 1920s to drink, eat, drink, be witty, drink, conduct business, and drink some…

Witty and creative and funny as Parker was, life wasn’t kind to her.  Even her afterlife. Parker died in 1967 leaving her estate and all future royalties to Martin Luther King Jr, who she had never met.  Which was sorta weird.  But even weirder, she left no instructions as what to do with her remains…

I Googled “Lajos Antal.”  I didn’t come up with much.  Just an address in Tarrytown, NY.  The house at that address on Google’s “street view” looks pretty damn nice.  Tarrytown? Didn’t somebody just mention Tarrytown to me?  I can’t remember who.  I hate when that happens.  And these days, it increasingly happens. Anyway, I was…

HOLD ON!  Going to pause for a few before getting to Erle Stanley Gardner. Here’s what happened since I last posted. I woke at 1:43 a.m.  I remembered!  Tarrytown!  That where Tenna said she ships Allan Jatos his books. Then I woke at 2:05 a.m.  There was a Graham family in my hometown of Ligonier…

Like they do on all those police detective TV shows, I parked across, and a bit down the street, from Lajos Antal’s fancy house.  I was halfway through my thermos of coffee (See? I was really into this), when a couple walked out of the place.  Good timing! She was dressed, tightly, showing off her…

Last night, I twice woke up to pee but I still had no memory of where I had seen yesterday’s sexy Tarrytown couple. So, as planned, I walked to 151 West 21st Street. Not because of the fancy apartment building that’s now there. But because of the old brownstone that was once there. And in…

This post is coming soon – if you’ve made it this far, hang with me!

I started the day thinking about that sexy couple outside of the Tarrytown house. I just knew that I know them. If I could just remember… So I hung out with Google first thing this morning.  I searched for images of Lajos Antal.  Nothing. I searched for of the reclusive Allan Jatos.  And all that…

As noted, I’ve known Teena for years, and was lucky to have her work on the development of my favorite “book” concept. Think about it.  Publishing is about putting content onto paper and distributing it to readers.  And quotations are, by definition, among the best of content. So let’s put quotations onto rolling papers. That’s…

I grabbed two coffees at the fancy Starbucks in the Meatpacking District and met Teena at one of the nearby umbrella tables. I dove right into why I wanted to meet. Teena confirmed that she ships Allan Jatos’s author copies to the same address in Tarrytown that is owned by the dead Lajos Antal and…

I got to thinking about book dedications. Maybe if I looked at the dedications in Allan Jatos’ books (I’ve got a bookshelf full of them), I’d gain some insight to the reclusive guy.  After all, you’d learn a bit about me by looking at some of my book dedications. For example. The Pessimist’s Journal My…

Here’s the problem with me writing a blog. I’m used to writing books. When I write a manuscript for a book, I  re-write it and re-write it. For months. And twice that’s added up to years.  Then Sally and/or a friend(s) reads it.  Then my agent does the same (a couple of times).  Then it’s…

Perhaps the favorite book of mine is Tess’s Tree, the story of a girl who deals with the grief of losing her favorite tree. For me, it’s also the story of how a book sometimes just perfectly happens. There was a large maple tree outside the window of my office in our New England home…

 The Classic Writer-and-Editor Joke (OK, this is a bit mean, but we joked about writers and agents; it’s time for editors.) A writer and an editor are stranded in the desert.  They’ve been crawling across the sand for days. As they’re about to die of thirst, they come across an oasis.  The writer jumps in…

I signed off yesterday, saying “I’m thinking about what’s good in life, just in case.” After all, there’s something about seeing my supposedly alive favorite author’s grave, and that author’s gay editor’s husband making whoopee with that author’s wife (or might she be a widow?). Confusing!!! So, onto what’s good in life — my children….

The buzzer in Randy’s old loft buzzed at 8 p.m.  I poked my head out of a window and looked down at the building’s front door. There he was.  I buzzed him in. I took a deep breath, waited a few minutes, and opened the loft’s door as Aaron stepped off the elevator.   I offered…

As I was saying yesterday, I slid the hidden switch.  The bookshelf turned.  The hidden room was revealed.  I walked in with Aaron behind me. I took a deep and perhaps final breath, and suddenly—and purposely—fell to the floor. BLAM! The gun went off.  Detective Rocco’s gun.  Sort of as planned.  There was no warning…

I need another day before I can dive back into the whole Allan-Katie-Larry-Aaron mess.  I’m so struggling with the shooting of Aaron. I talked about it with Sally, and with long-trusted friends and colleagues, David Goehring and Bill Hammond.  Now, it’s time to talk with Moon, my Pakistan, Muslim, non-drinking (seriously) bartender. Meanwhile, allow me…

As you know, I called, then went to see, Detective Rocco.  I had my suspicions about Aaron.  She thought those suspicions were legit. So that night at Randy’s old loft with Aaron, was my idea.  I’d get him there, I’d get him to talk, and then the police would jump out and arrest him. Seemed…

So yesterday, I posted the truth of what happened to Aaron that night. And soon after, a New York Times reporter called me (as I expected might happen).  We talked.  So the shit’s about to hit the fan. Suddenly, this blog (or at least that one entry) is going to have more readers than I…