Open Pants Night

Here’s a little secret you may not know. I’m not particularly loud or obnoxious, but I love speaking in public. Yes, love it. Some people would rather have their bikini-line waxed than stand before a room full of strangers and potentially make a cataclysmic fool of themselves––but me, I dig it. Masochistic? Maybe. Attention-whore? I suppose.

So tonight, I’m going to Open Mic Night at the local Hastings bookstore to do a reading from The Panama Hotel. Or, as I like to call it, Open Pants Night, since most of us are bound to make utter fools of ourselves.

And, if we’re being honest here, I have to say that few things are as painful as a bad reading. At Squaw Valley, there were über-famous authors that couldn’t hold an audience captive at gunpoint. While Mark Childress could read from the dictionary and make people laugh, or cry. I’m not hoping for effusive, gushing praise––just hoping people don’t throw things.

There was an article Sunday on this monthly gathering, so there should be a good crowd. A veritable sea of black turtleneck sweaters and bitter coffee.

Okay, off to do my thing. I’ll let you know how it went.

Please, judge these books by their covers

It's winter in Montana and I can see the sunshine, figuratively and literally. The Panama Hotel is done and simmering on the back burner. And outside, global warming has brought lovely 60 degree weather to the hinterlands. Coastal flooding? Polar ice-cap melting? Jam it––I like summer in December. And since I have time, and the sun is shining (almost all the way to Calgary), I thought I'd do what until recently has been unthinkable. Two––yes, count them...one...two...blog posts in the same week. This could be habit forming.

So without further adieu, check these beauties out. Contenders for Worst Book Cover of All Time. I'm not sure what's scarier, Xaviera Hollander going all Flashdance on that saxophone, or a poorly illustrated Burt Reynolds, complete with cheesy hairpiece, for that lost noir classic––The Penetrator.

Enjoy. Well, sort of.

Giving birth. The pain. The mess. The joy.

Okay folks, don’t fall over or anything, but I just tapped out the last chapter of The Panama Hotel early this morning. It came into the world around 1:34 am, weighing in at 85,700 words and 348 pages long.

Writer and baby are doing just fine.

There is no finish line

Like this marathon runner, I'm writing my next book entirely in costumeAccording to a very old Nike campaign, anyway. After the hustle & bustle of my wife’s big fall art show that dominates our lives like a sumo wrestler at an all-you-can-eat sushi bar––that and the Thanksgiving holiday, I’m finally back on the book.

And I’m happy to report I’m this close (holding fingers really close together) to finishing the damn thing. Barring any asteroid collisions, drive-by shootings or the bird flu, I’ll wrap The Panama Hotel up sometime this week. Only 6-7 more chapters to write–-critical ones to be sure, but I’ve ironed out all the wrinkles, now just gotta get out of the way and let my characters have their final turn on stage.

Then what? Hmmm…dunno. I don’t smoke, so that celebratory cigar is out. I know it’s cause to celebrate, but what would you do?