I’m sharpening the pen on the strop as we speak. Just got the novel back from my U.K. editor Charlie. Fantastic, painstakingly detailed feedback. Really, if you want a smart critique, hit me up for Charlie’s contract info. It was less brutal than I’d expected, but I’ll admit it: I’m dreading having to tear at my narrative threads. But that’s the path, right? The finery’s in the edits, at least for me. Maybe Hemingway shat gold on every first draft. Not me. I shit shit. And then I work it like Play-Doh.

I still remember being in college and asking a poetry teacher/friend if he knew of any writing contacts or gigs he might hook me up with over the summer. You know, something easy—slip into the warm bath for 3 months as an intern with the inside track. No dice. His answer to me: “Want to be a writer? Hit the streets, fucker.”

My novel about two gonzo performance artists, which somehow survived 6 months of plotting, 6 years of writing, 1 year of editing, 1 year of 42 rejections by NY agents, one divorce, 10 years of San Francisco fog, 3 jobs, 5 deaths, 5 relocations, the chance discovery of my dream girl, 3 years of desk drawer darkness, followed by another year of editing, is finally in the hands of an editor. I can’t wait for you to read it! Stay tuned!

“A writer only begins a book. A reader finishes it.”
      —Samuel Johnson