That queasy feeling in my stomach I’m presently feeling is only partially due to my head cold, and not at all due to our dinner last night of pork posole. (Mmmmm. Pork posole….) No, this feeling of vertigo and fuzzy focus and slight fearful paranoia means only one thing: I’m on the precipice of writing another book.

Oh, how I live for the writing life! I put up with this just so I can work in my slippers?

Dissecting where these feelings come from never does me much good. I know that the fear comes from a worry that I will neglect or let lapse some unspecified “important things” while I mesmerize myself into a strange state that brings the words on the page. While I’d like to state dogmatically that there’s nothing more important than my giving birth to another tome, I’ll leave that up to the bigger blowhards. I’m just not a big enough asshole to state that meditating in my little mental playground is more important than, for instance:

• Supporting my ever-lovin’ wife in her new and demanding job
• Helping Number One Son begin his college search, and arranging all the campus visits
• Helping the Urchin prepare herself for the arrival of high school
• Helping them both with homework, as I promised to do back in September, like every year.
• Keeping the household solvent and the college fund stocked
• Keeping the fires burning under my OTHER books and projects with other people that need tending. (Honk Honk, My Darling, Bardball.com, the PC Bedtime Stories e-book, the Rex podcast, two new comic book ideas, plus a new book that is now in the hands of my agent)

But this is my job, and I can be Joe Lunchpail if I try. People are already starting to bug me about writing a new adventure for Rex Koko. And since I now realize that The Wet Nose of Danger, which is almost completely finished, is really Book 3 in the series and not Book 2 as I had thought, many weeks now lay in front of me full of questions like, “Who is this character, and why the hell should anyone care about him/her?” Repeated through six or seven drafts.

So now it’s time to head into the creative hinterlands, armed with a few sketchy ideas, some characters that may or may not prove crucial to the plot, little baggies of gorp, and faith (not confidence) that I’ll be able to pull it off again. I can see a few spots on the landscape that I want to visit, if I can just build some bridges and/or drain some swamps to figure out how to get there. Drain enough of that swamp, and my little Shangri-La will emerge. (The swamp metaphor might push me to say “Disney World”, but there’s too much baggage attached to that.)

My brother once asked me about how I go about writing a longer story. To his way of thinking, everything from plot to characters would have to be laid out for him to even consider getting started. I tried to explain that that wouldn’t be writing, or that really it’s a PART of writing, but it can’t be the WHOLE part. When you want to build a fire, you make sure you have tinder, kindling and fuel, and that you can find an initial spark, but it’s foolish and pretty boring to predict HOW the fire will burn.

Fire or swamp? My metaphors are already starting to confuse me. Time to start scribbling, and Devil take the hindmost.

The setting last Saturday was my favorite bookstore in town, the Book Cellar. The event, the Book of the Year Awards for the Chicago Writers Association. When I got there, maybe six people were scattered around on folding chairs. I went to say hello to Randy Richardson, president of CWA, and his wife. I introduced myself to the other winners in the competition.

Before too long, I turned around and was shocked to see the bookstore completely packed. More than 100 people sat and stood, waiting for us to get the show on the road.

A face or two was familiar, but none were more important than those of my ever-lovin’ wife and two kids. My kids have never seen me read at a big event, because during the past decade, almost all of my readings have been in taverns. There were times 15 years ago when I could occasionally pull a crowd this big. I wanted to show them that their dad wasn’t just the creep who prowls the mezzanine, stocking his mancave with stage props and comic books.

Earlier in the afternoon, I had faced the panicky decision of what to read for the evening. Most of my books have lent themselves to easy excerpts for events like this, but Honk Honk, My Darling was fiction of a weird, rambling, immersive sort. Could I come up with 8-9 minutes that were exciting and coherent and gave a good taste of the book’s contents? I decided against reading the passage of the brawl at the clown bar (want to avoid HHMD being pigeonholed as a clown book) and chose a two-person scene that had a smattering of circus parlari but not too much. Oh, and one that ended in a theatrical killing.

I don’t think I’ve ever been more nervous before a reading, certainly not recently. It’s been a long while, and the relaxed stage demeanor is only easy to fake when I’m in shape. And all false modesty aside, while HHMD was being given an award, it’s a very strange book, not suited to everyone’s taste. This would be an acting exercise, because the two characters in the passage were very different. In reality, this was going to be a short audition, in front of a packed house, in a familiar place (a fact that actually made things harder).

Randy introduced the program and the mission of the Chicago Writers Association. Then, first up to read was Krista August, who won the Nontraditional Nonfiction award for her catalog of the statues in Chicago’s Grant Park, Giants in the Park. She had also illustrated the book with her own watercolors, which I hadn’t realized. She brought along the whole box of them. She told the story of General William Sheridan, both his personal history and that of his statue. (She omitted the tale of what happens to the horse’s genitals on the statue whenever the Pittsburgh Pirates come to town, and she asked me to keep it to myself. Being a classy guy, I acquiesced.)

Next came Pamela Ferdinand reading from her memoir about three friends, late romance, and donor sperm, Three Wishes. Her passages were very funny and touching. Transplanted from the East Coast, she’ll be a good addition to the Chicago scene.

Then Randy introduced me, with way too much praise to make me comfortable. (He’s a huge fan of the HHMD podcast, and makes me feel guilty when I fall behind in production.) He handed me the lucite award, plus the gift card that came with winning. It felt dense yet incredibly delicate. I became afraid of dropping it, so I set it on a table quickly.

This was the first physical trophy I had won since high school, when I got a statue for staying in the Gabriel Richard Club for grade point average for four years. That one sits in my office, not ironically, but with pride and affection, because my father made sure the panel on the statue was engraved with all four years.

My intro describing the genesis of Rex Koko and this self-pubbed book seemed long and rambling, but my wife told me later it was spot-on. I then read a passage from Chapter 8, in which Rex confronts the daredevil Flying Fleming to find the woman he’s looking for. The most frightening part was how easily I slipped into those two characters. Recording the podcast had forced me to create their vocal profiles, but upon reading it started to become my own one-man show. Laughs were not numerous, but somehow the audience grew stone silent and hung on every word. A reflection on the writing? I guess, but it was the comfort with acting that was the most disconcerting. It all felt too natural. Does this mean I have to get out of my mezzanine command center and actually perform in front of people again? St. Genesius, please spare me that fate. I’m insufferable enough as it is.

The final reader of the night was the lovely Christine Sneed, who read from her book of short stories, Portraits of a Few of the People I’ve Made Cry. She read a funny and perceptive passage about a creative writing teacher reacting to having a famous young actor in her class. Christine’s writing is strong and clear, and you’d do yourself a favor to check it out. (For profiles of all these winners, go to the Chicago Writers Association blog.)

Do I have any kind of problem with books being chosen for awards? Hell no. The word “appreciation” doesn’t begin to describe how I feel. After working on the Rex novels for more than 10 years, operating solely on faith and stubbornness, it’s almost unreal that other people believe in the book as much as I did. It’s like everyone recognizing your invisible, imaginary friend at a dinner party. I’m grateful but disoriented.

But now I can tout “Rex Koko, Private Clown” as an “award-winning” mystery series and not be lying (except for the idea that a book and a half constitute a “series”). Frankly, that’s going to help on those slow mornings when what I do seems like a ridiculous way to spend one’s life.

Woody Allen’s whole “don’t show up at the Oscars” schtick is a little rarefied and elitist for me. Furthermore, I think it’s a calculated move to cement his image, what with his clarinet gig that he simply won’t interrupt to schmooze in Hollywood. He won the statue for “Annie Hall”, and he can rest on that while avoiding the awkwardness of being nominated and not winning.

The arts are in no way a competition (except maybe for movies on Memorial Day, but even then, it’s not like a movie ultimately “loses”), even if the presenting of awards makes it seem like there are winners and losers. It’s human nature to want to find distinction among a group of peers. And because they are popular, awards are a good way for people to expand their reading rosters beyond their comfort zones. Anything that promotes more reading is good for writers earning a living, so I’m behind that.

But I’ll say it now: If I’d lost out on this award, I’d've been a pretty miserable prick to be around for a weekend or two.

UPDATE: Here are a few pictures from the event. The first two were taken by photographer Mark Thomas.

And here is me with Christine Sneed, who won the Traditional Fiction award for her book of stories, Portraits of a Few of the People I’ve Made Cry. Photo by Mitsuko Richardson.

Hello, all you bips and kinkers. Hope your New Year is still smooth and shiny, still sporting that New Year smell. Things are finally quiet here on the Mezzanine Level, as both my Ever-Lovin’ Wife, Number One Son and The Urchin have all returned to their respective schools. Me? I just return to the four corners of my battered yet resilient psyche.

(I sure hope the WordPress Self-Aggrandizing Filter is still activated.)

I can’t find an overarching theme or topic to string all my thoughts together, so I’ll just toss ‘em out here and let them fall where they may.

1. Thank you very much to all my readers and fans out there who scooped up e-copies of all my books. December was my biggest month yet, and I hope that you all enjoyed the various PC stories and the sawdust-and-tinsel epic of Honk Honk My Darling.

2. Thanks also to those of you who downloaded the special Rex podcast, “Have Yourself a Monkey Little Christmas.” I’ve taken that audio file down now, but it will come back later in 2012 as a Christmas treat. I hope the next audio chapter of Honk Honk My Darling will be ready to go by the end of next week. (If you haven’t been listening, it couldn’t be easier to catch up on old episodes. You can subscribe at iTunes or go straight to LibSyn to grab them: http://rexkoko.libsyn.com.)

3. My incredibly slow but unstoppable conquest of all media continues, with the release of the paperback edition of Honk Honk, My Darling! Yes! A physical book you can hold in your physical hands! It would’ve been great to have had it ready in December, but we had some snafus uploading it to Amazon’s CreateSpace. But after some tweaks and another round of proofs, it is here, and looking very professional. I didn’t know the art would look so sumptuous when expanded to a paperback format, but I am very very pleased with the result.

Here we see Zippo’s appropriate reaction to the beautifulness of the paperback. (Zippo appears courtesy of Germany’s renowned Circus Roncalli.)

The paperbacks are printed on demand by CreateSpace and are for sale at Amazon for $9.99. They will also be available this Saturday, as the Chicago Writers Association honors the 2011 Book of the Year Winners! At 7 p.m. at Lincoln Square’s wonderful Book Cellar, we’ll be having readings and snacks for everyone, so everyone in Chicagoland, come out and support your local writers! This year’s winners are Christine Sneed, Pamela Ferdinand, Krista August, and yours truly. For more on them and on the awards in general, head to the CWA blog.

4. For those who want the whole five-cent background on me and the evolution of Rex Koko, check out the interview on the CWA Blog.

Life around the compound has been crazy-busy, which I’m sure everyone out there can relate to, so I’d like to take the time to wish the readers of this blog a safe and lovely holiday and a prosperous New Year. I suspect that everyone out there has had just about enough of 2011 and will spend the time off quietly regrouping and refreshing their souls. At least, I sure hope so. Real life will start cranking back up soon enough. Enjoy some drinks with family and friends, catch up on your Tivo or Netflix queue, take stock of what you value in your life and choose some things to leave behind on the trash heap. You deserve it, and you can’t really move forward without it.

I’d like to thank those of you who’ve helped me out this year, by buying my books, listening to the podcast, and generally keeping my name out in the public mind. I’d like to buy you all a drink and some Beer Nuts, but something else will have to do. So, below is the link for a genyooine unpublished Christmas story, starring Top Town’s favorite bigshoe, Rex Koko. It’s got everything: thievery, tightwaddedness, fraud, deception, and a happy ending. And lots and lots of Yuletide Monkeys. If you listen to the whole thing (less than 20 minutes), you’ll understand the title of this post.

So please enjoy this. Take time to enjoy life this next week, strengthen your heart and friendships, enrich your life in whatever way you can think of. Tis the season, pally.

2012 UPDATE: I’ve taken down the MP3 until next December, when you will all be able to listen to it again and make it part of your holiday traditions. No sense turning it into “It’s a Wonderful Life”, which used to appear on every TV channel at year-end because its copyright had lapsed.

While this blog isn’t used often to sell things…oh, wait, yes it IS!…so I’ll tell ya…

Honk Honk, My Darling is currently part of the Indie Book Blowout, a little pre-Christmas promotion for indie book writers. The 12 Days of Christmas Blowout features dozens of writers of thrillers, horror, sci-fi, fantasy, romance and any other genre you might like, all offering their books for a mere 99c!

If you have a Kindle, you know that it’s a baby that needs constant feeding. So here’s your chance to fill it up for a song. The 12 Days of Christmas Blowout wraps up on December 24, Christmas Eve, so go check it out, help out the writers involved, buy a few volumes for the people you’re giving a Kindle to this year, and help yourself to some terrific books — among them, the world’s first noir thriller and Book of the Year from the Chicago Writers Association.

The Indie Book Blowout is also giving away a new Kindle, with no purchase necessary. In addition, every day they are giving away a $25 Amazon gift card so you can buy even more books.

Whether you’ve done all your holiday shopping (in which case, you deserve a treat for yourself) or you haven’t even started (in which case, you might as well let it wait until the after-Christmas sales, so mellow out with a good book), you need to go to the Indie Book Blowout and get yerself blown out with some books. The 12 Days of Christmas Blowout is a lot cheaper, neater and quieter than your standard 12 Days of Christmas, that’s for sure.

So, this has been a very productive week. This raises two questions: Why? and How can it happen again?

I can figure out the why to some extent. The week of Thanksgiving (and a lot of the week before that) was a bust, work-wise. Hosting meant a lot of legwork, cleaning, and family obligations. Turkey Day itself was quite enjoyable, though we didn’t get to finish our “Treehouse of Horror” Monopoly game. And it was also sublimely enjoyable to watch Liesel sing in “Boris Godunov” again, on Wednesday night.

The rest of the week, though, was one big obligation. Certain family members were here who usually bring out the worst in me, who without knowing it cause all the bad habits of mind and character I’ve been trying to change for most of my life to crawl to the surface again. A lot of psychic energy is needed to fend off these habits, which can get very frustrating. Everyone knows the feeling of how old family roles begin to take shape again when relatives visit. Sometimes these can be laughed off, and sometimes they can’t.

Of course, this only shows you how fitting my “family role” — touchy, overly sensitive, impatient aesthete with strange tastes and dismissible opinions — must be. If I’m so touchy about being reminded that I’ve always had an unpleasant personality, well then, it must be true, right? This unavoidable, “unassailable” circular logic can make you want to punch a brick wall after a few days, so it was a relief to get it off my back. Maybe this was the kind of “slingshot” effect I needed to dig into work and produce.

I don’t recommend this type of “therapy” be used very often, but harnessing the negative energy when it does might be useful. (And any relatives who might be reading this will know, by that fact, that I’m not talking about them.)

This week, I managed to rewrite about 9000 words, mix a huge podcast and record another. And yesterday I wrote a complete story for my upcoming project, Tea Party Fairy Tales, in one sitting. Oh, and winning the Book of the Year from the Chicago Writers Association also put a little wind in my sails. I think it also helped that materials I’ve been waiting for from other people started to arrive, so I got the feeling of deadlines needing to be met. (This might be the No. 1 hurdle to get over when self-employed. Deadlines can get very flexible, especially if I want to avoid a crowd at the grocery store, so the extra effort that could go into meeting them gets diverted. I’ve tried everything in the book to get deadlines to stick, but it gets harder and harder.)

Now the tougher question: How to keep it going? Hard to say. My work habits don’t change much between fertile and fallow periods. My ass is still in the chair 5 hours a day. Creation, reflection, promotion, household maintenance and screwing off in various degrees fill the day. This week a sense of urgency was calling me, with the literal feeling of grabbing me by the nose and pulling me forward. It’s the closest thing I have to feeling “inspired.” She’s a fickle bitch, that muse of mine. I don’t like to rely on inspiration. I’m more the type of guy who wants to get something good done a little bit every day. Sometimes that little bit never comes, and all the devilish voices of doubt start coming from the corners of the room. Then, sometimes writing comes in a burst, along with promotion ideas, organizational breakthroughs, and other tag-alongs, flotsam and debris. Time stretches out, and everything seems doable.

Is it a question of my basic disposition? A passing mood? Is it the standard for every writer but Stephen King, and doesn’t even bear looking at?

I really don’t know. I think all I can do is treat the work and progress this week like molten glass, something that forces urgency to be made into something bigger, something further, something useful. Maybe the load of unfinished work will quicken my mind next week and not drag me down into despair. (I don’t believe in Hemingway’s bromide of stopping short of completion at the end of the day, to leave “something in the well” for the next session. Never got me anything except a lot of unfinished paragraphs.) And maybe the looming work break at Christmastime (with the promise of more interaction with blood relatives) will light a fire under me too.

Here’s the recording for Chapter 10 of Honk Honk, My Darling, in which Rex finally meets the woman he’s been searching for, and almost starts a food fight.

Featuring the dramatic debut of Mary Dixon, siren of the morning news at WXRT-FM.

Brought to you by the Hindenberk Car Company.

(If you’d like to download the MP3 and play it elsewhere, just subscribe at iTunes or go to http://rexkoko.libsyn.com.)

You mean, the lamp made out of a woman’s leg?

No, something better!

Honk Honk, My Darling has just won the inaugural “Book of the Year, Nontraditional Fiction” from the Chicago Writers Association !!! YAHOOOO!!

This is truly awesome! I am so overjoyed that the judges gave the nod to Rex (and indirectly Lotta, Bingo, Boots Carlozo, Jimmy Plummett, Pinky Piscopink, Happy Jingles and all the other kinkers of Top Town). While I will proudly proclaim “Nontraditional Fiction” to mean my own strange brew of whatever makes me chortle, it really is directed at e-books and self-published books. And that’s pretty cool, too, in this brave new world of publishing, to have made a splash.

Here’s what judge Robert W. Walker said in his release:

This novel packs so much humor on each page, combining humor and the solving of the case with a unique panache. The novel defies categorization and flies in the face of convention while at the same time using the conventions of humor and mystery, a rare find; a paradox that works.

Man, it feels pretty good to defy categorization, and then win a category.

The last award I won for writing was in 1981 for a couple of short plays I wrote while at the University of Michigan. While writing has been good to me over the past 15 years, it’s pretty darn nifty to receive an award like this, voted on by my ink-stained peers. The award ceremony will be held at the Book Cellar, 4736 N. Lincoln Avenue, Chicago, on January 14. We’ll all be reading and signing, and it will be open to the public. Can’t wait.

(Damn, I think my snark engine is broken. That’s what genuine gratitude gets you. I hope this isn’t a permanent condition.)

I sat down today, fully intending to write up a blog post that people could read over this long holiday weekend. This post would be clever and erudite, but also ground-breaking. It would cement in the reader’s mind that, despite the comical trappings around here, I was someone to take seriously, that my musings were something to tap into on a regular basis, that any sliver of spare time spent here would be rewarding. And from a crass commercial angle, it would get me a little web traffic and remind readers I was still alive and still flogging all my e-books, especially Honk Honk, My Darling.

Sorry, gang. It didn’t happen. Whatever thoughts might have been pacing around up there in the waiting room, ready for their debut, have somehow vanished. Maybe they were in a pique because I’d ignored them for most of the month, and they were loath to be trotted out hurriedly like a kid reciting “Twinkle Twinkle.” Maybe thoughts of baking, cooking, hosting and running around locked the door on them and pretended the key’s been lost. Maybe the thoughts are stuck in the security line at O’Hare. Maybe I ain’t got a cogent thought to present in any interesting way, and never did.

I started a list of things I was thankful for, but that started getting a little mawkish. Besides, everyone else’s lists have been on Twitter and blogs all week. While it was nice to read them all, it pushed me closer to the idea in Matthew 6, about praying by yourself in a closet.

Is that in the spirit of the holiday? Who knows? One of the best things about Thanksgiving is that it’s a little amorphous in how you approach it. There are traditions a-plenty, but the idea of celebrating the day “properly” rarely comes up. There’s no blowback if you choose to spend it by yourself or with friends, whether you eat turkey or lasagna, whether you go shopping or watch slasher movies at home. It feels like a real Do-It-Yourself holiday, and since it’s the first one of the season, everyone is a little less anxious.

At least, that’s how I feel about it. Family tensions certainly arise, as crowds gather for the celebration (or as people tell their families that they won’t be coming). The Black Friday stuff makes me want to join a monastery, in the Marianas Trench. The Christmas commercials during the parades and football games are nauseating (I feel so inadequate that I won’t be able to give my sweetie a Lexus this year, with a big bow on the top!). Seriously, it takes A LOT to turn me off from watching a parade, but CBS and Macy’s have perfected a formula for it. So, opportunities certainly arise for tension, disappointment, regret, but I’ve somehow blocked them out. Perhaps I’ve learned a few lessons in life by the half-century point.

At least we’re not the ones traveling this year.

And double at least, The Detroit Lions aren’t an abomination now, so both football games might be worth watching.

And I get to watch my darling daughter singing in “Boris Godunov” again tonight at the Chicago Lyric Opera.

So I’ve got lots to be thankful for. And I thank you for reading this far. Have a happy holiday weekend, y’all.

And I don’t even think they are rodeo clowns! Honk Honk, OWS!

The Two Sheep

One morning two sheep were deciding where to go to graze grass.

“I think we should go up the mountain,” said the first sheep. “Not many other animals go there to graze, so there should be enough to eat. Besides, the view is very pretty.”

The second sheep said, “No, let’s go down near the river. The grass is very sweet and plentiful there, and we’ll be shaded from the sun and wind.”

“I don’t like that idea,” said the first.

“But I don’t like yours either,” said the second.

“Well then, let’s compromise. We can go to the broad plain that lies between the mountains and the river. It should have enough grass to eat, and the weather should be fine for both of us.”

“Agreed,” said the second sheep.

And as they set off down the road to the broad plain, they were both attacked and eaten by lions.

Moral: Compromise equals death

If you’re curious about a little of my background and writing process, you can check out the nice interview with me on a new site called Creative-Writing-Help.com. Thanks to Tracey Tressa for the nice write-up.

Here’s a creative writing exercise for you after you read the interview:

What sort of undersea creature does my pale bald head remind you of? What would you do if it confronted you while on vacation? Would it be dangerous? How do you think it could be killed?

For all you eager kinkers out there, here is the latest podcast from Honk Honk, My Darling, featuring an appearance by my darling daughter as a sassy street urchin. Hope you enjoy.

If you DO enjoy, try leaving a comment in the iTunes store, because that will give it a little more momentum in their rankings.

And tell your friends, leave a review on Amazon, and join the “Honk Honk, My Darling” Facebook page. All these things add up. You want the circus to come back again next year, don’t you?

One of the best blogs out there for e-publishing is The Book Designer, where Joel Friedlander dispenses advice on making self-published and indie-published work look as good as it can. So I was excited when I read that he had a monthly contest for book covers. Every book has a cover, but so many of the e-books I’ve seen look, imho, completely amateurish, with poor font choices, muddled or cliche design, cockeyed proportions between elements, and empty space you could drive a donkey cart through. A lot of them wouldn’t have worked for a Ladies League Cookbook.

But putting those impressions into words is beyond me. I thought hearing from a professional like Joel about both my own cover and those of other e-books would be very educational.

And hey, frankly I thought we might win the contest. But alas, not this time. Joel had mostly positive things to say about the cover, designed by Airan Wright.

This cover has some of the most sophisticated typography of all the covers this month, and professional-quality illustration. What held it back, in my view, was the difficulty making out what exactly the illustration is, and what meaning it has. Also, having so many strong elements on one cover has led to a bit of graphic confusion.

Well, he’s probably right about the graphic confusion. We’ve talked a little bit about changing the cover in the future, taking out the starburst at the trapeze, and inserting a hand and forearm. But it’s pretty nice to hear that we have “the most sophisticated typography” of the month. I know what I like, and I liked Airan’s work right away. It’s grabby, and it’s going to work for other books in the series.

Among all the choices a self-publisher must make, one of the most important is what to do yourself and what to hire out. This requires deciding what you’re good at, and frankly that can be difficult. But you don’t get a second chance to make a first impression. A strong cover is important, and will be increasingly crucial as more color tablets enter the market and people use them to browse for their next read. I learned a long time ago that while I may have an EYE for design, that doesn’t mean I can actually DESIGN something that will attract other people.

Friedlander’s website, and especially the contest, is something every self-publisher should check frequently. You can’t judge a book by its cover, except most of the time.

As you fans know, this has been a helluva week for postseason baseball. I’ve had the obligation (yes, this is what I tell my wife) to watch my hometown team as it struggles mightily against the scary Texas Rangers. How many one run and two run victories can either team survive? There have been no laffers, no routs, nothing that would make you turn the game off early.

And as usual with the postseason, the expected heroes (Verlander, Cabrera, Hamilton) have not been nearly as productive as the also-rans (Nelson Cruz, Delmon Young). Why this happens every postseason is worthy of someone’s research. Maybe the heroes are too exhausted, or too distractible from all their interviews, or put too much pressure on themselves to single-handedly carry the team. Whatever it is, it’s what makes October baseball so awesome.

And it’s been a great week for limericks at Bardball.com. Earlier in the week, I relaxed the rule of only one post per day, and the limericks have been plentiful, in both posts and comments. And shame on us, we haven’t been able to give any space to poems on the Brewers-Cardinals series (well, I do have one lim on the Cardinals, but because it came from a Cubs fan, it’s really nasty). Below is a sample of one of our better ones, by Hilary Barta, who also runs the site LimerWrecks. Come on over and check it all out before the World Series. That’s gonna be a yawner, I tell ya.

That hit over Beltre was crazy
A bit of the old upsy-daisy
The Rangers were trounced
when Detroit’s way it bounced,
still kicking like Cameron Swayze.

Attention all kinkers! The latest podcast of “Honk Honk, My Darling” is now up and available for listening! Death continues to follow Rex Koko like a yappy little dog as he follows the trail of Boots Carlozo to the trailer of her latest bunkmate, Flying Fleming! Brought to you by Robillard’s Shrimp Sticks, in handy stick form!

(Sorry this one took so long, but there were a lot of characters, sound effects and background sounds to tinker with and get right. Ever since my brother told me to get serious about the SFX, I’ve been getting more and more particular about how I put these together. Hope you agree!)

Download from this link or click on the embed below:

(Sorry the embed looks like a cheap piece of op art. It looked fine when I uploaded it. I’ve had continuing problems with the artwork when I try and manipulate it on Libsyn.)

I’ve always told readers of Politically Correct Bedtime Stories to send me their corrections of mistakes I’ve made in my writing, of unwitting sexism, racism, classism, antipolyamorism, or any other bias that might offend any reader or non-reader. I’m only human, after all, though that’s a pretty flimsy excuse. Here’s my latest mea culpa (sorry for the pro-western classicism), a big error brought to my attention by new fan Sherry Spence:

Since you encouraged suggestions in the event of “any bias as yet unnamed” in your Introduction, I feel encouraged to point out the unnamed bias in your use – in that very sentence – of the word, “rectification.” This reference to the right hand being the one that corrects is a direct affront to my left-handed husband and left-handed grand-daughter. I am sure that you can right this sinistral wrong with even-handed treatment and your usual verbal dexterity in the next printing of your righteous tome.

Guilty guilty guilty. Right doesn’t make might, not without what’s left.

One of the best and most idiosyncratic reading series in Chicago is “Reading Under the Influence”, which takes place monthly at Sheffield’s Bar. Earlier this month I read a steamy passage of Rex Koko being molested by the formerly reserved wife of a senator, from the yet-to-be-released mystery The Wet Nose of Danger. It went over well, as far as clown sex in public goes, and if you look at some of the other pictures, you can see Amy Guth from the Tribune daydreaming about a romp in the bushes with a healthy joey.

Everybody’s got a fantasy, right?

The rest of the pictures are here:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/raylumpp/sets/72157627628985235/

Like in anything else, there have been some ups and downs in my writing career, but one of the luckiest breaks I’ve had has been to have Ernest Hecht as the publisher of PC Bedtime Stories in the United Kingdom. He’s managed to keep me in print for more than 15 years in Britain (along with getting my name in the press once in a while, to keep interest up), with smaller and better thought-out press runs than was the case in the US market. Contrast this with the fact that the US edition of PC Bedtime Stories has been out of print since 1997, two years after selling 2 million copies, and you’ll understand the stark differences between the markets. It’s been so much more fun to have a real person as my publisher, instead of the employee of a large media conglomerate.

Ernest also brought my first book to the attention of Grasset, my French publisher, and Goldmann, my German publisher (and possibly a couple others I’ve forgotten). He earned no profit from this, except in keeping relationships alive and happy. At the helm of Souvenir Press (which he started at age 18 with a special edition of stories and stats for football fans), he’s the last of an old breed of publishers who are hands on with just about everything his company prints. “A publisher’s main duty to his writers,” he’s said many times, “is to stay in business.”

So imagine my joy and pride in the fact that Ernest is publishing a 15th anniversary edition of PC Bedtime Stories AND has put it on the cover of his latest catalog. Those ugly caricatures of Grandma and the Woodcutter have never looked so good.

For a little extra sizzle in this edition, Ernest asked me if I had any other PC stories cluttering up the office that could be included. I looked around and found some things, but none of them truly fit the bill. So I sat down one morning last spring and decided to have a whack at the story that could be made out of what was only a punchline title, “The Duckling That Was Judged On Its Personal Merits and Not On Its Physical Appearance.” To my surprise (or shock?), the words just flew onto the page. After a couple of rewrites, I sent it to Ernest, who was very happy with the result. So that story is included in this British edition, as well as in my e-book edition available in America and Germany.

There is even talk about this hardback edition being distributed again in the United States, which is very exciting news, even if Ernest inserted extra U’s in “color” and “odor”.

Years ago, when the book first came out in Britain, Ernest flew me and my wife over to London to do some media. It was a trip we will never forget. He had me running around a lot, but it was terrific fun. Got to be interviewed by Allan Bennett, visited the HQ of BBC Radio at Bush House, met Walter Mosley at a studio. Ernest put us up in the company flat, which hadn’t been decorated in a while (rotary phone, blue shag carpeting, plumbing that only allowed hot water to make it to the tub if you sat down and used the shower as a handle), but it was a terrific treat for us. Even better was when he took us out to dinner at his favorite London restaurant, the White Castle (I know, we Yanks laughed about it too), and told us stories about his travels, his adventures as a producer on the West End, and his beloved football team, Arsenal.

So my ever-lasting gratitude goes out to Ernest, who took a chance on importing a humor book from America and managed to keep it alive and kicking for longer than anyone anticipated. To his instincts, his savvy, and his generous love of life, I raise my glass.

Well, we’re back in the City of the Big Shoulder Pads, and I think the whole brood is finally getting back in fighting shape. I can now sleep a little past seven, ignoring the workers cutting up the street outside our window for almost 10 minutes. I also curse a little bit less driving around town, although that might have to do with the kids being in the car. And the car windows being open.

Fall is the time when I make lots and lots of resolutions that probably won’t get accomplished. (First got this idea from the Tribune’s Eric Zorn, and it is a much better notion than waiting until January, with its short, cold days and hibernating lethargy.) Of course, there are more demands on my time now, too, but during the day, I’ve got about 7 hours of straight time, which I hope I can put to awesome use.

One resolution is to get out to more readings and performances this fall. Writing is incredibly solitary, but there’s no need to make the problem worse. Any night of the week in Chicago, there’s a good reading series happening somewhere. so I’m going to stick my nose out, meet a few people, and maybe sign up to read, if the hosts will have me.

So far I’ve been able to read at two gatherings. The first was the venerable Uptown Poetry Slam, run every Sunday by my old friend Marc Smith. He found out I had a new ebook to publicize, and his first instinct was to give me a buzz and offer some stage time to read. I hadn’t read there in a couple years. The Green Mill Lounge is one of the most special places in Chicago, a watering hole and musical oasis that could exist in no other place. It looks great, feels cozy, and SOUNDS unlike anyplace else in the whole city. Mark let me read for quite a while, so I brought out the clown bar fight from Chapter 5 of “Honk Honk, My Darling”, and followed it with the steamy encounter between Rex and a certain senator’s wife in the yet-to-be-published thriller, “The Wet Nose of Danger.” I also read for the first time in North America, the newest PC Bedtime Story, now available in the British edition and e-book edition, “The Duckling That Was Judged On Its Personal Merits and Not on Its Physical Appearance.”

What a jolly and engaging stage presence I am !!

Reactions were weird, but I should be used to that by now. Cackle here, laugh over there, but I didn’t have them at my mercy as much as I’d like. I’m also a little rusty, so I can’t pull the audience along like I used to. Will have to brush up on my chops.

Then last week I got to participate in Reading Under the Influence (RUI), which is run monthly by the wonderful Julia Borcherts out of Sheffield’s Bar. This was a totally different kind of reading than what I was used to: Everyone standing up, about four feet from the reader, all drinking, many joining in and heckling. It wasn’t an aggressive audience, but they sure were involved with me and the other readers. I also stumped most of them with my trivia questions about the end of the world and Nostradamus and the Book of Revelation. But most importantly, I met some cool people and heard some good writers, especially Geoff Hyatt, whose new book just came out. I gave away a lot of coupons for free copies of “Honk Honk, My Darling,” but only a few of them have been turned in yet.

And today I sat down with the notion that I was going to write 1000 words. For me, this is like running a marathon. I don’t think I’ve written that much in one sitting in years. And what do you know, I beat it! 1458 words! It felt great! And no one at Facebook even noticed I was missing.