Lost in the Village and Other Updates

I had prepared a lengthy and insightful post about my trip to New York on Saturday, but my bodyguard/handler/mentee Dave "Giamatti" White beat me to the punch with this fast and loose account. Now I feel that I should not bother. Read Dave's instead.

But a few points to add, and a few bits of writing-related goodness:

* On Saturday I learned that The Mysterious Bookshop is starting a hardboiled mystery discussion group in January, and their very first pick is The Wheelman. This is completely fucking cool. You can take Oprah. Give me Otto.

* Maggie Griffin, for the record, writes the best shelf-talkers in the business.

* Dave White came very close to becoming mystery fiction's WORST HANDLER EVER but redeemed himself with five minutes to spare.

* You're the man, Charlie Stella. Thank you.

* Jason Pinter looks like he could be a cousin of mine.

* Sean Doolittle and I were on the same island, yet failed to meet up. This is a crime. I blame Dave White for getting me lost in the West Village.

* Am I one of the few mystery authors lucky enough to meet Bonnie's mother twice? I might be.

* If Sarah Weinman had been with us, we wouldn't have gotten lost.

* The Houston Chronicle showed some love to The Blonde, calling it "brilliantly paced insanity." Much like my life.

* GumshoeReview.com seemed to enjoy The Blonde, too, but had problems with my nanotechnology, calling it "magic science." Guilty as charged. My stuff is much closer to Alias's Rambaldi Device than Michael Crichton's nanites. (Come to think of it, I used to write my first horror stories in high school science class when I should have been paying attention.)

* If I had paid more attention in science class, I might have been able to navigate us out of the West Village with the aid of the moon.