Category: Writing

I am now working on a writer’s version of Pinocchio, where a writer with wooden prose hopes to become a real writer someday.

My next novel features a chicken as a hard-boiled detective in a seedy neighborhood who finds himself in the soup. The chicken’s sidekick is a pig who’s a bit of a ham, who does all the grunt work when not swilling down drinks.

Their first case is in search of a sheep gone baaaad who’s on the lam. The sheep has amnesia and his memory is wooly.

I’m writing the scariest Halloween story ever. It’s about a writer who writes the scariest Halloween story ever and dies just before hitting SEND.

My next book will be an epic mashup of David Mitchell and Ayn Rand, and I shall call it Cloud Atlas Shrugged.

Picture this. It’s a warm calm clear August night. The insects are trilling in the quiet, the moon is waxing gibbous, and I’m out under the stars with the dogs. Out of nowhere, the thought comes to me: you haven’t used the word ‘nascent’ recently. Then I pull a piece of paper out of my pocket and write this all down.