The day I closed the book deal with Knopf nearly two years ago, my wife and I went to a baseball game. I don’t remember who the Twins played or who won that night. I do remember standing outside, waiting for the doors to open.

I was excited but nervous about my first book deal, because I wasn’t sure exactly what would happen. My agent was at that very moment talking to my future editor, hashing out the details, discussing abstract concepts like global versus North American rights and audio book rights and other things new authors haven’t dreamt of in their philosophies. I stopped fretting for a moment as a duckling hopped by us, close to the edge of the building, saying Peep! Peep! Peep! Peep!

The animal was obviously too young to be going to a baseball game by itself, and we realized in horror that it must be separated from its mother, and that it was sounding its homing device in hopes that she would come back. I suppose that Mama Duck was less than a mile away, making her own distressed quacking noises… they were just a mite too far apart to hear each other.

People are mean and careless, in many ways, but hop a helpless tiny peeping water fowl past them and they become neighborly and kind and eager to help. Concerned whispers rippled up and down the ragtag line. One woman was prepared to dump the contents of her purse to make a net (and by one woman, I mean, of course, my wife) while a man in his mid-thirties (not me) who’d found a cardboard box somewhere started cautiously approaching, ready to snare the fuzzy waif. “And then what?” was a crucial yet unconsidered part of both these schemes: what would either of them do? Take the creature inside with them and feed it popcorn?

Suddenly there was a strident beeping, and we parted to allow a kind of golf-cart to pass — the kind of vehicle TC Bear drives around inside the dome, and perhaps that very vehicle, but the playing surface at the Dome is seventy-odd rows and two decks below street level, so it must have taken them time to haul it up and get it outside. Two men wearing Twins-logoed polo shirts and official-looking ID badges drove toward the bird, scooped it up in a butterfly net (perhaps a prop for one of TC Bear’s shenanigans?), and drove away. People hushed and muttered, but one of the guys in the golf cart half-stood and announced as the cart disappeared around the bend that the duck would be taken to nearby Loring Park, a haven for ducks and geese.

I felt then, and now, that the fates of that duckling and my book were inexorably bound, as all things must eventually swim and/or fly on their own, to make it or die trying in a world that is fraught with peril… but also a world filled with kind-hearted people who may not use their turn signals and may selfishly slash a dozen jobs before calling it a day, but most of whom, when they see such a small, helpless creature as a motherless duckling or a debut novel struggling by on its own — clearly in need of companionship, and sounding its high lonesome Peep! — those people start emptying their purses to make a little net and casting about for cardboard boxes, not thinking much ahead, but wanting to give at least one little orphan a home.

Now eat the dinner…

I got wise to her plan when I noticed this week’s groceries were a bit out of step with what she usually brings home. Instead of fresh vegetables, there were Fritos. Instead of organic chicken breasts, there was canned meat. Tonight we’ll have chili dog pie, with spam manicotti and spinach surprise slated for later in the week.

My wife is an excellent cook, and I’m sure she will nudge a few of these dishes towards edibility while remaining faithfully within in the parameters of what I describe, but… ulp. I better double my daily dose of heartburn medicine.

Be careful what you write. You never know how or when it will come back to haunt you.

I’m honored to be picked, and happy that all of the bookstores where I’ve scheduled appearances are independent booksellers and members of that organization. I’m also glad that as a transplant (of 25 odd years, mind you), I’ve been picked as a midwesternly connected author. I think I’ll celebrate with some tater tot hot dish.

Download: Night Guy Electronica 69

Playlist:

1. Plain Speaking by Ashtech
2. Transition by Galaxy 2 Galaxy
3. Change of Mood by The Plan
4. Blown by Mudville
5. Close My Eyes by Briareus
6. Missile Defense by Mansbestfriend
7. Receiver by Planet71
8. Especial by Web
9. Stairway by Mister Frendo
10. Plenus Tilt by Dark Energy
11. Corona by Aegis

Don’t forget to check out Songs For Jenny (also on MySpace), a project by Tony Puccy all proceeds of which go up to help fight ALS.

Anyway, here is a bit of the long view. Somewhere in the spring of 2004 I got the idea for a story about a baseball game with a very long rain delay. I’d already been worrying at baseball stories for well over a year and even had a character named Sturgis Nye who wanted a story to live in.

At first the rain delay was hundreds of years, the characters lived in a futuristic domed city, and I think there was cloning in it — but fortunately I reined that in, so to speak. But by August I’d set the story in a town called Moundville and in the present day, and completed a very rough draft of what would become Mudville later that year (I didn’t have that title until 2006, although some early drafts began with the words, “The outlook wasn’t brilliant,” which makes me wonder why I didn’t think of it sooner.)

Here are the first few paragraphs of that effort:

It was raining hard, as it always did, so I ran up the path to the house and banged the door behind me.
“I’m home!” I hollered. “I won two trophies!” I dropped my bags by the door and used my hand to squeegee the water off my head.
I expected big hugs and whoops of joy, but there was no response. I stepped out of the foyer, into the living room, and stopped.
There was this strange kid stretched out on the couch, reading a book. He was about 14 years old, the same age as me. I don’t just mean he was a stranger. I mean he was flat-out strange. The main thing was his face, which was covered on one side with scar tissue. He was also missing his ear on that side. He had a pink plastic ear in its place. I wondered if he’d been in a car wreck, or maybe had a pot of boiling water tipped on his head when he was a baby. He had long, oily brown hair that was nearly black. His clothes didn’t look too clean, either.
He looked at me over the top of his book. It was a thick paperback, a bit tattered, and had a dragon or something on the cover. It liked one of those novels with wizards and knights and endless battle scenes.
“Is it still raining?” he asked, seeing how wet I was.
“It’s always raining,” I said. “It’s been raining for over twenty years.”
“I know,” he said. “I was kidding.”
I live in a town where it always rains. I don’t mean it rains a lot, like they say it does in Seattle. I mean it always rains, every day and every night. It’s been raining for over twenty years, long before I was born. You might think that’s impossible, but it’s true. It’s only the third longest rainfall on record. There’s somewhere in Africa where it rained from 1889 to 1950, and there’s a part of South America where it’s been raining for at least forty years, and they don’t know when it started.
You might wonder why folks would go on living in a town where it keeps raining, day in and day out. Well, I guess it’s not too much different from the people in Chicago who keep rooting for the Cubs. Every spring, they think that maybe this is their year. People here wake up every morning thinking, today it might stop raining.
Not me, but the way. I don’t root for the Cubs, and if it was up to me we’d moved away a long time ago.

You might do the math and see that Mudville was five years in the making and think about how patient writers have to be and think that ten more days won’t kill me. But I am not patient at all. I’ve been fretting and anxious for almost all of it, especially since the summer of 2006 when I finally got the manuscript spit-shined enough to start querying agents and everything since. I’m pretty sure the next ten days will be the — Just a second, there’s someone at the door.

What do you know, it’s a gastropod wearing an Argentinean soccer jersey.

At the end of Back to the Future, after Marty changes the future by getting his dad (George) to sock Biff in the nose, and returns in the Delorian, there’s a scene where George — played by the brilliant and unpredictable Crispin Glover — carries in boxes of his new book, having been transformed into a successful author. It seems punching that bully in the nose was just what he needed to gain the confidence to send his short stories into magazines and launch a writing career, making for a completely different future for everyone in the McFly clan.

As a kid I was transfixed by that scene because I didn’t know that authors got boxes and boxes of their own books when they came out. I actually doubted that scene was true — what would an author even do with so many copies of his own book? I’ve since learned that it, is indeed, true. I came home from my day job and found three such boxes waiting for me.

But what was a banner day for me was one of dashed hopes for my noble tabby friend, Bertram. Bertie loves boxes, and especially freshly opened ones. He’s shown particular affinity for Random House boxes, having spent most of last winter in one. He waited patiently for us to empty the boxes so he could sit in one. One in particular caught his eye, since it had a striking resemblance to his former box love.

“Do you want help with that?” He asked as I bustled about doing other things. “Because I can help you unpack that if you want.”

Well, we finally went to work, making sure to empty the one he most coveted… the big flat one.

But when I set the box on the floor for him, Charlotte got to it first.

Bertie being too much the gentleman to throw her out, that’s how the story ends. I’m still not sure what to do with all these books, though.

P.S. using a random method by which no cats were exploited, I’ve selected a winner from the email list to get a copy of the book. The winner is Rachel, a person of excellent character and rotund cat that I sometimes even forget went to a lousy college for kids who couldn’t get into UND. Congratulations, Rachel!

Welcome to Moundville, where it’s been raining for longer than Roy McGuire has been alive. Most people say the town is cursed: right in the middle of their big baseball game against rival town Sinister Bend, black clouds crept across the sky and it started to rain. That was 22 years ago . . . and it’s still pouring.

Baseball camp is over, and Roy knows he’s in for a dreary, soggy summer. But when he returns home, he finds a foster kid named Sturgis sprawled out on his couch. As if this isn’t weird enough, just a few days after Sturgis’s arrival, the sun comes out. No one can explain why the rain has finally stopped, but as far as Roy’s concerned, it’s time to play some baseball. It’s time to get a Moundville team together and finish what was started 22 years ago. It’s time for a rematch.

Congrats on your debut novel, Mudville. I’m extra excited about this book because it comes out on my birthday! (*Hint, hint*) But can you give us a little statistical rundown on how long it took you to get to this point? How many books? How many rejections? How many days, months, or years?

Thanks! That means have the same birthday as my agent. Lots of good karma for February 24.
I can’t say I have that classic author anecdote about a drawer full of rejection letters. I do have a few, but not the dozens or hundreds you sometimes hear about. I’ve been writing since I was a kid, though, and seriously since I was 17 or 18. I’ll be 40 next month, so that makes for 20-odd years of writing before I became published. If I didn’t get a lot of rejections, it’s because my failure came earlier in the process: not finishing things, not sending them out, etc.

Which “Call” thrilled you more? The call in which you landed an agent or the call in which you landed your book deal?

Coming to an agreement with my agent took some time… I made revisions she suggested over several months before she committed. So I was more “whew” than “whee!” when it worked out. I was definitely thrilled when I got the offer from Knopf, though. I was IM-ing my wife and emailing friends while I was still on the phone with my agent.

Throughout your journey as a writer, what resources have you found most valuable to your success? Websites? Books? Conferences?

I had an internship at Writers Digest Books when I was in college, so I spent an entire summer submerged in the “how to” aspects of writing and publishing. It was a great experience. Their market books are especially useful, and now they have a pretty good website where you can search for publishers, create lists of favorites, and track your manuscripts. I also recommend authors learn a bit of project management: setting goals, meeting deadlines, getting organized, etc. I do a lot of project management in my day job and it’s helped me as a writer.

What a cool internship. I’m jealous! Boy books are in high demand, it seems, but most young adult writers are women. What are some important things to keep in mind when writing a male protagonist and a book perhaps aimed more at boys?

I’ve been facilitating boys reading groups for a couple of years, and it keeps me plugged into the way boys think and talk about books and what they might like or dislike… not that all boys are the same, but it helps me think about things from their perspective.

This is Fumbling with Fiction, so I have to ask, in your writing career have you ever had a big “Oops!” moment?

Hmmm…  I think the only thing I regret is making a cell phone call when I had lunch with my editor. I was in Manhattan for one day and realized I was going to be late hooking up with a friend. I hate it when people use cell phones in restaurants, actually, and it was the only time I’d met her in person so I should have been at least as respectful as I am to everyone else all the time! I don’t think she minded, but I still think — what was I thinking? — the call could have waited. My friend would have understood.

Now that you are a soon-to-be-published author, seeing the view from the other side, what has been your favorite moment in the publishing process so far? What part of the process has most surprised you?

My favorite moment will be seeing my book on the shelf. That still hasn’t happened, but that’s the ultimate goal, of course. I think the nicest surprise is how quickly you get connected to other authors. Authors who have already been published, and other debut authors. People who write kids books are very warm and hospitable bunch. There are some pretty successful authors who will take time to congratulate a newbie.

Tell us a little about receiving your first editorial letter. What was yours like? How did you feel when you received it?

It was about six pages, and I think my first thought was just, wow, this is the closest and most carefully anybody has ever read something I wrote, and probably the closest anyone ever will. I wasn’t daunted by the work, I was just flattered by how attentive it was. 

Great attitude towards it and so true. Finally, if you could have written one book previously published by another author, which book would it be?

Kathy Acker actually copied her favorite books word for word, longhand, into notebooks. I find that really interesting… it’s such a literal way to think about wishing you’d written a book. So I have half a mind to “write” Charlotte’s Web that way. I think I’d learn a lot by paying such close attention to E. B. White’s deliberate, stylistically perfect prose. However, I’d be bawling way too hard to finish the last chapter.
Thanks for the interview! This was fun.

The voice is great here – Scaletta’s really got the 12 year old thing down. The plot’s got a very nice flow to it – there are a lot of surprises in this book, and some of them could have been jarring. They weren’t. He weaves the sports and the family and the mystery together with the same careful stitches that close the leather on a baseball, with the same end result: a lot of game in one small package.

This is the closest I’ll ever get to a baseball blog – or any blog likely – but the final Yankee Stadium events tonight were unexpectedly affecting.  Guess I have a lot invested in these boys, over the years, like it or not.  I can clearly remember Dad watching Yankees games (more or less, while reading the paper) when Dave Winfield was the big star and “Scooter” was an announcer and I would take a break from working on term papers.  Now I take break from press releases for art shows to check on the team’s progress (when not clearly announced by hoots, hollers and curses from the living room.)  My Dad is still a fan albeit from Red Sox territory,  Closer to home, it’s now one John Keller who watches the Yanks even more avidly than Dad ever did, seeming to live or die with each of the 162 (is that right?) regular season games. That last few dozen (lo these past 12 years) always have the extra adrenalin and weeks of agony of the post season – the Fall Classic.

Have been extremely fortunate to go to several games at the Stadium over the past few years.  Somewhere in the ether are some great photos I’ve taken – likely never to be seen again.  Many thanks to one of John’s media reps who has been gracious host more than once in extraordinary seats (third base line, directly in line with home plate, two rows back the visiting dugout).  Even got to the 1st game of the 1998 World Series and suspect nothing will ever quite match the electric excitement of that night in baseball.  John best describes entering the stadium as akin to being in (as viewpoint) the tracking shot in the opening of ‘Good Fellas’.  Well it certainly was cinematic.  Even color was heightened at that game.  It was star-studded too – Denzel Washington and Bruce Willis made cameo appearances in our box.  John ate Calista Flockheart’s hamburger because she wouldn’t touch it…  But there you have it – I always watch the crowd more than the game. [Author wishes to note that said hamburger was offered, not swiped. -Ed.]  Of late, I’ve drawn pictures too, but John can likely tell you the box scores….  But still I find I’m a fan.  And sorry to see the old stadium go.  Hate when landmarks vanish.  Wonder if the ghosts will figure out to go next door.  Here’s a ghost too – in all probability a re-worked ghost of a previous monotype – circa 1998… I don’t recall at the moment.  But it is clearly Yankee Stadium and arguably Andy Pettitte, tonight’s winner of record.   I think I called it “Two Seam Fastball.”

If you didn’t hang on through the entire maudlin ceremony and the ensuing game this evening, you may have missed some great moments “in the booth” when Yogi and the Chairman of the Board” joined the Sunday night baseball announcers, for BY FAR the only segment they’ve done worth listening to.  A couple of other good interviews too and the post game – the happy recap – and one Mr. Derek Jeter leading the world with a microphone… and then his team around the field to thank the fans.  A good night, one in which many a special Yank was missed, notably my favorite Bobby Murcer who passed away in July and, again, it was unexpectedly affecting.  Some really good guys out there, even the jocks!

Thanks for bearing with through this message assuming, dear reader, you’ve made it this far.  It was a long season – be thankful there was only one email!  Not sure what the ‘magic number’ is, but it might not be over yet…  But I’m hoping!

All best,
CMB

[above image: Two Seam Fastball, monotype, copyright Cecelia Barnett.]

So, a big congratulations to all these authors for their recent successes and a huge thank you for sharing their experiences with us!

Be sure to look out for these Monday interviews!

9/8       Cheryl Renee Herbsman (Breathing, Viking, Spring ’09)

9/15     Danielle Joseph (Shrinking Violet, Spring ’09)

9/29     Neesha Meminger (Shine, Coconut Moon, S&S, March ’09)

10/6     Mandy Hubbard (Prada and Prejudice, Razorbill, Summer ’09)

10/13    Saundra Mitchell (Shadowed Summer, Delacorte, ’09)

10/27    Kurtis Scaletta (Mudville, Knopf, ’09)

11/3      Lauren Bjorkman (My Invented Life, Fall ’09)

11/10    Cindy Pon (Spirit Bound, Greenwillow Books, 2009)

11/17 RJ Anderson (Knife, Orchard Books and HarperCollins Children’s Books, 2009)

More to be announced later, but for now, you can find these authors at their websites. Links can be found on my sidebar.

Fuel and food prices are rising daily. Wage deterioration and job losses are consistently highlighted on the tube. Energy conservation and constrictions, environmental issues and policies and safety and security strategies are, in essence, all tied together by the fact that we, as human beings, have only this one world, and it is not unlimited in resources, but it is boundless in the harm it can do to us, if we allow it.

We are also reminded of these matters by the presidential election of 2008. A race highlighted by the 1^st woman and 1^st African-American to realistically run for the highest office in the land.  A political race with a man known first as a 5 ½ year veteran of a Vietnam prison camp, then as the oldest man to contend for the 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue address.

As this takes place, in the distant backdrop comes the idea of sports. The way many escape their problems and woes of 8-6 workday, complaining spouses and children, overbearing bosses and unhelpful nosey neighbors, and the fact, this world is perceived as worse than the world of our childhood, or our father’s childhood. In verity, it is only the changing faces of leadership and altered ways to communicating that may be at the crux of this worsening outlook we perceive.

But even these sports have gone astray in our minds.

The athletes seem ever more jaded – with the moronic media and money made fueling their contempt for us, the fans – and their gloss and glimmer is faded before we ever get to know them. The scandals, gassed up by online sites, radio blowhards (Rush Limbaugh as a well-paid version of this group) and the Extremely Stupid Pundits of News (ESPN) who drive recklessly, all over the ‘free’ airways, bastardizing the concept of ‘a scandal’ while in search of some mythical creature called: The Truth.

Amoral ownerships require new branding of their stadiums, new revenue streams (from that branding) and shameless promotion of those well-paid jaded athletes that are endemically tied to those scandals aforementioned. These owners will threaten to ‘take their team and go elsewhere’ if they do not receive new stadium deals on the taxpayers’ dole. Hundreds of millions (or more) spent on luxury palaces where, if a typical fan making under $50,000 a year comes, they will be lucky to visit once in a decade. But that’s American Capitalism buttressed by socialistic bailouts for the wealthy. And the battle of the billionaires and millionaires wages on the breaking backs of cup-of-Joe America, who clocks in and out for dollars these men wouldn’t bend over to pick up.

There is no joy in Mudville.

A place where a mighty Casey would strike out, bearing the weight of all failures on his broad shoulders.

America once had broad shoulders – now wrecked by the frivolity of politics, backroom dealing and undermining the American Dream for a quick sawbuck – but she is now in the midst of a maelstrom of her own unfortunate making. The debt outweighs the equity built. The infrastructure of morality, decency, kindness and common sense has all but been eroded to the point of inoperable and unjustified existence. The ill designs of men have turned markedly adrift and astray from the altruisms and protestations of our forefathers.

Yet, we have seen this all before in various incarnations throughout history (going back most logically to the Roman Empire.) That a society reaches a point where to go forward it must throw off the shackles of injustice and inequality.

We should remember most vividly our Declaration of Independence.

Poetic our forefathers were.

Evincing a design of a new America is one that will require many, many millions to participate. To accomplish this feat of revamping our lives and securing our futures requires such sacrifice that has not been seen in several generations. This bold concept, using the innovative spirit of America, has to take hold sooner, not later. Time is not on our side.

We have to be the Americans of ideals and dreams, of sweat and blood, of clear vision and utter determination. We the people must take back the reins of destiny of this country. We must mold our future in the widening prospects seen in 1776, but leave behind constraints in ideas, justice and circumstances foisted in that time. We are a different world, for sure; but we are much the same, in operation.

But from the best ideas and hard work, we can be all that our forefathers hoped for in their writings.

We can be independent, secure, stable and fair-minded. We can lead a world that needs leadership in these dangerous and volatile times. We can provide the direction that is so often missing. And be the steadfast steward to the living concept that was founded on July 4, 1776 in the Declaration of Independence and enforced in the United States Constitution.

From those measures and methods, our enduring play and love of sport can continue to be a happy by-product of equal prosperity and unwavering social justice.

Happy 4^th!

No, you’re jerked to a halt.

Because that isn’t the glorious Ballpark Village. Why, it’s Mudville.

Yeah, that place where Mighty Casey K’d.

No, that isn’t it. Although it does feature a muddy pool at one end most of the time.

City Hall’s getting a black eye from the mud. And guess what? Uh-huh, that mud’s gonna slide downhill, right into those beautiful, brand new front offices at Busch Stadium.

So if you big wheels and pols get to mud-slinging, do Cardinal Nation a favor and don’t let the … well, let’s just keep calling it mud … don’t let the mud seep onto the ball field.

View image

Ah, but there are too many songs about rain, and anyway, I got sidetracked when I went looking for a good video of my hands-down favorite rain song, and one which I sort of consider to be Mudville’s unofficial theme song.

CCR actually has three great songs about rain (this one, “Who’ll Stop the Rain,” and “Bad Moon Rising,” sort of), but this one is my favorite. Fogarty is a brilliant song writer. I knew this would top any list of rain songs, but then I found out how many terrific covers are floating around on YouTube… including this one by a band I never heard of…

…and this one by one of my all time favorite bands, from their glory years…

…and this brilliant rocked up version…

…and a straight up version by Rod Stewart, and a melodramatic one by Bonnie Tyler that begs to be re-covered by The Dan Band (warning: profanity-laden novelty song will play).

There are a few amateur takes as well. Some of them are not bad at all. Others, um, might need a few more lessons… it’s just a’ight for me, dawg. Anywa, it’s kind of interesting to see what’s all been done with one classic rock song.

Harris sold his first baseball novel, The Southpaw, while in graduate school at The University of Minnesota and sold it to Knopf (which are both true of me 50-odd years later). He admits that the success novels of Horatio Alger, which he enjoyed as a boy, are more a source for his work than the more estimable Mark Twain, which he claimed was the inspiration for the baseball novel he wrote at Gopher U. His department was American Studies; a department that turned me down when I applied with the intent of studying Alger (I ended up in Learning Technologies, where the seminal novel is Ender’s Game). Harris longs for sandlot baseball, which was the only baseball I ever played and is represented in Mudville by a player-led and managed team, though mudlot is a better name for their brand of ball. Heck, he even named his most famous book after a lyric from “The Streets of Loredo.” I, too, have a soft spot for old cowboy tunes.

All any of this means is that Mark Harris and I might have gotten along pretty well.

Mark Harris is best known for a four-book series following a baseball pitcher named Henry Wiggen. You might really call them a trilogy with bonus footage, since the third is a short, breezy affair that’s more novelty than novel, but the first two are among the finest baseball books you’ll read: The Southpaw, the aforementioned Alger-inspired success story, follows the rookie Wiggen as he leads his “Mammoths” (a thinly disguised New York Giants) into a pennant race. The Southpaw is notable mostly for the first-person voice of Henry, who is a tad better educated and smarter than Ring Lardner’s Jack Keefe, but mixes up that archetype’s classic vernacular with his own brand of savvy humor and wisdom.

When I first read The Southpaw, I marveled that it was really about baseball and not just using baseball as a thematic backdrop for something more profound. I was amused to read later that it was exactly Harris’s intention, though he may have failed: he wrote about baseball not as a Malamud-like metaphor for profound themes, but because it was interesting and poetic and compelling and meaningful enough to write a serious book about.

That novel is only surpassed by its sequel. Bang the Drum Slowly is the second volume, and is mostly about Henry’s friendship with a bullpen catcher named Bruce who’s dying of cancer. The dying athlete story is practically a genre, at least since Lou Gehrig’s graceful exit from the game (subject of the movie, The Pride of the Yankees), but if it is, Bang the Drum Slowly transcends it.

Bang the Drum Slowly is also mostly about baseball, and about big league baseball players: young, wildly successful, brash, sometimes ignorant, and rough-around-the-edges. What are they to do with something serious, like a dying teammate? Particularly when it’s not a graceful superstar like Gehrig, but a guy who’s over the hill, never that great a player, and rough and ignorant even by baseball player standards? The greatness of the book is showing their confusion and intermittent kindness without forgetting (as they can’t forget) that there’s also baseball to be played. Well, that, and TEGWAR.

Fortunately, I got a great cover before I wrote some forty-odd books like Mr. Peck. The design department at Knopf did a great job.

I spent a lot of time imagining what the cover might look like, the visual impact and simple perfection of a flying wet baseball was better than anything I considered… which is why authors don’t create their own covers.

Um, unless they’re Clive Barker.

Download: Night Guy Under The Rock 20

Playlist:

1. This Night by Black Lab
2. Stranded by Man In Gray
3. Keeping Up Appearances by Capdown
4. Eternity by Mudville
5. New Skin by New Skin
6. Bird Song by Lene Lovich
7. Ten Percenter (Live) by Frank Black
8. Re: Your Brains by Jonathan Coulton
9. Here Come The Comets by Away With The Fairys
10. One Minute by Jeff Mallon
11. Something Happens by Barse
12. Don’t Put the Blame On by Argonaut
13. Back To Back by Deadly Percherons

Music from:
IODA PromoNet
Podsafe Music Network
Cyber PR

Download: Night Guy Under The Rock 11

Playlist:

1. You’ve got to… by The Young Punx
2. Fight Me by The Coolaid
3. Yellow by The Teeth
4. Brooklyn by Mudville
5. Flying High by The Window Shoppers
6. Black Leather Soul by Stressbitch
7. Run Away, Hide! by WIT
8. Thrash and Burn by Digital Breaks
9. Twenty-Seven by Coltrane Motion
10. Gone by Black Lab
11. 3 by Choose
12. Never Going To Dream Again by Levinhurst
13. Return of the Sacred Heart by Monica Queen

Music from:
IODA PromoNet
Podsafe Music Network
Cyber PR

Download: Night Guy 22: The Hopeless Soldier

• Under the Rock
• Carl Sagan on Israeli TV
• Four dimensional cubes
• How I nearly became a radio presenter in the army
• How I nearly became a truck driver in the army
• How I got out of the army altogether

Playlist:

1. Empty Sky by Dreaming Blue
2. Perfect by Mudville
3. Variations #3 by Guy David