I’m proud to announce my next upcoming book, Chandler & West: A Story of Los Angeles. It’s a new crime novel about two of Los Angeles’ greatest writers, set in the Golden Age of Hollywood.
This book has been a true labor of love, in terms of research and preparation, but also in the writing. Getting this book over the goal line has meant dealing with numerous hurdles, but the moment has finally arrived.
I anticipate to release Kindle and paperback editions in the first quarter of 2026.
If you’re interested in learning more, I encourage you to sign up for my newsletter. (You’ll be able to download a free book in the process!) I’m sharing sneak previews and sample chapters with newsletter subscribers, as well as a chance to sign up for Advance Review Copies (ARCs) of the book prior to its release.
Keep watching this space for more information on my latest endeavor.
Non-stop tweets and retweets promoting their books, as well as books by their friends. “What you call ‘social media,’ we call ‘free ad space.'” Apparently, there’s no such thing as too many hash tags in a tweet.
Two: The hustler
They pepper your timeline with tweets documenting their perpetual-motion writer’s life: Workshops, retreats, conferences, book signings, phone calls with editors, selfies with other indie authors. They’re living la vida loca, baby.
Three: The charmed life
Anecdotes about their cats. Magazine-style photos of perfect chai lattes. Dream-vacation photos of rolling green European countrysides. Oh, yes—did they mention they’re spending four weeks in Key West to develop their next novel?
Four: The political animal
Screw books, they’re on Twitter to snark about every D.C. dust-up du jour. Following even one of these accounts will poison your timeline with screaming matches between people who refer to politicians by their initials.
Five: The mover and shaker
Lots of screenshots of Kindle sales reports and KU normalized page counts. Tweet-threads on how to exploit Amazon book keywords and categories. The occasional nostalgia post on finagling that sweet BookBub Daily Deal years ago.
Six: The tea sipper
Drops a tweet every two to six weeks about something absurdly human that happened to them on the way to the pub. For some reason, this type is always British.
Seven: The old oak
Daily pronouncements about how the indie writing scene has changed since they got in on the ground floor waaay back in 2019. Had one bestseller back when you could game the system and get on USA Today‘s bestseller list for a week.
Eight: The unrepentant one
Laughingly brags about using AI to write eight-dozen books a month, all moneymakers. “You suckers are doing this the hard way.” Oddly, they have nothing of substance to say about any other book on the planet, even obvious ones like The Firm, Fight Club, or Green Eggs & Ham. Not an actual author.
Nine: The griper
Never happy with any rating below five stars, and never happy with any review that mentions a problem with their story. What does it take to satisfy these damn readers, a back massage? Stand back, this type is a ticking time bomb.
Ten: The agented
In case you didn’t hear the news, they added it to their account name: “Joe Blow is Agented.” Casually drops tidbits from their latest phone call with their agent, who is agenting them. Offers followers soothing tweets that, one day, if they work hard, they’ll all manage to rise from the trenches and find an agent.
Eleven: A star is stillborn
Mission accomplished! Agent acceptance, book contract signed, manuscript sent off to the editor—this type is last seen boarding the rocket ship to fame and success. Nine months later, they’ve mysteriously deleted all those tweets and switched their account to selling scented bath oils online.
Twelve: Yet another bot
Likes six posts you wrote months ago, follows you, and DM’s you, all in a span of seconds. Has an @-handle with more numerals than your Social Security number. Account name is a Big and Famous writer, who (in real life) has better things to do than maintain a presence on X/Twitter.
A brilliant oddity, According to Cain puts you in the shoes of a detective who has to go back and solve humanity’s first murder. It prizes observation and forces you to turn your brain on, which is true of all the best interactive fiction. It’s sharp as a slayer’s knife and gorgeously rendered. Go ahead and play it first. Or last if you’re the kind of person who likes to save the best for that one final plunge into the darkness of a long winter’s night.
Published on December 28, 2024, this is like finding a nice unopened Christmas present overlooked until the end of the next summer. Thanks, Winter is Coming. Ho-ho-ho!
Follow this link for more information on Cain, including how to download it or play it in your browser, if you’ve not already.
There’s a software industry maxim: “Always be shipping.” That means, if you’re not writing software, you’re not shipping software.
The same thinking applies for writing novels, short stories, self-help guides, biographies, and so on. If you’re not writing (or editing, or proofing), you’re not moving closer to getting your work published.
The following advice will sound familiar to anyone who’s read a book or taken a class on how to write a novel:
“Write an hour everyday.”
The idea behind this bit of sage counsel is that, by writing a little bit everyday, you will eventually reach your goal of writing a novel (or a short story, or a movie script). Another way I’ve seen this phrased is, “If a novel manuscript is 350 pages long, that means if you write a page everyday, you’ll have your novel finished in under a year.”
I’m not a fan of these hard-and-fast rules of writing. For one, they’re often difficult to stick to. Like a strict diet or physical exercise regimen, missing a day or two usually leaves behind a sizable amount of guilt. Guilt may get you back to the keyboard and typing, but it’s a horrible emotion to overcome when you should be focused on your characters and their challenges.
Let me offer a slight twist. Instead of “write an hour everyday” or “write a page a day,” find a regular writing schedule and stick to it. In other words, come up with a schedule right for you.
Once a week
I don’t write everyday. I tried it on a number of occasions. It was not productive.
After a lot of experimentation, I found my best work came when I wrote once a week. I’ve written a number of novels over the past ten-plus years, all while maintaining a weekly, not daily, schedule.
With that one allotted day, though, I spend eight hours writing. That’s writing with minimal interruptions for eight hours straight, like an office worker in a cubicle. And note that I do not require a certain number of pages or words be written in those eight hours. I do my best. That’s all I can ask of myself.
Over the course of my writing day, I’ll pause for lunch. I eat at my computer and go over what I’ve produced so far that morning. Usually I write at cafes, although during the pandemic, I learned how to write at home without interruptions.
The people in my life know that one day a week is off-limits. If something comes up that interrupts my schedule, I make arrangements to write on a different day. It takes a lot to pry that one day from my grip.
Plus, the way I write, I’m usually just starting to cook when I reach my first hour writing. “Write one hour a day?” Juices start flowing at the end of the first hour, and words are still coming at a fast and steady pace. Why stop right when things are going well? I’d rather bank those seven hours a week into a single day, and add another hour on top of them for good measure.
I’ve encountered some skepticism from other budding writers about my routine. Like most writing lore, “write an hour everyday” has become ingrained as one rule among dozens for becoming a successful writer—a kind of mantric or devotional routine that guarantees results. Your novel was rejected? Well, did you skip a day while you were writing it? Also, did you open your book with weather?
“Write an hour a day,” is sound advice in spirit, but not in practice. Better advice is to find a productive writing routine, and stick to it.
A second job
This is the important part: It’s not a wasted day. As I’ve told my family, writing is my second job. It’s not a great-paying job, but it is a job.
Time to write doesn’t magically appear. People in your life will always find some other priority for you. They’ll tell you that you can write later. You have to be firm on this point.
You don’t have to spend a full day a week writing to produce a novel. If you can set aside a few hours twice a week—say, two dedicated evenings—you’ll be surprised how much writing you can get done. But you will want to stick to your schedule for it to work.
One writer I admire is comic book legend Peter Bagge. Apparently, Bagge is infamous in the comics industry for his work ethic. Every morning he rises, dresses in business-casual clothes, and go to his home office to produce comics. He’s not working from home. His office just happens to be in his home. He puts in a full day, five days a week.
I don’t have the success to write everyday and make a living wage off my work. Still, I made a commitment to myself that I would treat the one day a week I had free as a work day, just like Bagge does. I rise, eat breakfast, head to the computer, and write, just as if I was heading to the office.
Silence your phone. Close the door to the room. Put on a pair of headphones. Turn off your computer’s Wi-Fi to avoid the temptation to surf social media.
If you’re not writing, you’re not producing. Make the time to write.
At an AWP panel discussion in 2014, Lawrence Block related a bit of wisdom he’d learned from another author: “Take care of your backlist, and your backlist takes care of you.” He added the advice had served him well over his writing career.
By that point, I’d been writing fiction for several years. I’d met many authors (aspiring and published), attended numerous workshops (formal and informal) and worked with many writing teachers in different genres. Yet, in all that time, I’d never heard this piece of advice. I found Block’s advice to be quite sage, and I continue to believe in it. (It’s also a rare example of writing lore that is worth paying attention to.)
The problem was, in 2014, I didn’t have a backlist. How could I take care of that which does not exist?
(Quick terminology clarification: The standard use of the term “backlist” or “back catalog” refers to a publisher’s catalog of titles released in prior years but still in print or stock. I took Block’s usage to indicate the sum of an author’s work, in print or otherwise.)
He went on and told the panel audience that, when he investigated Amazon’s Kindle Publishing, he realized he could release all his out-of-print books in electronic form and sell them direct without having to shop them around for a publisher. He went through his old contracts and reacquired rights for books his publishers had let lapse. He even paid his agent fifteen percent of the royalties he earned on his direct-sale ebooks “because it was the right thing to do.”
This is a great example of taking care of one’s backlist.
In many ways, Lawrence Block persuaded me to jump onto the Kindle bandwagon. On my way home from the conference, it occurred to me that I was selling myself short. I’d published several short stories in literary journals in the U.S. and Britain, enough to put together a story collection. A few years earlier, a small non-profit in Oakland published a short run of a novella they’d commissioned from me. A big-name author might not call it much of a backlist, but for a small-fry like me, it was a start.
And it was a significant start. I turned my oh-so-modest backlist into two Kindle ebooks. The experience reinvigorated me to finish my first novel, a book I’d been working on and stewing over for nearly fifteen years.
Today, I’ve written seven novels, and have an eighth on the way. I’m hardly an active blogger, but over the last decade-plus, I’ve put out over three hundred blog posts, including many book reviews and critical analyses that I’m proud of. All of that is backlist.
Eleven years after first hearing it, Block’s advice returned to me when I decided to “go wide” and move my backlist to Kobo. And I was thinking of Block when I sent an email to MX Publishing in London inquiring if they’d be interested in taking on A Man Named Baskerville, which I’d already put out as an ebook and in paperback. They accepted—and produced a hardcover and a fantastic audiobook edition, which I brag about to everyone I know, even strangers on the street.
The words you’re reading right now are from my backlist. Years ago, I took a stab at running a Substack. It didn’t work out, but a few of those newsletters are still pertinent, including this one. I freshened it up and posted it here.
Taking care of your backlist
Anything you’ve written and published—an old blog, a book review a university journal printed, that thing you wrote for a neighborhood newsletter—is part of your backlist. Scour your computer’s “Documents” folder. Dig up old clippings. Make a list of everything you’ve written to completion.
Some ideas for taking care of your backlist:
If you’re building a book series, bundle them into a ebook boxed set edition.
Take a hard look at your older books. Is it time for a fresh cover? Is that title really catching the reader’s attention?
Also take a look at your books’ metadata—are they listed with the right keywords and categories?
Is there a publisher out there that might be interested in taking on one of your old books or series?
Is it time to go wide and make you books available in more markets?
Collect your short stories into a book. That short story you couldn’t place? Dig it up and polish it as well. Even the short story collections of big name writers often include unpublished work.
Convert your blog into a book. Over the years, I’ve written a number of entries on book, film, and television. I’m thinking about gathering them up and producing an essay collection.
Work with writers you know, who live in your area, or who write in the same genre. Assemble a collection of short stories or first chapters as a sampler. Each author can include a short bio and links for readers to buy more of their work.
YouTube, audiobooks, translations, Substack, and podcasts offer new ways to make your work available.
What’s the point of all this? Will it make you money? Will it sell more books?
Maybe…and maybe not. Don’t overlook using your backlist to increase your exposure. Short story collections don’t sell particularly well—they never have—but you can offer a collection as an incentive for people to sign up for your mailing list. Services like Patreon are always asking you to think creatively about sharing premium or subscriber-only work with your patrons. Plus, a few additional titles on your web site and social media profile doesn’t hurt.
You never know when one of these side avenues piques a reader’s interest and leads them to try your more recent work. Even one new reader is a success. I rejoice every time someone reads one of my books. For me, that’s the whole purpose of this crazy focus in my life.
I recently learned that the audiobook version of A Man Named Baskerville is now available on Apple Books. This is great news—if you’re an Apple or iPhone user, it’s now even easier to listen to the audiobook on your device, as the player is already installed and ready to go. I also see that Apple is offering it for a substantial discount over the Amazon USA sale price, so that’s a nice bonus.
The audiobook is narrated by Michael Langan, a respected voice talent who brings his skills in producing Received Pronunciation voice-overs. This is especially important for Baskerville, as the main character’s ability to shapeshift among the upper-classes rests on his 19th century posh British accent.
If you’re not familiar with the book, A Man Named Baskerville is my retelling of the classic Sherlock Holmes mystery. The novel’s antagonist recounts his life story for the reader, from growing up on the streets of the Brazilian coast, to the jungles of the Amazon and the beaches of Costa Rica. He winds up honing his skills as a con man and murderer in Victorian England, where he encounters Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson during Jack the Ripper’s Autumn of Terror.
Learn more here, which includes a sample of the praise the book’s received from reviewers.
If you’d like to preview the audiobook, you can find previews available at Amazon, Audible, and Apple Books. Remember, Amazon Prime members have special perks with Audible, and may be able to listen for free.
In 2011, I wrote a novella about a Silicon Valley startup that trains its virtual reality software from tourist photos it scrapes off the Internet. Millions of these photos are stitched together to create a virtual cable car ride across San Francisco.
This story became Everywhere Man, which was also recorded as an audiobook that you listened to while riding the actual, real-life cable cars. It was one of several literary tours that Oakland-based Invisible City Audio Tours offered. Their idea was to see cities through the lens of literature, and not as a mere collection of landmarks and commercial sights.
During the development of the book, Invisible City’s publisher asked me: “Wouldn’t the startup need to get permission from the people who took the photos?”
Fourteen years later, we’ve received the answer to her question: “Yes, they should get copyright permission. No, they won’t do that, though.”
Of course, today the startups in question are not producing virtual reality tours. They are AI companies feeding massive amounts of copyrighted data into their Language Learning Models (LLMs), which in turn powers their artificial intelligence behemoths—Chat GPT, Claude, Grok, and so forth.
And just like my fictional Silicon Valley startup, these AI companies are being challenged in regard to their use of intellectual property. Shouldn’t these companies have to get copyright permission before using creative works to build their software?
The answer, predictably, is that they don’t believe they need to:
Nick Clegg, former executive for Meta (Facebook): Asking artists’ permission before AI companies scrape copyrighted content will “basically kill the AI industry in this country overnight.”
In a statement from Open AI, the creators of Chat GPT, they assert “the federal government can both secure Americans’ freedom to learn from AI and avoid forfeiting our AI lead to the [People’s Republic of China] by preserving American AI models’ ability to learn from copyrighted material.”
Meanwhile, “OpenAI and Google are pushing the US government to allow their AI models to train on copyrighted material. Both companies outlined their stances in proposals published this week, with OpenAI arguing that applying fair use protections to AI ‘is a matter of national security.'”
It’s not even a matter of asking permission at this point—these companies have already trained their LLMs with copyrighted material and made their AI available to the public. Their earliest defense was that training on copyrighted material was “transformational” and covered as Fair Use. Later they began to frame the argument as a matter of national security. (OpenAI is particularly prone to this claim.) At some point, they’ve all stated publicly, in so many words, that needing to obtain permission from content creators would destroy their business model. (In Nick Clegg’s case, it’s not even so many words. He came right out and stated it.)
Facebook went so far as to use a massive database of flagrantly pirated texts (called LibGen) to train its AI. An internal company document reveals that they kept the source of their texts secret because “if there is media coverage suggesting we have used a dataset we know to be pirated, such as LibGen, this may undermine our negotiating position with regulators on these issues.”
The Atlantic has helpfully produced a searchable database to see if an author’s work was included among LibGen’s trove of pirated texts. Sure enough, three of my books are in the set: Bridge Daughter, Hagar’s Mother, and—you guessed it—Everywhere Man, a book about a Silicon Valley company using stolen intellectual property to train their software.
There is a familiar smell about all of this. In a recent video on typeface piracy (a practice which goes back hundreds of years), designer Linus Boman observes “every time there is a massive technological shift, intellectual property rights suddenly, and very conveniently, become a blind spot. … Is it only considered piracy if the people who do it lack resources and respectability?” Apparently so.
Maybe it’s time to stop telling ourselves that AI will never produce a passable novel, song, or movie—that AI lacks the fiery human spirit to produce creative work of value. Maybe we should concede that AI is more than capable of producing better-than-mediocre works of art.
Couldn’t an AI be trained only with public domain texts published on or before 1929, the current cut-off point for copyright protection in the United States? Well, it could, but then all those romance novels it produced would read like Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights. That’s not going to sell many copies.
AI has practical, world-bettering applications in the sciences, healthcare/medicine, mathematics, and beyond. I’m not arguing against AI as a general technology. But it seems all avenues of creating works with AI leads to less-than-optimal market conditions for AI companies and their users if copyright protections are upheld. Why, though, do their short-term profit margins suddenly erase basic copyright law, a legal concept that goes back to the time of Shakespeare?
Ask yourself: Are you better off reading AI-generated novels? Or listening to AI-produced music, or watching AI-generated movies? I see no evidence that AI-produced work is being sold at a lower price than human-generated content, or offering a better experience. What’s in it for me? Lower-quality mass-produced books sold at the same or higher price than before? How is this progress?
