"North Of Likely," the sequel to "Delusion," downloaded into my brain in one night. The main character, John Taylor, had supported the three principals in "Delusion," but he was known as Bob Taggart—the ruffled, disgruntled, sarcastic Secret Service Agent who lures hero Brad Jamison into the counterfeit scam. I had Taylor’s voice, his back story for the nearly five years in between, and his set up, working security for a crime boss out of Reno, all at once, streaming inside my head. The rest was easy . . . except my idea to share narration between three major character in first person—the hero, the female protagonist, and the anti-hero. In the end, I knew I had something unique. Publishers wanted to change it back to a conventional, nom-de-boredom, third person omniscient narration. But I was undaunted.

It really comes down to integrity of the artistic work. There was a lot of risk taking in both "Delusion" and "North of Likely." "Delusion" has poetic sections of narration combined with the perversion and passion of a gambling and sex addict, chasing both through the casinos of Las Vegas. In "North Of Likely," I wanted the entre story to flip one hundred and eighty on a relationship between two women—a good girl and a bad girl—told through the eyes of the good girl. And, I did not want to cut any corners.

Marketing has become the biggest issue. And legitimacy. I struggle with both.

Telling a story that might transport someone to a different reality—a parallel world—where the reader night be able to look back on their own life from a unique perspective. Or just plain enjoy the ride to and from somewhere else. Getting caught up in these characters and their hopes, fears, desires, and allowing them to speak through me seems like some other-worldly mandate transmitting from a place of pure creativity.

The novel is both the toughest and most rewarding thing to write by far. I should know: I've written and published two, and have two more books trying to come out. It doesn't come easy for me. I suffer through long periods of dormancy and being blocked, coupled with brilliant bursts of creative movement. It's feast or famine, heaven or hell, and I don't know how else to make it happen.

I have two novels coming out. The first one, which I hope to finish and publish in about a year from now—Christmas, 2013—is called, “The Case of the Black Pearl Necklace." It is not connected to my first two, sequential crime novels in any way. The main character— whom I adore, but he is difficult to write—is a junky, dumpster-diving, defective detective living out of his office in San Francisco's Tenderloin.

Then she walks in his door . . . the wicked beautiful femme fatale, and solicits the services of our hero, James Whitecarol, to find her priceless, heirloom, black pearls and round gem-cut diamonds necklace. His agency, not coincidentally, is called "Black and White Agency: specializing in lost and found." Of course, she doesn’t turn out to be who she’s pretending to be. And our hero must fight his addiction, his creditors, and enemies, plus a veritable army of criminals all on the trail of the same, 18th century heirloom necklace reputed to have magical powers. I push the private detective genre out the fifth floor window of his office. And after it lands splat in the street below, I take the Chandleresque tribute on a bold, surrealistic journey where it never could have imagined it would go before. The book is in short supply on characters, as the femme fatal, the detective and a nine year old girl are the only reliable signposts to reality. A Catholic Priest lends a hand, as well. But the rest are all the hungry ghosts after the same thing—the priceless, magical, missing Black Pearl Necklace.

The second, “Have A Nice Day, Man: tales from the dark side of the 70s,” is a work of semi-autobiographical fiction, chronicling my adventures as a small time dope dealer, and big time dreamer, coast to coast, Canada and the Caribbean. Each chapter is written to mostly stand alone. The work does not follow a regular timeline, but instead forms a mosaic, covering the years of 70 to 75. Boulder, Co, Penn State, The Haight Ashbury, Berkeley, Florida, and Kingston, Jamaica are the principal settings where the college drop-out drifter lands in pursuit of the new American freedom, or the next best high . . . it’s an ode to the times—sex, drugs and rock-n-roll—done right, and without any apologies for being itself.

Hunter S. Thompson, Jim Thompson (no relation), Raymond Chandler (of course), William S. Burroughs and all the other contemporary authors who pushed the boundaries of writing back in the 60s and 70s, before the publishing industry turned it all into blockbusters and imitations of blockbusters, or, “Sorry, Charlie, no tuna.”

Aside from the bad boys above, Saul Bellow and John Updike (especially, “The Centaur” which is one of the greatest novels of all time). These six authors, I must admit, had the greatest influence on me, and were the biggest push for me to become a writer.

Good Question. I love to cook and consider myself above average in that department. I pursue a dance practice called, "NIA" a couple of times a week. I bicycle every day, except for the winter months, where I am still out on the road on my bike as much as possible. And I am out there taking pictures with a digital and an old-school SLR camera with film. I spend a lot of time with my photography, manipulating the pictures in a graphics program and publishing them: online, or in prints for myself and friends. I will probably use a photo I took for the cover of "The Case of the Black Pearl Necklace."

I was born in Chicago, and moved to Pittsburgh, Pa when I was almost five. The gritty city life of both places has affected my work by lending a blue collar feel to the characters and the writing itself. In that sense, I am also a fan of Bukowski, though I am not influenced by him. It's more like I can relate to his point of view and the simple place where it comes from. Hemingway is also a familiar in his approach to characters and narration. Unpretentious. Raw realism. The cracks in the pavement. The weeds and flowers struggling up and out of those cracks . . . that's me, that's my writing. That's growing up in Chicago and Pittsburgh

I wrote my first story when I was twelve. It was an autobiographical account of having an appendicitis attack at school, in choir, and being rushed to the hospital by ambulance to have an emergency appendectomy. I read it out loud to the class. I wanted it to be funny in the black humor way I knew so well (see above). And it was! The class laughed out loud. I was hooked.

I published my first collection of poems when I was fourteen. By published, I mean a girl who knew how to type took my scribblings and typed them and bound them together with punch holes and brass clips. I paid her in kisses and cat food.