My novel, Born Speaking Lies , is going to be published on Saturday. That sounds so strange to me. After all the time, energy, and grief I put into the manuscript it’s a little hard to believe it’s actually going to be a book. I’ve racked up an untold amount of rejections, and I got awfully close to a deal with one publisher a few years ago, but they turned me down because they don't do crime fiction. Finally the lovely people at Fomite Press in Burlington, Vermont agreed to publish my story about a bunch of Brooklyn gangsters who raise a whole lot of hell between here and the Poconos. And so here we go. I started writing this book on a typewriter back when my parents were still alive, my two nieces had yet to be born, and Reagan was president. Now I can’t honestly say I’ve worked on the book for all those years—not even close. I’d put it aside, take up some other project that I was certain would pay off handsomely, only to see that effort come up empty. Take it from...
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Gun Violence Sought Against Bay Ridge Rover Blogger?
It's cowardice, plain and simple.