Scrivener for Windows Launches Next Week

For years, I’ve hung out in writing forums and endured the ridicule of MacApple authors, belittling me for using Microsoft Word to write fiction. They bragged on the speed and efficiency of focusing on plotting and characterization without the software slowing them down. They used Scrivener, software for writers only, and at the time, the product ran on Apple’s only. No Windows version.

For years, I’ve tried to get what they have. I’ve bought or installed trials for over fifty programs designed for writers, including a number of add-ons for Microsoft Word and Open Office, but with every set of features came annoying quirks, and none delivered the efficiency described by users of Scrivener.

That all changed last year, when I started beta testing the first-ever Scrivener for Windows.

I was afraid, at first. What if Scrivener for Windows wasn’t as good as the Mac version? Or what if it was? What if Scrivener didn’t live up to the hype? What if I’d wasted precious time searching for the perfect tool, when I could have been writing?

Like I said, that was a year ago. I am not afraid any more. My search is over, and I am glad I made the effort. Scrivener for Windows is the best writing software ever deployed on a PC. I can use it to organize my thoughts the way I think, and that’s no easy task, because—as you know—sometimes I’m really way out there.

I really love this product! I can use Scrivener for writing fiction and non-fiction, short-stories or novels. Nothing gets in the way, and I never have to switch programs to get my work done. Check out Scrivener for Windows. You’ll thank me a thousand times over. In fact, if you take my advice I want a cut of your next book sale, because with Scrivener you’ll finish it faster than you ever thought possible.

Killamazoo poses many questions

As the first week of Killamazoo comes to a close, some readers are scratching their heads. This is a very different kind of tale, but I promise, it’ll be just as zany as Pay Dirt and just as thrilling as Early Departure, especially since you’re helping me write the story.

Here’s what we’ve got so far…

Chapter One

He woke staring at a mirror above the bed and at the .44 Magnum in his hand.

The white in his hair and beard looked pure, compared to the bluish white face of the beauty lying beside him. With three fingers, he touched her cheek, then jumped sideways off the bed.

On his knees, he fumbled for the phone, then punched the numbers 911.

"Housekeeping."

"Huh? No. Miss, I need an ambulance."

"Mr. Burrows, is that you? You can't dial 911 direct. This is Vivi, extension 91. Say, you need towels?"

"No-mam, I don't think so. Listen, what did you say my name was?"

"Last time I checked, your name was John. You OK, Mr. Burrows? What kind of emergency you having?" He glanced at the corpse on the bed, then down at the gun he'd dropped on the floor. "Mr. Burrows, are you there?"

"Yes-mam, sorry. I just woke up, a bad dream, that's all."

"No worries. Hey, call back if you need those towels."

"Sure thing, I will. Thank you very much."

He picked up the gun and stood, looking down at the body on the bed. "Where the hell are our clothes?"

Then someone knocked at the door.

"Housekeeping."

"Say what?" He opened the door six-inches before it hung on the safety latch. With his physique out of sight, he peered through the gap. "I told you, Lady, I don't need any towels."

"You’re tripping, Burrows. I just got here." The woman filled the area between door and jam, top to bottom. "Open up, I gotta clean your room."

He looked back at the corpse on the bed. "This is kind of a bad time. How long before checkout?"

"Six months at the Elmore and you checking out now, yea right. See you tomorrow." She shoved two towels through the crack and closed the door.

John Burrows picked the towels up from the floor and looked back at the bed, wondering how long it would be before the corpse started to smell.

In the bathroom, he stepped over a lace bra and a blue silk dress to stack the towels with four others, each towel the same, gold, monogrammed with the letter E.

On the counter, he found a rabbit's foot key ring holding three keys, next to a money clip keeping a folded stack of bills and a driver's license. He didn't know the face on the license, but he didn't know the face in the mirror either. The face in the photo had a beard, but brown not white. Holding the license closer to his eyes, the smoother face looked familiar, but still wasn’t a face he remembered as his own.

Donning jeans from the floor, he pocketed the clip and keys, then found a Wolverines sweatshirt and shoes in the closet. Dressed, he hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob and looked for the stairs.

If he could find a hardware store, lime would mask the smell of the dead woman, at least until he’d discovered who she was and whether he killed her. How did he know about lime? Hopefully, from working on a farm, or better, from some book or movie.

Down four flights of stairs, he stepped into a crowded lobby and found a woman standing with two men, but staring at him. He grinned and nodded, but she didn’t smile. Instead, she trembled, then collapsed on the floor, her face white.

Not another one.

“We need help over here,” one of her companions yelled, as the other worked to revive her.

When the crowd surrounded the woman, John grabbed a Kalamazoo Gazette from the front desk and checked the date, August 17, 1987. He began reading the lead story, about a child surviving a plane crash, then the woman gasped and someone in the crowd applauded. The woman sat and began to speak, rapidly, saying something about Elvis Presley, then John Burrows left the building.

Ready to join the fun? As before, send me messages or leave comments through Twitter or Facebook. Tell me what you’d like to see our characters do next, where you want them to go, and what you want them to do. Together, we’ll have one hell of an adventure, and when it’s all over, I’ll publish the novelette on Amazon and give everyone who helped a complimentary copy.

Here’s the plot we’re working with this time…

The year is 1987. A man wakes up in a hotel. He has no idea who or where he is. He soon learns he’s at the Hotel Elmore in Kalamazoo, Michigan and his name is John Burrows. The woman in his bed is gorgeous, but dead. John’s got a gun in his hand, and someone’s knocking at his door—Oh, and if that’s not wild enough for you, except for his white hair and beard, our hero looks identical to a guy who died ten years earlier, a guy named Elvis Presley.

Killamazoo Novelette Begins Tomorrow

After the success of the Twitter and Facebook novelettes, Early Departure and Pay Dirt, I’ve decided to keep the fun going. Beginning tomorrow, I’ll start a new story that you can help me write. I have a basic plot and some oddball characters, but no ending. The story can take us anywhere we want to go.

As before, send me messages or leave comments. Tell me what you’d like to see our characters do next, where you want them to go, and what you want them to do. Together, we’ll have one hell of an adventure, and when it’s all over, I’ll publish on Amazon and give everyone who helped a complimentary copy.

Here’s the plot we’re working with this time…

The year is 1987. John Burrows wakes up in a hotel. He has no idea who or where he is—but we do. He’s at the Hotel Elmore in Kalamazoo, Michigan. A woman’s in bed beside him, gorgeous, but dead. Johnny’s got a gun in his hand, and someone’s knocking at his door—oh, and in case that’s not wild enough for you, except for his white hair and beard, Johnny looks identical to a guy who died ten years earlier, a guy named Elvis Presley.

What do you think? Sound like fun? We’ll make it so together.

See you tomorrow!

Pay Dirt: The Final Chapter

It’s over. We’ve survived a danger-filled 15 weeks with Bobby Grim, Kat LeRouge, DJ Ponchatoula, and Congressman Rube Rarick. Of course, the same can’t be said for all of the characters, but it was a great thrill ride.

Again, I want to thank everyone following on Twitter and Facebook, especially those messaging hints. Your directions steered the story down different trails than I originally expected, but ultimately your ideas made the adventure more exhilarating as we braced ourselves at each corner, expecting the unexpected. Thanks again!

The following is a recap from the final week of Pay Dirt…

"That perverted politician son-of-a-bitch."

"Can't you just kick the door down or something?"

"There's thirty people getting drunk on that porch, one's a cop and just a radio call away from finding warrants for both of us."

"Okay, Muscles, then tell me your..." Kat stopped, mesmerized by the yellow eyes inches above the hole in the floor.

Grim dove, his chest hitting the trap door hard, forcing the gator down. "Feel around for a lock, or something I can stick in the latch."

Kat crawled in the dark, in circles, chains pulling at her ankles. "Here." She picked up a metal U, part of a broken padlock.

Grim road the bucking door like a bull, while Kat crawled over him to slide the metal into the lock, then both fought the door till the noise subsided, leaving only darkness, heavy breathing, Irma Thomas singing in the distance with Kat and Bobby’s faces inches apart.

"Maybe we should focus on getting your chains off?" Grim said.

"Too rusty to pick." She touched his nose with hers. "I say we wait for the party to end and get the key from psycho."

"And till then?"

She looked down at the floor, then up again. "Rip some of those clothes off the walls. I'm not laying on this cold floor."

Hours later, Kat woke to a cold, somehow brighter room. The music gone, the camp quiet. Cricket and frog songs outside. "Welcome back," Grim said.

"Has everyone gone?"

"Rarick's still here. I heard the spring in the recliner about an hour ago."

"Now, do we knock the door down?"

"I think I've got a better idea.” He looked down at the trap floor and shook his head. “But you’re not gonna like it."

Rarick downed the last of his peach brandy and climbed from the recliner, where he'd sat sharpening his skinning knife since the TV crew left. He was anxious to get at the girl, but afraid of the stranger. Who was that asshole? Some friend of the girl's, some lone-nut political assassin? Maybe a cop, maybe one he couldn't buy.

Shaky, Rarick walked to the door, his keys jingling in one hand, the skinning knife gleaming in the other.

Kat, Bobby Imprisoned in Bayou Manchac

In case you’ve missed the installments on Facebook and Twitter, we’ve only got a couple of weeks left, and one character didn’t make it through this week alive…

As Rarick pulled another dead gator to the dock, Kat asked, "Where's DJ?"

"Sorry, Hun, he skedaddled on you, had me drop him at the landing with Leta, said you were gonna get him killed."

"If he takes the bike and leaves me stranded, he'll wish he was dead."

 

Grim sneered from the duck blind. He'd taken a chance telling Kat about Rarick, but she'd promised to get the hell out when Rarick got back, but he came back without the DJ kid. Grim watched him waving his arms, spewing his typical politician bullshit.

A week of mosquito, snake, and gator bites, then fever and fat chicks. All out hell, and Bobby Grim couldn't wait to get back to California. Maybe he'd swim over and rip the dude's tongue out in front of her.

Before he could climb down, he heard music, then eight boats and a party barge rounded the farthest bend in the bayou. "Now what?"

Rarick grabbed the girl by the arm, dragging her inside. Grim wanted to dive, but the boats picked up speed, bouncing on the water. He could make out the lyrics now, some foreign language, singing words like iko-iko, wild Tchoupitoulas, and Jockomo feena nay.

 

"Check it out." Kat pointed at the boats speeding down the bayou. "Leta said the TV crew'd be back to wrap up their story. Maybe she's riding along." Rarick grabbed Kat's shoulders and pushed her to the door. "No way, old man. I'm going to find out what you did with DJ."

"Listen, you little tramp. Get inside, do exactly what I tell you, or I gut you and use your intestines for gator-bait. Got it?"

Rarick pressed the hunting knife against her throat, opened the door, then shoved her down the hall with his body.

At the room Grim had warned her about, she heard a click behind her and the padlock fell to the floor. He pushed her into the blackness and bent her arms behind her back.

Handcuffs. Chains rattled. Cold at her ankles. She couldn't move.

Death by Gator in Bayou Manchac

In case you’ve missed the installments on Facebook and Twitter, we’ve only got a couple of weeks left, and one character didn’t make it through this week alive…

All three ate in front of the TV, DJ sprawled on a duct-taped orange sofa, Rarick in a folding chair, and Kat on the remains of a Lazy Boy. They didn't know the name of the movie. Some ex-wrestler and an ex-rapper trying to be action heroes.

They had just reached the darkest before dawn part of the film, when the spring in Kat's recliner creaked. She hit the floor, half-crawling down the hall and fell through the bathroom door.

"Shit." DJ jumped from the sofa, going after her.

"Relax," Rarick said, "That's normal when you're not used to spicy alligator."

Later, DJ stood outside the locked door of Rarick's bathroom. "No way, Kat. If it were food poison, wouldn't we all be puking? Oh, God. You don't think you're pregnant?"

Through the door and the gagging, he thought she said, "Morning sickness not afternoon sickness, you stupid Duck." But knowing Kat as he did, DJ must have gotten that last word wrong.

 

Late evening. Across the bayou, the skinny kid and Rarick were climbing into the boat. The girl wasn't with them. They weren't leaving yet.

Bobby Grim squirmed in his tree stand, rubbing his arm. Not healed, but close. Still, he was ready to leave this God-forsaken swamp. He couldn't finish his business with witnesses around, and the longer these two followed Rarick, the less chance they had of seeing twenty-five.

Ten minutes after the boat's rooster tail slid around the bend, Grim stood at the front door of the camp, this time an unlocked door. Inside, the TV blared, but no sign of the girl. The room where the gator latched on Grim's arm, locked again. A shiny-new Masterlock.

He made three steps on the creaky Cypress floor before the girl, Kat, stepped out of another room. "Who the fuck are you?"

Rarick serves bloody trouble to Kat and DJ

In case you missed this week’s action on Twitter and Facebook…

After breakfast, Rarick chopped bell peppers and celery, then loaded more gear into the boat, including four white-paper packages, one dripping with blood.

 

When Bobby Grim got back on the bayou, Rube and the two Leta called Kat and DJ were hanging a raw chicken on a hook, three feet above the water. Neither of the three had seen him before, and if they had, they wouldn’t recognize him now, under the LSU cap and sunglasses he'd bought from Leta.

He cast a line and pretended to fish, wondering if people caught anything without feet or fangs in this stinking muck.

 

"What's that bag you're pulling out of the chickens before we hang 'em?" DJ asked.

"Livers and gizzards," Kat said, "Yea, I cook sometimes."

Rarick dropped another set of innards in the gallon-sized Mason jar he'd brought along. "I'll freeze these for crawfish bait later."

"What are you looking at, Rube?"

"That fisherman over there. I've never seen him before, and he doesn't have any bait on his line."

 

Rarick cranked his motor and disappeared around the bend. Grim saw them looking and decided not to follow. Not that it mattered. He couldn't finish the job until Rarick hunted alone.

Leta said the kids would be gone before dark. He hoped that meant on their way back to New Orleans. Bobby headed in, climbed back up to the tree stand and was just dosing when Rarick, Kat, and DJ got back from baiting the traps.

 

"Okay, I'm getting sick of this little water safari," Kat said. "When do we go to the bank?"

"Be patient. This evening, we've gotta circle around, pop any gators that took our bait, then skin'em up. If I leave the swamp before then, folks will know something’s up. Tomorrow you two will get money and get out of my hair."

"Besides, Kat, I'm starting to like this," DJ said, "Rube, maybe you can let me shoot one of them when we go back?"

Rube Rarick lifted his jar of chicken innards from the boat. "I suppose that's possible." Then he and DJ followed Kat inside.

Hunting Gator, Human in Louisiana Swamp

This was the first full week in the swamp. Our adventure is just starting to heat up…

Bobby Grim watched from his tree stand, as the last of the television crew's boats disappeared around the bend.

Rube Rarick stood, hands on hips, at the edge of his dock, admiring the five-footer hanging above him. Grim thought the gator's head looked too big for the body, like it had swallowed a garbage can that got lodged in it's skull.

Rarick detached the metal head and slid the bloody arrow from the giant head. Then he popped an electric cigarette between his lips, pulled a Rambo knife from his belt, and began to cut the hide from the beast.

He finished before sunset, then rose early the next morning, ready to hunt again.

And on this day, he'd hunt alone—as would Bobby Grim.

Rarick left the dock before dawn, his bateau loaded light, leaving plenty room for a couple of big ones. He raced through the dark bayou, grinning. Twenty years, he'd been hunting here, no one knew the area better. Around the bend from where he expected the first tag, he killed the Evinrude and started the troll motor.

Even in the fog, where trees and beasts appeared and disappeared with every turn, Rarick still believed he was the swamp's most dangerous predator.

"Huh?" Somewhere behind him, another troll motor started up in the fog.

 

Saturday morning. Leta found the padlock on the bait shop door missing, along with bandages, antiseptic, and Albon—dog antibiotics. The bald muscle guy with the tattoos and ass. She knew, looking at the hundred dollar bill on the counter. She thanked God he hadn’t drowned in the storm. She wanted to get him drunk before he left the swamp.

She heard a sound in the woods, a chainsaw. She walked out on the porch. Not a chainsaw, a motorcycle.

 

When the first rays of sunlight danced over the bayou, Rarick spotted a spinach green forehead skimming open water. Fastening 500 lb test line to his custom arrow, he took aim.

Behind him, hidden by fog, Bobby Grim loaded his bow with an identical arrow.

Pay Dirt heats up in Louisiana Swamp

Today, our story has 1,053 followers on Twitter. Another great week, and I’ve got to thank you for continuing to help write this story through Twitter and Facebook. Now, let’s recap the week…

In the Superdome parking lot, DJ's ripped wires from the dashboard of somebody's Cadillac Escalade.

"Boy, can I pick'em." Kat laid back on the hood, biting her nails. "You gotta be the only rapper in New Orleans that can't hot-wire a car." That's when the NOPD rolled up beside them, flashing lights, but no siren. "Officer, thank God you're here." The cop climbed out, no hair and a white mustache, naturally gray or beignet sugar, Kat wasn't sure. "I lost my keys and my ex-boyfriend here said he could start it."

"License and registration."

"Oh, sure. I'll just run around to the glove box. Please help us. If I can’t fix it, my daddy's gonna kill me."

Kat walked around the back on the SUV and sprinted north across the parking lot.

“Hey!” The cop walked to the front on the SUV, and then grabbed for the radio on his belt.

DJ jumped from the SUV and ran east to the Mississippi.

 

Bobby Grim found the duck blind 100 yards up the bayou from Rarick's camp, just where the map said it would be, covered in camo and Irish moss.

He hid the boat beneath the it, then climbed a large cypress and stretched across two pin oaks to scoot into the tree stand.

Inside, he cleaned his gun and waited, living on jerky and water. He watched the horizon another day before Rarick's bateau appeared, with it, the lightning and drenching rain.

Rarick unloaded in the downpour, just gear. The lone hunter would focus on four-legged game this trip, unaware of the surprise awaiting him.

Grim lubed the pulleys on the bow, waxed the strings, and sharpened the heads. The rain would stop soon, and he’d be ready to get the job done and get the hell out of the swamp.

Hour by hour, the storm's intensity increased, as did the size of Grim's arm. The wound from the gator’s bite felt hot and he was sweating in the freezing rain.

Thick clouds. Pouring rain. Darkness in the tree stand, except for the occasional flash of lightning. He couldn't sleep. He hated waiting. Worse, his arm burned, the roof leaked, and his six-foot frame stretched larger than the available floor space, none of it dry.

When he did find sleep, he awoke to a snake coiled around his legs. He mistook it for a Cottonmouth Water Moccasin, but after he'd taken the thing by the throat and kneed it to a bloody pulp, he found the rattler on the end.

On day three, the rain stopped, but Grim's body still alternated from cold to hot. He needed a doctor, but he'd finish the job first.

Daybreak. Birds cackled and the sun cast cypress shadows along the bayou. Rarick walked to the end of the peer and began loading his boat for the big day.

Grim climbed down from the stand and shoved off, just as three boats rounded the bend hauling TV cameras.

Bobby Grim takes on Bayou Manchac

Today, our story has 877 followers on Twitter. Another great week, and I’ve got to thank you for continuing to help write this story through Twitter and Facebook.

Now, let’s recap the week.

Climbing down from the Abita Beer truck, Bobby Grim heard the driver saying that Savoy Landing was Bayou Manchac's last boat launch, the end of the farthest road into the swamp. “Sure you wanna be dropped here? I ain’t back for another two weeks.”

“I told you, I’m a hunter,” Grim said, “I’ll survive.”

The shack next to the launch had rusted tin nailed on the sides covered with faded yellow paint and a picture—maybe a coffee cup—with some words: Morning Treat.

By a single gas pump and a dead Jax beer light, a hand-stenciled sign swung from a post and read: No Deliveries Today.

The front wall, eight-feet wide, covered with various sized wooden planks, held more stenciled signs: Pig Feet, Gator Balls, and Coon Meat. The shack looked dark, the front door open or missing. All quiet, till the voice of Rush Limbaugh shouted something about Femi-Nazis.

Grim followed the sound through the entrance.

A chest-type home freezer sat just inside the door. In the shop’s center, a table with two chairs. A plastic-lettered cafe menu hung behind a rusted deli counter, white with a Barq's logo. Post office mailboxes with peeling brass-colored paint covered the left wall. On the right, shelves filled with food, for people, fish, and deer.

Behind the counter, a fat lady in a Harley shirt broke a crawfish in half and sucked both ends before speaking. "Who the hell are you?" Something red and yellow oozed down her chin.

"How much to rent one of your air-boats?" Grim pinched a hundred dollar bill from his roll.

Fat Lady wiped her chin with a Post-it note. "Thirty an hour, you got I.D."

"How much if I don't?" He peeled off six hundred, lining the bills across the counter.

"Maybe I'll tell the owner somebody stole the thing. Like maybe it just floated off or something."

"When will you see him?"

"Her."

"When will you see her?"

"Another week, next Friday."

Grim counted another four bills. "The boat floats off next Thursday, right?"

 

Bouncing through Bayou Manchac, the air-boat disturbed a gator large enough to splash some green gunk on Grim’s map. He slowed to clean it and to make sure the gator wasn't in the boat.

He pushed the throttle forward and rounded another bend, then slowed in front of the target’s camp. The recruiter described the target as the only hunter in the swamp with his picture on the wall of his camp. This camp's walls were insulated in old campaign billboards, half painted over, each sporting a photo of the same man and the some words, red and blue, and reading: Rube Rarick for Congress.

Wearing white rubber boots he'd found in the boat, Grim tromped through the mud to the back of the camp and opened the door with a crowbar.

Pay Dirt triples Twitter Followers

You guys are giving me feedback, and I’m incorporating your ideas. Together, we’re creating quite a world. Twitter and Facebook are still buzzing, and I’m excited about it. Twitter followers of the story have tripled in two weeks. Thanks to you!

Thanks again, everyone who’s participating. This is how the second week went…

Kat stood, DJ bug-eyed and puppet-wobbling, pliers clamped between his legs. "So cute for a moron," she said, "Say, you like Kat or Kathy?"

Katrina Geauxmieux before the storm, Kat LeRouge loathed the name Kathy, and using her mom's last name sounded way cooler than Kat "Go Mew".

"I like whichever one makes you turn loose my boner and lets me haul ass away from you."

Kat kissed DJ's cheek, stirring the crowd. Then she turned and pranced up the street with DJ close behind her and the crowd applauding.

"Please unclamp me," DJ said, shuffling his feet as fast as Kat could walk. "What if I want to have kids or something?"

Around a dark corner, Kat slammed DJ against a wall. Her big brown eyes inches from his, she released the pliers, but DJ didn't move.

"How about we knock off a Circle K and get wasted at the casino?" She asked.

 

Four hours and five hundred miles away, Bobby Grim smirked in the plate glass window at the rays kaleidescoping his peeled head. Amazing sunrises in Texas, but everything else sucks.

The guy next to him needed to shut-up. If Ernie didn't open soon, he’d open with blood splattered on the pawn shop doors.

"You know I ain't had my coffee," said the hairy guy in the bent cowboy hat. "Keep whining, won't be my fault what happens to you."

The bony girl's lips quivered. Her eyes, sunk deep in her head, stared.

Bobby Grim picked up a Coke bottle filled with and cigarette butts and Skoal juice. He walked towards Bent Hat, just as Ernie's bug rolled into the lot.

Bent Hat and the bony woman met Ernie at the door. Bobby Grim dropped the bottle into the trash and followed them inside.

The woman placed three rings and an anklet on the counter. Ernie asked, "Pawn or Sell."

Bent Hat answered, "Selling" before she could speak.

Bobby Grim stood behind them, gnawing his lower lip, and fumbling with a battered pawn ticket between his thumb and forefinger.

First Week of Pay Dirt starts Internet Buzzing

Together, we’ve written quite a story so far. Twitter and Facebook are starting to buzz, and I’m blown away. Twitter followers of the story have actually doubled in the last three days. Thanks to you!

Really, I want to thank everyone participating. So far, so good…

Two miles out of Vegas, Bobby Grim sat on his backpack, thumb in the air. Seven days to make New Orleans and arrange a hunting accident.

On Bourbon Street, the French Quarter hood ornaments knew not to look at Kat LeRouge too long, much less spit the B word, but DJ Ponchatoula reigned from the 985 and whatn't taking nothing from no 504 shorty. "On your knees, Be-atch. I got some lunch meat for you."

"Yummy," Kat said, licking her lips and kneeling before DJ and the crowd outside Johnny White's Bar. "Whip that big Andouille out here."

The sidewalk gawkers cheered and DJ's face got hot. He looked left to right, then shrugged and unzipped.

The crowd roared.

"Bon Appétit, Be-atch," DJ said.

His last syllable went a little long, when Kat jabbed something shiny into his crotch. "Craftsman Vise Grips," she said, "double clamped."

For those just joining the party, here’s what we’ve been doing: In the tradition of the fast-production pulps of old, I got a wild plot and some zany, but dangerous characters, and through Twitter and Facebook, readers are helping create a crime fiction short story posting less than 140 characters per day. (Yea, I know I posted extra on Friday, but I couldn’t wait!)

As I said before, you could watch me fall on my face in an experiment gone wrong, or you can guide my actions, and together we can invent a new medium—a pulpy sort of Tweet Fiction or Twitter Pulp.

Our plot:  When Wild Child Kat LeRouge hooks up with Bad Boy DJ Ponchatoula, they find out the hard way that some New Orleans cab drivers carry guns. Desperate for safer income, Kat decides to blackmail a crooked Louisiana politician—a scheme that brings this modern day Bonnie and Clyde face to face with CIA Black-Ops Baddie Bobby Grim.

Next installments on Twitter and Facebook tomorrow.

Let me know what you think. Since technically this story hasn't been written yet, your thoughts and feedback will actually change the course and ultimate outcome of the story. Message me or tweet your ideas to everyone. As a group, you the readers, will actually decide who lives, who dies, and how many thrills they experience along the way.

New Bobby Grim Adventure Tomorrow

Tomorrow, we start a grand adventure together.

In the tradition of the fast-production pulps of old, I've got a wild plot and some zany, but dangerous characters, and through Twitter and Facebook, we'll create a crime fiction short story while posting less than 140 characters per day.

Now, you could watch me fall on my face in an experiment gone wrong, or you can guide my actions, and together we can invent a new medium—a pulpy sort of Tweet Fiction or Twitter Pulp.

Our plot:  When Wild Child Kat LeRouge hooks up with Bad Boy DJ Ponchatoula, they find out the hard way that some New Orleans cab drivers carry guns. Desperate for safer income, Kat decides to blackmail a crooked Louisiana politician—a scheme that brings this modern day Bonnie and Clyde face to face with CIA Black-Ops Baddie Bobby Grim.

The first installment hits Twitter and Facebook tomorrow.

Let me know what you think. Since technically this story hasn't been written yet, your thoughts and feedback will actually change the course and ultimate outcome of the story. As a group, you the readers, will actually decide who lives, who dies, and how many thrills they experience along the way.

Early Departure is just the Beginning

Today is a good day.

On Facebook and Twitter, I published the final installment of my Early Departure "eThriller" short story, and I'm ecstatic about the e-mail I've received. (I'm glad so many liked it. Now, if they would just post a review at Amazon—hint, hint).

I've gotten a few notes asking, "What's next?"

Unfortunately, I've got to keep the secret until next week, but I promise you'll love it.
Thanks again for all of your support!