As you know, my Esme novels have been optioned for TV, first by an executive producer (Barry Josephson) and then, additionally, by a studio (20th Century Fox).  This is what people in the business generally refer to as Very Good News.  Subsequently, a veteran writer, Daniel Voll, was hired to punch out the pilot script.  The plan, as I was told, was to have the script ready for February so it could be pitched to the networks.

Meanwhile, my contract had not been finalized.

Now don’t get me wrong – everything was moving full steam ahead.  The script was written.  Pieces were put into place.  The deal was “done.”  It just wasn’t “finalized.”  The sticking point was…well, it’s honestly too ridiculous to even mention.  Let’s just say that sometimes the priorities of a client get superseded by the priorities of the talent agency to which he is a client.

But the Very Good News has finally become, in fact, Very Good News, because yesterday my book-to-TV agent confirmed that all deal points had been agreed upon and the contract was indeed ready for signatures.  That said, the window for pitching to the broadcast networks has passed, so my team (and I use the word “my” very loosely) will be approaching the cable networks first.

It’s all the same to me, insomuch as it’s all Greek.

But at least now I’ll be paid for the option and the team (reminder: there is no “i” in team)  should start hearing feedback on the pitches sometime in April.  If someone offers to buy the pilot, awesome.  If not, well, the good thing about the virtual balkanization of television in the 21st century is that there are dozens and dozens of venues to approach.

Keep a light on for me.

Congratulations and thank you very much to everyone who helped out with my promotion.  It actually sold some books.

So in the spirit of relaunching with a bang (rather than a whimper), here is my latest blog post, complete with an opportunity to win $$$.

Oooh. $$$!

The rules are as follows:

1. On either Facebook or Twitter, please inform your lovely followers the news that my novel NUCLEAR WINTER WONDERLAND is on sale for 25% off this week at Amazon. Please include in your post a link to the book’s Amazon page, which is: http://amzn.to/yWI8Zt

2.  Each time you do this counts as one entry to win a $50 Amazon gift card, and you may do this as many times as you want between now and Friday, February 24, at 11:59pm, which is when this contest ends.

3.  Be sure to tag me in your post so I can keep track of your entries.  The winner will be notified on Saturday, February 25, and will receive the gift card via email.

Best of luck!

Today began quite early, with the Debut Authors Breakfast at 8am. Since the gifted and very sweet Hilary Davidson was among this year’s class, I forced myself out of bed and slumbered into the banquet hall where each of the 40+ authors, including Hilary, pitched their novels to the 100+ in attendance. Some of these novels sounded absolutely terrific, and I wish I had endless pockets of ducats with which to purchase them all.

One of the more interesting panels I’ve ever attended was held shortly thereafter. JT Ellison led a discussion on “How Do Male and Female Writers Approach the Page Differently.” Among the panelists were Allison Brennan, Anna Destefano, Shane Gericke, Rick Mofina, and Erica Spindler. Quickly the discussion shifted from the approach of male and female writers to the stigmas attached to male and female writers, with one woman vociferously announcing that she would never read a male author because she likes books that provide her with an emotional connection. Ohh-kayy.

My own panel was later that afternoon, and the aforementioned Ms. Brennan led myself, Gary Birken, Patricia Gussin, Gar Anthony Heywood, Karen Dionne, and Amy Shojai in a discussion on the writer-reader relationship. I thought the discussion itself went quite nicely, and I’ve a feeling that the eight people in attendance enjoyed it too.

Then came the adornment of the jacket and tie for the Thrillerfest banquet. Last year’s food was…well, the less said about it, the better – if only because as the evening progressed it tasted less and less like food. Tonight’s meal was a delicious surprise, a filet mignon with some assorted shrimp, a few zucchini spears, and a hillock of mashed potatoes. The awards ceremony itself was a treat as well, with my pal JT Ellison winning for Best Paperback Original and with RL Stine delivering a hilarious speech upon his acceptance of the Thrillermaster award.

This brings us to, well, now. There is an after-party downstairs and I’m about to slip out and join it, but as I’ve no idea how exhausted I’ll be when I return, I figured it best to write this blog before rather than after. See, sometimes I have brief moments of wisdom. Don’t worry – they pass.

This morning I attended an informative panel about paranormal thrillers, hosted by Heather Graham and led by Dakota Banks, Janice Gable Bashman, Jeannie Holmes, Jonathan Maberry, J.L. Saint (Jennifer St. Giles), and Rochelle Staab. Most of these writers are from the South, so much of the hour was devoted to the unique lore of the Southern ghost story; Jeannie in particular shared a very engaging story about a church that was haunted by the spirit of a black man who had been lynched there IN THE CHURCH over a hundred years ago. Naturally, the question was asking as to whether or not the panelists were themselves believers and, interestingly, every single one of them answered in the affirmative. Jonathan grounded his response with a rather eerie story from his own life involving birds and car crashes.

Lunch was Two Boots pizza (mm!) and then it was on to the ITW General Meeting, where several important matters were discussed, including what to do about self-published authors and how best could the organization serve its membership on Twitter. From here it was a hop-skip-and-a-jump to a panel near and dear to my heart, “Humor in Thrillers,” which was hosted by my roommate Shane Gericke and led by David Bell, Toni McGee Causey, Richard Helms (no, not that Richard Helms), Harley Jane Kozak (yes, that Harley Jane Kozak), Robert Liparulo, and Amanda Kyle Williams. Essentially, the consensus was that humor needed to grow organically out of story and character and that comedy thrillers were difficult to market. Now they tell me! After this panel, I returned to the room for a little bit and then joined this year’s debut class across the street at Pershing Sq. for dinner and drinks. I hadn’t run into Pam Callow or Hilary Davidson yet, so this allowed me time to catch up with these two lovely, talented women.

And this brings me back to my room and my bed and the nap I’m about to enjoy. Tomorrow is my panel. Remember to spade and neuter your pets.

Breakfast consisted of decaf coffee. While drinking, I ran into my friend Sophie Littlefield, who was about to host a panel on relationships in suspense fiction and the panelists were none other than JT Ellison and Erica Spindler. The panel was mainly for aspiring writers, but I snuck it anyway. The panel went quite well and provided a wealth of information for everyone. My personal highlight came near the end when a member of the audience asked about maintaining tension in a novel and JT singled me out as a writer who was able to sustain tension effectively over a long period of time. What a nice thing to say.

Lunch was with my former agent, Matt Hudson, who is now at a book packager called Full Fathom Five. It was lovely spending an hour with him at an organic sandwich place just south of Bryant Park; we talked about the highs and lows and utter weirdness of the publishing business. As I had some time to kill after lunch, I moseyed over to the Mid-Manhattan branch of the NYPL and read a play entitled CHILD’S PLAY, written by Robert Marasco in the early 70s. Very creepy play – which is not surprising since he wrote one of my favorite horror novels, BURNT OFFERINGS.

And then it was off to the Drama Book Shop to spend some time with a very talented actress (and college pal) named Jen McGuire. We exchanged tales of neuroses and tidbits of wisdom over tea and juice. After this, I ducked into Rockefeller Plaza to avoid a sudden cloudburst and mingled among the tourists until 6pm, when I met up with another college friend, Jordan White, for dinner at the Carnegie Deli. After he and I finished our meals, the waiter gave us the check and hastened to add that we could stay at the table as long as we wanted; five minutes later, he returned and promptly encouraged us to leave. Ah, NY. Jordan and I made our way to Midtown Comics where he twisted my arms (not really) into purchasing several trades he recommended.

Tomorrow I won’t be leaving the hotel at all. I have panels all day (and all day Saturday). This is not a complaint; this is merely a statement of fact. I am very, very excited to be here.

Last Wednesday, my great-aunt Rosie, who is 94 years-old and lives alone in a tiny 1-bedroom apartment in Pawtucket, RI, was getting up from the couch in her living room when she fell. As she fell, she accidentally knocked over a side table, which then landed on top of her.

She was trapped under the table for four days.

In the meantime, she had no way of eating or drinking. She repeatedly soiled herself. On Saturday morning, she finally managed to extricate herself from under the table and crawled into the bedroom, where she grabbed the phone by its cord, tugged it to the floor, and proceeded to dial 911. Eight firemen showed up twenty minutes later, broke down her door, and brought her to nearby Miriam Hospital.

This morning I visited her there. All things considered, she looked well. She had been fed and bathed. She was still too weak to stand, but she was not too weak to talk, and she and I chatted for a good two hours, with much of the energetic conversation coming from her. I wish I could say that her spirits were as spry. This afternoon, after I left, her niece Audrey was supposed to come by and help move her into an assisted living facility, which is where Aunt Rosie will now be spending the rest of her life.

My biggest complaint today was getting stuck in a traffic snarl around New Haven as I drove back to NYC.

Talk about relativity, eh?

Fortunately, I did manage to arrive at RI before sunup and had a fabulous dinner with a high school friend, Brian Daniels, and his husband Jeff at Greggs’s, which is…well…how can one describe Gregg’s? It is a family restaurant, local to Rhode Island, and it is reliable for offering large portions of delicious food. As it turned out, the special of the day was their lobster roll, and since my dream-self had been salivating about their lobster rolls for weeks, guess what I ordered? And since the special included a dessert and since Gregg’s offers the largest, loveliest chocolate eclairs on this side of the Atlantic, well…if you lead this horse to water, he will drink.

I don’t want you to get the idea that the meal was most enjoyable part of the evening – because it wasn’t. No – by far, the best time was spent without the food in my mouth, when I got to reminisce with Brian and hang out with Jeff. They live in Providence not too far from the State House, where Brian is the director of policy for the governor. Yeah, he’s *that* smart. The fact that he also happens to remain warm-hearted and funny and wise – sometimes my cynicism has to put on hold.

I am now at my friend Rebecca’s. She is letting me crash at her place, which funnily enough is a block away from where my grandparents used to live (and two blocks away from Papa Gino’s). I may need to have pizza for breakfast.

There are other, more serious matters I need to attend to while I am in Rhode Island…but it will be better to discuss those tomorrow evening, as I’ve a feeling that if I told the story now, or even set it up, I wouldn’t do it justice.

So I’ll chat with you again tomorrow evening, boys and girls. Be well and don’t forget to brush your teeth or your breath will smell like poo.

Today my mother turns 62.  Her cancer turns 3.

Numbers are so haughty.  Numbers are the aristocracy of time and they know it.  “Without us, how can you measure a life?” they say.  “Without us, how can you identify change?”

My mother has stage 4 ovarian cancer. This means that the tumors in her body are greater than 2 cm. in diameter. Tumors, like children, receive grades, from 0-3, in rising scale of malignancy.  My mother, always the overachiever, carries around inside of her, along her pelvis and liver and pancreas and lymph nodes, a veritable symposium of Grade 3 tumors.

Numbers have no inherent power.  Any authority they have over our lives is authority that we’ve acquiesced.  In this sense, they are politicians.

My mother just finished her 3rd round of chemotherapy with the drug Doxil, which is administered through a port in her chest for 1 hour every 4 weeks.  Before her 45 mg infusion of Doxil, she must first receive 25 mg of diphenhydramine (Benadryl), an antihistamine; 10 mg of dexamethasone (Zema Pak), an anti-inflammatory; 16 mg of ondansetron (Zofran), an antiemetic; 20 mg of famotidine (Pepcid), an antacid; and 1mg of lorazepam (Ativan), an anxiolytic.  Anxiolytics reduce anxiety.

The more power we surrender to numbers, the more we rely on them to control our basic decisions.  We let our clocks dictate our days.  We let our wallets dictate our evenings.  But these are our clocks; these are our wallets.

My mother gave birth to 4 children.  She was a children’s librarian for 15 years.  She has purchased a burial plot at 201 Mt. Vernon Rd. in Sandy Springs, GA.  Across the street from the cemetery is a realtor.

Numbers, like souls, only matter when you require them.  They are trowels and miters and nothing more.  Nothing more.

Today my mother turns 62.  Her cancer turns 3.

She is my mother.

I only have 1.

MY CRITICALLY-ACCLAIMED FIRST NOVEL IS NOW AVAILABLE ON KINDLE FOR ONLY $2.99!

Spoiler alert: Word #24,305 is “lilacs.”