Latest book

I've started my latest book, a fresh idea that came to me during my trip to New Orleans. Two other ideas I had before I liked, but couldn't seem to get past the first two chapters without agony. Not a good sign.

The latest project deals heavily with medicating kids. It's something I touched on in A Constant Suicide, but it's taking a new direction and a better take on it.

I've just started on it, putting about 2,000 words down. It isn't like last time where it was a race to meet a deadline, so sometimes words were just words. This time, I'm laying down and hinting at back story from the beginning, trying to create rich, multi-dimensional characters that don't really move too far geographically.

I've got my main character, my narrator. And I'm giving him his voice. The supporting characters are coming in slowly.

I hate to be vague in this, but this project's new and I want to make sure I know where I'm going with it before I say much about it. All I can say is that I'm really excited to write it and even more excited to do the research that will go into it.

My goal is to have it completed by the end of the year. At the pace I'm going, that should be no problem.

Again, any and all support is always appreciated.

Compliment?

In the land of the day-workers, I write for a newspaper. And being in the media -- the critics of elected officials, policies, etc. -- we're constantly open to scrutiny ourselves. It used to be under breath and through mail and phone lines, but since the advent of the Internet (Oh, this blessed device!), saying whatever you want anonymously has been everywhere.

Then, while a teenager began trial, a blog was born: QCMediaReview.com. For months anonymous "editors" blogged about what local media did right, wrong and anything else. And blogophiles came in hordes, discussing everything from national media to the hairstyles of local TV anchors.

And, after months of sporadic posts, the Media Reviewers have officially called it quits, leaving behind parting words for each local media outlet. One part about the Argus/Dispatch stuck out to me, obviously:

"Brian Krans seems competent..."

The word "seems" made me crack up laughing. It's like I can fake it for the paper and they haven't met me in real life. It's not a Pulitzer, but from constant media critics, I'll take it!

Eyes on Katrina's After-Wrath

Our van, which the kids dubbed, "Big Blue."


Big Blue took us to the lower Ninth Ward. This is where the storm hit first and where the water was last removed.



We worked yesterday painting a house for a guy named, "Cooler." His was one of many houses destroyed in the storm. Twelve kids from Iowa primed and painted two coats on the house in less than eight hours. The best part was painting over the brown lines across the house where the water level had stained it. Also removed was the spray-painted x that showed that a rescue team had searched the house. The X was above our heads because that's the lowest the boats could get when they searched it. Water covered nearly everything.

New Orleans

Numerous times over the last few weeks, I've heard people say, "I thought all of the work was done there. Why are you going there again?"

I'm sitting in the parking lot of a strip mall. A West Marine boating store is closed for the night. The shop next door is vacant. The traffic rolls past me as I type around 9 p.m. According to the watermark on the house down the street, less than two years ago where I sat was covered in water that would have been over my head.

The Starbucks behind me is, of course, open. Bourbon Street is alive again with all of its delicious debauchery. Tourists have returned to get their fill of plastic beads, and have their vanilla soy lattes that remind them of home.

I'm part of a 20 member group from Davenport who came to help the city that still suffers. It's my second time down to a city that was ravaged by some bitch named Katrina.

No, the work's not done. Yes, I know why I'm here -- and I'm pretty pissed off I haven't been able to do anything about it.

Today, me and the kids I know through SkateChurch toured the Ninth Ward, one of the worst places in the country, even before the storm. It's the area that was covered so well on CNN as people waved toward hovering helicopters, their fingers reaching from rooftops for help.

That was the aptly-named Flood Street then. Now, the Ninth Ward is a ghost town. Not a ghost town because there is NO ONE here, but because there are houses with spray-painted messages on them. One said, "This was once my home." Crime scene tape remains. Garbage and other refuse lines the streets.

Our job here -- as missionaries -- is to attack the problem on a spiritual and physical level. Any of you who have read A Constant Suicide might be able to tell I don't know where I stand in terms of faith, religion, or God. All I know is when you have 150 people touring the ravaged areas, and praying for help, my question I want to scream in the middle of prayer is:

AREN'T WE THE HELP? SHOULDN'T WE BE OUT DOING INSTEAD OF PRAYING?

My last trip here was with a group of city workers from Davenport. They worked all day, only to gripe about the fact they could only work 12 hours a day.

But tomorrow we start working. After going to "worship" three times in 36 hours, I'm about to stop asking God for help and working as his right hand. He needs as many hands as He can get, and not all of them need to be folded, asking for help when the need for it is right in front of our eyes.

Another short story...

Here's the third class assignment from the Monica Drake Intensive.

The whole objective of this assignment was to use lists in our writing, which you'll find a lot of in A Constant Suicide. I wrote an entirely different, longer story for this assignment. It sucked.

So, I took the standpoint of some lonely-hearted, occasionally finds some luck with the ladies guy. Here's what my make-believe character had to say.

Here it is. Please, leave some feedback.

Souvenirs
By Brian Krans

With each one I take something.

Emily. A piece of her bubble gum.

Tara. It was her sparkled pencil case.

I keep a souvenir every time. Something to remember each one by.

Jennifer. It was her scrunchie hair tie.

Erica. A charm from her bracelet.

Katie. A Scantron from her book bag.

First I met them at dances at other schools, water parks during the summer, the mall.

Julie. A plastic miniature wallaby from her keychain.

Now it's at the bar when I'm out with friends, airport hotels when I'm on business, the strip club when I'm feeling lonely.

Meredith. A collection of removed hairpins with a few strands of brown hair stuck between them.

We come together and depart.

Simone. A small perfume bottle in her purse.

Jenny. A matchbook from her hotel room.

I keep all this refuse in a cigar box. It's my little secret treasure chest, buried deep in my closet. They remind me each time was real. They make me yearn for the next one.

Amy. A subway token.

Beth. A Strokes CD from her car.

Christie. A business card she never gave me but I took afterward.

Heidi. Her chrome-plated cigarette lighter.

Tara. Her pink thong lace underwear.

These are my dolls. We dance our dance and then leave each other. We never forget each other, yet we'll never see each other again.

Tonight her name is Sophie.

Tonight I'm taking her wedding ring.

First homework assignment

Our first assignment for my new writing "class" was to write a 2,000-word short story taking part of our life and fictionalizing it. Here's the first draft, so leave some marks about it so I know where to go from there. (Remember, this is a work of fiction.)

The Watcher
By Brian Krans

At first I didn't think all of the blood could have been mine. Then I realized it must have been, I was the only one in the room.

The droplets formed a trail from the closed door to my chair. They crept up from there and followed up my chest as high up as I could see as I looked down with my chin dug into my chest. God knows where the trail began.

You would think I would have noticed how much I had been bleeding. The funny thing is when you're on the tail end of an all-night meth binge, you fail to remember certain things. It's worst when it's a bad batch.

You don't forget where you put your keys, but you forget you have a dog that hasn't been let out since yesterday morning. You have your dealer's number memorized, but you don't remember how to use the phone. You forget the importance of brushing your teeth, showering or even changing your soiled underwear.

You forget that the key to being the first officer on the scene is securing the perimeter and checking for the wounded. You forget what "the fatal funnel" means. You forget that Sherlock Holmes and James Bond are actually fictional characters.

What you don't forget is that the key ingredient to making methamphetamine is common household cold medicines.

Half way through your Police Officer Operations and Procedures final, you remember that you forgot to study. That was the whole reason I cooked up.

Somehow I'd remembered I had to work today.

So here I am, sitting in a chair in front of a sea of TVs inches in front of my face. The cameras are watching the customers. I'm watching the TVs. I'm not really watching the customers. The black casing on each set seems to be expanding and shrinking, in and out, a rhythmic breathing that makes me nauseous.

I couldn't feel my face or the trickling flow of blood from it. I was dumb to how much scratching I'd been doing on the top of my right leg, at the exact point where it met my ass. Now, hours from my last bump, the drug was wearing off and that one spot burned like hell as my jeans heated up between my inflamed skin and the leather chair.

My heartbeat was in my ears.

I should call Tony. He's swing by and drop off a few bumps to get me through the rest of my shift. Just enough. Not too much. It's not like I'm a junkie or anything. But I haven't seen him in months. Still, I remembered his number.

My mind returns to the blood. Maybe it started after I walked passed the registers. Maybe the flow began just as I entered the office. Maybe the little red dots started only where I could see them.

Still, I hadn't done anything to make it stop yet.

The first time I had done any sort of drugs was at David's birthday party. That must have been months ago because I remember it had been snowing then and everything was green now. That's where I met Tony and that's where I got to where I am now.

Six hours into the party and I could barely stand. I've always liked gin, but I've never trusted it. It was a big enough party where you knew almost everyone, but there was still plenty of people to meet. We all knew who Tony was before any of us met him. Somehow, I started talking to him near the keg.

He wasn't very discreet about where he got his money, and that's why David invited him. It was his birthday and he wanted to party. All I know was that I said, "You buy it and I'll try it."

The first bumps were in the bathroom off of the toilet tank. Three guys crammed into a shitty little college party house bathroom with a line of people outside, snorting tiny piles of what looked like crystalized cum. I still don't know why I said I'd do it.

Think of a night of drinking and the hangover that follows. The bad ones. The ones where you're tongue is swollen in the back of your throat and you shit black coal lumps. You're mind has been erased except for the little swishes of flashing memories.

Take that and you're still not close to where meth will get you.

The fern in Tony's apartment. The Rob Zombie CD cover. The one with "More Human Than Human" on it. Taking a bump off it.

Coming down just long enough to know it was time to go back up.

Going to the ATM. The little money I had was going for another gram. Money other college kids were spending on food and flat beer in cramped basement house parties I was forking out to keep the party going. The party that was Tony and I and whatever friends of his he knew were holding.

Sunlight stinging my eyes, washing out all details. Everything becomes two-dimensional, a flat copy over a flat copy. People on the streets were nothing more than walking magazine cut-outs.

Walking forever. Red Converse Chucks. Some blonde named Carla. Her doing a line off my stomach and puking on my dick. Daylight again. Night. Day. It doesn't matter after long enough. All that matters is getting more.

That's what I'm feeling right now. I've locked myself in a room with nothing more than my bleeding nose and my wall of TVs. A voice over the loudspeaker calls for "Nathan to the Paint Department. "

Nathan.That's not my name but I know they mean me. It's our store's code word for Loss Prevention. They need me to go to a certain department because an employee suspects someone of stealing. I'm not going.

What the hell could people steal in the Paint Department?

I lean back in my chair, grabbing the remote control board for the cameras and punch the numbers three and eight. The view on the third TV from the right in the fourth row moves with every wiggle of the joystick. I search around and find no one there.

I return the controls to my desk, never fully turning around in my chair.

Some noise comes from behind me. It sounds like a pair of sneakers whisking across the very top of the carpet. I've been hearing stuff like that all day, so I ignore it.

I look at my shirt again. The dots are getting darker. All of them. I think the bleeding's stopped on it's own, but I wasn't ready to call Tony. I hadn't seen him since our last time together.

No, this round of fun came from my own hands.

Now in my fourth semester of criminal justice classes, I was finally learning the good stuff about being a cop, which after working retail store security for sixth months and my latest pharmaceutical adventure, had me second-guessing my future career choice.

You can make methamphetamine at home and you can buy all of the ingredients right here in the store I was supposed to be watching.

Cold medicine. Anhydrous ammonia. Tubing. Rock salt. Matchbooks. Batteries. We had it all.

Yup, here at Fleet Farm we had everything you need to manufacture your own stimulants or blow up a federal building in Oklahoma City. And if you applied for a store credit card today, you could save up to fifteen percent on all your purchases. Thanks for shopping Fleet Farm.

Instead of going the traditional, and highly caustic route, I opted to invent my own way of isolating the pseudeoephedrine out of the cold medicine tablets.

Last night, right before I turned the key as the last person out of the store, I walked over to the Personal Aids Department and pocketed twelve boxes of Sudafed. I had no idea how much I needed, so I over-stole, cramming the boxes in my messenger bag.

No one checks to see if Loss Prevention is stealing. No one watches the watchers.

At home I mashed up the pills on the kitchen counter with a rolling pin. I took the mess of powder and loaded it into the coffee maker, running water through and getting a twelve-cup batch of pink slop. You could drink just that, but you better have an excuse for the emergency room doctor why you're puking blood.

Instead, I put the carafe into the fridge, light up a cigarette and go watch Family Guy in the living room. I should have been studying, but I figured with twelve hours before the final and a batch that was almost done, I had the time to relax.

Family Guy, King of the Hill and The Simpsons. All reruns, but it was just long enough for my pink liquid to turn into soapy white sludge. I pour it onto a cookie sheet and slide it into the oven, which is set at a mere one hundred and forty degrees. Just enough to dry it out.

After two episodes of That 70s Show, I'm set. I have about an ounce full of already-cut and powdery study fuel. I separate my first line in the pan.

I lean over.

I take a breath.

Exhale.

The powder careens up my right nostril, sending a rush of stimulants and pain to the back of my skull. My throat is clogged with the taste of kiddy aspirin and shit.

I cough.

I gag.

I nearly throw up, but I can't blink.

I am no longer tired whatsoever.

The rush was better than the first time. Better than with that first bump off the toilet tank at David's house. Better than any bump with Tony. And I had a whole plastic bag all to myself.

I sit back down on the couch with my bag in hand. A few more minutes of TV won't hurt. Neither will another line. Fuck, make it two.

Twelve hours later and I'm writing about things I didn't study. The advantages and disadvantages of a two-man squad assignment. Dispatching information. Standard booking procedures. It's all blank, except for the section on methamphetamine manufacturing.

The testing hour ends. And I bump again afterwards. The bag's gone by the time I go to work.

And here I am, staring at my wall of TVs, watching everything and nothing at the same time.

And I hear that noise again. Shoes on carpet. This time it's followed by a cough. I'm positive it wasn't mine. I turn slowly in my chair, wiggling my nose to loosen the crusted blood inside.

The first thing I notice on my desk was the open box of BBs. It was starting to come back.

I had, the whole time I was in my office, forgotten something pretty fucking important.

He sat in the chair a few feet from my desk. He'd been there the whole time I had. This kid, about nine or ten years old, continued to sit silently, slouched in the chair behind me.

Everything was clear, no longer copies over copies.

I had grabbed this kid in the parking lot after stealing a single BB out of the box. On camera, I watched him pop open the milk carton-like container, shake a single copper bead into his hand, look around six times -- three each direction -- and pop it in his shorts pocket.

Now I remember the only reason I didn't let the kid go was because I couldn't understand why he'd take just one stupid BB. That's why he's in my office, staring up at me like a little shit head. That's why I thought I didn't have to pay attention anymore. I met my one-shoplifter-a-day quota.

My only question was whether I called his parents yet. Or worse, the cops to come pick him up.

His feet barely touched the ground and his kicking feet made the whisking noise again. Outside his little, faint cough, he didn't say anything. Until now.

"Mister, what's wrong with your nose?"

Intensive Writing

Today I went back to class. This time around instead of studying journalism, criminal justice and whatever gen eds a university is making me take, it's about writing. Real writing.

The course is a six-week on-line course taught by author Monica Drake on The Cult, Chuck Palahniuk's fansite. Chuck -- my favorite author -- calls Monica his "nemesis" in the introduction to her first book, Clown Girl.

The course compares itself to a cheaper version of a Masters of Fine Arts degree without the neato piece of paper that cost $30,000.

The main reason I finally chose some formal education in fiction writing is because of the title, "Your life. Your fiction." Basically it's learning how to whore your own life out for fiction writing. God, that just sounds so familiar.

The course host says, "There's a story in our lives every day, in every pocket and backpack, in every empty bottle and scrap of paper, and we'll start looking."

Maybe it's dumb to learn how to do it after I've done it. Maybe. Since I'm already embarking on my second novel, using my own experiences to create a more realistic fictionalized world, I figured I'd give it a shot.

So, for the next six weeks I'll be getting class assignments, peer reviews, personalized guidance from Monica and all sorts of other goodies.

Yeah, 'cause I need one more thing to chain me to my computer.

ACS to invade WSU!

That's right kids, "A Constant Suicide" will soon be carried by the Winona State Bookstore. It's the same place I spend hundreds upon hundreds of dollars for textbooks, will now be carrying my words.

I'm not sure how long till they hit the shelves, but I'm sending them some copies on Monday to get things rolling.

This is cool to me considering the book will be on-campus, where the stories behind ACS were formed. A campus bookstore itself isn't in the book, but it's good enough for me.

So, if you STILL haven't got a copy of it -- and the reviews are GREAT! -- and if you're in the Winona area, stop by the Winona State University Bookstore in Kryzko Commons and get one.

"Art" inspiring art

Every once in a while I'll Google search "A Constant Suicide" to see where it's getting linked up, and to make sure the website is getting the right search results. Then Thursday, someone took my top spot on Google. It was for a painting titled "A Constant Suicide."

With one click, I found this:


Immediately, I recognized the window as the bar I work at on the weekends, Copia Martini & Wine. It's also where we had the release party, so the promotional poster was still in the window.

The artist, Brad Bisbey, commented on his blog, that the title of the poster "got me thinking about how we can sometimes commit constant suicide through negative thoughts, unforgiveness, lifestyle choices. Our thoughts can be as poison to our system as arsenic."

It's like through that one comment that he'd read the book, at least the way I see it.

Like me, Brad is on a mission. I wrote the first 50,000-word draft of the book in one month. Starting today, he's going to be producing a painting a day for the next 30 days for the Daily Painters site. As he put it, "more like 20 paintings in the next 30 days."

So there you have it. Art inspiring more art. Two people who have never met somehow end up connecting through their crafts, even if it's just in the Quad-Cities.

Either way, he said he's going to paint a larger version of "A Constant Suicide" and I'm making room on my wall.

Fun with comic books...

Weekends

This weekend was a blast. Myself and the rest of the WSU crowd shipped off another one of us from bachelorhood into the world of marriage. Good luck Joe & Tanya Gartner. You'll make some good-looking kids.

As long as I'm on the subject of weekends, I want to make sure everyone is invited to my first real book signing this weekend. Stop by Borders in Davenport Saturday, June 16, at 1 p.m. and I'll but my Herbie Hancock ("Tommy Boy" reference for those who think I'm an idiot) on a copy of A Constant Suicide for you.

Better yet, you can get my editor, Shawn Eldridge, the real brain behind the finished product, to sign the little guy as well. If there's time, we'll spew out whatever knowledge on self-publishing we were able to gain during our adventure and pass it on to any other would-be novelists.

Or, if you hated the book and the whole idea of it, stop by and punch me in public. You can't hit Shawn -- he's too nice of a guy.

The big questions...

Two questions have been asked numerous times:

1. Which character are you?

2. How much of the book really happened?

Let's start with number two, just to be difficult. Yes, some events in the book are 100 percent verbatim of what happened to me. Other parts I played witness. Some stories I have the scars to prove, and other people that were there will back up the story.

So, yes, a lot of it's true.

On the other hand, good portions -- even entire chapters and plot lines -- are completely fictitious. There's no way I could have all of that happen to me and still be alive (Chapter 2).

Which is which I'm not going to divulge for obvious reasons. One, it takes away a small bit of mystique of the story. Two, the statute of limitations hasn't passed and my friends and I didn't get caught then, so we'd like to keep it that way.

There's no 50-50 split on truth versus fiction, but those that were there for the real stories know where I embellished. Other parts I stole directly from my own life.

Now, onto the question that gets asked the most: Which character are you?

To that I say: I am as much of every character of my book as I am not. There is no single character or group that is entirely based on me. (C'mon, I'm pretentious, but not that bad.)

Any fiction writer will tell you a single character is not usually based on one single person, but rather a grouping of people. Creating fiction is sort of like Thanksgiving dinner -- you have a lot on your plate and if you want, you can just smash everything together and make paste of it.

I based my characters on different friends at different points in our lives. Some was me, but it was also my family, college friends, co-workers at the dozens of jobs I've had, people I've known from around and anywhere else I've ever run into a human being.

I'm not Chris nor am I Ethan, yet I am both in certain aspects. I know that doesn't make sense because it doesn't make sense to me.

There is no simple answer.

Critics and why I'm not a "real" writer...

And it has begun. As soon as a story I wrote about self-publishing appeared in the paper, so did the critics. Not about the book itself, but the nature of self-publishing. The story appeared on Quad-Cities Online where readers could comment about the story.

Immediately, I was told I wasn't a "real" writer. The terms "flash in the pan," "scam artist," "cheap" and "self-involved" came out in full force. My favorite critics were telling me (anonymously, mind you) that I somehow wouldn't be allowed into this seemingly illustrious writers clique.

Immediately, I think about a dark room in the back of an unknown writers' club where everyone smokes big cigars, drinks expensive Scotch and wine, talking in haughty English accents about prose, authors I've never heard of and the like. But, to be in the club, you have to pay your dues by getting published in literary journals. Basically, as I took one online comment, you have to write for writers.

Well, I say screw that. I can tell you many reasons why I write. The most basic one is that I love it. The second was that I had something to say. I wrote for my friends, a generation of people who don't keep bookshelves of leather bound books like Ron Burgundy.

As I like to put it, I write for people who don't read. My most influential author, Chuck Palahniuk, did that for me. The book Fight Club got me into reading. Now I can't stop.

But he didn't self-publish. I did. That's why I'm just some hack.

Online, I was defended by another anonymous person who said self-publishing was closest to the author's true voice. And then, my favorite ignoramus quote of all time: "An author this inexperienced doesn't need to have his 'true voice' heard."

In essence, if you're not a member of the club, shut up. Well, it's funny. I'm putting in my quote book to remind myself again why I write - to keep a voice out there.

But, I'm sure that's the least of the criticism to come my way. I'm not worried.

Just remember: The easiest way to avoid criticism is to not do anything. As soon as you do, people will attack you for any reason. I say bring it.

Long, long weekend

Let's just say it was interesting.

My mom and brother hung out Friday night and Saturday. Then the party with about 300 guests including my cousin Dan and Kelly, Dean and Emily from Winona, and a slew from the Q-C. As far as I could tell, everyone had fun -- some maybe too much. Then, after 3 a.m. rolled around, we headed to my apartment for good times until 7 a.m. with some of the Iowa rollerbladers.

Then breakfast, then a nap, then work, then sleep, then the bike races, then a lack of sleep and now work. Ouch.

And, it wouldn't be a three-day weekend without some very, very weird twists in my social life. I'd go into it further, but, hey, it's my life. Get your own.

And the Argus/Dispatch ran my version of how the book came together. Buy a copy of today's paper and check it out.

Also, a friend told me her cousin heard about my book from a psych professor in Des Moines. That's just weird. Cool, but weird.

All I know is that when I release my second novel, I'm not scheduling a party at the beginning of a three-day weekend. That's just brutal in ways I didn't think was possible.

And now back to the world of the working class.

Par-tay!

Again, I'm going to remind those of you reading at home that you're all invited to the ACS release party Saturday at Copia Martini & Wine Bar in Rock Island.

Starting at 8 p.m., we'll hang out and have a few drinks. I'll sign some books and you all can make up for the hours upon hours I spent by myself writing it.

If all else fails, stop by and see the bar I work at on the weekends and meet the infamous Dave and Mikey that make Copia what it is.

Or, just stop by and see the social circle I have going. There will be lawyers, maybe a judge or two, some rollerbladers, some college buddies, maybe a few from my hometown, some tattoo artists, a psychic, some bar flies, a bunch of cops, my mom and brother, some writers and, of course -- the people who make A Constant Suicide what it is today.

So, whether for novel or novelty value, stop by, say hello and buy me a shot.

Tpyos

I haven't been able to read the book, giving myself the luxury to finally sit down and enjoy it without tediously going through it with a red pen. And that's the reason why.

People are going through it and the first thing I hear is, "I caught a typo on page..." Yeah, there are some. I knew there would be and that's why I haven't been able to read it yet. It was bug the crap out of me knowing there in there. I guess ignoring it is my defense mechanism.

But I knew there would be a few. Let's face it. None of us working on the book were paid, we all had other things going on our lives and we're bad at deadlines. So, the book shows the human side of Rock Town Press. It's shows we'll make mistakes.

(That, and you should have seen the condition I handed it to Shawn & Matt in. Ouch.)

But, I'm pretty sure when it gets reviewed that's all I'll hear about. People love pointing out your faults before they'll give you any credit. It's the details that make us human -- and by default imperfect -- but some people just have too much fun telling you how many mistakes you make.

But, no one's been that harsh. Yet.

I look at it this way: if the first book was perfect -- which I'm not claiming it is -- what would be the point of writing a second (which I am)?

Besides, the typos make the drinking game all that much more fun.

And now I whore out my friends...

This is a call for help from everyone. Since A Constant Suicide is now out and printed, with a delay from Amazon that was MY FAULT, the word needs to get out. I've had about a dozen people read it and say it was "worth my time," as one person, who will remain nameless, put it.

If you've read it, go to Amazon and leave a review of it. Even if you didn't order it from there and have gotten through it, hop on and leave your thoughts on the book so potential readers can know what to expect. Please, stay away from short ones like "Krans sucks/rules!"

Also, if you live somewhere and think your local bookstore should carry it, bug the crap out of them until they do. But please, no extortion or anything else that could constitute a crime. I can't afford attorneys for everyone.

Tell your friends about it, at least the people we hang out with that know how to read. Point them towards www.aconstantsuicide.com, get a few people together and play "The Official A Constant Suicide Drinking Game." I figure, why write a book about getting drunk, falling down and killing yourself without a drinking game?

If you're really feeling ambitious, and not afraid of feeling like a pushy bastard like I do right now, post links on blogs you regularly go to. (Besides this one of course.)

This book was built from the ground up with help from friends, so why should the marketing be any different.

Anyway, love you all and thanks for the help.

Amazon

Sorry to anyone who ordered from Amazon.com. There's going to be a delay.

I have heard shipping as late as June 24, but I haven't heard anything from them as to why. I'm guessing -- and you know I don't do well at that -- but it's probably from the rush of getting them so close to the release date. There on Friday, released on Tuesday.

Either way, the thing's got my name on it, so I'll take the heat for it.

But please, remain vigilant.

If you haven't ordered already, and live in the beautiful land of the Quad-Cities, go to Borders in Davenport (map). They've got copies at the same price as Amazon -- and you can get them now without shipping!

Don't get me wrong, Amazon has been good to me. It's just that I'm old-fashioned. I love bookstores. I love seeing people buying books, reading them, and doing a bit of that myself. I'll take a store over the Internet anyday.

That, and there's a book signing at the Davenport Borders on June 16 at 1 p.m., so stop by and come stare at the geek at the table.

That's right...

The here, now & later...

And now it seems like I can breathe.

The book is printed. We got our first 300-some copies late Friday afternoon after some troubles with the bleed on the cover. While Shawn did all of the work on it, I was running around having a tantrum. But they got done. We get the rest of the 700+ copies on Monday.

You want to know how to piss off federal employees? Show up at 4:55 p.m. to the Post Office and try to mail seven 30-pound boxes that all need insurance and delivery confirmation. Well, Debbie, the woman who waited on me, didn't go postal, but she did give me some tongue-in-cheek advice. "Get into a lighter media."

So, anyone who ordered on Amazon.com, they're coming your way. Also, anyone in Q-C that hasn't ordered can go pick up a copy at Borders in Davenport on Tuesday. It'll be in the local authors section. Also working on getting copies at the Book Shelf in Winona. But, if there's a place that you think should carry A Constant Suicide bug the crap out of them until they do.

Anyway, I'm off to continue recuperating from hanging out with the old Winona posse. Come back, there'll be more this week. Until then, thanks again for all of the support.