I am finishing the mastering (read: fixing) the audio recording of Fatal Score in hopes of going live in time for an author event.  (For those of you in Minnesota, it’s at The Loft in Minneapolis on February 26th.  I’m one of eight writers participating.  If you’re on my list, I’ll be bugging you about it shortly.)  

Self-publishing has often been considered a failure on the part of the writer. My friends have been polite, but the serious writers among them are holding out for representation and the big time. I went ‘Amazon only’, which I think was a mistake, at least for me. So here I am at the computer, itching to begin novel #4, but instead excising plosives and other mouth noise from the audio.

But … but … but … today’s mail brought that medicine which we can all use:  a good laugh.  It came from a good friend, Weaver Gaines, which made it doubly sweet. 

And here it is, courtesy of and no doubt copyrighted by the New Yorker.