Writer/editor. New Mexican tumbleweed blown east to skyscraper country.
Right now, I am working on a book about F. Scott Fitzgerald, Sheilah Graham, and Hollywood in the 1930s. It will also contain a lot of drinking, powder blue suits, dances at the Cocoanut Grove, betrayal, gossip columns, crazy ladies, secret Jews, film lot moguls, and Dorothy Parker quips at funerals. If the world is still around then, it should be out from Random House around 2014. So let's hope the Mayans were wrong.
If you want to say hi please do. Or find me in short form, here.
looking at pictures of ugly cracked leather club chairs is pretty much like looking at porn for me. i can’t wait to convert some part of my apartment into an old man’s library, complete with an ivory chess set and dusty books and antlers over the (hypothetical) mantle. and also in this dream, i’m a clearly a wasp from 1912 who wears explorer club gear. that’s pretty much it, i want my house to look like it belonged to a paleontologist at some point.
