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.
Sometimes, when you take a trip up to Maine in the high summer heat wave, you end up on a beach, cut with rivulets and tributaries from low tide. Sometimes, you end up on this beach with a couple and their serenely happy, Irish-named child. And sometimes, you really just have to smash your face into that little belly. It’s not like there was another option here. I mean, sorry for partying with the babysploitation, but…look at it.
