Part 1. Initial e-mail.
Part 2. Nonfiction book proposal.
Part 3. Sample of my writing: Pretty Girls (A Perspective)
Part 4. About Sinner’s Revenge, my completed novel.
I’m 63 years old, living in a downtown Los Angeles residential hotel. From a 1969 arrest, after 17 months in the Orange County (California) Jail, I was an unrepentant marijuana fugitive already sentenced to five-years-to-life if they caught me, for thirty-two years. I spent 22 of those years—1970 until 1992—hitchhiking up and down the West Coast and back and forth across Canada. Not being able to settle down, I worked only jobs I could see the end of. I worked through a lot of day-labor halls, painted houses, picked apples, did cook/driver gigs, cut firewood, worked construction, and from 1974 through 1983, I was in occasional adult feature films and hardcore magazines. Finally getting too old to do the type jobs I mostly ran into, with the help of a NORML lawyer I turned myself in and got totally legal in 2003.
Anyway, I’m looking for a book deal to write about my decades of fun and travel, basic survival, and close calls with the law while on the road/run. I have posted a site with more details if you should be interested, along with a photo album with some pictures from over the years to give you a better idea of what I’m talking about. I’m also adding an essay I wrote—Pretty Girls (A Perspective)—as an example of my writing style.
Thanks for whatever consideration you may give to this proposal.
Sincerely . . . Bob Thatcher
http://grinninsinner.myphotoalbum.com A Few Random Scenes From Over The Years
www.socketdesign.co.uk/andcream/ Interview with me on the generation gap. AndCream.com, the delicious online magazine.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
GRINNIN' SINNER
The birth-control pill came out in 1960; I was fourteen. In 1966, I rode my motorcycle from New Jersey to California to get away from all the limitations of living in a small hometown and my vindictive family. (It was my fault my parents had to get married and neither one of them ever forgave me for it.) So I’ve been free to live a totally unstructured life ever since I escaped from Flemington. It’s been great. My motto was always, “I’d rather be hungry than bored.” Being a hitchhiker, my overhead was almost nil, so I worked mostly just projects or as an occasional casual laborer, and always something I got satisfaction from and enjoyed. Not being husband or boyfriend material, and usually just passing through town, women were free to open up sexually with me in ways they couldn’t with most guys they knew. I told the Canadian border guards that I was going up for the weekend and stayed three-and-a-half years. Carrying my stuff around and the type jobs I did were like having a free gym membership. What I’m saying is, I lived like a happy playboy. On vacation. For thirty-five years.
However, the book I’m proposing would not be about me per se, but about all the people I got to meet and talk to by hitchhiking for over twenty years and working in hundreds of situations and environments and all the homes I was in over thirty-two years of being a fugitive, unable to settle down even if I wanted. I envision a flow of unrelated anecdotes covering all kinds of topics. Different bosses. How various folks are with their kids, neighbors, pets. Drugs. Music. Landlords. Marriages. Concerts. Gatherings. Drivers. Police. Tourists. Porn shoots. Dealing with the weather. Towns and cities. Check out the pictures I posted; there are stories behind every one, and I have lots more.
Besides using Internet social sites like MySpace—member since 2004—I’m going to start doing a series of current-event videos for YouTube from which I can promote the book when the time comes. I think this book would interest anybody into the Sixties and Seventies, hippies, the various lifestyles of people from many walks of life, living on the run, porn stars, as well as those newly poor who could use a few tips on living well on less. I have a prospective on the world few others can imagine.
I think that many of the problems of the world are a direct result of religions. Not only their conflicts between each other, but also the guilt, shame, sin, and need to punish nonbelievers from torture and death to blue laws and vice crimes they all, ALL promote. Like Marx Marvelous, I took a name to bug those I think need bugging.
However, the book I’m proposing would not be about me per se, but about all the people I got to meet and talk to by hitchhiking for over twenty years and working in hundreds of situations and environments and all the homes I was in over thirty-two years of being a fugitive, unable to settle down even if I wanted. I envision a flow of unrelated anecdotes covering all kinds of topics. Different bosses. How various folks are with their kids, neighbors, pets. Drugs. Music. Landlords. Marriages. Concerts. Gatherings. Drivers. Police. Tourists. Porn shoots. Dealing with the weather. Towns and cities. Check out the pictures I posted; there are stories behind every one, and I have lots more.
Besides using Internet social sites like MySpace—member since 2004—I’m going to start doing a series of current-event videos for YouTube from which I can promote the book when the time comes. I think this book would interest anybody into the Sixties and Seventies, hippies, the various lifestyles of people from many walks of life, living on the run, porn stars, as well as those newly poor who could use a few tips on living well on less. I have a prospective on the world few others can imagine.
I think that many of the problems of the world are a direct result of religions. Not only their conflicts between each other, but also the guilt, shame, sin, and need to punish nonbelievers from torture and death to blue laws and vice crimes they all, ALL promote. Like Marx Marvelous, I took a name to bug those I think need bugging.
PRETTY GIRLS (A Perspective)
I know, I know, “pretty” and “girls”, both words are offensive to some people. There are also those who would have little kids wear safety helmets and goggles to finger paint. Hysterical as one group or another is being about most everything these days, the real world is still there. And like it or not, the real world includes pretty girls. They are real. Special, but real.
Pretty girls have ruined my life and I love them for it, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. (There were twenty, twenty-five kids in my early 1950s kindergarten class. I remember two, the pretty girls, Natalie and Virginia. For eternal life, a money machine, and Paris Hilton for a month, I couldn’t name the teacher or a single other kid.) I’ve had great jobs with bright futures, friends, hobbies, peace of mind, and money, but they last only precisely until some little honey smiles my way and pow, I’m a goner—used, amused, and defused. Then I’m ready to start it all over again. (I like them feisty ones.)
But it’s not necessary to know pretty girls intimately; it makes it all worth it just to see them around. When none are in sight, just knowing they exist in the world can keep you going.
According to some folks, it took advertising and men’s magazines to tell us what is desirable in a female. I think not. I’m sure guys were walking full speed into trees and tripping over their own feet while checking out a pretty girl long before beer commercials. Heck, we wouldn’t be here if they weren’t; let’s lose that notion right now. I don’t know how the same body parts put together basically the same way can have such a varied appeal. I’m not saying it’s fair, or right . . . only true. Some people don’t even want “pretty” to count. Ha! I don’t want summer to ever end. (Bet I get my wish first.)
I like to watch other people’s reactions to pretty girls. In the back of a Santa Rosa/San Francisco bus the other day rode a young copper-top with milky white skin, wearing a brown leather bomber jacket. (Reading James Joyce.) She had folks shooting sideways looks at her all the way, even from the front of the bus, men, boys, and two women couldn’t look at her hard enough. And recently in Healdsburg, I spotted this dark-haired goddess entering a market with a pretty blonde girlfriend. I stopped at a fast-food restaurant up the street and a few minutes later the two girls came in. (The power of wishful thinking.) Then through the window I saw him coming, a guy with his mother and his about ten-year-old son. He walked in normally, innocently, but when he saw her he could have snapped his neck he looked elsewhere so fast. After regrouping, then checking where mom, the boy, and the guy behind the counter were looking, he started copping glances. There ought to be a law. Sometimes I think the Ayatollah was right . . . cover them babes up. Give us a break.
No. Yes! Nooo . . .
(Allah, help us.)
I had a deprived childhood . . . no sisters. My grandfather was a big help. He told me he planned to write a book: What I Know About Women. “It’s going to be this thick. And every page is going to be blank.” When I decorated my room with Life Magazine pictures of Brigitte Bardot, my mother promptly redecorated with a razor blade, slashing away any images of offensively located skin or obscenely shaped clothing. I ignored the warnings on the TV commercials and used Brylcreem by the pint. My favorite song was “The Wanderer”. It’s a stage of life that some of us manage to live through.
Now, over sixty, a survivor of the sexual revolution, after many years as a California get-naked-and-party hippie, three unconventional marriages, and being a dedicated ‘60s, ‘70s, and early ‘80s swinger, (until AIDS got turned loose in the world), I feel about as qualified to have an opinion of pretty girls as anybody.
I remember telling my first wife some of my observations on the subject back in the middle ‘60s. I told her I thought pretty girls were so accustomed to the red-carpet treatment all the time, big come-ons from guys wherever they went, that by being casual, like going through a door ahead of one, or scratching your nose while you’re talking, or handing a pretty girl a jar to open that you’re having trouble with, can make you stand out a bit in their world full of gallantry and posturing. (Getting the silent treatment in the car on the way home from a party one night, it finally came out what was wrong. Apparently I’d absently rubbed my nose while talking to some gal and seeing it my wife had surmised that I was making a play for the other woman.)
Pretty girls have told me that looking so good can get mighty lonely sometimes. Men are afraid to talk, figure somebody looking so fine has to have all kinds of boyfriends and wonderful things going on, wouldn’t care to meet them. Other times guys who do talk won’t deal with her beyond her looks, that’s all that matters to them.
Ahhh . . . but when it’s good, it’s great. There are pretty girls who thrive on the attention, enjoy dressing up that body, revel in the opportunities that looking good present, exploit their looks like any other asset or ability, are centered enough to handle unwanted advances without coming unglued, enjoy life.
John Lennon sang that a pretty face lasts only a day or two. An old cha-cha song said if you want to be happy, never make a pretty woman your wife, to get an ugly girl to marry you. It’s said that beauty is only skin deep. In an article on looks I read, “Although she feels that she looks better now than she ever did, [she] says looks don’t even cross her mind anymore.” (Huh? Then how’s she know she looks better now?) Janis Joplin wasn’t pretty, but boy was she beautiful.
Ever see Barbii, the dancer/porn star? (“Back by urgent demand.”) I didn’t particularly want to spend big bucks to see her in person like some tourist, but I did go apply for a job where she was dancing, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. I’m sorry, but I doubt if I’d have been so inspired by, say, Janet Reno, back at that same time, intelligent and successful as she may have been.
Just being with a pretty girl makes for changes. I was walking with Jessica in West L.A. As we passed a gas station, one of two motorcycle cops parked across the street yelled at a guy pumping gas, “Put those eyeballs back in your head or we’ll shoot!” Up a couple blocks, I was waiting for her outside a store when the cops came roaring by, and when they spotted me they both spontaneously waved to me as they passed, just because I’d been with her! Another time I was in an Oregon hospital about to be released. The Saturday shift, nurses and aides I hadn’t dealt with before, was on. I was pretty much riffraff compared to the wealthy rancher in the other bed getting lots of attention . . . until Kathy, with her mane of blonde hair, wearing cut-off jeans and a skimpy top, came in with my clothes. Suddenly all the nurses got noticeably concerned with how I was doing. Amazing.
I’m not sure if there can be an actual point to this story. Pretty girls, easily as holy as any spectacular sunset or moon-lit ocean scene from a TV commercial for religious tapes. Whew, they can all take your breath away and make you glad you’re alive. That’s all I know.
Some folks seem to confuse beauty with obscenity, call a topless woman at the beach or a nude centerfold pornographic, not the work of nature that it is. Spending lots of time in Canada during the 1970s, I noticed no such nonsense up there. There was regular nudity on the six o’clock news, on family camping shows, in daytime network movies. Many here in this country seriously agree with the Ayatollah; luckily others have some fun with skin and beauty and such.
I managed an adult book store in Idaho for a few months. Groups of girls would hit the door from time to time, always with a burst of laughter. (“We’ve been sitting in the car for almost an hour waiting till nobody we knew was around so we could come in here. We’re looking for favors and gifts for our friend’s bachelorette party. Where’s the edible underwear?”) Several daughters brought in their reluctant mothers, always heading to the twenty-five-cent movie booths in the back room. (One mom came out for more quarters. “If I’m going to watch this,” she told me defiantly, “I’m going to see the end.”) Every time was the same when they left: Mom, eyes glazed and riveted straight ahead, made a bee-line for the front door, while daughter, grinning triumphantly, strolled along behind. Mostly the customers were couples and military men. (The store had a pretty tame selection of boy/girl magazines and videos, but did have four bondage magazines on display in the corner. Never sold one, but about three times a week somebody’d lift one to show a friend, “Hey, this is what you need, yuck, yuck,” and then put it back on the rack. One day three grandmother-types came in, never so much as glanced up at me, they spread out around the store. A committee, I’m sure. They perused the covers of magazines, the selection of paperback books and videos, the marital aids and sex toys, never touching a thing or saying a word. Then they spotted them . . . the bondage magazines. Zap—like a magnet. The three proper ladies spent the next fifteen minutes shoulder to shoulder, going one page at a time through all four magazines. Then, noses high, aghast, out the door they marched. They had certainly found what they were looking for, God love ‘em.) (Like the magazine cartoon, a similar woman standing at her window looking through binoculars, “Harry, come quick. The neighbors are offending us again.”) (My personal favorite is the people who were outraged by the mere outlines of two humans, a male and a female, on the outside of one of those rockets NASA shot up. Some called it “pornography in space”, like our very shape is indecent.)
Pretty girls . . . the hobby. (Remember ‘The Rifleman’ episode where disaster would strike whenever this pretty girl walked by? She thought she was jinxed. Nowadays it’s often cars getting rear-ended by similarly distracted drivers. Cute waitresses make more in tips. I’ve seen a taxi driver offer a free ride just because a pretty girl was in the group. Emergency-room staff work harder to save an attractive person. Even babies smile more often at good-looking mothers.) It’s not a crime.
So anyway, I have always been blown away by those before-and-after makeup pictures in magazines. The models look like totally different people, from plain to gorgeous. I know one girl myself who has that dramatic of a change after doing her makeup every morning. I know another who’s an after/after. First thing in the morning, without so much as a comb to her red hair, Beth is cover-girl material; she can’t look bad. Riding with her in her little Mazda truck on a rain-slicked freeway, she pulled out to pass three vehicles just before our exit. Doing just shy of eighty-miles-an-hour, ready to cut off the third car we had passed to make our turn, the girl with us screamed. Beth laughed as she made the exit, told the girl that I’m the only person who isn’t afraid of her driving. Hey, I just figure: What a way to go!
Pretty girls have ruined my life and I love them for it, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. (There were twenty, twenty-five kids in my early 1950s kindergarten class. I remember two, the pretty girls, Natalie and Virginia. For eternal life, a money machine, and Paris Hilton for a month, I couldn’t name the teacher or a single other kid.) I’ve had great jobs with bright futures, friends, hobbies, peace of mind, and money, but they last only precisely until some little honey smiles my way and pow, I’m a goner—used, amused, and defused. Then I’m ready to start it all over again. (I like them feisty ones.)
But it’s not necessary to know pretty girls intimately; it makes it all worth it just to see them around. When none are in sight, just knowing they exist in the world can keep you going.
According to some folks, it took advertising and men’s magazines to tell us what is desirable in a female. I think not. I’m sure guys were walking full speed into trees and tripping over their own feet while checking out a pretty girl long before beer commercials. Heck, we wouldn’t be here if they weren’t; let’s lose that notion right now. I don’t know how the same body parts put together basically the same way can have such a varied appeal. I’m not saying it’s fair, or right . . . only true. Some people don’t even want “pretty” to count. Ha! I don’t want summer to ever end. (Bet I get my wish first.)
I like to watch other people’s reactions to pretty girls. In the back of a Santa Rosa/San Francisco bus the other day rode a young copper-top with milky white skin, wearing a brown leather bomber jacket. (Reading James Joyce.) She had folks shooting sideways looks at her all the way, even from the front of the bus, men, boys, and two women couldn’t look at her hard enough. And recently in Healdsburg, I spotted this dark-haired goddess entering a market with a pretty blonde girlfriend. I stopped at a fast-food restaurant up the street and a few minutes later the two girls came in. (The power of wishful thinking.) Then through the window I saw him coming, a guy with his mother and his about ten-year-old son. He walked in normally, innocently, but when he saw her he could have snapped his neck he looked elsewhere so fast. After regrouping, then checking where mom, the boy, and the guy behind the counter were looking, he started copping glances. There ought to be a law. Sometimes I think the Ayatollah was right . . . cover them babes up. Give us a break.
No. Yes! Nooo . . .
(Allah, help us.)
I had a deprived childhood . . . no sisters. My grandfather was a big help. He told me he planned to write a book: What I Know About Women. “It’s going to be this thick. And every page is going to be blank.” When I decorated my room with Life Magazine pictures of Brigitte Bardot, my mother promptly redecorated with a razor blade, slashing away any images of offensively located skin or obscenely shaped clothing. I ignored the warnings on the TV commercials and used Brylcreem by the pint. My favorite song was “The Wanderer”. It’s a stage of life that some of us manage to live through.
Now, over sixty, a survivor of the sexual revolution, after many years as a California get-naked-and-party hippie, three unconventional marriages, and being a dedicated ‘60s, ‘70s, and early ‘80s swinger, (until AIDS got turned loose in the world), I feel about as qualified to have an opinion of pretty girls as anybody.
I remember telling my first wife some of my observations on the subject back in the middle ‘60s. I told her I thought pretty girls were so accustomed to the red-carpet treatment all the time, big come-ons from guys wherever they went, that by being casual, like going through a door ahead of one, or scratching your nose while you’re talking, or handing a pretty girl a jar to open that you’re having trouble with, can make you stand out a bit in their world full of gallantry and posturing. (Getting the silent treatment in the car on the way home from a party one night, it finally came out what was wrong. Apparently I’d absently rubbed my nose while talking to some gal and seeing it my wife had surmised that I was making a play for the other woman.)
Pretty girls have told me that looking so good can get mighty lonely sometimes. Men are afraid to talk, figure somebody looking so fine has to have all kinds of boyfriends and wonderful things going on, wouldn’t care to meet them. Other times guys who do talk won’t deal with her beyond her looks, that’s all that matters to them.
Ahhh . . . but when it’s good, it’s great. There are pretty girls who thrive on the attention, enjoy dressing up that body, revel in the opportunities that looking good present, exploit their looks like any other asset or ability, are centered enough to handle unwanted advances without coming unglued, enjoy life.
John Lennon sang that a pretty face lasts only a day or two. An old cha-cha song said if you want to be happy, never make a pretty woman your wife, to get an ugly girl to marry you. It’s said that beauty is only skin deep. In an article on looks I read, “Although she feels that she looks better now than she ever did, [she] says looks don’t even cross her mind anymore.” (Huh? Then how’s she know she looks better now?) Janis Joplin wasn’t pretty, but boy was she beautiful.
Ever see Barbii, the dancer/porn star? (“Back by urgent demand.”) I didn’t particularly want to spend big bucks to see her in person like some tourist, but I did go apply for a job where she was dancing, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. I’m sorry, but I doubt if I’d have been so inspired by, say, Janet Reno, back at that same time, intelligent and successful as she may have been.
Just being with a pretty girl makes for changes. I was walking with Jessica in West L.A. As we passed a gas station, one of two motorcycle cops parked across the street yelled at a guy pumping gas, “Put those eyeballs back in your head or we’ll shoot!” Up a couple blocks, I was waiting for her outside a store when the cops came roaring by, and when they spotted me they both spontaneously waved to me as they passed, just because I’d been with her! Another time I was in an Oregon hospital about to be released. The Saturday shift, nurses and aides I hadn’t dealt with before, was on. I was pretty much riffraff compared to the wealthy rancher in the other bed getting lots of attention . . . until Kathy, with her mane of blonde hair, wearing cut-off jeans and a skimpy top, came in with my clothes. Suddenly all the nurses got noticeably concerned with how I was doing. Amazing.
I’m not sure if there can be an actual point to this story. Pretty girls, easily as holy as any spectacular sunset or moon-lit ocean scene from a TV commercial for religious tapes. Whew, they can all take your breath away and make you glad you’re alive. That’s all I know.
Some folks seem to confuse beauty with obscenity, call a topless woman at the beach or a nude centerfold pornographic, not the work of nature that it is. Spending lots of time in Canada during the 1970s, I noticed no such nonsense up there. There was regular nudity on the six o’clock news, on family camping shows, in daytime network movies. Many here in this country seriously agree with the Ayatollah; luckily others have some fun with skin and beauty and such.
I managed an adult book store in Idaho for a few months. Groups of girls would hit the door from time to time, always with a burst of laughter. (“We’ve been sitting in the car for almost an hour waiting till nobody we knew was around so we could come in here. We’re looking for favors and gifts for our friend’s bachelorette party. Where’s the edible underwear?”) Several daughters brought in their reluctant mothers, always heading to the twenty-five-cent movie booths in the back room. (One mom came out for more quarters. “If I’m going to watch this,” she told me defiantly, “I’m going to see the end.”) Every time was the same when they left: Mom, eyes glazed and riveted straight ahead, made a bee-line for the front door, while daughter, grinning triumphantly, strolled along behind. Mostly the customers were couples and military men. (The store had a pretty tame selection of boy/girl magazines and videos, but did have four bondage magazines on display in the corner. Never sold one, but about three times a week somebody’d lift one to show a friend, “Hey, this is what you need, yuck, yuck,” and then put it back on the rack. One day three grandmother-types came in, never so much as glanced up at me, they spread out around the store. A committee, I’m sure. They perused the covers of magazines, the selection of paperback books and videos, the marital aids and sex toys, never touching a thing or saying a word. Then they spotted them . . . the bondage magazines. Zap—like a magnet. The three proper ladies spent the next fifteen minutes shoulder to shoulder, going one page at a time through all four magazines. Then, noses high, aghast, out the door they marched. They had certainly found what they were looking for, God love ‘em.) (Like the magazine cartoon, a similar woman standing at her window looking through binoculars, “Harry, come quick. The neighbors are offending us again.”) (My personal favorite is the people who were outraged by the mere outlines of two humans, a male and a female, on the outside of one of those rockets NASA shot up. Some called it “pornography in space”, like our very shape is indecent.)
Pretty girls . . . the hobby. (Remember ‘The Rifleman’ episode where disaster would strike whenever this pretty girl walked by? She thought she was jinxed. Nowadays it’s often cars getting rear-ended by similarly distracted drivers. Cute waitresses make more in tips. I’ve seen a taxi driver offer a free ride just because a pretty girl was in the group. Emergency-room staff work harder to save an attractive person. Even babies smile more often at good-looking mothers.) It’s not a crime.
So anyway, I have always been blown away by those before-and-after makeup pictures in magazines. The models look like totally different people, from plain to gorgeous. I know one girl myself who has that dramatic of a change after doing her makeup every morning. I know another who’s an after/after. First thing in the morning, without so much as a comb to her red hair, Beth is cover-girl material; she can’t look bad. Riding with her in her little Mazda truck on a rain-slicked freeway, she pulled out to pass three vehicles just before our exit. Doing just shy of eighty-miles-an-hour, ready to cut off the third car we had passed to make our turn, the girl with us screamed. Beth laughed as she made the exit, told the girl that I’m the only person who isn’t afraid of her driving. Hey, I just figure: What a way to go!
Sinner's Revenge Proposal
“Like opium, morphine, and heroin, sugar is an addictive, destructive drug, yet Americans consume it daily in everything from cigarettes to bread,” says the back cover of Sugar Blues by William F. Dufty, (who also wrote Lady Sing The Blues, about Billie Holliday.) Back in 1990, wanting to point out how it wasn’t the substance, but a law against some substance that creates violence and corruption—the politics of contraband—I decided to write a near-future adventure novel in which sugar had been made illegal, with all the problems that now surround the War on Drugs.
It had been reported about that time that China was working on a laser that could knock out satellites in space, so I had that have happened, too, leaving no GPS or surveillance from space, opening the possibilities for areas of the West to become nearly impossible to police. And even back then I foresaw the economy reaching limits and more and more homeless, desperate groups roving the countryside looking to survive, making isolated country living all but impossible anymore. Even cars and trucks started to caravan up for protection, like the old wagon trains, when traveling many stretches of freeways and highways. With the deepening recession, animal shelters were overwhelmed so hungry, dangerous packs of abandoned dogs roam free. With all the various STDs now amongst the formerly promiscuous human population, group marriage has come into vogue. And feminists had won the right for women to go shirtless anywhere that a man may.
In that world, a 30-year-old dentist from Orange County California, after a lifetime of doing the right thing, pleasing his parents, launching a successful career, being happily married, volunteers to take a trip from peaceful, well-protected La Habra, California, up into the lawless wilds of Northern California to search for the estranged granddaughter of a man who saved his life.
Being a fugitive, my motivation for writing the book was to hopefully get it published and use the profits to hire a lawyer when I physically could no longer stay on the run if The Law hadn’t caught me yet by then. So in 1992, after 22 exciting years of hitchhiking the West Coast, I bought a one-way bus ticket from
Then in 2002, when I totally could no longer do physical work, I decided to turn myself in, no matter what the consequences. I planned to notify a TV station and a newspaper, then—a copy of Sinner’s Revenge in hand—surrender to the manager of the
So now, 2009, many of my future predictions about the economy and all have come to pass, so I took out all reference to the future—I’d set the story in the year 2010, WAY in the future when I wrote it—and now it’s even more timely and believable than when I wrote it. So now I’m hoping something might be done with Sinner’s Revenge now, too. (The deal is, my protagonist in the end discovers the difference between success and happiness. Thus the title. I’M the Sinner, and the book is my Revenge.)
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