their books

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Latest Blog Posts

Smelling guns and firing roses

[ Another tittle from the novel in progress, A Republic of Books, for your consideration ] ‘There are more booby traps in the original Constitution of the United States than in a congress of naked women—not intentional, to my reading, but the by-product of the...

Miss Wheatley

[A tasty new collop that speaks for itself, taken from the work in progress, A Republic of Books] However, my favorite scene in that book is the encounter between Henry Knox, Phillis Wheatley, and John Peters, her future husband. I liked it so much that I have already...

Thoreau Again

 [ Yet another morsel of John Finn to be eaten alone or with the greater meal] “The thunder had rumbled at my heels all the way, but the shower had passed off in another direction; though if it had not, I half believed that I should get above it. I at length reached...

Mr. Chekhov

[a tasty portion from another novel, John Finn, written a while back. It seems to work by itself.]   It seems to me that if a novel isn’t about a man and a woman then it ought to be about why it’s not about a man and a woman. I’ve come to this conclusion rather...

The gateskeeper and the bookman

[A titbit taste of the work in progress A Republic of Books] In fact, all of this was the very subject of a couple of the novels and a play in the past few years. And it does seem now that my entire life is just a series of imagined events—the small stuff of what I...

Miss Flucker and Mr. Knox

  [Yet another scrap of a chapter from the unfinished novel in progress A Republic of Books]   I wrote that novel just last year. Not so funny the way I always placed my hero’s in their forties. Just a bit of cheap psychology, really. Those were easily my...

Notes in ink on the age of television

The book of my lifetime had only a vague but passing resemblance to those made by the Dutch emigrant to England, Wynken de Worde—like a cousin whose mother might have had extracurricular interests. The paper, the ink, the typography, the binding, and the covers of the...

On the dying of time

For all of my life—I am seventy this year—I have been taught and heard all the wrong things about writing, and how to write. I think of this as the John Gardner-David Lodge-E. B. White school of writing, all of them worthy practitioners of the craft, and all of them...

The Lincoln Compromise

(Another dram of the novel in progress, A Republic of Books, to be found growing elsewhere on this ethereal site) Abraham Lincoln, whom I love as if he had been an actual character in my life and a member of my family, is one of the great villains of our history. How...

Who killed Phidias?

When simple murder is not enough [and yet another bit from the seemingly never ending novel A Republic of Books, that is the 'work in progress', more of which is to be found elsewhere on this ethereal site.] I once wrote a novel about Phidias. There is almost nothing...

A note on the little I have learned

And that a man might be an island after all. [Yet another taste of A Republic of Books, more of which can be found elsewhere on this ethereal site.] I had some reason a few years ago to think about Eden and man’s lost innocence and whatever is the cause of this that...

The seven senses

  As is so often the case, the Greeks got there first. Perhaps not always exactly or correctly, but at least in spirit. The seven liberal arts, as set out in ancient thought as the keys to education, are grammar, logic, and rhetoric, enhanced by arithmetic, geometry,...

Novels & Novellas Available for Purchase

I Am William McGuire

I Am William McGuire

It’s a bloody Cro-Magnon world.
What’s a Neanderthal to do?

 

A Slepyng Hound to Wake

A Slepyng Hound to Wake

Leaving well enough alone is not good enough at all—not if the reason for a death is to be found in the life that was lost.
Hound

Hound

Henry Sullivan has made a simpler life for himself, finding and selling books. There is little room in it for either love or murder.

 

About

I have been informed by trusted authority that the short quip which I have placed here for the last year or so, by way of biography, lacks gravitas. “Over-paid by others for hyphenated jobs such as lawn-work, snow-shoveling, house-painting, office-boy, dish-washer, warehouse-grunt, table-waiter and hotel night-clerk–I’ve since chosen to be a writer, editor, publisher, and for most of my life, a bookseller, and even managed to occasionally pay myself. Hound is my first published novel.” And so it does. It is hard to be serious about so unserious a subject as oneself. But herewith, and keeping the ‘nasty bits’ (Brit expressions are so brilliant) to myself, I offer then, this ongoing post begun as posts at Small Beer Press. If anyone is interested, from time to time I will add something at the end to bring the epic closer to the present moment.

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