Wednesday, June 16, 2021


Each time a book of mine sets off into the world I’m possessed by a certain sadness. I think it’s akin to the feeling any parent has when watching a child move on, out of their control and protection. There’s a sense of wonder at the act but also self-doubt, did I do everything I could to prepare them? Will they be liked?

THE COUNTERFEIT CONNECTION is no different, and yet different. It’s my latest book, which means I’ve done this a few times before and so should be an old hat at this. I’m buoyed by the knowledge that readers of this book probably have endured a few previous iterations of Tony Flaner and so know what they’re getting into. There’s a huge relief in knowing that, in putting a book into the hands of fans and friends. There Is also however the worry that I’ll disappoint, that the very people I’m most grateful to, the ones who allowed me to produce this book, won’t like it, that I’ll fail to meet exceptions. That it won't meet the level of its predecessors. That the previous novels, if they were good, were more the result of luck than my skill.

This is imposter syndrome. It is a common thing among creatives, I hear. I know few authors, if any, who don’t wrestle with this idea to some degree. We are so used to rejection that any kind of acceptance seems like a dream, a lucky break, an undeserved theft of affection and attention. There’s also always the phenomenon of not understanding how any book was made. No two projects of mine have manifested the same way ; I get an idea and write it, somehow. In looking back over a project, it’s a blur of energy, effort, and emotion. Did I do that or was I possessed? There’s a disassociation involved that furthers the idea of separateness, of falseness and fakery.

I talked to a big author once – damn if I can remember her name now, such is me, but I’ll never forget what she said about getting books on the New York Times Best Seller List and other accolades she’d earned. Each time, she said, it was worse. It was the con extended. There was never a feeling of “oh, yeah, now I deserve this.” Instead it was that somehow the lie had gotten bigger. She compared it to “leveling up,” that each time the feeling grew and her need of acceptance had to grow too – a new boss level and she needed to just face it.

I’m a big fish in my little pond. For my entire career I’ve been punching above my weight class. I’ve used my special powers of being memorable to my advantage. I’ve used my rampant insecurity to hide myself behind wit and humor. Self-effacing and boisterous, I am shielded. These have served me well, but they’re temporary fixes. In the time of twilight, staring at a blank page, riding the train home, wondering at my Amazon page, I can’t help feeling that the con has gotten out of hand, and at any moment, I’ll be revealed as the fake I am.

Yeah, I write comedies.

This is the theme of THE COUNTERFEIT CONNECTION. I explore the idea of forgeries in personality and art, all while Tony himself wrestles with his insecurities. He’s never understood what Allie sees in him. He’s seldom taken a hard look at his own work and wondered if he fell into the success or earned it. Usually he is immune from such heady thoughts, but Tony may be growing up a bit. Life is descending and comparisons are inevitable, especially with a high school reunion coming up and an old rival making moves on his lover.

A nice set up personally, but why stop there? The world is full of fakes, creators and artist are all characters in their own worlds, facades, personalities with values defined by expectation. It is a major subject, strangely easy to write about, and unfortunately, unsolvable.

That’s the cheat. I will spoil my new book, a little. I do not solve this problem with Tony in THE COUNTERFEIT CONNECTION, though I try. I investigate and tease, I exemplify and simplify, but the underlying issue is hardly revolved. I land on a moment of recognition regarding the impermanence of it all and take hope in that. My answer? The best anyone can do is to do their best  and hope their armor is strong enough to protect them from not their failures, but from their successes.

The book is a fun mystery, a trek around my area with all its hypocrisies and ironies. Tony is in his element, smog messing with his senses, problems of his own creation, old friends reaching out for help he’s not sure he can deliver on. A new boss. A time to level up.

And so with stirring trepidation and the sure knowledge that I have failed in whatever grand experiment I undertook and will be revealed as the imposter I am, I can only hope that my readers see through these faults and find a friend, enjoy the ride, sympathize, empathize, euthanize their own fears with a few hours of Tony Flaner in THE COUNTERFEIT CONNECTION.


Now available in paperback, ebook, and Kindle Unlimited 

Wednesday, April 14, 2021


 Drum Roll please (funnier than a spring roll, and fewer than a cinnamon).

I present to you, my beloved readers, the next Tony Flaner adventure, 


    After months of nothing, insecure sleuth Tony Flaner gets four cases in one night. Two of them are paying; a background check and a missing person. One is for family pride, the other is personal—because Tony is taking everything personally. A rival detective is talking smack, and a looming high school reunion threatens disaster, exposure, and maybe the loss of his girlfriend. Tony’s angsty teenage son is going through phases which may now include crime, but not appreciation of the new fifty-thousand dollar car Tony gave him for Christmas.

    Tony must face international intrigue, falling fame, angry dogs, and the dreaded—God help him—domestic case, all the while drowning in the mental sludge of imposter-syndrome and the real pollution of the infamous Salt Lake City inversion. Even the air isn’t real.

    Actors and agents, hippies and obsessions, a Burmese coup, and the worst song ever from Rogers and Hammerstein test Tony’s luck, skill, and patience as he uncovers the Counterfeit Connection.

 Behold the cover!

Behold also that it is available on Amazon at this very moment for pre-order. Actual release date is set for June 15, 2021, a Tuesday, because, according to the mountain, all new books are released on a Tuesday. If someone knows why, please email me. I’m not making that up. I heard it somewhere and don’t wholly understand it. First person to give me a good answer will get a free ebook of mine. Something nice.

Tuesday, March 16, 2021

Wednesday, March 3, 2021


Eleanor is not what she appears to be. 

 Hey book fans, readers, groupies, stalkers, slow assassins, hateful critics, loving angels and Cherubim or all striped. ELEANOR, and THE UNSEEN series is reborn.

The story of this best-selling award-winning series is a story of my career in many ways. I wrote it get attention for THE FINGER TRAP and the off-genre comic mysteries therein. I quickly fell deep in love with the book, the series and the concept. I sold the series along with THE FINGER TRAP, to Jolly Fish Press and had good times for all. Winning several awards, the League of Utah Writers Gold Quill for ELANOR as best young adult book of the year and a Silver Quill the next year for CELESTE. For a brief lovely period they reached the top of the Amazon Young Adult best-selling list.

When Jolly Fish was acquired by North Star Editions, THE UNSEEN, went with them, though Tony in. THE FINGER TRAP bailed since NSE didn't really want more in that series. Now after the years of that, THE UNSEEN has returned to me.

Wasting no time, the books remain in print, and now have these awesome new covers,

I really love the new covers, all original art specifically commissioned for the series. Each one emotionally tracks the progress the lonely, scared, and finally avenging Eleanor.

Available now at Amazon.

    It was a gamble for Eleanor to rejoin humanity, but she was driven to it. She’d been too successful forgetting. The last vestiges of her family hung by a thread in her transformed brain and drove her to be reckless. 

    Ten years later, Eleanor hides in plain sight. She is an average girl getting average grades in a small Wyoming town: poor but happy, lonely but loved. Her mother, Tabitha, is there for her and that’s all she’s ever needed. But now her mother is sick and David has returned. The only friend she’d ever had, the only other person who knows her secret, is back. And Eleanor again becomes reckless. 

    Eleanor is a modest girl, unremarkable but extraordinary, young but old, malleable but fixed. She is scared and confused. She is a liar and a thief. Eleanor is not what she appears to be. 

Wednesday, January 6, 2021

2020's Reading

 It’s time for my annual reading report card.

My goal for 2020 was to read 50 books. I read 55. I am so awesome.

This year saw certain themes arise in my reading. A new love of Ursula K. Le Guin is a late one as is a fascination with Indian holy books and Eastern philosophy. There are the usual classics I’m catching up on, a few books I read for work—books on craft, theory, and editing,  including my own. All in all it was a fascinating year in pages. Almost made up for hellish year that just passed. Here’s the list:

The Professional Thief, Edwin Hardin Sutherland

An Appointment with God, Mark Kirkbride

Gates of Fire, Steven Pressfield

The Uninhabitable Earth, David Wallace-Wells

The Time Machine, H. G. Wells


Inspirational Poetry, William Blake

Naked Came the Florida Man, Tim Dorsey

An Appointment with God, Mark Kirkbride

High Magick, Damien Echols

The Successful Author Mindset, Joanna Penn


Gone with the Wind, Margaret Mitchell

Consider This, Chuck Palahniuk

The Shadow of the Wind, Carlos Ruiz Zafón

Revelation, Poppet Cycle Book 1, Donna J. Munro

Changing Wax, Jared Quan


LUW 85th Anniversary Anthology 

The Lottery and Other Stories, Shirley Jackson

The Haunting of Hill House, Shirley Jackson

1619 Project, New York Times 

Take Off Your Pants, Libbie Hawker


Remains of the Day, Kazuo Ishiguro.

Art & Fear, David Bales & Ted Orland

True History of the Kelly Gang, Peter Carey

The Waves, Virginia Woolf 

Under the Black Flag, David Cordingly


Waiting for Godot, Samuel Beckett

Big Magic, Elizabeth Gilbert 

Nausea, Jean Paul Sartre

Eat, Pray, Love, Elizabeth Gilbert

Big Magic, Elizabeth Gilbert (again)


Tender is the Night, F. Scott Fitzgerald

After Progress, John Michael Greer

The Virginian, Owen Wister

Steal Like an Artist, Austin Kleon

The Bhagavad Gita, translated by Eknath Easwaran


The Practice of Poetry, Robin Behn & Chase Twichell

The Mormon War,  Brandon G. Kinney

Midnight’s Children, Salman Rushdie

Taking the Path of Zen, Robert Aitken

The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman. Laurence Sterne


The Invisible Man, H.G. Wells

Writing in the Dark, Tim Waggoner

Jaws, Peter Benchley

How to be Good, Nick Hornby

Hyperbole and a Half, Allie Brosh


Intimations: Six Essays, Zadie Smith

The Dispossessed, Ursula K. Le Guin

The Invention of Sound, Chuck Palahniuk

How to Write a Novel Using the Snowflake Method, Randy Ingermanson

Left Hand of Darkness, Ursula K. Le Guin


Solutions and Other Problems, by Allie Brosh

The Lathe of Heaven, Ursula K. Le Guin

South of the Border, West of the Sun, Haruki Murakami

Rape of Nanking, Iris Chang

The Dhammapada, Eknath Easwaran


For 2021 I'm trying for another 50. 

Read on, my friends. Read on.

Wednesday, December 16, 2020

Pandemic Greetings

I realized I haven’t communicated for a while. Publish or parish. I gotta write something. I gotta communicate. My fans are dying to hear from me. Fields of dying bodies, eclectic readers and tie-dye aficionados, buzzards readying their beaks. This is my fault. This blood will be on my hands. Isn’t that just how the year has been? Here I am, sitting around in my underwear on the couch shotgunning Coke Zeros with a ball point pen, scrunched atop a blanket of indeterminate color, and I’ve got to produce something. I gotta write.

This brings up the rather testy problem of figuring out what to write. If I could think of what to write don’t you think I’d be writing? I’m a writer, you know. Writing is what I do. I tell people I’m writing when I’m writing and sometimes when I’m thinking of writing and when I have to explain why I’m in my underwear at 5:00 p.m. and have to invent reasons why the blanket is that color.

But I’m a professional. I can do this. Here it is. I’ll write something. Here it comes. I’m inspired.

Recently, I celebrated Thanksgiving and there’s something about that holiday that encourages me to give thanks, or at least count a couple blessings. A countdown. That’s a kind of writing. I can do it in words. Write them down. Writing!

I have a lot of blessings. I can work from home in my underwear with Coke Zero in my chest hair. This isn’t a Covid thing. I was doing this before, so it’s a big blessing my lifestyle hasn’t been unduly altered. I can write, when I want to. Really. It’s happened. That’s a good thing. That’s important to me. Blessed. Like Brian Blessed - FLASH!

Locked away from my sane friends, barring the door to my insane ones, I’ve come to appreciate friends. And sanity. It’s nice to know you’re not alone when you’re alone. Zoom has been a lifesaver and I’ve learned that if you hold the computer just right, underwear is just fine.

I’ve come to understand what it is I actually need to survive. Food. Lots of food. More food than I used to need apparently. Food is important. Heat is nice. Blankets help when you don’t dress for the cooling temperatures. Liquids are good. Coke Zero is a liquid. So is bourbon. I checked. Wikipedia is very wise. Thanks internet knowledge core.

Hobbies are vital for survival in these days of American decline. All work and no play makes for a creepy lodge vacation. I have lots of hobbies and I’ve even found a few new ones as I keep myself within this house all day, and yard at night; pants optional. Among my new hobbies are:

    Day drinking. 



    Beard braiding.

    Eating. (That’s an old one, but I’ve been taking it to new levels.)


The last one is really a time taker. Getting on the internet, watching numbers rise and open hospital beds dwindle I’ve tried to find an easy way to judge my fellow pandemic travelers. Mostly, because my friends are sane, the judging goes out to creepy family members, strangers, and people who make the news for getting kicked off airplanes. The metric is: how much are you willing to be inconvenienced to keep other people from dying? If the answer is, "I won’t wear a mask and I won’t believe in science," you score very low on my judgment chart and I send evil waves of malevolence your way hoping you’ll lose your car keys or discover the wonders of Giardia-infused intestinal squirts. I can be mean. Don’t cross me.

I’ve also come to judge people by fashion. Tube tops after Labor Day is a privilege not a right. Crocs. Just Crocs.

I wonder if I’m not being judged too. I’m pretty sure I am. Waves of disorder waft over the domicile like whispered inside jokes. Strange things have been happening. The most alarming is that someone has cursed my washing machine. It is shrinking all my clothes, particularly my pants. A sublime spell. There’s a wizard out to get me. I must atone.

It hasn’t been a complete waste, these many months hiding from disease which is out to get me. I have found a new job. It’s a work at home gig, something I never considered to be full-time employment, but has surely risen to that, particularly in the cold weather. I am a professional door opener for cats. Yep. It’s going on my CV. There are doormen at all the nice buildings in New York (I read about them), well now at Casa Worthen, there is me. I’m not as nicely dressed, or even actually dressed sometimes. I don’t wear a hat all the time, but sometimes I do. I wait by the back sliding door ready to oblige our two cats who test the limits of their control over me by a dozen passings each day. They look at me and smile in their cat ways. I think they’d tip if they had money, but I know better than to let my cats have money. I shiver to think of the mischief they could do on Etsy alone.

So I go on with the cats and couch and the drinks and the food and the blanket whose original color is a mystery lost to time. I get by. I think. I plan. I wait for the vaccine and a return to sanity. I count my blessings. I write.

Gotta go. Roy’s at the door.

Merry Christmas 2020


Wednesday, October 14, 2020


Tomorrow the third Tony Flaner novel, IN THE WAKE OF CAPTAIN LORD, falls upon the world, to sink or swim as it will. It will be out of my hands. It has been for a while, I guess, but tomorrow is the official day.

Tony and I have had a long relationship. It was Tony who convinced me to become an author, a full time writer, a schlunk who quit a day job to pursue a dream. THE FINGER TRAP was a watershed moment in my life, a moment where, for the first time, future clarity and direction shown bright and clear.

And Tony had stories to tell.

After his origin story, his "coming of age" if you will, he got to fall in love in THICKER THAN WATER—family and past and future all mixing together. Again a simulacrum of my own existence. I had two books that were wonderful.

And now Tony takes a cruise to Alaska, just like I did. It is hard to separate us two sometimes. At the time I think it was me, but when I recall that cruise now, I often see it through Tony’s eyes. 

Even then, when I stepped foot on that ship I knew that Tony walked with me. Though I remember distinctly writing another book on that trip, remember even the chapters I wrote in stolen time in a vacant barroom as the family slept in, Tony was wandering the decks, imagining mayhem. He talked me into asking the crew to show me some places usually off limits to non-fictional characters.

When I got home, Tony mulled and pondered and planned in my subconscious. A plot was formed, a cunning confusion rife with Utah connections. You can take the detective out of the state, but you can’t take the state out of the detective. Where would Flaner mystery be with it scathing social commentary? I don’t know, but Tony would’t like it.

The story was born.

IN THE WAKE OF CAPTAIN LORD is Tony in full stride. His origin story is told, his growth story is there, here is Tony realized and familiar. His arc is true and in keeping with his life. Though not a series, but a serial, ie the books can be read in any order, it does repay those who’ve followed Tony from the start and hopefully encourages the latecomers to check out his earlier words. That was the plan anyway.

Now the plan is out of my hands. Tony sails alone tomorrow on the Success up the Inside Passage to Alaskan tourist towns with murder on the high seas. The world will judge.

It is a sadly sweet moment, exciting and weighty to release this. Each book is like that, but this time, with Tony here, I feel more confident that he can handle himself. He’s shown me he can and he’s eager to tell his tale. Like me, Tony loves an audience.

Bon voyage!