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Please Welcome Author MICHAEL WILEY!

[ Edited ]

Please welcome this week's featured author, MICHAEL WILEY!

 

 

http://www.michaelwileyonline.com/index.html

 

Here's Michael with an author we have featured here previously, Tom Kaufman:

 

 

http://lesasbookcritiques.blogspot.com/2010/03/thomson-kaufman-wiley-at-poisoned-pen.html

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Michael Wiley is the author of The Bad Kitty Lounge (St. Martin’s Press, March 2010) as well as The Last Striptease (St. Martin’s Press), which won the Private Eye Writers of America and St. Martin’s Press prize for best first private eye novel in 2006 and was nominated for a Shamus award in 2008.

 

 

He is writing a third novel in the series, which features Chicago Detective Joe Kozmarski, as well as a stand alone mystery, which is set in the wetlands of northern Florida.

Michael grew up in Chicago and has lived and worked in the neighborhoods and on the streets where he sets his Kozmarski mysteries.

 

He now teaches literature at the University of North Florida in Jacksonville. As part of this other life, he has published books onRomantic Geography (Macmillan-St. Martin’s Press) and Romantic Migrations (Palgrave Macmillan). No one shot at him when he was writing either of them.

 

Michael blogs at Criminal Minds here: 

http://7criminalminds.blogspot.com/2010/01/by-any-other-name.html

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Re: Please Welcome Author Michael Wiley!

NEWS & PRESS

 


 

Listen to Michael Wiley's interview with Rick Kogan of WGN720 Radio

 

See Michael in the Miami Herald feature "What Are You Reading?":
http://www.miamiherald.com/entertainment/story/1301191.html

 

Michael is blogging on the Criminal Minds blog, alternate Saturdays:
http://7criminalminds.blogspot.com/

 

Stephen Usery interviews Michael on WYPL Memphis Radio: 
http://wyplfmbooktalk.blogspot.com/2010/04/podcast-michael-wiley.html

The Last Striptease is nominated for a Shamus Award.

 

Read an interview of Michael on the Sons of Spade website: www.Sonsofspade.tk

Listen to a WJCT Interview with Michael Wiley

 

Michael has posed for a READ poster. When he says, "read," he means it. See the poster at: http://www.unf.edu/library/graphics/wileybig.jpg


Poisoned Pen has selected The Last Striptease as a 2007 Hardboiled Crime Club book pick.

The Chicago Tribune Books Section has selected The Last Striptease as its featured crime-fiction release for November, 2007.

 

The Mystery Bookstore in Los Angeles has picked The Last Striptease as their November Discovery Club Selection, commenting that "It's been a great year for crime fiction set in Chicago, and this debut continues that streak."

BarnesandNoble.com has selected The Last Striptease as a featured Mystery & Crime title.

For a Florida Times-Union Interview of Michael, see "Professor passes test as author"

Michael has taken the "Page 69" test. See it at:
http://americareads.blogspot.com/2007/12/pg-69-michael-wileys-last-striptease.html

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Re: Please Welcome Author Michael Wiley!

[ Edited ]

 

 

Last Striptease 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Synopsis

 

In his impressive and confident debut, Michael Wiley delivers a thrilling tale about how greed and revenge play out on the streets of Chicago.

 

Private eye Joe Kozmarski has just been asked to clear his childhood friend Bob Piedras of murder. Bob's latest girlfriend, a young Vietnamese-American beauty, has turned up dead in an airport hotel. No one's very surprised. She had a taste for hard liquor, drugs, and stripping in front of a camera. And Bob has a history of violence. But Bob's boss, retired judge Peter Rifkin, is convinced Bob is innocent and he thinks Joe is the one to find the real killer. But Joe's life is complicated.

 

He hasn't spoken to Rifkin for fifteen years—-ever since his father, now dead, found out that the judge had double-crossed him. The dead woman's brothers, a pair of tough guys, are bent on being the first to find and punish her murderer. On top of that, Joe and his wife have separated and his mother has dropped his eleven-year-old nephew on him. But the more obstacles Joe encounters, the more determined he becomes to see this case through.

 

Since its beginning, the PWA/SMP Best First Private Eye Novel Contest has accomplished its mission of finding amazing new talent in mystery writing. With vividly realized characters and a page-turning story line, The Last Striptease is the latest in what has become a long tradition of excellent crime fiction.

 

 

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Re: Please Welcome Author Michael Wiley!

A Message from the Author

"I like to watch," says Peter Sellers to Shirley MacLaine in the movie Being There. He means he likes to watch TV. But she misunderstands.

Me? I've written a mystery novel about watching. I hope you like it. 

Here's the story of how I came to write the book. 

In the late 1990s, after seven years in Manhattan, I moved back to Chicago, where I grew up. My wife and I found a little eighth-floor apartment with giant windows facing east and south. The east windows looked across a parking lot toward another building with giant windows. The south windows looked across a narrow side street toward an old high rise with little windows, but lots of them. 
I was teaching occasional classes at DePaul University and writing a book about late-eighteenth-century poetry, while my wife worked long hours at an office and did a lot of traveling -- which meant that I had plenty of time to look out the windows at the windows that looked into mine. 

Two windows in the facing buildings especially interested me: a big window across the parking lot, behind which a woman, who seemed to have a schedule much like mine, spent long hours every day painting in her underwear; and a small window across the street, next to which a woman had positioned her bed, where she bedded a series of men early in the evenings with the shades open and the lights on. 

Chicago is an icy city in the winter, and even the warmest apartment gets cold, but underwear was my neighbor's painting uniform, four seasons of the year. Why underwear, I didn't know, but I was intrigued. Apartments in old buildings with little windows sometimes have broken shades, but the lamp switches generally work, so I couldn't help thinking that my other neighbor was showing off. I didn't know why, but again I was intrigued. 

Being a well-mannered midwestern boy, I never waited outside their apartment buildings to ask my neighbors why they painted in their underwear and put on shows seen in few places outside Amsterdam and Bangkok's Patpong district. I finished writing my book, turning to the windows no more than 30 or 40 times a day, and eventually my wife and I packed and moved to Florida, where I now teach. 

Then, at a polite distance from my former neighbors, I wrote a novel about an art student who likes to have sex in front of others. And, since the novel is a mystery, someone kills her. 

I hope you like it. --Michael Wiley

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READ AN EXCERPT

 

Chapter 1


North Dearborn, a couple blocks off the Gold Coast high-rises, is a high-priced neighborhood, full of forty-year-old guys fresh out of divorces from suburban wives. Guys with good money from good jobs or okay money from okay jobs and dreams of an easy life interrupted only by vigorous sex after years of cutting the backyard grass every summer weekend. If they’ve got money, they buy a Jaguar or a Mercedes convertible, which they keep in a garage. If they don’t, a scooter or a moped, which they keep in the front vestibule of their apartment building. But after a couple months, their sports cars stay parked in the garage, and their scooters and mopeds collect dust in the vestibules, and most of the year is winter in Chicago anyway, so the guys work their good jobs or their okay jobs, then go home and climb upstairs to their apartments and cook a microwave dinner. Afterward, they go to bed early or they walk out to the bars on Rush Street and get drunk with other guys like themselves.

I know because I looked at apartments in the neighborhood after Corrine and I split up. I didn’t rent because I didn’t like what the neighborhood told me about myself. Sometimes denial is good. For me, it’s dessert every night after a microwave dinner.

I try to avoid the area, but on a warm Monday night in September, I sat in my car across the street from a store called Stoyz. Lots of neon, about a third of it dead, and a front window covered with a chrome finish, so you could see your reflection from outside. The kind of place you would think would get run out of a high-priced neighborhood, except it served a need.

A man named Ahmed Hassan ran the store. Mr. Hassan had stopped paying child support, and my lawyer, Larry Weiss, who also represented Hassan’s ex-wife, asked me to track him down and deliver a court summons. Sometimes when business is slow, I do favors for Larry. Sometimes when business gets too fast and lands me in jail, he does favors for me. No money exchanged. Business was slow, so the court summons and a photograph of Hassan sat on the passenger seat. It was chiseler work. Not what I do. But here I was, and I’d been to plenty of places like this before.

I watched the storefront. A glowing red sign advertising Stoyz jutted out from the brick wall above the door. A smaller purple one advertised cigarettes, videos, magazines, and accessories. More red said the store was open. The chrome window faced the street like a stone drunk who wouldn’t tell you what was inside his head no matter how many times you slapped him. But I figured Hassan was in there behind the counter.

A white van was parked in the dark outside the store, and a deliveryman in a brown jumpsuit, work gloves, and a yellow baseball cap was unloading boxes from the back. I would wait until the guy finished the delivery and left; then I would present the summons to Hassan. No reason to rile Hassan by making it public.

The deliveryman stacked three boxes on a dolly, balanced a fourth on his shoulder, and backed the load into the store through the door. On the neon sign, the purple z in the word magazines flickered; soon it would burn out. Then the other letters would burn out, one by one, until the store sat in total darkness. And then, if we were lucky, the store itself would disappear, taking Hassan with it. The world wouldn’t be any worse off.

A sheet of newspaper blew across the street, tumbling like the ghost of an animal that hadn’t lived in this city for 150 years. Or like a tumbleweed. And I was John Wayne or Gary Cooper or whoever. But I heard no twanging Western music.

I heard a gunshot. It exploded dully inside the store.

The newspaper came to a rest in the gutter.

Two more gunshots exploded.

The deliveryman ran out. No boxes, no dolly. He ran scared. His muscles didn’t move him as fast as he wanted to go. He scrambled into the white van, and it skidded from the curb. The van clipped the bumper of the car parked in front of it and disappeared down the street.

I grabbed my cell phone and punched 911. Before the dispatcher answered, I had my Glock out of the glove compartment and I’d checked the clip.

“Gunshots,” I shouted, and I gave the dispatcher the address of Stoyz.

“Who is shooting?” she asked. Calm, like I was reporting a lost cat.

Halfway out the car door, I didn’t bother to answer.

“Please stay on the line,” she said.

I threw the phone on the passenger seat and ran across to the store.

Only one person was inside. A tall man, fat as a potato. He groped along a display case, head down, smearing the glass with blood. He passed a closed cash register. He passed a door, open to a supply room. He had on white khakis and sleek black Italian loafers. His shirt was sky blue silk, stained with sweat and blood. His head was round and heavy and shaved bald. Even with his face against the glass, I recognized him as Ahmed Hassan.

He stopped moving, and his muscles tensed, his fingers digging at the display glass like the hookahs inside could save his life. A spasm shot through his body and the glass shattered. The wooden legs gave way, and the case collapsed to the floor under him. He fell, soft as a bag of potatoes.

He needed help quick, but I didn’t like the door open to the supply room behind him and the chance that the shooter was in there.

I ducked behind the display counter, waited, listened to silence, moved to the supply room door. A bullet had splintered the door frame. I swung my Glock into the room and followed it. Except for some metal shelves holding cleaning supplies and electronic equipment, the room was empty. A steel door stood open to an alley behind the store. I closed and bolted it.

Hassan was moaning. I went to him and turned him onto his back. He had two neat puncture wounds where he’d taken bullets: one in his neck, one in his chest. The wound in his neck pulsed blood like a fountain. Broken glass jutted out of cuts on his face. Blood pooled in his eyes. He didn’t blink. He was already beyond seeing.

“Mr. Hassan,” I said.

He didn’t answer. He was beyond hearing, too.

“Who shot you?”

He moaned.

I tried again. “Who—”

He grabbed upward blindly and got my arm, didn’t let go.

I would stay with him, letting him clutch my arm, until the cops or an ambulance arrived. If he died before they came, I would let him die holding on to someone. A stranger was better than no one.

“Patti?” he mumbled.

Patti, his ex-wife, was suing him for child support. Did she shoot him? Or was he already half out of this world and regretting what he’d left unloved and uncared for? Maybe if he survived, he would start paying child support without a judge telling him to. I tried again. “Who shot you?”

He didn’t answer.

His grip on my arm weakened. His hand fell to the floor like it had to, like everything has to, and he didn’t lift it again. He lay there, breathing hard. Another spasm passed through his body. The blood pulsed slowly from his neck. Nothing I could do unless I put a tourniquet around his throat.

And then he was quiet. I listened anyway. Sirens howled in the distance.

 

 

Copyright © 2007 by Michael Wiley. All rights reserved.

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Re: Please Welcome Author MICHAEL WILEY!

 

 

 

NookBook: The Bad Kitty Lounge 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Synopsis

 

Michael Wiley’s first novel, The Last Striptease, was nominated for a Shamus Award and hailed as “riveting” (The Chicago Tribune), “delightful” (Toronto Globe and Mail), and “hard-boiled fiction with tenderness and compassion” (New YorkNewsday). Now he offers another exciting, fast-paced page-turner with The Bad Kitty Lounge.


Greg Samuelson, an unassuming bookkeeper, has hired Joe Kozmarski to dig up dirt on his wife and her lover Eric Stone. But now Samuelson has taken matters into his own hands. It looks like he's torched Stone’s Mercedes, killed his boss, and then shot himself, all in the space of an hour.

 

The police think they know how to put together this ugly puzzle. But as Kozmarski discovers, nothing’s ever simple. Eric Stone wants to hire Kozmarski to clear Samuelson. Samuelson’s dead boss, known as the Virginity Nun, has a saintly reputation but a red-hot past. And a gang led by an aging 1960s radical shows up in Kozmarski’s office with a backpack full of payoff money, warning him to turn a blind eye to murder.

 

At the same time, Kozmarski is working things out with his ex-wife, Corrine, his new partner, Lucinda Juarez, and his live-in nephew, Jason. If the bad guys don't do Kozmarski in, his family might.

 

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READ AN EXCERPT


Chapter One

 

I SAT IN TOMMY Cheng’s Chinese Restaurant facing a window onto North LaSalle Street and watched a four-story condo complex where Eric Stone was screwing another man’s wife. Not the kind of work I look for, but it always seems to . nd me. I kept my eyes on my client’s condo and ate egg foo yong. 
Behind me in the kitchen, Mr. Cheng cooked something that sizzled in the wok. He wore an apron and a white baseball cap. My Pentax, its telephoto screwed into focus, rested on the coun­ter in case Eric Stone showed his face outside. 
I squinted into the glare. The little birch trees that the city had dumped into sidewalk planters .ared October yellow. The condo complex was stucco and had the kind of Spanish arches and wide balconies that belonged far from Chicago in a place where the sea was always clear and the breeze blew as warm as a woman’s breath. 
A man walked onto the balcony in front of the condo. 
Eric Stone. 
I dropped my chopsticks, readjusted the lens on the pentax, and snapped a photo. The man had a caterpillar of a beard un­der his bottom lip. The rest of his head was shaved. He looked somewhere in his early .fties but his arms and body  were thick—all muscle. He .exed the arms over his head. He wore white shorts and a white T-shirt on a forty-degree autumn day. He looked like a pirate in tennis whites. 
A woman joined him on the balcony. 
Amy Samuelson. My client Greg Samuelson’s wife. 
She was dressed in khakis and a sweater, her blond hair in a ponytail. She wrapped her arms around Eric Stone from be­hind. 
Mr. Cheng came from the kitchen and stood next to me. “Every day the same thing,” he said, laughing. “She never gets enough of him.” 
She slid her hands down the man’s stomach. One hand dis­appeared into the front of his shorts. Stone looked proud of himself. 
Mr. Cheng said, “Some people’ve got no decency,” and I snapped more photos. “What do you do?” he asked. “Blackmail them?” 
I pulled out my wallet, let him read my detective’s license. 
“Joe Kozmarski?” he said. 
“I’m helping her husband get a divorce.” 
He laughed. “You blackmail them.” 
Amy Samuelson and the man went back into the condo, clos­ing the door behind them. 
I ate more egg foo yong. The bean sprouts  were fresh, the shrimp as big as walnuts. Mr. Cheng stood and watched the balcony as if he expected them to come back out naked and screw in the open air. 
Another man walked across a parking lot next to the condos. He was thin, wearing blue jeans, an oxford shirt, and a navy blue jacket, no tie. He carried a two-gallon gas can. He looked in no hurry. He crossed to a yellow Mercedes convert­ible that was parked facing the street. 
I knew the car. Eric Stone drove it when he wasn’t . exing his muscles on the Samuelsons’ balcony in his tennis shorts. 
The man set the gas can on the hood of the Mercedes and undid the cap. He screwed a spout onto the can. He poured gasoline over the car’s hood, over the convertible roof, onto the trunk. 
Mr. Cheng said, “What the hell—” 
The man shook gasoline onto the car doors. He stooped by the tires and poured gas over them. He took his time. 
“Take—pictures,” Mr. Cheng sputtered. I left my camera on the counter. 
The man splashed the rest of the gasoline under the Mer­cedes, then stepped back to appraise his work. 
He touched the fabric convertible roof with a lighter and leaped away. The car burst into .ames. Thick black smoke .ngered into the air. The convertible top .ared and fell into the interior. 
The man with the gas can watched the .re, then pulled a cell phone from his pocket, dialed, and talked into it. When he hung up, he walked slowly away. The empty gas can dangled in his .ngers. The car made a hollow popping sound and the windshield fell into the front seat. 
Mr. Cheng glared. “Why don’t you take pictures?” 
I looked him up and down. “That was the husband—My my client.” 
Mr. Cheng stared at me with blank eyes and nodded, then returned to the kitchen and called 911. He told the operator that a car was burning and gave the street address. When he hung up, he came back and sat on the stool next to mine. “You like the egg foo yong?” he asked. 
“Best egg foo yong I ever ate,” I said. 
“Thank you,” he said. “It’s my mother’s recipe. It gives you long life.” 
We sat together and watched the Mercedes burn. Giant .ames angled out of the interior. The car roared like an open furnace. Heavy black smoke, dense as dirt, clouded above it. The smell of burning rubber and something worse—the leather interior, something that once was living—made its way into the restaurant. By the time we heard sirens, the . re had blackened the car’s exterior, and whatever was feeding it from inside was gone. The .ames shortened. Then the gas tank exploded and the .re roared again. 
I pushed away the egg foo yong. Long life it would give me, said Mr. Cheng. I’d lost my appetite.

Excerpted from The Bad Kitty Lounge by Michael Wiley.
Copyright © 2010 by Michael Wiley.

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Re: Please Welcome Author MICHAEL WILEY!

Pre-order Michael's new book, which will be released in 2011:

 

A Bad Night's Sleep 

Bad_Nights_Sleep_cover.jpg
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Re: Please Welcome Author MICHAEL WILEY!

Joe's 10 Favorite Romantic Lines

  1. “I’ve got a seventeen-year-old Buick Skylark with a heater that still works.”
  2. “I fantasize about you and mulch.”
  3. “I’ll try anything once.”
  4. “That was the best shooting I’ve ever seen.”
  5. “I’m not sure, but I think your vibrator just turned on the garbage disposal.”
  6. “Do you want me to?”
  7. “Faking it is okay.”
  8. “Did you know female aphids can have babies without mating with a male?”
  9. “Always lie to me.”
  10. “I’ll tell you a bedtime story.”

Joe's Favorite Experience at the Psychologist's Office

Joe Kozmarski, my fictional PI, has a hard time talking about his feelings . . . as sometimes does the man who created him. We both grew up in the Midwest where feelings are an embarrassment and so we generally pretend that we don’t have them. That often leads to trouble. At least it does for Joe because despite his tough exterior he’s an only semi-dormant volcano of emotions, and every now and then he vents and lava hits one of his friends or lovers in the eye. And, as anyone who ever has been hit in the eye with molten lava will tell you, it stings (which is a Midwestern way of saying that it fucking hurts).   

So, in the interest of Joe’s interpersonal relations, I’m sending him to a psychologist today.

Joe arrives on time, fills out the paperwork, and the psychologist invites him into his office. All’s well until the psychologist asks Joe to lie down on the couch and Joe says, “Thanks, I’d rather stand.”

“Okay,” the psychologist says, and he asks Joe to tell him about his fears and his loves.

Joe says, “Death and pierogi.”

“Interesting,” the psychologist says, “can you explain that in more detail?”

“Nope,” says Joe.

They go back and forth like this for half an hour until the psychologist says, “I have the feeling that you’re not very comfortable opening up, are you?”

“Nope,” says Joe.

“Well, let’s try an experiment,” the psychologist says. “I’ll leave you here alone with a pen and a piece of paper. I want you to write a poem about your fears and loves.”

Joe raises his eyebrows and says, “A poem?”

“Yes,” says the psychologist. “A sonnet, an ode, an epic, whatever you want.”

“I’ve never written a poem,” says Joe.

The psychologist smiles, says, “Here’s your chance,” and leaves Joe alone with his thoughts and the pen and paper.

Half an hour later, the psychologist returns and finds Joe standing exactly where he left him, the pen and paper still in his hands. “Did you come up with anything?” he asks.

Joe hands him the paper, and the psychologist reads:

“My Fears and Loves”

I’m very scared of cottage cheese
And clerks who try too hard to please –

Dick Cheney, George Bush, Barbara Streisand, 
Manatees, small dogs, rats, and mice and

I’m scared of my kidneys, too, but why
I can’t explain. I could defy

Anxiety with Lexapro
Or Xanax or Celexa, though

A glass of whiskey does the trick
 – But too much whiskey makes me sick –

And so, to treat my phobias,
I think of women in lacy bras,

’Cause I love women in lacy bras –
And leather boots! They give me pause,

They calm my mind, they make me glad,
And I forget the fears I’ve had.

The psychologists considers Joe’s poem. He stares at Joe awhile. Then he reads the poem again. Then he sighs and says, “This has gotten me thinking, Joe. Maybe there’s some value to uncommunicative repression.”

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Re: Please Welcome Author MICHAEL WILEY!

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Re: Please Welcome Author MICHAEL WILEY!

Please welcome MICHAEL WILEY! (I picked this graphic because it looks like the snow coming down outside my window.)

 

MySpace Welcome Glitter Graphics/Friendster

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[ Edited ]

Michael, I appreciate you joining us so close to the holidays, in what I know is a very hectic week! Will you be staying in town for the rest of the month?

 

Michael has just been in Chicago, and left before he got buried in the blizzard there. (It's not a lot better here in Cincinnati.) 

 

I forgot to mention you can friend Michael on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/michael.wiley1

Michael, not sure if you are on Twitter. If so, could you give us the link?

 

 

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michaelwiley543
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Re: Please Welcome Author MICHAEL WILEY!

Thanks for the warm welcome, Becke. It's great to be here.

 

We slipped out of Chicago right before the blizzard started and landed in Florida in a cool rain. Not quite the stuff that tropical dreams are made of, but a night in bed with the sound of rain on the roof beats a night on the floor at O'Hare waiting for the resumption of flights.

 

Now -- after plans for late-December travels to Greece and Rome have fallen through -- we're looking forward to the strange phenomenon of a Florida Christmas: we've lived here for twelve years and still can't get used to having Christmas without at least the possibility of snow. Throwing oranges at each other instead of snowballs just feels . . . wrong.

 

Yes, please friend me on Facebook. As for Twitter, not me: I'm a long-form man. Brevity may be the soul of wit, but a 140-character limit? That's about half a soul.

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Re: Please Welcome Author MICHAEL WILEY!

 


michaelwiley543 wrote:

Thanks for the warm welcome, Becke. It's great to be here.

 

We slipped out of Chicago right before the blizzard started and landed in Florida in a cool rain. Not quite the stuff that tropical dreams are made of, but a night in bed with the sound of rain on the roof beats a night on the floor at O'Hare waiting for the resumption of flights.

 

Now -- after plans for late-December travels to Greece and Rome have fallen through -- we're looking forward to the strange phenomenon of a Florida Christmas: we've lived here for twelve years and still can't get used to having Christmas without at least the possibility of snow. Throwing oranges at each other instead of snowballs just feels . . . wrong.

 

Yes, please friend me on Facebook. As for Twitter, not me: I'm a long-form man. Brevity may be the soul of wit, but a 140-character limit? That's about half a soul.


My husband and I will be in Florida, too. Our daughter lives in Orlando, but she says the weather is far from balmy there. She said to leave the sandals at home and bring coats.

 

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michaelwiley543
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Re: Please Welcome Author MICHAEL WILEY!

Ahh, in Florida we start shivering and pulling out the long underwear every time the temperature drops below 75.   . . . But yes, a sweater -- or at least a wool swimsuit -- will serve you well.

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Re: Please Welcome Author MICHAEL WILEY!

Michael - I love your titles! Did you come up with those or did your publisher choose them?

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Re: Please Welcome Author MICHAEL WILEY!

Michael

 

I am so jealous that you are in Florida right now.  I am currently in Upstate New York suffering through some nasty cold weather and winter snow advisory's.  I am a native Chicagoan myself and definitely miss it from time to time, but not right now that is for sure (so glad I am not there for the blizzard :smileyhappy: )

 

So onto some questions...

 

Do you enjoy writing novels based in Chicago?

 

Where did you come up with the idea for your main character?

 

How long is your writing process?

 

What was it like after you wrote your first novel and found out it was getting published?

 

Hope to hear from you soon.

 

Leigh

Author
michaelwiley543
Posts: 48
Registered: ‎07-19-2010
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Re: Please Welcome Author MICHAEL WILEY!

Thanks, Becke. I'm a fan of good titles in general. I want titles to make me smile or laugh or at least to make me hungry for the book I have in my hand.

 

My wonderful editor at St. Martin's, Ruth Cavin, gave me THE LAST STRIPTEASE. I wanted to call the book LITTLE DOGS IN LEATHER CORSETS, but as Ruth (and everyone else) pointed out, the titular dogs appear only for a moment and have very little to do with the plot. "How about calling it UNROBED, then?" I asked Ruth. "How about not," she said. She offered LAST STRIPTEASE, and I was happy to grab it.

 

Around that time, I saw a down-on-her-luck woman wearing a T-shirt with the words "Bad Kitty" emblazoned in glittery cursive, and I thought immediately, I've got to write a noir mystery by that name. But when I searched the title on B&N.com, I found that Nick Bruel writes a children's book series by this name: BAD KITTY GETS A BATH . . . HAPPY BIRTHDAY BAD KITTY -- that kind of thing. While I might like writing a noir mystery called BAD KITTY GETS A BATH, Nick Bruel's book is nothing like that. At all. So, I steered away from children and came up with LOUNGE. In general, it's probably a bad idea to write a book to fit a title, but this one worked out well.

 

The key crimes in A BAD NIGHT'S SLEEP happen late at night, when my detective should be sleeping (and often is fighting off sleep with mixed success). This time, I wrote the book and then wrote the title. I like the title. It makes me want to read the book. I hope it does the same for others.

 

Inspired Wordsmith
eadieburke
Posts: 1,925
Registered: ‎01-27-2007
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Re: Please Welcome Author MICHAEL WILEY!

Michael:

 

I finished your book, THE BAD KITTY LOUNGE, last week. Really enjoyed it very much. I love the title and the concept of the Virginity Nun. The book was a real page-turner and very exciting at the end.

 

I kept worry about Joe's nephew, Jason, throughout the book. Thank God Jason seemed like a good kid because he had plenty of time to get into trouble since Joe never came home when he was suppose to. At least grandmom showed up and came to the rescue!

 

I will have to read THE LAST STRIPTEASE since that is the first in the series and then move onto your new one. I real liked your humor throughout the book. You kept me laughing!

 

Thanks for visiting with us and keep writing!

Eadie - A day out-of-doors, someone I loved to talk with, a good book and some simple food and music -- that would be rest. - Eleanor Roosevelt