Monkeys on My Back

My four legitimately published thrillers, and the four works collected here. It's like a brood of eight children - four conventional offspring, and four rambunctious foster kids. Four who have enjoyed all the easy benefits; striding proudly and blithely forward on publishing's straight and narrow - toeing the line, earning their dutiful reviewer A's (well, a couple of A's, mostly B-pluses), attending the best (well, decent) schools, handsomely clothed in their hardcovers, standing at timeless, dutiful, alphabetical attention on library and bookstore shelves. The children you never have to worry about. Versus four that have been battered around by the world. They deserve better. They bring out my protective instincts. They deserve a home. Here is their home. And these unconventional children - the unsuccessful ones, the adventurers, the wanderers, aren't they more interesting? Aren't they the ones you want to hear about? The ones who are wreck divers, ski instructors, bartenders, cabbies, aren't their stories more interesting than your law partner, your radiologist, your financial-analyst kids? These are my foster children. My stepkids. My orphans. A little wild. A little unpredictable. More than a little unwelcome in the world. But come say hello, at least. Tussle their hair. Pinch their cheeks. They won't bite. Well, no promises.