The commercial stuff pays the rent. This is the other thing — the reason I started putting words in a row in the first place.
A Guy, A Girl, A Gun, A Diner is a debut collection built on a dare: five novelette-length stories, each holding the same four ingredients — a guy, a girl, a gun, a diner — and each told in a completely different register. A caper. A love story. A horror story. A confession. A hymn. Same four notes, five different songs. Under the noir is the thing the whole book keeps circling: we become the stories we tell about ourselves. It's finished, and it's out looking for the right home.
One dinner service, replayed front-of-house and then back, with a gun baked into a cherry pie.
A hit man, the woman he loves, and a job that won't stay simple.
Two sisters outrun the desert heat down an empty freeway and check into the worst motel in the state.
A man drives LA to Nashville, narrating his whole life through restaurant reviews that fall apart as he goes.
An aging rock star, an addiction, and the family still in the room.
A stoner noir.
A cycle of short fiction orbiting a single detective.
Set in the South Bay of California, where I grew up. More when it's ready to be seen.
Before the brand work, there was the byline — a decade of it, across Esquire, Playboy, Interview, and Time Out New York.