The End of ALMOST A DEAD MAN

o ALMOST Yesterday I typed THE END to ALMOST A DEAMMAN 348 pages. Then spell check. Only seven typos I first wrote it in Ireland in 1997. I showed the novel to Shannon Greer who read it in a single night. I sent the manuscript to a few publishers and then left the USA for Thailand where I wrote three more novels sending them overseas to the US. Nothing, but I kept writing. I rewrote ALMOST A DEAD MAN in 2016, but was too broke to send it anywhere. When my diamond job ended in Christmas in 2024 I decided to clean up THE 2016 version. Two and a half months rewrite. 348 pages. Last two words. THE END. Now the hard part Finding and agent or publisher. Next a synopsis and outline and talk about it all the time. Along with everything else. I'm hoping to fly to Bangkok and Hong Kong next month. I start selling jewelry in Montauk this weekend. It was a long wintah. Mary Heaton Vorse reportedly said, "The art of writing is the art of applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair. Today Recovering from post partem OF THE END. I woke this morning, thinking, "Are you mad?" A novel about pimps and whores with XXX sex scenes, BDSM, and violence and love and redemption and a woman's revenge against man, and fairy tales. Off the food stamps to see if I can get more. I had told them months ago that I was homeless, because I feel homeless. Insecure. Adrift. Apart. Like always do I'm comfortable that way. Wish me luck. Opening paragraphs of ALMOST A DEAD MAN Hamburg 192 The scurry of claws across the filthy floor startled the woman on the battered chair and she lifted her black stiletto heels in horror. Rats were the least of her problems. Over the phone her lover had suggested a nocturnal rendezvous on Kaiserkai. No one came to Hamburg’s harbor at night. The woman had driven down to the warehouse district alone for rough sex with her Willi. Instead two men had been waiting on the unlit dock and dragged her into an abandoned warehouse. Now in a damp basement she pleaded, “Please let me go, I haven’t done anything wrong?” "Nothing wrong?” The black man in the spotless jogging suit circled the chair. Aviator sunglasses hid his eyes. He swatted the dusty 40-watt bulb dangling from the rafter, then tapped the woman’s gaunt face.  “Are you a saint?” “No, I am far from a saint.” The expensive wig flopped onto a folded lap. "Saints are only saints, because they are dead. You on the other hand are alive, because you are a sinner." Cali is still with us.