THE FASHIONISTA MURDERS—it's out at last and Kate is on the spot!

As the author of the Kate Conway series, I never thought I’d get as excited about writing jacket copy as I get in fleshing out plots. But the idea of forcing my sexy, intrepid investigative reporter—my stubbornly serious major character who looks upon fashion as a terminal illness—into becoming a fashionista was just too much to resist.

Especially when a serial killer is terrorizing the world of fashionistas by twisting their heads half-way around and dressing their naked torsos in burlap.

THE FASHIONISTA MURDERS, the third in the series of Kate Conway thrillers, is now available through Amazon Books in both soft cover and e-book for your Kindle, iPad, or whatever.  And with the action starting with the first sentence on page one, we’ve got another terror-packed thriller to rival THE MOUNTING STORM and THE DEADLY BUDDHA.

Soft cover: http://tinyurl.com/fashionistamurders
eBook: http://tinyurl.com/fashionistamurderskindle

Kate Conway fans hooked on her romantic ups-and-downs won’t be disappointed, either. In searching for the killer Kate is forced to interrupt her most spicy adventure yet—a real, wild and wooly un-Kate like fling. And both dramas play out in the tantalizingly spoiled world of supermodels, photographers and Russian and American billionaires.

In this latest fast-moving and heart-pounding thriller, only one this is for certain. Kate will have to summon every last ounce of her courage and cunning to trap the cold-blooded killer.  But she’d better hurry. Because he can’t wait to slip his black gloves around Kate’s lovely freckled neck—and twist.   

GOODBYE DON. GOODBYE PEGGY. GOODBYE MAD MEN

Sunday night the final season of the Mad Men television series began--to lukewarm praise by The New York Times. To a guy who was there the series illuminated the period of the 1960s but always missed being on target when it came to office drinking (overdone), to the rise of women in the industry (underdone), and the true significance of the breakthrough advertising of the time. It finally found its rhythm in the marital ups and downs of its major characters. Goodbye, ladies and gentlemen. Nice try. Sleep well.

THE SOUND THAT DROVE ME TO BECOME A WRITER

Another in a series of coming of age stories.

It makes me jealous when I read about writers who can look back on the words they wrote that became a turning point—and propelled them into the wild blue yonder as authors.

You know the scenario. “At the age of six the poem for her dying grandmother flowed from Jessica’s mouth and her father immediately enrolled her in Breadloaf.”

Sadly, I did not fall in love with writing at an early age. But I did fall in love with the Woodstock typewriter my father kept at home. The sound still echoes, reverberates—no, clashes like symbols—in my ears.

CLICKETY CLACK. CLACKETY CLICK

When you got a group of them together in a typing pool or the newsroom of my father’s office, it was pure music. It was a chorus of snare drums with the zing of little bells when they reached the end of the page and you pulled the carriage back.

CLICKETY CLACK. CLACKETY CLICK. ZING. ZING. ZING.

I wrote a couple of short stories in college along with some gutsy editorials as editor of the campus newspaper. And all during my two years in the Army following the Korean War I kept a diary filled with adventurous details that would underlay the next Great American Novel—when I ever got around to writing it.

CLICKETY CLACK. CLACKETY CLICK.

By now I was writing on a Smith-Corona portable. Which would eventually be replaced by the keypad of my computer and it’s polite little sound like a cat waltzing on ice. But even today with seven novels under my belt I can’t get that sound out of my head.

CLICKETY CLACK. CLACKETY CLICK.

The sound of pure inspiration. The sound of pure ecstasy. Maybe it explains why I write about investigative reporters and their adventures in tracking down serial killers.