When I'm Writing Fiction I'm Thinking, God,

Where Are You From, Mr. Pendergast? Can't Quite Place The Accent.” “new Orleans.” “what A Coincidence! I Went There For Mardi Gras Once." “how Nice For You. I Myself Have Never Attended.” Ludwig Paused, The Smile Frozen On His Face, Wondering How To Steer The Conversation Onto A More Pertinent Topic.

Steve Forman Strafes The South Florida Scene With Boca Knights, An Outrageously Funny Mystery Novel With A Raft Of Offbeat Characters And Prose That Moves Trippingly Off The Pen. His Main Man, Eddie Perlmutter, Ex-boston Cop Attempting Semi-retirement In Boca Raton Like A Fish Trying To Retire Out Of The Water, Is A Character For The Ages. Carl Hiaasen, Watch Your Back.

Once Again, We Shall Have To Operate Not Only Outside The Box, But Outside The Room Containing The Box.

It's A Very Bad Habit, But One I Find Hard To Break.

You Think Of Yourself As An "individual Person", With A Unique And Separate Mind. You Think You Are Born And You Think You Die. All Your Life You Feel Separate And Alone. Sometimes Desperately So. You Fear Death Because You Fear The Loss Of Individuality. All This Is An Illusion. You, He, She, Those Things Around You Living Or Not, The Stars And Galaxies, The Empty Space In Between- These Are Not Distinct, Separate Objects. All Is Fundamentally Entangled.