Dom Testa's Blog, page 3

"What took you so long?"

Imagine writing a story, a true labor of love, agonizing over every word—and then putting it in a drawer where no one would see it for years.

I’ve now done this more than once.

On November 7th, 2012, I jotted down some notes for a new book I would write for middle grade students. Using the pen name I employ for this genre, Buster Blank, I planned to call the story Bolly Higgins. I only knew one thing: I wanted it to be a ghost story.

I didn’t even know where the title came from. It wasn’t until I actually wrote the book that I invented a story for how this character came to be called Bolly. But I didn’t know that origin when the story first crossed my mind.

The words did not fly from my fingers. I made some notes, waited a few months, made more notes, and finally started writing the story in September, 2013.

Even then, I didn’t rush through it. In fact, I was disappointed with how it was going. So I set it aside for at least a year.

By 2015—three years after first considering it—I went back to work, and got most of the story finished.

In 2016, I finished the first draft. Keep in mind, while this was going on, I had several other writing projects underway. I wasn’t being a total slacker.

In 2018, another draft was finished and the story was ready to go. But I didn’t focus on the other things required to make it an actual book. Like cover art. I was, for whatever reason, still in no hurry.

Finally, in December of 2022, I reached an agreement with a cover artist, and they went to work. Today—I’m writing this in February, 2023, more than TEN YEARS after making my initial notes—the book is just about ready to go.

The title has expanded to The Ghost of Bolly Higgins. I love the artwork, and I’m thrilled it’s finally rolling out to middle grade kids. Well, for that matter, rolling out to anyone who might enjoy the weird little tale.

So, back to the original question:

What took you so long?

I chuckle when I think how this fun little book, which I really enjoy, just sat around on various hard drives for a decade. It was good enough to be published—but I waited.

Sometimes I’m convinced books will tell me when they’re ready to go. I know how that sounds, and I’m sorry if it’s a bit woo-woo (or a LOT woo-woo).

But this isn’t the first time I’ve finished a book and sat on it, either.

I have not one, but two middle-grade/young adult mystery novels finished—full novels—and they’ve both been ready to go for ten years. TEN YEARS, and they’re just sitting there. The reason for this particular delay is that I want to write the third book in the series before releasing any of them. When I finish number three in that mystery series, I’ll release them all.

Maybe there’s another strange psychology to this. Knowing I have finished material in the pipeline is somewhat comforting. On days when I don’t feel like I’ve produced enough words, or when an Eric Swan novel is taking too long, my subconscious can say, “Hey, you’re not a total loser. You’ve got all sorts of books already finished.”

I’ve heard of authors who died, and their estates later announced that they’d found unpublished manuscripts lying around. So apparently it’s a thing with authors. We hoard shit like squirrels, I guess.

The Ghost of Bolly Higgins, however, has aged like a fine wine in its oak barrel. It’ll be out soon. The young adult mystery books will hopefully be not too far behind.

Time to get more stuff in the pipeline.

Books Read in 2022

Image courtesy of César Viteri on Unsplash

For the last dozen years or so, I’ve kept track of every book I’ve read—and yes, I count audiobooks. If you look down your nose at that, I think you’re misguided. That’s a conversation for another time.

In 2022, I consumed 28 books, just shy of 11,000 pages worth of fiction and non-fiction. Some were not that good. Some were fantastic. Allow me to share:

I knocked out a couple of classics in this stretch, including The Count of Monte Cristo, by Alexandre Dumas. It clocked in at a whopping 1,300 pages, and I enjoyed it. Dense, and difficult to follow at times. But the story of ultimate revenge is something I think we might all fantasize about.

Another classic: T.H. White’s The Once and Future King. It was a reading assignment way back in high school or college (the two years I went), and I still had the hardback on my shelves after all these years. I dove in again.

I shouldn’t have.

There was a series of ebooks labeled the Forward Collection, a bunch of novellas by some of the biggest names in publishing. Like who? Like Veronica Roth (of Divergent fame), Andy Weir (The Martian and Project: Hail Mary—my favorite book of 2021), and Amor Towles (author of A Gentleman in Moscow).

As you might expect, some of them were good, some . . . well, not so good. I particularly enjoyed Summer Frost, by Blake Crouch.

I watched the first season of Slow Horses, on Apple TV (LOVE it) and decided to try the novel upon which it was based. Mick Herron’s story about disgraced spies was one of my favorites of the year. I enjoy his writing style. Sorry to inject a personal plug, but I found his voice to be similar to my Eric Swan spy series. Maybe that’s why I took to it so easily.

I rarely re-read books, but in 2022 I revisited one of my favorites of all-time. Lamb, by Christopher Moore, is still fucking hilarious. And thought-provoking. Can’t beat that. (Warning: It WILL offend many people of a religious persuasion.)

Several of William Diehl’s novels made my list, including Primal Fear. The movie, with Richard Gere and Ed Norton, was excellent. The novel was a page-turner, too.

I found that I enjoyed the audiobook versions of Michael Connelly’s Lincoln Lawyer series while I was out on my walks. I absorbed four of them during the year.

Non-fiction ranged from a biography of J. Robert Oppenheimer, to Johann Hari’s exploration on our ability (or lack thereof) to focus—and what causes that—to Robert McKee’s classic tome on screenwriting.

The quirkiest read of the year has to go to Jonas Jonasson’s The 100-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared. The title alone sucks you in. But what a crazy premise for a story, and really fun to read. Disclaimer: It’s not for everyone, but if you’re looking for a rollicking story, commit to it.

My favorite of the year? That’s tough. But I think I’ll actually give the nod to the last book I read in 2022, one that was recommended by my son.

It’s called The Mountain in the Sea, by Ray Nayler. It’s sci-fi-ish, but gives you a lot to think about. It’s not an easy read, so be prepared to do some work. But it’s worth it.

I’ll post the full list below. And, another disclaimer: Links in this article are affiliate links, which means I receive a very small commission on any sales—but it costs you not a penny more. For the record, I never post links to products I don’t use or don’t fully endorse, and I’ve read every book mentioned in this post.

Enjoy.

Ted Chiang, Exhalation

Andy Weir, Randomize (Forward Collection

Veronica Roth, Ark (Forward Collection)

Paul Tremblay, The Last Conversation (Forward Collection)

Blake Crouch, Summer Frost (Forward Collection)

Tammi Labrecque, Newsletter Ninja 2

Brandon Sanderson, Mistborn

Amor Towles, You Have Arrived at Your Destination (Forward Collection)

Kai Bird/Martin J. Sherwin, American Prometheus

Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

John D. MacDonald, Pale Gray for Guilt

Edward Rutherfurd, New York

John D. MacDonald, The Girl in the Plain Brown Wrapper

Mick Herron, Slow Horses

Christopher Moore, Lamb

Robert McKee, Story

Michael Connelly, The Reversal

Johann Hari, Stolen Focus

Michael Connelly, The Fifth Witness

William Diehl, 27 (Now published as The Hunt)

William Diehl, Sharky’s Machine

Michael Connelly, The Gods of Guilt

Michael Connelly, The Law of Innocence

William Diehl, Primal Fear

Ann Cleeves, The Crow Trap

Jonas Jonasson, The 100-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared

T.H. White, The Once and Future King

Ray Nayler, The Mountain in the Sea

Social exit

Looking back, I’m grateful now for some snotty messages I read on social media. They stung at the time. There was even a sense of betrayal looped in because the person behind it all was a friend.

The incident spurred me to take a break. I’m certainly not the first person to swear off social media for a mental holiday. It seems we often stumble across people making this announcement—and usually ON social media, which is either ironic or indicative of just how dumb the whole thing is.

I didn’t make some grandiose announcement. I just put it away.

At the same time, I began researching the (sometimes) disastrous effects our addictions to social media, smartphones, and technology in general are having on our abilities to concentrate and remain focused. In a nutshell: It’s scary.

It’s not just that we’re sold the notion that we need to “stay connected.” It’s gone way beyond that, to the point where social media networks are flat-out engineering their systems to manipulate you—and you don’t even know it. We are pawns. We’re being used and abused and certainly set against each other in order to make stupendous profits for a few very smart people who learned quickly how to drive us like cattle.

But . . . I have to

I’m in a difficult position because the radio station I work for has a substantial following on social media, and it’s how we’re asked to sometimes communicate with thousands of listeners who expect it. So I will occasionally log on to the station’s pages—not my personal profile—and do a quick post for entertainment value. Then I leave, without scrolling or looking at one thing. Even then, I feel dirty.

Look, I’m not foolish enough to believe that saying something like, ‘You need to put your phone down and back away’ could have any effect on the vast majority of people. The very problem with addiction is that we’re generally unmoved by people telling us to alter our behavior. Christ, we’re addicted. If decades of warnings about cigarettes causing a painful, grisly death aren’t enough to make some people stop committing gradual suicide, what chance would my lone suggestion have of influencing anyone to give their brain a break?

In fact, when I mentioned the idea to a handful of people, 100% of them said they could not do it. Would not do it. Each gave a different reason, and each said, “I’m different.”

That is downright chilling. Like something from a science fiction movie.

All I can do is speak for myself. I’ve always known social media and constant, endless scrolling and surfing were not good for me, and yet I couldn’t stop. Just like I know those freaking chocolate chip cookies are poison and yet I’ll still eat one if given the opportunity. The addiction centers of our brains are way, way more powerful than you think.

What can happen

I’m now six months into my mental holiday, and here’s what I’ve accomplished in that time:

- I’ve finished one novel and I’m 90% finished with another.

- I’ve completed two significant home improvement projects and started another.

- I’ve exercised more.

- I’ve had fulfilling conversations—not text conversations, but actual spoken communication—with old friends I hadn’t spoken with in a while.

- I’m concentrating better.

- I’m eating better.

- Honest to god, I’m sleeping better.

And, perhaps most eye-opening, I don’t give a rat’s ass about anything I’m ‘missing’ on social media. Like . . . nothing. I especially don’t miss the cauldron of both kinds of toxic behavior: bitter hatred and nauseating toxic positivity. I’m so much better off without either.

I’m happier, too, because I’m no longer reading comments. Sure, a few were funny and even helpful; the bulk of them, however, were either asinine or downright mean. I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. When posting comments became a thing, it was good news (we saw what people thought) and bad news (we saw what people thought). Now, people feel like they MUST comment, even when the best move would be silence.

Let’s be realistic

Courtesy Diogo Brandao on Unsplash

Is this post going to influence anyone? I’d say no. Few people will read this and analyze how their life and their brain power has been hacked. Nobody wants to even think about it. I’m convinced the poisoning has been so thorough that they can’t think about it.

So, no, I’m not trying t be some sort of evangelist. I’m just speaking what I believe to be the truth. We’ve been bamboozled, and for every benefit we’ve received from gadgets and social media (yes, benefits do exist), there’s at least one harmful side effect.

Live your life. Do whatever you want—even though I’m convinced you’ve been manipulated into what you think you want. I’m sure you believe you’re “different.”

But I can’t emphasize enough how much I’m enjoying the experiment and I can’t see any way I’ll ever devote as much time as I used to in killing off brain cells with garbage overload. It’s like breaking through a fog into sunlight. Looking back, I see the opaque, gray swirl that held my mind hostage while someone in Silicon Valley giggled and bought another mansion.

Screw them.

Did this resonate with you? Consider buying Dom a tea or beer.

Go It Alone

It happened again: I mentioned that I had traveled to the UK for eleven days, by myself, and several people gave me a bug-eyed look while exclaiming, "By yourself? Oh, I could never do that!"

Well, they could, actually, and might even enjoy it. After making multiple solo trips around the US and overseas, I've compiled a few notes and observations that might help you if you're considering such a journey.

I can save you time right up front, and perhaps eliminate you from the Solo Travel Club, by appraising your personality. Are you okay with traveling extraordinarily light, with—at most—a carry-on suitcase and a backpack? Are you capable of asking for help and information from strangers in a strange land?

And, perhaps the most important of all: Are you able to go more than an hour or two without talking to another human being? (Don't laugh; some people require a non-stop verbal connection, and must be talking at all times. We've all seen—and heard—them.) Solo travel, while not lonely per se, requires that you be all right by yourself for long stretches.

If you said 'no' to any of these, you might not be a candidate. In that case, find a buddy and double up.

What I've learned

For one thing, you see twice as much. I don't care how much you have in common with a travel partner, it's just not reasonable to expect everyone to have the same pace. I walk fast, I take in a lot in a short amount of time, and I'm not waiting for my travel partner to (a) read every detail on the placard, (b) take pictures of every single step along the way, or (c) pee again.

Don't get me wrong, I don't fly through every location. But we each have our own individual pacing and interest level for travel, and two people simply take longer. Three or more? Forget it, you're going to see much less than what you'd experience on your own.

Next, you meet more people, especially locals. Sure, you can meet people when you're traveling as a couple, but think about it: when there are two of you, you're usually talking to each other at cafes and pubs. When you're alone, you seek out other people. I'm often doing book research on these trips, and I relish the chance to ask locals about their town or their business—and they love to talk about it. And they usually love making recommendations.

And then there's the distraction factor. As you maneuver down small European streets, for instance, there's an endless amount of sensory input at your disposal: shops, people, ruins, and small details you miss when you're chatting with a friend. But solo? You see almost everything and can easily stop or go back to explore.

But there’s more

There's an additional benefit I hesitate to list, simply because it's often misunderstood. But I'll just say it: people feel sorry for you, so the service you receive is often better.

It's true. Whenever I plop down with my backpack in a foreign restaurant or pub, the servers invariably give me more attention than when I'm with a travel partner. I suppose they feel like I'm a lost puppy or something, when the truth is I'm having the time of my life. That's okay with me; it also means someone else to chat with about the area.

On my last solo trip to the UK, I spontaneously hopped off a train to explore a small medieval village called Chilham, population about 500. I wandered into a pub, The Woolpack Inn, which has been in continuous operation since 1485 (that's before Columbus bumped into the Americas). I sat at the bar and instantly was adopted by Nikola, the owner, and five of the townsfolk. One of them, Sid, had lived in Chilham for 83 of his 88 years. Not only was he charming (you can tell from this photo), but full of remarkable stories.

And Nikola pushed local beers and wine on me to sample. Please, stop some more.

That's just one of countless examples. I understand solo travel isn't for everyone; there's likely a certain personality gene required to be comfortable in it. As a writer, it's perfect, allowing me quiet time on a train to get work done. (Much of this particular piece was composed between London's Victoria Station and Bearsted, on my way to visit Leed's Castle.)

Is it for you? Perhaps you should invest one week of your life to find out. You might surprise yourself—and your bug-eyed friends.

Review: 27 (The Hunt)

If the book title in my headline is confusing, it’s because the publisher made it confusing.

See, the version I have actually came out in 1990, when it was titled “27.” A few years later, the publisher (perhaps thinking “27” was a lousy book title) changed it to “The Hunt.”

Regardless -

The author is the late William Diehl, the same guy who penned “Primal Fear,” (also a good book) which was turned into a hit movie with Richard Gere and Edward Norton, in his film debut.

But “27/The Hunt” is nothing like “Primal Fear.” It’s a period piece, set in the turbulent years leading up to World War II.

The number in the title is the secret code name for a spy who has been planted in the US, not unlike the premise of the hit TV show, “The Americans.” Only here, it’s not a Russian spy, but rather a hand-picked agent by Adolf Hitler and the Nazis.

A wealthy American playboy takes on the task of hunting down this spy (for reasons I can’t tell you without spoilers). Suffice to say, the American, a man named Francis Keegan, has serious personal motives for wanting to exact revenge on the Nazi party.

Diehl creates a series of believable and fascinating characters, on both sides of the impending war. It’s a rollicking adventure, a book I read 30 years ago and just now dug up and enjoyed again.

Highly recommended for thriller fans. I’m supplying affiliate links here if you’d like to check it out, along with Diehl’s other hit, “Primal Fear.”

Mourning my celebrity crush

Do you remember your first celebrity crush? Mine was spurred by a #1 pop song that came out when I was 13 years old.

There was no MTV in 1975 and no real outlet to see the performers, unless you stayed up late for The Midnight Special or happened to accidentally catch them on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson.

But trust me, I knew Olivia Newton-John. Her hit record, “Have You Never Been Mellow,” isn’t exactly the kind of song you’d expect a boy going through puberty to latch onto.

I liked the hard-rock stuff, too, but there was something about this breathy ballad that caught my attention. And when I did watch her sing it live on Johnny’s show, I swooned. I still remember my parents laughing at my reaction.

Sure, she became the dream girl for a LOT of young men when Grease came out in 1978—hey, for a while her nickname was Olivia Neutron Bomb.

But I had the hots for Olivia long before she stunned John Travolta with her leather pants, frizzy hair, and cigarette.

Then, a couple years later, when I was a young disc jockey, she kept a song at #1 on the US pop charts for a staggering ten weeks, even though several radio stations banned it.

When you hear “Physical” today, you almost have to laugh at how tame it is. All you can say is, ‘It was a different time.’

Over many decades in radio, I’ve met a lot of singers, but I never had the privilege of meeting Olivia, and I regret that. I’ve admired her tenacity through multiple personal challenges and I’ve silently cheered for her as she fought her way through.

Sadly, she lost the battle with one of those issues today, August 8th. She was only 73.

I’m sorry for her family and friends, and saddened that one of the genuinely nice people in a cutthroat industry has left us. But I’m grateful for the memories she left, not the least of which are my memories of my first celebrity crush.

You never forget those.

Heart image courtesy of Nicola Fioravanti on Unsplash

Turning It Off

Looking back, I’m grateful now for some snotty messages on social media. They stung at the time. There was even a sense of betrayal looped in because the person behind it all was a friend.

The incident spurred me to take a break. I’m certainly not the first person to swear off social media for a mental holiday. It seems we often stumble across people making this announcement—and usually ON social media, which is either ironic or indicative of just how dumb the whole thing is.

I didn’t make some grandiose announcement. I just put it away.

At the same time, I began researching the (sometimes) disastrous effects our addictions to social media, smartphones, and technology in general are having on our abilities to concentrate and remain focused. You should read this stuff. It might nudge you into making some adjustments, too. In a nutshell: It’s scary.

It’s not just that we’re sold the notion that we need to “stay connected.” It’s gone way beyond that, to the point that the social media networks are flat-out engineering their systems to manipulate you—and you don’t even know it. We are pawns. We’re being used and abused and certainly set against each other in order to make stupendous profits for a few very smart people who learned quickly how to drive us like cattle.

I’m in a difficult position because the radio station I work for has a substantial following on social media, and it’s how we’re asked to sometimes communicate with thousands of listeners who expect it. So I will occasionally log on to the station’s page—not my personal profile—and do a quick post for entertainment value. Then I leave, without scrolling or looking at one thing. Even then, I feel dirty.

Look, I’m not foolish enough to believe that saying something like, ‘You need to put your phone down and back away’ could have any effect on the vast majority of people. The very problem with addiction is that we’re generally unmoved by people telling us to alter our behavior. Christ, we’re addicted. If decades of warnings about cigarettes causing a painful, grisly death aren’t enough to make people stop committing gradual suicide, what chance would my lone suggestion have of influencing anyone to give their brain a break?

In fact, when I mentioned the idea to a handful of people, 100% of them said they could not do it. Would not do it. Each gave a different reason, and each insisted “I’m different.”

That is downright chilling. Like something from a science fiction movie.

All I can do is speak for myself. I’ve always known that social media and constant, endless scrolling and surfing were not good for me, and yet I couldn’t stop. Just like I know those goddamned chocolate chip cookies are poison and yet I’ll still eat one if given the opportunity. The addiction centers of our brains are way, way more powerful than you think.

I’m twelve days into my mental holiday, and here’s what I’ve accomplished in less than two weeks:

I’ve penned 16,000 words on a new novel.

I’ve completed one significant home improvement project and started another.

I’ve exercised more.

I’ve had fulfilling conversations—not text conversations, but actual spoken communication—with two old friends I hadn’t spoken with in a while.

I’m concentrating better.

I’m eating better.

Honest to god, I’m sleeping better.

And, perhaps most eye-opening, I don’t give a rat’s ass about anything I’m ‘missing’ on social media. Like . . . nothing. I especially don’t miss the cauldron of both kinds of toxic behavior: bitter hatred and nauseating toxic positivity. I’m so much better off without either.

I’m happier, too, because I’m no longer reading comments. Sure, a few were funny and even helpful; the bulk of them, however, were either asinine or downright mean. I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. When posting comments became a thing, it was good news (we saw what people thought) and bad news (we saw what people thought). Now, people feel like they MUST comment, even when the best move would be silence.

Is this post going to influence anyone? I’d say no. I doubt even ONE person will read this and analyze how their life and their brain power has been hacked. Nobody wants to even think about it. I’m convinced the poisoning has been so thorough that they can’t think about it.

So, no, I’m not trying to be some sort of evangelist. I’m just speaking what I believe to be the truth. We’ve been bamboozled, and for every benefit we’ve received from gadgets and social media (yes, they do exist), there’s at least one harmful side effect.

Live your life. Do whatever you want—even though I’m convinced you’ve been manipulated into what you think you want. I’m sure you believe you’re “different.”

But I can’t emphasize enough how much I’m enjoying the experiment and I can’t see any way I’ll ever devote as much time as I used to in killing off brain cells with garbage overload. It’s like breaking through a fog into sunlight. Looking back, I see the opaque, gray swirl that had held my mind hostage while someone in Silicon Valley giggled and bought another mansion.

Screw them.

The Selfish James Bond

I spent New Year’s Eve on the couch, watching the latest James Bond movie. (WARNING: This piece contains spoilers.) The rental cost six bucks, which was less expensive (and safer) than going out on Amateur Night, and allowed me to see how the producers and Daniel Craig wrapped up the actor’s five-movie arc.

My take-away? No Time To Die had the usual thrilling gadgets, cars, and action sequences, the usual breathtaking locations and scenery, and the usual dumbed-down dialogue. No surprises on those counts.

The ending? The one that had many people buzzing?

I thought it was—what’s the word? Ah, yes: Selfish.

Pawns

We live in an entertainment world obsessed with raising the bar on outlandishness. I’ve never enjoyed that silly game of one-upping through cheap tactics and visual stimulation, but I’ve grudgingly accepted that there’s no way back.

The people at Eon (the producers of the Bond franchise), however, painted themselves into an awkward corner, all for the sake of simultaneously kissing Daniel Craig’s ass and selling out for a bombastic ending that would procure media attention and garner social media buzz. Craig allegedly long ago demanded that his tenure as 007 end with the death of the secret agent. If that’s true, I can think of no other word to describe it than selfish. On his part, and the part of the studio.

What Eon and the writers have basically done is say that the first 60 years of the franchise—and the half-dozen actors who’ve worn the Bond tuxedo with a mixture of machismo and whimsy—were no better than pawns, simply setting up the storyline so Daniel Wroughton Craig could waltz in now and wrap himself in the curtain. I found it to be a slap in the face, not to just the preceding actors but also to Bond’s creator, Ian Fleming. Hey, thanks for creating this iconic character for me to play; I’ll now kill him off.

Lest you think this is me crabbing about Craig’s talent, that’s not true. When he debuted in Casino Royale 15 years ago, I was impressed. I felt he brought an interesting new dynamic to the character; maybe not as dashing as Sean Connery’s interpretation, but certainly a giant step up from the cartoonish portrayals by Roger Moore. Craig imbued the secret agent with a gritty, even angry edge, but his performances at least suggested that a heart beat somewhere beneath that holster.

I even appreciate the fact that it was something of a reboot to the series.

What I take exception to is the notion that James Bond begins and ends with Mr. Craig. Yes, the movie industry has changed drastically since Dr. No in 1962, and almost every series has shifted from being about the characters to being about the marketing and the financial clout. Don’t think for one moment that the Marvel universe is about anything other than seeing how many zeroes they can add to the ledger with each “new” film. All any producer wants today is scoreboard; it certainly ain’t about the art.

But some hopeful (and naive) part of me had hoped that this franchise—many call it the original movie franchise—would keep the character front and center. Instead, we became wrapped up in the actor and his selfish needs. Daniel Craig can’t just drive off into the sunset in that gorgeous Aston Martin; we must watch him die. It’s as if he’s saying, If I’m not playing Bond, no one is playing Bond.

Selfish. I would’ve had tons more respect for Craig if he’d said something like, “What an honor it’s been to be able to play this role (for gazillions of dollars.) And now it’s my honor to hand it off to the capable hands of (name).” That would’ve been cool, and would’ve been a respectful tribute to Ian Fleming and his character. But sadly, no.

Cash Cow

Of course, 007 is a major cash cow, and no one in Hollywood would ever walk away from that. And this is where it gets even more confusing. As the credits scroll at the end of No Time To Die—just minutes, mind you, after blowing up our hero—they insist “James Bond will return.”

So the writers and producers must manipulate audiences in about three years with some clever, oh-so-enlightened manner of hopping out of their death dilemma. And if that’s the case, then WHAT EXACTLY WAS THE POINT? Why kill off Bond if it wasn’t just a smarmy concession to Daniel Craig’s ego and/or Eon’s snickering joy at grabbing headlines?

It’s all so silly. Even the tricks they must resort to in order to bring the British agent back from the dead will become secondary to the all-out media blitz of naming the latest god (or goddess) to claim the role of James Bond. The film’s story itself will be far down the list of importance, and you know that’s true.

We must all get twitterpated over the debut of a new 007, naturally arguing over the producers’ selection, and then we must debate how they maneuvered out of the awkward ending of Craig’s final moment of glory. And then maybe, just maybe, we’ll have a comment or two about the actual story.

It won’t really be Bond ever again; it’ll be fill-in-the-blank actor taking their turn at raising the bar on outrageousness, over and over. And when that actor’s run comes to an end, just how exactly will they steal the show? How will they top Craig’s climax?

We’ll see. Or maybe I won’t. Maybe I’m tired of funding this nonsense. Over the past couple of decades, the original fun and escapism of 007 has been usurped by the bloated needs of studios and actors. That genie will never find its way back into the bottle.

And that’s just selfish.

If you’re interested in comparing Ian Fleming’s original character to the film versions, check out the James Bond novels.

I’ve read about half of them, and personally enjoy the dramatic differences between the Fleming Bond and the Hollywood Bond.

Find the collection here .

Books Read in 2021

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Since 2013, I’ve kept track of every book I’ve read. Starting a few years ago, I began including audiobooks. (If you don’t believe those should count, that’s your problem, not mine; they don’t have to go on YOUR list.)

I usually average somewhere between 25 and 30 books per year, and this year would be considered normal: 27 completed books, 17 of which were print or ebook, 10 that were audio, and a total of nearly 11,000 pages. That works out to one book every two weeks, which, given my schedule—including my own writing—I’m happy with.

My 2021 list includes all four entries in the Cemetery of Forgotten Books series by the late Carlos Ruiz Zafón, a few of Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch and Lincoln Lawyer series, and a couple of epics, including Ken Follett’s The Pillars of the Earth.

Only two were books I’d read before: Frank Herbert’s Dune (which I first tackled back in the 1980s), and Victor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning, which I read in the ‘90s.

My list, as always, included fiction and non-fiction. I enjoyed new books first published this year, a few that date to the 1960s, while the oldest was an Agatha Christie mystery from 1931.

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And, since I’m asked the question each year, I’ll tell you my favorite—and it wasn’t even a close race. Andy Weir’s Project: Hail Mary instantly became one of my Top 20 choices of all-time. If you dive in, I would strongly recommend the audiobook version. I can’t tell you why without it being a spoiler. Just trust me; do the audiobook of this one.

The first finished book of 2022 will be one I’ve started in this last week of ’21, a fantasy novel—and I’m not even a fan of the genre. But I like to explore various genres outside my comfort zone, and I encourage people to do the same. It stretches different muscles in your brain.

As for my own writing, I didn’t publish a new Eric Swan thriller this year (I’m working on #5 right now), but I stayed very busy. I re-worked and re-published six books in my young adult science fiction series under a new pen name. I also published two young adult mystery novels in serialized form under that same name using the Kindle Vella program.

And I wrote three “fun fact/trivia” books under yet another pen name; those will be published in the first quarter of 2022. So while I didn’t put out anything new this year under the name Dom Testa, I still managed to write, upload, or re-launch more than ten books in 2021. It was a very productive 12 months.

If you’re wondering WHY the need for so many different names, I explain that in a blog post .

Wishing you a happy new year, and I hope you stumble across a bunch of great books to devour in 2022.

Dom

(Links in this article are affiliate links, which means I receive a very small commission on any sales - but it costs you not a penny more. For the record, I never post links to products I don’t use or don’t fully endorse, and I’ve read every book mentioned in this post.)

Why I Use Various Pen Names

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As the year 2021 comes to a close, I’ve published 21 books and counting. There will be several more coming out in the next year. Of those existing 21, a little more than half are published under my name, Dom Testa. The other ten are spread across three other fake names—what we call pen names.

I’m frequently asked: Why do you do that? Why do you write some books under different names?

As confusing as the practice may seem, the reason is actually to reduce confusion. Many people are die-hard loyalists to only certain genres and specific authors. When that author turns around and writes something completely different, they get disgusted—and might never come back to that author again. Sad, but very true.

So, for instance, when I write the Eric Swan series under Dom Testa, those books appeal to people who like adult thrillers/spy books. When I turn around and write bizarre stories for middle grade students, it would confuse the hell out of Swan readers. So I write those middle grade books under the name Buster Blank. If someone likes those for their kids, and later sees another Buster Blank title, they’ll know exactly what they’re getting.

My six-book series of young adult science fiction novels (the Galahad series) USED to be published under Dom Testa, but I’ve repackaged and relaunched them under a name (Tyber North) that defines them from now on as YA titles. Likewise, a young adult mystery series (the Cooper James series) that I have serialized on the Kindle Vella platform is published under Tyber North, too. All the YA stuff goes in that bucket.

I’ve recently written some “fun fact/trivia” books, because that’s a genre that has a very distinct and loyal audience. When those are published beginning in 2022, they’ll be found under the name Billy B. Good.

And I have one collection of dark, creepy short fiction (for adults only) that fall under the umbrella of my Harlan Plumber persona. Whenever I write new dark, creepy fiction, it’ll be found under that same name.

So that’s I why I publish under different names. It just makes things easier for fans of particular genres. Unfortunately, my five (and counting) Mindbender books mess up this system, but since they’re an offshoot of the radio feature I do as Dom Testa, I have no choice but to publish them under that name.

Which means somewhere in Australia or India, someone has discovered the Eric Swan series by Dom Testa and can’t understand why this same author has Mindbender books.

C’est la vie.