My sixth novel, No One Dreams in Color, started as a story, titled Wendigo. Which then became a film script. Which eventually turned into a novel revolving around a man, Paul Kirby, who had written a story which he had turned into a script that was then made into a nine-minute film, Wendigo, whose blue mood conjured the spirit of lonely places. Paul Kirby mysteriously disppears in the high desert town of Nine Peaks. And from there, a tale of metaphysical noir begins its rabbit hole plunge and boogie. Here is a small dose of No One Dreams in Color:

We were sitting at a café in the Mission called Havana, which had a Cuban theme. Framed photos of Cuban street life and culture adorned the café’s pale orange walls. A Cuban flag was pinned horizontally to the wall behind the counter. A stack of cigar magazines were laid out on a metal coffee table in the center of the café. One of the magazines had a cover photo of a snow-bearded Hemingway, with a thick cigar plugged into his mouth.
Lucy said that Havana was one of her favorite haunts. I found it oddly touching that she had used the word haunt.
Outside, a cold rain was falling, which made me feel like a real detective. Or rather, like a real detective from the movies.
Here I was, in a café, on a rainy day, sitting across from a woman who didn’t match her name, and was the old flame of a man who had disappeared, a man whose ghost I was stalking. It was a movie I had seen before, wrapped within dozens of other movies. Except I was in it, though there was no one watching me from the cushy perspective of passive audience. Or was there?
I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching. Always watching. No wonder Santa Claus was such a polarizing figure.