First, a quick refresher: The original Gilded Age (1870s–early 1900s) was a lightning-storm stretch of American history—booming industry, runaway innovation, and enough new money flying around to pave the streets in gold… assuming you ignored the child labor, the sweatshops, the political backroom deals, and the sort of wealth inequality that made the Titanic look like a dinghy.
Sound familiar? With the news of Netflix snapping up Warner Bros., I couldn’t help thinking we’ve circled right back to those “good old days”—only now the industrial giants have traded smokestacks for servers. Different era, same playbook: act in your own best interest, slap a friendly label on it, and hope no one notices the quacking. (A gentle nod here to Tim Cook: if it walks like a duck…)
And here’s the part we keep forgetting: history doesn’t just repeat—sometimes it remixes. We’re past the point of failing to learn from the past. We’re at the point where we’re reenacting it—division, scapegoating, and the age-old pastime of deciding who does and doesn’t “belong.” Just like the Gilded Age… only with better Wi-Fi.
So yes, make your money, nurse your grudges, do your thing. But just remember: the pendulum always swings back. And when it does, to quote the ever-reliable Ben Grimm, “It’s clobberin’ time.”

The second time around the block, silence wasn’t golden — it was a klaxon. Fortunately, I had Glen Held in my corner, and Glen isn’t the type to shrug and hope for the best. Ask him yourself, but I’m fairly certain a small storm of emails and texts went flying into the ether demanding to know what the hell was going on. It didn’t take long before the truth peeked out from behind the curtain.
Pro Se Productions had folded up its tent.
Perfect. A fully finished, fully edited novel… and nowhere for it to land!
Enter the next hero — the creator of Max Davies, the Peregrine himself — Mr. Barry Reese. Barry, the very definition of prolific, wasn’t about to let two authors drift off into the void. Practically before the dust settled, he let us know he’d be publishing both books under his newly formed Reese Unlimited banner, bundled into a series appropriately titled Flights of the Peregrine. Deals were made, handshakes exchanged, and just like that, Glen’s novel and mine were back from the dead and flapping their wings again.
Cut to November 2025: two Flights already in the air, with more warming up on the runway courtesy of some very talented writers.
My paperback of Flights of the Peregrine: The Last Argonaut just arrived, and it’s a stunner. A gorgeous edition, beautifully put together. And as I type this, I’m waiting on the hardback — yes, you read that right — both Glen’s Legends of the Earth and my own The Last Argonaut are now available as handsome hardcover collector’s items.
A lot of people deserve thanks, and they know exactly who they are. But for the record, one more round of applause for Mr. Glen Held, Mr. Dale Russell, and our caped crusader of the hour, Mr. Barry Reese. I thank you, Glen thanks you, and I’m pretty sure The Peregrine and The Red Menace tip their fedora and cowls as well.
Cheers.

It’s never a good sign when a publisher suddenly slips under the radar like a Cold War submarine. Unreturned emails, unanswered calls—it all adds up to one thing: uh-oh.
Fortunately, I had a not-so-secret weapon in my corner—author, investigator, and all-around mensch, Mr. Glen Held. Glen’s a hell of a writer, and both of us had pitched novels featuring Barry Reese’s pulp hero The Peregrine. Part vigilante, part occult detective, all hero—the guy checks every box for two writers who grew up on shadowy alleys and two-fisted crimefighters.
We both worked our tails off on our novels and turned them in… and then? Crickets. Not even polite crickets. Meanwhile, I also had a short story (Operation Purple Zombie) parked with the same publisher, and the runaround had become so routine I felt like I needed frequent-flier miles for it. Add to that the joy of switching literary managers—never a stress-free process—and let’s just say my attention was somewhat divided.
But Glen? Oh, Glen wasn’t having it. He was not about to take this publishing slight lying down.
We traded messages, always ending with Glen promising he’d “look into it,” and look into it he did. He hounded the publisher until, miracle of miracles, an editor named Dale Russell finally emerged from the mist and contacted him. Together they whipped Glen’s book into shape—and surprise! I was next in the chute.
Success! After three years of waiting, something was finally happening.
Once Dale and Glen wrapped, it was my turn in the editing chair. It was my first time working with a bona fide, capital-E professional editor, and Dale was an absolute godsend. Detailed notes on everything—story, structure, and my unnatural fondness for overwriting and repeating myself. (Guilty as charged.) It was genuinely a joy.
Two months later, after a lot of work and a lot of fun, we were finally done.
Off it all went to the publisher and…
You guessed it:

Silence. Again.

Final Chapter:  Next Week!

My hard drive is a virtual elephant’s graveyard of lost stories, novels, and screenplays. Honestly, they’re almost too numerous to name. Some died because of an accident at birth—usually at the hands of their loving author. Some died of old age. (Hey, I fed them as long as I could.) A few were commissioned and then abandoned when the money evaporated, or for some other very Hollywood excuse. And some simply lie in wait, biding their time until I die.
Ha. Bad news, stories: I’m never going away.
But The Last Argonaut was different.
The tale of the Golden Fleece has always held a special place in my heart. It was a favorite story—and film—when I was a kid, and I could never shake the epic adventure out of my head. Many years ago, I wrote a screenplay called Barry and the Argonauts—think Ray Harryhausen meets Ghostbusters. It floated all around La La Land. People read it, even liked it, but no one had the faintest idea what to do with it. Its last stop was the producers of Bill, Mickey Rooney’s Emmy-winning TV movie. Long story short: the concept died a quiet, dusty death, and no one ever made the film.
Cut to many, many years later. I get an invitation to submit proposals to a publisher called Pro Se Productions. I’d already had one story accepted there and figured, why not try my luck again? (If you want more on that other tale—the Purple Zombie one—pick up Tales from the Chair, available now. Yes, that’s a plug. I am shameless.)
My proposal was accepted, contracts signed, and I rolled up my sleeves to write my opus. Barry became author Barry Reese’s daring creation, The Peregrine. Pro Se sent me literal volumes of stories—an entire universe of pulp heroes and villains. It was all wonderfully adventurous and fit perfectly with my lifelong love of pulp fiction.
A quick side note: This is also when I met someone I now consider a friend—Glen Held. His pitch had been accepted too, and we became a sort of two-man support group, trading tips on how to bring Barry’s character to life. Glen and I turned our novels in within days of each other, both of us chomping at the bit to see what Pro Se had planned.
And then… nothing.
(To be continued.)

BTW, did you see the big contest? Now is your chance. December 2o is the deadline so don't let it slip by. Not just one, not just two, not even 3. All four autographed by me. What are you waiting for?

I get asked sometimes if I miss stand-up. The short answer? Not really. There were—and still are—so many comedians who were simply better. Years later, I can look back and truly admire what they do: the discipline, the grind, the sheer nerve it takes to keep getting up there night after night.
As for me, I’m exactly where I want to be. These days, I get to write stories, create worlds, and still make people feel something—sometimes even laugh. Folks read the books, visit the site, and check in just to see what I’m up to. That’s more than enough spotlight for me.
If my website were a small comedy club, we’d be doing just fine.
Most nights, about sixty people wander in — some regulars, some curious first-timers. The lights are dim, the mic’s a little dented, and the jokes are equal parts pulp and punchline.
Real laughs don’t come cheap. But the crowd sticks around, orders another round, and lets me try out new material — whether it’s a fresh story, a wild idea, or a screenplay that just might land.
Some nights, the room’s packed. Other nights, it’s a quiet set for the diehards who’ve heard every bit but still laugh in the right places. I like those nights too.
Every so often, someone important drops by — a producer, an agent, a reader with the right sense of humor. They sit in the back, watch the set, and maybe, just maybe, something connects.
So if you’re one of the sixty — thanks for coming back. If you’re new, grab a drink, find a seat, and stick around. The next set starts any minute now.
Headlining soon: The Last Argonaut, Stay Tuned

Pictured: J.P. Linde has envisioned by legendary producers Hanna-Barbera

At the stroke of midnight, the paperback edition of Tales from the Chair officially comes to life on Amazon. Click the picture—yes, it’s got a link, I made sure—and it’ll take you straight to the goods. We’re all very excited about this horror/comedy anthology. Who knows, maybe I’ve accidentally invented an entirely new genre: “screamlaughs”? “Chuckleterror”? We’ll workshop the name later.
Meanwhile, in the glamorous world of Hollywood, my agent recently reached out to a producer who agreed to read one of my screenplays--if she’d read one of his. Apparently, this kind of quid-pro-quo reading club is becoming more common these days as agents cut loose writers and producers cut back on, well, everything. It’s not exactly heartwarming, but hey, it’s honest. The odds that were once astronomical now feel… intergalactic.
Still, there are bright spots. Vertical dramas are having their moment (until the next shiny trend shows up), and some writers are wisely—or desperately—swerving into that lane. Just be cautious of anyone charging you a “special fee” to teach you how to format your words vertically. Spoiler: gravity does that for free.
The truth is, there are always creative paths open to you: plays, novels, sketches, iPhone movies shot in your garage. The tools are in your hands. Use them. Create something. Anything. Especially now.

​And now some inspriing words!

Things are definitely picking up around here.
Two screenplays--Paris Without Her and Free Santa—are officially out making the rounds. Fingers crossed they find good homes soon. Currently J.P. Linde has a total of 14 screenplays making the rounds to various producers. We are currently putting the finishing touches on a television pilot titled Tent City and…
Meanwhile, my pulp adventure The Last Argonaut is gearing up for its official release on November 11, following hot on the heels of my Halloween Kindle launch, Tales from the Chair. Paperback of the spooky title begin on November 7th.
If you’ve been keeping an eye on the site lately, you may have noticed things getting a little busier around here—and I couldn’t be happier about it.
Over the past couple of weeks, jplinde.com has seen its strongest traffic numbers ever, climbing from a modest hundred views a day to nearly 200 page views and 175 unique visitors in a single stretch. Not bad for a scrappy little site built on pulp dreams and coffee.
The spike began with pre-sales for Tales from the Chair (launching Halloween on Kindle) and kept growing thanks to Tent City outreach. It just goes to show that a good story—and maybe a few monsters—still travel fast.
To everyone who’s visited, shared, clicked, or even just peeked at a page, thank you. You’re helping turn this site into a real creative hub for my books, screenplays, and whatever strange worlds come next.
Stay tuned. From horror to heroics, it’s been a wild creative ride—and it’s just getting started.

"This never happened to the other fellow."

First things first—welcome to all the new visitors to the site! A heartfelt thank you. Viewership has more than doubled, and I owe it all to great word of mouth from people like you.
A lot has happened since I returned from Paris, so let’s get right to it.
First up: my horror anthology Tales from the Chair is officially open for business. Presales began yesterday, with Kindle sales launching on Halloween. As Count Floyd was fond of saying--“Spooky!”
Also coming soon from Reese Unlimited: The Last Argonaut. Publishing date is set for November, and I’ll keep you posted.
There’s been plenty of screenplay movement, too. Nothing definite yet, but my agent currently has fifteen scripts out to various producers. Fingers crossed.
Another exciting development is a television pilot I’ve written called Tent City. Set in a crumbling Southern California city, the story follows a street-paper reporter and a battle-scarred vet as they pull a thread on a missing girl—and uncover a covert campaign to erase the unhoused.
Tagline: “They came to erase the forgotten. Two came to uncover the truth.”

Tent City Pitch Deck

I’ve been working on this one for quite a while, and I’m thrilled to see where it leads. There’s even a pitch deck available—if you’re curious, you can check it out [right here]. (Hint: it’s on Vimeo, so you’ll need to pause the presentation to read the slides.) Let me know what you think!
Okay, I’ve chatted long enough. As I get settled back in, I’m excited to see where the rest of the year’s journey takes us.

We all have childhood crushes. Before the age of twelve, I’d already racked up hundreds — Bond women, Samantha Stevens, Emma Peel, April Dancer — and plenty more I’m too embarrassed to list. But the crushes that really stay with you aren’t the ones from Saturday morning TV. They’re your first adult ones.
Mine was Diane Keaton.
The reasons for falling so hard for her probably equal the number of celebrity infatuations I’d had before. I was twenty-three, single, and fresh off a relationship with a brunette singer I met doing Hair. She never actually said “la-de-da,” but she came awfully close.
Then, while living in Los Angeles, I saw two movies that changed everything — Annie Hall (for obvious reasons) and Looking for Mr. Goodbar. I was instantly smitten. So smitten, in fact, that I decided to let her know.
The Letter
First things first: I crossed the intersection of Glen Oaks and Olive, made my way to the Burbank Library, and checked out a paperback biography of my new love. I devoured it in a couple of hours, and by nightfall, I was writing a heartfelt letter to my adult crush.
Cut to fifty years later — and alas, I never heard back. Maybe I was too forward. More likely, the letter never reached her. In hindsight, that’s probably for the best. Even then, a handwritten note asking someone out might’ve come off as, well… a little creepy. Never mind that I didn’t have a literal pot to piss in. Perspective is everything.
What I Really Meant
What I’m really trying to say is this:
Diane Keaton, I already miss you.
I’m glad you never got my letter. I’m glad I didn’t creep you out.
You were born on January 5, 1946.
You left us on October 11, 2025.
Thank you for the hats, the wit, the grace — and for showing an entire generation that smart, funny, and slightly odd could be beautiful.
Rest in peace, Diane.
​

​Well, here we are — the final entry of An Idiot Abroad.
Hard to believe this series stretched over five months, considering the actual trip clocked in at less than two weeks. Talk about inflation. Still, it’s been a good run, and this installment covers the grand finale: a cruise down the Seine, a visit to Napoleon’s tomb, and finally, my reluctant return to the New World.
The Seine Cruise
The day had been warm, the kind of early evening where Paris glows like it’s lit from within. The sun was just beginning to set as we boarded near the Eiffel Tower. The route was simple enough — down to Notre Dame, turn around, and glide back — but the magic was in the details. Every bridge we passed was lined with people waving like we were long-lost friends, and before long, I was waving back like a fool. It’s impossible not to. The city from the river is stunning — spires, domes, and glowing façades drifting past in the gold light of the hour photographers dream about. By the time we returned, night had fallen and the Eiffel Tower began its nightly shimmer. A perfect Paris moment.
To celebrate, I cracked open a bottle of cheap champagne and downed as much as possible before anyone in uniform noticed. Vive la France.
Napoleon’s Tomb
Sunday brought my last stop: the final resting place of the little corporal himself. Napoleon’s tomb sits near the War Museum (a separate ticket, naturally), and every euro is worth it. When Hitler marched into Paris, this was his first stop — standing on the balcony, staring down at the sarcophagus of the man who rewrote Europe. And standing there myself, I could see why. Everything about the place exudes grandeur — the dome, the marble, the sense of engineered immortality.
Fun fact: the chapel also holds the coffins of Napoleon’s two sons, Lyle and Erik Napoleon. Most people don’t know that because, well, I made it up. But you were listening, weren’t you?
The Exit
Just outside the tomb’s entrance sits a modest souvenir stand hawking books, postcards, and — for the kids — tiny bicorne hats. I’ll admit, I thought about buying one. After all, who wouldn’t want to march out of Paris looking like a pocket-sized emperor?
And that’s that — from champagne on the Seine to the shadow of Napoleon. Not bad for an idiot abroad.