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.

​Okay, I hope everyone did their homework last week and tuned in to Professor G. Carlin. If so, gold star. Now let’s shuffle down the Left Bank to our next stop: the Musée d’Orsay.
Quick Background
Once a railway station, now a temple to French art from 1814 onward. Inside: paintings, sculptures, furniture, and photography. But the big brag is this—no one on Earth has a bigger Impressionist and Post-Impressionist stash. If you’re after Monet and his pals, second floor. Trust me.
What Hits You First
The space is enormous. Like, “is this a museum or a Costco with better lighting?” Enormous… and crowded. Just like the Louvre, you’re shoulder-to-shoulder with every tourist from every time zone. So, don’t dawdle.
Things You Can’t Miss

• The Clock. Fifth floor, giant, Art Nouveau, originally part of the 1900 train station. Peer through it for a perfectly framed Paris postcard: Louvre, Sacré-Cœur, the works. It’s Instagram without the filter.
• Daumier. Painter, sculptor, draughtsman, and the godfather of caricature. First Paris retrospective since 1934. Over 300 works. You’ll leave feeling like the class clown never got enough credit.
• The Heavy Hitters. Monet, Renoir, Degas, Manet, Cézanne, Pissarro, Sisley, Morisot, Bazille, Cassatt, Caillebotte. Basically the Beatles of brushwork.
• The Post-Impressionist Posse. Van Gogh, Gauguin, Seurat, Toulouse-Lautrec. If you had their posters in your dorm room, this is where the originals live.

Final Word
The Musée d’Orsay is like the Louvre’s cooler, younger sibling—the one who ditched law school to start a band. The art is iconic, the building is a show-stopper, and the clock alone is worth the price of admission. Just remember: keep moving, keep looking up, and don’t block the view. Someone behind you is already annoyed.
 
Next week’s lineup: the “box-checking” cruise, Napoleon’s final resting place, and a heartfelt au revoir to Paris.