ŷ������

Andy, I know THE ONE MAN was a very personal story for you. Can you talk a little about what the inspiration was?

Sure. My father in law came here from Poland in April, 1939. Six months later, the war broke out. As it turned out, he was the only member of his family to survive the war. In fact, he never learned the fate of any of the family that was left behind. Like a lot of survivors, he never talked at all about his family or even about his life backing Poland before he left. It was just too painful. In 1941, after America entered the war, my father-in-law signed up to serve his new country, and because of his facility with languages, was placed in the Intelligence corps. He never divulged a word of what his role was there either. His whole life he seemed to carry around a weight of guilt and regret, despite his successes here, and everyone pressed him to find out just what was behind it. THE ONE MAN is the story of an escaped Polish Jew who is convinced to go back to the place where his parents were murdered in order to rescue the one man who the Allies believe can ensure them victory in the war. So in some ways, I set out to write the story I thought my father-in-law might tell.

That man is an atomic physicist, is he not? Alfred Mendl. Is he a real figure? Where did you come up with him?

Mendl is not a real figure. But he’s based on them. In looking into my father-in- law’s past, I came across the story of the Jewish community in Lvov, (now Lviv in Western Ukraine). Then it had the third largest Jewish population in Poland and was home to a leading university, where, in 1941, the Nazis systematically eliminated the Jewish intelligentsia, killing thousands of doctors, artists, and professors, or sent them off to Auschwitz and Treblinka. From there, it wasn’t such a leap to imagine that among them, some person of great learning and expertise might take their knowledge with them to the grave. Perhaps a noted professor of physics, who specialized in atomic theory, with a proprietaryknowledge that both the Allies and Germans could use in the race forthe decisive weapon if they only knew. ��

Mendl’s life’s work is destroyed before his eyes in the camp, but he keeps trying to record things, knowing what he knows would be crucial if it ever got out. But, of course, he’ll never get out, he’s too old and sick. But then he meets someone.

Yes, prior to him being sent to Auschwitz, the Allies tried desperately to smuggle him out of Europe, but the plan failed. But in the camp, Mendl observes a chess match one day, and the new champion is a sixteen year old boy, Leo Wolziek, with the most exquisite mind and detailed memory skills Mendl has ever encountered. And he realizes that this is the one chance he will have to preserve his work, which he knows the Allies desperately need. So Mendl forges a friendship with this unusual boy, desperate to teach him everything he knows.

And somehow into this hell comes Nathan Blum. The young, escaped Jew from Krakow now a lowly decoder of messages from Poland for the OSS who is sent back to the place he escaped from? And he has what,only a couple of days to sneak in and find Mendl, amid thousands of prisoners, and then get themselves out.

Yes, seventy-two hours. And every hour is a life and death challenge to survive. It’s an impossible mission, he knows. But he has left his parents and younger sister in Krakow before the war where they were executed by the Nazis, so he feels this inner need to make amends. Like an aliyah, in the oldest Jewish meaning. Even finding Mendl in there would be a miracle, if he’s even still alive. But getting him out, in the time they have left—there is a plan, of course-- is even more daunting odds. And then a few things happen in there that change the stakes completely.

And of course there’s an adversary. There is in all great thrillers. Someone who suspects Nathan has ben sent in and traces him to the camp.

Yes. A disgraced Colonel named Martin Franke, demoted for a security breach in Lisbon and is now in Warsaw routinely tracking down escaped Jews, who sniffs out Nathan’s presence andsees the path for his return to favor in apprehending him. Not to mention the Camp Commandant, Ackermann, who runs the camp with the singleminded dedication of a bean counter running a factory assembly line, and whose own career paths rests on maintaining his numbers.

This is a good time to bring up the setting, I think. Auschwitz. About half the action in the book takes place there. That was quite a decision to set your story there.

I did so because some of the historical foundation of the plot led me there. But I never this to be a story about the horrors and atrocities in a concentration camp. Still, I had to treat it frankly, because Nathan must navigate this brutality and possible death every minute he’s inside. And one of the challenges of the book was maintaining that balance, between brutality and death, and heroism. There’s been a canon of literature based on life in such camps, much of it written by people who experienced it firsthand, and it surely wasn’t my goal to write the definitive Auschwitz book. Yet I hope I’ve added something to what’s come before. One of my most rewarding blurbs on the book is from Jenna Blum, a Holocaust interviewer and novelist, not a thriller writer at all, who wrote The Things that Save Us, and she certainly felt I did add something original.

So okay, I have to ask, you were a suburban thriller writer. What made you think you could write such a radically different book?��

Well, I’m a story teller first. Maybe I was categorized as such because of my early books after my time with James Patterson. But over time I began to feel typecast and handcuffed by that niche. I was writing good books, and I had some success, of course, just not the books I was intending to write. For me, telling stories that tap into some universal quality or human in spirit, that’s what’s fixed. The settings, the time and the place, what language they speak, those are the variables.

That said, The One Man is still very solidly a thriller, given that there’s an nearly impossible mission and a ticking clock that’s winding down. So it doesn’t stray too far from the essential things people associate with me: creating vivid characters and ratcheting up the suspense.��

You mentioned one challenge of writing the book being the balance between heroism with brutality. I’m sure there were others? ��

Plenty. Creating a believable canvas of life in pre-War Poland and then an infamous Nazi concentration camp. One thing that is sacrosanct in Jewish and literary tradition is the Holocaust, so there’s no taking liberties with the facts. I probably read some thirty books ranging from FDR and his policies towards the Jews, life in Auschwitz, even the making of the atomic bomb. Alfred Mendl might be an expert in atomic theory, but it was surely a challenge for a guy that stumbled his way through 8th grade earth science.��

And I know there are risks when you make such a drastic switch of genres. Tell me about them.��

Tons of risk. Start with the artistic risk of whether I could pull it off or not. Then the business risk of actually selling of the book, which I did off a detailed outline. Not everyone jumped aboard because t was so different. And there were marketing risks, the risk that my fans might not come with me on a topic so different. All in all, though, I decided they were not as great as the risk I took when I got into this business in the first place.��

So was there anything you learned about yourself in the writing THE ONE MAN? And did writing it change you in some way?��

For a Jew, writing about the Holocaust is like the search for the Holy Grail. On one hand, there is such a long and esteemed canon of work on this subject, and so much of it by people who have gone through it firsthand. But when you write a book of this kind, it’s not like reading one. You’re not an observer. It’s not like going to the Holocaust Museum or watching Schindler’s List, where you can leave when you’ve had enough or the film ends. You’re in it, full time. So to me it was like having to go through something I’d only read about, both a life-affirming and an enervating process. And without giving anything anyway, heroism won.��

Did your father in law ever have a chance to read it?

He was 96 and sick in the past year and didn’t get out of bed much. One day my wife read the opening chapters to him, in whichhe recognized the main character, who was based on him. It clearly struck a chord, because he asked her to stop, and his eyes got glazy and he said after almost seventy years, “Lynnie, there are a few things I need to talk to you about.”�� It was very emotional for them both. And a perfect postscript for me.

He actually died this past February, and going through his things, my wife found something astonishing:�� a series of letters from his mother in Poland, from 1939 and 1940. Before the German invasion of Poland, and after. Amazingly, he never shared these with anyone. The letters showed a likeable, modern woman, opining that my father-in-law had not written her from his new country. “Nathan, have you not receive my letters?�� she asked. It was likely that he had written her back, but his letters were undelivered by the Nazis who now censored all mail coming in and out of the ghetto. The later letters are clearly stamped by a Nazi censor. Suddenly I thought I understood all the sadness and self-judgment he carried around with him all these years. That his parents perished, thinking he had never written them back. That he had ignored their letters. It’s such a compelling thing—my father in law suddenly became clear to me. And hopefully with this book I can give voice to what was inside is heart.

About the Author: Andrew Gross is the New York Times�����Ի� internationally bestselling author of nine novels, including No Way Back,��Everything to Lose, and most recently,��One Mile Under. He is also coauthor of five #1 New York Times bestsellers with James Patterson, including Judge & Jury�����Ի� Lifeguard.��

About THE ONE MAN: 1944. Physics professor Alfred Mendl is separated from his family and sent to the men’s camp, where all of his belongings are tossed on a roaring fire. His books, his papers, his life’s work. The Nazis have no idea what they have just destroyed. And without that physical record, Alfred is one of only two people in the world with his particular knowledge. Knowledge that could start a war, or end it.

THE ONE MAN will be published next 8/23/16 by Minotaur, a division of St. Martins.

��

Over the past decade, I’ve published nine thrillers in what is known as the “suburban�� thriller category�� recognizable, every day moms and dads in an upscale setting you could pretty much hold a mirror up to and see yourself, and who through either a momentary weakness or misstep, end up over their heads in something sinister. By most measures I’ve had some success—five have made the NYT Bestseller list, all but one, Top Ten in the UK; I’ve received the occasional star from various review publications, been published in over twenty countries, and an enviable, long-term book deal from Harper Collins.

So why am I walking away from all this?

Hopefully, I’m not crazy. At least, not completely so. For several books I’ve felt constrained by the narrow niche of what my publisher, and perhaps even my readers, expected from me. Not only the familiar “suburban�� setting, with root-for-able yoga moms and hedge fund dads with one foot in something murky and the “protect-your-family-at-all-cost�� theme. But crisply-paced, plot-driven story lines with a dollop of some emotional resonance at the end, a carryover, perhaps, from my co-writing days with James Patterson. It was how my publisher positioned me. There was a strategy and a goal. I went along willingly. I’ve had the benefit of aggressive marketing campaigns. I was always told I wrote engrossing, exciting books that had a deeper soul in them than the outward constraints of plot and pace generally allowed.

I was writing good books, just not the books I always intended to write.

(Maybe there’s a little Caitlin Jenner in all of us.)

My favorite stories growing up were sweeping tales of the Persian-Greek wars, the First Crusade, escapes from Devil’s Island, the clash of Napoleon and the tattered Russian armies, Nazi conspiracies in and after World War II. Stories that transported you, not just grabbed you. Stories of heroism in the face of a known, historical outcome. Books of “what if...�� Probably the book of mine that I recall with the most satisfaction was of a twelfth century peasant who comes back from the Crusade to find his wife and daughter taken by a lord and becomes a jester to find them, co-written with James Patterson.��

The truth was I did feel like I was perpetually pushing a boulder uphill in the niche that I found, continually having to come up with fresh and original traps for my characters, new ways to threaten the “family.�� And extricate them. I wanted to write books with bigger bones, broader themes and richer, atmospheric settings. My contract ended. An idea stared me in the face.

So I decided to let the boulder fall.

My father-in-law is 95, and came here in from Warsaw in early1939, only months before the war. He never had any idea what fate befell his parents, or for that matter, any of his extended family.�� He was the only one in his family to survive the war. For years it’s been like he’s carried a weight of sadness around with him; guilt and loss. A peace that always seemed to elude him, despite his successes here. To this day he has never spoken a word to my wife or her brother about his family life back in Poland. Like a lot of survivors, the yoke of memory is just too hard to bear. He came here as a student, but in 1941, when the U.S. entered the war, he enlisted, and because of his facility with languages, was placed in the Intelligence Corps. He has never divulged what his duties were there.

I always wanted to write the story he might tell.

As I looked into certain aspects of his past, I came across the massacres in the Polish (now Ukrainian) city of Lvov where in 1941 the Nazis systemically “purified�� the university town of its Jewish intelligentsia, murdering hundreds of doctors, lawyers and esteemed professors. From there, it wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine what if one of those victims might have held some vital knowledge to benefit humanity that died along with them: a seminal philosopher or a respected surgeon. Or maybe, a physicist who specialized in a vital aspect of atomic fission.

THE ONE MAN is the story of an escaped Pole who is convinced to return to the place where his parents were murdered by the Nazis to rescue the one man the Allies believe can ensure them victory in the war. That man is a nuclear physicist whose expertise is urgently needed on the Manhattan Project. And the place the young Pole must get him out of is Auschwitz.

It’s a thriller, in the sense that it’s about a near-impossible mission with a ticking clock winding down, but much richer in theme, more deliberate in characterization, and far more detailed in setting than anything I have ever done.

Writing this kind of book was not without its risks. The risk that fewer publishers would bid for it when I went to sell it. The risk that some of my readers might not follow me to a new place. The artistic risk that I could pull it off.

But I reminded myself, far less of a risk than the one I took when I got into this business in the first place.

This past July I turned in THE ONE MAN to Minotaur, my new publisher. I have no idea if it will deliver the wider, crossover audience I am hoping for. Or how it will stand up against the canon of work already based on the Holocaust. I only know it came out richer and better than my wildest hope for it, and that my next books will be in the same style and vein. ��And that my father-in law, after reading a few chapters, put it down with moisture in his eyes, turned to my wife and said, “Lynn, there are some things I’d like to talk to you about.��

THE ONE MAN will be published next September by Minotaur, a division of St. Martins.

��

��

��

Over the past decade, I’ve published nine thrillers in what is known as the “suburban�� thriller category�� recognizable, every day moms and dads in an upscale setting you could pretty much hold a mirror up to and see yourself, and who through either a momentary weakness or misstep, end up over their heads in something sinister. By most measures I’ve had some success—five have made the NYT Bestseller list, all but one, Top Ten in the UK; I’ve received the occasional star from various review publications, been published in over twenty countries, and an enviable, long-term book deal from Harper Collins.

So why am I walking away from all this?

Hopefully, I’m not crazy. At least, not completely so. For several books I’ve felt constrained by the narrow niche of what my publisher, and perhaps even my readers, expected from me. Not only the familiar “suburban�� setting, with root-for-able yoga moms and hedge fund dads with one foot in something murky and the “protect-your-family-at-all-cost�� theme. But crisply-paced, plot-driven story lines with a dollop of some emotional resonance at the end, a carryover, perhaps, from my co-writing days with James Patterson. It was how my publisher positioned me. There was a strategy and a goal. I went along willingly. I’ve had the benefit of aggressive marketing campaigns. I was always told I wrote engrossing, exciting books that had a deeper soul in them than the outward constraints of plot and pace generally allowed.

I was writing good books, just not the books I always intended to write.

(Maybe there’s a little Caitlin Jenner in all of us.)

My favorite stories growing up were sweeping tales of the Persian-Greek wars, the First Crusade, escapes from Devil’s Island, the clash of Napoleon and the tattered Russian armies, Nazi conspiracies in and after World War II. Stories that transported you, not just grabbed you. Stories of heroism in the face of a known, historical outcome. Books of “what if...�� Probably the book of mine that I recall with the most satisfaction was of a twelfth century peasant who comes back from the Crusade to find his wife and daughter taken by a lord and becomes a jester to find them, co-written with James Patterson.��

The truth was I did feel like I was perpetually pushing a boulder uphill in the niche that I found, continually having to come up with fresh and original traps for my characters, new ways to threaten the “family.�� And extricate them. I wanted to write books with bigger bones, broader themes and richer, atmospheric settings. My contract ended. An idea stared me in the face.

So I decided to let the boulder fall.

My father-in-law is 95, and came here in from Warsaw in early1939, only months before the war. He never had any idea what fate befell his parents, or for that matter, any of his extended family.�� He was the only one in his family to survive the war. For years it’s been like he’s carried a weight of sadness around with him; guilt and loss. A peace that always seemed to elude him, despite his successes here. To this day he has never spoken a word to my wife or her brother about his family life back in Poland. Like a lot of survivors, the yoke of memory is just too hard to bear. He came here as a student, but in 1941, when the U.S. entered the war, he enlisted, and because of his facility with languages, was placed in the Intelligence Corps. He has never divulged what his duties were there.

I always wanted to write the story he might tell.

As I looked into certain aspects of his past, I came across the massacres in the Polish (now Ukrainian) city of Lvov where in 1941 the Nazis systemically “purified�� the university town of its Jewish intelligentsia, murdering hundreds of doctors, lawyers and esteemed professors. From there, it wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine what if one of those victims might have held some vital knowledge to benefit humanity that died along with them: a seminal philosopher or a respected surgeon. Or maybe, a physicist who specialized in a vital aspect of atomic fission.

THE ONE MAN is the story of an escaped Pole who is convinced to return to the place where his parents were murdered by the Nazis to rescue the one man the Allies believe can ensure them victory in the war. That man is a nuclear physicist whose expertise is urgently needed on the Manhattan Project. And the place the young Pole must get him out of is Auschwitz.

It’s a thriller, in the sense that it’s about a near-impossible mission with a ticking clock winding down, but much richer in theme, more deliberate in characterization, and far more detailed in setting than anything I have ever done.

Writing this kind of book was not without its risks. The risk that fewer publishers would bid for it when I went to sell it. The risk that some of my readers might not follow me to a new place. The artistic risk that I could pull it off.

But I reminded myself, far less of a risk than the one I took when I got into this business in the first place.

This past July I turned in THE ONE MAN to Minotaur, my new publisher. I have no idea if it will deliver the wider, crossover audience I am hoping for. Or how it will stand up against the canon of work already based on the Holocaust. I only know it came out richer and better than my wildest hope for it, and that my next books will be in the same style and vein. ��And that my father-in law, after reading a few chapters, put it down with moisture in his eyes, turned to my wife and said, “Lynn, there are some things I’d like to talk to you about.��

THE ONE MAN will be published next September by Minotaur, a division of St. Martins.

��

��

��

As I write this, my wife Lynn is helping can some 30 lbs of the most luscious heirloom tomatoes you will ever see with our host in the Napa Valley house we rent. But my mind is drifting back to four incredibly sensuous days just spent eating and wining in the Russian River Valley. If you want to hear what that was like, come along with me.

If Napa is like a bigtime cabernet—opulent, powerful, with its stunning views and branded, architect-designed wineries and celebrity-chef restaurants, the Russian River Valley over in Sonoma is its demurer, down–to-earth cousin, the feel of farmers not business magnates, garage style wineries and farmhouses, and akin to the terroir-rich wine that best represents it: pinot noir. Though you can drink and eat and open the senses ever bit as dreamily as across the mountain in Napa, with its own beautiful vineyard-scapes, it’s a whole different trip�� but one we found equally as rewarding.

We stayed at the Farmhouse Inn in the countryside of rural Forestville, about ten miles out of Healdsburg, which has grown into the style and foodie center of the wine country in the past few years. The inn is a tasteful five-star setting on par with the San Ysidro in in Montecito, with charming casita rooms and a Michelan-starred restaurant. Breakfast comes with the room, but it’s hardly your typical scrambled eggs and bacon, but a sumptuous (and filling) way to start the day: heavenly chocolate croissants and Black Mission fig bread; house made ricotta crepes with peach coulis and grilled maple-pecan sausage. We also ate there one night. I had Beskeshire pork with a trumpet mushroom crust and a green tomato chimmichurri. Lynn had halibut in dashi-gasil butter with a fennel-potato puree. That was after zucchini blossoms and a shared grilled lobster sausage with fennel sofrito to go with a terrific sauvingon blanc from nearby Rochioli. The staff at the Farmhouse is as savvy and knowledgeable as any I’ve ever come across, setting us up at the best, small production wineries and directing us to the best eating places not only in the valley, but in the entire region. The kind of staff you go back to on arriving back to the inn and report back how your day went. They made the place a joy.

Our first day, Thursday, we started out with no plans, other than a one pm tasting at a small, hard to find pinot producer, Small Vines, a contact in Napa had set us up with. After breakfast (whoa, did I mention those breakfasts!) we drove around the winding, country roads exploring, passing familiar favorite wineries like Iron Horse and Merry Edwards, and happened to pass Red Car,

red car tasting room

a tiny, highly rated winery which is partially owned by a friend in Napa and whose 07 pinot received a 97 Parker rating, which gave them a kind of culty following.

We stopped. The 09’s and 10’s are equally stunning, and the kitschy enamel bracelets for sale, with self-deprecating epithets like, �� “My mind not only wanders, sometimes it leaves completely�� along incredible, artisan made cigar scented candles—amazing!�� were fun to buy. We had lunch down the road in the tiny town of Graton at Willow Wood market, one of those earthy, local main street storefronts with a colorful, handed painted sign where the food turns out to be surprisingly fresh and delicious. It’s hard to find a meal out here that isn’t farm fresh with a cultivated point of view.). A lush, just-picked tomato soup with crème freche and chives along with a yummy Greek salad and a grilled chicken sandwich with farm cured bacon and chipotle mayo. In the afternoon, we made our way around the winding, farm-lined roads to Small Vines, which turns out to be a tiny husband and wife run small-production winery with some of the best Burgundy-inspired pinots I came across. Not even many of the locals had heard of it, and no one could get us there, and their address isn’t even on their website () but the wines have found their way onto some of the most prestigious restaurant lists around the country. Eleven Madison in NY, Charlie Trotter,’s in Chicago, the French Laundry. We spent an hour and a half talking wines styles with owner-winemaker Paul Sloan, walking thru his vineyards, trying three of his pinots. Petting the dog. The pinots belong up there with the best of them in the valley.

That night we went to Scoppa in Healdsburg, a jammed, trattoria we were lucky to get a res at, and had large shell pastas with a fabulous lamb ragu and freshly-made, pillow like raviolis stuffed with ricotta and zucchini. And a luscious panna cota dripped with local fruit we bumped into a local winemaker Greg Mauritson, whose family has framed grapes for generations, and invited us out to his famous Rockpile Vineyard, home to some of the biggest, and most styish zinfandels in the region. Shame that we never made it. To much came up. But it gives us a starting point for our next trip out here next year.

We started off Friday by working off the eggs Florentine with a 3 mile walk run along the vineyards on West side road. We bopped into Healdsburg and “shmyed around�� the square, checking out the blend of new art galleries and old antiques, boutiquey hotels, and the surprisingly stylish and urbane clothes shops. We had lunch at our old favorite Ralph’s Bistro: I passed up the freshly ground lamb burger with blue cheese I usually go for a buttery chicken palliard and Lynn had the lamb burger smothered in carmelized onions and Maytag blue cheese. On the way back we hit Macphail Vineyards, another tiny-production, garage-style pinot producer, and tried some of his gems. (Not to mention a very Burgundian style chardonnay—lean, lots of acid, little oak.)

Macphail Vineyards

(Truth is, every chard producer in the valley says, “if you don’t regularly like chards, people say you’ll like mine.�� Because they construct it in a leaner, less oaky style that goes well with food.) And you know what, it’s true.

That night, we drove across the criss-crossing, mountain pass to St. Helena over in Napa, to a charity dinner hosted by prestigious Rudd Vineyards, and who put on quite a show. There were ten of us, each guest had been given and had read my books (Eyes Wide Open and 15 Seconds) and the setting and flights of wine and food would have been better suited to entertaining a head of state, than some thriller author. The grounds are created by leslie Rudd and his wife are simply incredible and they guided us through the beautiful gardens and into the mind-boggling 22,000 sq ft of caves with its barrel vaults and tasting rooms. The in-house chef, Jason Rose made an amazing multi-course feast of arancini (Arborio rice balls) stuffed with minced porcini, Hamachi crudo, a salad that had so many rare and just picked greens(my mind sort of vegged out after he listed three of them!) and a main course of lamb done two ways�� on the bone in a Rudd port reduction sauce, and then ground with North African spices in a crespelle (crepe). This was all paired with flights of spectacular Rudd wines too�� all highly rated, look em up. But their award winning Bacigalupi chardonnay and perfectly balanced sauvignon blanc—my wife is a SB animal and she went crazy�� put the whole evening—at which all I had to do was yap a little about my books and the shifting tectonic plates of the book business�� over the top. And speaking of over the top�� we then had to drive back over the dark, twisty pass back to Sonoma at 11pm. Trust me�� no fun, and took all my concentration. But we lived to eat and drink another day!

Saturday, we spent driving to the Sonoma Coast. Nothing prettier in my book—ok, maybe Amalfi in Italy. But not by much. On the way we drove through this amazing redwood forest called Armstrong National Park and took an hour’s nature walk amid thousands of 350 foot giants. Humbling! Then we drove onto the coast for oysters. The staff at the Farmhouse sent us to the River’s End lodge in Jenner set above the Pacific—only a forty minute drive. (We’d previously been to Nick’s Cove in Point Reyes, but this was even better.)

Sonoma Coast

It’s a modest looking place, rustic cabins and a wear-worn dining room. But the kitchen is fantastic! We feasted on fresh Miagi oysters done two ways: in a shallot mineunette and baked and BBQ’d, and then a just-caught pacific salmon in a light, verblanc over Chinese black rice. Fantastic! Really recommend this drive and place!

That night we tried a change of pace and took a cooking class on Asian street food at Relish in Healdsburg taught by amazing local chef Mei Ibach, who grew up in a Malaysian fishing village. Fun night, learning how to make Paper wrapped chicken in plum sauce, deep-fried potato dumplings (spiced with green chiles and cilantro), prawn fritters over battered bean sprouts and a classic beef satay. Mei is captivating and leads organized travel cooking tours to Vietnam and Singapore ($2800 bucks, so she claims for ten days of cooking and eating, in 5 star hotels, airfare included. Sounds too good to be true. Check her out if you don’t believe me .)

Sunday. Our last day in the valley. Couldn’t leave without a brunch in town (Healdsburg) at BarnDiva, a very stylish restaurant/art gallery specializing in farm to table cuisine. We started out in the outside sculpture garden with Tuscan bellins of melon and peach extract with lavender. A ten! Another heirloom tomato salad—there’s just nothing like the tomatoes out here in September—it’s half the reason we come! Lynn had more local king salmon and I had a seared, sushi grade ahi Nicoise with a great potato salad and poached quail eggs. Dellicious! And couldn’t resist a side of the Barn Diva double-fried fries in spicy catchup.

Sadly, it was time to leave. Survival depended on it! (I’m wondering if anyone has ever thought of heading to ten days in Napa as a reprieve from too much drinking and eating!!!!!) We made our way down the northerly route, on Rt 128 through the stunningly beautiful Alexander and Knights valleys. One place to stop there is Lancaster Vineyards. Owned by a liquor distribution exec, and with a winemaker recently hired from over-the-top Screaming Eagle, they’re making world class wines (a monster cab and a Grave-like SB). You have to check out the amazing caves too. An incredible place that seems to come out of the blue.

So, so long Russian River Valley, hello Napa. We pull into town, ten days here in the house we always rent high above the Meadowwood Resort and St. Helena. Hope you enjoyed following us on our trip.

Observations on being (pretty) young, (pretty) fit, and having a damaged heart.

A few weeks back I went from being a fit, pretty active guy, who didn���t have a medical care in the world to someone with serious heart disease!

I was being treated for what I thought was an extended bout of acid reflux�� and the farthest thing from my mind or worries was what it turned out I actually had: a 99% blockage of my LAD, the largest artery in the heart, ominously called ���The Widow Maker,���� and that the pains I felt were actually my heart crying out, deprived of half its blood.

One day after spectacularly failing an echo-stress test�� a test I went off to grumbling to my wife, ���You realize that there���s zero�� ZERO chance that this is heart related, don���t you��!���� and then trudged back to an hour later, completely stunned, ���Honey, I think you should sit down…����� I was sent up to Yale University Hospital where they inserted not one, but two drug-coated stents to reopen my bloodflow. It���s a remarkably quick and non-invasive procedure, the catheter amazingly conducted through my wrist; one that requires virtually no recovery time, and seems hardly worthy of all the expressions of concern and sympathy that flooded in.

In fact, I was weirdly conscious for most of the time. I remember waking up from the light anesthesia I was administered and hearing the doctors discussing the size of the obstruction: an inch and a half in length and at the very beginning of the artery, even more dangerous. I watched them thread the stents from my wrist to my heart, tears forming in my eyes. When the nurse came around to wipe them, she asked if I was in pain. ���No,���� I answered, staring at the screen. ���I���m just thinking I���m watching you guys saving my life.����

Just five weeks later, I���m back to a completely normal routine: working out, playing tennis, eating smarter, appreciating life. Just with a prodigious line-up of meds to take each day. And the only, non-white-haired member of my local stent club! It all happened so fast, there was no time to even get scared, worry about the consequences; to hug your kids. To remember that chapter idea I didn���t write down. It went by with the speed of TV coming attractions. It was literally forty eight hours from diagnosis to cure.

So I���ve been waiting for that singular moment of profundity; that ���a-ha���� epiphany of what it���s all about, that always comes to me when I need a plot idea, but fails me now when it���s about my life.

Yet what I do think about is this: the many times I had to put up a hand, doubled over during a workout or on the tennis court with my pro�� grabbing at the fence, trying to catch my breath, in pain. I see myself crumbling to the ground, realizing something far more serious is happening; thinking how my grandfather died this way, just off the golf course, and seeing myself, a virtual kid compared to him, looking up at the my helpless pro, tears glazing in my eyes, my mind going on about my kids, something trivial like whether I put the steaks in the freezer; stories I meant to write.

The only NYT bestselling author to ever die from acid reflux��.

I would never have even known.

Except in this story I get up. Finish out the set. The coming attractions come on, and thank God, there���s another episode next week! I get to wonder who���s cheated who, death or me? I think about the two doctors I may never ever see again who gave me a new downpayment on life. Who let me pretend I���ve got it by the balls again.

But this time I know�� I���m only renting.

Observations on being (pretty) young, (pretty) fit, and having a damaged heart.

A few weeks back I went from being a fit, pretty active guy, who didn’t have a medical care in the world to someone with serious heart disease!

I was being treated for what I thought was an extended bout of acid reflux�� and the farthest thing from my mind or worries was what it turned out I actually had: a 99% blockage of my LAD, the largest artery in the heart, ominously called “The Widow Maker,�� and that the pains I felt were actually my heart crying out, deprived of half its blood.

One day after spectacularly failing an echo-stress test�� a test I went off to grumbling to my wife, “You realize that there’s zero�� ZERO chance that this is heart related, don’t you��!�� and then trudged back to an hour later, completely stunned, “Honey, I think you should sit down…”�� I was sent up to Yale University Hospital where they inserted not one, but two drug-coated stents to reopen my bloodflow. It’s a remarkably quick and non-invasive procedure, the catheter amazingly conducted through my wrist; one that requires virtually no recovery time, and seems hardly worthy of all the expressions of concern and sympathy that flooded in.

In fact, I was weirdly conscious for most of the time. I remember waking up from the light anesthesia I was administered and hearing the doctors discussing the size of the obstruction: an inch and a half in length and at the very beginning of the artery, even more dangerous. I watched them thread the stents from my wrist to my heart, tears forming in my eyes. When the nurse came around to wipe them, she asked if I was in pain. “No,�� I answered, staring at the screen. “I’m just thinking I’m watching you guys saving my life.��

Just five weeks later, I’m back to a completely normal routine: working out, playing tennis, eating smarter, appreciating life. Just with a prodigious line-up of meds to take each day. And the only, non-white-haired member of my local stent club! It all happened so fast, there was no time to even get scared, worry about the consequences; to hug your kids. To remember that chapter idea I didn’t write down. It went by with the speed of TV coming attractions. It was literally forty eight hours from diagnosis to cure.

So I’ve been waiting for that singular moment of profundity; that “a-ha�� epiphany of what it’s all about, that always comes to me when I need a plot idea, but fails me now when it’s about my life.

Yet what I do think about is this: the many times I had to put up a hand, doubled over during a workout or on the tennis court with my pro�� grabbing at the fence, trying to catch my breath, in pain. I see myself crumbling to the ground, realizing something far more serious is happening; thinking how my grandfather died this way, just off the golf course, and seeing myself, a virtual kid compared to him, looking up at the my helpless pro, tears glazing in my eyes, my mind going on about my kids, something trivial like whether I put the steaks in the freezer; stories I meant to write.

The only NYT bestselling author to ever die from acid reflux��.

I would never have even known.

Except in this story I get up. Finish out the set. The coming attractions come on, and thank God, there’s another episode next week! I get to wonder who’s cheated who, death or me? I think about the two doctors I may never ever see again who gave me a new downpayment on life. Who let me pretend I’ve got it by the balls again.

But this time I know�� I’m only renting.

Observations on being (pretty) young, (pretty) fit, and having a damaged heart.

A few weeks back I went from being a fit, pretty active guy, who didn't have a medical care in the world to someone with serious heart disease!

I was being treated for what I thought was an extended bout of acid reflux�� and the farthest thing from my mind or worries was what it turned out I actually had: a 99% blockage of my LAD, the largest artery in the heart, ominously called "The Widow Maker," and that the pains I felt were actually my heart crying out, deprived of half its blood.

One day after spectacularly failing an echo-stress test�� a test I went off to grumbling to my wife, "You realize that there's zero�� ZERO chance that this is heart related, don't you��!" and then trudged back to an hour later, completely stunned, "Honey, I think you should sit down��"�� I was sent up to Yale University Hospital where they inserted not one, but two drug-coated stents to reopen my bloodflow. It's a remarkably quick and non-invasive procedure, the catheter amazingly conducted through my wrist; one that requires virtually no recovery time, and seems hardly worthy of all the expressions of concern and sympathy that flooded in.

In fact, I was weirdly conscious for most of the time. I remember waking up from the light anesthesia I was administered and hearing the doctors discussing the size of the obstruction: an inch and a half in length and at the very beginning of the artery, even more dangerous. I watched them thread the stents from my wrist to my heart, tears forming in my eyes. When the nurse came around to wipe them, she asked if I was in pain. "No," I answered, staring at the screen. "I'm just thinking I'm watching you guys saving my life."

Just five weeks later, I'm back to a completely normal routine: working out, playing tennis, eating smarter, appreciating life. Just with a prodigious line-up of meds to take each day. And the only, non-white-haired member of my local stent club! It all happened so fast, there was no time to even get scared, worry about the consequences; to hug your kids. To remember that chapter idea I didn't write down. It went by with the speed of TV coming attractions. It was literally forty eight hours from diagnosis to cure.

So I've been waiting for that singular moment of profundity; that "a-ha" epiphany of what it's all about, that always comes to me when I need a plot idea, but fails me now when it's about my life.

Yet what I do think about is this: the many times I had to put up a hand, doubled over during a workout or on the tennis court with my pro�� grabbing at the fence, trying to catch my breath, in pain. I see myself crumbling to the ground, realizing something far more serious is happening; thinking how my grandfather died this way, just off the golf course, and seeing myself, a virtual kid compared to him, looking up at the my helpless pro, tears glazing in my eyes, my mind going on about my kids, something trivial like whether I put the steaks in the freezer; stories I meant to write.

The only NYT bestselling author to ever die from acid reflux��.

I would never have even known.

Except in this story I get up. Finish out the set. The coming attractions come on, and thank God, there's another episode next week! I get to wonder who's cheated who, death or me? I think about the two doctors I may never ever see again who gave me a new downpayment on life. Who let me pretend I've got it by the balls again.

But this time I know�� I'm only renting.

Andrew Gross

Andrew Gross

There’s been so much clutter–some good, some misinformed�� about the Macmillan/Amazon dispute that, with a nod to my old biz school days, I thought I might as well weigh in with mine.

Without sounding abstract, the underlying issues of what’s involved result from two economic laws.

First, publishing is pretty much a “zero-sum�� game. That means there’s no real growth from any sector of the market–new technologies included�� that doesn’t basically just offset some other sector by an equal amount. Therefore, whatever weakens the market suppresses overall growth.

Next, sadly, books are inherently inelastic. Which means a reduction of price does not create a corresponding increase in demand. If the price of a certain book is lowered, say, from twenty to ten dollars, it will no doubt sell more, but not likely twice as many.�� That means, lowering the transactional price of books ultimately deflates total revenue. If that weren’t so, it’s my guess publishers, retailers, authors and agents would all probably embrace a kind of 21st century P and L: one with lower margins and reduced royalty percentages, but one with a dramatic increase in sales that would ultimately raise earnings.

But that is not the case—and, as we all know, the channels of distribution are potentially narrowing. And as my agent reminds me, the ultimate determinant of how much people read isn’t in the end price—it’s time!

This “zero-sum�� landscape is also pressured by the fact that Borders (roughly ten percent of the market) always seems a threat to close. Add to that the fact that books are not a core part of the sales mix for the price clubs (Costco, Sams, BJ’s) who are filling that gap��and this is the real key here�� that the charter of these clubs is to offer the very best value to their customers�� not to become bystanders, if not casualties, in a price war between mainstream and online booksellers in a product that’s not even central to them—and those threats are swirling around. If any one of these chains suddenly says, we’re outta here, and vacates the market, the “zero-sum�� industry is weighed down that much more!

In a world where the likes of Merrill Lynch, Lehman Brothers and Circuit City are now history, it’s hardly unimaginable to think of publishers going that way too.

Yes, publishers have to adapt. They know that. And no, publishers aren’t�� trying to gorge their margins by pushing this new “agency�� pricing model for books on Amazon and Apple. (For obvious reasons, Kindle downloads might already be their highest margin sales.)

But what’s crucial is to stabilize a retail market in turmoil, because the risks of any further erosion (e.g. retailers leaving the game) would be catastrophic to them and to us all. If the price of “books�� continues to erode, without some unforeseen jolt in demand, we will all be the losers–readers, writers, agents and publishers. It hurts us all!

Not everything that moves forward is necessary good—especially at the pace it proceeds—or benefits the consumer. Ask newspaper readers in Denver and Seattle. Personally, I am just as distressed to learn that Laredo, Texas, a city of over 250,000, no longer has a single bookstore in it�� and to buy one, a real book, you have to drive 150 miles to San Antonio—as I am at what’s going on between the Big Six and Amazon. In this kind of brave new world, we all lose!