I don’t think I’ve commented too extensively about the particulars of running this whole operation from South America. And to be quite honest, I don’t exactly have a truly concrete reason for being here, apart from it feeling like the perfect, cliched thing to do.

I didn’t come to Colombia to promote this book, really; it’s just something that’s developed since I’ve been over here. I came over here to work, not in writing and certainly not in porn. I had a limited-contract employment in Cartagena for one month, and only then did it seem feasible that I might be able to make this project come to some sort of fruition.

Since meeting my marketing guru and project manager Shane and beginning to work with him in late March, this thing has come a long way. Notably, we’ve added a surprising number of personnel to our staff. Shane’s brought aboard a web technology expert, and a design superstar, both of whom will be working to make the site and the book look flawless and enticing.

For someone who’s so used to doing absolutely everythin (very much to a fault) in his creative life by himself, it’s absolutely flabbergasting to suddenly be part of a “team,” the stated purpose of which is to improve and ultimately bring success to a book that I wrote . . .

I love it! I absolutely love it.

And yet none of this can keep me from realizing that I’m being a fucking cliche over here in Colombia. Maybe it’s not Paris of the 1920’s, but the concept of being a writer-expatriate is as well-worn as the very idea of “finding yourself,” or serving your country as a foot soldier in some noble battalion . . .

I was speaking to my screenwriter friend Dwayne, who’s beginning to find success (he’s so close he can smell it!) in Los Angeles with his work, and we’ve agreed that finding oneself lodged firmly inside of a cliche, while not necessarily ideal, could be a whole hell of a lot worse. So what if he’s meeting with his agent for lunch twice a week at the 101 Diner, and driving around the Hollywood Hills nervously in the middle of the afternoon smoking cigarettes nervously to pass the time while his script is over at Jake Gyllenhal’s production agency and out of the corner of his eye he glimpses Steve Martin unloading a paper sack of groceries from the trunk of his BMW? (He’s not, but let’s say for the sake of my argument, he is.) There are worse cliches than that one to be swallowed whole by.

And so what if I am sweating over my laptop in a grimy hostel in Colombia, watching the sun go down while swatting giant mutant mosquitoes that have been torturing the lower half of my body, while a bizarre shaven-headed Dutchman chef sings along badly and loudly to Amy Winehouse while chopping up green tomatoes with a dull knife? Many have done it before me. Not a few will do it after. I am one of the noble battalion; I am finding myself. I rank and file, after all, and for this I am proud.

Cliché me to death, sure; and then please, buy the book.