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"If they make a television series or movie about Walt Longmire, who's going to play him?" I get asked that question a lot about the Absaroka County Sheriff from my series of books—I usually pawn the question off by saying Gary Cooper.

I'm not going to be able to do that for much longer.

I was at the Autry Western Heritage Center in Los Angeles promoting Junkyard Dogs as part of their book club just last week. They moved me to a larger venue, a portico downstairs with a massive mural that intertwined factual and fictitious characters of the American West; Jim Bridger standing next to Gene and Roy—you get the picture. The artists were illustrators from Disney who'd been sent over to, well, illustrate and, as one of the organizers and my buddy, Scott Frank, explained, "They put themselves in the mural." There was a pretty, blonde pioneer woman prominently displayed, along with a mountain man whose features appeared to be a bit more defined than the others… Hmm.

Everybody wants to get in on the act.

A lot of times I have readers who meet me, ask the question above, and then posit the thought that I should play Walt. It's at this point that I start wondering about the mental health of my readership and explain that no, if such an opportunity should arise, we'd like for it to be a success. Generally, I feel like a disappointment when people meet me in person in that I'm not movie–star handsome, six foot–five, or do I carry the easy affability of my protagonist. I may be the only six foot, two hundred and ten pound author with a physical inferiority complex.

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I got asked by a reader the other day why it is I'm in France so much lately. I responded that it was because they asked me and footed the bill, wouldn't you? She wrote back and said, "You bet".

This time we almost got stranded in Paris for two weeks, what with the Icelandic volcanoes, and if I hadn't known any better I would've thought that my wife had arranged the eruption. I could just see us there in the Latin Quarter reading the newest Cara Black, sipping merlot, and listening to the high-low pitch of gendarmes working for a living-and writing our friends to send money in relief. It was close — we made it out by a day-but the reason we cut it so close was that I was asked by the national French magazine Le Nouvel Observateur if we could stay an extra day. I knew I was up for a big award, but it was against the likes of Richard Price's Lush Life, and that it would be a cold day along the Seine if Little Bird ever won the Prix du Roman Noir.

The title in French is different mostly because Oliver, my buddy and publisher, advised me that the literal translation for Cold Dish was Leftovers and not likely to excite the French reading market. We were over twice last year, will be there twice this spring (see schedule below for the upcoming trip), and were just invited to Festival America this coming September in Vincennes, a suburb of Paris. The most recent trip included an all too brief relaxation period at the home of my friend and translator, Sophie Aslanides' parents place in Aubagne (near Marseilles) which was just as wonderful as it sounds. As a matter of course we also visited some magnificent book stores in Paris, Nantes, Montpelier and Lyon under the careful tutelage of friend and publicist Marie-Anne Lacoma who in traffic treated us to the full Ooh-la-la-la-la-la-La! (Which must be the French equivalent of Mary Brannaman's naughty as an understated swear word.)

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It's kind of like finding an original copy of the Constitution behind an old print that you bought in a garage sale or going on Antiques Road Show and finding out that old sword hanging in Mom and Dad's attic originally belonged to George Armstrong Custer.

There had been a few buzzings about the whereabouts of the old Busy Bee Lunch sign, but imagine my surprise to read in last weeks Buffalo Bulletin that not only had the original sign for the local landmark been found, but that it was ‘going to be up there again'.

Hmm... That's news to me, especially since it's sitting in my shop.

I was at an auction at the rodeo grounds back in '05 when I noticed the rather large sign resting on a gooseneck trailer, one of the items to be auctioned off later in the day. I saw a few people walk over and attempt to pick it up with little success. There were a few things I was looking for inside, in this case a copy of Jack Gage's Ten Sleep and No Rest, so I went in and listened to Larry Brannian do his thing. Later that day I came out and found that although most of the outside goods had been sold off, the Busy Bee sign was still there.

One of the auction assistants was nearby, so I asked who'd gotten it.

"Nobody."

I was a little surprised. "Nobody?"

"Yep, it's headed to the dump. It was so heavy that nobody wanted it."

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First off, I'd like to say that this month's Post-it is not about religion. I was raised in a home where, around strangers or people you didn't know intimately, you didn't bring up either politics or religion. I've had a few glancing blows with both, usually poking a little fun, and this month's is along those same lines.

According to various estimates, there are about thirty million people in the US who firmly believe that the Rapture is coming in their lifetime. For the uninitiated, this is the second coming, an event which will result in the righteous being swept away to a far better place, leaving the rest here on earth. This Post-it isn't so much as to whether this is or isn't going to happen but more of what's being done about the details.

A retired retail executive out of New Hampshire has fired up this service called Eternal-Earth Bound Pets USA that'll sweep in after you've been swept off, to rescue and take care of your pets. Over a hundred people have already ponied (I'm not sure if horses are included in the plan...) up a hundred bucks for a ten-year contract that will insure that their pets are taken care of in a post-Rapture world. Says Mr. Centre, "If you love your pets, I can't believe you wouldn't think of this."

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I'm in Manhattan this weekend, and when you hear the reason it's going to give you a chuckle; I've been elected to the Mystery Writers of America's National Board. Go ahead and laugh now, I'll wait. I think my buddy Scott Montgomery said it best when I asked him who might've been responsible for my receiving the honor, "Nobody who knows you, Craig."

I'm not very good on boards, because I have a tendency to argue. The wife says it's my natural state, the argument. I've been on a few boards through the years, and generally when I announce that I'm retiring they don't try to change my mind. I don't know if it's because I'm naturally intractable or because I sit in a room and converse with my imaginary friends for a living-who, by the way, like me and tend to agree with whatever I have to say.

I hope you'll join me in wishing the Mystery Writers of America Board all the luck in the world.

All the best,

Craig

I'll be at Partners & Crime Bookstore for the annual MWA board signing party TODAY, Friday, January 15th from 6:00 pm - 8:00 pm

Partners & Crime Bookshop
44 Greenwich Ave (at Charles St)
New York, NY

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I was asked by Ben Petrone, my publicist at Penguin, to participate in their annual give/get blog, http://us.penguingroup.com/static/pages/features/whattogiveget.html, along with a slew of other authors. As usual, I decided to have a little fun with the assignment so for the get part I requested the entire collection of Penguin Classics for my cabin-yeah, so it weighs over seventy pounds and costs just under $8,000, the shipping is free. I also asked for H. H. Bancroft's History of Nevada, Colorado and Wyoming and Jack R. Gage's (Wyoming Governor 1961-1963) The Johnson County War Is/Ain't a Pack of Lies (both out of print for a very long time). Then to finish things off I requested from their own catalog one of those nifty, black 100% brushed cotton, Penguin ball caps featuring a structured crown and a pre-curved visor.

I complained that I get free caps from ranching supply, rodeo, and friend's outfits but had been working for them for six years and still didn't have a hat to show for it.

Next I was to make a list of the five things I wanted to give, which started out with John Steinbeck's America and Americans and Selected Non Fiction, and Brady Udall's The Miracle Life of Edgar Mint, two books I highly admire. But, being incapable of leaving things alone, I added that I'd like to give out some of those nifty, black 100% brushed cotton, Penguin ball caps featuring a structured crown and a pre-curved visor.

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I got a Halloween treat the last weekend in October--Rock Springs (WY) High School mounted a production of my adaptation of Mary Shelly's Frankenstein. Judy and I drove down to Rock Springs, figuring we'd just drive the rest of the way to Denver the next day and catch our flight to France.        

            Now for the trick part. 

            It was a great show, but an October storm roared through the high plains that night, closing the highway from Rock Springs eastward-including the two-hundred and fifty mile portion on I-80 that we needed to traverse. I'd been invited to an incredible series of events in and around Clermont-Ferrand in the Auvergne (France) with actors performing from my books, readings, signings, incredible food, wine, and company. I had to get to Denver, because I had to get to France.

            Like all true westerners, I felt as if I had to test the waters and see how far I could get before the Wyoming Highway Patrol shut me down. I loaded Judy, the dogs (yes, the dogs-they were going to their other parents in Ft. Collins for the duration of our trip) and started out at ten that night. It was pretty smooth sailing to just past Rawlins, but then the blinking lights became more persistent with gentle messages like-ALL VEHICLES MUST EXIT THE HIGHWAY AT THIS POINT OR FACE PROSECUTION.

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There was an important moment when the guy standing next to me at the Washington Post for the official photo for the National Book Festival in DC turned and said, "Hey Craig, how you doin'?"  I thought he looked familiar as he told me about selling books out of the trunk of his car, but it was only as he was turning away that I got a look at his nametag and read John Grisham.

Another was when I saw an elderly gentleman at the adjacent table looking for a place to sit at the breakfast reception. I stood and took my chair over, placing it beside him. "There you go." By that time I'd gotten pretty cagey about the whole nametag thing and caught a glimpse of his, Ben Bradley--the famed editor who had seen that two cub reporters by the names of Woodward and Bernstein got a crack at a little know story back in the seventies called Watergate.

I was starting to feel a little more than out of my depth.

The night before, Judy and I had attended the opening reception at the Library of Congress Reading Room. If you haven't been there, you should go. I think it's one of the most beautiful rooms I've ever been in and if you go during business hours and show them some ID they'll give you a card so that you can request any of thirty-two million books.

I was tempted to request one of mine but it was, after all, beyond business hours.

» Craig Johnson discusses the latest book in the "Walt Longmire" Western mystery series, The Dark Horse, as well as his experiences with fans of the series and his job as a mystery writer.

» Read more about The Dark Horse

Craig Johnson, The Dark Horse, Podcast

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It's always a roll of the dice at events you haven't done before; you never know if anybody's going to show up. Judy and I were whistling down the I-5 in the San Joaquin Valley, and the temperature was burnishing the golden hills at a hundred and thirteen degrees.

I was fortunate to be selected by the Autry National Center to kick off their book club at the Western Heritage Museum in Los Angeles-it was to be the swan song of The Dark Horse tour. "It's the debut of the program, so there might not be very many people..."

I glanced at her. "Yep, I know."

If you haven't ever been, the Autry is my favorite museum in the world, and one of the few where you can ride your horse on the equine trails of Griffith Park, tie off to the hitching rails at the museum, and go in. Try that at the Guggenheim.  

When Gene Autry started the museum, he was adamant that it not be about the glorification of himself but more of a celebration of the entire West. Back in the late eighties, Judy and I were in LA when I started exhibiting symptoms familiar to every wife-I stood by the doors of stores and jingled the truck keys in my pocket and stood on sidewalks (not my natural element) and looked into the distance with my eyes set in a hard squint.

"Why don't you go to the Gene Autry Museum?"

I'd been to the Roy Rogers Museum in Victorville, California (now having moved to Branson), and though I loved Roy, hadn't enjoyed the experience. "I don't think I can stand to see Champion stuffed."

"It's not like that."