"A blind swordswoman in China seeks revenge on the cunning and deadly Manchu general who killed her parents."

Okamoto's wu xia Wu Tang Clan style novel DRAGON SWORD is now being serialized on Movellas.com, with a fresh chapter posted every week or so.

Read it for free!

The Luzhang Bridges

The Luzhang Bridges

An American writer falls in love with a seemingly unattainable Chinese movie star. To his shock, his love is reciprocated.

A starkly romantic, searingly erotic and poignant 12,000 word "cell phone novella" that has been acclaimed by the most renowned writers of cell phone fiction in America.

Chapter Ten

Jude crouched on his heels by the fire & picked up the skillet using his gloved hand. He took it carefully over to Daniel who, braiding a length of rawhide into a reata, was leaning back against the Spanish saddle, his big hands slow & intent in the wicking firelight. Jude set down the skillet on the bare ground they'd scrubbed clean of rocks & sagebrush. The trout in the skillet were sizzling & glossy with lard & the apples Jude had sliced into the pan alongside them were golden-soft & speckled black. The smell was wonderful. The trout skins, silvery in this firelight, were peeling away & flakes of steaming fish shone out. Daniel bent over the pan & his nostrils flared; he shut his eyes breathing in soft & deep. He set down the unfinished braid on the saddle & picked up the wooden spoon he'd laid on the Mexican blanket. He handed it to Jude. Jude took the spoon in his smaller hand & cut into a trout near the tail & a cloud of steam flared out. He lifted it to his lips & blew rapidly on the steaming golden morsel then put it into his mouth, chewing carefully with his mouth wide open; the taste seemed to go all through him & the hunger surged in his belly & his mouth filled with saliva. The fried apples had made the trout's flesh smoky-sweet. As Jude chewed & blissfully swallowed, Daniel reached over & with the shining big blade of his Bowie knife picked up two slices of the grease sputtering apple & put them into his mouth. He nodded his big dark-curled head in the firelight to signify his pleasure & his blessing & Jude's eyes stung. That was the trout dinner, Jude's first -- the first & no doubt greatest outdoor meal he ever cooked for he & his father both.

Easter in Sicily

A travel essay. Originally published in The Paumanok Review. Easter in Sicily PDF
As an experiment, I've recently published some of my novels as e-books on Amazon/Kindle. It's not likely that they'll do well there because I'm not much of a marketer, but possibly a few strangers will read and enjoy them.

A hard crime noir novel under the byline T.K. Radagore: KING COBRA

A literary novel about a young writer who falls in love with an Italian movie star: ACROSS THE BRIDGE OF STRAW & FOG

A samurai spy slice 'em up with a beating Zen heart: THE LONELINESS OF THE BLUE-EYED ASSASSIN

An epic about the Zen of swordsmanship in Tokugawa Japan: OSAI'S RAZOR

Also, my ongoing "cell phone novel" is Editor's Choice 2011 at TextNovel.com:

The Luzhang Bridges

More to come.

Snake Girl

In Molotov Cocktail Snake Girl
My novel ACROSS THE BRIDGE OF STRAW & FOG, based on a short story perhaps badly titled "The Odor of Sicilian Lemons" was represented by the renowned agent Sandra Dijkstra in 2003-2004 but to my and perhaps her dismay it did not sell.

Another novel of mine, a samurai action epic titled OSAI'S RAZOR, was vigorously represented by UK crime novelist/agent Allan Guthrie but it met the same fate. Mr. Guthrie also tried to sell my crime thriller AKIKO'S FURY, later retitled THE LONELINESS OF THE BLUE-EYED ASSASSIN, which he termed a work of "genius," but no luck happened there, either.
two things that are always better as ideas than in reality

Going to a literary reading

Riding a painted horse on a carousel

two things that are always better in reality than as ideas

Riding in a speedboat

Walking through Venice at night


I had some exalted hopes for my novel [ACROSS THE BRIDGE OF STRAW & FOG] especially after uber-agent Sandy Dijkstra called me up late one night to tell me how much she loved and was intoxicated by the writing, but barely four months after she’d signed me, she e-mailed to say that she’d lost confidence in my book – she’d liked each revision a bit less than the last, she confided, and anyway after rejections by seven major editors, including her friend Jonathan Galassi, she no longer thought the manuscript could sell. In industry parlance, my novel was “burned.” Time to part ways. "Helas!" she wrote in conclusion.

I knew that no other agent would touch a book that had already been rejected by the seven top editors in New York (even if one editor, Julia Serebrinsky at Ecco, had described it as “one of the best first novels I’ve read in a long time”). My book had failed. In two years of work I had given birth to nothing, to less than nothing. Walking the empty Cambridge streets by night I recalled having felt the same sick this-race-is-run sensation before. Like revisiting the old school stadium where your team lost every game they ever played, though not for lack of hope or effort.


"I have read Andrew Wilson's novel FRAGMENTS twice, and with each reading my enthusiasm rises. Though it is written in disconnected fragments, often with subtle variations on repetitions, it holds together as effectively as a plotted novel. In fact, I believe it is only by writing in fragments that Andrew Wilson has evoked a whole that suggests dimensions greater than what a carefully plotted novel is able to do. As interconnections among the fragments begin to form they extend themselves out into the deepest space -- space that is both as frightening and as amazing as Pascal found it. The book may be about a writer who is in despair because everything he intends, especially the book he is trying to write, breaks down into seemingly disconnected details, but beyond his despair there occurs something that he cannot intend but that does occur, and what does occur is as vast and unifying as the grace of God. "

- DAVID PLANTE, Novelist, Creative Writing Professor at Columbia University, and regular contributor to The New Yorker.
I feel I write so as to vanquish loneliness. Yet, even in the fictional situations I imagine, people suffer from a longing for real contact with other human beings. The best people suffer inside themselves the most. Their longing drives them to extremes of behavior that in turn provoke orgies of remorse. All of this is simple realism. It may be that literature, like film, is wholly incapable of overcoming loneliness. In such circumstances -- is friendship possible?
Here is a page for my novel ACROSS THE BRIDGE OF STRAW & FOG.
This page exists to showcase some of my published but mostly my unpublished work. It's here only to give pleasure. I feel there is no other reason besides the giving of pleasure to go on writing at all.

I've devoted myself to writing in the most intense possible way. You could say that my single-minded devotion to writing has ruined my life by turning me into something close to a beggar, except that I'm basically happy and satisfied.

Generally, I make my living as a writer-editor-book doctor-manuscript developer-writing coach-ghostwriter. Here is my page for that: ALWWritingIndustries.