I wrote a novel called The Mountaintop. I started it well before the Broadway play of the same name, so I figure I'm entitled to the title. The novel takes place in New York and in Memphis during the first week of April 1968. (If you don't know what happened on April 4 of that year, you can look it up. Or you can wait for the serialized audio book that's going to start appearing right here as soon as I can figure out how to do it.) The Mountaintop has been turned down by just about every publisher in New York, which puzzles me because I think it's pretty good. It's not at all like Time on My Hands: no time machines, no sociopathic European people from the 21st century. It's seen through the eyes of five interconnected young people--three men, two women--in alternating chapters. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll make noises of great excitement and anticipation as Lydia, Ben, Prosper, Maddy, and Alex make their way fictionally into your hearts.