The day the Donald dodged that bullet, so did I. If it had veered an inch to the right, Trumpaholics wouldn’t be the only ones in RIP-Donald country, I’d be mourning too, bemoaning the death of a book I invested a lot of laughter in.

The Day of the Ferret started life by accident. Writers’ brains work that way. Bits collide, bits floating in the gray mush between our ears, then sparks fly. The bits can be anything—events, characters, situations, relationships, even thoughts or feelings. Here, they were all people: Donald Trump, Robert De Niro, and Freddy Forsythe. De Niro was on TV ranting, and if that ever becomes an Oscar category, he’ll clean up. Here’s the gist of what he was saying—Trump is a pig, a dog, a mobster who called his own attorney a rat.

On he went, distracting me from my reread of The Day of the Jackal, Freddy Forsythe’s classic take on a super assassin targeting Charles de Gaulle. Bits flashed, and in a gush of authorial alchemy, The Day of the Ferret materialized. Since we were all in lockdown, I had time aplenty to take stock, and a good look at the world painted an ugly picture. Daily death counts, pandemic misery, Trump in the White House, Brexit Boris zeroing in on Whitehall, Europe fragmenting and the biology of male/female getting legislated out of existence.

How could the world get this messed up?

With so much madness to work with, it had to be a comedy, and a lawless president conjuring up a fake assassination to boost his ratings and fend off an ex with a grudge was a concept too yummy to pass up. Besides, Trump had been rehearsing for the role his entire life, and I’d have been cruel not to cast him. But what would my readers think? Murder and mayhem was my beat, not mirth.

So should I publish it under a pen name?

Back in the day when you needed fingers to turn pages, pen names were necessary because booksellers arranged books on shelves by author name. Authors used different names for different genres to make sure their books ended up on the right shelf. But the consensus in 2021 said no to pen names unless you were hiding… a Christian romance author, perhaps, switching to dark serial killer romance. So in November 2021, The Day of the Ferret by Michael Woodman was published and soon hit the top spot in Political Humor.

Of course, this title, this cover, this content was a magnet for feedback from a certain type of reader, two types in fact, those who could spell fucking asshole correctly and those who took their best shot at it anyway. As a storyteller, I’m in the emotion business, and while I’d have preferred joy, rage was an intense emotion. So I accepted their comments as digital pats on the back, and since it’s important to interact with fans, I let each of them know how much I appreciated their support.

My readers’ club members enjoyed it too and a few new sign-ups told me I was their new favorite author. But comments from readers whose opinions I cherished brought me back to the pen name question. So I rethought it and republished the book as The Day of the Ferret by Mickey Bastille. But before I could sell a copy, fate—to borrow a line from The Fugitive—played its huge hand, and I watched it all live on TV.

Holy crap! He’s been shot. 

Secret Service bodies piled on the president, just like in my book. I enjoyed the moment until a horrible thought hit me.

Is he dead? If he is… so’s my fucking book.

If he died, I could not allow a book lampooning his assassination, albeit a fake one, to remain on sale. I’m not a ghoul.

Please don’t die, Donald… that nasty stuff, I’ll take it all back.

Then he stood up, phoenix like, and waved his fist in defiance.

Lord be praised.

I leapt to my feet and punched the air like a man tripping out at an evangelical do. But I still had a problem. I’d pulled my original title with all its social proofs, editorial and reader reviews etc. and I was about to launch a new title with none of that. The takeaway was clear. Matthew Thomas Crooks had failed to kill Donald Trump, but he’d dropped Mickey Bastille stone dead. No way could I republish this title under a pen name. It would have no reviews or ratings, no editorials, nothing. Reviewers would call it exploitative. I’d be a cheapjack hack cashing in, instead of a cheapjack hack getting lucky. So just like Donald, the Ferret came back from the dead.

For readers coming across this title for the first time, despite its cover, it is not a Trump-bashing tirade. It’s a lampoon, a cartoon in words, and as a satire, it’s equal opportunity. I’m a middle-of-the-road guy. Roads camber. So here in the middle, I’m on the high ground. Way off to the left and right, I spy ditches stuffed with angry folk who’ve skidded off the road. If you’re one of them, don’t waste your time reading this book. Crawl out of the ditch and head uphill instead. There’s plenty of room up here. Just follow the laughter.