That's right, my new novel releases August 9 (2011, in case you were curious). It's selling for around $10 on amazon, either in trade paperback or the Kindle version. (No audio version yet, but my first two novels are available in all three formats.)

If you want to buy it, click HERE

Here's the back cover blurb:

In his third novel, author Michael Snyder delivers another honest, authentic, and intriguing plot carried along by quirky characters whose actions and reactions still manage to look and sound like the rest of us. It is often said that every good joke contains some basic truth. In A Stand-Up Guy, aspiring comedian Oliver Miles puts that axiom to the test when he revamps his comedy act by filling it with darkly personal truths about friends and family. But, as the edgy humor begins to attract more attention, the young comic's personal life gets more complicated. When he realizes he has managed to turn the two women he cares about most into props for his act, he wonders if his honesty on-stage is making him dishonest in life. Despite the sobering reality of his world off stage, the laughter and the success is intoxicating, even for a stand-up guy.

A Stand-Up Guy is a real story about real people struggling with life's rights and wrongs. It will appeal to anyone who enjoys a uniquely-woven relational drama threaded with a little mystery and delivered with a lot of humor and insight.

And finally, the first chapter:

Emcee
… also known as the opening act, host, master of ceremonies; typically the first person on stage during a show who will then introduce the following acts.

*

Oliver Miles paced backstage, sporadically wetting his lips while trying not to wet his pants. He peered around the thick drapes, but all he could see was blackness where the crowd was supposed to be.

He closed his eyes, intent on mentally rehearsing a new bit about reality TV shows, but all he could think about was his mother, wishing she could be here to see him perform. Maybe then he’d know whether to thank her for the inspiration …or blame her.

According to Delores Miles, her son was born funny. Her simple declaration that had planted itself in the fertile soil of his nine-year-old brain then sprouted like Jack’s proverbial beanstalk. And it was this weird alchemy of language and inspiration that transformed a needling boyhood curiosity into his lifelong obsession with making people laugh. So for more than a decade, Oliver honed his blossoming sense of humor into kind of a sixth sense, perfecting his mother's uncanny ability to “find the funny” in any situation, no matter how mundane, morbid, or even tragic. Creating laughter became Oliver's calling card, his shield, sword, and escape hatch. It was his alter ego, his imaginary friend, his security blanket. It was not, however, such a great way to make a living.

Oliver paged through his notebook a final time as if cramming for a test, then squinted into the blackness once more, trying in vain to make out the actual faces in the gloom. Finally his gaze drifted to the exact center of the stage where the spotlight had painted a lopsided moon, silhouetting a skinny microphone stand. The padded barstool, which now served as an oversized coaster for his sweating tumbler of ice water, remained in the shadows.

His mission was simple enough. Walk out onstage—no, scratch that—command the stage, and deliver a ten-minute set of stand-up comedy. This gig would neither make nor break his career. That particular gig was still more than two months away, provided he survived the audition.

Still, when the emcee’s voice echoed in his head, panic struck him like a pebble in a pond, rippling outward in small, strutting waves until the rest of him shook as badly as his hands.

It was show time.

Oliver closed his eyes and mouthed the words of the emcee's scripted introduction. He never allowed himself to imagine wild ovations; that way he would never be disappointed. After wetting his now-chapped lips a final time, Oliver Miles strode out from the wings and across the familiar stage. The wooden planks creaked and groaned under his feet.
He snatched the microphone from the stand, fixed his gaze on some random spot in the crowd, and delivered his trademark opening.

"Let us pray," he said, bowing his head somberly. He paused for effect, popped one eye open for a quick, nervous scan of the crowd, then mumble-whispered a litany of heartfelt syllables that culminated in a breathless Amen.

"There," he said, as if something had actually been settled. "If you people don't have a good time tonight, it's not my fault."

Oliver ignored the abject lack of crowd response and forged ahead. Years of practicing in front of his bedroom mirror had taught him more than a few ways to cope with uninspiring feedback from uninspired crowds. He'd learned to simply invent laughter as needed, then have his brain insert it like a laugh track on a sitcom. After all, didn’t he know his own material better than a roomful of strangers? Was he not the expert on his own jokes? For the most part, audiences merely confirmed what Oliver already knew.

This flimsy bit of self-deception almost always worked too. Like WD-40, it displaced his sagging confidence and greased the rusty hinges of his vocal cords. In fact, it was working tonight. He was a machine, setting up one joke, punching it just right, tagging it a time or two, then slipping in and out of segues like a runway model swapping outfits backstage.
Oliver used the glow of the spotlight to check his watch. He'd timed his set perfectly so far. Just two more jokes to go, then hit the closer, say goodnight, and go back to work.

But the laughter building inside his head ceased when the house lights came on, temporarily blinding the newly befuddled comedian midsentence and filling his head with deafening silence.

As his eyes recalibrated, so did his brain. The tables scattered around the ballroom were empty, just like they were twenty minutes ago when he’d set up the microphone stand, placed his water glass on the barstool, and killed the house lights in favor of the spot. Empty chairs, all sporting the garish hotel insignia, were still piled high on dollies. And the spotlight, now rendered impotent, mocked Oliver and just made his eyes hurt.

His mystified gaze finally landed on the only other sign of life in the room, a shadowy female form in full Harrington Hotel regalia—a unisex ensemble of dark slacks, white dress shirt, and a maroon vest. Her brassy nametag glinted in the glow of the sparkling chandelier. She looked familiar, but in a distant, impersonal way. Like an extra in a really old movie or a headshot from his grandmother's yearbook.

Oliver clipped the microphone back on the stand, retrieved his notebook from the wings, and descended the steps with all the nonchalance he could muster. As he made his way across the ballroom, he glanced under tables and behind curtains or wherever else imaginary villains might be lurking. He stopped a few feet in front of the intruder and leaned casually on the back of a chair. They exchanged bewildered expressions as the silence loomed between them, vacuum packed, coiled like a spring.

“I was just, you know…” Oliver’s voice sounded shrill, lilting with unintended question marks. “… making my rounds. I am the security guard, after all.”

“You’re Oscar, right?”

“It’s Oliver.”

“Right,” she said. “Sorry.”

It was obviously Oliver’s turn to speak. But every time he opened his mouth the sluicing roar of adrenaline made it impossible to focus on forming words. His addled brain peppered him with unanswerable questions: When had she come in? How much did she hear? What had she thought of his material? What must she think of him? Not to mention his idiotic uniform. The question he finally settled on was So, how may I help you? But it came out like: “So, what are you doing here anyway?”

“Working,” she said. “Same as you.”

“Oh.” Oliver braced himself for the undertow of sarcasm in her tone. But there was no subtext, no irony, no ridicule or disappointment or threat of sanction. As far as he could tell she was wholly earnest.

“We met at my orientation last week.”

“Right,” he said as a vague memory of a quick introduction a few days ago began to emerge. All he could recall was that she had a little boy’s name, a little girl’s haircut, and a seeming inability to break eye contact. But that version of this girl had been a throwback to another era, something mid-sixties, pre-hippie, a mash-up of chiffon and velvet and patent leather. All that remained now was her lazy bouffant flip.

Oliver tried not to be too obvious as he allowed his gaze to migrate to her nametag. That’s when it finally dawned on him that he was staring at the hotel’s new night auditor, the only other person he would see or talk to for the countless hours that comprised the graveyard shift.

He was mid-squint when she said, “It’s Matilda. They misspelled it on my nametag.”

“Right, nice to see you again, Matilda. I thought—”

“Please,” she said, “call me Mattie.”

“Got it. But I thought you didn’t start till next week, Mattie.”

“That was the plan,” she said. “But I think the last girl eloped or something. So Mr. Sherman called and asked if I could start a little early.”

So much for having the hotel to himself for an entire week.

“Anyhow,” she continued. “I had to work late at my other job. So I told Mr. Sherman I’d be a little tardy tonight. Turns out, it was later than I thought.”

“It’ll be our little secret,” he said, shocked at how creepy it sounded and wishing he could take it back.

“Are you okay?”

“Sure,” he said, although her unrelenting eye contact was making him a bit dizzy. “Why do you ask?”

“Because ever since I flipped the lights on, you look like you swallowed a curling iron.”

“How does that look exactly?”

“Bug-eyed, sweaty, short of breath, and blushing in too many places at once.”

Oliver chuckled. Her obvious attempt at humor sanded the edge off his humiliation. But she never smiled back. She simply stared. And blinked.

“Anyhow,” she continued, “I’m just glad I finally found you.”

Finally? he thought, then said, “You are?”

“Yeah, you got a phone message.”

“I did?”

“I think her name was Lindsey. Said she’d call back later.”

In the three years Oliver had worked security for the Harrington Hotel, he’d never once received a phone message. And as far as he knew he’d never met a Lindsey before. He was about to indulge a few morbid thoughts about his mother when Mattie spoke up again.

“And I’m pretty sure we were just robbed.”