Theyll include thrillers, childrens graphic novels, middle-grade fiction and nonfiction.
(Read our interview with the pair about the project.)
Now, Patterson, 75, has turned his prodigious storytelling skills to looking back on his own journey.
Enjoy a glimpse into Patterson as he tells it like it was.
I dont remember, but I did live to tell about it.
Lets start with my father.
My dad grew up in the Newburgh poorhouse (think about that for a second or two).
It was called the Pogie.
His mom was the charwoman there.
They werent homeless, but they were damn close.
My father never met his father, at least not as far as he could remember.
My mother, Isabelle Ann, attended high school with my dad.
She made next to nothing.
Maybe even a little less than that.
Im surprised the parish priests didnt ask her to pay them for the privilege of teaching at their school.
Several nights a week, she would be bent over the dining-room table grading papers until 9 or 10.
She had a cool mission as a teacher: She wanted to turn mirrors into windows.
She pretty much followed the same philosophy at home.
Mirrors, physical or symbolic, werent big in the Patterson house.
My sisters Mary Ellen, Carole and Teresa ruled the roost.
In their view of the world, I was hired help.
I was their minion.
We were a very ball-sy family.
Youre slipping, James.
I dont blame them, because I feel they were doing the best that they could.
Your best isnt good enough.
Youre slipping, James.
Were not your natural parents.
We adopted you when you were 1 year old.
Then George Hazelton told my father over the phone that he was his brother.
Miraculously, they both also came home.
They became best friends, extremely loyal and loving toward one another.
And my father didnt laugh all that much.
I think it was the only time I ever saw him cry.
A few years after the war ended, my Uncle George called my father again.
This time he started with the punch line: I found our father.
