Okay, let's face it; 2012 was a bumpy ride. Lots of ups and downs that, frankly, left me (and my writing) in just about the same place as we were in 2011.
Meaning we are still sitting in the cheap seats watching the crowd pass by.
I'm not complaining about my writing friends finding success. In fact I'm the first to stand up and give out a big, 'HOOOORAWWWW!' to every last one of'em. Each deserved all the success they found--and I'm hoping even MORE will come there way in the new year.
But, me hearties . . . . .
This new year coming is meant for me. I've said over and over and over that the very first thing a writer has to be is to be confident in one 's writing abilities. Ultimately you have to BELIEVE you are as good as anyone out there. But more importantly, you have FIND A WAY and PROVE IT to everyone. Especially so to the agents and editors and publishers.
The publishing industry is a very large sea and we are, as unknown writers, very small fish swimming around with the millions of other tiny bright-eyed guppies trying to be recognized. So I'm going to have to do something different. I have characters that need to be recognized. Stories that need to be told. Series to be written.
Take for instance the artwork above. Turner Hahn and Frank Morales. Homicide detectives whom, I not-so-humbly suggest, are as good a duo as can be found anywhere in the genre. They're fully fleshed out, have their own personalities; and work well with each other. And the cases they work on are serious whodunits. They need a publisher who will give them some loving attention (or, at least, a generic handshake and an 'Attaboy!') That's all they need and I'm positive they'll take off.
And then there is Roland of the High Crags. My warrior-monk-wizard character. Fantasy that has all the ingredients of a traditional fantasy romp; fire-breathing dragons, magic, high-adventure. But darker . . . perhaps more thoughtful. Fantasy/sci-fi (sorry; I have always lumped the two together. They just fit in the same category so well) has become blase. Essentially the same story over and over. A retelling of a retold tale told many a time before. Surely there's another story--another style that might be refreshing to attempt.
I think I'm going to re-invent this potential series. Change a few things about the character. Start something completely fresh and see where that goes. Make it darker. Meaner.
One idea I've been playing around is making Fantasy slowly turn into hard Science-Fiction. And there's a method behind my madness, me buckos! I think it can be done. I have the sub-plots in my head that should surprise the bejesus out of the fans who might (absolutely will!) discover this series in '13.
Goals, people. Everyone needs goals. But more importantly, more than just setting goals, what truly is needed is determination. Persistent, consistent, unyielding determination to succeed. As other pundits have pointed out repeatedly, the world is full of talent. Our wells overflow with talent. Entire nations of talented people abound. But people filled with talent and determination?
Hmmm . . . . .
If you are a writer you have stories to tell; characters to share. If you are a writer (throw in any kind of artist here; it's the same thing) you have a deep desire to share your talent with others. Not necessarily for fame and glory. That'd be nice, sure. But deep down, any artist wants to express their gifts to those who are searching for something. A good story; a good piece of acting, a great piece of music. It is this desire to share that drives a lot of artists to do what they do.
And you know what? There's not a damn thing wrong with that. That's the way it should be.
The thoughts, writings, and rummagings of a twisted and warped mind.
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Monday, December 17, 2012
Sharing a chapter from Retribution.
In fits and starts I am writing the first full-length Smitty novel. Called Retribution. Essential the plot revolves around someone asking Smitty, a professional assassin, to help them track down and remove from the streets a madman who is trying to be a modern day Jack the Ripper.
Simple, right? Naw. With Smitty nothing is that simple.
There are plots within plots. Twists and turns that'll (hopefully) make you giggle in delight. And the characters . . . a lot of them . . . are not exactly what the say they are. Yes, a complex that, for the reader, I'm hoping will be very enjoyable to read. But writing this SOB is a pain in the ass.
As someone once said, writing that flawlessly moves with seamless ease for the reader is very hard work. I agree completely.
I've already shared one other chapter in the novel you can find back in the achieves somewhere. But I thought today I might share the latest chapter. I kinda like what came out and want to share it. So let me set up the scene for you.
Smitty has a gut feeling a certain prostitute who works out of the Freiburg Hotel is The Ripper's next victim. One night, when she leaves the hotel, he decides to follow her. What he doesn't know is The Ripper knows Smitty is watching the woman. His goal is to take out Smitty.
So here goes. Tell me what you think.
Simple, right? Naw. With Smitty nothing is that simple.
There are plots within plots. Twists and turns that'll (hopefully) make you giggle in delight. And the characters . . . a lot of them . . . are not exactly what the say they are. Yes, a complex that, for the reader, I'm hoping will be very enjoyable to read. But writing this SOB is a pain in the ass.
As someone once said, writing that flawlessly moves with seamless ease for the reader is very hard work. I agree completely.
I've already shared one other chapter in the novel you can find back in the achieves somewhere. But I thought today I might share the latest chapter. I kinda like what came out and want to share it. So let me set up the scene for you.
Smitty has a gut feeling a certain prostitute who works out of the Freiburg Hotel is The Ripper's next victim. One night, when she leaves the hotel, he decides to follow her. What he doesn't know is The Ripper knows Smitty is watching the woman. His goal is to take out Smitty.
So here goes. Tell me what you think.
Twenty Four
Charlene Hicks rolled out of the rotating glass doors of
the Freiberg at a little past two in the
morning. The night was calm. Still.
Hardly any traffic moving. The stars
were out and there seemed to be this almost surreal quiet that seemed, if
anyone was paying attention, unnatural.
She was wearing a tight fitting red dress with matching
red leather high heels. Underneath one
arm was a white leather purse. Around her
neck was a necklace of white pearls with a few dark red rubies thrown in for
good luck. The low cut dress, the high
heels, her perfect form, made the small blond with the long hair cascading
down past her shoulder breathtaking to behold.
Men in the lobby stopped in mid conversation to turn and watch her hips
sway back and forth seductively as she exited the hotel.
No doubt about it.
Charlene Hicks was a very beautiful woman.
Sitting in the darkness of his car he watched as the door
man hailed a cabbie and opened the cab's door for Charlene. On his face was a big grin flashing a lot of
white teeth. A grin that got bigger when
Charlene slipped him a couple of bills just before disappearing into the
cab. When the cab pulled away from the
front of the hotel he took his time slipping the gearshift into drive and
following.
The cabbie drove in a circuitous route. Weaving in and out of traffic when they
pulled onto a street alive with traffic; taking corners suddenly and then
turning almost immediately down another street.
Wherever Charlene was going she was making an effort to ditch anyone
trying to follow her. For twenty minutes
he and the cabbie played cat-and-mouse on the streets. Sometimes he would momentarily loose the cab
forcing him to begin a fast circular search.
Luckily he'd find them sliding down a quiet street a block or two
away. Settling in roughly four or five
car lengths away he'd take up following them again.
At the end of the twenty minute drive the cabbie pulled
up to the curb in front of a parking garage attached to a fancy looking
apartment complex. The cement structure
looked like a brightly lit fortress.
Watching her get out of the cab, bending over, ass turned in his
direction and revealing a lot of beautifully sculptured leg, she paid off the
cabbie, closed the door, then turned and stepped into through the automatic
doors that led into the parking garage's foyer and the single elevator. She immediately hit the up button on the elevator
and waited for the doors to open.
He didn't hesitate.
With a twist of the wrist he slid the lithe, black CTS -V Caddy into the ground
floor entrance, paid for the privilege to park, waited for the barrier to go up
and allow entrance, and calmly began the twisting drive up into the cavernous
garage. Hitting the down button for the
driver's side window he tilted his head to one side to hear better. When he started to turn onto the third level
of the garage he heard the unmistakable clicking of high heels walking across
hard cement. He saw her the moment he
nosed onto the third level. She was
walking toward a dark gray BMW 530i, a hand aimed toward the car pressing the
unlock button on her key bob.
She was about to open the driver's side door of the BMW
when he pulled in front of the car and draped an arm out of the open window.
"Charlene, we need to talk."
Her reaction was visceral. She stepped back from the car, fumbling with
her purse in the process. He slid out of
the car, leaving the driver's side door open, stood up and lifted both hands in
the air. From out of the white leather
purse appeared a snub-nosed .38 caliber revolver. A calm, steady hand held it out from her and
aimed it for the middle of his chest.
"Take another step toward me and I swear to god I'll
put two of'em straight through your fucking heart!"
There was no fear in the woman's voice. Just a hard edge of determination. He knew she would do exactly what she said
she would do. Standing beside his Caddy,
hands in the air, he almost smiled.
"Charlene, I'm not here to harm you. I'm not The Ripper, as the papers call this
guy. But I am here because of him. Charlene, I think you're his next victim. I've been asked to stop him. But to stop him I need your help."
The gun in her hand wavered slightly. He heard her suck in her breath. Saw her take a half step back as she glanced
quickly to her left and then to her right.
But she recovered. The gun came
up again steady and unmoving. And still
aimed at his chest.
"Who are you?"
"I'm known by a lot of different names. The people who asked me to help them know me
as Smitty. For now that's all you need to know."
"Why should I believe you? What makes you think I'm the next
victim?"
"You're blond.
You're petite. You're in the
same age bracket as the others. You're
very beautiful. You work out of the
Frieburg. Think about Charlene. You knew the others."
She lowered her gun.
Didn't put it back into her purse.
Kept it firmly in her grip and ready in case she had to. But her face told him she was all too
familiar with The Ripper's MO. The very
same thought had crossed her mind many times before. She looked worried. Scared.
"So now what . . . Smitty? SMITTY!!"
The attack was lightning fast. Unexpected.
Coming from an impossible direction.
The dark form came out of the darkness from above. From a cement cross
piece connecting two cement pillars holding up the top floor of the
garage. The one space in the entire
garage not lit up brightly!
Smitty felt the sharp tip of the large knife slid across
the collar of his shirt next to his carotid artery. Felt the pull of cloth as the knife sought
his flesh. Instinctively he pulled back
and twisted into the swinging blow as he used the closed fist of his right hand
to drive a vicious blow into the black form's rib cage. The creature grunted but wasn't fazed by the
blow. Landing on his feet, tucked low in
a squatting position, he rolled over his shoulders, came to his feet, and
started running toward Charlene. In his
right hand was a very large carving knife.
A carving knife exactly like the ones he had used on his other victims.
Charlene tried to bring the snub-nose revolver up and aim
it at the black clad nightmare. But too
slow! The black horror was just in front
of her, the knife coming up over his head for a slashing downward blow. She screamed, stepped back, threw a hand up
to protect her face.
The blow never came.
As fast as the nightmare was Smitty was just as
fast. Just as the knife came up for the
killing blow Smitty reached out, wrapped fingers around the wrist of the knife
hand, and jerked violently backwards.
The nightmare grunted in pain, whirled, faced his attacker, with a
second knife in his hand! A switch-blade
with a long, thin blade of blue steel.
The nightmare screamed and thrust forward as hard as he could toward
Smitty's exposed chest. But the dark
eyed man saw the blow coming and twisted to one side as he continued to grip
the killer's right hand.
The sharp edge of the switch-blade slid across Smitty's
chest biting deep into flesh. Blood began
to color the now shredded shirt he was wearing with a dark smear. The pain searing through his mind was almost
numbing. But he new the blade had missed
its mark. It was not a killing
blow. Gritting his teeth he brought his
the open edge of his left hand down hard across the top of the horror's free
arm in a swift chopping blow. The blow
struck bone. The switch-blade in the
horror's left hand dropped to the cement floor of the garage with a jarring
ring of cold metal.
But the horror was far from finished with his
tricks. A knee came up aimed for
Smitty's testicles. Smitty had barely
enough time to partially block the blow with a leg. As he did the horror twisted his right hand
free from Smitty's grip and turned toward him, bringing the carving knife
slashing out toward Smitty's chest again.
It would have connected this time if it wasn't for Charlene's snub nose
revolver suddenly erupting in an outrageous loud explosion in the garage's
confining space.
BLAM!
The snub nose bucked in her hand as she fired. The bullet, missing its target, slammed into
one of the cement pillars and ricocheted with a loud whining sound before
slamming into the windshield of a Ford Escort parked beside her BMW. Inches away from the horror's black clad
head.
The noise of the gun going off, the sound of the bullet
ricocheting and then slamming into the Ford's windshield was enough to convince
the horror this was not the time nor the place to finish either target
off. Blocking an expertly aimed kick
from his prey, the horror rolled across the hood of the Ford Escort, put space
between him and the wounded Smitty, and ran to the thick walled barrier of the
garage and leapt over the barrier and disappeared into the night.
Smitty, feeling the pain and the blood covering his chest
and stomach, came to his feet and grabbed Charlene by the arm and began pulling
her toward the black Caddy. Shoving her
into the car he hurried around to the driver's side, slid in and closed the
door, and started driving.
"You're bleeding.
Is it serious?" she said,
half twisting in the leather seat of the car and reaching out hesitantly to
touch Smitty's bloody shirt."
"It looks worse than it actually is. But it hurts like hell," he whispered
softly, concentrating on his driving.
"We need to get out of here and find some place to hide you. Especially now we know he is hunting for
you."
"I know just the place. Here, stop the car and let's change. I'll drive and you try to stop the
bleeding."
Smitty nodded, braked just inside the exit leading out of
the garage and got out of the car. It
took seconds to trade positions. And
then, with Charlene driving, they were gone.
Disappearing into the night just as sirens from approaching police units
ripped the night open with wails of despair.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Artwork and book covers . . . again!
The reason I bring this up is because I'm . . . frankly . . . puzzled. Puzzled in the sense of not quite comprehending how some people in charge of book production make decisions. Artwork is, even for an ebook, an absolutely critical component in attracting potential readers. What good artwork does is ask a potential reader to take the chance and buy something of an author whom they may not be familiar with. Right?
I mean, it makes sense, doesn't it? Lots of us not only like a good read. But we like the visuals of the front cover to ignite our imaginations and generate some form of anticipation on what we might find inside.
Makes sense to me.
So take the example of the above artwork. It was to be the cover for the next Turner Hahn/Frank Morales novel called Guilt of Innocence. I commissioned the piece to be done because I had a specific image of what the cover should look like. I wanted a truly accurate rendition of both Turner Hahn and Frank Morales (Turner is the guy who looks like Clarke Gable; Frank is the red headed freak with no neck).
I also wanted to visual impress upon the reader that (One); there was going to be guns going off and bodies dropping, and (Two); lost of fast cars were to be found inside. If you've read any of the Turner Hahn/Frank Morales stories (and there are several in the archives you can peruse through) you KNOW what Turner and Frank look like and KNOW action is guaranteed to be had in buckets full.
But . . .
Some publishers take umbrage over the idea of an author taking a proprietary interest in what the cover should look like. Actually, I can understand this. Many publishers want to express a certain 'brand' or 'style' for their trademark's image. And . . . if that trademark image is dynamic and dramatic, I have no qualms. But . . . and I certainly don't want to be brutal here, or insult anyone . . . nevertheless what happens if your trademark artwork is, frankly, a bland brand of ersatz vanilla in flavor? I give you an example. Here is the cover for A Taste of Old Revenge.
Examine the two. Be honest. If you were a reader scanning the ebook titles which two title covers would capture your attention first? Which one generates some interesting reading possibilities? I'm banking the one I wanted to be used for Guilt of Innocence. Action, color, interesting characters . . . all there. And the cover is FREE! I coughed up the coins to get the work done.
Sigh.
Apparently it's not going to happen. The best I can hope for is (if the book is even accepted for publication, which is still up in the air) maybe they'll take some hints. Maybe not.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Richard Godwin; Wondering where Art comes from
It's like you, as a writer, constantly run across other writers who just bedazzle you with their talent. Their talent so sharp, so clear, it forces you to consider the idea of giving up writing and becoming a plumber. Or . . . if you're lucky . . . an accountant. Or maybe a trapeze artist. Or a crash test dummy.
Richard Godwin is that kind of talent. I read his material and walk off with my head down and mumbling to myself like a Coptic monk suffering through a religious crisis. Yeah, he's that good. His style, the way he slings words on the screen or paper, the ability to lure the reader deep into a story, all the hallmarks of a writer with exceptional talents.
It's not that I'm jealous or envious of his abilities (HELL! Who am I kidding!!) . . . it's just that why does my friend have to be so damn talented AND so gosh durn handsome at the same time! The world is a cruel, cruel mistress, me buckeroos. And Karma . . . Karma is a bitch. (I must have been a very bad boy in a previous life to get the mugshot I claim as my own currently. Very bad)
Anyway. Richard is always a fascinating conversation to wade into so I thought I'd ask him to share some thoughts over whatever struck his fancy. What struck his fancy is a miniature thesis on what is Art and where does it come from. It is both fascinating and thought provoking. So sit back and take your time perusing through the writing. I think you'll find yourself enthralled.
(Damn! Talented AND good looking AND an intellect!! Karma . . . you bitch!)
THE DIVIDE, Richard Godwin.
There have been many
debates about art and where it comes from and what rules govern it and at the
end of the day maybe no one knows.
Friedrich Nietzsche
posited the theory that it stems from a basis tension between the old Greek
gods Apollo and Dionysus, Apollo representing law and Dionysus chaos.
In his first seminal
work ‘The Birth of Tragedy’ he wrote:
‘...we have considered
the Apollonian and its opposite, the Dionysian, as artistic energies which
burst forth from nature herself ...first in the world of dreams, whose
completeness is not dependent upon the
intellectual attitude or the artistic culture of any single being; and then as
intoxicated reality...’.
This idea of intoxicated
reality runs like an undercurrent through all the theories of creativity.
Rimbaud used it for his
poetry.
Keats wrote of
imagination that it was Like Adam’s dream ‘he awoke and found it true’.
There is a central issue
of control.
If you paint with
watercolour you have to let go of control, or you will paint shit.
The colours run.
That is why Turner is
probably the greatest watercolourist and a great oil painter, he knew his
media. He also cleverly created many paintings of the sea, which is fluid.
The ego stands in the
way.
What are you evoking?
During the 1960’s and
1970’s in the US
a number of works were performed which transgressed the traditional boundaries
of Western genre in the arts.
Jim Morrison urged his
fans to ‘ride the snake’. Morrison also spoke of his reading in ‘The Birth of
Tragedy’ of the primal Dionysian art as the spirit of music.
Morrison moved his
performances towards shamanistic theatre.
Interestingly Mircea
Eliade, author of Shamanism: Archaic
Techniques of Ecstasy writes of shamans:
‘they
express on the one hand the diametrical opposition of two divine figures sprung
from one and the same principle and destined, in many versions, to be
reconciled at some illud tempus of eschatology, and on the other, the coincidentia
oppositorum in the very nature of the divinity, which shows itself, by
turns or even simultaneously, benevolent and terrible, creative and
destructive, solar and serpentine.’
Morrison’s
‘The Lizard’ took nearly half an hour to perform in concert and is an act of
descent.
We’re
into the underworld and back to the same divide.
He
used to thump the table in his lectures and say ‘this is not a table’.
He
also saw the basic either/or basis for Western thinking as its primary flaw.
Hegel
moved it on in ‘Phenomenology of Sprit’ where he sought a unity stemming from
the synthesis resulting from the uniting of his thesis and antithesis, although
his may be a variation on the Christian trinity.
Like
John Cage, Morrison was drawn to the Lord of Misrule’s carnival.
David
Bowie said ‘I know one day a big artist is going to get killed on stage.’
Alice
Cooper enacted much of the Dionysian on stage, throwing live chickens into the
audience, axing dolls to death.
The
acid trip, under the influence of Timothy Leary became a religious experience a
sign for the Trips Festival read: ANYBODY WHO KNOWS HE IS A GOD GO UP ON STAGE.
There
is a strong sexual element to this, as Euripides’s play ‘The Bacchae’ illustrates,
Bacchus being the Roman version of the Greek God.
When
Dionysus sheds Eros his energy turns negative.
Then
something happened at Altamont.
After
Santana opened a freaked out kid tried to get on stage. The Rolling Stones had
hired Hell’s Angels as body guards, they dived into the crowd with five-foot
pool cues.
While
the Rolling Stones waited for darkness the Hell’s Angels taunted the crowd with
contempt. Then they parodied the rituals of religious cults. Sol Stern, a
former Ramparts magazine editor, wrote:
‘One of them, wearing a wolf’s head, took the microphone and played the flute
for us – a screeching, terrible performance; no one dared to protest or shut
off the microphone.’
Why?
Why
didn’t they protest?
Because
they were caught up in group psychology.
Why
do leaders use it?
It’s
good for business.
The
Mediterranean wolf cuts and the flute music of Dionysus, the wild music of the joujouka – the vestigial music of the
God which had entranced Brian Jones, Bryan Gysin, William Burroughs, Paul
Bowles and Ornette Coleman – had come to this, a preparation for a star.
Into
the darkness of Altamont, through the protective circle of the Angels on the
blood-spattered stage, came the Stones, led by Mick Jagger in a black and
orange cape and tall hat.
They
played well but their music spoke out the interface between savagery and
erotics, between the controls of art and the controls of magic, between Apollo
and Dionysus. Jagger began ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ – ‘They call me Lucifer and
I’m in need of some restraint’. The earlier Angels’ attacks now climaxed. In
the spotlights, when Jagger went on singing this number, they stabbed to death
a black youth from Berkeley named Meredith Hunter. Panic-stricken Jagger tried
to cool the screaming people, but the death ritual operated as part of his own
performance.
The
antithesis maybe at the root of art and sexuality.
Blood
may flow from its veins.
Cultures
create their own paradigms.
The
scientists are the new priests if you believe in their religion.
Korzybski
believed that hieroglyphic sign systems are healthier than ours because they
use images.
Consider
flint.
Strike it and there’s a
spark.
We are as Shakespeare
wrote in ‘The Tempest’
‘We are such stuff As
dreams are made on; and out little life Is rounded with a sleep.’
I examine the themes in
Apostle Rising
and Mr. Glamour.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Allan Leverone . . . good man. An even better writer
In today's Cavalcade of Devious, Dark Writing Minds is a feller by the name of Allan Leverone. Good man. One hell of a writer. (and dammit! I gotta say, except for certain amount of hair missing, he reminds me visually of some one. Jes' can't remember the dude's name!)
But Allan is one of those writers who excels in the dark reaches of the mind. Sink into one of his stories and you sink into an ocean of dark mood. Or abject horror! Really, you gotta love a writer who brings out your suppressed emotions and hidden fears and exposes them fully and unabashedly for all to see.
I'm always curious to hear another writer's views on the nuts and bolts of his profession/obsession. For many of us it actually is more of an obsession than a profession. How a writer writes, and thinks about writing, is instructive to me. As, I suspect, it might be to a large number of bloggers who tune in occasionally and read this blog.
So without wasting another word, let's get to it. And keep an eye out for question number five and his answer. That one hit home for me.
But Allan is one of those writers who excels in the dark reaches of the mind. Sink into one of his stories and you sink into an ocean of dark mood. Or abject horror! Really, you gotta love a writer who brings out your suppressed emotions and hidden fears and exposes them fully and unabashedly for all to see.
I'm always curious to hear another writer's views on the nuts and bolts of his profession/obsession. For many of us it actually is more of an obsession than a profession. How a writer writes, and thinks about writing, is instructive to me. As, I suspect, it might be to a large number of bloggers who tune in occasionally and read this blog.
So without wasting another word, let's get to it. And keep an eye out for question number five and his answer. That one hit home for me.
1.
All right, up front and to the point: you write
dark mystery and dark horror. But which one is closest to your heart? And tell
us why.
I like to write books and stories
where the protagonist faces challenges above and beyond what he feels capable
of overcoming, and then see how he responds. When he does, I throw more stuff
in the way. It’s the classic genre fiction recipe. Once you start down that
road, the difference between mystery and horror becomes much less than you
might think. It’s a difference of degree, more than anything else.
Horror, mystery, cozy mystery,
noir, they all contain many of the same components. Generally speaking, the
body count – and the gore component - might be higher, say, in a horror novel
than a cozy mystery, but at their hearts, the genres share many similarities.
Closest to my heart? For me, it
all boils down to whatever I’m working on at the moment. I’m currently in the
editing phase of a thriller set at the end of the Cold War titled PARALLAX VIEW,
so right now I love thrillers the most. If you had asked me this question six
months ago, when I had just released the second of two consecutive supernatural
suspense novels, my answer would probably have been horror.
I’m a genre writer through and through.
I have nothing against literary fiction, but I write books I would want to
read, and I’ve been reading King, Poe, Child, Block, Westlake
and other genre masters for as long as I can remember.
Find Here |
2.
It seems like a lot of horror folds into the
plot the supernatural. Is that because the supernatural represents the
mysterious unknown that surrounds us? Or does it speak more about the dark
fears inhabiting all of us in our subconscious?
The monster under the bed. Or in
the closet. Who hasn’t gone to bed at night and heard a noise you couldn’t
identify, and pictured a fanged monster shambling down the hall, gibbering and
bloodthirsty? I hope it’s not just me.
I think the fear of the unknown
is ingrained in all of us, and it goes back to the earliest days of our species,
when we huddled in caves trying to keep the night and its dangers away with
little more than fire and superstition. The supernatural element in horror
fiction puts us back in bed with that monster shambling down the hall; it
brings us right back to our ancient roots, where every snap of a twig outside
that cave entrance represented the possibility of violence and death.
If you think about the modern
world, the horrors we face are things we understand to some degree, even if we
abhor them. Kidnappers, rapists, pedophiles – they might be the worst of the
worst, but their offenses can be studied and quantified. With the supernatural,
an element of uncertainty is added into the mix. How can the revenant be
overcome? Is it even possible?
3.
You inhabit a field that is literately bursting
at the seams with others who write in a similar fashion. How do you separate
yourself . . . make your own distinctive style . . . and promote yourself?
That’s a question every writer
not named Lee Child or Steve Berry or Stephen King probably struggles with. I
know I sure do.
A few years ago I attended
Thrillerfest, held annually in July in New York City .
A big part of Thrillerfest is the Craftfest portion, where readers, aspiring
writers, and fans can attend workshops given by some of the biggest names in
the thriller genre. I was fortunate enough to attend one given by Lee Child,
and he said one thing I’ll never forget (it’s been awhile, so I’m paraphrasing
here): everything’s been done, and probably by a better writer than you.
At first glance, that’s a pretty
deflating thought. If everything’s been done, why bother?
But the point he was making is
just the opposite. Don’t try to be the next Lee Child or the next Elmore
Leonard or the next Dean Koontz. Be the first Allan Leverone, be the first B.R.
Stateham. Write what appeals to you and tell absolutely the best story you
possibly can. After that, it’s out of your hands.
When you think about it in those
terms, it’s kind of liberating. I’m obsessive about editing and rewriting, but
once I’ve put the book out in front of people, their reaction to it is out of
my control. Some will like it, hopefully, and some won’t, but as long as you
can look yourself in the mirror and not have regrets about the tale you told,
that should be good enough.
As far as promoting goes, if I
knew the answer to that question I would be selling a hell of a lot more books
than I am! But writing novels is a marathon, not a sprint, the rare overnight
successes notwithstanding. My goal has always been, and still is, to write the
best books I can and build a solid core of readers, then hopefully expand that
core with each succeeding book.
4.
What pleasures are there in writing for you? Do
you find yourself sitting back and admiring a sentence, or a paragraph, or an
entire book that you've just written? And how long does that pleasure vibrate
within you?
I was lucky enough to interview
the legendary Lawrence Block on my blog a few months ago, and one of the things
I asked him was whether there were any characters or any books he would go back
in time and change if he could. He said, “I’m embarrassingly fond of my own
work, so they’re all my favorites. And no, I wouldn’t change any of them.”
If that attitude’s good enough
for Lawrence Block, I see no reason to feel any differently. While I’m writing,
if I can pound out something I feel works really well, I might sit back and
enjoy the moment, but I revise a lot, almost compulsively, so rather than
feeling self-satisfied, I’m usually filed with doubt and convinced what I’m
trying to say could be said much better if I’d only get my shit together.
It’s been said that writing is
revising, or something to that effect, so by the time my work is ready to go
out in to the world, I’ve usually been working on it for so long that I’m sick
of it and ready to move on to something else. It’s more a feeling of hopeful
relief than anything else.
5.
Tell us about the business side of writing. How
difficult is it to break into the bank vault called publishing success? Is
there a thread of luck involved? Is talent the prevailing requirement to
succeed? Are there any short cuts a novice might use to strengthen their
chances of success?
Another great question, and another
one I’m probably not qualified to answer.
First, the easy part: There are
no shortcuts. A writer has to write. It’s like anything else – the more you do
it, the better you’re going to get at it. Fortunately, most writers do it
because they’re almost compelled to. Let’s face it: most of us are never going
to write a New York Times bestseller. Most of us will never be able to support
ourselves solely from our writing. If you’re writing to get rich, you should save
yourself a lot of heartache and just take all of your money and buy lottery
tickets. Your odds of success are much greater.
As far as achieving publishing
success goes, I don’t think anyone would deny there is a thread of luck
involved. Probably more than a thread. More like a rope. Like one of the ones
they use to dock the Queen Mary. One of the things this “publishing revolution”
has taught us is that there are scads of unbelievably talented writers out
there who would never even have gotten a contract with a Big-6 publisher.
That’s not to take anything away
from the folks who have written New
York Times bestsellers. Most of them are talented, and it shows in their work.
But talent alone isn’t enough, you have to be in the right place at the right
time as well. It’s no different than in sports. Tom Brady was an unknown backup
who would likely never have had the opportunity to play were it not for an
injury to Drew Bledsoe, and Brady turned out to be arguably one of the top five
NFL quarterbacks ever.
Talent and timing. My thriller,
THE LONELY MILE, broke into Amazon’s Top 25 overall paid bestseller list back
in February. I like to think I wrote a pretty darned good book, but let’s face
it – StoneHouse Ink and I caught a wave at just the right time. If that hadn’t
happened, the book would probably never have made a ripple.
6.
Tell us about yourself. What was the trip-wire
that was stepped on which compelled you to become a writer? What are you
writing on now? What does the future hold for you?
From the time I first started
reading I was in awe of the people who could write books and stories that held
me in thrall. It seemed almost magical. Hell, it still kind of does. When I
went to college, it was with the intention of majoring in journalism – I wanted
to be a sportswriter. I changed majors after my freshman year, and that was the
end of writing for me, for about the next three decades.
Paskagankee |
In January of 2006 I got back
into it, with a sports blog at Foxsports.com, and over the next nine or ten
months, started to build up a bit of a following, and was really enjoying
myself. Then I had an epiphany. Blogging about sports was fun, but what I
really wanted to do was write fiction. So one day I just started.
Now I can’t stop. The feeling of
creating worlds and populating them with all these characters, good and bad,
who get into seemingly unresolvable situations, only to pull themselves out
(sometimes) is like no other. Maybe I have a God complex, I don’t know, but I
do know this: I will write until I die. A good day of writing is better than
any drug.
Right now, I’m putting the
finishing touches on a thriller titled PARALLAX VIEW. It takes place in 1987,
at the tail end of the Cold War, and tells the story of CIA
clandestine ops specialist Tracie Tanner, who is tasked with a fairly
straightforward job: deliver a secret communique from Communist Party General
Secretary Mikhail Gorbachev to U.S. President Ronald Reagan. Needless to say,
things aren’t as they seem, and before long Tracie Tanner is knee deep in plane
crashes, KGB spies, assassinations and double-crosses. It’s been a lot of fun
to write and I hope it will be well-received.
After that, I’ll probably begin
work on the third entry in my series of supernatural suspense novels that take
place in a fictional little town in Maine
called Paskagankee. Oh yeah, and I want to write a novella to submit to
DarkFuse for their collectible hardcover horror novella series. Maybe write a
couple of short stories.
Gonna be busy, I guess…
Thanks so much for having me. As
writers of separate installments in the DRUNK ON THE MOON series featuring
werewolf/PI Roman Dalton , I feel
like we share a bond that’s even a little deeper than our mutual love for dark
fiction. I appreciate the opportunity to bore introduce myself to your
readers!
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