Crack My WIP: A Sneak Peek at the Next Novel

Few things are more gratifying than having thousands of fans tell you they’re dying to read your next book when it comes out.

Or so I imagine.

Rather than me sitting around and praying for such fervor to occur, I’m going to try to create it by sharing an excerpt from my work-in-progress (WIP) today. Who knows—maybe the excerpt will go viral and create the kind of frenzied buzz that results in tens of thousands of sales of my novel whenever it launches. At the very least, the excerpt will prove to my wife that I haven’t just been watching Netflix while locked away in my writing office these past several months.

Before we jump into the excerpt, I’d like to tell you just a little bit about my WIP. It’s an irreverent crime thriller tentatively titled Scott Free. Don’t bother memorizing the title because it’s likely I’ll change it or perish before the book comes out. Assuming I survive the entire writing and editing process, here’s the tentative blurb that will appear on the back of the book (for those of you who still hold actual physical books):

Fed up with society and stifled by mounting debt, artist Roxy Scott and her aging mother discover their one real shot at freedom.

Prison.

All they have to do is commit the perfect crime—an imperfect art forgery that’s sure to land them in a minimum security “Club Fed” correctional facility where they can finally relax.

There’s just one problem: They don’t get caught. Instead, they get rich.

That’s when the real problems start.

Since everything else I’ve mentioned thus far is tentative, I’m gonna go ahead and say the book will tentatively receive the following testimonials:

“I’m proud to call Levin one of my disciples, but what he does with this book is a prime example of the student surpassing the teacher.” —Chuck Palahniuk, author of Fight Club; president of the Greg Levin Fan Club

“It’s time for everybody to stop reading J.K. Rowling, George R.R. Martin and Stephen King, and start reading Greg Levin.” —J.K. Rowling, George R.R. Martin and Stephen King

“Not even being dead for twelve years could stop me from singing the praises of this electrifying novel. I’d buy Levin a drink, but my wallet decomposed.”—Kurt Vonnegut (1922-2007)  

Okay, back to reality. Here’s some fiction—an excerpt from the opening chapter of what will soon probably no longer be called Scott Free. If you like slow starts, you’re going to hate this. Enjoy!

Take away the two or five or ten cops tailing us. Take away their loaded Glock 19s and the pack of K-9s closing in. Take away the ninety-eight-pound septuagenarian lying limp in my arms and load-testing my muscles and ligaments every foot we move forward. Add a thousand sunflowers to the field we're halfway through. Add a bit more azure to the vast Texas sky.

Do all that, and this would still be terrifying.

Agoraphobia has a way of ruining even the most idyllic outings. Combine it with running for your life while carrying your broken mother, and it’s a wonder nothing inside implodes any more than it already has.

The dogs bark in the distance like a stranger just rang Hell’s doorbell. The only thing separating us from them is a matter of time.

"Odessa," groans Mama. I pretend not to hear it. 

The back pocket of my blood- and mud-splattered jeans vibrates with yet another call or text from Griff or Big Gail, or perhaps from someone who knew someone who once had the same number as this burner phone. If I had a spare hand or second, I’d let them know we’re not going to make it and we’re sorry and we love them. Even if it is a wrong number.

But right now I’m all about making it out of this unbearably bucolic meadow and into the damp tangle of trees up ahead. It’s easier to breathe in tight spaces. Plus live oaks can stop hollow-points.

Mama groans again. Sounds similar to what birthing an eight-pound girl forty-five years ago without an epidural must have felt like. I glance at Mama’s ashen face and lie to it. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

She murmurs for me to hurry. My heart is earning time-and-a-half.

The trees we just reached greet us with stabs. Branches poke and tear at our clothes. Scratch my face, neck and hands, adding a few more drops of crimson to the picture. Mama murmurs what sounds like “please” but I keep moving, scanning the forest for a secret portal. A trap door. A chance in hell.

The dogs are still out of sight but getting louder. Not loud enough to keep me from trying to catch my breath though. Cradling Mama, I crouch and set her down not gently enough against the trunk of an oak about twice her age. She moans, and with one eye open, goes, “Why?”

Her neck gives out, sending her chin into her collarbone. I lift her head and use the bottom of what an hour ago was my favorite blouse to dab a speck of blood where a branch caught the corner of her mouth. Mama’s got two eyes open now and they’re both on me. She should be too exhausted to look that angry. But I get it. We have to hurry. The dogs tell me so.   

“Go,” whispers Mama. “Find her.”

I squat down to scoop Mama up in my arms. A grunt more like a growl escapes me as I hoist her over my shoulder and fireman-carry her toward hopefully what and who we’re looking for.

Fighting through a couple of heart attacks, we get to the top of a ridge. Going down is going to be even worse, but I see a rocky outcrop splitting two oaks about a football field ahead. Closer, and all there is between the overhang of the outcrop and the ground right below it is darkness.

Not a cave, but close enough.

Not a chance in hell, but I’ll take it.

That’s it—that’s all I’m going to share for now. The good news is there’s plenty more where that came from. Or, if you hated it, the good news is it will still be quite a while before the book is available. I’ll keep you all posted on the progress, and will likely share a couple more excerpts between now and the day I give birth to the book—which I’m hoping will be no later than the apocalypse.