Back in October I posted the first excerpt from my upcoming novel, and hopefully you were so dazzled by the gripping narrative and dialogue, you forgot the title of the book.
Because the title of the book has changed.
In that post I did mention I’d likely be changing the title, so nothing about this announcement should come as a huge surprise. Still, that shouldn’t stop you from exploding with anticipation right now as I prepare to reveal the official title of my next novel.
[insert pause here to allow for maximum build-up of anticipation, tension and excitement]
Ladies and gentlemen, the title of my upcoming novel—due out this summer—is…
[insert another pause, but shorter to avoid annoying everyone]
INTO A CORNER
Okay, now that that’s over with, below is an excerpt from Chapter 2 of the book. I’m having a blast writing it, by the way. And if you like crime fiction with plenty of grit, heart and dark humor, I think you'll have a blast reading it. (Note: In addition to changing the title, I changed the name of the main character. From Roxy Scott to Odessa Scott. Why? Because Odessa told me to, and she’s not somebody you want to upset.)
From Chapter 2 of INTO A CORNER
There isn’t a color or brushstroke in the world that can fix what’s about to burn.
My saliva slides down the canvas, bringing with it some of the blue and black paint I applied just before spitting. This isn’t a technique. It’s a termination. It’s another ten hours of work and eighty bucks of stretched Belgian linen down the drain. Scratch that. Up in smoke.
The concrete floor practically cracks as I stomp toward the welding torch hanging on the far wall of my studio. My studio is my garage. Especially today.
I snatch the torch from the wall, then grab the handle of the metal cart that holds everything else and rattle it back across the garage. En route, I stop to kick out of the way a cardboard box filled with who the hell cares and continue on toward my oil-based mishap, my abstract attempt at capturing the latest school shooting.
Worst part is, the worthless mess on the canvas is the only thing of value in the room. My garage that doubles as a studio triples as storage space for my dead husband, Wayne. Maybe after torching the painting I’ll torch Wayne’s broken Kawasaki and his socket wrenches. Torch his golf bag and his Astros cap. His flannel shirts and his wedding suit. And all the rest of the crap he didn’t and can’t come back for. All the junk that should be for sale on eBay or Craigslist but isn’t.
Of course, if I did torch Wayne’s stuff, there’d be nothing left in the studio to inspire me. Without all these reminders of abandonment and betrayal and tragedy around, I’d likely end up painting something bright and cheerful. Something light and hopeful. Something so awful it would sell.
Besides, all this clutter is good for my nerves.
Standing a few feet from the canvas, I take one last look at everything that went wrong. The reds and greens and blues that escaped my control. The black flashes I splattered last-minute out of spite. This is the third piece in a row that didn’t turn out as I’d pictured. Didn’t measure up. Can’t be saved.
Used to be my art career wasn’t such a fire hazard. Luckily my side job writing last words for dead people keeps me alive. Almost.
In loving memory of when things weren’t a total shit-show.
From the cart I grab the green gas hose that’s still attached to an oxygen cylinder from the last time I shot flames at my failure. I screw the other end of the green hose to the torch’s oxygen connection. Next comes the red hose. Red as in stop, but I don’t. I take the free end of the hose—the end that’s not attached to a cylinder of explosive fuel—and screw it into the torch’s acetylene connection. You’re supposed to check each hose for any debris before starting up. It’s a safety precaution, but safety has lost its luster of late.
So no protective goggles or respirator or dust mask for me as I open the various valves. And ah, there’s that hiss I love. And hate. The exhale of oxidization. The breath of destruction.
A white flame shoots from the tip of the torch, stopping just short of its target. The heat alone chars a goodbye kiss into the canvas. I take a step closer. Purple-black smoke plumes from the dead painting, summons tears from the corners of my sockets.
We have ignition. The smell, like a bomb’s been dropped on Fine Art 101. Like someone streaked through the Louvre leaking gasoline and lit a match. Like nothing and everything is under control.
Watching my work on fire reminds me of my potential.
I kill the oxygen and the acetylene, then set the torch on the concrete floor. There’s more smoke coming off the canvas than last time. Also bigger flames, but it’s too early to reach for the extinguisher. That would be quitting.
The side pocket of my paint-smeared smock buzzes and buzzes. Probably my neighbor Clark or my neighbor Lucia checking just to make sure the garage is on fire on purpose. Again. Clark and Lucia are good people, but I wish they’d learn to mind their own business whenever I’m cremating remains in the privacy of my own garage. You’d think they’d be used to this by now.
Part of me is tempted to just walk away and let this turn into a major insurance claim, but Mama’s napping inside. Besides, a major insurance claim would surely become a closed arson investigation faster than these here flames are devouring my talent.
Also, the painting is starting to look more like what I was originally going for. That’s the thing with abstract expressionism—sometimes all it takes is a little disfigurement to turn a massacre into a masterpiece.
From the metal cart I grab the extinguisher and blow its load all over what’s burning. My pursed lips keep out all the hot specks of cancer dancing in the air. But that doesn’t keep me from coughing through my nose as I blast my sanctuary with white foam. If someone were videoing any of this, it would go viral.
Here lies the last ounce of my patience and possibility.
My smock buzzes again. My overly concerned neighbors can go to hell.
I set the almost-empty extinguisher down next to the dormant welding torch, then stand up to take everything in. The corner of my garage looks like a studio again. The corner of my studio looks like a cumulus cloud threw up on a mill town. Smells nice, though. Campfires and chemistry sets.
The only thing better than the high you get from creating good art is the high you get from destroying bad art. Especially in an enclosed and poorly ventilated space.
What was a failed painting a week ago and a day ago and a minute ago is now the scorched surface of a strange new planet. A land of boiling blue streams snaking burnt red hills and black craters. A world too beautiful to have ever been inhabited by humans.
Looks like I may have found my new medium.
That’s it. I hope you enjoyed the excerpt and are itching to read more. (Oh, and don’t worry, the book does actually contain dialogue—just not the above clip.)
Thank you for stopping by, and stay tuned!
ON HIS BEST DAYS, ZERO SLADE IS THE WORST MAN YOU CAN IMAGINE. HE HAS TO BE. IT'S THE ONLY WAY TO SAVE THE LOST GIRLS.
