I just want to lead off by saying violence never solves anything. That said, smashing things to bits can feel pretty damn good—especially when the things you’re smashing belong to the spouse who robbed you blind and destroyed your life just before losing theirs.
Don't worry, I'm not referring to anything from my life (though I do like smashing things to bits); rather to that of Odessa Scott—the protagonist from my upcoming (some day) crime thriller Into a Corner.
While we all have stuff to be furious about these days, few of us will ever become as furious as Odessa is throughout much of my book. At the start of the book we learn her dead husband—before getting dead—drained all their accounts AND the accounts of Odessa's widowed mother (Mama), then ran off with the cash ... and his mistress. Odessa found all this out the next day, when her husband and his mistress and every cent Odessa and Mama ever earned exploded. Talk about a change of fortune.
When you create a character who has a serious axe to grind with someone but that someone is already dead, you have to give your character an opportunity to vent in a healthy manner; otherwise they'll end up destroying themselves and all the innocent people around them before they reach even the middle of the story. Fortunately for Odessa, I came up with the idea of having her good friend Griff come up with the idea of giving Odessa the gift of catharsis ... by taking her to a "rage room" and letting her loose. For those of you who don't know what a rage room is, you are about to find out—and will likely want to visit (or create) one yourself afterward. If you do, remember to always wear a helmet and protective eyewear before beginning to obliterate everything in your path. Safety first.
The following is an excerpt from Chapter 14 of Into A Corner. It shows how, when pushed too far, even an artist who's all about creation will fully embrace destruction.
I swing the bat so hard, several of my thoracic vertebrae pop and crackle. The forty-inch glass screen implodes on impact. Shards skitter and glisten across the stained concrete floor. What’s left of the television screen is a web spun by a crystal spider. I stand there admiring the damage.
Through the spectator portal, Griff gives me a double thumbs-up. “Hell yeah!” he shouts, barely audible behind the plexiglass and over the Wu-Tang song blaring out of the speakers. Lucky for him, I’m not wearing the earplugs the owner of this place offered me.
Griff taps the partition and points my attention toward the Kawasaki in the center of the wrecking room. I look at him and shake my head till my safety helmet rattles out of position. “Not yet!” I yell through the glass while readjusting my helmet and goggles. “Saving the worst for last.”
The digital display on the wall says I have eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds left to destroy everything around me.
I’m off to a damn good start. Wayne spent half his waking life and most of his sleeping one in front of that TV I just demolished. Beneath my All The Rage-issued white coveralls and work gloves is all the sweat.
Eight minutes and twenty-four seconds left and I line drive one of Wayne’s golf trophies off a table and against the cinder blocks of the side wall. The little gold man bounces back toward me with a crushed skull, a lacerated spine, and none of the granite that allowed him to stand around showing off his swing for years.
I show off mine and send two more trophies flying disfigured across the room while several members of the Wu-Tang Clan shout about how they “ain’t nuthin’ to fuck with.”
The song holds a special place in my heart.
This room is all about rage, but it’s hard to resist smiling as Griff cheers me on. He’s matched my every smash, crack, and shatter with a booming exclamation of support. If this keeps up, the worst years of my life will give him laryngitis.
Seven minutes and sixteen seconds and the last remaining wedding photo. The only one that didn’t go through the shredder in my studio months ago. I switch out my bat for a sledgehammer, then switch out the sledgehammer for a golf club because irony. Besides, ten pounds of steel to obliterate a marriage is overkill. Plus there’s no need to hurt myself. Getting injured over Wayne would raise my rage to a level not even a place built for it could handle.
I pick up the framed photo and fold its stand flush against the back of the frame, then lay it flat on the oak table. The tabletop is scarred with scratches, dents, and gouges from All The Rage’s previous satisfied maniacs.
Wu-Tang switches to The Clash. I raise the nine iron over my head machete-style and bring it down on the thin panel of glass no longer protecting Wayne’s face on the happiest day of his life. The opposite of wedding bells pierces the air as the frame’s edges detach and hurtle toward the four corners of the earth. Most of the glass panel is now scattered in assorted shapes and sizes across the table and floor. The rest of the glass is slivers and sand pinned between the head of the nine iron and the head of Wayne. My smile and wedding dress have escaped with just a few scratches and glass splinters. I go to lift the club but the edge of its head is stuck in a groove behind what’s left of Wayne’s face. A tug releases the weapon from the oak surface underneath and I smile like King Arthur, then search for what to slay next as I catch my breath.
Griff’s “woohoo!” and “go get it, girl!” competes with The Clash’s “Straight to Hell.” The song list was my creation. This has all been carefully thought out and choreographed. It’s the opposite of my life.
Out of the corner of my goggles, Ray, the owner of All The Rage, has joined Griff in the spectator portal. The two bump fists and start chatting like a silent movie. Ray looks like Denzel Washington and Bruce Lee had a baby and told that baby to work out a lot and shave its head when it got older.
With five minutes and fifty-three seconds left, I don’t need this kind of distraction.
Ray points at Griff’s new watch and says something while nodding. Griff nods with him, gives him a closer look at the watch, then points at me. I avert my eyes as the two of them peer through the window at my kindness and mayhem.
It’s time for the bowling ball. Wayne didn’t bowl. The ball isn’t his—it’s included in the Deluxe Destruction package. The blood-splatter pattern painted on the ball is a nice touch. Ray was kind enough to help Griff and me set Wayne’s stupid rare beer bottle collection up as a double-decker ten-pin bowling installation against the back wall when we arrived earlier. He even threw in a thin ceramic tile to separate the two layers of bottles, for free. But I didn’t come here to think about Ray or his generosity. Or his Zen-like ruggedness or his wild stallion glutes.
I pick up the bowling ball that’s not a bowling ball but Wayne’s severed head and stand close enough to the bottles to read their labels. Griff and Ray urge me on, roaring over The Clash’s chorus of hell as I take aim. With two fingers stuck through Wayne’s eye sockets, my thumb shoved up his nasal cavity and my weaker hand supporting the rest of his head, I step toward the glass pins, rear my arm back, and release.
Gutterball. But the smack and whirr of Wayne’s head hitting and rolling across the concrete floor before bashing against the cinderblock wall behind the bottles was almost worth the boos now coming from the spectator portal. Wayne’s decapitation rolls back to me. I bend over, pick it up, and turn around to stare down my taunters, but a tiny laugh escapes my scowl.
Ray’s beauty is ruining my temper tantrum. His kind eyes and smile are sucking the life out of my anger, spoiling my desire for violence and displaced aggression. So I turn around and think back to Wayne telling me he’ll be working late again hours before he exploded. I think back to seeing the checking account statement the next morning. I think back to hearing about who was in the car with him.
His head leaves my hand like a cannonball and turns the stacked bottles into a terrorist attack. Every microbrew Wayne ever bragged about now mimics what was left of the windshield in the photos the police showed me. Only this time I’m grinning the width of my goggles instead of shrieking like a brand-new widow.
“Strrriiiiike!” shouts Griff from the spectator portal. “Fuck yeah!” And if he doesn’t stop pounding his appreciation against the portal window, there’s going to be even more pieces of glass for Ray to clean up when we leave.
I turn around and flex, then do a little celebratory jig, shaking my booty a little more than I probably would if Griff were alone in the viewing booth. Ray gives me a thumbs-up and goddamn it another smile. If he doesn’t get the hell out here and leave us alone, fat chance of me mustering up the kind of unbridled fury I paid good money to finish off with.
I turn around and approach the Kawasaki. Griff and Ray slap their palms against the plexiglass and shout out inaudible words of encouragement. I do my best to block them out with thoughts of Wayne paying for the motorcycle with money he secretly siphoned from my dead father. Thoughts of Mama losing her house. Thoughts of Mama losing her mind.
The Clash switches to Rage Against the Machine just in time.
Three minutes and forty-one seconds and a crowbar. I pick it up from the weapon station and grasp it so tight it’s a part of me. Even with Zach de la Rocha shouting the heavy-metal rap of “Bombtrack” beyond the limits of the volume bar, my ears are hungry for louder. One swing of my steel appendage, and the Vulcan 900’s headlamp is a head-on collision. A swipe above the width of the handlebars beheads both mirrors like a Samurai and sends them sliding across the floor to mingle with the glass-and-ceramic remains of my previous victim.
More joyous cheers from the box seats force me to watch Wayne pulling up the driveway on this beast two years ago, calling me out to brag about its fierce power and beauty, promising me I won’t regret his unilateral decision.
He’s finally right.
With enough downward force to knock a lighter bike into hell, I bring the crowbar down on the gas tank and almost regret not heeding Ray’s earplug advice. The ringing makes it harder to hear the motivational distortion and screams of “Bombtrack,” but not even possible deafness can ruin the aluminum carnage for me. I grin at the huge dent and gash in the tank, imagining Wayne’s reaction. He gives me a smirk and asks if that’s the best I can do. My reply is another deathblow to the tank, then one to the taillight, two to the exhaust pipe, and who knows how many to the midsection. But enough to knock the motherfucker’s metal heart out.
One minute and fifty-three seconds and oxygen. Not enough of it. Not to fill my lungs or to lift a finger, let alone a crowbar.
So this is what total muscle failure feels like. Success.
The concrete cools my back through my coveralls and damp shirt. I didn’t realize how high the ceiling was before. My chest heaves toward it to bring air inside. Gas and oil fumes get mixed in despite me draining everything out last night. Now I understand why Ray rejected my request to bring my acetylene torch to this session.
My helmeted head falls to the side. Through the spokes of the rear wheel there’s the battered engine, lying motionless on the other side of the bike’s upright carcass.
Griff is overjoyed someplace I’m too tired to look.
Rage Against the Machine switches to Gloria Gaynor, but I’m still struggling to catch my breath. Having a coronary during “I Will Survive” would be humiliating and ruin an otherwise wonderful tantrum. I roll my head to the other side of the floor and catch Griff following Ray out of the viewing portal. Despite my urge to fake unconsciousness and steal a little CPR action from Ray, I sit up, then struggle to my feet and take in all the beauty of my unnatural disaster. Hurricane Odessa has been downgraded from a Category 5 to a mild tropical storm.
And time’s up. The buzzer on the digital display says so.
“You okay?” asks Griff, bounding from the padded door Ray’s holding open for him.
Doubled over, panting, I give Griff a raised fist and a “yup,” then return my torso to its fully upright position and pretend to breathe normally as Ray enters the wrecking room, closing the door behind him.
“You sure?” Griff asks.
I nod again and remove my helmet so he can see my eyes begging him to help me look like I have my shit together.
Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed the excerpt and are now counting the seconds until Into a Corner comes out, which should be sometime between Fall 2021 and Summer 2050—depending on my agent’s success landing a nice deal for it. (She’s starting the submission process very soon and she’s a rock star, so stay tuned.) If you’d like to learn a little more about—and read some additional pages from—the book, I posted an earlier excerpt a while back, and another one before that, and ANOTHER one even before that. (What can I say, I'm a giver.)
As for cool crime novels that are available NOW, it just so happens I recommended a couple by badass authors in the latest issue of my newsletter today. Those books/authors include:
Coyote Songs by Gabino Iglesias. As poetic as it is visceral, Iglesias' second novel howls its song and rips into our social fabric and fabrications like few other books dare to do. It's a story as old as injustice but as fresh as tomorrow. Don't just take my word for it. Here's what Booklist has to say about this up-in-your-grill cult masterpiece: "Coyote Songs is gorgeously written, even when Iglesias is describing horrible things."
Whisper Network by Chandler Baker. Yes, Chandler Baker lives in the same city as I do (Austin). No, I don't know her. But after reading this phenomenally sharp, smart and witty thriller, I'll likely seek her out (no, not in a creepy way) for an interview over drinks once COVID-19 calms the hell down. Furious and hilarious has always been a great combo in my book; if you feel the same, then be sure to check out Baker's. It's Outstanding. Entertaining. Important. I'd list all the praise and accolades this novel has received, but that would require a book of its own. Read. It.
Don’t want to miss out on my future recommendations for books by baddass Cri-Fi authors? Then I have another recommendation: Sign up for my newsletter! (Just enter your email address in the sign-up box near the top-right corner of this page. Trust me.)
Some might think it’s odd to blog about how a pandemic that’s still going on in real life will shape future works of fiction. And I agree. But hey, I also think it’s odd to have huge beach barbecues and house parties while a pandemic’s still going on in real life, yet THAT doesn’t seem to be stopping people.
At least this blog post won’t infect anyone. (That is, assuming nobody who already is infected prints out this post and licks it before handing it to their least favorite person. [More on that later on in this post.]) Besides, it’s only natural for a writer to think about the effect COVID-19 may have on the genre they write in. Especially a writer who has been cooped up for months with a year's supply of liquor.
So yeah, I have been thinking about how crime fiction might change and morph and evolve as the world changes and morphs and evolves. And today I’m going to blog about it. Now, some folks will say I’m doing so in a desperate attempt to create a bunch of buzz around the new crime fiction subgenres I’ve listed below while I secretly work on novels in those subgenres in hopes of becoming a mega-bestselling author in the near future. Really? That would be ridiculous—nobody reads my blog.
Regardless, I hereby present three new crime fiction subgenres that, with any luck, will emerge from the coronavirus pandemic as hot literary trends:
1) Quarantine Murder Mysteries.These books will be sort of like the traditional country house murder mysteries of yesteryear—only with a lot more hand sanitizer.
Few things are more thrilling than a good “closed-circle” murder. There’s an elevated sense of suspense and reader engagement when the list of possible suspects is very limited but where each suspect has a seemingly strong motive. Add in the fact that every character is related and has been cooped up together for weeks or months or possibly even two straight Thanksgivings, and the tension becomes thick enough to choke someone before dismembering them. As if that weren’t already enough to keep readers of quarantined murder mysteries riveted, each scene will be informed by a killer virus lurking outside every window, forbidding any character from letting off steam at a gym, yoga studio or monster-truck event. And don’t forget the added tension caused by characters having to home-school any kids who may be in the story.
From the inciting incident all the way through to the final chapter, a well executed quarantine murder mystery will leave readers guessing who done it?
Was it the wife, in the bedroom, using a golf club?
Or the mother, in the family room, using an algebra book?
Or the brother, in the bathroom, using an iPad with the browser found open to Pornhub?
What’s more, quarantine murder mysteries will provide ample opportunities for shocking twists. Like, maybe the murderer turns out not to be someone quarantined in the house but rather a Favor driver who got stiffed on a tip after risking their life to bring the victim a measely quart of Kung Pao chicken. Or, even more shocking, maybe the murder turns out not be a murder after all—maybe it was an accidental poisoning caused by the victim injecting Lysol into their own ass after watching the news.
2) Supermarket Thrillers.Since the coronavirus started hogging all the headlines a few months ago, Grocery shopping has gone from being an uneventful weekly errand to Mission Almost Impossible. Expect to see this not only reflected but prominently featured in the thrillers of the very near future.
Think Jack Reacher kicking ass at Albertsons—all while remaining at least six feet away from any ass that needs kicking.
While an entire novel set inside a supermarket would have been scoffed at or completely ignored by publishers and readers alike back in early January, today such books would hit the international bestseller list faster than their protagonists will move through a produce department. The high stakes along with the non-stop action and suspense will have readers on the edge of their plastic-covered seats inside their underground bunker.
The heroes in supermarket thrillers will face peril on every page. Every food item they touch could mean the end not just of them but of civilization as we know it. All it would take is one false move, a single lapse in concentration: Maybe the hero loses focus at the deli counter and rubs their eye without thinking; or slides their facemask down to scratch a nose itch after having just handled several peaches; or uses their mouth to pull off a disposable glove while busy using the other hand to send a text to headquarters alerting them that they’ve made it out of the store alive.
Oh, and the fight scenes. They’ll be magnificent—not just because of the creative fighting methods the hero will need to use in order to throttle their nemesis without touching them, but also because there will be more thanone nemesis. There’ll be dozens—basically anyone in the store who refuses to wear a mask or to adhere to social distancing rules or who tries to buy more than the allotted amount of toilet paper.
3) Bioterrorism Noir.When it comes to crime fiction, I’m most drawn to the darker characters: the lowlifes; the villains; the weirdos; the anti-heroes. Maybe my interest in and affinity for the “criminal mind” simply means I have moral ambiguity in my genes. Or perhaps it has more to do with me not being breastfed as a child. Regardless, I love me some noir. Transgressive tales where the protagonist is perfectly and often tragically flawed, someone you can’t resist rooting for in a book but whom you wouldn’t be caught dead with in real life.
Bioterrorism noir will go beyond even that—it will feature protagonists you can’t resist rooting for but whom you likely would be caught dead with in real life. That’s because the protagonists in bioterrorism noir will carry out all the dangerous and deadly acts that people like you and me merely fantasize about during a pandemic.
Oh, come on, don’t pretend like you haven’t imagined being able to purposely infect people you feel the world might be better off without (even if they go away only for a few weeks of quarantining). Don’t act like you haven’t entertained the notion of targeting … oh, I don’t know … rapists and pedophiles who are still on the loose, or politicians you loathe with every fiber of your being, or the guy you saw lick his fingers before turning the pages of a magazine in your doctor’s waiting room. Or politicians you loathe with every fiber of your being. (Did I already mention that one?)
Soon there will be loads of great novels featuring a main character who isn't afraid to take the law—and a deadly virus—into their own hands. Perhaps the character will be a member of a secret organization that’s developed an accurate and efficient virus-delivery system to ensure that innocent bystanders aren’t infected. Or a rogue vigilante with a personal score to settle using a vial of the virus stolen from a lab. Or maybe just Bob from Accounting who has gotten used to working from home and can’t bear the idea of spending hours in rush-hour traffic ever again, so he contracts the virus on purpose and walks around mask-less coughing on everyone he sees.
Bioterrorism noir novels will elicit fear and paranoia among regular, everyday citizens—sort of the same way Jaws did among beachgoers.
"Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the world."
YOUR turn! What subgenres do you think might emerge from the pandemic? Which of the ones listed above would you be most likely to read? Please share your thoughts in the comments section below. Or don’t—I’m not the boss of you.
NOTE: Some of you may be interested in a subgenre that wasn’t listed in this post but is no less compelling: it’s called the Sardonically Twisted Greg Levin Crime Thrillers subgenre. Be sure to check out the books that fall under this yet-to-be-discovered but fantastic category by clicking HERE.
Folks who subscribe to my crime fiction/author newsletter (newly named “Prose & Cons”) know I revamped the whole thing two weeks ago because, well, my subscribers deserved something better from me. Something they’d truly look forward to receiving. Something that, without taking up much of their time, would entertain them, grab them, make them laugh—maybe even inspire them. Something that would enable us to connect more, and help me discover the kinds of things they want to hear and read about.
God knows we all could use a little more entertainment, laughter, inspiration and connection right now.
(What’s that? You currently don’t subscribe to my newsletter but would like to know what the hell I’m talking about above? Then simply type your email address in the little box just above the “Sign-Up” icon just off to the right on this page (or at the top if you're on a mobile device). Go on, you know you wanna—it comes with a cool free ebook!)
I received a lot of beautifully written replies to the "what's on your mind?" question I posed in the first issue of the revamped newsletter. The power and authenticity of these replies hit me right in the feels and renewed my faith in humanity (or at least in the humanity of my subscribers). Seriously though, I'm grateful to those of you who were so candid and generous in your sharing about how you’re faring during this global pandemic we’re all doing our best to endure.
And I'm grateful to everyone for being here right now, reading this post—a post written by a relatively obscure author of crime fiction and thrillers. With the world in such a state of flux and confusion, it’s hard for most people to get excited about crime fiction and thrillers.
Or so I thought. ...
I recently found myself asking a mirror, “How can I expect people to continue reading fiction filled with dark themes and dangerous characters when there seems to be so much darkness and danger going on right outside their tightly shuttered windows?” But the more pressing question was, “How can I go on writing such fiction?”
Then something weird happened; the following day I noticed a small spike in book sales—without me even running a price promotion or having a new novel out. At first I just assumed my mother had purchased several extra copies of my books online to help ensure I had enough money for a sack of potatoes and a package of non-existent toilet paper. But I checked and it turned out it wasn’t Mom who’d bought my books. (It also turned out she was pissed I’d called merely to ask about my stupid books and not to check on how she and Dad were doing.) It wasn’t until the next day—after I’d noticed a couple more book sales—that I realized something. Something that warmed my heart and gave me hope. And that something is this: People are twisted.
Just like I am.
But we’re twisted in a good way. (Well, mostly.) Still, I decided to look deeper. I wanted to know what is it that compels so many of us to read and/or write dark fiction during hellish times rather than dive into much cozier books? It can’t be that we’re all sociopaths, right? RIGHT?
Right! Here’s the thing, while none of us wants to have to deal with ever-increasing tension and life-threatening situations and high-risk stakes in our own actual lives, we can’t help but be drawn to stories featuring such danger and uncertainty. Why? Because it makes us feel alive. It’s invigorating to experience high tension and suspense from the kind of safe distance fiction provides; it’s riveting to root for people we’ll never meet (since they’re imaginary) who are up against impossible odds; and it’s life-affirming and inspiring when those people we’re rooting for find a way to overcome those odds—or at least try their damnedest to do so.
Such books—dark as they may be—provide a light. They reveal the toughness of the human spirit in a rough and often morally ambiguous world. They remind us we are each protagonists in our own story.
Every day, when we dare to take that first step out of bed, we face tension and suspense. We go up against what can often seem like insurmountable odds.
We find a way.
What have you read lately that punched you in the gut and had you on the edge of your seat trembling while also inspiring you, refueling you, restoring your faith in humanity? If you're looking for a few recommendations for novels that'll do exactly that, here you go:
Not a Soundby Heather Gudenkauf.I get that you may not think a book about a nurse who loses everything after a terrible accident—including her hearing and sanity—could possibly be uplifting in any way, and now you're wondering why I'd recommend it. I'll tell you why: Because of the extraordinary grit and determination the main character exhibits as she builds her life back up ... only to have it start to unravel again while she deals with the murder of a friend and tries to bring the killer to justice. This is a chilling psychological thriller, but one filled with raw heart and hope.
My Darkest Prayerby S.A. Cosby.A gritty literary explosion of of corruption, sex, violence and vengeance—written with love. Speaking of love, you'll fall for not only the book's dangerous protagonist but also its dangerously talented author, S.A. Cosby. Both are forces to be reckoned with. Beneath all the sleaze and mayhem and destruction in this shockingly good neo-noir debut is a giant, tender heart—one that beats hard enough to break bones. Rarely does justice ever hurt so good. (So good, in fact, it has me—and LOTS of other readers—eagerly counting the days until Cosby's next novel, Blacktop Wasteland, drops in July.)
Roachkiller and Other Stories by Richie Narvaez. When you're living through a pandemic that makes it seem like the world's falling apart, it's wonderful to find a rare, shining gem amidst the rubble. I'm familiar with and greatly enjoy Richie Narvaez's work (including his deliciously sardonic debut novel Hipster Death Rattle), but somehow Roachkiller—his fresh, magnificent collection of short noir fiction—had flown under my radar until very recently. Named one of BookRiot's 100 Must-Read Works of Noir, it's the perfect cure for crime fiction fans whom the pandemic has left short on reading time and on cash (the Kindle version costs just $1.99!). Each tale is dark and strange yet extremely soulful, featuring hardluck losers you can't resist rooting for. Download a copy today—you won't be disappointed (well, not while reading the book, anyway; as for how you'll feel once you're done and start listening to the world news, well—just don't listen!).
Speaking of affordable crime fiction that doesn't short-change you on quality, a handful of excellent small-press publishers are currently running big price promotions—to help ensure that readers can continue reading great books during this difficult time. Two such publishers are:
Down & Out Books, which is running a "Social Distancing Digital Book Sale" now, discounting 39 of its most recently published ebook titles—with some priced as low as 99¢!
Fahrenheit Press, which is featuring a different FREE e-book EVERY DAY for anyone who can't afford to buy books during this crisis.
Up until very recently, reading a blog post title like the one above would fill me with the urge to punch or break something. Or get drunk. Usually all three. It’s not that I wasn’t happy to hear about other authors landing a literary agent; it’s simply that my pettiness and jealousy outweighed such happiness. (In my defense, I'm not a very good person.)
However, now that I’ve landed a literary agent (finally!), titles like the one above don’t seem to bother me at all. In fact, instead of wanting to punch and break things and get drunk, I want to hug and kiss complete strangers, and get drunk. But I promised my wife I’d stop doing those first two—at least until my agent sells my novel (Into a Corner) to a major publisher.
But enough about me. Let’s talk about my agent, Janet Reid.
I could just end this blog post right here, as most people in the writing and publishing world are aware of who Janet is, how helpful her advice is for writers (particularly those in the querying stage), and the great things she has accomplished as an agent for many authors.
But I’m not going to end this post so abruptly because:
1) Ending a post so abruptly is a clear sign of insanity, and I’d rather Janet not find out I’m insane this early on in our agent/client relationship. (Of course, Janet already knows I’m a little crazy—as evidenced by her comment in an email referenced a little later on in this post.)
2) Four of the thirteen people who read my blog aren’t in the writing/publishing world and thus may not have ever heard of Janet.
3) I want to share what having an agent of Janet’s caliber in my corner means (and doesn’t mean) for my writing career going forward.
But before I go any further, here are a few factual(ish) stats that will help those of you who don't understand why I’m so giddy and grateful about getting a literary agent:
A typical literary agent receives hundreds (if not billions) of queries each month from writers seeking representation.
Somewhere between one in a thousand and one in a trillion writers who send out queries regarding their novel will end up landing a literary agent.
A typical writer drinks between two and twenty-six alcoholic beverages a day to help cope with the stress of waiting to hear back from agents regarding their query. (The majority of writers who aren’t drinkers smoke excessively or pop pills while waiting to hear back. Among the small percentage of writers who don’t drink, smoke or pop pills to help get them through the querying process, most of them died during the querying process.)
I realize the above bullet points contain a lot of math—well, for a writer, anyway. It’s not very accurate math, but that doesn’t matter. I merely wanted to give you an idea of how hard it can be to get a literary agent, and how much I peed my pants when I received an email from Janet Reid a few weeks ago that read:
Hi Greg,
Just finished reading Into A Corner and it's clear you're demented.
On the other hand, I laughed my asterisk off reading the sodium
hydroxide scene, so I'm clearly just as demented.
I'd be glad to talk to you about next steps for this book.
Let me know what day/time works for you for a telephone call.
In the publishing industry, the call Janet refers to is called “the call.” Among writers, “the call” is sort of like Big Foot or the Loch Ness Monster—something you hear about all the time but are almost certain you’ll never witness personally. The purpose of “the call”—aside from making authors pee their pants—is for an agent to get a better feel for the author before deciding for sure whether to offer representation, and for the author to get key questions answered, like “What did you like about my manuscript?” and “What is your editorial vision for the book?” and “Will you pretty please with sugar on top offer me representation before I throw up from all the anxiety?” (That last question is best asked in silence.)
I made sure I was ready for my “the call” with Janet (which was scheduled for the day following her email that caused my incontinence). I went into “the call” equipped with a concise list of expert-recommended questions, as well as an adult diaper, and 5 mg of Valium to take the edge off of the 10 mg of Adderall I’d taken to remain sharp. I don’t really remember anything about “the call,” but it went great. Apparently, Janet told me such wonderful things about my manuscript, I had to be rushed to the emergency room by my wife to have my ego shrunken back down to a normal human-sized one.
At the end of “the call” (this part I remember), Janet told me not to give her an answer yet. As an author, you read all about this your entire pre-agent life—how, during “the call,” you need to show patience and restraint and not just shout “YES, YES, A THOUSAND TIMES, YES!”—especially if the agent hasn’t even offered representation yet. Janet, as all the top agents do, recommended I take some time—a week or two—to think about what I wanted for my writing career and whether or not I felt she truly was the best fit for me. She suggested I reach out to a few of her existing clients (of my choosing) and ask each of them what they thought of her, what it’s like being represented by her. She also reminded me to let any other agents who were currently considering my manuscript know that I was on the brink of accepting an offer of representation. She pointed out that doing the latter could result in me getting multiple offers from agents just as competent as her. (Basically, a literary agent is the opposite of a car salesperson—or any salesperson, for that matter. Nothing against salespeople, but if you ever were to eagerly whip out your checkbook to commit to a 4Runner at a Toyota dealership, the sales rep probably wouldn’t tell you to calm down and weigh all your options, or say, “Make sure you go across the street to the Mazda dealership and check out the CX-9—she’s a real beauty and drives like a dream!”
So, even though I’d dreamt of Janet Reid being my literary agent ever since I was old enough to dream about having a literary agent, I took my time and did exactly what Janet said to do—because you don’t get THIS close to landing Janet Reid and decide not to do exactly what she says. The clients of hers I emailed each promptly responded to me with the highest of praise for Janet and with enthusiastic congratulations for me on having gotten “the call” from her. Even the handful of agents I had notified about Janet’s offer responded with praise for her and congrats for me—basically stating far be it from them to stand in the way of my pending agreement with a rock star. (Okay, fine, a couple of them merely said Janet seemed like a better fit for me and my manuscript. But, hey, as a fiction writer, I like to embellish [read: lie] a little.)
Thus, I sat down and crafted my “I’ve-thought-long-and-hard-about-it-and-would-be-beyond-honored-and-thrilled-to-have-you-represent-me-till-death-do-us-part” email to Janet. But before clicking “send,” I checked the calendar and realized only two days had passed since “the call.” So I saved the email as a draft, then strapped on another adult diaper and bounced off the walls for a few days so Janet would know I had impulse control and that I’d be a cool, calm, breezy client. Then, five days after “the call”—while somehow on vacation in Australia visiting my in-laws—I clicked send and, when I didn’t hear back from Janet immediately, went into a panic-induced coma. I awoke from the coma hours or days or months later, just in time to find the following email from Janet waiting for me in my inbox:
I'm DELIGHTED to welcome you on board! Like seriously thrilled.
I can't wait to get started.
Once you're back, let's set up a telco to plot world domination.
What I did immediately after reading her message is all just a blur to me, but according to my wife and her family, my shrieks of joy shattered every window in my father in-law’s condo in Sydney. Needless to say, the rest of my vacation in Australia is also just a blur, but according to my wife and her family, I couldn’t shut up about landing my dream agent.
Now that I’ve had a few weeks to calm down and recover from the coma and the shrieking and the jetlag, I’ve got my head on straight and realize there’s a LOT of work to do (e.g., manuscript revisions/tweaks, social media sharpening, platform-growing, et. al.). And there's no guarantee of success. Sure, having an agent like Janet repping me is awesome and opens up a lot of new doors and gives me a solid chance to take my writing career to the next level—maybe even to earn enough to almost live off of. However, even the very best literary agents (of which Janet is certainly one) sell only about two out of every three manuscripts they take on and submit to publishers. Granted, I like the landing-a-publisher math a helluva lot more than the landing-an-agent math I cited earlier. Still, I won’t be popping any champagne corks or shattering any more windows with my joyous shrieks until Janet tells me it’s time to do so. I'll be awaiting her call or email—the one where she says, “Greg, I have some news—I hope you’re wearing a diaper.”
Big thanks to all of you for enduring my longer-than usual post (assuming you didn’t just skip to the end, like I would have done). It’s not often we writers get any sunlight, and I appreciate you spending a little extra time with me today while I basked in the warm rays—before another dark storm moves in and settles. Enjoy the rest of your ...
... oh, wait, just TWO MORE overly long sentiments before I go:
First—to all the writers out there who’ve been looking for an agent but receiving rejection after rejection yet still want an agent, DO NOT GIVE UP. I almost did, and know exactly how you feel. Remember, many good and great books get rejected over and over before getting that one “yes” from the right agent. And if you end up never getting an agent, who cares? We’re all going to die anyway, so have fun and NEVER STOP WRITING (until, of course, you die).
Secondly—landing a literary agent is never a solo act—and it was anything but in my case. I owe a gigantic THANK YOU to several people who were instrumental in me ending up on Janet Reid’s coveted client list. So…
THANK YOU, Darynda Jones (you mega best-selling author, you), for taking the time to reach out and introduce yourself this past summer, then convince me that I had the goods to get repped.
THANK YOU, Elisabeth Elo, for echoing Darynda Jones' sentiments (even if you didn't know it)—right when I was thinking of throwing in the querying towel.
THANK YOU, E.A. (Ed) Aymar, for always taking the time to answer my questions—many of which were stupid—about the quest for an agent, and the best way to tie a noose.
THANK YOU, Chris Rhatigan (of All Due Respect Books), for believing I had something special with Into a Corner and for your invaluable assistance in making the manuscript sparkle enough to catch the attention of the agent I’ve always wanted.
THANK YOU, Lauren Sapala, for the powerful, beautiful, incredibly encouraging message you sent me after I came to cry on your virtual shoulder. (In case you don’t remember the message, I’d be happy to take picture of it and send it to you. I have it right here next to me—I keep a printed copy of it on my writing desk at all times. No joke.)
THANK YOU, Miranda (my amazing wife), for believing in me and my writing since day one, and for refusing to even come close to ever letting me quit.
If you’re into mysteries featuring macho-man private investigators and familiar tropes that have crowded the crime fiction genre for decades, don’t read anything by Cheryl A. Head. If, however, you dig mysteries that steer clear of clichés and delve into more intriguing territory, you’re going to want to pick up one of Head’s novels.
Which one? Doesn’t matter—they’re all damn good, damn entertaining, and damn fearless. Sorry for all the swearing; it’s just, Head is a badass. She takes her mysteries where most mysteries fear to tread—presenting a highly diverse cast of characters and exploring challenging social issues that grab you as a reader without knocking you over the head.
Book 4 of Head’s riveting Charlie Mack Motown Mystery series—Judge Me When I'm Wrong—just launched in October (via Bywater Books). Book 5 of the series—Find Me When I’m Lost—is due out in mid-April and already available for pre-order.
As busy as Head has been knocking out great novels, she was kind enough to let me bug her with a bunch of interview questions … and took the time to provide me with some very insightful, thought-provoking responses. So let's get to it!
Welcome, Cheryl, and congrats on your latest: Judge Me When I'm Wrong.This book—along with the three others in the Charlie Mack series—is excellent. I get that this isn’t actually a question, but I figured you wouldn’t hate receiving the praise.
Writers always love every bit of praise, so thank you!
The deeper you get into the Charlie Mack series, have you found it easier to keep things compelling—since you’re “in the groove”—or do you find it harder because readers are always expecting more excitement, twists, and surprises?
I’m finding it a bit harder to come up with overall case plots. The big ideas. I’m always my first reader, and I want to keep myself amused, engaged and learning something new. The concept for Book 5, Find Me When I’m Lost, was already in the back of my mind, but as I think of Book 6 and beyond, I have momentary panic about not having fresh material. In actuality, I know that won’t be the case because I have more ideas than Prince had songs in the vault. For instance, I know I want to explore more about the fight Charlie’s mother undertakes with Alzheimer’s. I know I want to focus on Don Rutkowski’s (Charlie’s business partner) internal machinations with racism. I want to introduce a new partner into the Mack Private Investigation firm. I just have to figure out how to seamlessly incorporate those ideas within one of Charlie’s investigations.
One of the many reasons readers (including myself) enjoy your novels is how deftly they rep the diversity that makes America America today. Your stories don’t shy away from important and often challenging themes and issues around diversity—while simultaneously keeping readers riveted and entertained. Who have been the biggest influences on you and your ability to write such real, daring, and captivating fiction?
Wow. Thank you for getting what I do and enjoying it. I’m jazzed by that.
I have to say I see myself as a bit of a race woman. By that I mean I think all the time about our country’s ongoing wrestle around diversity issues. In my opinion, we won’t live up to the potential we have as a country unless we confront the systemic issues of race which include class, public policy, religion, public education, poverty, etc.). I’m taking a small bite out of the apple to write about some of these issues through the prism of protagonist who is African American and lesbian. I feel compelled to do that. I want the kernels of truth I present to be ideas that build up our empathy for each other. I know, without a doubt, that people across the globe have many of the same aspirations, hopes and goals. These universal desires, at a very primal level, connect us as human beings.
I guess my best inspiration for writing about tough subjects is being a wide-eyed, open-eared observer. I also believe I’m very empathetic person. I try to pour a lot of that awareness into my writing. However, I haven’t yet surrendered myself to that process. If I do, I know I’ll write a very good book. I say “if” rather than “when” because to do so, I’ll have to give up my emotional control. I don’t do that very easily.
A little while back, author (and our mutual Twitter pal) Matt Coleman wrote a piece for Book Riot in which he opined that the best crime fiction authors today are women writers, writers of color, and writers from the LGBTQ community. Would you agree? Care to comment? And please, don’t let the fact that I’m a straight white male with thin skin influence your response! Bring it!
You asked for it, so I’m going to bring it. LOL.
Of course, Matt is a genius and a super-nice person. I totally agree with him. The glimpses of brilliance in literature, and in the arts in general, often come from creatives on the margins. There is something about being held back, unseen, discounted, pigeonholed, and ignored that makes one write with furious, truthful, authority. These stories are born of passion, pain, promises, perversion, perspective, pathology, pensiveness, pleasure, proximity, and purpose. They come from LGBTQ writers, writers of color, women writers, any group really outside of the privileged status of white, cis, male, straightness, and enrich our literary canon. There are so many contemporary mystery writers to point to as an example of this brilliance: Attica Locke, Steph Cha, Walter Mosley, Sujata Massey, Tracy Clark, Joe Ide, Penny Mickelbury, Shawn Cosby. I could go on for another ten minutes. And these are only the names of one group–writers of color, and in one literary genre–crime/mystery.
A lot has been written and said recently about the strides the publishing world’s making in terms of diversity. Do you feel enough is being done to bring new voices to crime fiction, or is there still a long way to go?
There is a lot being done to bring new voices to crime fiction, and still a lot to do. 2019 was a bad year for the crime writing community in terms of navigating diversity issues. There were just too many head-in-the-sand, tone deaf, bull-in-the-china shop bungling of things. We’ve all heard, and read, about the acts of commission and omission this year with some of our major conferences, and organizations in our community. Hopefully, 2020 will be smoother. Notice has been given, and I believe the community understands more precisely that embracing diversity as a bona fide value within a system is hard work. Not surface work. I could say more, but I’ll save it for a conference panel. LOL. On a positive note, I’ll point to the formation of the Crime Writers of Color group by Walter Mosley, Kellye Garret, and Gigi Pandian. It is a wonderfully effective support group.
When did you first realize you wanted to be a crime fiction author? What do you like most about writing in this genre? What do you find most challenging?
I guess I didn’t know I wanted to be a crime fiction writer until maybe after reading both Barbara Neely’s Blanche series, and early installments of Sue Grafton’s alphabet series. I’ve always been a fan of the genre. The bulk of my work as an adult (before taking an early retirement) was in television production, so I’ve always visualized mystery/crime stories and been a fan of the movie/TV versions of the genre. I’ve also been acutely aware of the diversity—or lack thereof—in those offerings.
I wrote my first mystery in four months. It was a cathartic exercise after a particularly grueling experience writing historical fiction. That first mystery novel (which I self-published) connected me to my current publisher and eventually became Book 1 of the Charlie Mack Motown Mystery series.
My only challenge is carving out the time to write. I love writing crime fiction. It gives me the opportunity to opine about the dark side of human nature, present the perspectives of the underdog, point to mankind’s shared commonalities, poke at power, celebrate those who are inherently heroic, and murder people who need to be killed.
Who are a few of your favorite authors? What was the last novel you read? What are you currently reading?
I’ve already mentioned some of my favorites. I read, and enjoy, the works of a lot of male authors because I really do like the tough protagonists; the archetypal noir loners with a code of honor. It’s the reason I love westerns so much. Some of the novels I’ve read recently include: Sarah Paretsky’s Shell Game—V.I. Warshawski is one likeable, kick-ass P.I.; Tara Laskowski’s One Night Gone—wonderful imagery; and one of the books in Alex Segura’s Pete Fernandez mystery series. On my bedside table—on rotation—is a Joe Ide novel and Loren Estleman’s Black and White Ball. My reading for the last month has been short stories, so I’m sort of behind on novels.
What can we look forward to in Book 5 of the Charlie Mack series? Do you have any plans to write something outside of that very popular and successful series?
Book 5 (out in April) is a complex story of family betrayal and murder, but there’s some fun, catty, fireworks between Charlie and her ex-husband’s new wife; and there’s been a change of personnel in Charlie’s P.I. firm, which adds additional intrigue.
I’ve been slowly working on a stand-alone set in Washington, DC with a new, male P.I. I’ll finish it sometime this spring. The one thing I came to grips with in writing the new piece is I don’t have the same affinity and affection for DC that I have for Detroit. So, Go Lions! And boo to the football team whose racist name I don’t speak aloud. Is that too much information? LOL
Is there anything you were hoping I’d ask but didn’t?
No. But I can tell you that I’ve decided 2020 will be my year to say “no.” I overcommitted in 2019 to work that was fun, like conferences and award-judging, and to things I believed in, like panels and presentations about diversity, but I didn’t have as much time this year to just think and write. In 2020, I’ll be thinking and writing and reading for pleasure. Maybe I’ll look for a writing retreat to facilitate meeting those goals.
That being said, thank you so much for the opportunity to respond to these thoughtful questions. And let me say, I admire your work—so keep on doing it! I look forward to reading your new novel in 2020.
Well, thank YOU, Cheryl—for the kind words, and for your time and candor. I wish you continued success with your writing and life, and look forward to reading everything you have coming down the pike!