Usually when the Kindle version of one of my novels goes on sale for $0.99, I write up some quick, clever promotional message to entice readers to shell out a measly buck for the book.
Not this time.
This time, the book on sale is In Wolves’ Clothing, a novel that centers around the horrific world of child sex trafficking. Needless to say, the topic is nothing to laugh about … unless your job is to save children caught up in the nightmare of it, in which case humor is an essential tool. For survival.
Just ask Zero Slade. Zero, the protagonist of In Wolves’ Clothing, travels the globe posing as a sex tourist to help capture traffickers and rescue girls as young as five from the world’s fastest-growing crime circuit. In between the physically dangerous and emotionally taxing missions Zero’s been leading for the past seven years, he and his undercover cohorts often joke around. It’s either that or self-destruct, and the latter isn’t conducive to putting away pimps or liberating children.
To help sell the book during this promotional period, I could try to be funny and cute. I could write something such as, “Nothing says ‘Happy Holidays’ like human trafficking.” But we all know such copy is neither funny nor cute.
So, given all that, some may ask why “dark comedy” and “dark humor” are among the categories that In Wolves’ Clothing is listed under on Amazon. It’s a fair question, the answer to which is simply this: I tried to capture the truth.
As part of my research for the book, I interviewed a man by the name of Radd Berrett, who, for two years, did in real life the kind of work Zero Slade does in my novel. For two years, Radd rubbed elbows with traffickers on nearly every continent, playing the role of the worst type of man you can imagine, putting his life at risk for the sake of the Lost Girls. And for two years, whenever a mission ended, Radd and his colleagues would rely on humor (along with—understandably yet sadly—pain meds and liquor) to help them make it to the next mission. Every time I spoke to Radd on the phone and asked him to tell me more about the work he did, he’d make me laugh so hard I’d cry. And I’m not talking tears of joy.
I sent Radd the manuscript for In Wolves’ Clothing and asked him to read it prior to publication last fall. I told him I was a little concerned about the direction I chose, the darkly humorous voice and tone that echoed throughout the story. Radd called me three days later, thrilled about how the book turned out. “Man, how’d you do it?” he asked. I thanked him sincerely for the praise, and said, “The much more important question is, ‘How did you?’”
Soon after the book came out in October 2017, it received very positive reviews from such literary heavy-hitters as Publishers Weekly and Midwest Book Review. And yet, as happy as those reviews made me, the testimonial I’m most proud of, by far, came from the man who experienced first-hand the kind of hell I put my protagonist through over the course of 273 pages:
"Truly original and enthralling. Levin's blazing prose and acerbic wit capture the madness and the humanity of working undercover in the darkest corners."—Radd Berrett, former Jump Team member, Operation Underground Railroad
But honestly, it’s Radd and the many other men and women dedicated to battling the biggest scourge of our time who deserve a rave review.
That's why I wrote the book.
Speaking of which, the Kindle edition ofIn Wolves’ Clothingis on sale for just $0.99 on Amazon (US and UK only) for a very limited time. If you haven’t read the book yet, now’s a good time to check it out.
No joke.
(For those of you in the US, click on the red title above. For those in the UK, click here. And thank you!)
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.
I’ve done some dumb things in my writing career. Even dumber than choosing writing as a career. I'm not proud of my mistakes, but they say admitting to them is a sign of integrity and humility. Or in my case, a sign that I’ve been drinking.
So, before I go pour my third bourbon of the morning and continue working on my next novel, here are five of the dumbest things I’ve done as an author:
5) I wrote my first novel for myself rather than for the reader. A teacher once told me writing is about self-expression and creativity, not about having lots of people read what you’ve written. And I was stupid enough to believe him.
This helps to explain why I opted to write my first novel (Notes on an Orange Burial) about an unpublished poet. It’s also why 99.99 percent of you have never heard of it. (Still, it was a big hit with some people—namely my parents, and three librarians in England.) It’s quirky and literary and has some funny scenes derived from experiences I had in my twenties, so I wouldn’t necessarily say it’s a bad book.
But you would.
4) I didn’t focus on the marketing-side of publishing until my third novel. This may seem the same as #5 above, but it’s not. It’s worse. After all, when you write a bad book and fail to market it properly, you’re doing yourself and the world a favor. But when you write a good book and fail to market it properly, you miss big opportunities to attract readers and meet Oprah.
Today, many consider my second novel—The Exit Man—my best (or at least my most enjoyable) book to date. However, it didn’t make much of a splash when it first came out because I hadn’t taken the time to learn the ins and outs of publicity, promotion and platform-building. It wasn’t until a TV producer tripped over a copy (while looking at bigger and better-promoted books) months later that The Exit Man started to pick up a little steam, and even then I failed to do a lot of what I should have done from a marketing standpoint.
Which leads directly to my next big mistake. …
3) I assumed getting optioned by HBO meant I’d hit the big-time. See that guy over there, the one strutting around like he owns the place? That’s me at the 2015 Writers’ League of Texas conference in Austin. The Exit Man had recently been optioned by HBO for development into a TV series, but I went to the conference anyway despite having nothing left to prove or to learn as an author. [Feel free to pause here and gag. I just did.] I skipped most of the sessions at the conference but spent plenty of time at the cocktail reception, where I mentioned my option deal to all the other attendees and held my hand out for them to kiss. (I'm exaggerating of course—both of my hands had drinks in them and thus weren't available to be kissed.)
And see that guy over there, the one lounging poolside at the trendy Mondrian hotel on Sunset Boulevard reading a copy of his own novel? That’s me the day after flying out to LA to take the producer (who got me the HBO option) out for dinner to show my appreciation—but really just to show off.
Oh, and see this guy over here, the one muttering curse words while cancelling his HBO Now subscription out of spite? That’s me in 2016 after hearing HBO decided not to renew its option of The Exit Man.
2) I waited too long to start forming alliances with other authors. No man is an island, but I used to think good authors were. I had it that, to be successful, I needed to spend as much time as possible holed up in a small, quiet room and just let my imagination and words run wild. I stayed away from writing workshops and critique groups. (“I had enough of that in college,” I’d tell myself.) I wasn’t active in writing organizations or communities. And, worst of all, I viewed other authors in my genre as the competition rather than as brothers and sisters with whom I shared a rare and wondrous disease.
It wasn’t until relatively recently that I realized isolation, while good for writing, is awful for a writing career. For the latter, you need to connect with and share ideas with like-minded—and even unlike-minded—authors. Doing so not only keeps you almost sane in a maddening field, but also provides you with invaluable feedback and advice to better your craft. And, if you join forces with “the competition,” it can open the door to a whole new world of readers who might have otherwise never heard of you or your disease. (NOTE: I recently teamed up with author RD Ronald to create a unique new website for readers and fellow writers of transgressive fiction. If you like novels and short stories about good people doing bad things—or bad people doing good things—you’re going to LOVE the site. I’ll be announcing its official launch via my blog soon. Stay tuned!)
And now, for the absolute dumbest thing I've done as an author ...
1) I put my characters ahead of my family and friends. I’ve touched on this in previous posts, mostly in a joking manner to downplay my fiction addiction and lessen my shame. But the truth is, I have put my characters ahead of my family and friends in the past.
Actually, the real truth is … I still do.
That “disease” I hinted at in #2 above, it’s not always fun. For anyone. And particularly not for my wife Miranda and my daughter Leah, whom I’ve shooed away from my writing space countless times in order to give all my care and attention to imaginary people instead. In fact, I’ve gotten so good at shooing, I rarely even have to anymore. Miranda and Leah have learned to keep their distance whenever my office door’s closed. Come to think of it, they’ve started doing so even when the door’s open and the writing day’s done. Go figure.
I’ve apologized multiple times to them, as well as to my parents and brother and the small handful of friends I somehow still have. I’ve promised each that I’d make more time for them and be more attentive and present whenever we’re together. They can tell by the look in my eyes and the sound of my voice that these apologies and promises are sincere. And they all want to believe me, but deep down they suspect something.
People familiar with my books assume I must be at least a little insane. But the truth is, my wife's the crazy one.
After all, she (Miranda) has chosen to spend her life and share a dwelling with a man who writes entire novels about things like party supply storeowners who dabble in euthanasia, terminally ill serial killers looking to make their city safer before they die, and fake pedophiles who schmooze with child sex traffickers to put them away.
I’m telling you, this lady is nuts.
Still, folks always want to know what it’s like for “poor” Miranda to live with me, the “crazy” writer. In fact, many of them ask her that question right in front of me, which I find just plain rude.
Nevertheless, I like to give the people what they want—provided what they want is not for me to put down my drink or behave myself. So, in an effort to appease all my imaginary fans, I’ve opted to give Miranda the keys to my blog for today’s post, which features several questions people and the police commonly ask Miranda, followed by Miranda’s (mostly) unedited responses.
What is it like being married to an author of dark, disturbing fiction?
It’s fun! And absurd. And intriguing! And unnerving. Just like Greg’s books! And marriage.
I knew a long time ago that I didn’t want to marry one of those doctor/lawyer types—the type who are married to their job and whom you never see again after the wedding. Because both Greg and I work from home, I often get to bump into him in the kitchen whenever he takes a break from killing a character in his office. I also get to take afternoon walks with him and hear about the cleanest murder methods and how to get away with them. Sometimes I’ll walk into his office to sneak a few kisses while he’s busy putting his protagonist through living hell. Greg absolutely hates it when I do that and usually tells me to get out. I'm the luckiest girl in the world.
While reading any of Greg’s books, have you ever become concerned over the fact you sleep in the same bed with this guy? (Assuming you haven’t already opted for separate rooms.)
Absolutely. I tell all my friends and family that if I were to die, Greg did it. But I can take comfort in the fact that my death will be epic. A story to be passed down for generations. And I will haunt Greg forever.
Which of Greg’s characters is your favorite, and why? Which is your least favorite?
It’s so hard to pick a favorite. I think if I had to choose, I’d have to go with Eli Edelmann, as The Exit Man is still my favorite novel. No, wait, Zero Slade from In Wolves’ Clothing, because he’s a hero—albeit a seriously flawed one—with such a big heart. No, wait, Fynn, who’s Zero’s boss. She’s an intriguing sideline character I want to know more about … and maybe want to be just like when I grow up.
My least favorite of Greg’s characters? Greg won’t let me have any. So just email or DM me and I’ll tell you.
Does Greg usually pass his novel ideas by you before starting to write the book? Does he allow you to read his works-in-progress?
I wish. One of my favorite things to do with Greg is brainstorm novel ideas and have him read me sneak-peeks of his works-in-progress. But these occasions are rare. For some reason he views my “feedback” as an act of aggression. Writers—they're sooo sensitive.
What is Greg’s most peculiar habit as a writer?
Oh my, where do I start? First off, Greg writes his books chronologically from beginning to end. This is a sure sign of a psychopath. Also, writing is never a painful, agonizing process for him—he never gets stuck or suffers from writer’s block. Instead he bounces out of bed every morning and writes joyfully about horrific topics for hours at a time. There is something very wrong with him.
Do you ever fear Greg will write a memoir and share way too much about your life together? Do events/situations from your marriage ever show up in his novels?
Not really. I don’t believe Greg would ever steer away from writing fiction—regardless of what our tax returns tell him. Certainly there are hints of our married life sprinkled throughout his books, but as long as he continues writing novels, I can deny everything.
If Greg weren’t a writer, what would you say would be the best profession for him?
If Greg had a real job, I imagine it would be something in the medical profession. Or perhaps he’d be a crime-scene investigator. Or a hitman. In case you haven’t noticed it in his books, Greg has a bit of a fascination with sickness and death. Who knows, maybe he’d even become a real-life Exit Man, though I don’t think I was supposed to say that out loud.
What book would you most want Greg to write next?
I must say I’m pretty intrigued by Greg’s next book, which features a strong female protagonist. It’s a mother-daughter tale of two badass women who commit a crime to intentionally land them in jail... mainly for the free rent and healthcare. There’s just one problem—they don’t caught. Instead they get rich. And that’s when the real problems begin.
Now, that all said, we just returned from an Alaskan cruise and I’ve been trying to convince Greg that his next book needs to be set on a cruise ship. He’s thinking about it—or so he says to get me to leave him alone to write.
Should we be worried? Are you in any immediate danger?
No. No. Everything is fine. Everything is juuuust fine. I've been told I’m happy. Very, very happy.
Looks like I may be going to jail. With any luck, it will happen very soon. My sentence? Sentences.
Allow me to explain.
A few weeks ago, an idea tapped me on the shoulder and then refused to shut up. It just kept repeating itself over and over: “Teach creative writing in prison. Teach creative writing in prison.” I was all, “Who, me?” And the idea was all, “YES, you—do you see anyone else around here you idiot?”
While I didn’t much appreciate the idea’s attitude, I admired its gumption, its grit, its determination. “Ya got moxie, kid,” I told the idea. The idea shushed me and said, “I’m not here to make friends. Now get to work.”
I listened.
The next day I came up with a name—The “Write to Be Free” Project—and then researched best practices in teaching creative writing to incarcerated individuals. (One expert recommends to “always be a little afraid.” I think I can manage that.) A few days later I reached out to the Texas Department of Criminal Justice (TDCJ) to explore the feasibility of the whole “Write to Be Free” thing. The TDCJ put me in touch with Dr. Latreace Craig of The Windham School, a non-geographical school that provides educational services to offenders in the custody of the State of Texas. During my phone call with Dr. Craig, she told me she loved the idea—and encouraged me to go for it.
Following her instructions, I filled out a volunteer application and mailed it to the Huntsville address that was provided. Yes, that Huntsville—the city whose prison houses the State of Texas’ execution chamber … the most active execution chamber in the country. No, I won't be teaching creative writing at the Huntsville unit. That wouldn’t be practical, as it’s too far a drive from Austin. (Who are you calling scared? I’m not scared. YOU’RE scared.) It’s more likely I’ll be assigned to a unit like Travis State Jail (in Austin) or Dominguez State Jail (in San Antonio).
But first, my application has to be accepted. That should be easy-peasy. Also, I have to pass a background check. I don’t foresee any problems there, either. I mean, what correctional facility wouldn’t want its inmates learning from an author whose last three novels centered, respectively, around mercy killing, serial killing and sex trafficking? I’m practically a shoo-in. Once I pass the background check, I merely need to complete a mandatory training program designed to increase my chances of success as a volunteer. Or, more to the point, to minimize my chances of getting shanked.
I’m very excited about what hopefully lies ahead. That’s why I’m here blogging about The “Write to Be Free” Project before everything (or anything, really) has been finalized. But excitement isn’t the only reason for this premature post. I feel that, by declaring my proposed plan publicly, I’m more likely to bust my butt to make it happen. To not give up after encountering obstacles or resistance. To hold myself to account.
Good ideas and noble intentions don’t mean squat without execution. (Okay, perhaps “execution” wasn’t the best term to use here, considering the context.) People always say, “It’s the thought that counts.” Well, not in this case. In this case, what counts is action. What counts is commitment. What counts is stopping at nothing until something gets going. Because the something I’m getting going stands to impact a group of people in ways they’ve yet to imagine. A group of people who, because of their circumstances, may have forgotten how to imagine.
I’ve never been incarcerated, but I’m friends with several people who have. A couple of these people have written novels—damn good ones. And neither of them were writers when they first entered prison.
Point is, when you lose the right to be free, you can still write to be free.
We all make mistakes. Some folks make big ones—big enough to end up in an institution that can strip them of their identity, their humanity. These are the people I'm eager to work with. These are the people with stories and poems that can cut to the bone. These are the people who can remind us—and themselves—what it means to be alive.
They don’t have social media or text messages or online shopping to distract them. They don’t have endless blue skies or Sunday picnics or carefree walks in the park to enjoy. What they have are strongly reinforced ceilings, floors, walls and bars. What they have is their own mind playing an endless loop of what they did wrong.
All I want is a chance to help them discover what they can do. Write.
This is not a one-and-done type of post. I promise to share any progress made on The “Write to Be Free” Project here on this very blog. And who knows—maybe I'll even get to share a few powerful pieces written by some of the incarcerated individuals I (hopefully) get the honor and privilege to work with.