Those of you who’ve been on my mailing list and/or have followed me on social media for a while now (THANK YOU) know I usually come out with a new novel every 12-18 months. You’ve likely heard me express how much joy I get from writing, how much pride I take in it. How much I love creating characters who are decent people deep down but who make questionable decisions and take big risks for what they feel is right or just—characters you would probably never hang out with in real life but whom you can’t resist rooting for in a book.
Many of you have even read my books, and some of you even like them. A few of you have even told me you always look forward to whatever book I happen to be working on. I’m extremely grateful to all of you—especially you folks in that second and third group!
With all that said, I have an announcement that might bum some of you out—initially, at least:
It may be a while before you see another novel with my name on it.
No, I’m not giving up writing. Quite the contrary, actually—I’m trying to go bigger with it. That is, I’m aiming for a book deal. It remains to be seen whether this deal will be with a “Big 5” publishing house, a Big 5-adjacent publishing house, or one of several highly respected small presses that specialize in fresh and daring crime fiction/thrillers. But one thing is for sure (I think)—I’m done with putting out books myself as an indie author under my own imprint (White Rock Press).
Now, before any of my indie/self-published author colleagues un-follow, un-friend, or un-talk to me, let me make something perfectly clear: I still have the utmost respect for—and will continue to support and spread the word about—the many folks who continue to hustle and grind every day to write, publish and peddle good books without the assistance of a literary agent and/or a publishing house. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Many of the best books I’ve read are by authors who fall under the indie or self-published category. Having a literary agent and a traditional book deal doesn’t by definition make an author superior to or more talented than an author who doesn’t. Yes, some of the top writers out there today are “traditionally” published. But being traditionally published isn’t the de facto sign of writing talent—not by any stretch.
So then why, you may ask, have I decided to hand in my indie badge and set my sights on a “traditional” publishing deal?
I’ll tell you why:
I’m tired.
Not the most inspiring reason, but it’s true. Now, to be clear, I’m not tired of writing. I’ll never tire of writing. I currently spend half my waking life working on novels, and will continue to. But I am tired of spending the other half of my waking life doing the following:
lining up (and paying out of my pocket) editors, proofreaders, cover designers, and formatters for my books;
constantly shouting into the vast digital void, “Check out my book(s)!”
deeply discounting those books (and shouting into the vast digital void about said deep discounts) to boost sales and gain new readers;
doing everything I possibly can to single-handedly grow my mailing list and followers and author platform so that every time I come out with a new book I already have more people who know about it than I did for the previous one.
I’m also tired of NOT doing certain things. Mainly, not being the best father and husband and son and brother and friend I can be because I’m so busy doing all of the above tasks—all the non-writing activities an indie author has to do to have even a remote shot at having their book make a bang and not just a whimper in the world. (NOTE: While I’ll certainly help a lot with the above tasks after I get a publisher, I no longer wish to be a publisher.)
In addition, I’m tired of making traditional publishing wrong—making excuses for why I have yet to land a literary agent or a book deal in the six or so years since I decided to start taking my fiction career seriously. I’m tired of lying to myself—telling myself the only reason I’ve yet to make a bigger splash in the book world is because my novels are “too edgy” or because lit agents and publishing houses are interested only in formulaic, commercial fiction, or because you have to know somebody big in the biz who wants to help you. I’m tired of the fact that I’ve stopped even trying to get a book deal because I've convinced myself it’s too hard these days, or because the traditional publishing process is sooo sloooow (that's true, but not a good reason to stop trying), or because—gag—I’m an artist, not a sell-out.
I want to challenge myself. I want to try to go bigger and wider with my books (while still spending quality time with my family and the few friends I have left). I want to prove to myself I’m tough enough to endure the inevitable rejections and gut-punches and body blows that happen to an author when they try to jump into the traditional publishing ring. And, even more so, I want to see if I’m tough enough to remain grounded in the event that I actually succeed. From what I’ve witnessed, it’s not easy for authors who’ve hit it big to be authentically humble, grateful, compassionate, and generous. And it may very well not be.
But I'm going to do everything I can to find out for myself.
What’s that—you want to know what you can do to help? Aw, that’s so kind of you to offer! Hmm, you sort of caught me off guard with that thoughtful question, so it may take me a while to … okay, I’ve got it! The following are some things you can do to help let the publishing world know I’m an author worth taking a chance on:
Buy my existing books.Agents and publishers like to see that an author they're considering has a decent sales record. So, if you’ve enjoyed my posts and book excerpts but have yet to buy or read any of my novels, go on and give one a shot. Or give two or three a shot. Okay, fine—buy everything I’ve ever written. I’m not going to sit here and argue with you.
Tell your people. Those of you who’ve read my novels and enjoyed them, please spread the word to your friends, family, and colleagues whose taste in literature may be as awesome as yours is.
Tell complete strangers. Why do you insist on living in a bubble when it comes to advancing my writing career? I feel it’s high time you expanded your efforts and began promoting my books to the reading world at large. This can easily be done by posting reviews on Amazon or Goodreads, as well as by quitting your job to form a massive Greg Levin Fan Club that travels the globe and the talk-show circuit singing the praises of my fiction.
Tell your agent or publisher. A renowned author of crime thrillers recently reached out to let me know she loved my work. She then offered to refer me to her agent. Which begs the question: Why isn’t EVERY renowned author of crime thrillers reaching out to me and doing the same? I mean, is that so much to ask?
All kidding aside (okay,most kidding aside), I'm very excited about the new path I've decided to take through the publishing woods. Sure, I may get lost, or torn to shreds by a Grizzly, or trapped under a tree and gnawed to death by a squirrel. But there's also a chance I make if through the forest fully intact—having survived on squirrel stew and bear steaks—and with a book deal in hand. We'll have to wait and see. But one thing's for sure: I will never again use a forest metaphor to end an important announcement about my writing career.
NOTE: My (hopefully) next novel, INTO A CORNER, has been finished since June and has drawn the interest of several literary agents. So now the waiting and wishing and praying begins. My apologies for inadvertatnly teasing you by announcing earlier this year that the book would be available the beginning of this month. I assure you I had every intention of launching it then, but have since banged my head and developed delusions of grandeur. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to run—I'm late for a lunch with Stephen King, J.K. Rowling, and Margaret Atwood at Cormac McCarthy's house.
My guest today is Alex Segura, author of the gritty and gripping Pete Fernandez Mystery series (published by Polis Books). The fifth and final book in the acclaimed series—Miami Midnight—just launched last month and has received high praise from the likes of Entertainment Weekly, Library Journal, New York Times bestselling author Alafair Burke, and—least importantly—me.
In addition to writing kick-ass crime novels, Alex writes kick-ass comic books, and is the co-creator and co-writer of the LETHAL LIT podcast, which was named one of the Five Best Podcasts of 2018 by The New York Times despite never having had me on as a guest.
As talented a writer as Alex is, what’s even more impressive is his humility, compassion, and gratitude. One look at his Twitter feed will tell you that. As will an interview with him—so let’s get to it!
Hi Alex! HUGE congrats on Miami Midnight! The book has received a ton of buzz—thus I assume you’re buzzing too. But it being the final installment of the Pete Fernandez Mystery series, has this book launch/tour been bittersweet for you?
Thanks, Greg. Appreciate it. Yes, it has been a little bittersweet—more than I expected, honestly. I thought it’d just be the end, you know? But the reaction has been so positive, and it’s also come with a lot of nice notes about the series as a whole, with fans decrying the end in a really nice way! So while I don’t think I regret ending the series for now—it is time—it has been bittersweet to look back on the entire run as this complete thing. I can’t believe we’ve reached the fifth book.
Every reader loves a highly flawed protagonist they can’t resist rooting for, and Pete Fernandez certainly falls into that category. How did you and Pete first “meet”? Have you always gotten along with him?
I first saw him when I started toying with the idea of writing my own PI novel, before I even considered it becoming a series. I wanted to write about someone sort of like me, Cuban-American, younger, just starting out in the PI game, saddled with real problems. Then the name appeared, and I got this visual of Pete, passed out drunk in his bed, struggling to get his life in order—which is literally the first time we see him in the first novel, Silent City. And then we were off!
What do you like most about writing a series? What do you like the least?
I like the continuity. I like spending time with the same characters. It’s like TV vs. the movies. You get comfortable with these people and start to believe they’re real. And while every series book involves some level of recap for new readers or those coming back, there’s an element of “okay, here’s the next thing,” where you can just dive in and showcase the new adventure. I think, in terms of what I like least, it has to be the barnacles you collect along the way—you just add baggage to the characters and it becomes more challenging to say something new after a while. Which is why I had a finite set of stories I knew I could tell with Pete and his crew. Eventually, it’d start to challenge reality/plausibility. So by book five, it felt like the right time to say goodbye... for now.
Which authors have influenced you and your writing the most? Have you ever met any of them and, if so, how much did you stammer and sweat during the encounter?
I’ve made no secret about my influences. Crime writers like Laura Lippman, George Pelecanos, Michael Connelly, Dennis Lehane, Megan Abbott, James Ellroy, and a few from an earlier generation—like Raymond Chandler, Jim Thompson, Ross Macondald, John D. MacDonald, Charles Willeford, Patricia Highsmith, Margaret Millar... those are all off the top of my head. But those are the ones that directly affect my writing, to this day. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting most of the living ones, and even more proud to call a few of them a friend. I was pretty cool and collected with most, but admit to losing my chill the first time I met Dennis Lehane. Thankfully, I got to make up for that the second time I spoke with him, so I think we’re good.
For me, one of the most interesting things about crime fiction is the research the author must conduct before and while writing the novel. What kinds of crazy things might we (or the FBI) find in your browser history? (Assuming you haven’t cleared it.)
All my research is on the page—I spent a lot of time reading about cults and political assassinations for my fourth novel, Blackout, for example. For Miami Midnight, it was more about what I was enjoying as a reader and listener—so, jazz, the Cuban mob, true crime memoirs and stuff like that. I’m pretty transparent. I don’t do much “homework reading” when it comes to my novels. Whatever I’m reading for pleasure becomes what I write about because it feels more natural that way.
When did you first realize you wanted to be a crime novelist? What are some key things you know now that you wish you’d known when you first started?
I always wanted to write, as far back as I can remember. Whether it was comics, sci-fi, literary fiction, or what-have-you, but the crime aspect hit me in my late twenties, when I started reading more modern takes on the PI novel—and that’s when it crystallized for me that I might be able to add my voice to that chorus.
What’s the last book you read? Are you currently reading anything now, and, if so, how the hell do you find the time in the middle of your launch/tour?
I just finished rereading Rob Hart’s fantastic The Warehouse. Everyone is rightfully talking about this novel, which will be sticking with me for a long time. I’m currently finishing up J. Michael Straczynski’s memoir, Becoming Superman, which is heartbreaking, intense and thoughtful. I’m also reading Alison Gaylin’s Never Look Back next, which I’m excited to dive into. In terms of time, well, reading is important! If I’m not reading all the time, I shouldn’t be writing.
Got another book in the works? Or do you, like me, need a couple months of therapy and/or binge drinking before resuming the madness of novel writing?
Well, I don’t drink, and I’m not sure what a break is! I tend to start the next thing while revising or copyediting the last one, so I’m about a quarter into a new standalone that I’m really excited about.
Ooh, now I’m excited, too… as I’m sure all your readers are. Thanks a ton for taking the time to chat with me, Alex. Here’s to your continued success with Miami Midnight, and beyond!
Thank you for having me, Greg!
To learn more about Alex Segura and his highly compelling crime fiction—and you totally SHOULD—check out his website, Amazon author page, and Twitter.
Those of you who aren’t writers (you lucky bastards) may not be familiar with what a query letter is (you lucky bastards). And those of you who are writers probably aren’t even reading this post right now because you got triggered by the words “Query Letter” in the title and ran off to break things.
In essence, a query letter is the first step a writer must take to get rejected … er, I mean to get their manuscript published by a traditional book publisher. It is a formal letter—often an email these days—a writer sends to a literary agent in hopes of getting the agent excited enough to ask to read the writer's manuscript. If the agent asks to read the manuscript, and they like it and believe in its salability, they will offer to represent the author and shop the manuscript around to various publishing houses with the aim of landing a solid book deal.
Simple, right?
HA! (Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout-laugh with such anger and bitterness and scorn.)
Depending on whom you ask, literary agents reject between 96% and 110% of the submissions they receive. That means only about 4% to negative 10% of writers ever land an agent. And without an agent, a writer stands between a 0% and a negative 522% chance of being offered a book deal by a large, reputable publisher. I’m not trying to discourage anyone—I’m merely stating totally accurate math I definitely didn’t make up.
Such stark statistics are why you often see aspiring authors sobbing at cafés and in bars and on subways and atop suspension bridges. Such statistics are also why, if you’re a writer seeking a traditional publishing deal, you have to totally nail your query letter.
But here’s the thing: Even if you nail your query letter, you’re still unlikely to land a literary agent. Agents receive hundreds if not thousands of query letters each month, and unless J.K. Rowling or Stephen King is referring you, your query will barely be skimmed. Even if an agent reads your query and likes it and asks to read your manuscript, they likely won’t offer you representation unless your manuscript was ghostwritten by J.K. Rowling or Stephen King. I’m not trying to discourage anyone—I’m merely stating totally accurate facts completely free of any frustration or bitterness or scorn on my part.
So, if you’re a writer seeking an agent, you have two choices: 1) You can spend weeks perfecting your query letter and then a few more weeks personalizing it for each agent you want to query, and then a couple of months stressing out while waiting to receive each agent’s rejection notification, assuming they take the time to send one; OR 2) You can spend about ten minutes writing a horrible query letter and sending it out to all the agents at once without personalizing it, thus saving you months of emotional anguish and freeing you up to do what you truly love: writing another novel nobody will represent or publish.
I highly recommend option two. And am here to help.
To write a truly horrible query letter, you first need to know what constitutes a truly great query letter and then do the exact opposite when writing yours. Following is a list of what top literary agents and other experts in publishing typically cite as essential attributes of a query letter that works:
The agent is formally and properly addressed.
The book’s genre is clearly stated and one that the agent has expressed interest in.
No tpyos or grammatical. Errors.
Strong hook.
The book’s appeal isn’t exaggerated.
The bio section provides only the most relevant info about the author.
The submission guidelines are followed to a T.
Now, using the above bulleted items (or, more accurately, not using them) we are ready to quickly compose a monumentally bad query letter—one that won’t cause you or the writer in your life to bang your/their head against your/their laptop while crying out “Why? Why?” once the rejections start rolling in.
My Darling Gatekeeper/Dream-Maker:
I am seeking representation for my contemporary upmarket(ish)/literary neo-noir suspense psychological thriller sci-fi fantasy novel. It does not yet have a title—I figured you could come up with a better one than I can. The book is complete at 75,000 words or 100,000 words, depending on whether I decide to keep the chapter at the end that describes how the main character has been dead the whole time. The book, which will appeal to everybody who likes the best books, can be described as Gone Girl meets The Hunger Games meets The Martian meets The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.
Based on your interest in and huge success selling commercial romance fiction, I think it’s time you faced your conscience and starting handling much better books that are more like mine. I’m going to grab your attention now with the hook:
In a world where nothing is as it seems, former private investigator Jock Janson comes out of retirement to take on one last case before going back into retirement for good—unless another really intriguing case presents itself later.
Jock’s client, Ms. X, says she’ll pay Jock triple his normal rate if he can find out who murdered her husband. Jock assures her he can and will. There’s just one problem: Jock interrupted Ms. X before she could explain that she’s from the future and her husband was murdered fifty years from now. But if there’s one thing Jock needs even more than learning to stop interrupting clients, it’s money, so he takes the case. There’s just one more problem: Jock’s been dead the whole time. Or not. What do you think—should I have him be dead the whole time?
I’m going to move into the bio section of this query letter now so you can learn a little about me.
A little about me: I’m an author of contemporary upmarket(ish)/literary neo-noir suspense thriller sci-fi fantasy fiction who’s not very good at deciding on book titles or endings. I was the recipient of over 100 gold stars from my fourth grade English teacher. And while I have never won any official writing awards as an adult, my entry forms and fees have been accepted by top award sponsors on many occasions. I also like ping-pong.
Rather than paste the first ten pages of my manuscript into the body of this email as you specifically request on your website, I have attached the entire manuscript. This way you can read the whole thing before making any decisions about representation. Smart, right?
Thank you very much for taking the time to review my work. Don’t forget to come up with a great title.
Catch ya on the flipside.
Sincerely,
The Next Big Thing
That’s it. That’s how it’s done. Horrible query letters like the one above not only eliminate the months of “will they or won’t they” angst that come with querying literary agents these days; such letters also help writers release years of frustration in a lighthearted and almost healthy way. And who knows—maybe one of the agents who receives the letter will have an affinity for satire and career suicide, and thus may actually end up offering representation based solely on the writer's hubris.
But probably definitely not.
On a completely unrelated and blatantly capitalistic note, my novel THE EXIT MAN—which was optioned by both HBO and Showtime for development into a TV series—is now available for the embarrassingly low price of $0.99 at the following retail sites:
Today’s post is a big one, as I have some good news, some bad news, and some more good news to announce—before I even get to the meat of the post.
The first piece of good news is today you’ll get a(nother) sneak-peek at my upcoming novel, Into a Corner. Of course, you probably already figured that out based on the title of this post. (Hey, I never said it was amazing news.)
Now for the bad (but not horrible) news: Into a Corner will not be launching in early September, as planned.
[pause for you to grieve]
The reason for the delay is—and here comes the second piece of good news—the manuscript has recently drawn interest from some book people in high places, which might significantly alter the publishing path of my novel. Or not. Bottom line is I need to wait and see how things play out. But rest assured, Into a Corner will be published—I just don’t know exactly when or by whom at this point. My apologies for the vagueness and uncertainty. In my defense, I’ve never been one to know a whole lot about anything. Also, publishing’s weird.
Okay, now that I’ve thoroughly muddied the waters, let’s get back to the first piece of good news I mentioned above. Following is the latest sneak-peek at Into a Corner—coming to bookstores (or not) and Amazons near you soon(ish). Enjoy!
Warning: Adult language ahead.
(from Chapter 3 of INTO A CORNER)
A roll of toilet paper makes for a better pillow than you’d think. Someone was kind enough to slip a roll under my head, saving me from one hell of a stiff neck and from having my face touch whatever’s growing on this sorry excuse for a mattress. Must have been one of the guards, or maybe one of the dozen or so women in here with me. Not sure what they’re all cackling and laughing about right now. This isn’t a slumber party. I can tell by the stench of urine and vomit. And by what must be a hatchet wound running down the center of my skull.
The toilet paper pillow is nice and all, but what I could really use is an icepack. Also an eye mask, nose plugs, and a couple of Mama’s silicone ear thingies.
I feel around for my phone, but of course it isn’t on me. Hopefully I got my one call last night and used it wisely. And hopefully the guards are taking as good of care of my purse as they are my phone.
Trying to sit up, I don’t.
Another go, and nope.
My struggle catches the eye of one of my new roommates standing tall and wiry in the opposite corner, her back against the iron bars housing us. She points at me and laughs out of her burlap bag of a face.
A miniature thirty-something redhead sitting a few feet away from Burlap tells her to fuck off, then stands up and walks toward me. She looks sort of familiar, all four foot ten of her. She motions for me to take it easy as I fight my way to a seated upright position, my hands planted not so firmly on the edge of the cot, my feet planted even less so on the concrete floor.
“You probably shouldn’t jostle ’round like that,” says Little Red. “You had a rough night.”
Squinting at her paleness and freckles, then around at the rest of the women in the cell, I mutter, “Didn’t we all?” The taste in my mouth tells me toothpaste wasn’t involved.
Little Red says, “Yeah, but you in particular.”
With my eyes opened a bit more, Little Red was there last night. At Ricochet—the bar in Montrose that Griff made me accompany him to after we killed the Wild Turkey in my kitchen. The rest of the night is like my vision right now.
“Care to fill me in?” I ask Little Red.
“I can try,” she says, “but keep in mind I’m in here, too. So, you know, I can’t promise you nothin’ crystal clear.”
“Well, whatever you’ve got is better than a blackout,” I say, massaging the bridge of my nose, eyes shut tight. When will I ever learn what my favorite professor tried to teach me twenty-five years ago: paint fumes before liquor, never sicker.
Burlap and a few of the other women shuffle from their corner of the cell toward ours, stopping somewhere in the middle. What appears at first glance to be instigation or eavesdropping is actually them distancing themselves from a pretty little blonde thing all sweat and groans and about to erupt all over her Delta Zeta sweatshirt. From the looks of it, the sweatshirt already needs to be washed. Separately.
“So,” Little Red says to me, “you really don’t remember nothin’ from last night?”
I go, “Well,” and close my eyes to search for clues.
There’s me keeping my head down while pulling Griff through the raucous crowd at Ricochet. There’s me reaching the bar and asking Griff if he wants a whiskey. There’s Griff saying, “No, a light beer or Chardonnay.” And there’s me smiling and nodding, then ordering him a whiskey.
I open my eyes and, to Little Red, reply, “Not nothing, but not much.”
“It’s okay, hun,” she says, patting my shoulder. “We’ve all been there.”
That’s the nice thing about drunk-tank friends. No judgment.
“Sort of remember seeing you at Ricochet,” I say, more like a question than a statement.
Little Red nods and gives me a grin, then extends her hand. “I’m Tanner.”
I shake her tiny mitt and ask, “That your first name or last?” and Tanner goes, “Yes.”
I tell her my name and she says, “Oh, I know. Your humongous friend yelled it at least ten times last night.”
My face crinkles like amnesia.
“I was sitting at a table next to where you and your friend were sitting,” says Tanner. “Off in the corner near the restrooms.”
I nod, taking her word for it. No reason to suspect she’s lying—it’s very like me to hide in corners when out in public.
Tanner looks down at the floor and cracks her knuckles while recollecting. “You two were loud as hell, shouting and laughing and shouting some more. Was hard to tell if you were having a blast or an argument.”
I tell her probably both.
She snickers, then goes, “So what’s the deal with his finger?”
I tell her the same lie Griff and I tell everyone who asks—that he was born without it. Very few people can get their head around the truth behind Griff’s missing digit, and most of them are psychiatrists. Even if I took the time to explain Griff’s rare condition—how he’s obsessed with amputating one of his own limbs because he feels it doesn’t actually belong to him, how he screwed up and lost only a finger while going for his whole arm—it would likely elicit too many follow-up questions from these ladies.
“That sucks,” says Tanner, gazing at her own hands with a new appreciation. “Anyway, my friend was practically passed out at our table, so I was bored. Scooted my chair over a bit and leaned in to give you guys a better listen.”
“Hear anything good?” I ask.
And Tanner starts telling me things I don’t remember but already know. She says my humongous friend was giving me a ton of shit for destroying another of my own paintings. She says he was yelling about how art was all I had left and that I couldn’t let Buck take that away from me because Buck had already taken enough.
Tanner interrupts herself to ask, “Just curious … who’s Buck?”
“My dead husband,” I say. “And it’s not Buck, it’s Fuck. But really it’s Wayne.”
Tanner snorts, then covers her mouth. All serious, she goes, “Your husband’s … dead? So sorry, hun.”
I say thanks but that it’s okay to stick with her initial reaction. And to please continue.
Tanner tells me how at Ricochet I just kept drinking my whiskey and the whiskey of my humongous friend while he was busy commanding me to sell all of Fuck’s things and to use the cash to buy art supplies, and to use the art supplies to paint a giant mural in the middle of Houston, and to promise that the giant mural would feature Fuck being disemboweled.
“So,” says Tanner, fingering a few strands of her shoulder-length ginger hair, “you’re like, an artist and shit?”
I nod and go, “Emphasis on ‘shit.’”
“Do people buy your paintings?” Tanner asks.
“They used to.”
My finger draws a couple of please continue and hurry loops in the air. “Sorry,” I say to Tanner. “It’s just I’m dying to hear about the rest of last night.”
“Let me think,” she says, her eyelids fluttering. “Oh, yeah, your humongous friend, he said he had to piss and would be right back. As soon as he was up and out of sight, this dude comes up to you and—”
“Brown leather jacket?” I ask, grimacing.
Tanner nods.
Face in my hands, I go, “Fuuuck,” as the previous evening’s events unfold.
There’s me saying no thanks to Brown Leather Jacket’s offer to buy me a drink.
There’s Brown Leather Jacket going, “Aw man, you a lesbian?” and me going, “Right at this moment, yes.”
There’s Brown Leather Jacket saying, “C’mon, just one drink,” and me saying, “C’mon, just get lost,” and BLJ telling me I don’t need to be a bitch about it and that he hopes I have fun with all the fags and dykes.
Tanner pauses the slideshow with a tap on my shoulder. “Odessa, hun, you okay?”
“Yup,” I say into my palms. “Just reliving my night of glory.”
Tanner tells me not to sweat it. Says the asshole had it coming.
A deep sigh and there’s me telling BLJ if he has a problem with fags and dykes then he should probably stay out of bars built for fags and dykes. Also, that he should stop calling fags and dykes fags and dykes. Lastly, that he should never call me a bitch again, not if he wants to keep his teeth.
There’s BLJ shaking his head, then turning to his friend and muttering either, “Crazy bitch” or “Maybe switch.”
There’s me not giving him the benefit of the doubt. There’s me standing up, shooting what’s left of the whiskey in Griff’s lowball, and smashing the empty glass against the back of BLJ’s head.
And here come the screams and the shards and the drops of blood—the latter from a small cut on my pinky, not from any gash in BLJ’s solid melon. And there’s BLJ, woozy from the blow, being held up by his friend, who steps toward and glares at me.
Ah, and there she is. Tanner. Face redder than her hair, cursing at BLJ’s friend who’s cursing at me who’s cursing at BLJ and the bouncer who’s got me by the collar of the same shirt I’m wearing right now. The one Tanner’s now rubbing the back of, saying, “Chin up, hun. All we’re really facing is a drunk and disorderly. The dude you clocked didn’t press no charges. Management neither.”
“That’s good to know,” I say, peeking at Tanner through my fingers, then closing my eyes again to go back and find Griff.
There he is, returning from the bathroom, his python-thick arms up in the air, all nine of his fingers flared. There’s the bouncer barking at Griff, telling him to back off. And there’s me settling the hell down so Griff will do the same, telling him it’s my fault and that I’ll be fine and to just go to my house and make sure Mama’s asleep and okay.
“Don’t worry, hun,” says Tanner, still rubbing my back. “Your friend said he’d come and get you as soon as possible, no matter where, no matter what. Remember?”
Vaguely.
Tanner adds, “Said he’d get the money to pay whatever’s needed.”
I move my hands from my face and look at her. “Any idea how much the bail might be?”
Tanner tilts her head and purses her lips. “Aw, drunk-tank virgins like you are always so adorable,” she says. “Drunk and disorderly’s just a misdemeanor—there ain’t no bail for misdemeanors, only a fine. And in Texas, the max is just five hundred bucks.”
By the look in her eyes, Tanner can see the look in mine.
“Aw, hun, don’t panic,” she says while brushing two fingers across my cheek. “You don’t gotta have the cash to get sprung from here. They gotta let you go as soon as you sober up enough to not puke on your way out.”
My gaze moves from Tanner’s freckles to the handful of inmates chatting and laughing a few feet from us, then back to Tanner’s freckles. “So what are you and the others still doing in here?” I ask. “Most of you look okay enough to bounce.”
Tanner gives me another patronizing “aww” and head tilt. “We’re sticking around for the free coffee and breakfast, hun,” she says. “By law, the guards gotta give us some.”
More bile burps from Delta Zeta move Burlap and her posse close enough to make Tanner and me a part of it. The posse smells worse than Delta Zeta. Like onions and Thunderbird.
“So, why does your friend—Griff?—why does he hate your dead husband so much?”
I tell Tanner—and our new friends who are now all ears—it’s a long story and not one worth sharing.
“What, the bastard cheat on ya or something?” Tanner asks.
“Abuse you?” asks Burlap.
“Leave you in debt?” asks another posse member all height and girth and piercings and tattoos.
I look away from everyone, then shake my head and answer all their questions at once. “Yes.”
Assuming you didn’t just skip ahead to this closing note, THANK YOU VERY MUCH much for reading the above excerpt. Hopefully it has left you eager for more (that is, excited to buy the book once it’s out). If you missed or want to revisit the previous two excerpts from Into a Corner, here’s a link to the first one, and to the second one. Thanks again—I’ll keep you posted on the book’s weird and wild journey to publication!
I first learned who Lenny Kleinfeld was a couple of months ago when his novel Shooting Lessons stumbled into my inbox via a “new releases” newsletter I received. (Every week I like to peek at the latest crime/noir novels so I can panic and punish myself over not having published a book since late 2017.) I opened the aforementioned email, and one book stood out among the others listed. I could tell by the cover and the plot description that the author was definitely insane and probably wanted by authorities in multiple states. That’s when I knew I’d found my new best friend.
Mr. Kleinfeld and I have since become close virtual pen pals—just not close enough for me to use his first name or look him directly in the sunglasses. Now, I could say a lot of great things about this author, but I’ve got an interview to get to below so I’ll just rip some highlights from his bio: Kleinfeld’s first novel, Shooters and Chasers, was called “A spellbinding debut” by Kirkus Reviews. His second novel, Some Dead Genius, was one of NPR’s Best Books of 2014, and named “Thriller of the Month” by e‑Thriller.com. Shooting Lessons is Kleinfeld’s latest novel, which critics say is very gritty, very hilarious and very good. One reader—me—agrees wholeheartedly, and has described Kleinfeld’s unique style of crime fiction as “gun-in-cheek.”
Now, on to the interview!
Congrats on the recent release of Shooting Lessons. There are two things I absolutely love about this book: 1) The use of dollar signs in place of the letter “S” in the title on the cover; and 2) everything else. So my question is, what sparked this darkly hilarious crime novel? More importantly, please don’t steal all my readers from me—I worked very hard for all 26 of them.
Thank you. The $ for S artwork is by the great Stewart A. Williams. Since everybody does judge a book by its cover, I think it's worth the investment to have an ingenious eye-catching one that says, This is a professional-grade novel. Then you have to hope reading the sample chapters doesn't demolish that impression. Though officially I just blame Stewart every time someone doesn't buy a copy.
The spark for the book was the usual: I remembered we have a mortgage. Then I banged my head against the keyboard until a plot fell out that wasn't awful and I could see opportunities where I could have fun. In this case, it was having fun with some especially deranged, despicable lobbying techniques employed by a major gun rights organization.
And don’t worry, I won't steal your 26 readers. We can share 25 of them. And that one guy who reads only one book a year and it's always yours—I'd never steal him, that'd be really rude. And I'm the politest guy ever. (My wife will confirm this. Just don't ask her when she's drunk. Or sober.)
There are some folks who feel “good” crime fiction can’t (or shouldn’t) be humorous. What do you have to say to such folks? What do you say we team up and fight them?
I tell those folks not to worry; if they don't have a sense of humor they can read my novels without any danger of being amused.
And no, I'm not teaming up with you to fight them. I'm old. It's your job to fight them. It's my job to criticize your hand-to-hand combat technique.
Who are your biggest influences as an author? Have you ever been fortunate enough to meet any of them? Have you ever been unfortunate enough to meet any of them?
My biggest influences are everyone who's written anything I liked and could steal from.
My stories aren't who-dunnits, they're how-dunnits. Written in a third-person POV—with lots of shifts between the good guys, bad guys and tangential guys. And any opportunity for humor is shamelessly exploited. Some reviewers and crime fiction fans have noticed a resemblance to the writing of Elmore Leonard and Carl Hiaasen.
I try not to meet authors whose work I like, because if they've read anything of mine, they might recognize what I stole and hit me during some careless moment when you, Greg, weren’t around to sacrifice your body in my defense, as any decent human would for someone as old as me.
Do you have any peculiar writing habits, aside from being a peculiar writer?
Yes.
I recently wrote a piece about some of the more memorable sources/subject matter experts I’ve interviewed to help me get away with murder (in my books— mostly). What’s one of the most interesting/disturbing conversations you’ve had as part of your research for a novel?
The murders in my books are simple ones that don't require research to write or arcane forensics to decipher. Most are gunshot-related. There's also a strangulation with a garrote, a neck broken, a smothering with a pillow, and a head-bashing with a fireplace poker.
However, once upon a time, in the 1960s, I was a teenager whose father was a police officer. He once told me about the good old days—the 1950s—when almost no cop-killer was tried for murder, due to their remarkably consistent tendency to die while resisting arrest. For example, when police located one young man who offed a cop, a senior officer went along to supervise the bust. The suspect ran. The senior officer was middle-aged but had been on his college track team. He chased the perp, caught up and, in full stride, raised his weapon and shot him in the head. I asked if the bullet to the back of the head of a fleeing suspect made it difficult to classify the incident as resisting arrest. I was informed the coroner's report may have contained a slight mistake, in which he may have reversed the position of the entry and exit wounds.
How did your upbringing influence you as a writer? If you could have a conversation with younger you about writing, what one or two pieces of advice would you give him?
The big literary influence during my upbringing was my grandfather. When I was in sixth grade he gave me a typewriter, after which my stuff became legible enough for people, including me, to read.
I'd give the young me the same advice I give any young writer:
a) Be talented.
b) Be born with a trust fund.
c) That thing you're working on that's finally done, through, finished, complete—shut the f*ck up and make it shorter.
Who and what are you currently reading? Can you please put that book down now and pay attention to my questions?
Michelle Obama's autobiography. And no.
Can we expect another novel from you soon, or do you need a long nap to recover from Shooting Lessons? If you do have a new work-in-progress, can you give us the skinny on it?
What's soon? I'm not familiar with that word.
The skinny on my work-in-progress is it's very, very skinny.
Is there anything you were hoping I’d ask but didn’t? Are you regretting having ever replied to my initial email?
My lack of imagination prevents me from answering your first question. My legendary politeness (see above) prevents me from answering your second. Don't worry, if this interview fails to spark a surge in sales of my new book, I'll stick with tradition and blame Stewart A. Williams, not you.
Fortunately, my detachment from reality and inability to pick up on obvious social cues has me feeling this interview went very well, and that you were happy to participate. So thank you for playing, and best of luck with the latest book—as well as with all the others!
Speaking of Lenny Kleinfeld’s books, his “Vacation Escapist Reading Sale” begins today and runs through midnight, July 16th:
