Years ago, I stumbled across a quote by Franz Kafka that instantly became my favorite writing quote of all time:
“A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity.”
I found the quote to be brilliant, witty, dark yet relatable. You see, I’d always been the kind of writer who, after going more than a few days without writing, would start to lose his mind. I never became homicidal or anything like that; just a little moody on busy weekends and maybe a teensy bit psychotic during family vacations. In other words, quirky and fun!
I’d joke with my wife and friends, saying things like, “Wow, if I get like this after just a couple of days away from my manuscript, imagine how dangerous I’d be if I ever experienced an extended bout of writer’s block.”
And then something hilarious happened: I experienced an extended bout of writer’s block.
Actually, what I’ve been dealing with for the past year and a half is less a bout of writer’s block and more a bout of writer’s blah. That is, I’ve simply lost—or perhaps just badly misplaced—my passion for crafting fiction.
It all started around the time I moved from Austin, Texas to Sydney, Australia roughly two years ago. I initially chalked up my decreased writing mojo to the huge cultural and geographic change that came with the move. The way the toilet water down here in the Southern Hemisphere flushes in the opposite direction, I thought maybe the same thing was happening with my creative juices. I just needed to give them time to recalibrate, to get used to them flowing clockwise.
Adding to my problems was the stunning natural beauty here in Sydney. It didn’t exactly help restore my creativity or desire to write. I mean, c’mon—how in the hell can anyone be expected to crank out compelling stories filled with murder and violence and unspeakable cruelty when surrounded by breathtaking beaches and sea cliffs? Every morning I’d open my window shades, exposing all the sunlight and tropical birds and magnificent gum trees, then mutter to myself, “I’m f*cked.”
The longer I went without writing, the more I could feel the crazy creeping in. And I soon realized that, if I didn’t start putting up a fight, I was going to become a total cliché—just another writer who lost his mind and allowed himself to waste away to nothing.
As much as I had always loved the Kafka quote cited earlier, I was determined to not let it define me, to not allow it to run my life, to keep it from ruining the remainder of my days.
Yeah, that didn’t work.
The more I tried to convince myself that I could set writing aside and still live a normal, fulfilling, even happy life, the more evident it became that I might need to start wearing a helmet at all times and move into a ground-floor apartment with padded walls and dull cutlery.
Still, I persisted. I viewed every day as a new opportunity to prove Franz wrong, to show his ghost and the world that I could continue my sabbatical from fiction without succumbing to insanity.
How naïve of me.
Below are three key actions I took that serve to highlight my failure to fend off the CRAZY:
1) I started embracing the present moment.All the mental health websites and experts and Instagram hippies are always highlighting the importance of being present, of paying attention to and appreciating what’s going on in each moment you have the good fortune to be alive.
Huge mistake. Especially if you are a fiction writer—and double-especially if you are non-writing fiction writer.Yousee, embracing the present is the opposite of escape, and escape is the dream of all fictionistas. By focusing on present reality—on the people and things all around you at any given moment—you are quickly reminded that the world is a giant dumpster fire filled with chaos and mattress commercials and an utter lack of punctuation. The only way to emerge with your sanity intact is to create alternative realities and build imaginary worlds. And the only thing worse than being conscious of that fact is being conscious of the fact that you’ve lost your will or ability to do such building and creating.
Thus, the more I meditated and showed gratitude for my time on this planet, the more I spiraled—pining for the days when I used to be able to effortlessly spend hours immersed in a well thought-out murder scene.
2) I started focusing on others.They say the happiest people are those who make their lives about others and not just themselves. In my experience, that is true only if the other people you make your life about are imaginary.
Back when my life revolved around creating characters and helping them overcome tremendous conflict involving life-or-death stakes, I was in heaven. So, naturally, when my creativity and passion for writing suddenly went poof, so did my contentment, my zest for life, my reason for bathing. But rather than just wallow in misery and emotional anguish, I decided to embrace what Buddha and Jesus and other notable motivational speakers have been yammering on about for centuries: I decided to make my life about other people besides just myself and the despicable criminals I’ve lovingly brought into existence.
The trouble is, almost all of the “other people” I know are also writers and, unfortunately, they are productive and mentally stable ones at that. So, while I tried to put them first and offer them support and cheer them on, those bastards ended up being a constant reminder of just how much I’d fallen off as a writer, just how lost I was as an artist, just how many dozens of dollars a year more than me they were earning from their books.
I thought about making some new friends and trying to make them the focus of my life, but then I realized something very important, something Buddha and Jesus forgot to put at the forefront of their teachings: People are the worst.
3) I started looking for a full-time job.It wasn’t until I decided to seek gainful employment and try to carve out a nice career for myself outside of writing that I realized just how mentally ill I’d become. Sure, in the past I had toyed around with the idea of a traditional full-time job to replace the odd little side hustles that helped to bolster my fiction income, but I was never crazy enough to actually work on my resume or think a reputable company would ever look at it and go, “Now here’s a strong candidate!”
In theory, it made sense why a crime fiction writer who’d seemingly lost the will to write crime fiction would start thinking about ways to pay the bills without resorting to actual crime. But in reality, people whose top three areas of knowledge are poison methods, body disposal, and poison methods tend not to get invited in or back for interviews by a hiring manager whose name isn’t Lefty or Crusher or Trump.
So, there I was—unable to write crime fiction, and unable to see just how un-hirable years of only writing crime fiction had made me. Even worse, months and months of not writing had evidently left me too insane to remember just how crazy someone has to be to want to be hirable.
The good (or maybe the bad) news: I’ve slowly started to get my writing groove back.
The bad (or maybe the good) news: I recently landed a full-time job. (One that centers around my second biggest passion in life—skiing. More specifically, helping Australians plan ski/snowboard trips to Japan, North America, and New Zealand. I always knew I’d someday build a career in the snow travel industry while living in a city surrounded by beaches inside a giant sunburnt country.)
The (Rock) Bottom Line
So what does this all mean? It means Kafka wasn’t kidding around when he said what he said about non-writing writers and insanity. Now, I’m not saying writers should never quit or never take an extended break from writing; but just know that if you are a writer and you ever do stop writing—whether by choice or otherwise—you risk going so far off your rocker you’ll end up doing such dangerous and nonsensical things as embracing reality, putting others before yourself, and sending out resumes.
And I wouldn’t wish any of that on anyone—not even my worst enemy, or a good friend who sells more books than I do.
The one-star book review. For some authors, a single star from a reader is enough to send them into a downward emotional spiral from which they never recover. For more self-assured and experienced authors, such a hateful review is a sign they’ve arrived, a cause for celebration, a reason to hire a security team.
They say a one-star book review says much more about the reviewer than about the actual book—especially if the book is, by wide consensus, very good or great. When a reader flings a single star at a novel that averages four-plus, it generally indicates the reader just got dumped by a lover or is trying to quit smoking. Sometimes, a giver of one-star is simply an illiterate Internet troll incapable of elaborating on the teribullness of the buuk they found so unreedabull. Occasionally, however, a one-star review of a great book is well-written, even convincing—delivered by a self-described literary genius who refuses to conform to popular opinion and instead feels compelled to point out how and why the book in question is not only highly overrated but complete drivel.
Regardless of the accuracy of or motivations behind one-star book reviews, they are an absolute joy to read. And since we can all use a little more joy in our lives, today I’d like to share the most scathing, sardonic as well as idiotic reviews of some of the most critically acclaimed and beloved books in the crime fiction world. (To enhance your reading pleasure, I’ve kept all the reviewers’ typos intact.)
Enjoy!
And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie
"Don't buy. Nothing special. Another waste of time like the books of Charles Dickens. I gave Agatha's best book a chance and it disappointed big time."
The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler
"I kept hoping I find the reason it's so well liked, but NO I would not recommend it to anyone. It was way too long & wordy with descriptions & geesh I guess maybe some folks just like all of the in my opinion long drawn out descriptions of it."
The Day of the Jackal by Frederick Forsyth
"Too much unnecessary detail makes reading it quite difficult. I really don't want to know, for example, how someone's flatulence sounded and lasted for how long and whether they lifted their leg to do it or sat on the potty. The details in the book are in similar tones.
Bluebird, Bluebird by Attica Locke
"Liberal fiction, no thanks. I tried enjoying the book but the constant cheap shots at Republicans like Ted Cruz got old and I stopped. BTW, having owned a farm in East Texas, I can say the book certainly takes liberties with the way East Texas really is. Fiction, this book certainly is."
The Spy Who Came in from the Cold by John le Carré
"Yes, it's complicated. You never know who are the good guys and who the bad. Even after you've be read the last word and in introspection it's not at all clear what has happened, why, or how you could have so foolishly wasted your time reading this trash."
The Black Dahlia by James Ellroy
"I know its set in a different era, but I found the content difficult to cope with. The way characters were described, it was just too negative. I love to read and usually finish all books I start, but I had to stop reading this. It made me feel uncomfortable. I don't like to be negative, but I felt I needed to express my opinion on this one."
In the Woods by Tana French
"This author needs a editor. The information says its 612 pages long, that's 400 more pages than necessary to tell the tale. I'm sorry I wasted so much time. I would have appreciated and ending to the detective's story. I won't be reading anything else by this author."
Still Life by Louise Penny
"The author did not do adequate research to understand either hunting or archery, both of which are critical parts of the plot line. When a supposed character that hunts butchered the description of what a "recurve" bow is I almost gave up. I probably should have. If you are uninformed about, or prejudiced against, hunting then you won't mind the general tone of the book. Just don't use it to learn about archery."
Mystic River by Dennis Lehane
"Not grrat. Had to buy this from a class. It wasn't good at all, so I wouldn't buy this unless it is required for you."
The Turn of the Key by Ruth Ware
"The reader is way, way over the top with her drama."
Devil in a Blue Dress by Walter Mosley
"BORING I IT WAS POORLY WRITTEN, DID NOT LIKE CHARACTER, FILTHY WOULD NOT TRY TO FINISH WHAT A WASTE OF MONEY AND MORE IMPORTANT TIME"
Along Came a Spider by James Patterson
"i wanted the paperback not the kindle"
The Talented Mr. Ripley by Patricia Highsmith
"the problem is in those stupid covers where they have to mention that this is now a major motion picture staring this and that stupid actor/actress. its just dumb. really anoying. book is great."
Pronto by Elmore Leonard
"I finally finished the book. So glad it's over. I'll never buy another in this series. Liked the television show."
A Judgement in Stone by Ruth Rendell
"Dear Lord! What an absolutely dreadful book. I just wanted those poor characters to be killed quickly so the book would be over. This was chosen by someone in my book club. The bad people in the story are mousy, the good characters in the story are mousy. The community at large is mousy. It never gets better and could only get over and done with. I hate to complain about things these days but this miserable story's highlight is the title. Once you open up the book it's all downhill from there."
The Snowman by Jo Nesbø
"Save yourself! Mow the grass! First and definitely last time I will spend money on this author. I'm scratching my head wondering why anyone would ever bother buying a book that this fellow wrote; disconnected, slow, boring, and far too easy to determine who the "bad" guy was - If you find yourself tempted to buy a book written by this author, take a deep breath, get control of yourself, and buy one written by Michael Connelly or Lee Childs - I know you want to give me a big hug but maybe not."
The Poet by Michael Connelly
"Too many stupid people. What is going on with all those stupid policemen, FBI, and the whole lot of civilians? It seems that one cannot find a book where the hero is not an appalling individual that you just cannot bring yourself to sympathize with? This particular one - total A-hole. And on the top of it all, I really do not want to read about his love/sex life. Ugh!."
Killing Floor by Lee Child
"Several instances where God's Name is misused. If it wasn't for this I would have loved reading the rest of the series."
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson
"Not like Gillian Flynn. I didn’t like it."
Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn
"I'm reviewing the book not the movie. I might be alone here, but I hated it. My friend kept recommending it, so I thought why not? I kept reading it to the end because it was interesting"
Mr. Mercedes by Stephen King
"Not a normal stephen king book. I was 30 mins from end and knew it had to take a twist....nope the psycho talked, that's it :( disappointed!"
Resurrection Men by Ian Rankin
"haven't read it yet so leave me alone"
Tell No One by Harlan Coben
"Trash! This book bears the same relationship to a good crime novel as does news in the Tabloid you pick up at your grocery check out the quality of news in New York times and the WSJ"
Pretty Girls by Karin Slaughter
"The most disturbing book I have ever read. It started off so good then it went down a very dark path and kept getting worse. I wish I had never read this book, it was so disturbing. Do not recommend."
The Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Harris
"Misleading. Not a single lamb"
Feel free to share some of your favorite one-star book reviews in the comments section below. Also, have YOU ever written a one-star review of a book? If so, was the book one of MINE? If so, what’s your address?
For those of you who don’t yet know—or whom I specifically didn’t tell because I owe you money—I moved from Austin, Texas to Sydney, Australia last May. As excited as I was about the huge transition, I was concerned it might somehow have a negative impact on me as a writer. My biggest fear initially was informing my NYC-based literary agent of the move, as I thought she might drop me as a client upon learning I was moving to a country that spells so many words wrong on purpose. But she was not only supportive, she was a little jealous—probably because she’s a crime fiction enthusiast and would kill to live in a beautiful land with such a rich history of felony and imprisonment.
Turns out most of my other concerns and fears about the move were unfounded, as well. In fact, I’ve had pretty much no issues adapting to life as an American author Down Under. Here are the five main reasons why:
1) Just like in the US, nobody’s heard of me or my books down here. Imagine how jarring it would be for me if I had to contend with throngs of raving fans every time I left the house here in Australia. Thank goodness I’m able to go to restaurants and the liquor store and the psychiatrist and back to the liquor store without anyone knowing or caring who the hell I am. Just like back home. And because everyone speaks English here, there’s no language barrier to contend with whenever I meet people and they tell me they’ve never heard of me or of any of my books and have no intention of reading them.
2) Despite my geographical distance from my agent and American publishers, rejection notifications get here just as quickly. You’d think being so far away from everyone who has the power to make my dreams come true would result in delays in my novels and stories getting rejected, but NOPE. Thanks to modern telecommunications and digital technology, each “NO” gets to me here in Sydney just as fast as each did back in the States. Man, I love not having to wait any longer than necessary to have my soul and creativity crushed!
3) The liquor in Australia works just as well as the liquor in the States. I don’t know where I’d be without a fun way to fend off feelings of artistic failure and futility on a near-daily basis, so you can imagine how relieved I was to find that the vodka and bourbon here in Oz function pretty much identically to that found in the U.S. Sure, such spirits are more than double the price down here, but that is actually a good thing, as it has inspired me to turn to a life of crime, which provides me with invaluable experiences and wonderful fodder for future books.
4) My writing office here has the same number of solid, punchable walls as my old writing office did. I can’t express how important it is to be able to slam my head and fists against something hard whenever the words and ideas aren’t flowing. Without such walls, my slamming efforts would entail me violently lashing at nothing but air, which can cause tears in rotator cuff and neck muscles—muscles that are essential for sitting and staring at blank pages during writing sessions.
5)My neighbors here in Sydney are no less leery of me than my neighbors have been everywhere else I’ve lived as a writer. Nothing makes me feel more at home than being surrounded by people who do everything they can to avoid contact with me due to my questionable actions and behavior. Hard to tell if it’s how I act out murder scenes alone in my office before writing them that’s got the folks in our apartment building keeping their distance, or if it’s simply how I get drunk and head-butt walls while cursing the publishing industry and/or my characters that has my neighbors ducking away. Regardless, I’m extremely grateful to them.
I’m as big a sucker for Christmas and the holidays as the next guy. Maybe even bigger. Just ask the neighbors in my apartment building here in Sydney—they’ll confirm I’ve been listening and singing along to carols since, like, August. (I’m surely the only Jew on the planet to do so.) Still, as much as l love getting caught up in the merriment and joy and love so prevalent this time of year, sometimes I can’t keep my criminal mind from wandering over to the dark side during the holiday season.
The good news is I’ve managed to curb my more sinister side enough to keep me from writing an entire novel featuring Christmastime crime and murder. The bad news is I couldn’t stop myself from taking a beloved Christmas carol and turning it into a tale of thievery and revenge.
I’m sorry and you’re welcome.
Santa Claus Is Robbing the Town
You better watch out
You better not snitch
The last guy who did is dead in a ditch
Santa Claus is robbing the town
He’s making a list
He’s checking it twice
He’s pulling off one huge holiday heist
Santa Claus is robbing the town
He sees you when you’re sleeping
And he knows when you’re awake
He’s pissed you don’t believe in him
So your life is now at stake
Hey!
You better watch out
You better not try
To call the damn cops or you’re gonna die
Santa Claus is robbing the town
He sees you when you’re sleeping
And he knows when you’re awake
He says if you stand in his way
He’ll bury you by the lake.
Yay!
You better watch out
You better give thanks
Santa just came to rob houses and banks
Santa Claus is robbing the town!
BONUSCAROL!
(I had planned on writing/posting just one cri-fi carol, but hey, Christmas is a time for giving… readers serious concerns about my mental stability.)
Frosty the Hitman
Frosty the hitman
Was a deadly, icy pro
With his chilly name and his killer aim
Frosty made a lot of dough
Frosty the hitman
Is a fairytale they say
But I know the truth—damn the man could shoot
And he’d take your life for pay
There must have been some magic in that rifle scope he used
For even from 500 yards every bullet would come through
Oh!
Frosty the hitman
Knew the Feds were on his tail
So he took his gun and went on the run
Cause he knew he’d melt in jail
Frosty the hitman
Had a blast while off he sped
But the cops were fast and they shot his ass
Frosty’s snow could not stop lead.
HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL, AND TO ALL
A GOOD HEIST!
*No beloved giant elves or snowmen were harmed in the making of these carols
Most people are familiar with “the five stages of grief” introduced by renowned Swiss-American psychiatrist Dr. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross in her groundbreaking 1969 book, On Death and Dying. As a writer, I often think about death, dying and grief—to, you know, cheer myself up. And it recently dawned on me that the way Kübler-Ross described how humans deal with the loss of a loved one is quite similar to how writers deal with rejection. The thing is, though, loved ones die only once, where a manuscript can go on to die several dozen deaths.
So, yeah, being a writer is more tragic than being a human.
Now, I’m definitely not saying I would cry less over the death of a loved one than I would over my fiction getting rejected. And the reason I’m not saying that is some of my loved ones read this blog.
I’ve made my point. It’s time now to lighten the mood by taking a closer look at writerly death and pain. Below I apply the famed Kübler-Ross model to manuscript rejection and describe how the totally unbearable devastation a writer experiences upon being rejected eventually gets processed to become only mostly unbearable devastation.
STAGE 1: Denial. Upon learning their work has been rejected, the first thing a writer experiences is a strong sense of “there’s no way that actually happened.” This usually entails convincing themselves the agent or publisher they submitted their work to suffered a stroke in the midst of reading it, resulting in moderate to severe brain damage and rendering said agent/publisher susceptible to wildly irrational decisions. Denial may also take the form of the writer pretending they never even submitted their work to the person or entity in question, chalking up the whole rejection to the fact that the publishing world is undoubtedly conspiring against them.
STAGE 2: Anger. Once the denial starts to subside—which generally happens within a day or two of receiving the rejection but can last until the end of time—feelings of anger, resentment and even blind rage will move in and spoil the writer’s drinking binge. Most of this ire will be aimed at the person or publishing house that issued the rejection, but it’s not at all uncommon for the writer to (mis)direct a lot of anger at family, friends, neighbors, former English teachers, pets, traffic, anyone ahead of them in line at the supermarket, and, last but certainly not least, the universe.
Fortunately, such anger rarely if ever escalates into violence—unless the writer remains conscious during this stage.
STAGE 3: Bargaining. The anger following a rejection usually lasts only a day or so before the writer realizes all is not lost, so long as they remain desperate for validation and willing to blatantly lie to regain a sense of control. A typical scenario might feature a recently rejected writer promising God or the universe or their favorite stuffed animal that, if the manuscript in question is accepted soon, she or he will be a better person going forward—one who doesn’t alienate friends and family to write; one who doesn’t drink or do drugs or watch The Bachelor to escape their writing failures; one who does start to bathe regularly and occasionally wear pants. However, as with all psychological bargaining, such promises are innately impossible to keep.
STAGE 4: Depression. This stage can be difficult for friends and family of the writer to spot, as 97.3% of writers are depressed regardless of whether or not they’ve recently been rejected. Still, the depression that descends upon a writer following the bargaining stage is generally a big one—the kind that makes most writers consider giving up writing for good and taking a job at a sewage treatment facility as an unpaid intern, which, oddly enough, pays triple what fiction writing does. Additional telltale signs of rejection-based depression include:
sleeping in the same pajamas for weeks … in a public park;
folding each page of the manuscript into pill-size and using them to replace previously prescribed antidepressants;
pretending to have friends, then refusing to answer their calls.
STAGE 5: Acceptance. Rejection grief finally comes to an end during the acceptance stage—that is unless the writer gets confused and thinks the acceptance stage refers to their manuscript finally being accepted. Those writers—following several hours of intense joy and elation before learning the truth—are usually dead within a week. Fortunately though, such confusion occurs with only about 48% of writers, thus the majority of scribes survive the agony of rejection and go on to live long and unsuccessful lives.
I look forward to receiving your comments and thoughts about this piece, and to rejecting any that don’t perfectly align with my views.