If I had a dime for every time my wife, Miranda, asked me to be more present or to pay closer attention or to get out of my own head, I’d be able to afford the divorce attorney I’m going to need if I don’t start heeding her requests.
In Miranda’s defense, she’s right.
In my defense, she married a novelist.
Now, before you decide to join Team Miranda and start yelling at me for not being present in my marriage, or you decide to join Team Greg and start insisting Miranda be less bossy and demanding, I need to clarify something: Miranda is bossy and demanding.
But with good reason.
You’d be bossy and demanding too if your spouse/significant other often didn’t respond to your questions or actively listen to your opinions/ideas/concerns or stepped in deer shit every single time you took a hike together.
It’s not that I don’t want to respond or to listen or to avoid animal excrement; it’s that I’m usually very busy discussing plot points with invisible people whenever my wife and I are alone. And these invisible people are even bossier and more demanding than she is. Fictional characters and muses always are.
Folks often joke about how novelists are “not all there”—implying we’re crazy, wacko, have a few screws loose. But the whole “insane author” thing is a just stereotype, one propagated by fictional writers like the one played by Jack Nicholson in The Shining, or by real writers like the one played by Virginia Woolf in, well, her tragically shortened life.
That said, it is true that most novelists are “not all there.” But I’m not talking about the chase-your-son-through-a hedge-maze-with-an-ax kind of “not all there”; I’m talking about the have-important-conversations-with-imaginary-people-in-the-presence- of-real-people kind of “not all there.” Big difference.
If I’ve just completed a three-hour writing session and I come out to the kitchen to make Miranda and I some lunch and she starts telling me about her morning or asking me about our upcoming weekend plans or why there’s a half-empty vodka bottle in my underwear drawer, it’s not likely I’ll catch everything she says or everything she picks up and throws at my head. My physical body may be standing right in front of her—nowhere near the manuscript on my laptop in my writing office—but most of my brain is still pondering the murder I just committed in Chapter 9. Miranda can’t expect my full attention in that moment or even hours or days after. Same way I can’t expect to have her full attention right after she finishes a nature hike or a 2000-piece jigsaw puzzle or something else she loves more than me. (I’m not saying I love writing more than I love my wife. Why would I admit that? She occasionally reads this blog.)
Many people may read this and think I’m suggesting writers should get special treatment, be given a pass on active listening and politeness and common decency, be allowed to be distracted all the time. Well, if that’s what you’re thinking after having read this, well, then I’ve succeeded in getting my message across.
Listen, I adore my wife, couldn't live without her. And I care about all of you. But c’mon—you can’t expect me to openly demonstrate it while I’m working on a novel or during the hours or days or months in between. That’s asking too much. That’s not respecting my condition, my affliction, my plight. That’s not taking into a count that, no matter how hard I try to take in everything you’re saying and doing and asking, I’m simply not all there.
Thanks for putting up with my (mostly) satirical rant. If anyone needs me, I’ll either be writing or half-listening to my wife while getting yelled at while thinking about writing.
Creative writing has given me more joy than I could have ever imagined and it is torture. No other activity fills me with such a strong sense of flow and purpose and pain and hopelessness. Wild horses couldn’t drag me away from writing except when it feels like I’ve been tied to several of them and they’re each galloping off in opposite directions.
Point is, aside from my family and my pets and my readers, there’s nothing I love more than writing novels and I hate it.
In keeping with such dichotomy, below are the five best and the five worst things about writing a novel:
5th best:The quiet. Sitting in complete silence while putting characters through total hell is incredibly peaceful and satisfying. For me—a crime fiction and thriller writer—it’s like a deep form of meditation … only with a bit more murder.
5th worst:The noise.Sometimes it’s almost as if the neighbor remodeling their house doesn’t understand how much more important the imaginary crime you’re working on is. Or like the kids outside laughing and playing don’t care that you’re this close to finishing Chapter 8. Or your spouse in the other room doesn’t realize how much her breathing is keeping you from pulling off a shocking twist.
4th best:The power and control. You needn’t be a megalomaniac to enjoy having the power to control every action your characters does, every word they say, every thought and emotion they think and feel. But it helps. Regardless, it’s hard not to wish you had the same power and control in the real world—especially with relatives during Thanksgiving.
4thworst:The lack of power and control.Fictional characters—not unlike real people—often develop a mind of their own and start taking you and your novel in directions you never imagined heading in and would be wise to avoid. Some days, a character—usually an important one, like the protagonist—won’t listen to a single word you say. Or worse, they won’t even show up, leaving you sitting there staring at a blank page or an unfinished scene like some idiot who should have listened to their mother when she advised they go to medical or law school instead of becoming a novelist.
3rd best:The “high.” They say the only thing that compares to a “writer’s high” is a heroin high. And writing is less damaging to the liver, heart and brain. Unless you’re doing it correctly.
3rdworst:The lows.They say the only thing that compares to the overwhelming sense of anxiety and dread one experiences upon losing their writer’s high is the overflowing sense of anxiety and dread one experiences during heroin withdrawal. And at least extended heroin withdrawal usually causes death and thus an end to the suffering.
2nd best:The incredible sense of accomplishment.Fact: The odds of being born are 400 trillion to 1. Fact: Only 0.3% of people born go on to write a book. Thus, if you’ve written a book, it’s a freaking MIRACLE. And if you’ve actually SOLD a few copies, well, now you’re just showing off.
2nd worst:The soul-crushing sense of failure.Fact: The odds of landing a literary agent after finishing your novel are 1 in 1000. Fact: Even if you land an agent and the agent lands you a book deal, the average traditionally published book sells only 250-300 copies in its first year. And if you go the indie-route, keep in mind the average self-published book sells only 250-300 copies over the course of its entire lifetime. Thus, if you’re a writer getting pummeled with rejection notifications or putting up dismal numbers in the sales column, well … nobody cares—such failure is the norm! The natural thing is to quit … but writers don’t know how.
The absolute best:The immortality.There’s nothing as fulfilling or as empowering as knowing this thing you’ve created using nothing but your drunken mind and fingertips is going to be around and tied directly to you forever, or at least until Amazon crashes beneath its own weight.
The absolute worst: The immortality.There’s nothing as debilitating or as humiliating as knowing the two major plot holes and five flagrant typos inside this thing you’ve created are going to be around and tied directly to you forever —even after Amazon crashes, as people LOVE to talk about the egregious mistakes of others for all eternity.
Speaking of egregious mistakes, surely I’ve missed some really great and some really horrible things about writing a novel. For those of you who’ve written one, feel free to share some of your worst and best things about it. For those of you who haven’t written one, just make some sh*t up—that’s all writers ever do.
I have restless leg syndrome, ADHD, zero patience and thin skin, so of course I chose to be a novelist—something that requires being seated for long periods, focusing intently, and waiting months or years for rejection.
I know, it makes no sense. Fortunately, not making sense is trending these days, so my love of long fiction fits right in.
What makes even less sense is the fact that, up until very recently, I rarely even thought about writing short stories. Even the most avid novelists typically tinker around with "quick fiction" during breaks from whatever book they’re working on or whenever between novels. Me? Until a few months ago, I hadn’t written a short story since I’d been required to for a creative writing class back in college. That was nearly thirty years ago. (I attended college when I was six.)
It’s certainly not that I dislike short stories. The fact is, I read them all the time. (I like how they finish quickly and enable me to get back to working on my novels.) But yeah, I don’t know—I just never fell in love with writing them.
That’s all changed.
Long story short(ish), back in March the pandemic forced my agent to pause on sending my latest manuscript out to publishers in hopes of landing me a book deal. I realized it wasn’t going to be until after next fall (2021) before I could hope to see my next novel introduced to the world.
So I had a choice: I could just be patient and get started on my NEXT next novel while waiting for good news from my agent and then count down the many, many months until my book launch, OR I could start writing a series of short stories that would enable me to not only keep my writing muscles from atrophying but also keep my name fresh in readers' minds—before I get too old to remember what my name even is. And since I had already written my NEXT next novel (due out anytime between 2024 and the return of the dinosaurs), my decision was an easy one:
Go short.
And I’ve gotta say, I’m LOVING it. I’m also kicking myself for not having realized this sooner, for not having made short stories a regular part of my writing regimen all these years.
The list of reasons why I’m now enamored with short stories is long. I’ll keep it brief:
Short stories are a great way to revisit old fictional friends.It's a lot of fun hanging out with my previous protagonists and going on quick, new adventures with them. The difference between hanging out with them in a novel and hanging out with them in a short story is sort of like the difference between living with a friend for a year and going to Vegas with a friend for a wild weekend. You still get into a bunch of trouble and cause a lot of damage, but it's over with in a hurry—and frees you up to hang out with another crazy old friend the next weekend. (Or to make a new crazy friend and do fun, dangerous stuff with them.)
Short stories are perfect for giving new novel ideas a test run. Used to be whenever trying to decide whether or not a particular idea was novel-worthy, I’d desperately shake a Magic 8-Ball and see what answer would appear in the window of the wise plastic sphere: “It is decidedly so” or “Don’t count on it” or “Ask again later” or “Enough with the writing—get a REAL job, Greg” (Turns out my father had secretly tinkered with my Magic 8-Ball). As you probably already know, reading the words on a tiny polyhedron floating in a mysterious liquid isn’t the best way to make important decisions.
I’ve since discovered I can test out any potential book idea by writing a short story about it and seeing if it grabs me—and readers—enough to invest three hundred pages towards it. And while writing a short story takes longer than shaking a novelty gift, it’s a much more accurate predictor. Plus it doesn’t make a mess when I throw it against a wall in frustration.
Short stories can go big—FAST. Where in a novel you need to take time to establish the setting and explore the entire three-act structure and fully develop the protagonist along with several other key characters, such is not the case in a short story. The latter allows—and practically begs—you to not only start off in media res (in the middle of the action) but stay there right in the thick of the fun for most of the story—then ramp up from there with a shocking twist or two. When well executed, a short story takes a reader from totally captivated to completely riveted to “Whoa, she saved the entire world from Dr. Evil Genius’ tornado machine AND it turns out she was dead the whole time!” in less than half an hour.
Short stories are ripe for experimentation. While it may be risky to invest years of your life to writing an epic existentialist sci-fi-cri saga about a man from the future who travels back to the present and finds out he’s his own son, but writing such an absurdist tale as a short story could be a lot of fun—and probably won’t destroy your writing career. This is not to suggest you shouldn’t flex your creative muscles and play around with high concepts in your long fiction, too; I’m merely saying don’t write an epic existentialist sci-fi saga about a man from the future who travels back to the present and finds out he’s his own son.
I love drinking bourbon with my muse and brainstorming truly wild, inventive story ideas that will take me only a few days to write before I realize how insane they are and how much of a drinking problem my muse has.
Short stories provide quick gratification. Who has time to always write/read thirty chapters before revealing/discovering who the killer is? Sure, a great thriller or mystery novel is a wonderful accomplishment for an author and a rewarding read for a reader, but sometimes we all just need a good “quickie” to satisfy our literary yearnings. As much as I adore digging my way out from under a giant narrative arc and getting tossed about by a herd of wild, untamed twists for weeks or months on end, there’s something extremely gratifying about hopping into the writing/reading raft then shooting the rapids and finishing in time for lunch.
Short stories offer swift revenge.You know how you can’t help but fantasize about murder after your mechanic totally screws you on your car repair or your neighbor continuously disrupts your life with their power-tool obsession or a mask-less stranger coughs on you in the produce section of the supermarket? No? Well then you haven’t lived! Fiction is a wonderful way to kill people who piss you off, but very few writers besides Stephen King have the speed and skill to write an entire murderous novel every time somebody ruins their day. Short stories provide an immediate and healthy outlet for all our natural homicidal urges.
Got a neighbor who won’t lay off his circular saw while you’re trying to think? Simply write an eight-page tale about the mysterious murder and dismemberment of a tool junkie. Can’t get over how much your contractor charged you for the bathroom remodel he never finished? Write a short story about a serial killing tool junkie who dismembers contractors with his circular saw.
This way, the horrible people you encounter die only on paper and you get to feel better while avoiding prison. Everybody wins!
As infatuated as I’ve become with short stories, I’ll never abandon long fiction. Novels will always be my first love—at least until my mind goes and I can't remember what happened in a previous sentence let alone a previous chapter.
So ... what was I saying?
For some truly stellar short crime fiction/noir, be sure to check out the sites/zines listed below. (Many thanks to Chris Rhatigan—editor of the crime fiction journal All Due Respect and the co-publisher of All Due Respect Books—for his help in compiling this killer list.)
I try not to write too many posts aimed mainly at writers, since most of the folks who read my blog aren’t fellow scribes. Occasionally, though, things happen in the world that compel me to address my writing brethren—to comfort and console them, to commiserate with them, and, every once in a while, to light a fire beneath their ass as well as my own.
Today is one of those fire-lighting times. (I almost went with “ass-fire times” but the image it conjured left much to be desired.)
Several writer colleagues of mine—particularly fiction writers—have expressed how torn they’ve been feeling lately about working on their novel or short story or any other form of creative writing. To be clear, these writers aren’t struggling with the writing itself; that is, they’re not having issues with coming up with ideas or getting into a flow. And it isn’t that they can’t find the time to write. Rather, they’re wrestling with the guilt they feel while writing. They’re questioning whether fiddling around in fictional worlds is something they—or anyone else—should be doing right now, considering the real world is in the grips of historic turmoil.
Such “writer’s guilt” is understandable. I completely get it. Hell, up until recently, I completely experienced it. However, I’m pleased to report it no longer has the same hold on me as it did a couple of months ago. It hasn’t been easy, but I’ve learned how to overcome the guilt that’s wreaking havoc on writers (and artists and musicians—and basically anyone else who takes pleasure in a creative pursuit) during these turbulent times.
Now, It’s important to point out that overcoming writer’s guilt is NOT the same as not giving a damn about anything other than your own writing. Not even close. Continuing to create in a world full of mayhem and hate is an act of courage, not of selfishness. Your imagination is a weapon that, when wielded properly, can heal humanity.
How so? I’m glad you asked. ...
Stories provide refuge for people in need of—and deserving of— escape.For many, the only way they can take their mind off of the harshest realities is through reading fiction. And not just fantasy or cozy fiction. I know lots of folks who turn to horror novels or psychological thrillers or some other dark genre to help provide cracks of light in a world that often feels pitch-black.
And to those of you who feel “reader’s guilt” while enjoying a good book, go easy on yourself. Escape does not equal apathy or complacency. I personally know several dedicated medical professionals and a few ambitious activists who, when on a break from treating patients or leading protests, sink into a novel, a short story, some poetry. They escape into new and different worlds so that they can live to fight another day in the world outside their windows.
Stories remind readers of the strength of the human spirit. In addition to providing a healthy and necessary means of escape, stories refuel readers. Inspire them. Even transform them. Doesn’t matter if it’s an epic hero saga or a gritty crime novel; every well-told story introduces us—the reader—to a main character with the odds stacked against them and something or someone standing directly in the way of what they’re dying to achieve.
Stories give us underdogs who refuse to stay down. They give us “bad guys” looking to make amends. They give us low-life’s aiming sky high, losers we can’t help rooting for. Stories stick us in the shoes of a stranger we already know and then put us through hell. Put us through fire. Forge us.
Go ahead, just try reading a novel like Little Secrets by Jennifer Hillier or Blood Standardby Laird Barron and NOTbe moved by the tremendous grit and compassion such stories exude.
Stories are a powerful medium for shedding light on and eliciting action around important social issues. You needn’t be a politically charged author-slash-activist to tap into the zeitgeist surrounding your story, thus adding power and agency to it and its characters. Few fiction enthusiasts enjoy being hit over the head with a writer’s political or social agenda, anyway. But unless your novel or short story is a radically fantastical one that takes place on a distant planet with alien beings in the distant future, it likely features humans living in a human world facing issues humans face—issues readers can relate to. Issues that captivate them and keep them riveted because they hit the reader right smack in “the feels.”
Authors like Attica Locke, Don Winslow and Alafair Burke write amazing, unputdownable crime fiction that isn’t necessarily about but centers around such systemic social issues as racism, police brutality, gun violence, and misogyny. These authors don’t write one-dimensional heroes who run around and solve major societal issues; rather they create multifaceted, flawed protagonists grinding it out in fictional worlds that mirror our real one. Worlds where humanity’s biggest problems are etched into the setting and inform each characters’ beliefs, thoughts and actions. More importantly, these authors demonstrate with great skill how it’s possible to tell captivating tales that entertain readers while simultaneously causing them to think about—and perhaps even take action around—things much bigger than the book they’re holding.
A writer not writing is a danger to themselves and others.Sure, a novelist could quit writing entirely to focus all of their time on trying to fix or heal society— and doing so would be a noble endeavor—but not all noble endeavors are necessarily smart or feasible. (Don Quixote, anyone?) Studies have shown that if a writer quits writing abruptly out of guilt, there is a 100-percent chance they will go completely insane and murder everyone in their neighborhood. (The studies were conducted by Harvard or Stanford or some other really important university, I can’t recall exactly. All I know is they were definitely conducted somewhere prestigious and are not just something I’m making up to support my point.)
Actually, just forget about the research I just cited and instead listen to Franz Kafka, who famously said: “A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity.” For those of you who think Kafka was just being dramatic when he said that, talk to just about any writer’s family. Talk to mine—ask them how I get whenever forced to go more than 48 hours without writing. There’s a reason why my wife invested in interior doors that lock from the outside.
Now, to be clear, I am NOT saying writers should be excused from caring about the pandemic or from being active, socially responsible citizens who stand up against injustice. In fact, if you’re a writer, I strongly encourage you to take occasional breaks from your writing to check on your neighbors and/or give blood and/or donate food and/or volunteer virtually—and to definitely educate yourself about systemic racism and what you can do to help end it.
Just be sure to then take all the humanity and the heartbreak and the strength of spirit you witness and experience, and incorporate it into a story that reminds us of what it means to be alive.
YOUR TURN: Any of you writers out there been struggling with guilt while working on your fiction? And for you normal people, er, I mean non-writers, have you been experiencing a similar type of guilt over a creative pursuit you normally enjoy? Share in the comments section below. Then get back to creating.
I just want to lead off by saying violence never solves anything. That said, smashing things to bits can feel pretty damn good—especially when the things you’re smashing belong to the spouse who robbed you blind and destroyed your life just before losing theirs.
Don't worry, I'm not referring to anything from my life (though I do like smashing things to bits); rather to that of Odessa Scott—the protagonist from my upcoming (some day) crime thriller Into a Corner.
While we all have stuff to be furious about these days, few of us will ever become as furious as Odessa is throughout much of my book. At the start of the book we learn her dead husband—before getting dead—drained all their accounts AND the accounts of Odessa's widowed mother (Mama), then ran off with the cash ... and his mistress. Odessa found all this out the next day, when her husband and his mistress and every cent Odessa and Mama ever earned exploded. Talk about a change of fortune.
When you create a character who has a serious axe to grind with someone but that someone is already dead, you have to give your character an opportunity to vent in a healthy manner; otherwise they'll end up destroying themselves and all the innocent people around them before they reach even the middle of the story. Fortunately for Odessa, I came up with the idea of having her good friend Griff come up with the idea of giving Odessa the gift of catharsis ... by taking her to a "rage room" and letting her loose. For those of you who don't know what a rage room is, you are about to find out—and will likely want to visit (or create) one yourself afterward. If you do, remember to always wear a helmet and protective eyewear before beginning to obliterate everything in your path. Safety first.
The following is an excerpt from Chapter 14 of Into A Corner. It shows how, when pushed too far, even an artist who's all about creation will fully embrace destruction.
I swing the bat so hard, several of my thoracic vertebrae pop and crackle. The forty-inch glass screen implodes on impact. Shards skitter and glisten across the stained concrete floor. What’s left of the television screen is a web spun by a crystal spider. I stand there admiring the damage.
Through the spectator portal, Griff gives me a double thumbs-up. “Hell yeah!” he shouts, barely audible behind the plexiglass and over the Wu-Tang song blaring out of the speakers. Lucky for him, I’m not wearing the earplugs the owner of this place offered me.
Griff taps the partition and points my attention toward the Kawasaki in the center of the wrecking room. I look at him and shake my head till my safety helmet rattles out of position. “Not yet!” I yell through the glass while readjusting my helmet and goggles. “Saving the worst for last.”
The digital display on the wall says I have eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds left to destroy everything around me.
I’m off to a damn good start. Wayne spent half his waking life and most of his sleeping one in front of that TV I just demolished. Beneath my All The Rage-issued white coveralls and work gloves is all the sweat.
Eight minutes and twenty-four seconds left and I line drive one of Wayne’s golf trophies off a table and against the cinder blocks of the side wall. The little gold man bounces back toward me with a crushed skull, a lacerated spine, and none of the granite that allowed him to stand around showing off his swing for years.
I show off mine and send two more trophies flying disfigured across the room while several members of the Wu-Tang Clan shout about how they “ain’t nuthin’ to fuck with.”
The song holds a special place in my heart.
This room is all about rage, but it’s hard to resist smiling as Griff cheers me on. He’s matched my every smash, crack, and shatter with a booming exclamation of support. If this keeps up, the worst years of my life will give him laryngitis.
Seven minutes and sixteen seconds and the last remaining wedding photo. The only one that didn’t go through the shredder in my studio months ago. I switch out my bat for a sledgehammer, then switch out the sledgehammer for a golf club because irony. Besides, ten pounds of steel to obliterate a marriage is overkill. Plus there’s no need to hurt myself. Getting injured over Wayne would raise my rage to a level not even a place built for it could handle.
I pick up the framed photo and fold its stand flush against the back of the frame, then lay it flat on the oak table. The tabletop is scarred with scratches, dents, and gouges from All The Rage’s previous satisfied maniacs.
Wu-Tang switches to The Clash. I raise the nine iron over my head machete-style and bring it down on the thin panel of glass no longer protecting Wayne’s face on the happiest day of his life. The opposite of wedding bells pierces the air as the frame’s edges detach and hurtle toward the four corners of the earth. Most of the glass panel is now scattered in assorted shapes and sizes across the table and floor. The rest of the glass is slivers and sand pinned between the head of the nine iron and the head of Wayne. My smile and wedding dress have escaped with just a few scratches and glass splinters. I go to lift the club but the edge of its head is stuck in a groove behind what’s left of Wayne’s face. A tug releases the weapon from the oak surface underneath and I smile like King Arthur, then search for what to slay next as I catch my breath.
Griff’s “woohoo!” and “go get it, girl!” competes with The Clash’s “Straight to Hell.” The song list was my creation. This has all been carefully thought out and choreographed. It’s the opposite of my life.
Out of the corner of my goggles, Ray, the owner of All The Rage, has joined Griff in the spectator portal. The two bump fists and start chatting like a silent movie. Ray looks like Denzel Washington and Bruce Lee had a baby and told that baby to work out a lot and shave its head when it got older.
With five minutes and fifty-three seconds left, I don’t need this kind of distraction.
Ray points at Griff’s new watch and says something while nodding. Griff nods with him, gives him a closer look at the watch, then points at me. I avert my eyes as the two of them peer through the window at my kindness and mayhem.
It’s time for the bowling ball. Wayne didn’t bowl. The ball isn’t his—it’s included in the Deluxe Destruction package. The blood-splatter pattern painted on the ball is a nice touch. Ray was kind enough to help Griff and me set Wayne’s stupid rare beer bottle collection up as a double-decker ten-pin bowling installation against the back wall when we arrived earlier. He even threw in a thin ceramic tile to separate the two layers of bottles, for free. But I didn’t come here to think about Ray or his generosity. Or his Zen-like ruggedness or his wild stallion glutes.
I pick up the bowling ball that’s not a bowling ball but Wayne’s severed head and stand close enough to the bottles to read their labels. Griff and Ray urge me on, roaring over The Clash’s chorus of hell as I take aim. With two fingers stuck through Wayne’s eye sockets, my thumb shoved up his nasal cavity and my weaker hand supporting the rest of his head, I step toward the glass pins, rear my arm back, and release.
Gutterball. But the smack and whirr of Wayne’s head hitting and rolling across the concrete floor before bashing against the cinderblock wall behind the bottles was almost worth the boos now coming from the spectator portal. Wayne’s decapitation rolls back to me. I bend over, pick it up, and turn around to stare down my taunters, but a tiny laugh escapes my scowl.
Ray’s beauty is ruining my temper tantrum. His kind eyes and smile are sucking the life out of my anger, spoiling my desire for violence and displaced aggression. So I turn around and think back to Wayne telling me he’ll be working late again hours before he exploded. I think back to seeing the checking account statement the next morning. I think back to hearing about who was in the car with him.
His head leaves my hand like a cannonball and turns the stacked bottles into a terrorist attack. Every microbrew Wayne ever bragged about now mimics what was left of the windshield in the photos the police showed me. Only this time I’m grinning the width of my goggles instead of shrieking like a brand-new widow.
“Strrriiiiike!” shouts Griff from the spectator portal. “Fuck yeah!” And if he doesn’t stop pounding his appreciation against the portal window, there’s going to be even more pieces of glass for Ray to clean up when we leave.
I turn around and flex, then do a little celebratory jig, shaking my booty a little more than I probably would if Griff were alone in the viewing booth. Ray gives me a thumbs-up and goddamn it another smile. If he doesn’t get the hell out here and leave us alone, fat chance of me mustering up the kind of unbridled fury I paid good money to finish off with.
I turn around and approach the Kawasaki. Griff and Ray slap their palms against the plexiglass and shout out inaudible words of encouragement. I do my best to block them out with thoughts of Wayne paying for the motorcycle with money he secretly siphoned from my dead father. Thoughts of Mama losing her house. Thoughts of Mama losing her mind.
The Clash switches to Rage Against the Machine just in time.
Three minutes and forty-one seconds and a crowbar. I pick it up from the weapon station and grasp it so tight it’s a part of me. Even with Zach de la Rocha shouting the heavy-metal rap of “Bombtrack” beyond the limits of the volume bar, my ears are hungry for louder. One swing of my steel appendage, and the Vulcan 900’s headlamp is a head-on collision. A swipe above the width of the handlebars beheads both mirrors like a Samurai and sends them sliding across the floor to mingle with the glass-and-ceramic remains of my previous victim.
More joyous cheers from the box seats force me to watch Wayne pulling up the driveway on this beast two years ago, calling me out to brag about its fierce power and beauty, promising me I won’t regret his unilateral decision.
He’s finally right.
With enough downward force to knock a lighter bike into hell, I bring the crowbar down on the gas tank and almost regret not heeding Ray’s earplug advice. The ringing makes it harder to hear the motivational distortion and screams of “Bombtrack,” but not even possible deafness can ruin the aluminum carnage for me. I grin at the huge dent and gash in the tank, imagining Wayne’s reaction. He gives me a smirk and asks if that’s the best I can do. My reply is another deathblow to the tank, then one to the taillight, two to the exhaust pipe, and who knows how many to the midsection. But enough to knock the motherfucker’s metal heart out.
One minute and fifty-three seconds and oxygen. Not enough of it. Not to fill my lungs or to lift a finger, let alone a crowbar.
So this is what total muscle failure feels like. Success.
The concrete cools my back through my coveralls and damp shirt. I didn’t realize how high the ceiling was before. My chest heaves toward it to bring air inside. Gas and oil fumes get mixed in despite me draining everything out last night. Now I understand why Ray rejected my request to bring my acetylene torch to this session.
My helmeted head falls to the side. Through the spokes of the rear wheel there’s the battered engine, lying motionless on the other side of the bike’s upright carcass.
Griff is overjoyed someplace I’m too tired to look.
Rage Against the Machine switches to Gloria Gaynor, but I’m still struggling to catch my breath. Having a coronary during “I Will Survive” would be humiliating and ruin an otherwise wonderful tantrum. I roll my head to the other side of the floor and catch Griff following Ray out of the viewing portal. Despite my urge to fake unconsciousness and steal a little CPR action from Ray, I sit up, then struggle to my feet and take in all the beauty of my unnatural disaster. Hurricane Odessa has been downgraded from a Category 5 to a mild tropical storm.
And time’s up. The buzzer on the digital display says so.
“You okay?” asks Griff, bounding from the padded door Ray’s holding open for him.
Doubled over, panting, I give Griff a raised fist and a “yup,” then return my torso to its fully upright position and pretend to breathe normally as Ray enters the wrecking room, closing the door behind him.
“You sure?” Griff asks.
I nod again and remove my helmet so he can see my eyes begging him to help me look like I have my shit together.
Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed the excerpt and are now counting the seconds until Into a Corner comes out, which should be sometime between Fall 2021 and Summer 2050—depending on my agent’s success landing a nice deal for it. (She’s starting the submission process very soon and she’s a rock star, so stay tuned.) If you’d like to learn a little more about—and read some additional pages from—the book, I posted an earlier excerpt a while back, and another one before that, and ANOTHER one even before that. (What can I say, I'm a giver.)
As for cool crime novels that are available NOW, it just so happens I recommended a couple by badass authors in the latest issue of my newsletter today. Those books/authors include:
Coyote Songs by Gabino Iglesias. As poetic as it is visceral, Iglesias' second novel howls its song and rips into our social fabric and fabrications like few other books dare to do. It's a story as old as injustice but as fresh as tomorrow. Don't just take my word for it. Here's what Booklist has to say about this up-in-your-grill cult masterpiece: "Coyote Songs is gorgeously written, even when Iglesias is describing horrible things."
Whisper Network by Chandler Baker. Yes, Chandler Baker lives in the same city as I do (Austin). No, I don't know her. But after reading this phenomenally sharp, smart and witty thriller, I'll likely seek her out (no, not in a creepy way) for an interview over drinks once COVID-19 calms the hell down. Furious and hilarious has always been a great combo in my book; if you feel the same, then be sure to check out Baker's. It's Outstanding. Entertaining. Important. I'd list all the praise and accolades this novel has received, but that would require a book of its own. Read. It.
Don’t want to miss out on my future recommendations for books by baddass Cri-Fi authors? Then I have another recommendation: Sign up for my newsletter! (Just enter your email address in the sign-up box near the top-right corner of this page. Trust me.)
