Folks who subscribe to my crime fiction/author newsletter (newly named “Prose & Cons”) know I revamped the whole thing two weeks ago because, well, my subscribers deserved something better from me. Something they’d truly look forward to receiving. Something that, without taking up much of their time, would entertain them, grab them, make them laugh—maybe even inspire them. Something that would enable us to connect more, and help me discover the kinds of things they want to hear and read about.
God knows we all could use a little more entertainment, laughter, inspiration and connection right now.
(What’s that? You currently don’t subscribe to my newsletter but would like to know what the hell I’m talking about above? Then simply type your email address in the little box just above the “Sign-Up” icon just off to the right on this page (or at the top if you're on a mobile device). Go on, you know you wanna—it comes with a cool free ebook!)
I received a lot of beautifully written replies to the "what's on your mind?" question I posed in the first issue of the revamped newsletter. The power and authenticity of these replies hit me right in the feels and renewed my faith in humanity (or at least in the humanity of my subscribers). Seriously though, I'm grateful to those of you who were so candid and generous in your sharing about how you’re faring during this global pandemic we’re all doing our best to endure.
And I'm grateful to everyone for being here right now, reading this post—a post written by a relatively obscure author of crime fiction and thrillers. With the world in such a state of flux and confusion, it’s hard for most people to get excited about crime fiction and thrillers.
Or so I thought. ...
I recently found myself asking a mirror, “How can I expect people to continue reading fiction filled with dark themes and dangerous characters when there seems to be so much darkness and danger going on right outside their tightly shuttered windows?” But the more pressing question was, “How can I go on writing such fiction?”
Then something weird happened; the following day I noticed a small spike in book sales—without me even running a price promotion or having a new novel out. At first I just assumed my mother had purchased several extra copies of my books online to help ensure I had enough money for a sack of potatoes and a package of non-existent toilet paper. But I checked and it turned out it wasn’t Mom who’d bought my books. (It also turned out she was pissed I’d called merely to ask about my stupid books and not to check on how she and Dad were doing.) It wasn’t until the next day—after I’d noticed a couple more book sales—that I realized something. Something that warmed my heart and gave me hope. And that something is this: People are twisted.
Just like I am.
But we’re twisted in a good way. (Well, mostly.) Still, I decided to look deeper. I wanted to know what is it that compels so many of us to read and/or write dark fiction during hellish times rather than dive into much cozier books? It can’t be that we’re all sociopaths, right? RIGHT?
Right! Here’s the thing, while none of us wants to have to deal with ever-increasing tension and life-threatening situations and high-risk stakes in our own actual lives, we can’t help but be drawn to stories featuring such danger and uncertainty. Why? Because it makes us feel alive. It’s invigorating to experience high tension and suspense from the kind of safe distance fiction provides; it’s riveting to root for people we’ll never meet (since they’re imaginary) who are up against impossible odds; and it’s life-affirming and inspiring when those people we’re rooting for find a way to overcome those odds—or at least try their damnedest to do so.
Such books—dark as they may be—provide a light. They reveal the toughness of the human spirit in a rough and often morally ambiguous world. They remind us we are each protagonists in our own story.
Every day, when we dare to take that first step out of bed, we face tension and suspense. We go up against what can often seem like insurmountable odds.
We find a way.
What have you read lately that punched you in the gut and had you on the edge of your seat trembling while also inspiring you, refueling you, restoring your faith in humanity? If you're looking for a few recommendations for novels that'll do exactly that, here you go:
Not a Soundby Heather Gudenkauf.I get that you may not think a book about a nurse who loses everything after a terrible accident—including her hearing and sanity—could possibly be uplifting in any way, and now you're wondering why I'd recommend it. I'll tell you why: Because of the extraordinary grit and determination the main character exhibits as she builds her life back up ... only to have it start to unravel again while she deals with the murder of a friend and tries to bring the killer to justice. This is a chilling psychological thriller, but one filled with raw heart and hope.
My Darkest Prayerby S.A. Cosby.A gritty literary explosion of of corruption, sex, violence and vengeance—written with love. Speaking of love, you'll fall for not only the book's dangerous protagonist but also its dangerously talented author, S.A. Cosby. Both are forces to be reckoned with. Beneath all the sleaze and mayhem and destruction in this shockingly good neo-noir debut is a giant, tender heart—one that beats hard enough to break bones. Rarely does justice ever hurt so good. (So good, in fact, it has me—and LOTS of other readers—eagerly counting the days until Cosby's next novel, Blacktop Wasteland, drops in July.)
Roachkiller and Other Stories by Richie Narvaez. When you're living through a pandemic that makes it seem like the world's falling apart, it's wonderful to find a rare, shining gem amidst the rubble. I'm familiar with and greatly enjoy Richie Narvaez's work (including his deliciously sardonic debut novel Hipster Death Rattle), but somehow Roachkiller—his fresh, magnificent collection of short noir fiction—had flown under my radar until very recently. Named one of BookRiot's 100 Must-Read Works of Noir, it's the perfect cure for crime fiction fans whom the pandemic has left short on reading time and on cash (the Kindle version costs just $1.99!). Each tale is dark and strange yet extremely soulful, featuring hardluck losers you can't resist rooting for. Download a copy today—you won't be disappointed (well, not while reading the book, anyway; as for how you'll feel once you're done and start listening to the world news, well—just don't listen!).
Speaking of affordable crime fiction that doesn't short-change you on quality, a handful of excellent small-press publishers are currently running big price promotions—to help ensure that readers can continue reading great books during this difficult time. Two such publishers are:
Down & Out Books, which is running a "Social Distancing Digital Book Sale" now, discounting 39 of its most recently published ebook titles—with some priced as low as 99¢!
Fahrenheit Press, which is featuring a different FREE e-book EVERY DAY for anyone who can't afford to buy books during this crisis.
Up until very recently, reading a blog post title like the one above would fill me with the urge to punch or break something. Or get drunk. Usually all three. It’s not that I wasn’t happy to hear about other authors landing a literary agent; it’s simply that my pettiness and jealousy outweighed such happiness. (In my defense, I'm not a very good person.)
However, now that I’ve landed a literary agent (finally!), titles like the one above don’t seem to bother me at all. In fact, instead of wanting to punch and break things and get drunk, I want to hug and kiss complete strangers, and get drunk. But I promised my wife I’d stop doing those first two—at least until my agent sells my novel (Into a Corner) to a major publisher.
But enough about me. Let’s talk about my agent, Janet Reid.
I could just end this blog post right here, as most people in the writing and publishing world are aware of who Janet is, how helpful her advice is for writers (particularly those in the querying stage), and the great things she has accomplished as an agent for many authors.
But I’m not going to end this post so abruptly because:
1) Ending a post so abruptly is a clear sign of insanity, and I’d rather Janet not find out I’m insane this early on in our agent/client relationship. (Of course, Janet already knows I’m a little crazy—as evidenced by her comment in an email referenced a little later on in this post.)
2) Four of the thirteen people who read my blog aren’t in the writing/publishing world and thus may not have ever heard of Janet.
3) I want to share what having an agent of Janet’s caliber in my corner means (and doesn’t mean) for my writing career going forward.
But before I go any further, here are a few factual(ish) stats that will help those of you who don't understand why I’m so giddy and grateful about getting a literary agent:
A typical literary agent receives hundreds (if not billions) of queries each month from writers seeking representation.
Somewhere between one in a thousand and one in a trillion writers who send out queries regarding their novel will end up landing a literary agent.
A typical writer drinks between two and twenty-six alcoholic beverages a day to help cope with the stress of waiting to hear back from agents regarding their query. (The majority of writers who aren’t drinkers smoke excessively or pop pills while waiting to hear back. Among the small percentage of writers who don’t drink, smoke or pop pills to help get them through the querying process, most of them died during the querying process.)
I realize the above bullet points contain a lot of math—well, for a writer, anyway. It’s not very accurate math, but that doesn’t matter. I merely wanted to give you an idea of how hard it can be to get a literary agent, and how much I peed my pants when I received an email from Janet Reid a few weeks ago that read:
Hi Greg,
Just finished reading Into A Corner and it's clear you're demented.
On the other hand, I laughed my asterisk off reading the sodium
hydroxide scene, so I'm clearly just as demented.
I'd be glad to talk to you about next steps for this book.
Let me know what day/time works for you for a telephone call.
In the publishing industry, the call Janet refers to is called “the call.” Among writers, “the call” is sort of like Big Foot or the Loch Ness Monster—something you hear about all the time but are almost certain you’ll never witness personally. The purpose of “the call”—aside from making authors pee their pants—is for an agent to get a better feel for the author before deciding for sure whether to offer representation, and for the author to get key questions answered, like “What did you like about my manuscript?” and “What is your editorial vision for the book?” and “Will you pretty please with sugar on top offer me representation before I throw up from all the anxiety?” (That last question is best asked in silence.)
I made sure I was ready for my “the call” with Janet (which was scheduled for the day following her email that caused my incontinence). I went into “the call” equipped with a concise list of expert-recommended questions, as well as an adult diaper, and 5 mg of Valium to take the edge off of the 10 mg of Adderall I’d taken to remain sharp. I don’t really remember anything about “the call,” but it went great. Apparently, Janet told me such wonderful things about my manuscript, I had to be rushed to the emergency room by my wife to have my ego shrunken back down to a normal human-sized one.
At the end of “the call” (this part I remember), Janet told me not to give her an answer yet. As an author, you read all about this your entire pre-agent life—how, during “the call,” you need to show patience and restraint and not just shout “YES, YES, A THOUSAND TIMES, YES!”—especially if the agent hasn’t even offered representation yet. Janet, as all the top agents do, recommended I take some time—a week or two—to think about what I wanted for my writing career and whether or not I felt she truly was the best fit for me. She suggested I reach out to a few of her existing clients (of my choosing) and ask each of them what they thought of her, what it’s like being represented by her. She also reminded me to let any other agents who were currently considering my manuscript know that I was on the brink of accepting an offer of representation. She pointed out that doing the latter could result in me getting multiple offers from agents just as competent as her. (Basically, a literary agent is the opposite of a car salesperson—or any salesperson, for that matter. Nothing against salespeople, but if you ever were to eagerly whip out your checkbook to commit to a 4Runner at a Toyota dealership, the sales rep probably wouldn’t tell you to calm down and weigh all your options, or say, “Make sure you go across the street to the Mazda dealership and check out the CX-9—she’s a real beauty and drives like a dream!”
So, even though I’d dreamt of Janet Reid being my literary agent ever since I was old enough to dream about having a literary agent, I took my time and did exactly what Janet said to do—because you don’t get THIS close to landing Janet Reid and decide not to do exactly what she says. The clients of hers I emailed each promptly responded to me with the highest of praise for Janet and with enthusiastic congratulations for me on having gotten “the call” from her. Even the handful of agents I had notified about Janet’s offer responded with praise for her and congrats for me—basically stating far be it from them to stand in the way of my pending agreement with a rock star. (Okay, fine, a couple of them merely said Janet seemed like a better fit for me and my manuscript. But, hey, as a fiction writer, I like to embellish [read: lie] a little.)
Thus, I sat down and crafted my “I’ve-thought-long-and-hard-about-it-and-would-be-beyond-honored-and-thrilled-to-have-you-represent-me-till-death-do-us-part” email to Janet. But before clicking “send,” I checked the calendar and realized only two days had passed since “the call.” So I saved the email as a draft, then strapped on another adult diaper and bounced off the walls for a few days so Janet would know I had impulse control and that I’d be a cool, calm, breezy client. Then, five days after “the call”—while somehow on vacation in Australia visiting my in-laws—I clicked send and, when I didn’t hear back from Janet immediately, went into a panic-induced coma. I awoke from the coma hours or days or months later, just in time to find the following email from Janet waiting for me in my inbox:
I'm DELIGHTED to welcome you on board! Like seriously thrilled.
I can't wait to get started.
Once you're back, let's set up a telco to plot world domination.
What I did immediately after reading her message is all just a blur to me, but according to my wife and her family, my shrieks of joy shattered every window in my father in-law’s condo in Sydney. Needless to say, the rest of my vacation in Australia is also just a blur, but according to my wife and her family, I couldn’t shut up about landing my dream agent.
Now that I’ve had a few weeks to calm down and recover from the coma and the shrieking and the jetlag, I’ve got my head on straight and realize there’s a LOT of work to do (e.g., manuscript revisions/tweaks, social media sharpening, platform-growing, et. al.). And there's no guarantee of success. Sure, having an agent like Janet repping me is awesome and opens up a lot of new doors and gives me a solid chance to take my writing career to the next level—maybe even to earn enough to almost live off of. However, even the very best literary agents (of which Janet is certainly one) sell only about two out of every three manuscripts they take on and submit to publishers. Granted, I like the landing-a-publisher math a helluva lot more than the landing-an-agent math I cited earlier. Still, I won’t be popping any champagne corks or shattering any more windows with my joyous shrieks until Janet tells me it’s time to do so. I'll be awaiting her call or email—the one where she says, “Greg, I have some news—I hope you’re wearing a diaper.”
Big thanks to all of you for enduring my longer-than usual post (assuming you didn’t just skip to the end, like I would have done). It’s not often we writers get any sunlight, and I appreciate you spending a little extra time with me today while I basked in the warm rays—before another dark storm moves in and settles. Enjoy the rest of your ...
... oh, wait, just TWO MORE overly long sentiments before I go:
First—to all the writers out there who’ve been looking for an agent but receiving rejection after rejection yet still want an agent, DO NOT GIVE UP. I almost did, and know exactly how you feel. Remember, many good and great books get rejected over and over before getting that one “yes” from the right agent. And if you end up never getting an agent, who cares? We’re all going to die anyway, so have fun and NEVER STOP WRITING (until, of course, you die).
Secondly—landing a literary agent is never a solo act—and it was anything but in my case. I owe a gigantic THANK YOU to several people who were instrumental in me ending up on Janet Reid’s coveted client list. So…
THANK YOU, Darynda Jones (you mega best-selling author, you), for taking the time to reach out and introduce yourself this past summer, then convince me that I had the goods to get repped.
THANK YOU, Elisabeth Elo, for echoing Darynda Jones' sentiments (even if you didn't know it)—right when I was thinking of throwing in the querying towel.
THANK YOU, E.A. (Ed) Aymar, for always taking the time to answer my questions—many of which were stupid—about the quest for an agent, and the best way to tie a noose.
THANK YOU, Chris Rhatigan (of All Due Respect Books), for believing I had something special with Into a Corner and for your invaluable assistance in making the manuscript sparkle enough to catch the attention of the agent I’ve always wanted.
THANK YOU, Lauren Sapala, for the powerful, beautiful, incredibly encouraging message you sent me after I came to cry on your virtual shoulder. (In case you don’t remember the message, I’d be happy to take picture of it and send it to you. I have it right here next to me—I keep a printed copy of it on my writing desk at all times. No joke.)
THANK YOU, Miranda (my amazing wife), for believing in me and my writing since day one, and for refusing to even come close to ever letting me quit.
We’ve known each other a long time and have been through so much together. Some of our experiences have been beautiful and unforgettable; others have been brutal and abusive. Words can’t describe how much I love and resent you. Yes, I realize that’s ironic and dichotomous—jeez, Writing, I’m not a total idiot … despite what most of my high school English essays may have implied.
Were it not for you, Writing, I would not be a writer today. And for that I will be forever grateful and tormented. Emphasis on forever. You see, Writing, no matter how hard I try to ignore you, suppress you, take a break from you, LEAVE you, I always come back. Sometimes I come running and jump into your arms; other times I drag myself kicking and screaming across shards of glass and lay myself at your feet. Our relationship is the most passionate and dysfunctional and magical and toxic one I've ever had. Considering I once dated a strip-club bartender poet, that’s saying something.
Someone very wise once told me, “A writer saying they’re quitting writing is like an immortal saying they’re quitting living. Both need to save their breath and just keep doing what they hate to love. Forever.”
Okay, fine—maybe it wasn’t someone very wise but rather me in a recent tweet. And not to pat myself or my tweet on the back, but that quote above is everything in a nutshell. I hate to love you, Writing. You’re that drug I’ll never kick. You’re my crack, my heroin. You’re the tiny white pill I pop before going to the dentist or a wedding. You fill me with euphoria and bliss and warm fuzzies that never end—until they do end and leave me a little shaky and constipated. Yet I keep coming back for more—three or four hours every day, even if it means cutting quality time with family and friends and pets. Even if it means skipping a workout or a meal or a shower or another shower.
And we both know me coming back for more will never stop, Writing. Doesn’t matter if my existing novels stop selling or if my upcoming novel doesn’t get everyone buzzing or if my work-in-progress puts me in a chokehold. You’ll have to kill me first, Writing. And someday you will—just don’t expect me to go gently. Be ready for me to fight back. Hard.
I guess all I’m really saying is this: I can’t quit you, Writing.
I know what you’re all thinking: “Really, Greg, you’re going to co-opt a beloved Christmas song and turn it into an anthem that celebrates criminal activity—all just to help promote the types of books you write?”
In my defense, YES.
Okay, maybe not all of you are thinking what I’ve assumed above. My parents, for instance, are probably thinking, “Greg, what the hell are you even doing with a beloved Christmas song? We’re Jewish!”
I guess the point I’m trying to make is, enjoy!
Here’s my version of The Twelve Days of Christmas—with a heavy twist of crime fiction added in for good measure:
On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
An hour every day to just read.
On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
Two alibis
And an hour every day to just read.
On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
Three dead bodies
Two alibis
And an hour every day to just read.
On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
Four red herrings
Three dead bodies
Two alibis
And an hour every day to just read.
On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
Fiiiiive anti-heroes
Four red herrings
Three dead bodies
Two alibis
And an hour every day to just read.
On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
Six snitches snitching
Fiiiiive anti-heroes
Four red herrings
Three dead bodies
Two alibis
And an hour every day to just read.
On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
Seven villains killing
Six snitches snitching
Fiiiiive anti-heroes
Four red herrings
Three dead bodies
Two alibis
And an hour every day to just read.
On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
Eight perps escaping
Seven villains killing
Six snitches snitching
Fiiiiive anti-heroes
Four red herrings
Three dead bodies
Two alibis
And an hour every day to just read.
On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
Nine narrators lying
Eight perps escaping
Seven villains killing
Six snitches snitching
Fiiiiive anti-heroes
Four red herrings
Three dead bodies
Two alibis
And an hour every day to just read.
On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
Ten gangs uniting
Nine narrators lying
Eight perps escaping
Seven villains killing
Six snitches snitching
Fiiiiive anti-heroes
Four red herrings
Three dead bodies
Two alibis
And an hour every day to just read.
On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
Eleven PIs peeping
Ten gangs uniting
Nine narrators lying
Eight perps escaping
Seven villains killing
Six snitches snitching
Fiiiiive anti-heroes
Four red herrings
Three dead bodies
Two alibis
And an hour every day to just read.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
Twelve cases closing
Eleven PIs peeping
Ten gangs uniting
Nine narrators lying
Eight perps escaping
Seven villains killing
Six snitches snitching
Fiiiiive anti-heroes
Four red herrings
Three dead bodies
Two alibis
And an hour every day to just read!!!
There, see—that wasn’t so bad or disrespectful or inappropriate or sacrilegious or blasphemous, right?
My novels explore some really dark stuff. Stuff like terminal illness, voluntary euthanasia, serial killing, sex trafficking, drug addiction, dementia. Yes, I have sought professional help. No, it hasn't stopped me from tackling such grim topics. And here’s the thing: When reviewing a novel of mine—whether the book is about a terminally ill man who kills people, or about a man who kills terminally ill people, or about a man who pretends to be a pedophile to catch sex traffickers—most readers mention they found the book funny. Many say they laughed a lot. Some say they peed a little.
Those of you who’ve never read any of my books (and I know who you are—I’m making a list, checking it twice) may be thinking, “What kind of sociopath writes books that make light of such horrific topics and issues? And what kind of sociopaths read such books and laugh enough to need an adult diaper?”
First of all, go easy on my readers—they’re good people. Secondly, allow me to explain:
I don’t make light of people dying or killing. I don’t make light of cancer or the people suffering from it. I don’t make light of sex trafficking or drug addiction or dementia. What I do (or try to, at least) is show how humans—when stuck in the darkest of spaces—will scratch and claw at the walls until even the tiniest speck of light breaks through. Humor is a natural survival mechanism, sonaturally I try to weave some into books about people facing serious adversity. My aim isn't for readers to laugh at the darkness but rather to laugh in it. I never try to force “the funny” (like I sometimes do on my blog or when trying to embarrass my daughter in public). Instead I try to use the funny to appropriately juxtapose the frightening and the fierce.
If you were to ask me what I’m most proud of in my writing career, I’d make no mention of awards or Hollywood options or major book deals (especially not that last one, since I’ve never had a major book deal.) What I’m most proud of are the times when readers—particularly those who’ve personally experienced the same/similar tragedy or peril featured in a book of mine—reach out to say they appreciated how the book’s humor elevated the story rather than detracted from it. How it elicited laughter without disrespecting the dire straits the characters faced. As a writer, there’s only one thing more rewarding than hearing that a reader “got” exactly what you were going for: Hearing that what you were going for made a lasting impact on a reader and helped to ease their suffering, relieve their grief, make their day (or even just their hour or minute).
That’s what novels by the likes of Chuck Palahniuk, Kurt Vonnegut, Elmore Leonard and Sara Gran do for me. Such books break my heart while making me bust a gut. They show humanity at its worst yet somehow manage to restore my faith in it. They cause me to cringe and clench and cheer and laugh in equal measure. A few other authors who effectively pepper their powerful, gritty fiction with humor are Joe Clifford, Rachel Howzell Hall, Nico Walker, and Will Christopher Baer.
If you look at the reviews for any of my novels, you’ll see plenty of readers starting off with something like, “I didn’t know what the hell I was getting myself into with this book” or “I was a little nervous about cracking this one open,” but what soon follows is usually something like, “I couldn’t believe I was laughing along with and rooting for these characters” or “Hilarious and delightful, though also heart-wrenching.” (For a perfect example of such a review, click HERE.)
I love receiving reviews like those. Not because they’re positive and full of praise (though sure, that’s nice, too); rather because I love it when readers take a chance on books with topics that worry or rattle or frighten them—books they fear may cross the line or trigger painful emotions or memories. And I love it even more when those readers, after diving into such books, walk away rewarded for their risk—feeling not only entertained but also touched and moved. Perhaps even inspired.
Just like how I feel every time I discover a novel that dares to laugh in the dark.
How about you? Have you ever bought or borrowed a book you thought might scar you for life but that ended up moving you to tears and laughter? I’d love to hear about it—please share in the comments section below.
