Ever since my novel In Wolves’ Clothing launched in October, I’ve been meaning to interview Zero Slade, the main character in the book. However, we’ve both been extremely busy—he with traveling the world risking everything to rescue victims of child sex trafficking, and I with getting therapy to help me recover from writing a novel about a guy like Zero. The two of us finally got a chance to sit down and talk to myself this week. Here's the transcript from our candid conversation:
Me: Hi, Zero—great to see you again!
Zero: (Clenches jaw.) Don’t start with me, Greg.
Me: What’s the matter? Why so irked?
Zero: Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s the jet lag. Or perhaps the opioid withdrawal. But more than likely it’s just the chronic pain from, you know, my recent gunshot wound.
Me: Sorry, man. That’s all still bothering you, huh?
Zero: (Glares at me in silence.)
Me: If this isn’t a good time, we can reschedule.
Zero: Nah, I’m off to Laos tomorrow, then Mumbai after that. Let’s just get this over with.
Me: Okay, but you seem a little stressed out. Have you considered taking some time off from work?
Zero: I already took some time off from work. After getting shot on the job. Remember?
Me: Okay, okay, relax. You’re acting like I pulled the trigger.
Zero: And you’re acting like you didn’t.
Me: Oh, I see how it is. You know, you’re not the only one with a difficult job around here. I’d like to see you try to create page upon page of compelling narrative and dialogue while under tremendous pressure to constantly raise the stakes and build tension to ensure readers remain riveted.
Zero: Oh yes, we’re all sooo impressed by your ability to write dangerous and harrowing scenes. But guess what: You wouldn’t last ten seconds in a single one of them. So don’t tell me about “difficult jobs,” you entitled little prick. It’s one thing to sit in a safe little room and type words that describe eight- and nine-year-old girls being rescued from the horrors of sex trafficking. It’s another thing entirely to be the guy who has to actually go in and be the girls’ worst nightmare so that their worst nightmare can finally end. (Extends arm and drops microphone at my feet.)
Me: (Sniffles.)
Zero: Aw, man. C’mon, don’t cry. (Hands me a tissue.) Jesus—you writer-types are so damn sensitive.
Me: (Wipes eyes and blows nose.) Sorry, it’s just … that book took a lot out of me. But I’m being selfish. I can only imaginewhat everything was like for you.
Zero: It’s okay, man. The story had to be told.
Me: So you’re not mad at me?
Zero: I mean, I probably won’t be having you over to the house anytime soon—or buying the book—but I do kind of owe my life to you, so I guess we’re good.
Me: Glad to hear that, because I had this idea for a sequel where—
Zero: Don’t push it, Author Boy.
Me: Sorry. It’s just that what you and the other members of Operation Emancipation do is so intriguing. Can I at least ask you a few questions about it, for the benefit of our audience?
Zero: Audience? You mean people actually read your blog?
Me: Um, for your information, smartass … I think so. Not really sure. But I do have a fair number of subscribers—a few of whom even open the emails I send them.
Zero: Your mother must be so proud.
Me: Actually, she recently unsubscribed. Anyway, let's get to those questions.
Zero: Fire away.
Me: For the people out there unfamiliar with my novel, which is pretty much everyone, could you please describe what you do?
Zero: I’m a fake sex tourist.
Me: Yeah, um, care to elaborate?
Zero: (Rolls eyes, sighs.) I’m a member of a team that jets around the globe pretending to be pedophiles to trick pimps and liberate child victims from sex trafficking. I‘m talking the most heartbreaking sting operations you can imagine. And far too many frequent-flyer miles.
Me: How does one end up in such a unique and difficult line of work?
Zero: Mostly by screwing up in a previous and more “illustrious” line of work related to law enforcement, national security and/or intelligence. In my case, I screwed up as a CIA agent. Some of my current colleagues and closest friends, they screwed up as FBI agents, Navy SEALs, Secret Service agents, Green Berets. That’s as specific as I can get without having to legally kill you.
Me: Well then, moving on. Do you like what you do?
Zero: It’s kind of stupid to ask someone if they like playing the role of the vilest type of scumbag on earth. I’ll answer the question anyway: I hate that my job is necessary, but I like—and am damn proud of—what we’ve been able to accomplish.
Me: (Sniffles.)
Zero: Oh for chrissakes. Again with the crying? Dude, you must have been an absolute mess while researching and writing the book.
Me: (Wipes eyes and nose on sleeve.) It’s true. I was.
Zero: I mean, the shock and the anger and the sadness you must have experienced when you learned that over two million children are subjected to prostitution in the global commercial sex trade. And that the average age of these children is around twelve. And that their average life span after being trafficked is seven years, with many dying from assault, abuse, HIV, malnutrition, drug overdose or suicide.
Me: Well, the more shocked, angry and upset I became, the more I knew I had to write the book.
Zero: And I’m glad you did. Also, I’m glad you gave me and the guys on my team a sense of humor to help us survive and stay mostly sane on the job. And while I probably could have done without all the oxycodone and bourbon you gave me throughout much of the story, I appreciate you trying to help me numb the pain.
Me: Thanks, man. I figured if I needed those things to write the book, you definitely needed them to live it.
Zero: How thoughtful of you.
Me: You’re welcome.
Zero: Now, what I’m not glad about and don’t appreciate is how you just HAD to have me overdose, causing my wife to find out about my opioid use and force me into rehab.
Me: I was trying to get you clean!
Zero: I know, but you know what would have been really helpful? Um, not having me get SHOT right after that. You see, having full access to powerful prescription painkillers is, uh, sort of nice after a metal slug has torn through your torso.
Me: I understand your frustration, but as I alluded to before, people who read thrillers demand mounting tension, danger and mayhem.
Zero: SCREW them!
Me: You really shouldn’t scream and strain like that—you’ll pop your sutures.
Zero: Good! That would add "tension, danger and mayhem” to this interview. Your readers will be overjoyed.
Me: Oh, stop it. Honestly, I don’t know what you’re so angry and upset about—people really like the book. Have you seen the reviews? Readers love you … actually, “love” may be a bit of an embellishment. They do, however, respect the hell out of you. Most of them, anyway.
Zero: Big deal. You think I care what thousands of people on Amazon think of me?
Me: I never said thousands. Who do you think I am, J.K. Rowling?
Zero: Whatever. Point is, I don’t have time to look at reviews or worry about readers’ opinions. All I care about is helping to free as many young girls from the clutches of traffickers and pimps as I can before I die, which, if you write a sequel, could be really soon.
Me: I understand and admire that. But can you stick around for just a couple more questions?
Zero: Fine, but then I gotta go.
Me: Okay. First, how's your wife?
Zero: Neda's doing well. I mean, you know, we're still working things out. With someone like me, that's no easy task. But Neda's tough as nails and doesn’t take any of my sh*t. She easily could have split and stayed gone after, well, everything. I'm grateful she hasn't given up on me yet.
Me: You’re welcome. And now for the last question.
Zero: Bring it.
Me: Okay, but to avoid any spoilers, I need to be careful how I ask it—and you need to be careful how you answer it.
Zero: Is this about the ending?
Me: Yup. Ready?
Zero: (Takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, then nods.)
Me: A lot of readers were shocked and surprised by how things concluded in the book. Some have said they were initially so stunned, they had to go back and make sure they had it right.
Zero: Yeah, same here.
Me: My question is, what exactly went through your mind when you found out what you found out?
Zero: You’d already know the answer to that if you hadn’t ended things so abruptly.
Me: It was a conscious artistic choice, and I stand by it. I felt it enhanced the emotional impact.
Zero: Well, I guess I should thank you for fading to black right when you did. It wouldn’t have done anyone any good to see all the tears and snot pouring out of me just before I called Neda from the hospital to tell her the news.
Me: Yeah, I figured you deserved some privacy.
Zero: Thanks, man.
Me: At least until the sequel.
Zero: (Standing up.) This interview’s over.
NOTE: Zero stormed off before I could tell him I was just kidding, that I’m not actually working on a sequel to ‘In Wolves’ Clothing.’ After all, there’s only so much sex trafficking research an author can do before burning out and/or getting investigated by the FBI. That said, I have toyed around with the idea of one day writing a spin-off of IWC. It would feature Sung (one of the young girls Zero helped rescue in Cambodia) fifteen or twenty years later—seeking revenge on all the men involved in her being trafficked as a child. Hell, I’d read a book like that. So I may just have to write it. …
I’m not successful enough to preach to younger writers about what it takes to succeed as an author. I am, however, absurd enough to preach to my younger writer self to help ensure he doesn’t end up just like me. (And if such preaching winds up helping others, too, well that’s just a bonus—provided they don’t become more successful than my younger self does.)
Following is a letter I’ve written to twenty-year-old me. I just hope it reaches him before he gets kicked out of the dorm I’m mailing it to.
Dear 1989 Me,
I hope this letter finds you well. I would have emailed you, but email won’t exist for another four or five years. Consider yourself lucky.
This is not an easy letter for me to compose. For one, I’ve been drinking. Steadily since about 1997. Secondly, I’ve never been very good at delivering bad news. But here goes … I’m just gonna come right out and say it:
Greg … you’re a writer.
I know this must come as a bit of a shock to you, especially considering what Professor Merton said about your essay in class the other day. But trust me, you are a writer, and unfortunately there’s nothing you can do about it.
Actually, there is something you can do about it—you can get a lot better at writing. And at being a writer. Don’t worry, I’m here to help. To share the mistakes I’ve made, the lessons I’ve learned and, most importantly, to let you in on how to get approved for more Amazon book categories so you can increase your chances of hitting bestseller lists. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Let’s stick to the basics for now:
Read every day. And not just the books assigned by your professors. Also, nothing with a glossy cover .... or anything written by Cormac McCarthy or Haruki Murakami—their powerful stories and unattainable level of talent will depress the hell out of you and make you think you don’t deserve to write.
Be sure to read the following brilliant (but not so brilliant they’ll destroy you) authors as soon as possible: Franz Kafka, Albert Camus, Clarice Lispector, Henry Miller, Vladimir Nabokov, Kurt Vonnegut, Raymond Chandler, Joan Didion, Elmore Leonard, Donna Tartt, Margaret Atwood, Amy Hempel, Irvine Welsh … Tell you what, I’ll send you a complete reading list in a subsequent letter. There’s not enough space here and we have to move on.
Write every day. It can be fiction or non-fiction or poetry, but go easy on the poetry. It doesn’t have to be perfect or even good. Yet. And you needn’t hit any lofty daily word-count goals. Just write.
If you ever find yourself without a typewriter or a word processor or a pen or a pencil, use your own blood. And if you can’t find any paper, use your own skin or clothes or those of your roommate. If you’re not sure what to write about, write about the time your future self sent you a letter encouraging you to write in your own blood. Readers love that kind of stuff. At least our kind of readers do.
Make friends with mean people who know how to write. People like Professor Merton, only with better hygiene and office hours. These folks will tell you straight out when your essay or story or novel sucks, and will provide you with specific reasons why so you can get better.
Now, I’m not saying you need to surround yourself only with talented and brash a-holes, but it’s important to have at least two or three in your life at all times. At the risk of sounding cocky, you can count me as one of those a-holes.
Don’t be cocky. Relax, Junior, I’m not hinting that you’re going to become a world-famous author who can almost get away with being a pompous prick. After all, neither of us are Jonathan Franzen. However, you are going to develop a decent-sized readership—especially if you follow the advice I’ve provided thus far. And if you want to maintain and grow that readership, it’s critical to be kind, generous and humble. I’ve gotten pretty great at it.
The key is to always remember you’re nowhere near as good as Mom thinks we are. You’ll never be Cormac McCarthy or Haruki Murakami. And please don’t be Jonathan Franzen. Just be the following: 1)) thankful you have the freedom and (some) ability to express yourself creatively through the written word; and 2) grateful for every single person who takes time out of their hectic life to read something you’ve written—even more so if they pay to read it and aren’t even related to you.
Make your debut novel your third or fourth. I often tell aspiring writers that debut novels rarely do well and thus it’s better to start off with a later one. They think I’m just being snarky and absurd because, well, they know me, but there is an element of truth in irreverent nonsense.
Point is, when you finish your first novel—and you will— please remember you’re not even close to being done with it. Get it critiqued by some of those mean writer friends I mentioned earlier. Then rewrite the hell out of most of it, and get it critiqued again. Lather, rinse, repeat. Do this until you can no longer stand to even glance at your manuscript. Only then is it probably suitable for the reading public.
Don’t view authors who write in your genre as “the competition.” As much fun as it is to sit alone in a room for days on end putting imaginary people through living hell while cursing writers who are more successful than you, you shouldn’t. At least not that last part. Writing is not a “you against the world” endeavor. Get out and connect with other authors, particularly authors who write the same kind of stuff you do but better. Why? Because those folks have fans, and those fans are likely to enjoy your writing … assuming you get this letter in time.
Readers aren’t monogamous. They’re not faithful to any one author. They have “a type,” and will give just about any author who fits that type a go. They’re like cheerleaders who sleep with everyone on the team, except they’re more literate and have fewer STDs. So go ahead and join forces with authors in your genre. Network. Collaborate. Ride coattails. Such socializing and schmoozing may seem like a lot of work, young me, but fear not—in less than ten years a thing called the Internet will allow you to become instant best friends with hundreds of writers just like you without having to leave your lonely little room. That’s right, heaven awaits.
Don’t EVER neglect family or close friends for your writing. I’ve learned this one the hard way so you won’t have to, young me. There will be times when all you can think about is the sentence/paragraph/chapter/tweet you’re working on. And it’s at those times when you’ll need to remember what’s most important. As critical as your writing may seem, nothing trumps your parents or siblings or spouse or friends or therapist or weed dealer—except for when you get a really good idea for a novel during a funeral or family reunion.
I nearly lost a couple of people near and dear to me while writing and editing my last book. I came even closer to losing them again while writing and editing this blog post. But just because I’ve yet to figure out how to balance my writing and personal life doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll have the same struggle. But you almost certainly will. So get help now, then send a letter to future you (me) and tell me everything I need to do. Hurry—I think I heard your future wife packing a suitcase this morning while I was working on what I’m pretty sure is my masterpiece.
Okay, that's it for now.
Actually, just one more thing: Buy Apple stock ASAP.
Sincerely,
2018 You
Turns out, postage to the past is extremely expensive. If you’d like to help me cover the cost of getting this letter to younger me, feel free to make a donation via my Amazon page.
In my novels, I have a tendency to put the main characters through emotional and physical hell. They must endure such things as rapidly metastasizing cancer, the untimely deaths of loved ones, drug addiction and gunshot wounds.
In my actual life, I have a tendency to put my family through much worse.
In my defense, I’m a mean and awful person only when busy writing a book. Or rewriting a book. Or promoting a book. Or planning the next book. So, really only about eleven-and-a-half months out of the year. The rest of the time, I’m an absolute joy to be around.
Nevertheless, I’ve been meaning to formally apologize to my family—my wife and daughter, in particular—and now seems like the ideal time. I think we can all agree there’s no better way for an author to express sincere remorse and request forgiveness than through a blog post.
So here goes ...
Dear Miranda and Leah,
I’m truly sorry for my mood swings and isolation and selfishness over the past several weeks and months and years. Please know it’s nothing personal. You’ve done nothing wrong—other than sometimes breathe too loudly or interrupt me with a sudden “Good morning” or “I love you” that totally takes me out of my writing groove. Still, as crippling as such interruptions are to the creative process, they’re no excuse for me to treat the most important people in my life with disdain.
I’m also sorry you’ve had to endure all my loud arguments with imaginary people. And my shouting at blank pages. And me repeatedly banging my head against my desk. Trust me, it’s not like I enjoy waking you up in the middle of the night with such jarring sounds. After all, once you’re awake, you make noises that make it even harder for me to concentrate and write. So, as you can see, it’s miserable for everyone involved. But I’m willing to take most of the blame.
I’m sorry for always growling and barking at you when you step anywhere near my writing office while I’m in the midst of a critical scene or plot twist or tweet. Nobody should ever have to witness their husband or father behaving like a rabid dog, no matter how warranted such behavior might be. I hope you can forgive me. I also hope you can try not to step anywhere near my writing office while I’m in the midst of a critical scene or plot twist or tweet. (You can always go out your bedroom window to get to the kitchen, you know. Just remember your house key.)
I’m sorry for not being a very good listener in recent years. For sometimes ignoring you when you tell me about your day or your problems or whatever it is you’re always talking about while I’m trying to tell you about how the book is going. I love you guys so much and I really do want to know all about your lives. It’s just sometimes it’s hard to pay attention when what’s happening in my book is so much more thrilling. Again, I’m terribly sorry. Sometimes I wish I didn’t write such thrilling novels. It’s so unfair to you.
Please believe me when I say I’m going to try to change. We all know I won’t actually change, but it would be awfully nice of you to believe I might. One thing I am considering is moving away from such dark topics in my novels. (You were probably hoping I was going to stop that last sentence after “moving away.”) Call me crazy, but I think all the time I spend researching and writing about terminal disease and death and murder and sex trafficking might in some way be contributing to my ever-increasing unpleasantness. I was hoping my ever-increasing drinking might help with that. Not sure if it’s working.
As much as I love writing dark fiction, it’s not worth it if it means destroying our family. That’s why I’m currently toying around with a novel about a puppy and a baby unicorn who live under a magic rainbow. Trouble is, whenever I sit down to work on such a happy book, I’m overcome with the urge to throw myself off a tall building. And you don’t want that, right? Right? … RIGHT?
Okay, I need to wrap this up so I can get back to focusing on nothing but my writing. But before I do, Miranda and Leah, I need you to know the two of you mean the world to me. I’m so sorry if I’ve ever screamed anything from my office to make you think otherwise. You—along with my mother, father and brother (who make up the rest of my fan base and thus had to be mentioned)—are the most important non-imaginary people in my life. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Nothing.
Except perhaps write a book about a puppy and a unicorn.
Love,
Greg/Dad
If you’re a writer, feel free to use the comments section below to share the horrible things you regularly put YOUR family through. And if you’re the family member of a writer, now is the time to cry out for help … and to dish some dirt!
One more thing: Sorry to self-promote so soon after an apology, but today’s the last day to get the Kindle edition of In Wolves’ Clothing for just 99 CENTS. (Amazon US and UK only.) Tomorrow I’m jacking up the price like I’m a pharmaceutical exec and the book’s a life-saving drug. You candownload your ridiculously cheap copy of IWC HERE.
If you witness fiction writers interacting with one another on a panel or at a reading or in a bar, you might think the writing life is all fun and games and drinking booze. But ask the fly on the wall what these authors talk about when you and other potential fans aren’t around, and you’ll quickly learn that the writing life is mostly pain and frustration and futility. And drinking booze.
Now, I could continue this post with a list of funny hyperbolic examples of what fiction writers chat about when nobody who might buy their books is listening in, but it’s hard to be funny and hyperbolic when everything is so painful and frustrating and futile. And blurry. So instead, I’m going to share actual excerpts from an ongoing email exchange I’ve been having with a fellow novelist I met a while back. After all, it's always better to show than tell. Plus copying and pasting text from Gmail is a lot easier than coming up with brand new content.
NOTE: I’ve removed/replaced certain words or phrases that could possibly reveal the aforementioned novelist's identity. And no, it’s NOT Chuck Palahniuk. While I had the honor of meeting and “workshopping” with Chuck recently, he is one of those rare writers who’s immune to pain and frustration and futility, and thus is impossible to commiserate with.)
Without further ado, here are the email excerpts. (Warning: Some of the language could be considered offensive. I'm hoping that will keep you reading.)
[From an exchange in Fall 2016]
Me: This whole writing thing must be what being addicted to heroin is like. Short, incredible highs followed by misery and hopelessness—and the inability to stop going after the short, incredible highs. Realizing it's killing you yet needing to do it all the time. And Amazon is like an evil drug dealer that keeps sucking you back in. He knows all it takes is a small score here and there to own you for life. So, how’s YOUR Monday going?
Author friend: I hear you. My week has sucked infected goat balls so far. On top of [title of the new manuscript] hitting the skids, the film [based on the previous book] opened not to a bang but a whimper. I didn't expect a lot of fanfare, but I'm pissed that the distributor isn't doing any more than the producers could have done themselves, and for that they changed the title, came up with a shitty poster and tagline. They've asked for my input. I'm trying to gather my thoughts and wait until I can provide them with something more polite than, “How 'bout at least putting the trailer on Apple's movie trailer site, geniuses?!” Okay, enough bitching from me. How’s Sick to Death doing?
Me: I'm sorry about your infected goat balls week. That a writer with your resume still has to deal with such letdowns speaks to the absolute absurdity and fickleness of the publishing world and Hollywood. As for Sick to Death, it shot out of the gate with great sales and rave reviews for the first two weeks, then, just as I was out shopping for what I was fantasizing I'd wear to the National Book Awards ceremony, sales plateaued ... and then dipped precipitously. The good news is I have some promising promo stuff happening over the next few weeks. The bad news is I'm spending much more time tracking sales of the new book than I am writing the next book. And it’s a shame because I’m pretty sure the next book is the best damn thing I’ve ever written. Of course, the next book always is. Anyway, I’m not proud of letting external validation boss me around. I should know better.
[From an exchange a couple of weeks later]
Author friend: The writing is flowing, with some starts and stops. Whenever I get jammed up, I look at each situation and brainstorm the next possible series of events according to established character behavior and previous plot details. Then I look at that list of possibilities and ask, “Which of these is the worst possible thing that could happen to my protagonist?” And that's the one I go with. As soon as I do that (and it ain't easy... I really like this character and feel like a total asshole for putting her in such ever-frothier waters of shit creek), I seem to always have some lightning bolt of insight that sustains me until I'm standing at the edge of the next “What the fuck now?" cliff.
Me: I hear ya on causing so much pain and distress for your protagonist. Here’s something I said about my current main character during a recent interview: “I've been very busy putting my new protagonist through hell, and he's been very busy doing the same to me.”
[From an exchange about a month after that]
Me: News. Now Showtime wants to option The Exit Man. I’ve been assured the deal will be finalized right after Thanksgiving. Of course, I was also assured Hillary was going to trounce Trump, so I’ve learned to be weary of what I’ve been assured. [Name of another cable network] may counter with a "screw the option—let's go straight to series" offer], but I’ve been advised to stick with Showtime regardless due to the huge potential. So yeah, I'm feeling almost not worthless right now. This feeling will soon pass, I'm sure, and I’ll be back to feeling completely worthless.
Author friend: That’s fantastic news. Options are awesome. Still, it’s annoying when people ask, "So when's there gonna be a movie?" As though that legitimizes a book. Few people realize just what a godsend option money is for a working writer. In some ways, it's an appealing idea to never have the movie/TV show made, and just have that annual infusion of cash keep coming in perpetuity. James Ellroy called the film/TV options "cosmic welfare checks." Sadly, my old (and corrupt) publisher took a goodly chunk of my option money (I had no agent at the time), but still, I did really well on film options for a long time.
Me: “Cosmic welfare checks.” Nice. I'm going to steal that. Or at least cite Ellroy.
Author friend: I guess that makes us cosmic white trash. : ) By the way, I’ll be fasting from social media and email for the home stretch of the latest manuscript. Next weekend, I'm loading up the truck with firewood and whiskey and will be spending the bulk of December in the desert doing the rewrite. Yee-ha.
Me: Awesome to hear you've finished the first draft of your latest manuscript, which is probably better than the seventh draft of most writers' latest manuscript. Firewood and whiskey? Make that the title. If you don’t, do I have permission to use it on my tombstone?
[From an exchange a couple of months ago]
Author friend: Things aren't looking good for [title of the new manuscript]. The editor's had it since April, but I've not heard anything. I sent an email to my agent and got an auto-reply that he's out until the 15th, so I'm gonna have to deal with the knot in my stomach and just wait. Honestly? I'm on the verge of giving up. I'm wrestling with manuscript #5, but even if I finish it tomorrow, I don't see how it stands a snowman's chance in hell of publication if my previous one had no takers. Congrats on wrapping up your latest. And bigger congrats on having it hit the shelves soon. I'll shout it from the rooftops when that happens.
Me: Hearing that someone with your talent, credentials and fan following is thinking of giving up writing leads me to assume that aliens have invaded your brain. At least I’m hoping that’s the case. If not, it means the literary world is crumbling, falling into ruin … and that I might as well stop writing novels and find a more promising job like tollbooth attendant or coal miner. Hang in there. Things are going to turn back around for you in a big way soon. Usually such optimism makes me retch, but in your case I can feel it in my bones. Now, before I go, let me just remind you of something you may have forgotten. YOU WROTE [TITLE OF NOVEL THAT HAS SUSTAINED CULT-LIKE STATUS FOR OVER A DECADE AND HAS INSPIRED COUNTLESS WRITERS OF DARK FICTION, INCLUDING ME]. Now go find someone to extract those pesky aliens from your frontal lobe and get back to work. Sir.
NOTE: I’m thrilled to report that my almost legendary author friend has NOT given up writing, and that he continues to produce astonishing prose that continues to make him miserable. Thank goodness.
Here’s hoping he regains the literary fame and commercial success he so deserves, but that he never loses his passion for bitching and ranting with me from a thousand miles away in the middle of the night.
The giant spilling over into my seat in row 43 glares at me like his overactive pituitary gland is my fault. The baby on the lap of the woman up in 42-C has been shrieking since our delayed take-off two hours ago. And my water bottle just rolled into some corner of pressurized oblivion.
But you won’t hear me complain. I’m too busy tapping away at my next novel seven miles up.
Writing fiction is a great way to escape the pain of everyday life. And since few things are more painful than flying coach, there are few better places to write than on a commercial flight.
Lucky for you, I’ve already had three miniature bottles of bourbon and thus am a bit too drunk for my novel, but definitely not too drunk for my blog. In other words, this is a good time for me to get more specific on why I love writing on planes:
The mild decrease in oxygen is great for creativity. I have some of my best ideas when my brain isn’t functioning properly. Thanks to the slightly lower levels of oxygen on a plane, I’m able to think up especially captivating character quirks and impossible plot twists, as well as make myself believe I can make a living as an author.
Strangers in uniforms risk bodily injury to bring me cocktails. Everyone knows a bit of alcohol enhances prose. And there’s something very satisfying about watching a flight attendant ricochet off aisle seats to deliver me a bourbon without spilling a drop. And since flight attendants are so preoccupied with ensuring the safety of everyone on board (except themselves), they often forget to charge me for the drink(s).
The in-flight magazine makes me feel like a literary genius. If ever my writing isn’t going well during a flight, I need only open up a copy of what’s tucked into my seatback pocket. Reading a couple of sentences on what to do in Newark or where to eat in Omaha is all it takes to make even the worst parts of my manuscript seem like they were written by Margaret Atwood.
It’s a “get out of small-talk free” card. We’ve all sat next to the overly chatty passenger who just won’t shut up about the weather and their family and how they need you to get up so they can go pee. This hasn’t happened to me since I started writing on planes. Once I break out my laptop and start talking to my characters while drooling, even an intoxicated salesman from Wisconsin knows enough to pipe down and hold it in.
It’s fun to mess with wandering eyes. It’s only natural for passengers to sneak a peek at a manuscript on a screen that’s mere inches from their face. And it’s only natural for an author of dark fiction to frighten the hell out of them when the peeking turns into staring. Whenever I sense I have an audience while working on a plane, I write them into the story right before their eyes. There’s nothing quite like the expression on the face of the person next to me when they read, “Suddenly, the head of the overly curious woman in 27-E exploded.”
Easy book promotion opportunities during the descent. The last 10-15 minutes of a flight, when the FAA requires me to stop writing and stow my laptop, that’s when I open for business. What better time to promote my books than when surrounded by people who have been starved for entertainment for hours on end and who are about to regain access to Amazon? So upon the initial descent, I hand out business cards (which list my titles) to everyone seated next to and near me. Then I tell them it’s been an absolute pleasure flying with them, and casually mention that if they don’t buy at least one of my novels the second we touch ground, I’ll write them into my next one.
TAKE OFF
So if you are a writer or want to be, I highly recommend selling your home and/or car and/or drugs and using the money to fly as much as you can. I’m telling you, it’s the best thing you can do to enhance the number and quality of words you produce. On the ground, there are just too many options and distractions. Unlimited streaming. Reliable Wi-Fi. Edible food. Plus open spaces and fresh air. Nobody can be expected to write anything worthwhile in such a comfortable environment.
Miles high in a 737, however, there’s just drudgery and elbows and cold drafts and babies. And the only way out other than the emergency exits is your imagination.
