It happened again—you spent so much of the past eleven months with your face in books, you forgot to plan your Halloween costume. Fear not, I’m here to help.
Rather than waste your time with a bunch of cheesy puns about how you don’t stand a ghost of a chance of pulling off a wicked-cool costume this late in the game, I’ve decided to instead provide you with some dress-up ideas that are so novel, it’s scary.
Don’t let another failed Halloween haunt you for the remainder of your days. Just read on and choose one of the following costumes guaranteed to make you a dead-ringer for the character in question, and the life of any party you’re dying to attend.
Gregor Samsa from The Metamorphosis(by Franz Kafka). Going as Gregor Samsa for Halloween is a great attention-getter, but only if you know the book and didn’t just design your costume after quickly skimming the character description provided online by SparkNotes. After all, nobody will be impressed if you show up as a traveling salesman instead of a giant, hideous cockroach. They’ll just think you’re Willy Loman, and yawn.
To get Gregor Samsa right, just visit any fast-food dining establishment and collect one of the many insect carcasses you’ll find, then model your costume around it. You’ll need some cardboard, a toy plastic shield spray-painted brown, a baseball catcher’s chest-protector, brown pants/shirt/shoes, black pipe cleaners, and a strong stomach.
To make sure people know you’re Gregor Samsa and not just a giant disgusting bug, it’s a good idea to carry a briefcase, as well as to lecture everyone on the grotesque absurdity of existence and how modern society has stripped us of our humanity. Do this before you hand any candy out to them.
Lisbeth Salander from The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (by Stieg Larsson). What better time than now—at the height of the #MeToo and Time’s Up movements—to dress up like a badass avenger of sexual predators. But if you do decide to be Lisbeth Salander, don’t do what so many Halloween Lisbeths have done in the past, which is portray her as a one-dimensional hyper-sexual S&M vamp. (Yes, I realize the risk of mansplaining this costume to women.) I don’t have a problem with women (or men) who opt to keep silly Halloween traditions alive by dressing up like a sexy nurse/librarian/teacher/police officer/maid/referee, but out of respect for what Lisbeth Salander has been through and what she’s out to achieve, if you’re going to portray her, do it right. Shoot for deadly, not slutty.
Here’s what you’ll need: A tattered black Henley or T-shirt; a pair of ripped/distressed black jeans (NOT leggings or yoga pants, damn it); black combat boots; a black leather motorcycle jacket; pink leather messenger bag (just kidding—BLACK); spike earrings and a giant spiked collar; a black wig long enough to cut/shape into a punk-goth pixie ‘do; clip-on studs for nose, lips and eyebrows; a black temporary dragon tattoo—large enough to run from shoulder-blade to waist.
If you want to be as badass as the REAL fictional Lisbeth, forgo the fake/temporary accessories and get an actual dragon tattoo and wild haircut, and put actual holes in your face. Bonus points for any real-life doctors, lawyers or kindergarten teachers who take on my challenge. (NOTE: If you don’t have the shirt, jeans or boots listed above and need to buy them new, make sure you run over them several times with a car when you get home to give them that tattered, scuffed look you’re going for. If you don’t have a car, ask your neighbor or an Uber driver to assist.)
Alex from A Clockwork Orange (by Anthony Burgess). Nothing says Halloween like an ultraviolent dystopian anarchist with an affinity for classical music and milk spiked with narcotics.
All you need to rock this costume are white pants, a white banded collar shirt, white suspenders, fake eyelashes and a cane, along with a black bowler hat and combat boots. Oh, and don’t forget the codpiece or athletic cup to protect your crotch. If you don’t already have all these items at home, then I honestly don’t see us ever being friends.
Miss Havisham from Great Expectations (by Charles Dickens). An old woman who was jilted at the altar in her youth and wears her wedding dress for the rest of her life in a ruined mansion. ‘Nuff said. (For best results, go for creepy rather than sexy/slutty with this costume.)
Annie Wilkes from Misery(by Stephen King). Like any other author or human being, I find Annie Wilkes terrifying. That said, I often fantasize about having a fan just like her—so obsessed by and devoted to my characters, she’d torture me until I mold my manuscript to her liking. Yes, I’m currently receiving professional help for this.
Pulling off a convincing Annie requires nothing more than a turtleneck, a plaid shirt and a denim dress, Oh, and a huge sledgehammer. Now, keep in mind that such clothes and weaponry may cause folks to mistake you for a run-of-the-mill public high school librarian. To avoid this, you can rent me at $150/hour to play the tortured author. The role is really no stretch for me at all.
Have you ever dressed up as a favorite literary character? If so, which one? If not, what's wrong with you? Dish the details in the comments section below.
People familiar with my books assume I must be at least a little insane. But the truth is, my wife's the crazy one.
After all, she (Miranda) has chosen to spend her life and share a dwelling with a man who writes entire novels about things like party supply storeowners who dabble in euthanasia, terminally ill serial killers looking to make their city safer before they die, and fake pedophiles who schmooze with child sex traffickers to put them away.
I’m telling you, this lady is nuts.
Still, folks always want to know what it’s like for “poor” Miranda to live with me, the “crazy” writer. In fact, many of them ask her that question right in front of me, which I find just plain rude.
Nevertheless, I like to give the people what they want—provided what they want is not for me to put down my drink or behave myself. So, in an effort to appease all my imaginary fans, I’ve opted to give Miranda the keys to my blog for today’s post, which features several questions people and the police commonly ask Miranda, followed by Miranda’s (mostly) unedited responses.
What is it like being married to an author of dark, disturbing fiction?
It’s fun! And absurd. And intriguing! And unnerving. Just like Greg’s books! And marriage.
I knew a long time ago that I didn’t want to marry one of those doctor/lawyer types—the type who are married to their job and whom you never see again after the wedding. Because both Greg and I work from home, I often get to bump into him in the kitchen whenever he takes a break from killing a character in his office. I also get to take afternoon walks with him and hear about the cleanest murder methods and how to get away with them. Sometimes I’ll walk into his office to sneak a few kisses while he’s busy putting his protagonist through living hell. Greg absolutely hates it when I do that and usually tells me to get out. I'm the luckiest girl in the world.
While reading any of Greg’s books, have you ever become concerned over the fact you sleep in the same bed with this guy? (Assuming you haven’t already opted for separate rooms.)
Absolutely. I tell all my friends and family that if I were to die, Greg did it. But I can take comfort in the fact that my death will be epic. A story to be passed down for generations. And I will haunt Greg forever.
Which of Greg’s characters is your favorite, and why? Which is your least favorite?
It’s so hard to pick a favorite. I think if I had to choose, I’d have to go with Eli Edelmann, as The Exit Man is still my favorite novel. No, wait, Zero Slade from In Wolves’ Clothing, because he’s a hero—albeit a seriously flawed one—with such a big heart. No, wait, Fynn, who’s Zero’s boss. She’s an intriguing sideline character I want to know more about … and maybe want to be just like when I grow up.
My least favorite of Greg’s characters? Greg won’t let me have any. So just email or DM me and I’ll tell you.
Does Greg usually pass his novel ideas by you before starting to write the book? Does he allow you to read his works-in-progress?
I wish. One of my favorite things to do with Greg is brainstorm novel ideas and have him read me sneak-peeks of his works-in-progress. But these occasions are rare. For some reason he views my “feedback” as an act of aggression. Writers—they're sooo sensitive.
What is Greg’s most peculiar habit as a writer?
Oh my, where do I start? First off, Greg writes his books chronologically from beginning to end. This is a sure sign of a psychopath. Also, writing is never a painful, agonizing process for him—he never gets stuck or suffers from writer’s block. Instead he bounces out of bed every morning and writes joyfully about horrific topics for hours at a time. There is something very wrong with him.
Do you ever fear Greg will write a memoir and share way too much about your life together? Do events/situations from your marriage ever show up in his novels?
Not really. I don’t believe Greg would ever steer away from writing fiction—regardless of what our tax returns tell him. Certainly there are hints of our married life sprinkled throughout his books, but as long as he continues writing novels, I can deny everything.
If Greg weren’t a writer, what would you say would be the best profession for him?
If Greg had a real job, I imagine it would be something in the medical profession. Or perhaps he’d be a crime-scene investigator. Or a hitman. In case you haven’t noticed it in his books, Greg has a bit of a fascination with sickness and death. Who knows, maybe he’d even become a real-life Exit Man, though I don’t think I was supposed to say that out loud.
What book would you most want Greg to write next?
I must say I’m pretty intrigued by Greg’s next book, which features a strong female protagonist. It’s a mother-daughter tale of two badass women who commit a crime to intentionally land them in jail... mainly for the free rent and healthcare. There’s just one problem—they don’t caught. Instead they get rich. And that’s when the real problems begin.
Now, that all said, we just returned from an Alaskan cruise and I’ve been trying to convince Greg that his next book needs to be set on a cruise ship. He’s thinking about it—or so he says to get me to leave him alone to write.
Should we be worried? Are you in any immediate danger?
No. No. Everything is fine. Everything is juuuust fine. I've been told I’m happy. Very, very happy.
Behind every good novel is an author who almost died in the process. And behind that author are a slew of people the author couldn’t have lived without.
That’s why the “Acknowledgments” page you see inside books was invented. It gives authors a place to thank everybody involved. Everyone they cursed and screamed and spit at while they were losing their mind trying to finish the damn book.
Since only about ten of you are going to buy my new novel In Wolves’ Clothing when it comes out in early October—and since only three of you ten are going to open and actually read it—I’ve decided to share the Acknowledgments page from the book here on my blog. I want as many people as possible to see what an awesome job I did expressing my humble gratitude.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While it’s my name on the cover of this book, there wouldn’t even be a book were it not for the following people:
My wife, Miranda. Miranda’s humanitarian trip to Cambodia in 2016 is what sparked the idea for this novel. And her innate ability to earn actual money is what enabled me to sit around in my pajamas for a year writing what she sparked. Also, she kept me alive while I was killing myself to meet my editor’s deadline.
My daughter, Leah. Had Leah not made friends with people old enough to drive her around this year, I wouldn’t have completed this book until 2019 or 2020. That said, I regret not having been there more for my daughter. In my defense, she’s embarrassed to be seen with me.
Radd Berrett. Radd is the guy on whom Zero Slade is loosely based. (For those of you who’ve skipped straight to this page without reading the book, Zero Slade is the story’s protagonist. Now go back and read the book.) Radd spent over two years putting his life at risk while traveling the world to help rescue victims of child sex trafficking. He’s both a badass and a sweetheart, and my interviews with him were invaluable. Considering he has the strength to bench-press my entire family, Radd is the last person I’d want to forget to thank.
Suzy Vitello. "If you knew Suzy like I know Suzy ..." Actually, I don’t know Suzy all that well, but she’s buddies with the great Chuck Palahniuk, and Chuck told me Suzy’s the bomb. So when I met her and found out she offered editing services (in addition to being an amazing writer), I hired the hell out of her. Long blurb short, she’s the real reason this novel doesn’t suck. And if you think it does suck, well … blame Suzy.
Graham Toseland. Graham, my proofreader from A Fading Street Publishing Services is why this book reads as cleanly as it does—assuming it reads as cleanly as I think it does. If, by chance, you’ve found any typos or grammatical errors (other than the one’s I intended as an artist who’s above the rules), let’s gang up on Graham and beat his British ass until he’s unconscious and/or issues me a full refund.
Angie McMann. Angie is a fellow writer, a selfless supporter of other writers, and one of the few people who responds promptly to my emails. She kindly offered to proof this book when Graham was finished with it—to make sure he didn’t ruin my American English with any English English corrections.
The Writing Wrong Workshop gang. I was fortunate enough to be selected to participate in a writing workshop led by Chuck Palahniuk this past spring. During the workshop, I got the opportunity to read parts of this novel and get beaten Fight Club-style by Chuck and a group of my talented peers until I made many necessary improvements to the book. (Yeah, I realize I already name-dropped Chuck Palahniuk earlier, but when you get to hang out with Chuck Palahniuk for ten weeks, you’d be an idiot not to name-drop Chuck Palahniuk every chance you get. Chuck Palahniuk might disagree, but that is sooo Chuck Palahniuk.)
Maria Novillo Saravia. I always judge a book by its cover designer, and Maria of BeauteBook is one of the best around. She’s highly creative … and very patient. Not once did she threaten to murder me for all the changes and tweaks I requested throughout the design process.
The Internet. I know, I know, the Internet isn’t a person. I also know many folks no longer capitalize “internet.” But when something does for you what the Internet did for me while writing this novel, hell yeah you thank it, and double hell yeah you give it a large first letter out of respect. Perhaps even ALL CAPS. Thank you, INTERNET, for providing me with instant access to everything I didn’t know but needed to for this novel to seem real. (I’d also like to thank the FBI for not detaining me despite all the creepy Internet searches on child sex trafficking I had to do.)
Mom and Dad. I’d be an even bigger a-hole than I already am if I didn’t thank my parents for the love and support they’ve provided while I’ve thrown my life away on fiction writing. I’m so grateful to them for all the bedtime stories they read to me as a child. They’d read to me every night, no matter how good the cocktail party going on downstairs was. Such devotion instilled in me the passion for words and alcohol one needs to become an author.
You. Yes, you. For knowing how to read. Were it not for people like you, I never would have been inspired to ignore my family and friends for over a year to write this book that mostly only they will buy.
And finally … (Warning: Serious shift in tone ahead) …
The victims of child sex trafficking. Nothing funny to say here. I’d list all the victims by name, but that would be a book in itself—the longest, most heartbreaking one ever written. Also, sadly, it’s impossible to know all the names. So I’ll just say this: I wish there weren’t a reason to write the novel I wrote. But it’s good to know that, thanks to all the amazing women and men dedicated to fighting human trafficking, the novel I wrote may one day be TOTAL fiction.
Stay tuned for the cover reveal for In Wolves’ Clothing. I’ll be unveiling the cover very soon via the blog, Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. You know, just like Hemingway used to do. The actual book will be available in early October.(Don’t worry, I’ll remind you.)
In case you missed my post about the making of In Wolves’ Clothing, you can check it out here.
Not too long ago, I wrote a piece about my all-time favorite authors of dark comedic fiction. In twelve days, I’ll meet the man who’s number one on that list.
Chuck Palahniuk.
For those unfamiliar with Palahniuk, he wrote Fight Club (yes, it was an amazing novel before it was an amazing movie) as well as Survivor, Choke, Invisible Monsters and numerous other brilliant best-selling books. He’s not only my favorite author of dark humor; he’s my favorite author period. (Well, living author, anyway – it’s hard to compete with dead Russians.)
So, when I read that Chuck was going to be leading a ten-session writing workshop (something authors of his magnitude almost NEVER do), and that only a handful of applicants would be selected to participate, I did what any serious writer and Palahniuk fan would do: I screeched like a schoolgirl. Then I knocked over my wife and daughter en route to my writing nook to get started on my application.
A week later I received an email from the writing institute that’s sponsoring the workshop, letting me know I’d been accepted. The message even included a personal note of praise from Chuck himself about the writing sample I submitted. After reading the email and note six times, I did what any serious writer and Palahniuk fan would do: I soiled myself.
On Monday, February 27, I’ll be flying out to Portland (from my home in Austin) to join fifteen other extremely fortunate writers for the initial session of the Writing Wrong Workshop, where the master of modern trangressive fiction will encourage us to challenge conventional writing rules and, I think, fight each other in underground brawls.
As honored and as thrilled as I am, I do have some concerns. My biggest concern – aside from delayed or cancelled flights causing me to miss any of the workshop sessions – is meeting Chuck… and doing something that causes him to want to fight me in an underground brawl. Few things can ruin a writer’s confidence or career more than getting punched in the face by an author they idolize. Now, some of you may be thinking that blogging about how giddy I am about the workshop would be reason enough for Chuck to want to punch me, but that’s ludicrous. Chuck is never going to read my blog.
To help ensure I don’t do anything to annoy or irk my idol during the workshop, I’ve come up with eight Fight Club-style rules for me to follow:
1) The first rule of Write Club is you do not talk about Write Club. (Except when blogging, or chatting with family and friends, or standing next to a total stranger in the grocery store checkout line, or sitting next to one on a flight to Write Club.)
2) The second rule of Write Club is you do not try to make clever references or allusions to Fight Club (or any other of Chuck’s books) during Write Club. (I did, however, reference the workshop on Twitter two days ago and included in the tweet, “I am Jack’s unbridled anticipation.” Risky, I know, but Chuck himself re-tweeted it, so I think I’m good.)
3) The third rule of Write Club is you do not bring all your copies of Chuck’s books to Write Club for him to sign. (At least not until you see another Write Club participant try it without getting punched.)
4) The fourth rule of Write Club is you do not wear to Write Club any apparel featuring anything related to Chuck or his books. (Nobody likes a teacher’s pet, least of all the teacher – especially when the teacher’s Chuck. So, I’ve agreed to hand over both my Fight Club T-shirt (see image) and my Survivor hoodie to my wife before I head to the airport each week. It’s the only way.)
5) The fifth rule of Write Club is you must correctly pronounce Chuck’s surname every time you say it. (It’s PAULA-nick. NOT pa-LA-nick, which is how 99.9% of people outside of Chuck’s immediate family pronounce it – including me up until I heard him interviewed on NPR a little over a year ago. It was shocking; almost like finding out you’re adopted.)
6) The sixth rule of Write Club is, when Chuck enters the room for the first time, you don’t soil yourself. (I will do my absolute best to respect this rule, but will be wearing an adult diaper to the first session just in case.)
7) The seventh rule of Write Club is, when Chuck rips your writing to shreds, you do not openly sob. (I will do my absolute best to respect this rule, but will bring an extra adult diaper for my tears just in case.)
8) The eighth and final rule of Write Club is do not forget you belong in Write Club. You earned this. You've GOT this. (Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go change my underwear. Again.)
It being the holiday season, I wanted to write a piece that captured the joyous spirit of giving that awakens in everyone this time of year. And I figured what better way to do that than to talk about my favorite serial killer.
Gage Adder – the terminally ill main character in my novel Sick to Death – is likely to be remembered for all the people he assaults and poisons in the book. And that’s a shame because when he’s not busy maiming or killing, he’s somewhat of a saint, carrying out the types of random acts of kindness and generosity this world could use much more of. Take away the vengeful cane beatings and the cyanide, and Gage is pretty much Santa Claus.
The point is, you can learn a lot about kindness from a murderer. Following are a few excerpts from Sick to Death that scream “Christmas Spirit!”
Then it dawned on him. There were ways to be thoughtful and giving without actually having to interact with others. Gage was fully prepared to give niceness a shot, but he wasn’t yet ready to let go of Sartre’s infamous notion that hell is other people. Thus, he spent the remainder of the day being anonymously altruistic.
He used his debit card to add time to six expired parking meters.
He sent an arrangement of roses, hyacinth and ranunculus to Charlene – the receptionist at his office whose husband had recently left her.
He sent two dozen donuts to the staff at FutureBright – a local charity dedicated to empowering at-risk youth – and he donated three hundred dollars to the organization via their website.
He picked up the tab for not one but two tables at the diner where he had lunch, asking the waitress to be discreet about his actions and leaving the establishment before the patrons – five in all – were informed their meals had been paid for. He left the waitress a fifty-percent tip on the total of his and the other two bills.
And for his closing act, he called the pediatric cancer unit at Carrington Medical Center, asked a nurse how many children were currently inpatients, and then ordered forty-three stuffed animals to be delivered to the unit the following day.
***
Two broken ribs for the guy kicking the homeless man in a back alley and bombarding him with racial epithets.
A thousand dollars in a blank envelope for the neighbors whose five-year old daughter’s body was found in a river two states over.
A cracked cranium for the coke-addled brat who plowed his Beemer into six people on a sidewalk but walked due to daddy’s legendary lawyer.
A boatload of books, games and DVDs for everyone in the Pediatric Burn Unit at Pearson Medical Center.
Brutes and creeps kept showing up bleeding and battered at hospitals and urgent care clinics. Needy individuals, families and organizations continued getting pleasant surprises from an anonymous stranger.
When Gage wasn’t knocking a white supremacist’s nose to the side of his face with a cane, he was handing azaleas to an elderly woman in the park. It was as if he had some strange new kind of bipolar disorder, one that caused him to rapid-cycle between breaking bones and bestowing gifts.
***
His most notable act occurred the morning of the tenth day, when he saw a woman sobbing as she walked out of a veterinary clinic holding a dog leash. The look on her face – like her entire family had just been sent to a gas chamber.
Holding the door open for the woman as she exited was an employee of the clinic, a teenage girl who looked almost as despondent as the woman herself.
“Don’t worry about the bill right now, Miss Morris,” said the girl. “Take all the time you need.”
Gage and the girl watched as the woman staggered down the sidewalk, clutching the leash. After the girl closed the door and returned to work, Gage approached the woman. He gently rested his hand on her shoulder.
“Please,” he said, “allow me to get you a taxi, Miss.”
She gave Gage a confused look. “I drove here,” she said, continuing to cry.
“It’s okay. You’re in no condition to drive. I’d like to pay for your taxi home, and I’ll also give you money to get a taxi back to your car later.”
“Who are you?” asked the woman.
“Nobody you know, just somebody who’d like to help,” said Gage. “Is it okay if I hail you a cab now?”
“I live a good fifteen minutes away,” said the woman. “A taxi will cost about twenty-five or thirty dollars. I can’t let you pay all that.”
“Please, it’s no problem,” said Gage, who fished his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans and took out three tens and two twenties. “This should cover your ride home and back,” he said as he presented the cash to her.
“You’re very kind, but I couldn’t possibly—”
“Yes, you could. You can.”
The woman smiled through the sobbing and gave Gage a hug.
“Now let’s get you a taxi,” said Gage. He guided the woman toward the curb by her elbow and raised his free hand high. When a taxi pulled up and stopped in front of them about ten seconds later, Gage opened the rear passenger side door for the woman and helped her into the yellow sedan.
“Please make sure this woman gets home safely,” Gage said to the driver. “She’ll tell you the address.” Before Gage closed the door, the woman grabbed the sleeve of his jacket.
“Thank you,” she said as she wiped her eyes. “Thank you so much.”
“You take care of yourself, Miss,” said Gage. “I’m sorry about your dog.”
Gage shut the door and waved to the sobbing woman as the taxi drove off. He then turned around and walked into the veterinary clinic.
“Good morning,” said the girl behind the front desk. It was the same girl who’d held the door for the woman earlier. “How can I help you?”
“That woman who left here crying a few minutes ago, I’m assuming her dog didn’t make it?”
“I’m sorry,” said the girl, “but who are you? A relative or friend of hers?”
“No, no,” said Gage. “I just saw how sad she was and would like to help in some way.”
“Well, there’s not much you can do,” the girl replied. “Her Golden Retriever is being euthanized as we speak.”
“That’s what I figured,” said Gage. “I overheard you say something about her bill before. I would like to pay it.”
This holiday season (and beyond), let’s each try to be a little more like Gage – minus all the, you know, homicide and stuff.