‘Tis the season for giving, and after spending much of last week shamelessly promoting one of my novels that was on sale, I’m ready to get into the true holiday spirit and focus on my fellow woman and man. Trouble is, I earned less than a dollar for every copy sold during the aforementioned sale, and thus can afford to give gifts only to imaginary people. (My family isn’t thrilled about this, but in my defense, they’re used to me disappointing them.)
So let’s get this merry freakin’ party started. Below are the names of some of my all-time favorite fictional characters, along with what I feel is the perfect present for each.
NOTE: Included in this list are the protagonists from my own novels. I did this not to be self-promotional, but rather because these characters would surely murder me if I didn’t list them and get them gifts. (They’re all still a bit upset with me for nearly getting each of them killed while writing their story.)
Tyler Durden(Fight Club)
Perfect gift: A hospital-grade first-aid kit.
I thought about getting Tyler a prescription for extra-strength Ambien or an elephant tranquilizer to help with his insomnia, but then realized that he, if well-rested, might be a bit of a snooze. I believe one of the greatest gifts in life is the ability to be fully self-expressed. And for someone whose full self-expression is repeatedly punching others and himself in the face until unconscious—one of the greatest gifts you can give is a portable pack containing smelling salts, surgical gloves, hydrogen peroxide, Dermabond, sterile gauze, adhesive tape, bandages, scissors, a splint, fentanyl patches, and, of course, soap made from human fat.
Lisbeth Salander (The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo)
Perfect gift: Access to Larry Nassar, Jerry Sandusky, Bill Cosby, et. al.
For those of you who are familiar with Lisbeth Salander, the above gift needs no explanation. For those of you who aren’t, she’s everyone’s favorite vigilante rape-survivor hell-bent on destroying men guilty of sexual assault.
Now, I’m not saying violence is ever the answer. Of course, as a man, I don’t get to say what the answer is when it comes to what women like Lisbeth have been through. What I can say, however, is, “Enjoy the gift, girl!”
We all have that one friend who runs a party supply store and lives a secret double-life as a mercy killer helping terminally ill individuals end their lives with dignity. My friend like that is Eli Edelmann, and boy is he going to be tickled when he unwraps a set of helium tanks that can’t be tracked to his own store, and that are each just small enough to fit inside the duffle bag he brings on house calls. I just hope he didn’t get me the same gift.
Celie (The Color Purple)
Perfect gift: A tabono tattoo.
A tabono is an African symbol representing strength, perseverance, persistence and purposefulness. Sure, I could get Celie a tabono pendant instead of a tabono tattoo, but pendants can be easily broken. Tattoos—just like Celie—cannot.
Whether you’ve read the book or seen the movie, or both, you know Celie embodies the strength of the human spirit and the power of forgiveness. You see her transform from a wounded, mercilessly abused woman to a strong, independent and loving individual. Granted, there’s that one really gross scene where she spits in Mister's father's glass of water, but that scene reveals how Celie—even when terrified—simply won’t stand for anyone messing with the people she loves. We should all strive to be as deserving of having a tabono carved into our flesh as Celie is.
Offred (The Handmaid's Tale)
Perfect gift: Membership to a “rage room.”
What do you get the girl who has everything … taken from her by a dystopian totalitarian patriarchal state? Well, the top two gift items that pop up when you Google this question are 1) a cyanide pill, and 2) the opportunity to smash solid objects to smithereens with little risk of getting publicly hanged by theonomic dictators. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think cyanide says “happy holidays” quite like taking a baseball bat to glass does.
Rage rooms started popping up around the globe about four or five years ago, and have really spiked in popularity since around November 8, 2016. And while most rage-room patrons report that five to ten minutes of obliterating old TV sets and dinnerware is enough to get rid of years of pent-up fury, I feel that ten minutes wouldn’t be enough for Offred to get rid of even one morning of pent-up fury. Thus, I’ll be gifting her a rage room Platinum Membership, which includes unlimited visits as well as super-secret transportation to and from the venue in a camouflaged Tesla.
After all that’s happened to Gage Adder—his divorce, his stage-IV pancreatic cancer diagnosis, his having no other choice but to murder a friend—he could really use a victory. And while Lisbeth is not exactly the type of woman to allow a man to set her up on a blind date, once I tell her about Gage’s affinity for poisoning rapists and other miscreants, she’ll at least be down for a coffee with the guy. Granted, Gage’s inoperable cancer is likely to put a damper on any long-term romance, but even if he and Lisbeth end up just being friends for a few months, it could result in some truly beautiful and meaningful executions. And isn’t that really what the holidays are all about?
Amy Dunne (Gone Girl)
Perfect gift: A ride-along with a crime scene investigator.
Brilliant sociopaths are often forgotten about during Christmas, and that’s sad. When I think of the joy—well, maybe not joy, considering she is a sociopath—that Amy will experience upon discovering that someone cared enough to get her a present that taps her most dangerous strengths, it gives me goosebumps.
I really did put a lot of thought into this gift. Amy will be totally in her element, and the CSI agent she rides along with will be shocked by her natural aptitude. After all, Amy is always three steps ahead of everyone—and devious enough to get away with planting fake evidence to catch those for whom there isn’t sufficient real evidence. Just ask her husband.
Humbert Humbert (Lolita)
Perfect gift: Androgen deprivation therapy (ADT).
I had to think long and hard about what to get Humbert for the holidays—just like I’ve had to think long and hard about why I and so many other people root for such a dangerous malcontent whenever we read Lolita.
A little about my choice of gift for Humbert: ADT is a drug treatment that involves the reduction of male hormones—especially testosterone—in a sexual deviant’s system. A sort of chemical castration, if you will. Perhaps I’m being a little too sympathetic toward Humbert, but I feel it would be overly barbaric to physically castrate him, and a shame to drug him out of his brilliant mind with heavy doses of anti-depressants. I mean, c’mon—Humbert is witty, charming, cultured, refined. Once you remove his pathological obsession for prepubescent girls, he’s a helluva guy.
Two years traveling the world posing as a pedophile to catch sex traffickers and rescue young girls can really take its toll on one’s body and mind. And marriage. Zero Slade is living fictional proof of that. Add in the stress of trying to beat an opioid addiction following a recent overdose and getting shot during a recent sting operation, and I think you’ll agree Zero deserves a day of pampering—almost as much as his tough yet devoted wife Neda does. After a full six hours of deluxe spa treatment that includes Swedish massages, organic double-exfoliation facials and warm agave nectar pedicures, Zero and Neda are going to feel so rejuvenated, they just might stay married for another year or two.
To help ensure an ideal spa experience and keep Zero’s mind off of work, I told the spa manager that no female staff from Asia, South America, Central America or Africa who are young enough to possibly be mistaken for minors are to come anywhere near the couple during their visit. Thus, the manager has arranged for all the treatments to be provided by two former Ukrainian weightlifters. Each of these women will be given special instructions on how to carefully work around Zero’s entry and exit wounds.
Jean Louise "Scout" Finch (To Kill a Mockingbird)
Perfect gift: Two rocking chairs and a large bouquet of flowers.
Such items may seem like odd gift choices for a young girl like Scout. That’s because they’re not actually for her. Scout being one of the most sensitive and thoughtful children in all of fiction (and all of nonfiction, for that matter), there’s nothing she’d want more for the holidays than to do something for others less fortunate than her.
The two rocking chairs? They’re for Scout to give to the severely misunderstood recluse Arthur “Boo” Radley, so that she and Boo can sit together regularly on his porch—where she’ll no doubt talk his ear off apologizing to him on behalf of the entire town. As for the bouquet of flowers, those are for Scout to set on Tom Robinson’s grave—where she’ll no doubt talk his ear off apologizing on behalf of humanity.
Odessa Scott: (title classified) [Sorry, can’t share the name of my upcoming book—coming soon to an Amazon near you!]
Perfect gift: A very secluded tiny-house and art studio.
Who here doesn’t struggle each year to come up with the ideal holiday present for the agoraphobic artist in their life who’s wanted in several states for forgery and murder? And yet, despite the hassle, we always seem to find ourselves going the extra mile for these troublesome, creative felons we know and love.
Man, I can’t wait to see the look on Odessa’s face after I blindfold her and drive her out to the tiny-house and separate tiny-studio I bought for her in a remote area of the Davis Mountains in West Texas. Hopefully Odessa will enjoy many years hiding out there, painting abstract expressionistic masterpieces before the law catches up to her. And hopefully she’ll keep my name out of her mouth when they do. Because unlike Odessa, I can’t imagine myself in prison.
Who are some of YOUR favorite literary characters, and what's the perfect gift for them? Share in the comments section below.
Few things are more gratifying than having thousands of fans tell you they’re dying to read your next book when it comes out.
Or so I imagine.
Rather than me sitting around and praying for such fervor to occur, I’m going to try to create it by sharing an excerpt from my work-in-progress (WIP) today. Who knows—maybe the excerpt will go viral and create the kind of frenzied buzz that results in tens of thousands of sales of my novel whenever it launches. At the very least, the excerpt will prove to my wife that I haven’t just been watching Netflix while locked away in my writing office these past several months.
Before we jump into the excerpt, I’d like to tell you just a little bit about my WIP. It’s an irreverent crime thriller tentatively titled Scott Free. Don’t bother memorizing the title because it’s likely I’ll change it or perish before the book comes out. Assuming I survive the entire writing and editing process, here’s the tentative blurb that will appear on the back of the book (for those of you who still hold actual physical books):
Fed up with society and stifled by mounting debt, artist Roxy Scott and her aging mother discover their one real shot at freedom.
Prison.
All they have to do is commit the perfect crime—an imperfect art forgery that’s sure to land them in a minimum security “Club Fed” correctional facility where they can finally relax.
There’s just one problem: They don’t get caught. Instead, they get rich.
That’s when the real problems start.
Since everything else I’ve mentioned thus far is tentative, I’m gonna go ahead and say the book will tentatively receive the following testimonials:
“I’m proud to call Levin one of my disciples, but what he does with this book is a prime example of the student surpassing the teacher.” —Chuck Palahniuk, author of Fight Club; president of the Greg Levin Fan Club
“It’s time for everybody to stop reading J.K. Rowling, George R.R. Martin and Stephen King, and start reading Greg Levin.” —J.K. Rowling, George R.R. Martin and Stephen King
“Not even being dead for twelve years could stop me from singing the praises of this electrifying novel. I’d buy Levin a drink, but my wallet decomposed.”—Kurt Vonnegut (1922-2007)
Okay, back to reality. Here’s some fiction—an excerpt from the opening chapter of what will soon probably no longer be called Scott Free. If you like slow starts, you’re going to hate this. Enjoy!
Take away the two or five or ten cops tailing us. Take away their loaded Glock 19s and the pack of K-9s closing in. Take away the ninety-eight-pound septuagenarian lying limp in my arms and load-testing my muscles and ligaments every foot we move forward. Add a thousand sunflowers to the field we're halfway through. Add a bit more azure to the vast Texas sky.
Do all that, and this would still be terrifying.
Agoraphobia has a way of ruining even the most idyllic outings. Combine it with running for your life while carrying your broken mother, and it’s a wonder nothing inside implodes any more than it already has.
The dogs bark in the distance like a stranger just rang Hell’s doorbell. The only thing separating us from them is a matter of time.
"Odessa," groans Mama. I pretend not to hear it.
The back pocket of my blood- and mud-splattered jeans vibrates with yet another call or text from Griff or Big Gail, or perhaps from someone who knew someone who once had the same number as this burner phone. If I had a spare hand or second, I’d let them know we’re not going to make it and we’re sorry and we love them. Even if it is a wrong number.
But right now I’m all about making it out of this unbearably bucolic meadow and into the damp tangle of trees up ahead. It’s easier to breathe in tight spaces. Plus live oaks can stop hollow-points.
Mama groans again. Sounds similar to what birthing an eight-pound girl forty-five years ago without an epidural must have felt like. I glance at Mama’s ashen face and lie to it. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
She murmurs for me to hurry. My heart is earning time-and-a-half.
The trees we just reached greet us with stabs. Branches poke and tear at our clothes. Scratch my face, neck and hands, adding a few more drops of crimson to the picture. Mama murmurs what sounds like “please” but I keep moving, scanning the forest for a secret portal. A trap door. A chance in hell.
The dogs are still out of sight but getting louder. Not loud enough to keep me from trying to catch my breath though. Cradling Mama, I crouch and set her down not gently enough against the trunk of an oak about twice her age. She moans, and with one eye open, goes, “Why?”
Her neck gives out, sending her chin into her collarbone. I lift her head and use the bottom of what an hour ago was my favorite blouse to dab a speck of blood where a branch caught the corner of her mouth. Mama’s got two eyes open now and they’re both on me. She should be too exhausted to look that angry. But I get it. We have to hurry. The dogs tell me so.
“Go,” whispers Mama. “Find her.”
I squat down to scoop Mama up in my arms. A grunt more like a growl escapes me as I hoist her over my shoulder and fireman-carry her toward hopefully what and who we’re looking for.
Fighting through a couple of heart attacks, we get to the top of a ridge. Going down is going to be even worse, but I see a rocky outcrop splitting two oaks about a football field ahead. Closer, and all there is between the overhang of the outcrop and the ground right below it is darkness.
Not a cave, but close enough.
Not a chance in hell, but I’ll take it.
That’s it—that’s all I’m going to share for now. The good news is there’s plenty more where that came from. Or, if you hated it, the good news is it will still be quite a while before the book is available. I’ll keep you all posted on the progress, and will likely share a couple more excerpts between now and the day I give birth to the book—which I’m hoping will be no later than the apocalypse.
One of my favorite things to do when not writing dangerous novels is read them. (No, not my own—that would be weird to admit publicly.) I love sinking into the sofa and getting lost in good books chock full of bad. Books with characters you’d run from in real life but can’t resist rooting for on the page. Characters who do awful things for noble reasons. Characters who take crazy risks for what they feel is right.
Characters who punch you in the gut as they steal your heart—and who make you laugh as you bleed out.
You’ll find such appealingly unlikeable characters in books by the likes of Chuck Palahniuk, Bret Easton Ellis, Gillian Flynn, Irvine Welsh.
But I’m not here to talk about those authors. They don’t need me to. They’re already famous. Today I’d like to instead shine the spotlight on several lesser-known (but not lesser) writers whose fresh, gritty and in some cases hilarious fiction will knock you for a loop, or on your ass. Or both.
Brace for impact.
Mike McCrary. The first time I read Mike McCrary, I didn’t. He did. He was giving a reading from his darkly comical crime thriller Genuinely Dangerous at a “Noir at the Bar” event I was attending in Austin, and his words blazed the crowd, eliciting gasps and guffaws. My first thought was, “Is this guy that good, or am I just drunk?” And then, after listening to him read more, I realized both were true.
If you dig funny, fast-paced, enthralling neo-noir—and can handle it served with a generous portion of profanity—I highly recommend you give Genuinely Dangerous a go. Same goes for McCrary’s novel Steady Trouble as well as his audacious Remo Cobb series. You can get the first book of that series (Remo Went Rogue) for FREE simply by joining McCrary’s mailing list here. (Books this good shouldn’t be free, but Mike is just too damn nice a guy … despite what his novels may imply.)
Sarah M. Chen. Not many crime fiction authors write with as much fun, hardboiled flare as Sarah M. Chen does. And practically none of them can write with as much authority. Chen works as a private investigator assistant in and around her home city of Los Angeles. So when not busy concocting crimes, she’s helping to solve them. This would be like me working as a serial killer or drug-addicted sociopath when not busy writing. (Man, if only the latter one paid.)
Chen has had dozens of crime fiction short stories published, and her debut novella, Cleaning Up Finn (which one dazzled critic characterized as “West Coast restaurant noir”) was a finalist for the Anthony Award and the Lefty Award—both coveted prizes in the mystery/thriller world. The novella also earned Chen an Independent Publisher Book Award, a.k.a., an “IPPY.” (IPPYs are a big deal, and I’m not just saying that because I’ve won two of them.) This March, be on the lookout for The Night of the Flood, a highly anticipated “novel-in-stories” Chen contributed to and co-edited with the inimitable crime/mystery author E.A. Aymar.
Scott Kelly. Scott Kelly and I first met the same way most middle-aged white male novelists meet—at a late-night freestyle rap circle out front of the Texas State Capitol building. I was there to rap; Kelly was there to hand out copies of one of his books. It goes without saying we were both under the influence.
Even more intriguing than our “meet-cute” are Kelly’s novels, which can best be described as existential transgressive psychological thrillers. Okay, maybe that’s not how they’re best described since that was a real clunky bunch of words. (What do you want from me—I’m only a writer.) Suffice it to say Kelly’s books are great—dark, provocative and sardonically funny. I recommend starting with Keep the Ghost (the first book of his Keep the Ghost Trilogy). It’s a mesmerizing tale of “pseudocide,” which is the faking of one’s death to wipe the slate clean and start over as a new person. Something we’ve all fantasized about—especially those of us with children.
Jen Conley. Jen Conley is one of the best short story writers you’ve never read. Saying so may be a little presumptuous of me—and a little insulting to her (and her fans)—but I wanted to grab your attention ... the same way Conley’s fierce yet soulful tales of lonely hearts, stolen goods and broken bones will.
Her work has appeared in such notable publications as Thuglit, Crime Factory and Beat to a Pulp, to name just a few. If you’re a fan of short crime/noir fiction, you must check out her Anthony Award-nominated book, Cannibals: Stories from the Edge of the Pine Barrens. And if you’re not a fan of short crime/noir fiction, be careful—Cannibals will turn you into one.
Eryk Pruitt. If you like epic tales of good triumphing over evil, of true courage in the face of peril, and of love conquering all, you’re going to hate Eryk Pruitt.
If, on the other hand, you’re into reading about con artists, social media narcissists and aspiring serial killers who make bad choice after bad choice with the best intentions, then not only will you love Pruitt’s masterfully minimalist Southern noir, but also you and I can be best friends.
Pruitt’s latest novel, What We Reckon, is, according to author Joe R. Lansdale, "hardboiled honey packed with razor blades and dynamite, strange and leanly written, and tossed into a tornado; … a modern piece of folklore covered in gasoline and set on fire.”
Wow, my mother said the exact same thing after reading it. But don’t just take her (or Joe’s or my) word for it; go read What We Reckon—and Pruitt’s two other gloriously gritty books, Dirtbags and Hashtag.
I hope some or all of these authors have piqued your interest. If you decide to read (or have read) one of their books and like(d) it, let me know. More importantly, let the AUTHOR and everyone else know by writing a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads.
Who are some of your favorite writers you feel are “under the radar” and well-deserving of a larger readership? (Mom and Dad, you don't have to list me.)
For a while now, I’ve been meaning to give a shout-out to the books that have profoundly influenced my life and writing. And with Thanksgiving just two days away, I figured it was the perfect time to do so—especially since my obsession with books and writing has alienated all my family and friends, leaving me with nothing else to do during this fine holiday week. (It's okay, I'll just pretend I'm British or Canadian. I'm getting good at it.)
Some of the books featured below shook me to the core when my core needed to be shaken. Some got me through the roughest of times. And some shattered my preconceived notions about what it is to be human, what it is to be alive, what it is to pick up the check at a restaurant once in a while.
All of them transformed me in some positive way … just not enough to get me invited to anyone’s house this Thursday.
But enough with the chit-chat. On to the books I’m most thankful for:
The Cat in the Hat(by Dr. Seuss). Those who know me know I am a bit wacky, enjoy breaking rules and love to rap. The Cat in the Hat is the reason for all that. When I was a small child, my mother read it to me at bedtime with the hope that I’d fall asleep. I’ve been awake ever since—running around embracing absurdity, laughing in the face of authority, and spontaneously spitting mad rhymes to complete strangers. (I'm beginning to see even more clearly why I'm free for Thanksgiving.)
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (by Mark Twain). This was the first big book (336 pages) I read voluntarily, and, more importantly, the book that woke me up to America’s history of slavery and racism. I found a copy of it on my parents’ bookshelf one summer day when I was ten, and was shocked by its frequent use of the “N” word. Not even a Lil Wayne album can compete.
I’ve experienced a lot of emotions in my reading life, but few compare to the intense anger I felt toward my own race while reading Huck Finn, or to how moved I was by the book’s young protagonist defying his community and religion to ensure that an escaped slave remained a free man. I wanted to be like Huck ... only with better diction.
Without Feathers (by Woody Allen). Woody Allen’s legendary status as a filmmaker, actor, comic and creepy cradle-robber has overshadowed the fact that he’s also a damn fine author. His first book, Without Feathers—a collection of short stories, essays and plays—changed my life in college. The sheer force of existential hilarity in his writing not only derailed my clinical depression, it inspired me to stop trying to impress my English professors with overly dramatic narratives and instead embrace the sardonic humor that was dying to hit the page.
Thanks to Woody, I went from being a brooding poser who elicited yawns during workshop readings to being an eager writer who caused classmates to pee their acid-washed jeans.
Oh, the Places You’ll Go! (by that Seuss guy again). On the last day of my first post-college job (in Annapolis, Maryland, circa 1991), a coworker friend had everyone in our workplace sign a copy of Oh, the Places You’ll Go! for me to bring to Colorado, where I had decided to move because why not. I didn’t know a single sole in the Rocky Mountain state, but felt it was where I needed to ski … I mean be.
There were many lonely nights in the wintery town I ended up in, causing me to seriously question my decision to leave my friends, family and comfy job on the East Coast. But Oh, the Places You’ll Go! was there to assure me I’d made the right move. Seuss’s weird words of wisdom about travel and adventure and about finding and losing yourself—coupled with the envious and encouraging words my former coworkers had etched inside the cover—kept me from packing up and taking the safe route back to familiar environs. At least until the ski season ended and the money ran out six months later.
A Confederacy of Dunces (by John Kennedy Toole). Until I read Dunces (at the insistence of an old college friend while I was living in Spain at the turn of the century), I had assumed literary writing could be hysterical only in small doses— short stories, one-act plays. I’d tried reading what I’d been told were funny novels on several occasions, only to be disappointed and exhausted in the end ... or well before reaching it.
And then came Dunces. I not only finished it with a big smile and sore abdominals, I did so in one sitting. The book managed to sustain its humor by not trying too hard to be humorous. Truth is, the protagonist—Ignatius J. Reilly—is downright off-putting and unlikeable. So naturally I loved him … so much so, I felt inspired to try my own hand at writing a comedic novel. Of course, those of you who have read my first novel may wish Ignatius and I had never met. But I’d like to think I’ve gotten better at long fiction since then. And I’d like to think you think so too.
I’ll be forever thankful for Dunces, for providing the spark I needed to follow my literary passion and earn less money than I ever dreamed possible.
Lolita (by Vladimir Nabokov). Say what you will about this book, so long as what you say is it’s astonishing. Lolita marked my introduction to—and everlasting love affair with—transgressive fiction. Transgressive novels are characterized by protagonists who feel confined by the norms and expectations of society and who break free of those confines in unusual or illicit ways. In other words, books featuring freaks and criminals you can’t help but root for.
Most of you will agree being bad can feel pretty good. Well, reading bad can feel even better ... even when the bad you’re reading is awful … provided the writing’s great. I’ve lost you. Sorry, I guess it’s just hard singing the praises of a book about a grown man falling madly in love with a twelve year-old girl. (I’ve got a daughter for goodness sake—and she’ll kick my ass if her friends’ parents end up boycotting sleepovers at our place because of this post.)
Suffice it to say Lolita is the book that inspired me to start taking more risks with my own fiction. To explore controversial topics and moral complexities in my stories, and to develop protagonists readers hate to like. Or like to hate. I don’t really care, so long as liking’s involved in some way.
You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense (by Charles Bukowski). When people tell me they hate poetry, I tell them they're mistaken. This confuses them even more than poetry. I then tell them they have to read You Get So Alone and report back immediately. This compels those who hate being bossed around to take a swing at me. They're the ones who'll love the book the most.
Charles Bukowski was an ill-tempered, miserable bastard and a drunk of mythical proportions. Fortunately, all of that comes through in his poems. As does his humanity—you just have to peer beneath the barbed wire and broken bottles of bourbon to find it.
You Get So Alone is like an old cantankerous friend who always has your back ... even in a bar fight … even a bar fight you initiated with a bunch of armed bikers who were minding their own business. Point is, the book will help you get through hell. Hell like heartbreak. Hell like depression. Hell like sibling death. And it does this not by whispering that everything will be okay or by plying you with happy platitudes; rather by punching you in the face and reminding you how lucky you are to feel it.
Fight Club (by Chuck Palahniuk). Speaking of getting punched in the face and liking it. When I read the first few chapters of Fight Club, I knew there was no going back. To old ways of thinking. To old ways of feeling. To old ways of writing. A switch I didn’t even know I had was flipped and a current like God shot through my bones.
The movie’s good, too.
Too bad the rules state I can’t talk about either. Just know I’m thankful for Fight Club the way Trump’s thankful for Twitter, or the way Saturday Night Live’s thankful for Trump.
I realize many of you are busy planning when to put the turkey in the oven and where to put your uncle after his fourth scotch, but if you have a minute, I’d love to hear what book(s) YOU’RE most thankful for. (Please share them in the comments section below.) Oh, and ...
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.