My novels explore some really dark stuff. Stuff like terminal illness, voluntary euthanasia, serial killing, sex trafficking, drug addiction, dementia. Yes, I have sought professional help. No, it hasn't stopped me from tackling such grim topics. And here’s the thing: When reviewing a novel of mine—whether the book is about a terminally ill man who kills people, or about a man who kills terminally ill people, or about a man who pretends to be a pedophile to catch sex traffickers—most readers mention they found the book funny. Many say they laughed a lot. Some say they peed a little.
Those of you who’ve never read any of my books (and I know who you are—I’m making a list, checking it twice) may be thinking, “What kind of sociopath writes books that make light of such horrific topics and issues? And what kind of sociopaths read such books and laugh enough to need an adult diaper?”
First of all, go easy on my readers—they’re good people. Secondly, allow me to explain:
I don’t make light of people dying or killing. I don’t make light of cancer or the people suffering from it. I don’t make light of sex trafficking or drug addiction or dementia. What I do (or try to, at least) is show how humans—when stuck in the darkest of spaces—will scratch and claw at the walls until even the tiniest speck of light breaks through. Humor is a natural survival mechanism, sonaturally I try to weave some into books about people facing serious adversity. My aim isn't for readers to laugh at the darkness but rather to laugh in it. I never try to force “the funny” (like I sometimes do on my blog or when trying to embarrass my daughter in public). Instead I try to use the funny to appropriately juxtapose the frightening and the fierce.
If you were to ask me what I’m most proud of in my writing career, I’d make no mention of awards or Hollywood options or major book deals (especially not that last one, since I’ve never had a major book deal.) What I’m most proud of are the times when readers—particularly those who’ve personally experienced the same/similar tragedy or peril featured in a book of mine—reach out to say they appreciated how the book’s humor elevated the story rather than detracted from it. How it elicited laughter without disrespecting the dire straits the characters faced. As a writer, there’s only one thing more rewarding than hearing that a reader “got” exactly what you were going for: Hearing that what you were going for made a lasting impact on a reader and helped to ease their suffering, relieve their grief, make their day (or even just their hour or minute).
That’s what novels by the likes of Chuck Palahniuk, Kurt Vonnegut, Elmore Leonard and Sara Gran do for me. Such books break my heart while making me bust a gut. They show humanity at its worst yet somehow manage to restore my faith in it. They cause me to cringe and clench and cheer and laugh in equal measure. A few other authors who effectively pepper their powerful, gritty fiction with humor are Joe Clifford, Rachel Howzell Hall, Nico Walker, and Will Christopher Baer.
If you look at the reviews for any of my novels, you’ll see plenty of readers starting off with something like, “I didn’t know what the hell I was getting myself into with this book” or “I was a little nervous about cracking this one open,” but what soon follows is usually something like, “I couldn’t believe I was laughing along with and rooting for these characters” or “Hilarious and delightful, though also heart-wrenching.” (For a perfect example of such a review, click HERE.)
I love receiving reviews like those. Not because they’re positive and full of praise (though sure, that’s nice, too); rather because I love it when readers take a chance on books with topics that worry or rattle or frighten them—books they fear may cross the line or trigger painful emotions or memories. And I love it even more when those readers, after diving into such books, walk away rewarded for their risk—feeling not only entertained but also touched and moved. Perhaps even inspired.
Just like how I feel every time I discover a novel that dares to laugh in the dark.
How about you? Have you ever bought or borrowed a book you thought might scar you for life but that ended up moving you to tears and laughter? I’d love to hear about it—please share in the comments section below.
Long before I became a novelist, I used to imagine being one. I thought about how cool it must be to write all day and roam the night. I thought about the freedom of having no boss, nobody telling you what to do on the page or off it. Just infinite creativity, full expression, pure human experience.
So, yeah, I used to daydream about life—particularly nightlife—as a fiction writer.
And then sh*t got real.
Here’s how I imagined a typical night in a novelist’s life before I started writing long fiction fifteen years ago:
You sidle up to the bar and nod at Charlie. You needn’t utter a word—Charlie knows your drink. Has known it for years. Knew it before your first novel changed the landscape. Knew it before you declined the National Book Award because you wanted to stay hungry. Knew it before the signed photo of you hanging on the wall behind the bar was hung on the wall behind the bar.
Bourbon, neat.
The beautiful woman you’ve pretended not to notice sitting on the barstool to your left, babysitting a martini, glances at you, then at the photo, then at you again. “Hey, isn’t that you up there?” she asks, pointing at your framed black-and-white smugness.
You shake your head. “It was.”
The woman knits her brow, then turns her attention back to her martini.
Charlie hands you a lowball filled too high. You hand him a twenty—you try to, anyway. He shakes his head and says it’s on the house. You shake your head and say he’s an enabler, then drop the twenty into the tip jar.
Charlie tells you he just finished your latest book. Says it’s your best one yet. You tell him you didn’t tip him to lie to you. He laughs, then asks what you’re working on now.
“Just this bourbon,” you say.
The martini woman scoffs. “You know, being so clever all the time actually isn’t.”
You nod and tell her you’re going to borrow that line.
“Be my guest,” she says. “You could use some new lines—I’ve read your last two novels.” She then knocks back her martini, grabs her bag from a hook below the bar, and leaves without another word.
And just like that, you’re smitten. But you’re not going to let falling in love ruin your mood.
The air. It’s thick with booze. Broken hearts. Bad intentions.
It’s going to be a good night.
And here’s how a typical night in a novelist’s life (mine, anyway) ACTUALLY looks:
“What the hell are you doing in there?” your wife shouts from the living room. “You said you were just going to your writing office to grab your phone. Come back here and watch this show with me.”
“Sorry baby, still looking for my phone,” you say as you continue typing ferociously yet as quietly as possible. “Be right there—didn’t realize the commercials were over already.”
Your wife reminds you that Netflix doesn’t show commercials and that you yourself had asked her to pause the show. And that you had promised you wouldn’t sneak off to write tonight.
“I’m not writing,” you say, your fingers tapping as fast as lightning and as light as a feather on the keyboard. You haven’t had a creative spurt like this in weeks. What’s flying onto the screen might be the best thing you’ve written in years.
“Then why do I hear tapping?” your wife shouts from three rooms away.
You stop typing and take a swig from one of the cans of Monster you keep hidden in your writing office and say, “That was just my fingertips drumming on the desk to help me think where I left the darn phone.” You then take a swig from the flask of vodka you keep hidden behind the cans of Monster.
Your wife says don’t worry, she’ll call your phone to help you find it.
“Wait! I think I know where it is now,” you say while an idea for an amazing plot twist for Chapter 16 pops into your head and has you frothing at the mouth, though the frothing may just be from the energy drink. “Yup, here it is—it had slid under the printer.” You take another swig of Monster, and two more swigs of vodka.
“Finally,” your wife says. “Now get back here so we can finish watch—”
“Ohhh nooo,” you call out slowly, stalling to give you time to finish your notes for the killer scene you just thought of. “There are a bunch of text messages from Ted. He says Janet just dumped him and he’s in a really dark place. Says to please call him. Says he needs someone to talk to or he might do something crazy.”
“Oh my god, call him!” your wife cries out. “Poor Ted!”
“Okay, calling him now. Thanks for understanding, baby. So sorry—I promise we’ll finish that episode later tonight.”
You feel awful and you don’t deserve her but more importantly you just bought yourself at least an hour of uninterrupted writing time, fueled by your unstoppable creative spirit and your Monster.
But first you need to tweet something witty about #writerslife and #amwriting. Lucky for you, your wife doesn’t have a Twitter account.
You send out a tweet about how nothing stands between you and your novel, and the tweet already has two likes from hardworking, dedicated writers just like you who are busy browsing Twitter instead of writing. Time to get back to your manuscript. But first, you take another quick peek at your tweet to make sure it doesn’t contain any typos or anything and … SWEET—another like!
Okay, no more screwing around. This novel isn’t going to write itself, and you can’t risk falling out of the zone you’re in right now. You click back to the manuscript and … damn it. You just realized the amazing plot twist you came up with a few minutes ago has a huge hole in it and will never work.
No biggie. You know you’ll come up with an even better twist by the time you get to Chapter 16. In the meantime, you’ll just keep working on Chapter 2, moving the story forward, building tension, increasing the stakes—basically creating a gritty crime thriller that will be impossible for readers to put down. You’ve got this! But first, you check your email.
In your inbox is a message from an agent who a month ago asked to see the manuscript for the novel you finished six months ago but have yet to get published. Before, opening the email, you pray to God this is “the one,” then apologize to God about you being agnostic up until now. You remind God you gave five dollars to a homeless man the other day, then click on the email to open the message. The agent says she’s really glad you gave her a chance to read your manuscript (cool, cool) and says she really enjoyed it (yeah?!) and thinks the book will have no problem finding a publisher (YES!), but that she doesn’t feel she’s the right person to champion it and thus cannot offer you representation at this time.
You shout a string of obscenities, and your wife asks if everything’s okay. “Yes, sorry,” you say. “Just letting Ted know how upset I am about him and Janet splitting up.” Your wife tells you to try to exhibit a more positive vibe for Ted. You say sure thing, then cover your mouth with your mouse pad and scream the rest of the obscenities you know into it.
You take a few deep breaths and start to calm down. You convince yourself there are plenty of agents out there who’d kill to rep you, and that the book in question is your breakout novel. You slap yourself in the face, tell yourself to toughen up, and vow to keep plugging away at the new manuscript no matter what as soon as you check to see how your tweet is doing.
Your tweet has no new likes. Also, you just received another rejection notification via email. And worst of all, your flask is empty. You decide to use all this frustration and dejection as fuel, to have it ignite your soul and elicit from you the most harrowing and gripping set of chapters you’ve ever written. Halfway through the first sentence, you realize you haven’t checked the sales of your existing books since dinner. You check. You haven’t sold any books since last week when your mother bought yet another copy and forced it on a friend.
You start crying a little—partly due to your failures as a writer, and partly due to Ted and Janet breaking up. Then you remember Ted and Janet didn’t actually break up, but this doesn’t cheer you up because you’ve never really liked Janet.
You pop one of the Xanax you keep hidden behind the Monster and the vodka in your office.
Your wife knocks on your office door. “You still talking to Ted?” she asks.
“Hold on a second, Ted,” you say into your pretend phone, which you then pretend to cover even though your office door is closed and your wife can't see you. “Yeah," you say to her. "Poor guy’s a mess.”
Your wife says she thought she heard you crying. You say that was actually Ted— that you accidentally put him on speaker for a moment there. She asks why she hasn’t heard you say anything besides several curse words since you started talking to Ted. You tell her Ted just needs someone to listen to him right now.
Another plot twist idea pops into your head. You tell your wife you feel bad for making Ted hold like this and need to get back to lending him your ear.
“Sorry about that, Ted,” you say into your pretend phone loud enough for your wife to hear. “Please continue. Yeah, you were saying you don’t know how you’re going to get through this, and I was telling you I know you will, and that I’m here for you, and that you have so much to live for.”
Through the door, your wife says you’re a good friend. A good man. A great husband. Says she’s lucky to have you in her life.
You take a break from staring at your manuscript to cover your pretend phone, then tell your wife, “Ditto.”
“Oh, and by the way,” your wife says, a little bite in her voice, “I have your phone.”
She pauses for your heart attack, then says, “You left it on the couch before running to your writing office to find it.”
Says she was just on a real phone call—with Janet. Says Janet’s doing great. Ted too.
Says she’s going to stay with them for the next few days, maybe longer.
Says, “That ought to give you plenty of time to write. Jackass.”
Before any of you unsubscribe, un-follow, un-friend me, and/or urge my wife to divorce me, please note that what you just read is full of hyperbole and over-dramatizations for the sake of entertainment. I assure you I would never cover my mouth with my mouse pad—that thing has mold growing on it from all the vodka and Monster I’ve spilled on it. Also, I don’t have any friends named Ted, or in general.
If you would like to contribute funds to help pay for the therapy Greg needs, you can do so by going to his Amazon author page, clicking on one (or all) of the books featured, then clicking the “Buy Now” icon.
Those of you who’ve been on my mailing list and/or have followed me on social media for a while now (THANK YOU) know I usually come out with a new novel every 12-18 months. You’ve likely heard me express how much joy I get from writing, how much pride I take in it. How much I love creating characters who are decent people deep down but who make questionable decisions and take big risks for what they feel is right or just—characters you would probably never hang out with in real life but whom you can’t resist rooting for in a book.
Many of you have even read my books, and some of you even like them. A few of you have even told me you always look forward to whatever book I happen to be working on. I’m extremely grateful to all of you—especially you folks in that second and third group!
With all that said, I have an announcement that might bum some of you out—initially, at least:
It may be a while before you see another novel with my name on it.
No, I’m not giving up writing. Quite the contrary, actually—I’m trying to go bigger with it. That is, I’m aiming for a book deal. It remains to be seen whether this deal will be with a “Big 5” publishing house, a Big 5-adjacent publishing house, or one of several highly respected small presses that specialize in fresh and daring crime fiction/thrillers. But one thing is for sure (I think)—I’m done with putting out books myself as an indie author under my own imprint (White Rock Press).
Now, before any of my indie/self-published author colleagues un-follow, un-friend, or un-talk to me, let me make something perfectly clear: I still have the utmost respect for—and will continue to support and spread the word about—the many folks who continue to hustle and grind every day to write, publish and peddle good books without the assistance of a literary agent and/or a publishing house. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Many of the best books I’ve read are by authors who fall under the indie or self-published category. Having a literary agent and a traditional book deal doesn’t by definition make an author superior to or more talented than an author who doesn’t. Yes, some of the top writers out there today are “traditionally” published. But being traditionally published isn’t the de facto sign of writing talent—not by any stretch.
So then why, you may ask, have I decided to hand in my indie badge and set my sights on a “traditional” publishing deal?
I’ll tell you why:
I’m tired.
Not the most inspiring reason, but it’s true. Now, to be clear, I’m not tired of writing. I’ll never tire of writing. I currently spend half my waking life working on novels, and will continue to. But I am tired of spending the other half of my waking life doing the following:
lining up (and paying out of my pocket) editors, proofreaders, cover designers, and formatters for my books;
constantly shouting into the vast digital void, “Check out my book(s)!”
deeply discounting those books (and shouting into the vast digital void about said deep discounts) to boost sales and gain new readers;
doing everything I possibly can to single-handedly grow my mailing list and followers and author platform so that every time I come out with a new book I already have more people who know about it than I did for the previous one.
I’m also tired of NOT doing certain things. Mainly, not being the best father and husband and son and brother and friend I can be because I’m so busy doing all of the above tasks—all the non-writing activities an indie author has to do to have even a remote shot at having their book make a bang and not just a whimper in the world. (NOTE: While I’ll certainly help a lot with the above tasks after I get a publisher, I no longer wish to be a publisher.)
In addition, I’m tired of making traditional publishing wrong—making excuses for why I have yet to land a literary agent or a book deal in the six or so years since I decided to start taking my fiction career seriously. I’m tired of lying to myself—telling myself the only reason I’ve yet to make a bigger splash in the book world is because my novels are “too edgy” or because lit agents and publishing houses are interested only in formulaic, commercial fiction, or because you have to know somebody big in the biz who wants to help you. I’m tired of the fact that I’ve stopped even trying to get a book deal because I've convinced myself it’s too hard these days, or because the traditional publishing process is sooo sloooow (that's true, but not a good reason to stop trying), or because—gag—I’m an artist, not a sell-out.
I want to challenge myself. I want to try to go bigger and wider with my books (while still spending quality time with my family and the few friends I have left). I want to prove to myself I’m tough enough to endure the inevitable rejections and gut-punches and body blows that happen to an author when they try to jump into the traditional publishing ring. And, even more so, I want to see if I’m tough enough to remain grounded in the event that I actually succeed. From what I’ve witnessed, it’s not easy for authors who’ve hit it big to be authentically humble, grateful, compassionate, and generous. And it may very well not be.
But I'm going to do everything I can to find out for myself.
What’s that—you want to know what you can do to help? Aw, that’s so kind of you to offer! Hmm, you sort of caught me off guard with that thoughtful question, so it may take me a while to … okay, I’ve got it! The following are some things you can do to help let the publishing world know I’m an author worth taking a chance on:
Buy my existing books.Agents and publishers like to see that an author they're considering has a decent sales record. So, if you’ve enjoyed my posts and book excerpts but have yet to buy or read any of my novels, go on and give one a shot. Or give two or three a shot. Okay, fine—buy everything I’ve ever written. I’m not going to sit here and argue with you.
Tell your people. Those of you who’ve read my novels and enjoyed them, please spread the word to your friends, family, and colleagues whose taste in literature may be as awesome as yours is.
Tell complete strangers. Why do you insist on living in a bubble when it comes to advancing my writing career? I feel it’s high time you expanded your efforts and began promoting my books to the reading world at large. This can easily be done by posting reviews on Amazon or Goodreads, as well as by quitting your job to form a massive Greg Levin Fan Club that travels the globe and the talk-show circuit singing the praises of my fiction.
Tell your agent or publisher. A renowned author of crime thrillers recently reached out to let me know she loved my work. She then offered to refer me to her agent. Which begs the question: Why isn’t EVERY renowned author of crime thrillers reaching out to me and doing the same? I mean, is that so much to ask?
All kidding aside (okay,most kidding aside), I'm very excited about the new path I've decided to take through the publishing woods. Sure, I may get lost, or torn to shreds by a Grizzly, or trapped under a tree and gnawed to death by a squirrel. But there's also a chance I make if through the forest fully intact—having survived on squirrel stew and bear steaks—and with a book deal in hand. We'll have to wait and see. But one thing's for sure: I will never again use a forest metaphor to end an important announcement about my writing career.
NOTE: My (hopefully) next novel, INTO A CORNER, has been finished since June and has drawn the interest of several literary agents. So now the waiting and wishing and praying begins. My apologies for inadvertatnly teasing you by announcing earlier this year that the book would be available the beginning of this month. I assure you I had every intention of launching it then, but have since banged my head and developed delusions of grandeur. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to run—I'm late for a lunch with Stephen King, J.K. Rowling, and Margaret Atwood at Cormac McCarthy's house.
I first learned who Lenny Kleinfeld was a couple of months ago when his novel Shooting Lessons stumbled into my inbox via a “new releases” newsletter I received. (Every week I like to peek at the latest crime/noir novels so I can panic and punish myself over not having published a book since late 2017.) I opened the aforementioned email, and one book stood out among the others listed. I could tell by the cover and the plot description that the author was definitely insane and probably wanted by authorities in multiple states. That’s when I knew I’d found my new best friend.
Mr. Kleinfeld and I have since become close virtual pen pals—just not close enough for me to use his first name or look him directly in the sunglasses. Now, I could say a lot of great things about this author, but I’ve got an interview to get to below so I’ll just rip some highlights from his bio: Kleinfeld’s first novel, Shooters and Chasers, was called “A spellbinding debut” by Kirkus Reviews. His second novel, Some Dead Genius, was one of NPR’s Best Books of 2014, and named “Thriller of the Month” by e‑Thriller.com. Shooting Lessons is Kleinfeld’s latest novel, which critics say is very gritty, very hilarious and very good. One reader—me—agrees wholeheartedly, and has described Kleinfeld’s unique style of crime fiction as “gun-in-cheek.”
Now, on to the interview!
Congrats on the recent release of Shooting Lessons. There are two things I absolutely love about this book: 1) The use of dollar signs in place of the letter “S” in the title on the cover; and 2) everything else. So my question is, what sparked this darkly hilarious crime novel? More importantly, please don’t steal all my readers from me—I worked very hard for all 26 of them.
Thank you. The $ for S artwork is by the great Stewart A. Williams. Since everybody does judge a book by its cover, I think it's worth the investment to have an ingenious eye-catching one that says, This is a professional-grade novel. Then you have to hope reading the sample chapters doesn't demolish that impression. Though officially I just blame Stewart every time someone doesn't buy a copy.
The spark for the book was the usual: I remembered we have a mortgage. Then I banged my head against the keyboard until a plot fell out that wasn't awful and I could see opportunities where I could have fun. In this case, it was having fun with some especially deranged, despicable lobbying techniques employed by a major gun rights organization.
And don’t worry, I won't steal your 26 readers. We can share 25 of them. And that one guy who reads only one book a year and it's always yours—I'd never steal him, that'd be really rude. And I'm the politest guy ever. (My wife will confirm this. Just don't ask her when she's drunk. Or sober.)
There are some folks who feel “good” crime fiction can’t (or shouldn’t) be humorous. What do you have to say to such folks? What do you say we team up and fight them?
I tell those folks not to worry; if they don't have a sense of humor they can read my novels without any danger of being amused.
And no, I'm not teaming up with you to fight them. I'm old. It's your job to fight them. It's my job to criticize your hand-to-hand combat technique.
Who are your biggest influences as an author? Have you ever been fortunate enough to meet any of them? Have you ever been unfortunate enough to meet any of them?
My biggest influences are everyone who's written anything I liked and could steal from.
My stories aren't who-dunnits, they're how-dunnits. Written in a third-person POV—with lots of shifts between the good guys, bad guys and tangential guys. And any opportunity for humor is shamelessly exploited. Some reviewers and crime fiction fans have noticed a resemblance to the writing of Elmore Leonard and Carl Hiaasen.
I try not to meet authors whose work I like, because if they've read anything of mine, they might recognize what I stole and hit me during some careless moment when you, Greg, weren’t around to sacrifice your body in my defense, as any decent human would for someone as old as me.
Do you have any peculiar writing habits, aside from being a peculiar writer?
Yes.
I recently wrote a piece about some of the more memorable sources/subject matter experts I’ve interviewed to help me get away with murder (in my books— mostly). What’s one of the most interesting/disturbing conversations you’ve had as part of your research for a novel?
The murders in my books are simple ones that don't require research to write or arcane forensics to decipher. Most are gunshot-related. There's also a strangulation with a garrote, a neck broken, a smothering with a pillow, and a head-bashing with a fireplace poker.
However, once upon a time, in the 1960s, I was a teenager whose father was a police officer. He once told me about the good old days—the 1950s—when almost no cop-killer was tried for murder, due to their remarkably consistent tendency to die while resisting arrest. For example, when police located one young man who offed a cop, a senior officer went along to supervise the bust. The suspect ran. The senior officer was middle-aged but had been on his college track team. He chased the perp, caught up and, in full stride, raised his weapon and shot him in the head. I asked if the bullet to the back of the head of a fleeing suspect made it difficult to classify the incident as resisting arrest. I was informed the coroner's report may have contained a slight mistake, in which he may have reversed the position of the entry and exit wounds.
How did your upbringing influence you as a writer? If you could have a conversation with younger you about writing, what one or two pieces of advice would you give him?
The big literary influence during my upbringing was my grandfather. When I was in sixth grade he gave me a typewriter, after which my stuff became legible enough for people, including me, to read.
I'd give the young me the same advice I give any young writer:
a) Be talented.
b) Be born with a trust fund.
c) That thing you're working on that's finally done, through, finished, complete—shut the f*ck up and make it shorter.
Who and what are you currently reading? Can you please put that book down now and pay attention to my questions?
Michelle Obama's autobiography. And no.
Can we expect another novel from you soon, or do you need a long nap to recover from Shooting Lessons? If you do have a new work-in-progress, can you give us the skinny on it?
What's soon? I'm not familiar with that word.
The skinny on my work-in-progress is it's very, very skinny.
Is there anything you were hoping I’d ask but didn’t? Are you regretting having ever replied to my initial email?
My lack of imagination prevents me from answering your first question. My legendary politeness (see above) prevents me from answering your second. Don't worry, if this interview fails to spark a surge in sales of my new book, I'll stick with tradition and blame Stewart A. Williams, not you.
Fortunately, my detachment from reality and inability to pick up on obvious social cues has me feeling this interview went very well, and that you were happy to participate. So thank you for playing, and best of luck with the latest book—as well as with all the others!
Speaking of Lenny Kleinfeld’s books, his “Vacation Escapist Reading Sale” begins today and runs through midnight, July 16th:
You know how, when you call the homicide division of your local police department to ask for assistance with a murder you have in mind, and they put you on hold for a good five or ten minutes and tell you to stay put?
No?
Oops, my mistake. I forgot most of you are respectable citizens with respectable jobs—not crime novelists.
It’s okay. I’m not judging.
I will say, though, it’s too bad you don’t get to experience the adrenaline rush that comes from having disturbing conversations with important people who possess the dark, gruesome knowledge you need to get your lies right.
The best part is, it’s a symbiotic relationship: The cop or FBI agent or medical examiner you chat with gets an intriguing diversion from the stark realities they live and work in each day, and you get the excitement of causing serious concern among total strangers.
I’m very fortunate to have a mind twisted enough to keep me from being able to hold down a real job, but not so twisted that I need to be locked up and prohibited from contacting as many authority figures in the medical and law enforcement communities as I want.
Following are some of the more notable subject matter experts I’ve spoken to, without whom none of my novels would have ever come to fruition. So you have them to thank or blame.
Dr. Patricia Rosen. Dr. Rosen is an experienced toxicologist who provided me with ample amounts of expert info on cyanide and other deadly poisons featured in my novel, Sick to Death. Truth is, when I contacted her and told her the plot of the book, she expressed a little too much interest in helping me. Naturally, I made sure to cite her on the Acknowledgements page—she’s not the kind of person you want to forget to thank.
A party supply store manager (whose name I forgot to jot down). The knowledge and insight I gleaned from this manager—whom I interviewed as part of my research for The Exit Man—was so indispensible and eye-opening, I can’t tell you who he was or where he worked. I got so busy and excited scribbling down his answers to my questions about balloons and party tents and helium tank rentals, I completely forgot to jot down his name. I do, however, remember his friendly customer service tone changing dramatically when I asked what size tank would supply enough helium to kill a man. Nevertheless, I went easy on him and didn’t bother to write a negative review on Yelp. I couldn’t—I didn’t know the name of the store.
Deputy C. Williams. The anonymous party supply guy above wasn’t the only expert who helped make my fiction true in The Exit Man. Deputy Williams of the Travis County Sheriff’s Department (in Austin, TX) spent a good half hour on the phone with me verifying the accuracy and plausibility of the police work depicted in the book. He then probably spent a good couple of days creating a task force to track my activity and make sure I wasn’t seen with any helium tanks in my possession.
Radd Berrett. Radd is the guy on whom the protagonist from my novel In Wolves’ Clothing is loosely based. 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—in addition to being heartbreaking and terrifying—were invaluable. And considering he has the strength to bench-press my entire family, there was no way I was going to leave him out of this blog post.
A thoracic surgeon. While In Wolves’ Clothing doesn’t contain any major plot holes, there’s a gaping hole in the main character’s torso—a bullet wound that occurs midway through the book. To make sure that recovering from such trauma wasn’t D.O.A. from a feasibility standpoint, I spoke to a thoracic surgeon (who requested anonymity) before writing the scene. And I can’t tell you how thrilled I was when the surgeon told me I could totally get away with shooting my protagonist in the solar plexus at point-blank range. Happy day!
Andrea Perez. Andrea is an attorney specializing in art law, and has been an amazing resource in helping me keep my upcoming novel Into a Corner (launching in September!) from jumping the shark. Andrea has not only answered my many questions regarding art forgery and the legal ramifications surrounding it, she’s provided me with some very interesting facts and tidbits about the underbelly of the art world. I’ve incorporated much of this info into the book, resulting in a more captivating narrative and even a wild plot twist or two. Best of all, she offered her assistance pro-bono. That said, when I asked if she would represent me pro-bono—in the event I got caught committing some of the crimes featured in the book for research purposes—she laughed at me and hung up.
An organic biochemist from the University of Texas. When I called the Department of Chemistry at UT a couple of months ago to ask about the proper way to dissolve a human body (for a scene in Into a Corner), I got put on hold and passed around so many times, I lost count. Hopefully the organic biochemist I ended up speaking with actually was an organic biochemist and not a janitor posing as one. Nothing against janitors, it’s just, I’d like to be certain the morbid science in my novel makes sense. More importantly, I’d like to be certain there isn’t a janitor running around UT with intricate knowledge of how to dissolve a body.
For you fiction writers out there, what’s the weirdest/darkest/creepiest conversation YOU’VE ever had with a subject matter expert? Actually, I’m even more interested in having those of you who AREN’T fiction writers answer that question.