Back in October I posted the first excerpt from my upcoming novel, and hopefully you were so dazzled by the gripping narrative and dialogue, you forgot the title of the book.
Because the title of the book has changed.
In that post I did mention I’d likely be changing the title, so nothing about this announcement should come as a huge surprise. Still, that shouldn’t stop you from exploding with anticipation right now as I prepare to reveal the official title of my next novel.
[insert pause here to allow for maximum build-up of anticipation, tension and excitement]
Ladies and gentlemen, the title of my upcoming novel—due out this summer—is…
[insert another pause, but shorter to avoid annoying everyone]
INTO A CORNER
Okay, now that that’s over with, below is an excerpt from Chapter 2 of the book. I’m having a blast writing it, by the way. And if you like crime fiction with plenty of grit, heart and dark humor, I think you'll have a blast reading it. (Note: In addition to changing the title, I changed the name of the main character. From Roxy Scott to Odessa Scott. Why? Because Odessa told me to, and she’s not somebody you want to upset.)
From Chapter 2 of INTO A CORNER
There isn’t a color or brushstroke in the world that can fix what’s about to burn.
My saliva slides down the canvas, bringing with it some of the blue and black paint I applied just before spitting. This isn’t a technique. It’s a termination. It’s another ten hours of work and eighty bucks of stretched Belgian linen down the drain. Scratch that. Up in smoke.
The concrete floor practically cracks as I stomp toward the welding torch hanging on the far wall of my studio. My studio is my garage. Especially today.
I snatch the torch from the wall, then grab the handle of the metal cart that holds everything else and rattle it back across the garage. En route, I stop to kick out of the way a cardboard box filled with who the hell cares and continue on toward my oil-based mishap, my abstract attempt at capturing the latest school shooting.
Worst part is, the worthless mess on the canvas is the only thing of value in the room. My garage that doubles as a studio triples as storage space for my dead husband, Wayne. Maybe after torching the painting I’ll torch Wayne’s broken Kawasaki and his socket wrenches. Torch his golf bag and his Astros cap. His flannel shirts and his wedding suit. And all the rest of the crap he didn’t and can’t come back for. All the junk that should be for sale on eBay or Craigslist but isn’t.
Of course, if I did torch Wayne’s stuff, there’d be nothing left in the studio to inspire me. Without all these reminders of abandonment and betrayal and tragedy around, I’d likely end up painting something bright and cheerful. Something light and hopeful. Something so awful it would sell.
Besides, all this clutter is good for my nerves.
Standing a few feet from the canvas, I take one last look at everything that went wrong. The reds and greens and blues that escaped my control. The black flashes I splattered last-minute out of spite. This is the third piece in a row that didn’t turn out as I’d pictured. Didn’t measure up. Can’t be saved.
Used to be my art career wasn’t such a fire hazard. Luckily my side job writing last words for dead people keeps me alive. Almost.
In loving memory of when things weren’t a total shit-show.
From the cart I grab the green gas hose that’s still attached to an oxygen cylinder from the last time I shot flames at my failure. I screw the other end of the green hose to the torch’s oxygen connection. Next comes the red hose. Red as in stop, but I don’t. I take the free end of the hose—the end that’s not attached to a cylinder of explosive fuel—and screw it into the torch’s acetylene connection. You’re supposed to check each hose for any debris before starting up. It’s a safety precaution, but safety has lost its luster of late.
So no protective goggles or respirator or dust mask for me as I open the various valves. And ah, there’s that hiss I love. And hate. The exhale of oxidization. The breath of destruction.
A white flame shoots from the tip of the torch, stopping just short of its target. The heat alone chars a goodbye kiss into the canvas. I take a step closer. Purple-black smoke plumes from the dead painting, summons tears from the corners of my sockets.
We have ignition. The smell, like a bomb’s been dropped on Fine Art 101. Like someone streaked through the Louvre leaking gasoline and lit a match. Like nothing and everything is under control.
Watching my work on fire reminds me of my potential.
I kill the oxygen and the acetylene, then set the torch on the concrete floor. There’s more smoke coming off the canvas than last time. Also bigger flames, but it’s too early to reach for the extinguisher. That would be quitting.
The side pocket of my paint-smeared smock buzzes and buzzes. Probably my neighbor Clark or my neighbor Lucia checking just to make sure the garage is on fire on purpose. Again. Clark and Lucia are good people, but I wish they’d learn to mind their own business whenever I’m cremating remains in the privacy of my own garage. You’d think they’d be used to this by now.
Part of me is tempted to just walk away and let this turn into a major insurance claim, but Mama’s napping inside. Besides, a major insurance claim would surely become a closed arson investigation faster than these here flames are devouring my talent.
Also, the painting is starting to look more like what I was originally going for. That’s the thing with abstract expressionism—sometimes all it takes is a little disfigurement to turn a massacre into a masterpiece.
From the metal cart I grab the extinguisher and blow its load all over what’s burning. My pursed lips keep out all the hot specks of cancer dancing in the air. But that doesn’t keep me from coughing through my nose as I blast my sanctuary with white foam. If someone were videoing any of this, it would go viral.
Here lies the last ounce of my patience and possibility.
My smock buzzes again. My overly concerned neighbors can go to hell.
I set the almost-empty extinguisher down next to the dormant welding torch, then stand up to take everything in. The corner of my garage looks like a studio again. The corner of my studio looks like a cumulus cloud threw up on a mill town. Smells nice, though. Campfires and chemistry sets.
The only thing better than the high you get from creating good art is the high you get from destroying bad art. Especially in an enclosed and poorly ventilated space.
What was a failed painting a week ago and a day ago and a minute ago is now the scorched surface of a strange new planet. A land of boiling blue streams snaking burnt red hills and black craters. A world too beautiful to have ever been inhabited by humans.
Looks like I may have found my new medium.
That’s it. I hope you enjoyed the excerpt and are itching to read more. (Oh, and don’t worry, the book does actually contain dialogue—just not the above clip.)
With Valentine’s Day coming up, most sane people would write a heartfelt letter to their spouse or significant other before writing one to their favorite hobby or activity. But as an author of dark fiction, I reject both sanity and Valentine’s Day purely on principle. Besides, I’ve already proven my tremendous devotion to my wife by agreeing to watch The Bachelor with her every week.
I guess you could say she and I have a sort of open relationship—she’s allowed to be in love with young, buff, reality TV stars, and I’m allowed to be in love with my own written words. So me spending Valentine’s week thus far doing nothing but working on this blog post really hasn’t bothered her at all.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go find out what my wife's yelling about and why she’s packing a suitcase. But before I do, allow me to share with you—in the (sort of) spirit of Valentine’s Day—this, “My Open Love Letter to Writing.”
Dear Writing,
I love you more than words can describe, which, I realize, is more than just a little ironic.
I’ve loved you ever since I gave you a try and got a gold star from my kindergarten teacher and a “Good job!” from my parents.
I love you because you’re always there for me—even when I yell and scream at you about writer’s block like it’s your fault.
I love you because you’re always there for others, too. For anyone willing to give you a shot. Anyone dedicated enough to stick with you even when the words aren’t flowing. Anyone stupid enough to ignore their angry spouse just to spend a few extra sentences with you.
I love you because you allow me to get away with murder. I love you because the murders you allow me to get away with keep society safe from me.
I love you because I didn’t really know who I was until I met you—and because I continue to learn who I am because of you.
I love you because you connect me to the world and to others in a way surpassed only by the ingestion of very special mushrooms.
I love you because you’ve given me a voice my teenage daughter hears much more clearly than when I speak.
I love you because you are my escape hatch—one that drops me straight into a world where imagination trumps reality … and even has the potential to redefine it.
I love you because you allow me to explore the darkest parts of humanity and myself yet emerge full of light.
I love you because you’ve given me the power to endure the toughest of times: heartbreak; loneliness; depression; the deaths of friends and loved ones—particularly my oldest brother. I love you because you’ve taught me how to turn pain into art. Grief and anger into laughter and acceptance. Suffering into something so brutally beautiful, it almost ceases to hurt.
And I love you because you’ve given me the power to help others endure their own toughest times.
I guess what I’m saying is, Writing, my dear, I love you. You had me at hello.
‘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.
Usually when the Kindle version of one of my novels goes on sale for $0.99, I write up some quick, clever promotional message to entice readers to shell out a measly buck for the book.
Not this time.
This time, the book on sale is In Wolves’ Clothing, a novel that centers around the horrific world of child sex trafficking. Needless to say, the topic is nothing to laugh about … unless your job is to save children caught up in the nightmare of it, in which case humor is an essential tool. For survival.
Just ask Zero Slade. Zero, the protagonist of In Wolves’ Clothing, travels the globe posing as a sex tourist to help capture traffickers and rescue girls as young as five from the world’s fastest-growing crime circuit. In between the physically dangerous and emotionally taxing missions Zero’s been leading for the past seven years, he and his undercover cohorts often joke around. It’s either that or self-destruct, and the latter isn’t conducive to putting away pimps or liberating children.
To help sell the book during this promotional period, I could try to be funny and cute. I could write something such as, “Nothing says ‘Happy Holidays’ like human trafficking.” But we all know such copy is neither funny nor cute.
So, given all that, some may ask why “dark comedy” and “dark humor” are among the categories that In Wolves’ Clothing is listed under on Amazon. It’s a fair question, the answer to which is simply this: I tried to capture the truth.
As part of my research for the book, I interviewed a man by the name of Radd Berrett, who, for two years, did in real life the kind of work Zero Slade does in my novel. For two years, Radd rubbed elbows with traffickers on nearly every continent, playing the role of the worst type of man you can imagine, putting his life at risk for the sake of the Lost Girls. And for two years, whenever a mission ended, Radd and his colleagues would rely on humor (along with—understandably yet sadly—pain meds and liquor) to help them make it to the next mission. Every time I spoke to Radd on the phone and asked him to tell me more about the work he did, he’d make me laugh so hard I’d cry. And I’m not talking tears of joy.
I sent Radd the manuscript for In Wolves’ Clothing and asked him to read it prior to publication last fall. I told him I was a little concerned about the direction I chose, the darkly humorous voice and tone that echoed throughout the story. Radd called me three days later, thrilled about how the book turned out. “Man, how’d you do it?” he asked. I thanked him sincerely for the praise, and said, “The much more important question is, ‘How did you?’”
Soon after the book came out in October 2017, it received very positive reviews from such literary heavy-hitters as Publishers Weekly and Midwest Book Review. And yet, as happy as those reviews made me, the testimonial I’m most proud of, by far, came from the man who experienced first-hand the kind of hell I put my protagonist through over the course of 273 pages:
"Truly original and enthralling. Levin's blazing prose and acerbic wit capture the madness and the humanity of working undercover in the darkest corners."—Radd Berrett, former Jump Team member, Operation Underground Railroad
But honestly, it’s Radd and the many other men and women dedicated to battling the biggest scourge of our time who deserve a rave review.
That's why I wrote the book.
Speaking of which, the Kindle edition ofIn Wolves’ Clothingis on sale for just $0.99 on Amazon (US and UK only) for a very limited time. If you haven’t read the book yet, now’s a good time to check it out.
No joke.
(For those of you in the US, click on the red title above. For those in the UK, click here. And thank you!)
Thanksgiving is a time for those of us in the U.S. to get together with family and express our gratitude for all that is good in our lives and the world—and a time to sneak off and work on your manuscript while everyone in the house is too drunk and/or full and/or busy arguing about politics to notice. Needless to say, it’s my favorite holiday.
While I'm looking forward to tiptoeing away from the turkey carcass next Thursday to write, right now I'd like to thank all the people who’ve kept me wanting to write. This is not to imply that I’ve been thinking of giving up writing. That would be like me giving up oxygen. However, I must acknowledge that bringing enthusiasm, passion and originality to the page every day—in a profession where commercial success is elusive and effort often goes unrewarded—can be challenging.
The support and encouragement I’ve been lucky enough to receive from so many wonderful readers over the years inspires me to continue giving everything I’ve got every time I sit down to write. That's why I'm sending out a huge THANK YOU to everyone of you who’ve done even just one of the following:
Subscribed to my mailing list.
Remained subscribed to my mailing list even after I used it to promote one of my novels.
Purchased one of my novels.
Purchased one of my novels and actually read it.
Borrowed one of my novels from a friend or library.
Lent one of my novels to a friend or donated it to a library.
Told a friend they could no longer be your friend if they didn’t read one of my novels.
Told your library it could no longer be your library if it didn’t carry one of my novels.
Threatened to release thousands of cockroaches and/or wasps inside a bookstore if it didn’t stock one of my novels.
Took the time to review one of my novels on Amazon and/or Goodreads.
Sent me a message via email or social media to let me know you enjoyed one of my novels.
Sent me a bottle of vodka or bourbon to let me know you enjoyed one of my novels.
Chose one of my novels for your book club.
Asked Oprah to choose one of my novels for her book club.
Named one of your pets or children after a one of my characters.
Legally changed your name to that of one of my characters.
Broke up with/divorced your significant other because they refused to read one of my novels.
Hired a babysitter so you could finally finish one of my novels.
Confessed to a crime I committed, thus enabling me to continue writing novels without supervision.
Served as a member of my “launch team”—a group of awesome individuals that reads advanced copies of my novels before they’re officially published, then helps to build some early buzz via word-of-mouth, reviews, tweets, public graffiti, and, of course, testimonials on stadium Jumbotrons.
As much fun as I’m having with these bullet points, I’m going to take a break from them now to give ULTRA-SPECIAL THANKS to a couple of readers I’ve been meaning to give such thanks to for a while now:
Angie McMann.Every once in a while a reader who’s not your mother comes along and tells you they think you’re going to be the next big thing in fiction. Then you find out the reader was off their meds, and you go back to feeling insignificant. (And call your mother.) So when Angie McMann—an avid bookworm and an author herself—bought seven copies of my novel The Exit Man for friends in 2015 and asked if I’d autograph them before I got too famous to contact, I assumed she had escaped from an institution. Turns out she was just appreciative and generous.
Not only has Angie bought multiple autographed copies of each novel I’ve published since, she continues to spread the word about my writing to fans of dangerous fiction, and often sends me praise and witty words of encouragement by way of email, Facebook, Twitter and my blog. And as if all that weren’t enough, she eagerly volunteered to proofread the final version of my last two manuscripts before they were published—and ended up catching numerous typos missed by my professional proofreader, who hopefully isn’t reading this.
I’m still not famous like Angie predicted, but she insists I’ll be a household name soon. I just hope it’s for writing and not for some horrible crime I end up committing out of artistic frustration. But even if I do remain just a midlist author, it certainly won’t be due to any lack of effort on Angie’s part. She truly is a writer’s dream—no, not the dream where your keyboard turns into a blowfish that convinces you in Japanese to exhume the body of James Joyce. The other dream.
Debbie Lavender.Debbie is the meanest reader I love. And the reason I love her is her meanness is really just honesty that’s brutal enough to make me a better writer (but still not as good a writer as I could be—just ask Debbie).
I lived next door to Debbie the two years I lived in New Orleans, over a decade ago. Every night, Debbie (a brilliant lawyer and literature junkie) would sit on the porch—of a home once owned by author Richard Ford—with a glass or bottle of wine in one hand and a giant novel in the other. Whenever she’d see me getting out of my car or catch me stumbling home from one of my seventeen favorite bars in our neighborhood, she’d call me over to offer me a drink and tell me why whatever literary masterpiece she was reading at the time was garbage. So, naturally, I asked if she’d read the manuscript of my debut novel.
I still have scars on my psyche from the editorial feedback she provided following that reading. Gruff notes about plot holes and pacing and narrative structure. I didn’t end up making many of the changes she suggested. That’s why most of you have never heard of my debut novel, and why it’s now out of print.
I moved to Austin following Hurricane Katrina in 2005, but I continue to send Debbie the final manuscript of every novel I write, asking her for feedback on it prior to its publication. It’s not that I’m a glutton for punishment, it’s that I really want to see if I can dazzle the crankiest, bluntest and brightest reader I know. And I know that deep down, beneath all the angry question marks and explanations points and expletives Debbie scribbles in red ink all over my manuscripts, she’s rooting for me to dazzle her. Hopefully I’ll succeed in doing so before she murders me for failing to.
Several others. I know above I said “a couple,” but I’d be an idiot if I didn’t give special thanks to just a few more people who’ve gone above and beyond for me as readers, keeping me inspired to grind out decent and dangerous fiction most days. These folks include:
J.R. Hardenburgh. A slightly kinder and gentler version of Deb Lavender (see above), J.R. reads all my stuff and, while a proponent of my books and writing, he doesn’t pull punches whenever he feels I could have done a better job with a plot point or a final scene or a blog post title. And he’s usually right.
Amy Shipper. Amy, with whom I worked briefly at a publishing firm in NYC in the early 1990s, not only read the weird satirical shorts I used to write back then, she made the mistake of telling me I had actual writing talent. So you can blame her for my books, which she always buys—and then forces everyone in her inner and outer circles to do the same. She’s perhaps the nicest person I’ve ever met; still, you’d better do as she says or she’ll cut you.
Yael Schonfeld. Few things are better than being one of just a dozen writers selected by your favorite author (Chuck Palahniuk) to participate in his inaugural ten-week writing workshop. And one of those better things is having a fellow participant as selfless, kind and encouraging as Yael Schonfeld around to help you survive said workshop. I’m not saying getting your work-in-progress critiqued by the iconic author of Fight Club is daunting, I’m just saying it can make you question why you ever became a writer and whether you even deserve to live. Week in and week out, Yael not only picked herself off the mat after having her wonderful work punched in the face by Chuck and the gang, she helped everyone else to their feet so they, too, could avoid a career-ending knockout during the fight of their lives.
Miranda Burnet. I’ve already thanked (and apologized to) my wife via this blog a couple of times in recent months, but the thing is, I could do so a thousand times and it still wouldn’t be enough to express what Miranda has done for me and my writing career. She’s not only the reason I have had time to write and publish three semi-successful novels over the course of three years, she’s the reason I believed I could. And continues to be. Sometimes, after a couple of bad writing sessions or when my books aren’t flying off Amazon’s virtual shelves, I’ll stomp around and declare it’s just not worth it for me to continue grinding out 250-page stories, that I don’t care any more, that I give up. But rather than pity me, Miranda will ignore me. She does so because she knows my angry declarations are ludicrous—and because she knows I know that. So she’ll wait for me to finish ranting, then tell me to get back to work. She’ll tell me I don’t have a choice. She'll tell me I'm a writer and writers write. And she’ll tell me readers—more of them than I can imagine but not more than she can—await.
Who or what are YOU most thankful for as a reader or a writer? Please share in the comments section below. Oh, and if you are one to celebrate it, Happy (early) Thanksgiving!