The first time I encountered S.A. Cosby’s writing, he was speaking it. I was attending a “Noir at the Bar” event at the Bouchercon crime fiction convention in Dallas last year, and Cosby gave a reading that tore the house down.
The fresh booming voice, the electrical charge and the emotional thrum I and the rest of the audience heard is the same voice and charge and thrum a reader “hears” whenever reading Cosby’s work themselves. This goes double for his stunning and widely acclaimed new novel, Blacktop Wasteland(Flatiron Books). I’d need a whole separate website to fit all the raving testimonials the book and Cosby have received from some of the biggest names in crime fiction since it launched last month. Here’s just a tiny sample:
“Blacktop Wasteland is an urgent, timely, pitch-perfect jolt of American noir. S. A. Cosby is a welcome, refreshing new voice in crime literature.” ―Dennis Lehane
“…S. A. Cosby reinvents the American crime novel. … Blacktop Wasteland thrums and races―it’s an intoxicating thrill of a ride.” —Walter Mosley
“Sensationally good―new, fresh, real, authentic, twisty, with characters and dilemmas that will break your heart. More than recommended.” ―Lee Child
Now, you may be thinking, Wow, why would a big new breakout novelist like Cosby waste his valuable time doing an interview with someone like Greg? It’s okay—I thought the same thing. But then I remembered how generous, humble and good-natured Cosby has been with me—and everyone —ever since I met him on Twitter last year, and I realized it’s no surprise at all that he agreed to be here today.
So let’s get to it!
Welcome, S.A.! And huge KUDOS on Blacktop Wasteland.I can’t remember the last time I saw a neo-noir novel garner as much praise and accolades as your book has. (Well deserved, I must add.) Has all the attention and buzz been a dream come true, or totally terrifying? Or both?
SA: It’s been an amalgamation of fear, excitement, surrealness, and a smidge of inebriation.
When did you know you had something really special cooking with this book?
SA:Like most writers, I often think I’m just barely treading water, but I will say there is a section towards the end of the book where I felt like maybe just maybe this story was pretty good. If you’ve read the book its the scene with Ronnie and Bug in the cornfield. That was when I thought I’d found the rhythm.
I have read that scene, by the way, and yeah, it’s damn good. Moving on: The book—like the muscle cars featured in it—is a fast machine that takes readers on a wild, dangerous ride. How much research was involved in nailing the life of a world-class getaway driver? Was it your love of cars that compelled you to write the book, or was something even bigger driving you?
SA:I grew up around cars and shade-tree mechanics who liked to test there engine building skills against each other from time to time in drag races, so I had a somewhat tertiary appreciation for high-level driving. In addition to that, I’m a huge fan of chase movies or films with great chase scenes But I also wanted to talk about the complexities of tragic and toxic masculinity and how those issues intersect with how we find our own identity.
Is there something in particular you hope readers will take away from reading Blacktop Wasteland, or do you simply want them to enjoy the ride?
SA: I hope readers will gain a bit of an understanding about how desperate generational poverty can make a person. A lot of people will tell you to pull yourself up by your own bootstraps but ignore the fact you are barefoot. But I hope it’s also a fun ride. As they say, a spoonful of honey makes the medicine go down.
Switching gears a little, do you feel enough is being done with regard to diversity in publishing—specifically with regard to bringing new voices to crime fiction? What more would you like to see?
SA:I think there have been great strides in bringing more diverse voices to the table, but my hope is that this movement isn’t viewed as a trend. It needs to become a part of the general fabric of the publishing business.
I personally love reading and writing noir—stories told from the perspective of “criminals” who have a heart. What does noir mean to you? What do you like most about writing it?
SA:I think noir can be defined as bad people doing bad things for the right reasons. I find that fascinating. The ways we compartmentalize our morality for what we consider the greater good. In a way, that is similar to the term hardboiled—but to me the difference is that in a hardboiled story the hero survives and perseveres. In a noir tale the hero is damaged, broken on the inside in ways that never heal.
The only thing more captivating than reading your writing, S.A., is having YOU read your writing out loud. You've developed quite a reputation for powerful and entertaining public reads—is that something you've had to work hard at or does it come naturally to you?
SA: Well I was a drama club kid in school, so I guess I retained a little bit of the performance bug from my days reciting Shakespeare, lol. But I always attempt to write in a way that replicates actual speech, so I often read what I've written out loud to myself so doing a live reading comes pretty naturally to me.
Who are a few of your favorite authors and/or biggest influences as a writer?
SA:As far as crime fiction goes I have to say Walter Mosley and Dennis Lehane. They are on my Mount Rushmore of crime fiction. But one of my early influences was Stephen King. His naturalistic style and plain-spoken syntax, even while describing Eldritch horrors had a big impact on me. Also, I was influenced by the late Ernest J. Gaines, a masterful writer of the black southern experience.
I’m sure you have your hands full with this big launch for Blacktop Wasteland, but can you share a little about what you’re working on now?
SA:Currently I’m in the editing stage of my next book, a revenge novel tentatively titled Razorblade Tears, about two fathers—one black, one white, both ex cons—who return to their violent ways to investigate the murders of their married gay sons who were murdered in what appears to be a hate crime. While seeking vengeance the two men also attempt to redeem themselves for their callous way they treated their sons because of their sexuality.
Is there anything you were hoping I’d ask but didn’t?
SA:I was wondering if you were going to ask how I came up with the title, lol. It's a play on T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land.
Cool—I love that poem and I own the book. Still, I dig YOUR book even more, S.A. Thanks for taking the time to chat about it, and for sharing your insight. Wishing you continued success with your writing career—which is currently a rocket blasting straight through the stratosphere. Please remember the rest of us here on Earth!
I try not to write too many posts aimed mainly at writers, since most of the folks who read my blog aren’t fellow scribes. Occasionally, though, things happen in the world that compel me to address my writing brethren—to comfort and console them, to commiserate with them, and, every once in a while, to light a fire beneath their ass as well as my own.
Today is one of those fire-lighting times. (I almost went with “ass-fire times” but the image it conjured left much to be desired.)
Several writer colleagues of mine—particularly fiction writers—have expressed how torn they’ve been feeling lately about working on their novel or short story or any other form of creative writing. To be clear, these writers aren’t struggling with the writing itself; that is, they’re not having issues with coming up with ideas or getting into a flow. And it isn’t that they can’t find the time to write. Rather, they’re wrestling with the guilt they feel while writing. They’re questioning whether fiddling around in fictional worlds is something they—or anyone else—should be doing right now, considering the real world is in the grips of historic turmoil.
Such “writer’s guilt” is understandable. I completely get it. Hell, up until recently, I completely experienced it. However, I’m pleased to report it no longer has the same hold on me as it did a couple of months ago. It hasn’t been easy, but I’ve learned how to overcome the guilt that’s wreaking havoc on writers (and artists and musicians—and basically anyone else who takes pleasure in a creative pursuit) during these turbulent times.
Now, It’s important to point out that overcoming writer’s guilt is NOT the same as not giving a damn about anything other than your own writing. Not even close. Continuing to create in a world full of mayhem and hate is an act of courage, not of selfishness. Your imagination is a weapon that, when wielded properly, can heal humanity.
How so? I’m glad you asked. ...
Stories provide refuge for people in need of—and deserving of— escape.For many, the only way they can take their mind off of the harshest realities is through reading fiction. And not just fantasy or cozy fiction. I know lots of folks who turn to horror novels or psychological thrillers or some other dark genre to help provide cracks of light in a world that often feels pitch-black.
And to those of you who feel “reader’s guilt” while enjoying a good book, go easy on yourself. Escape does not equal apathy or complacency. I personally know several dedicated medical professionals and a few ambitious activists who, when on a break from treating patients or leading protests, sink into a novel, a short story, some poetry. They escape into new and different worlds so that they can live to fight another day in the world outside their windows.
Stories remind readers of the strength of the human spirit. In addition to providing a healthy and necessary means of escape, stories refuel readers. Inspire them. Even transform them. Doesn’t matter if it’s an epic hero saga or a gritty crime novel; every well-told story introduces us—the reader—to a main character with the odds stacked against them and something or someone standing directly in the way of what they’re dying to achieve.
Stories give us underdogs who refuse to stay down. They give us “bad guys” looking to make amends. They give us low-life’s aiming sky high, losers we can’t help rooting for. Stories stick us in the shoes of a stranger we already know and then put us through hell. Put us through fire. Forge us.
Go ahead, just try reading a novel like Little Secrets by Jennifer Hillier or Blood Standardby Laird Barron and NOTbe moved by the tremendous grit and compassion such stories exude.
Stories are a powerful medium for shedding light on and eliciting action around important social issues. You needn’t be a politically charged author-slash-activist to tap into the zeitgeist surrounding your story, thus adding power and agency to it and its characters. Few fiction enthusiasts enjoy being hit over the head with a writer’s political or social agenda, anyway. But unless your novel or short story is a radically fantastical one that takes place on a distant planet with alien beings in the distant future, it likely features humans living in a human world facing issues humans face—issues readers can relate to. Issues that captivate them and keep them riveted because they hit the reader right smack in “the feels.”
Authors like Attica Locke, Don Winslow and Alafair Burke write amazing, unputdownable crime fiction that isn’t necessarily about but centers around such systemic social issues as racism, police brutality, gun violence, and misogyny. These authors don’t write one-dimensional heroes who run around and solve major societal issues; rather they create multifaceted, flawed protagonists grinding it out in fictional worlds that mirror our real one. Worlds where humanity’s biggest problems are etched into the setting and inform each characters’ beliefs, thoughts and actions. More importantly, these authors demonstrate with great skill how it’s possible to tell captivating tales that entertain readers while simultaneously causing them to think about—and perhaps even take action around—things much bigger than the book they’re holding.
A writer not writing is a danger to themselves and others.Sure, a novelist could quit writing entirely to focus all of their time on trying to fix or heal society— and doing so would be a noble endeavor—but not all noble endeavors are necessarily smart or feasible. (Don Quixote, anyone?) Studies have shown that if a writer quits writing abruptly out of guilt, there is a 100-percent chance they will go completely insane and murder everyone in their neighborhood. (The studies were conducted by Harvard or Stanford or some other really important university, I can’t recall exactly. All I know is they were definitely conducted somewhere prestigious and are not just something I’m making up to support my point.)
Actually, just forget about the research I just cited and instead listen to Franz Kafka, who famously said: “A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity.” For those of you who think Kafka was just being dramatic when he said that, talk to just about any writer’s family. Talk to mine—ask them how I get whenever forced to go more than 48 hours without writing. There’s a reason why my wife invested in interior doors that lock from the outside.
Now, to be clear, I am NOT saying writers should be excused from caring about the pandemic or from being active, socially responsible citizens who stand up against injustice. In fact, if you’re a writer, I strongly encourage you to take occasional breaks from your writing to check on your neighbors and/or give blood and/or donate food and/or volunteer virtually—and to definitely educate yourself about systemic racism and what you can do to help end it.
Just be sure to then take all the humanity and the heartbreak and the strength of spirit you witness and experience, and incorporate it into a story that reminds us of what it means to be alive.
YOUR TURN: Any of you writers out there been struggling with guilt while working on your fiction? And for you normal people, er, I mean non-writers, have you been experiencing a similar type of guilt over a creative pursuit you normally enjoy? Share in the comments section below. Then get back to creating.
I just want to lead off by saying violence never solves anything. That said, smashing things to bits can feel pretty damn good—especially when the things you’re smashing belong to the spouse who robbed you blind and destroyed your life just before losing theirs.
Don't worry, I'm not referring to anything from my life (though I do like smashing things to bits); rather to that of Odessa Scott—the protagonist from my upcoming (some day) crime thriller Into a Corner.
While we all have stuff to be furious about these days, few of us will ever become as furious as Odessa is throughout much of my book. At the start of the book we learn her dead husband—before getting dead—drained all their accounts AND the accounts of Odessa's widowed mother (Mama), then ran off with the cash ... and his mistress. Odessa found all this out the next day, when her husband and his mistress and every cent Odessa and Mama ever earned exploded. Talk about a change of fortune.
When you create a character who has a serious axe to grind with someone but that someone is already dead, you have to give your character an opportunity to vent in a healthy manner; otherwise they'll end up destroying themselves and all the innocent people around them before they reach even the middle of the story. Fortunately for Odessa, I came up with the idea of having her good friend Griff come up with the idea of giving Odessa the gift of catharsis ... by taking her to a "rage room" and letting her loose. For those of you who don't know what a rage room is, you are about to find out—and will likely want to visit (or create) one yourself afterward. If you do, remember to always wear a helmet and protective eyewear before beginning to obliterate everything in your path. Safety first.
The following is an excerpt from Chapter 14 of Into A Corner. It shows how, when pushed too far, even an artist who's all about creation will fully embrace destruction.
I swing the bat so hard, several of my thoracic vertebrae pop and crackle. The forty-inch glass screen implodes on impact. Shards skitter and glisten across the stained concrete floor. What’s left of the television screen is a web spun by a crystal spider. I stand there admiring the damage.
Through the spectator portal, Griff gives me a double thumbs-up. “Hell yeah!” he shouts, barely audible behind the plexiglass and over the Wu-Tang song blaring out of the speakers. Lucky for him, I’m not wearing the earplugs the owner of this place offered me.
Griff taps the partition and points my attention toward the Kawasaki in the center of the wrecking room. I look at him and shake my head till my safety helmet rattles out of position. “Not yet!” I yell through the glass while readjusting my helmet and goggles. “Saving the worst for last.”
The digital display on the wall says I have eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds left to destroy everything around me.
I’m off to a damn good start. Wayne spent half his waking life and most of his sleeping one in front of that TV I just demolished. Beneath my All The Rage-issued white coveralls and work gloves is all the sweat.
Eight minutes and twenty-four seconds left and I line drive one of Wayne’s golf trophies off a table and against the cinder blocks of the side wall. The little gold man bounces back toward me with a crushed skull, a lacerated spine, and none of the granite that allowed him to stand around showing off his swing for years.
I show off mine and send two more trophies flying disfigured across the room while several members of the Wu-Tang Clan shout about how they “ain’t nuthin’ to fuck with.”
The song holds a special place in my heart.
This room is all about rage, but it’s hard to resist smiling as Griff cheers me on. He’s matched my every smash, crack, and shatter with a booming exclamation of support. If this keeps up, the worst years of my life will give him laryngitis.
Seven minutes and sixteen seconds and the last remaining wedding photo. The only one that didn’t go through the shredder in my studio months ago. I switch out my bat for a sledgehammer, then switch out the sledgehammer for a golf club because irony. Besides, ten pounds of steel to obliterate a marriage is overkill. Plus there’s no need to hurt myself. Getting injured over Wayne would raise my rage to a level not even a place built for it could handle.
I pick up the framed photo and fold its stand flush against the back of the frame, then lay it flat on the oak table. The tabletop is scarred with scratches, dents, and gouges from All The Rage’s previous satisfied maniacs.
Wu-Tang switches to The Clash. I raise the nine iron over my head machete-style and bring it down on the thin panel of glass no longer protecting Wayne’s face on the happiest day of his life. The opposite of wedding bells pierces the air as the frame’s edges detach and hurtle toward the four corners of the earth. Most of the glass panel is now scattered in assorted shapes and sizes across the table and floor. The rest of the glass is slivers and sand pinned between the head of the nine iron and the head of Wayne. My smile and wedding dress have escaped with just a few scratches and glass splinters. I go to lift the club but the edge of its head is stuck in a groove behind what’s left of Wayne’s face. A tug releases the weapon from the oak surface underneath and I smile like King Arthur, then search for what to slay next as I catch my breath.
Griff’s “woohoo!” and “go get it, girl!” competes with The Clash’s “Straight to Hell.” The song list was my creation. This has all been carefully thought out and choreographed. It’s the opposite of my life.
Out of the corner of my goggles, Ray, the owner of All The Rage, has joined Griff in the spectator portal. The two bump fists and start chatting like a silent movie. Ray looks like Denzel Washington and Bruce Lee had a baby and told that baby to work out a lot and shave its head when it got older.
With five minutes and fifty-three seconds left, I don’t need this kind of distraction.
Ray points at Griff’s new watch and says something while nodding. Griff nods with him, gives him a closer look at the watch, then points at me. I avert my eyes as the two of them peer through the window at my kindness and mayhem.
It’s time for the bowling ball. Wayne didn’t bowl. The ball isn’t his—it’s included in the Deluxe Destruction package. The blood-splatter pattern painted on the ball is a nice touch. Ray was kind enough to help Griff and me set Wayne’s stupid rare beer bottle collection up as a double-decker ten-pin bowling installation against the back wall when we arrived earlier. He even threw in a thin ceramic tile to separate the two layers of bottles, for free. But I didn’t come here to think about Ray or his generosity. Or his Zen-like ruggedness or his wild stallion glutes.
I pick up the bowling ball that’s not a bowling ball but Wayne’s severed head and stand close enough to the bottles to read their labels. Griff and Ray urge me on, roaring over The Clash’s chorus of hell as I take aim. With two fingers stuck through Wayne’s eye sockets, my thumb shoved up his nasal cavity and my weaker hand supporting the rest of his head, I step toward the glass pins, rear my arm back, and release.
Gutterball. But the smack and whirr of Wayne’s head hitting and rolling across the concrete floor before bashing against the cinderblock wall behind the bottles was almost worth the boos now coming from the spectator portal. Wayne’s decapitation rolls back to me. I bend over, pick it up, and turn around to stare down my taunters, but a tiny laugh escapes my scowl.
Ray’s beauty is ruining my temper tantrum. His kind eyes and smile are sucking the life out of my anger, spoiling my desire for violence and displaced aggression. So I turn around and think back to Wayne telling me he’ll be working late again hours before he exploded. I think back to seeing the checking account statement the next morning. I think back to hearing about who was in the car with him.
His head leaves my hand like a cannonball and turns the stacked bottles into a terrorist attack. Every microbrew Wayne ever bragged about now mimics what was left of the windshield in the photos the police showed me. Only this time I’m grinning the width of my goggles instead of shrieking like a brand-new widow.
“Strrriiiiike!” shouts Griff from the spectator portal. “Fuck yeah!” And if he doesn’t stop pounding his appreciation against the portal window, there’s going to be even more pieces of glass for Ray to clean up when we leave.
I turn around and flex, then do a little celebratory jig, shaking my booty a little more than I probably would if Griff were alone in the viewing booth. Ray gives me a thumbs-up and goddamn it another smile. If he doesn’t get the hell out here and leave us alone, fat chance of me mustering up the kind of unbridled fury I paid good money to finish off with.
I turn around and approach the Kawasaki. Griff and Ray slap their palms against the plexiglass and shout out inaudible words of encouragement. I do my best to block them out with thoughts of Wayne paying for the motorcycle with money he secretly siphoned from my dead father. Thoughts of Mama losing her house. Thoughts of Mama losing her mind.
The Clash switches to Rage Against the Machine just in time.
Three minutes and forty-one seconds and a crowbar. I pick it up from the weapon station and grasp it so tight it’s a part of me. Even with Zach de la Rocha shouting the heavy-metal rap of “Bombtrack” beyond the limits of the volume bar, my ears are hungry for louder. One swing of my steel appendage, and the Vulcan 900’s headlamp is a head-on collision. A swipe above the width of the handlebars beheads both mirrors like a Samurai and sends them sliding across the floor to mingle with the glass-and-ceramic remains of my previous victim.
More joyous cheers from the box seats force me to watch Wayne pulling up the driveway on this beast two years ago, calling me out to brag about its fierce power and beauty, promising me I won’t regret his unilateral decision.
He’s finally right.
With enough downward force to knock a lighter bike into hell, I bring the crowbar down on the gas tank and almost regret not heeding Ray’s earplug advice. The ringing makes it harder to hear the motivational distortion and screams of “Bombtrack,” but not even possible deafness can ruin the aluminum carnage for me. I grin at the huge dent and gash in the tank, imagining Wayne’s reaction. He gives me a smirk and asks if that’s the best I can do. My reply is another deathblow to the tank, then one to the taillight, two to the exhaust pipe, and who knows how many to the midsection. But enough to knock the motherfucker’s metal heart out.
One minute and fifty-three seconds and oxygen. Not enough of it. Not to fill my lungs or to lift a finger, let alone a crowbar.
So this is what total muscle failure feels like. Success.
The concrete cools my back through my coveralls and damp shirt. I didn’t realize how high the ceiling was before. My chest heaves toward it to bring air inside. Gas and oil fumes get mixed in despite me draining everything out last night. Now I understand why Ray rejected my request to bring my acetylene torch to this session.
My helmeted head falls to the side. Through the spokes of the rear wheel there’s the battered engine, lying motionless on the other side of the bike’s upright carcass.
Griff is overjoyed someplace I’m too tired to look.
Rage Against the Machine switches to Gloria Gaynor, but I’m still struggling to catch my breath. Having a coronary during “I Will Survive” would be humiliating and ruin an otherwise wonderful tantrum. I roll my head to the other side of the floor and catch Griff following Ray out of the viewing portal. Despite my urge to fake unconsciousness and steal a little CPR action from Ray, I sit up, then struggle to my feet and take in all the beauty of my unnatural disaster. Hurricane Odessa has been downgraded from a Category 5 to a mild tropical storm.
And time’s up. The buzzer on the digital display says so.
“You okay?” asks Griff, bounding from the padded door Ray’s holding open for him.
Doubled over, panting, I give Griff a raised fist and a “yup,” then return my torso to its fully upright position and pretend to breathe normally as Ray enters the wrecking room, closing the door behind him.
“You sure?” Griff asks.
I nod again and remove my helmet so he can see my eyes begging him to help me look like I have my shit together.
Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed the excerpt and are now counting the seconds until Into a Corner comes out, which should be sometime between Fall 2021 and Summer 2050—depending on my agent’s success landing a nice deal for it. (She’s starting the submission process very soon and she’s a rock star, so stay tuned.) If you’d like to learn a little more about—and read some additional pages from—the book, I posted an earlier excerpt a while back, and another one before that, and ANOTHER one even before that. (What can I say, I'm a giver.)
As for cool crime novels that are available NOW, it just so happens I recommended a couple by badass authors in the latest issue of my newsletter today. Those books/authors include:
Coyote Songs by Gabino Iglesias. As poetic as it is visceral, Iglesias' second novel howls its song and rips into our social fabric and fabrications like few other books dare to do. It's a story as old as injustice but as fresh as tomorrow. Don't just take my word for it. Here's what Booklist has to say about this up-in-your-grill cult masterpiece: "Coyote Songs is gorgeously written, even when Iglesias is describing horrible things."
Whisper Network by Chandler Baker. Yes, Chandler Baker lives in the same city as I do (Austin). No, I don't know her. But after reading this phenomenally sharp, smart and witty thriller, I'll likely seek her out (no, not in a creepy way) for an interview over drinks once COVID-19 calms the hell down. Furious and hilarious has always been a great combo in my book; if you feel the same, then be sure to check out Baker's. It's Outstanding. Entertaining. Important. I'd list all the praise and accolades this novel has received, but that would require a book of its own. Read. It.
Don’t want to miss out on my future recommendations for books by baddass Cri-Fi authors? Then I have another recommendation: Sign up for my newsletter! (Just enter your email address in the sign-up box near the top-right corner of this page. Trust me.)
Some might think it’s odd to blog about how a pandemic that’s still going on in real life will shape future works of fiction. And I agree. But hey, I also think it’s odd to have huge beach barbecues and house parties while a pandemic’s still going on in real life, yet THAT doesn’t seem to be stopping people.
At least this blog post won’t infect anyone. (That is, assuming nobody who already is infected prints out this post and licks it before handing it to their least favorite person. [More on that later on in this post.]) Besides, it’s only natural for a writer to think about the effect COVID-19 may have on the genre they write in. Especially a writer who has been cooped up for months with a year's supply of liquor.
So yeah, I have been thinking about how crime fiction might change and morph and evolve as the world changes and morphs and evolves. And today I’m going to blog about it. Now, some folks will say I’m doing so in a desperate attempt to create a bunch of buzz around the new crime fiction subgenres I’ve listed below while I secretly work on novels in those subgenres in hopes of becoming a mega-bestselling author in the near future. Really? That would be ridiculous—nobody reads my blog.
Regardless, I hereby present three new crime fiction subgenres that, with any luck, will emerge from the coronavirus pandemic as hot literary trends:
1) Quarantine Murder Mysteries.These books will be sort of like the traditional country house murder mysteries of yesteryear—only with a lot more hand sanitizer.
Few things are more thrilling than a good “closed-circle” murder. There’s an elevated sense of suspense and reader engagement when the list of possible suspects is very limited but where each suspect has a seemingly strong motive. Add in the fact that every character is related and has been cooped up together for weeks or months or possibly even two straight Thanksgivings, and the tension becomes thick enough to choke someone before dismembering them. As if that weren’t already enough to keep readers of quarantined murder mysteries riveted, each scene will be informed by a killer virus lurking outside every window, forbidding any character from letting off steam at a gym, yoga studio or monster-truck event. And don’t forget the added tension caused by characters having to home-school any kids who may be in the story.
From the inciting incident all the way through to the final chapter, a well executed quarantine murder mystery will leave readers guessing who done it?
Was it the wife, in the bedroom, using a golf club?
Or the mother, in the family room, using an algebra book?
Or the brother, in the bathroom, using an iPad with the browser found open to Pornhub?
What’s more, quarantine murder mysteries will provide ample opportunities for shocking twists. Like, maybe the murderer turns out not to be someone quarantined in the house but rather a Favor driver who got stiffed on a tip after risking their life to bring the victim a measely quart of Kung Pao chicken. Or, even more shocking, maybe the murder turns out not be a murder after all—maybe it was an accidental poisoning caused by the victim injecting Lysol into their own ass after watching the news.
2) Supermarket Thrillers.Since the coronavirus started hogging all the headlines a few months ago, Grocery shopping has gone from being an uneventful weekly errand to Mission Almost Impossible. Expect to see this not only reflected but prominently featured in the thrillers of the very near future.
Think Jack Reacher kicking ass at Albertsons—all while remaining at least six feet away from any ass that needs kicking.
While an entire novel set inside a supermarket would have been scoffed at or completely ignored by publishers and readers alike back in early January, today such books would hit the international bestseller list faster than their protagonists will move through a produce department. The high stakes along with the non-stop action and suspense will have readers on the edge of their plastic-covered seats inside their underground bunker.
The heroes in supermarket thrillers will face peril on every page. Every food item they touch could mean the end not just of them but of civilization as we know it. All it would take is one false move, a single lapse in concentration: Maybe the hero loses focus at the deli counter and rubs their eye without thinking; or slides their facemask down to scratch a nose itch after having just handled several peaches; or uses their mouth to pull off a disposable glove while busy using the other hand to send a text to headquarters alerting them that they’ve made it out of the store alive.
Oh, and the fight scenes. They’ll be magnificent—not just because of the creative fighting methods the hero will need to use in order to throttle their nemesis without touching them, but also because there will be more thanone nemesis. There’ll be dozens—basically anyone in the store who refuses to wear a mask or to adhere to social distancing rules or who tries to buy more than the allotted amount of toilet paper.
3) Bioterrorism Noir.When it comes to crime fiction, I’m most drawn to the darker characters: the lowlifes; the villains; the weirdos; the anti-heroes. Maybe my interest in and affinity for the “criminal mind” simply means I have moral ambiguity in my genes. Or perhaps it has more to do with me not being breastfed as a child. Regardless, I love me some noir. Transgressive tales where the protagonist is perfectly and often tragically flawed, someone you can’t resist rooting for in a book but whom you wouldn’t be caught dead with in real life.
Bioterrorism noir will go beyond even that—it will feature protagonists you can’t resist rooting for but whom you likely would be caught dead with in real life. That’s because the protagonists in bioterrorism noir will carry out all the dangerous and deadly acts that people like you and me merely fantasize about during a pandemic.
Oh, come on, don’t pretend like you haven’t imagined being able to purposely infect people you feel the world might be better off without (even if they go away only for a few weeks of quarantining). Don’t act like you haven’t entertained the notion of targeting … oh, I don’t know … rapists and pedophiles who are still on the loose, or politicians you loathe with every fiber of your being, or the guy you saw lick his fingers before turning the pages of a magazine in your doctor’s waiting room. Or politicians you loathe with every fiber of your being. (Did I already mention that one?)
Soon there will be loads of great novels featuring a main character who isn't afraid to take the law—and a deadly virus—into their own hands. Perhaps the character will be a member of a secret organization that’s developed an accurate and efficient virus-delivery system to ensure that innocent bystanders aren’t infected. Or a rogue vigilante with a personal score to settle using a vial of the virus stolen from a lab. Or maybe just Bob from Accounting who has gotten used to working from home and can’t bear the idea of spending hours in rush-hour traffic ever again, so he contracts the virus on purpose and walks around mask-less coughing on everyone he sees.
Bioterrorism noir novels will elicit fear and paranoia among regular, everyday citizens—sort of the same way Jaws did among beachgoers.
"Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the world."
YOUR turn! What subgenres do you think might emerge from the pandemic? Which of the ones listed above would you be most likely to read? Please share your thoughts in the comments section below. Or don’t—I’m not the boss of you.
NOTE: Some of you may be interested in a subgenre that wasn’t listed in this post but is no less compelling: it’s called the Sardonically Twisted Greg Levin Crime Thrillers subgenre. Be sure to check out the books that fall under this yet-to-be-discovered but fantastic category by clicking HERE.
Folks who subscribe to my crime fiction/author newsletter (newly named “Prose & Cons”) know I revamped the whole thing two weeks ago because, well, my subscribers deserved something better from me. Something they’d truly look forward to receiving. Something that, without taking up much of their time, would entertain them, grab them, make them laugh—maybe even inspire them. Something that would enable us to connect more, and help me discover the kinds of things they want to hear and read about.
God knows we all could use a little more entertainment, laughter, inspiration and connection right now.
(What’s that? You currently don’t subscribe to my newsletter but would like to know what the hell I’m talking about above? Then simply type your email address in the little box just above the “Sign-Up” icon just off to the right on this page (or at the top if you're on a mobile device). Go on, you know you wanna—it comes with a cool free ebook!)
I received a lot of beautifully written replies to the "what's on your mind?" question I posed in the first issue of the revamped newsletter. The power and authenticity of these replies hit me right in the feels and renewed my faith in humanity (or at least in the humanity of my subscribers). Seriously though, I'm grateful to those of you who were so candid and generous in your sharing about how you’re faring during this global pandemic we’re all doing our best to endure.
And I'm grateful to everyone for being here right now, reading this post—a post written by a relatively obscure author of crime fiction and thrillers. With the world in such a state of flux and confusion, it’s hard for most people to get excited about crime fiction and thrillers.
Or so I thought. ...
I recently found myself asking a mirror, “How can I expect people to continue reading fiction filled with dark themes and dangerous characters when there seems to be so much darkness and danger going on right outside their tightly shuttered windows?” But the more pressing question was, “How can I go on writing such fiction?”
Then something weird happened; the following day I noticed a small spike in book sales—without me even running a price promotion or having a new novel out. At first I just assumed my mother had purchased several extra copies of my books online to help ensure I had enough money for a sack of potatoes and a package of non-existent toilet paper. But I checked and it turned out it wasn’t Mom who’d bought my books. (It also turned out she was pissed I’d called merely to ask about my stupid books and not to check on how she and Dad were doing.) It wasn’t until the next day—after I’d noticed a couple more book sales—that I realized something. Something that warmed my heart and gave me hope. And that something is this: People are twisted.
Just like I am.
But we’re twisted in a good way. (Well, mostly.) Still, I decided to look deeper. I wanted to know what is it that compels so many of us to read and/or write dark fiction during hellish times rather than dive into much cozier books? It can’t be that we’re all sociopaths, right? RIGHT?
Right! Here’s the thing, while none of us wants to have to deal with ever-increasing tension and life-threatening situations and high-risk stakes in our own actual lives, we can’t help but be drawn to stories featuring such danger and uncertainty. Why? Because it makes us feel alive. It’s invigorating to experience high tension and suspense from the kind of safe distance fiction provides; it’s riveting to root for people we’ll never meet (since they’re imaginary) who are up against impossible odds; and it’s life-affirming and inspiring when those people we’re rooting for find a way to overcome those odds—or at least try their damnedest to do so.
Such books—dark as they may be—provide a light. They reveal the toughness of the human spirit in a rough and often morally ambiguous world. They remind us we are each protagonists in our own story.
Every day, when we dare to take that first step out of bed, we face tension and suspense. We go up against what can often seem like insurmountable odds.
We find a way.
What have you read lately that punched you in the gut and had you on the edge of your seat trembling while also inspiring you, refueling you, restoring your faith in humanity? If you're looking for a few recommendations for novels that'll do exactly that, here you go:
Not a Soundby Heather Gudenkauf.I get that you may not think a book about a nurse who loses everything after a terrible accident—including her hearing and sanity—could possibly be uplifting in any way, and now you're wondering why I'd recommend it. I'll tell you why: Because of the extraordinary grit and determination the main character exhibits as she builds her life back up ... only to have it start to unravel again while she deals with the murder of a friend and tries to bring the killer to justice. This is a chilling psychological thriller, but one filled with raw heart and hope.
My Darkest Prayerby S.A. Cosby.A gritty literary explosion of of corruption, sex, violence and vengeance—written with love. Speaking of love, you'll fall for not only the book's dangerous protagonist but also its dangerously talented author, S.A. Cosby. Both are forces to be reckoned with. Beneath all the sleaze and mayhem and destruction in this shockingly good neo-noir debut is a giant, tender heart—one that beats hard enough to break bones. Rarely does justice ever hurt so good. (So good, in fact, it has me—and LOTS of other readers—eagerly counting the days until Cosby's next novel, Blacktop Wasteland, drops in July.)
Roachkiller and Other Stories by Richie Narvaez. When you're living through a pandemic that makes it seem like the world's falling apart, it's wonderful to find a rare, shining gem amidst the rubble. I'm familiar with and greatly enjoy Richie Narvaez's work (including his deliciously sardonic debut novel Hipster Death Rattle), but somehow Roachkiller—his fresh, magnificent collection of short noir fiction—had flown under my radar until very recently. Named one of BookRiot's 100 Must-Read Works of Noir, it's the perfect cure for crime fiction fans whom the pandemic has left short on reading time and on cash (the Kindle version costs just $1.99!). Each tale is dark and strange yet extremely soulful, featuring hardluck losers you can't resist rooting for. Download a copy today—you won't be disappointed (well, not while reading the book, anyway; as for how you'll feel once you're done and start listening to the world news, well—just don't listen!).
Speaking of affordable crime fiction that doesn't short-change you on quality, a handful of excellent small-press publishers are currently running big price promotions—to help ensure that readers can continue reading great books during this difficult time. Two such publishers are:
Down & Out Books, which is running a "Social Distancing Digital Book Sale" now, discounting 39 of its most recently published ebook titles—with some priced as low as 99¢!
Fahrenheit Press, which is featuring a different FREE e-book EVERY DAY for anyone who can't afford to buy books during this crisis.