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.
Today’s post is a big one, as I have some good news, some bad news, and some more good news to announce—before I even get to the meat of the post.
The first piece of good news is today you’ll get a(nother) sneak-peek at my upcoming novel, Into a Corner. Of course, you probably already figured that out based on the title of this post. (Hey, I never said it was amazing news.)
Now for the bad (but not horrible) news: Into a Corner will not be launching in early September, as planned.
[pause for you to grieve]
The reason for the delay is—and here comes the second piece of good news—the manuscript has recently drawn interest from some book people in high places, which might significantly alter the publishing path of my novel. Or not. Bottom line is I need to wait and see how things play out. But rest assured, Into a Corner will be published—I just don’t know exactly when or by whom at this point. My apologies for the vagueness and uncertainty. In my defense, I’ve never been one to know a whole lot about anything. Also, publishing’s weird.
Okay, now that I’ve thoroughly muddied the waters, let’s get back to the first piece of good news I mentioned above. Following is the latest sneak-peek at Into a Corner—coming to bookstores (or not) and Amazons near you soon(ish). Enjoy!
Warning: Adult language ahead.
(from Chapter 3 of INTO A CORNER)
A roll of toilet paper makes for a better pillow than you’d think. Someone was kind enough to slip a roll under my head, saving me from one hell of a stiff neck and from having my face touch whatever’s growing on this sorry excuse for a mattress. Must have been one of the guards, or maybe one of the dozen or so women in here with me. Not sure what they’re all cackling and laughing about right now. This isn’t a slumber party. I can tell by the stench of urine and vomit. And by what must be a hatchet wound running down the center of my skull.
The toilet paper pillow is nice and all, but what I could really use is an icepack. Also an eye mask, nose plugs, and a couple of Mama’s silicone ear thingies.
I feel around for my phone, but of course it isn’t on me. Hopefully I got my one call last night and used it wisely. And hopefully the guards are taking as good of care of my purse as they are my phone.
Trying to sit up, I don’t.
Another go, and nope.
My struggle catches the eye of one of my new roommates standing tall and wiry in the opposite corner, her back against the iron bars housing us. She points at me and laughs out of her burlap bag of a face.
A miniature thirty-something redhead sitting a few feet away from Burlap tells her to fuck off, then stands up and walks toward me. She looks sort of familiar, all four foot ten of her. She motions for me to take it easy as I fight my way to a seated upright position, my hands planted not so firmly on the edge of the cot, my feet planted even less so on the concrete floor.
“You probably shouldn’t jostle ’round like that,” says Little Red. “You had a rough night.”
Squinting at her paleness and freckles, then around at the rest of the women in the cell, I mutter, “Didn’t we all?” The taste in my mouth tells me toothpaste wasn’t involved.
Little Red says, “Yeah, but you in particular.”
With my eyes opened a bit more, Little Red was there last night. At Ricochet—the bar in Montrose that Griff made me accompany him to after we killed the Wild Turkey in my kitchen. The rest of the night is like my vision right now.
“Care to fill me in?” I ask Little Red.
“I can try,” she says, “but keep in mind I’m in here, too. So, you know, I can’t promise you nothin’ crystal clear.”
“Well, whatever you’ve got is better than a blackout,” I say, massaging the bridge of my nose, eyes shut tight. When will I ever learn what my favorite professor tried to teach me twenty-five years ago: paint fumes before liquor, never sicker.
Burlap and a few of the other women shuffle from their corner of the cell toward ours, stopping somewhere in the middle. What appears at first glance to be instigation or eavesdropping is actually them distancing themselves from a pretty little blonde thing all sweat and groans and about to erupt all over her Delta Zeta sweatshirt. From the looks of it, the sweatshirt already needs to be washed. Separately.
“So,” Little Red says to me, “you really don’t remember nothin’ from last night?”
I go, “Well,” and close my eyes to search for clues.
There’s me keeping my head down while pulling Griff through the raucous crowd at Ricochet. There’s me reaching the bar and asking Griff if he wants a whiskey. There’s Griff saying, “No, a light beer or Chardonnay.” And there’s me smiling and nodding, then ordering him a whiskey.
I open my eyes and, to Little Red, reply, “Not nothing, but not much.”
“It’s okay, hun,” she says, patting my shoulder. “We’ve all been there.”
That’s the nice thing about drunk-tank friends. No judgment.
“Sort of remember seeing you at Ricochet,” I say, more like a question than a statement.
Little Red nods and gives me a grin, then extends her hand. “I’m Tanner.”
I shake her tiny mitt and ask, “That your first name or last?” and Tanner goes, “Yes.”
I tell her my name and she says, “Oh, I know. Your humongous friend yelled it at least ten times last night.”
My face crinkles like amnesia.
“I was sitting at a table next to where you and your friend were sitting,” says Tanner. “Off in the corner near the restrooms.”
I nod, taking her word for it. No reason to suspect she’s lying—it’s very like me to hide in corners when out in public.
Tanner looks down at the floor and cracks her knuckles while recollecting. “You two were loud as hell, shouting and laughing and shouting some more. Was hard to tell if you were having a blast or an argument.”
I tell her probably both.
She snickers, then goes, “So what’s the deal with his finger?”
I tell her the same lie Griff and I tell everyone who asks—that he was born without it. Very few people can get their head around the truth behind Griff’s missing digit, and most of them are psychiatrists. Even if I took the time to explain Griff’s rare condition—how he’s obsessed with amputating one of his own limbs because he feels it doesn’t actually belong to him, how he screwed up and lost only a finger while going for his whole arm—it would likely elicit too many follow-up questions from these ladies.
“That sucks,” says Tanner, gazing at her own hands with a new appreciation. “Anyway, my friend was practically passed out at our table, so I was bored. Scooted my chair over a bit and leaned in to give you guys a better listen.”
“Hear anything good?” I ask.
And Tanner starts telling me things I don’t remember but already know. She says my humongous friend was giving me a ton of shit for destroying another of my own paintings. She says he was yelling about how art was all I had left and that I couldn’t let Buck take that away from me because Buck had already taken enough.
Tanner interrupts herself to ask, “Just curious … who’s Buck?”
“My dead husband,” I say. “And it’s not Buck, it’s Fuck. But really it’s Wayne.”
Tanner snorts, then covers her mouth. All serious, she goes, “Your husband’s … dead? So sorry, hun.”
I say thanks but that it’s okay to stick with her initial reaction. And to please continue.
Tanner tells me how at Ricochet I just kept drinking my whiskey and the whiskey of my humongous friend while he was busy commanding me to sell all of Fuck’s things and to use the cash to buy art supplies, and to use the art supplies to paint a giant mural in the middle of Houston, and to promise that the giant mural would feature Fuck being disemboweled.
“So,” says Tanner, fingering a few strands of her shoulder-length ginger hair, “you’re like, an artist and shit?”
I nod and go, “Emphasis on ‘shit.’”
“Do people buy your paintings?” Tanner asks.
“They used to.”
My finger draws a couple of please continue and hurry loops in the air. “Sorry,” I say to Tanner. “It’s just I’m dying to hear about the rest of last night.”
“Let me think,” she says, her eyelids fluttering. “Oh, yeah, your humongous friend, he said he had to piss and would be right back. As soon as he was up and out of sight, this dude comes up to you and—”
“Brown leather jacket?” I ask, grimacing.
Tanner nods.
Face in my hands, I go, “Fuuuck,” as the previous evening’s events unfold.
There’s me saying no thanks to Brown Leather Jacket’s offer to buy me a drink.
There’s Brown Leather Jacket going, “Aw man, you a lesbian?” and me going, “Right at this moment, yes.”
There’s Brown Leather Jacket saying, “C’mon, just one drink,” and me saying, “C’mon, just get lost,” and BLJ telling me I don’t need to be a bitch about it and that he hopes I have fun with all the fags and dykes.
Tanner pauses the slideshow with a tap on my shoulder. “Odessa, hun, you okay?”
“Yup,” I say into my palms. “Just reliving my night of glory.”
Tanner tells me not to sweat it. Says the asshole had it coming.
A deep sigh and there’s me telling BLJ if he has a problem with fags and dykes then he should probably stay out of bars built for fags and dykes. Also, that he should stop calling fags and dykes fags and dykes. Lastly, that he should never call me a bitch again, not if he wants to keep his teeth.
There’s BLJ shaking his head, then turning to his friend and muttering either, “Crazy bitch” or “Maybe switch.”
There’s me not giving him the benefit of the doubt. There’s me standing up, shooting what’s left of the whiskey in Griff’s lowball, and smashing the empty glass against the back of BLJ’s head.
And here come the screams and the shards and the drops of blood—the latter from a small cut on my pinky, not from any gash in BLJ’s solid melon. And there’s BLJ, woozy from the blow, being held up by his friend, who steps toward and glares at me.
Ah, and there she is. Tanner. Face redder than her hair, cursing at BLJ’s friend who’s cursing at me who’s cursing at BLJ and the bouncer who’s got me by the collar of the same shirt I’m wearing right now. The one Tanner’s now rubbing the back of, saying, “Chin up, hun. All we’re really facing is a drunk and disorderly. The dude you clocked didn’t press no charges. Management neither.”
“That’s good to know,” I say, peeking at Tanner through my fingers, then closing my eyes again to go back and find Griff.
There he is, returning from the bathroom, his python-thick arms up in the air, all nine of his fingers flared. There’s the bouncer barking at Griff, telling him to back off. And there’s me settling the hell down so Griff will do the same, telling him it’s my fault and that I’ll be fine and to just go to my house and make sure Mama’s asleep and okay.
“Don’t worry, hun,” says Tanner, still rubbing my back. “Your friend said he’d come and get you as soon as possible, no matter where, no matter what. Remember?”
Vaguely.
Tanner adds, “Said he’d get the money to pay whatever’s needed.”
I move my hands from my face and look at her. “Any idea how much the bail might be?”
Tanner tilts her head and purses her lips. “Aw, drunk-tank virgins like you are always so adorable,” she says. “Drunk and disorderly’s just a misdemeanor—there ain’t no bail for misdemeanors, only a fine. And in Texas, the max is just five hundred bucks.”
By the look in her eyes, Tanner can see the look in mine.
“Aw, hun, don’t panic,” she says while brushing two fingers across my cheek. “You don’t gotta have the cash to get sprung from here. They gotta let you go as soon as you sober up enough to not puke on your way out.”
My gaze moves from Tanner’s freckles to the handful of inmates chatting and laughing a few feet from us, then back to Tanner’s freckles. “So what are you and the others still doing in here?” I ask. “Most of you look okay enough to bounce.”
Tanner gives me another patronizing “aww” and head tilt. “We’re sticking around for the free coffee and breakfast, hun,” she says. “By law, the guards gotta give us some.”
More bile burps from Delta Zeta move Burlap and her posse close enough to make Tanner and me a part of it. The posse smells worse than Delta Zeta. Like onions and Thunderbird.
“So, why does your friend—Griff?—why does he hate your dead husband so much?”
I tell Tanner—and our new friends who are now all ears—it’s a long story and not one worth sharing.
“What, the bastard cheat on ya or something?” Tanner asks.
“Abuse you?” asks Burlap.
“Leave you in debt?” asks another posse member all height and girth and piercings and tattoos.
I look away from everyone, then shake my head and answer all their questions at once. “Yes.”
Assuming you didn’t just skip ahead to this closing note, THANK YOU VERY MUCH much for reading the above excerpt. Hopefully it has left you eager for more (that is, excited to buy the book once it’s out). If you missed or want to revisit the previous two excerpts from Into a Corner, here’s a link to the first one, and to the second one. Thanks again—I’ll keep you posted on the book’s weird and wild journey to publication!
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.
E.A. Aymar has been described as “one of the most promising and talented hard-boiled crime writers of his generation.”
I’d like to add “hardest-working” to that description. In addition to recently launching his latest critically acclaimed crime thriller, The Unrepentant(Down & Out Books, March 2019), Aymar’s writes the monthly column “Decisions and Revisions” for the Washington Independent Review of Books, and serves as the Managing Editor of The Thrill Begins—the International Thriller Writers' online resource for aspiring and debut thriller authors.
Add to all that the fact that Aymar also runs the Noir at the Bar series in the Washington, D.C. area and is often invited to speak at a variety of crime fiction/writing events nationwide, and you begin to wonder how in the hell he had any time to speak to me for the following interview:
Welcome, E.A.—great to virtually speak to you!
Thank you for interviewing me, Greg! A few people have recommended I read your work, and I’ve since started (more on that later), and I’m really pleased we’ve had the chance to meet.
Cool, and ditto! Now let’s jump right in:
Many would consider humor and sex trafficking to be oxymoronic (trust me, I know), and yet your new novel, The Unrepentant, has garnered much critical acclaim in spite of—or perhaps dueto—it’s bold blending of humor with unspeakable crimes. What compelled you to write this book in such a way?
I think it needed the humor, you know? It was such a dark topic and, in the early drafts, a dark book. One of the early readers was the writer Alan Orloff, and his first note back to me was, “Well, that’s depressing.” Which is a very Alan Orloff thing to say.
But he was right, and that was helpful. Because I’d forgotten an important element of writing—the reader. I wanted to create a no-holds-barred story, and I included moments of graphic violence, but those instincts originally overwhelmed me. We don’t read fiction for an exhaustive portrayal of unforgivable actions—and, even if I’m wrong about that, it’s not what I want to write. You need to include hope.
I keep thinking of this book as a dark canvas, but one cut with moments of light. Humor offers light.
When someone in an elevator hears you have a new book out and asks you what The Unrepentant is about, what’s your quick pitch to get them hooked and to keep them from calling security?
“A young woman escapes a group of criminals and realizes, to fully free herself, she needs to kill them all. If you liked Kill Bill but didn’t think it went far enough, you’d like this book! …Wait, why are you getting out of the elevator here? This isn’t even your floor.”
Spending months researching and writing about dangerous topics can be emotionally and psychologically taxing. Do you, like me, self-medicate and watch rom-coms to cope with it all, or have you found healthier outlets (meditation? yoga? a sensory deprivation chamber?) to help you endure the darkness you put on pages?
What I wrote was nothing compared to what I read, or the experiences that were relayed to me. And that helped a great deal. My job was much easier than the men and women who work with victims of trauma, and I never forgot that.
But there are always the scarring images or stories, or the things you hear and realize you won’t forget. And that can be very tough to deal with. I can usually distance myself emotionally from that, but I know a lot of writers who can’t. Particularly if they’ve experienced a similar trauma in their lives.
But it does help to realize that the horrors you’re writing about are never as bad as the horrors people experienced. And it becomes a duty to relay them, as best as you can. I’ve said before that I think writers have a duty not to look away, but that depends on what you write about, of course. I managed to gaze at this issue steadily…even though there were times when my gaze broke.
I saw that one of the stops on your current book tour was your old high school. That’s pretty cool. But what kind of principal brings an author of a book like yours in to speak to an auditorium filled with raging hormones and not-yet fully-developed frontal lobes? More importantly, did the cool kids from the school invite you to sit at their cafeteria table afterward?
It was a lot of fun! And I invited myself—a teacher at the school is a friend, and I reached out to her about the idea. Joe Clifford had recommended it, and I took his advice…and it was bad advice. Why did I ever listen to Joe Clifford?
Actually, it wasn’t a bad experience at all, but it was an exhausting one. I talked to groups of about 60-80 kids for the entire day, and I was WORN when it was over. The thing that surprised me was that the kids actually asked questions afterward. I thought they’d sit there, kind of sullen and bored, but they were really engaged. And their questions were sharp! Do I worry about a likable protagonist? What were the steps I took to having a published book? How do you know when to curtail violence?
The principal actually did a show up for one of the talks, and she walked out. And I didn’t swear or anything! But that’s okay. It seems like a very “writer” thing for a figure of authority to disapprove of you, right?
And, no, the cool kids barely acknowledged me. Which, to be fair, is also a very writer thing.
When not busy writing and traveling around corrupting young minds, you serve on the board of the International Thriller Writers (ITW), are the managing editor of The Thrill Begins (ITW’s awesome online resource), and run the Noir at the Bar series for the D.C. area. So my question is, do you rely on caffeine, amphetamines and/or some other performance-enhancing substance to get everything done?
You know, I do drink too much caffeine. I’m really trying to get better about that.
Right now it’s all fine. Everything I do is something I enjoy doing, and that helps a lot. If I didn’t like it, it’d truly be a burden. But I love writing columns for the Independent and working with ITW and running the N@Bs for D.C.
It took me a long time to get published. I started writing seriously in 1997, finished my first book in 2003, and my first book was published in 2013. And The Unrepentant is the first book I’ve written to be widely reviewed and read. So this is all wonderful for me. I’m forever grateful, and excited to call writers I long admired peers and friends. It’s never tiring.
What authors have been your biggest influences as a writer? In what ways, if any, has your Panamanian heritage informed your writing?
The two biggest influences are probably Anne Tyler and John Updike. They’re not the most likely candidates for crime fiction, but I loved their use of prose and domestic drama.
And then, for crime fiction, I love Lawrence Block and Megan Abbott. I can’t think of two other authors I have such urgency to read, or who continually put out wonderful work.
I was born in Panama, and half my family lives there. I went there a lot growing up, and it’s important for me that my son has those same experiences. But Panama as a country doesn’t factor into my writing; rather, the experience of being mixed, or a minority, does.
Because of my mixed race, I’ve always been cast just outside or barely inside social or racial circles, and that relationship has given me a good perspective on people…and I think good training as a writer. I’ve never really belonged somewhere, and that used to be an isolating feeling. That’s changed. I go to malls nowadays, and I see interracial couples everywhere. It’s lovely, and gives me hope that my son (himself Asian and Latin) will never feel that type of isolation.
But for me, that “outsider” status has never left, and it continually informs my characters. Often in ways I’m not conscious of, which I think is helpful.
Who are you currently reading? Are there any up-and-coming authors of crime/noir/thrillers you are especially excited about and see a big future for? What do you mean I’m not one of them?!
Right now I’m reading Jeffery Deaver because I’m moderating a panel he’s going to be on, and I need to get my shit together.
But there are a lot of writers nowadays that mean a lot to me. Gabino Iglesias, Nik Korpon, Sujata Massey, Eryk Pruitt, Jen Conley, Sarah M. Chen, Jennifer Hillier, Shannon Kirk, Tom Sweterlitsch, J.J. Hensley (really anyone who contributes to The Thrill Begins as one of our regular bloggers is a writer I hold in high regard, which is why I chose them)…I could easily go on.
And, honestly, as I mentioned earlier, I’m reading your novel In Wolves’ Clothing and digging it! I had to stop to read Deaver for this panel at the Washington Writers Conference, but I’m excited to come back to your work. The only reason I haven’t finished it is Deaver. Blame him.
Care to tell us a little about what you’re working on next?
I got a new thriller in the works, but my next thing will be a sequel (of sorts) to The Night of the Flood. Sarah M. Chen and I are working on the edits right now and it’s exhausting and, even worse, she doesn’t seem willing to do most of the work this time. But that will hopefully be out in 2020. It all depends on how much I can convince Sarah to do everything and give me all the credit. Fingers crossed!
Well, Sarah and I are virtual friends (and she was part of a feature on this blog a couple of years ago), so I’ll see if I can help convince her to carry all the weight again. But don’t get your hopes up—I’m not very convincing, plus Sarah’s too wise to ever listen to me.
Okay, time to wrap this up. Thank you very much, E.A., for taking time out of your insane schedule to chat. (It’s rare, and possibly even illegal, for two men who’ve written novels about sex trafficking to converse.) Here’s to the continued success of The Unrepentant, and to you claiming a seat at the cool kids table sometime soon!
To learn more about E.A. Aymar and his work, visit his website, or check him out on Amazon or Twitter.
Back in January, I posted a list of my writing-related resolutions for this year. I’d provide a link to that piece right now, but giving you such easy access to it would increase the chances of you holding me to account on all the overzealous objectives I set for myself. So, nah. (In fact, I should probably hide that post.)
That said, there is one resolution I’ve already started making good on in 2019: “Supporting indie authors who are great writers and good people.” So far this has taken the form of tweets whenever a fellow writer launches a badass book, as well as quick mentions of (and links to) them via my blog. But I’d like to do more. Thus, starting today, I’ll be posting occasional interviews with some of my favorite fellow indie authors of crime thrillers—writers who really hustle and whom I feel deserve more than just a little exposure to awesome readers like you.
So without further ado, I’m super-excited to introduce you to my first guest—Elisabeth Elo! Elisabeth’s first suspense novel, North of Boston, was chosen by Booklist as the Best Crime Novel Debut of the Year in 2014. And her gripping new novel, Finding Katarina M., just launched yesterday!
Okay, let’s get to the interview:
First off, Elisabeth, huge congrats on the release and early success of Finding Katarina M. What sparked the idea for this novel? Was writing it a total joy, complete torture, or both?
The impulse for Finding Katarina M. came out my earlier novel, North of Boston, in which the main character’s parents have an interesting background. Her father is from Russia, her mother is from Estonia, and the marriage is about as conflicted as you’d expect. So years ago, well before I started writing Katarina, I was thinking about that Estonian family and wondering what happened to the grandmother.
Was the writing joy or torture? Both. The joy comes from getting lost in the work for hours and forgetting about my real problems. Being “in the flow” contributes to my psychological health, which is constantly in need of stabilization. The torture comes from two sources. First, the chronic uncertainty that attends large projects with no particular boundaries. Creative freedom is what we all want, but it’s also a terrible burden when literally every word is a choice you alone have to make. Second, you’re investing years of your life in a project that may never see the light of day. A person has to be crazy to do that, and I’m aware of the insanity of that choice every single day.
Russia factors largely into the plot of FKM. Was there a lot of research and/or travel involved in the making of the book? Did you drink a lot of vodka to help you capture Russia’s essence?
I was naturally concerned that my complete ignorance of Russia would hamper my writing a novel set in Russia. A saner person would have seen this yawning chasm as a clear warning not to proceed. As I am not a saner person (see above), I ventured forth. You can get a lot of information online, and I am a hungry reader of nonfiction, so I educated myself as best I could with what I could lay my hands on. But I knew I couldn’t write about Siberia without going there. Siberia is its own unique place—different from Russia, different from Asia. I was drawn to its utter vastness, its many ethnic groups, its frightening history, its possible future, and so on. The region is largely unknown to most westerners, and I thought of it as a sort of cultural and geographic frontier. I love novels that take me places I haven’t been and show me things I haven’t seen, and as I believe writers should write the books they want to read, the Siberian setting was a good fit for me.
Your first thriller, North of Boston, earned wide critical acclaim and was named “Best Crime Novel Debut of the Year” by Booklist in 2014. So my question is, can we be best friends? Also, while writing the new novel, were you affected by any fears of a “sophomore slump,” or did you refuse to view prior success as a burden and just write?
I would love to be best friends! Yay!
My problem writing a second novel was pretty simple. Everyone loved the main character of my first novel. They loved her comic, melancholic cynicism. The book had a lot going for it, but the main character was the main attraction. The publisher started advertising a sequel before notifying me. I didn’t really want to write a sequel. I think of each book as a world unto itself and when I’m done plumbing that world’s depths, I’m done.
However, I am not totally stupid. I do realize that a publisher who is ready and eager to publish your work is not someone to sneeze at. So, despite some misgivings, I set to work on a sequel. It was awful. Everything about it was forced and bad. I started disliking the main character because I could feel her inauthenticity. I had liked her a lot in the first book, so I felt like I was actually destroying something good I had made. I was cannibalizing myself.
Part of the reason it’s been five years between books—besides the time involved in writing a research-heavy second novel, and the time involved in having to find a new publisher, and the year it takes to actually publish a book—is that before any of those things could happen, I had to do a major systems reset. I had to completely clean the slate. The result, Finding Katarina M., is its own thing. It has its own reason for being. It’s darker than its predecessor. It’s also more grown-up in that it relies less on an appealing voice and more on plot and setting. What’s the same is its genre-bending nature, the sense of adventure, and its unusual plot twists.
I’ll keep this one short and simple: Why crime fiction?
I honestly don’t know. My first published novel was a humorous literary novel called Save Your Own, written under the name Elisabeth Brink. I didn’t make a conscious decision to switch genres. I just wrote the next book, North of Boston, and was a little surprised when it was categorized as crime. Now Katarina has come along, and it’s considered a thriller. My current work-in-progress could easily cross back into the general fiction category. Mostly what I care about is having a good story to tell.
I often wear an orange prison jumpsuit while working on my crime novels (no joke), but we’re not here to talk about me. Do you have any unique or peculiar writing habits you’d care to share? Do you have any you’d rather NOT share? (If so, tell us those.)
The need for total silence. The tendency to scribble on index cards, which I throw away without reading. Poor writing posture.
Prior to writing crime thrillers and suspense novels, you worked as a halfway house counselor. Did that job impact or inform your fiction in any profound way?
Absolutely. There was a period in my life when I was totally surrounded by people who had been through, or were going through, hard times. My own life had presented serious challenges as well. I learned a lot about the good and bad of human nature, and the very tenuous position that most people are in. Luck plays a far greater role in outward success and inner peace than the lucky are ever likely to admit.
If you could have a conversation with younger you about writing, what one piece of advice would you give her?
Here’s what I’d tell her: “Don’t do it. I’m serious. Don’t. But if you HAVE to, then take yourself much more seriously, honor your talent, make shrewd choices. DO consider the marketplace because you are not writing for yourself alone. If possible, choose a genre and stick with it. Give yourself a ten-year apprenticeship to figure out what writing really means to you and what you may have to offer. Ignore the insufferable prigs who say you must never give up. Writing is not a cross you must bear, and it is perfectly fine to take one year, five years, or the rest of your life off if you feel like it. Be careful who you hang out with. Talk mostly to people you truly admire and respect.”
Who are a few of your favorite authors? What are you currently reading?
I have two favorite authors. The first, Edna O’Brien, writes the most gorgeous prose about her childhood in rural Ireland and her grown-up life as an Irish ex-patriot in London. Her trilogy, The Country Girls, is a work I constantly recommend. My second favorite author, Edward St. Aubyn, writes fictionalized autobiography about growing up in the English aristocracy as an abused child and, later, trying to function in that same society as an adult drug addict. Both of these writers were badly damaged as children and, almost as a defensive strategy, became acute observers of their respective worlds. Their salvation is their gut honesty and their brilliant, startling books. They don’t shy away from any issues, least of all their own. Sometimes their work is too painful to read; other times it’s actually funny. I think we’ve all experienced times when things are so screwed up, the best you can do is laugh.
I’m reading two books at the moment. The first is The Riddle of the Labyrinth by Margalit Fox. It’s about Alice Kober, an archeology professor back in the 1940s who attempted to solve one of the most challenging linguistic riddles in history—the hieroglyphic symbols on a bunch of engraved tablets from the Aegean Bronze Age. She got almost all the way to the solution before her untimely death. In the end someone else took credit for cracking the code, but she had set the painstaking groundwork, all while more famous archeologists (men, of course) were getting her to do their copyediting and other grunt work.
The second book I’m reading is Nora Ephron’s I Feel Bad About My Neck. No explanation needed.
Is there anything you were hoping I’d ask but didn’t?
Not a thing. I usually don’t like to talk about myself. It’s not that I’m shy; I just crave novelty and, to the extent that I am not new to me, I don’t find myself to be that interesting. I couldn’t possibly write a memoir.
But I do want to thank you for inviting me to your blog. I appreciate the time you are taking out of your busy day to support fellow writers.
The pleasure was all mine, Elisabeth—though I think everyone who just read your candid, eloquent and witty responses would argue the pleasure was all theirs. Thank YOU for being such a captivating guest. And not that you need it, but best of luck with the new book!