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!
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.)
‘Tis the season for giving, and after spending much of last week shamelessly promoting one of my novels that was on sale, I’m ready to get into the true holiday spirit and focus on my fellow woman and man. Trouble is, I earned less than a dollar for every copy sold during the aforementioned sale, and thus can afford to give gifts only to imaginary people. (My family isn’t thrilled about this, but in my defense, they’re used to me disappointing them.)
So let’s get this merry freakin’ party started. Below are the names of some of my all-time favorite fictional characters, along with what I feel is the perfect present for each.
NOTE: Included in this list are the protagonists from my own novels. I did this not to be self-promotional, but rather because these characters would surely murder me if I didn’t list them and get them gifts. (They’re all still a bit upset with me for nearly getting each of them killed while writing their story.)
Tyler Durden(Fight Club)
Perfect gift: A hospital-grade first-aid kit.
I thought about getting Tyler a prescription for extra-strength Ambien or an elephant tranquilizer to help with his insomnia, but then realized that he, if well-rested, might be a bit of a snooze. I believe one of the greatest gifts in life is the ability to be fully self-expressed. And for someone whose full self-expression is repeatedly punching others and himself in the face until unconscious—one of the greatest gifts you can give is a portable pack containing smelling salts, surgical gloves, hydrogen peroxide, Dermabond, sterile gauze, adhesive tape, bandages, scissors, a splint, fentanyl patches, and, of course, soap made from human fat.
Lisbeth Salander (The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo)
Perfect gift: Access to Larry Nassar, Jerry Sandusky, Bill Cosby, et. al.
For those of you who are familiar with Lisbeth Salander, the above gift needs no explanation. For those of you who aren’t, she’s everyone’s favorite vigilante rape-survivor hell-bent on destroying men guilty of sexual assault.
Now, I’m not saying violence is ever the answer. Of course, as a man, I don’t get to say what the answer is when it comes to what women like Lisbeth have been through. What I can say, however, is, “Enjoy the gift, girl!”
We all have that one friend who runs a party supply store and lives a secret double-life as a mercy killer helping terminally ill individuals end their lives with dignity. My friend like that is Eli Edelmann, and boy is he going to be tickled when he unwraps a set of helium tanks that can’t be tracked to his own store, and that are each just small enough to fit inside the duffle bag he brings on house calls. I just hope he didn’t get me the same gift.
Celie (The Color Purple)
Perfect gift: A tabono tattoo.
A tabono is an African symbol representing strength, perseverance, persistence and purposefulness. Sure, I could get Celie a tabono pendant instead of a tabono tattoo, but pendants can be easily broken. Tattoos—just like Celie—cannot.
Whether you’ve read the book or seen the movie, or both, you know Celie embodies the strength of the human spirit and the power of forgiveness. You see her transform from a wounded, mercilessly abused woman to a strong, independent and loving individual. Granted, there’s that one really gross scene where she spits in Mister's father's glass of water, but that scene reveals how Celie—even when terrified—simply won’t stand for anyone messing with the people she loves. We should all strive to be as deserving of having a tabono carved into our flesh as Celie is.
Offred (The Handmaid's Tale)
Perfect gift: Membership to a “rage room.”
What do you get the girl who has everything … taken from her by a dystopian totalitarian patriarchal state? Well, the top two gift items that pop up when you Google this question are 1) a cyanide pill, and 2) the opportunity to smash solid objects to smithereens with little risk of getting publicly hanged by theonomic dictators. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think cyanide says “happy holidays” quite like taking a baseball bat to glass does.
Rage rooms started popping up around the globe about four or five years ago, and have really spiked in popularity since around November 8, 2016. And while most rage-room patrons report that five to ten minutes of obliterating old TV sets and dinnerware is enough to get rid of years of pent-up fury, I feel that ten minutes wouldn’t be enough for Offred to get rid of even one morning of pent-up fury. Thus, I’ll be gifting her a rage room Platinum Membership, which includes unlimited visits as well as super-secret transportation to and from the venue in a camouflaged Tesla.
After all that’s happened to Gage Adder—his divorce, his stage-IV pancreatic cancer diagnosis, his having no other choice but to murder a friend—he could really use a victory. And while Lisbeth is not exactly the type of woman to allow a man to set her up on a blind date, once I tell her about Gage’s affinity for poisoning rapists and other miscreants, she’ll at least be down for a coffee with the guy. Granted, Gage’s inoperable cancer is likely to put a damper on any long-term romance, but even if he and Lisbeth end up just being friends for a few months, it could result in some truly beautiful and meaningful executions. And isn’t that really what the holidays are all about?
Amy Dunne (Gone Girl)
Perfect gift: A ride-along with a crime scene investigator.
Brilliant sociopaths are often forgotten about during Christmas, and that’s sad. When I think of the joy—well, maybe not joy, considering she is a sociopath—that Amy will experience upon discovering that someone cared enough to get her a present that taps her most dangerous strengths, it gives me goosebumps.
I really did put a lot of thought into this gift. Amy will be totally in her element, and the CSI agent she rides along with will be shocked by her natural aptitude. After all, Amy is always three steps ahead of everyone—and devious enough to get away with planting fake evidence to catch those for whom there isn’t sufficient real evidence. Just ask her husband.
Humbert Humbert (Lolita)
Perfect gift: Androgen deprivation therapy (ADT).
I had to think long and hard about what to get Humbert for the holidays—just like I’ve had to think long and hard about why I and so many other people root for such a dangerous malcontent whenever we read Lolita.
A little about my choice of gift for Humbert: ADT is a drug treatment that involves the reduction of male hormones—especially testosterone—in a sexual deviant’s system. A sort of chemical castration, if you will. Perhaps I’m being a little too sympathetic toward Humbert, but I feel it would be overly barbaric to physically castrate him, and a shame to drug him out of his brilliant mind with heavy doses of anti-depressants. I mean, c’mon—Humbert is witty, charming, cultured, refined. Once you remove his pathological obsession for prepubescent girls, he’s a helluva guy.
Two years traveling the world posing as a pedophile to catch sex traffickers and rescue young girls can really take its toll on one’s body and mind. And marriage. Zero Slade is living fictional proof of that. Add in the stress of trying to beat an opioid addiction following a recent overdose and getting shot during a recent sting operation, and I think you’ll agree Zero deserves a day of pampering—almost as much as his tough yet devoted wife Neda does. After a full six hours of deluxe spa treatment that includes Swedish massages, organic double-exfoliation facials and warm agave nectar pedicures, Zero and Neda are going to feel so rejuvenated, they just might stay married for another year or two.
To help ensure an ideal spa experience and keep Zero’s mind off of work, I told the spa manager that no female staff from Asia, South America, Central America or Africa who are young enough to possibly be mistaken for minors are to come anywhere near the couple during their visit. Thus, the manager has arranged for all the treatments to be provided by two former Ukrainian weightlifters. Each of these women will be given special instructions on how to carefully work around Zero’s entry and exit wounds.
Jean Louise "Scout" Finch (To Kill a Mockingbird)
Perfect gift: Two rocking chairs and a large bouquet of flowers.
Such items may seem like odd gift choices for a young girl like Scout. That’s because they’re not actually for her. Scout being one of the most sensitive and thoughtful children in all of fiction (and all of nonfiction, for that matter), there’s nothing she’d want more for the holidays than to do something for others less fortunate than her.
The two rocking chairs? They’re for Scout to give to the severely misunderstood recluse Arthur “Boo” Radley, so that she and Boo can sit together regularly on his porch—where she’ll no doubt talk his ear off apologizing to him on behalf of the entire town. As for the bouquet of flowers, those are for Scout to set on Tom Robinson’s grave—where she’ll no doubt talk his ear off apologizing on behalf of humanity.
Odessa Scott: (title classified) [Sorry, can’t share the name of my upcoming book—coming soon to an Amazon near you!]
Perfect gift: A very secluded tiny-house and art studio.
Who here doesn’t struggle each year to come up with the ideal holiday present for the agoraphobic artist in their life who’s wanted in several states for forgery and murder? And yet, despite the hassle, we always seem to find ourselves going the extra mile for these troublesome, creative felons we know and love.
Man, I can’t wait to see the look on Odessa’s face after I blindfold her and drive her out to the tiny-house and separate tiny-studio I bought for her in a remote area of the Davis Mountains in West Texas. Hopefully Odessa will enjoy many years hiding out there, painting abstract expressionistic masterpieces before the law catches up to her. And hopefully she’ll keep my name out of her mouth when they do. Because unlike Odessa, I can’t imagine myself in prison.
Who are some of YOUR favorite literary characters, and what's the perfect gift for them? Share in the comments section below.
Few things are more gratifying than having thousands of fans tell you they’re dying to read your next book when it comes out.
Or so I imagine.
Rather than me sitting around and praying for such fervor to occur, I’m going to try to create it by sharing an excerpt from my work-in-progress (WIP) today. Who knows—maybe the excerpt will go viral and create the kind of frenzied buzz that results in tens of thousands of sales of my novel whenever it launches. At the very least, the excerpt will prove to my wife that I haven’t just been watching Netflix while locked away in my writing office these past several months.
Before we jump into the excerpt, I’d like to tell you just a little bit about my WIP. It’s an irreverent crime thriller tentatively titled Scott Free. Don’t bother memorizing the title because it’s likely I’ll change it or perish before the book comes out. Assuming I survive the entire writing and editing process, here’s the tentative blurb that will appear on the back of the book (for those of you who still hold actual physical books):
Fed up with society and stifled by mounting debt, artist Roxy Scott and her aging mother discover their one real shot at freedom.
Prison.
All they have to do is commit the perfect crime—an imperfect art forgery that’s sure to land them in a minimum security “Club Fed” correctional facility where they can finally relax.
There’s just one problem: They don’t get caught. Instead, they get rich.
That’s when the real problems start.
Since everything else I’ve mentioned thus far is tentative, I’m gonna go ahead and say the book will tentatively receive the following testimonials:
“I’m proud to call Levin one of my disciples, but what he does with this book is a prime example of the student surpassing the teacher.” —Chuck Palahniuk, author of Fight Club; president of the Greg Levin Fan Club
“It’s time for everybody to stop reading J.K. Rowling, George R.R. Martin and Stephen King, and start reading Greg Levin.” —J.K. Rowling, George R.R. Martin and Stephen King
“Not even being dead for twelve years could stop me from singing the praises of this electrifying novel. I’d buy Levin a drink, but my wallet decomposed.”—Kurt Vonnegut (1922-2007)
Okay, back to reality. Here’s some fiction—an excerpt from the opening chapter of what will soon probably no longer be called Scott Free. If you like slow starts, you’re going to hate this. Enjoy!
Take away the two or five or ten cops tailing us. Take away their loaded Glock 19s and the pack of K-9s closing in. Take away the ninety-eight-pound septuagenarian lying limp in my arms and load-testing my muscles and ligaments every foot we move forward. Add a thousand sunflowers to the field we're halfway through. Add a bit more azure to the vast Texas sky.
Do all that, and this would still be terrifying.
Agoraphobia has a way of ruining even the most idyllic outings. Combine it with running for your life while carrying your broken mother, and it’s a wonder nothing inside implodes any more than it already has.
The dogs bark in the distance like a stranger just rang Hell’s doorbell. The only thing separating us from them is a matter of time.
"Odessa," groans Mama. I pretend not to hear it.
The back pocket of my blood- and mud-splattered jeans vibrates with yet another call or text from Griff or Big Gail, or perhaps from someone who knew someone who once had the same number as this burner phone. If I had a spare hand or second, I’d let them know we’re not going to make it and we’re sorry and we love them. Even if it is a wrong number.
But right now I’m all about making it out of this unbearably bucolic meadow and into the damp tangle of trees up ahead. It’s easier to breathe in tight spaces. Plus live oaks can stop hollow-points.
Mama groans again. Sounds similar to what birthing an eight-pound girl forty-five years ago without an epidural must have felt like. I glance at Mama’s ashen face and lie to it. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
She murmurs for me to hurry. My heart is earning time-and-a-half.
The trees we just reached greet us with stabs. Branches poke and tear at our clothes. Scratch my face, neck and hands, adding a few more drops of crimson to the picture. Mama murmurs what sounds like “please” but I keep moving, scanning the forest for a secret portal. A trap door. A chance in hell.
The dogs are still out of sight but getting louder. Not loud enough to keep me from trying to catch my breath though. Cradling Mama, I crouch and set her down not gently enough against the trunk of an oak about twice her age. She moans, and with one eye open, goes, “Why?”
Her neck gives out, sending her chin into her collarbone. I lift her head and use the bottom of what an hour ago was my favorite blouse to dab a speck of blood where a branch caught the corner of her mouth. Mama’s got two eyes open now and they’re both on me. She should be too exhausted to look that angry. But I get it. We have to hurry. The dogs tell me so.
“Go,” whispers Mama. “Find her.”
I squat down to scoop Mama up in my arms. A grunt more like a growl escapes me as I hoist her over my shoulder and fireman-carry her toward hopefully what and who we’re looking for.
Fighting through a couple of heart attacks, we get to the top of a ridge. Going down is going to be even worse, but I see a rocky outcrop splitting two oaks about a football field ahead. Closer, and all there is between the overhang of the outcrop and the ground right below it is darkness.
Not a cave, but close enough.
Not a chance in hell, but I’ll take it.
That’s it—that’s all I’m going to share for now. The good news is there’s plenty more where that came from. Or, if you hated it, the good news is it will still be quite a while before the book is available. I’ll keep you all posted on the progress, and will likely share a couple more excerpts between now and the day I give birth to the book—which I’m hoping will be no later than the apocalypse.
For the past couple of months, I’ve been writing a woman I’ve never met. I know her every secret and can finish all her sentences. Her name’s Roxy, and I can’t stop thinking about her.
My wife, Miranda, is totally cool with it. Thinks it’s great. In fact, Miranda encourages me to spend several hours a day in a room alone with Roxy. Even suggests exciting risks to take with her and challenging positions to put her in.
It’s not as kinky as it sounds ... unless you get off on watching an author out of his element.
Roxy’s full name is Roxy Scott—the main character in the novel I’m working on. (Yes, I’m writing yet another novel, despite what my tax returns keep telling me.) This is the first time I’ve ever written a female protagonist (a biracial one, no less), and I’m learning a lot in the process. Like what jackasses men can be, how much stronger women are, and how inconvenient and inhumane depilation is.
You know, the kind of stuff pretty much every woman who’s ever lived has always known.
It’s not easy being a woman. Or writing one as a man. There are myriad pitfalls and challenges male authors—particularly straight male authors—face when writing a female protagonist, or any female character for that matter.
The biggest mistake so many male writers make in their books is the same mistake so many male non-writers make in everyday life: They think of women in an overly sexual manner. Even worse, they think as women in an overly sexual a manner. You can usually tell when a first-person POV story about a woman has been written by a man—you’ll catch the character thinking about or referencing certain parts of her body a bit too often and at odd times. The way only an idiot with a penis would.
“No further questions, your Honor,” I said to the judge before glancing over at the jury, beads of sweat glistening between my breasts.
The doorbell rang. Right then and there, while ripping the last wax strip from my bikini line, I knew Jack was dead.
Okay, those examples are a bit hyperbolic, but you get the idea. And if you don’t, go read a book starring a female protagonist written by pretty much any male author besides Kazuo Ishiguro, Jeffrey Eugenides Ian McEwan or Tom Perrotta. (Yes, I know there are other men who write women well, but humor me here in the interest of time and space.)
So, what am I doing to avoid introducing to the literary world yet another one-dimensional woman for the critics to eviscerate? What am I doing to help ensure that Roxy Scott leaps off the page with flesh, bone and soul, and makes readers forget there’s a man behind the curtain? Well, I’ll tell you what I’m doing …
… I’m listening to her.
I realize that sounds a bit woo-woo, perhaps even pretentious, but it’s true. I spent a lot of time “getting to know” Roxy before actually starting to write about her. I took a ton of notes about her imaginary past and present. I paid particular attention to her unique strengths and weaknesses, her habits and quirks, her pain and pride. Her successes. Her failures. As a result, each day when I’m working on the manuscript, it’s more Roxy guiding me than me guiding Roxy. She’s far too tough and independent to be pushed around by a mid-list male writer like me. In fact, she scares me a little.
That said, I’ve tried to not make Roxy so tough and independent she shows up as a machine, an invincible badass. This is another common mistake men make when writing a female protagonist. We try so hard to avoid turning the character into a clichéd woman, we inadvertently turn her into a clichéd man—thus making her easier to write, but unbelievably unbelievable to the reader. I’ll admit, there were a few times when I unwittingly started to veer toward over-masculinity while writing Roxy. Fortunately, though, she brought these incidents to my attention and set me straight. “Hey, Greg,” she wrote on my bathroom mirror in red lipstick one day, “I’m glad you didn’t try to make me a supermodel sex goddess princess, but please keep in mind I’m still a woman with wants and needs.” It was a difficult and awkward "conversation"—like finding out that your own mother or sister has a sex life.
While listening to Roxy is essential and has served me well, I realize doing everything a fictional person tells me to do isn’t writing. It's schizophrenia. So I’ve had to learn to trust my gut at times. To rely on my male intuition about being a woman. (I’m pretty sure that’s never gotten any man into trouble before.) Not to brag, but after more than forty years of disappointing and aggravating mothers, grandmothers, daughters, aunts, girlfriends, girl friends and wives, I know a thing or two about what the opposite sex hates. I figure I can just extrapolate from there.
But the truth is, I'm learning to focus less on the fact that I’m writing a female main character and more on the fact that I’m writing a human one. I mean, let’s face it, aside from the (usually) obvious anatomical contrasts, women and men are not as different as they used to be. Gender roles—and pronouns—have been bending beyond easy recognition for years now. A typical “he” and a typical “she” aren’t what they used to be. And that’s a good thing—unless you happen to get fooled while vacationing in Thailand.
So, I’m just going to keep writing Roxy Scott to the best of my ability, taking her thoughts and interests and motivations into careful consideration as we, together, push the plot forward. I won’t boss her around, sell her out, have her talk like a tart or make her act like a man. I’ll continue to honor her autonomy and her ability to make her own decisions, as well as her ability to deal with the consequences of those decisions.
Bottom line is, I’ll treat Roxy with the same level of respect I would any woman. Or man. Or anyone in between. More precisely, I’ll treat Roxy with the same level of respect I’d want to be treated with if Roxy were writing me.
And who’s to say she isn’t?
YOUR TURN. Name some male authors (and/or their book titles) you feel do justice to their female characters. Or, name some male authors/books that DON’T. (Fear not—it’s highly unlikely any famous authors read my blog.) Also, it’s been said that women do a better job of writing men than men do of writing women. Do you agree? I'd love for you to share your thoughts in the comments section below.
(In totally unrelated news, today [Wednesday, May 9] is the last day to get the Kindle edition of my latest thriller for JUST 99 CENTS. Click HERE to take advantage of this deal. Thanks!)