They say you should write only for yourself. That you shouldn’t worry about others’ opinions and instead just write what’s inside you.

And they’re right … if you’re writing a diary.

If, however, you’re writing a novel, which can take a couple years and pints of blood to complete and publish, there’s a good chance you’re hoping folks will read it. And there’s an even better chance you’re hoping folks will like it.

The bad news is, most folks won’t read it. The worse news is, some of the folks who will read it won’t like it.

Fortunately, I’ve learned a great way to cope with the crushing defeat and the feelings of utter insignificance most authors commonly experience. My secret? I pretend everyone who ignores or dislikes my books is dead or insane. This enables me to remain deluded and to revel in the handful of readers who dig my books—the people who remind me why I keep at this crazy writing game.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t write merely for external validation. I write because I love the pure act of writing and creating, the euphoria I get from completing what I think is a solid chapter or page or paragraph. Still, few things feel as good as when—after you bust your hump to bring a 75,000-word story into the world—someone other than yourself or your own mother says the story captivated them. Brought them joy. Made them laugh. Helped them through a difficult time. Maybe even transformed them to some extent.      

As much as I love writing novels, there are times when I think about quitting. Like when I’m struggling with a manuscript I’m working on. Or when I realize even my absolute best effort stands little chance of bringing me financial gain. Or when it hits me that every hour or day I spend with the imaginary people in my books is time spent away from actual people in my life. Or because I’m aware of all the big and real problems in the world, and know that me sitting alone in a room creating fiction isn’t doing much to fix things.

But it seems every time I’m about to throw in the towel and move on to do something I feel would be more productive and rewarding and selfless, some reader comes along and ruins everything with a positive and heartfelt review of one of my books. Something terribly enabling like:

“I finished In Wolves' Clothing a little over 24 hours ago and am still struggling to find the words to describe it, and to get it out of my mind. This is one of the best books I have ever read. I know that's lofty praise, but Greg Levin's ability to tell such a painful, horrible story and make it funny and inspirational deserve it.”

Or:

“As a cancer patient, I speak from a different perspective than most who will read this book. The humor and storyline are exquisitely delightful. Laugh-out-loud funny. I will read this again when I need a humor boost.”

Or an email saying:

“I lost my mother a little over a month ago. A few of my friends thought I should wait to read your book—given the subject matter. I wanted you to know that it was precisely the right book at the right time. A brilliant work of fiction that collided with an important time in my life. I loved your book, and my mother would have too.”

How in the hell am I ever supposed to leave writing behind and actually make something of myself if, on occasion—albeit rare–I receive such praise and encouragement?

Perhaps I need to start focusing on the haters and trolls a little more. You know, the folks who take time out of their busy schedule to send me email messages like:

“You are crap. Your books are crap. I hope you get a flesh-eating bacterial disease and die.”

Or who leave a one-star review like:

“Worst book I've ever read. Awful. If I could give no stars I would do that but I did not have that option.”

It could be the latter folks actually have my best interests in mind. (Well, okay, probably not the flesh-eating disease guy.) Could be they’re just trying to steer me in a direction that will be more beneficial to me and my family. Could be they’re actually members of my family.    

But I know me, and I’m sure I’ll just continue pretending such haters are zombies and/or psychopaths, and that I’ll continue putting way more stock into what my three or four super-fans have to say. And that’s okay. Because honestly, whatever keeps a writer writing (or a singer singing or a painter painting or a dancer dancing) is okay. 

I, myself, am a super-fan of several authors, and I’ve witnessed—and been surprised by—the effect that simple, honest praise can have on even famous writers … writers I’d assumed had become numb to all the compliments and accolades they’ve received from fans over the years. I recently reached out to a renowned author of dark yet powerfully poignant novels to let him know I’d just finished one of his books and that I regretted not having read it sooner. His reply:

“I've been pretty dejected about the industry for a while now, but meeting likeminded authors like yourself has invigorated my passion and determination to stick at what I believe in.”

Another author I greatly admire recently gave me the honor of reading the unfinished manuscript of his long-awaited next novel. Midway through the manuscript, I couldn’t resist emailing him to say it was shaping up to be the best book I’ve read in years. (And I wasn’t lying.) His reply:

“Much appreciated. I've been trying to psych myself up all day to make another run at the current chapter-in-progress, so your praise was well-timed.”  

Point is, writers are so damn needy. (I don’t do emojis, but feel free to insert a winky-face one here. Moving on …)

I didn’t write this blog post to pander to readers or to fish for compliments on my writing. (I already have every positive review and message I’ve ever received printed out and taped to a cocktail glass, so don’t worry about me—I see praise every day.) Rather, I wrote this post to remind readers of the power they possess simply by being a reader. Yeah, that does sound like pandering, but bear with me.

As a reader, you have every author in the world at your mercy. And you don’t owe them anything. You don’t have to read their books. You don’t have to like their books. However, if you do read one and you like it and feel compelled to let them know but figure they’re too busy or important to care, believe me, they’re not.

Their words may have left you breathless, mesmerized, overjoyed. Their words may even have restored your faith in literature and humanity. But I’m telling you, your words are even more powerful. A couple sentences of yours can touch a writer far more deeply than a thousand sentences of theirs touched you. Because what you have to say might just be exactly what the author needs to hear to continue writing. To continue fighting. To continue leaving not only you but countless others breathless, mesmerized, overjoyed. Transformed.

And, in the event you do reach out to an author to share how much their book meant to you and they don’t respond, well, don’t sweat it. Just pretend they’re dead or insane. Chances are, you’ll be right.

 

A huge THANK YOU to all the readers who’ve ever given my words the time of day—and who’ve graced me and kept me going with theirs.

Ever since my novel In Wolves’ Clothing launched in October, I’ve been meaning to interview Zero Slade, the main character in the book. However, we’ve both been extremely busy—he with traveling the world risking everything to rescue victims of child sex trafficking, and I with getting therapy to help me recover from writing a novel about a guy like Zero. The two of us finally got a chance to sit down and talk to myself this week. Here's the transcript from our candid conversation:

Me: Hi, Zero—great to see you again!

Zero: (Clenches jaw.) Don’t start with me, Greg.

Me: What’s the matter? Why so irked?

Zero: Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s the jet lag. Or perhaps the opioid withdrawal. But more than likely it’s just the chronic pain from, you know, my recent gunshot wound.

Me: Sorry, man. That’s all still bothering you, huh?

Zero: (Glares at me in silence.)

Me: If this isn’t a good time, we can reschedule.

Zero: Nah, I’m off to Laos tomorrow, then Mumbai after that. Let’s just get this over with.

Me: Okay, but you seem a little stressed out. Have you considered taking some time off from work?  

Zero: I already took some time off from work. After getting shot on the job. Remember?

Me: Okay, okay, relax. You’re acting like I pulled the trigger.

Zero: And you’re acting like you didn’t.

Me: Oh, I see how it is. You know, you’re not the only one with a difficult job around here. I’d like to see you try to create page upon page of compelling narrative and dialogue while under tremendous pressure to constantly raise the stakes and build tension to ensure readers remain riveted.

Zero: Oh yes, we’re all sooo impressed by your ability to write dangerous and harrowing scenes. But guess what: You wouldn’t last ten seconds in a single one of them. So don’t tell me about “difficult jobs,” you entitled little prick. It’s one thing to sit in a safe little room and type words that describe eight- and nine-year-old girls being rescued from the horrors of sex trafficking. It’s another thing entirely to be the guy who has to actually go in and be the girls’ worst nightmare so that their worst nightmare can finally end. (Extends arm and drops microphone at my feet.)

Me: (Sniffles.) 

Zero: Aw, man. C’mon, don’t cry. (Hands me a tissue.) Jesus—you writer-types are so damn sensitive.

Me: (Wipes eyes and blows nose.) Sorry, it’s just … that book took a lot out of me. But I’m being selfish. I can only imagine what everything was like for you.

Zero: It’s okay, man. The story had to be told.

Me: So you’re not mad at me?

Zero: I mean, I probably won’t be having you over to the house anytime soon—or buying the book—but I do kind of owe my life to you, so I guess we’re good.

Me: Glad to hear that, because I had this idea for a sequel where—

Zero: Don’t push it, Author Boy.   

Me: Sorry. It’s just that what you and the other members of Operation Emancipation do is so intriguing. Can I at least ask you a few questions about it, for the benefit of our audience?

Zero: Audience? You mean people actually read your blog?

Me: Um, for your information, smartass … I think so. Not really sure. But I do have a fair number of subscribers—a few of whom even open the emails I send them.

Zero: Your mother must be so proud.

Me: Actually, she recently unsubscribed. Anyway, let's get to those questions.

Zero: Fire away.

Me: For the people out there unfamiliar with my novel, which is pretty much everyone, could you please describe what you do? 

Zero: I’m a fake sex tourist.

Me: Yeah, um, care to elaborate?

Zero: (Rolls eyes, sighs.) I’m a member of a team that jets around the globe pretending to be pedophiles to trick pimps and liberate child victims from sex trafficking. I‘m talking the most heartbreaking sting operations you can imagine. And far too many frequent-flyer miles. 

Me: How does one end up in such a unique and difficult line of work?

Zero: Mostly by screwing up in a previous and more “illustrious” line of work related to law enforcement, national security and/or intelligence. In my case, I screwed up as a CIA agent. Some of my current colleagues and closest friends, they screwed up as FBI agents, Navy SEALs, Secret Service agents, Green Berets. That’s as specific as I can get without having to legally kill you.    

Me: Well then, moving on. Do you like what you do?

Zero: It’s kind of stupid to ask someone if they like playing the role of the vilest type of scumbag on earth. I’ll answer the question anyway: I hate that my job is necessary, but I like—and am damn proud of—what we’ve been able to accomplish.

Me: (Sniffles.)

Zero: Oh for chrissakes. Again with the crying? Dude, you must have been an absolute mess while researching and writing the book.

Me: (Wipes eyes and nose on sleeve.) It’s true. I was.

Zero: I mean, the shock and the anger and the sadness you must have experienced when you learned that over two million children are subjected to prostitution in the global commercial sex trade. And that the average age of these children is around twelve. And that their average life span after being trafficked is seven years, with many dying from assault, abuse, HIV, malnutrition, drug overdose or suicide.

Me: Well, the more shocked, angry and upset I became, the more I knew I had to write the book.

Zero: And I’m glad you did. Also, I’m glad you gave me and the guys on my team a sense of humor to help us survive and stay mostly sane on the job. And while I probably could have done without all the oxycodone and bourbon you gave me throughout much of the story, I appreciate you trying to help me numb the pain.

Me: Thanks, man. I figured if I needed those things to write the book, you definitely needed them to live it.  

Zero: How thoughtful of you.

Me: You’re welcome.

Zero: Now, what I’m not glad about and don’t appreciate is how you just HAD to have me overdose, causing my wife to find out about my opioid use and force me into rehab.

Me: I was trying to get you clean!

Zero: I know, but you know what would have been really helpful? Um, not having me get SHOT right after that. You see, having full access to powerful prescription painkillers is, uh, sort of nice after a metal slug has torn through your torso.

Me: I understand your frustration, but as I alluded to before, people who read thrillers demand mounting tension, danger and mayhem.

Zero: SCREW them!  

Me: You really shouldn’t scream and strain like that—you’ll pop your sutures.

Zero: Good! That would add "tension, danger and mayhem” to this interview. Your readers will be overjoyed.

Me: Oh, stop it. Honestly, I don’t know what you’re so angry and upset about—people really like the book. Have you seen the reviews? Readers love you  … actually, “love” may be a bit of an embellishment. They do, however, respect the hell out of you. Most of them, anyway.

Zero: Big deal. You think I care what thousands of people on Amazon think of me? 

Me: I never said thousands. Who do you think I am, J.K. Rowling? 

Zero: Whatever. Point is, I don’t have time to look at reviews or worry about readers’ opinions. All I care about is helping to free as many young girls from the clutches of traffickers and pimps as I can before I die, which, if you write a sequel, could be really soon.

Me: I understand and admire that. But can you stick around for just a couple more questions?

Zero: Fine, but then I gotta go.

Me: Okay. First, how's your wife?

Zero: Neda's doing well. I mean, you know, we're still working things out. With someone like me, that's no easy task. But Neda's tough as nails and doesn’t take any of my sh*t. She easily could have split and stayed gone after, well, everything. I'm grateful she hasn't given up on me yet.

Me: You’re welcome. And now for the last question.

Zero: Bring it.

Me: Okay, but to avoid any spoilers, I need to be careful how I ask it—and you need to be careful how you answer it. 

Zero: Is this about the ending?

Me: Yup. Ready?

Zero: (Takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, then nods.)

Me: A lot of readers were shocked and surprised by how things concluded in the book. Some have said they were initially so stunned, they had to go back and make sure they had it right.

Zero: Yeah, same here.

Me: My question is, what exactly went through your mind when you found out what you found out?

Zero: You’d already know the answer to that if you hadn’t ended things so abruptly.

Me: It was a conscious artistic choice, and I stand by it. I felt it enhanced the emotional impact.

Zero: Well, I guess I should thank you for fading to black right when you did. It wouldn’t have done anyone any good to see all the tears and snot pouring out of me just before I called Neda from the hospital to tell her the news.

Me: Yeah, I figured you deserved some privacy.

Zero: Thanks, man.

Me: At least until the sequel.

Zero: (Standing up.) This interview’s over.

 

NOTE: Zero stormed off before I could tell him I was just kidding, that I’m not actually working on a sequel to ‘In Wolves’ Clothing.’ After all, there’s only so much sex trafficking research an author can do before burning out and/or getting investigated by the FBI. That said, I have toyed around with the idea of one day writing a spin-off of IWC. It would feature Sung (one of the young girls Zero helped rescue in Cambodia) fifteen or twenty years later—seeking revenge on all the men involved in her being trafficked as a child. Hell, I’d read a book like that. So I may just have to write it. …        

Good authors put absolutely everything they have into each book they write. The trouble with this is, when it comes time for them to make a public appearance, they usually have absolutely nothing left. They’re sapped of their physical and emotional strength, their authorial power and enthusiasm, their ability to arrive to the venue on time.

Add to this the fact that many writers are introverts, and you begin to see why live author readings are one of the leading cures for insomnia.   

It doesn’t have to be this way. Hell, it shouldn’t be this way. Any author who’s good enough to be invited someplace to read to a crowd owes it to that crowd to bring—and to elicit—the same level of energy and excitement that went into the writing. Actually, they need to bring even more. The people in the audience gave up binge-watching Stranger Things and braved traffic and human contact to come to the event. They deserve to be dazzled, captivated, shocked.  

So how can bookstores and event organizers ensure such excitement and entertainment at readings?

I have some ideas:

1) Force the author to read pages on fire. To be clear, the pages—not the author—should be on fire. It’s not only unsafe and unkind to set an author on fire, it’s illegal in some U.S. states.

Here’s how the pages-on-fire thing works: Several pages from the author’s book are printed out on standard 8.5 x 11 paper. The first page is lit at the top with a match or lighter and handed to the author, who then must read fast enough to stay ahead of the flames and to avoid second- or third-degree burns, but not so fast that they blur over any major plot points and confuse the audience. 

I’ve seen this type of reading done before, and it’s a lot of fun. For the audience, anyway. It’s especially fun when the author giving the reading is a sloppy drunk, as the presence of ethanol on clothes/skin increases the chances that an ambulance and the local fire department will make an appearance. And what’s a reading event without ambulances and fire trucks?       

2) Allow fights between the author and audience members. One thing that’s sadly lacking at most reading events is bloodshed. Sure, there’s the occasional exception, like when Stephen King’s fingers began to bleed during a signing in Seattle and he continued bandage-free for all the fans who were clamoring for authentic Stephen King blood on their book. (I’m not kidding.) But such invigorating trauma during author appearances is rare.

That can easily be changed. Bookstores and other venues could fill a ton of seats during readings simply by lowering security and allowing bored and disgruntled fans to throw solid objects at authors, or to rush the podium and tackle them. The venues could ratchet the fun up a few notches by not only allowing but also encouraging such melees to occur—maybe even taking bets from the crowd on who wins. To help ensure the author fights back tooth and nail (thus increasing the excitement even more), the venue could promise them a healthy cut of the earnings as well as a positive Amazon review from all in attendance if they win.

3) Have a stunt double do the reading. Even with the imminent threat of serious burns or beatings, some authors are simply too depressed and/or disassociated to spring to life at a public reading. A great way to fend against this and ensure the audience remains enthralled is to replace the author with a stunt double—someone who looks at least a little like the author’s bio photo and who isn’t afraid to do ridiculously risqué or dangerous things.

Studies have shown that people are 98 percent more likely to show up and stick around for a reading event when the reading is completed in the nude and/or while jumping out of a fourteenth-floor window. That number climbs to 100 percent if the author in question is Stephenie Meyer.

An added bonus: Because most stunt people are trained in some form of martial art, any attacks by disgruntled (or overly excited) fans are sure to result in the kinds of compound fractures that really captivate a crowd and turn a midlist author into an international mega-bestselling legend.            

4) Let the author’s significant other have the podium. No matter how gripping or heartbreaking or inspiring a book is, nothing compares to listening to the wife, husband or partner of the person who wrote it talk about the fresh hell of living with an author. In fact, I’ll bet a candid rant by Tabitha King is ten times scarier than anything her spouse Stephen has ever written. (And she, too, is an author, which I’m sure only adds to the horror.)  

Sure, an author’s significant other may initially act like they’re extremely proud and supportive of the demon they share a roof with. But if the venue serves alcohol, you could be in for a real treat, especially if the significant other is invited to say a few words after the reading. If they are not invited to do so, feel free to step up and invite them yourself. Just be sure to pat them down first.                   

5) Serve alcohol. Not only will alcohol help the author’s significant other come unhinged, it pretty much guarantees most of the other things suggested in this post will happen with no additional planning or preparation required.

 

Speaking of authors and reading and books, there's a big ebook giveaway being hosted by the good folks over at Authors XP. You can enter for a chance to win up to 35 crime/thriller ebooks! (It just so happens my latest novel, In Wolves’ Clothing, is among them.) To learn more about the giveaway, click HERE. 

In my novels, I have a tendency to put the main characters through emotional and physical hell. They must endure such things as rapidly metastasizing cancer, the untimely deaths of loved ones, drug addiction and gunshot wounds.

In my actual life, I have a tendency to put my family through much worse.

In my defense, I’m a mean and awful person only when busy writing a book. Or rewriting a book. Or promoting a book. Or planning the next book. So, really only about eleven-and-a-half months out of the year. The rest of the time, I’m an absolute joy to be around.

Nevertheless, I’ve been meaning to formally apologize to my family—my wife and daughter, in particular—and now seems like the ideal time. I think we can all agree there’s no better way for an author to express sincere remorse and request forgiveness than through a blog post.  

So here goes ...

 

Dear Miranda and Leah,

I’m truly sorry for my mood swings and isolation and selfishness over the past several weeks and months and years. Please know it’s nothing personal. You’ve done nothing wrong—other than sometimes breathe too loudly or interrupt me with a sudden “Good morning” or “I love you” that totally takes me out of my writing groove. Still, as crippling as such interruptions are to the creative process, they’re no excuse for me to treat the most important people in my life with disdain.        

I’m also sorry you’ve had to endure all my loud arguments with imaginary people. And my shouting at blank pages. And me repeatedly banging my head against my desk. Trust me, it’s not like I enjoy waking you up in the middle of the night with such jarring sounds. After all, once you’re awake, you make noises that make it even harder for me to concentrate and write. So, as you can see, it’s miserable for everyone involved. But I’m willing to take most of the blame.

I’m sorry for always growling and barking at you when you step anywhere near my writing office while I’m in the midst of a critical scene or plot twist or tweet. Nobody should ever have to witness their husband or father behaving like a rabid dog, no matter how warranted such behavior might be. I hope you can forgive me. I also hope you can try not to step anywhere near my writing office while I’m in the midst of a critical scene or plot twist or tweet. (You can always go out your bedroom window to get to the kitchen, you know. Just remember your house key.)

I’m sorry for not being a very good listener in recent years. For sometimes ignoring you when you tell me about your day or your problems or whatever it is you’re always talking about while I’m trying to tell you about how the book is going. I love you guys so much and I really do want to know all about your lives. It’s just sometimes it’s hard to pay attention when what’s happening in my book is so much more thrilling. Again, I’m terribly sorry. Sometimes I wish I didn’t write such thrilling novels. It’s so unfair to you.

Please believe me when I say I’m going to try to change. We all know I won’t actually change, but it would be awfully nice of you to believe I might. One thing I am considering is moving away from such dark topics in my novels. (You were probably hoping I was going to stop that last sentence after “moving away.”) Call me crazy, but I think all the time I spend researching and writing about terminal disease and death and murder and sex trafficking might in some way be contributing to my ever-increasing unpleasantness. I was hoping my ever-increasing drinking might help with that. Not sure if it’s working.

As much as I love writing dark fiction, it’s not worth it if it means destroying our family. That’s why I’m currently toying around with a novel about a puppy and a baby unicorn who live under a magic rainbow. Trouble is, whenever I sit down to work on such a happy book, I’m overcome with the urge to throw myself off a tall building. And you don’t want that, right? Right? … RIGHT?

Okay, I need to wrap this up so I can get back to focusing on nothing but my writing. But before I do, Miranda and Leah, I need you to know the two of you mean the world to me. I’m so sorry if I’ve ever screamed anything from my office to make you think otherwise. You—along with my mother, father and brother (who make up the rest of my fan base and thus had to be mentioned)—are the most important non-imaginary people in my life. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Nothing.

Except perhaps write a book about a puppy and a unicorn.

Love,

Greg/Dad 

 

If you’re a writer, feel free to use the comments section below to share the horrible things you regularly put YOUR family through. And if you’re the family member of a writer, now is the time to cry out for help … and to dish some dirt!     

One more thing: Sorry to self-promote so soon after an apology, but today’s the last day to get the Kindle edition of In Wolves’ Clothing for just 99 CENTS. (Amazon US and UK only.) Tomorrow I’m jacking up the price like I’m a pharmaceutical exec and the book’s a life-saving drug. You can download your ridiculously cheap copy of IWC HERE. 

If you witness fiction writers interacting with one another on a panel or at a reading or in a bar, you might think the writing life is all fun and games and drinking booze. But ask the fly on the wall what these authors talk about when you and other potential fans aren’t around, and you’ll quickly learn that the writing life is mostly pain and frustration and futility. And drinking booze.

Now, I could continue this post with a list of funny hyperbolic examples of what fiction writers chat about when nobody who might buy their books is listening in, but it’s hard to be funny and hyperbolic when everything is so painful and frustrating and futile. And blurry. So instead, I’m going to share actual excerpts from an ongoing email exchange I’ve been having with a fellow novelist I met a while back. After all, it's always better to show than tell. Plus copying and pasting text from Gmail is a lot easier than coming up with brand new content.

NOTE: I’ve removed/replaced certain words or phrases that could possibly reveal the aforementioned novelist's identity. And no, it’s NOT Chuck Palahniuk. While I had the honor of meeting and “workshopping” with Chuck recently, he is one of those rare writers who’s immune to pain and frustration and futility, and thus is impossible to commiserate with.)

Without further ado, here are the email excerpts. (Warning: Some of the language could be considered offensive. I'm hoping that will keep you reading.)  

[From an exchange in Fall 2016]

Me: This whole writing thing must be what being addicted to heroin is like. Short, incredible highs followed by misery and hopelessness—and the inability to stop going after the short, incredible highs. Realizing it's killing you yet needing to do it all the time. And Amazon is like an evil drug dealer that keeps sucking you back in. He knows all it takes is a small score here and there to own you for life. So, how’s YOUR Monday going?

Author friend: I hear you. My week has sucked infected goat balls so far. On top of [title of the new manuscript] hitting the skids, the film [based on the previous book] opened not to a bang but a whimper. I didn't expect a lot of fanfare, but I'm pissed that the distributor isn't doing any more than the producers could have done themselves, and for that they changed the title, came up with a shitty poster and tagline. They've asked for my input. I'm trying to gather my thoughts and wait until I can provide them with something more polite than, “How 'bout at least putting the trailer on Apple's movie trailer site, geniuses?!” Okay, enough bitching from me. How’s Sick to Death doing?

Me: I'm sorry about your infected goat balls week. That a writer with your resume still has to deal with such letdowns speaks to the absolute absurdity and fickleness of the publishing world and Hollywood. As for Sick to Death, it shot out of the gate with great sales and rave reviews for the first two weeks, then, just as I was out shopping for what I was fantasizing I'd wear to the National Book Awards ceremony, sales plateaued ... and then dipped precipitously. The good news is I have some promising promo stuff happening over the next few weeks. The bad news is I'm spending much more time tracking sales of the new book than I am writing the next book. And it’s a shame because I’m pretty sure the next book is the best damn thing I’ve ever written. Of course, the next book always is. Anyway, I’m not proud of letting external validation boss me around. I should know better.

 

[From an exchange a couple of weeks later]

Author friend: The writing is flowing, with some starts and stops. Whenever I get jammed up, I look at each situation and brainstorm the next possible series of events according to established character behavior and previous plot details. Then I look at that list of possibilities and ask, “Which of these is the worst possible thing that could happen to my protagonist?” And that's the one I go with. As soon as I do that (and it ain't easy... I really like this character and feel like a total asshole for putting her in such ever-frothier waters of shit creek), I seem to always have some lightning bolt of insight that sustains me until I'm standing at the edge of the next “What the fuck now?" cliff.

Me: I hear ya on causing so much pain and distress for your protagonist. Here’s something I said about my current main character during a recent interview: “I've been very busy putting my new protagonist through hell, and he's been very busy doing the same to me.”

 

[From an exchange about a month after that]

Me: News. Now Showtime wants to option The Exit Man. I’ve been assured the deal will be finalized right after Thanksgiving. Of course, I was also assured Hillary was going to trounce Trump, so I’ve learned to be weary of what I’ve been assured. [Name of another cable network] may counter with a "screw the option—let's go straight to series" offer], but I’ve been advised to stick with Showtime regardless due to the huge potential. So yeah, I'm feeling almost not worthless right now. This feeling will soon pass, I'm sure, and I’ll be back to feeling completely worthless.

Author friend: That’s fantastic news. Options are awesome. Still, it’s annoying when people ask, "So when's there gonna be a movie?" As though that legitimizes a book. Few people realize just what a godsend option money is for a working writer. In some ways, it's an appealing idea to never have the movie/TV show made, and just have that annual infusion of cash keep coming in perpetuity. James Ellroy called the film/TV options "cosmic welfare checks." Sadly, my old (and corrupt) publisher took a goodly chunk of my option money (I had no agent at the time), but still, I did really well on film options for a long time.

Me: “Cosmic welfare checks.” Nice. I'm going to steal that. Or at least cite Ellroy.

Author friend: I guess that makes us cosmic white trash. : ) By the way, I’ll be fasting from social media and email for the home stretch of the latest manuscript. Next weekend, I'm loading up the truck with firewood and whiskey and will be spending the bulk of December in the desert doing the rewrite. Yee-ha.

Me: Awesome to hear you've finished the first draft of your latest manuscript, which is probably better than the seventh draft of most writers' latest manuscript. Firewood and whiskey? Make that the title. If you don’t, do I have permission to use it on my tombstone?

 

[From an exchange a couple of months ago]

Author friend: Things aren't looking good for [title of the new manuscript]. The editor's had it since April, but I've not heard anything. I sent an email to my agent and got an auto-reply that he's out until the 15th, so I'm gonna have to deal with the knot in my stomach and just wait. Honestly? I'm on the verge of giving up. I'm wrestling with manuscript #5, but even if I finish it tomorrow, I don't see how it stands a snowman's chance in hell of publication if my previous one had no takers. Congrats on wrapping up your latest. And bigger congrats on having it hit the shelves soon. I'll shout it from the rooftops when that happens.

Me: Hearing that someone with your talent, credentials and fan following is thinking of giving up writing leads me to assume that aliens have invaded your brain. At least I’m hoping that’s the case. If not, it means the literary world is crumbling, falling into ruin … and that I might as well stop writing novels and find a more promising job like tollbooth attendant or coal miner. Hang in there. Things are going to turn back around for you in a big way soon. Usually such optimism makes me retch, but in your case I can feel it in my bones. Now, before I go, let me just remind you of something you may have forgotten. YOU WROTE [TITLE OF NOVEL THAT HAS SUSTAINED CULT-LIKE STATUS FOR OVER A DECADE AND HAS INSPIRED COUNTLESS WRITERS OF DARK FICTION, INCLUDING ME]. Now go find someone to extract those pesky aliens from your frontal lobe and get back to work. Sir.

 

NOTE: I’m thrilled to report that my almost legendary author friend has NOT given up writing, and that he continues to produce astonishing prose that continues to make him miserable. Thank goodness.

Here’s hoping he regains the literary fame and commercial success he so deserves, but that he never loses his passion for bitching and ranting with me from a thousand miles away in the middle of the night.