My novels explore some really dark stuff. Stuff like terminal illness, voluntary euthanasia, serial killing, sex trafficking, drug addiction, dementia. Yes, I have sought professional help. No, it hasn't stopped me from tackling such grim topics. And here’s the thing: When reviewing a novel of mine—whether the book is about a terminally ill man who kills people, or about a man who kills terminally ill people, or about a man who pretends to be a pedophile to catch sex traffickers—most readers mention they found the book funny. Many say they laughed a lot. Some say they peed a little.

Those of you who’ve never read any of my books (and I know who you are—I’m making a list, checking it twice) may be thinking, “What kind of sociopath writes books that make light of such horrific topics and issues? And what kind of sociopaths read such books and laugh enough to need an adult diaper?”

First of all, go easy on my readers—they’re good people. Secondly, allow me to explain:  

I don’t make light of people dying or killing. I don’t make light of cancer or the people suffering from it. I don’t make light of sex trafficking or drug addiction or dementia. What I do (or try to, at least) is show how humans—when stuck in the darkest of spaces—will scratch and claw at the walls until even the tiniest speck of light breaks through. Humor is a natural survival mechanism, so naturally I try to weave some into books about people facing serious adversity. My aim isn't for readers to laugh at the darkness but rather to laugh in it. I never try to force “the funny” (like I sometimes do on my blog or when trying to embarrass my daughter in public). Instead I try to use the funny to appropriately juxtapose the frightening and the fierce.

If you were to ask me what I’m most proud of in my writing career, I’d make no mention of awards or Hollywood options or major book deals (especially not that last one, since I’ve never had a major book deal.) What I’m most proud of are the times when readers—particularly those who’ve personally experienced the same/similar tragedy or peril featured in a book of mine—reach out to say they appreciated how the book’s humor elevated the story rather than detracted from it. How it elicited laughter without  disrespecting the dire straits the characters faced. As a writer, there’s only one thing more rewarding than hearing that a reader “got” exactly what you were going for: Hearing that what you were going for made a lasting impact on a reader and helped to ease their suffering, relieve their grief, make their day (or even just their hour or minute).

That’s what novels by the likes of Chuck Palahniuk, Kurt Vonnegut, Elmore Leonard and Sara Gran do for me. Such books break my heart while making me bust a gut. They show humanity at its worst yet somehow manage to restore my faith in it. They cause me to cringe and clench and cheer and laugh in equal measure. A few other authors who effectively pepper their powerful, gritty fiction with humor are Joe Clifford, Rachel Howzell Hall, Nico Walker, and Will Christopher Baer.   

If you look at the reviews for any of my novels, you’ll see plenty of readers starting off with something like, “I didn’t know what the hell I was getting myself into with this book” or “I was a little nervous about cracking this one open,” but what soon follows is usually something like, “I couldn’t believe I was laughing along with and rooting for these characters” or “Hilarious and delightful, though also heart-wrenching.” (For a perfect example of such a review, click HERE.)

I love receiving reviews like those. Not because they’re positive and full of praise (though sure, that’s nice, too); rather because I love it when readers take a chance on books with topics that worry or rattle or frighten them—books they fear may cross the line or trigger painful emotions or memories. And I love it even more when those readers, after diving into such books, walk away rewarded for their risk—feeling not only entertained but also touched and moved. Perhaps even inspired.

Just like how I feel every time I discover a novel that dares to laugh in the dark.  

 

How about you? Have you ever bought or borrowed a book you thought might scar you for life but that ended up moving you to tears and laughter? I’d love to hear about it—please share in the comments section below.       

Usually when the Kindle version of one of my novels goes on sale for $0.99, I write up some quick, clever promotional message to entice readers to shell out a measly buck for the book.  

Not this time.

This time, the book on sale is In Wolves’ Clothing, a novel that centers around the horrific world of child sex trafficking. Needless to say, the topic is nothing to laugh about … unless your job is to save children caught up in the nightmare of it, in which case humor is an essential tool. For survival.

Just ask Zero Slade. Zero, the protagonist of In Wolves’ Clothing, travels the globe posing as a sex tourist to help capture traffickers and rescue girls as young as five from the world’s fastest-growing crime circuit. In between the physically dangerous and emotionally taxing missions Zero’s been leading for the past seven years, he and his undercover cohorts often joke around. It’s either that or self-destruct, and the latter isn’t conducive to putting away pimps or liberating children.

To help sell the book during this promotional period, I could try to be funny and cute. I could write something such as, “Nothing says ‘Happy Holidays’ like human trafficking.” But we all know such copy is neither funny nor cute.      

So, given all that, some may ask why “dark comedy” and “dark humor” are among the categories that In Wolves’ Clothing is listed under on Amazon. It’s a fair question, the answer to which is simply this: I tried to capture the truth.

As part of my research for the book, I interviewed a man by the name of Radd Berrett, who, for two years, did in real life the kind of work Zero Slade does in my novel. For two years, Radd rubbed elbows with traffickers on nearly every continent, playing the role of the worst type of man you can imagine, putting his life at risk for the sake of the Lost Girls. And for two years, whenever a mission ended, Radd and his colleagues would rely on humor (along with—understandably yet sadly—pain meds and liquor) to help them make it to the next mission. Every time I spoke to Radd on the phone and asked him to tell me more about the work he did, he’d make me laugh so hard I’d cry. And I’m not talking tears of joy.

I sent Radd the manuscript for In Wolves’ Clothing and asked him to read it prior to publication last fall. I told him I was a little concerned about the direction I chose, the darkly humorous voice and tone that echoed throughout the story. Radd called me three days later, thrilled about how the book turned out. “Man, how’d you do it?” he asked. I thanked him sincerely for the praise, and said, “The much more important question is, ‘How did you?’” 

Soon after the book came out in October 2017, it received very positive reviews from such literary heavy-hitters as Publishers Weekly and Midwest Book Review. And yet, as happy as those reviews made me, the testimonial I’m most proud of, by far, came from the man who experienced first-hand the kind of hell I put my protagonist through over the course of 273 pages:

"Truly original and enthralling. Levin's blazing prose and acerbic wit capture the madness and the humanity of working undercover in the darkest corners."—Radd Berrett, former Jump Team member, Operation Underground Railroad

But honestly, it’s Radd and the many other men and women dedicated to battling the biggest scourge of our time who deserve a rave review.

That's why I wrote the book.  

Speaking of which, the Kindle edition of In Wolves’ Clothing is on sale for just $0.99 on Amazon (US and UK only) for a very limited time. If you haven’t read the book yet, now’s a good time to check it out.

No joke.

(For those of you in the US, click on the red title above. For those in the UK, click here. And thank you!) 

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. …        

As many of you know, I have a novel coming out in October. And as much as I hate using my blog to plug my own books (why are you laughing?), my publicist says doing so is essential for generating buzz and getting people excited to read the book.

My publicist says a big part of that is sharing excerpts from the actual book—even if the excerpts are controversial and dangerous. (Hang on, my publicist is shaking her head and whispering something to me. …) Oh, sorry … especially if the excerpts are controversial and dangerous.

Who am I to argue with her? Following are two snippets from In Wolves’ Clothing—a novel about a guy named Zero Slade who travels the world posing as a pedophile in order to rescue victims of child sex trafficking.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

 

(From Chapter Two)

Guadalajara.

The guys and I ogle the dozen or so pre-teen prostitutes being led into our villa by three slim, scowling men. Each of the men is wearing a different soccer jersey that looks the same. Each of the girls is wearing whatever discount-rack party dress the pimps forced them into. The room smells like Drakkar Noir and sweat mixed with Cotton Candy and fear. Some of the girls look at us and try to smile. The rest of them probably aren’t aware we exist.

We offer the girls some sodas as they plop onto couches and chairs in the huge open living room. Barrett says something silly in broken Spanish and several of the girls giggle. Even one of the pimps is smiling. I pour myself a glass of tequila and wink at a ten-year-old.

The trick to looking excited when children are presented to you for sex is to remember you are saving their lives. If you don’t look excited, the pimps will get suspicious. Show your anger and disgust, and you ruin everything.

I take a sip of tequila and grin at a child and would kill for an oxy. The one I ate an hour ago is losing its luster. But two on the job, that’s a no-no.

For help getting into character, think about the biggest douchebag frat guy you’ve ever met, imagine him with several million dollars, multiply his money and demeanor by ten, and then act like that guy. Right up until the cops remove your handcuffs and thank you.

This mission is a little bigger than the one in Acapulco yesterday, so there are six of us. Barrett, Malik, Drew and I have been joined by Anders and Scott from Seattle, who arrived in Guadalajara two days ago to get everything set up. Anders and Scott look more refreshed than the rest of us right now because they’re not finishing up a doubleheader. None of us at Operation Emancipation like doubleheaders—shooting off to a city to complete a jump immediately after finishing one in the same or similar time zone. Doubleheaders may be practical from a cost and logistics standpoint, but they’re never fun. For one, fitting a second pseudo-designer suit inside a valise is next to impossible. Secondly, if you play a pedophile too often, your face might stay that way. But Fynn makes the schedule, and you don't fuck with Fynn or her schedule.

The guys and I are chatting and laughing with the girls, warming up to them slowly with a “Qué guapa!” here and a “Muy bonita!” there, making sure not to lock eyes or look at their mouths or do anything else that might invite a kiss. If one of the pimps sees any of us rejecting an advance, they’ll know something’s up. Fortunately, these girls, just like all the other girls in all the other cities and countries we work in, almost never make the first move. They may be smiling and giggling, but they’re not. Sadly, their terror works in our favor. They think they’re about to be raped for the tenth or hundredth or thousandth time, so they aren’t in any rush to get things started. They’re waiting on us.

I’m not wearing a watch, what with my wrists still sore from yesterday, but the cops are a little late. We can stall only so long before the pimps will start getting nervous. And you don’t want a nervous pimp. Anders and Scott may have asked them nicely the other day not to bring any weapons to the party, but the thing about pimps is you can’t always trust them to respect house rules. The good news is these three clowns aren’t even paying attention to us. They’re too busy marveling over the size of the place, trying to fathom its value in their heads, wondering what knickknacks they might be able to nab when nobody’s looking. It’s not often they get to see the inside of a house on this side of town. We are in Puerta de Hierro, one of the most affluent neighborhoods in the greater Guadalajara Metropolitan Area. A twenty-minute drive and a million miles away from the pimps’ brothel on Avenida Chapultepec, where Anders and Scott went to arrange this party two days ago.

Another sip of tequila. Less winking and grinning. And we’re running out of stupid, flirtatious phrases to say to the girls. The watch I’m not wearing tells me we should definitely be getting arrested by now. It tells me it’s time for what we at OE call the tourniquet.

“Okay boys, let’s get busy!” I shout with glee at the guys.

You never get used to nearly throwing up in your mouth.

I grab the hand of one of the youngest girls—she’s not a day over nine—and place my other hand on the back of another girl who isn’t much older. Their forced smiles fall to the floor as we head toward the wide granite staircase. The other guys follow my lead, each picking the two girls closest to them and guiding them to the stairs. We look like teachers on a field trip, collectively accounting for all the children in our charge as we tour an historic home. If only it were that simple.

In about a minute, the girls will wonder why we aren’t removing any of our clothing or theirs. Our lack of sexual interest and aggression might even make some of them more uncomfortable than usual. We’ll just tell them we like it slow. What we won’t tell them is we’re here to rescue them. All it takes is one doped-up eleven-year old with a confused allegiance to her pimp to ruin a perfectly planned emancipation.

In this job, you learn to ignore the urge to comfort those you’re protecting.

***

(From Chapter Three)

I can't remember if I took an oxy during the flight, so I eat two. They pair nicely with the scotch.

It’s good to be home.

I should be upstairs sleeping, especially since I didn’t catch a single wink on the flight from Guadalajara. But there’s something I have to finish first.

An eight-letter word for gradually losing one’s edge.

Slipping.

I fill in each box of 27 Down with my black pen and take another sip of scotch. It’s times like these I turn into God. The crossword squares fill up by themselves in a secret blurry code. A few of the answers might even be correct.

The black pleather couch makes love to me as I solve 32 Across.

A four-letter word for spouse.

Neda.

She’s leaning on the banister, wearing a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants that might have fit me when I was ten. Her eyes, almond-shaped during waking hours, are half open.

“You’re home?” she says, pre-dawn gravel in her voice.

“Hi, baby,” I say while trying to conceal the nearly empty lowball glass in my hand. “Sorry to wake you. I’ll be up in a sec.”

Neda yawns and combs her hand through a shining cascade of black hair. “What time d’you get in?”

I scratch my shaved dome, feeling the perspiration forming, and say, “Uh, a little after one maybe.”

Neda opens her eyes the rest of the way. “You’ve been here for nearly two hours? Why didn’t—”

“Baby, I just needed to unwind a bit before bed.”

Neda’s eyes open wider than the manual recommends. “Why must unwinding always involve single malt and a crossword?” she asks. “You know, some men unwind by spooning their beautiful wife. Especially when they haven’t seen her in four days.”

I ponder the answer to 36 Across.

“Zero!” Neda shouts.

The sound knocks the pen from my fingers, and I go, “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“And look how that worked out for you,” says Neda. “At least if you’d come up when you got home you wouldn’t be getting yelled at.”

I tell her not to be mad, then get up from the couch as gracefully as a man two drinks and twenty milligrams in can. “I knew if I woke you right when I got home, you’d want to talk about the mission.”

I realize this is not what God would say. I can tell by Neda’s face.

“And would that have been so horrible?” she asks. “Us actually talking? About something other than your dry cleaning and where you’re flying off to next?”

 What I want to say is, “Yes.” What I actually say is, “Baby, come on. I don’t want to get into it.”

“I know, I know,” says Neda, pulling on the banister railing like she wants to replace it. “You never want to ‘get into it.’ I stopped asking you to ‘get into it’ a while ago, Zero, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

I tell her let’s talk about it in the morning, and she says we already are. Then she says, “You know what, forget it. Come up whenever. Or pass out on the couch. I don’t really care.”

Neda stomps up the hardwood stairs like gravity has doubled. I inhale in preparation to call out to her, but swallow the words. Neda has stormed off in similar fashion countless times before, but right now I can’t remember the protocol. Leave her alone for a while until she cools off? Go after her immediately and talk her down? Go after her immediately and just hold her? Wait a few minutes and then tear her clothes off?

There’s a good reason why I can’t remember the rules: They keep changing. I’ve tried each of the aforementioned approaches an equal number of times in the past, and was successful with each roughly half the time.

I feel like a bomb defuser who’s received minimal training. Do I snip the red wire first or the green one? Or the yellow one or the blue one? If I choose right, I’ll be a hero, saving the day and winning the heart of the princess. If I choose wrong, I’ll blow the whole goddamn kingdom to bits.

Or at least ruin breakfast.

I go with the red wire and pour another two fingers of scotch. The couch is softer than before, the crossword clues easier. If only the little boxes would stop blurring and bending, I’d be able write my answers inside them instead of somewhere over in the sports section.

The girls. They’re still screaming, only now no sound is coming out of their mouths.

I wonder how many of the girls from the two Mexico missions will stick around their safe houses long enough to be reunited with their family, or at least to learn a trade that doesn’t entail being raped thirty or more times a day. Hopefully more than half of them. Unfortunately, that would be considered a success. If only nine or ten of the girls we liberated in Acapulco and Guadalajara end up running off to find another brothel where they can get their daily fix of the drugs their previous pimp got them hooked on, victory would be ours.

You can imagine what losing looks like in my line of work.

Good thing I don’t lose when I’m two-and-a-half drinks and twenty milligrams in. I’m cozy and invincible. I’m satin wrapped in Kevlar. I’m—

“Zero, what the fuck are you doing?” Neda shouts from the top of the stairs. “Get your ass up here now and hold me!”

Damn it. I knew it was the yellow wire.

 

Key dates to keep in mind

Sept. 27: Cover reveal! (Hosted by Xpresso Book Tours.) Meet the cover of In Wolves’ Clothing, designed by the artistic geniuses at BeauteBook.   

Also on Sept. 27: Pre-order period begins! (For Kindle edition only.) You’ll be able to order IWC for your Kindle and have the ebook automatically delivered to your device when it officially launches in October. NOTE: Everyone who pre-orders the book will receive some mighty cool book swag! 

Oct. 11 (or Oct. 12): Official launch of IWC! The Kindle and paperback editions will be available on Amazon, and neither your life nor mine will ever be the same again. 

(Wolf mask image featured above used with permission from Merimask.)

Behind every good novel is an author who almost died in the process. And behind that author are a slew of people the author couldn’t have lived without.

That’s why the “Acknowledgments” page you see inside books was invented. It gives authors a place to thank everybody involved. Everyone they cursed and screamed and spit at while they were losing their mind trying to finish the damn book.

Since only about ten of you are going to buy my new novel In Wolves’ Clothing when it comes out in early October—and since only three of you ten are going to open and actually read it—I’ve decided to share the Acknowledgments page from the book here on my blog. I want as many people as possible to see what an awesome job I did expressing my humble gratitude.    

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

While it’s my name on the cover of this book, there wouldn’t even be a book were it not for the following people:    

My wife, Miranda. Miranda’s humanitarian trip to Cambodia in 2016 is what sparked the idea for this novel. And her innate ability to earn actual money is what enabled me to sit around in my pajamas for a year writing what she sparked. Also, she kept me alive while I was killing myself to meet my editor’s deadline.

My daughter, Leah. Had Leah not made friends with people old enough to drive her around this year, I wouldn’t have completed this book until 2019 or 2020. That said, I regret not having been there more for my daughter. In my defense, she’s embarrassed to be seen with me. 

Radd Berrett. Radd is the guy on whom Zero Slade is loosely based. (For those of you who’ve skipped straight to this page without reading the book, Zero Slade is the story’s protagonist. Now go back and read the book.) 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 were invaluable. Considering he has the strength to bench-press my entire family, Radd is the last person I’d want to forget to thank.  

Suzy Vitello. "If you knew Suzy like I know Suzy ..." Actually, I don’t know Suzy all that well, but she’s buddies with the great Chuck Palahniuk, and Chuck told me Suzy’s the bomb. So when I met her and found out she offered editing services (in addition to being an amazing writer), I hired the hell out of her. Long blurb short, she’s the real reason this novel doesn’t suck. And if you think it does suck, well … blame Suzy.   

Graham Toseland. Graham, my proofreader from A Fading Street Publishing Services is why this book reads as cleanly as it does—assuming it reads as cleanly as I think it does. If, by chance, you’ve found any typos or grammatical errors (other than the one’s I intended as an artist who’s above the rules), let’s gang up on Graham and beat his British ass until he’s unconscious and/or issues me a full refund.

Angie McMann. Angie is a fellow writer, a selfless supporter of other writers, and one of the few people who responds promptly to my emails. She kindly offered to proof this book when Graham was finished with it—to make sure he didn’t ruin my American English with any English English corrections.   

The Writing Wrong Workshop gang. I was fortunate enough to be selected to participate in a writing workshop led by Chuck Palahniuk this past spring. During the workshop, I got the opportunity to read parts of this novel and get beaten Fight Club-style by Chuck and a group of my talented peers until I made many necessary improvements to the book. (Yeah, I realize I already name-dropped Chuck Palahniuk earlier, but when you get to hang out with Chuck Palahniuk for ten weeks, you’d be an idiot not to name-drop Chuck Palahniuk every chance you get. Chuck Palahniuk might disagree, but that is sooo Chuck Palahniuk.)  

Maria Novillo Saravia. I always judge a book by its cover designer, and Maria of BeauteBook is one of the best around. She’s highly creative … and very patient. Not once did she threaten to murder me for all the changes and tweaks I requested throughout the design process.

The Internet. I know, I know, the Internet isn’t a person. I also know many folks no longer capitalize “internet.” But when something does for you what the Internet did for me while writing this novel, hell yeah you thank it, and double hell yeah you give it a large first letter out of respect. Perhaps even ALL CAPS. Thank you, INTERNET, for providing me with instant access to everything I didn’t know but needed to for this novel to seem real. (I’d also like to thank the FBI for not detaining me despite all the creepy Internet searches on child sex trafficking I had to do.)     

Mom and Dad. I’d be an even bigger a-hole than I already am if I didn’t thank my parents for the love and support they’ve provided while I’ve thrown my life away on fiction writing. I’m so grateful to them for all the bedtime stories they read to me as a child. They’d read to me every night, no matter how good the cocktail party going on downstairs was. Such devotion instilled in me the passion for words and alcohol one needs to become an author.

You. Yes, you. For knowing how to read. Were it not for people like you, I never would have been inspired to ignore my family and friends for over a year to write this book that mostly only they will buy.   

And finally … (Warning: Serious shift in tone ahead) …

The victims of child sex trafficking. Nothing funny to say here. I’d list all the victims by name, but that would be a book in itself—the longest, most heartbreaking one ever written. Also, sadly, it’s impossible to know all the names. So I’ll just say this: I wish there weren’t a reason to write the novel I wrote. But it’s good to know that, thanks to all the amazing women and men dedicated to fighting human trafficking, the novel I wrote may one day be TOTAL fiction.    

 

Stay tuned for the cover reveal for In Wolves’ Clothing. I’ll be unveiling the cover very soon via the blog, Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. You know, just like Hemingway used to do. The actual book will be available in early October. (Don’t worry, I’ll remind you.)

In case you missed my post about the making of In Wolves’ Clothing, you can check it out here.