It happened again—you spent so much of the past eleven months with your face in books, you forgot to plan your Halloween costume. Fear not, I’m here to help.
Rather than waste your time with a bunch of cheesy puns about how you don’t stand a ghost of a chance of pulling off a wicked-cool costume this late in the game, I’ve decided to instead provide you with some dress-up ideas that are so novel, it’s scary.
Don’t let another failed Halloween haunt you for the remainder of your days. Just read on and choose one of the following costumes guaranteed to make you a dead-ringer for the character in question, and the life of any party you’re dying to attend.
Gregor Samsa from The Metamorphosis(by Franz Kafka). Going as Gregor Samsa for Halloween is a great attention-getter, but only if you know the book and didn’t just design your costume after quickly skimming the character description provided online by SparkNotes. After all, nobody will be impressed if you show up as a traveling salesman instead of a giant, hideous cockroach. They’ll just think you’re Willy Loman, and yawn.
To get Gregor Samsa right, just visit any fast-food dining establishment and collect one of the many insect carcasses you’ll find, then model your costume around it. You’ll need some cardboard, a toy plastic shield spray-painted brown, a baseball catcher’s chest-protector, brown pants/shirt/shoes, black pipe cleaners, and a strong stomach.
To make sure people know you’re Gregor Samsa and not just a giant disgusting bug, it’s a good idea to carry a briefcase, as well as to lecture everyone on the grotesque absurdity of existence and how modern society has stripped us of our humanity. Do this before you hand any candy out to them.
Lisbeth Salander from The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (by Stieg Larsson). What better time than now—at the height of the #MeToo and Time’s Up movements—to dress up like a badass avenger of sexual predators. But if you do decide to be Lisbeth Salander, don’t do what so many Halloween Lisbeths have done in the past, which is portray her as a one-dimensional hyper-sexual S&M vamp. (Yes, I realize the risk of mansplaining this costume to women.) I don’t have a problem with women (or men) who opt to keep silly Halloween traditions alive by dressing up like a sexy nurse/librarian/teacher/police officer/maid/referee, but out of respect for what Lisbeth Salander has been through and what she’s out to achieve, if you’re going to portray her, do it right. Shoot for deadly, not slutty.
Here’s what you’ll need: A tattered black Henley or T-shirt; a pair of ripped/distressed black jeans (NOT leggings or yoga pants, damn it); black combat boots; a black leather motorcycle jacket; pink leather messenger bag (just kidding—BLACK); spike earrings and a giant spiked collar; a black wig long enough to cut/shape into a punk-goth pixie ‘do; clip-on studs for nose, lips and eyebrows; a black temporary dragon tattoo—large enough to run from shoulder-blade to waist.
If you want to be as badass as the REAL fictional Lisbeth, forgo the fake/temporary accessories and get an actual dragon tattoo and wild haircut, and put actual holes in your face. Bonus points for any real-life doctors, lawyers or kindergarten teachers who take on my challenge. (NOTE: If you don’t have the shirt, jeans or boots listed above and need to buy them new, make sure you run over them several times with a car when you get home to give them that tattered, scuffed look you’re going for. If you don’t have a car, ask your neighbor or an Uber driver to assist.)
Alex from A Clockwork Orange (by Anthony Burgess). Nothing says Halloween like an ultraviolent dystopian anarchist with an affinity for classical music and milk spiked with narcotics.
All you need to rock this costume are white pants, a white banded collar shirt, white suspenders, fake eyelashes and a cane, along with a black bowler hat and combat boots. Oh, and don’t forget the codpiece or athletic cup to protect your crotch. If you don’t already have all these items at home, then I honestly don’t see us ever being friends.
Miss Havisham from Great Expectations (by Charles Dickens). An old woman who was jilted at the altar in her youth and wears her wedding dress for the rest of her life in a ruined mansion. ‘Nuff said. (For best results, go for creepy rather than sexy/slutty with this costume.)
Annie Wilkes from Misery(by Stephen King). Like any other author or human being, I find Annie Wilkes terrifying. That said, I often fantasize about having a fan just like her—so obsessed by and devoted to my characters, she’d torture me until I mold my manuscript to her liking. Yes, I’m currently receiving professional help for this.
Pulling off a convincing Annie requires nothing more than a turtleneck, a plaid shirt and a denim dress, Oh, and a huge sledgehammer. Now, keep in mind that such clothes and weaponry may cause folks to mistake you for a run-of-the-mill public high school librarian. To avoid this, you can rent me at $150/hour to play the tortured author. The role is really no stretch for me at all.
Have you ever dressed up as a favorite literary character? If so, which one? If not, what's wrong with you? Dish the details 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.
I’ve done some dumb things in my writing career. Even dumber than choosing writing as a career. I'm not proud of my mistakes, but they say admitting to them is a sign of integrity and humility. Or in my case, a sign that I’ve been drinking.
So, before I go pour my third bourbon of the morning and continue working on my next novel, here are five of the dumbest things I’ve done as an author:
5) I wrote my first novel for myself rather than for the reader. A teacher once told me writing is about self-expression and creativity, not about having lots of people read what you’ve written. And I was stupid enough to believe him.
This helps to explain why I opted to write my first novel (Notes on an Orange Burial) about an unpublished poet. It’s also why 99.99 percent of you have never heard of it. (Still, it was a big hit with some people—namely my parents, and three librarians in England.) It’s quirky and literary and has some funny scenes derived from experiences I had in my twenties, so I wouldn’t necessarily say it’s a bad book.
But you would.
4) I didn’t focus on the marketing-side of publishing until my third novel. This may seem the same as #5 above, but it’s not. It’s worse. After all, when you write a bad book and fail to market it properly, you’re doing yourself and the world a favor. But when you write a good book and fail to market it properly, you miss big opportunities to attract readers and meet Oprah.
Today, many consider my second novel—The Exit Man—my best (or at least my most enjoyable) book to date. However, it didn’t make much of a splash when it first came out because I hadn’t taken the time to learn the ins and outs of publicity, promotion and platform-building. It wasn’t until a TV producer tripped over a copy (while looking at bigger and better-promoted books) months later that The Exit Man started to pick up a little steam, and even then I failed to do a lot of what I should have done from a marketing standpoint.
Which leads directly to my next big mistake. …
3) I assumed getting optioned by HBO meant I’d hit the big-time. See that guy over there, the one strutting around like he owns the place? That’s me at the 2015 Writers’ League of Texas conference in Austin. The Exit Man had recently been optioned by HBO for development into a TV series, but I went to the conference anyway despite having nothing left to prove or to learn as an author. [Feel free to pause here and gag. I just did.] I skipped most of the sessions at the conference but spent plenty of time at the cocktail reception, where I mentioned my option deal to all the other attendees and held my hand out for them to kiss. (I'm exaggerating of course—both of my hands had drinks in them and thus weren't available to be kissed.)
And see that guy over there, the one lounging poolside at the trendy Mondrian hotel on Sunset Boulevard reading a copy of his own novel? That’s me the day after flying out to LA to take the producer (who got me the HBO option) out for dinner to show my appreciation—but really just to show off.
Oh, and see this guy over here, the one muttering curse words while cancelling his HBO Now subscription out of spite? That’s me in 2016 after hearing HBO decided not to renew its option of The Exit Man.
2) I waited too long to start forming alliances with other authors. No man is an island, but I used to think good authors were. I had it that, to be successful, I needed to spend as much time as possible holed up in a small, quiet room and just let my imagination and words run wild. I stayed away from writing workshops and critique groups. (“I had enough of that in college,” I’d tell myself.) I wasn’t active in writing organizations or communities. And, worst of all, I viewed other authors in my genre as the competition rather than as brothers and sisters with whom I shared a rare and wondrous disease.
It wasn’t until relatively recently that I realized isolation, while good for writing, is awful for a writing career. For the latter, you need to connect with and share ideas with like-minded—and even unlike-minded—authors. Doing so not only keeps you almost sane in a maddening field, but also provides you with invaluable feedback and advice to better your craft. And, if you join forces with “the competition,” it can open the door to a whole new world of readers who might have otherwise never heard of you or your disease. (NOTE: I recently teamed up with author RD Ronald to create a unique new website for readers and fellow writers of transgressive fiction. If you like novels and short stories about good people doing bad things—or bad people doing good things—you’re going to LOVE the site. I’ll be announcing its official launch via my blog soon. Stay tuned!)
And now, for the absolute dumbest thing I've done as an author ...
1) I put my characters ahead of my family and friends. I’ve touched on this in previous posts, mostly in a joking manner to downplay my fiction addiction and lessen my shame. But the truth is, I have put my characters ahead of my family and friends in the past.
Actually, the real truth is … I still do.
That “disease” I hinted at in #2 above, it’s not always fun. For anyone. And particularly not for my wife Miranda and my daughter Leah, whom I’ve shooed away from my writing space countless times in order to give all my care and attention to imaginary people instead. In fact, I’ve gotten so good at shooing, I rarely even have to anymore. Miranda and Leah have learned to keep their distance whenever my office door’s closed. Come to think of it, they’ve started doing so even when the door’s open and the writing day’s done. Go figure.
I’ve apologized multiple times to them, as well as to my parents and brother and the small handful of friends I somehow still have. I’ve promised each that I’d make more time for them and be more attentive and present whenever we’re together. They can tell by the look in my eyes and the sound of my voice that these apologies and promises are sincere. And they all want to believe me, but deep down they suspect something.
People familiar with my books assume I must be at least a little insane. But the truth is, my wife's the crazy one.
After all, she (Miranda) has chosen to spend her life and share a dwelling with a man who writes entire novels about things like party supply storeowners who dabble in euthanasia, terminally ill serial killers looking to make their city safer before they die, and fake pedophiles who schmooze with child sex traffickers to put them away.
I’m telling you, this lady is nuts.
Still, folks always want to know what it’s like for “poor” Miranda to live with me, the “crazy” writer. In fact, many of them ask her that question right in front of me, which I find just plain rude.
Nevertheless, I like to give the people what they want—provided what they want is not for me to put down my drink or behave myself. So, in an effort to appease all my imaginary fans, I’ve opted to give Miranda the keys to my blog for today’s post, which features several questions people and the police commonly ask Miranda, followed by Miranda’s (mostly) unedited responses.
What is it like being married to an author of dark, disturbing fiction?
It’s fun! And absurd. And intriguing! And unnerving. Just like Greg’s books! And marriage.
I knew a long time ago that I didn’t want to marry one of those doctor/lawyer types—the type who are married to their job and whom you never see again after the wedding. Because both Greg and I work from home, I often get to bump into him in the kitchen whenever he takes a break from killing a character in his office. I also get to take afternoon walks with him and hear about the cleanest murder methods and how to get away with them. Sometimes I’ll walk into his office to sneak a few kisses while he’s busy putting his protagonist through living hell. Greg absolutely hates it when I do that and usually tells me to get out. I'm the luckiest girl in the world.
While reading any of Greg’s books, have you ever become concerned over the fact you sleep in the same bed with this guy? (Assuming you haven’t already opted for separate rooms.)
Absolutely. I tell all my friends and family that if I were to die, Greg did it. But I can take comfort in the fact that my death will be epic. A story to be passed down for generations. And I will haunt Greg forever.
Which of Greg’s characters is your favorite, and why? Which is your least favorite?
It’s so hard to pick a favorite. I think if I had to choose, I’d have to go with Eli Edelmann, as The Exit Man is still my favorite novel. No, wait, Zero Slade from In Wolves’ Clothing, because he’s a hero—albeit a seriously flawed one—with such a big heart. No, wait, Fynn, who’s Zero’s boss. She’s an intriguing sideline character I want to know more about … and maybe want to be just like when I grow up.
My least favorite of Greg’s characters? Greg won’t let me have any. So just email or DM me and I’ll tell you.
Does Greg usually pass his novel ideas by you before starting to write the book? Does he allow you to read his works-in-progress?
I wish. One of my favorite things to do with Greg is brainstorm novel ideas and have him read me sneak-peeks of his works-in-progress. But these occasions are rare. For some reason he views my “feedback” as an act of aggression. Writers—they're sooo sensitive.
What is Greg’s most peculiar habit as a writer?
Oh my, where do I start? First off, Greg writes his books chronologically from beginning to end. This is a sure sign of a psychopath. Also, writing is never a painful, agonizing process for him—he never gets stuck or suffers from writer’s block. Instead he bounces out of bed every morning and writes joyfully about horrific topics for hours at a time. There is something very wrong with him.
Do you ever fear Greg will write a memoir and share way too much about your life together? Do events/situations from your marriage ever show up in his novels?
Not really. I don’t believe Greg would ever steer away from writing fiction—regardless of what our tax returns tell him. Certainly there are hints of our married life sprinkled throughout his books, but as long as he continues writing novels, I can deny everything.
If Greg weren’t a writer, what would you say would be the best profession for him?
If Greg had a real job, I imagine it would be something in the medical profession. Or perhaps he’d be a crime-scene investigator. Or a hitman. In case you haven’t noticed it in his books, Greg has a bit of a fascination with sickness and death. Who knows, maybe he’d even become a real-life Exit Man, though I don’t think I was supposed to say that out loud.
What book would you most want Greg to write next?
I must say I’m pretty intrigued by Greg’s next book, which features a strong female protagonist. It’s a mother-daughter tale of two badass women who commit a crime to intentionally land them in jail... mainly for the free rent and healthcare. There’s just one problem—they don’t caught. Instead they get rich. And that’s when the real problems begin.
Now, that all said, we just returned from an Alaskan cruise and I’ve been trying to convince Greg that his next book needs to be set on a cruise ship. He’s thinking about it—or so he says to get me to leave him alone to write.
Should we be worried? Are you in any immediate danger?
No. No. Everything is fine. Everything is juuuust fine. I've been told I’m happy. Very, very happy.
For those of you who prefer (or need) to consume literature through your ears rather than your eyes, I have some exciting news: My novel In Wolves’ Clothing is now available as an audiobook!
And it’s a pretty good one at that, thanks to the amazing narration by Matthew J. Williamson. Matthew is an extremely talented screen, stage and voice actor (and producer) who has appeared on such hit shows as Boston Legal, Will & Grace, West Wing, ER, and The O.C., to name just a few. The second I heard Matthew’s audio audition for In Wolves' Clothing, I knew I’d found my narrator. And I’m telling you, few things are as exciting—or as surreal—as hearing for the first time the voice of a character you spent a year creating and living with in your head. It’s like having an imaginary friend speak to you out loud, but even better because the rest of the world can hear him too and thus doesn’t think you’re any crazier than you already are.
Matthew did a great job not only with my protagonist but with all the other characters in the book, as well. Honestly, I don’t know how he or any other audiobook narrator does what they do. All those lines. All those characters with different accents and ages and genders. All the different inflections and moods and tones. Me? I can’t read aloud even a single page let alone an entire novel without stumbling multiple times or placing the wrong emphASis on a wrong syllABle.
But don’t just take my word on Matthew’s mad skills—go check out the In Wolves’ Clothing audiobook on Audible and listen for yourself! (NOTE: The sample clip contains sensitive subject matter that may not be suitable for some audiences.)
Thanks for stopping by, and (hopefully) for giving IWC a read with your ears!
The 'In Wolves' Clothing' audiobook will also be available on Amazon and iTunes within the next couple of days.
