Back in October I posted the first excerpt from my upcoming novel, and hopefully you were so dazzled by the gripping narrative and dialogue, you forgot the title of the book.

Because the title of the book has changed.

In that post I did mention I’d likely be changing the title, so nothing about this announcement should come as a huge surprise. Still, that shouldn’t stop you from exploding with anticipation right now as I prepare to reveal the official title of my next novel.

[insert pause here to allow for maximum build-up of anticipation, tension and excitement]

Ladies and gentlemen, the title of my upcoming novel—due out this summer—is…

[insert another pause, but shorter to avoid annoying everyone]

INTO A CORNER

Okay, now that that’s over with, below is an excerpt from Chapter 2 of the book. I’m having a blast writing it, by the way. And if you like crime fiction with plenty of grit, heart and dark humor, I think you'll have a blast reading it. (Note: In addition to changing the title, I changed the name of the main character. From Roxy Scott to Odessa Scott. Why? Because Odessa told me to, and she’s not somebody you want to upset.)  

From Chapter 2 of INTO A CORNER

There isn’t a color or brushstroke in the world that can fix what’s about to burn.

My saliva slides down the canvas, bringing with it some of the blue and black paint I applied just before spitting. This isn’t a technique. It’s a termination. It’s another ten hours of work and eighty bucks of stretched Belgian linen down the drain. Scratch that. Up in smoke.

The concrete floor practically cracks as I stomp toward the welding torch hanging on the far wall of my studio. My studio is my garage. Especially today.

I snatch the torch from the wall, then grab the handle of the metal cart that holds everything else and rattle it back across the garage. En route, I stop to kick out of the way a cardboard box filled with who the hell cares and continue on toward my oil-based mishap, my abstract attempt at capturing the latest school shooting.

Worst part is, the worthless mess on the canvas is the only thing of value in the room. My garage that doubles as a studio triples as storage space for my dead husband, Wayne. Maybe after torching the painting I’ll torch Wayne’s broken Kawasaki and his socket wrenches. Torch his golf bag and his Astros cap. His flannel shirts and his wedding suit. And all the rest of the crap he didn’t and can’t come back for. All the junk that should be for sale on eBay or Craigslist but isn’t. 

Of course, if I did torch Wayne’s stuff, there’d be nothing left in the studio to inspire me. Without all these reminders of abandonment and betrayal and tragedy around, I’d likely end up painting something bright and cheerful. Something light and hopeful. Something so awful it would sell.

Besides, all this clutter is good for my nerves.

Standing a few feet from the canvas, I take one last look at everything that went wrong. The reds and greens and blues that escaped my control. The black flashes I splattered last-minute out of spite. This is the third piece in a row that didn’t turn out as I’d pictured. Didn’t measure up. Can’t be saved.

Used to be my art career wasn’t such a fire hazard. Luckily my side job writing last words for dead people keeps me alive. Almost.

In loving memory of when things weren’t a total shit-show. 

From the cart I grab the green gas hose that’s still attached to an oxygen cylinder from the last time I shot flames at my failure. I screw the other end of the green hose to the torch’s oxygen connection. Next comes the red hose. Red as in stop, but I don’t. I take the free end of the hose—the end that’s not attached to a cylinder of explosive fuel—and screw it into the torch’s acetylene connection. You’re supposed to check each hose for any debris before starting up. It’s a safety precaution, but safety has lost its luster of late.

So no protective goggles or respirator or dust mask for me as I open the various valves. And ah, there’s that hiss I love. And hate. The exhale of oxidization. The breath of destruction.

A white flame shoots from the tip of the torch, stopping just short of its target. The heat alone chars a goodbye kiss into the canvas. I take a step closer. Purple-black smoke plumes from the dead painting, summons tears from the corners of my sockets.

We have ignition. The smell, like a bomb’s been dropped on Fine Art 101. Like someone streaked through the Louvre leaking gasoline and lit a match. Like nothing and everything is under control.

Watching my work on fire reminds me of my potential.

I kill the oxygen and the acetylene, then set the torch on the concrete floor. There’s more smoke coming off the canvas than last time. Also bigger flames, but it’s too early to reach for the extinguisher. That would be quitting.

The side pocket of my paint-smeared smock buzzes and buzzes. Probably my neighbor Clark or my neighbor Lucia checking just to make sure the garage is on fire on purpose. Again. Clark and Lucia are good people, but I wish they’d learn to mind their own business whenever I’m cremating remains in the privacy of my own garage. You’d think they’d be used to this by now.

Part of me is tempted to just walk away and let this turn into a major insurance claim, but Mama’s napping inside. Besides, a major insurance claim would surely become a closed arson investigation faster than these here flames are devouring my talent.

Also, the painting is starting to look more like what I was originally going for. That’s the thing with abstract expressionism—sometimes all it takes is a little disfigurement to turn a massacre into a masterpiece.

From the metal cart I grab the extinguisher and blow its load all over what’s burning. My pursed lips keep out all the hot specks of cancer dancing in the air. But that doesn’t keep me from coughing through my nose as I blast my sanctuary with white foam. If someone were videoing any of this, it would go viral.

Here lies the last ounce of my patience and possibility.

My smock buzzes again. My overly concerned neighbors can go to hell.

I set the almost-empty extinguisher down next to the dormant welding torch, then stand up to take everything in. The corner of my garage looks like a studio again. The corner of my studio looks like a cumulus cloud threw up on a mill town. Smells nice, though. Campfires and chemistry sets.

The only thing better than the high you get from creating good art is the high you get from destroying bad art. Especially in an enclosed and poorly ventilated space.

What was a failed painting a week ago and a day ago and a minute ago is now the scorched surface of a strange new planet. A land of boiling blue streams snaking burnt red hills and black craters. A world too beautiful to have ever been inhabited by humans.  

Looks like I may have found my new medium.

That’s it. I hope you enjoyed the excerpt and are itching to read more. (Oh, and don’t worry, the book does actually contain dialogue—just not the above clip.) 

I promise to share at least one more excerpt from Into a Corner—as well as reveal the cover—before the book launches this summer. In the meantime, I’ll be typing away to make sure “this summer” doesn’t become “next winter.”

Thank you for stopping by, and stay tuned!

With Valentine’s Day coming up, most sane people would write a heartfelt letter to their spouse or significant other before writing one to their favorite hobby or activity. But as an author of dark fiction, I reject both sanity and Valentine’s Day purely on principle. Besides, I’ve already proven my tremendous devotion to my wife by agreeing to watch The Bachelor with her every week.      

I guess you could say she and I have a sort of open relationship—she’s allowed to be in love with young, buff, reality TV stars, and I’m allowed to be in love with my own written words. So me spending Valentine’s week thus far doing nothing but working on this blog post really hasn’t bothered her at all.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go find out what my wife's yelling about and why she’s packing a suitcase. But before I do, allow me to share with you—in the (sort of) spirit of Valentine’s Day—this, “My Open Love Letter to Writing.”

Dear Writing,

I love you more than words can describe, which, I realize, is more than just a little ironic.

I’ve loved you ever since I gave you a try and got a gold star from my kindergarten teacher and a “Good job!” from my parents. 

I love you because you’re always there for me—even when I yell and scream at you about writer’s block like it’s your fault.

I love you because you’re always there for others, too. For anyone willing to give you a shot. Anyone dedicated enough to stick with you even when the words aren’t flowing. Anyone stupid enough to ignore their angry spouse just to spend a few extra sentences with you.     

I love you because you allow me to get away with murder. I love you because the murders you allow me to get away with keep society safe from me.  

I love you because I didn’t really know who I was until I met you—and because I continue to learn who I am because of you.

I love you because you connect me to the world and to others in a way surpassed only by the ingestion of very special mushrooms.

I love you because you’ve given me a voice my teenage daughter hears much more clearly than when I speak.

I love you because you are my escape hatch—one that drops me straight into a world where imagination trumps reality … and even has the potential to redefine it.  

I love you because you allow me to explore the darkest parts of humanity and myself yet emerge full of light.

I love you because you’ve given me the power to endure the toughest of times: heartbreak; loneliness; depression; the deaths of friends and loved ones—particularly my oldest brother. I love you because you’ve taught me how to turn pain into art. Grief and anger into laughter and acceptance. Suffering into something so brutally beautiful, it almost ceases to hurt. 

And I love you because you’ve given me the power to help others endure their own toughest times.

I guess what I’m saying is, Writing, my dear, I love you. You had me at hello.

Forever Yours,

Greg

HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY TO EVERY WORD AND EVERYONE.

We all know or have encountered people who feel the need to take cheap shots at authors and their books. You might even be of one of those people.

I was.

For years, and from a cowardly distance, I mocked and skewered a few famous authors who were much more successful than I and—in my arrogant and asinine opinion—much less talented and deserving. If you’re itching for me to name names here, I’m sorry to disappoint. The way I see it, Stephanie Meyer and E.L. James have already been targeted enough on my blog, and I’m now above such shameful virtual bullying.  

It wasn’t just the cease-and-desist letters I received from attorneys or the threats from bodyguards that caused me to stop hating on authors I felt were over-read and overrated. One day it just dawned on me, hit me in the face like a burning box of Fifty Shades of Grey books, that such negativity and vitriol toward any author—even ones who write erotica that makes you want to choke yourself—is not only completely uncalled for, but also a tremendous waste of time, energy and creativity.      

What it all comes down to is this: It takes a lot to write a novel. And it takes even more when you aren’t very good at it. That’s why I now respect and admire anyone who gives writing a go. And honestly, so long as your novel isn’t a hate-filled manifesto in disguise or a story about puppies getting murdered or another Fifty Shades book, I tip my hat to you and welcome you with open arms to the writers’ table. Despite what some readers and many established authors contend, there’s more than enough room.

I’m not saying I like every novel. What I’m saying is I understand and respect the effort that goes into each one. There are far worse things a human can do with their time than try to tell a tale. There are acts much more abominable than a person stretching and flexing their imagination to fill a ton of blank pages with a story that speaks to them. You merely need to see/listen to the daily news at any given moment to be convinced of this—and to get why so many ambitious if not talented souls wake up every day filled with the urge to create, escape and explore via the written word.   

If you find yourself still tormented by the vast number of “bad” books out there and the many more on the way, here’s something that may ease your suffering: You don’t have to read them. Any of them. Unless you’re an editor and have already accepted payment, nobody’s going to force you to read even one single “bad” novel. So breathe easy.

There are people who refuse to read the work of indie authors (authors unsigned by any of the large, “respectable” publishing houses). These people will often say something along the lines of, “There are already too many books in the world.” Now—and perhaps I’m a tad biased here—but, um, I beg to differ. There can never be too many books. Just as there can never be too many paintings or songs or symphonies, too much creativity or dancing or laughter. You know what there CAN be too much of? Hatred, violence, racism, misogyny, discrimination, greed, pollution. Oh, and let’s not forget pretentiousness.

So I say keep the books coming—especially works of fiction. Nothing against nonfiction (I read plenty of it), it’s just I really dig it when a writer takes on the task of creating something from nothing, something from their own perfectly diseased and fevered mind, something extracted straight from their blood and bones and marrow. And not ruined by a crappy cover.

Yes, keep it all coming. It doesn’t matter if it’s great or good or mediocre or awful. Because the truth is, it’s always somewhere in between. Just ask everybody, then average out the responses.

For some, Fifty Shades of Grey or Twilight is the be-all and end-all of storytelling, and who the hell am I to mock those people or those books? Or the authors of those books? Yeah, I poked a little fun at said authors earlier in this post, and a lot of fun at them in years past, but that was just me trying to be cute and clever. When these authors wrote their books, they were trying to be something much more than cute or clever. They were trying to be creative. That's the opposite of being destructive, and thus nothing to scoff at. As a side benefit, they got filthy rich, which I imagine doesn’t suck.

If you, yourself, are working on a novel or want to and someone says you must be kidding or that your story’s ridiculous or that your writing’s bad or that nobody reads anymore or that it’s impossible to get published or make any money, or if they drop a “there are already too many books in the world” on you, do me and yourself a favor: Just smile and wave. Then continue typing.

There really are far worse things you could do with your time. And few better.

The people listed (and linked to) below would all agree with that last part. They are indie/small-press authors who write the same sort of stuff I do—crime fiction, transgressive fiction, noir, thrillers/suspense—and who each either have a new book out or one available for pre-order now. These folks write hard. Check them out!

Rachel Abbott, Eric Beetner, Dana King, Matt Coleman, Steph Post, Nik Korpon, Mike McCrary, Alice Hatcher, S.A. Cosby, Vern Smith, Lono Waiwaiole, E.A. Aymar, Ariana D. Den Bleyker, Angel Luis Colón, Alec Cizak, Nick Kowlakowski, Elisabeth Elo, Gabino Iglesias, Paul Heatley, Michael Pool, Richie Narvaez, Rob Hart, Guy Portman, Eryk Pruitt, Alex Segura, Elizabeth McCourt, Patrick Lacey, Bryce Allen, Patricia Abbott, Beau Johnson.

I had intended on sharing my New Year’s resolutions with you sooner, but my wife’s birthday falls on New Year’s Eve and thus I just now awoke from a sugar- and vodka-induced coma. (My wife is still resting comfortably on our kitchen floor, and she doesn’t even drink vodka. Such a lightweight.)

Now don’t worry—I’m not going to waste your time listing off a bunch of nearly impossible-to-achieve goals for my life. I’m merely going to waste your time listing off a bunch of nearly impossible-to-achieve goals for my writing career. So at least you’ll be bored specifically, not just in general.

Ready? Let’s do this! Following are the key writing-related objectives and milestones I will bust my hump to make happen this year, until I decide they’re too hard.

I will get my next novel out no later than the end of June. This may not seem like an ambitious goal to you, especially considering the end of June’s nearly six months away, but I’m telling you, it’s going to really take something for me to make good on this resolution. For one, I’m getting older and thus don’t spring out of bed or off the kitchen floor in the morning to write like I used to. Secondly, this book is my first with a female protagonist, which means I have to stop to ask Google or my wife questions before writing pretty much every sentence to help conceal my utter lack of understanding of women. 

I will get the sequel to my next novel out before the end of the year. Maybe I’m being a tad overzealous here, or it could just be I’m still drunk from my wife’s birthday, but if I really put my writing nose to the grindstone and continue to ride the wave of creativity I’ve been surfing of late, there’s a good chance book two of my upcoming series (which may turn out to be a trilogy) will be available next Christmas. Just don’t expect the story to make total sense or all the words to be spelled correctly. I can’t allow a little thing like editing to stand in the way of such a bold resolution.

I will see to it my novel The Exit Man finally gets the green light for a TV series. I realize if I don’t make good on this resolution, I’ll likely become known as the boy who cried Exit Man. In my defense, I really did think the book would make it to the small screen when I announced that HBO optioned it in 2015, and I really thought so again when I announced that Showtime optioned it in 2017. But, alas, it didn’t quite work out either time. That said, there is renewed Hollywood interest in The Exit Man. This time a couple of women (an accomplished TV writer and my new agent) are leading the charge, and considering how women have been kicking ass and taking names in Tinseltown of late, I’m feeling more hopeful and invested than ever. I might even consider gender reassignment surgery if that’ll help tip the scales in my book’s favor.

I will be able to live off my earnings as a novelist before year’s end. Don’t let the fact that I have a roof over my head and a car and all my teeth fool you; I’m just a divorce away from being homeless. My wife has been the main breadwinner in our household since 2014, when the business she started in 2013 took off—and when she convinced me to quit my real job to write fiction full-time (she really had to twist my arm). While I do work hard as a writer and have managed to gain some nice accolades and build a decent-sized readership, my teenage daughter working at a local Italian restaurant earns triple what I do as an author. But 2019 is going to be my year. The year when all the books I’ve poured my heart and soul into for nearly a decade will earn me almost as much money as my daughter makes from “Do you prefer meat or cheese tortellini?”  

I will do all I can to support indie authors who are great writers and good people. Fine, 2019 isn’t going to be all about me. I’ll admit, it took me a while in my writing career to “get” that authors who write in the same or similar genres as I do (crime/thriller/noir/transgressive fiction) are not the competition but rather kindred creative spirits with whom to network, collaborate and share experiences—except for the ones who are elitist jackasses with egos that dwarf their talent. (I know how to spot such jackasses—I used to be one.) So this year you can count on me to spread the word about and sing the praises of writers you may not currently know but whose novels and/or short stories are sure to restore your faith in fresh, gritty fiction. Hell, I’ll start now with a few: Richard Thomas; Steph Post; Eric Beetner; Sarah M. Chen; Mike McCrary; S.W. Lauden; Elle Nash; Thomas Pluck; Elisabeth Elo; Scott Kelly; Lauren Sapala; Alex Segura; RD Ronald; Vanessa Veselka; E.A. Aymar; Alec Cizak; Linda Sands; Earl Javorksy; J David Osborne; Chaya Bhuvaneswar; Guy Portman; Nick Kolakowski; J.L. Foster; Eryk Pruitt; Gabino Iglesias; Jen Conley; Bryce Allen.

I will get my writing workshop for incarcerated individuals off the ground. Back in late May, I announced my plans to lead a creative writing workshop—“The ‘Write to Be Free’ Project”—inside some correctional facility near my home in Austin. And while I’ve since passed the background check (apparently the Texas Department of Criminal Justice hasn’t read my novels), completed the orientation training that all approved volunteers must undergo, and created a detailed outline of my proposed curriculum, I’m still waiting for final approval of the workshop. The TDCJ is not fully to blame for the delay—I haven’t been following up as often as I had been this past summer and fall, so it could be the prison powers that be have decided I lack the passion and commitment required to risk my life to help inmates find their writing voice. It’s up to me to prove them wrong, which I am going to do as soon as I become an expert in the deadly art of Krav Maga. 

I will not allow my total obsession with writing to keep me from being the best damn father, husband, son, brother and friend a totally obsessed writer can be. Does this mean I’ll stop screaming at my wife or daughter for breathing too loudly anywhere near the door to my writing office? Of course not. Nor does it mean I’ll be lifting the ban against daytime phone calls, text messages or visits from my parents, brother and friends. However, this year I do vow to be more caring, present and accessible to all the important people in my life—between the hours of 8 p.m. and 8:15 p.m., weekends only.

If you’re a writer, feel free to share one or two of your writing-related resolutions for 2019. If you’re a reader, feel free to share one or two of your reading-related resolutions. I you neither read nor write, feel free to share why the hell you bothered popping by my blog.

Regardless of whether you leave a comment, HAPPY (belated) NEW YEAR!   

‘Tis the season for giving, and after spending much of last week shamelessly promoting one of my novels that was on sale, I’m ready to get into the true holiday spirit and focus on my fellow woman and man. Trouble is, I earned less than a dollar for every copy sold during the aforementioned sale, and thus can afford to give gifts only to imaginary people. (My family isn’t thrilled about this, but in my defense, they’re used to me disappointing them.)  

So let’s get this merry freakin’ party started. Below are the names of some of my all-time favorite fictional characters, along with what I feel is the perfect present for each.

NOTE: Included in this list are the protagonists from my own novels. I did this not to be self-promotional, but rather because these characters would surely murder me if I didn’t list them and get them gifts. (They’re all still a bit upset with me for nearly getting each of them killed while writing their story.)

Tyler Durden (Fight Club) 

Perfect gift: A hospital-grade first-aid kit.

I thought about getting Tyler a prescription for extra-strength Ambien or an elephant tranquilizer to help with his insomnia, but then realized that he, if well-rested, might be a bit of a snooze. I believe one of the greatest gifts in life is the ability to be fully self-expressed. And for someone whose full self-expression is repeatedly punching others and himself in the face until unconscious—one of the greatest gifts you can give is a portable pack containing smelling salts, surgical gloves, hydrogen peroxide, Dermabond, sterile gauze, adhesive tape, bandages, scissors, a splint, fentanyl patches, and, of course, soap made from human fat.

Lisbeth Salander (The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo) 

Perfect gift: Access to Larry Nassar, Jerry Sandusky, Bill Cosby, et. al.

For those of you who are familiar with Lisbeth Salander, the above gift needs no explanation. For those of you who aren’t, she’s everyone’s favorite vigilante rape-survivor hell-bent on destroying men guilty of sexual assault.  

Now, I’m not saying violence is ever the answer. Of course, as a man, I don’t get to say what the answer is when it comes to what women like Lisbeth have been through. What I can say, however, is, “Enjoy the gift, girl!”    

Eli Edelmann (The Exit Man) 

Perfect gift: Helium tanks off the black market.

We all have that one friend who runs a party supply store and lives a secret double-life as a mercy killer helping terminally ill individuals end their lives with dignity. My friend like that is Eli Edelmann, and boy is he going to be tickled when he unwraps a set of helium tanks that can’t be tracked to his own store, and that are each just small enough to fit inside the duffle bag he brings on house calls. I just hope he didn’t get me the same gift.      

Celie (The Color Purple) 

Perfect gift: A tabono tattoo.

A tabono is an African symbol representing strength, perseverance, persistence and purposefulness. Sure, I could get Celie a tabono pendant instead of a tabono tattoo, but pendants can be easily broken. Tattoos—just like Celie—cannot.

Whether you’ve read the book or seen the movie, or both, you know Celie embodies the strength of the human spirit and the power of forgiveness. You see her transform from a wounded, mercilessly abused woman to a strong, independent and loving individual. Granted, there’s that one really gross scene where she spits in Mister's father's glass of water, but that scene reveals how Celie—even when terrified—simply won’t stand for anyone messing with the people she loves. We should all strive to be as deserving of having a tabono carved into our flesh as Celie is.    

Offred (The Handmaid's Tale) 

Perfect gift: Membership to a “rage room.”

What do you get the girl who has everything … taken from her by a dystopian totalitarian patriarchal state? Well, the top two gift items that pop up when you Google this question are 1) a cyanide pill, and 2) the opportunity to smash solid objects to smithereens with little risk of getting publicly hanged by theonomic dictators. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think cyanide says “happy holidays” quite like taking a baseball bat to glass does.

Rage rooms started popping up around the globe about four or five years ago, and have really spiked in popularity since around November 8, 2016. And while most rage-room patrons report that five to ten minutes of obliterating old TV sets and dinnerware is enough to get rid of years of pent-up fury, I feel that ten minutes wouldn’t be enough for Offred to get rid of even one morning of pent-up fury. Thus, I’ll be gifting her a rage room Platinum Membership, which includes unlimited visits as well as super-secret transportation to and from the venue in a camouflaged Tesla.        

Gage Adder (Sick to Death) 

Perfect gift: A date with Lisbeth Salander.

After all that’s happened to Gage Adder—his divorce, his stage-IV pancreatic cancer diagnosis, his having no other choice but to murder a friend—he could really use a victory. And while Lisbeth is not exactly the type of woman to allow a man to set her up on a blind date, once I tell her about Gage’s affinity for poisoning rapists and other miscreants, she’ll at least be down for a coffee with the guy. Granted, Gage’s inoperable cancer is likely to put a damper on any long-term romance, but even if he and Lisbeth end up just being friends for a few months, it could result in some truly beautiful and meaningful executions.  And isn’t that really what the holidays are all about?

Amy Dunne (Gone Girl)

Perfect gift: A ride-along with a crime scene investigator.

Brilliant sociopaths are often forgotten about during Christmas, and that’s sad. When I think of the joy—well, maybe not joy, considering she is a sociopath—that Amy will experience upon discovering that someone cared enough to get her a present that taps her most dangerous strengths, it gives me goosebumps.

I really did put a lot of thought into this gift. Amy will be totally in her element, and the CSI agent she rides along with will be shocked by her natural aptitude. After all, Amy is always three steps ahead of everyone—and devious enough to get away with planting fake evidence to catch those for whom there isn’t sufficient real evidence. Just ask her husband.

Humbert Humbert (Lolita)

Perfect gift: Androgen deprivation therapy (ADT).

I had to think long and hard about what to get Humbert for the holidays—just like I’ve had to think long and hard about why I and so many other people root for such a dangerous malcontent whenever we read Lolita.

A little about my choice of gift for Humbert: ADT is a drug treatment that involves the reduction of male hormones—especially testosterone—in a sexual deviant’s system. A sort of chemical castration, if you will. Perhaps I’m being a little too sympathetic toward Humbert, but I feel it would be overly barbaric to physically castrate him, and a shame to drug him out of his brilliant mind with heavy doses of anti-depressants. I mean, c’mon—Humbert is witty, charming, cultured, refined. Once you remove his pathological obsession for prepubescent girls, he’s a helluva guy.

Zero Slade (In Wolves' Clothing)

Perfect gift: A couples spa day.

Two years traveling the world posing as a pedophile to catch sex traffickers and rescue young girls can really take its toll on one’s body and mind. And marriage. Zero Slade is living fictional proof of that. Add in the stress of trying to beat an opioid addiction following a recent overdose and getting shot during a recent sting operation, and I think you’ll agree Zero deserves a day of pampering—almost as much as his tough yet devoted wife Neda does. After a full six hours of deluxe spa treatment that includes Swedish massages, organic double-exfoliation facials and warm agave nectar pedicures, Zero and Neda are going to feel so rejuvenated, they just might stay married for another year or two.

To help ensure an ideal spa experience and keep Zero’s mind off of work, I told the spa manager that no female staff from Asia, South America, Central America or Africa who are young enough to possibly be mistaken for minors are to come anywhere near the couple during their visit. Thus, the manager has arranged for all the treatments to be provided by two former Ukrainian weightlifters. Each of these women will be given special instructions on how to carefully work around Zero’s entry and exit wounds.

Jean Louise "Scout" Finch (To Kill a Mockingbird)

Perfect gift: Two rocking chairs and a large bouquet of flowers.

Such items may seem like odd gift choices for a young girl like Scout. That’s because they’re not actually for her. Scout being one of the most sensitive and thoughtful children in all of fiction (and all of nonfiction, for that matter), there’s nothing she’d want more for the holidays than to do something for others less fortunate than her.

The two rocking chairs? They’re for Scout to give to the severely misunderstood recluse Arthur “Boo” Radley, so that she and Boo can sit together regularly on his porch—where she’ll no doubt talk his ear off apologizing to him on behalf of the entire town. As for the bouquet of flowers, those are for Scout to set on Tom Robinson’s grave—where she’ll no doubt talk his ear off apologizing on behalf of humanity.

Odessa Scott: (title classified) [Sorry, can’t share the name of my upcoming book—coming soon to an Amazon near you!]

Perfect gift: A very secluded tiny-house and art studio.

Who here doesn’t struggle each year to come up with the ideal holiday present for the agoraphobic artist in their life who’s wanted in several states for forgery and murder? And yet, despite the hassle, we always seem to find ourselves going the extra mile for these troublesome, creative felons we know and love.

Man, I can’t wait to see the look on Odessa’s face after I blindfold her and drive her out to the tiny-house and separate tiny-studio I bought for her in a remote area of the Davis Mountains in West Texas. Hopefully Odessa will enjoy many years hiding out there, painting abstract expressionistic masterpieces before the law catches up to her. And hopefully she’ll keep my name out of her mouth when they do. Because unlike Odessa, I can’t imagine myself in prison.

Who are some of YOUR favorite literary characters, and what's the perfect gift for them? Share in the comments section below.

And lastly …

… HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL! (Even Humbert Humbert.)