Folks who subscribe to my crime fiction/author newsletter (newly named “Prose & Cons”) know I revamped the whole thing two weeks ago because, well, my subscribers deserved something better from me. Something they’d truly look forward to receiving. Something that, without taking up much of their time, would entertain them, grab them, make them laugh—maybe even inspire them. Something that would enable us to connect more, and help me discover the kinds of things they want to hear and read about.

God knows we all could use a little more entertainment, laughter, inspiration and connection right now.

(What’s that? You currently don’t subscribe to my newsletter but would like to know what the hell I’m talking about above? Then simply type your email address in the little box just above the “Sign-Up” icon just off to the right on this page (or at the top if you're on a mobile device). Go on, you know you wanna—it comes with a cool free ebook!) 

I received a lot of beautifully written replies to the "what's on your mind?" question I posed in the first issue of the revamped newsletter. The power and authenticity of these replies hit me right in the feels and renewed my faith in humanity (or at least in the humanity of my subscribers). Seriously though, I'm grateful to those of you who were so candid and generous in your sharing about how you’re faring during this global pandemic we’re all doing our best to endure.  

And I'm grateful to everyone for being here right now, reading this post—a post written by a relatively obscure author of crime fiction and thrillers. With the world in such a state of flux and confusion, it’s hard for most people to get excited about crime fiction and thrillers.

Or so I thought. ...

I recently found myself asking a mirror, “How can I expect people to continue reading fiction filled with dark themes and dangerous characters when there seems to be so much darkness and danger going on right outside their tightly shuttered windows?” But the more pressing question was, “How can I go on writing such fiction?”

Then something weird happened; the following day I noticed a small spike in book sales—without me even running a price promotion or having a new novel out. At first I just assumed my mother had purchased several extra copies of my books online to help ensure I had enough money for a sack of potatoes and a package of non-existent toilet paper. But I checked and it turned out it wasn’t Mom who’d bought my books. (It also turned out she was pissed I’d called merely to ask about my stupid books and not to check on how she and Dad were doing.) It wasn’t until the next day—after I’d noticed a couple more book sales—that I realized something. Something that warmed my heart and gave me hope. And that something is this: People are twisted.

Just like I am.

But we’re twisted in a good way. (Well, mostly.) Still, I decided to look deeper. I wanted to know what is it that compels so many of us to read and/or write dark fiction during hellish times rather than dive into much cozier books? It can’t be that we’re all sociopaths, right? RIGHT?

Right! Here’s the thing, while none of us wants to have to deal with ever-increasing tension and life-threatening situations and high-risk stakes in our own actual lives, we can’t help but be drawn to stories featuring such danger and uncertainty. Why? Because it makes us feel alive. It’s invigorating to experience high tension and suspense from the kind of safe distance fiction provides; it’s riveting to root for people we’ll never meet (since they’re imaginary) who are up against impossible odds; and it’s life-affirming and inspiring when those people we’re rooting for find a way to overcome those odds—or at least try their damnedest to do so.

Such books—dark as they may be—provide a light. They reveal the toughness of the human spirit in a rough and often morally ambiguous world. They remind us we are each protagonists in our own story.

Every day, when we dare to take that first step out of bed, we face tension and suspense. We go up against what can often seem like insurmountable odds.

We find a way.

What have you read lately that punched you in the gut and had you on the edge of your seat trembling while also inspiring you, refueling you, restoring your faith in humanity? If you're looking for a few recommendations for novels that'll do exactly that, here you go:

Not a Sound by Heather Gudenkauf. I get that you may not think a book about a nurse who loses everything after a terrible accident—including her hearing and sanity—could possibly be uplifting in any way, and now you're wondering why I'd recommend it. I'll tell you why: Because of the extraordinary grit and determination the main character exhibits as she builds her life back up ... only to have it start to unravel again while she deals with the murder of a friend and tries to bring the killer to justice. This is a chilling psychological thriller, but one filled with raw heart and hope.

My Darkest Prayer by S.A. Cosby. A gritty literary explosion of of corruption, sex, violence and vengeance—written with love. Speaking of love, you'll fall for not only the book's dangerous protagonist but also its dangerously talented author, S.A. Cosby. Both are forces to be reckoned with. Beneath all the sleaze and mayhem and destruction in this shockingly good neo-noir debut is a giant, tender heart—one that beats hard enough to break bones. Rarely does justice ever hurt so good. (So good, in fact, it has me—and LOTS of other readers—eagerly counting the days until Cosby's next novel, Blacktop Wasteland, drops in July.) 

Roachkiller and Other Stories by Richie Narvaez. When you're living through a pandemic that makes it seem like the world's falling apart, it's wonderful to find a rare, shining gem amidst the rubble. I'm familiar with and greatly enjoy Richie Narvaez's work (including his deliciously sardonic debut novel Hipster Death Rattle), but somehow Roachkiller—his fresh, magnificent collection of short noir fiction—had flown under my radar until very recently. Named one of BookRiot's 100 Must-Read Works of Noir, it's the perfect cure for crime fiction fans whom the pandemic has left short on reading time and on cash (the Kindle version costs just $1.99!). Each tale is dark and strange yet extremely soulful, featuring hardluck losers you can't resist rooting for. Download a copy today—you won't be disappointed (well, not while reading the book, anyway; as for how you'll feel once you're done and start listening to the world news, well—just don't listen!).   

Speaking of affordable crime fiction that doesn't short-change you on quality, a handful of excellent small-press publishers are currently running big price promotions—to help ensure that readers can continue reading great books during this difficult time. Two such publishers are:

Down & Out Books, which is running a "Social Distancing Digital Book Sale" now,  discounting 39 of its most recently published ebook titles—with some priced as low as 99¢!

Fahrenheit Press, which is featuring a different FREE e-book EVERY DAY for anyone who can't afford to buy books during this crisis.

Very few people know this about me, but I have an alter ego. Its name is Mr. Brightside. The reason almost nobody knows about this alter ego is it rarely rears its head. It appears only during the WORST of the worst of times.

For instance, Mr. Brightside showed up in 1993 when I was poor and lonely and depressed in New York City. It immersed me in books full of life-altering poetry and fiction, as well as introduced me to meditation.

Mr. Brightside showed up in Spain eight years later—right after 9/11 and a divorce—and it started writing my first novel.

It showed up after my brother Jeff passed away unexpectedly on New Year’s Day 2007. Mr. Brightside held me together and handled all the funeral arrangements while my devastated parents and my other brother were snowed in for several days in different parts of the world.  

And, not surprisingly, Mr. Brightside showed up the other day. It asked if it could use my blog to get an urgent message out during this pandemic. I told it there were much bigger platforms than my blog it could use to get an urgent message out. It said it was well aware of that, then threw me out of my writing office and, in typical Mr. Brightside fashion, shouted through the door, “Sorry I had to get rough, Greg, but look on the bright side—I could have easily killed you.”

Mr. Brightside then—

… I’ll take it from here, Greg; you’re taking too long. Hi folks, Mr. Brightside here. My apologies for barging in and commandeering Greg’s blog like this, but there are some things I think you need to know—things that will provide you with some hope and solace in these trying times. And with all due respect to Greg, he’s not the guy you turn to for hope or solace. He’s the guy you turn to for dark and twisted fiction, and for sardonic humor, and if you’re low on vodka or bourbon. And while those things have their place and can provide some sense of escape during a global pandemic and an imminent recession, they aren’t nearly enough to sustain you and your loved ones—and society in general—right now. Escape is nice and all, but it’s no match for hope and solace. No match for connection and kindness. No match for love and compassion.

Call me an optimist (no, really, I want you to—I was pretty much named after optimism), but a lot of good can and will come from the coronavirus outbreak … and actually already has. I’m not joking. I’m not being sarcastic.

I’m not Greg.

I hope you’ll bear with me for a couple of minutes and continue reading, and you’ll start to see what I’m talking about. You’ll start to see the light at the end of—and even inside—the tunnel. You’ll start to see the bright side. Even Greg’s starting to see it, and he’s the worst.

So let’s do this.

Below is a list of just some of the positive things that are happening and developing as a result of the coronavirus taking over the planet. Things that will remind you all is not lost—not even close.

1) A surge in community spirit. Up until a couple of weeks ago, the last time I witnessed youthful neighbors asking older neighbors if they needed anything from the grocery store was … never. Same goes for the last time I watched Italians sing to one another from their balconies, or the last time a nightclub transformed itself into a food distribution center, or … I could go on forever with examples of people who’ve banded together (while keeping their distance) to lift the collective spirit of humanity, but there just isn't enough time. 

On second thought, screw it—all we actually HAVE now is time (alone in our houses/apartments/vans/tents), thus here are several more examples of how (extra)ordinary communities have risen to the occasion lately: 

• Many supermarkets have introduced exclusive shopping times for senior citizens and individuals with disabilities (i.e., folks most at risk during this pandemic).
• Yo-Yo Ma performed Bach's 'Cello Suite No. 3' via Twitter in honor of healthcare workers fighting the coronavirus.
• Medical experts from China flew to Rome with a supply of masks, respirators, and other supplies. The flight brought around thirty tons of equipment to Italy, which is currently the country worst-hit by COVID-19.
• A rabbi and several congregants from his synagogue delivered pizza to quarantined families in the Bronx.
• WestJet held a mini-graduation for four members of a Canadian college's female vollyeball team (all of them seniors) during a flight home after their college closed due to the coronavirus.
• The owners of the Stock Exchange Hotel in Manchester, UK (which had to close its doors to customers a few days ago) will be offering free accommodation to National Health Service workers who can't return home for risk of infecting their families. In addition, the hotel will not be laying off any of its staff during this time, and will be granting them paid leave if they themselves need to self-isolate.

​

2) A recognition of—and an appreciation for—some of the unsung heroes in our society. This is not any kind of a dig on famous athletes or movie stars or the like (especially since many of them have been donating their time, money and influence during this pandemic). However, with professional sporting events cancelled and cineplexes shut down everywhere, the spotlight has shifted to all the everyday unsung heroes in our midst—the individuals the world truly couldn’t do without on a daily basis. The nurses and the first-responders and the pharmacy staffers and the parcel delivery people and the grocery store employees and the sanitation workers and the truck drivers. And the teachers. And the comedians. And whatever you call the small team of behind-the-scenes people at each radio station who keep the informative and entertaining voices coming into our kitchens.

And, well, basically anyone else you’ve been relying on to help you and your loved ones—and countless others—endure all the chaos and fear and uncertainty pervading these unprecedented times.    

3) A free masterclass in doing more with less. You know who doesn’t need 116 types of cereal to choose from in a single supermarket aisle on any given day? Everyone. You know who would now do a dance if they were able to get their overly sanitized hands on just a single bag of dried pinto beans whenever they needed it? Same answer: EVERYONE.

For decades, many of us in the U.S. and other western and/or “first world” countries have gotten a little too accustomed to excess and immediate gratification. Now? Now the playing field has been significantly leveled, and most over-privileged first-world folk are learning just how absurdly wasteful an egg-white omelette is, and just how far a bag of dry beans and a sack of potatoes can go toward keeping us alive—and provide us with the energy needed to voice our outrage in a tweet or Facebook post. (Sorry gang, Greg snuck in on this one and felt compelled to add a little of his signature snark. Go easy on him—he simply doesn’t know how to "bright-side" correctly.)   

4) A significant decrease in pollution worldwide. It’s sadly ironic that it took a global virus wreaking havoc on the human respiratory system to create an environment where the air is actually safe(r) to breathe. According to the Centre for International Climate Research in Oslo, Norway, as the burning of fossil fuels has dropped during the pandemic, air quality has improved significantly—and the impact has been felt worldwide.

True, the drop in pollution is likely to be only temporary and has come at a tragic cost (we’re fast-approaching 20,000 lives lost due to COVID-19). Still, this frightening and devastating outbreak has placed a laser pointer on the impact our modern way of life has on the planet—the  planet we all hope will continue to be habitable well beyond our lifetime and that of our children’s children’s children. This isn’t to say we should all continue to self-isolate and forever practice social distancing even after the pandemic disappears (and the economy reappears); however, it does give us a lot to think about—and a lot of hope—with regard to our power to prolong the Earth’s lifespan for eons.

5) A future with less traffic and road-rage—and a workforce with a healthier work-life balance.  A lot people have lost their jobs because of what the coronavirus has done to the economy—nothing cool about that. But there is something cool about how many companies and businesses have embraced the work-at-home model and virtual offices to keep people employed and the world running during this extremely challenging time.

Admittedly, remote work isn’t for everyone—some folks struggle without face-to-face human interaction and teams; also, for many occupations, the virtual work model simply isn’t feasible much of the time, or ever. That all said, many people would kill to work from home (granted, under better circumstances than a global pandemic)—and a lot of those folks will likely let their bosses know they want to continue to work remotely once the threat of the coronavirus is gone. If the aforementioned bosses say yes to these employees’ request, it’ll be a huge victory not just for the employees, but also for: their families (no commute means more quality time); their companies (happier workers + an expanded labor pool); the environment (less pollution, remember?); and society as a whole … including the people who don’t want to or can’t work from home—they’ll no longer have to contend with the impenetrable crush of vehicles jamming up highways during rush-hour day after day after day. The only real loser in all this will be road-rage.    

6) A chance to create, a time to (re)invent. At the outset of this post, Greg mentioned how I got him into poetry and fiction when he was broke and lonely in the 1990s, and how his first novel came out of a painful divorce. I’ve always found that humans are at their most creative and innovative during times of distress, destitution, despondence. Chaos and calamity serve as beautiful muses if you lean into them.

Now, to be clear, I’m not suggesting that, say, an author suffering from writers block set their city on fire or start a riot in hopes that it will enable them to crank out a literary masterpiece. It wouldn’t work. It couldn’t. Intentionally causing destruction is the opposite of creating art and thus can never be done in the name of it. However, when the sky is falling, when the four horsemen are approaching, when life as you’ve always known it slams on the breaks and comes to a screeching halt, that’s the time to write or paint or compose or invent something. Something new and bold and hopeful. Something that pierces the darkness—inside and out.

Life as we’ve always known it is, indeed, ending. But LIFE itself is not. WE are not.

This is your chance to create. An opportunity to reinvent what life could be. What YOU could be.

I can’t wait to see what you come up with.

A NOTE FROM GREG: Nothing in this post is intended to downplay the seriousness of what we as a species are going through, or to turn a blind eye to the loss of life, health, physical freedom, jobs, or income (in some cases, entire life savings) that is occuring every day. If you need to express your anger or sadness or loneliness—or ALL of it—feel free to let it out in the form of a rant or a question (or whatever you want) in the comments section below, or you can hit Mr. Brightside (or me) up privately HERE.

And if you're feeling truly OVERWHELMED by anger/sadness/loneliness, please seek the support and guidance of a qualified mental health professional (seriously). A great place to start is the Coronavirus Information and Resources Guide provided by the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI).

When I told my wife I was working on a fun post tentatively titled “Five Reasons Why You Shouldn’t Marry a Crime Writer,” she suggested I add a couple of zeros. I told her five hundred reasons was too long for a blog post. She said in that case turn it into a book. Long story short, I compromised—kept it as a blog post but bumped the number up from five to eight. So now everyone’s happy. Except my wife.

And with that, I present to you “Eight Reasons Why You Shouldn’t Marry a Crime Writer.” (There are MANY more. Just ask you-know-who.)

1) For an author of crime fiction, “Till death do us part” is more of a temptation than a vow. I’m certainly not suggesting every crime fiction author is a potential killer who values human life less than normal people do. Just those authors with three or more novels under their belt. True, there’s no research that shows any kind of connection between writing books featuring murder and committing actual murder; however that may very well be because there’s a gang of crime writers going around offing anyone trying to conduct such research. So, just to be safe, don’t marry a crime novelist, or, if you must marry one, at least have the good sense to pick one who writes about solving homicide cases. Or who writes cozy mysteries. 

2) They’ll make their plan to murder you look like mere book research. If and when (mostly when) you start to suspect your crime-writing spouse is devising the perfect way to be single again, good luck getting the authorities to take your suspicions and fears seriously. When you show the cops your spouse’s browsing history and ask them how they can just sit there and NOT take precautionary actions based on all the searches for “best murder methods” and “ways to dispose of a body,” the cops are just going to turn things around on you and say, “You obviously haven’t read any of your spouse’s novels”—a fact that may even be used to support a ruling of “justifiable homicide” in the event you ever do turn up not alive. 

3) They’ll constantly complain there aren’t enough shocking twists in your relationship. People who spend the lion’s share of their time coming up with stunning plot twists and jaw-dropping endings for their stories start to expect the same level of excitement in their real-life relationships. And sure, you may be able to satisfy them for a while with a surprise party here or a last-minute trip to Vegas there, but it’s only a matter of time before your spouse will start to bitch and moan about how you never shock them with news that you're actually your own twin sibling. Or that you're living a dangerous double-life. Or that you've actually been dead this whole time.     

4) They’ll often call out someone else’s name in bed—and that someone else will likely be a serial killer or a corrupt cop. Now some of you might be thinking, "That actually sounds kind of hot—a sort of accidental role-playing game that could spice up things in the bedroom." But what you need to realize is that the wrong-name thing usually won’t happen during sex. Your partner will just be lying there snoring and then all of a sudden pop up and shout, “Detective Jones!”  

5) You’ll be eleven times more likely to die while on a cruise or a train. Due to the plethora of 20^th century crime novels set on a luxury cruise liner or passenger train, every author of crime fiction has vacation-homicide wired into their writerly DNA. Even if they’ve never read a single one of the aforementioned types of books, just being a writer of the genre makes them eleven times more likely to consider tossing you overboard or poisoning you in a dining car. It’s one of the main reasons why, when my wife and I take vacations, she insists we travel by plane and sit in separate seats. Or take separate vacations.

6) They’ll make you watch crime-related movies and TV series—and ruin every single one of them for you. Authors of crime fiction will insult your affinity for rom-coms and/or epic fantasies and/or soft sci-fi, then force you to watch The Usual Suspects and Breaking Bad over and over while pointing out any and all flaws in the plot. You’ll be left gritting your teeth and shaking your head—wondering how the hell the love of your life is able to spot the tiniest incongruity or embellishment in a hit show or film yet miss multiple plot holes in every short story or novel they themselves have ever written. And if you ever dare try to question your spouse’s skepticism regarding Keyser Söze’s mythical back-story or Walter White’s meteoric rise to drug-kingpin status—or even hint at the shortcomings of one of your spouse’s own crime thrillers—be sure you aren’t on a cruise ship or a train at the time.

7) They’ll kill to protect their writing time. Granted, this is true of any writer, but with a crime fiction writer, things can get very Jack-Nicholson-in-The Shining very quickly. For instance, I keep a gun and a chainsaw next to my writing desk in case of interruptions by family members. Sure, both “weapons” are just props, but my wife and daughter don’t know that and aren’t likely to find out—because they, like most people, don’t read my blog.

8) You’ll get nothing in the divorce. I say this not because authors of crime fiction are known to secure shrewd legal counsel; rather because most authors of crime fiction (or any fiction, really) earn less than an unemployed part-time dishwasher. Therefore, unless you marry a mega-bestselling author like James Patterson or Gillian Flynn—or are dating a writer who is also an anesthesiologist or works four jobs to support their writing habit—don’t expect to get much of anything when you divorce them for all the reasons above … assuming you survive long enough to even serve them the divorce papers.  

DISCLAIMER: Just because all the facts and statistics in this post are 112% accurate doesn’t mean my wife—or the spouse of any other crime fiction writer—is in any real mortal danger. If anything, it’s we writers who should be worried. After all, most of us spend so much time researching and writing about criminal acts, we don’t exercise enough to be able to cause any real physical harm to anyone other than ourselves. That, coupled with the fact that most of us don’t give our supportive spouses the love and attention they deserve, puts our lives in grave peril on a daily basis.

Up until very recently, reading a blog post title like the one above would fill me with the urge to punch or break something. Or get drunk. Usually all three. It’s not that I wasn’t happy to hear about other authors landing a literary agent; it’s simply that my pettiness and jealousy outweighed such happiness. (In my defense, I'm not a very good person.) 

However, now that I’ve landed a literary agent (finally!), titles like the one above don’t seem to bother me at all. In fact, instead of wanting to punch and break things and get drunk, I want to hug and kiss complete strangers, and get drunk. But I promised my wife I’d stop doing those first two—at least until my agent sells my novel (Into a Corner) to a major publisher.  

But enough about me. Let’s talk about my agent, Janet Reid.

I could just end this blog post right here, as most people in the writing and publishing world are aware of who Janet is, how helpful her advice is for writers (particularly those in the querying stage), and the great things she has accomplished as an agent for many authors.

But I’m not going to end this post so abruptly because:

1) Ending a post so abruptly is a clear sign of insanity, and I’d rather Janet not find out I’m insane this early on in our agent/client relationship. (Of course, Janet already knows I’m a little crazy—as evidenced by her comment in an email referenced a little later on in this post.)

2) Four of the thirteen people who read my blog aren’t in the writing/publishing world and thus may not have ever heard of Janet.

3) I want to share what having an agent of Janet’s caliber in my corner means (and doesn’t mean) for my writing career going forward.

But before I go any further, here are a few factual(ish) stats that will help those of you who don't understand why I’m so giddy and grateful about getting a literary agent:

• A typical literary agent receives hundreds (if not billions) of queries each month from writers seeking representation.

• Somewhere between one in a thousand and one in a trillion writers who send out queries regarding their novel will end up landing a literary agent.

• A typical writer drinks between two and twenty-six alcoholic beverages a day to help cope with the stress of waiting to hear back from agents regarding their query. (The majority of writers who aren’t drinkers smoke excessively or pop pills while waiting to hear back. Among the small percentage of writers who don’t drink, smoke or pop pills to help get them through the querying process, most of them died during the querying process.)   

I realize the above bullet points contain a lot of math—well, for a writer, anyway. It’s not very accurate math, but that doesn’t matter. I merely wanted to give you an idea of how hard it can be to get a literary agent, and how much I peed my pants when I received an email from Janet Reid a few weeks ago that read: 

Hi Greg,

Just finished reading Into A Corner and it's clear you're demented.

On the other hand, I laughed my asterisk off reading the sodium

hydroxide scene, so I'm clearly just as demented.

I'd be glad to talk to you about next steps for this book.

Let me know what day/time works for you for a telephone call.

In the publishing industry, the call Janet refers to is called “the call.” Among writers, “the call” is sort of like Big Foot or the Loch Ness Monster—something you hear about all the time but are almost certain you’ll never witness personally. The purpose of “the call”—aside from making authors pee their pants—is for an agent to get a better feel for the author before deciding for sure whether to offer representation, and for the author to get key questions answered, like “What did you like about my manuscript?” and “What is your editorial vision for the book?” and “Will you pretty please with sugar on top offer me representation before I throw up from all the anxiety?” (That last question is best asked in silence.)

I made sure I was ready for my “the call” with Janet (which was scheduled for the day following her email that caused my incontinence). I went into “the call” equipped with a concise list of expert-recommended questions, as well as an adult diaper, and 5 mg of Valium to take the edge off of the 10 mg of Adderall I’d taken to remain sharp. I don’t really remember anything about “the call,” but it went great. Apparently, Janet told me such wonderful things about my manuscript, I had to be rushed to the emergency room by my wife to have my ego shrunken back down to a normal human-sized one.

At the end of “the call” (this part I remember), Janet told me not to give her an answer yet. As an author, you read all about this your entire pre-agent life—how, during “the call,” you need to show patience and restraint and not just shout “YES, YES, A THOUSAND TIMES, YES!”—especially if the agent hasn’t even offered representation yet. Janet, as all the top agents do, recommended I take some time—a week or two—to think about what I wanted for my writing career and whether or not I felt she truly was the best fit for me. She suggested I reach out to a few of her existing clients (of my choosing) and ask each of them what they thought of her, what it’s like being represented by her. She also reminded me to let any other agents who were currently considering my manuscript know that I was on the brink of accepting an offer of representation. She pointed out that doing the latter could result in me getting multiple offers from agents just as competent as her. (Basically, a literary agent is the opposite of a car salesperson—or any salesperson, for that matter. Nothing against salespeople, but if you ever were to eagerly whip out your checkbook to commit to a 4Runner at a Toyota dealership, the sales rep probably wouldn’t tell you to calm down and weigh all your options, or say, “Make sure you go across the street to the Mazda dealership and check out the CX-9—she’s a real beauty and drives like a dream!”

So, even though I’d dreamt of Janet Reid being my literary agent ever since I was old enough to dream about having a literary agent, I took my time and did exactly what Janet said to do—because you don’t get THIS close to landing Janet Reid and decide not to do exactly what she says. The clients of hers I emailed each promptly responded to me with the highest of praise for Janet and with enthusiastic congratulations for me on having gotten “the call” from her. Even the handful of agents I had notified about Janet’s offer responded with praise for her and congrats for me—basically stating far be it from them to stand in the way of my pending agreement with a rock star. (Okay, fine, a couple of them merely said Janet seemed like a better fit for me and my manuscript. But, hey, as a fiction writer, I like to embellish [read: lie] a little.)  

Thus, I sat down and crafted my “I’ve-thought-long-and-hard-about-it-and-would-be-beyond-honored-and-thrilled-to-have-you-represent-me-till-death-do-us-part” email to Janet. But before clicking “send,” I checked the calendar and realized only two days had passed since “the call.” So I saved the email as a draft, then strapped on another adult diaper and bounced off the walls for a few days so Janet would know I had impulse control and that I’d be a cool, calm, breezy client. Then, five days after “the call”—while somehow on vacation in Australia visiting my in-laws—I clicked send and, when I didn’t hear back from Janet immediately, went into a panic-induced coma. I awoke from the coma hours or days or months later, just in time to find the following email from Janet waiting for me in my inbox:                      

 I'm DELIGHTED to welcome you on board! Like seriously thrilled.

I can't wait to get started.

Once you're back, let's set up a telco to plot world domination.

What I did immediately after reading her message is all just a blur to me, but according to my wife and her family, my shrieks of joy shattered every window in my father in-law’s condo in Sydney. Needless to say, the rest of my vacation in Australia is also just a blur, but according to my wife and her family, I couldn’t shut up about landing my dream agent.

Now that I’ve had a few weeks to calm down and recover from the coma and the shrieking and the jetlag, I’ve got my head on straight and realize there’s a LOT of work to do (e.g., manuscript revisions/tweaks, social media sharpening, platform-growing, et. al.). And there's no guarantee of success. Sure, having an agent like Janet repping me is awesome and opens up a lot of new doors and gives me a solid chance to take my writing career to the next level—maybe even to earn enough to almost live off of. However, even the very best literary agents (of which Janet is certainly one) sell only about two out of every three manuscripts they take on and submit to publishers. Granted, I like the landing-a-publisher math a helluva lot more than the landing-an-agent math I cited earlier. Still, I won’t be popping any champagne corks or shattering any more windows with my joyous shrieks until Janet tells me it’s time to do so. I'll be awaiting her call or email—the one where she says, “Greg, I have some news—I hope you’re wearing a diaper.”

Big thanks to all of you for enduring my longer-than usual post (assuming you didn’t just skip to the end, like I would have done). It’s not often we writers get any sunlight, and I appreciate you spending a little extra time with me today while I basked in the warm rays—before another dark storm moves in and settles. Enjoy the rest of your ...

... oh, wait, just TWO MORE overly long sentiments before I go: 

First—to all the writers out there who’ve been looking for an agent but receiving rejection after rejection yet still want an agent, DO NOT GIVE UP. I almost did, and know exactly how you feel. Remember, many good and great books get rejected over and over before getting that one “yes” from the right agent. And if you end up never getting an agent, who cares? We’re all going to die anyway, so have fun and NEVER STOP WRITING (until, of course, you die).

Secondly—landing a literary agent is never a solo act—and it was anything but in my case. I owe a gigantic THANK YOU to several people who were instrumental in me ending up on Janet Reid’s coveted client list. So…

• THANK YOU, Darynda Jones (you mega best-selling author, you), for taking the time to reach out and introduce yourself this past summer, then convince me that I had the goods to get repped.  
• THANK YOU, Elisabeth Elo, for echoing Darynda Jones' sentiments (even if you didn't know it)—right when I was thinking of throwing in the querying towel.
• THANK YOU, E.A. (Ed) Aymar, for always taking the time to answer my questions—many of which were stupid—about the quest for an agent, and the best way to tie a noose.
• THANK YOU, Chris Rhatigan (of All Due Respect Books), for believing I had something special with Into a Corner and for your invaluable assistance in making the manuscript sparkle enough to catch the attention of the agent I’ve always wanted.
• THANK YOU, Lauren Sapala, for the powerful, beautiful, incredibly encouraging message you sent me after I came to cry on your virtual shoulder. (In case you don’t remember the message, I’d be happy to take picture of it and send it to you. I have it right here next to me—I keep a printed copy of it on my writing desk at all times. No joke.)    

• THANK YOU, Miranda (my amazing wife), for believing in me and my writing since day one, and for refusing to even come close to ever letting me quit. 

Dear Writing,

We’ve known each other a long time and have been through so much together. Some of our experiences have been beautiful and unforgettable; others have been brutal and abusive. Words can’t describe how much I love and resent you. Yes, I realize that’s ironic and dichotomous—jeez, Writing, I’m not a total idiot … despite what most of my high school English essays may have implied.

Were it not for you, Writing, I would not be a writer today. And for that I will be forever grateful and tormented. Emphasis on forever. You see, Writing, no matter how hard I try to ignore you, suppress you, take a break from you, LEAVE you, I always come back. Sometimes I come running and jump into your arms; other times I drag myself kicking and screaming across shards of glass and lay myself at your feet. Our relationship is the most passionate and dysfunctional and magical and toxic one I've ever had. Considering I once dated a strip-club bartender poet, that’s saying something.

Someone very wise once told me, “A writer saying they’re quitting writing is like an immortal saying they’re quitting living. Both need to save their breath and just keep doing what they hate to love. Forever.”

Okay, fine—maybe it wasn’t someone very wise but rather me in a recent tweet. And not to pat myself or my tweet on the back, but that quote above is everything in a nutshell. I hate to love you, Writing. You’re that drug I’ll never kick. You’re my crack, my heroin. You’re the tiny white pill I pop before going to the dentist or a wedding. You fill me with euphoria and bliss and warm fuzzies that never end—until they do end and leave me a little shaky and constipated. Yet I keep coming back for more—three or four hours every day, even if it means cutting quality time with family and friends and pets. Even if it means skipping a workout or a meal or a shower or another shower.

And we both know me coming back for more will never stop, Writing. Doesn’t matter if my existing novels stop selling or if my upcoming novel doesn’t get everyone buzzing or if my work-in-progress puts me in a chokehold. You’ll have to kill me first, Writing. And someday you will—just don’t expect me to go gently. Be ready for me to fight back. Hard.

I guess all I’m really saying is this: I can’t quit you, Writing.

Sometimes I want to.

But more importantly, I never will.    

Much love and a little hate,

Greg