Writing is a lonely endeavor, but being a writer needn’t be. And shouldn’t be.
It took me a while to learn that, and thank goodness I finally did. Otherwise I’d now likely be living in an inpatient mental health facility or roaming the streets and shouting at invisible enemies while wearing a tinfoil hat.
Once it hit me that other writers were not my competition but rather my colleagues, my confidants, my Klonopin, it felt as if a weight as heavy as a bunch of rejected manuscripts had been lifted off my shoulders.
At first, the most valuable thing about befriending fellow scribes seemed to be the source of commiseration it provided. (I’d always gotten plenty of pity and emotional support from family; however, I soon found nothing could compare to the joy of co-bitching and co-moaning with a bunch of like-minded, like-whining authors.) Then, a few years ago, I had an even bigger revelation: Happiness comes not only from being miserable together, but also from wishing success upon one another. Cheering each other on. Genuinely hoping things stop sucking for everyone involved.
Who knew?
In addition to giving you the positive jolt of endorphins that comes with exhibiting generosity, sending out vibes of hope and success to author friends also opens up the possibility of living vicariously through people you like and respect, as well as helps to take your mind off of everything that isn’t going right for you and your writing career. Sure, a little envy may creep in here and there when one of your peers breaks out, but nothing a couple of shots of liquor every night can’t tamp down.
Now, all of the above rambling is really just a preamble. It’s me setting the stage for what I really want to do today, and what I really want to do today is highlight a host of awesome, talented crime fiction authors I’m honored to call friends (even if just on Twitter), and whom I sincerely feel are deserving of a wider reading audience.
So without further ado, below (listed alphabetically) are just some of the great writers—who also happen to be great humans—I won’t stop rooting for until they make it big and start ghosting me:
(*I hesitated to include Craig, as he already kinda broke out with two amazing books—The Contortionist’s Handbook and Dermaphoria—in the early-mid 2000s; however, the publishing gods haven’t smiled on this BRILLIANT writer enough since, and he deserves for that to change ASAP.)
For this last author, I’m going out of alphabetical order, and with good reason. Scott Kelly passed away suddenly last October, and I want to be sure he and his work stand out in this post. Scott—my friend, fellow Vonnegut and Palahniuk fanatic, and partner in both crime (fiction) and drinking—was perhaps the best writer most people have never heard of. I could write an entire post about Scott’s inventive brand of existential transgressive fiction (and probably will in the near future), but for now I’ll just ask that you take a moment to check out his work. There’s nothing I’d love more than for Scott to posthumously achieve the wide readership and acclaim his talent so blatantly warrants—and which Scott never complained about not receiving.
Scott, I miss you, brother. I think about and read you often, and will continue spreading the word about your words until I join you, wherever you are.
NOTE: If you consider yourself one of my writer friends (or even just Twitter friends who writes) and you don’t see your name above, it’s likely because: a) I haven’t yet gotten around to reading your work; or b) you’ve already “made it” in my eyes. Yes, I’m talking to you S.A. Cosby, Jennifer Hillier, Rachel Howzell Hall, and Stephen Mack Jones. And guess what? … I couldn’t be happier for you!
It’s 2:48 a.m. and I’m awake because an under-developed fictional person who lives inside my head insisted on ripping me from my slumber to discuss some plot points for the story he’s set to star in.
Just an average Monday night/Tuesday morning for me.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m not complaining. I actually welcome these sorts of disruptions to my sleep, my silence, my sanity.
That’s the problem.
You see, fiction writing is a sickness. An addiction as glorious as it is gut-wrenching, as sublime as it is shameful. I couldn’t live without writing novels and short stories—and they’ll surely be the death of me.
And apparently I’m okay with that.
I’ve never considered myself a masochist before, but the more I examine the evidence, masochism’s really the only explanation. Why else would I continue to go all in on my fiction, even after getting my heart broken and my soul crushed by so many near misses over the years, including—but certainly not limited to—the following:
Two TV options—one with HBO, one with Showtime—that didn’t get renewed at the wire.
A third TV option (with another major network) that died just prior to the contract being signed;
A late-stage rejection by a big literary agent. NOTE: I did finally land a different and even more amazing agent last year, so I no longer even think about the previously mentioned rejection as a “near miss.” Still, guess what happened right after signing with my amazing agent mere days before she was planning on submitting my manuscript to several big crime fiction publishers? Just a little thing called Covid-19. (Not that the pandemic has brought publishing to its knees, but it might make some major houses a little less likely to take a chance on a relatively unknown author like me.)
Sound like a whole lot of whining and whingeing on my part? On the surface, maybe, but don’t be fooled. Deep down, and not even that deep, I love my failures, my misfortune, my poor timing. Of course I do—I’m a writer. We’re not truly happy unless we’re miserable.
The truth is, near misses only make me stronger. Well, my addiction stronger, anyway. Every incident of almost-but-not-quite feeds my disease, fuels it, compels me to continue forsaking most of my responsibilities and alienating my friends and family in pursuit of my lifelong dream of landing a solid traditional book deal—a book deal that seems to creep closer and closer but never quite materializes. A book deal that, if I’m lucky, would provide me with a fraction of what I would make if I spent a little less time writing and a little more time working even just a steady entry-level job.
That’s right, I’ve got full-on, stop-for-nothing tunnel vision that, best case scenario, might eventually lead to me earning enough to cover a year’s worth of nights at an extended stay motel after my wife throws my ass out for my fiction problem.
Making matters worse, or better—I’ve forgotten which—are the little victories I’ve managed to achieve via my writing over the years: the handful of indie author awards; the starred review from Publishers Weekly; the solid number of favorable reader reviews on Amazon; my favorite author telling me I have “it” (whatever “it” is). Each of these positive but by no means monumental achievements is the equivalent of a neighborhood drug dealer handing me a sample of the good stuff, knowing I’ll get hooked and stay hooked and keep coming back for more—even beg for some when I don’t have the funds to cover it.
Now you may be thinking, Isn’t the title of this post The Shame and the GLORY of Fiction Addiction? Where’s the glory part, Greg?
Well, the odd thing is, my answer to the “glory” question is perhaps the most shameful thing about all of this. For, you see, all or most of the glory that comes with fiction addiction occurs inside the head of the afflicted, inside the mind of the writer.
It’s the internal mania that floods a writer’s amygdala every time they fire off a killer sentence or paragraph or scene—hell, sometimes even just a strong verb.
It’s the delusions of grandeur that take over whenever a writer hears a compliment or sees four or five stars tethered to a review of their book.
It’s the nearly lethal levels of euphoria that send a writer skyward whenever they type the magic words “THE END” after months or years of pulling characters’ teeth and rolling a heavy plot up a jagged mountain.
And, of course, it’s all the near misses before they become near misses. All the little victories before hard evidence reveals those victories aren’t going to evolve into much larger ones.
But perhaps the greatest glory of fiction addiction is this: there is no cure. As shameful as it may be for a writer to keep plugging away and grinding and hustling and hoping and dreaming against all odds, there’s something supremely glorious about the fact that such agonizing persistence will never stop.
Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s 4:07 a.m., and that unstable, underdeveloped character I mentioned at the outset—the one who woke me up to talk about his tale—he’s got a box-cutter to my throat and won’t set me free me until he’s said his piece and gets his way.
Like I said, shameful.
And glorious.
Any of you out there have a creative pursuit that often feels more like an addiction? I'd love to hear about it—that way I'll feel less like a freak.
People often talk about their favorite authors. People also often talk about their favorite books. Well, today I’d like to talk about my favorite people who talk about their favorite authors and favorite books.
In other words, I’d like to talk about my favorite readers.
But first, I’d like to give a big shout-out to all readers. I don’t just mean everyone who can read; rather everyone who does read. You always hear about how much it takes to write a book; well, in a way, it takes even more to read one. [Pause here while all the writers of the world scowl, puff out their chest, mumble curse words, question my sanity.)
Allow me to elaborate with an analogy: Writing is to talking as reading is to listening. Talking is easy; listening is hard. It’s why most of us wish most of us would just shut the hell up. It’s why many of you are wishing I would right now.
When a person sits down to read a novel, it’s the equivalent of them saying to someone (the author), “Okay, I’ll let you do all the talking” or “The floor is all yours for as long as you need.”
If that’s not noble and generous, then I don’t know what is.
Now, before I receive a bunch of death threats and hate mail from other writers, allow me to point out I don’t think ALL writing is easy. Good writing certainly isn’t, and warrants much respect. Still, I do feel writing of any kind is a self-absorbed endeavor. It’s the writer basically saying, “I’ve got a bunch of important and entertaining stuff to tell you, so pipe down and listen to me for a few days or weeks.”
But I didn’t come here to trash my fellow scribes or make them question their value as human beings. Every writer does that just fine on their own. No, I’m here today to celebrate some of the best readers I know—those I respect not only for the sheer volume of books they consume, but also for their efforts in helping the writers of said books improve their craft and find more readers.
Angie McMann. Every writer would kill to have a reader like Angie in their life—and no writer deserves her. Especially me. Angie is that rare, wonderful creature: a talented writer who would rather read and promote other writers than herself. Whenever an author she likes comes out with a new book, Angie purchases multiple copies and gifts them to friends she feels will love the book (and the author) as much as she does. If it weren’t for Angie, my book sales would drop by about a third.
But what really makes Angie stand out is the behind-the-scenes support she offers her writer friends. She’s a marvelous proofreader and beta-reader—often catching typos, incongruencies and awkward sentences often overlooked by professional editors. What’s more, she provides many of her peers such invaluable services for free. (The only argument I’ve ever had with Angie was when I insisted on sending her money after she’d proofed an entire novel of mine—TWICE.) And as if all that weren’t enough to earn Angie a special place in reader heaven, she’s great at giving writers the kick in the pants or the words of encouragement they need whenever they start to get down on themselves. I once grumbled to her that I wasn’t sure if all the writing and work I was doing was worth it … and she threatened to kill me if I quit. Because Angie knows quitting would be a far more painful death for any writer.
Chris Rhatigan. If I had room in this article for everyone who runs a small press/publishing house, I’d include each of them. But due to limited space, I’m including only Chris, who busts his hump harder than just about any reader I know. Whether he’s perusing submissions from writers hoping to get published by All Due Respect Books, or digging deeper into and editing a book he’s already accepted for publication, or doing the same for one of the clients of his freelance editing biz, Chris never wavers in his passion for crime fiction or his respect for both established and aspiring authors.
I reached out to Chris a couple of years ago after receiving rave testimonials for his freelance services from several author colleagues. Fortunately he was able to fit me into his crazy busy schedule. Better yet, he not only “got” exactly what I was hoping to achieve with my upcoming novel, Into a Corner, his suggested changes made the book much sharper and leaner—which helped me land my dream agent last year.
So HELL YES Chris Rhatigan earned a spot on this list.
Mark Pelletier. If you follow the crime fiction scene on Twitter, no doubt you’ve stumbled across at least one of the many videos Mark has posted of him reading excerpts from his favorite books. If not, go to Twitter now and search on the “#BookTalk” hashtag. On second thought, do it after you finish reading this blog post—I don’t want you getting lost in the sea of Mark’s highly entertaining and captivating videos until you’re done here. Call me selfish.
Whom you’d never call selfish is Mark. While he’s quite a talented crime fiction writer in his own right, he spends much more time paying tribute to other authors of the genre than he does tooting his own literary horn. This is quite refreshing in a world where you can’t spit without hitting a writer touting their book. Which reminds me, here’s the #Booktalk clip Mark did of MY book Sick to Death.
Janet Reid. I’d have to be some kind of idiot not to include my own literary agent on this list. And while I am, indeed, some kind of idiot, I’m not THAT kind of idiot.
To be clear, Janet isn’t listed here merely because she was bold and kind enough to take a chance on a little-known writer like me last year. She’s on the list because I know how much and how hard she reads—and how much she roots for every writer who sends their book baby her way. Janet may offer representation to only a very small percentage of authors who query her, but she’s in each writer’s corner—quietly hoping they captivate her, astound her, even shock her with their writing. In addition to giving a fair shake to each manuscript she receives (and she receives a LOT), Janet maintains a very active blogin which she offers advice, tips and insight to help any writer looking to land a reputable agent or get a book deal or simply improve their craft.
She’s the best kind of reader—the kind who has dedicated their entire life to helping writers achieve their dreams.
Chuck Palahniuk. The first rule of Fight Club is don’t talk about Fight Club. But that doesn’t mean you can’t talk about workshopping your novel with the author of Fight Club. Some may accuse me of namedropping here, but when you get the chance to not only meet Chuck Palahniuk but also share your manuscript with him and receive his coaching, you bring it up on occasion.
But this isn’t about me. This is about Chuck (have I mentioned I know him) and how generous he is with his time and tutelage. Not many authors of his stature would create and lead a four-month-long, ten-session workshop for promising writers—and donate 100 percent of the proceeds from said workshop to an animal rescue organization. That’s exactly what Chuck did with his amazing “Writing Wrong” workshop, which he started in 2017. I was lucky enough to be among the fifteen writers selected for the inaugural workshop, and was blown away not only by how deep Chuck dove into every page presented by each participant, but also by how quickly and effortlessly he was able to spot what was holding some of the stories back, and how concise, creative and respectful he was with his feedback.
Having Chuck read my pages (from my since-published novel In Wolves’ Clothing) and offer suggestions created a monumental shift in how I think about writing and how I tell stories to this day. And he’s had the same powerful, lasting impact on pretty much every other writer who's had the great fortune of receiving his coaching.
My mother. My mother would read me at least one bedtime story every night when I was a child, which sparked my lifetime love of books. As for her love of books, it extended far beyond those by Dr. Seuss, Maurice Sendak, A.A. Milne and Beatrix Potter. She and my father would take my brothers and me on a beach vacation a couple of times every summer, and every trip my mother would bring whatever encyclopedia-thick novel she had bought for the week. My brothers and I would go off with Dad to bodysurf, toss the frisbee, play wiffle-ball, and invariably we would return to find my mother already 300-400 pages into her book. The only thing scarier than all the Stephen King novels my mother read in the 1980s was how quickly she devoured them.
To make sure my mother actually read each page of all the giant novels she breezed through, I would open a book she had just finished to a random page in the middle or toward the end, read a few sentences, then ask her to explain what was going on at that point in the novel. Not once did she fail to impress—providing details about the story I bet Stephen King himself would have forgotten.
Mom, who’s now nearly 82 years old, continues to devour fiction like it’s going out of style. And considering all the books she has consumed in her life, I can’t help but feel honored when I walk into my parents’ living room and see a copy of each of my novels prominently displayed on their end table. Of course, I realize one or two of those books are ones only a mother could love.
Some of you may be thinking I, being a writer, am merely pandering to readers with this post today—hoping to win them over with my “I love readers” theme, hoping to expand my platform, increase book sales.
In my defense, I was hoping you wouldn’t notice that.
Few things enthrall me more than cracking (or clicking) open a novel and reading a first line that catapults me into Chapter 1. A line that reminds me why I read, why I write, what it means to be alive. A line that gives me whiplash. A line that makes me forget to feed my pets for the next few hours.
Now, not all great opening lines are from great—or even good—books. Some authors know how to grab you and yank you into a story they never quite figured out how to tell or finish. On the flipside, not all great books have great opening lines. In fact, many of my favorite novels open with nothing too spectacular—opting to lure readers in slowly before releasing the Kraken.
Today, though, I want to shine a light on that elusive literary gem: the phenomenal opening line to a phenomenal novel. Twenty-five such lines, to be exact. With the focus solely on crime fiction books.
Keep in mind, selecting the best opening lines to the best books is a highly subjective endeavor. That being said, none of my choices are up for discussion.
Enjoy!
Tyler arrived with the horses, February eighteenth, three days after the battleship Maine blew up in Havana harbor. —Cuba Libre by Elmore Leonard
It was the bright yellow tape that finally convinced me my sister was dead. —The Damage Done by Hilary Davidson
One lonesome winter, many years ago, I went hunting in the mountains with Gene Kavanaugh, a grandmaster hitman emeritus. —Black Mountain by Laird Barron
They were in one of the “I” states when Zeke told Isaac he had to ride in the trunk for a little while. —By a Spider’s Thread by Laura Lippman
It’s hard to get lost when you’re coming home from work. —Blonde Faith by Walter Mosley
It must have been Friday because the fish smell from the Mansion House coffee-shop next door was strong enough to build a garage on. —Bay City Blues by Raymond Chandler
The last camel died at noon. —The Key to Rebecca by Ken Follett
Ten days after the war ended, my sister Laura drove a car off a bridge. —The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood,
It is cold at six-forty in the morning on a March day in Paris, and seems even colder when a man is about to be executed by firing squad. —The Day of the Jackal by Frederick Forsyth,
The guy was dead as hell. He lay on the floor in his pajamas with his brains scattered all over the rug and my gun in his hand. —Vengeance is Mine! By Mickey Spillane
Some years later, on a tugboat in the Gulf of Mexico, Joe Coughlin’s feet were placed in a tub of cement. —Live By Night by Dennis Lehane
Eunice Parchman killed the Coverdale family because she could not read or write. — A Judgement in Stone by Ruth Rendell
We were about to give up and call it a night when somebody dropped the girl off the bridge. —Darker Than Amber by John D. MacDonald
Even on the night she died, Rose Shepherd couldn’t sleep. —Scared To Live by Stephen Booth
Geneva Sweet ran an orange extension cord past Mayva Greenwood, Beloved Wife and Mother, May She Rest with Her Heavenly Father. —Bluebird, Bluebird by Attica Locke
When the phone rang, Parker was in the garage, killing a man. —Firebreak by Richard Stark (a.k.a., Donald E. Westlake)
Death is my beat. —The Poet by Michael Connelly
It was one hell of a night to throw away a baby. —In the Bleak Midwinter by Julia Spencer-Fleming,
When I finally caught up with Abraham Trahearne, he was drinking beer with an alcoholic bulldog named Fireball Roberts in a ramshackle joint just outside of Sonoma, California, drinking the heart right out of a fine spring afternoon. —The Last Good Kiss by James Crumley
Bill Roberts decided to rob the firecracker stand on account he didn't have a job and not a nickel's worth of money and his mother was dead and kind of freeze-dried in her bedroom. —Freezer Burn by Joe Lansdale
The ambulance is still miles away when Dana awakens to the near dark of evening. —The Pocket Wife by Susan Crawford
Years ago, in state documents, Vachel Carmouche was always referred to as the electrician, never as the executioner. —Purple Cane Road by James Lee Burke
Winter came like an anarchist with a bomb. —The Pusher by Ed McBain
I feel compelled to report that at the moment of death, my entire life did not pass before my eyes in a flash. —I is for Innocent by Sue Grafton
The night of my mother's funeral, Linda Dawson cried on my shoulder, put her tongue in my mouth and asked me to find her husband. —The Wrong Kind of Blood by Declan Hughes
I LOVE reading great first lines I’ve never read before or have forgotten, so please feel free to share any of your favorites that didn’t make it onto my list.
Nothing says “I love literature” like cheering a fight to the death.
Every reader at one point or another has found themselves enthralled by some epic melee between a favorite protagonist and that character’s sworn enemy—or some other human obstacle standing in the protagonist’s way. As much as I love such scenes of intense conflict and tension, I often find myself wishing for even more. Like, wishing I could lift different characters out of their respective books to see how they’d fare in a fight with one another.
Yes, I am seeking professional help for this condition. But in the meantime, I’ve come up with a few literary death-matches for the ages—ones any devout fan of fiction would die for. Or at least finish reading this blog post for.
Enjoy!
Tyler Durden from Fight Club vs. Alex from A Clockwork Orange
A no-holds-barred bout between these two anarchy A-listers would be as hilariously entertaining as it would be deadly. I can already hear the cacophonous laughter from both characters as they suffer and deliver bone-shattering blows coupled with witty, derisive barbs. Their mutual love of destruction and mayhem would further inspire each to keep bringing and receiving the pain. In the end though, it’s hard to imagine Alex still standing. As hard as it is to defeat a highly disturbed fictional individual, it’s even harder to defeat a highly disturbed figment of the imagination of an a even more disturbed fictional individual. Which is why the first unspoken rule of Fight Club is you don’t get into a death-match with the founder of Fight Club.
Lisbeth Salander from The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo vs. Patrick Bateman from American Psycho
I’d pay good money to see one of the most badass vigilante feminists in literature square off against one of the most psychotic misogynistic serial killers in literature—and I’d place more good money on the former taking down the latter. Sure, Patrick Bateman knows how to time the dropping of an active chainsaw down a spiral stairwell so that it perfectly eviscerates a fleeing victim, but such gruesome stunts wouldn’t fly with Ms. Salander, who’s smart enough to wear her kickass black motorcycle helmet whenever she senses the slightest chance she’ll encounter trouble. That, plus Patrick’s insatiable ego and lust would put him at a distinct disadvantage. Where he’d be focused on having sex with Lisbeth and adding her to his list of amorous conquests before murdering and dismembering her, Lisbeth would be focused solely on going for the kill. She has zero interest in external validation from men, and is the last person a man like Patrick would ever want catching him with his pants down.
“Richard Parker” the tiger from Life of Pi vs. the cat from The Cat in the Hat
Who doesn’t love a good catfight, am I right? Now, I realize a 450-pound Royal Bengal tiger versus a fast-talking street cat might seem like a total mismatch on paper, but the truth is … nah, I’m not gonna lie—The Cat in the Hat would be a goner. But that’s okay; I never really liked that damn cat or his hat. True, he did teach millions of bored children how tons of fun can be had even on a dreary, rainy day; however, in the process he nearly destroyed a perfectly nice home, forced two innocent children into a high-stakes game of deception with their mother, and made his two kooky friends live inside a box. What a dick. So, him getting completely devoured by a giant ferocious feline—who by the way, showed tremendous restraint with that boy on that boat—well, that’s just karma.
Katniss Everdeen from Hunger Games vs. Robin Hood from The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood
I’ve got nothing against either one of these characters and wish neither of them any harm; it’s just, archery is totally badass and I can’t help but wonder which of these two legends would be the truer shot when the stakes couldn't be higher. No doubt both heroes are highly skilled and very brave, but I’d have to give Katniss the slight upper hand—not only because she has more modern equipment, but also because Robin Hood’s skimpy tights would offer little in the way of protection. One shot anywhere near the femoral artery and the dude would bleed out. One shot a little bit higher and the dude would wish he'd bleed out.
Hannibal Lecter from Red Dragon vs. Sweeney Todd from Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
As with the Katniss/Robin Hood matchup, I think both of these characters are fine, upstanding individuals whom I’d be honored to call friends. It’s hard not to respect how they each use the whole human whenever they kill one. That’s very green of them, very ecological. Still, it would be an absolute morbid thrill to watch them battle to the death and, depending on the outcome, witness the winner either eating the loser with a nice Chianti or having their friend make sausage out of him.
What literary character death matches would YOU love to see? Or do you find the very notion of even fictional violence and murder appalling? If so, why are you reading my blog? You must be lost.
