Some might think it’s odd to blog about how a pandemic that’s still going on in real life will shape future works of fiction. And I agree. But hey, I also think it’s odd to have huge beach barbecues and house parties while a pandemic’s still going on in real life, yet THAT doesn’t seem to be stopping people.

At least this blog post won’t infect anyone. (That is, assuming nobody who already is infected prints out this post and licks it before handing it to their least favorite person. [More on that later on in this post.]) Besides, it’s only natural for a writer to think about the effect COVID-19 may have on the genre they write in. Especially a writer who has been cooped up for months with a year's supply of liquor.

So yeah, I have been thinking about how crime fiction might change and morph and evolve as the world changes and morphs and evolves. And today I’m going to blog about it. Now, some folks will say I’m doing so in a desperate attempt to create a bunch of buzz around the new crime fiction subgenres I’ve listed below while I secretly work on novels in those subgenres in hopes of becoming a mega-bestselling author in the near future. Really? That would be ridiculous—nobody reads my blog. 

Regardless, I hereby present three new crime fiction subgenres that, with any luck, will emerge from the coronavirus pandemic as hot literary trends:  

1) Quarantine Murder Mysteries. These books will be sort of like the traditional country house murder mysteries of yesteryear—only with a lot more hand sanitizer.

Few things are more thrilling than a good “closed-circle” murder. There’s an elevated sense of suspense and reader engagement when the list of possible suspects is very limited but where each suspect has a seemingly strong motive. Add in the fact that every character is related and has been cooped up together for weeks or months or possibly even two straight Thanksgivings, and the tension becomes thick enough to choke someone before dismembering them. As if that weren’t already enough to keep readers of quarantined murder mysteries riveted, each scene will be informed by a killer virus lurking outside every window, forbidding any character from letting off steam at a gym, yoga studio or monster-truck event. And don’t forget the added tension caused by characters having to home-school any kids who may be in the story.

From the inciting incident all the way through to the final chapter, a well executed quarantine murder mystery will leave readers guessing who done it?

Was it the wife, in the bedroom, using a golf club?      

Or the mother, in the family room, using an algebra book?

Or the brother, in the bathroom, using an iPad with the browser found open to Pornhub?

What’s more, quarantine murder mysteries will provide ample opportunities for shocking twists. Like, maybe the murderer turns out not to be someone quarantined in the house but rather a Favor driver who got stiffed on a tip after risking their life to bring the victim a measely quart of Kung Pao chicken. Or, even more shocking, maybe the murder turns out not be a murder after all—maybe it was an accidental poisoning caused by the victim injecting Lysol into their own ass after watching the news.

2) Supermarket Thrillers. Since the coronavirus started hogging all the headlines a few months ago, Grocery shopping has gone from being an uneventful weekly errand to Mission Almost Impossible. Expect to see this not only reflected but prominently featured in the thrillers of the very near future.

Think Jack Reacher kicking ass at Albertsons—all while remaining at least six feet away from any ass that needs kicking.

While an entire novel set inside a supermarket would have been scoffed at or completely ignored by publishers and readers alike back in early January, today such books would hit the international bestseller list faster than their protagonists will move through a produce department. The high stakes along with the non-stop action and suspense will have readers on the edge of their plastic-covered seats inside their underground bunker.

The heroes in supermarket thrillers will face peril on every page. Every food item they touch could mean the end not just of them but of civilization as we know it. All it would take is one false move, a single lapse in concentration: Maybe the hero loses focus at the deli counter and rubs their eye without thinking; or slides their facemask down to scratch a nose itch after having just handled several peaches; or uses their mouth to pull off a disposable glove while busy using the other hand to send a text to headquarters alerting them that they’ve made it out of the store alive.

Oh, and the fight scenes. They’ll be magnificent—not just because of the creative fighting methods the hero will need to use in order to throttle their nemesis without touching them, but also because there will be more than one nemesis. There’ll be dozens—basically anyone in the store who refuses to wear a mask or to adhere to social distancing rules or who tries to buy more than the allotted amount of toilet paper.

3) Bioterrorism Noir. When it comes to crime fiction, I’m most drawn to the darker characters: the lowlifes; the villains; the weirdos; the anti-heroes. Maybe my interest in and affinity for the “criminal mind” simply means I have moral ambiguity in my genes. Or perhaps it has more to do with me not being breastfed as a child. Regardless, I love me some noir. Transgressive tales where the protagonist is perfectly and often tragically flawed, someone you can’t resist rooting for in a book but whom you wouldn’t be caught dead with in real life.

Bioterrorism noir will go beyond even that—it will feature protagonists you can’t resist rooting for but whom you likely would be caught dead with in real life. That’s because the protagonists in bioterrorism noir will carry out all the dangerous and deadly acts that people like you and me merely fantasize about during a pandemic.

Oh, come on, don’t pretend like you haven’t imagined being able to purposely infect people you feel the world might be better off without (even if they go away only for a few weeks of quarantining). Don’t act like you haven’t entertained the notion of targeting … oh, I don’t know … rapists and pedophiles who are still on the loose, or politicians you loathe with every fiber of your being, or the guy you saw lick his fingers before turning the pages of a magazine in your doctor’s waiting room. Or politicians you loathe with every fiber of your being. (Did I already mention that one?)

Soon there will be loads of great novels featuring a main character who isn't afraid to take the law—and a deadly virus—into their own hands. Perhaps the character will be a member of a secret organization that’s developed an accurate and efficient virus-delivery system to ensure that innocent bystanders aren’t infected. Or a rogue vigilante with a personal score to settle using a vial of the virus stolen from a lab. Or maybe just Bob from Accounting who has gotten used to working from home and can’t bear the idea of spending hours in rush-hour traffic ever again, so he contracts the virus on purpose and walks around mask-less coughing on everyone he sees.

Bioterrorism noir novels will elicit fear and paranoia among regular, everyday citizens—sort of the same way Jaws did among beachgoers. 

"Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the world."

YOUR turn! What subgenres do you think might emerge from the pandemic? Which of the ones listed above would you be most likely to read? Please share your thoughts in the comments section below. Or don’t—I’m not the boss of you.

NOTE: Some of you may be interested in a subgenre that wasn’t listed in this post but is no less compelling: it’s called the Sardonically Twisted Greg Levin Crime Thrillers subgenre. Be sure to check out the books that fall under this yet-to-be-discovered but fantastic category by clicking HERE.

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.

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