B.R. Stateham's Blog, page 13

Mark Gilroy is back

Mark Gilroy has two books out featuring his sharp edged homicide detective, Kristen Conner.  With this I came up with an interesting idea.
Why not give Mark free reign and let him discuss his books and his characters in any way, shape, or form he wanted to.  No stipulations attached.

Aha!  Little did I know Mark was going to make me look like a genius in the art of interviewing fictional characters!  It turns out I am particular insightful.

And of course, we already know I'm quite modest.

But here's the deal;  Mark Gilroy is a gifted writer.  If you like reading a dark story filled with interesting characters and a plot that weaves a gripping story line, well then pumpkin!  You need to 'discover' this guy and add your name to his fan list!

So take it away, M.K.!

Klarissa Conner is a rising star as a television newscaster with the #1 station in Chicago—and is also well known as the younger sister of Detective Kristen Conner, the lead character in M.K. Gilroy’s novels, Cuts Like a Knife and Every Breath You Take. As an author—and fan—of murder mysteries, I thought it would be fun to interview the only recurring character that seems to give as good as she gets when dealing with Detective Conner.
  
BR: Klarissa, you host a popular weekend show on Chicago’s #1 news channel and frequently co-anchor the nightly news.  You’ve had an amazing start to your journalism career. What’s your secret to success?
 KLARISSA: The key in this business is opportunity, and if it isn’t staring you in the face, you have to create your own. When I was at University of Illinois as a journalism student I worked as hard as anyone with the campus station—I was willing to go places and put in hours to report a story when others weren’t. That’s what got me my senior internship at the leading news station in Springfield, Illinois. I never complained when I was knee high in mud interviewing a farmer on the upcoming soybean crop and I consider my time in Springfield as a fabulous start to my career. Two years later I landed in Kansas City, a major league market. Because I’m a Chicago native and the daughter of a Chicago police detective, that undoubtedly helped open the door to my biggest break … so far.  

BR: Your family is all in Chicago. Is this your dream job? Can you see making your career in the Windy City?  

KLARISSA: Never say never. The media business is in constant flux, so it may not be up to me anyway. I’m very happy here and it would be hard to leave, but I would be lying if I said I wouldn’t like to land a national gig at some point.

BR: Anything in the works?  

KLARISSA: No comment.

BR: I thought that was my line. (NOTE: She doesn’t seem as amused as I thought she would be by that clever line by yours truly.) You did a major interview with your sister, Detective Kristen Conner, following her last case, where she ended up killing the killer in the case known as the Billionaire Murder. What has been the response to that? Was that another break?  

KLARISSA: I would consider that interview another huge break for me. Ratings were through the roof in Chicago and it got a lot of national and international play. The interview ended up in syndication and has been rerun extensively in markets of all shapes and size. We’ve had a couple million hits on YouTube. But let me just say, if my sister is involved, you work for what you get. She plays everything by the book. Her great fear has been that her colleagues at the CPD will think she leaks information to me because I’m media. I don’t even bother to ask what she’s working on anymore. But when I pitched this story it went straight to the commissioner. He and he brain trust at CPD—and I assume City Hall—thought it would be good to clear the air after all the media frenzy the investigation got. When the heir of a multi-billionaire is killed the interest is off the charts.  

BR: So she doesn’t talk about her cases with you?  

KLARISSA: Never.  

BR: The two of you had a traumatic experience together last year …  

[SPOILER ALERT. IF YOU HAVEN’T READ
KLARISSA: We actually had two traumatic experiences. Our dad was shot on the job a couple years ago. He spent his last years as a quadriplegic before dying in early 2012. And yes, being targeted and then taken by a serial killer is one of those experiences that will never go away. In ways, Kristen saving my life is a bit of a microcosm of our relationship. Things are sometimes strained and prickly, but she always comes through in the end. Always.  

BR: So your relationship with your sister is difficult?
 KLARISSA: I didn’t say that. We’re different. We fight. But we 100% love and are loyal to each other. I don’t think we’re the only two siblings who drive each other a little crazy but are close.
  BR: Are the two of you competitive with each other?  

KLARISSA: We are both driven, but in such different ways that we never compete directly with each other. But honestly, we probably do compete. Don’t forget my older sister. Kaylen is the perfect Conner sister. She keeps Kristen and me humble.  

BR: Let’s go back to the killer the Chicago media dubbed The Cutter Shark.  

KLARISSA: I’m not going to say anymore about that. The main details are out there and I don’t have anything to add.  

BR: Does it worry you that he’s still alive?  

KLARISSA: No comment.  

BR: Does it worry you that your sister is a homicide detective? Do you worry about her safety?  

KLARISSA: I worry every day. But I also know she is tough enough for any challenge. She’s relentless. If you’re a killer and she is on your case, you should be worried too, but for your own safety.  

BR: How do you think the Cutter Shark Case impacted Kristen?  

KLARISSA: Kristen has never been an open book on her feelings. You’re going to have to ask her.  

BR: Thanks for your time Klarissa. Any closing comments?  
KLARISSA: You’ve had a lot of interest in Kristen, and I’ll just give you a heads up. Stay tuned. She always ends up being in the middle of something b

Speculations

Turner HahnHmmm. . . .

Over the last three years (maybe four)  I've written a number of short stories featuring homicide detectives Turner Hahn and Frank Morales. About twenty-six stories, give or take a few.  Two cops who are close friends and absolutely equal in capabilities.  Well . . . one (Frank Morales) looks like someone's nightmare out of Bedlam (yeah; Bedlam used to be a hospital in London for the insane.  May still be for all I know).  Short, stringy red hair.  An IQ about four digits in length.  No neck.  With a photographic mind.

Turner, on the other hand, looks like a famous movie star from out of the '30's (betcha it won't be too hard to figure out).  An ole' farm boy who had a rough life as a kid but who, years after joining the police force and going through a bad marriage, suddenly falls into a bath tub full of money.  Inherited money from an grandfather he didn't know still lived.

So the two of them have their own personalities.  Have their own sets of emotional baggage they deal with on a daily basis.  Yet together they are a working team who . . . almost always . . . get the homicide cases no one else would touch with a fifty foot pole.

They get the tough ones.  The weird ones.  The impossible ones.  And just to add some joviality (at least, in the full length novels I write about'em)  they're usually working on one or two homicide cases at a time.  All of'em the scratch-your-head-and-pass-me-another-aspirin- kind of case.

But the short stories are just one case at a time.  About two dozen of'em.  Most of them have seen the light of day in various ezines.  A few of them will be brand new.  And yes, I think there is STILL a huge audience out there who would be quite happy to discover their unique brand of humor and wise-ass commentary.

So the idea is collect'em all.  Package them into one big anthology.  Hopefully find a publisher who likes these kind of stories and offers them as an ebook and in print.  Maybe generate enough interest from a newly discovered audience that a demand will begin building to 'rediscover' their novels.  There are two novels out there now featuring these two (check the column to the right; they're there).  A third novel is done and is waiting in limbo.  And there's many more stories and plots swirling around in the back of my head.

 Frank MoralesI thought about becoming my own publisher.  But the problem about this is I would have to start out small.  The market offerings would be small.  But Turner and Frank should be offered across the widest venue of markets as possible.  Wouldn't know how to even begin.  Nor, frankly, do I really want to.  Becoming my own publisher would be just another hat to wear, another set of problems to confront, taking up more time than I would want away from my writing.  So no.  That option's out.

So . . . back to table one, Andre.  Collate the stories.  Hope for the best.  Find a publisher.  And hope Lady Luck smiles on my efforts.

Back to Rome and Decimus Virilis

Back to the writing an ancient Roman facsimile of a Sherlock Holmes.

We've talked about this before.  How do you create a character who is not Sherlock Holmes but compels you to think of Holmes while you're deep in the pages of the book?

You see the problem.

Mimic Holmes too much and you have, frankly, just written another Sherlock Holmes novel but set in a historical context.  Not mimicking a few of Holmes' intellectually quirks and you've just created a whole new character.  So what is the fine balance between too much and not enough?

I've created a Roman by the name of Decimus Virilis.  Decimus 'The Lucky.'  Lucky is what Virilis means,  among other interpretations.  Ex-soldier.  Retired as the third-ranking officer in a Roman legion (the highest rank a professional Roman legionnaire could acquire);  not so distant cousin to Caesar Augustus (time frame for the novel is set around 10 C.E.).  Very efficient.  Very astute.  Has a knack at deducing analytically problems.  Much like our beloved Holmes.

As Holmes implied, "Most people see . . . but few people use their eyes and senses to observe." Decimus Virilis is the observant type.  To the max.

The problem I'm having with Decimus is that I cannot etch his personality into a three-dimensional form just yet.  I meander from making the guy dark and mysterious to someone elderly and quite willing to reveal his methods on investigating a crime scene to anyone who might show some interest in him.  As an associate of mine who is closely involved in this project pointed out to me, after reading what I have so far,  "I can't tell if this guy is creepy or is just a nice old ex-retired soldier." 

Ah!  Epiphany!

In one sentence from a distant observer my problem fully revealed! 

Screw Sherlock Holmes.

Write about Decimus Virilis.  Don't constantly stand him up against Holmes and compare what Holmes would do in a situation versus what Decimus might do.  The novel (and possibly series?) is not about Sherlock Holmes.  It is about Decimus Virilis.  It's about the history of Rome.  It's political intrigues.  It's conquests.  It's mysteries.  It's about a man, wrapped in hard won, and sometimes brutally acquired, experience and using that experience to observe those around him.

Problem solved, Pueblo! 

Maybe now the writing will come a little easier.  With that in mind I thought I might share Chapter Two with you.  If you go back in the archives here in the blog you can find Chapter One.  Remember now, this is just the rough draft I'm sharing.  Yes, Yakima;  you will find a few boo boos in spelling and grammar.  That'll be cleaned up at a later date.   So, take the time to read it and maybe spend a few seconds more and give me your thoughts. 

Always interested in hearing your thoughts. 


Two
 
            To his right the waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea in a blue haze that drifted off into the horizon.  Sails, white and wine red, from several large cargo ships heading for the port of Ostiabehind him dotted the blueness like jewels set in a blue velvet frame.  Sea gulls circled and wove through the partially cloudy skies above them.  The sloping countryside sliding down to the see was a lush verdant green.  To him it looked like the vast gardens of a royal estate as he rode down the rough trail toward their destination.
The sun was out and deliciously warm.  The panoramic view of the countryside around him pleasing to the eye.  The waters of the Tyrrhenian setting in its haze a splash of color on a beautiful canvas.
            One would think, if one only trusted his eyes and nothing more, the world was beautiful and peace and tranquility was the order of the day.  But he knew better.  Life was an illusion.  Beauty only a mask to hide the darkness and pain from our eyes.
            Reining in the powerful mare he was riding he turned and looked at the small entourage behind him.  Gnaeus, looked decidedly ill at ease sitting on a horse, dressed in the garb of a Roman legionnaire.  With the plain conical helm of a legionnaire partially hiding the thick mass of pepper and salt colored hair, the simple off white linen undergarment underneath the typical lamellar armor of a Roman cavalryman, the old infantryman that had been Gnaeus scowled at Decimus but said nothing.
            Smiling he turned his head and looked at the two other men who drew their mounts beside Gnaeus.  One was a thin framed with the hooked nose of a scowling hawk.  Like Gnaeus, he too was dressed in the typical armor and uniform of a cavalryman.  And like his servant, a man whom Decimus had known for years in the army.  A specialist in his own right.  A man who knew how to find things.  Any thing.  Find it and retrieve it without making any raucous noise about it.   Some said Rufus was a thief.  A pick pocket. A purse snatcher.  He knew Rufus for what he truly was.  A man with a very special talent any commander of a legion would need sooner or later.
            Or a man now in his newly appointed position.
            The third cavalryman was very much different.  He was a tall man with thick arms and powerful thighs.  Yet he rode his horse with the ease of someone who had lived all his life around horses.  He was dark complexion with jet black eyes and a small mouth.  There seemed to be an aloofness . . . a sense of otherness . . . that separated him from the others.  Indeed he was this stranger.  He was not Roman born.  He was a foreigner.  A tribesman from the deserts of Morocco.  Yet he too, like the others, a man whom he had known and trusted for years.
            "Hassid.  That way," he said lifting an arm and pointing toward the south.  "Check the surrounding countryside for any tracks.  Make a full circle around the crime scene.  You will find us there when you return."
            The black eyed hunter from the desert nodded silently and urged his horse on.  He moved out rapidly and soon disappeared into a copse of trees hugging a small hill.  Decimus, waiting until the rider was well out of sight, grunted and turned his horse toward the southwest and heeled its flanks.
            With the two riding abreast and slightly behind him the newest tribune of Rome's newest force, the Cohortes Urbanae, they topped a small grassy knoll and began descending rapidly down upon the odd scene below.
            After the civil wars, after Octavius' arch rival, Mark Anthony, had been dispatched to Hades, Octavius returned to begin rebuilding both the city of Romeand the empire.  In Rome, after decades of neglect and civil strife, he found a city dominated by powerful underworld gangs. Gangs, many times, bought and paid for by powerful patrician families of Rome.  To fight the tenacious tentacles of organized crime he created two organizations and gave them the specific tasks of bringing crime under control and providing some measure of safety for all the citizens of the city.  One was the old Vigiles Urbani.  The other was the Cohortes Urbanae.
            The vigiles were the firefighters and beat cops of the city.  The city-watch.  A carry over idea, greatly expanded, from the numerous privately funded fire brigades and neighborhood watches that littered the city during Julius Caesar's time.  The Imperator collected the various units into one unit, assembled them along the lines of a Roman legion, and established taxes to pay for them.  Most of the men were ex-slaves commanded by Roman citizens--usually retired officers from the army.  They worked during the night looking for fires and chasing down common hoodlums.  But they were effective if not, occasionally, a bit brutal.
            The Urban Cohorts acted more like the homicide division of a city's police force.  They investigated violent crime, organized crime, political shenanigans. They too were organized along the lines of a Roman legion.  But unlike the vigiles using ex-slaves as their manpower, only Roman citizens could join the cohorts.  Better paid and equipped compared to their vigiles cousins the Urban Cohorts could, if the need arouse, actually be pulled from the city's street and used in military operations.
            The Imperator commissioned Decimus with the rank of tribune in the Urban Cohorts.  A tribune minus the normal eight hundred or so men most tribunes in the army, or the vigiles, or the urbanae,  would command.  His orders, straight from the quill of Octavius himself, decreed he was on detached service answerable only to the Imperator. 
            His assignment was simple.  Find, and bring to justice, those whom the Imperator thought were of a particular dangerous threat to the newly acquired peace of the empire.
            Like this case.
            Reining up suddenly in front of a group of men, a mixed bag of vigiles and urban cohort soldiers standing around the destruction of what once had been a large wagon, he nodded to the centurion in charge and then slipped from his horse, throwing back the edge of his short scarlet and purple trimmed short riding cloak in the process.
            "Hail, tribune!" the young officer said, snapping to attention and saluting.
            "At ease, son.  And be so kind to inform me of this situation."
            In the thick grass were several large dark stains where people had died violent deaths.  The bodies were gone but the visual evidence was ample to the trained eyed to conclude no one had survived the attack.  A quick sweep of the ground suggested to Decimus at least four people were dead.  The litter of several wooden trunks smashed to piece with their contents strewn all over the side, even the ripped out bottoms of the wagons themselves mixed in with the other flotsam, indicated someone must have been in search of something important.
            "Night before last the servant of a merchant in Ostiabrought word there had been a series of murders . . . a massacre as they described it . . . just outside the port.  I sent two men out on horses to ascertain the truth.  As you can see the information was correct."
            He saw Rufus nod his head toward his master and drift off toward the sea to begin his assigned task. Gnaeus, scowling as always, silently moved away in a different direction and began looking at the signs left behind in the dirt and grass.  Decimus nodded, turned, and strode to one particularly large dark stain in the grass and knelt down.  The young centurion behind him followed respectfully yet watched the two servants of the tribune curiously.
            "The bodies?"
            "In Ostia, sir.  In the morgue of the vigiles' barracks.
            "Any survivors?"  he asked as he used an index finger and traced the outline of a particularly large partial print of distinctive shoe sole in the dust of the narrow trail beside the grass.
            "None that we know of.  When I arrived I found four bodies.  Two men of rank it would seem and two servants.  And, of course, the scene which greets you now."
            "Identification of any of the men?"
            "None.  No signet rings.  No personnel scrolls.  Nothing of monetary value left behind."
            "Are you sure, centurion, of the veracity of your men?  Are you sure no one in your command decided to claim a small prize of his own?  Say the first two men who came out and discovered this scene?"
            He stood up and turned to face the younger man.  A hot flash of anger swept across the centurion's face but quickly subsided.  The officer was of a famous plebian family.  A very famous, and rich, family.  Rarely had anyone doubted his veracity.
            But standing before was a tribune with a high sloping forehead, with a thin swipe of grayish/blond hair covering the upper regions of his cranium, the deep, experienced wrinkled face of a man who had seen much in life; the confident, almost arrogant, gate of a soldier.  And there was the way the tribune gripped his ivory tipped baton, the symbol of rank for any high ranking Roman officer, which cautioned him.  Not just an ordinary soldier.  But someone who was used to command.
            A man not to be trifled with.
            Frowning, he turned and barked loudly two names.
            From the huddled group vigiles two men stepped forward and came to attention. in front of the centurion.  Decimus, eyeing the two freedmen, slapped hands behind his back, stepped up very close to the men and began inspecting them closely as circled them.  Glancing down into the dust of the wagon ruts he selected noticed the prints of their sandals they had just imprinted into the dirt.
            "You," he said, using the long wooden baton of authority he gripped in one hand and slapped the man forcefully on the man's biceps. "Your name!"
            "Gallus, sir!"
            "You and this man beside you discovered the bodies last night when you road out from Ostia?"
            "Yes sir!"
            Decimus nodded, hands gripping the baton behind his back, head down and staring at the ground thoughtfully as he walked slowly around the two men and stopped directly in front of the man who called himself Gallus.
            "Centurion, what is the punishment for a vigilii who is convicted of thievery?"
            The rough looking plank of an ex-slave visibly paled.  As did the man standing beside him.  Decimus eyed the man but returned his attention back to the one standing in front of him.
            "Ten lashes with the whip, sir.  And garnishment of one month's of wages.  Of course, if the theft is large enough, perhaps he might become a contestant at the next set of gladiatorial games."
            Beside the white faced Gallus the vigiles at attention groaned softly and his knees almost buckled.  The centurion, angry, exploded in rage.
            "By the gods, Gallus!  You filthy liar!  I'll personally peel the flesh off your back with a cat'o nine tails if you don't confess to your crimes now!  Do you understand me!"
            "Sir!  I . . . we . . . it was just a little thing!  Nothing expensive . . . really!"
            Decimus turned his head and watched the forever scowling Gnaeus trotting up toward him carrying something white and thin between the forefinger and thumb of his right hand.  He nodded and smiled grimly as he recognized it immediately.  Extending a hand, palm up, toward his servant the bushy haired.  But his unwavering light blue eyes were riveted onto the face of the man calling himself Gallus.
            Gnaeus delicately deposited a severed finger onto the open palm of his master's hand.
            "Let me tell me paint you a picture of what happened last night, my good man.  Interrupt me whenever I stray from the truth."
            The young centurion strode up to stand by balding yet dominating force of Decimus Virilis and turned crimson faced in rage when his eyes fell upon the severed ring finger.  Slapping the small baton all centurions gripped angrily against the side of his bare leg he turned and gave his man a dark, murderous look.
            Decimus, snarling back a dangerous smirk, zeroed his eyes on the man in front of him and continued talking.
            "You and your companion arrived last night just as it began to lightly rain.  You found this site as it appears today.  You found four dead bodies, clothes and furniture scattered all over the field, two small wagons completely dismantled and strewn about.  There was no gold.  No jewelry.  Nothing.  Except for one small item . . . "
            Lifting the severed finger in his palm he delicately put it directly under the ex-slaves flaring nostrils and continued.
            "You found a rather large fat man with a small signet ring on a finger.  A ring which would not come off because the man's fingers were swollen.  No no . . . don't deny it was a signet ring.  In fact I suspect it was a signet keyring.  A key that was supposed to open a small jewelry box or some other small wooden chest.  See the circular discoloration on the flesh?  Yes?  Clear evidence the man wore a ring.  Now look closely at the finger.  It is a man's middle finger.  The finger a man of some importance would decorate with a signet key ring.  So tell me, Gallus.  Did you find the wooden box the ring you removed from the dead hand of Spurius Latinius last night?"
            "I . . . uh . . . we found what . . . what was left of the box, tribune."
            "We . . . !" exploded the man standing beside him, wheeling around and stepping away from his comrade.  "I told you not to cut off that finger!  It was a trifling ring! It wasn't worth a penny!"
            "Silence!"
            The centurion, baton in hand, backhanded the man across the face viciously.  The man staggered to one side, holding his face with one hand, but came back to full attention.  Glaring at the man for one second the young officer thought about clubbing the man again but contained his anger and turned to face the tribune.
            "My sincerest, most humble, apologies sir.  I assure you when these two return to their barracks they will be severely dealt with!"
            Decimus shook his head negatively and placed a hand on the officer's arm.
            "Severity will quill no evils, centurion.  Discipline them you must.  Preferably in front of their comrades for all to take note of what will happen to those who cannot restrain themselves from petty theft.  But measure the punishment to the quality of the crime.  Otherwise you will generate more animosity than compliance among your men."
            Turning back to the ex-slave the balding, darkly tanned tribune lifted a hand up and told the man to give him the ring.  The man fumbled the ring out of a small leather pouch and dropped it into Decimus' hand.
            "Sir, if I may ask a question?"
            Decimus smiled, turning from the two ex-slaves and motioned them to leave at the same time.
            "You're wondering how I knew so quickly this nasty little deed had taken place last night.  Yes?"
            "Sir!" the centurion nodded, surprised, and wondering if the older officer could read his mind. "I mean . . . how?"
            Decimus half turned toward the young officer and smiled fatherly as he lifted a finger up and motioned him to follow his actions.  Kneeling in front of the stain on the grass beside the dust of the wagon trail he waited for the centurion to kneel beside him and then he pointed toward a set of tracks in the dust.
            "There are two different set of prints in the dust.  Here and here," he said pointing to one and then the other.  "Look closely.  The vigilies and the urban cohorts issue to their men the exact types of sandals as the army does for their men. They have a distinctive pattern on the soles of the leather.  Notice one set is that of someone wearing such footwear and the other isn't?"
            Once pointed out it was obvious for anyone to see plainly written in the soil.  With the addition of the military soled sandal extruding from underneath it mud.  As if Gallus had knelt in the rain to do his dastardly deed.
            "Precisely," Decimus nodded, smiling with quiet pleasure at seeing the younger officer see the evidence without the need to point it out to him. "A slight rain producing just enough mud to generate such a track.  But not so the other.  Meaning?"
            "The murderer must have committed his dead prior to the rain last night.  The rain began just a little after midnight.  So . . . that means the massacre mush have taken place sometime before!"
            "Very good," the older man said, coming to his feet and smiling. "Remember this small lesson, young man.  Every living creature uses their gift of sight to see world around us.  Our eyes gives us this wondrous sense of vision.  We see . . . but very few of us observe.  For an officer such as yourself the difference between seeing and observing could be all the difference in the world in keeping you and your men alive."
            "But . . . but how did you know in the beginning the dead man would have a signet key ring?  And this blood stain?  How did you know this was the precise stain to look at and not the other three?"
            Decimus laughed casually and glanced at Gnaeus who had come up to stand beside him.  The scowl on servant's face softened a bit but did not go away as he eyed the young centurion.
            "As to the knowledge of the key ring I confess I came owning such knowledge already.  I've been asked to look into this case and to bring it to a swift conclusion.  I was informed the patrician involved was carrying a small black wooden box engraved in ivory with a set of papers in it that were important.  Important to several groups of people.  That box and those papers my task is to find and obtain as well as to bring to justice those who killed Spurius Lavinius and his men.
            As to knowing to look at this stain and not the others?  I confess. I guessed!  Observation of men and their position in power over the years have led me to believe a man of Spurius' position would place him in the lead wagon.  He would be the first to step down form the wagon if confronted by ruffians.  I knew the man from the past, centurion.  I knew how arrogant and supremely confident he was toward those he considered his inferiors.  I'm sure Spurius thought he could bluster his way through this confrontation and continue on with his journey.  Unfortunately he sorely misread the situation and paid for it dearly."
            "Spurius Livinus?" the young centurion repeated, frowning and looking confused.  "I don't recall hearing this name before.  Who was he?"
            "An old, old, old villain my boy.  Very old . . . and very dangerous,"  Decimus answered softly. "But now we have a new plague upon us."
            "Someone perhaps even older and far more dangerous has struck and lifted from the victim's cold hands the box and its mysterious contents.  Someone far more dangerous I would think," the centurion answered quietly.
            Decimus Virlis glanced at the young centurion and frowned.  
            Indeed so, my boy.  Indeed so.




 

Lee Child's newest Jack Reacher novel is called A Wanted ...

Lee Child's newest Jack Reacher novel is called A Wanted Man.

Good stuff, Maynard.  Really good stuff.

If you haven't discovered Jack Reacher you're missing something in your reading repertoire.  Reacher is a force to be reckoned with.  Ex-Army military police, the guy is 6'5 and all muscle.  But with a difference; he's all muscle with a lot of brains.

And he's got his own definition on what defines Justice.

And unique in another way.  He's a bum--in a somewhat classic sense of being an almost psychopathic loner.  He has no mailing address.  He has no home.  No car.  No friends to speak of.  Nothing to keep him in one place for too long.  His method of transportation is usually the Greyhound bus of hitch-hiking.

But  he has a genius in finding trouble.  The kind of trouble that involves guns, bodies, suspense, and a whiff of international danger.

Just the stuff I like to read, kiddo.

But what impresses me the most about this novel is it is Child's 17th volume in the series.  And it's damn good. (of course all of us can quibble here and there about the story--my little quibble is how it ends.  I don't think the FBI would be that generous to him.  But that's just me--you have to decide for yourself)

What I am trying to point out is that the writer has taken the time, effort, and loving care to make the novel work.  It's just as good as the last sixteen in the series.  That's important to remember.  Writing a series is tough sledding,  Guido. Ask any writer who does a series and they'll tell you as the series progresses along, the writing gets tougher.  Plots get harder to find.  The love for their character sometimes begins to fray around the edges.  (or worse; Sir Conan Doyle began to hate Sherlock Holmes so much he actually killed the SOB off permanently--or so he thought)

But this latest effort from the author is right on the mark.  Sharp, visceral, edgy; and a stumper.  You think you know what's going on . . . but really you don't.  

You may have noticed there is the movie, Jack Reacher, out in the theaters even as we speak.  Yep.  Same character.  Although . . . not really.   Tom Cruise is a very gifted actor and he may bring the essence of Jack Reacher's personality to the big screen.  But he ain't Jack Reacher.  Nevertheless I'll go see the movie and probably enjoy the hell out of it.

If you don't know who Jack Reacher is, it's time to go out and find him.  If you like good writing, good story plots, interesting characters, and slam-blam action, this is the real-deal.  (he's so good I introduced the character to my 15 year old grand daughter over the Christmas holidays.  It took about the first chapter to get her hooked.)

Read Jack Reacher and then come back and tell me what you think.  I'm curious to hear if you agree with me.  Or not.

Setting goals for '13

Okay, let's face it; 2012 was a bumpy ride.  Lots of ups and downs that, frankly, left me (and my writing) in just about the same place as we were in 2011.

Meaning we are still sitting in the cheap seats watching the crowd pass by.

I'm not complaining about my writing friends finding success.  In fact I'm the first to stand up and give out a big, 'HOOOORAWWWW!' to every last one of'em.  Each deserved all the success they found--and I'm hoping even MORE will come there way in the new year.

But, me hearties . . . . .

This new year coming is meant for me.  I've said over and over and over that the very first thing a writer has to be is to be confident in one 's writing abilities.  Ultimately you have to BELIEVE you are as good as anyone out there.  But more importantly, you have FIND A WAY and  PROVE IT to everyone.  Especially so to the agents and editors and publishers.

The publishing industry is a very large sea and we are, as unknown writers, very small fish swimming around with the millions of other tiny bright-eyed guppies trying to be recognized.   So I'm going to have to do something different.  I have characters that need to be recognized.  Stories that need to be told.  Series to be written.

Take for instance the artwork above.  Turner Hahn and Frank Morales.  Homicide detectives whom, I not-so-humbly suggest, are as good a duo as can be found anywhere in the genre.  They're fully fleshed out, have their own personalities; and work well with each other.  And the cases they work on  are serious whodunits.  They need a publisher who will give them some loving attention (or, at least, a generic handshake and an 'Attaboy!')  That's all they need and I'm positive they'll take off.

And then there is Roland of the High Crags.  My warrior-monk-wizard character.  Fantasy that has all the ingredients of a traditional  fantasy romp; fire-breathing dragons, magic, high-adventure.  But darker . . . perhaps more thoughtful.  Fantasy/sci-fi (sorry; I have always lumped the two together.  They just fit in the same category so well) has become blase.  Essentially the same story over and over.  A retelling of a retold tale told many a time before.  Surely there's another story--another style that might be refreshing to attempt.

I think I'm going to re-invent this potential series.  Change a few things about the character.  Start something completely fresh and see where that goes.  Make it darker.  Meaner.

One idea I've been playing around is making Fantasy slowly turn into hard Science-Fiction.  And there's a method behind my madness, me buckos!  I think it can be done.  I have the sub-plots in my head that should surprise the bejesus out of the fans who might (absolutely will!) discover this series in '13.

Goals, people.  Everyone needs goals.  But more importantly, more than just setting goals, what truly is needed is determination.  Persistent, consistent, unyielding determination to succeed.  As other pundits have pointed out repeatedly, the world is full of talent.  Our wells overflow with talent.  Entire nations of talented people abound.  But people filled with talent and determination? 

Hmmm . . . . .

If you are a writer you have stories to tell; characters to share.  If you are a writer (throw in any kind of artist here; it's the same thing)  you have a deep desire to share your talent with others.  Not necessarily for fame and glory.  That'd be nice, sure.  But deep down, any artist wants to express their gifts to those who are searching for something.  A good story; a good piece of acting, a great piece of music.  It is this desire to share that drives a lot of artists to do what they do.

And you know what?  There's not a damn thing wrong with that.  That's the way it should be.

Sharing a chapter from Retribution.

In fits and starts I am writing the first full-length Smitty novel.  Called Retribution.  Essential the plot revolves around someone asking Smitty, a professional assassin, to help them track down and remove from the streets a madman who is trying to a modern day Jack the Ripper.

Simple, right?  Naw.  With Smitty nothing is that simple.

There are plots within plots.  Twists and turns that'll (hopefully) make you giggle in delight.  And the characters . . . a lot of them . . . are not exactly what the say they are.  Yes, a complex that, for the reader, I'm hoping will be very enjoyable to read.  But writing this SOB is a pain in the ass. 

As someone once said, writing that flawlessly moves with seamless ease for the reader is very hard work.  I agree completely.

I've already shared one other chapter in the novel you can find back in the achieves somewhere.  But I thought today I might share the latest chapter.  I kinda like what came out and want to share it.   So let me set up the scene for you.

Smitty has a gut feeling a certain prostitute who works out of the Freiburg Hotel is The Ripper's next victim.  One night, when she leaves the hotel, he decides to follow her.  What he doesn't know is The Ripper knows Smitty is watching the woman.  His goal is to take out Smitty.

So here goes.  Tell me what you think.


Twenty Four
 
            Charlene Hicks rolled out of the rotating glass doors of the Freiberg at a little past two in the morning.  The night was calm.  Still.  Hardly any traffic moving.  The stars were out and there seemed to be this almost surreal quiet that seemed, if anyone was paying attention, unnatural. 
            She was wearing a tight fitting red dress with matching red leather high heels.  Underneath one arm was a white leather purse.  Around her neck was a necklace of white pearls with a few dark red rubies thrown in for good luck.  The low cut dress, the high heels, her perfect form, made the small blond with the long hair cascading down past her shoulder breathtaking to behold.  Men in the lobby stopped in mid conversation to turn and watch her hips sway back and forth seductively as she exited the hotel.
            No doubt about it.  Charlene Hicks was a very beautiful woman.
            Sitting in the darkness of his car he watched as the door man hailed a cabbie and opened the cab's door for Charlene.  On his face was a big grin flashing a lot of white teeth.  A grin that got bigger when Charlene slipped him a couple of bills just before disappearing into the cab.  When the cab pulled away from the front of the hotel he took his time slipping the gearshift into drive and following.
            The cabbie drove in a circuitous route.  Weaving in and out of traffic when they pulled onto a street alive with traffic; taking corners suddenly and then turning almost immediately down another street.  Wherever Charlene was going she was making an effort to ditch anyone trying to follow her.  For twenty minutes he and the cabbie played cat-and-mouse on the streets.  Sometimes he would momentarily loose the cab forcing him to begin a fast circular search.   Luckily he'd find them sliding down a quiet street a block or two away.  Settling in roughly four or five car lengths away he'd take up following them again.
            At the end of the twenty minute drive the cabbie pulled up to the curb in front of a parking garage attached to a fancy looking apartment complex.  The cement structure looked like a brightly lit fortress.  Watching her get out of the cab, bending over, ass turned in his direction and revealing a lot of beautifully sculptured leg, she paid off the cabbie, closed the door, then turned and stepped into through the automatic doors that led into the parking garage's foyer and the single elevator.  She immediately hit the up button on the elevator and waited for the doors to open.  
            He didn't hesitate.
            With a twist of the wrist he slid the lithe, black CTS-V Caddy into the ground floor entrance, paid for the privilege to park, waited for the barrier to go up and allow entrance, and calmly began the twisting drive up into the cavernous garage.  Hitting the down button for the driver's side window he tilted his head to one side to hear better.  When he started to turn onto the third level of the garage he heard the unmistakable clicking of high heels walking across hard cement.  He saw her the moment he nosed onto the third level.  She was walking toward a dark gray BMW 530i, a hand aimed toward the car pressing the unlock button on her key bob.
            She was about to open the driver's side door of the BMW when he pulled in front of the car and draped an arm out of the open window.
            "Charlene, we need to talk."
            Her reaction was visceral.  She stepped back from the car, fumbling with her purse in the process.  He slid out of the car, leaving the driver's side door open, stood up and lifted both hands in the air.  From out of the white leather purse appeared a snub-nosed .38 caliber revolver.  A calm, steady hand held it out from her and aimed it for the middle of his chest.
            "Take another step toward me and I swear to god I'll put two of'em straight through your fucking heart!"
            There was no fear in the woman's voice.  Just a hard edge of determination.  He knew she would do exactly what she said she would do.  Standing beside his Caddy, hands in the air, he almost smiled.
            "Charlene, I'm not here to harm you.  I'm not The Ripper, as the papers call this guy.  But I am here because of him.  Charlene,  I think you're his next victim.  I've been asked to stop him.  But to stop him I need your help."
            The gun in her hand wavered slightly.  He heard her suck in her breath.  Saw her take a half step back as she glanced quickly to her left and then to her right.  But she recovered.  The gun came up again steady and unmoving.  And still aimed at his chest.
            "Who are you?"
            "I'm known by a lot of different names.  The people who asked me to help them know me as Smitty. For now that's all you need to know."
            "Why should I believe you?  What makes you think I'm the next victim?"
            "You're blond.  You're petite.   You're in the same age bracket as the others.  You're very beautiful.  You work out of the Frieburg.  Think about Charlene.  You knew the others."
            She lowered her gun.  Didn't put it back into her purse.  Kept it firmly in her grip and ready in case she had to.  But her face told him she was all too familiar with The Ripper's MO.  The very same thought had crossed her mind many times before.  She looked worried.  Scared.
            "So now what . . . Smitty?  SMITTY!!"
            The attack was lightning fast.  Unexpected.  Coming from an impossible direction.  The dark form came out of the darkness from above.   From a cement cross piece connecting two cement pillars holding up the top floor of the garage.  The one space in the entire garage not lit up brightly!
            Smitty felt the sharp tip of the large knife slid across the collar of his shirt next to his carotid artery.  Felt the pull of cloth as the knife sought his flesh.  Instinctively he pulled back and twisted into the swinging blow as he used the closed fist of his right hand to drive a vicious blow into the black form's rib cage.  The creature grunted but wasn't fazed by the blow.  Landing on his feet, tucked low in a squatting position, he rolled over his shoulders, came to his feet, and started running toward Charlene.  In his right hand was a very large carving knife.  A carving knife exactly like the ones he had used on his other victims.
            Charlene tried to bring the snub-nose revolver up and aim it at the black clad nightmare.  But too slow!  The black horror was just in front of her, the knife coming up over his head for a slashing downward blow.  She screamed, stepped back, threw a hand up to protect her face.
            The blow never came.
            As fast as the nightmare was Smitty was just as fast.  Just as the knife came up for the killing blow Smitty reached out, wrapped fingers around the wrist of the knife hand, and jerked violently backwards.   The nightmare grunted in pain, whirled, faced his attacker, with a second knife in his hand!  A switch-blade with a long, thin blade of blue steel.  The nightmare screamed and thrust forward as hard as he could toward Smitty's exposed chest.  But the dark eyed man saw the blow coming and twisted to one side as he continued to grip the killer's right hand.
            The sharp edge of the switch-blade slid across Smitty's chest biting deep into flesh.  Blood began to color the now shredded shirt he was wearing with a dark smear.  The pain searing through his mind was almost numbing.  But he new the blade had missed its mark.  It was not a killing blow.  Gritting his teeth he brought his the open edge of his left hand down hard across the top of the horror's free arm in a swift chopping blow.  The blow struck bone.  The switch-blade in the horror's left hand dropped to the cement floor of the garage with a jarring ring of cold metal.
            But the horror was far from finished with his tricks.  A knee came up aimed for Smitty's testicles.  Smitty had barely enough time to partially block the blow with a leg.  As he did the horror twisted his right hand free from Smitty's grip and turned toward him, bringing the carving knife slashing out toward Smitty's chest again.  It would have connected this time if it wasn't for Charlene's snub nose revolver suddenly erupting in an outrageous loud explosion in the garage's confining space.
            BLAM!
            The snub nose bucked in her hand as she fired.  The bullet, missing its target, slammed into one of the cement pillars and ricocheted with a loud whining sound before slamming into the windshield of a Ford Escort parked beside her BMW.  Inches away from the horror's black clad head.
            The noise of the gun going off, the sound of the bullet ricocheting and then slamming into the Ford's windshield was enough to convince the horror this was not the time nor the place to finish either target off.  Blocking an expertly aimed kick from his prey, the horror rolled across the hood of the Ford Escort, put space between him and the wounded Smitty, and ran to the thick walled barrier of the garage and leapt over the barrier and disappeared into the night.
            Smitty, feeling the pain and the blood covering his chest and stomach, came to his feet and grabbed Charlene by the arm and began pulling her toward the black Caddy.  Shoving her into the car he hurried around to the driver's side, slid in and closed the door, and started driving.
            "You're bleeding.  Is it serious?"  she said, half twisting in the leather seat of the car and reaching out hesitantly to touch Smitty's bloody shirt."
            "It looks worse than it actually is.  But it hurts like hell," he whispered softly, concentrating on his driving.  "We need to get out of here and find some place to hide you.  Especially now we know he is hunting for you."
            "I know just the place.  Here, stop the car and let's change.  I'll drive and you try to stop the bleeding."
            Smitty nodded, braked just inside the exit leading out of the garage and got out of the car.  It took seconds to trade positions.  And then, with Charlene driving, they were gone.  Disappearing into the night just as sirens from approaching police units ripped the night open with wails of despair.
           
 
 
 
 

Artwork and book covers . . . again!

Let's talk . . . again . . . about artwork and book covers.  How many times we're gonna go down this well trod footpath I don't know.  But apparently we're doing it at least one more time.
The reason I bring this up is because I'm . . . frankly . . . puzzled.  Puzzled in the sense of not quite comprehending how some people in charge of book production make decisions.  Artwork is, even for an ebook, an absolutely critical component in attracting potential readers.  What good artwork does is ask a potential reader to take the chance and buy something of an author whom they may not be familiar with.  Right?   I mean, it makes sense, doesn't it?  Lots of us not only like a good read.  But we like the visuals of the front cover to ignite our imaginations and generate some form of anticipation on what we might find inside. Makes sense to me. So take the example of the above artwork.  It was to be the cover for the next Turner Hahn/Frank Morales novel called Guilt of Innocence.  I commissioned the piece to be done because I had a specific image of what the cover should look like.  I wanted a truly accurate rendition of both Turner Hahn and Frank Morales (Turner is the guy who looks like Clarke Gable; Frank is the red headed freak with no neck).  I also wanted to visual impress upon the reader that (One); there was going to be guns going off and bodies dropping, and (Two); lost of fast cars were to be found inside.  If you've read any of the Turner Hahn/Frank Morales stories (and there are several in the archives you can peruse through)  you KNOW what Turner and Frank look like and KNOW action is guaranteed to be had in buckets full. But . . .   Some publishers take umbrage over the idea of an author taking a proprietary interest in what the cover should look like.  Actually, I can understand this.  Many publishers want to express a certain 'brand' or 'style' for their trademark's image.  And . . . if that trademark image is dynamic and dramatic, I have no qualms.  But . . . and I certainly don't want to be brutal here, or insult anyone . . .  nevertheless what happens if your trademark artwork is, frankly, a bland brand of ersatz vanilla in flavor? I give you an example.  Here is the cover for  A Taste of Old Revenge.Examine the two.  Be honest.  If you were a reader scanning the ebook titles which two title covers would capture your attention first?  Which one generates some interesting reading possibilities?  I'm banking the one I wanted to be used for Guilt of Innocence.  Action, color, interesting characters . . . all there.  And the cover is FREE!  I coughed up the coins to get the work done. Sigh. Apparently it's not going to happen.  The best I can hope for is (if the book is even accepted for publication, which is still up in the air) maybe they'll take some hints.  Maybe not.  

Richard Godwin; Wondering where Art comes from

It's like you, as a writer, constantly run across other writers who just bedazzle you with their talent.  Their talent so sharp, so clear, it forces you to consider the idea of giving up writing and becoming a plumber.  Or . . . if you're lucky . . . an accountant.  Or maybe a trapeze artist.  Or a crash test dummy.  Richard Godwin is that kind of talent.   I read his material and walk off with my head down and mumbling to myself like a Coptic monk suffering through a religious crisis.  Yeah, he's that good.  His style, the way he slings words on the screen or paper, the ability to lure the reader deep into a story, all the hallmarks of a writer with exceptional talents.  It's not that I'm jealous or envious of his abilities (HELL! Who am I kidding!!) . . . it's just that why does my friend have to be so damn talented AND so gosh durn handsome at the same time!  The world is a cruel, cruel mistress, me buckeroos.  And Karma . . . Karma is a bitch. (I must have been a very bad boy in a previous life to get the mugshot I claim as my own currently.  Very bad) Anyway.  Richard is always a fascinating conversation to wade into so I thought I'd ask him to share some thoughts over whatever struck his fancy.  What struck his fancy is a miniature thesis on what is Art and where does it come from.  It is both fascinating and thought provoking.  So sit back and take your time perusing through the writing.  I think you'll find yourself enthralled. (Damn!  Talented AND good looking AND an intellect!!  Karma . . . you bitch!)   THE DIVIDE, Richard Godwin.   There have been many debates about art and where it comes from and what rules govern it and at the end of the day maybe no one knows.Friedrich Nietzsche posited the theory that it stems from a basis tension between the old Greek gods Apollo and Dionysus, Apollo representing law and Dionysus chaos.In his first seminal work ‘The Birth of Tragedy’ he wrote:‘...we have considered the Apollonian and its opposite, the Dionysian, as artistic energies which burst forth from nature herself ...first in the world of dreams, whose completeness  is not dependent upon the intellectual attitude or the artistic culture of any single being; and then as intoxicated reality...’.This idea of intoxicated reality runs like an undercurrent through all the theories of creativity.Rimbaud used it for his poetry.Keats wrote of imagination that it was Like Adam’s dream ‘he awoke and found it true’.There is a central issue of control.If you paint with watercolour you have to let go of control, or you will paint shit.The colours run.That is why Turner is probably the greatest watercolourist and a great oil painter, he knew his media. He also cleverly created many paintings of the sea, which is fluid. It’s like tipping the monster out of the pot.The ego stands in the way.What are you evoking?During the 1960’s and 1970’s in the USa number of works were performed which transgressed the traditional boundaries of Western genre in the arts.Jim Morrison urged his fans to ‘ride the snake’. Morrison also spoke of his reading in ‘The Birth of Tragedy’ of the primal Dionysian art as the spirit of music.Morrison moved his performances towards shamanistic theatre.Interestingly Mircea Eliade, author of Shamanism: Archaic Techniques of Ecstasy writes of shamans: ‘they express on the one hand the diametrical opposition of two divine figures sprung from one and the same principle and destined, in many versions, to be reconciled at some illud tempus of eschatology, and on the other, the coincidentia oppositorum in the very nature of the divinity, which shows itself, by turns or even simultaneously, benevolent and terrible, creative and destructive, solar and serpentine.’Morrison’s ‘The Lizard’ took nearly half an hour to perform in concert and is an act of descent.We’re into the underworld and back to the same divide. Aristotle based much of his philosophy around a basic opposition and Alfred Korzybski, the Polish semanticist argues in ‘Science and Sanity ’ that mental pathology within Western cultures stems from a basic confusion of signifier with signified, in other words thinking that a table is identified with the verbal label we attribute to it.He used to thump the table in his lectures and say ‘this is not a table’.He also saw the basic either/or basis for Western thinking as its primary flaw.Hegel moved it on in ‘Phenomenology of Sprit’ where he sought a unity stemming from the synthesis resulting from the uniting of his thesis and antithesis, although his may be a variation on the Christian trinity.Like John Cage, Morrison was drawn to the Lord of Misrule’s carnival.David Bowie said ‘I know one day a big artist is going to get killed on stage.’Alice Cooper enacted much of the Dionysian on stage, throwing live chickens into the audience, axing dolls to death.The acid trip, under the influence of Timothy Leary became a religious experience a sign for the Trips Festival read: ANYBODY WHO KNOWS HE IS A GOD GO UP ON STAGE.There is a strong sexual element to this, as Euripides’s play ‘The Bacchae’ illustrates, Bacchus being the Roman version of the Greek God.When Dionysus sheds Eros his energy turns negative.  He becomes the Devil, as Norman O. Brown shows in ‘Life Against Death’ as the form of excrement, waste and ‘filthy lucre’.Then something happened at Altamont.After Santana opened a freaked out kid tried to get on stage. The Rolling Stones had hired Hell’s Angels as body guards, they dived into the crowd with five-foot pool cues.While the Rolling Stones waited for darkness the Hell’s Angels taunted the crowd with contempt. Then they parodied the rituals of religious cults. Sol Stern, a former Ramparts magazine editor, wrote: ‘One of them, wearing a wolf’s head, took the microphone and played the flute for us – a screeching, terrible performance; no one dared to protest or shut off the microphone.’Why?Why didn’t they protest?Because they were caught up in group psychology.Why do leaders use it?It’s good for business.The Mediterranean wolf cuts and the flute music of Dionysus, the wild music of the joujouka – the vestigial music of the God which had entranced Brian Jones, Bryan Gysin, William Burroughs, Paul Bowles and Ornette Coleman – had come to this, a preparation for a star.Into the darkness of Altamont, through the protective circle of the Angels on the blood-spattered stage, came the Stones, led by Mick Jagger in a black and orange cape and tall hat. They played well but their music spoke out the interface between savagery and erotics, between the controls of art and the controls of magic, between Apollo and Dionysus. Jagger began ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ – ‘They call me Lucifer and I’m in need of some restraint’. The earlier Angels’ attacks now climaxed. In the spotlights, when Jagger went on singing this number, they stabbed to death a black youth from Berkeley named Meredith Hunter. Panic-stricken Jagger tried to cool the screaming people, but the death ritual operated as part of his own performance.The antithesis maybe at the root of art and sexuality. Blood may flow from its veins.Cultures create their own paradigms.The scientists are the new priests if you believe in their religion.Korzybski believed that hieroglyphic sign systems are healthier than ours because they use images.Consider flint.Strike it and there’s a spark.We are as Shakespeare wrote in ‘The Tempest’ ‘We are such stuff As dreams are made on; and out little life Is rounded with a sleep.’I examine the themes in Apostle Rising http://www.amazon.com/Apostle-Rising-Richard-Godwin/dp/0956711308  and Mr. Glamour.http://www.amazon.com/Mr-Glamour-Richard-Godwin/dp/0956711332/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1354399192&sr=1-1&keywords=Richard+Godwin%27s+Mr.+Glamour 

Allan Leverone . . . good man. An even better writer

In today's Cavalcade of Devious, Dark Writing Minds is a feller by the name of Allan Leverone .  Good man.  One hell of a writer. (and dammit!  I gotta say, except for certain amount of hair missing, he reminds me visually of some one.  Jes' can't remember the dude's name!)

But Allan is one of those writers who excels in the dark reaches of the mind.  Sink into one of his stories and you sink into an ocean of dark mood.  Or abject horror!  Really, you gotta love a writer who brings out your suppressed emotions and hidden fears and exposes them fully and unabashedly for all to see.

I'm always curious to hear another writer's views on the nuts and bolts of his profession/obsession.  For many of us it actually is more of an obsession than a profession.  How a writer writes, and thinks about writing, is instructive to me.  As, I suspect, it might be to a large number of bloggers who tune in occasionally and read this blog.

So without wasting another word, let's get to it.  And keep an eye out for question number five and his answer.  That one hit home for me.


1.      All right, up front and to the point: you write dark mystery and dark horror. But which one is closest to your heart? And tell us why.
 
I like to write books and stories where the protagonist faces challenges above and beyond what he feels capable of overcoming, and then see how he responds. When he does, I throw more stuff in the way. It’s the classic genre fiction recipe. Once you start down that road, the difference between mystery and horror becomes much less than you might think. It’s a difference of degree, more than anything else.
 
Horror, mystery, cozy mystery, noir, they all contain many of the same components. Generally speaking, the body count – and the gore component - might be higher, say, in a horror novel than a cozy mystery, but at their hearts, the genres share many similarities.
 
Closest to my heart? For me, it all boils down to whatever I’m working on at the moment. I’m currently in the editing phase of a thriller set at the end of the Cold War titled PARALLAX VIEW, so right now I love thrillers the most. If you had asked me this question six months ago, when I had just released the second of two consecutive supernatural suspense novels, my answer would probably have been horror.
 
I’m a genre writer through and through. I have nothing against literary fiction, but I write books I would want to read, and I’ve been reading King, Poe, Child, Block, Westlakeand other genre masters for as long as I can remember.
 
 
Find Here 2.      It seems like a lot of horror folds into the plot the supernatural. Is that because the supernatural represents the mysterious unknown that surrounds us? Or does it speak more about the dark fears inhabiting all of us in our subconscious?
 
The monster under the bed. Or in the closet. Who hasn’t gone to bed at night and heard a noise you couldn’t identify, and pictured a fanged monster shambling down the hall, gibbering and bloodthirsty? I hope it’s not just me.
 
I think the fear of the unknown is ingrained in all of us, and it goes back to the earliest days of our species, when we huddled in caves trying to keep the night and its dangers away with little more than fire and superstition. The supernatural element in horror fiction puts us back in bed with that monster shambling down the hall; it brings us right back to our ancient roots, where every snap of a twig outside that cave entrance represented the possibility of violence and death.
 
If you think about the modern world, the horrors we face are things we understand to some degree, even if we abhor them. Kidnappers, rapists, pedophiles – they might be the worst of the worst, but their offenses can be studied and quantified. With the supernatural, an element of uncertainty is added into the mix. How can the revenant be overcome? Is it even possible?
 
 
 
3.      You inhabit a field that is literately bursting at the seams with others who write in a similar fashion. How do you separate yourself . . . make your own distinctive style . . . and promote yourself?
 
That’s a question every writer not named Lee Child or Steve Berry or Stephen King probably struggles with. I know I sure do.
 
A few years ago I attended Thrillerfest, held annually in July in New York City. A big part of Thrillerfest is the Craftfest portion, where readers, aspiring writers, and fans can attend workshops given by some of the biggest names in the thriller genre. I was fortunate enough to attend one given by Lee Child, and he said one thing I’ll never forget (it’s been awhile, so I’m paraphrasing here): everything’s been done, and probably by a better writer than you.
 
At first glance, that’s a pretty deflating thought. If everything’s been done, why bother?
 
But the point he was making is just the opposite. Don’t try to be the next Lee Child or the next Elmore Leonard or the next Dean Koontz. Be the first Allan Leverone, be the first B.R. Stateham. Write what appeals to you and tell absolutely the best story you possibly can. After that, it’s out of your hands.
 
When you think about it in those terms, it’s kind of liberating. I’m obsessive about editing and rewriting, but once I’ve put the book out in front of people, their reaction to it is out of my control. Some will like it, hopefully, and some won’t, but as long as you can look yourself in the mirror and not have regrets about the tale you told, that should be good enough.
 
As far as promoting goes, if I knew the answer to that question I would be selling a hell of a lot more books than I am! But writing novels is a marathon, not a sprint, the rare overnight successes notwithstanding. My goal has always been, and still is, to write the best books I can and build a solid core of readers, then hopefully expand that core with each succeeding book.
 
 
4.      What pleasures are there in writing for you? Do you find yourself sitting back and admiring a sentence, or a paragraph, or an entire book that you've just written? And how long does that pleasure vibrate within you?
 
I was lucky enough to interview the legendary Lawrence Block on my blog a few months ago, and one of the things I asked him was whether there were any characters or any books he would go back in time and change if he could. He said, “I’m embarrassingly fond of my own work, so they’re all my favorites. And no, I wouldn’t change any of them.”
 
If that attitude’s good enough for Lawrence Block, I see no reason to feel any differently. While I’m writing, if I can pound out something I feel works really well, I might sit back and enjoy the moment, but I revise a lot, almost compulsively, so rather than feeling self-satisfied, I’m usually filed with doubt and convinced what I’m trying to say could be said much better if I’d only get my shit together.
 
It’s been said that writing is revising, or something to that effect, so by the time my work is ready to go out in to the world, I’ve usually been working on it for so long that I’m sick of it and ready to move on to something else. It’s more a feeling of hopeful relief than anything else.
 
 
 
5.      Tell us about the business side of writing. How difficult is it to break into the bank vault called publishing success? Is there a thread of luck involved? Is talent the prevailing requirement to succeed? Are there any short cuts a novice might use to strengthen their chances of success?
 
Another great question, and another one I’m probably not qualified to answer.
 
First, the easy part: There are no shortcuts. A writer has to write. It’s like anything else – the more you do it, the better you’re going to get at it. Fortunately, most writers do it because they’re almost compelled to. Let’s face it: most of us are never going to write a New York Times bestseller. Most of us will never be able to support ourselves solely from our writing. If you’re writing to get rich, you should save yourself a lot of heartache and just take all of your money and buy lottery tickets. Your odds of success are much greater.
 
As far as achieving publishing success goes, I don’t think anyone would deny there is a thread of luck involved. Probably more than a thread. More like a rope. Like one of the ones they use to dock the Queen Mary. One of the things this “publishing revolution” has taught us is that there are scads of unbelievably talented writers out there who would never even have gotten a contract with a Big-6 publisher.
 
That’s not to take anything away from the folks who have written New York Times bestsellers. Most of them are talented, and it shows in their work. But talent alone isn’t enough, you have to be in the right place at the right time as well. It’s no different than in sports. Tom Brady was an unknown backup who would likely never have had the opportunity to play were it not for an injury to Drew Bledsoe, and Brady turned out to be arguably one of the top five NFL quarterbacks ever.
 
Talent and timing. My thriller, THE LONELY MILE, broke into Amazon’s Top 25 overall paid bestseller list back in February. I like to think I wrote a pretty darned good book, but let’s face it – StoneHouse Ink and I caught a wave at just the right time. If that hadn’t happened, the book would probably never have made a ripple.
 

6.      Tell us about yourself. What was the trip-wire that was stepped on which compelled you to become a writer? What are you writing on now? What does the future hold for you?
 
From the time I first started reading I was in awe of the people who could write books and stories that held me in thrall. It seemed almost magical. Hell, it still kind of does. When I went to college, it was with the intention of majoring in journalism – I wanted to be a sportswriter. I changed majors after my freshman year, and that was the end of writing for me, for about the next three decades.
 
 Paskagankee In January of 2006 I got back into it, with a sports blog at Foxsports.com, and over the next nine or ten months, started to build up a bit of a following, and was really enjoying myself. Then I had an epiphany. Blogging about sports was fun, but what I really wanted to do was write fiction. So one day I just started.
 
Now I can’t stop. The feeling of creating worlds and populating them with all these characters, good and bad, who get into seemingly unresolvable situations, only to pull themselves out (sometimes) is like no other. Maybe I have a God complex, I don’t know, but I do know this: I will write until I die. A good day of writing is better than any drug.
 
Right now, I’m putting the finishing touches on a thriller titled PARALLAX VIEW. It takes place in 1987, at the tail end of the Cold War, and tells the story of CIAclandestine ops specialist Tracie Tanner, who is tasked with a fairly straightforward job: deliver a secret communique from Communist Party General Secretary Mikhail Gorbachev to U.S. President Ronald Reagan. Needless to say, things aren’t as they seem, and before long Tracie Tanner is knee deep in plane crashes, KGB spies, assassinations and double-crosses. It’s been a lot of fun to write and I hope it will be well-received.
 
After that, I’ll probably begin work on the third entry in my series of supernatural suspense novels that take place in a fictional little town in Mainecalled Paskagankee. Oh yeah, and I want to write a novella to submit to DarkFuse for their collectible hardcover horror novella series. Maybe write a couple of short stories.
 
Gonna be busy, I guess…
 
Thanks so much for having me. As writers of separate installments in the DRUNK ON THE MOON series featuring werewolf/PI Roman Dalton, I feel like we share a bond that’s even a little deeper than our mutual love for dark fiction. I appreciate the opportunity to bore introduce myself to your readers!
 

And now, for an Encore . . .

Meet Les Edgerton.

Sure, he's been blogged before in here.  But you know it's like a bad penny . . . he keeps popping up over and over and over.

Besides, I like the guy!  And he's one hell of a writer.  He truly is gifted when he starts slinging words around.  Every writer has their own unique style.  As a reader you become acquainted with that style and then you accept it.  Accept it to the point you could recognize it anywhere.

Les' writing is like that.  Instantly recognizable.  Sometimes harsh (when he's writing crime novels), always vividly clear, an instant creator for some visceral emotional reaction erupting in your gut.

In other words . . . a damn fine writer.

So I asked him the other day, knowing he's publishing more 'stuff,' to come over and share a few words with us about what's cooking on the stove for him.  He was kind enough to agree.  Listen to what he has to say. 

The Master is in the house.


You asked me to talk about my newest book, which is a YA thriller out from StoneGate Ink titled Mirror, Mirror. It just came out in ebook format and in a couple of weeks will also be available as a paperback. Good timing—just before Christmas! So, if you have any teenaged girls you need a stocking stuffer for…

Here’s the synopsis:

You will never again pass a mirror without a slight chill... once you have read Mirror, Mirror. Elizabeth Mary Downing is a typical American teenager...almost. When she peers into a mirror, she sees someone else staring back--an image identical to herself in every detail save one--the mirror image has blue eyes. Elizabeth's eyes are brown! She is told by her mirror counterpart, "Liz", that she can enter any mirror she wants through "transtarence” and when curiosity prevails over fear and she enters the mirror, trading places with Liz, the horror begins as Liz wreaks havoc with what was a normal life. Elizabeth's attempts to trick Liz into going back into the mirror reflect both suspense and humor and just when all hope seems lost, she succeeds... only to discover she has to return to the mirror to reverse events and get her life back to where it was. She succeeds… only she leaves part of herself forever in the mirror.

This is a book I didn’t write for publication. Here’s how that came about:

Mirror, Mirror in Amazon I wrote this book many years ago and not to publish it but just as a labor of love for my oldest daughter Britney. She was a voracious reader and I simply wanted to write something just for her that she could look at and say, “My dad wrote this for me.” In other words, I wanted her to be proud of me.

When she read it, she turned to me with luminous eyes and told me it was the scariest thing she’d ever read. Keep in mind she was about nine years old at the time so it wasn’t as if she’d read thousands of books. But, it made me feel great.

When her little sister Sienna came along, both Britney and I urged her to read it. She did and she had much the same reaction as her sister had. Scared the pants off of her! I thought for the first time that maybe it might be publishable, but it wasn’t until a few years ago when Britney and I were talking about everyday things, when Britney suddenly said, “You know, Dad, after I read MIRROR, MIRROR, for about four years, I couldn’t look into a mirror at myself for more than a few seconds at a time before I had to look away. It just scared the crap out of me!”

And that’s when I realized it was publishable. I showed it to Aaron Patterson, the publisher of StoneGate Ink and he agreed and so here it is.

Not sure if it will capture today’s teens. The reason I say that is that there’s no cursing, no sex scenes, no vampires or zombies, nor any violence. It’s just a clean story that works on the reader’s imagination more than anything—kind of a throwback novel. We’ll see, I guess. The one thing that’s been nice is that I don’t have to warn parents to vet it before they let their kids read it.

The other book I’m very excited about is my forthcoming nihilistic noir novella, titled THE RAPIST, forthcoming from New Pulp Press both in paperback and as an ebook. It’s scheduled for March, 2013, but it may be released earlier. I rank this alongside my noir thriller, THE BITCH, as the best work I’ve ever done. It’s garnered absolute rave advance reviews, all along the lines of Allan Guthrie’s blurb, which says: “THE RAPIST ranks right up there with Camus’ THE STRANGER and Simenon’s DIRTY SNOW. An instant modern classic.”

Here’s just a few of the comments, all from the top crime and noir writers in the world:

1. …and the breathlessness, nausea, anger and confusion increase all the way to the end, at which point all I know is that the book is genius. Helen FitzGerald, author of The Donor, Dead Lovely and others.

2. Take a Nabokovian narrator trying to convince the reader of his innocence and filter it through An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge and you've got The Rapist, a raw and frightening journey through the inner psyche of a damaged man.
Brian Lindenmuth, Publisher, Spinetingler Magazine and Snubnose Press

3. Les Edgerton proves once again why he is one of the most exciting writers of this generation. The structure of this just astounded me. I've never read anything like it before. I've never been so engrossed in a novel as I was with this one. I had no idea Edgerton had this literary part of his writing. I don't know of any other writers that can go from crime fiction to literary so seamlessly. Edgerton should be very proud of this novel. Luca Veste, author of the story collections Liverpool 5, and More Liverpool Five.

4. The Rapist blends Camus and Jim Thompson in an existential crime novel that is as dark and intoxicating as strong Irish coffee. Les Edgerton pulls us into the corkscrew mind of Truman Ferris Pinter, a twisted man with skewed perception of the world, as his life spirals toward oblivion, like dirty dishwater down a plughole. It reminded me of Jim Thompson's Savage Night in its delirium. Paul D Brazill, Author, 13 Shots Of Noir and others.

5. William Faulkner on steroids or Hannibal Lecter on meth; neither as literate or frightening as Les Edgerton in his ground-breaking novel, The Rapist. Bob Stewart, author of The Blackness of Darkness, No Remorse and others.

6. A deathdream swan dive from the existential stratosphere plummeting into the personal hell of a tormented, broken psyche, The Rapist introduces us to a gentle and philosophical misanthrope named Truman Pinter, at once reminiscent of Albert Camus and Patricia Highsmith, even John Gardner’s Grendel and the journal of Carl Panzram. Thomas Pluck, editor of the anthology The Protectors.
7. The Rapist is a disturbing look into the twisted mind of a narcissistic psychopath on death row. A vulgar odyssey reminiscent of Nabokov’s Lolita, although far more depraved, Les Edgerton has crafted a dark and brilliant story that leaves you as equally unsettled as it does in complete awe. Julia Madeleine, author of No One To Hear You Scream and The Truth About Scarlet Rose


Thanks for having me on, B.R.!  The man has his own blog, a very good one, called Les Edgerton On Writing .  You should check it out.