B.R. Stateham's Blog, page 18

More odds and ends to consider

If you haven't heard, J.L. Rowling has signed a deal with Little, Brown &Co. as her new publisher.  She's about to come out with something new.  Very hush hush.  Won't reveal the title or a synopsis of the book.  But it sounds like the release is imminent.
Goody!  Looking forward to this.  Yes, I read all the Harry Potter novels.  Turns out that after you get past the first one (originally designed for a YA audience--basically for a bunch of seventh and eighth graders)  the novels begin to get quite innovative and rather dark in nature.  I really do believe Rowling took Fantasy in a whole new direction--came up with some original concepts when the story dealt with magic.

Rowling was original--yet not so original--in her writing.  Original in that she painted a different portrait of magic and the fantasy world.  Different in that she kept to the traditional rules of creating a highly sophisticated plot that required fully developed, three-dimensional, characters to occupy and interact with each other. THAT'S what made the Potter series marvelous to read!  The characters.

But now NEW stuff is coming out!  And I can't help but roll my hands in anticipation.  A couple of years ago a rumor began circulating around that Rowling was spotted frequenting her old writing sites and doing some intensive writing.  The rumors went on and said she was . . . perhaps . . . writing a crime story.

Oooooooh . . . !  Now wouldn't that be delicious!  Adding 'crime' to her brand of 'magic' in a story!



And now this little tidbit. . . .



Ever heard of a website called Kickstarter.com ?  A web site to pitch ideas . . . on just about anything and everything . . . to potential would-be investors.  Raising money for new projects to start up.  From businesses to comic books.

In fact Publishers Weekly has a fascinating article about a comic book start up that raised 1.25 million dollars to get it up and running!   This is, frankly, one of the Internets finest moments.  Providing instant access to investors who would be willing/foolish/crazy/or visionary in funding just about anything that comes down the pike.  Honestly, I think it's a fabulous idea!  It by-passes the stodgy traditional gate-keepers in the financial markets and goes straight to the heart of the matter!  An investor either likes the idea or he doesn't.  There are no middle-men to contend with.

Hmmm. . . some friends and I are creating a graphic novel.  Maybe, when the project is three/quarters complete, we ought to think about going this route.

As promised, here's an update on the on-going cover desig...

As promised, here's an update on the on-going cover design for the Smitty series of short-stories I'm writing.  If you compare Smitty from my earlier blog the boy is dressed significantly different.  More like I lot of people envision.
There is going to be just one more modification to the figure.  Somehow we've got to incorporate the idea of physical motion.  Yes, it seems as if he is walking away.  But he's too tidy.  And you haven't seen the complete imagery I have in mind.  Somewhere in the composition is going to be smear of blood.  VERY bright red blood actually smeared in a downward angle, suggesting someone just ate a bullet and slowly slid down the face of a wall, leaving a bloody trail behind him.
I have an idea on how to accomplish this.  We'll see how it goes.


And now a treat (I hope!)


I mentioned I'm writing a full Smitty novel tentatively called 'The Ripper' (title subject to change).  And  if you'll recall, I shared the rough draft of chapter one in the book recently.  I want to share another chapter with you.  Share it with a specific idea in mind.  I think it's a scary, balls-grabbing chapter!  But . . . . is it?  I need feedback.  And you're just the huckleberries who'll give me some.
Read it.  Critique it.  Make suggestions (maybe I'll accept, maybe not).  Put your two cents in and let me know what you think.  (remember, it is just the first draft.  Words, ideas, concepts may change)
 Yeah; it is important to me to hear your ideas . . .
Here's the set-up;  the cops and Smitty are looking for a serial-killer who reminds the public of the bloody antics of London's Jack the Ripper.  On a rainy night a call comes in from a truck driver that he's heard a woman screaming down by the docks.  So cops go investigate.  And here's where it starts to get spooky . .
Eight
            The black and white cruiser smashed through the lakes and small seas of rain water filled streets like some kind of prehistoric ocean predator, sending red and blue eerie, almost surreal, beams of light through the pounding rain.  The beams of colored light reflected off the dark windows of warehouses as the cruiser turned down a narrow alley of street and slid to a halt.  Officers Joe Gallagher and a rookie by the name of Jerald Arthur came out of the car with flashlights in one hand and pulling from their holsters their department issued Glock 9 millimeter weapons with the other.             A truck driver called in a report that he heard screaming . . . a woman screaming hysterically . . . somewhere close by.  The warehouse/wharf district was the killing grounds for the madman who was terrorizing the city with his grisly murders of prostitutes.  So when the call came in dispatch was routing marked and unmarked cruisers to rendezvous there as fast as possible.  Just so happened he and his rookie partner were the first to arrive.             "Stay close and watch our back!  Got that?" he barked, aiming the beam of his flashlight into the face of the big black kid with the big, frightened eyes staring back at him.             "Got it, sarge."             Joe didn't like it.  Didn't like not having his regular partner with him tonight.  Didn't like the idea of being saddled with a rookie's first night out on the beat.  But Artie had called in sick with another one of his migraine headaches and the lieutenant told him to stay home and take a couple of days off.  Ten minutes later the louey informed him he was stuck with the rookie for the night.  Bad enough it was raining with an electrical light show lighting up the skyline--always a combination that made people edgy in this town--but now this!  A call that maybe The Ripper was working his grisly trade again and they were the first ones on the scene!                        He almost grinned when he saw how frightened the big kid was.  The kid's hand were shaking violently; the kid's flashlight beam dancing all over the place as it cut through the heavy rain and black night.  The gun hand shaking so violently the gun looked like it was ready to drop out of his hand.  Reaching out he used the hand holding his flashlight and pushed hard on the kid's big shoulders.             "Jerald!  Get a grip on yourself.  You've got to focus.  You can't let fear cloud your judgment! Otherwise it could kill both of us!  Understand?"             "Yeah . . . yeah, sarge.  I understand," the big guy nodded.             "Good.  So let's go."             In the distance they heard approaching sirens of other cruisers hurrying to this location.  Just a few more minutes and the place would be crawling with cops.  Just a few more minutes.             But that's when the scream.             Not just a scream.  Something horrible.  Something almost primordial.  A woman's scream filled with all the emotions of someone being both terrified and terrorized at the same time.  The sound hung in the rain . . . seem to reverberate off the brick walls of the warehouses around them.              "This way!" Joe yelled, heaving the beam of his flashlight toward the open door of an abandoned warehouse.             The two of them ran through the rain and dived into the black abyss of the doorway, the beams of their heavy flashlights cutting the night open like a sharpened scalpel.   Cautiously they began moving through the darkness while the rain, and the lightning and thunder, continued to rattle the night outside.                         "I dunno," Gallagher answered, shaking his head. "I thought I saw a shadow move in the doorway.  Maybe I was seeing things.  But to be on the safe side let's check this place out from top to bottom."             They both involuntarily ducked with an ear-splitting boom of thunder cracked open the night and physically rattled the building they momentarily occupied.  Regaining their composure they began to systematically search the ground floor.  Slowly.  Methodically.  Flashlights arcing back and fourth probing every dark hole and hidden crevice they found.  Minutes slipped by and then Jerald, looking over his shoulder, saw the stabbing beams of more flashlights moving outside.             "Sarge, helps arrived."             "Good," Gallagher said, nodding and turning to aim his flashlight at the first figure to enter through the open door of the warehouse.             Two patrol officers came through the door with flashlights glaring and guns drawn.  Both beams of light fell on Gallagher and the rookie at the same time.             "Derek!  Peterson!  Stick with us!  We're going upstairs to check this place out," Gallagher yelled. "Heard a woman screaming just before you got here, so watch out!  I think she's in here."             The two officers nodded and hurried over the broken, littered floor of the warehouse to join them.  Gallagher nodded and then turned his flashlight toward the rack of stairs which led up into the darkness to the second floor.  Ascending the steps in a tight gaggle of light and high strung nerves the four officers stepped out onto the creaking boards of the second floor of the warehouse and aimed their flashlights to the middle of the room.             All four beams landed onto the bloody mass of steaming flesh lying in the middle of the floor at the same time.  A kill so fresh, bathed in the powerful light of four beams, blood was still spilling out of the ghastly cavity that once was a woman's vagina.             "Oh my gaw . . . . !" one of the officers yelped, turning suddenly to one side and retching violently at the same time.             "Jesus, sweet Jesus," the rookie whispered softly as he stared at the mound of bleeding flesh.             "Jerald!" Gallagher barked, throwing his flashlight beam over to his right and at the base of stairs which led up to the warehouse's third floor.  "You stay here with Peterson and make sure nothing disturbs the body.  Derek and me will go up to the third floor and check it out!  And for chrissake, call for forensics and a meat wagon to get over here!"             The big kid could only nod silently as he stepped back to the still heaving Peterson, gripping his gun firmly in the process.  Gallagher, playing his flashlight first across the rookie's face, and then checking out Peterson to see how sick he was, nodded and told the officer behind him to follow him.  Moving to the first step of the stairs they aimed their flashlights up into the darkness and began ascending slowly.             Jerald watched his sergeant and the other officers disappear upstairs before turning his light toward the now somewhat recovered Officer Peterson.  The man was standing up and using a kerchief to wipe his mouth clean as he turned toward the big man standing beside him.  As he did his flashlight swept across the body.             "What the hell . . . ? " he murmured as he squinted his eyes and leaned forward to see better.             Jerald heard the officer's odd tone in his voice and turned his flashlight toward the body as well.  The moment he did he saw it as well.  The Devil.  The Devil rising out of the corpse of the dead woman!  A black form . . . no face . . . no hands . . . just a black form with a large blood stained blade of a butcher's knife gripped in one black fist came rising out of dead woman's carcass in a blur of motion and hurled itself straight at them!  It moved so fast neither had time to lift their weapons and fire at the mirage before it struck!             Jerald felt something heavy and hard smack into his chest.  A blow so powerful it made him stagger two or three steps back and drop both his gun and his flashlight at the same time.  As he staggered back he heard the officer behind grunt in a surprised fashion.  And then silence.  But not completely silent.  Bending down the rookie felt the floor beside him for both his weapon and his flashlight.  He felt more than saw in the darkness Peterson still standing beside him.  He also felt something wet . . . something hot . . . splattering across his cheeks and the back of his neck.             Finding gun and flashlight the rookie stood up and whipped the light around in all directions searching for the thing which had  rushed them.  Finding nothing near him he turned his light toward Peterson.             Peterson stood facing the rookie.  Stood with both hands clutching his throat.  Stood with his mouth moving as if he was trying to speak.  Stood with eyes wide with astonishment.  And blood.  Blood pouring out of his mouth in great spurts.  The hot liquid which had splattered Jerald's cheek and neck as he hunted for his gun and flashlight.             Jerald could not help himself.  He started screaming.  Screaming hysterically.  Screaming . . .

A Few Odds and Ends for News

Paul D. Brazill is at it again.  Paul, a mild-mannered, tea drinking, croissant consuming writer (Ha! What the hell am I saying!?) is the creator of the Drunk On The Moon series featuring his PI-turned-Werewolf character, Roman Dalton.

The series is about to be re-issued . . . and ultimately expanded on . . . in the near future.  And here is the new cover for the re-issue.  Snazzy, huh!  I think so.

For those of you may not know the series, Paul did something quite unique.  He developed the character Roman Dalton and then he went out and invited a few of his writer friends to write stories, taking up Roman as the main character, and continue the series along.  Each writer sketched Roman's personality a little bit differently.  Making the series, and the character, far more interesting.

'Insatiable' was the title for my offering.  Basically the story was about Roman being asked to solve a couple of bloody homicides a few days before his 'sickness' took over and converted him into a raving, blood thirsty killer.  But he could feel the sickness coming on . . . and so the story was a painting of how a Werewolf tried to act normal even though he was beginning to look at everyone around him as a form of snack food.

Dark Valentine Press is bringing the series out sometime this summer.  Roman, as Paul tells me, was born first in the pages of Dark Valentine Magazine--the ancestor to the current publishing house.  When DOTM became available DVP jumped on it immediately.

Paul also said that he might open the portal up again invite writers to contribute again.  Hope so.  I would love to offer a little ditty that came to mind the other day.




Now, for something different . . .

Javier Caromona of Carmonaart.com and I are working on creating a short story book cover for the Smitty short-story series I'm writing.  Thought I might share this rough draft of a rough, rough, rough draft of the potential image.

Javier is one half of Carmona Brothers of Madrid, Spain (the other half being Jesus).  Brilliant artists.  We've worked on a number of different projects for some of my writing.  And now we're working on creating (hopefully!!) a kick-ass graphic novel.  But that's down the road just a bit since we've just started working . . .

But Smitty needed some kind of book cover for the short story series.  Like I've mentioned before, there's something like twenty-eight short stories . . . . with more coming . . . so I wanted to create an image that would be spot-on visually what the stories would be about.

What you see here is just the first visualization of the final product.  But notice the eyes.  If you've read any of the stories you've noticed how I emphasis Smitty's black eyes.  I think this brings that out nicely.

There are going to be changes.  Smitty needs to be dressed in a business suit.  Or at least a sport coat and slacks.  But what struck me as fascinating is this on-going conversation Javier and I are having in trying to get the image right.  Creativity at its best.  Quite stimulating.  And it brings up another point that's crossed my mind often.  I think a writer who is trying to create a . . . if you will . . . a brand-name character . . . should seriously be involved in creating the artwork.  Why not?  Your character is going to be around for a long time if you're successful.  Might has well make sure you can stand looking at the guy.

More Smitty imagery will be coming . . .

Uber agent Chip MacGregor

The literary agent. 

The person who knows the people who know how to convert a writer into an established, well known author.  Yeah; THAT guy!

If you're serious into writing you have, in one fashion or another, had some form of dialogue between yourself and a lit agent.  For most of us that form of communication has been either one sided and rather brief.  As in, "While your writing shows promise, it currently isn't a format or genre we are working with at the moment."
(Come to think of it; that's kinda the same line a lot of publishers throw at us!  Hmmm . . . )
Or, you've been one of the lucky ones and you found an agent willing to work with you.  Congratulations!!  You've already beat the odds heavily stacked against you!
Nevertheless, the life of an agent is fascinating to contemplate.  I suspect a number of writers would, if they discovered they were not going to succeed in their chosen craft, seriously consider trying their hand at becoming an agent.
A writer-friend of mine (Les Edgerton) introduced me to uber agent, Chip MacGregor .  Chip is a West Coast agent and let's just say he's BIG in the agenting business.  Big in the Christian market.  Big in the mystery/detective market.  Lots of clients.  Lots of contacts.  Very knowledgeable in his trade.  So how could I pass this up?  How could I NOT ask for an interview!
Chip was very gracious in agreeing to this little conversation.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.


1. You've been a successful literary agent now for a number of years, so tell us; what first brought you into this field, and at what time in your career did you decide you wanted to create an agency of your own? I more or less fell into agenting. I was working as a freelance writer and editor, and started doing research on my own books (after getting a terrible deal on my first contract). Pretty soon I become knowledgeable about contracts, so authors started asking me about contracts. Then I started exploring negotiations. Then I started developing good friendships with editors, and was soon introducing authors and editors. Eventually a literary agency came along and said, "Why don't we pay you to do all this?" Agenting was a very natural fit for me.


As for starting my own agency, I'd been at another agency for years, and was the senior literary agent there, when Time Warner Book Group came calling. They wanted me to come be a publisher for them, so I went, thinking I could really help shape in the industry. Instead, I became a corporate suit. I really felt like I wasn't doing any of the things I had been successful at for years -- working with authors, determining the best writers, talking writing careers, etc. Within two years the company was sold by Time-Warner to Hachette, and I was handed my walking papers. I knew immediately what I wanted to do, so six years ago I started my own agency. I'm very happy with that decision.

2. Your reputation was first set as an agent for Christian material. But surprisingly your agency is also at the top of the food chain when it comes to placing mystery/detective
material. Is there a dichotomy here or was there some form of natural progression to drew you there?

When I started my agency, religious fiction was the fastest-growing segment in all publishing. I was starting a new business, so... my mama didn't raise morons. If people were buying Christian fiction, I was going to focus hard on Christian fiction (a part of publishing I was already familiar with). I suppose if the market had been crazy about vampires and werewolves at the time, I'd have focused on those. (That boom came later.) But my favorite genre to read is the mystery/thriller, so over the years I've done a lot of business in the thriller market. I really enjoy suspense and true crime, and my true love is crime noir -- so representing more in that area is simply an expression of who I am and what I like.

3. Several writers have told me you are one of the few active literary agents who appears to have embraced the dawn of epublishing with open arms. What are you views on this upstart, but vibrant, form of publication?

It's true. I was self-publishing books of card tricks back in the days when everyone looked askance at "vanity publishers." And I'm smart enough to figure out that technology was clearly moving us toward e-books the way it had moved us toward cell phones (instead of pay phones), GPS devices (instead of maps), and remote controls on televisions (instead of walking across the room to change the channel). It's not just that I believe ebooks are the future -- it's that I believe publishing is in the throes of a complete upheaval. We're seeing new companies start up and old companies decline, and the entire process of selling, marketing, producing, and reading books is changing. Some of those new companies are going to be big; others will disappear by this time next year. I don't know anyone that really has a handle on it -- perhaps it's always difficult to describe the future when you're being carried along by the waves of change. We'll need a bit more time before the industry settles in.


That said, I believe we're in the Golden Age of publishing. There are more people who can read than ever before. There are more words being generated than ever before. There are more opportunities for writers than ever before. We should all be celebrating the fabulous opportunity given to all of us who works with words, instead of bitching and moaning about the loss of more jobs at Random House and the decline of paying magazine jobs. The money will come back -- it will just happen in different ways, rather than in ways it did in the 60's and 70's.


It's funny you'd say this, of course, since I've also been hammered by some people in the industry for "talking bad" about self-publishing. Some folks (people who don't bother with things like "reading all the way to the end" or "listening to those bothersome facts") have criticized me pretty hard for not being the Evangelist For All Self-Published Authors. Sure, I've self-published. I've been successful at it and made money. But I've also been critical of the self-appointed experts who make big promises about authors not needing publishers. Frankly, I think all the "every writer can make a million dollars by self-publishing" messages are utter rot. A few succeed. Most don't. Why? Because if history has proven anything to writers it's that "it is hard to make money at art." So for every William Young, who sells a bazillion copies of The Shack, there are hundreds of other crappy novels that don't make much at all. For every Jon Konrath, who sells a boatload of badly written horror-porn, there are hundreds of wannabe authors who can't understand why their badly written horror-porn isn't making them a fortune. So... yes. I've embraced ebooks. I just don't feel it's the automatic money machine some people seem to.

4. Now if you would, give us an assessment on the health and future prospects of traditional publication. Are the prophets accurate? Is the demise of the classical form of a good book soon to happen? Or do you see traditional publication hanging on for a while but slowly evaporating into nothingness over a long period of time?

I am bullish on publishing. I don't know that it will exist in the same form it does today, but I'm bullish on publishing. People WANT to read, and they want to read good stuff. And, ultimately, it is publishers who know how to provide that for them. All of those free books on Amazon have been loaded to millions of Kindle devices, but sooner or later the people who own the Kindles will start reading those books, realize how much crud they've acquired, and scale back their list to some good authors. It's why I continue to think the major publishers (who have been admittedly late to the party) will recognize the importance of ebooks, put their best marketing and editorial people onto the problems, and begin creating great products. They have the knowledge and skill to do a great job with ebooks, and to reach new markets, so I continue to believe that traditional publishers will wake up, seize control of the market, and do an excellent job of producing and selling digital content. In fact, it's already happening. That doesn't mean all those new ebook publishers will go away (they're going to rule some of the niches, and, from the look of things, they're going to force mass market lines out of business), but it means the traditional publishers are going to have to change and learn to do things in new ways. Again, we're already seeing this happen. That's why some of those huge-selling ebook authors have decided the next step in their careers is to sign with a traditional publisher -- somebody who knows how to sell books to the masses. And those same authors are going to recognize the assistance a good agent can offer -- to help build an author's career. So no, I don't see traditional publishing going away. Announcements of publishing's death are a bit premature.

5. The role of the literary agent, is it changing for the better or for the worse when it comes to dealing both in the epublishing format and with traditional publishing?

I don't put a value judgment on whether it's good or bad, but it's certainly changing. In fact, I'd say my job as an agent is considerably different today than it was 15 years ago when I started. A big chunk of my day now goes to discussions of marketing -- something that happened only occasionally when I started. But the core of what I do -- recognize great writing and offer career guidance to writers -- that remains stable, whether it is with authors doing ebooks at a startup like StoneGate Ink, or doing print books at Simon & Schuster.

6. An old question I'm sure you've been asked a million times before. But I'll ask it anyway----is there a difference between an East Coast Literary Agent and a West Coast Literary Agent? Is it easier or slightly more difficult for an agent based in California to have a book placed in an East Coast publishing house?

Yeah, I've heard this a million times... "How can you be a literary agent if you don't live in the 212?" Well... I've been doing this a long time. I represent some really good people If you look at the projects reported in Publishers Marketplace (admittedly not a perfect venue, since it's all self-reporting, but it's the closest thing we've got to a complete database of publishing deals), I think I've done more deals than any literary agent in the country over the past few years. All while living on the left coast.


Look, the business is still about finding great writers with good stories and strong platforms, then getting someone at a reputable publishing house to see the talent and want to bring the author to market. Are face-to-face meetings important? Sure they are -- it's why I'm in New York on a regular basis. But the fact is, most of what we do these days is really handled by phone or email, and I don't need to be in Manhattan to send an email. Whenever anybody asks me how I survive, I just bring up the number of deals we do... the facts tend to quiet the critics.

7. What is it about the mystery/detective genre that seems so attractive to you? And do you see this genre continue its currently popularity? Or is it going to eventually diminish as time goes by?

Well, the genre is attractive to me for the same reason it appeals to the millions of people who like cop shows and suspense movies -- it's entertaining, it engages the brain in a mystery, and it brings out primal responses in readers (fear, curiosity, the desire for justice, a love of redemption). One can argue that thrillers have been around ever since the caveman sat around the fire pit telling stories about hunting and the attendant dangers. It took on a new art form with Wilkie Collins and Charles Dickens, and continues to be a popular theme with old and young alike. As for the future... I don't have the gift of prophecy. I don't see it fading like westerns have, but instead evolving into new and different directions. Romance, mystery, and religion -- aren't those the three things which mankind will always have an interest in? They all have an element of the unknown, and they all speak to our greatest needs to find love, understand our world, and know God. So yes, I guess I see the genre continuing.

8. How many more years do you see yourself working as both a literary agent and the head of your own agency? Do you see the agency growing in the near future? And finally, have you ever thought about retiring and starting up in a field completely removed from the publishing world?

I love what I do. I love who I work with -- Sandra Bishop has proven to be a great business partner, Amanda Luedeke is an up and coming talent, and Marie Prys and I have worked comfortably together for years. I love books. I love words and the power they bring. We've all been moved emotionally by a song we've heard, but few of us can say our lives were actually changed by music. Many of us love dance, but I don't know any people who would tell you their lives were never the same after they saw a ballet or learned to rhumba. Yet I can point to all sorts of people who would tell you their lives were never the same after they read a book. Words have the power to CHANGE us.


I've always thought it was fascinating that, when the guy who was closest to Jesus wanted to think of a way to sum up what he was like, Saint John referred to him as "the Word." I think that demonstrates the power of the written word. I mean, he could have said Jesus was "the song" or "the dance" or "the painting" or "the symphony." But, given the chance to describe the most important religious force in the history of the world, he said, "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was God."


So yeah, I see myself continuing to do this for a long time. Frankly, I love the authors I represent, and I want to keep working with them. And yes, we're growing. We're about to bring on another agent, and we're always finding new markets we want to get into. (We haven't done anything in the graphic novel or manga realms, and my son, who is 27, is really into those...) We're also bringing on a digital content specialist to help authors who want to self-publish their works. So I see us growing and expanding over the next few years as we find exactly the right people to work with the authors we represent.


As for what else I'd do...No plans to retire. At times I've thought about joining the Anglican priesthood (I'm not kidding), but simply haven't had the time to make that a priority. Of course, if Sports Illustrated ever comes calling, and needs a new guy who appeals to the middle-aged Scottish immigrant population for their annual swimsuit edition, I'm all over it.

Chapter One of A Smitty Novel

Today I am going to share the rough draft of the Smitty novel I am writing.  Tentatively it's called, 'The Ripper.'  But the title doesn't thrill me any . . . so I'm probably going to change it as I approach finishing the novel in the not too near future. Essentially the story revolves around a serial killer who kills women much like the legendary Jack The Ripper killed his victims back in Merry Olde England.  The police are having a terrible time tracking the guy down.  So someone decides to take matters in his own hand and ask a killer (Smitty) to hunt a killer.
What you will read is the rough, rough draft of the first chapter.  Misspellings, boogers, and all.  I thought I would share this because . . . sumbitch!!  I thought this opening chapter kicks the aggregate ass!  But that's my opinion.
Read it and then tell me if it's that good not.
One

            Nerves.             Twisted to the breaking point.  Wound so tight he could barely keep his hands under control.  As he sat in the booth of the small diner and directly across his partner he tried to act calm.  Tried to look normal.  Impossible.  Even when he lit his cigarette it was obvious.  The hand holding the cigarette lighter danced the flame around at the tip of the cigarette like he was beating a drum.  But flipping the old Zippo closed with a loud snap he slid the shaking hand into a pocket and sat back in the booth.  Eyes filled with worry he turned and stared out into the gloom of a foggy night.             Nerves.             Fear.             Knowing he was doing something wrong–knowing that, if caught, it would be the end of his career.  The end of everything.  Twenty years.  Twenty years as a cop.  Flushed down the tubes and forgotten.  If he was caught.  If. . .             "Artie, you all right?  You feeling sick?" He blinked a couple of times, his partner's voice bringing him out of his dull reverie of the night's fog and forcing him to turn and look at the red nosed cop sitting in the booth opposite him.             His partner for the last five years. . . an Irishman by the name of Joe Gallagher, sitting across from him lowered his cup of coffee and looked at him with eyes of concern.  All night long on their shift he had barely spoken three words.  And then the call came in to go out and check on the report of a body lying in the street down in front of Pier 86.  And sure enough it was another victim.  Another butchered woman.  Number five for the maniac the papers had dubbed 'The New Jack the Ripper.'             "I'm . . . fine, Joe.  Fine.  It's just that, well . . . it's the fifth prostitute killed.  The third one on our beat.  Cut to pieces like she was a piece of fine beef fresh from the slaughter house.  Jesus, what a mess.  And what a crowd we had to hold back.  I mean, people everywhere.  Reports and cameramen.  Everywhere!  Down to get a glimpse of the body.  Sick.  Just sick if you ask me."             His partner frowned, set the coffee cup on the table and nodded.  Yeah.  It had been a bloody mess.  Always is when someone is eviscerated.   Just thinking about the gory mess the two of them had stumbled on made him shiver involuntarily.              "Listen, the shift's over.  We can write our reports tomorrow.  Let me drop you off at your house.  Get some rest.  Drink a beer or two.  Try to forget about it."             "You go on home, Joe.  I'm supposed to go over to a friend's house and drink a couple of beers with him.  I'll just call a cab and wait for it here."             Gallagher's brown eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he sat in the booth and looked at his partner.  Artie Jones was a good cop.  A very good cop.  Slightly bald, getting a little paunchy around the middle, always a smile on the man's face.  Yeah, a good cop.  But one who thought too much.  Cared too much.  Maybe . . . maybe tried too hard in trying to make the world a better place.  Not that there was anything wrong in that.  The trying. The caring.  But sometimes it got to you.    Sometimes the meanness of mankind becomes overwhelming.              Sometimes, to be brutally honest, it was best to not care so much and just do the job needed to be done.  Better that than driving yourself into an early grave trying to save the souls of those who didn't want to be saved.             "All right.  But get some rest, Artie.  Jesus, but you look terrible.  I'll see you tomorrow."             Artie nodded, waved a hand, and smiled as his partner slid out of the booth and walked to the diner's entrance.  He turned and watched Joe unlock the door to the black and white patrol car and slide in.  It was almost one in the morning.  Dark.  The street lights glowing a dull orange yellow, filling the wind swept street with an eerie feeling almost palpable.             What if the sergeant found out?  The louie?  What if someone sees him talking to him?    Hell!  Was he even going to meet him tonight?  I mean . . . come on!  He was a cop.  He was supposed to arrest this guy if he ever crossed paths.  And hell, his off hand inquiries–hesitant and awkward–he tried on to a few street bums he knew asking about his guy called Smitty might have fallen on deaf ears.  No one knew who the hell this Smitty was.  He was supposed to be the mob's top hit man.  He was supposed to be invisible.  He wasn't even really known by those who employed him, fer chrissakes!  No two mobsters brought in for questioning ever describe Smitty in the same fashion.  He was tall.  He was short.  He had shaggy brown hair.  He was a blond with a flat top crew cut.  He was heavy built.  He was a slim as a toothpick.              Crazy.  Just crazy!             No one knew what this guy looked like.  All anyone could say for sure was the guy was an absolute merciless killing machine.  He somehow could slip in, silence his victim, and slip out and no one would know until hours later.  And he had connections.  Knew everyone who was anyone to be known on the streets.  That was the deciding factor.  That was the single point for him to get this wild idea.  Ask Smitty for help.  The police department, the entire city, was baffled.  Scared.  Frozen in indecision.  This madman left no traces.  He left no evidence behind.  He left no DNA material behind. It was like . . . like he was a ghost who prayed upon those who practiced the oldest profession in the world.  No one knew why.             So maybe it would take a ghost to find a ghost.  A killer to stop a killer.             A shaking hand ran across his lips as he looked down at his coffee cup.  With the cigarette between his fingers he reached for the cup just as he heard the noise of an approaching car through the plate glass window beside him.  Lifting the cup Artie turned to look outside.             And froze in mid motion.  Eyes almost popping out of his head with a mixture of surprise and horror.             A cab–an old Ford Crown Victory–battered and abused,  sitting parallel to the curb in front of the diner, it's right rear door open.  Waiting.  Waiting for someone to get in.  The clatter of his cup slipping out of his fingers and bouncing on the table top made everyone in the diner turn and look at him.  Blinking a couple of times, color draining from his face, he stared at the taxi for a heartbeat or two and then turned to look at the eight or ten people sitting in the dinner.             They were staring at him.  Faces puzzled. Or bemused.             "Hey, buddy!" the guy behind the diner's long counter said, holding a phone up to one ear and staring at him irritably.  "It's the cabby outside.  He's says the meter's running.  So how about it?  You want him to take you someplace or not?"             Artie Jones stared at the diner's chief cook for a moment in shock and turned his head back to look out the window and at the waiting taxi.  He hadn't called for a taxi.  The story he told his partner about going over to see a friend tonight in a taxi was just that.  A story.  So how . . . how . . . . how . . . ?             "Hey, Mac!  Some time tonight, okay?  I got orders to complete!"             Artie felt himself nodding.  And then moving his hands and his body to slide out of the booth.  He felt himself walking down the length of the diner and out through the entrance into to the hot night.  Like an out of body experience he saw himself walking down the sidewalk toward the open door of the cab and folding himself up and sliding into the back seat.  He saw himself close the cab's rear door–saw the cab accelerated away from the curb rapidly.             Saw it all–experienced it all.  Yet couldn't believe it.  Didn't want to believe it.  It was so . . . so surreal.  So bizarre.             The car accelerated hard down the street and then made a sudden right hand turn.  A block later it turned again sharply–and turned again straight into an alley.  The headlights went off as the car bounced and rolled down through the alley rapidly and came out on the opposite street.  The lights came back on and the car slowed down.             In front of him all he saw as the back of the head and the upper shoulders of a man wearing a cabbie uniform.  Glancing down at the back rest directly in front of him he looked for the small plastic pocket which was supposed to show the cabbie's license and photo.  There was no license.  No photo.  But there were eyes.  Cold black orbs staring at him–reflecting off the rear view mirror whenever a sliver of street light flashed past.             Cold eyes.  Hard eyes.  The eyes of a killer.             "I hear you've been looking for me."             A harsh whisper.  Coming out of the darkness of the front seat.  Unnerving.  Making Artie involuntarily wince.             "Smitty?"             "That's what some people call me, Artie.  But I answer to a number of different names."             He felt a cold chill run down his spine.  He tried to swallow.  Tried a couple of times.  But he was so scared there was nothing to swallow.  He lifted a hand up to his face.  Almost.  But he stopped suddenly when the whisper exploded in the darkness.  Like a scalpel flashing out of the darkness.              "Make sure you keep you hands away from your gun, friend.  Away from any pockets.  Understand?"             Artie hesitated, looked at his hands, and then back up at the rear view mirror and nodded.             "Good.  Now tell me. What does an honest cop like you want to talk to a man like me?"             How was he going to do this?  How was he going to ask for help?  He was a cop, fer chrissakes!  Cops go after the bad guys.  Cops solves the murder cases.  Cops are the ones who are supposed to protect the public from madmen like . . . like this new Jack the Ripper.  Or from the likes like Smitty.             "Well, you see . . . we've . . . we've got a problem.  There's man we're after.  Crazy, insane.  A madman, actually.  He's going around killing women.  Prostitutes.  And we've got nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  He's been killing for the last four months.  And we know about as much now about this guy as we did when we found the first body."             The cab flew down empty streets.  Never staying on one street for more than two blocks.  Swift, hard turns right and left.  Mostly right hand turns.  A few left.  But in general Artie got the feeling they were traveling in one twisted, jagged, clockwise circle.  Somehow he knew that when this conversation was over he would be back at the diner.             "So what is it you want me to do."             It wasn't a question.  It wasn't a statement.  It was decision time.  For Artie.  Say what had to be said, Artie.  Say it firmly and without hesitation.  And let the Angel of Death–as some people whispered this man actually was–decide if he would help or not.             "We've got to take this guy off the streets.  We've got to stop him.  Stop him before he kills again.  So . . . so I'm asking you to help us."             Silence.             Slivers of light exploding in the interior of the cab momentarily as they slid underneath a street light.  Explosions of light.  Followed enveloping, inky darkness.  Surreal.  Down the empty streets the cab flew.  The street walled in on both sides by long rows of old apartment buildings and brand new apartment complexes.  Sitting in the back seat of the cab Artie waited.  Waited for some kind of response to come out of the front seat.  Waited.  And waited.  Each passing second working like a carpenter's file sliding across  raw nerves.             When the dark figure in front answered the man's harsh whisper almost sent Artie screaming out of his seat.  But somehow–somehow–he controlled his urges and tried to react calmly.             "Why would I want to help you, Artie.  You or the police."             He blinked a couple of times.  He opened his mouth to answer.  But nothing came out.  He realized he had no idea why this man would help him.  Why would a killer hunt a killer?  The only thing he could do was shrug his shoulders and shake his head in despair.             "I can't answer that," he admitted and smiling weakly. "I don't even know why I came down here.  Desperation I guess.  If my desk sergeant or my partner found out I was in this cab with you I'd been suspended indefinity.  Maybe even arrested.  Certainly fired.   But something tells me we're not going to find this guy.  Not by our normal methods.  It's like this guy isn't human.  He makes no mistakes.  He disappears into the night.  Leaves nothing behind.  So I thought . . . I thought . . . you might be our best hope.  Our only hope to nab this guy."             Silence.  Again.             The car rocking and swaying as it moved.  The flashing explosions of light.  The shadows of parked cars and SUVs whipping past them.  The rows upon rows of town homes and apartment buildings.  All of that painted in layers upon Artie's hyper active conscience as the figure in front remained silent and drove.             "How do you know I am not this madman?  You know what I do for a living.  That's why you're here, isn't it?  So tell me, why not consider me as a prime suspect?"             He shook his head no.  Silently. Vigorously.  The one thing Artie was sure of was this; the guy known as Smitty wasn't a homicidal maniac.  He didn't kill for some sickly thrill–some perverted pleasure.  Smitty was a professional.  A master at blending in and out of a crowd.  Of taking out his assignment with a cold  efficiency a lot of his fellow police officers grudgingly admired.  And so far . . . so far as he knew . . . this dark eyed man had never killed an innocent victim.  Each of his kills had been someone from out of the crime world.  Someone who deservedly needed to die.             "I know it's not you.  I know this.  These murders don't fit your MO.  They don't make sense.  Your hits always make sense.  You hit someone for money–but your targets are slime balls who need to be put down.  Uh . . no offense, by the way.  About the slime ball thing."             A flicker of a smile flashed across the dark eyed man's thin lips.  But the eyes never blinked.  They kept moving. Watching.  Calculating.             "What do I do with this man if I find him.  Do I kill him?  Do I hand him over to you?"             "I dunno, Smitty.  I dunno," he answered.             Truthfully he didn't know.             If suddenly a street cop came walking into the precinct house with this guy cuffed what would he say?  How could he explain to everyone this miraculous nab when the entire detective division was completely stumped.   How could he explain this to his partner?  Joe would have a thousand questions to ask.  Questions he couldn't possible answer.  Not in a hundred years.  Not in a thousand years.             "So you're asking me to find this guy and take care of him.  You don't necessarily want me to kill him.  But you can't bring him in.  And I can't reveal myself to your bosses.  Interesting.  What we have here, Artie, is a conundrum.  A social intersection of impossibilities.  A most curious dilemma."             It was as if he was a giant balloon filled with helium and a kid came along with a big needle and stuck it in him.  All the energy, all the worry, the fears, the emotions, dissipated out of him and into the night like escaping helium out of the balloon.  Dropping his head in defeat he stared at his hands silently.  Blinking back tears of frustration.             "This is what you're going to do."             The voice.  Not so harsh.  Still a whisper.  But softer.  Almost gentle.             Looking up Artie's eyes flashed to the rear view mirror and saw the black eyes of the killer staring at him.  A flicker of hope burst into his gut.   And he waited.  Waited to hear what Smitty had in mind.             "Tomorrow night at exactly a quarter to midnight you'll leave everything the police have in a folder in the back seat of this cab.  The cab will be parked on the corner of Fourth and Elmore.  In front of a liquor store called Bud's Light.  You know where it's at."             Artie nodded.  He knew the place well.  Been there several times to buy a bottle or two of good wine on the way home from work.             "Everything, Artie.  Forensics.  Reports.  Photos.  Everything.  Even the doodles the detectives scribble on the note pads.  Can you do this for me?"             Yes.  Absolutely.             "And do it by yourself, Artie.  Don't involve your partner in this.  Don't tell anyone else about our little meeting.  Don't make me start thinking this might be some kind of trap.  Just a friendly warning.  If I think you're trying to screw me, Artie, I'll come for you.  And I'll find you.  Understand?"             Gulp.  Yes, he understood.  There would be no one else he'd talk to.  There would be no traps.  Smitty had nothing to worry about in that department.             Silence.  A long stretch of terror filled silence.             And then the screeching of brakes and the car rapidly decelerating to a stop so suddenly he was almost thrown into the front seat.  When his momentum threw him back into his seat he looked up and out of his door side window.  And blinked a couple of times in amazement.  His house.  The small ranch house sat back deep from the street, a carpet of thick green grass between him and the house.  The lights to the house were off.  Except for the front porch light.  The front porch light was always left on.  His wife always left that on for him to see his way to the front door.                  He threw the back door open and started to get out.  But the whisper froze him in his seat.             "Remember what I said, Artie.  About not making me worried.  I know where you live.  I know where your wife works.  I know where you hide the spare key to the house.  I know about the gun you keep under the mattress on your side of the bed.  I know, Artie.  I know everything about you."             He barely had time to slam the back door closed before the cab took off down the street.  Bright red tail lights lit up the night momentarily before disappearing around a street corner, leaving him standing almost in the middle of the street.  He was shivering like a kid straight out of a cold shower.  Shivering uncontrollable.             How the hell did he know about the gun underneath the mattress?  About the spare key?  How . . . . . ?             Jesus.              Jesus.             He was scared.  More scared than he had ever been in his life.  Eyes staring into the void of the empty street in front of him he kept asking himself the same thing.  Over and over.  The same thing.             What the hell have I done?  What the hell have I done?  What the hell have I done?

An Interview With Les Edgerton

Les Edgerton.

Ex-con.  College professor.  Raconteur.  Irreverent.  Damn good writer.

And rapidly becoming a good friend.

Met Les thru the internet social media circles.  Got a note one day from him saying he really enjoyed my writing and included himself as a fan of mine.

Huh?

An established, well respected international writer like Les Edgerton is a fan of mine?  Carumba!  Turns out that we started talking to each other in various mediums---and discovered we are more alike in our writing habits and tastes.  Wow. Now the old man and I (we're about the same age, come to think of it) are working on cementing our friendship even deeper

You need to know that Les is one hard edged, "not going to modify into sweetness the cruel world of crime", kind of writer.  He tells it like he sees it.  The guy is an ex-con.  He knows from where he speaks about the inside ruminations of those who live on the other side of the tracks.  His faction, therefore, is darker than most.  With no frills.  But . . . more than you think . . with a kind of twisted dry sardonic humor to it.

How could I NOT interview this guy?  So here it is.  In living color.  Enjoy.


1.  To say the least, you have lived a colorful life.  Was it a planned colorful life you endured?  Or did it come in fits and spurts?


It was most definitely planned, B.R. When I was five or six I knew I was going to be a writer. My idea of what it took to be a writer then was the "Jack London school of writing," where you had adventures and then wrote about them. My entire life has consisted of doing my level best to have experiences. And then, when I was in my sixties, I read something Flannery O'Connor said where she claimed that if a person has lived in the same small town and in the same house for 18 years, she has all the material she'll ever need as a writer. Now I find out! Would have saved me a lot of trouble if I'd known that years ago…


Gumbo Ya Ya2.  Over the years you've written a number of books covering a surprising wide variety of subjects.  From hairstyling to baseball to crime fiction.  How did this polymath taste in slapping words onto paper come about?


I've just always had a lot of interests. How does one focus on one thing? I can't. And, don't want to. It's hurt me, career-wise, as publishers and agents want their writers to create a "brand" and I have no interest at all in doing that, even though it would benefit me, money-wise. I like a lot of things and I love to write so that's what I do—write about a lot of things. You have to control your own life and not let others do it for you. Especially not for as shallow a reason as "money." Never been a huge goal of mine. If it would have been, I would have sold insurance or whatever. Actually, I did and was very good at it… but bored out of my skull. Walked away from a job that would have paid six figures a year which was good money in the seventies and a year later was homeless in Costa Mesa, sleeping on a garage floor and eating out of a Bob's Big Boy dumpster. Really a cool time and I knew it at the time and look fondly back at it. If I'd stayed selling life insurance and fretting over my yard, I wouldn't remember any of that, I'm pretty sure. Since I was a young boy, I realized that if things went okay, one day I'd end up in the ol' nursing home with a blanket over my lap and all the money in the world wouldn't matter. All I'd really have would be memories. Well, I have tons and tons of super memories. I also knew early on that one can only drive one car at a time and sleep in one bed in one house, so accumulating material things just never made much sense. At least to me.


3.  When did the writing bug first bite you?  And when, in your mind, did you finally come to the conclusion that you were indeed a successful writer?


When I read my first book on my own when I was five, I knew then that I was going to be a writer. Never considered anything else for a single minute. And, I was a successful writer from Day One. In grade school, I'd write these funny put-downs of bullies—teachers, parents and other kids—that got passed around and laughed at. My writing created an emotion in others and the feedback was instantaneous. That's when I knew I was successful. That's what writing is all about—affecting other people emotionally.


4.  We've shared this conversation before; but it seems rather obvious that just about every writer out there wants to write crime fiction. So the question is quite simple; what makes a writer succeed, and fail, in writing this particular genre?
Well, some would say the market decides success and in some ways it does, but not as much to me as perhaps to others. I consider my writing successful when other writers whom I respect tell me my writing was good. If a writer only looks at how many books he's sold, then I feel very sad about that person. He's not a writer,imo—he's a salesman who happens to sell books and not shoes. I have absolutely no ambition to sell a million books if the books are crap. I have acquaintances who do that and good for them, but it's not how I'd define success as a writer. I'd much rather sell 10,000 copies to intelligent people who truly understand and appreciate writing ability. I've had good numbers for book sales in the past and that's fine, but when I get the royalty statement and it's good, while I of course like that, what really trips my trigger is when I read a review of one of my books by someone I respect who understands the book and notes its quality. I can't remember what my last royalty statement was, but I sure remember the day I read reviews by Anthony Neil Smith, Ray Banks, Paul D.


Brazill, Allan Guthrie and several others who praised my work. I can still tell you where I was, what the weather was like, what time of day it was and what I was wearing when I read a review by Luca Veste or Tom Pluck (or you, B.R.!) or any of a number of quality writers. Wish I could name 'em all, but alas, room doesn't allow…


The BitchTo further answer your question—what determines success or no—for myself when I'm reading another writer it's simple. Did he transport me to the world he created? Did I believe that world? Was it interesting and compelling? I admit, I'm a tough sell. I see more than a few "pretenders" out there and I just don't read any more of their work once I sense that in their writing. Here's a "for-instance." If I read a novel and I come across the word "shiv" I'm probably going to put that book down and never return. It's just not a word actual outlaws use. It's a term from fifties' movies and bad pulp fiction. I can't even imagine a guy ever using that word in the joint—he'd get laughed out of the rec room as a newbie to the outlaw game and somebody would probably pop his brown eye. (Doing so by threatening him with a shank, not a "shiv.") This is clearly a guy who got his information from movies and other bad books. I don't expect most crime writers to have experiential experience about the criminal life, but when the "research" is clearly only from reading bad books and watching crappy, melodramatic movies, it doesn't work for me. A writer who creates protagonists who are cops and detectives usually works for verisimilitude—it's pretty easy to do proper research for that side of the law—while often those who try to portray the criminal pov don't have a clue. That said, there are some people who really do understand the criminal mind, including (but not limited to) writers like Elmore Leonard, Joe R. Lansdale, Anthony Neil Smith, Richard Stark (especially Mr. Stark), Ray Banks, Allan Guthrie, a new guy I just discovered—Jake Hinkson, George Pelecanos, Charles Willeford, Ed Lynskey, David Cranmer, Duane Swierczynski, Tom Franklin, Harry Crews, Nigel Bird, David Goodis, Bill Cameron, Don Winslow, Steve Hamilton and a few others I know I'm forgetting (sorry!). These are the guys who create criminal characters I can buy. Especially Richard Stark.


5.  You have a number of novels published.  Why don't you tell us about your latest offering and what will be the next tasty delight your fans will soon enjoy.


My latest release was a story collection titled GUMBO YA-YA, I'm very proud of. Just before that, my noir novel, THE BITCH, came out and I feel that my best book yet published. I've got some more waiting to be published that I think one of them is even better and may even be ground-breaking. We'll see… Last year, I also published two other crime/noir novels—THE PERFECT CRIME and JUST LIKE THAT. I'm working on a new noir thriller called THE FIXER which is about a hit man who makes his hits all look like accidents. Been working on that one about seven years and I think it's going to be a good one…


6.  You now teach at the college level writing courses.  So tell us, can a good writer be trained through, say, an MFA course?  Or are the best of writers born as natural story tellers and are compelled to write?


I have an MFA in Writing from Vermont College and in the interests of truth in writing, have to say I learned very little about writing while there. It wasn't the fault of the school or of my advisors who were all great people and terrific writers. I was already a good writer when I went there—already had four books published with two in the pipeline. What I did gain from my time there was a good reading list and a network that gained me entre to various publications. The biggest thing was it kind of validated me as a writer in my mind and that's important. As far as training good writers via college classes, in a way, yes. There are certainly things a writer can learn in an MFA program—but it really depends on their advisors. There just are no "secrets" to be learned in programs or in workshops or in books—the thing about writing is that the "secrets" are in plain view on the pages of good books. Just look at what affects you in someone's writing and figure out how they did it. It's that simple. Someone did a study years ago, where they took a group of professional writers and looked at their educational backgrounds. They defined "professional" writers by the definition of professional—someone who made their entire living from writing. They discovered that about half had a college B.A. or higher… and half had a high school degree or less. Formal education has little to do with writing success, at least in my mind. I was writing publishable work while in junior high school. In fact, two of the stories in my story collection, MONDAY'S MEAL were written when I was 12 and 13 and the NY Times compared the work to Raymond Carver. I do think the best writers are naturals at it, but I also think a person can learn enough to write marketable books. I don't think any program can train someone to write a book like THE STRANGER. A program can, on the other hand, train a writer to write a book like THE FIRM.


Also, "natural" is perhaps the wrong word. I think one is seen as a "natural" because he writes compelling, interesting stories and I'm not sure if anyone is "born" knowing how to do that. I do think that those considered naturals were avid readers at a very early age and have continued to read constantly all their lives. Those are the people who've taught themselves how to write, simply because they're smarter than the average bear and have read much more than others. This is what makes a "natural" writer, I think. If that person had lived in another culture and didn't learn to read until he or she was twenty, I don't think they'd ever write at a level where people would call them a natural. I don't think such a person could write THE STRANGER, but I'm pretty sure they could eventually write THE FIRM. And, make a lot of money…




7.  In your writing classes (let's get down to the nuts and bolts of the thing) what do you emphasis to your students the three main ingredients which makes for a great novel.  Or do you tackle that concept at all?


Never thought of novels in those terms, B.R., but that's an interesting concept. And, I imagine, a viable one. I have two elements which I consider necessary for successful writing. Be interesting and be clear. Of the two, being interesting is the more important.


To be successful in the market with a novel (not necessarily the same thing as writing a good novel), I do think there are three things that contribute. One, write with a voice that people want to hear. That's usually your own voice that hasn't been ruined by paying too much attention to English classes. You can write the dullest story in the world if you write it with a voice that's compelling. It's like back in high school—we all know the guy who can tell a joke and no one laughs… and then, another guy comes in and tells the same joke and people are crying they're laughing so hard. It's delivery… or voice. Second, write a good story. That's all novels are—stories. Third, write in the current accepted fashion. If you write a novel in the Victorian style, with long setups and loads of backstory in the beginning, you're probably not going to get read. Doubtful you'll even get published, unless you're related to an editor or have incriminating information on them, or you own a press and they'll publish you if you'll publish them… which happens…


There are some other tricks and stratagems. I'd advise including at least five watercooler moments in the book. Same as movies. It's what creates word-of-mouth and, in the final analysis, that's what sells most books.




8.  Your writing career has stretched across several decades and covered a lot of different subjects.  What's out there in the writing world you haven't yet accomplished?  And more importantly, do you think you still have the drive in you to go after those accolades?


I'd love to win some accolades. Or the lottery. I probably have a better chance at the lottery…However, there are some awards I don't much covet, which may surprise you. For instance, I'd love to win an Edgar, but don't much covet a Pulitzer or Nobel Prize. Mostly because those have become very political. If you're a rabid liberal and write a book that blasts conservatives, you've got a shot at those things. That's who's on the committees to select them. Think of the folks Kurt Vonnegut was speaking of when he said, "Literature is in danger of disappearing up its own asshole." Bingo… Besides, those folks haven't gotten the word that "literary" fiction is over. Who reads it unless they have to? Or have some burning desire to impress some academic nimrod with their reading list? A Spinetingler Award means something to me. The Edgar, though, is my Holy Grail. I wish I lived in England or Scotland or Ireland or one of those countries—they have some awards I'd kill to win. Those guys are writing on the edge and are the real deal. They don't play it safe and those are my kind of folks…


B.R. I realize some of my remarks may piss some folks off. Good! The older I get, the more honest I'm willing to be in public. Life's too short to placate people. If one's writing doesn't irritate some folks, it's not much good—same with interviews…


Thanks for having me on, guy!

The Book Reviewer Today

Today's blog I thought would play the role of the book reviewer.  Thought I'd look at some new stuff and some old stuff and throw my two cents into the mix.  God knows I don't read nearly as much as I did in my youth.  Call it old age; call it a lack of interest.  Call it an intense sense of being disappointed at the reading material out there.  I dunno.  Whatever you call it, I don't read nearly as much as I used to because, frankly, I find it hard to find an author who writes well enough to capture--and maintain--my interest.
However, that doesn't mean I've given up the reading habit.  I still crack open a book.  I still look for outstanding writing.  I remain optimistic.
First up on today's review is Daniel Silva's Portrait of a Spy .  Frankly, if you haven't discovered the Gabriel Allon series, where the hell have you been?  Allon is a Mossad (Israeli Intelligence) hit-man.  Silva created a character that you both grow to appreciate . . . and dread . . . whenever the game is afoot.  Allon's specialty is whacking terrorists.  His team of trained agents go all over the world looking for the bad guys and taking them out.  Usually very violently.
What makes the series excellent (there are I think, fourteen Allon novels) is this;  it smacks of real life.  Allon hides himself in Europe posing as a world-renown art restorer.  So you get to dive into the world of rare art AND international intrigue.  There are no fast cars, no incredible gadgets.  But there is some nifty tricks you learn about the spy trade. Really nifty.
Comes highly recommended by me.  I'd give it a 5 nine-millimeter rounds between the eyes for a rating.

Next up is The Bitch by Les Edgerton.  Edgerton (whom I will be interviewing shortly) is one of those writers who takes American crime and doesn't try to paint it in any kind of  nonsensical romantic patina.  The novel is a hard edge look at 'The Bitch' the three-felonies-and-you're-out rule . . meaning you're behind bars for the rest of your life if you get caught.The book is about an ex-con who has make choices.  None which, he wants to make at all.  Crime in all its unvarnished reality.  From a writer who has done a little time himself behind bars.  If you like to read harsh reality, this is the puppy for you.
This comes in as another 5 nine-millimeter rounds in the head rating. (My!  Ain't I the gory one today!!)


Next on the list is an oldie but a goodie.  Tony Hillerman's Coyote Waits .  Hillerman, no longer with us, by the way, wrote about the tribal police on the Navajo reservation down in the four-corners area of New Mexico.  That being said, what you are going to discover is a trip into Navajo mythology and culture.The Navajo looks at the crime of murder with different eyes. Especially the reasons, or motives, why murder takes place at all.  Out in the desert country of New Mexico and Arizona the night holds monsters and dreams which affect us all.  Take for example, the coyote.  In their mythology the coyote is a trickster---sometimes in a humorous fashion---but more times than not, in quite evil formulations.  He is waiting in the dark for the foolish to find him  And when he is found rarely does anything good happen.
Tony Hillerman wrote at least  eighteen novels in this series featuring either/or, or both, his characters Jim Chee and Joe Leaphorn.  Both Navajo reservation sheriff officers.  Make an effort to discover, or re-discover, these novels.  You won't be disappointed.
I give this series not only the 5 nine-millimeter rounds, but the 9 mm Glock as well.  Yes.  They are that good.

There are more oldies out there I'd like to discuss.  Maybe later.  What I would like to find in some new writers to fall in love with.  If you have a recommendation, feel free to offer up their names.  I'll check'em out.

Imagination

Imagination.The 'What If Factor . . .'
An ingredient absolutely critical for a writer.  Pictured here is the new cover for the Fantasy short-story series I want to write featuring a character of mine called Roland of the High Crags.  Roland is a warrior, monk, and wizard.  Living in a world of dark parallel universes connected by a continum called The Netherworld.  Call it the After Life . . . call it an Alternate Dimension.  Call it Hell or Hades, if you want to.  But The Netherworld is where all immortal things exist.  Including concepts like Good and Evil and Magic.  And your Doppelgangers for a myriad of different universes.
Not just the simple Fantasy of formulaic repetition we seem to be stuck in these days in this genre.  What I have in mind is something that could be both highly adventurous and extremely creepy/horrible at the same time.
That's imagination.  Creating a world of complex values and sights and sounds and tastes never before encountered.  Or . . at least . . . rarely encountered.
Yet in so many genres I love this talent seems to be stilted, if not severely curtailed altogether.  It's as if writers today can't . . . or won't . . .allow their imaginations to soar.  To visualize something extraordinary.  Sure, sure . .. we get critics who will claim one author or another's vision as being brilliantly conceived.  But . . .  really?  Have you really read something recently that just fired up and exploded your five senses into a whole no realm of possibilities?
The above image is the creation of Javier and Jesus Carmona .  Two brothers living in and around Madrid, Spain.  Not profession just yet.  But their artist talent is right there with the best of them.  Their visualizations of my words and descriptions are fantastic to experience.  I specifically described to them what I wanted.  We had an interesting back-and-forth discussion over details.  And then the final product.  Marvelous!
I hope I can get them to work on an image I have for another character of mine.  The dark eye, cold hearted assassin named Smitty.  If I can describe specifically the image I have in mind that these two can render in their art . . . the image will be absolutely stunning!  And if it comes into reality, it will be a fabulous cover the continuation of the Call Me Smitty series I recently had going.
Imagination.
Find it. Mold it like clay in your mind.  Don't be afraid to use it in your writing. 

Eh, what the hell.

Okay.  What's next?What do you do when your hopes for a writing career have been seriously rocked by unwanted news?  Tons of effort, hours of work, thousands of words written to make a dream come true.  And then Whammo!!
The bottom drops out and you find yourself in kind of literary free-falling vertigo.
Eh, what the hell. 
 It's not like I haven't been in this position before.  Forty plus years of writing and hoping, submitting and rejecting . . . and then writing and hoping, and submitting and rejecting . . . well, you get the picture.  Forty plus years of that and this situation becomes all too familiar to you.
Since, obviously, I'm not  a 'Sensational New Writing Talent Freshly Discovered!'   I guess I'll just pick myself up, dust off the dirt on my jeans and shirt, slap my dentures back in in the appropriate positions . . . .and write something!
Like I said; What the Hell!?  I'm a writer.  What the hell else am I supposed to do?   I got a day-job (as menial as it is).  I got a roof over my head.  I got a wife, kids, and grand-kids who love me . . . . and put up with me and my dreams of being a  successful in this gig.  I got some friends out there in the writing world I can actually call genuine 'friends.'  What else is needed to keep on dreaming and pushing and hoping and writing?
The imagination is still there.  The urge to write is still there.  And god knows all the characters I've created are still in my head screaming to get out.  So . . . what the hell?
Take for example the thought that hit me in the midst of this last brouhaha.  Why not, in a way, kinda 're-invent' a character of mine who seems to have developed a small (and I laugh at this . . . 'small' doesn't BEGIN to describe those who like this character ) fan base and rewrite the story that started the Smitty series?
The Smitty series started with a story about how an average Joe suddenly becomes a cold blooded killer.  A professional hit-man who, strangely enough, still maintained a sense of justice in his cold heart.  The original story was called 'Call Me Smitty.'  But then this odd little 'crunch' explodes in my head (no, I didn't have a stroke, dammit!)  Why not re-tool 'Call Me Smitty.'  Title it, 'There is No Johnny--Just Call Me Smitty.'
Why not revamp the particulars which caused Johnny to turn into Smitty.  Describe in detail a little more about the two people he loved the most turned on him.  Keep some of the details and settings of the first story in place---but at the same time, change them enough to paint  a more dramatic, darker . . . and definitely meaner . . . Smitty.
So okay.  I'm writing that story as we speak .  But Lo and Behold . . . !
Out of the blue skies come two unexpected queries.  A writer friend of mine wants me to meet with his literary agent.  Another writer-friend of mine (maybe one of the two Smitty fans) wants me to bundle some Smitty stories up and send'em to him . . . . and don't ask any questions just yet!
Hmmm . . . .
Is my luck changing?  Is it going from, "You gotta be kidding me!!"  to "Well, I'll be damn . . . !"  Huh, you got me, brother.  I'm just standing here scratching my very flat head and wondering the same thing.
But one thing seems obviously clear irregardless as to what ultimately comes down the pike.  Networking with others of you ilk works.  People who know people in your craft have a tendency to help you out.  Not everyone, but a few;  and no promises, mind you.  But for every one door of opportunity that closes . . . its crystal clear other doors open.  If you keep can recognize it when they come.
I gotta say, that's kinda nice.  Friends helping friends.  'Hope someday that opportunity to help someone else is given to me.  I owe a debt; I intend to repay.

I've said fairwell to Trestle Press

It's done.

It's over.  I've said my goodbyes.

I've said all along that when solid, incontrovertible proof was given to me that Trestle Press and I needed to part, I would do just exactly that.  I also said that when, and if, we parted company I would let those who follow this blog, and my fellow writers, know up front and immediately that I've left Trestle Press.

And admit that I was wrong and they were right.

That proof came to me today.

Doesn't matter what the proof was.  It was enough to convince me that a change had to be made.  So I've asked Trestle Press to take down everything of mine they've published.  I've scrubbed all references of Trestle Press from this blog site.  I'll soon post this blog on Facebook and Google-Plus and other sites to admit my mistake.

And it tears me up.  Tears me up not because I admit I'm wrong.  Hell, ask my wife;  I'm told on a daily basis I'm wrong.  I don't mind the lumps and the finger-pointing that comes when I've screwed up.  I did the screwing up . . . I'll take the blame.  I'm thick headed enough to take the blame and live with it and survive.

That's Life, buddy.  You may not have had the option of declining to sign up for this gig, but as long as you're alive, you have to take the lumps and the failures along with the successes and joys Life hands out to all of us.

What tears me up is the end of a dream.  A dream not about money and success and fame. (I'm human . . . more or less.  Sure, I'd like to have some of that stuff thrown my way.  But I can live without it if I have to) 

No . . . . .

What tears me up is that I'm involved in seeing a dream someone else so diligently tried to build start to possibly crumble into ruin.  I know about dreams.  About the emotions that goes with the dreams.  About the bitter frustrations.  The sense of loss when that dream almost . . . almost . . . becomes a reality and then is suddenly taken away from you.  The creator of Trestle Press, for all that's been said about him, nevertheless was a man who had a real dream driving him on.  He wanted to create publishing venue that gave an opportunity for dozens of unknown writers to get their material out and into the reading public.

A noble dream, if you ask me.  And one I still appreciate deeply for being offered to me. That bad decisions, defined as intentional or unintentional (your choice)  were made which almost assured the eventual firestorm that erupted, doesn't destroy the dream.

Like I said to a friend of mine earlier, I take my loyalties and my friendships seriously.  I am also (this will come as a shocking surprise, eh?!) stubborn headed, cantankerous, quarrelsome, with a strong potion of 'I-Hate-To-Lose!  There are times I'm hard to live with.  And it's a given that I'm probably not going to go along with majority view of anything.  And I absolutely hate . . . HATE . . . being put in a position of turning my back on a friend and walking away.

I've seen too many good people either destroyed or never given the opportunity to rise up and succeed in life.  I've seen too many people accused of crimes committed out of mistaken assumptions and/or without cause whatsoever and watched their reputations, and in some cases their lives, destroyed in the process. 

And I live every day with the guilt of being one of those who did not lift a hand to try and save them.  Of all the wrongs that I have done . . . this is the one bitter pill hardest to swallow.  And remember.

In good conscience I had to separate my relationship with Trestle Press.  Had to.  I'm not happy about it.  I'm not happy with myself.  I worry that a great wrong has been committed.  Committed unnecessarily.

I guess we'll have to wait and see . . .