B.R. Stateham's Blog, page 6

'Retribution' to be finished soon. Promise.

Okay . . . I know;  I've been writing the first Smitty novel, (the full length 'No shit, Maynard!') novel now for about a year.  Off and on.  Stops and Starts.  A page here. . . a paragraph there.
But I'm gonna finish it sometime before the end of Summer.  No . . . really, dammit!  No kidding!  Sometime before Summer!

The biggest problem is how to write an action novel that's over 200 pages in length.  Yeah, we ALL know and love Jason Bourne and others of his ilk . . . and they're in stories 700 pages and longer.  But Good Golly, Gabby.  Writing a character like Smitty for 700 pages or more?!  You gotta be kidding me.

Still . . . I'm pushing for 300 pages.  Lots of action; a genuine plot . . . believable characters.  The works.  And Smitty at his nastiest.  So I thought I'd give you chapter one (again.  I think I've done this some time back), just to give you a taste of what's coming.  Actually, blowing my own horn here, I think it's one of the best openings for a novel . . . EVER!  But that's just me puffing out hot wind.  Take it for what its worth.  So here goes.  Enjoy.



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 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.  Ten years.  Ten 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 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 surreal, almost rasping 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 the task force lieutenant found out I was in this cab with you I’d been suspended indefinitely.  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.             “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?

A Smitty Movie

Okay, I'll confess.  Several people have told that 'Smitty,' my would be--ever lovable, dark eyed assassin who has a streak of Puritan honest to him--would make wonderful fodder for an action adventure movie.

I agree.  But the problem is . . . how do you write a fracken movie?

Sure, I bought some books, looked at some 'how-to' videos.  I've got a germ of an idea on how it should be done.  Apparently the basic component is to remember that you are writing for a VISUAL medium . . . so you're basically giving directions at the cameraman on what they should be seeing in the camera lenses.  Yet. . . not writing n so much detail the movie director isn't allowed to use HIS imagination to fill out each scene with his own imagination.

And then there's the problem of the flow of the movie; meaning the flow from one scene to another has to make sense, and shouldn't have inexplicable 'breaks' between scenes which don't make sense.  

And then there's this thing about writing a 'spec' script versus a 'shooting' script.

So . . . how the hell do you write a movie script?

Apparently the only way to learn is to begin.  Write the damn thing, the proverbial first draft, and see where it takes you.  Okay . . . okay . . . okay.  I'm doing that.  Writing the damn thing.  I thought I might share with you the introductory sequence. . . the one where the main character (Smitty) and the main conundrum are introduced.

Tell me what you think.


FADE IN: Late afternoon with light rain.

EXT. SHOT--A busy city street filled with traffic shrouded in a fog-like downpour.          CUT TO: Black CTS Cadillac moving over rain filled streets. The car is weaving expertly in and out of slow moving traffic.
     CUT TO: A second view, the Caddy's tail lights, lighting up the early evening light as it shows a right turn signal.    
INT. SHOT: Car. Wind shield wipers sweeping back forth a windshield being pelted by a study rain.  Heavy city   traffic.  The sound of the wipers sweeping back and forth across the windshield is noticeable.
     CUT TO: Hands, wearing black leather gloves, gripping the     steering the leather steering wheel. One hand moves     from the wheel and punches the ON button on the car's radio. Softly over the radio we hear the music of Depeche Mode's A Pain That I'm Used To.
     Cut To: Interior of the car.  Just a slice of the driver's    dark eyes moving back and forth from side to side as he drives.  But his eyes keeps returning to the boxy   from of a yellow cab three or four car lengths in      front of his Caddy.

EXT. SHOT: Same rain filled heavy traffic. Black Caddy      keeps following the yellow taxi four car lengths     behind it through heavy traffic. In the back seat of     the taxi we see the little girl (a 10 or 11 year     old girl) turning her head back and forth to stare     at the city's tall buildings.  She looks excited.     Occasionally she points to something and leans toward     her father to say something.
     Eventually the cabby's tail lights flash brightly     in the rain as it stops in front of a line of      parked cars sitting in front of a tall apartment     building.
          CUT TO: The dark eyes of the driver turns to his left     and sees a man holding an umbrella in one hand and the     hand of a small girl in the other.  The man is trying     to hold the umbrella over the small girl as they hurry through the rain down the deserted sidewalk to the      entrance apartment building.

     INT. SHOT: The dark eyed man sitting behind the     steering wheel of the Caddy.  As he watches the cabby     come to a halt and the father and daughter get out     of the cab, dark eyes wrinkle up in a frown.

FLASHBACK:
     FADE IN: Mid Day. Filled with sunshine. Somewhere    downtown.
     INT. SHOT--An upscale bar:

CUT TO: A booth sitting in front of a large plate glass   window.  Outside the pub the city sidewalk is filled   with rapidly moving pedestrians.  City traffic on the     streets is moving stop and go action.  Sitting at the table is a dressed in all black.  He looks nervous.       Agitated.  In front sitting on the booth's table are three empty glasses.  A fourth is sitting by his hands.  Hands that are fidgeting nervously.

CUT TO: Same bar. Different angel. A man is sitting       alone        in a booth. In front of him is a large piece of       pie and cup of coffee. He's dressed casual sport      coat, solid color shirt with no tie.  We see his      hands, arms, upper torso, and the lower portion of       his jaw but nothing more.  His booth is beside a       large plate glass window that looks out onto the same       busy street. He casually eats his pie slowly,       occasionally turning his head to glance out at       the passing pedestrians.
      As the fork with the last piece of pie rises up      to his face, the arm's motion stops at the mid-      way point when the form of a man in dark       clothing slips past the window.  We SEE the       lower portion of the man's head half turn to       glance at the passing stranger.
      When the dark from of the passer-by disappears      the unseen man finishes his last piece of pie.      reaches in his sport coat and pulls out a wallet.      He throws a twenty dollar bill onto the table      beside his coffee cup and slips out of his booth.

CUT TO:  The bar's entrance door opening and a compact,      trim man dressed in a tailored suit enters the premises.  There is a suggestion of a predator, of      coiled and ready menace ready to explode, in the man's physical form.  He sees the agitated man sitting in a      booth and makes his way to him.
     Just as he turns to head toward the booth a figure,     face UNSEEN, tries to step past the man standing     in front of the entrance. The two accidentally     collide. There's an awkward dance as each man tries     not to the touch the other. We HEAR an "Excuse me,"     coming from the man trying to depart just before     the man slips out of the entrance and disappears     into the pedestrian traffic.
     The man who just entered, still standing in front     of the entrance, pauses for a moment and turns     his head back to look at the figure disappearing     behind him before looking back at the agitated     figure sitting in the booth.     

Danny(noticing dark man approachinggrinning sheepishly. Still very agitated.)                   Smitty.  You got my note.    Good . . .good.     I'm glad you came.  Really.     I mean . . . really glad you came.

Smitty(Sliding into the booth, eyes on Danny.)
     It sounded urgent.  What's on your mind,     Danny?

The pub's noise is not loud but is noticeable.  People are moving about.  Voices, some angry. . . some laughing, punctuate above the usual drone occasionally. Danny visiblyjumps nervously whenever anyone near his booth stands up and walks away.  Or when someone suddenly shouts unexpectedly.

Danny(hands rolling over and over nervously andconstantly jerking his head to look atcomplete strangers suspiciously.)

     Smitty, I got no other way to do this.  No one     I know who'll help me.  All I got is you . . .     and I don't know if you'll help or not.  But I     gotta do something.  If I don't they're gonna     kill'em. Both of'em. As sure as I sitting     here talking to you, if I don't do something to     stop it, both of'em are going to be dead by     tonight.  So please...please . . .help me.








Smitty(Calm, quiet; centered.  But observing Danny closely.)

     Who is going to die?

Danny(leaning over the table to hissout the reply)
     My brother, Smitty.  My brother and     my niece!  God knows I've been a      terrible brother. I'm the one that's     the criminal in the family.  But Robert's     not!  He and my niece are just ordinary     people.  They've done nothing wrong.       But . . . but the word is out.  There's     a contract out on their lives.  It's     supposed to happen sometime tonight.       Smitty . . . Smitty!  I gotta do something.     I can't sit back and let the only two      people who care about me get snuffed     out'cause of something I must'uv done to                  someone. Please . . . please help me      Smitty.  Please!             
Smitty's face is unreadable.  He turns his head to glance out the plate glass window.  Turns his head again and watches someone get up off a bar stool and head for the pub's exit.  He then looks at Danny sitting across from him and nods his head slightly.

Smitty
     Okay, Danny.  I'll see what I can do.     But before I do anything, you've got      to tell me everything.  How did you hear     about this?  What does your brother do     for a living?  Where does he live?       Everything, Danny.  Starting right now.

Danny nods eagerly, flashing a relieved grin across his lips. He glances at the crowd standing at the bar for a second and then turns back to Smitty.  He leans across the booth's table and begins whispering eagerly.

FADE OUT.

Imagery and Intimacy

Turner HahnLet me see if I can explain clearly these two concepts.  Imagery and Intimacy.  Been thinking about these two words for about a week now.  The train of thoughts drift down this semi-lit pathway concerning the writing process.  How . . . and when . . . does the writer grab the reader's attention and takes command of it?

Almost every writer, and almost every expert you hear speaking at a writer's convention, makes the declarative statement that the writer must capture the reader's interest in the first few pages in the opening chapter.  Many of these same writers will admit it's not the first few pages . . . but the first four or five paragraphs of the first page which determines whether a reader decides to read on, or walk away and go find a McDonald's for a coffee and some fries.

Okay.  I agree with that.  But how do you spring the trap and capture a reader whose just casually flipping through the pages of a novel he's absent mindedly  looking at?

Imagery and intimacy.

The imagery idea is obvious.  Verbal portraits.  Building, through words, a mental image so clear and visual . . . yet  vague enough to allow each reader to fill out the details with their own images.  For me, writing any novel, I open with a vivid image.  Especially the Turner Hahn/Frank Morales police-procedurals.  The opening scene is a crime scene.  A murder has taken place.  Turner and Frank have been called in to begin the investigation.  Vivid imagery from the get-go.  I'm banking on the idea any potential reader is caught up immediately in the beginning of the investigation.

But here is where imagery needs intimacy. Not just any old word suffices in making that image of yours to come alive.  Instead of trying to explain it, let me over an example.

The blood pooled into the inexpensive carpet and dried into a dark stain.

The crimson smear of dried blood now looked like a hardened veneer
  pressed deeply into the cheap carpet.

Of the two sentences, which do you prefer in creating that verbal image?  Image-making is not only describing the scene;  it is using the right words to describe the scene.  

I leave you with this further example.  The opening sequence from the Turner Hahn/Frank Morales novel. A Taste of Old Revenge.  (Go sailing down the right column. You'll find it there).  Read it and see if it grips you viscerally with a number of different emotions.


ONE                                    A stale breeze played through the dead man’s hair.                         An unwanted breeze. 
            A breeze filled with malaise.                          The old man was slumped across the open cavity of an accounts ledger, his face squashedFrank Moralesbetween the pages of a thick accounting book.  The body looked remarkably like a piece of trash carelessly tossed onto an old kitchen table.  Or maybe like a discarded, broken doll long forgotten by the one who had once loved it. As I bent down for a closer inspection I could see a clearly defined hole in the back of the old man's hairless cranium.  There was remarkably little blood.  What little blood had seeped out had created a tiny rivulet down the man’s neck and formed a dark puddle about the size of a man’s palm on the brown pages of the accounting book.  The blood was not fresh.            Inspecting the wound I got the impression of precision.  A surgeon’s frugality of effort.  Or a craftsman’s sure touch in a grisly occupation.  Standing up and frowning, another impression occurred to me.            Premeditation.  Coldly calculated and flawlessly executed.
            And who said a murder had to be messy?

Addendum to that bad taste: Marketing

Okay, ready to get depressed?  Especially if you're a struggling writer like so many of us are.  And yes . . .  that includes me.  In fact, I may be leading the pack.  Well, here goes . . .

Ebooks.  The raw numbers.  A couple of years ago the total number of ebooks being published, PER DAY, averaged out to the tune of about 2,230 books. PER DAY . . . or roughly about 60,000-plus PER MONTH!!

That was two years ago, Maynard.  I guarantee you the numbers have increased.  Exponentially.

No frackin' wonder, most of us get lost in the shuffle and are never heard from again.  I mean, think about it; how the hell do you compete as an individual with those types of numbers confronting you everyday?  But even more amazingly is this question . . . how the hell do writers, numerous writers we all can point to, hit the ebook market and apparently LEAP into the Top 10 ranks with seemingly little or no effort?  Writers that, in the deepest recesses of your heart, you KNOW you are better than they are when it comes to putting together a great story.

How?  How do they do it?

Good question, Quasimodo.  And I haven't a clue on how to explain it.  Except, maybe . . . sheer stupid luck.  Just being in the right place, at the right time, with the right product.

As you know the last full week or more I've been delving into the art/science/voodoo magic of ebook marketing.  Almost every venue I walked into mentioned, almost at the very beginning, to offer your ebook for free over a limited time frame.  So I tried it.  THERE ARE NO INNOCENTS (go to the right side, top of the column, to see the ebook offering)  started out 5 days ago with a ZERO ranking.  Zippo.  Nada.  Nothing.  It's been out for a little over a month and no movement whatsoever with it.  I chose that one to try the free ebook move thru it's offering on Amazon.

It goes up as a free offering.  For five days.  On day two the ratings hit the 5,000 mark and it has a ranking of #23 in a sub-sub-sub genre in the mystery section.  It stays either #23 or #25 for the next three days.  

At the end of the five days the free ebook offering is over and it goes back into the "Pay up brother, or else!" pile.  The ratings and the ranking plunges waaaaaaaaaay down.  Still, it maintains a rating and a ranking.  For that I am happy.  But I'm not looking to getting rich soon.  Or ever, for that matter.

I suppose the more liquid cash you have to shell out to ebook marketers gives you a better chance of pushing your little baby boy more toward the front of the line.  All you have to do is fork over your hard won dough.  If you have it.  Which I don't.

You have to ask yourself, "Are you in it for the money?"  And the answer is HELL YES you are!  Maybe not in it to get rich . . . but you'd like to see SOME compensation for all that hard effort you put in writing the damn thing.

Good luck, buddy.  I hope you are better at it than I've been.

That Bad Taste in Your Mouth: Marketing

Writers have to write.  And as we all know, it's a messy affair.  Actually putting words down on paper or on the screen.  Plotting.  Filling in the gaps.  Creating characters.  Killing characters.  From beginning to end.  The whole works, buddy.  The Full Monty!

Can make a sane person go stark freakin crazy trying to get it done.  And add in a mandatory deadline . . . and Holy Jesus Fracking Mary!  Are you kidding me?!

So . . . for an indie writer.  What about the marketing plan you've got to come up with?  I mean, come on.  You gotta have one.  There's a sea of ebooks being published on an hourly basis.  An entire freakin OCEAN of ebooks becoming available every freakin minute . . . how the hell do you rise above this gooey muck and get your ebook looked at?

Marketing.  Coming up with a plan to bitch-slap a potential reader right between the eyes with your glowing, better-than-sex!, ya gotta read this. . . I mean it . . . new ebook of yours.

What tools do you use to rise above the ebook cacophony which surrounds you?

Or do you?  Market, that is.

Came back from a writer's conference the other day.  Two days of listening to fellow writers say essentially the same things I've heard over and over and over and over.  Years of hearing the same shit.  Heard it so often I can recite it in my sleep.  But one writer, a young chic (why does it ALWAYS have to be a young chic who sells BILLIONS of ebooks at a time?!) did get me to thinking.  She actually said something that made sense; or at least, put a new spin on an old problem.

Go to the column on the right.  For a while
this is a free read.How do you market your ebook?  Do you look at your creation as a book . . . or as a product?  A product;  hmmm . . .  After the writing an publishing, does it become something like a box of rubber bands to sell?  Or maybe a washing machine?  Or a used car?  A commodity . . . a THING . . . that any small business owner has to market if they want to sell their 'stuff' and become a success.

The writer as a small business owner.

Her central idea was to assign or give a potential reader who gave you a one star review with some kind of compensation package for their bad experience.  Just like any business owner will take back a defective gizmo and try to satisfy a customer with some other product of theirs.  But more than that, she emphasized the need a writer has to slap on their noggin the mental cap of becoming a small business owner of their own whenever the writing process came to an end.

Makes sense to me, Maynard.  Put me down as a convert.

So now comes the real test.  How much are you willing to shell out to various and sundry third parties who make the claim they shove your ebook through the thick muck and make it a No. 1 Best Seller!!

I dunno, pardner.  I really don't.  But I'm heading down that back road now and finding out.  Wish me luck.

Fixing a problem

So . . . how to fix a problem?  The Decimus Julius Virilis novel (As the Emperor Slept) apparently has a problem.  Or problems.  It starts too slow.  And, apparently, the 'motivation' for Decimus to investigate a serious of vicious political-tainted homicides, is questionable.

So how do you fix a set of problems like this without going through a massive rewrite?  You keep everything intact and just add a 'starter button' at the beginning.  One that's guaranteed to grab the reader's attention and get the ball rolling.

(By the way, dig the rough draft for the book covers?  Back cover, spine, and front cover--just the rough drafts, mind you.  But still . . . )

So I thought I'd share a few of the opening pages in an effort to see what you think of the 'starter' idea.  Whatta think?

One            The crowd was in a festive mood.  Today's races in the Hippodrome held the promise of being quite exciting.  Phillipus The Greek, the number one driver of the Reds, would be racing against his fellow countryman, Titus Magnus, the Green's best driver, in the fourth race of the day.  It promised to be a hard fought battle.  Neither Phillipus nor Titus could tolerate the other.  Both had promised bloody mayhem if one saw the other ever again in a race they participated in.            The crowd, sensing the action soon to come, milled about in front of the gigantic stone structure of the racing track waiting to get in while food vendors, dozens of them, barked their wares as they wove in out of the growing entanglement of humanity.  The aromas of a dozen different meats and even more delicious looking pastries wafted through the clear Roman air seductively.  Wine vendors especially were doing a brisk business selling their watered down blends today.  But the crowd seemed docile enough.  Perhaps it had something to do with a large contingent of purple clad soldiers of the Praetorian Guards moving quietly through the crowd in groups of two, eyeing the crowd and looking formidable in the process.            Apparently the rumor was true.  Caesar was coming to observe the races from his color canopied box.  It was said the old man had a passion for the sport.  Whenever he graced his presence at such a sporting event the presence of his newly created Praetorian Guards were obvious and intentional.  As the old saying went, Better to nip trouble in the bud than to quell a full fledged riot.            Caesar was a master at finding trouble and nipping it in the bud long before it became a problem for him.            Standing to one side of the main mass of crowd were three men quietly eating some Germanic delicacy of sour kraut and pork.  It smelled awful.  But the way the three were intent on consuming every possible morsel of it belied its pungent odor.              Two of the men were dressed in the plain, functional clothes of a Roman freeman.  Hard looking men.  Tanned and weather beaten.  Reminding onlookers of dried strips of leather that had, over the years, endured much and survived all.  The third stood between the two dressed in an off white toga which had a fine purple hem, distinct but subdued, prominently displayed in the cloth.  A patrician.  A Roman nobleman.  An older man with a high sloping forehead, a receding hairline, and dark, piercing brown eyes.            A soldier.  Unquestionably.  And a veteran.            He had the commanding presence of a Roman officer.  It was obvious.  Especially for a Roman.  Almost every male milling about in the crowd had, at one time or the other, served his time as a legionnaire.  The Dalmatian revolts of 8 A.D. were not that long ago. Prior to that was the revolt in the forest of Germany to quell.  And before that . . . not that long ago . . . were the wars fought against fellow Romans.  The long wars Caesar fought to subdue the radical Marcus Antonius and his fabled mistress, Cleopatra.             Yes, this middle aged patrician was a Roman officer.  One who saw action and knew hardships.  One who knew how to command men and expect to be obeyed.  Dressed in civilian clothes he was now.  But that meant little.  For this kind of man, a soldier was a soldier.  There was no other way of life.            "You are sure we are being followed, Gnaeus?"            The patrician's voice was soft but filled with a resonating quality of quiet authority and confidence.  Soothing to one's ear for now.  But promising a harsh reality if aroused to anger.            The smaller of the three man nodded gently, a hand coming up to form a gesture or two toward the patrician in the process.  Both patrician and the other freeman watched the little man's hand and nodded as if they knew exactly what the man was silently saying to them.            "I did not see him.  Describe him quickly."            More hand gestures.            A small man.  My size.  With curly blond hair and a dirty face. He was dressed like a Greek peasant.  He kept moving through the crowd some distance from us.  First he would be in front of us.  And then to our rear.  But always close enough to observe us, tribune.  I last saw him standing to our left. Over by the fountain.            "Humph," grunted the taller of the two freeman.  A dark complexion figure from the deserts of perhaps Libyaor Morocco. "Your old friend,  Menelaus, coming back to haunt us again, tribune?"            The patrician's dark eyes looked into the face of his second companion for a moment or two thoughtfully before, finally, shaking his head.            "Menelaus is an old, old man by now.  Too old and too sick to have any desire to seek revenge.  Besides, there are no better spies and assassins than a Greek.  Anyone could have hired this creature to keep us in view.  Until we have more information it is useless for us to conjecture over."            The small man's hands flew into action again.            Our orders, tribune.  Do we capture this man alive?  Or do we quietly dispatch him to his just rewards?            The patrician smiled.  A wicked, sinfully cruel smile of a man who knew how to hunt.  And hunt not just any query.  But hunt the ultimate prey.            "We spread out.  Each of us will stay within sight of the other.  One of you will sit in the stands above me.  The other to one side.  If this Greek spy is seen, rub your nose with the index finger of your right hand as a sign.  If he has accomplices in the crowd working with him, the signal will be the index finger of your left hand. We will encircle him and try to catch him. If he sees us and flees, perhaps we can follow him and see where he leads us."            Both freeman nodded.  And disappeared into the growing crowd as if they had been nothing more than smoke from a burning vizier blowing away in the wind.  The tribune's smile widened minutely on his thin lips. It was like old times.  Working the streets again in a foreign city playing the spy. A spy hunting a spy.  It was an exciting game.  A deadly game.  One that he so much enjoyed and sorely missed.            The crowd began moving.  Above, high on the walls of the stadium, trumpeters were telling the crowd the races were soon to begin.  Making his presence conspicuous, nevertheless his eyes roamed the crowd casually yet alertly.  He wanted visual contact with this talented blond haired spy.  But as he and the crowd filed into the Hippodrome he saw no one that fit Gnaeus' description.  He was not surprised.  If this man was as good as Gnaeus suggested he doubted he would get much, if any, of a glimpse.  Yet he remained vigilant.  There was a question which yet remained to be answered.  Was this spy here to just keep watch on him?  Or was he here to assassinate him?            An assassination attempt made sense.  He had enemies.  Many enemies.  One did not serve in the legions as long as he had in various roles and not make enemies.  Especially if one considered the many special 'detached duties' assignments he had been given over the years.  Spying on allies as well as enemies were some of the special assignments.  Others were more deadly.  Far more deadly.  And secretive.  Not the kind one bragged about in the open.  Not if one wanted to live quietly in retirement in Rome for their remaining years unmolested.            But if the Greek was spying, keeping tabs on his whereabouts, then a whole new set of questions came to mind.  Who?  Why?  Why take the trouble to spy on an old soldier who had recently retired from the army and was, for all practical purpose, unemployed and uninvolved.  He led a quiet life.  He rarely accepted invitations to social gatherings.   He kept himself out of sight and out of mind from those in Rome who still wielded power.  With the reputation he had it was better for him to remain sight unseen for as long as possible.            But if Gnaeus was right, and he was seldom wrong in these matters, someone had taken interest in him.  That did not bode well for his long term safety or quality of life while here in the city.  It would be best to find out whom, and for what reason, this new found interest had been generated over him.            He appeared to be interested in the races.  The first two races pitted some of the up and coming chariot drives of each of the six more renown racing associations in four and six chariot sprints.  Teams draped in the colors of their various racing teams paraded around the long, narrow track below before each race, giving time for the crowds to place bets their bets.  He made it a show of betting on the Reds in every race.  Each time he laid a wager he would stand up from his seat and lay the wager.  Each time he stood his eyes played across the crowd around him.            Twice he thought he saw just the suggestion of blond hair in the crowd.  Never a face. Just the movement of a body and blond hair submerging deep into the standing crowd and disappearing from view.  A casual glance toward Gnaeus found his old companion in the wars eyeing the crowd but seeing nothing.  On one wager he stood up and turned to face the crowd behind him.  Three rows up sitting in the crowd directly behind him was the long, darkly tanned face of Hakim, his other companion.  He too made no gesture indicating anything amiss had been observed.            Below in the dirt young drivers were driving their chariots recklessly in an effort to make a reputation.  As would be expected thunderous crashes and splintering wood came all too often.  With each mishap the crowd would leap to their feet and roar in delight.  When they did he felt more than saw bodies moving through the crowd.  Bodies inching closer and closer to him in a patient stalking of predator toward prey.  When the attack came, not unsurprisingly, it came from a totally unexpected direction.            There was, below, the resounding collision of three teams of horses and chariots crashing into each other.  Horses screamed in terror.  Splinters and chunks of various chariots flew in the air.  Bodies of drivers, thrown from their chariots, hurled through the air before tumbling across the stadium's thick sand.  The crowd went wild.   Everyone came to their feet.  For several long seconds the crowd roared and cheered and booed all at the same time.  And then, to his right, quite unexpectedly, a fight broke out between partisan groups sitting too close together for comfort.  Four burly looking men dressed in the colors of the Greens began pushing around five men dressed in blue.  Fists began flying.  The fight pulled in additional participants.  Pandemonium broke out in the stands.            The crowd was packed in tight in the seats around him.  As he watched the fight to his right grow in intensity, followed by loud cheers and jeers from those surrounding the spectacle near him, behind him he felt bodies moving suddenly to one side in an unnatural fashion.  Someone was pushing through the crowd behind him.  Half turning, he caught the glimpse of blond hair directly behind.  More importantly he glimpsed the long narrow iron blade of a dagger held low and partially covered by a cheap tunic appear beside the assassin's waist.  It flashed forward with astonishing speed straight for his lower back.  A deep wound to his liver would be fatal.  He had to move!            He used his right arm and swept around him in a swift, hard move.  His forearm caught the assassin's knife hand at the wrist and knocked the deadly blade to one side.  Rotating around his left hand came up and reached for the assassin's shoulder while his right arm moved, allowing him to grip the man's right forearm firmly with an iron grip.  But the assassin was good.  He twisted his shoulder away from the tribune's attempt to grab it and used a foot to kick hard at the tribune's right leg.  The assassin's foot caught the tribune just above his right knee with a powerful blow.            The pain was excruciating.  His hand fell away from the assassin's knife hand.  He staggered backward and bumped into someone directly behind him.  Angrily the man yelled out something unintelligible and shoved the tribune off him.  The violent push helped the tribune to regain his footing.  But all for naught.  The assassin was gone.  Like the ghost he was he had slipped somehow deep into the sea of faces and disappeared altogether.            When the brawl in the stands was finally subdued after a squad of Praetorian Guards descended onto the menagerie of fisticuffs with bludgeons and iron bars the crowd quickly settled back into their seats.  But the tribune, his right leg throbbing in pain, slowly withdrew from his seat.  As he ascending the steps to the cause walk he was joined by Gnaeus and Hakim.  Neither had seen a thing.  To their dismay they had not even seen the attack on the tribune.            The long walk back to the tribune's small house was a trek of pain filled with grim silence.
            

Roland of the High Crags.Okay, okay; I know. ...

Roland of the High Crags.

Okay, okay;  I know.  I've ranted and raved and written a ton of shit about this dive off the deep end into the Fantasy side of the pool.  But I can't help myself.  Roland is like one of my children.  He's complex, deep, a born killer . . . yet likable. A hero in a world filled with villainy.

He's a warrior-monk for chrissakes!  Trained in the martial arts since a child.  Unsurpassed in his skills in handling sword, lance, or bow.  Ah . . . but to top it off, he has that gift 'in the blood.' He has the gift of magic.  He's a trained wizard in the Bretan Way; that version of Magic which allows him to control the almost uncontrollable powers of the Netherworld.

The Netherworld is the supernatural.  It is the afterlife where all souls go to reside after leaving this plane of existence.  The soul naturally drifts into the Netherworld.  It is a vast river; a place which pulses with infinite power.  It is the abyss.  Madness resides in the Netherworld.  All the forms of madness a sentient mind can acquire.

It is the home of both Life and Death.  The home of the Past and the Future and the Present.  Magic, in all its forms, resides in the Netherworld.  Only those who are touched in the blood can tap into this power and mold it and use it in whatever shape and form one wishes.  Consciously being aware, however, that if one using Netherworld Magic too much, one eventually goes mad with insanity in the process.

So I developed this fantasy series of complex, dark, contemplative novels which invites the reader into a fantastic world of adventure and intrigue.  Or . . . at least . . . I thought I did.  As typical with most of my writing, I could not find one Sci-Fi/Fantasy publisher intrigued enough to take it on.  Bummer.  It meant it the series would not get it heaved over the pile of other fantasy bullshit and get it discovered by the reading public.  So I had to self publish.

Which meant, of course, Roland was swimming in an vast uncharted ocean of other fantasy novels similar in scope and range.  The end result being that damn few of anyone has discovered Roland.  Even though those who did turned around and wrote some glowing reviews for it.

So my conundrum. My perpetual problem.  I can't let go.  Roland needs to be read.  His adventures needs to be followed.  He needs to be discovered.  But how?  How do I go about this without selling off my house, my car, my kids, and my grand kids in an effort to find the finances to push Roland out into the Land of Discovery?

I dunno. All I can do is maybe create a set of different artwork for the covers and try it again.  Revamp and expand Book One of the series along with the new artwork. Shake the trees in the few social web sites I swim in letting everyone know that he's out there waiting to be discovered.

And hope.  Always hope for the impossible to happen.

Jack Reacher is back

Yes.

He's back.  Jack Reacher.  That 6'5 monster of a man created out of the mind of Lee Child, is back with a new novel entitled, Make Me.  I confess; I've been waiting impatiently for this book to land in a bookstore.  Reacher, the character, is a powerful addiction that is hard to let go.  Once you meet him, you can't forget him.  So that causes you to go out and read all the other Jack Reacher novels.  With this newest one, that'll be 20 novels, thank you very much.

An ex-army officer, a top notch investigator in a special unit he led in the Army's military police, Reacher is that kind of guy whom you think the word 'primeval' fits perfectly for a descriptor.  The guy is a monster physically.  And very, very good at figuring out how to contain the violence a violent world likes to spring onto the unsuspecting.

Most of the novels have Reacher out of the Army and just thumbing his way across America . . . and getting into trouble . . . without any kind of anchoring device to tie him down with responsibilities.  

Interesting.  And definitely different as far as story plotting goes.  Never being tied down to one spot means that anything for a situation can happen.  And usually does.

(The two covers you see are the same novel.  One is the European cover.  The other is the American cover.  I'm thinking the one on the right is the American one.  Technically, the novel is not supposed to come out in the US until around the 18th of September.  But obviously you get a copy of it now.)

Lee Child, the creator of Reacher, is an interesting character study himself.  An Englishman who, for some reason, creates an American army officer for a character, writes in the same way many writers, including myself, do.  He just starts writing.  No outlining.  No plot in mind.  Just sits down and goes. Everything about the plot is worked out as he goes along.

My kind of writer.

I bring all this up because the news is out that the second Jack Reacher movie is going to start filming soon,  Called Never Go Back, the move roughly follows one of the earlier novels.  Reacher goes back to his old haunts in Washington D.C. and his old army command to sort out problems which, naturally, involve him,

If you are a Reacher find I can hear you starting to go ballistic right about now.  The reason for this
psychotic meltdown is obvious.  Guess who plays the screen version of Jack Reacher.  That's right; it's Tom Cruise.  That Tom Cruise.  The one that stands, if he is wearing thick soled shoes, maybe around 5'5.  A good foot shorter than the Jack Reacher found in the books.  A good 70 to 80 pounds lighter in weight. Considerably less intimidating if held up to the original.

Yet . . . .

If you have an agile mind, if you can separate the Jack Reacher found in the novels from the cinematic Jack Reacher . . . you'll make a damn interesting discovery.  The cinematic Jack Reacher is just pretty damn good.

It's not so much size (although, for many it is, admittedly) as it is about attitude.  The attitude Cruise brings to the cinematic Reacher is, as some friends of mine in England say, spot on.  Both versions have this no-nonsense, just below the surface violence ready to pop up into full view at a moment's notice.

Smarts and violence.  I think these are the reasons why Jack Reacher is so popular.  I know it is for me.

Aiden Thorn talking about Brit crime in general, and Urban Decay in particular

Aiden ThornThere's a young up-and-coming writer  in Britain by the name of Aiden Thorn. We've become acquaintances and admirers of each other's writing, if not outright friends altogether.  Anyway, he asked if he could share some thoughts in my blob and rummage over the idea of Brit crime writing in general, as well as a few words about his latest collection of crime stories out called Urban Decay.

Absolutely, buddy.  I was curious to hear his thoughts about the influences of American hard boiled/noir writing and it affected a Brit and his writing.  So sit back and enjoy.

And oh . . . buy his stuff.  It's just pretty damn good.





Brit Grit Allies – the influence of American writing on a new wave of British Crime writers…
Somehow I’ve managed to carve out a reputation as a writer from the wonder underground movement that’s been termed ‘Brit Grit.’ I often see myself referred to in reviews or on blogs as, ‘Brit Grit writer, Aidan Thorn.’ It’s a label I’m extremely proud of, and why wouldn’t I be? By association it puts me in the same bracket as some of my favourite writers working in the indie scene today. The likes of Paul D Brazill, Gareth Spark, Darren Sant and many more, top talent that only get a miniscule slice of the recognition they deserve.

What I find interesting is that I’ve found myself batched in with this great company, when in fact most, if not all, of my early literary influences were American. And, do you know what, I haven’t checked but I reckon that’s probably the case for a lot of the writers that people associate with the ‘Brit Grit’ scene (can we call it a scene, are there enough of us for it to be a scene – fuck it, I’m calling it a scene).  It’s pretty clear when you read the likes of Chris Leek (a great British based writer) that he’s influences are heavily American, I think the same can often be said of Gareth Spark – two great writers, who write tales that make characters not just of the players but their settings too. With others the influence might not be quite so apparent, Sant’s voice is routed in northern England, but at the same time, just look at his PI Potter book, Moonchild’s Sin (seriously, do it’s a good read!) to find a man clearly inspired by the hardboiled characters from across the pond – it’s just told with Sant’s uniquely British voice. Where an American PI would be taking meetings in diners and sports bars, Sant has his leading character operating out of an office above a Fish ‘n’ Chip shop. 

I reckon that USinfluence is always there in the background and I guess it always will be with so much of what we consume as entertainment hailing from there.

Anyone that’s seen anything I’ve said about writing before will know I’m a huge George Pelecanos fan, for me that man can do no wrong. When I started to write I tried, unsuccessfully, to copy his voice. Thankfully, I found my own in the end, but he’ll always have an influence on what I write. So will the likes of Chandler, Leonard, Lehane, Block etc… What I like about these guys is they tell extraordinary stories, big stories, about people that live little lives. People on the edge of society, the shoe salesman, the bar owner, the café cook. And I think that’s largely what those who write in the Brit Grit scene (I’m going with it now, it’s definitely a scene!) tend to do too. Read Nick Quantrill’s Bang Bang You’re Dead or Paul Brazill’s Guns of Brixton, great stories about pretty un-extraordinary people told with heart and realism that make the reader engage fully in what’s happening. And, don’t get me wrong I don’t think American writer’s invented that type of writing but I do think they’re bloody good at it and certainly opened my eyes to something I find a lot more interesting to read, and to write, than police procedurals and serial killer thrillers - crime stories with the human spirit at their core.

For me what makes this type of story work, whether it’s from a British writer, or our US cousins, is that the writer seems to be drawing on their own experiences to make it tick. I’m not suggesting they’re all hardened criminals or PI’s with drinking problems and inner monologs playing in their heads. No, they write the details that make the story come alive from their own experiences and interests. Regardless of UKwriter, or US passion for certain things always comes across. Music often plays a key role, the mere mention of a song can create an ambience in the readers head, and it can tell you, British voice or American. Straight away. A beer label, a bar top, a piece of clothing and car brand all help to create an atmosphere too, the beauty of a noir book is you always feel like the writer has experienced these subtle scene builders for themselves. Sports also often provide a fantastic backdrop to build an atmosphere around a story. I recently read Tom Pitts’ Knuckleball,I have no idea about baseball but that didn’t matter, the detail around the sport just served to make the story more believable, more real. A British writer of this genre will often use football (or soccer as you call it) in the background, it simply serves to set the scene, put you the reader into the environment in which the story unfolds.

When I wrote my first collection, CriminalThoughts, I knew I wanted to write with a distinctly British voice, I’m pretty sure I achieved that, but I also wanted stories that would resonate with the sort of audience that I was for a book, the fan of a Lawrence Block Matt Scudder book, for example. For my second collection, Urban Decay, I wanted to put together a collection of stories that I’d be proud to put in front of my favourite writers, Pelecanos, Lehane, Spark, Sant etc… the fact that Darren Sant approached me about publishing it under his (and Craig Douglas’) Grit Fiction venture went someway to proving I’d achieved that. The fact that Gareth Spark wrote me a fantastic foreward added to that… The fact that I’ve already picked up a couple of nice reviews from across the pond I hope also shows I’m going the right direction with those idols of mine that made me want to write in the first place. So, thank-you Americafor great gritty fiction, this particular Brit Gritter is and always will be a massive fan.

Getting away with Murder

Yep.  That's the whole bases for my Turner Hahn/Frank Morales stories.  People trying to get away with murder.  

Turner HahnAs you already know, I like a good mystery wrapped up in a series of What Ifs, stuffed inside Complex Puzzles, and gift wrapped with a bunch of ribbons called Red Herrings.  The more complex the puzzle, the merrier it is.  I like to read about smart people, diabolical people, the crazies of the world, who think they can plan plan the perfect murder and get away with it.

Equally, I've always looked for the character(s) who could match the bad guys, brain cell for brain cell, in cracking the case and hauling in the bad guy in the process.  That's why I've always been fond of Sherlock Holmes (both the books and the movies).  That's why all the books in my library (as pitiful as it is) are character-driven books/series that fit this give parameter of mine.

That's why I invented Turner Hahn and Frank Morales.  Not only are they smart and talented, but their unique characters each to their own personalities.  Separately they are each damn good a being a homicide detective.  Combined in a team and they are, for me . . . and I hope to a growing fan base . . . pleasing to follow along with in their investigations.

So I have a new collection of short stories out featuring these two.  Some old stories from the past, mixed in with a few new stories no one have seen yet.  The new offering is called MURDER IS OUR BUSINESS.  Eight short stories that display their unique talents and their proclivity at being good friends.
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Yes.  Not only do I like a good whodunit.  But I like a good whodunit that have characters in it who have a sense of humor . . . as dry or as morbid as can be.  I've always believed in the old art of Shakespearean story telling that you mix in a little blood letting with a little black humor on an almost  3-to-1 ratio.  Three horrors balanced by one guffaw.

Real life is like that.  Horror (or the Mundane) mixed with Humor.  This 3-to-1 formula is what makes us Human.  We endure the mundane and horror around us . . . we concoct our own brand of humor to help us cope.

Frank MoralesSo . . . if you haven't discovered Turner Hahn and Frank Morales, here's your chance.  Eight stories, along with some artwork included, is the perfect 'Primer' for you to get to know these two. (Which you can click on over on the right hand column, upper most selection.)

If you find you like the short stories, well . . . by all means! . . . try some of their novels.   You'll find those in the right hand column as well.  

I do hope you like a trip down twisting mazes and dark streets.