Greg Levin's Blog, page 7

Five Killer Halloween Costume Ideas for Lit Lovers

It happened again—you spent so much of the past eleven months with your face in books, you forgot to plan your Halloween costume. Fear not, I’m here to help.

Rather than waste your time with a bunch of cheesy puns about how you don’t stand a ghost of a chance of pulling off a wicked-cool costume this late in the game, I’ve decided to instead provide you with some dress-up ideas that are so novel, it’s scary.

Don’t let another failed Halloween haunt you for the remainder of your days. Just read on and choose one of the following costumes guaranteed to make you a dead-ringer for the character in question, and the life of any party you’re dying to attend.   

 

Gregor Samsa from The Metamorphosis (by Franz Kafka). Going as Gregor Samsa for Halloween is a great attention-getter, but only if you know the book and didn’t just design your costume after quickly skimming the character description provided online by SparkNotes. After all, nobody will be impressed if you show up as a traveling salesman instead of a giant, hideous cockroach. They’ll just think you’re Willy Loman, and yawn.

To get Gregor Samsa right, just visit any fast-food dining establishment and collect one of the many insect carcasses you’ll find, then model your costume around it. You’ll need some cardboard, a toy plastic shield spray-painted brown, a baseball catcher’s chest-protector, brown pants/shirt/shoes, black pipe cleaners, and a strong stomach.

To make sure people know you’re Gregor Samsa and not just a giant disgusting bug, it’s a good idea to carry a briefcase, as well as to lecture everyone on the grotesque absurdity of existence and how modern society has stripped us of our humanity. Do this before you hand any candy out to them.  

 

Lisbeth Salander from The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (by Stieg Larsson). What better time than now—at the height of the #MeToo and Time’s Up movements—to dress up like a badass avenger of sexual predators. But if you do decide to be Lisbeth Salander, don’t do what so many Halloween Lisbeths have done in the past, which is portray her as a one-dimensional hyper-sexual S&M vamp. (Yes, I realize the risk of mansplaining this costume to women.) I don’t have a problem with women (or men) who opt to keep silly Halloween traditions alive by dressing up like a sexy nurse/librarian/teacher/police officer/maid/referee, but out of respect for what Lisbeth Salander has been through and what she’s out to achieve, if you’re going to portray her, do it right. Shoot for deadly, not slutty.

Here’s what you’ll need: A tattered black Henley or T-shirt; a pair of ripped/distressed black jeans (NOT leggings or yoga pants, damn it); black combat boots; a black leather motorcycle jacket; pink leather messenger bag (just kidding—BLACK); spike earrings and a giant spiked collar; a black wig long enough to cut/shape into a punk-goth pixie ‘do; clip-on studs for nose, lips and eyebrows; a black temporary dragon tattoo—large enough to run from shoulder-blade to waist.

If you want to be as badass as the REAL fictional Lisbeth, forgo the fake/temporary accessories and get an actual dragon tattoo and wild haircut, and put actual holes in your face. Bonus points for any real-life doctors, lawyers or kindergarten teachers who take on my challenge. (NOTE: If you don’t have the shirt, jeans or boots listed above and need to buy them new, make sure you run over them several times with a car when you get home to give them that tattered, scuffed look you’re going for. If you don’t have a car, ask your neighbor or an Uber driver to assist.)

 

Alex from A Clockwork Orange (by Anthony Burgess). Nothing says Halloween like an ultraviolent dystopian anarchist with an affinity for classical music and milk spiked with narcotics.

All you need to rock this costume are white pants, a white banded collar shirt, white suspenders, fake eyelashes and a cane, along with a black bowler hat and combat boots. Oh, and don’t forget the codpiece or athletic cup to protect your crotch. If you don’t already have all these items at home, then I honestly don’t see us ever being friends. 

 

Miss Havisham from Great Expectations (by Charles Dickens). An old woman who was jilted at the altar in her youth and wears her wedding dress for the rest of her life in a ruined mansion. ‘Nuff said. (For best results, go for creepy rather than sexy/slutty with this costume.) 

 

Annie Wilkes from Misery (by Stephen King). Like any other author or human being, I find Annie Wilkes terrifying. That said, I often fantasize about having a fan just like her—so obsessed by and devoted to my characters, she’d torture me until I mold my manuscript to her liking. Yes, I’m currently receiving professional help for this.

Pulling off a convincing Annie requires nothing more than a turtleneck, a plaid shirt and a denim dress, Oh, and a huge sledgehammer. Now, keep in mind that such clothes and weaponry may cause folks to mistake you for a run-of-the-mill public high school librarian. To avoid this, you can rent me at $150/hour to play the tortured author. The role is really no stretch for me at all.   

 

Have you ever dressed up as a favorite literary character? If so, which one? If not, what's wrong with you? Dish the details in the comments section below.

Oh, and one more thing: 

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Crack My WIP: A Sneak Peek at the Next Novel

Few things are more gratifying than having thousands of fans tell you they’re dying to read your next book when it comes out.

Or so I imagine.

Rather than me sitting around and praying for such fervor to occur, I’m going to try to create it by sharing an excerpt from my work-in-progress (WIP) today. Who knows—maybe the excerpt will go viral and create the kind of frenzied buzz that results in tens of thousands of sales of my novel whenever it launches. At the very least, the excerpt will prove to my wife that I haven’t just been watching Netflix while locked away in my writing office these past several months.

Before we jump into the excerpt, I’d like to tell you just a little bit about my WIP. It’s an irreverent crime thriller tentatively titled Scott Free. Don’t bother memorizing the title because it’s likely I’ll change it or perish before the book comes out. Assuming I survive the entire writing and editing process, here’s the tentative blurb that will appear on the back of the book (for those of you who still hold actual physical books):

Fed up with society and stifled by mounting debt, artist Roxy Scott and her aging mother discover their one real shot at freedom.

Prison.

All they have to do is commit the perfect crime—one that’s sure to land them in a minimum security “Club Fed” correctional facility where their basic needs will be provided for years.

There’s just one problem: They don’t get caught. Instead, they get rich.

That’s when the real problems start.

Since everything else I’ve mentioned thus far is tentative, I’m gonna go ahead and say the book will tentatively receive the following testimonials:

“I’m proud to call Levin one of my disciples, but what he does with this book is a prime example of the student surpassing the teacher.” —Chuck Palahniuk, author of Fight Club; president of the Greg Levin Fan Club

“It’s time for everybody to stop reading J.K. Rowling, George R.R. Martin and Stephen King, and start reading Greg Levin.” —J.K. Rowling, George R.R. Martin and Stephen King

“Not even being dead for twelve years could stop me from singing the praises of this electrifying novel. I’d buy Levin a drink, but my wallet decomposed.”—Kurt Vonnegut (1922-2007)  

Okay, back to reality. Here’s some fiction—an excerpt from the opening chapter of what will soon probably no longer be called Scott Free. If you like slow starts, you’re going to hate this. Enjoy!

 

Take away the two or five or ten cops tailing us. Take away their loaded Glock 19s and the pack of K-9s closing in. Take away the ninety-eight-pound septuagenarian lying limp in my arms and load-testing my muscles and ligaments every foot we move forward. Add a thousand sunflowers to the field we're halfway through. Add a bit more azure to the vast Texas sky.

Do all that, and this would still be terrifying.

Agoraphobia has a way of ruining even the most idyllic outings. Combine it with running for your life while carrying your broken mother, and it’s a wonder nothing inside implodes any more than it already has.

The dogs bark in the distance like a stranger just rang Hell’s doorbell. The only thing separating us from them is a matter of time. Way too thin a layer of it.

Mama groans but I don’t hear it. 

The back pocket of my blood- and mud-splattered jeans vibrates with yet another call or text from Griff or Big Gail, or perhaps from someone who knew someone who once had the same number as this burner phone. If I had a spare hand or second, I’d let them know we’re not going to make it and we’re sorry and we love them. Even if it is a wrong number.

But right now I’m all about making it out of this unbearably bucolic meadow and into the damp tangle of trees up ahead. It’s easier to breathe in tight spaces. Plus live oaks can stop hollow-points.

Mama groans again and this time I’m getting something. Something like what birthing an eight-pound girl forty-five years ago without an epidural must have felt like. I glance down at Mama’s beautiful brown face and lie to it. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

She murmurs something about stopping and surrendering but I don’t hear it. My heart is earning time-and-a-half.

The trees we just reached greet us with stabs. Branches poke and tear at our clothes. Scratch my face, neck and hands, adding a few more drops of crimson to the picture. Mama murmurs what sounds like “please” but I keep moving, scanning the forest for a secret portal. A trap door. A chance in hell.

 The dogs are still out of sight but loud enough to smell everything. Cradling Mama, I crouch and set her down not gently enough against the trunk of an oak about twice her age. She moans, and with one eye open, goes, “Why?”

Her neck gives out, sending her chin into her sternum. I lift her head and dab a speck of blood from the corner of her mouth with the bottom of my flannel shirt, then stand up and rip the shirt open. One of the projectile buttons misses all the trees and lands near a massive mule deer too stunned to run. I can empathize. The buck and Mama both stare at me as I yank my arms out of the sleeves of the ruined shirt and use it to wipe all the sweat and all the red from every uncovered part of me.  It’s not until I start to tear the shirt into three pieces that the mule deer decides to bolt.

I roll up one of the strips of flannel and chuck it outward and upward. The branch of a tree ten or so feet over catches the ragged fabric right as it starts to unravel. I roll up the second strip and throw it in the opposite direction. This one flies farther and lands on the ground behind a rotted stump.

You’ve heard of last-ditch efforts. You’ve heard of quiet desperation. You’ve heard of nothing left to lose.

This is all that. And less.

And none of it would be necessary if we’d just been lucky enough to not get filthy rich. Lucky enough to get caught red-handed and locked up six months ago.

Just like we’d planned.

I take the last strip of shirt and soak it with a little more of my blood and salt and stink before balling it up and giving it a running toss toward where we just came from. It gets snagged by a tree like the first strip did, only higher off the ground.

Mama’s got two eyes open now and they’re both on me. She seems perplexed and a little angry. She’s never liked me tossing my clothes all about. 

Using the toe of one of my once-white Nikes, I shimmy its companion off my heel and kick it into a pine bush. Next off is a sock that smells like eighth-grade gym. I ball it up and chuck it over near where the mule deer was gawking at us moments ago.      

The sound of the dogs tells me I need to keep my jeans as well as my other shoe and sock on. Not my bra, though. It’s quick to lose and too ripe to waste. I pull it off over my head like a first boyfriend would and slingshot it a distraction away.   

“Give up,” whispers Mama. But that doesn’t stop me from squatting down half-naked and half-barefooted to scoop her up in my arms. A grunt more like a growl escapes me as I hoist Mama over my shoulder and fireman-carry her toward a rocky outcrop splitting two oaks. Closer, and all there is between the overhang of the outcrop and the ground right below is darkness.

Not a cave, but close enough.

Not a chance in hell, but I’ll take it.

 

That’s it—that’s all I’m going to share for now. The good news is there’s plenty more where that came from. Or, if you hated it, the good news is it will still be quite a while before the book is available. I’ll keep you all posted on the progress, and will likely share a couple more excerpts between now and the day I give birth to the book—which I’m hoping will be no later than March or April 2019. I don’t want to have to carry this baby through another scorching Texas summer.

Five of the Dumbest Things I've Done as an Author

I’ve done some dumb things in my writing career. Even dumber than choosing writing as a career. I'm not proud of my mistakes, but they say admitting to them is a sign of integrity and humility. Or in my case, a sign that I’ve been drinking.

So, before I go pour my third bourbon of the morning and continue working on my next novel, here are five of the dumbest things I’ve done as an author: 

5) I wrote my first novel for myself rather than for the reader. A teacher once told me writing is about self-expression and creativity, not about having lots of people read what you’ve written. And I was stupid enough to believe him.

This helps to explain why I opted to write my first novel (Notes on an Orange Burial) about an unpublished poet. It’s also why 99.99 percent of you have never heard of it. (Still, it was a big hit with some people—namely my parents, and three librarians in England.) It’s quirky and literary and has some funny scenes derived from experiences I had in my twenties, so I wouldn’t necessarily say it’s a bad book.

But you would.

 

4) I didn’t focus on the marketing-side of publishing until my third novel. This may seem the same as #5 above, but it’s not. It’s worse. After all, when you write a bad book and fail to market it properly, you’re doing yourself and the world a favor. But when you write a good book and fail to market it properly, you miss big opportunities to attract readers and meet Oprah.

Today, many consider my second novel—The Exit Man—my best (or at least my most enjoyable) book to date. However, it didn’t make much of a splash when it first came out because I hadn’t taken the time to learn the ins and outs of publicity, promotion and platform-building. It wasn’t until a TV producer tripped over a copy (while looking at bigger and better-promoted books) months later that The Exit Man started to pick up a little steam, and even then I failed to do a lot of what I should have done from a marketing standpoint.

Which leads directly to my next big mistake. …

 

3) I assumed getting optioned by HBO meant I’d hit the big-time. See that guy over there, the one strutting around like he owns the place? That’s me at the 2015 Writers’ League of Texas conference in Austin. The Exit Man had recently been optioned by HBO for development into a TV series, but I went to the conference anyway despite having nothing left to prove or to learn as an author. [Feel free to pause here and gag. I just did.] I skipped most of the sessions at the conference but spent plenty of time at the cocktail reception, where I mentioned my option deal to all the other attendees and held my hand out for them to kiss. (I'm exaggerating of course—both of my hands had drinks in them and thus weren't available to be kissed.) 

And see that guy over there, the one lounging poolside at the trendy Mondrian hotel on Sunset Boulevard reading a copy of his own novel? That’s me the day after flying out to LA to take the producer (who got me the HBO option) out for dinner to show my appreciation—but really just to show off.  

Oh, and see this guy over here, the one muttering curse words while cancelling his HBO Now subscription out of spite? That’s me in 2016 after hearing HBO decided not to renew its option of The Exit Man.

 

2) I waited too long to start forming alliances with other authors. No man is an island, but I used to think good authors were. I had it that, to be successful, I needed to spend as much time as possible holed up in a small, quiet room and just let my imagination and words run wild. I stayed away from writing workshops and critique groups. (“I had enough of that in college,” I’d tell myself.) I wasn’t active in writing organizations or communities. And, worst of all, I viewed other authors in my genre as the competition rather than as brothers and sisters with whom I shared a rare and wondrous disease. 

It wasn’t until relatively recently that I realized isolation, while good for writing, is awful for a writing career. For the latter, you need to connect with and share ideas with like-minded—and even unlike-minded—authors. Doing so not only keeps you almost sane in a maddening field, but also provides you with invaluable feedback and advice to better your craft. And, if you join forces with “the competition,” it can open the door to a whole new world of readers who might have otherwise never heard of you or your disease. (NOTE: I recently teamed up with author RD Ronald to create a unique new website for readers and fellow writers of transgressive fiction. If you like novels and short stories about good people doing bad things—or bad people doing good things—you’re going to LOVE the site. I’ll be announcing its official launch via my blog soon. Stay tuned!)         

And now, for the absolute dumbest thing I've done as an author ...

 

1) I put my characters ahead of my family and friends. I’ve touched on this in previous posts, mostly in a joking manner to downplay my fiction addiction and lessen my shame. But the truth is, I have put my characters ahead of my family and friends in the past.

Actually, the real truth is … I still do.  

That “disease” I hinted at in #2 above, it’s not always fun. For anyone. And particularly not for my wife Miranda and my daughter Leah, whom I’ve shooed away from my writing space countless times in order to give all my care and attention to imaginary people instead. In fact, I’ve gotten so good at shooing, I rarely even have to anymore. Miranda and Leah have learned to keep their distance whenever my office door’s closed. Come to think of it, they’ve started doing so even when the door’s open and the writing day’s done. Go figure.

I’ve apologized multiple times to them, as well as to my parents and brother and the small handful of friends I somehow still have. I’ve promised each that I’d make more time for them and be more attentive and present whenever we’re together. They can tell by the look in my eyes and the sound of my voice that these apologies and promises are sincere. And they all want to believe me, but deep down they suspect something.

That maybe it’s all just fiction.

Living with an Author of Dangerous Fiction: My Wife Tells All

People familiar with my books assume I must be at least a little insane. But the truth is, my wife's the crazy one.

After all, she (Miranda) has chosen to spend her life and share a dwelling with a man who writes entire novels about things like party supply storeowners who dabble in euthanasia, terminally ill serial killers looking to make their city safer before they die, and fake pedophiles who schmooze with child sex traffickers to put them away.

I’m telling you, this lady is nuts.

Still, folks always want to know what it’s like for “poor” Miranda to live with me, the “crazy” writer. In fact, many of them ask her that question right in front of me, which I find just plain rude.

Nevertheless, I like to give the people what they want—provided what they want is not for me to put down my drink or behave myself. So, in an effort to appease all my imaginary fans, I’ve opted to give Miranda the keys to my blog for today’s post, which features several questions people and the police commonly ask Miranda, followed by Miranda’s (mostly) unedited responses.

 

What is it like being married to an author of dark, disturbing fiction?  

It’s fun! And absurd. And intriguing! And unnerving. Just like Greg’s books! And marriage.

I knew a long time ago that I didn’t want to marry one of those doctor/lawyer types—the type who are married to their job and whom you never see again after the wedding. Because both Greg and I work from home, I often get to bump into him in the kitchen whenever he takes a break from killing a character in his office. I also get to take afternoon walks with him and hear about the cleanest murder methods and how to get away with them. Sometimes I’ll walk into his office to sneak a few kisses while he’s busy putting his protagonist through living hell. Greg absolutely hates it when I do that and usually tells me to get out. I'm the luckiest girl in the world.

 

While reading any of Greg’s books, have you ever become concerned over the fact you sleep in the same bed with this guy? (Assuming you haven’t already opted for separate rooms.)  

Absolutely. I tell all my friends and family that if I were to die, Greg did it. But I can take comfort in the fact that my death will be epic. A story to be passed down for generations. And I will haunt Greg forever.

 

Which of Greg’s characters is your favorite, and why? Which is your least favorite?

It’s so hard to pick a favorite. I think if I had to choose, I’d have to go with Eli Edelmann, as The Exit Man is still my favorite novel. No, wait, Zero Slade from In Wolves’ Clothing, because he’s a hero—albeit a seriously flawed one—with such a big heart. No, wait, Fynn, who’s Zero’s boss. She’s an intriguing sideline character I want to know more about … and maybe want to be just like when I grow up.

My least favorite of Greg’s characters? Greg won’t let me have any. So just email or DM me and I’ll tell you. 

 

Does Greg usually pass his novel ideas by you before starting to write the book? Does he allow you to read his works-in-progress?

I wish. One of my favorite things to do with Greg is brainstorm novel ideas and have him read me sneak-peeks of his works-in-progress. But these occasions are rare. For some reason he views my “feedback” as an act of aggression. Writers—they're sooo sensitive.  

 

What is Greg’s most peculiar habit as a writer?

Oh my, where do I start? First off, Greg writes his books chronologically from beginning to end. This is a sure sign of a psychopath. Also, writing is never a painful, agonizing process for him—he never gets stuck or suffers from writer’s block. Instead he bounces out of bed every morning and writes joyfully about horrific topics for hours at a time. There is something very wrong with him.

 

Do you ever fear Greg will write a memoir and share way too much about your life together? Do events/situations from your marriage ever show up in his novels? 

Not really. I don’t believe Greg would ever steer away from writing fiction—regardless of what our tax returns tell him. Certainly there are hints of our married life sprinkled throughout his books, but as long as he continues writing novels, I can deny everything.

 

If Greg weren’t a writer, what would you say would be the best profession for him?

If Greg had a real job, I imagine it would be something in the medical profession. Or perhaps he’d be a crime-scene investigator. Or a hitman. In case you haven’t noticed it in his books, Greg has a bit of a fascination with sickness and death. Who knows, maybe he’d even become a real-life Exit Man, though I don’t think I was supposed to say that out loud.

 

What book would you most want Greg to write next?

I must say I’m pretty intrigued by Greg’s next book, which features a strong female protagonist. It’s a mother-daughter tale of two badass women who commit a crime to intentionally land them in jail... mainly for the free rent and healthcare. There’s just one problem—they don’t caught. Instead they get rich. And that’s when the real problems begin.

Now, that all said, we just returned from an Alaskan cruise and I’ve been trying to convince Greg that his next book needs to be set on a cruise ship. He’s thinking about it—or so he says to get me to leave him alone to write.  

 

Should we be worried? Are you in any immediate danger?

No. No. Everything is fine. Everything is juuuust fine. I've been told I’m happy. Very, very happy.

 

Why do you keep winking like that?

Shhh.

Now Hear This: The audiobook version of In Wolves' Clothing has launched!

For those of you who prefer (or need) to consume literature through your ears rather than your eyes, I have some exciting news: My novel In Wolves’ Clothing is now available as an audiobook!

And it’s a pretty good one at that, thanks to the amazing narration by Matthew J. Williamson. Matthew is an extremely talented screen, stage and voice actor (and producer) who has appeared on such hit shows as Boston Legal, Will & Grace, West Wing, ER, and The O.C., to name just a few. The second I heard Matthew’s audio audition for In Wolves' Clothing, I knew I’d found my narrator. And I’m telling you, few things are as exciting—or as surreal—as hearing for the first time the voice of a character you spent a year creating and living with in your head. It’s like having an imaginary friend speak to you out loud, but even better because the rest of the world can hear him too and thus doesn’t think you’re any crazier than you already are.

Matthew did a great job not only with my protagonist but with all the other characters in the book, as well. Honestly, I don’t know how he or any other audiobook narrator does what they do. All those lines. All those characters with different accents and ages and genders. All the different inflections and moods and tones. Me? I can’t read aloud even a single page let alone an entire novel without stumbling multiple times or placing the wrong emphASis on a wrong syllABle.  

But don’t just take my word on Matthew’s mad skills—go check out the In Wolves’ Clothing audiobook on Audible and listen for yourself! (NOTE: The sample clip contains sensitive subject matter that may not be suitable for some audiences.)

Thanks for stopping by, and (hopefully) for giving IWC a read with your ears! 

 

The 'In Wolves' Clothing' audiobook will also be available on Amazon and iTunes within the next couple of days.

One-Star Book Reviews That Provide Five-Star Entertainment

Ah, the sheer brutality and hilarity of the one-star book review. For some authors, a one-star review on Amazon is enough to send them into a downward emotional spiral from which they never recover. For more self-assured and experienced authors, a hateful review is a sign they’ve arrived, a cause for celebration, a time for merriment and laughter to numb the pain they’re hiding.    

They say a one-star book review says much more about the reviewer than about the actual book—especially if the book is, by wide consensus, good or at least decent. When a reader flings a single star at a novel that averages four, it generally indicates the reader just got dumped by a lover or is angry about a high veterinarian bill or is trying to quit smoking. Sometimes, a one-star-giver is simply an Internet troll incapable of elaborating on the teribullness of the buuk they found so unreedabull. The meanest and thus most entertaining one-star reviews typically are those posted by Internet trolls going through nicotine withdrawal while dealing with a recent break-up and two Rottweilers with hip dysplasia.    

Occasionally, however, a one-star review of a “good” book is spot-on—delivered by a subversive literary genius who refuses to conform to mass opinion and instead cogently points out how and why the book in question is not only highly overrated but complete drivel. These reviewers are to be respected and revered … unless you’re the author of the book in question, or a member of same book club as the reviewer.    

Regardless of the accuracy of or motivations behind one-star book reviews, they are an absolute joy to read. And since we can all use a little more joy in our lives, today I’d like to share the most scathing, sardonic and absurd reviews of some of literature’s most renowned classics. (To enhance your reading pleasure, I’ve kept all the reviewers’ typos intact.) Enjoy! And never forget the powerful words of one of the most celebrated poets of our time: “The haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate.”—Taylor Swift

 

Moby Dick by Herman Melville 

He just rambles on and on about the color of white, the lamp, a piece of wood, oh, and every freakin' whale that there could possibly be in the world. If this was just a novel about them on the boat and going out to sea and trying to catch the "leviathan" then I could understand. Colonoscopies are more pleasant that reading this book. I beg you, find another book to read. (Amazon review, Sept. 22, 2014)

 

Lord of the Flies by William Golding 

This book stunk. I believe that reality can have deeper meanings, but don't get to deep or you'll drown. The only time you can go that deep and not drown, is with drugs. I never thought Lord of the Flies would attract so many druggies. (Amazon review, May 21, 1998)

 

Ulysses by James Joyce 

This is a tough book to read unless you understand several languages and are on LSD. I may have thirty or forty more years to live so maybe I'll get through it. (Amazon review, Feb. 9, 2014)

 

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen 

BORING. Pride and Prejudice is a very tiresome book. Much dialogue and very little action. Too much love and not enough Jesus. (Amazon review, Jan. 31, 2018)

 

Great Expectations by Charles Dickens 

HORRID!!! This book was literally the worst thing that’s happened in my whole entire life. (Amazon review, Nov. 21, 2008)

 

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury 

Heyyyy I had to read this book for school and it was the worst thing I ever read. A worthless good for nothing piece of junk! Actually it is good for something. I took this book with me to rifle practice and i shot at this instead of the target. I got busted but hey it was worth it. Mail me if you want a picture of my shooting. (Amazon review, Aug. 24, 1998)

 

Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston 

Well, i had to read this book for english class, so i didn't really enjoy it at all, however it is a good book. (Amazon review, Aug. 30, 2010)

 

Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy 

How can anybody like this book? Whoever said this is the best classic ever written must be truly brain-dead. What could be enjoyable about a book that primarily consists of a guide on:

a) how to cut grass,

b) how to hunt bear, and

c) how to abandon your own kid for a gigolo.

If I wanted all that stuff I would have read Farmers Almanac. (Amazon review, date unknown)

 

Othello by William Shakespeare 

Me doth not thinkift I understandifth this tale. Shakespeare was a real cool person for his time. Unfortunately, his plays are not a real cool thing to read for my time. It is English and I speak English. I just don't happen to speak Old English. Which is really ironic because I am old and speaking English. If you read slowly and put your thinking cap on, you will get the gist of what the story is about. Or! You can just purchase Cliff notes, etc. This story is exciting and full of action...........I think? (Amazon review, Dec. 10, 2012. NOTE: This customer actually gave the book a two-star—not a one-star—review, but I felt it was just too good to not include it here.)

 

One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez 

This book won the NOBEL Prize? I just can't help it, I need to write another review. This book should be placed in Solitary Confinement for 100 years. This is to save both time and trees used in printing of this book. Do not even dare buy this book even from a 2nd hand bookstore. Believe me, do not waste your money. (Amazon reviews, Feb. 5, 2004)

 

Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon

A hateful experience, 0 stars if that was allowed. After reading over one hundred fifty pages, all I could believe was the story was set during WWII, but I wasn’t sure. The location was England, but I wasn’t sure. I finally threw it against a wall in disgust. I’ve been told the nominating committee (made up mostly of book reviewers) nominated this for the Pulitzer Prize as best fiction. The awards committee (mostly book editors) rejected it as an unreadable piece of crap. I agree with the editors.  (Amazon review, Feb. 11, 1999)

   

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald 

Boring start, boring end, too many unnecessary things, too many whores. You’d have to be a person who loves Romeo and Juliet to like this book. (Amazon review, March 12, 2018)

 

Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut 

O.K., I read it, but I literally have no idea what this book is about. And I’m not reading it again to find out either. Apparently, people like almost anything in life, which is really a sad commentary on the human condition. (Amazon review, July 31, 2000)

 

Feel free to share some of your favorite one-star book reviews in the comments section below. Also, have you ever written a one-star review of a book? If so, was the book one of mine? If so, what’s your address?

The "Write to Be Free" Project: My Plan to Teach Creative Writing in Prison

Looks like I may be going to jail. With any luck, it will happen very soon. My sentence? Sentences.

Allow me to explain.

A few weeks ago, an idea tapped me on the shoulder and then refused to shut up. It just kept repeating itself over and over: “Teach creative writing in prison. Teach creative writing in prison.” I was all, “Who, me?” And the idea was all, “YES, you—do you see anyone else around here you idiot?”

While I didn’t much appreciate the idea’s attitude, I admired its gumption, its grit, its determination. “Ya got moxie, kid,” I told the idea. The idea shushed me and said, “I’m not here to make friends. Now get to work.” 

I listened.

The next day I came up with a name—The “Write to Be Free” Project—and then researched best practices in teaching creative writing to incarcerated individuals. (One expert recommends to “always be a little afraid.” I think I can manage that.) A few days later I reached out to the Texas Department of Criminal Justice (TDCJ) to explore the feasibility of the whole “Write to Be Free” thing. The TDCJ put me in touch with Dr. Latreace Craig of The Windham School, a non-geographical school that provides educational services to offenders in the custody of the State of Texas.  During my phone call with Dr. Craig, she told me she loved the idea—and encouraged me to go for it.  

Following her instructions, I filled out a volunteer application and mailed it to the Huntsville address that was provided. Yes, that Huntsville—the city whose prison houses the State of Texas’ execution chamber … the most active execution chamber in the country. No, I won't be teaching creative writing at the Huntsville unit. That wouldn’t be practical, as it’s too far a drive from Austin. (Who are you calling scared? I’m not scared. YOU’RE scared.) It’s more likely I’ll be assigned to a unit like Travis State Jail (in Austin) or Dominguez State Jail (in San Antonio).

But first, my application has to be accepted. That should be easy-peasy. Also, I have to pass a background check. I don’t foresee any problems there, either. I mean, what correctional facility wouldn’t want its inmates learning from an author whose last three novels centered, respectively, around mercy killing, serial killing and sex trafficking? I’m practically a shoo-in. Once I pass the background check, I merely need to complete a mandatory training program designed to increase my chances of success as a volunteer. Or, more to the point, to minimize my chances of getting shanked.

I’m very excited about what hopefully lies ahead. That’s why I’m here blogging about The “Write to Be Free” Project before everything (or anything, really) has been finalized. But excitement isn’t the only reason for this premature post. I feel that, by declaring my proposed plan publicly, I’m more likely to bust my butt to make it happen. To not give up after encountering obstacles or resistance. To hold myself to account.

Good ideas and noble intentions don’t mean squat without execution. (Okay, perhaps “execution” wasn’t the best term to use here, considering the context.) People always say, “It’s the thought that counts.” Well, not in this case. In this case, what counts is action. What counts is commitment. What counts is stopping at nothing until something gets going. Because the something I’m getting going stands to impact a group of people in ways they’ve yet to imagine. A group of people who, because of their circumstances, may have forgotten how to imagine.

I’ve never been incarcerated, but I’m friends with several people who have. A couple of these people have written novels—damn good ones. And neither of them were writers when they first entered prison.

Point is, when you lose the right to be free, you can still write to be free.

We all make mistakes. Some folks make big ones—big enough to end up in an institution that can strip them of their identity, their humanity. These are the people I'm eager to work with. These are the people with stories and poems that can cut to the bone. These are the people who can remind us—and themselves—what it means to be alive.

They don’t have social media or text messages or online shopping to distract them. They don’t have endless blue skies or Sunday picnics or carefree walks in the park to enjoy. What they have are strongly reinforced ceilings, floors, walls and bars. What they have is their own mind playing an endless loop of what they did wrong.

All I want is a chance to help them discover what they can do. Write.

 

This is not a one-and-done type of post. I promise to share any progress made on The “Write to Be Free” Project here on this very blog. And who knows—maybe I'll even get to share a few powerful pieces written by some of the incarcerated individuals I (hopefully) get the honor and privilege to work with.

Boy Writes Girl: Life with My First Female Protagonist

For the past couple of months, I’ve been writing a woman I’ve never met. I know her every secret and can finish all her sentences. Her name’s Roxy, and I can’t stop thinking about her.

My wife, Miranda, is totally cool with it. Thinks it’s great. In fact, Miranda encourages me to spend several hours a day in a room alone with Roxy. Even suggests exciting risks to take with her and challenging positions to put her in.  

It’s not as kinky as it sounds ... unless you get off on watching an author out of his element.

Roxy’s full name is Roxy Scott—the main character in the novel I’m working on. (Yes, I’m writing yet another novel, despite what my tax returns keep telling me.) This is the first time I’ve ever written a female protagonist (a biracial one, no less), and I’m learning a lot in the process. Like what jackasses men can be, how much stronger women are, and how inconvenient and inhumane depilation is.  

You know, the kind of stuff pretty much every woman who’s ever lived has always known.

It’s not easy being a woman. Or writing one as a man. There are myriad pitfalls and challenges male authors—particularly straight male authors—face when writing a female protagonist, or any female character for that matter.

The biggest mistake so many male writers make in their books is the same mistake so many male non-writers make in everyday life: They think of women in an overly sexual manner. Even worse, they think as women in an overly sexual a manner. You can usually tell when a first-person POV story about a woman has been written by a man—you’ll catch the character thinking about or referencing certain parts of her body a bit too often and at odd times. The way only an idiot with a penis would.

“No further questions, your Honor,” I said to the judge before glancing over at the jury, beads of sweat glistening between my breasts.

The doorbell rang. Right then and there, while ripping the last wax strip from my bikini line, I knew Jack was dead.

Okay, those examples are a bit hyperbolic, but you get the idea. And if you don’t, go read a book starring a female protagonist written by pretty much any male author besides Kazuo Ishiguro, Jeffrey Eugenides Ian McEwan or Tom Perrotta. (Yes, I know there are other men who write women well, but humor me here in the interest of time and space.)

So, what am I doing to avoid introducing to the literary world yet another one-dimensional woman for the critics to eviscerate? What am I doing to help ensure that Roxy Scott leaps off the page with flesh, bone and soul, and makes readers forget there’s a man behind the curtain? Well, I’ll tell you what I’m doing …

… I’m listening to her.

I realize that sounds a bit woo-woo, perhaps even pretentious, but it’s true. I spent a lot of time “getting to know” Roxy before actually starting to write about her. I took a ton of notes about her imaginary past and present. I paid particular attention to her unique strengths and weaknesses, her habits and quirks, her pain and pride. Her successes. Her failures. As a result, each day when I’m working on the manuscript, it’s more Roxy guiding me than me guiding Roxy. She’s far too tough and independent to be pushed around by a mid-list male writer like me. In fact, she scares me a little.

That said, I’ve tried to not make Roxy so tough and independent she shows up as a machine, an invincible badass. This is another common mistake men make when writing a female protagonist. We try so hard to avoid turning the character into a clichéd woman, we inadvertently turn her into a clichéd man—thus making her easier to write, but unbelievably unbelievable to the reader. I’ll admit, there were a few times when I unwittingly started to veer toward over-masculinity while writing Roxy. Fortunately, though, she brought these incidents to my attention and set me straight. “Hey, Greg,” she wrote on my bathroom mirror in red lipstick one day, “I’m glad you didn’t try to make me a supermodel sex goddess princess, but please keep in mind I’m still a woman with wants and needs.” It was a difficult and awkward "conversation"—like finding out that your own mother or sister has a sex life.         

While listening to Roxy is essential and has served me well, I realize doing everything a fictional person tells me to do isn’t writing. It's schizophrenia. So I’ve had to learn to trust my gut at times. To rely on my male intuition about being a woman. (I’m pretty sure that’s never gotten any man into trouble before.) Not to brag, but after more than forty years of disappointing and aggravating mothers, grandmothers, daughters, aunts, girlfriends, girl friends and wives, I know a thing or two about what the opposite sex hates. I figure I can just extrapolate from there.   

But the truth is, I'm learning to focus less on the fact that I’m writing a female main character and more on the fact that I’m writing a human one. I mean, let’s face it, aside from the (usually) obvious anatomical contrasts, women and men are not as different as they used to be. Gender roles—and pronouns—have been bending beyond easy recognition for years now. A typical “he” and a typical “she” aren’t what they used to be. And that’s a good thing—unless you happen to get fooled while vacationing in Thailand.

So, I’m just going to keep writing Roxy Scott to the best of my ability, taking her thoughts and interests and motivations into careful consideration as we, together, push the plot forward. I won’t boss her around, sell her out, have her talk like a tart or make her act like a man. I’ll continue to honor her autonomy and her ability to make her own decisions, as well as her ability to deal with the consequences of those decisions.

Bottom line is, I’ll treat Roxy with the same level of respect I would any woman. Or man. Or anyone in between. More precisely, I’ll treat Roxy with the same level of respect I’d want to be treated with if Roxy were writing me.

And who’s to say she isn’t? 

 

YOUR TURN. Name some male authors (and/or their book titles) you feel do justice to their female characters. Or, name some male authors/books that DON’T. (Fear not—it’s highly unlikely any famous authors read my blog.) Also, it’s been said that women do a better job of writing men than men do of writing women. Do you agree? I'd love for you to share your thoughts in the comments section below. 

(In totally unrelated news, today [Wednesday, May 9] is the last day to get the Kindle edition of my latest thriller for JUST 99 CENTS. Click HERE to take advantage of this deal. Thanks!)   

   

Interview with R.D. Ronald, Transgressive Novelist for All and None

Few things bring me more pleasure than asking fellow authors questions about their life and their writing process. Every once in a while, a fellow author will even respond to my questions.

Like R.D. Ronald, for instance. If his name seems familiar to you, it’s likely because he’s written two very cool novels within the past decade (one of which—The Elephant Tree—was among the titles featured in the big book giveaway I hosted a few months ago). R.D. writes transgressive fiction—in the same vein as authors like Chuck Palahniuk (Fight Club), Bret Easton Ellis (American Psycho), Irvine Welsh (Trainspotting) and, last and certainly least, me.

Below is my interview with R.D., who’s from England but who may soon be moving to Cyprus in order to dodge British authorities. Thus, to experience the full effect of the interview, it’s absolutely essential you read R.D.’s responses in a thick Newcastle accent while sounding a bit suspicious.     

 

Hello, R.D. It’s an honor to have you here. You describe yourself as a “transgressive novelist for all and none.” I love that! What the hell does it mean?

The “for all and none” quote is from Thus Spoke Zarathustra by Nietzsche. I loved it when I first read it, and thought it so aptly applied to my books—and to transgressive fiction in general. For those unfamiliar with what exactly transgressive fiction is, Wikipedia hits the nail on the head with this definition: “A genre of literature that focusses on characters who feel confined by the norms and expectations of society and who break free of those confines in unusual or illicit ways. Because they are rebelling against the basic norms of society, protagonists of transgressive fiction may seem mentally ill, anti-social or nihilistic.”

You’re one of the biggest proponents of transgressive fiction, and have worked tirelessly to make the term/genre all the rage again. Why so passionate about this type of writing? More importantly, please hurry up and make it all the rage again so we can both sell more books.

I've always been passionate about transgressive fiction—long before I knew the term existed or, indeed, what it even was. If you're someone who has found yourself on the outside of things your whole life, never really fitting in here or there, then the voices and stories in transgressive books really feel they can be a mouthpiece for individuals you relate to. The problem was that there was no easy way to discover similar books, and most of my favorites from the genre I discovered completely by accident. I think generalizing the “ungeneralizeable” gives like-minded readers a way to connect with some amazing authors and books that otherwise they may never hear about.

Based on the photos of you I’ve seen, it looks like you work out every day with steel girders in an abandoned warehouse and have murdered many people with your bare hands. So my question is, how much can you bench-press? Less importantly, how many people have you killed?

Ha! Well I can't put a number on how many people I've killed, or I could well find myself behind bars again. I do like to work out but lift surprisingly little. I think I've just discovered a way to make fat look like muscle from a distance.

When did you know you wanted to be a writer? Or were you—like me and so many others—forced to start writing at gunpoint after being kidnapped by an insane-asylum escapee who insisted you ghostwrite his children’s book?

Fortunately I seem to have evaded this asylum escapee so far, but I do get pitched biographies all of the time from people who have lived "fascinating" lives. Like many people, I always felt I did have a good book deep within me somewhere, but it wasn't until my first stint in prison that I seriously considered it, and then committed myself to writing. 

Based on months of intensive research as well as your response to my previous question, I know you’ve spent some time in prison. Do you mind me asking what you were in for? How long? What did you use to bust out?

My crime against humanity was growing weed. Shocking, I know. For my first sentence, I spent only six months inside. I say only, but as each day feels like a month, it seemed a phenomenally long time. Obviously I didn't learn my lesson and was imprisoned again around five years later, and served 18 months. Again it might not seem a huge sentence, but around that period there were celebrities convicted on historic child abuse cases and got less time than I did. Maybe I'm not smart enough, but I couldn't understand how raping children was considered less of a crime than having cannabis plants. 

What impact did incarceration have on your writing?

It may seem odd, but I found prison was a huge plus for my writing both times. A lot of The Elephant Tree was written in prison, and certain points in The Zombie Room were loosely based on my experience inside. Locked inside a tiny concrete box for over 23 hours a day, day after day after day after day, I guess you find something to occupy your mind or go nuts. Luckily I was already nuts, so I read and wrote the whole time instead.

What advice do you have for aspiring writers looking to get some good writing done inside or outside a penitentiary?

I think writing can be a hugely cathartic thing. So my advice would be just do it. Don't worry about is it good or not, just do it. If someone who does that finds they really enjoy it, then perhaps something on a professional level can come of that later. Just be prepared for a life of rejection, hardship and virtually no financial reward from it, ha.

Your debut novel The Elephant Tree made a nice splash when it came out in 2010, and has developed quite the cult following ever since. So my question is, are you in a cult?

My cult days are behind me now, but my beard is coming along well so maybe I'll form one some day. I was reasonably fortunate that The Elephant Tree was so widely embraced by readers across the globe. Not in colossal numbers, but enough to let me know that there is a real hunger for books that fall between the cracks of mainstream acceptability. That in itself was enough to spur me on, continue writing and continue seeking out and expanding reach on my target audience.

Your novel The Zombie Room also doesn’t suck. I don’t actually have a question, I simply wanted to tell you that.  ... On second thought, I do have a question about The Zombie Room—a couple actually. First, why in the world would anyone in their right mind write a novel about sex trafficking? And secondly, which novel about sex trafficking do you feel is better—yours or mine?

Ha! Many thanks for that. There was initial interest from HBO—much like with your book The Exit Man—in bringing The Zombie Room to the small screen, but it didn't end up materializing. I did make a deliberate statement at the end of TZR that I knew critically I would be eviscerated for, but it's more about courage in writing and sticking to your own artistic integrity than it is about chasing ratings, so I'm proud of the book and what it meant to me.

It wasn't originally going to be about sex trafficking. The writing kind of developed a mind of its own and I let things take their natural course. Obviously it is a serious and ongoing issue in the world, and as such I had to do justice to the subject matter and do a lot of research.

As for which book is better, I think we both make significant contributions and readers should check out TZR and In Wolves Clothing and judge for themselves.

What do you like most about writing? What do you like least? (Feel free to go into great detail about the latter—people are used to reading lots of complaining on my blog.)

At times when writing, I can feel on top of the world. I'm not one of those writers that has a daily word count goal. I have days when I write x thousand words, then wake up the next day and bin them all. I have other days when I may only get out a sentence, but it is so perfect to what is integral to a scene, I feel it was a great achievement. 

What I like least is probably confusion about the type of books—transgressive fiction—that I write. I've been condemned in reviews because my book wasn't like some bestseller they had just finished reading. The thing mainstream readers don't understand is that those are the kind of books we are sick of. Sure they have their place in the world, but I don't want to sound like James Patterson, or Lee Child, or hell, anyone else at all. I have my own voice and it's one I'm proud of. Not reading like a mainstream book is not a failure, it's a deliberate act to represent readers of the same mindset as me.

Who are some of your favorite authors?

Some of my favorite authors are unsurprisingly members of the transgressive fiction community. Irvine Welsh, Chuck Palahniuk, Bret Easton Ellis. But there are also authors who fit into this category who many won't have heard of: Rupert Thomson, Lili Anolik, Kelly Braffet. Of course it's vital to go back to read and reread classics from the likes of Bukowski, Burroughs, Orwell, and Huxley. I'm always hungry to discover new authors whose work I can fall in love with, so this list may well have changed a year from now.

Can you tell us a little about what you’re working on now?

Right now I'm working on my third novel, A Darkness So Unkind. I released The Zombie Room quite quickly after The Elephant Tree, and as proud of TZR as I am, there are things I would have done differently. I made the conscious decision long ago to not release my third book until I was utterly happy with it. It's been six years since my last release, and I'm very close to completion of A Darkness So Unkind. I hope my fans are hungry for this next one. It's undoubtedly better than anything I've done before. Leaps and bounds. I'm really excited about it and can't wait to release it into the wild.

That goes double for me and many others, R.D.  Looking forward to reading it! I'll let you get back to writing it now. Thanks for taking the time to chat, and for giving my poor followers a break from my usual rambling, ranting blog posts. Best of luck to you and your books!

 

If you'd like to learn more about R.D.’s books and what he’s up to in the world, here are all the links you need to cyber-stalk him:

Website

Amazon

Twitter

Facebook

 

NOTE: For all you transgressive fiction fans, there’s a new website R.D. and I (but mostly R.D.) have been working on and are excited to tell you about. The site—a sort of “transgressive collective”—is still under construction, but will soon be loaded with awesome content that is laser-focused on darkly funny, daring and dangerous writing.

In addition to being the go-to place for transgressive readers, the site will serve as a powerful platform for transgressive authors—talented newbies and seasoned storytellers alike. Whether you’re working on your first or your fiftieth novel/short story, if you bleed intriguing transgressions on the page and would like to connect with smart readers and like-minded writers, give R.D. or me a shout.   

I'll share a link to the aforementioned site once we deem it worthy of public viewing. In the meantime, let us know what (and who) you’d like to see on the site. We want it to be YOURS as much as it is ours (well, R.D.'s mostly).

The Power of Readers' Words

They say you should write only for yourself. That you shouldn’t worry about others’ opinions and instead just write what’s inside you.

And they’re right … if you’re writing a diary.

If, however, you’re writing a novel, which can take a couple years and pints of blood to complete and publish, there’s a good chance you’re hoping folks will read it. And there’s an even better chance you’re hoping folks will like it.

The bad news is, most folks won’t read it. The worse news is, some of the folks who will read it won’t like it.

Fortunately, I’ve learned a great way to cope with the crushing defeat and the feelings of utter insignificance most authors commonly experience. My secret? I pretend everyone who ignores or dislikes my books is dead or insane. This enables me to remain deluded and to revel in the handful of readers who dig my books—the people who remind me why I keep at this crazy writing game.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t write merely for external validation. I write because I love the pure act of writing and creating, the euphoria I get from completing what I think is a solid chapter or page or paragraph. Still, few things feel as good as when—after you bust your hump to bring a 75,000-word story into the world—someone other than yourself or your own mother says the story captivated them. Brought them joy. Made them laugh. Helped them through a difficult time. Maybe even transformed them to some extent.      

As much as I love writing novels, there are times when I think about quitting. Like when I’m struggling with a manuscript I’m working on. Or when I realize even my absolute best effort stands little chance of bringing me financial gain. Or when it hits me that every hour or day I spend with the imaginary people in my books is time spent away from actual people in my life. Or because I’m aware of all the big and real problems in the world, and know that me sitting alone in a room creating fiction isn’t doing much to fix things.

But it seems every time I’m about to throw in the towel and move on to do something I feel would be more productive and rewarding and selfless, some reader comes along and ruins everything with a positive and heartfelt review of one of my books. Something terribly enabling like:

“I finished In Wolves' Clothing a little over 24 hours ago and am still struggling to find the words to describe it, and to get it out of my mind. This is one of the best books I have ever read. I know that's lofty praise, but Greg Levin's ability to tell such a painful, horrible story and make it funny and inspirational deserve it.”

Or:

“As a cancer patient, I speak from a different perspective than most who will read this book. The humor and storyline are exquisitely delightful. Laugh-out-loud funny. I will read this again when I need a humor boost.”

Or an email saying:

“I lost my mother a little over a month ago. A few of my friends thought I should wait to read your book—given the subject matter. I wanted you to know that it was precisely the right book at the right time. A brilliant work of fiction that collided with an important time in my life. I loved your book, and my mother would have too.”

How in the hell am I ever supposed to leave writing behind and actually make something of myself if, on occasion—albeit rare–I receive such praise and encouragement?

Perhaps I need to start focusing on the haters and trolls a little more. You know, the folks who take time out of their busy schedule to send me email messages like:

“You are crap. Your books are crap. I hope you get a flesh-eating bacterial disease and die.”

Or who leave a one-star review like:

“Worst book I've ever read. Awful. If I could give no stars I would do that but I did not have that option.”

It could be the latter folks actually have my best interests in mind. (Well, okay, probably not the flesh-eating disease guy.) Could be they’re just trying to steer me in a direction that will be more beneficial to me and my family. Could be they’re actually members of my family.    

But I know me, and I’m sure I’ll just continue pretending such haters are zombies and/or psychopaths, and that I’ll continue putting way more stock into what my three or four super-fans have to say. And that’s okay. Because honestly, whatever keeps a writer writing (or a singer singing or a painter painting or a dancer dancing) is okay. 

I, myself, am a super-fan of several authors, and I’ve witnessed—and been surprised by—the effect that simple, honest praise can have on even famous writers … writers I’d assumed had become numb to all the compliments and accolades they’ve received from fans over the years. I recently reached out to a renowned author of dark yet powerfully poignant novels to let him know I’d just finished one of his books and that I regretted not having read it sooner. His reply:

“I've been pretty dejected about the industry for a while now, but meeting likeminded authors like yourself has invigorated my passion and determination to stick at what I believe in.”

Another author I greatly admire recently gave me the honor of reading the unfinished manuscript of his long-awaited next novel. Midway through the manuscript, I couldn’t resist emailing him to say it was shaping up to be the best book I’ve read in years. (And I wasn’t lying.) His reply:

“Much appreciated. I've been trying to psych myself up all day to make another run at the current chapter-in-progress, so your praise was well-timed.”  

Point is, writers are so damn needy. (I don’t do emojis, but feel free to insert a winky-face one here. Moving on …)

I didn’t write this blog post to pander to readers or to fish for compliments on my writing. (I already have every positive review and message I’ve ever received printed out and taped to a cocktail glass, so don’t worry about me—I see praise every day.) Rather, I wrote this post to remind readers of the power they possess simply by being a reader. Yeah, that does sound like pandering, but bear with me.

As a reader, you have every author in the world at your mercy. And you don’t owe them anything. You don’t have to read their books. You don’t have to like their books. However, if you do read one and you like it and feel compelled to let them know but figure they’re too busy or important to care, believe me, they’re not.

Their words may have left you breathless, mesmerized, overjoyed. Their words may even have restored your faith in literature and humanity. But I’m telling you, your words are even more powerful. A couple sentences of yours can touch a writer far more deeply than a thousand sentences of theirs touched you. Because what you have to say might just be exactly what the author needs to hear to continue writing. To continue fighting. To continue leaving not only you but countless others breathless, mesmerized, overjoyed. Transformed.

And, in the event you do reach out to an author to share how much their book meant to you and they don’t respond, well, don’t sweat it. Just pretend they’re dead or insane. Chances are, you’ll be right.

 

A huge THANK YOU to all the readers who’ve ever given my words the time of day—and who’ve graced me and kept me going with theirs.