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Favorite read of 2011

This past year I read some great books, but in terms of delivering page after page of reading pleasure, nothing quite measured up to Frank Sinatra in a Blender by Matthew McBride.

McBride’s debut novel was one of the funniest books I have read in a long time. I laughed hard. I laughed so hard, in fact, that I wept — tears rolling down my cheeks, my nose running. There’s also a pretty compelling story in there, centering around the wonderfully drawn Nick Valentine (think, Bad Santa meets Hunter S. Thompson) and his hilarious little dog, Frank Sinatra.

I won’t spoil anything here, but suffice it to say McBride pulls off the difficult trick making you care about some of the most amusing, disturbing and low-functioning people you could dream up, and he does it with grace, economy and flare. I couldn’t put it down.

Hat’s off to you, Mr. McBride.

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My sweet consolation

One of the things about earning coin during the day, writing crime fic at night and being a family man throughout is that you don’t get to read nearly as much as you’d like.

My consolation? I have some scary-talented buds sending me some of the best crime fic around.

Case in point, I have been thoroughly enjoying Tony Black’s latest sensation, Truth Lies Bleeding. If you haven’t read Black yet, do yourself a favor and check out this novel by the talented U.K. prose stylist, who once again has managed to suck me in with a story that appeals to the mind and heart. With Truth Lies Bleeding, Black introduces us to yet another fascinating and fully evolved character, Edinburgh Investigator Rob Brennan, who is dealing with demons on many fronts, not the least of which is a ruthless killer who’s left a mutilated corpse in a back-alley dumpster. The police procedural element of the book is captivating, and the emotional connection to Brennan is nearly immediate. Top-shelf material from Black — again.

Also just “in”: My e-book copy of Matthew McBride’s breakout first novel, Frank Sinatra in a Blender, which I admit to taking a peek at last night despite the fact I’m in the middle of other books. I mean, with a title like that, how could I not take a peek? Regardless, I was laughing out loud within minutes and can tell that I will thoroughly enjoy that morsel.

Meanwhile, had the pleasure of reading some underground prose (for now, at least) by the prolific and powerfully voiced Kieran Shea – learn that name. … And Crimefactory just came out with a sick new issue with crate of great pieces by Eric Beetner, Jedidiah Ayres, Tony Black, the Nerd of Noir, Nigel Bird and Mike Sheeter. … Oh, and there’s some seriously discounted, tart transgressive fic by Anthony Neil Smith over at Herman’s Greasy Spoon.

And finally, was thrilled to see an excerpt of my recently completed novel appear in the legendary Plots with Guns. If you like your Crazy Larry and your Calhoun, be sure to check out The Frequency, To Which He Must Attend.

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Where are my Angel Flights?

When I met Joelle Charbonneau at Bouchercon right around this time last year (and subsequently drafted behind her and Stacia Decker into a St. Martins party), she’d just signed a deal for a novel about … a rollerskating detective. Back then I cocked my head and squinted. A rollerskating detective? Hmm. Then again, who was I to judge, as I was (and still am) writing a novel involving an older gentleman who saunters about in army boots and a skin-colored Speedo. …. Anyways, what I noticed about Joelle last year was kindness (she took pity on this California boy who’d come to Indy in October with little more than T-shirts) and swift grace (she’d written her book in a matter of weeks, if I recall correctly). … Now look at Joelle and her comedic mystery, Skating Around the Law. Publisher’s Weekly calls it a “funny debut.” Kirkus calls it “funny and sexy.” A megastore made it its book of the week. Barnes & Noble is celebrating it on its mystery site. Even hardboiled aficionado Jed Ayres is singing its praises as he also looks back longingly (with a long sad swallow) on his own roller-rink days.

Very cool, Joelle.

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Greg’s Friends Doing Amazing Things — Al Riske

You never know how your life might change as a result of meeting someone.

When I met Al Riske in 1999 as a fellow ghostwriter at Sun Microsystems, I couldn’t have predicted the writing adventures and deep friendship that would follow. Over the course of the next nine years — during lunches, coffee breaks and hallway conversations — Al and I would compare notes on our fiction pursuits.

It didn’t really matter that he wrote literary and I wrote transgressive. We supported each other — critiqued each other’s pieces, read each other’s books, ridiculed each other’s rejection letters, dissected literary-agent  search strategies and, eventually, celebrated the successes that started to develop.

Along the way, I was lucky enough to read a story collection Al had written, revised, added-to and massaged for the better part of twenty years. The stories were beautiful — elegant without trying, revealing without really showing why, brief in a satisfying way, scandalous with a light touch — and they stuck with you, key images and dialogue etching themselves into your subconscious.

His stories began to stick with other folks, too, including the editors at Hobart, Blue Mesa, Pindeldyboz and Word Riot. One story won a contest. But literary agents didn’t come running — the conventional wisdom seemed to be that there was no commercial market for short story collections, unless you were Tobias Wolff or John Updike.

Then Al learned about Luminis Books, a brand-new small press that wanted to publish “beautifully crafted prose.” Luminis, it seemed, was interested in publishing books it likes, and less obsessed with producing a New York Times bestseller.

Next thing he knew, Al had a book deal.

A year later, Al’s collection, Precarious: Stories of Love, Sex and Misunderstanding, is shipping from Amazon and selling at bookstores. Publishers Weekly called it “charming.” Novelist Catherine Ryan Hyde announced, “The art of the short story is alive and well in the hands of Al Riske.” Bookstores and literary groups have invited him to read from his collection. Every week seems to deliver a new first, a new adventure.

When my copy of Precarious arrived, the whole thing hit me hard in a wonderful way — here in my hands was the fruit of Al’s inspirational talent and persistence.

I couldn’t be happier for him.

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Each night, a fight

I don’t post here like I used to. Lots of reasons for that, but basically it all boils down to the fact I’m freaking busy.

Work. Family. Friends. Household duties.

And when I do have time — at night, when everyone is finally asleep — I work on my fiction projects. With one project, it’s in my agent’s hands. With the other project, a new novel, I have more to write. But I’m making progress nightly, and gaining speed.

To get here, I’ve sacrificed a lot of couch-vegetation, blogging cycles, Facebook cruising and sleep. I’m not the only one, to say the least. For an authentic look at the realities of  trying write novels in the face of 21st Century life, you really should check out the gut-wrenching blog post by the talented and well-reviewed Irish crime author Declan Burke, and the responses from authors facing similar challenges.

My own challenge is to keep the energy. When I’m halfway fresh, I’m dying to get to the writing. Then the remainder of the day takes another chunk of flesh out of me. When the day is nearly over and I actually have my personal time, I need to coach myself to the computer.

Self-talk.

Get your lazy ass off the couch, Greg. Turn the fricking TV off, now.

No, don’t look at that book; walk to the computer. Now.

Don’t wander into the kitchen, and don’t you dare check your email.

This is your time.

Tomorrow you’ll regret this lost opportunity.

Sure, you’re exhausted, but who isn’t?

“Mommy mommy, I’m tired. I can’t write. Waa-waa-waa.”

That’s my internal dialogue, at least.

Most days I make it to the computer, and once I’m there, I have a blast, get a little closer to creating something that might turn out kinda cool, something that might have a little something to say about life in a fun way. We’ll see. It’s all a huge gamble, but I guess I have to take it — as if I had any say in the matter.

Tomorrow night, another fight.

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Guest blogger Anthony Neil Smith ….

Today noir novelist Anthony Neil Smith brings his virtual biker rally to Chimichangas at Sunset as part of his epic blog tour for his soon-to-be-released fourth novel, the thoroughly engrossing Hogdoggin’. At each stop of his tour, Smith continues the story of a biker rally that keeps getting bigger …. and crazier…

Meanwhile, over at Smith’s blog, Crimedog One, you can learn more about Hogdoggin’ and read my guest blog post, in which the biker rally gets a little weirder (Neil’s tale below follows my entry, if you wanna read these in sequence). 

Be prepared to be offended, and disturbed in all venues, including Hogdoggin’.

In the Last Episode, we left Banks in Hell, where he belongs.

After signing Larry’s book in the basement, Steel God and Smith came upstairs and immediately began nailing two-by-fours across the door, hoping that might keep the bastard in for the rest of the rally.  Fat chance.

They pounded the last nail, slapped the dirt and sweat off their hands, and then turned to find a yuppie-type, like he fell off the screen during Office Space.  And he didn’t look so hot, a big gash in his shirt, bleeding.  In fact, he had a bit of the zombie look to him.  The wound looked more natural on him than the tie.

Grinned, said, “So you boys pounding some nails, eh?  Shit, you know what that’s all about, right?  That hidden subtext?  Hammering away.  Nailing it to the wall.  Dig it?”

Steel God punched him in the nose.  The skin split, but this guy didn’t even lift a hand to stop the blood flow.  He just dropped.

They shrugged and stepped over him.

The bar had taken on a creepier quality.  Moody music from some freakish types on the stage.  A stranger (albeit hotter) class of women.  Men who looked like they belonged performing on the streets of New Orleans. 

“What did you say these guys were called again?”

Smith said, “Skull Patrol.”

Steel God nodded.  “You know…if I’m not mistaken, that’s the club that belongs to, um…what did she say his name was?”

“Who said?”

“The chick who tried to castrate me, the one I bought the bike for.”

“I thought Anastasia put her in traction.”

“She did, but not before I had a good ride with her and all.  Anyway, she said some guy promised to pay her a couple hundred to either kill me or take my cock back to him as a prize.  I think it’s the guy who leads this crew.”

Smith took a gander out at the hypnotized, gender-challenged, middle-manager-type, hipster, bizzaro crowd.  “I don’t know his name, but I heard one of them call him El Muerto Avocado.”

 “Wait…The Dead Avocado?”

“Either that, or Hot Guac.  It’s hard to hear in this joint.”

Smith stepped behind the bar for a moment and emerged with a double-barreled shotgun, which he fired into the ceiling without warning.

Everyone shut up and covered their ears, crouched.  Steel God could barely hear above the ringing. 

Smith took advantage of the quiet to shout, “One of you fuckers take me to Hot Guac or I start shooting you douchebags!”

They got a volunteer.

* 

Outside, they followed this guy who must’ve been mute.  He kept looking over his shoulder and waving his hand like Folllow me, yeeesss.  Come now from some old horror flick.  Smith kept the gun on him, but all three of them knew he wasn’t going to fire it again.  Steel God told Smith he didn’t even have revenge on his mind so much.

“Instead, I’m just so damned curious.  I don’t think I even know this guy.”

“Maybe you accidentally killed his brother or something.  You know, a blood feud.”

They arrived at one of the town’s two travel motels–the shittier one, actually.  At the other, people actually lived there long term and took care of the place.  But not at the Double-D-Luxury Motor Hotel.  It hadn’t been luxurious since 1981.  And apparently, no one had cleaned up the vomit from the sidewalks since the mid-nineties.

Mute Man waved them towards room 107 and stepped out of the way.

Smith went to knock when Steel God braced him, whispered, “What if it’s a trap?  You knock, he blows your head off.”

Before Smith could answer, the door swung open, and the dude standing there said, “I wouldn’t do that.  Come on in.  Grab a beer.”

He turned and walked back into the room.  He was definitely one of those laid-back Californians, loose jeans and a shabby T-shirt, no shoes. 

Smith and Steel God followed, not sure if they should.  Soon as they were in, Mute Man reached for the door handle and slammed it closed.  Made everything feel itchy. 

Hot Guac, if that’s who this was, had already settled on the floor, bottle of Pacifico in his hand.  “Beer.  Or this new batch of guac I just made.  Don’t tell anybody, but I think the secret is to use lemon instead of lime.  And the organic red onions.”

Smith looked around the room.  He stepped over to the bowl of guac and picked up a chip, scooped some up.  Shrugged.  “Not bad.”

Hot Guac laughed.  “Dude.”

Steel God was noticing something else.  On all the walls, there were mounted things.  All on nice high school spelling bee award wood, metal plates at the bottom with names like “Shifty” and “Dr. Heartbreak” and “Indian Burn”.  Was it some sort of animal?  Hard to tell.  Shriveled, dried out.  Was he mounted slugs?  Snakes?  Worms?

Then God got it.  “Shit, these are cocks.”

Smith had never seen the big man so stunned.  He looked at the wall, then at Hot Guac, the wall again, down at his crotch, the wall again.

“You fucking collect biker cocks?”

He shrugged.  “Let me tell you a story.  It might better explain something about myself.  You see *gack*–”

Cut off because Steel God had grabbed him by the throat and dragged him up the wall.  “Make it quick.”

Hot Guac, turning purple in the face, wheezed out, “A biker killed my brother.”

Smith said, “Yeah, I called that one.”

God asked, “Why me?  Why was I next?”

“Be.  Cause.”  Sucked in a mighty breath  “Your rally.  I.  Fish.  Big.”

Steel God smiled, kept his grip on.  “You know, if you’d given me some sort of sob story, something I’d done to you, I was prepared to be merciful.  But I can’t be seen supporting this sort of hobby.  You understand, right?”

Hot Guac nodded.  Or maybe he was just passing out.

Steel God turned back to Smith and said, “You go on back.  I’ll handle it from here.”

“You sure?  I can help.”

“No, I mean it.  This is for my eyes only.  Like that Bond movie, dig?  Only for me.  I’ll see what no one else will see.  Me and this fucker here.”

Smith tried to think of something to say.

“I said GO!  Now!”

Smith beelined for the door.

Right before he stepped out into the night air–hot wind kicking up dust–Steel God said, “And when I see you tomorrow for breakfast, you do not ask about this.  You blank it from your mind.  What’s about to happen officially never happened.  You feel me?”

Smith cleared his throat, figured that was answer enough, and got the hell out of there.  As he cleared the motel’s property line, he heard Hot Guac make a noise only his mother should ever be allowed to hear, and only after she’d died.

*

I first learned of this Greg Bardsley fellow when he submitted the story “Upper Deck” to my re-boot of Plots with Guns.  It only took the first page to convince me I’d found my first acceptance.  And it only got wilder and better. 

I’d been looking for stories that put into practice what had only been theory in my head–contemporary noir with a transgressive edge.  Stories that got to me at a gut level.  Stories that I would find impossible to shake from my memory.

“Upper Deck” did just that.  It made me laugh, made me flinch, and grossed me out (that last one isn’t a necessity, but if done right, well, congrats). Check this:

He tells you about upper-decking, and he tells you how he’s gonna use Harvey as a decoy. He tells you how they’re gonna come over to Ernie’s for the season finale of “Scott Baio Is 45 and Single,” and right in the middle of it all, Calhoun’s gonna excuse himself and saunter off to Ernie’s hall bathroom. He explains how he’s been preparing for two weeks, how he’s been getting into “the rhythm of nightly deuces,” how he’s gonna chow down lots of carnitas and beans for two days before and show up at Ernie’s at 7:45 with a giant mug of creamy coffee. How Harvey is gonna distract Ernie in the TV room while Calhoun’s in the can, gently removing the lid to the upper water basin of Ernie’s toilet, pulling his sweats down and slowly navigating onto the toilet until his ass is practically falling into the exposed water basin, his feet planted firmly on the toilet-seat lid, his hands reaching to the sink counter and window frame for stabilization, and then (the exaltation) releases “a monster” into Ernie’s upper deck, where it will either wreak immediate havoc on the flushing system or simply reside unnoticed for months on end.

See what I mean?  How can this possibly go wrong?  You want to know, right?

Move on through his other work, like “Funny Face”, “She Don’t Like Hecklers”, and “Some Kind of Rugged Genius” (on the fabled 3AM Magazine site), you’ll come to “Headquarters Likes Your Style” from Out of the Gutter, which I found to be another high point in a mountain range full of high points.  A cubicle jockey finds a way to get back at management by insinuating to his office neighbor that the supervisor is making moves on him.  And damned if the guy doesn’t buy into it.  Really stellar stuff.  Many times, he takes mundane office drones with active imaginations and gives them that one extra little push they need to send it over the edge, and by then it’s too late to reel themselves back in.  Consequences abound, and the horrific black comedy that ensues will burn into your brain like a branding iron.

That’s why Bardsley’s work will be around a long time.  He forces you to remember. 

My prediction, as soon as the novels start rolling out: Bardsley will be as big as Palahniuk.  But the critics will like him a lot more.

So, if the wild-man who is Bardsley tells you Hogdoggin’ is good, then you have no goddamned excuse not to pick this thing up and make it your next round of bathroom reading.  And if you don’t mind, get it on June 1st (HOGDOGGIN’ MONDAY) online, at your nearest local bookstore, or at any of the indie bookstores I’ve marked as my territory along the route (places and dates at Crimedog One).

*

Next, from out there in the morning fog, Patricia Abbott is watching you…

Tonight on the Main Stage: Primus, “Those Damned Blue Collar Tweakers”

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Diggin’ it

payingforit_I’m happy to report that Tony Black has succeeded in putting out a great debut novel with PAYING FOR IT, and I’m left thinking this is a writer I can see myself reading for a long time. With PAYING FOR IT, Black delivers tight prose, spot-on dialogue, and a story that is both riveting and heartbreaking.

Former journalist Gus Dury is a down-and-our alcoholic with few prospects. His wife is trying serve him divorce papers, but all he can worry about is making it through the day without getting the shakes or having to think of his past. When a friend’s son is brutally murdered, Dury agrees to snoop through the underbelly of Edinburgh in search of answers. Along the way, he confronts not only his haunted pasted but the best and worst of human nature. He also ends up fighting for his life. Great read.

I think what hooked me was Black’s ability to say so much — in both narration and emotion — with so few words. That, and the fact he has managed to create a protagonist who, for all his shortcomings, makes you care.

In the years to come, I’m expecting much, much more from Tony Black.

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I like people who like me

What can I say? I guess I’m simple and small: I like people who like me.boxing_poster_low_res1

I also like people who like my writing.

So it goes without saying that I was thrilled to learn that badass crime novelists Victor Gischler and Anthony Neil Smith judged my forthcoming story, “Headquarters Likes Your Style,” tops in a recent fiction contest. The story took top honors for longer reads in Out of the Gutter’s “REVENGE Fiction Contest,”  which bills my story as “a sharp and hilarious piece about office cubicle tensions that end in catastrophe.”

I offer Jordan Harper, who won in the shorter-read category, a big slap on the back. I also offer back-slaps to the other cats whose work will appear in this edition. I can’t wait to read their stuff.

You can read some color on the contest results here and pre-order your copy of Out of the Gutter here.

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Add Dorst to the stack

I had a chance to see a Doug Dorst at Kepler’s Bookstore last week.

I got to know Dorst as one of his students in a fiction-writing course I took in 2003. Long story short, the former Stegner Fellow led a great class and later helped me with the novel I was completing. Along the way, I got to know a little more about Dorst. Apart from being a genuinely kindhearted and insightful guy, he’s also pretty damn multi-talented — he’s everything from a former lawyer to a three-time Jeopardy champion. So when I learned that his long-awaited novel, “Alive in Necropolis,” had been released by Three Rivers and was winning critical acclaim (The New York Times gave it a nice review, and Amazon named it one of their favorite books in July), I was thrilled for him. Seeing him read from “Alive” at Kepler’s was an added bonus.

Dorst takes some big chances with “Alive,” does some interesting things, and makes it work, according to the large number of writers championing the book. At Kepler’s, he read the opening section and hooked a few more writers, including me. I bought a copy and added it to my ever-growing stack of unread books authored by friends. If there’s ever a reason to be happy about losing the battle against your reading stack, this is it.

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