writers

Our depraved litle baby is walking

It’s been a long time coming.

Been talking about this idea, working this idea, executing on this idea (slowly) for more than two years.

The idea? To publish a collection of fiction inspired by Dick Cheney.

Long story deceptively short, co-editors Kieran Shea and Jedidiah Ayres and I recruited 23 wonderfully sick writers and artists to help create something really kind of special: D*CKED: Dark Fiction Inspired by Dick Cheney [be sure to check out Shea’s behind-the-scene’s report on the making of our book].

I’m proud of our depraved little baby; it’s packed with great writing, creative storytelling and inspirational artistry.

Expect coverage from some major outlets in coming days and weeks, but for now I suggest you get yourself D*CKED.

August 26, 2011 2

Frank Bill crosses the tracks

Last fall, I finally had the pleasure of meeting Frank Bill. This was about a year after we both appeared in Issue 5 of Plots with Guns and subsequently began to exchange notes, strategies and war stories from our respective crime-writing trenches.

I was inspired not only by his narrative voice (raw and poetic and brutal), but also his devotion and work ethic. Whereas, I stay up way too late to work on my novel, Frank rises way too early to do the same. In fact, there are times I’m just ending my writing here on the Pacific Coast when in comes a note from Frankie, who’s just getting started in southern Indiana.

At Bouchercon last fall, I found Frankie to be a genuinely kind, earnest and down-to-earth guy, which made it even more fun when we both (somehow) ended up at the St. Martin’s cocktail reception (it was like that scene from Seinfeld in which Kramer gets spun around at the Tony Awards by the “Clydesdale Surprise” people and ends up at all these “after parties”). We were in publishing culture-shock, in a good way. Hell, we were just a couple of pulp/noir writers snatching free food off the trays, trying not to stick out too much.

We were the kids from the wrong side of the tracks.

Well, for Frankie, not any more.

Frankie and his agent Stacia Decker announced yesterday that he has signed a two-book deal with Farrar, Straus & Giroux – for his novel, DONNYBROOK (a sneak peek of which I thoroughly enjoyed), and a collection of stories, CRIMES OF SOUTHERN INDIANA.

I am beyond thrilled for Frankie – his determination to put words on the page every day and his courage to tell brutal stories in a singular voice have paid off. The fact he also happens to be a great guy makes it even sweeter.

July 21, 2010 5

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.

February 9, 2010 4

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.

November 13, 2009 5

And this is what you do

Friends have asked what one does at Bouchercon.

As this was my first Bouchercon, here’s what I now know:

You show up after an all-night, can-of-sardines American Airlines experience, thanks to your poor planning skills and August bravado. You hunt down your hotel roomie, Shea, and after years of emails and zines and journals, finally meet Smith, Bill, Gischler, Phillips, Quertermous. They tell you Ayres just left Indy after swaddling himself in your bed sheets and inhaling a mound of Embassy Suites breakfast buffet. You meet Bill’s buddy, Donny, an actual cop who’s packing heat, decide not to make any fast moves. Great guy.

You take a deep breath, realize, I’m home.

You realize you read about one-tenth the amount Shea does, and about one-fifth the amount of everyone else, feel like a dull turtle, a turtle watching a pack of cheetahs in full sprint. … You check out some great panels – the notion of “social issues” presented in crime fiction is your favorite, followed closely by a panel on crime and humor. John Jordan sees your name badge, asks you to sign a copy of UNCAGE ME. You hang out with your tribe, people who understand why you write what you have to write. You just hang, and talk. Beers. More beers. You meet folks, wonder if you seem like a fanboy or a writer or both, try to govern the excited praise rocketing out of yourmouth –Abbot, McDonald, Nikitas, Gagnon, Olson, Littlefield, Crouch, Starr, Sakey, Barker, Grabenstein, Neville. You meet folks who just made it to the other side (Rector and Charbonneau and Parks), and folks who are like you. You compare notes, talk about Bruen and Ellroy and Huston. You tell everyone about this guy they just have to read – Black. You talk projects, compare agents. You’re tugged to the St. Martin’s party, do more of the fanboy/writer routine over more beer and two pieces of melon. You reconvene back at the main bar. More beer. More introductions. End of night, you crawl into bed, realize you’ve eaten nothing in 24 hours but a Subway pita and the two melon pieces … and you fade to black.

Next day, you work the hangover. Shea pours a handful of vitamins down your throat. And you lard. You lard hard. More panels, more books. Meet some folks about a project. Rendezvous with the tribe at the Rathskeller. Serious German sausage and beer. Lots of it. Huge moose heads. Lots of middle fingers for Phillips’s camera. The way back to the hotel, ribs with Shea … and then more drinks at the Bouchercon bar, more connections made, ideas exchanged, laughs had.

You get home at midnight Sunday. You’re wiped. Your brain is shutting down — a squirrel monkey could destroy you in tic-tac-toe. Hobbling home, almost there, can’t wait to see your family, can’t wait to get into bed, thinking, God, that was great.

October 20, 2009 10

Five questions at Scrivo

Mark Richardson and I have been comparing notes on fiction-writing for years now. We have had some great talks about it all. Whereas, he’s more likely to tell me about the latest story by nearby peninsula genius Tobias Wolff, I’m more likely to tell him about some amazing stories I’ve read in Plots with Guns or the now-defunct Murdaland.

He reads fiction in The New Yoker. I read fiction in Thuglit. And then we trade.

A few years ago, we had a debate about Eat, Pray, Love.

Along the way, he’s turned me on to some great shit in his publications. And I’m happy to report that maybe I’ve turned him on to noir and transgressive fiction. Case in point, Richardson is now weighing in on UNCAGE ME, the anthology of noir that includes my story, Hotshot 52, and has asked me to answer five questions over at his new blog, Scrivo.

Mark is a great writer with an amazing track record in fiction — every story he’s written has been picked up so far. And Scrivo already has made some interesting observations about the pursuit of fiction-writing.

You can chek out his bog and his five questions of me right here.

September 25, 2009 3

It really is ANS season

Jed Ayres was right a few weeks ago when he noted that we were entering Anthony Neil Smith (ANS) season. Hell, the author of Hogdoggin’ is all over the place. Several weeks into ANS season, we’ve already had a virtual bike rally for his new novel as well as the far-reaching Hogdoggin’ Monday. Since then, he’s been all over the place – in the virtual, and the flesh. There have been Noir at the Bar events, book signings and interviews galore.

To mention but a few. … Hardboiled Wonderland gets deep into ANS’s skull and doesn’t leave, in an interview here. In the U.K., Pulp Pusher hands the mic over to ANS and Victor Gischler for a quickie here. And at Frank Bill’s House of Grit, ANS drops in here.

So, with all the work ANS is doing these days, you might be surprised to learn that he also put out another edition of Plots with Guns – this one a special edition Plots with (Ray) Guns, with each story set in the year 2509. The first two stories I have read so far – “Koko Takes a Holiday,” by Kieran Shea, and “Ill Nature,” by Kyle Minor – knocked my socks off, each leaving a mark in my mind that I have yet to shake off. Shea also has an equally strong piece in Pulp Pusher right now, so if you’re in the mood for a jolt, check it out here.

Speaking of The Pusher, some more news in that arena in a few weeks.

KIERAN SHEA UPDATE: Adding to the growing evidence that he and ANS secretly plan to take over the world, I’ve now learned that our man Kieran also has a piece coming out in Ellery Queen. Who’s the third party in this Axis of Noir?

June 10, 2009 4

Sex, thugs and me

Last Friday I took the family to the local bookstore for a triumphant little moment. 51hq6hm6vql__ss500_1

I was coming to pick up my copy of Sex, Thugs and Rock & Roll, the new Thuglit anthology that includes my story, “Big Load of Trouble,” alongside those by Changa buddies Anthony Neil Smith, Jed Ayres, Jordan Harper and Patti Abbott. It also includes pieces by some very admired crime authors — Scott Wolven, Joe R. Lansdale, Marcus Sakey and Jason Starr, to name a few.

Of course, I could have ordered my copy via Amazon, and you surely can HERE. But I wanted the experience of seeing it in a bookstore, buying it in a bookstore, fanning through the pages to find my story — in a bookstore.

And I have to say, I felt pretty damn good. I felt like an average Joe getting called up to the majors for a weekend, and having a blast the entire time.

Then, when I started reading the pieces in this anthology, I got an entirely new rush. This, my friends, is a tight collection of compelling storytelling. Case in point: I re-read “Politoburg” by Ayres and was blown away all over again, and was reminded how my first reading of that piece in Thuglit in 2007 led me to praise it on this blog, which is how I got to know the guy.

I’m not the only one impressed by this anthology. One of the stories was nominated for a prestigious Edgar award, and Publisher’s Weekly recently weighed in with this review.

Robinson’s second anthology derived from the online magazine Thuglit is an improvement over 2008’s Hardcore Hardboiled. Jason Starr gets things off on the right foot with “Double Down,” a short but punchy contemporary PI tale, with an unapologetically amoral main character largely indifferent to the consequences of his greed. Joe R. Lansdale offers perhaps the strongest entry with “Bullets and Fire,” in which the narrator gets accepted into a hardcore urban gang by punching out a little girl, for reasons that only become apparent in the denouement. An ex-con’s despair over his estranged grown daughter drives Marcus Sakey’s “The Days When You Were Anything Else,” which ends with a twist that’s no less powerful for being predictable. While not every selection is top-notch, this volume also showcases a number of lesser-known authors who will undoubtedly be heard from more in the future. Sarah Weinman’s introduction extols the virtues of online publication. (June) — Publisher’s Weekly

So …. maybe you’d like to have a little Sex, Thugs and Rock & Roll in your life.

May 28, 2009 6

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 1^st (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”

May 22, 2009 1

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