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Crafting Sparkle by Rudy Yuly

February 4, 2013 by  •
There are so many books released every year, even when you narrow it down to just your preferred genre it is simply impossible to keep up. Unfortunately, that often means some really great work slips by unnoticed. That almost happened to me with Sparkle by Rudy Yuly. Released last year, Sparkle had slipped under my radar until the folks at Crime Fiction Lover named it one of the Top Five Books of 2012 (and you know that carries some weight). My review of Sparkle is forthcoming, but today let Rudy tell you a little about how his gem of a novel came to be. And don’t wait for my review, go pick this one up now.

Rudy YulyEver since I was barely a teen and saw a teacher light up over my first attempt at a short story, I’ve been utterly hooked on sharing ideas through writing. But it was never one particular kind of writing that got me excited. It was every kind.

Since then I’ve been blessed to go deep into just about every kind of writing imaginable. I’ve worked as a newspaper reporter, a magazine editor, and a marketing writer. I’ve written a nonfiction reference book (the World Business Desk Reference) and multiple screenplays. I’ve written annual reports and national ad campaigns. I’ve published short stories and papers for academic journals. I’ve written major corporate websites. I’ve written error messages and invisible labels to help blind people navigate the Web. I’ve written songs, including one (“Naked”) recorded by Joan Jett. I’ve ghostwritten fiction and nonfiction books—and helped edit many others.

I’ve had work assignments ranging from 70,000 words to 70 characters. I’ve mastered the Hero’s journey and the inverted pyramid. I can switch from AP to Chicago to corporate stylebooks with ease (and some cross-referencing).

Each new writing challenge was a chance to improve my craft, to sharpen tools for the day inspiration hit—so I’d have what I needed to do justice to the muse if and when she decided to visit.


Piggyback by Tom Pitts

February 1, 2013 by  •
Piggyback by Tom PittsHe was all-business in a business full of fools.

You know that saying, a friend will help you move; a true friend will help you move a body? Yeah, well, if you pick the wrong friend you could actually end up with more bodies, and in deeper trouble. That’s what loser drug runner Paul finds out when one of the shipments he was responsible for goes missing and he turns to friend and fellow drug runner, Jimmy, for help.

You see, where Paul’s mostly a lovable fuckup, Jimmy’s a bit closer to the scary-ass psycho end of the personality spectrum. So when Paul asks for help locating the missing shipment of pot–70 pounds worth that just happened to have 5 kilos of coke piggybacked with it–Jimmy kicks into serious take no prisoners mode…which is highly unfortunate for the two college girls Paul sent on the road with the shipment three days prior.

And with that one chapter setup, Piggyback slams things into high gear as Jimmy and Paul hit the highway for a road trip from hell of a novella. Working with ruthless efficiency, Jimmy decides to go back to square one and retrace the steps the shipment, and the girls, should have taken.

Along the way there are encounters with fellow drug runners, the girls’ wannabe tough-guy boyfriends, some hillbilly tweakers, and a set of parents who are never going to win Mom & Pop of the Year. And all of it unfolds with the darkest of humor and a realism so gritty you can taste it.


Literary Pet Peeve #26 by Tom Pitts

January 31, 2013 by  •
So, if you write songs it should be easy peasy to write stories…right? Not so, says Piggyback (Snubnose Press) author–and musician–Tom Pitts, not even close. Sit back and allow Tom to vent a little about one of his literary pet peeves, why don’t you?

Tom PittsWhen I was young I was in a band. I know, I know, who wasn’t? I was the guy by the microphone stand, hitting A-chords and holding my right hand up in the air while I shouted the lyrics. The glory-whore in need of endless attention. I was also the principal songwriter in the group. It was supposedly my forte (‘cause God knows I could barely play that guitar.) Back then, people always said, “You’d make a great writer. Your songs can really tell a story.” Some of the time I believed them. Now, people say, “Com’on, Tom. You were a songwriter; it’s got to easy to write a book.”

I’m not sure why people have always assumed such a connection between the two. It’s a little like saying, “Hey, you’re a painter, you’ve got to be good a making pastries.” The two are mutually exclusive. There is a fundamental difference in how one approaches either task.

Music, lyrically speaking, is made up of word-play. Catchy phrasing that sounds somehow familiar to the ear. Lyrics that, when shadowed with a double entendre, can take a commonplace idiom and twist it to give it a profound relevance. Need examples? Look no further than any country song. Country music is rife with puns and word-play. Them good ol’ boys take it to the extreme. Thank you George Jones for lines like, “I’ve learned to stand on my own two knees,” or Charlie Pride’s more subtle, “She’s too good to be true.” You know who else is masterful at that stuff? Elvis Costello, a craftsman whose examples are too many to list. (Okay, just one, “I’d step on the brakes to get out of her clutches.”) Don’t get me started on puns for album names either, from Rubber Soul to Aladdin Sane, the examples are endless.


Prohibition by Terrence McCauley

January 29, 2013 by  •
Terrence McCauley“I’ve never been smart enough to know when to quit.” – Terry Quinn

For former boxer turned mob enforcer Terry Quinn, not being smart enough to know when to quit has been both his lifelong blessing and curse. Once on track to fight for the heavyweight title, his refusal to take a dive in a fixed fight – opting to kill his opponent in the ring instead – lead to his license being revoked and his career derailed.

As one door closed another opened, however, and through it walked crime boss Archie Doyle. A man with tremendous ambition, Doyle knew he’d need a dependable crew around him to reach his goals, and he wanted Quinn to be his right-hand man. His prospects severely limited, Quinn accepted, and the two never looked back.

A decade later, Doyle’s 1930s New York City empire–illicit gambling clubs, bootlegging and speakeasies–is still managing to do well at the outset of the Great Depression, but he’s smart enough to understand the gravy train won’t last forever and hatches a plan to set himself up for life beyond Prohibition.

When one of his key lieutenants is the target of an assassination attempt, Doyle sends Quinn to question the right-hand man of his rival. Things go incredibly sideways, and before he knows it Quinn is at the center of an all-out gang war. With Doyle’s competition swearing he had no involvement in the hit, and the once complacent–and on the payroll–cops and politicians getting antsy, Quinn must figure out who’s really behind the escalating violence if there’s any hope of salvaging Doyle’s big plan…and for them all to stay alive.


Tenacity vs. Obstinacy by Terrence McCauley

January 28, 2013 by  •
Today Terrence McCauley is here to reflect on the difference between tenacity and obstinacy in the life of a writer, and how which one chooses to embrace makes all the difference in the world. It certainly did for him, as his first novel, the Depression-era gangster yarn Prohibition, was published to great reviews just last month.

Terrence McCauleyIn my opinion, there’s only one thing more important to an artist than following your dream: the manner in which you go about it.

In my long quest to be published, I endured a lot of the same rotten things many other writers experience throughout their career. Broken promises. Agents who disappeared. Plans that remained on the drawing board gathering dust. People who lost interest in my work. All of which eventually lead to self-doubt and a lack of confidence on my part.

At every roadblock, someone would invariably tell me to just give up and go do something else like golf or skiing. Save myself the heartache of rejection and disappointment. Walk away with some of my dignity intact. After all, I’d won a national contest. Why not rest on my laurels and leave it at that?

And while I flirted with the idea of walking away from writing, I never left it for long. Why? Because I’m a writer and writers write! I didn’t choose this. It’s always been a part of who I am, and I could no sooner give up writing than I could decide to give up walking. Sure, I could do it, but why do so, especially when the ability was there? So, I kept on writing the stories I wanted to tell. I kept looking for an outlet for them and, after a whole lot of searching, I did.


Doghouse Blues by Jason Duke

January 22, 2013 by  •
In somewhat of a departure, today on the blog I’m pleased to be hosting a short story by Jason Duke. Jason’s fiction has appeared in publications including Plots With Guns, Thuglit, Spinetingler Magazine, Crimefactory, Needle Magazine, and A Twist of Noir, and he has also previously stopped by here as a guest reviewer. Jason is not just any old author, however, he is also a U.S. Army and Iraqi war veteran, and his time in the service clearly shows through in this piece, “Doghouse Blues.”

Jason Duke“Fuck you,” said Matt Sherman, looking into outer space. The kid was as thin as cellophane, and just as transparent. So thin, in fact, if he took a hard punch to the chest, or any punch for that matter to any part of his body, Jim figured Matt Sherman would fly apart like splinters of dry, brittle wood.

Jim Pride, looking over his shoulder, began to guess at who the other person the kid was talking to; thought, no way this little beanpole shit spat from an anorexic’s twat would be running his mouth to two hundred and twenty pounds of ex-military muscle. But Matt, staring past Jim off into the great wide open of the broiling city that was Phoenix beyond the apartment’s terrace, kept saying, “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you…” Meanwhile, Jim was the only one standing at the front door.

Matt finally looked Jim in the eye. Listening to the little prick run his mouth, Jim was shaking his head, thinking, Kid, this isn’t rocket science. The reason Jim was paying the visit wasn’t all that complicated, so shouldn’t be hard to understand. Jim was thinking, by now it should be so simple stupid that even an ignorant little flop like Matt Sherman should understand what Jim was telling him, why Jim was standing there at the door.

At least, that was how it all started out; and now it was all going terribly wrong (Jim couldn’t believe how fucking wrong), and the kid was running his big, fat fucking mouth, telling off the invisible person over Jim’s shoulder. So wrong, in fact, Jim decided he needed to take a moment with it, collect his thoughts, and try explaining himself all over again.


How’s the writing going? by Mike McCrary

January 21, 2013 by  •
Today I am incredibly pleased to welcome Mike McCrary to the blog. A screenwriter, Mike is aggressively and passionately making the transition to writing crime fiction stories and novels, and I’ve been fortunate enough to edit one of his manuscripts. Hopefully you will all get a chance to read it sometime in the coming year, but until then be on the lookout for his short story work at places like Out of the Gutter and Shotgun Honey.

MikeFaricy“McCrary, how’s the writing going?”

That’s the question I get from time to time.

People mean well, but I hate the question.

I’d love to say, “It’s like sucking on a horrific, angst-ridden, self-mutilation cocktail with a sweaty, toothless whacko at the end of the bar winking her good eye at me.”

But I don’t.

I smile and give some crap answer that will hopefully end the conversation before someone gets hurt.

Years ago I had one of those Jerry Maguire style moments and quit my corporate job to become a writer. I moved to LA and quickly realized I had no idea how to become a writer. I did, however, become an unpaid Hollywood intern and did a little bit of everything. I picked dry cleaning, coffee, Prozac prescriptions, overnighted porn to producers’ brothers and cleaned up dog shit in a conference room during a writer’s meeting.

Yup. All of that happened.

Despite what you might think, it was great.


Dinner Date by Mike Faricy

January 4, 2013 by  •
I’m welcoming author Mike Faricy (Russian Roulette, Mr. Softee) today as part of his virtual tour in support of his latest release, Bombshell.

MikeFaricyI may write books of no redeeming social value like my latest release, Bombshell. But I think crime fiction, even written with a sense of humor and some romance, should still be accurate. I’m always ‘investigating,’ attempting to learn something, anything, that will make my books a little more realistic. My books are all set in Minnesota, usually in my hometown of St. Paul.

Minneapolis and St. Paul are known as the Twin Cities. There’s really not much of anything ‘twin’ about them anymore. Minneapolis is a big booming metropolis and St. Paul, well we say it’s the world’s largest small town. If Minneapolis and St. Paul were sisters, Minneapolis would get all the hot dates, but St. Paul is the one you’d bring home to meet your mom.

I thought it would be a good idea to take a police officer out to dinner and garner some information. I’d be amiss if I didn’t mention a couple of facts here. First off, my dinner date was a woman, a very attractive woman of Southeast Asian heritage named Mai. Secondly, she isn’t exactly a police officer, okay, she’s a lawyer. But she works in the city attorney’s office, law enforcement of a sort though obviously not patrolling the city in a squad car, but still, the courts and all I figured I was bound to learn something.


Top 10 Reads of 2012

December 31, 2012 by  •
Top 10 Reads of 2012The past twelve months were a very busy reading and reviewing year for me. Though I’m sure a few slipped through the cracks and didn’t get counted, in looking back at my records it appears I read 192 books (novels, novellas, and collections) this year, and reviewed 116 of those.

And you know what? There were still a ton of books I wanted to read this year but just didn’t manage to get to by year’s end. (Cash Out by Greg Bardsley and The Dark Room by Steve Mosby are two biggies that leap to mind in particular.)

Given the amount I read this year, and with most of it being top-notch, narrowing things down to a Top 10 list was quite excruciating, as you may imagine.

As I have in years past, to make things a tad more manageable I selected my Top 10 only from full-length novels. And I’ll tell you what, even with the herd already thinned of novellas and short story collections (many of which were fantastic!), picking only ten was still a painfully difficult exercise. So much so, actually, that I’ve cheated a tiny bit and counted two books from one author as only one spot on the list. Of course, having too many fantastic reads to choose from is a “problem” I’ll gladly take any day.

So many authors gave me hours and hours of reading pleasure this year through their amazing abilities, and I am grateful to each and every one of you. For writing what turned out to be my favorite reads of 2012, I am especially grateful to Ian Ayris, Andrez Bergen, Declan Burke, Wiley Cash, Peter Farris, Sam Hawken, Chris F. Holm (for whom I cheated and counted two books from his Collector Series as one spot on the list), Grant Jerkins, Roger Smith and James Thompson. Thank you.

Click ==> Complete list and full reviews of my Top 10 Reads of 2012. <== Click
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Where Is Noir Now? by Gabino Iglesias

December 18, 2012 by  •
I am pleased to welcome author (Gutmouth, Eraserhead Press) and reviewer Gabino Iglesias to the blog today for an interesting essay about noir and its first cousin, neo-noir.

Gabino IglesiasDuring my early teens, I subsisted on a steady diet of noir. Apparently that’s what happens when you never get into video games. I knew where it came from and, more importantly, thought I knew what it was all about: gritty settings, hard stories, down-and-out characters, witty dialogue, cool guys in fedoras, and a dash of violence. Tough, hard-drinking men who punched hard, didn’t take lip from anyone, and weren’t afraid to pull their gun out were a sine qua non element of the books I devoured. A few years later, I didn’t know what noir was anymore. That’s when things got interesting.

Fast-forward fifteen years. My ARC of Akashic’s Boston Noir 2: The Classics, arrived in the mail. I cracked it open and read the intro. “What is noir and what is not inhabits a similarly gray area,” wrote editors Dennis Lehane, Mary Cotton and Jaime Clarke. “Its definition is continually expanding from the previous generation’s agreed-upon notion that noir involves men in fedoras smoking cigarettes on street corners. Noir alludes to crime, sure, but it also evokes bleak elements, danger, tragedy, sleaze, all of which is best represented by its root French definition: black.”

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The Storm Giants by Pearce Hansen

December 12, 2012 by  •
The Storm Giants by Pearce Hansen“Until the blood starts to flow, it’s always a people situation.” – Everett

For someone who’d just assume never interact with anyone again except his wife and young son if he didn’t have to, former gang enforcer Everett is actually quite adept at reading and manipulating people.

Of course, back in the day a lot of his manipulation was of the hands-on variety, and he was damn effective. Legendarily effective, actually, in large part because of his connection with the storm giants, the name Everett associates with a deep, dark place within himself he’s capable of tapping into.

But those days are behind him. At least he thought they were. Living a peaceful if not exactly relaxed – he finds it difficult to ever truly let his guard down, even years out of the game – existence in upstate California, Everett’s past comes calling in the guise of The Widow.

The last time Everett saw The Widow was at his dentist’s office, where she worked as Doctor Dauffenbach’s assistant and receptionist, in addition to being his wife. Everett didn’t exactly understand it at the time, but there was definitely something…off about old Doctor Dauffenbach. Something a bit sadistic.

Turns out Doctor Dauffenbach had an impressive résumé to back up his penchant for causing pain; he was formerly a Nazi who worked at one of the death camps. When he escaped at the end of the war, one step ahead of the war crimes tribunals, Dauffenbach was able to smuggle a significant amount of ill-gotten Nazi gold into the U.S. with him when he ran. The Mossad, however, never sleeps, and when they finally caught up with Dauffenbach he killed himself rather than face extradition and trial. Now, it seems the remainder of Dauffenbach’s gold has been stolen, and The Widow wants Everett to get it back for her – and kill the person who took it.