Genre is Bullsh*t... kind of

Okay, okay, I chickened out on the headline - but I'm gonna go out on a writerly limb and say, yeah, the idea of genre fiction is bullshit. (Kind of)

Yes, I get it... how can an agent sell your work if it doesn't solidly sit in one genre? How can a publisher publish it? Where's a bookstore supposed to shelve it? What do you tell the person who finds out you are a writer when they ask what kind of books do you write? (Usually on a plane, or a line-up at the DMV.)
How about what you tell your mo--

Oh fuck it. It's still bullshit.

So many of the writers that I love do not fit into those boxes. James Lee Burke would sit just as well in the literary section as the crime. (Here's a post I did with the writer Mark Conard about Burke). I remember a while back schooling a bookstore employee on Burke's work, explaining it could go anywhere in the store.

And what does Cormac McCarthy write? Literary-historical-sci-fi-dystopian-crime novels it seems. There's good reason why writers like Ursula K. Le Guin got pissed when Cormac picked up a wheelbarrow full of awards for his end of the world dystopia, The Road. Just what did people think she'd been writing all those years?

”Genre, in fact, is now pretty much a function of the publisher's presentation or the author's reputation." UKG

A few more thoughts on her take on genre here.

Good writing is good writing period. And by that I mean a story that makes you read the next sentence, and then the next one, and so on... (thanks to George Saunders latest book, A Swim in a Pond in the Rain, for reminding me this. By the way, you need to buy that book.)

This good writing doesn't have to be high language, low language, pulpy language or whatever. Just tell the damn story. Hey, that could be a good writing craft book. Though, Benjamin Percy (Thrill Me) and Stephen King (On Writing) have already written that book. 

It's one of the many reasons I admire Jennifer Egan. People (readers, agents, publishers, her mom?) say that she moves around in the genres. I guess so, or maybe she just writes what she wants to write.

I could riff on a lot of writers here, but as you may have guessed, this genre thing is personal.

As I've written at this blog before, when my novel Correction Line was on submission with the Big 6 (I think there were 6 then), my then agent thought the book was too literary to be called "crime" and too crime to be called "literary." This is probably why it didn't sell, though Mulholland Books thought very well of it, here is part of that response from their editor:

Many thanks for the look at Craig Terlson's CORRECTION LINE... I was very excited to dig into this and in many ways, it doesn't disappoint. Even from just the conceit itself, it's clear that Terlson is way ahead of the curve in terms of crafting an engaging premise that reaches for elevated territory and reinvents enduring archetypes of action and suspense, and the supernatural elements are on the whole extremely well-handled. 

(followed by words saying how he didn't think it worked as a Mullholland title)

And then... 

This is not a comment on the level of talent on display,  as this is clearly quite a success on its own terms. Hopefully another editor will see the potential here, feel the connection necessary to take this further, and I may find myself regretting this decision as Terlson's writing career begins to find traction in the book marketplace. In either case, many thanks for the chance to consider, and best of luck in your search for the home Terlson's work deserves.

I think about this rejection a lot. I have other publishing and agent stories similar to this - like when a publisher told me I needed to "stay in my lane" when I talked about following up my literary novel with a crime novel, ... oh, and by the way have I told you about my slipstream novel with a time-travelling Samurai?

Lately, I feel like my work is getting a bit of traction in the marketplace. This is mostly as a crime writer, I believe - and I'm totally fine with that. The bookstore has to know where to put them after all. But at the same time it bugs the shit out of me. I don't want to be put on a shelf. "No one puts Craigy on a shelf!" Isn't that what Jennifer Gray says in that really dumb movie?

I care about craft a lot. I work my ass off to do the best I can on a book - and then an editor makes it better. If I'm doing my job (tell a damn fine story, looking at you, Chuck Wendig), then anyone should be able to enjoy it.

So where am I going with this whole rant? Am I just a whiny-bitchy-writer who's having trouble breaking out? (Maybe) But also it's a bit of a rail against the industry. I think readers are being short changed. There's a thought out there that indy press, small press, are the ones publishing the interesting books. I'm not sure that's a full blanket statement that I can endorse. Crap is being published by big and small presses. It just gets me that there is a lack of diversity in the stories being told - but maybe more importantly, that agents and publishers are not taking chances with something that seems a bit different. In other words, not taking something on that is not a guaranteed sale.

The "kind of" exists in this thread because I understand that bookselling/publishing is a business. And if you don't make the bucks you close the doors. This is why I support those big bestselling authors like Stephen King and Lee Child - their sales make it possible for publishers to keep the doors open... and give little nobodies like me a chance.

The "kind of" also exists because I know how hard the agent's job is. So, maybe I'm looking at the readers, of which I am one. I want to take more chances on unknown work, books that are trying something different, or don't easily fit into one of those slots.

Salinger said something like this,
"The definition of a writer is someone who writes. And publishing? That's just business."

As a writer, I'm just going to keep telling stories. That's what I do.

Thanks for reading - let me know what you think over on the twitter-box. 

Talk the Talk... with excerpt!

 

I've always enjoyed writing dialogue - this came home to me when I co-wrote and produced three plays with my daughter (in the pre-Covid, let's go see some live theatre days). As a writer, there's nothing quite like the buzz of sitting in the back row on opening night snd hearing actors say those lines, and then having the audience respond (hopefully).

I've been told by reviewers that I have an ear for dialogue - which is a very nice compliment. Although, people in fiction really don't talk like people in real life. If so, there'd be pages of "ums" and "ahs" and weird tangents that went nowhere... and we'd bore the shit out of even the most faithful readers.

Some of my favourite writers do great dialogue - looking at you Joe Lansdale, and the late great Elmore Leonard. And on the literary side, Don DeLillo captures the cadence and rhythm of conversations so well they become poetic, but at the same time deeply authentic.

Someone, maybe Vonnegut, said dialogue should do one of two things:
1. Move the story
2. Reveal character

And if it isn't doing either of those things... cut it.

I still use that as a barometer for my dialogue, and often it's the thing that gets cut the most in subsequent drafts.

My new novel, Manistique, opens with a long conversation between the main character, Luke Fischer and his detective friend, Franko (who also appeared in Surf City Acid Drop.) I felt while writing this that I was listening to these two friends swap stories about their cases, while sharing beer and shrimp chips (if you were wondering what that photo up top was.)

Some may argue that the convo goes on too long, but I dunno, for me it was a chance to really get to know these two on a deeper level - and of course, set up what as about to transpire, and send Luke far away from New Mexico. And by transpire, I mean guns and dead people.

Here is that first chapter of Manistique - hope you enjoy, and stay tuned for book news... proposed release date is June 15! Hey, that's soon!
Thanks for reading. 

Manistique - Chapter One 

I ran into Franko Toledo three weeks ago while searching for a delinquent husband in Santa Fe. Truth was, his last name wasn’t Toledo. That’s just where he came from: Toledo, Spain. I never got Franko’s real last name until I saw it on his hospital bracelet. 

We first met a year ago, when I‘d been chasing a pair of art thieves across the southwest and getting my ass handed to me on a regular basis. Now, Franko was an actual detective, for hire and everything, unlike me. I didn’t like the sound of “private eye,” since it made me think of Mannix, and I was a far shade from him. I did whatever work landed on my lap, mostly from Benno, my somewhat shady benefactor. Really, Benno was shady as hell, but he kept me out of the darker stuff and had me do errands, the odd knocking of heads.

When I first met Franko, I knew he was the kind of a guy I’d run into again. When I stumbled across the bar where Franko and I had shared a bowl of pozole, I decided to stop in. The soup was as good as I’d remembered, a healthy dose of heat and flavor through the roof. When I was on the road, I took whatever beer I could get—except for Bud. I’d drink anything, even water, before that lizard piss. And then I remembered the other thing about this place: they stocked Pacificos.

I was finishing my first bowl and my second beer when Franko strolled in, same bolo tie, a new set of caramel-colored shades. He’d switched his pale lemon shirt for a honeydew melon number. He stood out against the deep brown walls, like he’d planned his wardrobe to match the bar.

“Ah, we are creatures of habit. I thought our paths would cross again, my friend.” His eyes smiled at the recognition.

Franko ordered a couple of shots of bourbon. Like everything here, the whiskey was warm, lingering, and perfect. Over the next couple of hours we swapped stories and traded rounds.

I told him of my search for the hubby on the run.

“You have found him? Or learned what happened?” 

“Turns out he wasn’t missing to anyone but those who wanted his money.”

“How so?”

“His numbers finally hit, and he picked up a significant chunk of change. That’s when his relatives, including a few he didn’t know he had, came out of every nook and cranny. Each with a sad story and both hands out. He lit out in the middle of the night, didn’t even leave his wife a note.”

“It was the wife that asked you to find him?”

“They both had friends in Mexico, and she thought her husband might head to PV. Their friends knew my friends, including a guy named Benno who I work for—long story short, she asked for my help.”

“And you cannot turn down someone in need, especially a woman. I know this about you, my friend.” Franko smiled and tinked my beer bottle with his. “But I am thinking she isn’t beautiful.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The husband leaves in the middle of the night. If she was beautiful he would wake her, ask her to join him.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” I said. “She would have been a traffic-stopper back in the day. Even now she’d turn heads in the produce aisle, but there was something about her.” 

I took a long swallow. 

“She travelled all the miles to Puerto Vallarta to hire your services?”

“Yep. Bought me a nice dinner, too.”

“She must have been very sure about her husband,” Franko said.

“She’d been making trips to PV for years, but different times than her husband. They had one of those open marriages.”

“I don’t know that one,” Franko said.

“Open to screw around on each other—no questions, no problems.”

“In my experience there are always problems in that situation.”

“Well, she got a helluva lot closer to him when he won the lottery. Funny how a big bag of money rekindles a romance.”

“You didn’t like her.” Franko held up two fingers to the bartender.

“I took the job and her money. It didn’t feel right. But the work hasn’t exactly been flowing, and I needed to pay my bill at the Esperanza.”

Our beers came with a plate of shrimp chips salty as the Pacific. We crunched and sipped awhile. Someone plucked a twangy guitar in the corner. 

“And now you have discovered the husband is in New Mexico? Good luck with your search.” Franko tinked my bottle again.

“Appreciate it, Franko. But I already found him.”

“Ah, then it is congratulations. Or is it? By your face I see that it did not go well.”

“I found someone with the right information and followed the dots right out of Mexico. Finding him was easier than most. He was in a Santa Fe bar, not that different from this one, but on the edge of the city. I sat down and bought him a beer. He was a decent sort that had put up with way too much shit. We talked for an hour, then I picked up the check with his wife’s money. I wished him well.”

“You left him in the bar?”

“Couldn’t bring myself to throw him to the scavengers. They’d strip him cleaner than piranhas on a bloated cow.”

Franko nodded and munched on a handful of chips. “His wife must be upset with you.”

“Haven’t told her yet,” I said.

“Ahh. And I see by your eyes you are anxious to head back to your Pacific paradise. You look tired, my friend.”

“Thought I’d pop in here before I left.”

“And I am glad you did. I have told you before, I am not one to believe in coincidences. Our paths have overlapped again for a reason.”

“What would that be?” I asked.

“If you are not in any hurry to return, then perhaps we could have another drink. And then you might help me with a situation.”

“You in trouble, Franko?”

“Nothing like that. It is about a woman.”

“Missing?”

“Of course.”

### 

The Story of a Cover

Covers are hard - we all know that, right? Even great book designers like Chip Kidd know that. How do you capture what's in a book, and at the same time intrigue a buyer to pick it up (you know, like in one of those actual stores)? Oh, and make it beautiful, too.
Just to add - I've learned a lot from Kidd in this regard. I use his work (and Ted Talks) to inspire my design students... and myself.

Even though my day job is graphic designer, I have found that book covers are amongst the most challenging of projects - they are also the most fun, and the most rewarding.

For both my traditionally published books, and of course my independently published books, I've designed the covers. Sometimes I've just asked the publisher if I could have first shot at the cover. This happened with my novel, Fall in One Day, published by Blue Moon. I was channeling Saul Bass pretty hard (as I'd been teaching about him in one of my classes.) But it was also the vibe I wanted for the book set in 1973. Here I combined graphic leaves falling through a series of "Bassian" squares (hey, I just made up that term!) As they fall, the leaves become more psychedelic, which points to the role that the early history of LSD plays in the novel.

I love when a cover can offer an "Easter Egg" to the reader.

For my new novel, Manistique. I had an idea right from the beginning... picture the famous Manistique lighthouse (The Manistique East Breakwater Lighthouse) with a backdrop of the choppy waters of Lake Michigan. A lot of the book takes place in this small town in Upper Michigan, and I saw the lighthouse as a symbol of what the protagonist faced as he helped investigate a pair of murders. Of course it helped that the lighthouse is blood red.

I also had a desire to ask a certain friend from art school if he would do the painting. Even two years ago when I finished the novel (for the first time) I thought about his paintings. His name is Phil, and he is one helluva painter/illustrator - we used to share a studio together when I lived in Toronto. Phil's work is in demand, and you can see why... so I would understand if he said no. 
I was completely over the moon when he said yes.

We started the process by me sending him some ideas and photos of the lighthouse - we also talked about the mood of the book, and I sent him some excerpts that mentioned the lighthouse.
When he sent me the first sketches, I knew already that I was going to love it.

After some back and forths (me with my art director hat on) Phil delivered the final scan of the painting, and I was floored. It was better than I'd imagined. It captured exactly that right mood and feel. Some people have commented that it looks retro, but at the same time new. As well, it fits into a literary genre as much as a crime fiction genre... which is basically what I do.

Here is a look at the full cover wrap.

To see more of Phil's work, visit philart.ca or his agent's website i2i.art.com

Phil, I love you buddy. Thanks so much for doing this!!! 


Manistique official launch date is June 15, 2021
- but books will be available before then. If you are a book blogger or reviewer drop me a comment here or over on twitter @cterlson - and I'll see if I can hook you up with an ARC. 

Poker Reads

I think there should be a whole sub-genre of books that contain poker... maybe there is, I recently read an article listing 114 different genres of novels, including crime-fiction for dogs. Ok, I might have made that one up, but I could see it.

I digress.

I've always enjoyed books and movies that have a great poker scene in them. Cinncinatti Kid with its downer ending, or Clint dealing out cards before he blows away the bad guy in For a Few Dollars More. It makes for great cinema (ohhh, cinema, putting on my fancy-pants film scholar, um, pants.)

I'm currently taking a film studies course, actually, and coming up is one of my all-time fave poker films, Robert Altman's California Split. I love this movie to bits, starring my hero Elliot Gould and the late great George Segal. As a teen I scored the novelization of this movie, and read it repeatedly.

In novels, poker playing takes on a different vibe, but it still works for me. Last Call by Tim Powers is a fave, and has that added magical realism and general weirdness that Powers is known for. There are a few more books that I read as a teen, one in particular that I've been scratching my head to remember, that created this love of the good poker scene.

As good as Malkovitch and Damon in Rounders... well, is anything that good?

In my new novel Manistique (out this summer), Luke Fischer finds himself in the middle of one of those back-room poker games. Here's a snippet of that game:

I rushed through the curtain in time to see a man in a suit being dragged out a back door. The other two suits were being ushered out the same door by a square-shouldered guy in a black bomber jacket. Right away I recognized the one Franko called the Heavy. He stood in the middle of the room, his arm tight around a woman's waist. From Franko's description, it had to be her.

"Who the fuck are you?" A man with a red face started taking steps toward me.

"This is my friend. He is here only for my well-being," Franko said.

I couldn't tell if the man I saw dragged out was still amongst the breathing. The Heavy gave a nod to another thick man at the back wall who held a long pool cue, though there was no pool table in sight. He came over, took the two women, and led them out the back door.

"What about her?"

"She stays," said the Heavy.

The sunburned man stood inches from me. "Spread 'em or I will lay you out."

I turned and faced the wall as he frisked me.

"As I said, this is my friend. Also a card player," Franko said.

A broken chair lay on the floor next to Franko, so my hearing was on point.

"It's a closed game, asshole." Old red face deepened a shade.

"Relax, Fido." 

The Heavy gestured, and a different goon slid a chair in next to Franko. My detective pal stood with open hands in a gesture of Spanish friendliness.

"Fido like the dog?" I asked.

Red face drove his fist into my stomach before I had time to tighten. I almost let loose my mugs of bad beer.

"You sit down." The Heavy pointed at Franko. "Fido, get your ass back in a chair. And you either sit down and play cards or get the hell out."

It took me a second to realize he meant me because I was busy trying to get air back into my lungs. I hobbled over, easing into the chair next to Franko. Fido joined us while the Heavy pulled the woman over with him.

"Sit."

"She gonna play, too?"

"Shut your face, Fido. We're about to find out who's who here."

"What do you—"

"Shut it."

The Heavy gathered the cards on the table. He started dealing singles face up. Franko got a Jack.

"Let's see, that makes sense. You're some jackoff Mexican guy, though your accent says somewhere else."

"Toledo. In Spain."

"Well, you sure the fuck aren't from Ohio. You come into my place as a card player, but I don't think that's why you're here, because you suck at it. And you had a good long chat with this one at the break. It didn't look like you two were talking romance." The Heavy pointed a thick finger at the woman. "Fido, you get a seven, cuz you're lucky I don't rap you one in the head. And Astrid, my fine flowery girl, I expect a Queen, but nope, a lowly four. The unlucky number to the Chinese. Did you know that, Fido?"

"Who the fuck cares? Just deal 'em."

"Knowledge is never a bad thing. You should take that to heart." He flipped the Ace of Diamonds in front of me. "And here we have Mr. Mystery man himself. So, Ace, what brings you here? And don't tell me it's the fine atmosphere."

"Just hoping for a game," I said.

"I'm sure you are." The Heavy dealt himself a nine.

"What's the game?" Fido asked.

"Something I just made up. Three-card fuck-up. I'll deal two more rounds and lowest hand gets a bullet in the head."

"Christ on a cracker." Fido pulled his card in close.

"I assure you, Mr.—sorry, you didn't give your name," Franko said.

"No, I didn't."

"As I have said," Franko continued, "we only came here for a quiet game for some good money. I was only making small chat with that lovely woman. If we, like that last fellow, have offended, we will gladly leave. But not the way he did."

The Heavy turned to Astrid. "So was it you that called them here? The dynamic duo going take me down?"

"I don't know what you mean," she said.

It was the first time she spoke, her voice flat, hiding something.

"What did you talk about with Mr. Spanish?"

"He only asked where I was from."

"What did you tell him?"

"You know where I'm from."

I couldn't tell if she was answering the Heavy or repeating what she told Franko.

"So what happened to the suits? One too many straight flushes?" I asked.

"Never cheat a cheater. Write that down for future reference, Ace," the Heavy said.

The Heavy resumed dealing. Franko scored a second Jack, Fido got another seven, Astrid a five, and to me the eight of diamonds. He dealt himself a seven.

"Things are looking up for you, Fido, but our new friend looks like he might be the one to beat. Now, where were we?" The Heavy reached into his jacket and pulled out a 9mm, one of those Italian jobs. He racked the slide, thumbed off the safety, and set it on the table. "No need to bet, folks. I can explain the hands.” 

The Heavy jerked a thumb at Astrid. “This one here has been asking all sorts of questions. Never directly to me, but word gets around, you know. We check our servers pretty close, but she came with one we did trust. I figured the slick boy that Barney dragged out the door was connected—could be he was only looking to make some money off the wrong people. How am I doing?" The Heavy rotated the gun to point at Astrid.

"This is a slow damn game," I said.

Fido started to get out of his chair.

"Oh, relax, Fido. Sit down and guard those sevens. And don't worry Ace, things are going to speed up." The Heavy rotated the 9mm again, this time toward me. "I think these last cards are going to explain everything."

>>>

Thanks for reading - stay tuned for more Manistique news (and a cover reveal!). And if you'd like to read the first book in the series, Surf City Acid Drop, then I invite you to get clicking!

Ante up? Check the bet? Or fold? 

A first look at Manistique

If you follow me on social media, or here at the 'hoo (which is a name I just made up), you know there's a new Luke Fischer coming. And man, it's been a long wait. I'm very excited to share this new book, like a kid on Xmas Eve excited... because lately, it seems that readers are starting to get this Luke Fischer guy.

A recent review said this:
There’s plenty of humour, many opinions on coffee, beer and breakfast options as well as some absolutely kicking fight scenes.
...Through numerous confrontations and some truly memorable characters, Luke more than earns his keep. Not a detective perhaps, but he’s useful with his fists, fast thinking and partial to a cold beer or two.

And to this I say, yep, yep, and yep. Nailed it.

The new book is called Manistique - as you may have seen from the teaser look at the end of Surf City Acid Drop. Though, that was the beginning of the novel many moons ago, and it has since went through a lot of changes.

This time, Luke meets up with his detective friend Franko, who we last saw on the streets of Santa Fe in Surf City. Franko is in need of some help, and he sees the chance meeting with Luke as providential - or maybe he just needs help kicking ass. Over a few Pacificos, they rekindle their friendship, and Franko lays out the case he's been working on.

I will be announcing a publication date soon (just got my edits back from my wonderful editor, who also worked on my novel Fall in One Day.) As well, the opening graphic is a small reveal of the cover to come... all will be revealed.

But for now, here is a taste of Luke and Franko in the opening of Manistique. 

I ran into Franko Toledo three weeks ago while searching for a delinquent husband in Santa Fe. Truth was, his last name wasn't Toledo. That’s just where he came from: Toledo, Spain. I started calling him that when we first met a year ago. I had been chasing a pair of art thieves across the southwest and getting my ass handed to me on a regular basis. Now, Franko was an actual detective, for hire and everything, unlike me. I didn't like the sound of "private eye," since it made me think of Mannix, and I was a far shade from him. I did whatever work landed on my lap, mostly from Benno, my somewhat shady benefactor. Really, Benno was shady as hell, but he kept me out of the darker stuff and had me do errands, the odd knocking of heads.

I never got Franko’s real last name until I saw it on his hospital bracelet. When I first met Franko, I knew he was the kind of a guy I’d run into again. When I stumbled across the bar where Franko and I had shared a bowl of pozole, I decided to stop in. The soup was as good as I'd remembered, a healthy dose of heat and flavor through the roof. When I was on the road, I took whatever beer I could get—except for Bud. I'd drink anything, even water, before that lizard piss. And then I remembered the other thing about this place: they stocked Pacificos.

I was finishing my first bowl and my second beer when Franko strolled in, same bolo tie, a new set of caramel-colored shades. He'd switched his pale lemon shirt for a honeydew melon number. He stood out against the deep brown walls, like he'd planned his wardrobe to match the bar.

"Ah, we are creatures of habit. I thought our paths would cross again, my friend." His eyes smiled at the recognition.

Franko ordered a couple of shots of bourbon. Like everything here, the whiskey was warm, lingering, and perfect. Over the next couple of hours we swapped stories and traded rounds.

I told him of my search for the hubby on the run.

"You have found him? Or learned what happened?" 

"Turns out he wasn't missing to anyone but those who wanted his money."

"How so?"

"His numbers finally hit, and he picked up a significant chunk of change. That’s when his relatives, including a few he didn't know he had, came out of every nook and cranny. Each with a sad story and both hands out. He lit out in the middle of the night, didn't even leave his wife a note."

"It was the wife that asked you to find him?"

"They both had friends in Mexico, and she thought her husband might head to PV. Their friends knew my friends, including a guy named Benno who I work for—long story short, she asked for my help."

"And you cannot turn down someone in need, especially a woman. I know this about you, my friend." Franko smiled and tinked my beer bottle with his. "But I am thinking she isn't beautiful."

"Why do you say that?"

"The husband leaves in the middle of the night. If she was beautiful he would wake her, ask her to join him."

"That's what I was thinking," I said. "She would have been a traffic-stopper back in the day. Even now she'd turn heads in the produce aisle, but there was something about her."

I took a long swallow. 

"She travelled all the miles to Puerto Vallarta to hire your services?"

"Yep. Bought me a nice dinner, too."

"She must have been very sure about her husband," Franko said.

"She'd been making trips to PV for years, but different times than her husband. They had one of those open marriages."

"I don't know that one," Franko said.

"Open to screw around on each other—no questions, no problems."

"In my experience there are always problems in that situation."

>>>

  - thanks for reading! Come back to the hoo (!) for more updates.