A few months back I published a guest post by Author Reed Farrel Coleman. It’s a great article containing writing tips from a pro. I’d encourage you to take a minute and read it if you’ve not already done so. You can find it here.

Right around Christmas I received a review copy of one of his latest novels, Hurt Machine. I have to admit that as hard as I’ve tried, I just can’t get into Mystery/Detective novels. In fact, when I’m perusing books on Amazon, if I see “A So and So Detective Mystery” I scoot right on past. I won’t say Hurt Machine turned me into a convert, but I will say that this book is so much more than those typical of the genre.

At once, I found the writing to be engaging, true and literary. What do I mean by literary? Well, I’m not sure, but I think the best way to describe it is “higher level prose.” A sense of higher intellect brewing just below the surface. Subtle inferences that got me thinking. Please don’t translate this as meaning the novel is snooty or stuffy. I think “real” is a much better word.

I’ve never been to New York. Sure, I’ve seen hundreds of TV shows and films made there. Even so, I’ve never been to New York. Until I read Hurt Machine. The author describes neighborhoods and eateries in such a vivid fashion that I felt as if I was sitting at one of the tables at the Grotto, eating a crappy slice of pizza.

Thanks for the trip to New York, Mr. Coleman.

The basic plot of the book is a “ripped from the headlines” story of a couple of NYFD medicos who got themselves into trouble when they refused to treat a man at a restaurant. Mr. Coleman uses that foundation to build a story that is unique, hard hitting and thoughtful. At no time did I find the story line predictable. I was content to let the story take me where it would, and I’m glad I went for the ride.

If you’re looking for a story with real characters in a real setting, you owe it to yourself to give Hurt Machine a good look.

Author Bio

Reed Farrel Coleman, author of Hurt Machine, is the former executive vice president of Mystery Writers of America. He has published twelve novels — two under his pen name Tony Spinsosa — in three series, and one stand-alone with award-winning Irish author Ken Bruen. His books have been translated into seven languages.

Reed is a three-time winner of the Shamus Award for Best Detective Novel of the Year. He has also received the Macavity, Barry, and Anthony Awards, and has been twice nominated for the Edgar® Award. He was the editor of the anthology Hard Boiled Brooklyn, and his short fiction and essays have appeared in Wall Street Noir, The Darker Mask, These Guns For Hire, Brooklyn Noir 3, Damn Near Dead, and other publications.

Reed is an adjunct professor at Hofstra University, teaching writing classes in mystery fiction and the novel. He lives with his family on Long Island.

For more information please visit http://www.reedcoleman.com/, and follow the author on Facebookand Twitter

I’ve been a Twitter user for going on three years now. I think I’ve seen some benefit from the contacts I’ve made and the articles of mine that have been re-tweeted. I like Twitter and I’m there most days, re-tweeting things and interacting on a number of levels. Over the weekend I had a bit of a success story and I thought I’d share that with you folks.

In my Twitter stream, I noticed one of the folks I follow was quoting lines from one of my favorite movies. I had seen this person previously, I think but I hadn’t really interacted with them too much, if at all. Well, I started tweeting some quotes from the same movie and we had a good time of it. Later, He sent a tweet that went something like, “Buy my novel and I might be able to buy a taco for dinner.” Oh, that’s right, he’s an author. So I went to the link in the tweet and I saw his novel on Amazon – A Kindle version no less. It was just under three bucks and I was looking for a read so I downloaded “Near Death” by Richard C. Hale. I started reading and I was pleased to discover that it was a great book. I loved every moment of it, finished it over the weekend and wrote a review on Amazon. I let Richard know, and he was kind enough to download my “Short Book of Short Shorts.” but that’s not the success story.

The real success story is that a social media site worked exactly as it should. Someone in my network posted something that caught my eye and got me looking a little closer at their postings. A link was included in the posting, I clicked and I bought. He ends up with a book sale and a loyal fan. I end up making a great connection and having a great book reading experience. Win-win.

I bring this up to remind us writers to not give up and for the love of Pete, learn how to handle social media appropriately. I see writers all the time on Twitter that never re-tweet anyone’s stuff, they never acknowledge any re-tweeting of their stuff and they never engage. Their posts are always the same. Look at my book, look at my book. Sorry, not inclined to buy. Show me you’re human first.

One month from today, thousands and thousands of writers will take part in what is arguably the triathlon of novel writing. These wingnuts are going to attempt to write an entire novel in 30 days. What’s that you say? Impossible? Any sane and rational person would think so. Nano participants do not.

Last year I gathered up with the rest of the lemmings and flung myself off the cliff. Let me tell you something: By far, hands-down, it was the coolest writing experience I have ever had. The discipline required to write 2000 words a day, every day is tremendous. The experience forever altered my view of fiction and how to write a novel. The format requires a writer to cast aside previous notions about structure, detail scrutinization, and plot outlining. NaNoWriMo is all about the words, baby. Word counts specifically. Your job is to let the words flow. Damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead. No editing allowed. You are on a mission to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. You can revise and edit when you’re dead. Although this seems counter-intuitive it is amazingly liberating and refreshing.

For me, the writing took place every morning before my normal day started. 5am to 7am. Bam! Gitrdone. On day one, all I had were two things: A title and a list of potential characters. That’s it. No detailed outline, no plot-point graphs, no nothin’. This equated to a whole lot of freedom and at first there was too much canvas. On about the third day of writing, Story came in and took over. I was merely a channel through which the words flowed. It was incredible. My characters said and did things I had no idea they were capable of saying or doing. The story chose a path and marched right the hell down it.

I finished NaNoWriMo. Four days ahead of schedule as a matter of fact. What did I gain? Well, first and most importantly I gained a completed manuscript. Albeit one that needs a heavy dose of editing and revising but a manuscript nonetheless. There are “writers” who dilly-dally and struggle with every nuance of their book for years and don’t have a manuscript. More importantly I learned that I can write a long story, I can develop rich characters and when I devote myself to the cause, I can write like a sumbitch.

So, writers. Do yourself a big ol’ favor and sign up for NaNoWriMo this year. I guarantee you will have a blast.

The blackness is fading to gray.

Cold. So cold.

I struggle to open my eyes. When I do, I am greeted by heavens whose constellations I do not know. I look down and see I am naked.

I’m confused. I don’t understand. This must be a dream. A very vivid dream.

There is brush all around and I am on the side of some rocky hill. How can this be? I’m supposed to be landing at Heathrow any moment.

I stand and notice the light from a fire some distance away. I must find out what is happening to me.

The sharp shale digs at the soles of my feet and scrapes my ankles. Each step is more torturous than then last.

I can see the fire at the base of the mountain. My drive to make it to the fire pushes all other thoughts from my mind.

I ’m close enough to smell the smoke from the fire. What? There’s people! Some are sitting near the fire whilst others stand and still others seem to be dancing.

Wisely, (and in no small part due to my nakedness) I move to a clump of concealing bushes to watch and listen.

The voices. The shapes. These are all… Women! They are all dressed the same. Animal furs, I’m thinking. Now, I’m more confused than ever. Curious, as well.

Why are there only females here? Are the males off on a hunt?

I wonder if I should

ARHU!

Ugh. A sharp, cold point is wedged into my back. I am pushed – roughly – into the opening.

Grunted shouts deafen my ears as the clan rises. Each now has a spear. Threatening postures.

I am suddenly aware of my lack of clothing.

The tallest among them steps forward. Her hair is jet-black. Unkempt. Her bare arms show strong muscles as she grips her spear even tighter.

She is inches away from my face and her penetrating eyes are scanning my entire body. Were I anything other than scared out of my wits, I should blush.

The others have fallen into an uneasy silence.

She turns quickly to face her clan. Loudly, she makes some sort of grunting proclamation and raises her spear high above her.

I am grabbed and nearly tackled by a half dozen of these primordial beasts. They claw me as I am dragged over to a clumsy but sturdy looking cage. There is somebody in the cage. It’s dark and I can barely make the outline but I think it’s another man!

The cage door is thrown open and two of the clan reach in and pull the man from the cage and toss him to the ground. One stands over him with a spear. He is weak. Gaunt. He is not making any attempts at resistance.

I am now thrust into the cage amid shouts and whoops. It is filthy. The stench of excrement and rotting something or other assaults my senses with no mercy.

The man is kicked and pushed towards the fire. He is forced to stand. Like a watching a plane crash, my mind tells me to avert my eyes, but my eyes have other plans. They must watch.

The clan chieftan approaches the man from behind. She has something in her hand. It is a large rock tied with sinew to a wooden handle. With a swiftness that is staggering, she arcs her arm around. The blow nearly decapitates him and his lifeless body collapses at the foot of the fire.

Frenzied whoops and shouts. The skinning process starts and hunks of man-flesh are laid on the fire.

There is one thought racing in my head and it is constant and ever more shrill:

I’m next. I’m next. I’m next.

The Good China

By Eric Poole,
Author of Where’s My Wand?: One Boy’s Magical Triumph Over Alienation and Shag Carpeting

A while back, a friend of mine told me that her mother’s aunt used to stand in front of the stove, cooking dinner, wearing a full-length mink coat and her best jewelry.

This is my kind of woman. Not just because she sounds slightly insane and obviously doesn’t care if somebody breaks a tooth on a diamond brooch in the meatloaf; but because this kind of behavior represents a “live for today” attitude that I pretty much suck at.

Don’t get me wrong, my furniture isn’t covered in clear plastic (yet). I don’t reuse toilet paper (yet). I do manage to have a little fun. But all too often in my life, I’ve “saved the good china”.

And then, I lost a work friend to diabetes. And another friend’s longtime partner to AIDS. And last week, my partner’s twin brother to liver disease. All of them in their 40′s. All in the space of a few weeks.

And I began to think that life is waaay too short. So maybe I should just go crazy. Maybe I should take a trip around the world or try out for America’s Got Talent or blow all my money on a talking robot.

Of course, I can’t take months off of work to backpack the world. And it’s unclear exactly what talent I actually have. And I don’t really need one more person yelling at me on a daily basis.

Maybe I’m just too practical for my own good. I’ll probably end up in the spirit world going, “Damn, why didn’t I show up at Starbucks in my SpongeBob p.j.’s? Why didn’t I hand out $100 bills at homeless shelters? Why didn’t I rent an Amish buggy to drive to a rave?

Which leads me to a question: What constitutes “living for today”, and what is just plain irresponsible?

Trying to balance having a life of No Regrets with the possibility that you might outlive both your money and your liver is not exactly easy. I’d kinda prefer not to hit my expiration date lying in some gulag nursing home staffed by Nurse Ratched and the guy from Saw.

So what’s the answer?

Maybe Controlled Crazy. Maybe I’ll travel as far around the world as I can get in two weeks. Maybe I’ll try out for a stand-up comedy class at the Improv. Maybe I’ll blow $100 on a talking pedometer.

Hey, baby steps.

© 2011 Eric Poole, author of Where’s My Wand?: One Boy’s Magical Triumph Over Alienation and Shag Carpeting

Author Bio
Eric Poole, author of Where’s My Wand?: One Boy’s Magical Triumph Over Alienation and Shag Carpeting, is a VP of marketing for a major media company and the winner of more than thirty advertising awards. He was once called “the best undiscovered writer I’ve ever met” by Tracey Ullman, an accolade he continues to live up to. He lives in Los Angeles with his partner of nine years.

For more information please visit http://www.ericpoole.net, and follow the author on Facebook and Twitter