Who Loves Ya, Baby?

Why crime? What is it about the gutters and dark alleys of the
world that compels you to write crime fiction?

Because we’re talking crime here, I think it’s appropriate to use, uh, bullet points.

• Justice – I have a well-developed sense of right and wrong, but in the real world, justice doesn’t always prevail. In my world, justice does prevail, often with extreme prejudice.

• High stakes, high drama – Often, crime is about life and death. For the victims, for the perpetrators, for those suffering the fallout of life-shattering events. Writing about characters in these situations makes for compelling drama.

• Anything goes – criminals do some nasty, nasty things, so as a writer, I don’t feel constrained in any way about what I can write about. I can be as nasty as I want!

• Fascination – As a kid, my TV diet consisted of the great cop/detective shows of the 70’s: Mannix, The Rockford Files, The FBI, Adam-12, Barnaby Jones, Ironside, McMillan & Wife, Banacek, Columbo, Streets of San Francisco, Tenafly, Cannon, Baretta, Starsky & Hutch, Kojak, McCloud, Harry O, Shaft, Cool Million, and for some reason, Police Woman and Charlie’s Angels. For me, it’s not so much “write what you know,” but “write what you’ve watched a million times.”

• Inside knowledge – It would be a shame to waste the 15 years I spent at Leavenworth.

Crime: it’s what all the cool kids are writing!

(This entry is “simul-posted” on Criminal Minds.)

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

How has writing your main character changed you as a person?

I’d like to think that writing about my protagonist (any of my protagonists) has made me into a sharper, more self-actualized, wittier, more thought-provoking, more handsome person.

I’d like to think that, but I can’t.

I’m the same semi-schlubby person who wears sweats when he writes. Who occasionally spills food on his shirt. Who sometimes forgets a word that he used JUST YESTERDAY which bugs the crap out of him. Still the same guy who roots for the Washington Professional Football Team no matter how poorly the team plays.

Now what has changed, due to my writing, is my writing. The more I write, the better I get (at least I think so). I came to writing fiction relatively late in life, as compared to many of my contemporaries, so I’ve had to learn a lot in a short amount of time. And I’m still learning (I’m a little weak on grammar; I don’t know a dangling participle from a flying Wallenda.).

With each scene I write, with each draft and second draft and eighth draft, I feel more comfortable creating new worlds and characters. More comfortable with plots and descriptions and dialogue and settings. More comfortable using the strike-through feature. More in control of my story.

More like a real writer.

(This entry is “simul-posted” on Criminal Minds.)

Good Morning, My Ass!

Do you ever take out real life rage on fictional murder victims? Are any of your victims based on people who pissed you off in real life?

Real life rage? I’m a mild-mannered guy. I very rarely get to the stage of “rage.” About as hot as I get is “slightly perturbed.” If things really go wrong, I might push the meter to “irked.”

Unless you count that guy who cut me off on the Beltway. Or the person who dented my bumper in the parking lot and didn’t leave a note. Or the telemarketer who woke me up at 5:30 in the morning. Or maybe if you consider the neighbor who runs the leafblower six hours a day during Fall. Or the bank teller who takes forever just to log in a simple deposit. Or the grocery store that didn’t have one SINGLE RIPE AVOCADO when I needed to make guacamole. Or the little old lady who said “Good Morning” to me when it wasn’t really such a great morning. I mean, who died and elected her Queen of Inane Greetings, anyway?

Okay, maybe I do have a slight anger management issue.

In my books, though, I can’t remember singling out a specific person, either as a victim or a criminal, to be the recipient of my real-life rage. (I definitely don’t want a lawsuit. I’m pretty sure that would piss me off.)

But in my book DEADLY CAMPAIGN, I went after an entire group of people—politicians. (Of course, after the events of the last month, is there a person in this country who doesn’t harbor a great deal of rage toward them? For the record, I wrote that book before it was in vogue to actively hate our congressfolk). I didn’t take sides; I skewered the politicos in a bipartisan fashion (I’m an equal opportunity skewerer.)

And I must confess, it felt pretty good.

*******

Here’s something else that feels pretty good. Giving away stuff! To celebrate my birthday, I’m giving away an ORLOFFAPALOOZA prize package to one lucky winner: A copy of all six of my books (three trade paperbacks, three ebook originals) plus a bonus download of FIRST TIME KILLER in audio. Click thru to enter. Go ahead, don’t be shy…You gotta play to win!

 

(This entry is “simul-posted” on Criminal Minds.)

An ORLOFFAPALOOZA Birthday Giveaway

This year, for my birthday, I want to give YOU a present! Welcome to the ORLOFFAPALOOZA BIRTHDAY GIVEWAY!

Here’s what one lucky winner will receive:

To participate in this giveaway (powered by Rafflecopter—if you don’t have an account, you can sign up—it’s free!), click on the image below, and go crazy. The more points you earn, the better your chance of winning!

Giveaway ends October 26—my birthday.

GOOD LUCK!

Green is the New Blech

Seeing Green: In Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott spends a lot of air time on writer envy—that bile inside her that bubbles to the surface any time a friend (or frenemy) wins a big award or sells movie rights. Do you suffer from the same affliction? How do you combat it?

There’s always someone richer than you.

 

 

 

There’s always someone smarter than you.

 

 

 

 

There’s always someone more interesting than you.

 

 

There’s always someone nicer, tougher, funnier, more determined, luckier, prettier, taller, smoother, stronger, happier, better connected, flashier, more skilled, more beloved, more respected, more more MORE.

Comparing yourself to other people is a losing proposition.

On the other hand, it’s human nature to be competitive, and writers are an observant lot. So it’s pretty hard not to notice how well other people are doing, and it’s pretty easy to feel those pangs of envy as your fellow authors win their shiny awards and get those three-book contracts and sign their six- and seven-figure movie deals, for work that’s no better than the stuff I spill my blood over and grrr, I hate their steaming guts. Kudos to them all.

Personally, not long after I jumped into the writing “biz,” and realizing what kind of nutty, often random, business it seemed to be, and seeing a lot of unhappy, bitter writers complaining about all sorts of things, most of which they couldn’t control, I made a vow to myself:

No matter what happens, I’m going to try very hard not to let things that don’t go as I wish get me down.

I think I’ve been pretty good about it. I try very hard to generate the best work I know how and let the chips fall where they may. If I never hit the New York Times Bestseller list, so be it.

I’ll still hit number one on Alan’s Gave It Your Best Effort list.

And that’s about all I can control.

(This entry is “simul-posted” at Criminal Minds.)

It Was the Best/Worst of Times…

Brave New World: Publishers and booksellers are perishing. But how are e-books, online bookstores, self-publishing and other new industry developments affecting authors? Is it a great time to be a new writer or are things too shaky for comfort?

I can say, without a doubt, it’s a great time to be a writer. With the (relative) ease of self-publishing, and the rise of the ebook, it’s never been easier for a writer to get his/her work to a vast number of readers, quickly and inexpensively. Social media lets writers attract and interact with readers on a one-to-one basis, whether they live in Denver, Dubai, Delhi, or Denmark. Word-of-mouth has become word-of-Twitter. You don’t have to actually know someone to hear their opinions, and if you’re lucky, word of your great book can go viral. And, if you do it all yourself, the lion’s share of the royalties go straight into your pocket.

I can say, without a doubt, it’s a terrible time to be a writer. Publishers have consolidated and, in turn, have put the squeeze on the midlist author. Advances are down. Royalties remain relatively low. Outlets (read: brick-and-mortar bookstores (ie, showrooms)) are dwindling in number and size. With fewer “gatekeepers” in place, self-publishing authors are flooding the market with books that aren’t quite ready (in many cases), creating confusion for the readers. Too many distractions—Fruit Ninjas, Netflix, YouTube, Instagram, ad infinitum (isn’t that the name of another social media site?)—compete for potential readers’ attentions.

I know what you’re thinking: Alan, you’re talking out of both sides of your mouth. Again.

So which is it? Great or terrible?

As it often comes down to in writing (and life, in general), it’s all about your viewpoint. If you’re a pessimist, then it’s a terrible time. If you’re an optimist, then it’s a great time.

Here’s what I do know. Optimist or pessimist, there’s one fundamental strategy to follow: There’s only so much you can control in this business, so write the best damn book you can. Then write another. And another.

Because it’s the writing that really matters.

(This entry is “simul-posted” on Criminal Minds.)

At the Scene of the Mime

If your computer's web cam was secretly on and broadcasting you while you're writing, what's the weirdest thing your audience would see you do in a typical workday?

You’d probably see me practicing some of my classic mime moves. You know, the dude trapped in the box, carrying an umbrella in a storm, sitting on a chair sipping tea, climbing a rope. All research for my story…

At the Scene of the Mime

Detective Ted Sullivan surveyed the scene. A dead mime sprawled on the sidewalk, face down, knife in the back. Off to the side, the uniformed cops had corralled three witnesses who belonged to the same mime troupe as the victim. All wore black pants and black turtlenecks. All sported black berets. All had black smiles painted on their ghost-white faces. Sullivan strode over to begin his questioning.

He addressed the first mime. “Okay. Tell me what you saw.”

The mime made an “X” over his mouth and bugged out his eyes.

“Look, I need to know what happened here.”

The mime started working his arms, laying flat palms against walls in the air.

“The victim was being held, against his will?” Sullivan asked. “In a box?”

Three shakes of the head. Now the mime climbed an imaginary rope.

“He was trying to escape? Climbing out of a hole?” Sullivan glanced around. No boxes. No ropes. No holes. He turned to the second mime.

“Who killed your friend?”

The second mime frowned and knuckled away a pretend tear, then began eating a non-existent ice cream cone. And he was making a mess.

“Are you trying to tell me the victim was eating when he bought it?”

The mime shook his head, then leaned against a counter. Or a lamppost. Or a wall. It was hard to tell.

Sullivan always hated cases involving mimes. He moved on to the third witness. “How about you, buddy? You got something to say?”

Another “X” across the mouth. Then the mime started to fight his way against a fierce wind. A moment later, he pulled out an invisible umbrella and tried to keep it from blowing away.

“Enough,” Sullivan bellowed. “Your mime friend is lying there, dead. And you’re not helping me one bit.”

The third mime stopped struggling with his umbrella. He laid it down on the sidewalk gently. He smoothed out his unwrinkled clothes, adjusted his beret, then faced the detective. “Okay. You cracked me,” he said, aloud. The other two mimes slapped their hands over their ears and recoiled in horror. The third mime continued, “I did it. I killed Marcello. I’m sorry.”

“You killed him?”

“Yes, yes, it was me. I stabbed him.”

The other two mimes shrank away farther, pretending to bawl.

“Why’d you do it?” Sullivan asked the mime murderer.

“Jealousy. He did the best walking-in-the-wind the industry has ever seen. I just couldn’t take being in his shadows any more. I do a great wind thing myself. You’ve seen it. But it didn’t measure up.” The mime started crying; this time, the tears were real. “Please, don’t put me in jail. Please.”

Sullivan simply shook his head. Don’t do the mime, if you can’t do the time.

 

(This entry is “simul-posted” on Criminal Minds.)