THE BOOK JUNKIE READS INTERVIEW
Do you feel that writing is an ingrained process or just something that flows
naturally for you?
It depends on the day. Some days I really have to focus and be very deliberate. On those days, I get less done. I tend to pause more often to think. It’s not just a question of preparation. I make it a habit to end my writing day with a day’s work left ahead of me rather than start each day “cold,” not knowing what I’m going to write. Often, however, that preparation goes only so far, and I find myself considering my characters’ next moves or words, or my setting descriptions, more carefully in spite of having a leg up.
And sometimes, the words do just flow, and suddenly I’ve got a thousand words of a chapter written. I wish I knew how that happens. I do find myself thinking more. I’ve often wondered how Stephen King could write those great, thick books. For a long time, he came out with one just about every year!
Have you found yourself bonding with any particular character(s)? If so,
which one(s)?
I put a lot of myself into the main characters of my current novella series. Chicago police detective Myles Hansen is more analytical than intuitive, though as a detective he occasionally does rely on his gut. His partner Hank “The Tank” Brewer is more intuitive, but also very intelligent and not beyond analyzing evidence. I guess of the two, though I do bond with each, Tank is the one I wish I was. A former athlete (I tried, but was never a good one!), he’s freewheeling but sensitive, whereas Myles is—quite literally—haunted.
Do you have a character that you have been working on that you can't wait
to put to paper?
Not yet. I’ve been working on my current project, and have just a glimmer of an idea for the project after that one. When I’m working on a project I tend to take things one at a time, and the characters will appear when they are supposed to.
That said, I was anxious to get Myles Hansen and Tank Brewer on the page. I’m also watching them grow in sometimes unexpected ways. I do my initial prep work—character work-ups and story outlines—from which I sometimes deviate. Myles and Tank have grown from my original expectations of them, and I suspect they’ll grow more.
Can you share your next creative project(s)? If yes, can you give a few
details?
The next novella in the series is called Last Rites. Myles and Tank investigate a brutal murder at a Bible institute in Chicago. One of the suspects is Mateo Diaz, one of the instructors at the college and one that Myles and his girlfriend, Rebecca Dale, are familiar with. Spirits from beyond continue to interact with Myles. Tank remains skeptical until one night… Ah, can’t give you the rest.
What are some of your writing/publishing goals for this year?
I would like to get Last Rites written and published—not quite Stephen King paced, but he’s the anomaly, I think. I would also like to get the third of the series “blocked,” have the outline done and the character arcs set. Actually, if I could get some of it written as well, that would be a nice bonus.
I would also like to record my first novel, Mortal Foe, and publish it on Audible, though that’s been an unfulfilled wish with for a few years already.
I’ve also got a few Warm and Fuzzy supernatural Christmas stories, written to raise money for a homeless shelter, that I’d like to add to. I’d like to get enough of them written to have them published in an anthology.
BOOK
TRAILER: https://www.youtube.com/shorts/lU-_D-vPnRU
Excerpt:
Myles paused at the glass doors to the Area North police station. He checked his watch. Then he turned away from the entrance, paced roughly fifteen feet, added several more steps and lit a Marlboro Light. He pulled his jacket collar up to block an unusually crisp September breeze.
A long strip of grass punctuated by an occasional shrub next to the building attempted to soften the structure's strictly functional design. In the courtyard, a few trees stood guard along with a twisting metal sculpture. But the shades in all the windows were drawn, keeping the occupants' minds focused on their tasks. The parking lot spread far in every direction. Several squad cars waited there for their officers to climb in and begin their patrols.
Taking in his surroundings, Myles shook his head. The Nineteenth District Patrol station held more appeal to tourists to Chicago than did this location. A block west of the Nineteenth on West Addison Street sat a busy elevated, or "L," train station, over a century old and still flaunting its original grid of iron spans and frames in the open. Another block further west, Wrigley Field, home of the Chicago Cubs, buzzed with activity during home stands. Across from the Nineteenth on Addison, a row of shotgun style houses butted up against each other like a knot of sentinels standing shoulder to shoulder. Some bore brownstone façades, some red brick. A thin sheen of grime, car exhaust mostly, the grit of a busy city, covered them. All the dwellings needed power washing or sand blasting.
He knew that locale well, and it charmed even him.
But no tourists visited this spot, the Area North station's locale. A massive tan and brown brick building, Area North dwarfed the Nineteenth. Built in a commercial and industrial zone, the station resembled a Big Box store in spite of the unnaturally planted greenery. If not for the fleet of squad cars in the sprawling lot, visitors might enter the north side's police nexus expecting to buy a hot air fryer or bed linens.
Myles nodded to himself. Area North was all business.
From the corner of his eye, in the window nearest him, Myles spotted the reflection of two women, one short and slight, the other tall and slender. They approached from the parking lot arm-in-arm. The window distorted their shapes, giving them a hot August day shimmer. Their pale complexions suggested a summer spent together indoors. They both dressed for summer, each wearing tie-dyed blouses but no jackets, immune to the cool day. The shorter one put Marla Hines in mind. He recalled how she used to chide him whenever he sneaked out of the Organized Crimes building for a quick smoke. As the pair neared him, they opened their mouths, Myles assumed, to berate him.
"Sorry, ladies," the smoker said. "I'll just put this out." He turned in the women's direction.
They were gone.
Frowning, he swung his head around, scanning the area. Nothing. The parking lot lay empty of everything but vehicles. Two uniformed cops exited the building. But no one passed them heading in.
"Come on, Hanson," he muttered.
He stubbed the cigarette out on the heel of his shoe, deposited it into a nearby trash can and entered the station.
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