When I started to find my footing with crime fiction, I gravitated to the style that inspired me. The hard-boiled pulp stories that I fell in love with as a kid, the exaggerated bullshit I heard from phonies and legit hard asses growing up, and random nonsense I caught from the world around me.

Low brow. Fun. An edge that maybe perturbed others. That was the goal and writing those kinds of stories was a shit ton of fun.

But then I tried to transition that mindset to a novel. Short stories and novellas felt perfect for that style of story – the cartoonish shot of adrenaline – but not so much for long form.

So I failed to take off. Multiple times. The pulpier stories would become novellas that were publishable, but as I kept trying to find a lengthier narrative structure, it began to dawn on me that fun was only fun in doses. Now, I could simply survive by adding a bunch of drab nonsense between the fun, but I hated that. It wasn’t my voice and it wasn’t my style.

I tested the waters with Fantine Park. If you’ve read NO HAPPY ENDINGS or PULL & PRAY (meaning you got past the titles) you might notice there’s pulp there, but there’s also a LOT of soul searching. Those books were less about heists and more about struggling with familial issues, inferiority complexes, and imposter syndrome (all things I deal with, yay!).

It was also a test flight for what would become HELL CHOSE ME and a very big change in how I saw my writing and its purpose.

Fun is great, but I began to want to use these backdrops and characters as a means of exploring my issues and the issues of those around me. My mission statement shifted from just trying to get published to trying to tell more than a story. I realized I could explore real problems while camouflaging that analysis with the pulp and fun.

Now all that sounds really obvious, but I think I fooled myself into thinking I was writing more than the sum of my stories’ parts for a very long time. That simply spinning a yarn was enough and of course there was literary merit in that work (no there wasn’t) and of course I should be taken very seriously (I shouldn’t). This is probably why a lot of assholes look down their noses at genre for the most part (but that’s a subject for something far lengthier and more well put together than a blog rant).

And there’s the danger zone. The insistence on staying in that cloud and not taking the next step. There’s a challenge in trying to do more with a smaller box of tools and that’s what I want to do. I want to grow as a writer while drawing from the well that’s inspired me. That goal has paid off in many ways for me; not just in regards of whatever we deem successful on an outside level, but personally. The more I’ve matured and challenged myself with my writing, the more satisfied I’ve become with the results. The less I chase the high of being published, the more I’m happy with what I’m pulling together.

Now that doesn’t mean there isn’t room for irreverent nonsense anymore. There always is, especially in flash or shorter stories, but now I’m realizing that with the ability to write novel length, I’ve provided myself with an immense opportunity to mash my idiot sensibilities with deep discussion/analysis of being broken. It’s all at once therapeutic and exciting.

I’ve never been the type to tell other writers they HAVE to do anything. I’ve tweeted random insights and advice that’s served me well, but I do think crime fiction (at least the independent scene) needs to begin taking a long, hard look at what we want to accomplish. Are we simply content to write pulp stories with age-old tropes? The same Chandler-style detective stories? Maybe some more copaganda?

Or do we take those stories and really try to upend them as best we can? Do we finally open the door to hearing diverse perspectives on overly revered stories; maybe providing a deeper insight into what we thought we knew? Personally, I think the survival of the genre is entirely dependent on that decision. We either remain cosplayers or we move towards becoming something a little more original (no sleight on cosplay, just the best metaphor I can think of). There are only so many revenge stories we can tell, sure, but there has to be a way to add new flavor to this.

The answer’s not easy, but I believe that to simply strive for these things. To take the bigger swings would be beneficial. Believing we can succeed by following the same path dozens of others tread is simply no longer a sustainable model and those who insist that it is will do more damage than any effective change could possibly do.

Ok then. It’s some how, some way De-fucking-cember.

Fuuuuuck.

9 months in exile for a lot of us. We’ve been separated from friends and family. Maybe we’ve done the socially distant thing; maybe we haven’t. It’s sucked on a lot of levels and I honestly do miss seeing people I love.

So when this all started and we scrambled for any and all toilet paper, there were rumblings about yeast shortages. Yeast shortages! My god, what would I do without yeast, a product we used maybe once or twice a month? Obviously, I fell right into the trend of making my own sourdough starter because, by god, I would not fall victim to that shortage of sweet, sweet yeast.

It started with banana bread. Just a fun little project. Easy. I never liked baking. Hard feelings from high school chemistry made me avoid anything that involved mixing liquids and whatever, so I wasn’t willing to try that hard.

Until I was.

See, writing has not been an escape this year. I’ve been on sub with my agent. I’ve been writing with a purpose that provides with it quite a bit of stress (albeit entirely instigated by my own worrywart brain) and while purpose is nice, purpose is not a means of distraction or relief.

But for some fucking reason measuring ratios of specific flours and water and cheeses? Now that shit made me feel better.

I’ve been thinking about why for the last couple of months. Why the baking helps me. Why (and fuck it, I’m bragging) I seem to be so good at this. And I realized two things 1) this is just a natural extension of doing something I’ve always loved: feeding people (ask anyone who was a recipient of a Popeye’s biscuit in NOLA a few years back about that) and 2) baking gives me control.

Let’s dwell on the latter realization. Sure, there are mistakes to be made, but the formula is still very specific – water, flour, salt + kinetic energy + heat = bread.

The quality is what shifts but that formula can’t change. It can be improved on and expanded on, but the basic principle is the same. I think there’s comfort in that and I honestly think it’s kept me sane while I worked out my other stressors enough to finally begin feeling that little itch to edit and write again. Having control of something, even a little loaf of bread, has brought me comfort. More comfort than even eating it.

And now, obviously, I’ve found something I have passion for in tandem with my other passions. That feels really good and is a small bright spot over the last 9 months of black skies. The bonus: point 1 from before. I get to share this with others and bring a little comfort to them. It’s a similar feeling to sharing my writing but also far more intimate.

With the holidays approaching, I think we can all use a little more comfort.

Take care of you and yours.