Two Weeks Until the Heat is Brought
Abe and Duff #5 Arrives June 24, 2025
There is a special kind of terror that comes with writing a book that no one tells you about. It’s not exclusive to publishing, I’m sure. I would guess that singers, actors, artists—any creative endeavor, I suppose—have something similar that happens to them.
It occurs when whatever you’ve been writing (rehearsing, drawing, building, etc…) is ready, and begins the unstoppable path toward release to the general public. The time from when a book is readied to the time when it actually arrives in the world is a time that is wrought with the fear that comes from knowing you’re putting yourself out there in the world to be judged.
I imagine that’s the fear instilled in us when we’re kids, and our classmates single us out for ridicule for one reason or another. It’s one of those fears that is ingrained deep in our psyche whenever we put something of ourselves out for the subjective eye of others. We all want to be included. We don’t want to be rejected. No matter how much we can pretend to be all individualistic and noble in our self-image, there’s something primal about being judged by our peers and the public.
Or worse—being ignored.
That’s the other half of the pre-release terror coin: we desperately want people to read our books, or see our play, or hear us sing—but we also really don’t want them to. Again, I think this is common for most creative types. We do our art, or music, or what-have-you, and while the act of creation brings personal joy, there is always that next level. If I enjoy this, then maybe someone else would, too.
And then, when they can partake in the thing you’re doing or the thing you’ve created, it’s a miserable experience of both wanting positive feedback and hoping they don’t read it.
It’s kind of like the movie test you give a friend or someone you’ve started dating—there’s always one movie you love, and then you find out a friend or potential mate has never seen that movie. So you show it to them. And the whole time they’re watching the movie, you’re not watching the movie, you’re watching them and trying to determine if you can still date or be friends after the movie is over.
Honestly, I once met someone who told me she hated Ghostbusters. I don’t need that sort of negativity in my life. If you meet people like that, stop talking to them.
—Good safety tip. Thanks, Egon.
(Oh, I will quote the living hell out of Ghostbusters. Don’t get me started…)
Anyhow, if you want to know why authors are bundles of neuroses, this is the reason. We spend months, if not years getting a book ready to be read by others, and then the second that moment looms large, we panic and hope no one reads it, and then get really bummed when no one does read it, but god forbid someone actually reads it and says nice things about it, because I don’t know what to do with that information.
My Dad’s Review of BRING THE HEAT
I sent an ARC off to the parents because they like that. My mom doesn’t read my stuff because all she does is watch cutesy K-dramas and read romance novels—classic Harlequin stuff, not the porn-adjacent stuff that is all the rage on BookTok.
My dad didn’t read my books until I wrote Abe & Duff. He and I have always bonded over our mutual love of crime fiction, classics, and the occasional animal story. (His favorite books are the James Herriot classics about post-war veterinarians in the Yorkshire Dales.)
My dad really likes the Abe & Duff books, and that’s not familial favoritism. He’s a pretty tough critic. He read Welcome to Meskousing because it was an Abe & Duff spin-off, despite his normal shunning of anything paranormal. He told me, “I liked it. I didn’t love it.”
My dad sent me this text the other day while he was reading.
So, you can get a sample of the sort of highbrow, elevated, clearly literary art I’m putting into the world. Pretty much up there for the sort of deep and insightful analysis the best critics give Faulkner and Joyce, right?
Anyhow, Dad finished the book last night and called to tell me he thinks it’s my best work yet.
I don’t know how true that is because I never let myself believe anything I write is good, but my dad really liked Bring the Heat, for whatever that’s worth to you.
At a certain point, you have to take your victories wherever you can get them, no matter how small or insignificant they might be.
When Bring the Heat gets the inevitable one-star review1, I’ll be able to say, “Well, at least my dad liked it.”
Other People’s Works
I finished Craig Johnson’s newest Longmire adventure, Return to Sender, the other day. Craig is at his best when he is banter-heavy and action-light. This book fulfills that metric. Walt goes undercover as a favor to his late wife’s cousin to investigate the disappearance of a postal carrier who had a daily drive through Wyoming’s Red Desert, home of the Killpecker Sand Dunes, the largest living dune system in the United States. Weird stuff goes on in the Red Desert, and Walt finds a UFO Cult, murder, and a lot of high strangeness.
Johnson’s trademark humor, fast-paced banter, and ability to showcase the beauty and oddness that go hand-in-hand in Wyoming are on full display. It was a fast read. While it breaks no new ground for the good sheriff, on this, his 24th outing (28th if you count the eBook-only shorts and the book of collected short stories), I didn’t need it to break new ground. The jokes, the characters, and the pacing were more than enough.
I’m to the point where I don’t need Walt and Company to solve murders. The murders actually just get in the way at this point. Just give me the witty banter.
I’ve started reading Rob Hart’s book Assassin’s Anonymous this week. I have not finished it, but I am enjoying it greatly. It’s one of those premises that is so great, I am angry at myself for not thinking it up first, although I’m sure I would not have done it as much justice as Rob has.
I look forward to finishing it, and I’ll probably read the sequel, The Medusa Protocol, which actually releases on the same day as Bring the Heat.
I’ve also started The Peacock and the Sparrow by I.S. Berry.
This is the book that won a bunch of awards last year and drummed up a mountain of acclaim. It’s been on my TBR pile since Bouchercon last August.
So far—very, very good. Shades of John le Carré and Frederick Forsyth.
I’m not too far into this one, so I can’t give more than that, but I’m looking forward to reading more.
RIP Frederick Forsyth
Speaking of Frederick Forsyth, the giant of the industry has written his last. He left this green-and-blue rock on June 9. He did amazing work while he was here. He flew a jet in WWII for the RAF, specifically piloting a de Havilland Vampire2, which became the fodder for an illustrated novella, The Shepherd.
Forsyth was one of the pioneers of the thriller genre, and his first book, The Day of the Jackal, is a classic. Forsyth wrote the 140,000 manuscript and took it to several large publishing houses (back when you could still do such a thing without an intermediary), but none of them wanted to publish it due to the plot (an assassination attempt on Charles de Gaulle—who was still alive at the time) being implausible.
Forsyth refused to back down. He eventually found a smaller publisher who was willing to take a chance on a limited run. They put it into the world in England, and through word of mouth, it quickly sold out of the initial print run.
An American publishing house sought the US rights in a bidding war that eventually ended up netting Forsyth $375,000 in 1971. That’s the equivalent of $3 million in today’s money.
While I enjoyed Forsyth’s work very much, his refusal to settle or give up as an unknown author is what truly inspires me.
Rest well, Mr. Forsyth.
And thanks for the books.
All books get one-star reviews if enough people read them. I got a one-star review for The Single Twin because someone thought there were too many jokes. Whenever you get a one-star review as an author, I encourage you to go read the one-star reviews Steinbeck, Hemingway, Faulkner, McCarthy, McMurtry, and others get on Amazon. It does good for your soul.
My favorite one-star review for a Cormac McCarthy book was from someone who said, “There are no quotation marks in this book. This is why self-published writers need editors.”
Probably the coolest name for a type of plane. Better than the A-10 Warthog and the F-15 Mudhen (and I know the Mudhen is technically a Strike Eagle—but c’mon…Mudhen is better.)