Thursday, October 25, 2012
MIRROR, MIRROR just went live on Amazon!
Hi folks,
My YA thriller, MIRROR, MIRROR just went live and for sale on Amazon! Not sure when the paperback version will be available but the ebook is available. I'm really excited! Hope you folks glom onto a copy and like it.
Order here: http://www.amazon.com/Mirror-ebook/dp/B009VNN40K/ref=sr_1_cc_1?s=aps&ie=UTF8&qid=1351185633&sr=1-1-catcorr&keywords=mirror+mirror+by+les+edgerton
Thank you for your support!
Blue skies,
Les
P.S. Wrote this one for my little girls, Britney and Sienna.
My YA thriller, MIRROR, MIRROR just went live and for sale on Amazon! Not sure when the paperback version will be available but the ebook is available. I'm really excited! Hope you folks glom onto a copy and like it.
Order here: http://www.amazon.com/Mirror-ebook/dp/B009VNN40K/ref=sr_1_cc_1?s=aps&ie=UTF8&qid=1351185633&sr=1-1-catcorr&keywords=mirror+mirror+by+les+edgerton
Thank you for your support!
Blue skies,
Les
P.S. Wrote this one for my little girls, Britney and Sienna.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
THE RAPIST cover!
Hi folks,
I'm really... I mean... REALLY jazzed! Jon Bassoff, my publisher at New Pulp Press has just sent me the cover for my nihilistic novel, THE RAPIST, and it's just gorgeous! Take a look and see what you think. (Just click on it to enlarge it.)
The publication date is March 20, 2013, but it may be offered early in a pre-pub sale. I'll keep you informed.
This novel is the best work I've ever done and I'm extremely proud of it. I cannot wait to have a copy in my hot little hand! It'll come out as a paperback and an ebook.
Please keep it in mind next spring when it's available!
Blue skies,
Les
P.S. Here are some of the other blurbs that will appear in the novel. Also, Cort McMeel is writing the forward for it. Cort was the initial champion for it and has a lot to do with it getting into the right hands and published.
Other blurbs:
9. The Rapist is a disturbing look into the twisted mind of a narcissistic psychopath on death row. A vulgar odyssey reminiscent of Nabokov’s Lolita, although far more depraved, Les Edgerton has crafted a dark and brilliant story that leaves you as equally unsettled as it does in complete awe.
I'm really... I mean... REALLY jazzed! Jon Bassoff, my publisher at New Pulp Press has just sent me the cover for my nihilistic novel, THE RAPIST, and it's just gorgeous! Take a look and see what you think. (Just click on it to enlarge it.)
The publication date is March 20, 2013, but it may be offered early in a pre-pub sale. I'll keep you informed.
This novel is the best work I've ever done and I'm extremely proud of it. I cannot wait to have a copy in my hot little hand! It'll come out as a paperback and an ebook.
Please keep it in mind next spring when it's available!
Blue skies,
Les
P.S. Here are some of the other blurbs that will appear in the novel. Also, Cort McMeel is writing the forward for it. Cort was the initial champion for it and has a lot to do with it getting into the right hands and published.
Other blurbs:
BLURBS FOR THE RAPIST
1. Les Edgerton presents an
utterly convincing anti-hero. The abnormal psychology is pitch-perfect. The
Rapist ranks right up there with Camus' The Stranger and Simenon's Dirty
Snow. An instant modern classic.
Allan
Guthrie, author of Slammer and
others. Publisher, Blasted Heath Books
2. So, I’m reading Les Edgerton’s
The Rapist. The title has already
made me uneasy.
Five pages in and I can hardly
breathe.
Ten and I’m nauseous.
For the next 50, I’m a mixture of
all of the above, but most of all, angry.
I feel like ringing my feminist
friends and confessing: Sisters, I’m reading something you will kill me for
reading.
I feel like ringing my ex
colleagues - parole officers and psychologists who work with sex offenders in
Barlinnie Prison, Glasgow - and asking them if they think it’s helpful to
publish an honest and explicit transcript which shows the cognitive distortions
of a callous, grandiose, articulate sex offender; one which illustrates his
inability to have a relationship with a woman and his complete lack of empathy?
I’m thinking I don’t know what I
should be thinking.
Will it turn sex offenders on?
Should we listen to this guy?
Is it possible to separate the
person from the offence, and to empathise with him as he waits to die?
I don’t ring anyone.
I read on.
And the breathlessness, nausea,
anger and confusion increase all the way to the end, at which point all I know
is that the book is genius.
Helen
Fitzgerald, author, Dead Lovely, Bloody
Women, The Devil’s Staircase, Donor and others.
3. Take a Nabokovian narrator
trying to convince the reader of his innocence and filter it through An
Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge and you've got The Rapist, a raw and frightening
journey through the inner psyche of a damaged man.
Brian
Lindenmuth, Publisher, Spinetingler
Magazine and Snubnose Press
4. One never knows what to expect
when reading a novel entitled “The Rapist,” yet, similar to “The Bitch” which
precedes this, with Les Edgerton you know you're in for an interesting ride.
Tackling a tough subject with great aplomb, Les Edgerton proves once again why
he is one of the most exciting writers of this generation. The structure of
this just astounded me. I've never read anything like it before. I've never
been so engrossed in a novel as I was with this one. I had no idea Edgerton had
this literary part of his writing. I don't know of any other writers that can
go from crime fiction to literary so seamlessly. Edgerton should be very proud
of this novel...
One of the bravest pieces of
fiction you are likely to read this year, and also one of the best. This is a
novel you'll want to read again and again, an outstanding read!
Luca
Veste, author of the story collections Liverpool
5, and More Liverpool Five. He is
also the editor of the story collection, Off
the Record
5. The Rapist blends Camus and Jim
Thompson in an existential crime novel that is as dark and intoxicating as
strong Irish coffee. Les Edgerton pulls us into the corkscrew mind of Truman
Ferris Pinter, a twisted man with skewed perception of the world, as his life
spirals toward oblivion, like dirty dishwater down a plughole. It reminded me
of Jim Thompson's Savage Night in its
delirium.
Paul
D Brazill, Author, 13 Shots Of Noir
and others.
6. Les Edgerton’s book The Rapist is Albert Camus’ The Stranger retold as if by the
lovechild of Edgar Allen Poe and Charles Bukowski. Yes, it’s disturbing, yet
layered and provocative, with its combination of mysticism and perversion. I
particularly like the cat and mouse relationship between the protagonist Truman
and the prison warden—it’s reminiscent of The
Shawshank Redemption. This tale, with its many twists and turns, is
definitely not for the faint of heart—but then, the title should have made that
clear.
Scott
Evans, Editor, Blue Moon Literary and Art
Review, Author, First Folio
7. William Faulkner
on steroids or Hannibal Lecter on meth; neither as literate or frightening as
Les Edgerton in his ground-breaking novel, The Rapist. This intellectual
tour-de-force rips open the mind of a delusional psychopath taking the reader
on a raw journey that challenges Dante’s Inferno. And the last line of the book
is the penultimate example of a sociopath’s naked ego.
R.C. Stewart, author of The
Blackness of Darkness, No Remorse
and others.
8. A
deathdream swan dive from the existential stratosphere plummeting into the
personal hell of a tormented, broken psyche, The Rapist introduces us to a gentle and philosophical misanthrope
named Truman Pinter, at once reminiscent of Albert Camus and Patricia
Highsmith, even John Gardner’s Grendel
and the journal of Carl Panzram. Les Edgerton melds introspection and visceral,
human brutality in this death row narrative from a masterful storyteller, whose
dissection of a psychopath will haunt you long after the final page.
Thomas Pluck, Well-known commentator on the noir scene, many short
stories published in magazines such as the Utne
Reader, Editor of the anthology, THE PROTECTOR.
9. The Rapist is a disturbing look into the twisted mind of a narcissistic psychopath on death row. A vulgar odyssey reminiscent of Nabokov’s Lolita, although far more depraved, Les Edgerton has crafted a dark and brilliant story that leaves you as equally unsettled as it does in complete awe.
Julia
Madeleine, author of No One To Hear You Scream and The Truth About
Scarlet Rose
10. When Les Edgerton asked me to
read an ARC of “The Rapist” he warned me with that title it may not be my thing
and he was okay with whatever I decided. I knew of his writing books like Hooked: Write Fiction That Grabs Readers at Page One
& Never Lets Them Go and Finding Your Voice: How to Put Personality in Your
Writing but never had looked at any of his fiction. I
was prepared for something graphic but he refused to talk about the plot or
storyline. No hints.
I was ready to be offended. I’m a
strong advocate for women’s equality and won’t tolerate or put my name near
anything that belittles woman. With a
title of “The Rapist” it had two and a half strikes before I read the first
line because rape is all about a man having power over a woman.
From the first pages the words
and voice made me think of American literature masters like Mark Twain and
Edgar Allen Poe I was forced to read in high school. The difference was in
school I still muttered about reading dead masters and times, but grew to love
the descriptions, plots and characters that transported me to another moment in
history. In “The Rapist” I read greedily to see where the book was going,
totally engrossed in the story. The honesty and freshness of the words from the
main character kept me glued to the page to see what happened to the man caught
in the worst circumstances and an act of degradation to woman. That is about
all I want to say about the plot. I understand Les’s reasons for not explaining
the details. You need fresh eyes to appreciate it but that isn’t to say I won’t
go back and reread it like other writing masters savoring it. It is one of
those books that each time you read it, you find another kernel of truth, a
pearl of wisdom. It has that many facets wrapped in rich layers of dialogue,
characterization and setting that pounded with each of the rapist’s heartbeat.
I was hooked from the first page.
Wendy
Gager, author of A Case of Infatuation, A
Case of Accidental Intersection, and
A Case of Hometown Blues.
11. Les
Edgerton’s masterly The Rapist is a
deeply disturbing journey into the murky recesses of the mind of psychopathic
death row inmate Truman Ferris Pinter. An intellectual, erudite, philosophical
misanthrope, Truman draws the reader inexorably into his fractured web. There
are times when one nods one’s head in agreement with his well-reasoned
arguments, only to shrink back in horror at the realisation. Sympathy for The
Devil, indeed, in this dark vision of a black heart that is both astoundingly
honest and ultimately terrifying.
Lesley Ann Sharrock
former publisher/editor Moondance Media,
author of 7th Magpie.
Monday, October 15, 2012
Book Trailer for Noir at the Bar, Vol 2 Anthology
Hi folks,
Scott Phillips, the co-editor (with Jed Ayres) of the just-released Noir at The Bar Vol 2 anthology, just sent out this video trailer. I'm very proud to be included in a truly stellar cast of noir writers.
Please be warned--there is adult content that might not be appropriate for children.
Check it out at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R1-5A1V0Oag&feature=youtu.be
Also, here's a podcast review of the anthology. http://www.bookedpodcast.com/2012/09/28/109-noir-at-the-bar-2/?fb_action_ids=439352976110958&fb_action_types=og.likes&fb_source=aggregation&fb_aggregation_id=288381481237582
Blue skies,
Les
Scott Phillips, the co-editor (with Jed Ayres) of the just-released Noir at The Bar Vol 2 anthology, just sent out this video trailer. I'm very proud to be included in a truly stellar cast of noir writers.
Please be warned--there is adult content that might not be appropriate for children.
Check it out at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R1-5A1V0Oag&feature=youtu.be
Also, here's a podcast review of the anthology. http://www.bookedpodcast.com/2012/09/28/109-noir-at-the-bar-2/?fb_action_ids=439352976110958&fb_action_types=og.likes&fb_source=aggregation&fb_aggregation_id=288381481237582
Blue skies,
Les
Sunday, October 14, 2012
IT WAS THE BEST OF TIMES... IT WAS (MOSTLY) THE WORST OF TIMES...
Hi
folks,
Sorry
I haven’t posted in a bit, but I’ve been out of it since Bouchercon and have
gotten dozens and dozens of emails since and thought it might make more sense
if I just told you guys what’s been going on.
First,
I’ve been through a week of what feels like a Dickens' or Russian novel, but I’m
emerging fairly well.
For
starters, I went to Bouchercon last week, anticipating a magical time. Well… as
it turned out, it wasn’t. It’s kind of forced me to face my own mortality.
I
arrived on Thursday, checked into the airport Marriott which is about 15 miles
away from the convention center at the Renaissance Marriott. Jumped back in my
rental and headed for the convention. This trip was a really big deal for me.
It represented an opportunity to reconnect with mystery/suspense/thriller/noir
writers I’m friends with and meet new writers whom I’ve admired from afar. My
wife and I kind of mortgaged our Christmas and other things to pay for it and I
planned to make some hay! Maybe even hook up with a publisher or three to look
at some of my work. You know—what us writer-types do when we go to professional
conferences. We saw it as an investment in our future.
What
do they say? Man plans… and God laughs?
True
that.
I
got to the hotel and that’s when the troubles began. MapQuest didn’t alert me
that navigating downtown Cleveland is a nightmare. I finally got to a downtown Marriott and parked a block away at their underground garage. I have fairly
severe COPD and it about wore me out to hike from the garage to the hotel… only
to run into old friend Hallie Ephron who told me the convention was at another Marriott—the Renaissance—which happened to be two blocks further away. For you
young whippersnappers, that’s a piece of cake, but it took me the good part of
half an hour to hike it, having to stop several times to catch my breath and
hold a mirror up to see if my breath still showed…
Finally,
I made it to the host hotel and went directly to…
The
Bar.
Where
else? It’s where the action of writer’s conferences is always at. First, I had
to register, which entailed a walk of what seemed half a mile down the hall to
the opposite end. Finally, that done, I hiked back to the bar and ordered some
meds… a Jack and water. Instantly revived!
Where
I was soon embroiled in conversation with a writer who wanted to lecture me
about The Differences Between Plot-Based and Character-Based Fiction. Precisely
why I always go to the bar and don’t attend a lot of panels which are often
about things like: The Differences Between Plot-Based and… you get it. After I
extricated myself from this guy, I started to see old friends and was
introduced to new ones and everything was cool again. Made friends with the
bartenders who were great. This one bartender even bought me a drink. That’s
when you know you’ve arrived.
Spent
a largely pleasurable evening chatting with other writers. Don’t ask me their
names. I have to check my own nametag to remember my own. My wife usually goes
with me to serve as my memory, due to my Halfzeimer’s. Well, I remember some—Eric
Beetner, my old friend Jed Ayres, Johnny Shaw (whose new book I just finished and
it was one of the best reads I’ve had in a long while), Tom Pluck, Josh Stallings,
Christa Faust, Dominic Martell and a bunch of other terrific writers. As the
cartoon guy says, the whole evening was “Happy, happy, joy, joy.”
Finally
left to go to the parking garage three blocks away and got discombobulated
(lost, homey), and it took over an hour to find my car. Wondering what the city
of Cleveland had done to their oxygen supply. Finally made it back to my motel,
after encountering a detour on the way and eventually figuring out how to find
my digs.
Got
up the next day (Friday) and headed back to the convention center. Good day.
Met lots of cool writers, saw old friends, generally had a great time. Ate some
fried calamari. Some of the best I’ve ever eaten. I’ll come back to that in a
bit…
That
evening was our Noir @ the Bar reading at the Wonderbar. It was only two blocks
away but I couldn’t walk it so some really nice folks—Lee Thompson and Sabrina
Ogden were kind enough to go with me and share a cab. You know, humor the old
dude… I think a guy I desperately wanted to meet as I’m a huge admirer of his
work was there—Duane Swierczynsky—but if he was,
alas, I didn’t get to meet him. The reading went well even though the mics were
terrible. I had a guy come up to me afterward and introduce himself as a
publisher and he bought four of my books (thank you!) and we’d kind of made
plans to meet up the next day but as it turned out that was not to be. Sir, if
you happen to read this, please give me a shout!
From the reading, we went back to the Renaissance
and that’s when things began to go hinky. A boatload of us were gathered in the
lobby just off the bar and things began hitting me. I remember asking someone
if they could find me a room I could crash in that night as I didn’t think I
could make it back to my hotel. I’d begun breaking out into cold sweats and
feeling faint. I didn’t want to come across as a wuss, so I just slouched down
in a chair and eventually passed out (not from drinking, from illness). I woke
up at 3 ayem and the place was deserted. I honestly thought I might be dying.
Not to be melodramatic, but that’s the way I felt. I didn’t see any way around
it, so forced myself up and down to the parking garage and found my car and
drove back to my hotel. Somehow…
Woke up at six ayem and turned over and my stomach
began cramping big-time and I began the first of about eight ralphings.
Calimari. Felt like I was dying. Food poisoning, I assumed. There was no way I
could return to the convention. I called and asked for a late checkout and then
spent two hours between the porcelain goddess and packing and finally piled in
my car and began the three-and-a-half hour drive back to Ft. Wayne. Pure hell
all the way.
Got there, found out I’d had a hemorrhoid burst and
about a cup of blood lost. Went to bed and got up the next morning and there
was more bright red blood. Either a second ‘roid or the last gasps of the first
one. Mary took me to the ER and we got there at 11:30 and they took a bunch of
tests as they thought maybe it wasn’t food poisoning but gallbladder—in fact, I’d
emailed novelist John Gilstrap to tell him why I’d left so abruptly and he
suggested it might not be food poisoning but gallbladder—John, looks like you
might be right—awaiting test results. Sat in the ER room until 7:30 that night
and they finally released us. They talked about doing something called a “hemorrhoidectomy”
and then decided against it for the time being. Ended up the next several days
traipsing from doctor’s offices to hospitals to labs, et al. Tested for pancreas,
lumbar (another story), gall bladder and other things. Oh, forgot—on the way
home from Cleveland got a severe sore throat and cough and mentioned it at the
ER but there was so many other things they forgot it. Gave me a breathing
treatment for my COPD and put me on two different inhalers and all kinds of
other crap. Two days later, went to RediMed as I was coughing nonstop and they
diagnosed acute bronchitis and possible pneumonia and gave me meds for that.
And then, just as life was looking kind of gray… it went positively black. Mary
took our only car in as the idiot light went on and the news was that the
engine’s shot. They said all we could do is drive it till it dropped—nothing could
be done. So, that’s where we are with the car. If it goes we don’t have money
for a new engine or for a new used car, so just hope our shoe leather holds up.
That brings us to yesterday. My strength and energy
were starting to return which was good as I had an engagement to speak to the
Indiana Romance Writers in Indy. Rented a car, drove down, and had a really
good visit with those delightful folks. Felt re-energized.
Anyway, that was my week, right out of Dickens or Tolstoy.
Not looking for sympathy—well, maybe a little—but it’s just easier to post this
here than to reply to all the individual emails that have been coming in. I
appreciate each and every one of those, btw—it’s just going to be impossible to
reply to them quickly so hope y’all understand. And I wanted those folks at
Bouchercon who I was going to meet with know why I wasn’t able to.
The good news? And, yes there is some. My students
in both my online creative writing class and the Skype class I co-teach with
Jenny Milchman for the New York Writer’s Workshop. Every single one of them has
been extremely understanding and gracious. They’ve allowed me an extra week to
get it together and they’ll never know how much I appreciate that. It means the
world to me and I won’t forget.
Anyway, the one thing I’ve learned in my journey is
that life is cyclic. It’s not up forever and it’s not down forever. I’m pretty
sure something really cool and good is going to happen soon. I mean… I’m not just
whistling past the graveyard here am I?
Thanks for all of your well-wishes and thoughts.
Here’s something remarkable. Stuff like this shows a person the true value of
friends. A good friend of mine—Bob (I won’t embarrass you by giving your last
name, Bob) has far worse things going on in his life than I do—his beloved wife
is dying right now and may even be gone at this moment)—Bob has truly serious
things on his plate, and yet, he took the time out to call me and voice his
support for me. Now… who does that? Only a truly selfless person. Thanks, Bob.
People like Bob keep reminding me of that great philosopher Red Green and what
he always says:
Keep your stick on the ice. I’m pulling for ya. We’re
all in this together.
Yes we are.
Blue skies,
Les
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Bouchercon Reading from Snubnose Press Authors
Hi folks,
For those going to Bouchercon, please consider visiting our reading at Noir @ the Bar at the Wonderbar near the host hotel, on Friday night from 7-8 pm. It's all Snubnose Press authors... and our entourage... Otherwise, I'll be at the bar in the host hotel. Look me up!
Ryan Sayles is on the marquee but I understand he has a new commitment to go to for his new book.
Be there or be square!
Blue skies,
Les
For those going to Bouchercon, please consider visiting our reading at Noir @ the Bar at the Wonderbar near the host hotel, on Friday night from 7-8 pm. It's all Snubnose Press authors... and our entourage... Otherwise, I'll be at the bar in the host hotel. Look me up!
Ryan Sayles is on the marquee but I understand he has a new commitment to go to for his new book.
Be there or be square!
Blue skies,
Les
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Publishers and some of the horses they rode in on...
Hi
folks,
Just
some things on my mind that keep me awake at night…
As
I’ve been doing this writing and publishing thing for a long time, I’ve been
fortunate enough to make some friends who have access to the powers-that-be in
publishing. From those folks, I’ve learned things that aren’t taught in MFA
programs or how-to books or at writing conventions. And much of what I learn
disturbs me. Actually… it doesn’t disturb me—it flat-out pisses me off.
When
I was a kid, all I ever wanted to be was a writer. I deemed it the most
honorable of all professions. Good books—I was taught—were the source of
knowledge and of truth. It was that truth thing that really attracted me. I was
born into one of those dysfunctional families most of us writer-types seem to
come from—one of those families in which truth was somewhat deficit from in our
daily dealings with each other. For instance, I was abused in a variety of ways
by a religious fanatic of a mother and by a father who abused me in another
variety of ways. Not trying to make a victim’s case here—just laying out the
way it was. It was about a year ago that I finally discovered that my father
wasn’t going to show up in my DNA. After 68 years, I finally learned the truth about the man. It wasn’t
that my mother suddenly felt the urge to confess. Nope. I learned the truth
from having a DNA test done with myself and one of my sisters. Last I heard, my
mother was still rewriting the story she laid on me…
Anyway,
the truth has always been my standard. Why I became a writer. Why I had
a personal agenda to always tell the truth in my fiction, no matter how it
might make me look to others. A long time ago, I came upon a piece of wisdom
that I’ve always believed—that the greatest of writers are those who are
willing to go deep inside themselves and expose that part of us that most
people try to keep hidden. That place where real truth resides.
I’m
saying all this in preface to what’s keeping me up at night. For years, it
seems, I’ve been more than a bit naïve. I’ve simply taken it on faith that
publishers had the same impetus as I have—to search for truth and present it to the world. A noble thing,
both for editors and publishers and writers.
And,
I was wrong. Or, maybe I was right at one time but things have changed a lot in
our culture.
A
close friend of mine who is close to the decision-makers in publishing recently
told me a couple of very disturbing things. It was concerning a book of mine,
THE BITCH. I consider it the best thing I’ve ever written and I’ve been
extremely gratified that a whole boatload of people I admire and respect—fellow
writers—quality writers—have agreed with my own opinion and have been gracious
enough to say so in public. I wanted desperately to see it in print, but alas,
so far have been unable to attract a print publisher. It is in ebook form and I’m
grateful for that. At least it’s out there for folks to read.
But,
what’s disturbing me is that my aforementioned friend had earlier championed it
among print publishers. What he told me is what keeps me up at night. Two
instances.
One
concerns a publisher of crime novels who agreed with my friend that the book
was, indeed “brilliant,” but passed on it saying “it had too many elements that
could be considered politically
incorrect. (italics mine). Excuse me… but what the fuck? A publisher who
even considers if writing is or isn’t politically correct? This isn’t a
publisher at all, in my opinion. This is a bookseller who wants to be seen as a
publisher. Probably wears those jackets with leather patches on the sleeves and
hangs out in writerly bars in Gotham City. But, a guy who proclaims himself a
publisher and won’t publish something because it’s “politically incorrect?”
Excuse me, but when I was in the joint we had a name for folks like this. The
name was… punk. I understand all about protecting one’s livelihood, but we’re
talking about a publisher, not a life insurance salesman. (Nothing against
insurance salesmen!). This is what I always assumed publishing was all about.
Putting out books that spoke the truth, no matter how inconvenient. And, truth
is more often than not inconvenient.
This
guy’s attitude just pisses me off. What really irritates me is that he isn’t
exposed for the poser he is. Most writers aren’t aware of his attitude. I really
wish I could name him and call him out, but the lawyers on my block tell me
that isn’t a wise move.
The
other person that keeps me tossing and turning is the guy who was the editor of
a Legacy 6 publisher. Who told our mutual friend that he’d love to publish THE
BITCH, but he couldn’t because his boss told him that if he signed any book
that earned a dime less than $30,000 he’d be fired. Not chewed out or had his
charge card suspended for a week or banished to the office without the window,
but fired. So his “brave new imprint” that was going to publish “new,
original and exciting talent” couldn’t for fear of loss of his corner office
and he thereafter only considered brand names. Instead of finding that new or
unknown talent he proclaimed to the world was his intent, his days consisted mostly
of trying to snatch brand name writers away from other houses. The more I
talked to others in the industry, the more I discovered that this was becoming
a standard for an awful lot of publishers. This guy, like the first guy, showed
his own level of courage. Which was tied to his wallet. I understand this in
many trades and professions but always thought publishers and editors looked
upon what they did as a “calling.” Turns out it’s about as much of a calling as
wearing an animal costume down at the fast food restaurant for minimum wage.
(Nothing against the folks who wear animal costumes—they’re very honest about
doing it for the bread only.)
What
these guys don’t realize is that this kind of attitude is what is going to be
their downfall. They’re becoming punks in jailhouse vernacular. And, their fate
will be the same. It’s their current mindset and publishing policies that will
spell their eventual doom. For what’s happening is that there are publishers out there who do believe
in truth and who do believe in writers who are courageous and who are
themselves courageous in the books they publish.
Right
now, they’re small. But, they’re growing. Publishers like Snubnose Press, New
Pulp Press, Bare Knuckles Press, StoneGate Ink and several others. I’m sorry to
omit listing them all and apologize for that omission. They’re growing and
there’s a reason. They’re not afraid to publish something that might be
controversial.
Print
publishers think they’re losing sales due to the cheaper costs associated with
ebooks. That’s a part of it, but another reason is that readers also want quality
for their purchases and don’t find enough originality in the same old books
they’ve had available before. There are just some new and exciting things out
there and it’s the new guys on the block who are providing it.
Writing
that appeals to everyone isn’t writing. It’s typing. If a book doesn’t piss off
at least some readers, I maintain it isn’t worth much. It’s Pravda.
There.
That’s my rant. I feel better now.
I
hope you’ll consider buying a copy of THE BITCH. If it somehow becomes such a
seller that a print publisher wants it, I’d love that, but I’ll also tell you
that I won’t let it go to one of the kinds of publishers described above.
Here’s
what some of those respected writers had to say about it:
THE BITCH is the kind of raw
crime fiction that's right up my alley, like sandpaper for the brain. Edgerton
has got the chops. Mad chops. Gonna make us all ashamed of our puny efforts one
day.
--Anthony Neil Smith, bestselling author of Choke on Your Lies, Psychomatic, Hogdoggin’,
Yellow Medicine, The Drummer, To the Devil, My Regards, Devil Red (Hap and
Leonard) and others.
The Bitch is a vicious
barnstormer of a novel, a noir rollercoaster that won't let you unbuckle until
that final three-word smackdown. Les Edgerton is Eddie Bunker's pulpy cousin
and Eugene Izzi's soul brother, and with a spiritual family like that, you
can't go wrong. Pick it up immediately.
--Ray Banks, internationally bestselling
author of Dead Money, Beast of Burden, The
Big Blind. Saturday’s Child, Donkey Punch, No More Heroes and others.
Les Edgerton
doesn’t pussyfoot around. He writes about real people drowning in desperation
in THE BITCH. He’s got a story to tell you so get ready; it’s coming at you
fast. Get ready… —Linwood Barclay, international
bestselling author of Never Look Away,
Clouded Vision, The Last Resort, Fear the
Worst, Too Close to Home, No Time for Goodbye, The Accident and others.
Les Edgerton’s
brilliantly hardboiled THE BITCH is the tense and hard hitting story of Jake
Bishop, a reformed ex-con whose dark past drags him back into a life of crime
like an umbilical cord tied tight around his neck. —Paul D. Brazill, author of 13
Shots of Noir.
I liked THE BITCH
so much that I wanted to publish it. But we lost out and Bare Knuckles Press
got a hell of a book. The Bitch is a dark crime fiction story that never once
pulls a punch or ducks behind some bullshit like “happy endings” or “closure.”
The Bitch isn't afraid to stay dark until the very end. —Brian Lindenmuth, editor/publisher of
Snubnose Press and Spinetingler Magazine.
From its opening
sentence to its last, THE BITCH is an engrossing journey into some very dark
places. Les Edgerton writes like a poet with a mean streak, and his prose goes
down easy and smooth like good liquor as it carves up your insides. —Henry Perez, author of Mourn the Living and Killing Red.
Imagine, if you
will, Les Edgerton, Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler sipping straight
whiskey while swapping lies in the back booth of the Linebacker bar as the
“noir” legends welcome Edgerton into the brotherhood of broken dreams. With THE
BITCH, Edgerton earns his way into this special literary brotherhood. No, The
Bitch isn’t a wild woman, but prison slang for “ha-BITCH-ual criminal.” This is
a taut tale of double-cross, death, diamonds and destruction as Jake Bishop
fights to protect all he holds dear—his freedom, his pregnant wife, and his
teen-age brother -- by holding The Bitch at bay when trapped into one last job.
Sam Spade and Phillip Marlowe could learn a thing or two from this
hairdresser.—Bob Stewart, author
of Remorse (Pinnacle) a True Crime
Book of the Month selection, Hidden Evil,
and others.
Les Edgerton. I
just read his newest hard-boiled effort, THE BITCH, and I realized I didn't
once breathe through the entire thing. Okay, that's an exaggeration, but it is
one of the most fun, dangerous, if not pyromanic literary performances of the
past year (word up is that parts of it are taken from Les's own life. Holy
crap, this guy shouldn't be alive!). Like Les's previous bestselling nonfiction
effort on writing, HOOKED, this novel is a sure bet.—Vincent Zandri author of The
Remains, The Innocent, Moonlight Falls and The Concrete Pearl.
THE BITCH is
superb. Edgerton’s hard, pitch-perfect prose and relentless plot provide a
one-two knockout punch of crime novel perfection...the real bitch of THE BITCH
is that I tried to buy this priceless work and publish it under a new imprint
and I couldn't afford the damn thing. Now it’s gold in someone else's pocket.—Cortright McMeel, author of Short (St. Martin’s Press), founding
editor and publisher of Murdaland
Magazine: Crime Fiction for the 21st Century and Noir Nation: International Journal of Crime
Fiction.
Every crime
novelist remembers how his breath was literally taken away when he first
started to read the early novels of Elmore Leonard. Les Edgerton has used the
time he served in prison well. Years from now many future crime writers will
also remember discovering him. His first crime novel, -but not his first
published book THE BITCH is a realistic crime noir kind of novel that reminds
me of Unknown Man 89, La Brava, Stick, and The Killer Inside Me (Jim Thompson).
—Joseph Trigoboff, author of The Bone Orchard and The Shooting Gallery.
These
guys’ opinions mean something to me. The guy who’s afraid to publish a book
that may be “politically incorrect?” Not so much…
Thanks
for listening to my rant! I’d be interested in other writer’s stories about
their publishing experiences. Now I can maybe get some sleep tonight and rest up for the forthcoming Bouchercon.
Blue
skies,
Les
To order:
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)