Be Afraid

By Andrew E. Kaufman, author of psychological thrillers

Being a writer is like climbing the tallest peak in the world. We barely get to enjoy the victory, when someone straps us down, tears our shirts open, and tells the vultures to bring it on.

Let’s face it: to be an artist is to be vulnerable. And perhaps a little unstable. We pour our souls onto the pages. We sweat. We cry. We scream a lot. We drink ridiculous quantities of coffee, but never enough to combat our emotional and physical exhaustion.

Not to mention, the brutal criticism, and really, there is no way to combat that. We read it, we cringe,

and we may (possibly) throw some things (at least, I hear). After that, we pick ourselves up and dust ourselves off, taking what we can use, and throwing away the rest…that is, between the hysterical sobs, and guttural groans (also, of course, not a first hand experience).

Other sides of our artistry are a bit less brutal and far more enjoyable. If we do it right, we get to create worlds and characters from nothing other than our hungry imaginations, then watch them flourish into amazing stories. Also if we do it right, we relish in the knowledge that our readers are enjoying them, and more importantly, feeling them.

Of course, getting to that point is easier said than done.

In reaching that goal, my approach can be at times… a bit unconventional. Possibly insane. For me, writing a novel means feeling my way through the darkness and through my pages, essentially with no idea what the outcome will be. I don’t plan before I launch into my work. I write on instinct. As I do this, one persistent and nagging question pokes at me: Will this work?

The truth is, I never really know, and therein lies the insanity, because it’s usually not until the end stages that I realize I’ve actually got a cohesive story, and even more, one that people may actually enjoy. Even then, it’s not until my precious child leaves the mental womb-vacuum and takes in its first gasp of air that I start believing. And once again, living.

That’s where the joy begins. And the pain. And then more questions. When the book is “live,” I am overwhelmed because there is so much to take in. I watch my sales, watch my reviews. I question and re-question, examine and reexamine. I again assess whether my work is worthwhile, whether it did or did not, in fact, work. Even then, it’s all still a guessing game. There will never be finite answers to my many questions, and that’s part of this game.

Some might call my approach to novel writing somewhat random, somewhat reckless, and yes, somewhat unzipped, and I’d have a hard time disagreeing. But here’s the thing: I understand it, and even more, I know what drives it.

Fear.

Is fear a bad thing? Well, no. It’s what keeps me from touching a hot stove (at least, on purpose), from speeding down the freeway at 100 mph (give or take), and from making inappropriate comments (well, most of the time).

And fear is what keeps me from settling for Just Good Enough. It keeps me on my toes. Without fear, my work would be a shining example of Just Average. And that’s something I can’t tolerate.

So I strive for balance, because balance means allowing my fear to work for instead of against me. That’s the real challenge. Turning fear into a driving force that propels me to do my best, to be creative as I can, and to push myself outside the comfort zone. I am then mobilized instead of paralyzed.

Whether we like it or not , fear is necessary in art and in life. Perhaps Father Everett said it best in the movie Daredevel:

“A man without fear is a man without hope.”

And there you have it. When all is done, I know the truth—that I’m not afraid to be afraid.

Andrew E. Kaufman's new and bestselling novel, Darkness & Shadows, has been touted as "A story about damage and survival, about the past and the future, and about facing the truth behind the pain."

Sexy on a Stick, or Broken and Flawed? How do you like them?

By Andrew E. Kaufman-Author of psychological thrillers

The tattooed, bad boy biker.

The sexy, iconic rock star.

The brooding detective with a tortured soul who always finds the killer.

Let’s face it, those characters are likeable and appealing, and they’ll always sell. It’s why we see them every day on TV, read about them in novels. If I’m going to be completely honest, I may or may not have even fantasized a time or two about being a few of them. Maybe even pondered the idea of changing my name to Chance, Shane, or Luke.

But those characters have never felt very real to me; in fact, other than their tough exteriors and chiseled jawlines, there’s not much else I remember about them.

When I sat down to create Patrick, the protagonist in my bestselling psychological thriller, The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted (and its newly released sequel, Darkness & Shadows), I was hoping to break the hero mold. I didn’t necessarily want perfect—I wanted perfectly flawed.  I wanted a hero who was not your everyday hero.

So how did I do it? I went against the thriller grain and broke some rules.

What I ended up with was a very un-Hollywood male lead who could still be appealing. After stripping down the tough exterior you often see with typical heroes, I allowed Patrick’s emotional vulnerability to not only be blatantly exposed, but to help tell the story and drive the plot. Yes, he’s a victim of a horribly tragic and abusive childhood, but he refuses to remain that way. He’s not out to save the world—he’s desperately trying to save himself.

To further his depth and complexity, Patrick suffers from OCD. He’s a journalist obsessed with making lists, consisting of the same words over and over, page after page. His OCD is a coping tool used to survive his unthinkable childhood. Instead of experiencing his pain associated with the abuse, he instead learned to list it. The problem? What saved him then, haunts him now.

But that wasn’t enough for me. More damage, more layers, more angst. More! I gave Patrick a disease where even the slightest cut can make him bleed to death. While this makes for some great and terrifying action scenes, it’s also a powerful metaphor that runs through these books: his childhood has left him emotionally scarred and afraid of being broken open. With his blood disease, he’s as susceptible on the outside as he is on the inside.

And last, but certainly not least—because he’s never had it—Patrick wants desperately to be loved. And he wants to give love. This is his journey in life, and much like everyone else, he has to find himself first.

Typical? Well, not so much, I guess, when you consider the gold standard for some fictional heroes--but I wasn't going for the standard. I was going for flawed. I was going for vulnerable. 

I suppose it was only after I’d completed the first book, that I became a bit worried about how Patrick might be seen by readers who were hoping for a more archetypal male lead, but I write from instinct, not logic. Was it a risk? Sure, but I'm a firm believer in taking them when instincts dictate, and it seemed to have worked. But even today, I still have difficulty breaking him down and capturing his appeal.

So for balance, I looked for a female point of view. My friend and fellow author, Jessica Park, had this to say:

“Look, I’ve read about the hot, perfect, studly leads. In your books, you give us a character, Patrick, with all his raw, emotional, tortured pain. And you also give us Patrick as a hopeful, determined, insightful, and beautiful person. Female readers fall in love with him because of his willingness to examine his own damage, to tear apart his years of hurt, and to battle against the past so he can find a better future for himself. It’s in his pain, and in his fight, that we see meaningful bravery and strength. That makes for powerful, intoxicating reading. And that also makes us want to scoop up that hottie and take him home with us.”

Authors and readers:  How do you like your heroes? Tough as nails? Sexy on a stick? Metrosexual? Self-actualized? Really, there is no right or wrong, and when I think about it, maybe we actually need them all.

Happy Thanksgiving,  everyone!

Write the Damned Story you Want to Write

By Andrew E. Kaufman

One of the most difficult decisions I ever had to make as an author happened early in my career. I had made the choice to jump genres—that is to say, going from being a perceived horror writer to a perceived thriller writer. I never saw myself as belonging to a particular genre. I just wrote what I wanted to write. I don’t think it was so much a matter of consciousness as a matter of instinct.

Then my audience began to grow, and then I started thinking from inside my head. I became worried that the change might force my readers away, that they might not follow me to the next book. Luckily, I trusted those instincts and the next book did significantly better than the last.

Fast forward to about three years later. Apparently, I still hadn’t learned my lesson. I was trying to decide whether to continue on with a series after the first two books and feeling a similar dilemma: once again, I was overthinking, trying to put my head on the readers’ shoulders instead of keeping it where it belonged. I was worried they would feel disappointed if I didn’t continue on with the story. In other words, I wasn’t following my instincts. A road that by now I’ve learned is always a bad one.

Then one day, while having lunch with a colleague, I explained my concerns, and she gave me what I now consider to be among the soundest advice I’ve ever received:

She said, “Don’t worry about all that. Write the damned story you want to write. Brand yourself, not your books—if you do that, it won’t matter what you write. Your audience will read it.”

It was one of those statements that instantly snaps into place, sticks there, and shorty thereafter, you understand it to be the plain and honest truth. I’ve always believed that, if you feel what you write, so will your readers. After all, it’s not necessarily what you write that matters most—it’s who you are as a writer, what inspires you, and if you stick with that, the rest always takes care of itself.

As with most authors I love, it doesn’t really matter what they write about or what genre their work falls under. It’s their execution and talent that draws me in each time I open one of their books. In those cases, I believe they followed their passion instead of their head, and as my colleague said, they wrote the damned story they wanted to write.

And with the publishing industry being as wobbly as it is, and with the concept of “what will sell” changing all the time, it makes sense that longevity is attained not by following trends or trying to guess what your readers want—it’s attained by trusting your instincts. Books change all the time—but the writer is a constant.

This time, I finally followed that advice, and the result has been one of the most rewarding and seamless writing experiences I’ve ever had. More than that, I’m having the best time, and each new day, I can’t wait to sit down and get back to work. This book is a complete departure from anything I’ve ever written up until now, but somehow it doesn’t matter to me.

Because I’m writing the damned story I want to write.

Andrew E. Kaufman, author of whatever inspires him.
www.andrewekaufman.com

To Prologue or not to Prologue

By Andrew E. Kaufman, author of Psychological Thrillers 

I like prologues—actually, I love them. As a writer, I use them to set a mood or tone—a layer of emotional subtext, if you will—before the actual story begins, which I don’t feel I could have otherwise achieved.  

In my upcoming release, Darkness & Shadows, the prologue is steeped in surrealism and tragedy. Patrick, my protagonist, is having an imaginary conversation with the only woman he's ever loved as she burns to death inside a building. The fire and death have actually happened, but the prologue is a product of his subconscious desire to find answers he can’t find in the tangible world. I felt there was no better way to portray this than through the use of a prologue. Sure, I could have allowed his internal dialogue throughout the book to convey his thoughts and feelings—and to a large

extent, it does—but by adding this additional element, I think (or at least I hope) that I was able to dig deeper on a more visceral level, leaving the reader inside Patrick’s mind in a way that will resonate by the time they reach the first chapter. I don’t know if I could have done this as well without it.

My last book, The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted, didn’t have a prologue. As much as I love them, and as much as I wanted to have one, I found it just didn’t work for the story, so I left it out. I’ve often read books with prologues and found myself wondering why the authors bothered, because they didn’t add anything to the story that wasn’t already there. They made the mistake of slapping the word “Prologue” across the top of the page for what is essentially just a first chapter.

When I read a brilliant prologue I get chills that tell me I have to move on to the first chapter. When I read a bad one, I get a different kind of chill that makes me want to put the book down and never come back to it.

Some people, authors and writers alike, don’t like prologues. I’ve even heard a few say they dislike them so much that they won’t even read them and often skip to the first chapter of a book. So as an author, for all the reasons above, and probably many more, it’s an important decision whether to include one, and even more, how to write it. I know that if not done right, it can make or break the rest of my book. I can’t control whether my readers will look at it, but I can make sure it’s as relevant and effective as possible just in case they do.

What’s your take on prologues? Do you like writing them? Do you like reading them?

How to Write a Sex Scene

By Andrew E. Kaufman

A while back, I did a post about sex scenes: I said they had no place in thrillers. I also said I’d never put one in my novels.

Then fate gave me a double-barreled shot of whoop-ass, when I realized I needed to have—you guessed it—a sex scene in my upcoming novel. There was absolutely no way around it. Darkness and Shadows is a psychosexual thriller, and you can’t have seduction without sex. It’s kind of like a cone without the ice cream. Won’t work. 

The whole point of the scene is that the protagonist’s love interest becomes emotionally vulnerable after their encounter and reveals something about herself she normally would not. This sets up the premise for the entire plot.

After realizing there was no way to avoid this, my next step was to write the scene without losing my reader (and my credibility). When I finished the chapter, however, I was surprised to find it actually worked. Here’s where my learning curve took me. I'm fully aware this is going to sound like an instruction manual, but I'm keeping it as clinical as I can, folks. 

  

If you’re going to add sex, it should be crucial to the plot

There has to be a specific purpose for a sex scene. Why? Because anything less will come off as gratuitous, if not pointless. Much like violence—or any other element, for that matter—if an action doesn’t drive the plot forward, it’s excess weight on the reader's mind. I know my sex scene was necessary because I ran hundreds of other scenarios through my mind (I was earnestly looking for a way out), but none came close to being as effective. So perhaps a good question to ask yourself when considering whether to add sex to your novel would be: is there a better device I could use to make my point? If the answer is yes, lose it—if not, go for it.

You don’t have to name every part

At first, my scene was just one big hot mess. Seriously. I don’t need to give the details here, but what I realized was that none of the explicit details were necessary; in fact, they undermined what I was trying to accomplish. Since we’re talking about plot/character-driven elements (i.e.: purposeful), the scene wasn't about what the characters were actually doing—it was about their individual motivation. It was about the people, not the parts. Which brings me to the next point.

Focus on the emotions

Since the purpose of the scene was to advance the plot, what actually mattered was what the characters were feeling and thinking. The act itself was a vehicle—not an actual road. So, when I revised the chapter, I focused instead on what was going through my protagonist’s mind (since we’re in his POV) as well as the words and actions of his love interest, so I could set up for the big reveal when she finally pulled back the curtain and uttered those ominous words.

Keep your characters in character during sex:

Yes, people do act and speak in ways they normally wouldn’t when they’re sexually aroused, but we’re talking plot here, not real life, and it served no purpose to have my characters express themselves this way during my scene—in fact, it would have only distracted from the point I was trying to convey in the first place. Another thing I had to pay attention to was my narrative (which again, is from my protagonist’s POV). Using explicit language in my prose would have been out of character for him, and in effect, would have bumped the reader out of the story.

Sex is generally fast—the scene should be as well.

Yes, I know there are exceptions, but if you’re writing a thriller, everything has to move quickly, and this kind of action is no exception. Since the scene occurs as a flashback instead of in real-time, I didn't have the luxury of going on and on (and on). Memories are fleeting. Even memories about sex. 

And after polling my readers, I found that most don’t want sex scenes in their suspense novels, but most stated they could tolerate one if it didn’t go on for pages and pages. So my scene moved rapidly but realistically. I made my point, made sure the reader got it, then I moved on. The entire scene took up three-quarters of a page.

It's not always what they do—it's what they don't do

In other words, sometimes it’s not what’s actually written on the pages—it’s what stated between the lines. The reader will get it. They’re smart. In addition, if there’s a budding romance between characters, the tension building between them can be even more provocative than actually having them fulfill their needs. If you write it correctly, the reader will feel it as well.

Deep breath.

I think writing this post (and avoiding the inevitable innuendoes) was more difficult than writing my actual scene.

What are your thoughts?