Why?

By Andrew E. Kaufman, author of psychological thrillers

Photo courtesy: Nikopoley

It's a loaded question, yes?

As a small Andrew, I was what one might call a Why Kid—you know the type, right? Every answer to every question was followed with a Why?  This would go on heedlessly (and perhaps annoyingly) for quite some time, until the person being questioned—usually an adult, often a teacher, and sometimes another kid—would get frustrated and yell, Shut the hell up!

Then I would be annoyed.

If we were tracking trends (also something I do rather obsessively), we might surmise this is why I ended up making a career out of answering the eternal question: Why?

And really, isn’t that what being a writer is all about?

When people ask how I come up with my ideas, how I create my characters, or how I plot my stories. Guess what I say?

Why?

Why, of course I do. In this case, however, it’s not actually a question (a relief, I’m sure), but more, it’s a truth, because every story I write begins this way.

In my first book, While the Savage Sleeps, it was: Why are two people, who have absolutely nothing in common and live in two different cities having seemingly similar creepy experiences that seemingly have nothing to do with each other?  Well, there were perhaps quite a few bodies dropping like flies everywhere and in rather hideous manners, but that was mainly the mood music.

In the Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted, it was: Why did Patrick find evidence of a murder among his hideously abusive, and incidentally, dead, mother’s belongings?

And in Darkness & Shadows, I asked: Why did the love of Patrick’s life die twice? Well, maybe that one’s more of a how, but you get the idea.

 

The point to all this? There are a few (What, did you expect the Why Child to only have one?)  

First, I think authors write books for the same reason that people like to read them. We’re insatiably curious (read: insatiably nosey). It’s not just enough to know that an eighty-six year-old grandmother was planting bodies in her tulip garden. We want to know why the hell she was doing it.

Second, whether we realize it or not, we’re all students of the human mind. We like to know how people’s brains work, or, for those of us who write our slightly off-color stories (read: bent), what makes them not work so much.

And last, never tell a writer to shut the hell up.  Don’t do it.

We get very annoyed.

Then we kill you off in our books.

More Thoughts from a Random (and Sleeping) Mind

By Andrew E. Kaufman: Author of Psychological Thrillers

Ok, time for another confession.

I write in my sleep.

Well, not all the time, and not all of it amounts to much, but sometimes I do, and sometimes it does. For those who know me, this should really come as no surprise. It’s kind of how I roll. Random? Definitely. Stream of thought? Without question. Chaotic? God, yes.

Yep, I’m all of that, but since I’m also an intuitive writer, I rely a lot on my subconscious mind to tell my stories. Some call this their Muse, or their inspiration, or their alter ego or...whatever. I call him Bob (don’t even ask, because I have no explanation).

But the truth is, the subconscious mind really is our “better half”, so to speak. It’s the place where we don’t over think or judge, where no idea is too outlandish, and where anything goes. In short, the lizard brain throws it out there, then the logical mind reels it in. 

My first novel, While the Savage Sleeps, came to me as a dream, and while some might call that a nightmare, I woke up knowing I’d nailed it. The images, the mood, the tone--all of it-- seemed so clear that I hopped right out of bed the next morning and couldn’t wait to put my fingers to the keyboard. From that point on, the words seemed to pour seamlessly from my brain to the screen. In fact, more than any of my books, people most often comment that reading it was like watching a movie in their heads, and maybe that’s because the dream felt like one. Oddly enough, there was background music and rolling credits at the end (again, don’t ask).

Trust me when I say, it’s not the first time something like this has happened. From what I understand, apparently, I talk a lot in my sleep, and that makes sense, because I’ve had some rather lively discussions during dreams. For example, Patrick once read me the riot act inside a grocery store (he was very unhappy about the way I was portraying him), and I caught Tristan trying to hot wire my car (she’s a career criminal). 

Of course, I don’t always go with what my dreams tell me (I guess that’s where the logical mind comes in). Originally, Tristan lived in a treehouse, and that was just plain crazy. And there was that S&M dungeon in the Clark Compound basement (where my editor gently said, “um...no.”).

As is often the case, I don’t always remember my dreams, but I’m pretty sure my writing is a reflection of them, because some of the best ideas always seem to come in the morning, and maybe that's why.

The point of all this (besides that there’s some crazy-assed stuff going on inside my head)? Hell, I don’t know. That the subconscious mind is a terrible thing to waste? 

How about you? Do you dream in color?

Do Authors Deserve a Little Respect?

By Andrew E. Kaufman

Let me first say that I will, until the day I die, defend a reader’s right to give an honest assessment—good or bad—about any author’s work, my own included. It's their right, and after all, that’s what reviews are about. It’s a safe bet to say that opinions will vary greatly in this business, often going from one extreme to the other. Some may love a book, some may hate it, while others may have no opinion either way. I get that. But do they also have the right to be disrespectful or even downright mean?

I’m not so sure.

I do come across these from time to time and it kind of bothers me. I suppose that’s because as an author, I understand how incredibly difficult it is to write a novel and how much we give of ourselves during that process. Granted, we choose to make ourselves fair game—it’s what we sign up for. I’m just not sure whether ridicule and name-calling are supposed to be part of the deal. And if a reader wants people to take his or her review seriously, isn't that more likely to occur if they give their opinion in a manner that's thoughtful rather than disrespectful and angry?

photo by Hannibal Poenaru

I once had a reader call one of my books dumb, stupid, and ridiculous, not once, but four times in a review. Fortunately, his opinon was in the minority; most of the eighty-six reviews were five starred. But even so, I found it a bit troubling. I can’t imagine what I’d done to make him so angry—after all, it’s just a book—but I have to wonder if whatever that was, it merited such hostility.

I also have to wonder if he realized that as authors, most of us write because we want to give our readers enjoyment and that we’re just as disappointed when we don't as they are—maybe even more so. 

Of course, I do realize this is the exception, that the majority who leave reviews on Amazon are extremely courteous and constructive, even when they don’t like a book.

But I’m interested in hearing your thoughts on the matter, both as readers and as writers. Is it no-holds-barred where reviews are concerned? Is an opinion just an opinion, no matter how strong the language might be? Do we, as authors, give up the right to be human, to have feelings, and does our right to get respect end where the word "published" begins?

Do you Want to be Rich or do You Want to be Happy?

By Andrew E. Kaufman

Confession time.

When I’m not busy being a control enthusiast, I tend to be a little suspicious of things. Well, not just a little, I guess. A lot.

So when my debut novel, While the Savage Sleeps, went to number one on Amazon, I thought something had to be wrong, that it was a mistake, that there was a ghost in the machine, that…well, something. I mean, passing up Nora Roberts and Stephen King didn’t just seem surreal—it seemed damned near impossible.

The truth was, it did all of those things, and in addition to that, the book remained on the bestsellers list for the year that followed, at which point I knew the machine wasn’t broken.

But something else was.

Because once the euphoria dissipated, I began to panic. It suddenly dawned on me that I needed to write another book, and fast. Not only that, but I needed to write a damned good book, one that was better than the first. After all, my readers were waiting, and I was scared they’d compare my next novel to the first. There were also the sales to consider. Could I keep the momentum going while I worked on the next one? Could I hold on to my readers? Would they forget about me? Being an author with only one book to my name, these seemed like valid concerns.

It appeared my dawning had blossomed into a full-blown obsess-fest, and it wasn’t the least bit pretty. I spent the next year second-guessing myself into a frenzy. Nothing I wrote seemed good enough, and it always came back to one central theme: that I was turning out crap, that the first book was better, that my success was a flash in the pan, a one-time fluke. The readers were anxiously awaiting my next book, and there I was, losing self confidence and beating myself to a pulp.

Then, a revelation—well, not really that, more of a self-initiated kick in the pants—and a question: Do you want to be rich, or do you want to be happy?

I realized I’d become so caught up in the success of my first book that in that process, I allowed my reality to become drastically skewed. My priorities got all mixed up.

See, here’s the thing: I don’t write just to make sales. It's not about the money. I write because I have to. I mean I really have to. For me, writing is like breathing, and life without it wouldn’t be life at all—it would be something less than. It’s all about the journey I begin each time I look at that fresh, blank page.

I'd somehow forgotten that.

Don’t get me wrong. I love sharing my work with the world, love connecting with my readers—and putting food on the table and gas in my tank are definitely priorities. But that's about survival, not about why I write. I write because it’s an essential part of who I am, because there’s this raging fire inside me that I can’t put out. I think if you follow your fire, your passion, then the rest will fall into place naturally. That’s what happened with my first book. There were no expectations at the time, just me and my words, and that, I believe, is why the novel found its own success. Because my passion came out through my words.

Once I got on track, I felt an enormous shift within me. The words began to flow, and—surprise—my second novel was born, one that I know is better than my first.

So tell me, gentle readers: What about you? Money? Happiness? Or a little bit of both?

My Visit with Death

By Andrew E. Kaufman

Of all the questions readers ask me, what seems to interest them most is my trip to the autopsy room during the research for my novel, While the Savage Sleeps.

“What was it like?” they’ll often ask.

Pretty gross, actually, but at the same time, illuminating because it confirmed my theory that one of the best ways to draw the reader into a story is to experience that which you describe. Googling a topic may be a good start but won't cut it if you're trying to create a solid and meaningful sense of setting.

A former television journalist, I know how to combine words and pictures to tell a story. However, writing fiction, I've discovered, is a completely different world. Unlike with TV, in novels there's no video to convey the tone and mood of a particular scene. Here, your words are your pictures, and if readers can't see them in their minds, you'll lose your audience in a heartbeat. With my autopsy chapter being one of the most critical in the book, I couldn't afford to do that, and despite a rather strong visceral resistance, I felt I simply had no choice.

You may find my reluctance a bit odd considering I'm often accused of writing some very gritty stuff in my novels. Besides that, I'm no stranger to blood and gore—I'd seen a fair share during my tenure in television news. Still, somehow, the autopsy room seemed different to me, like an intimate dance with death, a messy one, which I much preferred to sit out of. But as it often does, logic won, and like it or not I was off to experience my first—and hopefully last—autopsy (at least from a vertical point-of-view).

First stop, the freezer. This is where they keep the bodies before examination, a thirty by fifteen room with shelves lining three walls, stacked three high. At the time of my visit, every seat in the house appeared to be taken, standing room only. I walked in, gazed at the sea of body bags, then stopped in my tracks. I'm pretty sure this was the exact point where reality finally set in: I was surrounded by dead people, lots and lots of dead people. Guess it makes sense that with a city as large as San Diego, plenty of folks die each day, and they all have to go somewhere; I just don't think I had expected to be standing among all of them.

Next stop: the autopsy room. But first, a little advice before entering: I was shown the exits and told to use them if I began feeling ill.

Reassuring.

Once inside, besides an all out assault on the senses (no need for explicit detail here), I think what surprised me most was what a busy place the autopsy room was. Now, I'm going to show my age here, but as a member of the Quincy generation, my preconceived notions were far more simplistic than I had imagined. In my world, I expected to see a lone autopsy table center stage with the medical examiner standing over it and a sanitized view of what went on. All this and, of course, wrapped up in less than an hour.

So not the case.

The place was busier than any newsroom I'd ever worked in, except it wasn't the clicking of keyboards I heard—it was the buzzing and whining of saws; probably why they had me change into a white space-suit-looking getup with transparent facemask before entering. Yes, folks, cutting, sawing, and drilling human remains is messy business. Things do fly.

Ten stainless steel tables lined the wall, each with a faucet at the top, a drain at the bottom, and yes, each with a body laying on top—all in varying degrees of examination, and most of them clearly missing things that shouldn't have been. I have to say that the ones without heads were the most unnerving. As they say, parts is parts, but parts belong where they belong. Looking around at the people working here, I got an odd sense of extreme desensitization, that this was business as usual and walking past headless bodies was like a walk in the park.

Wish I could have felt the same.

As for the autopsy itself, after getting past the initial shock, it did become somewhat easier to watch. I’m not saying it was a piece of cake—it wasn’t—but one does adjust to their surroundings if they stick around long enough. Even in situations like this.

As an added bonus, the medical examiner not only described what he was doing as he removed the organs—he also handed each of them to me (luckily I was wearing gloves). Kind of gross, I know, but nevertheless a valuable experiences for a mystery writer. After all, you never know when you might need to introduce a disembodied organ or two into a story—a kidney here, a spleen there. Like I've said, I'm known for writing grisly scenes.

I could go on describing every detail, but at the risk of losing those of you who have made it this far, I'll stop and say this: Despite everything, my autopsy chapter never would have been the same had I not gone through this experience. Unpleasant as it was, the truth is that as writers, we sometimes need to get our hands dirty—in this case, very dirty—but it’s all for the sake of the craft. Simply put, sometimes you have to give until it hurts. I did—I'm pretty sure of it.

Did I achieve my intended goal? I hope so, but if you'd like to decide, here's a link to the chapter, along with a warning: It's a bit gruesome, but at the same time, depicts reality, and that's what we, as writers, should always strive to do.

Andrew E. Kaufman is the bestselling author of While the Savage Sleeps, a forensic paranormal thriller.