“A writer must stare at a blank page until blood comes out of their forehead." --Ernest Hemingway
Also, A Dark, Comedic, New Mexico Whodunit (Humorous Amateur Sleuth Noir Crime Thrillers Book 1)
LOL
I have to say that this may be the longest subtitle of a book I've ever seen... I can't quite figure out whether the writer didn't know which to use, or, that, it was very important that the potential reader knew what they were getting into...
Ok Comedic and Humorous could mean the same thing...
Whodunit implies mystery, but this is a crime thriller also... multiple genre, right...
Most books don't declare the setting as Really Important... New Mexico must have different types of stories to tell???
Or does this all mean that the writer wants us to know in advance to beware of the story???
We'll See, I'm game, but are you?
And by the way, when I typed in the title, Google Search automatically changed stiff to stuff...
Kinda makes you wonder, doesn't it?
Is this book really worth all this trouble to get to start reading... This one wants to know, So I did start...
My first check is always on You Tube... You guessed it, all the videos came up about Good Stuff...
Doesn't anybody know that Stiff is another word for a dead person?
I did...but maybe I know "stuff" about "stiffs..."
I've read or watched stories enough about them so I'm good for just about any description to say that somebody is dead...
How they're dead is the key...
But I can also remember that Hammer--you know who he is, I hope--called bodies stiffs--I think!
Anyway, all this is to show writers that if you add all this stuff onto your subtitle, readers just may never be able to find you, especially on sites that require a full book title, including subtitle...
Believe me, I know... I could have just been linked to the book, bought it, and then when I wanted to find it again to review, I can't find it! Writers need to know about the full idiosyncrasies of selling books, in my opinion... LOL
Or, I am just silly this morning realizing that I may be the only person in the world that knows what a stiff is...
Writers Beware...
On with the story
But, let's get one thing straight...
Death is not a funny matter
Is Fiction Now Reality?
And can a whodunit ever be a comedy?
I think so, because these actions by authoritarian leaders are NOT LEGAL!
And do not reflect the will of All Peoples!
Charlie loved movies. He decided the easiest way to write a detective novel was to make himself the central character in a film-noir movie. He would get up around noon and hammer down a couple shots of cheap scotch. Didn’t real authors always drink when they wrote, especially writers of detective yarns? He’d go through his extensive jazz collection and play a CD by Stan Getz, Gerry Mulligan, or Ben Webster. Their smokey sax would be the soundtrack for the movie that unspooled in his head. Charlie would visualize every scene. Hear every line. Then he’d sit down and type into his computer what he’d just watched in the multiplex of his mind. It was like stealing the money from Michael.
Johnny Dent stood alone in the elevator. His dark blue pinstripe hung on his bony frame. It looked like it was tailored for a guy who used to box in a higher weight class. The .45 slug took less than a second to shatter his knee. The replacement surgery took six hours. It took two years to walk without a limp. He’d already closed the security grating on the elevator, but he hadn’t pushed the button for the fourth floor. In the dim overhead light, staring at the rusted grating, he felt like he was back in stir. A woman and a young boy hurried up to the elevator. She and Johnny eyeballed each other. He opened the grating and she and the child hustled into the car. The woman turned to Johnny. “Four, please.” Johnny closed the grating and pushed the button for the fourth floor. The door slid shut, and the elevator started to ascend. The boy looked at Johnny. “I’m going to the dentist.” The woman held the boy’s hand a little tighter. “ “Are you going to the dentist?” the boy asked. “No.” “You’re lucky.” Johnny nodded and continued to watch the numbers above the door light up. The elevator stopped. The door dinged open. Johnny pulled aside the metal grating. The woman clutched the boy’s hand and led him out of the elevator and down the hall. Johnny took a deep breath, then marched out of the elevator. As he slogged down the putty-colored hall, his footsteps were almost silent on the gray wall-to-wall carpeting. He stopped in front of a door with a frosted glass window and a name stenciled on it: JOHNNY DENT - PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS. The door was open. It shouldn’t have been.
Charlie knocked the book off in ten days. It was a huge success. Reviews trumpeted, “Harkens back to Dashiell Hammett.” They described Charlie as “a modern-day Raymond Chandler.” The publishing house rushed out multiple reprints. Michael wanted another book, soon. Charlie just popped in another CD and turned on the projector in his head. He quickly completed Johnny Dent number two: Johnny Dent, Murder and Magic. More good reviews. Charlie met Darlene at a book signing. He married her after only knowing her for three weeks. The first few years of their marriage were grand. He and Darlene traveled, partied, and had lots of sex. Charlie wrote three more Johnny Dents. Even more good reviews. He made a shitload of money, which allowed him to buy a house by the beach and a new Corvette. Charlie drove his Laguna-blue Corvette home from the dealership and parked it in the driveway of his house overlooking the ocean. He glanced around at the Kalahari-Black interior. He gently stroked the car’s perforated Mulan leather seats, revved the gas-guzzling engine, then cranked up “Moon Dreams” by Miles Davis. It blared from eight 6.5-inch, three-way component speakers.
Life was indeed good. Then, a strange thing happened. After book number five, Charlie started to hate Johnny Dent. He dreaded even thinking about him, let alone writing about him. Each time Charlie started on book number six, the loathing, like bile, welled up in him. He hated the way Johnny talked. The way he walked. The way he dressed. Charlie dreamed of painful, sadistic ways to kill Johnny. But in order to kill him, he first had to write a book about him, which he couldn’t do. Finally, after months of soul searching, Charlie realized he had to do something. He had to be decisive. He would crank out one last Johnny Dent. The final installment. As he stared out at the expansive Pacific, from the great room of his heavily mortgaged beachfront home, he vowed to be done with Johnny Dent, once and for all. He would then go back to being a serious author, who would never again prostitute his art for mere financial gain. But when Charlie went to the movie theater in his head, the projector was on the fritz. There was no picture playing. That was two years ago.
~~~~
Charlie stands in front of a gas pump, filling the tank of his car. As he holds the nozzle with his right hand, he massages a large welt on his forehead with his left. This welt was caused when Darlene cracked him on the noggin with her purse. Neither of his wives before Darlene had ever physically struck him with a purse. Although, Nicole did throw a toaster oven at him once. Luckily, it didn’t hit him, but it never worked properly after the incident. Which was unfortunate, because it did a terrific job toasting bagels. As Charlie fills the gas tank, rubbing his head and attempting to come up with a game plan for dealing with Michael, Darlene and Johnny Dent, he hears music. A man stands a few feet from Charlie’s car, playing the harmonica. He’s a huge guy with long hair, who looks like he had just escaped from a ‘60s costume party—beaded headband, lizard-skin cowboy boots, black Jimi Hendrix tank top, topped off with a fringed suede jacket. He plays a snippet of “On the Road Again,” as a gust of warm wind blows Charlie’s hair, then…the rear tire of the Corvette explodes. “Looks like a flat,” the man says. Charlie looks down at the tire. Definitely flat. He pops the trunk and sees three golf clubs, a broken beach chair, and a Ramones T-shirt. He also spots the QGB—the Quick-Getaway Bag. A canvas duffel that Charlie always keeps in the trunk. He has learned over time that you never know when you might need to make a quick getaway. He has a toothbrush, shaving cream, and a razor in the bag. He also has socks, underwear, and a long-sleeve shirt, along with a V-neck sweater, just in case his escape route should lead him to more formal locations or less temperate climes. Charlie has forgotten that a Corvette doesn’t come with a full spare tire. He lifts up the carpet in the trunk, and in a small well is a tiny tire that closely resembles a child’s life preserver. As Charlie pulls the miniature tire out of the trunk, the man says, “Name’s Ben Fox. So, whatdya do?” Charlie is surprised and a bit unnerved. “That depends on who you talk to.” Charlie jacks up the car. Ben watches. He doesn’t comment, pose any more questions, or volunteer to help. He just watches. “Sometimes I’m a writer,” Charlie says as he removes the last lug nut. “Working on anything new?” Charlie steadies the life preserver that was pretending to be a spare tire on the Corvette’s hub and tightens down a lug nut. Before he can stop himself, he shakes his head. “Uh, oh,” Ben exclaims. “Hemingway had that same look.” “Hemingway?” “Yep. Two days later, he blew the top of his head off.” Ben pulls a battered wallet out of his back pocket and removes a dog-eared black-and-white photograph. He hands it to Charlie. It’s a snapshot of Ben standing next to Ernest Hemingway. The white-maned author is holding a rainbow trout in one hand and a can of Hamm’s beer in the other. Ben is holding a can of Dr. Pepper and a slightly smaller fish. Charlie is so shocked at seeing Hemingway, he doesn’t even notice Ben looks the same age in the picture as he does standing in front of him. “That’s you and Ernest Hemingway.” Ben smiles a lopsided grin. “Indeed.” “He’s, like, the primary reason I became a writer.” “You don’t say?” “I read Old Man and the Sea in high school and I knew I wanted to be a writer.” “That would mean a lot to Papa.” Charlie hands the photo back to Ben. “I’m Charlie. As he slips the picture into his wallet, Ben says, “Think I could have a ride?” Charlie tightens the last lug nut. “Sorry, I’m in a bit of a jam. I’ve got to—” Ben smiles his lopsided grin again. And for a few seconds, time seems to stand still. Traffic noise fades. Charlie forgets about Darlene and the bump on his head. Any thoughts of Michael and Johnny Dent drift away on the warm breeze. “Sure. Why not?”
Their first stop was in Arizona and Ben suggested The El Trovatore Motel where they had rooms named after celebrities such as Elvis, of course... But Ben said he always stayed in the John Wayne room... Ahhh...
Charlie (and I) thought it was kinda ironic that an Elder would want to stay in The John Wayne room... But then, when Charlie had asked him what he did, Ben said "I find lost people..." Yea, I was beginning to like this kind of humor...
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