Author Archive: jsomers

Jeff Somers (www.jeffreysomers.com) was born in Jersey City, New Jersey and regrets nothing. He is the author of Lifers, the Avery Cates series published by Orbit Books, Chum from Tyrus Books, and We Are Not Good People from Pocket Books. He sold his first novel at age 16 to a tiny publisher in California which quickly went out of business and has spent the last two decades assuring potential publishers that this was a coincidence. Jeff publishes a zine called The Inner Swine and has also published a few dozen short stories; his story “Sift, Almost Invisible, Through” appeared in the anthology Crimes by Moonlight, published by Berkley Hardcover and edited by Charlaine Harris. His guitar playing is a plague upon his household and his lovely wife The Duchess is convinced he would wither and die if left to his own devices.

Why “Scandal” Worked – At First

DAMNThat’s right, Imma about to write about the ABC show Scandal starring Kerry Washington. The TL:DR version is: I never would have watched this unless forced to by The Duchess, then briefly found it balls-out brilliant, and now not so much.

Here’s the long version: So, like I said, The Duchess commanded one day that we check out Scandal because people were talking about it and The Duchess loves her some zeitgeist. And I do what I’m told or things get broken. So we started to watch.

Right about here is where spoilers might start happening. Just sayin’.

At first it was kind of dumb: The editing tricks were headache-inducing, and the whole idea of the super-connected Olivia Pope schtupping the President in secret was only mildly interesting. I find a lot of Shonda Rimes’ writing tricks a bit shopworn and annoying at this stage; any attraction they had for me eleventy billion years ago when Grey’s Anatomy launched has been worn away. But it was serviceable, and The Duchess liked it, so we hung in. And for a short period of time, during the Defiance Arc, as it’s known, this show became so adorably fucked up insane it was absolutely entertaining.

The Defiance Arc was brilliant because just as you assumed the whole point of the show was OMFG THE PRESIDENT IS SCHTUPPING OLIVIA POPE! the show set you up and then hit you over the head with a conspiracy that stole the election that elected President Fitz-whatshisname. A conspiracy that involved the First Lady, a Supreme Court Justice, a Texas Oilman, the future Chief of Staff, and Olivia Pope – but not the President, who thought he’d won the election fair and square. This was such a demented plot twist that it carried the show for a while solely on the fumes of its audacity. Along the way, the President murdered the Supreme Court justice while she lay dying of cancer in the hospital, to give you a hint of just how demented it all got.

That was then. The Defiance Arc was resolved and the show must go on, so it’s been casting about for other ways to distract us from awe-inspiring awfulness that is the central relationships of the show (and the fact that the main character is so lacking definition she basically does batshit things all the time for no reason and does not in any way resemble the character introduced in the pilot at all unless you count consuming red wine in volume, in which case, a little bit). These ways have so far involved creating larger and more ridiculous straw villains who Rule the Universe – even more powerful than the President! – who also have intimate connections to Olivia et al. It’s so hammy by this point I fully expect Olivia to wake up in the shower one day and it was all a dream.

The reason Defiance worked was that the central idea was demented, and wonderfully so – but the mechanics of it were mundane. The way they stole the election? Simple, clean, and small-scale. It made sense, once you suspended disbelief sufficiently. The new arcs are now so soapy and silly I’m cleaner after watching this show and that DOES NOT happen when I watch TV, usually.

Ah well, I just wrote 550 words on a TV show no one will remember twenty years from now. I feel dirty.

Ancient History

Avery Cates

The other day I discovered I had a Blogger account. I’d forgotten all about it. For a while I was using it to contribute to the grand Xerography Debt Blog (where I still have posting privs if I could remember my log in and had some time) but I originally created it as part of an ambitious bit of DIY promotion for The Electric Church. This was back in the ancient days right after I’d sold the book, but before anything had actually happened. I spent a lot of time on a lot of things that eventually crystallized into the ARG on the Electric Church website.

One of my genius ideas was going to be the creation of dozens of blogs that would tell the stories of people living in the TEC universe. Not necessarily characters from the books, but just random stories. They would refer to each other in oblique ways and one by one “discover” and start discussing the official TEC web site, which was set up to be the actual website for an organization known as The Electric Church. Here’s thew two I actually set up:

http://livinginthesystem.blogspot.com/

http://kitlarmuan.tripod.com/

Not much. Shortly afterwards the publisher offered to help me with site design and promotion, and suddenly my little DIY attempts didn’t seem to make any sense. So this was as far as I got with my little one-man sockpuppet promo army. It’s kind of fascinating that these are still out there, almost seven years gone now. Reminds me of the endless unfinished novels on my hard drive.

How Not to Write a Novel

Writing the Old Fashioned WayI just wrote a novel in possibly the hardest way possible.

Years ago, I wrote two novels. Well, both were short – one very barely qualified as novel-length and one was absolutely a novella, really. I liked both very much, one a bit more than the other. The longer one I sent to my agent with that special feeling of doomed hope and suggested it might be the next thing we go out on. I loved the longer one because it had a sense of poetry to it, a dreamy atmosphere. Plus, I loved the longer one’s creation story:

The Duchess had forced me to attend the Broadway show Mama Mia. I was reluctant, for obvious – lord, I hope they’re obvious – reasons. But I am a dutiful husband, so I went. I had this central concept for a novel in my head at the time, but couldn’t get it to coalesce into something coherent. And then, as the lights went down in the theater, I had an epiphany. I saw the first line of the story in my head: “This is the story of my father.” And it was off to the races. I wrote the longer piece quickly, easily, after that point.

That’s no longer the first line of the book. That line isn’t even in the book any more. But it’s there, nonetheless, even if only I can see it.

The shorter one I held back, because while I loved a lot of it even I couldn’t convince myself that a 30,000-word “novel” with a lot of padding had any chance at book publishers. The novella had a bit of juvenalia to it, but it had a clear throughline that held it together nicely.

My agent, god love her, read the longer one and sent back her notes, which made a crucial point: There wasn’t much of a story arc. No real conflict, no climax. It was a story, sure, but it was kind of a flatline if you plotted the events.

So, I pondered. Other stuff happened.

Recently, I revisited the longer work and now it was apparent that my agent, whose sulfurous fumes still clung to the digital pages, was absolutely right: I had written a novel in which very little happened. Then I considered the shorter work from the same period, which had stayed in my imagination. It was a a bony, skeletal thing, which was about 1/3 padding as I meandered about the universe I’d created trying desperately to find details — but it had a definite plot, a mystery and a climax. It had a point.

I re-read both and had an epiphany: Written so closely together temporally, they were actually parts of the same story. They shared elements and atmosphere and, if I’m being honest, characters as I recycled them from one to the other. I had a longer, fleshy piece that was all character and setting and backstory, and a shorter, bony piece that was like a fucking plot outline. The answer was obvious: Combine them.

A lot easier than I would have expected. I really had written a novel in two parts, months apart, without even realizing it. I’m either a genius or a drunken moron, take your pick. They fit together so seamlessly if you didn’t know the story behind the new novel you’d never guess. You can’t see the scars as the stitching healed. The slight limp as it walks about on two legs of microscopically different lengths just give its gait some character.

I have no idea if we’ll ever sell this beast, but regardless I’m pleased. And also amazed at the way the brain works. And once again reminded of the value of a great agent.

Dialogue: Between the Lines

f658f885-0c5f-40f3-9d84-e583d1482387_dialogue-new-logoSO, since I am very busy and important, I will taking part in a PodCast run by the terrific Susan Wingate:

WHEN: Thursday, 10/24, 1PM EST

WHERE: http://dialoguebetweenthelines.com

We’ll discuss books, writing, and other related topics. Assuming I am sober. Also assuming I can work this crazy thing called The Internet, or a phone.

Tune in and cackle as I stutter, speak amazing malapropisms, and make a fool of myself (as usual).

The Arc of Walter White

walter-white-whiskeyI’ve been a huge fan of Breaking Bad throughout its run, and so I watched the finale, Felina, with a mixture of joy and horror, because it was very well done and it also meant it was ending. You don’t often see television shows that have 60+ episodes that are all reliably excellent. Of all the episodes of Breaking Bad, the worst ones were still pretty damn great. Grading them, I don’t think there would any below a B- in my book, and even those would be rare.

So, yeah: I’m a fan.

The Internet encourages instant reactions to things and then a quick Forgetting. Breaking Bad was a few weeks ago and it’s already fading from the Internet like a dim memory from childhood. But I’ve been thinking about it still. Because the finale was great, and because I think it accomplished something truly amazing. So let’s talk about menace.

(more…)

I Am the Grass

“…Shovel them under and let me work…

Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:

What place is this?

Where are we now?

I am the grass.

Let me work.”

-Carl Sandburg, 1918

I

THE FUCKERS think they can stiff me on the drinks, but I’m unstiffable, baby, and I’ve got them all on probation; I am not soaking up another fucking round until the Fuckers buy one, just out of common courtesy. Look at ’em, the fat fucks. Yeah, wave at me, fuck you. Wave back though. Never know.

Hate this bar. Too much fucking brass. Looks like a goddamned machine. Matches, matches…Norma giving me that look of disapproval, fuck her, over there with Chuckles, playing the faithful girlfriend. Chuckles smoked like a goddamn chimney, and you never saw her complain to him. No law against smoking, yet. Goddamned bluenoses ruining it for the rest of us, kill myself if I want.

Hands on my shoulders, it’s Charlie Hammonds, maybe reading my mind.

“How’re you doing, Mack?”

His breath is a natural disaster, a rich supply of pepperoni, scotch, cigarettes, and bar nuts, all of it wheezed into my airspace with gusto, against all local ordinances. I wince, but manage a smile. Say something about being fine.

Chuck signals the bartender, a busty brunette who smiles at me in a friendly way, instant erection and quick fantasy, three seconds of something that will never happen. I flash my charmer smile, not much but all I have. Chuck lingers, sipping a new drink. Irritating man. The bartender waited a moment, was she eyeing me can’t tell, now she walks away, and I’m left with Chuckie. Bastard. I smile at him and beam death threats his way via karma police band.

“Listen, Mack, got a proposition for you.”

“Fantastic. Buy me a drink, then. No one else has.”

Chuck’s always a soft touch, and he laughs, and brings the brunette back to me with a wave of a fifty dollar bill. I myself cannot remember what a fifty feels like. I smile at the bartender like a rich man anyway.

“He’s got a proposition for me.” I say.

She grins. “Be careful. He looks mangy.”

“He’ll have a scotch on the rocks, a double.” Chuckles says, oblivious.

Eyes meet. I shrug my eyebrows, she pours liquor silently. Could happily murder Chuckles, wonder if she’d rat me out. Takes Chuck’s money and walks off, I eye her ass appreciatively, wondering if I have it in me to be a seducer. Am I the guy who picks up bar chicks and bangs them? Can’t tell from internal probing. Never know with Chuckles hanging about like a bad skin.

“So listen, chum, and let me talk to you about something.”

He’s already talking, goddammit, the words coming out in a mushy jumble drowned out by the buzz of bar noise, sounds like a foreign language at first, until some mysterious higher function inside me deciphers it, translates it. Monstrous little bugger. Images of murder, Chuckles looking pale and wan, bled dry.

“Norma has this friend, you see -great girl, knockout, and she’s been bugging me to set her up with someone, and I figured, you’re perfect: no noticeable scars, relative good health, no public history of VD: perfect! Whatya say, double with Norma and me sometime? Come on, it’ll be -”

Glance back at the bartender, was she looking at me? Can’t be sure. Chuckie is still droning on. Norma, christ, he had no idea, there was no fucking way Norma wanted me to date one of her disciples, her minions, one of the many shellacked women ready to drain me of my precious bodily fluids and make me into a Chuckle. Pod people. Always recruiting. Had to be strong, forget this male bonding polite bullshit.

“No thanks, Chuck.”

Crestfallen. Idiot.

(more…)

Booklist Loves CHUM

BUY ME

BUY ME

Booklist thinks every American should be reading my newest novel CHUM:

““Mary and Bickerman have always been at the center of their social circle, a rowdy group happy to share postcollegiate, booze-fueled shenanigans. Holidays are punctuated by raucous parties, drunken confessions, tears, fights, and uneasy sleep. Through the fog of alcohol and shared memories, loyalties are tested, allegiances are broken, new friendships are cemented, and a grisly secret is shared. While Mary and Bickerman’s marriage is nothing to emulate, the novel’s deeply flawed characters are surprisingly relatable. From the frequently misunderstood Tom to the preternaturally gorgeous Miriam, readers will see pieces of themselves, significant others, close friends, or fellow drinking buddies in the diverse crew. Highlighting the tension often found in even close-knit groups, Somers uses different members of the social circle to narrate shared events and private monologues. As the reader gains perspective on the nonlinear story, shocking secrets soon come to light. Combining elements of Jonathan Tropper, Tom Perrotta, and Augusten Burroughs, Somers’ incisive, pull-no-punches examination of adult friendship is refreshingly witty. Tautly paced and expertly assembled, Chum is a darkly comic, deeply insightful, and wildly original novel.

Huzzahs to me.

FREAKS of the INDUSTRY: Two Days in the UnCanny Valley of New York Comic Con

Since I’m returning to the hallowed halls of NY Comic Con for the first time since 2009, I figured it was a good time to revisit this essay from The Inner Swine that dealt with my previous experience.

MY NAME is Jeff Somers and I’m a writer. I’ve written a lot of things you almost certainly have never ever heard of but currently I’m most known for the Avery Cates series published by Orbit Books. People think that being a published author is a glamorous life filled with champagne and solid gold toilets but let me set you straight: I spend my days with four cats wandering my house in a tattered bathrobe clutching a bottle of booze to my chest and muttering.

Since the Avery Cates books are Science Fiction novels and are by the way the greatest novels ever written in the English language and if you don’t buy copies IMMEDIATELY you will suffer from cultural illiteracy and be mocked at parties, it was decided that I should attend this year’s New York Comic Con as a Literary Guest, where I would attempt to charm and bamboozle the good, pious fans of the Earth into paying some small attention to me. So I gathered my courage, put on some pants, and with my wife The Duchess in tow and we headed off to Two Days in the Uncanny Valley of the Javits Convention Center in New York.

(more…)

NYC Comic Con, Here I Come

nyccSO, I will be attending Comic Con in NYC this October – your prayers have been answered, whether those prayers have to do with seeing me in person at a huge event or knowing precisely where I will be one day this month in order to rob my house while I am absent. And several scenarios in-between, ranging from assassination to leaving $9.2 million in drug money in my living room so I can establish an irrevocable trust in your son’s name.

DATE & TIME: Most of this is to TBD, but I’ll be there on Thursday October 10.

WHY IN GOD’S NAME: I’ll be signing and giving away free copies of Part 1 of my upcoming novel We Are Not Good People, otherwise known as Trickster. If you read Trickster this year and thought you’d read the whole book, you would be wrong. It’s just part 1.

Oh, I’ll also do other things: Sign anything, be giving away whatever I have in my pockets, dancing for nickles, and generally abusing myself.

If you’re going to be at NYCC yourself on the 10th, let me know and let’s try to meet up, chat, have coffee, whatever. If you’re there on another day, let me know anyway and maybe we can meet outside the con (my badge is just for the 10th). Email me at jdxs@jeffreysomers.com if you want to try to get together.

ONWARD!

The Little Contest

BUY ME

BUY ME

So, as almost none of you were apparently aware, I was holding a contest for signed copies of my new novel Chum, and exactly seven folks entered. Perhaps the entry was a bit too convoluted – I admit it.

Live and learn. Or live and drink. Either way, I win.

Still, the entries I did get were wayyyyy cool. I asked people to surf on over to the official Chum Website and leave a guestbook message for the fictional couple that star in the book, Dave and Mary. I planned to award a signed copy of the book to the ten most creative entries. We only got seven total. Apparently I am not as famous and hip as I thought I am.

But the entries I did get were pretty awesome. Here they are, with commentary:

(more…)