I slide the envelope across the table, careful to avoid the condensation ring left by Sean’s whiskey on ice. He stares down at the black (12) on the upper right corner and rolls his eyes. Good. He has heard of us.

“I’m not interested in whatever you think you have in here.” Sean shoves it back toward me before he stands that pompous way famous assholes like him do—straightening his jacket, ducking his chin to pretend he doesn’t want anyone to recognize him, looking around hoping someone does. Always soaking up the spotlight. Always too big to fall.

Except he’s not. No, I mean physically. On his feet, he’s short. These stars always seem like they’ll be tall, but they are often smaller than they appear on screen.

Right now, he’s puny.

My fingers intertwine, and I glare up at him through my eyebrows. These precious seconds are my favorite of any meeting—the moment after the scale tips but before the prick in front of me knows it’s no longer in his favor. “No problem, I’m sure the state will place Micah in a good home.” He pauses, the fingertips of his right hand lingering on the table’s surface. “The first foster home I went to was.” I continue. “My new parents tried to hide the fact that they weren’t interested in taking care of an eleven-year-old, especially one who looked like me.” I tilt my head and narrow my eyes on Sean. “Luckily, their teenage son had a thing for ‘dark girls with tight pussies.’ I’m sure Micah will find a foster brother or sister to fondle him, just like I did.”

Sean crashes into the booth in front of me and hisses, “What do you want?”

I nod toward the manila envelope he has yet to open. He huffs as he tears into it, then sifts through the evidence I’ve compiled linking him to his bastard son, the mother of whom is an undocumented immigrant. Deporting her would be a breeze. And God knows Sean won’t want the inconvenience of his child. “After what you did to Samson’s client, I thought for sure you wouldn’t mind your son having an older friend to play naked games with.”

He glowers at me and sighs. “Client?”

“You’ve sexually assaulted more than one of your backup dancers? It’s that hard to keep track?” When he refuses to answer, I continue, “Denise Arden wants her job back and a 20% raise.”

He scoffs. “We replaced her.”

“I know,” I sympathize. “I don’t know why she wants to work for her rapist, but she insisted.”

“If this is about the money, I can pay—”

“Your hush money? No, I’m afraid she doesn’t want any more of that.”

“She signed an NDA. Legally, I should get that money back now.”

“Now that I know that you raped her?” I smile in response to his silent fuming. “No, she’s in compliance with her NDA. She wasn’t the only one who knew what you did to her. Next time, pay off all the people you harass.” He’s drumming his fingers on the table. Buying time. Searching for a way out of this. I spread my elbows to the left and right and lean toward him. My voice low, I ask, “What was your favorite part? How she tasted? When she said ‘no?’ That made you hard, huh, when she didn’t want it. Do you like it when she begged you to stop? Did you fire her when she quit resisting? When it wasn’t fun anymore?”

His words are cold when he says, “She got boring. All of them do when they think they’re too good to get on their knees for the job.”

“Well,” I sit back and pull a packet of paper from my bag, “she won’t be boring now, will she?”

His lips twist into a smirk. “No. I suppose she won’t.”

I hand him the contract Denise and I drafted. “If you’d be so kind as to sign this. Please initial all the highlighted portions. Denise’s agent will be in touch, and you’ll never hear from me again.” I watch as he does, then snap pictures of each page once he returns them.

As he straightens from the table and smooths the buttons of his shirt, I say, “You know, you should always read what you sign.” Then into my shirt, I ask, “That should be enough to start, right?”

The plain clothes police officers in the booth behind me start toward Sean. The woman pulls handcuffs from her jacket pocket. Sean shouts over her while she reads him his rights, “I didn’t confess to anything. What the fuck is this?”

I hold my phone up and take another photo, this one of him getting arrested. Then I read from the page he signed, “‘I the undersigned, confess to forcibly raping Denise Arden on multiple occasions from the start of her employment in May 2017 to her dismissal…’ It goes on from there.” I tap on my phone. “And now TMZ knows.”

“They can’t make any of this stick.”

I shrug. “We really don’t care.” And we don’t. It just takes one, one survivor to step up and accuse a star of sexual misconduct, one domino to tip and knock the rest over. His other victims will come forward in the upcoming months. As long as his career is over, we don’t care if the police lock him up or not.

I snatch the envelope of blackmail from the floor and tuck it in my bag. I know what Denise requested, but I just can’t let the police have Micah’s mom. If they want her gone, they’ll figure it out themselves. My head ducks toward my chest when I scoot past the cops on my way to the exit. I’m not a fan of collaborating with the police, but Denise insisted. And I give my clients what they ask for—holistic justice.

Denise signed a nondisclosure agreement when she and her crackpot lawyer sat with Sean’s attorney. Money was exchanged, the amount, of course, she can’t tell me. Why they paid her, she, again, can’t disclose. I asked instead for a list of friends, family, coworkers, who could tell me her story for her. I didn’t need the whole truth, just enough to make him squirm.

She has her holistic justice. I have my thirty grand. Or most of it.

On my way out of the strip club, I message Denise from my Google number specific to her case: Without a hitch. LAPD have him in custody. Please wire remaining funds.

She replies within the minute. Funds transferred. Thank you.

Now I have my thirty grand. I don’t usually charge so much, but I showed my face to a high profile target and the police. Plus, she’ll get that money back and then some in her civil suit.

There’s a bar two blocks away. I know because I’ve worked a surprising number of cases at this club. Bentley’s Dive is something of a gem. It’s quiet and lit well enough to know how much regret I feel in the morning over the one-night-stand I meet there.

I never spend the night alone after I meet a target in person, which I rarely do. It’s impossible to know who can find me despite the security in my building and the fake names I do business under. I don’t have a boyfriend or roommate, and the guard puppy the humane society told me was an akita mix, grew up to be a medium sized dog who would sooner roll over for an intruder than bite him. The humane society does not take kindly to returns, but they do take them. So, besides me, my apartment is empty.

But I’m not going to sleep if it stays empty tonight.

I’m relieved to see an open stool at the bar. When I hop up onto it, sandy-haired guy in rolled up sleeves leans his palms on the counter. “What can I get for you?”

I study his face a moment, taking in his green eyes and freckles he should have grown out of years ago. “You’re new.” Maybe I frequent this bar too…frequently.

He pushes off the bar. “Yeah. Do you want a drink?”

“Old fashioned.” I put my hand out. “Wait, have you learned how to make one of those, yet?”

He glowers at me as he thumps the squat tumbler against the bar. “Ice?”

I nod. “What’s your name?”

“Cal,” he answers without looking up from the glass.

“Kal as in Superman?”

He shrugs. “It’s a nickname.”

“What’s your real name?”

“Linus.”

“Wow, your parents must hate you.”

He snickers. “You have no idea.” He tips his chin to me. “What’s your name?”

“Estlyn.”

“After E. E. Cummings?”

“Who?” I wink.

Cal coats the rim of the glass with the orange peel then drops it in my drink. “ID.” I reach into my messenger bag and pass him my driver’s license. “Estlyn Collins?” He raises an eyebrow.

“I prefer just Estlyn, like Zendaya or Beyonce.”

“What’s your address?”

I rattle off the phony North Hollywood address I have memorized.

“Mmhmm, and your birthday?”

I give him that, too. It’s only one day different than my real one.

“Where’s your real ID?”

“Excuse you, asshole, that is my real ID.”

He shakes his head as he bends the card back and forth. “You look like you’re nineteen.”

“Then why would I have my ID say I’m twenty-five if I needed to be twenty-one? That’s too great a lie to get away with.”

“Or is it the perfect lie?”

“Look, I have a law degree and a six-figure salary. I’m probably older than you.” I reach for the drink, but he picks it up and steps back from the bar. “Don’t you have other customers to not serve?”

“Where’s your degree from?”

“UCLA.”

Cal clicks his tongue. “Ooo…wrong answer.” He finally passes me my drink and my license.

“Aw, you went to USC, didn’t you?” He nods as I take a sip. “Do you think that’s why you’re behind the bar and I passed it?”

“Can I interest you in a table over there?” He points behind me. “Or the door?”

I shed my jacket revealing the low-cut top beneath. “Can I interest you in a night of no-strings-attached fucking?”

I expect him to be taken aback by my abrupt change in subject, but he responds in kind. “Sure. Do you have a less bitchy friend?”

I lean my chest against the counter to press my less than ample breasts together. “What if I don’t talk the rest of the night? Except, of course, to cry out ‘Linus’ during climax.”

“It’s Cal.”

“Sure,” I shrug, “I could scream ‘Cal’ instead.”

“I have a girlfriend.”

“Ah.” I twist the glass between my fingers. “Can you point me in the direction of someone less romantically entangled or more morally creative?”

Cal sighs and nods to the customer two seats away from me. “Another?” he asks.

I sip my drink and rotate to scan the bar for someone single and worthy of my utmost disrespect. It’s a Tuesday night. It’s not exactly packed in here. While I wait for the right guy to walk in, I pull my business card from my wallet. It’s a simple design—a white background with a black (12) on the front and my work email on the back. In pen I write, listen: there’s a hell of a good universe next door. I swallow the rest of my drink then secure the card and a twenty under the glass.

I relax into the booth Cal pointed toward and scroll through my email for prospective cases. About half of my inquiries concern infidelity, and this batch in my inbox is no different. Since I’m in the revenge business, I get a lot of requests to mutilate philandering dicks.

I have yet to take a machete to someone’s crotch.

Really, is that the most clever way to screw someone for screwing around? Also, I operate (mostly) within the law, and, because I’m a lawyer, I know that the law is a beautiful and fluid concept created to be twisted to fit my client’s needs. So, no, I’ve never accepted ten grand to castrate someone. But I have accepted fifteen to dismantle a cheater’s life brick by slimy brick.

I skim the bolded subject lines of the unread messages until that inquiry from this morning constricts my airways again. It’s not bold anymore. I’ve read it at least a dozen times, the name of the sender more than a hundred. I should reply. I have to. Because if he doesn’t go to me for revenge, he’ll go somewhere else.

“Your change.” I look up from my phone. Cal drops a few dollars and a receipt on my table.

I fold the bills and hand them back. “You need this more than I do, what with that enormous debt from your second-rate alma mater.”

He rolls his eyes, huffing as his fingers comb back his dirty blonde hair. Still, he doesn’t turn down the cash. I pick up the receipt and read the bottom. Cal scribbled the rest of the E. E. Cummings quote I started on my card: let’s go. I flip the receipt over to find he wrote, Shift ends at 10:00. I prefer you scream “Linus.”

Preorder $0.99 ebook here. Preorder signed copy here.

The first and only writing class I ever took was a one semester required course my senior year in high school.  One of our assignments was to interview a first grader and write a children’s book inspired by that student. But, before we could do that, we had to bring in our favorite book from our own childhood. Everyone in the class was thrilled, overcome with nostalgia as they presented that well-loved and tattered book their mom or dad read to them when they were little.

I had nothing.

I whined that I didn’t have a favorite book because my parents hadn’t read to me, and that I lacked reading comprehension because my family culture hadn’t instilled a love of reading in me. PBS children’s programing was my substitute. I even repeated the line my mom used to describe her own childhood: “I was raised by the TV.”

I know. Poor, middle class, American me.

When I started writing religiously about eight years later, I figured I’d never make any money doing it because I wasn’t a reader. Check out any author bio or interview, I bet you my secret unibrow that they mention the books they were addicted to in childhood or adolescence, or at least the authors who influenced them the most.

Sure, I have an author or two who inspire me (Can I get a woot, woot! for Gillian Flynn?). But it wasn’t until last week when I threw on an old DVD while I wrote that I realized exactly what my work most closely resembles.

That’s right. All those years binge watching 30 Rock while doing my math homework or nursing my son or falling asleep on the couch have paid off in the form of some weird ass, rhythmic, and sometimes hilarious book dialogue.

So, all you aspiring writers who don’t like to read, let me tell you why you might just be okay if you watch TV (and movies for that matter).

  1. Stories on screen show more than tell. This is the nature of the medium, but it can also be beautifully transferred to prose. I’ve noticed some of my favorite authors relax into the trap of narrating their character’s feelings instead of crafting each scene to elicit that emotion in the reader. Usually, TV has no choice but to show instead of tell. Better yet, it’s glaring when a television writer slips into expositional or melodramatic dialogue. There are just fewer places to hide bad writing like this on screen.
  2. Characters are forced to have believable dialogue30 Rock has such incredible dialogue that my writing “prophet,” Robert McKee, wrote a whole chapter analyzing it in his book, Dialogue. Conversations in novels can sometimes sound stilted when read aloud––or silently––because they don’t have to be acted. They also can drag out into monologues instead of carrying the momentum of that back-and-forth, tug-of-war on screen conversations must have. As with everything, it’s easier to craft dialogue after witnessing it done well. TV is the place to see this.
  3. On screen storytelling must be concise. TV shows often have time constraints, just as novels have word count limits. Many of my fellow writers struggle to stay under the recommended word count, where as I fight to get to it. While I could tell you it’s because my writing is so fast paced, exciting, and packs a punch, it’s more likely that I’m lazy. However, I learned to say much with little by watching full stories told in twenty-three minute episodes. Watch TV, and you might start to write more with fewer words.

Keep in mind that all of the following applies to well-written TV. Not reality. Not soap operas. Not superhero or cop shows with ridiculous dialogue. Not that you can’t watch bad TV. You probably should. Just like you should read bad books. Just know which is bad and which is well done. Don’t imitate crap.

So, Mom, I thank you for exposing me to well-stellar comedy, to Friends, The Office, Seinfeld, and 30 Rock. Sure, I may not love reading, but at least my characters sound a tad like Tina Fey’s.

And she’s unarguably amazing.

“Don’t put so much pressure on yourself,” my husband comforted as I spiraled with a fit of writer’s block. “You can’t expect your first book to be the epitome of literature.”

I narrowed my eyes at him.

Challenge accepted.

Over the next few weeks, I’d drop famous books on the table in front of him and shout, “Debut!” as if this justified my artistic melodrama. Now, I’m going to do the same to you.

1. The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins

Yep, debut. #1 New York Times bestseller and now a movie.

2. 13 Reasons Why by Jay Asher

#1 New York Times bestseller and now a Netflix series.

3. Dune by Frank Herbert

Ah, Dune. According to Mr. Wylde, it’s the pinnacle of the science fiction genre.  And, not only was it Herbert’s debut, no one wanted to publish it. (Mr. Wylde showed me Herbert’s publishing story when I was whining about agent rejections.)

4. Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn

Haven’t heard of this book? Most of my friends haven’t. You’ve heard of Gone Girl, yes? Same author. Except, Sharp Objects is my favorite of Flynn’s books. This debut was on the New York Times Bestseller List for 70 weeks. HBO is producing a limited series based on this novel starring Amy Adams.

5. One of Us is Lying by Karen M. McManus

This book is brand new (2017), a New York Times bestseller, and definitely worth your time. I’m two-thirds of the way through it, and my money’s on Simon.

6. The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks

Cute movie. Terrible book. Inexplicably a New York Times bestseller

7. Twilight by Stephanie Meyer

Yes, this phenomenon of the millennial generation was Meyer’s first novel. Say what you will about Twilight, but commercially, it was a runaway success.

In defense of Mr. Wylde, my first book that he told me not to pull my hair out over did suck. My second, Never Touched, comes out in November. Call it hubris, call it naiveté, but I hope it’ll be the eighth on this list someday.

(This is Part 3 of the series, Twelve Pieces of Flesh where I discuss the crisis of conscience of the Christian writer–say that three times fast. I recommend reading Part 1 and Part 2 before continuing.)

Relax, I don’t mean that f-word.

I mean fuck.

As far as I’m aware, there aren’t any cuss words in the Bible, though Matthew does record Peter using profanity when he denied Jesus (Matthew 26:73-75). Otherwise, the Bible is solidly on the pro-clean language team:

“But now you must put them all away: anger, wrath, malice, slander, and obscene talk from your mouth.” Colossians 3:8

“Let there be no filthiness nor foolish talk nor crude joking…” Ephesians 5:4

“Put away from you crooked speech, and put devious talk far from you.” Proverbs 4:24

The first two verses are prescriptive for churches, the last is for God’s people as a whole. There’s no way around it. God doesn’t want Christians cussing.

The Bible is also clear that our words are a reflection of our character. In Matthew 12:34, Jesus says, “How can you speak good things when you are evil? For out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.”

Therein lies the Christian writer’s conundrum. How does he write his immoral character’s dialogue or narration if that character isn’t able to “speak good things” that Christians are supposed to?

There are a few tricks writers use to write “fuck”-free fiction:

  1. Set the story in a time period where contemporary curse words are anachronistic so the reader doesn’t notice their absence.
  2. Allude to explicit language instead of including it. (“He cursed under his breath.”)
  3. Say “gosh-darn,” “shoot,” and maybe even “crap” if the writer is feeling especially audacious.
  4. Write in the third person to avoid stream-of-consciousness profanity.

Francine Rivers employed all four of these in the only book I’ve read more than once, Redeeming Love. I wouldn’t have read her story six times if it wasn’t moving. But, every time a character said “horse manure” instead of “bullshit,” I was jarred into remembering that this was Christian fiction, not realism.

So, why, if a masterful Christian author can write a clean novel, did I write Never Touched with R-rated profanity? There are three possibilities:

  1. I’m not as skilled a writer as Francine Rivers and therefore incapable of working within such strict constraints.
  2. I’m a sinner.
  3. My protagonist is irreverent and dark and sees no issue with her crude language.

The first two are undeniable.

The third brings me back to Matthew 12:34, “out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.” If you’ll allow me to return to the journalist analogy from Excessive Force, I wouldn’t be a trustworthy reporter if I didn’t allow Sawyer to cuss, to say nasty things like “Fuck him. Please, I mean.” or to think “Every night, I fell asleep to the thought that’d I’d grow the courage Simone did, the strength or balls or foolishness to just say, ‘Fuck it, let the chips fall where they may.'” That’s what’s in Sawyer’s heart, so that’s what comes out of her mouth.

Thus, the crisis: keep my tongue/pen pure or tell the truth.

I chose the latter.

Am I causing you to sin if you read this book littered with “obscene talk?” I can’t cause you to sin. I suppose I could encourage you to. But reading profane talk is the same as reading a news article about a shooting. It’s awful. It’s indignifying. It’s a reflection of the subject’s heart. But it’s not a sin to witness.

If you have personal convictions about reading explicit language, Never Touched isn’t for you. No hard feelings. I’m relieved you know this before reading the book.

If you don’t need your fiction to be “fuck”-free, excellent.

Never Touched isn’t–in any sense of the word.

Next time.

 

(This is Part 2 of the series, Twelve Pieces of Flesh where I discuss the crisis of conscience of the Christian writer–say that three times fast. I recommend reading Part 1 before continuing.)

I am not an author.

I am just a writer.

The distinction is significant, so I hope I can explain it to full justice. Authors create; they invent. They are sovereign over every event within their fictional world, every choice their characters make, every result thereof.

Writers report. They watch scenes unfurl and scribble frantically to catch every detail. They eavesdrop and interview so they can feel what their characters feel, think what they think. Then they rewrite countless times until they are certain the story on the page matches the one they have seen and touched and heard.

And, yes, this story originated in the writer’s mind. The characters aren’t living, breathing humans (or creatures for you non-realism writers). The events didn’t take place within the physical realm. But if writers do their job, the fiction they recorded is as real as what you ate for lunch today–unless, of course, you ate nothing, in which case you should go eat.

By this definition, writers are simply journalists with privileged information. And journalists can witness some gnarly stuff–war, genocide, famine, poverty, violence, trafficking, racism–the scope of the human experience. Though, most journalists tend to favor the unraveling of humanity over the stitching up (“If it bleeds, it leads.”).

A masterful journalist will do his best to record his assignment with artful skill and integrity. When the subject of his interview has shot someone, we expect him to be forthcoming. Sometimes, we expect the gory details. We expect–or at least hope for–the unbiased truth.

But at no point do we blame the journalist for the shooting.

So, why should we blame writers for their characters’ violence?

In Never TouchedI faced the task of recording multiple assault scenes–a few of them sexual in nature. Now, of course, as the writer, I had the choice of how to report these. What exact detail would be necessary to elicit empathy from the reader? How much would be gratuitous? How little would make the reader too comfortable?

Here’s where I landed: Sawyer is the poster child for the ripple effect of abuse. In other words, her story concerns the result of violence, not violence itself. So, while there are scenes of brutality in the story, for the most part, they are alluded to rather than explicitly portrayed.

Does this mean that a Christian writer should never include graphic violence in a story? No! Of course, she can. She should write what she sees, what her reader needs to know, whatever it is that completes the story.

After all, I think we can all agree that those ancient writers splattered the Bible with graphic violence (see Part 1). Why? Because that’s what they saw, that’s what their readers needed to know, that’s what completed God’s story.

I have to wonder if the abundance of violence in the Bible is why we Christians tend to excuse similar content in media more readily than explicit language or sexuality. Some of us who will see a movie rated R for violence won’t see a movie rated PG-13 for sexual content. But, if this is the case, shouldn’t Christians be able to stomach sex scenes as the Bible depicts those, too?

Never cursing, though.

Next time.

Actual sentences my three-year-old son has said:

“2+2=4. I’m amazing.”

About his painting: “It’s so good and so it’s beautiful and it’s a wall-bridge for playdoh to go on.” (Whatever that means.)

“Fonsi will be down once he’s back from getting me toys from Peurto Rico.” (Yes, “Despacito” Fonsi. B+ Parenting.)

Hand J a math book, and he goes through problems without fear of messing up. Give him a canvas, and he covers the whole thing with paint. Sit in front of him and listen, and he’ll tell you a story. He’ll go on and on:

About the bee who lives on his ceiling.

About the stuffed tiger who bit him but with whom he has since reconciled.

About the doctor-bunny who fixes his owies when he’s in his crib.

Not once does he question the validity of his imagination or his storytelling ability. He is never self-conscious about what his audience will think or if he has an audience at all. I know, because I hear him excitedly talking to his animals during afternoon quiet time.

Whenever J is too cute to handle, I squish him and say, “Never change!” To which I’ve taught him to reply, “I’m going to change and stay sweet.” Because he is going to change. I don’t want him for one second to feel guilt or sadness or grief for growing up. But I wish he could say so much more than just “stay sweet.” I want him to promise to stay courageous, creative, unapologetically him, to never lose that unwavering belief in himself.

Didn’t we all have that once?

What happened? What quieted that voice inside us telling us we could do anything we decided to do if we just went and did it? When did we grow out of that shameless enthusiasm, desert that brazen creativity?

When was the last time we said, “I’m amazing”?

I stopped writing when I could no longer say that about myself. That was it. I didn’t lose interest. I didn’t forget how. I didn’t find something better to do. I just didn’t think I had it–whatever it was.

Something, or a million little things, shut up that voice inside telling me I was amazing.

Thank God for Grandma Audi. My eighty-year-old Grandma is one of those rare people who never lost faith in herself–or at least not long enough to make a career change. She was a starving artist with three baby girls and she kept going. She is now a successful painter, teacher, and retired graphic designer for the state of California.

And she never lost faith in me. When I was a kid, she always had an art project ready for me when I came over. And when I “messed up,” she’d tell me, “There are no mistakes, just opportunities for creativity.” When I was in college, she sent me dozens of emails with articles about the importance of fostering my imagination even while I was neglecting (okay, running from) my right brain. When I started writing again, she was my loudest cheerleader. An article she mailed me last fall is still on my fridge with the circled quote:

Let go of the way people told you things are to be done, and give yourself the space and the ability to make mistakes, to think about ridiculous things. –Perry Chen (founder of Kickstarter)

Oh man, did I think about ridiculous things. Then I wrote them down. Then I sent them to Stacey. Then another friend. Then my writers’ group. Then an author. Then agents and publishers.

And one of those publishers thought my ridiculous ideas weren’t half bad.

But if Crimson Tree didn’t sign me, I wouldn’t have failed. If no one buys my book, I’m still successful. If people buy it and hate it, I’m still amazing.

You know how I know? Because I never look at J and tell him, “Your bunny story sucked. You failed at having an imagination.”

Because there are no creative failures, just the failure to try.

 

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