Meet the Baddest Citizen - Interview with S.W. Lauden

by Holly West

By now, you've probably heard of S.W. Lauden. His debut novel, BAD CITIZEN CORPORATION, dropped on November 3 and people are digging it. I dug it myself. But prior to publication of the novel, he made a name for himself around town by writing bad ass short fiction and blogging, interviewing and promoting other authors. He even interviewed me once, announcing that mine was "probably" the first historical fiction book he'd ever read.

Now it's Steve's turn to wear the princess tiara. He was kind enough to stop by the blog today to answer my insightful questions. Here we go!


HW: Your debut, BAD CITIZEN CORPORATION (BCC), is fast-paced, creepy and atmospheric straight out of the gate. Greg Salem, a cop/surfer/punk rock singer, is under investigation for a shooting in the line of duty when his best friend is murdered. In the book, Greg’s past intersects with his present as he searches for the killer. The murder aside, it reminded me of the different phases of my own life over the years—how they overlap and intersect, and how they’ve contributed to who I am now. To an extent, is Greg’s story a reflection of your own life?

SWL: Thanks for having me, Holly! BCC isn't autobiographical, but it's absolutely informed by my own experiences. Like Greg, I spent the early part of my life chasing a career in music, which meant doing a lot of side hustles in order to eat and live indoors. Mostly slinging food and drinks, but I also worked as a journalist here and there.

Once I stopped pursuing music as a career (what's Einstein's definition of insanity again?), I started sifting through the ashes a little. I discovered that I hadn't been particularly successful at any one thing, but I had done some pretty interesting things—at least according to me. That kind of reckoning is really what Greg is dealing with in this book. He's haunted by his past, conflicted about choices he's made and forced to make some tough decisions about his future. It just so happens that he is surrounded by part-time punks, thugs, drug addicts and murderers. Once I had worked through those internal struggles and external influences for him, I knew that I had a book I could relate to and could get excited about writing.

HW: Having lived in South Bay for a couple of years in the early 90s, I can say you captured the feel of the area remarkably well, noting, of course, that it’s changed quite a bit in the last twenty years. What inspired you to write about this location and how did it inform the plot?

SWL: Growing up near the coast in SoCal was amazing, but my life has taken me in different directions since high school and college. After twenty years of mostly living inland I feel like a tourist whenever I visit my old stomping grounds these days. From that perspective, it allows me to compare the blue-collar beach towns of my childhood—filtered through my faulty, romantic memories—with the exclusive, high-end communities many of them have become.

Unlike me, Greg never really left his hometown so he's forced to experience those dichotomies on a daily basis. He's a SoCal native who feels like he's living behind enemy lines, but he's also a punk musician who grew up to be a cop. So I couldn't imagine setting this particular story anywhere else, although in my head The Bay Cities is a fictionalized combination of several SoCal towns including the South Bay, Santa Barbara, Venice, Silverlake and Los Feliz.

HW: BCC has been out for about a week now (two weeks when this interview posts). Tell me, is being a published author all it’s cracked up to be?

SWL: I think that my experiences in the music business—for better or worse—really prepared me for being a "published author". There's always a big difference between the dream and the reality. That said, publishing a book has been a lifelong dream and I'm still trying to wrap my head around the idea that I actually did it. So, for the time being, it's pretty mind-blowing. Is there anything better than killing yourself for something you love so much? Ask me again in a couple of years. For now, I'm pretty stoked.

HW: You recently wrote a blog post about being surprised to learn that BCC was, in fact, a mystery, as opposed to a straight crime novel. Brings a (modified) quote from the film Withnail and I to mind: “I’ve written a mystery by mistake!”

SWL: First of all, thank you for reminding me of Withnail and I. What a fantastic movie. I don't remember that specific quote, but the first time I watched it was in a tour van as my band drove across England on a club tour. Our roadie was a really cool English dude who was blown away (gobsmacked?) that we hadn't seen it. I was really hung over that day, like most days back then, and almost threw up because I was laughing so hard. Good times!

Anyway, I knew that murder was going to be a main plot device in BCC from the beginning, but I was honestly more concerned with the character development and their motivations. What I didn't know when I started writing it was that there were so many sub genres within the greater crime/mystery world. Looking back I feel lucky because my ignorance, at least at the onset of this project, kept me from being beholden to any particular genre. More than anything, I wanted BCC to have the energy, intensity and darkness that I've always loved about my favorite punk songs.

HW: Anyway, I think that’s kind of hilarious since I’ve had a similar reaction to people assuming my books are cozies because they’re historical mysteries (which I realize is somewhat different than your situation but overall it’s about genre and our perceptions of it). It’s not that I have a problem with cozies, it’s that readers have certain expectations about the label and my books don’t meet them. I don’t want anyone to be disappointed or offended.


I personally consider mysteries crime novels in the general sense so I refer to myself as a crime fiction writer. If the conversation goes further I say I write hardboiled historical mysteries.

All this to ask: How do you really feel about the fact that you wrote a mystery and not, as you say, a crime novel? Does it even matter? Also, can you ever see yourself writing a cozy?

SWL: Genre matters to me more as a reader than as a writer. I like to have a general sense of what I'm getting into when I choose a book. Of course, it's also fun to be surprised. I thought I was digging into some literary fiction when I picked up Robin Sloan's MR. PENUMBRA'S 24-HOUR BOOKSTORE, but it ended up being one of the best mysteries I have read in the last few years.

Could I write a cozy? I honestly have to say that it looks much harder than what I currently do. I'm no expert, but anything with that many specific rules seems like it would be difficult for a writer like me. So instead of giving you a straight answer, I'll just quote Romeo Void: "Never say never."

HW: Obligatory geeky writer question: Are you a plotter or a pantser?

For BCC, I started with a plot that I quickly abandoned. My novella, CROSSWISE (coming from Down & Out Books in March, 2016), started as a short story that just didn't want to end. So...I guess I'm a "plotty pants." Is that a thing?

HW: You’ve quickly become known in writing circles as an indie publishing advocate. Is that by accident or design?

SWL: I have always been a fan of Indie music, and I think that transferred over to Indie publishing once I started exploring this world. I love the DIY aesthetic in general, and find it hard not to root for anybody who decides to go their own way instead of seeking out, or waiting around for, the approval of perceived gatekeepers. I also respect writers who take chances, push boundaries and generally make decisions that the mainstream may not fully understand or embrace. Hell, I don't always understand what they're trying to do, but I try my best to support it. Call it a punk rock hangover.

But just as with music, I'm definitely not somebody who scoffs at mainstream success. Get in my car sometime and you'll be treated to anything from Taylor Swift and The Rolling Stones to Ty Segall, Black Flag and Thao Nguyen. Likewise, I'm perfectly content reading HOW TO SUCCESSFULLY KIDNAP STRANGERS by Max Booth III and DIRTBAGS by Eryk Pruitt back-to-back with ALL THE LIGHT WE CANNOT SEE by Anthony Doerr and THE GIRL ON THE TRAIN by Paula Hawkins.

All excellent books, by the way. And they all started out the same way, as far as I know—with somebody sitting down in front of a computer and making shit up. From there it's up to the market to decide. Mostly, I would encourage people who think they want to do it to just go ahead and do it. Start a band, write a book, create a podcast, shoot a movie, go to clown school—whatever. Get weird.

HW: You’ve written quite a few flash fiction and short pieces that are published online. Tell me your favorite, why it’s your favorite, and provide a link.

SWL: Interesting question. I think the answer would vary wildly depending on when you ask, but at this exact moment I would pick "Fix Me." It’s about a bicyclist getting chased by a muscle car through some of my favorite East LA neighborhoods. My violent little love letter to Los Angeles.

I submitted it to a contest for Criminal Element earlier this year and was thrilled when it won. Then a friend who is a director approached me about turning it into a short film. We have been going back and forth on ideas for adapting the script, which has lately allowed me to consider the story from a different perspective. I always try to picture the scenes that I am writing—taking into account the peripheral action that's indirectly influencing the outcomes—but writing for a visual medium is something else all together.

HW: What’s up next for you?

SWL: Late lunch. And maybe a mani/pedi, if I think my boss won't notice that I'm gone for two hours...

I already mentioned that my novella, CROSSWISE, is coming out next year. That one's about an ex-NYPD cop who chases his coke-addict girlfriend to her hometown in Florida. She leaves him shortly after he gets a job as head of security at a sprawling retirement community filled with a colorful cast of septuagenarian characters. He's sad, drunk and lonely until the murders start.

I'm also writing the second Greg Salem novel. BCC was always meant to be the first installment in a three-book series. I'm a little over half way through book two and I have to say it's been fun reconnecting with some of the characters again. It's sort of like a high school reunion, only with a lot more violence.

***

S.W. Lauden’s debut novel, BAD CITIZEN CORPORATION is available now from Rare Bird Books. His novella, CROSSWISE, will be published by Down & Out Books in 2016.

Beach House Noir

By Steve Weddle

Now is the day the crows come home to roost. Or the roosters come home to crow. Or maybe they're black skimmers.

The Noir at Beach House deadline is today. Below are the links for folks who have let me know what's what. You still have time to post a link to your story in the comments -- or email me. Or tie it to the foot of a carrier rooster and send along.

"Insanely entertaining." That's what Josh Bazell said about FUN AND GAMES from Duane Swierczynski. Might as well say the same thing about all the fantastic entries for the DSD challenge. Check these out ->

Peter Rozovsky

Benoit Lelievre

Charlie Wade

Evil Ray

David James Keaton

Al Tucher

Eric Beetner

Thomas Pluck

Gerald So

Keith Karabin

Stephen D. Rogers

Katherine Tomlinson

Kieran Shea

Don Lafferty

Fiona McDroll Johnson

If I missed someone, post in the comments and I'll update. If you're coming in late, post in the comments today and you'll still be entered to win FUN AND GAMES from Duane Swierczynski. I'll pick a name late Monday (today?) afternoon.

FUN AND GAMES is the first of three Charlie Hardie thrillers from Duane Swierczynski (Mulholland Books).
Charlie is an ex- sort-of cop with the requisite wounded psyche, avoiding his past by running around the country house-sitting, drinking, and watching olde tyme movies.

His shot at redemption comes in the Hollywood Hills, trying to save a movie star from sure death. Much like that poor young man in CLERKS who wasn't even supposed to be here today, Charlie was supposed to be drunk in someone else's house, watching old Robert Mitchum movies.

What really works well in this book is that as the action moves forward -- explosions, poisonings, car chases -- the story moves backwards, bringing depth and explanation via character backstory.

Who are these Accident People trying to kill movie star Lane Madden? And why?
And why did Charlie Hardie run away and hide from his life, leaving his wife and kid far away?
And what's in that damned bag he can't live without?

As the story moves along from one chase scene to another, the story of Lane Madden's Secret is revealed a little more. As Lane Madden's backstory is revealed, so is Charlie Hardie's.

This book moves. Not just in the normal thriller way, not just racing from one explosion to the next. These explosions are more like dynamite thrown at that mountain where that dude was making the Crazy Horse monument. The more explosions, the more is revealed. And once that thing is revealed, you know, it's pretty freaking cool.

FUN AND GAMES is available this month. The second in the three-parter is set to hit shelves in October.

You'll dig this book.

One lucky person in our Noir at the Beach House contest will get a copy of the book. Will let you know shortly.

Thanks for playing.

Weather Flash: For a Cause

 By Steve Weddle

Dan O'Shea offered up this flash challenge recently. What I liked about the challenge is that he said he'd donate to the Red Cross five bucks for every entrant. That'll work for me.

One of the things I like about flash challenges is that they give you a good start on getting together a story. I had an idea that I wanted to work out, and this was a great opportunity to start that. I'm not done with the story, still have to work in some backstory and some layers and some tension and a couple of other ideas. But I think this works alright. And, besides, it's for a good cause.

Thanks to Dan for helping the Red Cross's relief efforts. 

Reception

My Aunt Velma wiped the Red Man juice from her chin, put the coffee can back on the TV tray. “You just need to get yourself down there and fix her antenna is what you need to do.”

“I will, Aunt Vee, I will. Just gotta finish this up first,” I said. 

I’d been staying with my aunt off and on for the past year, ever since I’d gotten laid off from the flooring place outside Magnolia. Price of gas these days. Wasn’t worth it anyway.

I’d finished a line of caulking on the inside of the leaky window and was cleaning it up with the edge of one of those credit cards they send you in the mail. Sign up and spend $5,000 and I’d get 5,000 points to take the family to Disney World. I don’t have a family. None that would want to go to Disney World, anyway.

So I dragged the edge of the card along the window frame, worked the caulking into the corners as best I could, then used a rag to wipe off all the excess. Heh. “Excess.” There’s a word I haven’t heard in a long damn time. I wiped the card off on the same rag, then slid the card into my pocket where I used to keep a wallet. “She say what was wrong with it?” 

“Said it was broke. I don’t need her and her niece coming up here every damned day to watch my stories with me and eat up all my food. I swear I’ve never seen a girl put away so many gizzards in one sitting.”

Her stories. As the World Turns. Guiding Light. Her stories. Her world.

When I started staying here, she’d send me out on errands in the early afternoon so I wouldn’t get in her way. Most days I didn’t have anywhere else to go, so I just walked up and down the road picking up cans out of the ditches. Down to Mr. Tatum’s place and then back again was pretty close to long enough for me to stay away.  Usually managed enough cans to make it worthwhile, too.  After a while I stayed and kept my mouth shut. Little while after that, I’d say something about one of the characters. One day I said Blake Thorpe looks like Miss Angela down at the Texaco. Turns out my aunt doesn’t much care for Miss Angela. I didn’t say too much after that.

“I can see what I can do, but I’m not much of an electrician,” I said.

“Weren’t much of a plank layer before that, were you?”

“They laid me off. Wasn’t my fault the housing market went to Hell.”

She wiped a little more Red Man from her chin. “You watch your mouth, young man.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How’s about you fix that woman’s antenna right and that’ll be your rent check for the month? Think you can manage that?”

I walked to the back of the house to the couch where my pillow and radio were and scanned for any afternoon baseball games. On a good day, sometimes I could get a Texas Rangers game. I didn’t much care for any of them, but if they were playing the New York Yankees, at least I’d have someone to root against. Sometimes it just works out better to root against something.

The weather was pretty clear, which isn’t always the best for picking up games on the radio. But after the weather we’d had, I’d take clear and quiet. Last week we had some awful storms come through. Took out a church up near Emerson and a couple of old farm houses. Flooded most of the back roads around here. And other smaller problems. Like the antenna on Miss Delsie Crawford’s place.

So I took a couple of screwdrivers, a pair of pliers, a ballpeen hammer and half a roll of duct tape, dropped them in a green pillowcase and headed down to Miss Delsie’s house.

By the time I got down to her place, I had sweat and dirt grit on the back of my neck. I knocked at her door and she let me in. She offered me a glass of water and I sat down in the living room. Thick red and brown shag carpeting matched most of the furniture and made the couch look like a big rise in the floor. I sat down and she brought me a glass of lukewarm water and I downed it in a couple of swallows. 

I started to tell her why I was there when she walked over to the television set and turned it off. I hadn’t even noticed the thing had been on. You get that way sometimes. You get something in your head that you have to do and you get focused on it so strong that you forget what you set out to do. You can get that way laying floors. You get so caught up in going one direction, then you look up and you’re caught in a corner and everything’s gone off kilter by a quarter-inch.

“Doyle, you know you don’t need an excuse to stop by, but I see you got a pillowcase full of something there.” 

I looked down at the tools and felt like I’d just dragged a mess of wet squirrels into her house. “Aunt Vee said maybe you could use some help down here on your antenna,” I said because it’s the words I’d practiced on the way down and I hadn’t had time to think of anything else.

She looked puzzled, turned her head like my Aunt Vee did whenever something really weird would happen. Like if someone would say, “Today, the part of Alan-Michael Spaulding will be played by seventeen flaming armadillos.” 

But then her niece started hollering from the back of the house somewhere. “I’m still hungry. I’m still hungry. I’m still hungry.” A chant almost, and she took that last “hungry” and let it linger out there like “hoooongreee” in some weird monster kind of rumbling.  Then she was asking why can’t they ever have anything to eat and she knows it costs money and why can’t they ever get any money. She was walking and talking and by then she’d come to the end of the hall and could see that I was sitting there with a pillowcase between my feet. I started looking anywhere else. Over to the photographs on the fireplace mantle. Over to the shelves where Miss Delsie had all her collectible dolls. Shelves that were empty now except for the doll stands and the ghosting dust around the edges.

So Miss Delsie sat there for a second until I thought of something to say. “She said your TV was acting up. Maybe you weren’t getting all the channels and could I help she said.”

Her niece’s name was Constance, but she went by Connie. And Connie said how much she liked my aunt’s cooking and how sweet she was to have them both over. 

I asked if they were having electrical problems after the storm.

Miss Delsie raised an eyebrow. “Why would you ask that?”

“Just noticed all the lights are off in the back is all,” I said.

“Oh,” she said.

“That’s environmental,” Connie said. “On account of the environment. We all have to pitch in and do our part.”

I nodded. “Yeah. We all have to do our part.”

We talked for a while longer about the weather. How hot it was going to get and how the weatherman said another big storm was coming that weekend.

Connie said she’d found a recipe in an old Southern Living she’d gotten from discard stack at the library in Magnolia. “I’m not much of a cook. But it’s for this thing called a Kentucky Hot Brown.”

“Connie,” Miss Delsie said. “Ain’t nobody got an inclination to cook for you. You can’t just go inviting yourself over and expecting people to spend all their time and money serving you.”

“People gotta eat. What’s it matter if it’s something good?”

Before Miss Delsie could fire back with anything, I stood up to go, thanked them for the drink and put the recipe in my pocket.

Then I walked back to my Aunt Vee’s to tell her I didn’t know how to fix the antenna. 

Bananafish, The Pirate

By Jay Stringer

So I put out a call via the twitters on a cold monday night, what should I write about for my DSD piece? I got one reply, from Mr Dan O'Shea. He said, "Bananafish!" And faced with gibberish like that, the only sane and reasonable response seemed to be flash fiction. With pirates. Arrrr.

****

“An investigation”

Master Tuft cut through the quiet of the night, running the length of the deck in a blind rage.

Fry, the ship’s first mate, turned from the journal he’d been writing by candlelight, “what?”

“An investigation. There must be an investigation.” Tuft wasn’t even pausing for breath. “And what would we be investigating?”

“The Rum. It’s gone.”

“Which rum?”

“All of it. It’s gone.”

Fry shook his head, “Where has it gone?”

“That’s what we need to investigate.”

Grunt, who claimed to be the helmsman but never did anything but fight, stepped into the conversation, “Bananafish is drunk”

Bananafish was the cook.

He could cook anything, as long as it was fish. Or Banana. Or fish and banana.

“Yes,” Tuft nodded, “Bananafish is drunk, but I’m more worried about the investigation-”

“I think we’ve solved it already.”

The cabin door burst open and Captain Fuller stepped out half dressed. He looked to Fry for an explanation.

“Well apparently, the rum has gone. All of it. Tuft wants this investigated. And Grunt says that Bananafish is drunk.”

The Captain nodded and smiled, “Then we’ll ask Bananafish if he knows where the drink has gone."

Grunt went below deck and dragged the cook out of bed. He stumbled along behind Grunt as he was lead back up before the captain, standing in a slanted parody of attention, “Morning, Boss.”

“It has come to our attention that all of the Rum has gone. Have you got anything to say about this?”

"Hic."

"I beg your pardon?"

Bananafish regarded the Captain through one eye, the other glued shut with sleep, before a look of indignation crossed his face and he threw his hand in the air.

“An investigation” he cried, “there must be an investigation!”

**

Recovered enough to sit on the poop deck, Bananafish told his tale.

“It was about an hour ago I would say, maybe a bit more than that. I was on the deck with Skiffel…”

Tuft cutting in,"

Where is he? Can he confirm this?”

“No, see, that’s the problem. I was sat on the deck with Skiffel, we were talking, playing a bit of poker. We were not drinking at all, I swear-”

“You swear?”

“I swear”

“You swear on your honour?”

“I swear on my honour”

Captain Fuller pulled his cutlass and pressed it to the cook's groin, “You swear on your manhood?”

“-well maybe wis drank a little”

The Captain laughed and nodded for the cook to continue.

“So, I was sat on the deck with Skiffel, and we were playing poker and we had a responsible amount to drink. The sea had been choppy all night, but the sky clear, a strange night. But then the sea grew calm, the calmest I’ve ever seen, and a thick mist began to roll in.

“Soon it was so we couldn’t see anything, and Skiffel began to joke about all the bounties that could be floating by without our knowing. Out of the fog -and I swear this is true- we heard a creaking, as of a large ship right off our bow. Skiffel jumped near out of his skin. I myself remained brave, but I understood how the man felt. We leaned as far over the rail as we could, straining to hear the sound again, or to catch a glimpse of anything through the mist. We heard another sound, it was of an eerie scratching, nails clinging to damp wood, like a cat, and the sound wasn’t coming from out in the mist sir-”

Bananafish paused for effect, looking around the crew's faces.

“The scratching was below us. The sound of something climbing the hull of our ship. Well, Skiffel was caught in a mighty panic, but I drew my short sword and leaned into the mist, ready to strike. My hair stood on end Sir, for I couldn’t make out what it was, but there was definitely something moving down there, clawing its way up toward us. Even more shocking Sir, as I drew my face back up, I found a ghostly face staring into mine through the mist.”

Fry gasped, then caught himself.

Bananafish waited for a second before starting up again.

“The face drew clearer as the mist thinned slightly, and we saw a portion of the ship we had heard. It was old, like a floating wreck, and the men aboard it looked skeletal and weak. They looked, sir, like the Undead”

Tuft shook, overcome.

“The creature staring at me from their deck laughed, such a laugh that cut through to my soul, and his Bony hands appeared out of the mist and dragged Skiffel across to him, screaming. No sooner was poor Skiffel on their ship, then the mist rolled in again to hide them from view. As I felt my heart racing out of control, I felt a presence behind me, and a scuttling sound. Finding the strength to turn, I caught sight of the barrel of rum –all the rum- disappearing over the side, held by a pair of bony hands. Then, as quickly as it had come, the mist cleared, and we were alone at sea again.”

“I see”, Captain Fuller nodded and looked at his crew, all pale and frightened, all trying to to show their fear.

“My word, such a night,” Tuft whispered, peering into the mist that had crept up as the story had been related.

“And tell me”, continued Fuller, “All of this, the whole terrible story, was this before or after you drank all of the rum?”

“Well, it was after –ah-I mean-”

Bananafish turned and made a run for below deck but Grunt was quicker, grabbing the young man by the scruff of his neck. As if on cue, Skiffel himself staggered up from below deck in a drunken state; singing a shanty and wearing a short skirt.

“Prepare the plank,” the Captain called out, “They’re going for a swim.”

***

And while we're on the subject of Flash, the draw for the XMAS NOIR FLASH CHALLENGE has taken place, and the winners will be contacted soon.