Cody McFadyen, Author of The Darker Side, Face of Death, Shadow Man

Cody Mcfadyen was born in Texas in 1968. He designed websites before selling his first novel, Shadow Man, in 2005. He has since had a second book – The Face of Death – published. Both were international best sellers. He lives in Southern California with his two black labs, often referred to as ‘The Black Forces of Destruction.’ He drinks coffee (copiously), plays guitar (badly), and reads (voraciously). He abhors adverbs in writing, except when used in short bios like this one. Read More

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Harrogate Crime Festival/Knocking other writers

The Crown Hotel in Harrogate, UK

So I made my way to London. My publisher in the UK is Hodder, a great group of people who've treated me well since the publication of Shadow Man. From there I did some signings in bookstores in Manchester and surrounding areas and then was driven to Harrogate, which is a charming town in North Yorkshire. It has an interesting history. A mineral spring was discovered there in 1571, which finding was then written about widely in 1626. From that point, Harrogate became fairly famous as a Spa town.

In 1926, Agatha Christie, who was 36 years old at the time, disappeared. Her car was found abandoned and hanging over the edge of a chalk pit. A manhunt ensued, and to make a long story short, she was found in Harrogate, at the Swan Hotel. She'd checked in under the name of her husband's mistress. I saw the Swan Hotel while there, by the way. Harrogate is like that - it has all the modern amenities, but the buildings are ageless. For the last five years it's been the spot for the very popular crime festival. This was my first year attending, and I was honored to have been chosen for a panel.

I arrived on Thursday night, and spent some initial time wandering around, then went for a dinner with some Hodder folk and authors. I met author Katherine Howell, and author Kathryn Fox, both from Aussie land. Two great gals, and we laughed our way through dinner. Following dinner, I went to the opening night party. I spent the rest of the evening chatting and drinking and collapsed into my bed around 1 am. I awoke on Friday feeling a little bit the worse for wear, but shook it off and took a walk around the town. It's a beautiful place, and there was a light drizzle. Someone was watering the flowers placed around the tops of the lightposts, and so the water was falling from the bunches of flowers onto the cobblestone. Everything was very green. Here's a photo:

I arrived back refreshed. I had an interview in the afternoon, and spent more time wandering around. I got to meet a lot of different people. I want to say here that I'm not going to try and list everyone. I will say some names, but if you're not here, please don't be insulted... it was just a blur of days.

I met Mark Billingham, who is a very nice guy. I met Simon Kernick who did me the great honor of telling me he's actually read and enjoyed my books. I met David Hewson again (we'd met in NYC) who was to be moderating my panel the next day. I also met Meg Gardiner, who now lives in London but comes from Southern California. I went later to the Peter Robinson party (21 years since his first Inspector Banks novel) and met the man himself, who was a very nice gentleman. I also got to meet Frank Schatzing (The Swarm) and a few others. Afterwards was another dinner, which I had resolved to remain sober at, being that I had a panel the next day. I met the charming Dreda Say Mitchell and partner, and had more laughs with Kathryn Fox. The evening after was spent roaming the hotel and meeting some more writers. I have to say, this is one of the things I really enjoyed about Harrogate. It was a very relaxed setting, with lots of opportunities to sit and talk. My kind of show.

The next day I woke up very early for two reasons: my panel was to be that day and I was in a mild panic about that, and I wanted to see Jeffery Deaver's talk, which started at 9 am. I went and saw Mr. Deaver speak. He was very good. He started a diary when he first began getting published, and he read various excerpts from it that spanned the years. Very funny. He also shared a lot about how he does his writing. He spends, per his talk, about 8 months outlining a book and 4 months writing it. Wow. As a fan of his books, it was food for thought for me as a writer. I don't see myself spending 8 months outlining... but I could do with a little more planning.

Not long after came the moment of truth - the dreaded panel! The subject was tech, and how it both has and has not affected crime writing, and where we think it will go from here. I was on the panel with Natasha Cooper, Kathryn Fox, and Peter Lovesey, and it was a hoot! We managed to get some serious points in, but the high point of the panel was Kathryn (who is an MD) demonstrating how to do an autopsy on Gromit the dog. Suffice to say, it went well, and I had people coming up throughout the day to say they'd enjoyed it. So - thanks to David Hewson and the other panelists. Afterwards was a book signing and I got to sign quite a few books, which was great.

David Hewson, Kathryn Fox, Gromit, and Me at the signing table.

After the panel, all the pressure was off. I spent some more time writing,, and then it was time for dinner with Hodder staff and other authors. Jeff Deaver was there, and I got to talk to him for a bit. Very nice guy. Very accessible. Which brings me, for a moment of aside, to the other part of this post: Knocking other writers.

One of the things I've noticed since starting to really make the rounds of the festivals, and meeting other authors, is just how generally nice and accessible the 'big name' writers are in this community. It surprised me to a degree, coming from the often less than inviting environment of Hollywood in California. There are nice actors, of course, but the prima donna ratio is very, very low in the author community. Everyone has been welcoming when I've introduced myself, and has never seem put off that a lowlier man on the totem pole has introduced himself and demanded a little time. I think,in many ways, that's unique. I have had only two instances where authors have said something less than nice about my writing (they'll remain unnamed). Now that I've made the rounds, and met so many other authors, I've dismissed their open criticism as an anomaly. I'm not saying authors never dislike the writing of other authors. I'm saying that the classy ones tend to keep that to themselves, and that the classy ones seem to comprise 99% of this group. In this community, I'm happy to say, we don't spend a lot of time cutting each other up professionally. Personally, well... there have been some cat/dogfights at times, but again, it's rare.

The point? Well, I guess the first point is that I'm pleased and honored to be a part of such a relatively sane and classy group. The second is that I've resolved to keep my own trap shut about the writing of others. If I don't have something nice to say, I'll say nothing at all. The third is a small thanks to those big-name authors who've set this example.

And it's advice for those who want to be published or are trying to be. Play nice. The person you chop up today you might be meeting at a convention tomorrow! :)

The dinner finished, and I spent the remainder of the evening at the bar in the Crown Hotel, drinking and enjoying good conversation. Kim Mackay from Borders was a constant companion. I also met Colin Cotterill, a fellow author who is living in Thailand. The guys from crimesquad (whom I'd met earlier) came by. I met my publisher from the Netherlands, and Mr. Simon Kernick once again. David Hewson gave away Gromit to a lucky fan. I shook hands with the amazonian Chelsea Cain. The wine flowed late into the night and early into the morning, and a good time was had by all.

All in all, it was a hell of a great time. My apologies to anyone I failed to mention and should have. My thanks to everyone who made my first trip to Harrogate so worthwhile.

Friday, July 11, 2008

Thrillerfest 2008

DISCLAIMER: Not all of this blog entry is true. Some key events are fictional. My apologies to the late Hunter Thompson for those moments of humble parody.

After not attending various literary functions last year, I decided that, this year, I would be making the rounds. Getting out there. Pressing the flesh. It starts with Thrillerfest, continues with Harrogate in the UK, then the RWA in San Francisco. I get a break until October, when I'll be attending Bouchercon. A marathon, an unending road of rubber chicken dinners and not entirely false smiles.

I'm not in my element in these things. It's not that I'm shy. I have no problem speaking to people, or doing panels, and I certainly love meeting readers. It's the whole 'cocktail party when you don't known anyone' atmosphere. I've never had the politician's ability to work a room, to make my way around a floor full of strangers going 'Hi, I'm Cody Mcfadyen, pleased to meet you.' It feels strange. I guess it's one of those things you have to get used to.

I came in early, Tuesday afternoon. The flight had been long and hellish. I had a root canal just five days earlier, and had polished off the last of the Vicodin before getting on the plane. I slept most of the way, a fitful sleep. I'm not sure what I said while I was out, but the young woman in the seat next to me patted my shoulder when we landed and said "I'm sorry." I thanked her for her concern.

I arrived to a July New York, and was accosted by a gypsy cab driver on my way out of the terminal. It was hot and my head was spinning and the line for the legitimate cabbies was long. We haggled in the sun and came to an agreement. I entered the car. It had leopard print floor mats, and a bobble-head Persian cat on the dashboard. The interior smelled of aftershave. He drove to the hotel the long way, bypassing the heavy traffic. I thought he was babbling and laughing to himself the entire time, and had begun to get worried when I realized he had a blue-tooth contraption in his left ear. We got to the hotel without further incident.

I had nothing scheduled, just check in, relax, and rest up for the coming days. I got to my room and found one of my favorite feature of good hotels: the movies. I am a movie-holic, and , sweet Jesus - they have movies STILL IN THE THEATERS! I chose one (Forgetting Sarah Marshall) and proceeded to order and consume 4 Margaritas. Things after that got blurry, confused... there were disconnected flashes, moments of cool tile and strange noises. Whatever happened with Sarah Marshall? A question for the ages.

I almost never drink at home (anymore). My dislike for drinking at home is governed by the following considerations, in the following order:

1. It cuts into my writing
2. I try to be a respectable human being
3. My girlfriend doesn't like it
4. I've never been much of a drinker, anyways.

Apologies to my girlfriend for her ending up at number 3, and to mankind in general for 'respectable human being' ending up at number 2. Being able to write, well... that's the tree of life. The wheel the road rolls under.

But, when I travel, a few times a year, I give myself one cathartic evening in which to enjoy libations in the Roman way.

I woke up Wednesday morning regretting Tuesday evening. I medicated with Advil, orange juice and coffee, and once I felt better, I got to writing. I am working on Smoky book 4 (no title yet), and it is going well. The writing was exciting, frenzied, true. I wrote most of the afternoon, until it was time to go and meet my Bantam editor, Danielle Perez. This is the first time we've met, face to face. I waited in the restaurant, watching everyone smile too much, and talk too loud. I was itching for another set of margaritas, but was worried about meeting Danielle and not being able to remember it later. I abstained. She arrived and we ate together. I had the crab cakes.

We finished up, i returned to my room, where I wrote some more, watched another movie (The Ruins) and went to bed. There was no further drinking. I had a strange dream, about a man who owned a turtle. The turtle could play gin-rummy like nobody's business.

Thursday began with a Bantam Breakfast at the Bantam offices at 8:30. I caught a cab and we made our terrifying way through the ungodly crosstown morning traffic. We stopped at one point in the middle of a crosswalk and a very tall bald man in a business suit, with an ankh tattoo on his neck, pounded on the hood of the taxi and cursed at the taxi driver for parking in the middle of the walk. Ah, New York. I arrived at Bantam otherwise unmolested and was escorted upstairs to some good company, decent coffee, and various edible things. I met David Hewson there, who, as it turns out, is moderating the panel I'm speaking on at Harrogate (small world). He was British. Very British. I spoke to other writers. I shook Lee Child's hand and mumbled something fanboy and inane.

(And now, I return to my own writing style, and my views of the whole thrillerfest experience...)

I really enjoyed this trip. I got to meet my publicist, see my agent, and best of all, a ton of other writers. I got to meet an FBI agent at my book signing, and she gave me her card and told me to email her if I had research-type questions. I got to be on a panel with a decent number of attendees. I got to do a couple of interviews. There was much hobnobbing and elbow rubbing and probably a little too much drinking. I got some perspective on the work of writing as a career. And I developed some new friendships and continued developing some others.

I was having some word and style fun at the beginning of this post, but on the serious side - there really is a community of writers in this genre. The people that compose it are, by and large, decent and talented individuals who love writing and reading and helping others do the same. I'm sorry I waited so long to go, and I definately plan to repeat the experience next year.

On to London and then to Harrogate...

Thursday, June 19, 2008

Inspiration/Perspiration

One of the things writers are asked most often is: where do you get your ideas from? I've heard all kinds of responses. I'm envious of the writers who know... but I suspect they are few and far between. The truth, for me, is that they fall out of the sky. They are an amalgamation of the life I've lived, the people I've known, the books I've read, the movies I've watched, the songs I've loved... and often all at oblique angles.

Example: I watch a lot of true crime shows. I watched one recently that was telling the story of this poor woman who'd been kidnapped by a man and his wife and imprisoned for six or seven years. I won't go into all the horrible details, but suffice to say that it sparked something. What I ended up writing had little, if nothing, to do with the original story - but it started the ball rolling. Another time, I was writing about a relationship between two characters, and I remembered when a woman in my life had asked me to sing her to sleep because she loved the sound of my voice. My voice is nothing special, in my opinion, but her love of it was so honest and genuine, I couldn't refuse. This found it's way into the book, even though the character I ascribed it to was nothing like the real life woman I'd sung to.

I suppose people (self included) look for formulas for things. An 'if you do A and B, then C will occur'. Writing is no different. In the end, I guess there aren't any easy answers, or, if you really want to get down to it - there are too many. 'Write what you know' is true sometimes. 'Less is more' is true sometimes. But 'rules are made to be broken' can be true in the right moment as well. It's all about a feeling in the gut, for me. 'This goes there.' 'Why?' 'Because it does.'

A last, too-cutesy little mention. If you want to get all butterfly effect and zen-ish. I once sat down and wrote out an idea for a story. It was a good idea, and, I thought, an original one. A few days later, I was watching one of those true crime shows, and there my idea was - in real life. Something that had happened years ago. I'd never heard the real life story, but the parallels were downright spooky. I'd come up with an idea for a story. A real life killer had executed this idea years before. Did we both get our inspiration from the same place?

Maybe, sometimes, ideas come from a dark little man in a dark little room who sings and claps his hands and laughs while we dance to his tune.

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Why I write How I write

I thought, since my new website is going live, that I'd take a little bit of time to talk about why I write the way that I write. By that, I mean, the content. What philosophy drives what I come up with and why I decide to include or exclude certain things.

I've found that my writing tends to create strong reactions. People either love it or hate it. I have to say, while it would be nice to be all things to all people, I'm not unhappy to have my books be a catalyst for strong emotion. Because for me, that's the point.

When someone reads one of my books, I want them to have an experience. I want them, at the end of it, to have felt that something happened to them because they took the time to read what I wrote. I'm not talking about cheap thrills here. While I'm sure some will disagree (and there will always be disagreement, that's the way the arts cookie crumbles) I never include a disturbing moment simply to disturb. I include it because when I'm writing, I have a feeling for the book as a whole, for the experience I'm trying to create for the reader, and I've decided that it fits. I'm not interested in writing about murder or death or sexual abuse as a one dimensional, purely palatable experience. You should feel these things, in my opinion. Dead bodies stink. Abused children leave a dark hole in the world. Death is forever.

Melodramatic, maybe, but not dishonest. That's how I see it.

There is the other side, too. I want readers to experience the beauty when it exists. Good is as much a part of the experience as bad. I think you can have gratuitous sorrow in the same way as you can have gratuitous violence, or a propensity of too-happy endings. Love can be as thrilling as chasing a killer. Strong emotions have sharp edges and hard impacts, and I hope to have the reader feel them.

The above isn't what every reader wants from a book. It's not even always what I want from a book. But most of the time it is. I like being grabbed by the throat and taken for a ride. I don't mind if I end up with scabbed knees and a bump on that head that requires a few stitches. When I put down a book, I like to go "F**k Yeah!" (Come on now, sometimes it is the best way to say it.) I want to be wrenched and wrangled, I want tension in my stomach. If lovers are involved, I want to root for them, to have them be the wish fulfillment of us all.

Not much literature provides it all, and I'm not immodest enough to say that I provide it all, either. But it is what I intend. And it is what I am reaching for. And it is, in the end, why I write how I write. I hope to get there someday, or to at least achieve some really magnificent failures.

For all of those who read what I write, and encourage me, and send me the enthusiastic emails, I want you to know: I read them all and appreciate every one and every word. I'm not writing in a bell jar. I live to hear about people reading what I write. I like to hear about someone picking up one of my books at a garage sale for twenty five cents and not being able to stop reading it all weekend - because that's me, too! I've mined a lot of gold in used bookstores and library time and have picked up my share of novels at garage sales. When I was ten and we lived on top of a mountain in upstate New York, we lived in a rented house (the owner was producing a play off Broadway). The house was filled with books, mostly Science Fiction and Fantasy, and I read everything I could get my hands on. I'd crank up the space heater and read until the snow thawed.

I loved the writers who made that possible. I still do. To approach, however mildly, being a member of that same fraternity is a dream. So thanks for reading. I hope you keep doing so.

Sunday, May 4, 2008

LA Times Festival of Books

So I was invited by The Mystery Bookstore to do a book signing in their booth at the LA Times Festival of Books.

Wow. Definately a going concern! I'd never been, but it was great to see that books and reading still draw such a large crowd. The festival is huge, and there are a ton of people going through it.

On my way to the signing location, I walked the gauntlet of political activism booths. There was some heavy stuff there, accompanied by some very intense photo displays. Example: one booth discussed the issue of the vast numbers of land mines still out there that have not yet been disarmed. They had terrible, nightmarish photos to back it up. I live in a quiet town, and write in a quiet room, and tend at times to be divorced from the screaming of the world. I found it both sobering and refreshing to reconnect. I came away bruised but awake.

As for the booth/signing itself, it was thoroughly enjoyable. People actually showed up to get me to sign my books (and thanks to each and every one of you!) On my right, variously, were Michael Connelly and Joseph Wambaugh. I got them both to sign their books for me, natch. (Trivia: Connelly is a leftie, just like my mom. I was ambidextrous, but a doctor told my mom to make me pick a hand, and she chose the right. ) To my left was Brent Ghelfi, writer of Volk's Game. We had time to talk since we're both relatively new authors and didn't have the long lines of Mr. Connelly or Mr. Wambaugh. Brent is a very nice guy, and I've added his book to my list of books to read.

The Mystery Bookstore, by the way, is one of those wonderful last bastions - the independent niche bookstore. It's filled with staff who know the genre because they love it and read it. They like to talk books. I went to the Gotham Bookmart in NYC for the first time in 2006, and was awed by how it practically oozed history. Little did I know that it would be closed within the year. Thankfully, The Mystery Bookstore is going strong!

Thanks again to those who showed up to the signing. I write to be read, so seeing you all is what really made my day. All the other stuff is frosting - you guys will always be the cake.

Sunday, April 27, 2008

Welcome to my World. I will now commence gazing at my navel...

Well, here I am... blogging. Since this is my blog, and I control everything in it, since I am, in actual fact, the supreme being in this particular virtual world... let's talk about me. Seriously.

I am mid the copyediting/proof part of wrapping up my third Smoky Barrett novel: The Darker Side. It comes out in the UK 10 July and in the USA 1 October. I feel pretty good about it. I think it will satiate the fans of the series and I'm hopeful that some new readers will wash up on its shores. I can't give away too much, but it's all about secrets and how we all have them, and how almost all of us (no matter what we say or how much we protest) have at least one big, fat, juicy, horrible one.

Really. Someone out there reading this eats their boogers, someone out there reading this is into kink no one knows about, someone out there has been victimized and hid it from those they love... I'm not making light of this, by the way, however tongue in cheek this posting might sound at times. It's just the truth. The man who says he's never done a single truly disreputable thing in his life is the man I trust the least. I wouldn't let him watch my kids or handle my money, if you know what I mean.

So in the book, some people with very dark secrets indeed start showing up dead... and this comes across Smoky's desk. The first murder happens at 30,000 feet, on a plane travelling between Texas and Virginia. It's a wild ride from there to the end of the book.

For those who haven't read The Face of Death yet, I hope you'll give the paperback a try. The UK paperback comes out 1 May, and the US paperback goes on sale 7/29. If you haven't read any part of the series, you can start where you like, but of course I recommend starting at the beginning!

I'm hopeful about this whole blog thing. I plan to fill it up with all kinds of stuff. Some relevant to the books, but probably a lot that's not. It's an opportunity to blather on, and as the various women in my life have always been wont to point out, I do like to flap my gums.

For all the forgetful sons out there, this is your under two-week warning: Mother's Day is May 11th.

Cody McFadyen

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