Solomon Bull - 2017
Mr. Lindemuth,
Thank you for
taking your time for me ~
Who are your influences?
Although I’ve
learned techniques from other writers, I’d be reluctant to call them influences
because my prose is stylistically quite removed from theirs. I’m thinking primarily
of Greg Iles, Michael Connelly, and Michael Crichton. When I learned how to
edit and pare a rough draft into an honest voice, my taste in writing became
very narrow. I discovered most popular authors leave their prose in a state I
find distracting to read. During my first few productive years as a writer, the
only person I could read without feeling a need to edit was Michael Connelly,
and that’s because he was a newspaper reporter and his style is thin.
After my debut
novel Cold Quiet Country earned a
starred review from Publishers Weekly and a comparison to Tom Franklin and
Donald Ray Pollock, I read both of them and was dumbfounded. I loved the
clarity and force of their work. Nowadays I’m aware of several authors who
write spare prose with incredible power. Ron Rash, Jedidiah Ayers, Steve
Weddle, Matthew McBride, Frank Bill, Benjamin Whitmer, Gabino Iglesias. They’re
all extremely compelling authors.
When did you begin writing?
In
kindergarten, I wrote a two page story about a polar bear standing on ice. In
seventh grade typing class I wrote a page about a wolf chewing meat. In
college, I wrote a couple of angst-filled screeds that I was wise enough to
burn. Only after I was in my thirties and I realized average men are chock full
of abnormal evil—and they’re really good
at hiding it, and living right beside you—did I have something worth
putting into fiction. I’ve been serious about writing since 2007.
How do you come up with your stories,
characters, character names, POV, etc.?
In the moment
of creation, I let it roll. If I think of something I’m afraid people will
judge me for writing, that usually means its pretty good and I need to chase
the muse while she’s running. I never censor the muse. I ply her with drinks
and chase her some more.
I’ve also learned
most of what I’m proud of in my writing, the way I convey emotion, the quality
of my bad guys, how I use tropes, the sub-tones of words, the coolness of some
of my story elements—those things always result from endless editing. It’s like
the movie Groundhog Day. If you do a single day a thousand times, you look like
a genius. Groundhog Day turned Bill Murray into a god for a day, because he had
endless chances to get it right. Editing does the same thing for an author.
If you could actually meet one of your
characters, who would it be? Why?
Solomon Bull,
the protagonist of my latest novel, is a Blackfoot Indian who is way smarter
than me, way more daring, and intent on following his sense of justice against
whatever tide rises against him. I think he’d be a trip to hang out with,
although I doubt he’d have much time to hang with an old guy like me.
Do you work from an outline?
I tend to write
an opening chapter, create a trap for my protagonist, then map out the first
third of the novel. I have about ten novel starts that failed because I
couldn’t create a trap that was compelling, or a character I really wanted to
get to know. If a character starts to feed me a line, I cut her loose. If the
protagonist can’t get it together quickly, I’ll drop the whole story. Readers
don’t have time for deadbeat characters. I don’t either.
But if the
characters really grab me, once I flesh out the open I’ll write ideas for where
the story should go. Then as I go back and write the rest of the first third, I
continually update the map for the remainder of the story. Nothing is final until
the twentieth full edit.
Tell me about your favorite scene in
your novel(s).
I’m pretty
tickled with how I invented Rachel, in Solomon
Bull. My protagonist showers after a long desert run. This is early in the
novel and I haven’t figured out who the good guys and the bad guys are. I
needed a surprise and in a moment of inspiration, I dropped a super sexy woman
into the shower with the protagonist. He has soap in his hair, eyes closed, and
he hears the curtain slide and notices a woman’s soapy hand on his rocks. Then
I had to figure out who she was, why she was there, etc. That moment of
inspiration set up the biggest twist in the story, later, and supplied a burst
of hilarity in the opening setup. Check it out:
I drop my sweaty shorts and tank top to the bedroom
floor, wrap a towel around my waist. Katrina made her jab about men with Van
Damme bodies chasing me, but the fact is, I could kick Van Damme’s ass from
here to the lawn chair. I don’t have the movie muscle, and my abs won’t put you
in the mind of corrugated steel. But I bring ten years as a karate black belt,
and ten thousand years of Blackfoot wiliness to the fight.
Van Damme is getting old.
And let us not forget he is French.
Twist the knob all the way to the hot side. Mom always
said a shower should be as hot as you can stand, and I took her literally. With
shampoo in my hair and my eyes closed, the curtain drifts inward against my
legs and the temperature changes.
My first thought is the ninja in the black Suburban.
I open my eyes and they burn. Douse my head. The
curtain loops tinkle across the aluminum pole and cold air washes inside.
There’s a hand on my stone sack and—this is critically important—it is a
woman’s.
Katrina.
“I thought we ended this yesterday,” I say, twisting
and breaking contact. My elbow brushes a breast a little more determined than
the pair I recall mounted on Katrina’s ribs. I wipe water from my eyes and open
them.
“Whoa!”
She smiles. She’s a bombshell—some alchemist mixed an
anime girl with oxygen and lightning.
“Who are you?” I say.
“Rachel.” She reaches for the soap.
“Uh—pleased to meet you?”
“I just always wanted to do an Indian.”
“Nothing against profiling,” I say. “But you’re out of
luck.”
“You’re not an Indian?”
“Oh, I’m Indian.”
“You don’t find me attractive?”
“Take a look at Big Murtha.”
She takes Big Murtha in her hand. Soaps him. He becomes
Bigger Murtha. “Then what is it?” she says.
“This doesn’t happen, and so this isn’t happening. I’ll
step aside and let you do some other Indian.” I take her shoulders, ease her
away, rinse the soap from my rocks and think of that Ninja again. I spin. She’s
still there, smiling.
I blink. Still there.
I slip out while the shower’s still on and soak the
floor.
“I live in building C,” she says, now behind the
curtain. “I was at the pool when you came home from your workout.”
I think Rachel is soaping herself. A neon green bikini
is on the floor. I peek out the door and though I can’t hear over the shower,
the apartment is quiet like Keith isn’t around.
Katrina sent her here. She’s psychotic enough to need
this kind of proof. Me telling her the relationship is over isn’t enough. She
needs me to make it with one of her friends.
“Tell Katrina it’s over.”
“Is Katrina your crazy girlfriend?”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Well, you know what I mean. The three of you. It’s
kinky-cool.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Toweled
off, I lean on the sink. “Which apartment are you in?”
“Uh— D’.”
“But what number?”
“Seventeen.”
There is no
seventeen. “Oh, great. Well, the
towels are in the closet, here.”
“Thanks,” she says.
I’m already in the hall. I slip Keith’s door open.
Katrina’s bras litter his dresser. Underwear on the lamp. Jeans discarded
across the bed. His bureau drawers are open. I look in the living room and
kitchen, empty. Check my room. The computer monitor is on. My desk drawer is
ajar.
Rachel isn’t just the neighborhood slut.
I slip back to the bathroom, cautious as I near the
door. I don’t know where she might have hidden a weapon—well, I do, but—
The shower’s still going and I halt at the jamb. Glance
at the mirror, then the shower. A trail of water leads to the open window. No
way. This is a second story apartment. Unless Rachel truly is a ninja, she’s
behind the shower curtain.
And where the hell did she come from? I haven’t seen
her around the pool—and I watch the pool. Who sent her? Cyman’s crew can’t be
that sharp, even presuming some photo of the billboard showed my face. I
haven’t angered Barrett, yet, I don’t think.
“Come on out, babe,” I say. “Gig’s up. Who you work
for?”
Silence.
“Come on. You’ve got nowhere to run.” Brandishing fists
at head level, I step inside the bathroom. Reach for the curtain and snap it
open. The shower is empty. I look at the ceiling. Spin. Jump to the window.
A very naked Rachel sprints across the lawn clutching
her bikini, strings trailing like kite tails. She jumps into a black Lexus and
I’m twisting now, knowing the futility, but giving chase anyway.
I reach the lawn. Still in a towel. A pair of guys
stand by parked cars, grins about to break open their heads.
“Which way did she go?” I call.
“Left,” one says.
In the future, I’ll know where to look her up.
Left.
Can you tell us a little about your
writing philosophy?
I like it fast,
lean and tense. Description should be spare, and only present when something in
the action demands a detail. I don’t go for paragraphs telling you what
furniture is in the room. Who cares? You’ll know there’s a chair when the
character sits on it. You’ll know there’s a gun taped to the bottom when the
good guy snaps it loose from the tape and levels it at the bad guy’s head.
You’ll know its loaded when the recoil snaps your wrist.
You’re on your
own for the color of the wall paper and the genus of flower in the vase.
Another thing:
dialogue, action, and exposition should all convey tension. Everything in a
story needs to contribute to tension or provoke a story question for the
reader. Authors need to have a light touch; they need to allow readers to figure
things out. I have great respect for the reader’s intelligence, and I craft my
stories to provoke the reader’s questions and supply the answers in a way that
compels them forward and satisfies on delivery.
Have you ever tried writing in any other
genres?
I never pay
attention to genres. The more defined a genre becomes, the more expected a
story will follow a formula. When that happens, you don’t have new art. You
have new stampings of old art, and while the original might have worked, the
forty-thousandth iteration is pure garbage.
I don’t know what the formulas are for
thrillers or horror stories, and don’t want to. I spend a lot of energy and
focus on character development, creating tension, and weaving intricate,
surprising plots. I make my bad guys real and my good guys broken. I don’t know
what genre that puts me in. I call it Literary Noir.
Do you have any interesting
writing-related anecdotes to share?
I’m trying to
think of one…. Trying… Not one. 😊
Do you listen to music as you write?
Led Zeppelin,
most of the time. How the West was Won,
the greatest live album in the history of music.
On the behalf of my readers Clayton, I thank you again for your time.
On the behalf of my readers Clayton, I thank you again for your time.
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About the author ~
Connect with Clayton Lindemuth
My first novel, Cold Quiet Country, was published my MP Press, a small house from the Isle of Man. It earned a Publishers Weekly starred review and was selected for the Indie Next List. I turned to self-publishing afterward, and Solomon Bull is my most recent release. It has earned a gold seal from BooksGoSocial, a relatively new award that is based partly on an editor’s review, and partly based on an in-depth Autocrit analysis.
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