Evan Starkman's Blog

I wrote a book for one reason: I had story ideas that I couldn’t get out of my head. Small problem, though—I also had a lot of self-doubt. Three of my favorite authors — Stephen King, Richard Matheson, and George R.R. Martin — inspired me to work through it.

Like John Snow, I know nothing compared to my literary heroes. But I read their short stories over and over and over, and it improved my writing. This habit helped especially on days when that blank sheet of paper or embarrassing first draft was laughing me out of the room, telling me “go suck a sleeve pack of Oreos and binge Better Caul Saul — that’s what you’re good at.” On days like that, Matheson, King, and Martin motivated me to step away from the Oreos and TV and get back to writing.

I’ll start with Matheson. He was the master of putting you in a character’s shoes as sinister forces hauled them up to higher ground, then flung them off a cliff. He made you feel as claustrophobic and panicked as the passenger who sees a gremlin outside his airplane window, just shredding up the wing (“Nightmare at 20,000 Feet”); as terrified yet gutsy as the young woman trapped in her apartment with a killer doll (“Prey”); or as desperate as the smug vacationer who gets jailed for speeding in a small, eerie fishing town (“The Children of Noah.”) I’ll need a separate blog post to even begin to talk about the vicarious brilliance of his vampire epic, “I Am Legend.”

Next up, Stephen King. When I was 12, I didn’t dislike reading. I just preferred Nintendo (by far). That changed when my mom took away the SNES after I swore at her (she woke me up early one day). Anyway, around that time I got into King, who showed me that books could as thrilling as Super Mario or Final Fight. His short stories have the same transportive magic and wicked sense of humor as Matheson’s. And his first short story collection in particular, Night Shift, is for me the Purple Rain or Magical Mystery Tour of horror fiction. It’s loaded with classics. The ones that made me think about checking under my bed at night—or looking over my shoulder in broad daylight—were “The Ledge,” “The Boogeyman,” “Grey Matter,” and “Quitters, Inc.” I hope some day I can capture a fraction of the dark magic in those stories.

Finally, we all know George R.R. Martin for A Song of Ice and Fire, but good god, have you read Dreamsongs? Even in short-story form, he builds fully realized worlds populated with awesome heroes and villains. “Sandkings" is otherworldly sci-fi. “The Pear-Shaped Man” and “The Skin Trade” are horror gems. And I don’t know how Martin does it, but he adds believability to his stories by becoming super knowledgeable about any given subject he tackles. For example, check out “Unsound Variations” for an expert-level crash course on chess maneuvers (and stay for a memorable revenge thriller).

If starting or finishing a book seems impossible to you, I can relate! So here’s a simple piece of advice: When you’re having an off day, pick up a book by one of your favorite authors. You can learn so many cool writing tricks from them, and it may light your creative fire.

Ever have a cool story idea that hits a dead end once you really think it through? So frustrating! Here’s one of mine, along with why it felt good to stop worrying and just shelve it.

While I was writing my new horror story collection, Twisted Grin, I was eager to include every fun premise I could think of. One of my favorite ideas was a twist on the classic “Most Dangerous Game” theme: psychotic hunter vs. human quarry. My spin on it was this: An obnoxious middle-aged music critic gets abducted by a paranoid Neo-soul superstar after making sarcastic but threatening comments on Twitter. 

I had a blast writing the first draft. I usually type at a snail’s pace, but this time I was absolutely pelting the pages with words. I was having one of those experiences you used to hear Keith Richards or Prince talk about: I was receiving the song. By the second draft, though, my enthusiasm was sputtering. A couple of concerns were bubbling up from my subconscious, nagging me. 

Problem 1: My protagonist was unlikeable — and not in a so bad you just gotta like him way. He was whiny and annoying. I like my heroes to be at least a little sympathetic.

Problem 2: He was outmatched physically — my middle-aged music critic was supposed to escape the clutches of a powerful music star who has a crew of heavies to protect him. (Maybe due to a failure of imagination, I couldn’t see how he possibly could.)

After many hours of pacing and dwelling on it and chugging caffeine, I realized the story wasn’t working. So, I paced and dwelled more; I had another cup or too of coffee. Eventually, I accepted that I just had to let it go; maybe check back in on it in a few months time. I was surprised to find I felt relieved!

Anyway, here’s a sample of the one that got away (for now):

Desert Island Disc

Tracy Galloway was smirking as he put the finishing touches on his latest blog post—a critique of the new Haim album that he’d titled “Three’s Crapily,” a title he thought was pretty damn good, pretty clicky —when a fist rapped at his apartment’s door. Tracy’s eyebrows knitted; it was one in the morning.

He stayed at his makeshift desk, a TV-dinner tray with a laptop on it, and started typing again. His visitor was probably some confused drunk or hoe — in this tenement they came knocking as often as spam mail. Tracy had other people to focus on: namely, his constant readers on social media (34 strong and multiplying like bunny rabbits). They were expecting another thousand-word missive of music wisdom from him. 

Classic R&B was Tracy’s passion and main area of expertise, but ever since Groove Getter magazine had laid him off six months ago—finally allowing him to “go solo” after 25 years there, he liked to say—he’d broadened his musical palate considerably. Now he felt just fine and dandy like cotton candy about critiquing artists in any genre: pop, trap, trip hop, EDM, you name it.

The knock came again, louder and more insistent this time. 

God damn, thought Tracy. He dreaded these middle-of-the-night confrontations like colonoscopies. But if he wanted his peace and quiet…

His slippers swished across 350 square feet of stained, burnt orange carpet, then crept the last few steps to the door. He put his eye to the peephole and saw a massive man in a black suit with suspenders and tie, his bald head flashing white as the busted hallway bulb spat down light on him.

“Got you the wrong pad, playa!” called Tracy. He’d put on a deeper voice to show he was far more irritated than nervous, although the reverse was true.

The visitor’s broad chest rose, then fell, wearily. “Tracy James Galloway?” he said. 

A chill ran down Tracy’s spine. This was odd. “Who wants to know?”

“Mr. Galloway,” the heavy sighed, “I represent the estate of Mr. E-Ron Cash. I’m sure you’re… more than familiar?”

Tracy’s jaw went slack. If the hippo-size homeboy was for real, he was a direct envoy to the biggest star in all of neo-soul—and one of Tracy’s personal favorites—Elijah Ronald Cash. Only that was downplaying it. Tracy was a goddamn E-Ron Cash super-fan. The artist had divine blood running through his veins, musical DNA you could trace all the way back to Little Richard, James Brown, and right up to the ‘90s and oughts through D’Angelo and Mos Def and the Roots.

“Mr. Cash requests your personal audience,” said the big man, dangling the words like a winning lotto ticket on a string. 

Curiosity got the better of Tracy. As he opened his door he realized, too late, that he should’ve asked for ID. Fortunately the door was chained to a lock on the wall, and when he peered through gap he saw that his hulking visitor hadn’t budged. 

“Bet you even recognize me,” the big man said, smiling. “Don’tcha, playa?”

After a few seconds, Tracy’s heartbeat quickened. “You’re E-ron’s step-brother.” He thought hard for a second, then snapped his fingers. “Mackenzie!” He hoped he didn’t sound too breathy, but this was getting surreal fast.

The big man’s full lips widened into a broad, gleaming smile, and he unfolded his index finger and pointed it at Tracy. “Hollah,” he said. Then, in what struck Tracy as an absurd economy of movement, he retracted the finger. “Call me Little Mac—all my friends do.”

Tracy’s unfastened the wall lock with an urgency that bordered on thirst. “E-ron wants to meet me?” 

#####

Fifteen minutes later his suitcase was packed and Little Mac was driving him northbound in a rickety old Honda with no heating. An hour later they switched cars again, then drove another hundred miles on the highway before pilling into a stretch limousine waiting for them outside a dark rest area.

The little game of switcheroo seemed silly to Tracy at first, but Little Mac explained that E-ron took the secrecy of his associates’ movements every bit as seriously as his own. That struck Tracy as pretty sensible. So when Little Mac had asked for his phone — “Nah-ah, no leaks,” the big man had said with a smile — Tracy gladly handed it over. He was starting to get into the whole clandestine nature of this meetup. It made it all seem even bigger, even more important.

As they rode in the back of the limo, his excitement grew. His one small frustration was Little Mac’s stinginess with words. Tracy sat on the edge of his seat asking question after question, but the reclining big man sleepily batted aside each one with a vague answer or a shrug.

What Tracy had gleaned from him was this: E-ron Cash had grown up reading Groove Getter magazine and wanted Tracy to do a career-spanning interview that plugged his long-awaited comeback album, The Loveship. The interview would take place at E-ron’s pad in Upstate New York, about 200 miles away. 

Tracy was ecstatic. He’d always known he was one of the great critics — criminally underrated, really — but to get validation of his talents from a superstar like Elijah Ronald Cash… damn. Now that was something. 

“So which of my stuff did he dig?” he asked Little Mac.

“Which who?”

“Which stuff? Which of my articles did he like?”

“Like?” the big man smirked. “Who said something about ‘like?’”

Tracy forced a laugh. “C’mon now, man.” He was practically salivating for the answer. “Was it my old Groove Getter exclusive with Mavis Staples? My oral history of Jimi James and the Blue Flames?” Smiling, he pointed and shook his index finger. “Naw. Bet it was my feature on Q Tip’s bold evolution into a solo act.” 

“Nope.” Little Mac eyed him sleepily. “None of the above.” A detached chill crept into his voice. “None at all, really.”

“C’mon, now,” he replied. “Why you wanna be like that?”

But his racing thoughts took an abrupt detour to a blog post he’d written a month ago, back when E-ron had dropped his comeback album, The Loveship. It had been 3 years since the world had seen or heard from him, after some random nut job had stabbed him 10 times outside a Brooklyn pizzeria. E-ron had become a recluse since then, and he hadn’t even appeared in any promotions for the new disc.

Tracy had hated to do it, but he’d called The Loveship “a bloated B.S. blimp powered by sappy synths and pointless pop star cameos, practically begging for social video shares and permission to land on the Hot 100.” He’d wrapped up the post by wondering what had become of E-ron’s trademark old-school cool, which the new album was devoid of. Hey, it was how he felt; besides, a little well-intended viciousness got more clicks than a mannerly critique did. Still, what were the odds that a superstar like E-ron would’ve read that one tiny blog post?

“Tell ya what he didn’t like,” said Little Mac, as if reading his mind. The big man reached into his pocket and removed a folded sheet of paper. “Your tweets.” 

“Huh?”

The paper crackled as he unfolded it. “July 10th,” Little Mac read. “E-ron’s comeback album: Musical blue balls. Where the funk’s the R&B? The #grooves??”

“C’mon now,” said Tracy, his smile faltering. “E-Ron’s a big boy. He can take a harmless dig.”

Little Mac read on: “July 11th: Upon further listens to #TheLoveship, it’s the biggest disappointment since Crystal Pepsi.” He looked up from the paper: “Nice references,” he said. “Real current.”

Tracy chuckled. His heady sugar high was subsiding rapidly.

“July 12th: The Loveship. Ug. Will somebody please stab E-ron Cash?” 

The big folded up the paper and crammed it back into his pocket. 

Tracy swallowed. “I didn’t mean that, of course.” His stomach felt like a butterfly habitat. “It was just a throwaway line—sarcasm.”

“You,” said Little Mac, “italicized ‘please.’” 

They stared at each in silence. The roar of the wheels on the road suddenly seemed very loud in Tracy’s ears.

“I’m broke,” he said. “I needed clicks. That’s all.”

Little Mac said nothing. He only crackled his knuckles, his expression unreadable.  

“I shouldn’t have written that. I got desperate — screwed up.” He forced a fragile smile. “I— I’m so embarrassed. Could you tell E-ron I’m sorry?” 

“You'll tell him yourself.”

“Cool, cool,” he replied, his head bouncing manically, as if on a spring. 

Another silence descended.

“Writer, huh?” Little Mac asked eventually. “Shoulda chose your words more wisely, bitch.”