I wrote my Master Thesis a thousand years ago on Harry Crews. He's a Southern writer noted for, among other things, the heavy violence in his novels (See A Feast of Snakes. Early on, the idea of violence took root in my literary worldview.

Lately I've read more than a few books where the body count keeps rising, but there's no fallout or consequences. Murder and death are still a big deal in civilized society, so this jaded indifference seems strange to me. The violence escalates to the point of turning cartoonish like the Road Runner doing in poor Wile E. Coyote.

I've been taken to task by reviewers of my early books for the rising body count. I didn't believe they were any bloodier than in, say, Macbeth, Sopranos, or Joshua. The upshot is I've grown more attuned to the aftermath of violence, especially beyond the visceral immediate reactions people feel.

In my new Appalachian noir, Lake Charles, I include a Joshua figure in Jeremiah Wheeler who takes my young protagonist Brendan Fishback under his wing. As the dark events roll out, he grows more disenchanted and distrustful of Jeremiah.

Perhaps that's become my own situation. Earlier this year, I published my first small town cozy mystery, Quiet Anchorage. I just wanted to write something that didn't choke and retch on its own gore.

Ed Lynskey
twitter: @edlynskey
Author of Lake Charles