I’m going to get straight to the point: Rob Thurman (who is actually a woman, by the way) writes one of my favorite urban fantasy series, ever, about two brothers who kick supernatural ass—and good. Each book is hilarious, gut-wrenching, bone-chilling, and totally engrossing. If you’re not reading this series—dude, get on it. Now.
I’ve read her latest, Roadkill, and it is fantastic. It also happens to be coming out today. If you haven’t read the previous books, you can jump right into this one and not lose a beat.
I would never steer you wrong. Remember these names: Rob Thurman. Cal Leandros. Roadkill.
It’s time to lock, load, and hit the road…
Once, while half-human Cal Leandros and his brother Niko were working on a case, an ancient gypsy queen gave them a good old-fashioned backstabbing. Now, just as their P.I. business hits a slow patch, the old crone shows up with a job.
She wants them to find a stolen coffin that contains a blight that makes the Black Death seem like a fond memory. But the thief has already left town, so the Leandros brothers are going on the road. And if they’re very, very lucky, there might even be a return trip…
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Kill Me (or Plague Ridden Pox Monkey From Hell Writes a Blog)
You know what the worst thing is about being sick for a week after your book is released two weeks too early and suddenly you’re too sick to promo at all? When midnight of Friday you wake up for the first time in five days, really wake up: you’ve eaten solid food twice in the week, and you’ve a week’s worth of sleeping stored up. It’s just you and the ceiling (and a hundred pound deadly flatulent attack dog.) So, a mini blog.
I don’t blog. There’s a few reasons. My Dell computer is already on the fritz, frying my knees. Add my sarcasm to it and there will be a fireball erupting in Indiana. I am a walking (eh, sitting) weapon of mass destruction.
Second reason I don’t blog? I need to save my scraps to put in my books. And writing is my job, so writing about writing is like a damn term paper. I always hated term papers. There are much better qualified people than me to tell others about writing. Throw a rock out your window and you’ll hit one. Wait…don’t do that. Someone will blame me.
Third reason? I have twelve days to, as my editor calls it, tweak my latest manuscript. She says tweak, I say rewrite the whole damn book while watching reruns of Supernatural (as it came out at the same time as my book. Supernatural: two sarcastic angsty brothers kicking monster ass. Cal Leandros Series: two sarcastic angsty brothers kicking monster ass.) It’s like having an identical twin who’s more successful than you. It drives me insane, yet it’s what I write and I write what I like—how can I not like the show? I can swear at it when it comes up with things I’ve already written but haven’t turned in to my publisher yet. I can say ah ha! and feel smug when they come up with things I published two years before, but I can’t not like it.
So while I was posting last night, I turned the post into this blog, tossing it to the generous and kind and mind-bogglingly talented individuals who offered to help me…along with a look at the first book, Nightlife in the series, and the fifth one, Roadkill, that goes on sale Monday March 1st (you might see it before March 1st but don’t buy it until March 1st through March 6th—early releases can kill an author’s ranking. Ever play Clue? In this case it’s always the same answer (insert any bookstore name.) Dead author on the floor with a tape outline around them, fingers forever frozen in the empty claw that awaited the fifty cents they would’ve made if they’d sold just one more book: It was Barnes and Noble in the library with an early release.
Who is Rob Thurman? Do you care? Hell, no. Do you want to know where I went to college? Nah. Do you want to know how long I’ve been writing? Same as all writers…since I could write, wrapping my fingers around those chunky elementary school pencils. Since it’s not the author that’s important, it’s the writing itself—the characters, the plots, the incredible things you wish would happen in a certain book or TV show or movie, but didn’t, yet someone somehow somewhere figured out exactly what you were missing and, damn, it’s right in front of you.
Why do I write? The aforesaid post below. I can’t keep this shit in my head. My brain would melt.
LJ midnight post: My best friend’s grandfather passed away yesterday after a long illness. He’d lived a long life and kicked ass for a lot longer than the doctors ever predicted, passing peacefully. This had she and I (as she and her Blackberry were in the airport waiting to fly to the visitation and funeral) talking about various experiences in that area. I have no close family other than my mother, my aunt, and my uncle (who died two years ago in an accident.) *But* when I was younger, I was dragged to the visitations of extremely extended dead relatives I didn’t know and had never met. And I discovered one thing.
Unless you are related to a famous politician, actor, peace activist or musician in that coffin, when you tell stories and say ‘and then the funeral parlor called the police’ there is no way to not come off as white trash. Can’t be done.
And with why is no one co-opting my white trash heritage? You can say my skin is the color of a tub of Cool Whip. I don’t mind–I swear, and it’s true. Scottish, English, and one wandering Viking, it makes for one damn pasty person. Hell, I make Cool Whip look like it’s been tanning for the summer. ‘Her eyes were round and large, overly large, somewhat frog-like in fact–their riveting color that of a swamp in which biohazard waste is dumped on a frequent basis.’ Hey, hey, co-opt my long passed grandfather asking me for money years and years ago and my reply, “Pee-paw, I’m eight. I don’t have any money.’
Second generation white trash…co-opt the *hell* out of me, please. Be our voice as we are frequently and easily distracted by rhinestones and that smoking hot double-wide. When the tornado whips through the trailer park, we’ll be going in style, baby. Nothing but style.
As I write from a male point of view, I’m waiting for the outraged emails of men lambasting me for co-opting their genitals. And to those guys who don’t want to share their testicles, I say…
Wait. Look.
Hey…is that a Bedazzler? Oh, enjoy the fic. Brothers. Monsters. Ass-kicking. Snark. Angst. Lethal sarcasm (and there’s a hug in one book, but I won’t tell you which one.)
You can buy Roadkill at Amazon.com | Barnes & Noble | Borders | Independent Bookstores