It’s true I first learned to shoot when my Dad set up a paper target and put a Colt .22 Woodsman in my hand. I was eight or nine years old. That was great and I wish I still Continue reading
Yeah! The seven book Harry Seaburn Thriller Series tells the wild and mordantly comic story of a thief who is tough, brash, running on empty and wants a good woman, anybody’s good woman, but he tends to kill people and what good woman would want him?
It’s hard to know where to begin in telling the story of the stories about Harry. Except to say Harry is a hard-nosed thief and hopeless romantic who has no money despite the millions he manages to steal, no woman to call his own and half the criminal world wants to kill him, for good reason.
He operates around the edges of two great criminal syndicates in Miami that would happily crush him as irritating competition. He makes money out of crazy, taking on gigs no other crook would dare. He believes there is no real life outside of his personal thief’s paradise in a circus town between the Gulf of Mexico and the Everglades. And he couldn’t manage to stay alive or survive his mismatched loves without the help of his stripper landlady and a hippie throwback swamp woman. And a guy named Bitter Bob (you’ll find out) and a mega supergeek who hates all humans but Harry.
(You can see what Harry has to say about all this below.)
Click the cover images to order from Amazon
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The Joy of Crime(writing)
by Harry Seaburn
I’ve been told that in the pages of some of the better magazines I have been accused of encouraging criminality by my thrillers making it all seem like great fun. Yeah, well, it is. Great fun, I mean.
Also hard, hard work. I’m like most crooks – a happy, lazy man. I don’t like work, hard or any other kind. I prefer the quiet life with a beautiful, intelligent woman – your woman, perhaps? – than to be out grubbing around for a living. If you call rough work like rescuing maidens from burning yachts and stealing million-dollar paintings from museums floating in shark-infested seas fun (that’s in The Feathered Virgin), well, you need a shrink more than I.
On the other hand, and at the risk of offending my readers’ well-known sensibilities – of course, if you had any of those you wouldn’t be reading my life story, you’d be wallowing in tea cozy mysteries or over-educated police procedurals. Whoa, back to the point: people read about me because crooks are attractive. We are fun. We let our emotions run away. We feel a compulsion and we compulse.
Most of all, we don’t care about consequences. If I want to throw a man down the stairs in a restaurant, I do. Then I sit down to lunch. If I want to make a pass at the prettiest girl within seven leagues when her husband turns away, I do, and take the slapping or the punching if I’m not fast enough to run for it.
People like me do what we want. What can be more appealing than that? We have so much fun being bad you just can’t resist us. Go ahead, read The Feathered Virgin and just try to resist me. Ha!
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What Comes Next in Thrillers?
With Harry’s comic crime caper series done, I plan to concentrate on continuing two other projects. First, The Dirty Wars Novels that began with The Runaway Man and Soldiers of Misfortune are hard core thrillers featuring men and women who find themselves where they never wanted to be and must fight their way out. Second, the sequel (not yet named) to Running in Heels telling the second, and even tougher, half of the story of woman sucked into a bizarre crime who has to fight her way deeper into crime to fight her way out.
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What’s Next in War Novels?
After the first four novels in The Vietnam War Collection – Ghost Soldiers, War Lover, Saigon Blues and Poisoned Hearts, comes the sardonic comedy of War and the Newby about how young soldiers become old soldiers. With luck, I’ll have it ready for Christmas gift-giving, if you really want to give your giftees something that bites and won’t let go.
For more war stories, check out my blog Forgotten War Stories by clicking this image:
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What’s Next in Other Writing?
Plenty. In fact, too much. I’ve been writing all my life, mostly for others but as often as I could for myself, until I discovered indie publishing.
Oh, I had a novel published in hardback in the traditional way, and published again in paperback a few years later. Magazines bought some of my short stories. But mostly I piled up manuscripts that I thought one day would allow me to break into traditional publishing.
Then I discovered ebooks. Once I realized I could publish ebooks on my own and find and build an audience without interference and at better royalties, I quit my day job and indie writing and indie publishing are what I do full time.
The downside is it’s all so much fun and I have so much freedom to do whatever writing I want that I’m piling up projects faster than I can complete them.
So what comes next for my other kinds of writing? A “pre-post apocalytic” noir thriller set in the moment of change from one world to another. A war novel that tells the story of the most colossal mini-battle in the Vietnam war. An steampunk/time travel/wicked romance. Some more comic space opera. And a spin-off mystery thriller trilogy featuring the hippie swampwoman Marjorie (AKA Tang Gramophone Weinstock III) in the Harry Seaburn series. Also a children’s comedy about a winged dog.
All this, if I survive my current project list, is set for 2016.
Cheers and thanks for asking!
Harry Seaburn’s comic crime caper novel series had just been born – with publication of The Feathered Virgin on Amazon – and the author (me) almost got unborn. Life, as the old Greek said, is a wild and scary thing.
Or maybe just very Dortmunder. (You Donald E. Westlake fans will know what that means.)
I’d just pushed the “publish” button for Amazon and begun preps to follow up immediately with publishing books two and three in the series – The Dimpled Python and The Laughing Camel – when I had this sudden urge to climb a ladder to grab a fresh tube of toothpaste on a high shelf.
Yeah, well, it would’ve happened to John Dortmunder, too. I sort of fell off the ladder and sort of landed in the shower and sort of banged my head against the tile wall and sort of began to bleed.
Splash blood, I mean.
My wife, expert at solving problems I create, wrapped my head in beach towels (we live by the beach so we have lots of them to spare for occasions like this) and called an ambulance.
The ER jabbed me and wrapped me in wires and made me do bizarre arm exercises. Shoved me into a CAT scan machine (not as scary as an MRI, which feels to me like being shoved into my own coffin without the benefit of being dead). And decided I would survive. Or maybe that I wasn’t worth much more of their trouble.
So they stapled six quite pretty metal staples into my head to close up the tear and sent me home. My wife took a photo of my head to show me the staples – they look like some office loony went berserk on my scalp with a desk stapler.
Have to admit, though, I felt instantly better with the staples in. Something like having that “closure” you hear about (hooray for puns!). If they were stapling me and not admitting me, then I was going to be all right.
Further, the ambulance man said he would check Amazon to buy a copy of The Feathered Virgin, so my misadventure was not entirely a waste.
After five hours in the ER and early to bed, I expected to be re-energized today and ready to get back to publishing those next two books. Trouble is, the ER gave me this long list of “Symptoms Indicating Your Concussed Head is About to Explode and You Will Die” and I discovered I have all of them. Except the one that says you have come to realize you are more handsome than George Clooney. I’ve always thought that.
To fight off those symptoms, I spent the afternoon puttering around in the yard in the fresh air and sunshine. But the sun heated up the staples in my scalp and I had to flee indoors.
Then I recalled from the BBC’s “Doc Martin” series that the Doc revived a man dying from concussion by using a common or garden variety household drill to bore a hole in the skull to relieve the building pressure. I asked my wife to keep our drill handy in case I want any more holes drilled in my head.
She scoffed and went out back to inflame our oak-fired barbecue to cook up fresh fish for dinner with friends this evening. I’m sure their good company will cure all my symptoms. If not, I’m ready with the drill.
© 2015 Steven Hardesty
I know a guy who knew Brigid O’Shaughnessy. His name was Joe Gores. And she was real. It’s a great story.
Brigid, as you know, was the seductive murderess who drove Sam Spade to hunt down The Maltese Falcon in Dashiell Hammett’s masterpiece of hard-boiled detective fiction. Hammett had been a Pinkerton agent in San Francisco in the 1920s. Joe Gores, who died last year, was a repo man in San Francisco. That’s where this story begins.
Way back in the last century, I met Gores, author of the great DKA Files mystery series. I invited him to my ratty flat in Berkeley for coffee and to talk fiction. Evening drew on. Shadow came into the room. The conversation turned noirish. He began to tell me about Brigid O’Shaughnessy. Continue reading
The number of university and high school reading lists that include Ghost Soldiers for teaching the Vietnam war and the 1960s got me thinking about the sort of syllabus I’d advise for students if I were a teacher. Then it hit me – there are plenty of good books and a few good movies about the war but only two I’d recommend, and one isn’t “about” Vietnam at all.
Because ours is an increasingly visual culture for transmitting information between generations, first on my list is Burt Lancaster’s 1978 film Go Tell the Spartans based on the novel Incident at Muc Wa. It’s the only honest Vietnam war movie made. It feels like the war. It looks like the war. And I can’t laugh when the intel officer installs his stoplight graphic over the door to measure the war’s local progress. The ending is sappy, of course, but Americans have a hard time making movies that end tough. Continue reading