The first grown-up books I ever read, at the age of nine, were mysteries. This had more to do with them being on my mother’s bookshelf than any particular design on my part. But I fell in love with them. Spenser and Travis McGee were my first literary heroes. I really enjoyed Ed McBain’s 87th Precinct, and the Remo Williams Destroyer series by Richard Sapir and Warren Murphy.

Then I got into hardboiled and noir. Mickey Spillane. Max Allan Collins. Lawrence Block. Ross MacDonald. Donald Westlake and Richard Stark. Chandler and Hammet. Andrew Vachss. Reading about cops and PIs was cool, but reading about criminals was cool too.

In my teen years, I was floored by Red Dragon and Silence of the Lambs, and that started me on a serial killer binge. I devoured John Sandford, James Patterson, Robert W. Walker, David Wiltse, and Ridley Pearson.

Which is probably why my novels are such a mishmash of different genre styles.

When I sit down to write a short story, it’s for one of two reasons. First, because someone asked me for one. Second, because I have an idea that begs to be written. If I’m writing to fill an anthology slot or crack a market, I usually start with a few lines, which leads me to a premise, which leads to conflict, which leads to action. But if I already have an idea, it usually springs full blown from my head and onto the page as fast as I can type.

Often, I have story ideas that won’t fit into the Jack Daniels universe. Sometimes these are horror stories, or straight humor, or sci-fi, or a combination of different styles.

Sometimes they’re crime stories