Spotlight: Michael J. Sahno Visits to Talk About Humorous Thriller, MILES OF FILES!
Today, fellow author Michael J. Sahno is stopping by to talk about his latest book!
Hello! Thanks for having me.
My pleasure! Let me ask a few questions since you're here...
I originally published it in December 2015 as part of the Sahno Publishing company launch, but it never got the right push. I’m re-launching it with a brand new cover and a very dialed-in marketing campaign.
You can get the paperback direct from msahno.com, and the e-book version is available at all your favorite online retailers: Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iTunes…you name it.
Nice! Such a great cover...
Congrats on your recent re-release! :)
So, what inspired you to write this book? How did you get into writing humorous thrillers?
I think it’s because my life is something of a humorous thriller. I tend to be pretty funny in my books, even those with a lot of drama and turmoil. I think of all my work as literary, but Miles of Files is much more mainstream, accessible, whatever you want to call it. When I read the CIP block and saw that they’d written “Thrillers (Fiction),” I thought, “Oh, I’ve written a thriller!”
I was pleasantly surprised.
(Laughs.) Isn't it interesting where the muse takes us?
So, tell us...what, do you feel, sets your book apart from other books in the genre?
I’d like to think it’s the quality of the writing, but also, it’s not what your average thriller reader expects from a book, in terms of edge-of-your-seat suspense. I’m probably the worst person to judge it, because I just think it’s funny and brilliant, but when I read these reviews that say “riveting” and “a real page-turner,” I go, “Really? Okay, good!”
It is certainly fascinating to find out what readers think about a book.
Back to the questions at hand...
Please give us a teaser or two of this book if you can.
AT 5:38 ON the morning of his forty-first birthday, Graham Woodcock awakened to the sound of a cat retching. He heard three distinct thumps as the cat’s larynx contracted, then a sound with a different quality, liquid, gurgling: no doubt the discharge of some vomitous hairball. Or, worse, an entire meal. He saw it in his mind’s eye as he glared through the dark at the red numbers of the alarm clock.
When he finally decided to rise—after another hour’s sleep—he was roused not by the urgency of cat puke, but by the urgency of the breakfast hour. Not his—the cats’. One of them leapt on the bed and nuzzled his outstretched hand with phony affection, a clear message: get up, get up. Giddyup.
Graham crept into the kitchen, trailing the cats in darkness. He scanned the floor to avoid any cat vomit that might be there, but there was none. He flipped on lights and fed the cats, then wandered from room to room in search of vomit. Nothing.
He sat down to eat his breakfast, and everything was fine until one of the cats began to move its bowels while Graham was finishing his cereal. It was Truman, no doubt, whose bathroom routine was maddeningly predictable.
He decided to ignore it and finish the cereal in spite of the odor. Then Truman strutted into the kitchen, waving his tail like a dog. Somehow he’d managed to snake his tail across the gloppy pile of excrement in the litter pan, and a streak of it glistened in his fur like a grotesque flag.
The cat approached the breakfast nook, still switching his tail back and forth, and each motion left a faint brown brushstroke against the cream-colored paint. He created his own masterpiece right beneath the kitchen counter.
"NO, no, no. Shit,” Graham said, then realized the irony. He picked the cat up by the scruff of the neck—the only way he could hold him without getting himself painted—and carried him into the bathroom. “You little bastard.” He swallowed the urge to slam the cat against the wall.
“I hope this isn’t an indication of the kind of day it’s going to be.”
But it was. On the side of the bathtub stood a cockroach the size of Graham’s thumb. He froze, dropping the cat as the roach scampered down into the clean white tub. “Christ!”
He cranked the hot water all the way on to drown the brown beast, which swam around with frantic leg movements. At last it succumbed to the boiling hot water and floated toward the drain, which was too small for it.
“Why the hell did I ever come to this godforsaken swamp?” he muttered. “All I ever wanted was a nice house in the hills and a bit of crumpet on the side. Now I’m stuck in Florida with the cast of Deliverance, killing roaches that look like Harley fucking Davidson motorcycles. If it weren’t for the 401(k) program, I’d bloody well sod off.”
The Harley Davidson was dead now, and Graham grabbed it with a wad of toilet paper before flushing it. Unfortunately, he’d scalded himself in the process, and small pink welts like fever blisters rose on his arms.
He remembered the cat, and knew it was too late. Sure enough, as he walked from the bathroom he saw light brown feather-strokes at odd points on the burgundy carpet. Some were barely visible, like the first one he stepped on—with his bare foot, of course.
“Happy fucking birthday,” he said between his teeth.
Well...I'm definitely interested to find out where this story goes! ;)
The FREE e-book of short stories for anyone on my email newsletter list that’s coming out later this year. I haven’t set the date, but I’m really excited for this! If you like those free short stories, I think you’ll love my novels.
Beyond that, I have two more novels I haven’t completed yet, and I’m itching to get back into those and finish them. I write fast, but I rewrite a lot, so it takes me a long time to complete a project. Maybe that will change, though. Who knows?
I hear ya! The muse has its own timeline.
In any case, we look forward to seeing this collection of stories you have.
Thanks so much for stopping by to tell us about Miles of Files, Michael!
Thank you for having me here!