What inspired you to become an author?
My grandmother was a writer, so it was just something
that was always a viable option. I actually don’t know how people who didn’t
grow up with a writer ever got around to it. I also feel the same way about
people who don’t patronize their local library.
Do you write in different genres?
Oh yes. I think
genre writing is the best writing. I love to combine them and smash them
together, even if only a trace of one bleeds into the other. It’s lots of fun.
If yes which is your favorite genre to write?
So
many! It’s hard for me to pick a favorite, because it is very mood based. Some
days I want to write a mystery, other days a sci-fi, and still others horror.
And on other days, I want to throw them all in a blender and see what happens.
Do you title the book first or wait until after it’s
complete?
Usually they’re the last thing I pick, because I am so terrible at
them.
Is there a message in your novel that you want
readers to grasp?
Life is short, and some risks are worth taking.
Is the book, characters, or any scenes based on a
true life experience, someone you know, or events in your own life?
Some, but
so coated in fiction I think they’d be impossible to recognize. And that’s a
good thing in the case of the first character to die on page, as he is based
loosely on a person I do not like.
What books/authors have influenced your life?
The
Hitch-Hiker’s Guide To The Galaxy and Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas are huge
influences on me, but you probably never would have guessed that. So are the
works of Raymond Chandler and Joseph Hansen. I think if I started listing all
the books that influenced my life, the list might not stop.
What books are in your to read pile?
So many! I’ll
just pick the top three. This Is Not A Love Story by Suki Fleet, The Hitman
Cometh by Edward Kendrick, and Meatworks by Jordan Castillo Price.
What is your current “work in progress” or upcoming projects?
I’m writing a Holden spin-off of the Infected series, and a supervillain love
story. And I have a lot of other things in the works.
Can you share a little of your current work with us?
(This is from the supervillain story,
currently titled Hearts of Darkness)
Not
for the first time, Kaede wondered what would happen if he decided to burn
everything down. Just set it all on fire.
He
wouldn't, Fleur De Lis was a great restaurant, but sometimes he wondered what
his father's limit was. Would he find a way to bail him out of everything? It
wasn't a boundaries thing, he wasn't a child craving them, he was just curious
if there was a line he couldn't cross. Maybe when your dad was a super-villain,
you just got used to the evil after a while.
Even
though he was currently attending university under a fake identity, his father
still made sure enough people knew he had some kind of connection that he was
always treated like a VIP. Kaede found it awkward and tiresome, although he
knew he shouldn't complain about superior service. But the elitism of it all
did bother him.
Currently,
he was the only lone diner in the VIP section. There were two couples, one
older and one younger, although they were a study in contrasts. The older
couple looked like a long time married folks out for an anniversary dinner,
while the younger couple was a guy with slicked back hair and a thousand dollar
suit, and a fancy coifed woman whom he was willing to bet was a working girl. A
high class one to be sure, but still a hooker. What kind of douchebag was that
guy? Was he living out some kind of Pretty Woman fantasy? He was probably a
stockbroker or something like that. Kaede hated him on principal.
Otherwise,
the VIP section was empty. They had faint piano music and two waiters all to
themselves. The rest of the place, the noisier, more crowded part of the
restaurant, was separated by a doorway that most people probably didn't know
existed. You entered and exited through a private door, so you never had to
associate with the riff raff. Kaede wondered if his dad liked this, and that's
why he insisted on him getting the same treatment.
His
soup arrived, and he shared polite smiles with the waiter, who was handsome
enough, if on the short side. Was he gay? Kaede may have been the son of a
super-villain, but he had no gaydar at all, and his father never invented a
thing that could do that for him. Or had he? He should ask, if he ever saw him
again.
He
might not. Kaede sporadically saw his father, and with little warning. It had
been that way his entire life. Because so many people wanted to kill his dad or
blackmail him into working for them, Kaede was a target from day one. So his
father kept him moving, with new lives on new continents with new names and new
guardians, most of which were professional nannies. His father hadn't raised
him in any respect, and he had no idea who his mother was. Every time Kaede
asked, he got a different name. Since his father worked so much with cloning,
he did wonder if he was his clone and not actually a son, in spite of their
different names. He knew there were rumors, but Kaede also knew better than to
expect any real answers from his brilliant but certifiably crazy father.
He tucked
into his soup, which was decent enough, but he found himself craving the
excellent hot and sour soup he found at this Chinese place downtown. It was
probably home to more than a few health code violations, but the hot and sour
soup was excellent, and abundant with tofu and mushrooms. Even though he was
enjoying this fancier concoction, he knew he'd probably stop after dinner
to get a bowl of the cheaper hot and
sour stuff. Although his father often insisted that the more expensive the
better as far as food and booze were concerned, that simply wasn't true. Well,
at least not all the time.
Kaede
was finally trying his wine, which he'd been letting breathe, when he heard the
distant sound of breaking glass.
It
wasn't someone dropping a glass. This was a solider sound, heavier, and it
seemed to be out in the public part of the restaurant. Now it was possible a
bottle of wine or a particularly loaded platter hit the floor, but Kaede had
developed something of a sixth sense for trouble. It was possible that was an
actual thing his father gengineered in him, but he'd never said.
Kaede
had slipped down, beneath the table, when the inner door of the VIP section
slammed open, and bullets started flying. He heard brief, aborted screams, and
he was really sorry for the other diners. Well, okay, only the older couple and
the working girl. Wall Street boy could eat a bag of dicks.
“We know you're here, Hayashi!” a man bellowed, as the sounds of gunshots still rung in Kaede's ears. “We'll burn this place down if we hafta! Show yourself!”
Is there anything you find particularly challenging
in your writing?
I am so bad at titles. If there is a class on learning how to
title things, I need it.
Who designed the cover of your latest book?
Anne
Cain has done all the Infected covers, and she is fantastic. I couldn’t ask for
a better artist.
Do you have any advice for other writers?
Keep at
it. Don’t stop. A rejection just means the story isn’t right for those people.
It might be right for someone else.
Do you have a song or playlist (book soundtrack) that
you think represents this book?
I make soundtracks for all my stories, whether
people want them or not.
Here is one of them: https://8tracks.com/notmanos/infected-prey-soundtrack-mix
Infected: Prey
Infected Series
Book One
Andrea Speed
Genre: Gay mystery/urban fantasy
Publisher: DSP Publications
ISBN: 163216325X
ASIN: B00NJRJZGG
Number of pages: 376
Word Count: 152,000
Cover Artist: Anne Cain
Book Description:
In a world where a werecat virus has changed society, Roan McKichan, a born infected and ex-cop, works as a private detective trying to solve crimes involving other infecteds.
The murder of a former cop draws Roan into an odd case where an unidentifiable species of cat appears to be showing an unusual level of intelligence. He juggles that with trying to find a missing teenage boy, who, unbeknownst to his parents, was “cat” obsessed. And when someone is brutally murdering infecteds, Eli Winters, leader of the Church of the Divine Transformation, hires Roan to find the killer before he closes in on Eli.
Working the crimes will lead Roan through a maze of hate, personal grudges, and mortal danger. With help from his tiger-strain infected partner, Paris Lehane, he does his best to survive in a world that hates and fears their kind… and occasionally worships them.
Available at DSP Publications Amazon
Excerpt:
HE was on his
third beer of the evening when he thought he heard a noise in the backyard.
Hank DeSilvo
scowled and looked out the window over the kitchen sink full of dirty dishes.
He could see nothing but darkness, and maybe a bit of reflected light from the
television. This was probably a bad time to remember the back porch light had
blown out two days ago, and he’d forgotten to replace it.
Not that it
mattered. The only light currently in the house was coming from the television,
and as long as he ignored it, he developed enough night vision to make out a
shape moving in the back garden. Or was it the wind moving a shrub? Kind of
hard to say.
He slammed his
can down with an annoyed grunt. It was probably the Hindles’ stupid ass dog
again, shitting all over the place and tearing through his garbage. He hated
that fucking thing, some ugly Rottweiler mix they insisted was a “friendly”
dog, and yet it always had a look in its flat, black eyes that was just this
side of rabid. They never leashed the damn thing either, and apparently his
yard destruction was “cute.” He was just about out of this fucking place and
that damn thing had to make a final appearance. And it was final all right; he
was going to make damn sure of that.
He went back to
the living room, glancing at the game as he walked past—it was a fucking damn
boring game anyway—and got his shotgun from the cabinet. It was illegal as all
hell, a sawed-off thirty ought six with the barrels cut so short you could have
stowed it under a jacket, but the barrels had been filed down expertly; it
wasn’t just the rough work of a desperate amateur but the sign of a pro. Which
was why, when they’d searched the drug mule’s truck and he’d found it wedged
under the front seat, he hid it in his trunk and didn’t report finding it. It
wouldn’t have added that much to the mule’s sentence; he already had enough
rock in his glove compartment to put him away for the rest of his pointless
life, especially if it was his “third strike” (and it was, no surprise there),
and he doubted the guy was so stupid that he’d actually ask why he wasn’t
charged with owning an illegally modified weapon. Yeah, he was dumb; you had to
be dumb if you were speeding and had a few thousand in rock in the car, as well
as being obviously stoned yourself. But asking after that was a special kind of
stupid, the kind only politicians and people on reality television ever seemed
to crest.
He cracked open
the gun and made sure he had some shells loaded in it before snapping it shut
again with a sharp flick of his wrist. Man that felt good. This was a real
man’s weapon, made him feel a foot taller and made of pure muscle, and he knew
why that meth fuckhead was carrying it around with him. A weapon like this was
a real god-killer; it made you feel invincible.
It was pure
overkill, of course. The Hindles’ dog was fairly big, and yet one shot from
this gun would rip it in half clean down the middle, as well as make a boom
loud enough to set off every car alarm on the block. But what the fuck did he
care? He was an ex-cop; he’d say the dog charged him, and on his property he
could shoot the fucking thing if he wanted. He’d swap out the sawed-off for his
Remington before they arrived. Ballistics wouldn’t match, but by the time they
proved that, he’d be long gone. Good-bye, shit-hole city; hello, tropical
paradise. It was just a shame that it took him this long to collect.
He stood at the
back door for a moment, cradling the shotgun gently, and let his eyes get
adjusted to the dark before going out onto the concrete patio. He had a mini
Maglite with him with a red lens over the bulb, so if there was something he
needed to see he could twist it on without losing his night vision. Not that he
needed to make a direct hit; even if he just winged the dog, he’d probably rip
half its face off, maybe a leg.
First step off
the patio his foot squelched in something; it felt too liquid to be shit, but
the smell that hit him was meaty, redolent of shit and offal and God knew what
else. Had that fucking dog already strewn his garbage about? Goddamn it.
Holding the
shotgun in one arm, he turned on the flashlight and looked down at what he’d
stepped in.
At first it
looked like a puddle, which didn’t make sense since it hadn’t rained in a week,
and the thought that it was dog piss was dismissed since it was dark, and dog
piss wasn’t usually black. Or was that red-black? Swinging the light outwards,
he saw greasy, ropey strands that couldn’t have come from his garbage can, and
then a big hunk of raw, bloody meat like a lamb shank… only it was too long and
thin to be a shank, too dark, and ended in a paw.
It was a
Rottweiler leg.
Someone—something—had
dismembered the Hindles’ psychotic dog and spread about a third of it all over
his backyard. He saw the leg, which was the biggest piece, an assortment of
internal organs, loops of intestines laid out like fallen party streamers, and
lots of blood. But where was the other two thirds of the dog?
The hair stood
up on the back of his neck, and he knew he had to get the fuck inside now. But
as he turned, shotgun at the ready and braced against his hip, he saw the flash
of white teeth in the dim moonlight, and his brain sent out the impulse to pull
the trigger.
He didn’t have
time to wonder why it never happened as the teeth ripped open his throat.
About the Author:
Andrea Speed was born looking for trouble in some hot month without an R in it. While succeeding in finding Trouble, she has also been found by its twin brother, Clean Up, and is now on the run, wanted for the murder of a mop and a really cute, innocent bucket that was only one day away from retirement. (I was framed, I tell you - framed!)
In her spare time, she arms lemurs in preparation for the upcoming war against the Mole Men. Viva la revolution!
Website: www.andreaspeed.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/andrea.speed.3
Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/Andreaspeedwriter
Twitter: @aspeed
Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/andreaspeed
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