I first came across fellow guns 'n' guts author Stan R. Mitchell when another action author, Jack Badelaire, reviewed Stan's stellar novel, Sold Out (ain't networking grand?). It sounded exactly like my literary cup o' bullets and as it turned out, it was. Eventually I reached out to Stan and through Facebook, phone, and text, we got to know each other. But just because I know him doesn't mean you do, something you won't be able to say after this interview. Read on to find out what makes Stan tick ... and try to forgive him for liking rap music.
MARK: What is it about the action genre that draws you to it?
STAN: Interesting question with no quick answer. The short of it is, I wrote a fair amount of literature in one of my writing phases right after college. At that point, I was a bit disillusioned with action books. Having chased my childhood dream of serving in the Marine Corps, I'd learned the harsh truth that actually being in the infantry isn't nearly as fun or glamorous as the books make it out to be.
That's when I wrote a fair amount of literature, which I'd generically define as writing about "real life." But the literature I wrote was really dark and black and hellish ... much like real life!
Long story short, I'll stick to writing fun stories, since for me, there's nothing that beats a great book that pulls me out of my present reality and transplants me into an awesome life-and-death struggle.
As for why I write in the action genre over mystery and other genres, that's pretty simple. Action books are what I've read my entire life. I feel I know and understand the genre and it's where I'm most comfortable trying to make it as an author.
MARK: Any interest in eventually branching out into other genres?
STAN: Some, but I think it's best to stay disciplined as an author and try to create a recognizeable brand.
MARK: Well, disciplined and driven are definitely two words that describe you. What made you that way?
STAN: Part of it is an inner-city school thing. You face so many obstacles and temptations growing up in an inner city that if you're lucky to break free from it all, you'll find yourself intensely confident that you can do whatever you set your mind to. Plus, growing up without money makes you desire the security it provides more than you can possible explain.
A second part of my intense drive stems from the Marine Corps, which injected into me a lot of something--not sure what--but most people just call it brainwashing. The Corps taught me I can do whatever I set my mind to if I'm just crazy enough to never give up and outwork those around me, and I adhere to this philosophy wholeheartedly. Most people think Marines are crazy, and I won't disagree that I fall into that category. Let me add, though, that I am very thankful that I do.
MARK: Craziness and creativity are often traveling companions. What do you consider to be the best action novel ever written?
STAN: That's such an unfair question. I will say that, while it's impossible for me to answer that, Point of Impact by Stephen Hunter is probably right up there. It's what influenced me to write Sold Out and it made--and still makes--a heck of an impression on me.
MARK: Anyone who enjoys Hunter's Bob Lee Swagger series will also enjoy Sold Out. What kind of music do you listen to while you write?
STAN: I'm on vastly different ends of the spectrum. Mostly, I listen to either rap or country. And if I'm not listening to that, I'm listening to rock. That's a weird spread, I know, but I grew up in an inner-city school, which taught me to love rap. But on the other hand, my family roots are mostly out in the country, which of course taught me to love country music.
MARK: I'd rather eat a hollowpoint than listen to rap, but enough about me. How would you describe your writing style?
STAN: I'd love to say hard-hitting and super-fast, with very little description, but honestly, I think this is something only the reader gets to judge and describe.
MARK: Fine. Since I'm a reader of your work, I'll describe it as hard-hitting and super-fast. What would you say is the most important thing a writer needs in order to achieve success in the action genre?
STAN: I think you better be able to move the story along at a fast pace while constantly ramping up the tension and making things worse and worse for your main character or team.
MARK: What do you think is the single worst mistake new authors make?
STAN: Publishing too soon. Then quitting and giving up. Life is going to punch you in the face. My philosophy is that you need to pick yourself up, smile as sick as you can, and say, "Is that the best you've got?"
Also, while there are some who publish too soon, there are probably just as many who never publish at all. I think there are hundreds of talented writers who never, ever publish. Their fears keep them from putting it out there. Goodness knows, I've faced those same demons. But at some point as a writer, you have to believe in yourself and say your story is good enough. And don't be too hard on yourself for not believing in your book. Remember, even Stephen King trashed Carrie. But thankfully for all of us, his wife saw it, yanked it out, and encouraged him to finish it.
MARK: Good wives always save the day. How do you respond to critics who dismiss the action-adventure genre, alleging it glorifies gun violence?
STAN: I don't.
MARK: Nice! Is there any subject matter you consider taboo?
STAN: I think you should go easy on descriptive sex scenes. Better to imply rather than show. At least, that's how I approach it.
MARK: As already mentioned, you are a big Stephen Hunter fan. What did you think of the movie Shooter, based on Hunter's classic novel Point of Impact?
STAN: Not much of a fan. I mean, you have a chance to produce a movie based on Bob Lee Swagger and you give the role to Mark Wahlberg? And that's not a dis on Wahlberg. I like him a lot and think he pretty much nailed the part they wrote for him. I'm just saying, where's the grumpy old man that we all love so much? And how do you take a story as amazing as Point of Impact and decide it would be better to use a character that's younger?
MARK: You have written two novels: Little Man and Sold Out. Which one is your favorite and why?
STAN: Man, you're cruel! I guess if I had to pick one, I'd pick Sold Out. I spent twelve years on that book and it took everything that I had. Plus, I think the main character, Nick Woods, is the strongest character I've ever created and hopefully he's as badass as Bob Lee Swagger, aka Bob the Nailer.
MARK: Nick Woods is badass and let no man say otherwise. Let's wrap up this interview by having you tell us what's next for you.
STAN: I'm wrapping up the final touches on Mexican Heat, the follow up to Sold Out. I even have the third book of the series, in which Nick Woods gets sent to Afghanistan, about halfway done, so I'm clearly in love with Nick, his crew, and the way the storyline is going.
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The hammering sun nudged things toward the
uncomfortable end of the heat spectrum as the rays shimmered and danced across
the river’s surface. Thankfully, the soft breeze as well as the slow but steady
motion of the fishing boat dulled the edges of the blazing sunbeams enough to
make things bearable. I kept an eye on the poles secured in the rod holders,
lines trailing behind us as the boat trolled up and down the river. The gentle
wake was not churning enough to conceal the large lures—seriously, these things
looked like bait for a Kronosaurus—spinning in multi-colored motion just
beneath the surface twenty or so feet behind us.
I am a deer hunter, not a fisherman, far
more comfortable with a rifle in my hand than a fishing rod. This was my first
time fishing for muskellunge, or “muskie,” as the fish is commonly called. An
apex predator fish that is notoriously hard to catch—it’s nickname among
anglers is “the fish of ten thousand casts”—the muskie was the preferred prey
of my companions, Jud Decker and his son David. I don’t know if I would go so
far as to call this pair rabid in their quest for muskies, but I certainly
would not call them lax either; one does not spend $20 on a single lure if
you’re half-assed about the sport.
My expectation of catching a muskie myself
was about the same as my expectation of seeing a mermaid sunning herself on the
shoreline. Frankly, my expectations for any of us catching a muskie that
day were near zero. A wicked thunderstorm the night before had turned
conditions less than prime, we only had a few hours on the river, and, well, these
fish are just damned hard to catch, which is part of their appeal. After all,
any amateur with a stick, string, bobber and worm can stand on the end of a
dock and catch sunnies and perch to their heart’s content, but it takes
dedication and patience to fish for muskies.
But just because I didn’t expect
any of us to catch a muskie doesn’t mean I didn’t hope we would. I had
been regaled with stories about the pure joy of having a muskie strike your
line, I had seen impressive photos of boated fish, but I had never actually
experienced these thrills for myself.
So the afternoon wore on. The sun
continued to crown us with its heat. The boat continued its leisurely trolling.
The lures continued to do their enticing dance behind us, occasionally snagging
on some aquatic weed to give the lines a teasing tug, making you think for a moment
that you might have a bite before you realized it was a false alarm. Lethargy
began creeping in like a not entirely unwelcome guest, settling over us all
like a warm, cozy blanket.
And then all hell broke loose.
Judd’s lure vanished, engulfed in the bony
maw of an impressive muskie that was damn near Moby Dickian in mass. Jud’s rod
bowed like a sapling in a hurricane as he set the hook, the sharp barbs
impaling the muskie’s mouth and letting both fish and man know the battle was
engaged. What had been tranquil silence was now shattered by Jud’s cry of,
“I’ve got one!” As David lunged for the net, I simply did my best to stay out
of the way.
I don’t recall the specifics; the memories
are more like fragmented, pulsing still-shots in my mind. The arched rod. The
excited yells. The rocking boat. The splashing water. The thrashing of the
muskie as it valiantly fought against being relentlessly reeled in. How long it
all lasted I do not know—probably less than five minutes, but what exhilarating
minutes they were. All violent action and flashing fins and glinting scales and
roiling water. I stood in the boat, transfixed, adrenalin pumping, struck by
the dawning revelation that I had just experienced something I had never
expected to experience.
After snapping some photos of the 44 inch,
25 pound behemoth, we returned it to its habitat where it swam off and
disappeared into the murky depths, its pride wounded, its mouth stinging, but
no doubt grateful that it had been granted salvation rather than extermination.
Satisfied smiles on our faces, we resumed trolling, and it was then, as calm
settled back over the boat, that it occurred to me.
The love of God is like a muskie strike.
So many people in this life are lonely,
barren, hollow husks who have never known the love of God. They drift rudderless
along the rugged surface of life fishing for something, anything, to save them
from a loveless existence. They cast ten thousand casts, changing lures to
adapt to their environment or emotions, desperate to find the perfect
combination that will net them what they need. Like me in that fishing boat,
knowing muskies existed but never having actually experienced one, these empty,
aching vessels know on some level that is far beyond skin and bone and guts
that God is there. Deep down where mortal existence ends and soul-existence
begins they know that He loves them without condition and longs to clutch them close
like the forgiving father hugging his prodigal son, but they have never
actually experienced that purest of love for themselves. They sail and troll
and cast and are occasionally fooled into believing they have found it, only to
be disappointed when what they thought was something lasting turns out to be
nothing more than life’s version of seaweed.
But when that strike comes … when God’s love
strikes a heart with all the ferocity of a trophy muskie slamming into a lure …
when your soul is consumed by the unrelenting force that is Grace Incarnate ...
in that miraculous moment there will be no doubt, no confusion about what just
happened. You will not fruitlessly jerk on the rod of life, wondering if
something is on the other end—you will know something is there. Know it
in a way that transcends flesh and blood and mind and marrow, know it in a way
that goes far beyond primal to the place where Creator and Created are
inexplicably joined.
The weeping wounded walk among us. The sea
upon which we sail may be the cracked concrete of city sidewalks or the marble
tile of shopping malls, but the ships that silently float past us in their
business suits or casual attire are often nothing more than sleek hulls
burdened by the cargo of questing hearts. They troll through the waters of life
eternally hoping but so terribly unsure if the breathtaking love they seek, the
kind of love that slams you to your knees, will ever find them. If only they
knew that it always will. Somehow, someway, the love of God finds us all. And
just as a muskie angler knows when his hook has been struck by the quarry he
seeks, so the hungry soul will know beyond even a shadow of a doubt that it has
been struck by the everlasting love of a merciful God.
