Michael Logan

Novelist, Journalist and other things ending in -ist

Hell’s Detective 99 cents on Kindle

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Hell’s Detective, my latest novel, is now 99 cents on kindle in the US. To find out why you should give it a go, below are what people are saying about it:

“More fun than a barrel of flying monkeys. A fiendishly clever mash-up of noir and horror with a soupçon of hard-boiled humor. Set in a superbly realized corner of hell known as Lost Angeles, Logan has delivered a helluva great read.”
―Eric Van Lustbader, New York Times bestselling author of Any Minute Now

“I took Hell’s Detective down to the beach. It was a perfect splash of shade on a sunny day. Michael Logan has created a sinfully good noir mystery. Think Raymond Chandler meets Stephen King. Highly recommended!”
―Rebecca Cantrell, New York Times bestselling author

“[An] entertaining mystery…Logan has a knack for crating lines that will gratify noir fans.”
―Publishers Weekly

“Logan creates a world of the dead rich with details.”
―Kirkus Reviews

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Who killed Jimi Hendrix?

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Forty-seven years ago today, Jimi Hendrix died. If you want to find out who killed him, you can read the below sample chapter from my novel Wannabes, available for much cheapness at the Amazons.

12
The 1960s

At Murmur’s leaving party, his drinking buddies from Souls Receiving filled him so full of harpy piss that when he teleported to an unoccupied toilet cubicle in New York’s Biltmore Hotel the next morning, his first act as a field agent was to vomit into the bowl. He stayed there for thirty minutes, groaning and listening to his acidic bile sizzle through the porcelain, before he managed to get his feet under him and stagger out into the lobby. He checked in under the name of Brad Pine—identity and reservations provided by the travel office—and flopped into bed to sleep it off.

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Should we rethink the use of the term ‘white privilege’?

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I have a problem with the term ‘white privilege’, but not for the reasons you imagine a middle-aged white man may have.

It implies that white people are receiving special bonuses that are above and beyond what should the norm. In fact, it is people of colour who are being treating in manner worse than should be the norm. Everybody deserves to be treated with respect, judged on who they are, not how they look, and to be given the same opportunities. This is a fundamental human right, not a privilege, but it is one that is largely being accorded to white people.

My concern is that there is a sizeable chunk of white people, frankly the majority, who bristle at the term currently being used. This is because a lot of white people don’t feel privileged. One of the most common arguments brought up is that there are plenty of white people who are struggling to get by. They don’t understand the basic advantage they are being given, because they have never experienced discrimination based on their appearance and are so hemmed in by their own problems.

When we talk about ending white privilege, these people automatically feel like something is going to be taken away from them, when that isn’t the case. The real goal, surely, is to raise other groups up, and I just don’t think that’s clear at the moment.

So, is there a better word or term that could be used? One that wouldn’t automatically make this segment of white people — the very group that needs to be engaged to bring about meaningful change — go immediately on the defensive and close their ears? Or am I just getting too hung up on semantics?

I guess I’m thinking about this because I’m increasingly seeing a lot of entrenched positions on both sides. Something has to change for progress to be made. Maybe changing the words we use won’t make all the difference. But it might be a start.

Online launch of Hell’s Detective

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I’ll be hosting a Facebook Live reading and Q&A at 2000 UTC on June 13 to celebrate the release of Hell’s Detective.

I’ll read the first chapter, then you can ask me whatever you like. I will give away a signed copy to the asker of a randomly selected question.

As I will be sitting down, I may not wear any trousers, which means I won’t be able to stand up should there be a child invasion in the style of the unfortunate BBC interview that got so much attention.

It’s BYOB. If you don’t have any, you can watch me drink instead.

There will be no subtitles, so I hope you can understand Scottish accents.

Full details are here.

Altered Ego – another new short story

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I wrote the short story linked to below specifically in response to a call by The Book Smugglers for superhero fiction. It made the longlist, but not the final cut. Now, I could shop it around, but I lack the patience. So I am posting it here.

Consider it a teaser for the upcoming paperback release of Wannabes, which deals with similar themes.

Enjoy, share, and encourage people to buy my books before I need to sell a child on the black market.

Altered Ego

He Knows – a cheery Christmas flash

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It’s December. The trees are up, your wallets are emptying and the turkeys are wondering why they’re getting so much food all of a sudden. Christmas is almost upon us. To get you in the mood, here is a festive flash. Merry Christmas to one and all!

He Knows

You have forgotten him.

You have extinguished your hearth and bricked up your chimney. Now your fragile bones cleave to the radiator for warmth as the freezing wind drives snow against the windowpanes.

You have neglected the ancient offerings, those your forebears furnished when his restless shadow flitted over their rooftops. Now these appeasements nestle in your own bloated stomach.

You have cast him aside in favour of the new Gods of commerce, who care naught for the health of your soul when your purse is fat. Now your gifts arrive cloaked in stiff cardboard, for good and bad alike.

Once, rosy-cheeked youth lay abed in anticipatory fever, straining to hear tinkling bells and clopping hooves. Once, their happiness unfurled into tendrils of energy that nourished him, their benefactor.  Now he is hungry. And if your children will not feed him with their love, their adulation, their joy, what will he eat?

He knows.

In the thick of night, he will slip under your door, as thin as a shadow thanks to your neglect. Beneath your tree—beneath every tree across the land—he will place an oaken box, lid held fast with mouldy twine. Something will stir inside, the scuttle of a creature that lives in the dark crevices where you dare not look.

In the morning, while you rub the milky film of sleep from your eyes, your firstborn will open the box. Then you will remember him. Then, at last, he will eat his fill.

 
 
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