ABOUT KEN MERCER
I was born in Newark, New Jersey in 1962. A few years later, I watched the city burn from the window of my father’s office during the race riots of ‘67.
I grew up middle class in a housing development that only offered homes in two different styles, so every other house was exactly the same. You needed to use creative paint schemes if you wanted to stand out.
Fear and Loathing in Massachusetts
My first gig as a professional writer was for a daily newspaper in western Massachusetts. I’d been reading a lot of the 1970s New Journalism, and made up my mind that what I really wanted to be when I grew up was gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson. At the newspaper in Massachusetts, I was fortunate to work for a supportive editor, but the reality of the job was a whole lot different from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
But there was at least one thing I had in common with Hunter Thompson—a fondness for controlled substances. Around this time, my drug intake began to spiral out of control, veering into the territory of what might charitably be referred to as “a problem.” It culminated in a whirlwind drugstore tour across New England, filling forged narcotics prescriptions in the company of a middle-aged Registered Nurse that I’m still hazy about how I’d ever met in the first place. But that’s a story for another day.
Looking back on it now, I believe there were two things that saved me from overdose, prison, or worse:
- 1) I was afraid of needles.
- 2) I wanted to be a writer.
When I was offered a temporary job writing copy for an advertising agency back in New Jersey, I jumped on it.
Mad Man
The temporary job in advertising turned into a year, then a decade, and beyond. I moved from the New Jersey agency to Madison Avenue, then to San Francisco. My work appeared all over the world and won every major award. I started my own advertising agency, sold it, and then became Chief Creative Officer for one of the largest and best advertising agencies in the world. Think Don Draper minus the suit, tie, and tumbler of Canadian Club.
In spite of the money, big title, and all the perks that go with it, I couldn’t shake the urge to be doing “real” writing. Back in the early nineties, I wrote my first book, a private eye novel. I passed it around to friends, who said nice things about it. I kept rewriting it until one day I picked it up, realized in a blinding flash of clarity how bad it truly was, and burned it.
The Road to Slow Fire
While working in advertising I became addicted to reading crime fiction. I started with Raymond Chandler, which led to Dashiel Hammett, James M. Cain, Charles Willeford, Jim Thompson, Fredric Brown, and right up to all the great writers who still walk among us, who I won’t list for fear of pissing someone off by neglecting to list them.
My love of reading kept me writing. I turned to screenplays. Got signed by a manager in Hollywood (Beverly Hills, to be accurate.) Took some meetings on the lot with powerful execs, sold a pitch to a producer, but never got anything made. Please stop me if you’re heard this one before.
I began to write a sports column for a San Francisco magazine, mostly so that I’d be able to sit in the Press Box at baseball games. I ended up getting credentialed by Major League Baseball. Witnessed the Barry Bonds/steroids saga up close and personal.
Then, in July 2006, while on an Independence Day trip with my family to a small town in rural Northern California, I got the idea for the book that would eventually become Slow Fire. I sat down and began to write it that September, and worked on it for almost four years.
My hope is that some of you out there will think it was worth it.
Ken Mercer lives in Northern California with his wife and daughter, where he is at work on the new novel featuring Will Magowan, to be published by Minotaur Books in 2011. He is an active member of Mystery Writers of America, International Thriller Writers, and Sisters in Crime.
(Ken Mercer photo by Heward Jue)
