Not saying I do, but if I actually did have any habits, they’d probably stem from the fact that, if I’m doing it right—if I am hanging it all out there riding the bucking back of an untamed story—my little rituals would be the only things under my control. Writing a mystery is a bit like a trip to Atlantic City. Even though you’ve been there before, you can never be sure what will happen. You go sleepless for days, try crazy shit you wouldn’t otherwise dream of, and, when you’re through, you’re left with nothing. Oh, and all that great sex was in your imagination.
The only way through—Atlantic City or a novel—is never to go it alone, and I’m running with a posse that would put the Hangover boys to shame. It all starts and ends with Detective Kate Beckett, who has shown me that luck is a lady cop, and has a little experience herself waking up with a Bengal tiger. Her colleagues from the 12th Precinct, Javier Esposito and Kevin Ryan, know something about doing AC, and have made me feel like a brother. The brother they cherry-bomb in the outhouse, but a brother, nonetheless. I also owe thanks to Captain Victoria Gates, who kept me around in spite of seeing me for the stunted adolescent miscreant I am.
Dr. Parish has been a patient, if eye-rolling, medical examiner, enduring my ghoulish puns, gallows humor, and high jinks. I am also fortunate to have been around to discover that Lanie sings the blues.
My mother, Martha, has given me the primer on how to get myself into trouble—elegantly, while my dear daughter, Alexis, has shown me someone has to be the grown-up of the family. Thank God it doesn’t have to be me.
Nathan, Stana, Seamus, Jon, Molly, Susan, Tamala, and Penny bring life, truth, and heart, day and night. How the hell do they make it look so easy?
The crew in the Clinton Building at Raleigh Studios knows me better than I know myself, and to them, for the imagination, belief, and cold deli takeout, a sincere tip of the Montblanc cap.
Thanks to Terri Edda Miller, I never have to wonder who’s beside me or worry what’s behind me. May every journey continue to be a safari-level adventure for us.
Jennifer Allen still makes me swoon and then catches me when I fall. It shall be ever thus.
To Gretchen Young, my editor … one dice roll, and look, we’re still at the table, giddy and ignoring the three-dollar buffet. Thanks to Gretchen and everyone at Hyperion, including Allyson Rudolph. I’m also continually thankful for the care and support of Melissa Harling-Walendy and the team at ABC.
Thanks to Sloan Harris, my literary agent at ICM. I feel I am the luckiest author in the world after all these years of his faith and kind guidance.
Whether it’s hanging in Vegas, doing the AC, or working the green felt in a certain Tribeca loft, a big thanks to Connelly, Lehane, Patterson, and, in spirit, Cannell, for keeping my poker skills sharp.
My friend Alton Brown taught me to boil water, and Ellen Borakove at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in New York City showed me how to breathe through my mouth to fool my brain. My appetite is better thanks to both of them.
As for Andrew, what can I say to adequately draw the picture? I began as an admirer, became a colleague, and now proudly call him friend. He’s got them all beat because Andrew has more than talent. He is also brave. This man is not afraid to double down. And, I suspect, like his cohort Tom, he cares.
About the mission. About getting it right. And dearly, about the fans.
Let it ride, fellas.
RC
New York City, June 2012
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Richard Castle is the author of numerous bestsellers, including Heat Wave, Naked Heat, Heat Rises, and the Derrick Storm eBook original trilogy. His first novel, In a Hail of Bullets, published while he was still in college, received the Nom DePlume Society’s prestigious Tom Straw Award for Mystery Literature. Castle currently lives in Manhattan with his daughter and mother, both of whom infuse his life with humor and inspiration.