The Write Stuff
Back in the day—at the dawn of the Internet and long before anyone had heard of social media—I was a working investigative reporter. For nearly two decades, I clocked in at a daily newspaper, chasing leads, combing through dusty archives, and persuading often-reluctant sources to talk to me. I’d spend weeks, sometimes months, stitching together narratives meant to expose wrongdoing, uncover injustice, or shine light into some dark, bureaucratic corner where truth had been shoved aside. I did it under the aegis of something I deeply believed in: the public’s right to know. For me, the First Amendment wasn’t just a phrase etched in civics textbooks—it was the north star guiding everything I did. Sometimes, those stories made a difference. A few launched official investigations, prompted reforms, made the world a little safer, or more just. They rattled the cages they were supposed to rattle. But far more often, they landed with a thud. A collective shrug. A few congratulatory or angry phone calls, maybe a letter or two to the editor, and then—poof—it was on to the next story. It began to feel after a while like I was launching satellites into deep space, hoping to make contact with intelligent life forms, only to be met with static. My growing sense of futility was one of the big reasons I eventually decided to step away from daily journalism and try something new. I still wanted to tell stories. I still cared about truth and human nature and justice. But I needed to find a different way to reach people. One of those ways was writing mystery novels. And what a different experience it’s been. With fiction, the feedback is immediate—and passionate. Readers don’t hesitate to email me about how much they enjoy my Cordell Logan series, including the most recent installment, Deep Fury (and yes, I’m working on the next one!). But they also don’t hesitate to tell me when I’ve missed the mark in their opinion.. Maybe a character’s timeline doesn’t quite add up. Maybe I botched the name of a weapon or slipped on a bit of aviation lingo. Or maybe a plot twist left them more confused than intrigued. To all of which I say: bring it on. Truly. I welcome every bit of it—praise, criticism, nitpicks and all. Because unlike those long-ago days in the newsroom, when I often felt like I was typing into the void, writing novels has connected me with a real, responsive, thoughtful community of readers. You’re out there. You’re paying attention. And best of all, you care enough to write. That means the world to me. When I was a kid, I used to write letters to my favorite authors. I’d mail them in care of their publishers, laboring over every word. These weren’t dashed-off notes. I rewrote those letters over and over, knowingt they’d be read by true masters of the craft. And I always enclosed a self-addressed, stamped envelope. The best response I ever got—the one that made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I could one day become a real writer—arrived one glorious morning from… Just kidding. No one ever wrote back. Not a single author. Talk about a waste of good postage. And yet, I don’t regret sending those letters. Even then, I understood that writing—at its best—is a form of reaching out, of trying to connect. I only wish those authors had reached back. Now that we’re all living in the Digital Age, a dialogue between a writer and their readers is easier than ever. You no longer need to track down a publisher’s mailing address or lick an envelope. You don’t have to worry about stamps or whether your SASE has enough return postage. Most authors—including me—have a website with a contact page or a direct email link. You can reach out in a few seconds, no matter where you are in the world. And please believe me when I say this: I will write back. Every email I get from a reader is read by me personally, and every one gets a reply. Why? Because if you’ve taken time out of your busy life to read my work—whether it made you laugh, think, cry, or just helped you pass a few hours on a cross-country flight—that’s an incredible gift. If you then take even more time to send a message and tell me what the book meant to you, or what didn’t quite work, or just to say hello, the least I can do is return the favor. So drop me a line. Let me know what you think—about Logan, the books, or anything else on your mind. Tell me what you liked, what you didn’t, or what you want to see next. Tell me what made you laugh or what made you roll your eyes. I promise I’ll listen. And best of all? No postage stamps will be harmed in the making of our conversation. Looking forward to hearing from you soon. —David
Made My Day
When you’re an author, there’s little better than landing a positive book review, especially from someone who truly knows the craft. My gratitude to Mark Stevens, an author whose talents far exceed mine, for this terrific assessment of Deep Fury, my latest Cordell Logan mystery. https://markhstevens.wordpress.com/2025/03/28/david-freed-deep-fury/
Please Return Your Seatback to its Full and Upright Position!
I fly frequently enough on United Airlines that I qualify as a “Premier” passenger. As a reward for my brand loyalty—to the extent anyone can be loyal to any airline these days–I get to be among the first to board the plane, which we all know usually means having enough room in the overhead bin to stow your carry-on bag. It also usually means I get to sit toward the front of the plane in what United calls “Economy Plus”. It’s where there’s a bit more legroom and where you don’t feel quite like those other poor wretches way back in the back packed in like sardines in a can—except sardines at least have the dignity of being packed in oil, not in some stranger’s armpit, which is often the case these days flying commercially. I’m old enough to remember when airline travel was luxurious, even for those of us who could never begin to afford flying first class. Delicious meals were served piping hot on real china plates with real silverware by flight attendants who all looked like Miss America contestants or like they’d just stepped off the cover of Vogue magazine. Those days, of course, are but a distant memory. Today we’re crammed into passenger cabins that always seem too hot or too cold, assigned thinly padded seats inspired by the Marquis de Sade, even in Economy Plus, and made to endure a veritable aluminum torture chamber of body odors, screaming infants, and flight attendants who exude all the charm of DMV employees working their last shifts before retirement. But, hey, at least those little bags of pretzels are free! Not long ago, I had to fly on short notice from California to Washington, D.C. Every flight unfortunately was full by the time I booked my reservation. The only seat I could snag was a middle seat near the tail, where you’re allowed just enough room to remind you that you have two knees, but not enough room to use them. To make matters worse, by the time I boarded, the overhead bins were already filled, requiring me to stuff my backpack under the seat in front of me, reducing my leg room even further. The guys to my left and right were both big enough that in a fair and just world, each of them would have been required to pay for a second seat instead of absorbing part of mine. I quickly realized that for the next four hours and change, the notion of personal space would be but a mere concept. We were no sooner airborne when the middle-aged woman sitting in front of me reclined her seat all the way back. Suddenly, what little breathing room I had was gone. Her seatback was now inches from my face, so close that I could count the stray gray hairs clinging to her headrest. My tray table was practically embedded in my stomach, and any hope of finding a position that would ensure continuous blood flow to my legs was officially dashed. I was stuck. This, of course, raises one of the most contentious debates in modern air travel: Is it ever acceptable to recline your seat on a crowded airplane? Ask ten travelers, and you’ll get ten different answers, ranging from, “It’s my right!” to, “Only inconsiderate jerks do that!” The airlines conveniently provide the recline function but offer no guidelines on when, or if, it should be used. It’s like giving Elon Musk a chainsaw without directions. Don’t get me wrong. I understand the impulse to claim a little more territory in the pursuit of personal comfort on these increasingly uncomfortable, glorified Greyhound buses. The problem is that in today’s economy class, reclining isn’t so much about enhancing your comfort as it is about obliterating someone else’s. Take my situation on this particular flight: My knees were already pressed against the seat in front of me before the woman sitting in said seat reclined. Once she leaned back, I had two choices—sit there, locked in some bizarro yoga position hardly of my choosing, or become one of those individuals who passive-aggressively knee the seat in front of them in protest. I chose the former, mainly because I still clung to a shred of human decency, and also because I was concerned about the possibility of any mid-air altercations making Instagram or TikTok. As I sat there, contemplating my life choices, I wondered was she even aware of the havoc she had unleashed? Did she assume that because her seat had a recline button, it was her obligation to use it to its full potential? Or was she simply one of those people who exist in their own oblivious, situationally unaware bubble? I fantasized about gently tapping her shoulder and explaining that, in recognition of the Geneva Convention and fundamental human decency, perhaps we could negotiate a compromise—say, a slight recline, rather than going full La-Z-Boy. I also wondered what wiseguy flight instructor and former government assassin Cordell Logan would do under similar circumstances. Logan, for those of you who’ve read Deep Fury, Flat Spin, Voodoo Ridge, or any of the other of my books, know that he probably would’ve been more confrontational in a glib, persuasive kind of way, before resorting to any hands-on remedy. But I’m not Logan, even if I did conceive him. Instead, I stewed in silence at 33,000 feet, trying to distract myself with the book I’d brought along–Rachel Maddow’s excellent Prequel, a detailed, investigative account of German propaganda efforts and America’s pro-Nazi movement in the runup to World War II. Time slowed to nothing as I read and our plane crept along at what felt like a glacial pace. Every few minutes, the flight attendants would stroll by with their beverage cart, yelling, “Watch your knees and elbows!” while banging into various knees and elbows. Cocooned as I was between my two fat seatmates, at least I didn’t have
A Horse Named Deep Fury
All I know about horse racing is what I learned reading Laura Hillenbrand’s excellent Seabiscuit and the movie based on it. Both were about an underdog horse and a down-on-his luck jockey who together won a big race and inspired many people to persevere during the Great Depression. When I was in college, I also read William Faulker’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, The Reivers, which as I vaguely recall has something to do with horse racing, though the main story centers on three rascals who steal a car in rural Mississippi. I’ve also attended a few parties over the years at which the Kentucky Derby was televised, however I typically was too busy eating and bending an elbow to pay much attention to who crossed the finish line first. In person, I’ve watched the ponies run (is that still an expression?) exactly once in my life. Several years ago, my wife and I spent an afternoon at Hollywood Park, a thoroughbred race course located below the final approach path of the west-facing runways at Los Angeles International Airport. The track isn’t there anymore. It was demolished years ago to make way for a professional football stadium. The only thing I remember from that day at Hollywood Park was making several $2 bets on different horses based on gut hunch and whether we liked the colors of the jockeys’ racing silks. Suffice it to say, fools and their money are soon parted. All of which leads me to an email I received the other day from a fan in Australia named William who wrote to tell me how much he enjoyed Deep Fury, my most recent Cordell Logan mystery novel. He also was curious to know if I’d stolen the book’s title from an Australian race horse that also happens to be named Deep Fury. I was surprised. I’d never heard of Deep Fury, the horse. “Mere coincidence,” I responded. “And what kind of name is that for a horse, anyway? What do they call him for short—Deep?” William, who said he tends bar at a swanky hotel in Brisbane, disregarded my albeit rhetorical question and responded appropriately enough with a joke about a horse that walks into a bar. The bartender asks the horse, “Why the long face?” I’m still working on a clever response. Meanwhile, I’ve done a bit of research on my new equine relative. I discovered looking at pictures of him on line that Deep Fury the horse is quite a handsome lad. He’s a five-year-old bay gelding whose home track is the Sunshine Coast Turf Club on Australia’s west coast, about an hour north of Brisbane, near the totally cool-sounding towns of Currimundi and Caloundra. He’s run 27 races as of this writing and won two of them, earning purses totaling $95,200 Australian dollars, which is about $59,400 in US dollars. Not exactly Seabiscuit money but, hey, you’ve gotta start somewhere. There’s a lesson here, I think. As a writer of mystery novels, I’ve always been fascinated by fiction, as with real life itself, can often take unexpected turns. My random connection to a horse named Deep Fury is a good example. It reminds me how fiction and reality can sometimes intersect in wonderous ways. In my books, I thrive on those kinds of intersections–the twists and subtle details that keep readers guessing in the same unpredictable yet plausible ways we all face every day. Writing mysteries is about creating layers of intrigue, where nothing is ever quite as it seems. When my friend William first informed me of about Deep Fury, the horse, I figured it was just a coincidence in names. But the more I’ve pondered it, the more it feels to me like some small clue—a link between stories real and imagined, and in ways I could’ve never anticipated. It is these kinds of unanticipated encounters where my belief in kismet is affirmed, and in the realization that the best stories often arrive from the most obscure places. It’s not always the obvious twists that matter, but the ones we least expect. Whether in a mystery novel or in real life, discovery is what keeps us moving forward. Who knows? The next plot twist might come from an email, a corny joke, or even a horse halfway across the world.
The Fighting 99th
Most folks, I suspect, have a favorite ball cap. This one, with its sweat stains and frayed brim, happens to be mine. I’ve worn it for several years, but in all the time, however, I can recall only one person ever making mention of the blue and gold winged panther sewn on its crown. We were at a restaurant a few years back in Colorado Springs. The receptionist, an African American woman in her early 20’s, was guiding us to our table. “I like your hat,” she said, smiling at me over her shoulder. “The Fighting 99th.” That anyone especially so young would recognize the unit patch worn by fighter pilots of the 99th Pursuit Squadron, the famed, all-Black Tuskegee Airmen who flew against Hitler’s Luftwaffe in World War II, left me a little stunned. I asked her how she knew about the 99th. “My great-grandfather,” she said, “was a Tuskegee airman.” The pride in her eyes as she told me that was something I’ll never forget. Anyone who has ever studied American military history knows the inspirational story of the Tuskegee Airmen. Treated as second-class citizens because of the color of their skin, they overcame every obstacle imaginable, first learning to fly in rural, racist Alabama, before distinguishing themselves in the hostile skies over Europe. Along the way, they became known as the “Red Tails” by virtue of the distinctive color with which they adorned the empennages of their P-47 Thunderbolts and P-51 Mustangs. So fabled were their achievements in combat that more than 70 years later, in 2018, when U.S. Air Force commanders were debating what name to assign their new primary jet trainer, the Boeing-Saab T-7, they chose the “Red Hawk” and ordered the jets’ tails painted red to honor those Tuskegee warriors. I’ve always dreamed of flying a Mustang. I never have. I’ve never even been in one. I was born long after the end of World War II and, for the record, I’m not Black. So you might be asking, what business does a guy like me have wearing a ball cap sporting a Tuskegee squadron patch? The simple answer is this: Every time I do, I am reminded of the debt of gratitude we owe to those men, and to the millions of others of every ethnicity who fought and sometimes died to leave our world a better, fairer, more equal place. Which brings me to Donald Trump. To comply with his crackdown on diversity, equality, and inclusion initiatives, it was reported this weekend that the Air Force had removed from its basic training courses all videos of the Tuskegee Airmen. Also scrapped were videos featuring the WASPs, the Women Airforce Service Pilots who played a vital role ferrying military aircraft during the war. Not a day later, apparently bowing to public pressure, the Trump Administration reversed course and announced that the videos would remain in the Air Force’s basic training curriculum. While I can’t conceive what cultural harm could possibly come of teaching new Air Force recruits about the courage and sacrifices of such extraordinary heroes, I can easily envision the dangers posed in redrafting history, as Trump and his minions appear to be attempting to do. To marginalize or exclude the contributions made to the common good by any group is to erase their presence in the shared story of our nation. By failing to acknowledge the unique achievements and sacrifices made by heroes who first had to overcome scorn and hate from their own countrymen, we risk not only distorting the past but also spitting on the very values that made America great—perseverance and unity in the face of unimaginable adversity. By deleting the stories of trailblazers like the Tuskegee Airmen and the WASPs, we also deny future generations of vital role models–the very individuals who represent the best of what we as a people have always strived to be. The legacy left by these pioneers—who fought both on the front lines and against the prejudices of their own country—is not merely a story of military valor; it is a testament to the strength of the human spirit, and to the conviction that ability is not defined by the color of one’s skin or gender, but indeed by the content of one’s character. None of those pioneers served to gain celebrity or riches. They did so because they believed in the promise of a better, more just America. To blot out their stories as if they never existed is to ignore their influence in whatever progress we’ve made toward achieving the kind of America for which they fought so hard. And, so, until it falls off my head from use, I will continue wearing my well-loved cap with its squadron patch honoring the pilots of the Fighting 99th, both as a testament to their bravery and as my responsibility to help ensure in my small way that their story is not forgotten. Whether in the skies or on the ground, the Tuskegee Airmen and all those who served alongside them strived to pave the way for a future in which every American would have the opportunity to soar. We owe it to them—and to ourselves—to keep their stories alive, to remind the world that “Make America Great” is more than a political slogan. It is courage; it is self-sacrifice; it is devotion to a transcendent ideal, as yet unrealized, of that shining city on the hill.
Deep Fury
A naked man drops from the night sky and crashes through the roof of a mobile home, nearly killing the elderly couple inside. The victim is soon identified as Pete Hostetler, a well-respected executive at a California-based toy manufacturing company. But detectives are baffled, and there are no leads. Did he accidentally fall out of an airplane or was he pushed? For Cordell Logan–a sardonic, financially struggling flight instructor and former government assassin–Hostetler’s death is personal. The two men were classmates at the US Air Force Academy and later served together as fighter pilots during Operation Desert Storm, where Hostetler saved Logan’s life during one particularly perilous combat mission in Iraq. Logan is convinced Pete was murdered. But who would’ve killed someone in such bizarre fashion, and why? Determined to avenge his battle buddy’s death, Logan starts digging and discovers nothing is as it seems, and that he may not have known Hostetler as well as he thought. Soon a vexing trail of clues lead him and his aging Cessna, the Ruptured Duck, across California, deep into Mexico, and relentlessly into harm’s way Facebook Instagram Tumblr Deep Fury Studio Review Praise for Deep Fury A high-flying, high-octane thrill ride, Deep Fury by David Freed is the long awaited seventh installment of the bestselling Cordell Logan Mysteries. Keep reading for Doreen’s review. The seventh installment of the Cordell Logan mystery series finds our former fighter pilot turned flight instructor (and aspiring private investigator) trying not to get involved with his nonagenarian landlady Mrs. Schmulowitz’s quixotic run for city council. While he has no interest in politics, he’s also perfectly happy to be living in Mrs. Schmulowitz’s garage, no matter what his girlfriend has to say about it. Layne Sterling is a former CIA agent who is bright, beautiful, and a total catch. She thinks it’s high time that she and Logan moved into grown-up accommodations of their own, despite Logan’s reluctance to leave his admittedly high-energy landlady to her own devices. Those arguments are all put on the back burner, however, when he learns that the hitherto unidentified dead body that recently fell out of the sky some towns over belongs to his former Air Force wingman Pete “Chocks” Hostetler. Feeling guilty at having fallen out of touch, Logan flies his Cessna 172, the Ruptured Duck, the hour or so to Chocks’ last known address in Santa Isabella to pay his respects to Chocks’ widow. Miranda Hostetler paints a very different picture of his former wingman than Logan was familiar with. According to the seething Miranda, Chocks was an abusive drunk who was involved in shady business, a far cry from the upright airman Logan knew. Instead of shaking his memories of the man, this contradiction only underscores Logan’s determination to figure out how Chocks had come to be thrown out of an aircraft, naked, to his unceremonious death. Layne, of course, wants to know more about why Logan feels so much loyalty to someone he hadn’t even spoken to in years. As briefly as he can, Logan tells her about one particular mission he’d run with Chocks during Desert Storm: I told her about ejecting, hitting the ground hard, scrambling out of my rig, and taking cover in a dry river channel with my pistol, my mouth as dry as sand, hoping my emergency locator transmitter still worked. I could see a column of enemy troop carriers–what looked like an entire mechanized infantry company–coming to get me. “Then, out of nowhere, here comes Chocks, blazing away. One pass after another, blowing up bad guys. He stayed on station until he was almost out of fuel. Kept ‘em pinned down until I could get out. He took a thirty-seven-millimeter round in his leg. Broke the femur. Ran out of gas coming into Khalid. Had to dead-stick the landing. They quit counting the shell holes in his airplane when they got to two hundred.[“] While he knows he can never repay his former wingman for saving his life, Logan is determined to find out who killed Chocks and to subsequently avenge his fallen friend. His investigations bring him to the attention of some powerful and very dangerous people, but it might very well be his own recklessness that does him in. Even if he does escape death in his pursuit of the truth, will he be able to keep his relationship with an increasingly frustrated Layne alive? As he doggedly chases down leads while flying around California, he can’t help but think about how he’s in danger of losing her: There was no mistaking it for anything other than a private strip […] Only in emergencies are general aviation pilots allowed to land at such airfields without prior permission. So that’s what I had–an “emergency.” I pulled the mixture to idle cutoff and switched off the ignition. As I glided in, dead-stick style, Layne popped into my head, how she was all about planning and preparing for any contingency, while I was all about winging it, adapting on the fly, and overcoming. Our respective approaches to problem-solving were antithetical to each other. Maybe Layne and I were fundamentally antithetical to each other, too. I tried not to think of her. Deep Fury has all the swagger of late 20th-century action thrillers while realistically updating circumstances for the 21st century. David Freed is an award-winning journalist and a licensed pilot who knows how to accurately capture the nuances of both real and larger-than-life situations, as his protagonist juggles a complex murder investigation with personal tribulations. The cast of colorful characters doesn’t necessarily make the best individual choices, but that only adds to the convincingness of the story, as Logan’s unwavering sense of loyalty guides him through his journey toward truth and justice, no matter the personal cost. Doreen Sheridan from criminalelement.com “David Freed’s Deep Fury has been a long time coming, I think around nearly eight years, and it was absolutely worth the wait. As the seventh entry in
Between What Once Was and What Could Have Been
What happens when you write a novel, setting much of it in the real world, and then part of that real world is erased before the novel can be published? This was my dilemma in writing The Impossible Turn, my eighth and newest Cordell Logan mystery. A fair amount of the story originally took place in Malibu, California, where I drew references to actual streets I’ve driven on over the years, real stores where I’ve shopped, and landmark restaurants like Moonshadows and the Reel Inn, where I’ve enjoyed more than my share of good seafood. I was a couple of days away from finishing and emailing the completed manuscript to my agent when the Santa Anas began blowing last week at hurricane strength. Suddenly, it seemed, much of Los Angeles was burning. I reside up the coast and far enough away from all the fires that my family and I were not threatened. My greater and more immediate concern, of course, was for the safety of many friends and former colleagues who live in the LA area, particularly those I worked with at the Los Angeles Times. At least half-a-dozen, and likely others I’m not aware of as I write this, lost their homes. I can’t begin to imagine their anguish, nor that of the thousands of other victims of what may prove to be the most expensive natural disaster in modern American history. And so, it is the context of that almost incomprehensible tragedy that I hope you’ll forgive my bemoaning the relatively trivial inconvenience of having to rewrite a work of fiction to keep up with current events. Such, however, is the lot of any novelist who aspires to achieve believability in the make-believe stories they spin. As the smoke began clearing and the extent of the catastrophe became known, I reread the latest draft of The Impossible Turn and confirmed what I already feared–that neighborhoods I’d included in detail had burned to the ground. My need to rewrite was obvious; how I would go about that rewrite was less so. I figured I had three options: I could revise the plot and have the story play out well before the fires, making no mention of the catastrophe, but that struck me as contrary to my previous books, all of which were intended to convey a sense of current day. I envisioned getting letters from confused readers demanding to know, “When exactly does this book take place??” Or… I could set the story after the fires. But given that it takes at least a year and typically longer before a finished book finally hits the shelves, I realized I could not predict with any accuracy what the aftermath of the fires might look like. Will Pacific Coast Highway, where oceanfront mansions once stood, still be ash and rubble, or will reconstruction be well underway? Hey, I’m merely a humble scribe, not a fortune teller. Or… I could erase from my story any reference to Malibu and the Palisades and simply shift that part of the plot a few miles inland to, say, the Hollywood Hills. In the end, it was this third option that seemed most viable to me. If you’ve ever spent time in the LA basin, you might better understand why I made the choice I did. The late Dorothy Parker once described Los Angeles as, “Seventy-two suburbs in search of a city.” She wasn’t wrong. The sprawling, amorphous mass known as LA, with its more than 18 million residents, defies the traditional definition of community. If you live in Beverly Hills, for example, or basically anywhere west of LaCienega Boulevard, you’re likely not much interested in what goes down in Compton or out in Pacoima. Indeed, it’s been my experience that Angelenos, figuratively speaking, tend to wear blinders. They embrace a mindset that says, in effect, “Good or bad, if it didn’t happen in my immediate neighborhood, it didn’t happen. Period.” Believe me, I know of what I speak, having lived there for ten years. My children back then attended school at Mt. Washington Elementary, which was right around the corner from our house. Every morning after dropping them off, my wife and/or I would spend a few minutes chatting in the parking lot with other parents, our neighbors. On one particular Monday morning, I can vividly remember expressing my concern about a shooting that had occurred the previous Saturday night in nearby Glassell Park. A young family like ours had taken an unfortunate turn down a wrong street, where gang members opened fire on their minivan in the mistaken belief that those in the vehicle were rival thugs. A toddler was killed in her car seat. Two days later, standing there outside our local elementary school, my neighbors seemed not to share my concern about what had happened. “That was Glassell Park,” one of the other dads said, “not Mt. Washington.” For the record, Glassell Park is more or less adjacent to Mt. Washington, and about a mile away as the crow flies from where we were gathered in that parking lot. It was that kind of isolationist, denialism thinking, that ultimately compelled my wife and me to decamp with our kids and move away from LA. My neighbors’ disregard over what had happened to that family in Glassell Park is little different, I’m convinced, than what will likely occur in the aftermath of last week’s firestorms. Many Angelinos not directly affected by them will soon forget they ever occurred. They’ll put their blinders back on and go about their lives in their little corners of those seventy-two suburbs as if nothing ever happened. But who knows? Maybe that kind of collective memory loss is a good thing for novelists. It provides the perfect soil in which to grow fiction, where the rawness of tragedy and fragility are reshaped into something surreal and profound. Amid Los Angeles’ boundless distractions, all
Chaucer Book Signing – Jan 16 at 6 pm
Date:01/16/2025 Time: 6:00pm – 7:00pm Place: Chaucer’s Books3321 State StreetSanta Barbara, CA 93105-2623 Join bestselling author David Freed for a thrilling evening of mystery and suspense at his book signing event for “Deep Fury”! Mark your calendars for January 16, 2025, at 6:00 PM and prepare to delve into the captivating world of Cordell Logan, a former government assassin turned flight instructor, as he navigates a treacherous web of deceit and danger in the seventh installment of the acclaimed Cordell Logan Mysteries series. In “Deep Fury,” a bizarre murder plunges Logan into a high-stakes investigation that will challenge his skills and test his loyalties. When a naked man falls from the sky and crashes into a mobile home, Logan is drawn into the mystery surrounding the victim’s identity and the motive behind his gruesome demise. As he digs deeper, he uncovers shocking secrets and realizes that nothing is as it seems. This gripping thriller will take you on a whirlwind journey across California and deep into Mexico, as Logan races against time to uncover the truth and avenge his fallen comrade. With twists and turns that will keep you on the edge of your seat, “Deep Fury” is a must-read for fans of mystery, suspense, and action-packed adventure. Don’t miss this opportunity to meet David Freed, get your copy of “Deep Fury” signed, and hear firsthand about the inspiration behind this thrilling new addition to the Cordell Logan Mysteries. Event Details:
My Jimmy Carter Moment
Several years ago, on a dark day of deep despair, a silly idea came to me—one that would eventually become a silly book, while finding me crossing paths with a former President of the United States who was anything but silly. I was working back then in the entertainment industry, writing film scripts for the major studios, TV networks, and independent producers. My annual income could best be described as boom or bust. Some years I earned very little. In others, I made vastly more money than I could’ve ever begun to imagine at the Los Angeles Times, where I had toiled as a reporter for more than a decade. On balance, it was a comfortable living, one that allowed me to escape Los Angeles with my family and buy a home with an ocean view two hours up the coast in lovely Santa Barbara. But the more time I spent writing movies, the more disillusioned and frustrated I became. I grew tired of fighting LA traffic and having to attend pitch meetings to propose my movie ideas that more often than not went nowhere; of being jacked around by conniving development executives who professed to love my ideas, then hired other screenwriters to write them; and of seeing my best scripts get rejected outright or rewritten so extensively that by the time they were produced—what few actually made it to the screen–they bore scant resemblance to my original work. Thus it was while sitting at my desk one afternoon, stewing over my latest misadventure in Hollywood, that the idea hit me: I need to find another job. Suddenly, as if guided by some occult hand, I found myself typing up a list of possible employment opportunities, each one more preposterous than the next, but any one of which, I was convinced, would be way more fun than screenwriting. I could become a chair tester for La-Z-Boy, getting paid to sit on my duff all day. Maybe I could shoot hoops for the Harlem Globetrotters, or go be a wine taster for some major vintner (back then) like Ernest and Julio Gallo. I could train whales for Sea World. I could sing with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. The list of dream jobs became virtually endless! My one big problem, I realized, was that I was uniquely unqualified to take on any of those jobs. But then I thought, Wait a minute. This is America! Since when did a lack of qualifications stop anybody from doing anything? And so, more for grins than the prospects of actual gainful employment, and just to see what kinds of responses I’d get, I began mailing out dozens of goofy application letters under the nom de plume, “Fred Grimes,” a likeable, somewhat less-than-articulate guy with a can-do, never-say-die attitude who’d unfortunately lost his job “down at the plant”, and was looking to reinvent himself in the Land of Opportunity. The letters spawned replies that ranged from equally goofy to deadly serious. The head of the Tabernacle Choir pointed out rather stuffily that one had to be a member of the Mormon Church with “considerable training and vocal experience” to join his choir—and that each vocalist was a volunteer. The job, he said, didn’t pay a dime. Meanwhile, over at Gallo, the head of consumer relations wrote back to report that, “Unfortunately, if we had a job of wine taster, the applicant’s line would indeed be quite long. Sorry!!” Sea World in San Diego responded with, “Although we were impressed with your resume, we have found other candidates who more closely suit our needs at this time.” Fred had sent no resume; only that he “had a way with animals” after having trained the family cat to do a few tricks. The Globetrotters, to whom Fred had written admitting that he was just “an average unemployed American who is white”, and who couldn’t play basketball to save his life, but who could “whistle the heck out of Sweet Georgia Brown”, the Globetrotter’s theme song, got the joke. They responded with a friendly thanks but no thanks while urging Fred to, “Keep whistling!” Then Fred wrote to Jimmy Carter. “You’re making a big mistake building all those houses for the poor,” he advised the former President. “Sir, why not build houses for the rich? You could call them ‘Jimmy Carter Homes,’ or ‘Homes by Jimmy Carter.’ I bet a lot of rich folks would buy them just to tell their friends, ‘Guess who hung my drywall?’ Fred bragged that he was pretty handy around the house, having recently installed a new kitchen sink, and urged the former President to hire him as his construction foreman. A couple of weeks later, I ventured outside to the mailbox to find an envelope bearing a return address in Plains, Georgia–the same address I was to discover later where Carter in 1961 had built a modest, ranch-style home while helping run his family’s peanut farm and warehouse business, and where he and his wife, Rosalynn, still resided. Folded inside the envelope was the original letter I had sent him as Fred Grimes. Hand-written on the upper-right corner was a note from Carter himself: “Fred—Thanks for your idea. When all the poor have homes, we can start on the rich. –Jimmy C.” That letter, and dozens of others from Fred, along with their responses, would eventually find their way into a modest, nonfiction book–Dear Ernest and Julio, the Ordinary Guy’s Search for the Extraordinary Job, by Fred Grimes, with David Freed. Published by St. Martin’s Press, it’s been out of print for a while, but you can still find used copies for cheap on eBay if you’re at all interested. Not long after Dear Ernest and Julio was published, my wife and I visited Plains, Georgia. It was an easy drive from Albany, Georgia, where I was born, and not far from Fort Benning, where our
Publication Day!
Deep Fury, my seventh Cordell Logan mystery, debuts today. The publication of a new book is always a thrilling if not tremulous occasion for any author, regardless of how many titles they’ve already put out there. Will readers enjoy what I’ve written this time? Will the critics be kind? Will I sell enough copies so that I don’t have to go out and find a real job somewhere, like Home Depot? Fingers crossed. New books come with plenty of responsibilities, not the least of which is remembering to acquire enough copies for your freeloading buddies who are too cheap to buy their own. But perhaps the most important obligation these days is the necessity of promoting your own book. It’s a function that, frankly speaking, I find uncomfortable and usually have to be arm-twisted into doing. Back in the day, your typically introverted novelist (read: pretty much all novelists) could sit back with the doors locked and shades drawn, box up their new manuscript, and send it off to their editors laissez-faire, never having to trifle much with tooting their own horns once the book was released. These days, publishers expect authors to be self-motivated, marketing whizbangs. It’s all about “building your brand” and “extending your reach” on social media with blog posts like the one you’re currently reading. We’re talking search engine optimization, dear friends, not to mention meta descriptions, backlinks, keyword density, and a myriad of other Digital Age terminology, much of which my old-school, analog brain simply fails to comprehend. The good news is that I have some wonderful experts in my corner willing to hold my hand as I navigate this largely bewildering process. These include, most notably, my website guru, Blake O’Ruairi, who is as Irish as his name sounds, and my lead publicist, the ever-charming Tatiana Radujkovic, who works for Blackstone, my publisher. If there’s anything I do understand about the art and science of self-promotion, and one that I do enjoy, it’s the need to get out there and get together with the folks who like reading mysteries. Toward that end, though the details are yet to be worked out, I hope to be appearing in 2025 at a bookstore somewhere in your time zone. Meanwhile. I’m already anticipating questions I’ll get from interested readers, mainly because I’ve been asked many of them before. The one that always seems to come up is the one I can never adequately answer: How do you come up with your ideas? I’m not trying to be glib here, but the process is a mystery in itself. I’ve asked other writers the same question, and their answer is always more or less the same. “The idea usually finds me, not the other way around,” they’ll say, or some iteration thereof. That’s definitely how it works with me. I’ll be taking a shower, or playing catch with the dog, or snoozing at 3:30 in the morning, and, shazam, some random synapse will fire deep inside my skull, and the fundamental notion for a book will come bubbling to the surface. Wow, I’ll think to myself, this could make for a terrific plot! Then I’ll typically chew on the concept for a few days, do some snooping around on the internet, and almost always reject the idea. Often, it’s because it or some iteration of it has been done before, and well, by another writer. Sometimes I’ll conclude that the idea is too simple or too complex, or that I’d have to devote the next two years researching the subject before I could achieve the kind of verisimilitude that would permit readers to maintain their suspension of disbelief, which is key to all good fiction. But every once in a while, an idea will stick. Such was the case with what ultimately became Deep Fury. I was sipping coffee and reading the news online one morning about three years ago when I stumbled across a bizarre story. A British soldier practicing high-altitude parachute drops with his unit had crashed through the Spanish tile roof of a home in central California, not far from where I live, after his main chute failed to open. The soldier was forced to deploy his reserve parachute and fortunately sustained only minor injuries. No one inside the home was hurt. I immediately thought to myself, This has potential! What if a guy falls out of the sky to his death, only naked and without a parachute, and crashes through the roof of a mobile home where an elderly couple lives? What if the guy once served as Cordell Logan’s wingman, back when they were both Air Force fighter pilots flying combat missions during Operation Desert Storm? And what if plenty of people had reason to want the guy dead? Three hundred-plus pages later, I finished Deep Fury. I hope you like it. If you do, please help spread the word by posting a brief review on Amazon or Goodreads. And also, if you have a good idea for Logan’s next adventure, I’m all ears.