Jess
Faraday is the author of the Ira Adler mysteries and the standalone steampunk
thriller The Left Hand of Justice. She also moonlights as the mystery editor
for Elm Books.
What is
your story's heat level? How do you approach the sex scenes?
I’d put the heat level at 1 or 2. There is sex in my books, but
most of the action takes place behind closed doors. Quite a bit is hinted at,
foreshadowed, or thought about briefly in retrospect, but the most I’ll usually
describe outright is a really hot kiss or some minor groping.
How do you maintain activity as a writer
when sitting at a desk all day?
I’ve always had a hard time sitting still at a desk. So now that
I’m spending all day writing and editing, I do it standing at the kitchen
counter. Or sometimes dancing there. And I break up the workday with running,
walking the dog, and martial arts. I have a second degree black belt in Tae
Kwon Do and am on a competition poomsae team, so that keeps me pretty active.
And on weekends, my favorite thing is to go hiking, biking, or just running
around with the family. It might sound like there’s no time to write with all
that, but in reality, the activity keeps my body healthy and my mind sharp, so
that when I’m working, I’m working at peak efficiency.
What is it that you loved about the main
characters in your story?
They’re all terribly earnest. Even the villains. And the world
often isn’t kind to earnest people. But they keep doing the best they can…kind
of like all of us.
What do you feel is your strongest type
of writing? Humor? Angst? Confrontation scenes? Action? Sex? Sensuality? Sweet
Romance? And why?
I think I’m pretty good at humorous angst. Finding the absurdity
in a bad situation—a bad situation of one’s own making. Because in my real life
I’m awesome at making mistakes. And if you can’t laugh when the world is
crashing down around your ears (and it’s your own fault), how else are you
going to get through it?
Are you social media savvy? If so what
do you suggest for others? If not, why not?
I’m pretty savvy. I do Facebook, Livejournal, GoodReads, and
Twitter, and have my own site (http://www.jessfaraday.com). But social media
can suck up all of your writing time if you let it, so I try to set limits.
What are some things from your life or
things you have observed that you've infused into your stories?
One of my characters, Bess Lazarus, is an American married to a
Brit—like me. She’s also ready to kick butt and take names when it comes to
protecting those in her sphere. Her husband, Tim Lazarus, tends to take on too
much responsibility and tries too hard to please everyone, then gets really
irritable about it. Like I do. The main character of my mystery series, Ira
Adler, has, as a friend said, “honorable intentions with fallible
instincts”—this is also me. And I have to cop to a certain cold-blooded logical
streak, like my villain, Cain Goddard, who can’t quite seem to get his head
around the idea that people don’t always make
sense, and that emotions can’t be figured out absolutely like mathematical
equations.
If you had an unlimited budget, where would you like to visit for story-related
research?
I’d build a time machine and go everywhere!
Any fun facts about the research for your book?
Sugar refineries were dangerous and filthy!
Food safety regulations are a Very Good Thing.
Things Can Always Be Worse.
A little careless chemistry can cause a lot of destruction.
The Victorians might have been stuffy, but they also really knew
how to enjoy themselves!
Finally, tell us a little about your newest release!
Turnbull
House is the second book of the Ira Adler mysteries. In this book,
former criminal Ira Adler is now a solid citizen sitting on the board of a
youth shelter. When the shelter’s landlord threatens to sell the building out
from under them, Ira turns to the past—crime lord Cain Goddard—for a loan. But
the loan comes with strings, and before he knows it, Ira is tangled up in them
and tumbling back into the life of crime he worked so hard to escape.
It’s getting some great reviews, so I hope readers will give it a
try! Turnbull House is available
through Bold Strokes Books, and at all the usual outlets.
Jess will be awarding a two-book set (paperback) of Turnbull House
and its predecessor, The Affair of the Porcelain Dog to a randomly drawn
commenter between this tour and the NBtM Review Tour.
Blurb:
London
1891. Former criminal Ira Adler has built a respectable, if dull, life for
himself as a confidential secretary. He even sits on the board of a youth
shelter. When the shelter’s landlord threatens to sell the building out from
under them, Ira turns to his ex-lover, crime lord Cain Goddard, for a loan. But
the loan comes with strings, and before he knows it, Ira is tangled up in them
and tumbling back into the life of crime he worked so hard to escape. Two old
flames come back into Ira’s life, along with a new young man who reminds Ira of
his former self. Will Ira hold fast to his principles, or will he succumb to
the temptations of easy riches and lost pleasures?
Excerpt:
November of 1891 was the autumn of my discontent.
Melodramatic, yes. But if one is to understand the chain of foolish and
self-destructive actions that I undertook over the course of that month, one
must first understand the depths of that discontent, as well as its roots.
The past five years had taken me from furtive back-alley
gropes in the shadows of Whitechapel to a life of luxurious indolence amid the
lace curtains and aspidistras of York Street, then much of the way back down
again. I’d spent a pleasant two years being spoilt by Cain Goddard, London’s
best-educated and possibly best-dressed crime lord. But ultimately, even a
gilded cage begins to press in on a person—especially when one’s nascent
conscience decides, in spite of one’s fondest wishes, to expand. How fortunate
I was that, in his generosity—and in an effort to add realism to his claim that
I was his live-in confidential secretary—Goddard had also taught me a trade.
And that was where I found myself that November: in a flat
on Aldersgate Street, which, though squalid, was mine—paid for by the sweat of
my brow or, more precisely, by the ink on my fingers—with no obligation to any
man. The single room was drafty in winter, sweltering in the summer, and the
landlord thought indoor plumbing was an idea best left to the fevered
imagination of that Gallic popinjay, Verne. Still, it was preferable to
sleeping on my feet, leaning against a rope with twenty other men in some
Dorset Street doss house. And I had no interest in living off the generosity of
some rich man until he grew bored with me. Until my situation changed, my
present lodgings were the only palatable option.
And until Wilde paid me the outrageous sum he owed, my
situation would not be changing any time soon.
