The Power of Unrelenting Cynicism

Or, Of Course I Don't Believe You!

If you’re new here (and there are a bunch of you; thanks!), you may not know that before I wrote rambling essays about publishing and movies I spent twenty years with the New York City Police Department. For most of that time I was a homicide detective in the Bronx, the borough of my birth. The conversation around policing is a difficult one. You can feel however you want about it, but I loved my job. I come from a working class family, was the first to attend college. The job gave me benefits and a pension. But The Work gave me purpose. Made me want to do my best, because I believed—and still do—that, if done right, policing matters.

But The Work also messed me up.

Kinda. But not really. (But also kinda.)

I was in lower Manhattan on 9/11 (and weeks after). Watched and rewatched murders captured on video. Attended autopsies of infants and children. Took confessions from unrepentant killers. Told mothers their sons were never coming home. Put bad men in prison until they die. I don’t have PTSD. I sleep easy every night. Call me callous or cold; I’ve heard it before. The way I see it, for two decades I had front row seats to the Greatest Show on Earth. Witnessed the city at its best and worst; the blood, the shootings, the chaos, the riots. None of that got to me (make of that what you will).

Know what did? The lies. That has impacted how I approach the business of writing. It’s a terrible affliction that has messed with my outlook on life in general (just ask my poor wife). A few months back my mother-in-law asked if I was excited a major publisher was considering acquiring my novel. I was, but also wouldn’t be surprised by a rejection. My answer puzzled and saddened her; why wasn’t I more hopeful, she asked?

Because I was a detective. Duh.

The author giving a non-existent press conference to an unassembled media.

The Work made me a cynic. Like Mahershala Ali’s Wayne Hays says in season three of True Detective, “General rule is everybody’s lyin’.” Witnesses withhold out of fear. Cops hide their laziness from supervisors. Perps deny their entire lives. Family members reject relatives’ criminality. And detectives? We lie to everyone.

The ruse is a Supreme Court-approved method of interrogation; you can’t fabricate evidence, but you can intimate and declare and misdirect and confuse. Detectives lie to elicit truth. I did, over and over, without guilt or regret. I dealt regularly with men who shot blindly into crowds of innocents and sexually assaulted women and killed rivals over Soundcloud diss tracks. Whatever terrible situations created them, these were not decent citizens. My lies served the greater good.

Pessimistic pragmatism keeps one’s hopes in check. But man, that kind of dissonance can wear you down. And now that I’ve escaped the asylum—make no mistake, policing institutionalizes everyone it employs—I struggle altering my bleak perception of humanity. Remind myself I’m not in that world anymore.

It ain’t easy.

In late 2022 I co-wrote a television pilot with the novelist Taylor Moore and an active-duty CIA officer (I can’t give you their name. Hell, we’ve never even met; they might not be real). It was a ten-episode, domestic espionage anthology pitched as Homeland meets True Detective. Moore’s agent shopped the project around Hollywood. To my shock, we landed meetings—lots of meetings. Some of the biggest production companies in the industry Zoomed with us. Most were friendly affairs where execs complimented our work. But one—a major player—told us to cancel all future sit downs; they were buying our show. They were into the concept. More importantly, they were into us.

Cue irrational, premature celebration.

This was early 2023, when the Writers Guild of America was locked in heated contract negotiations with the AMPTP (the studios). In May the Guild struck. Writers walked picket lines. The job action lasted until nearly October. Production cratered. Hollywood still hasn’t fully recovered. Streamers facing new financial realities retrenched. And our little show? Yeah, we never heard from them again.

Now, I’m no rube. The Work beat hopeless optimism out of me. I’m also a student of movies. Hollywood is a heartless lover that breaks souls daily. Just watch Barton Fink, The Player, Sunset Boulevard, Mulholland Drive, Trumbo, Babylon. I had no illusions about our series getting made. But would I have welcomed a development announcement, a press release in Variety? Duh. Again. That would’ve signaled industry validation. And once you’ve wedged a foot in the door, knocking it down’s way easier.

If you’ve come this far, you probably think I’m an unappreciative bastard. Understandable. I assure you I’m not. I know I’m lucky. I have a tremendous agent. Have made friends in the writing community. Relationships for which I’m grateful. Authors I respect have read my work. Provided endorsements. I’ve learned from them. My last project got a ton of positive industry feedback. The novel I just finished might be the breakthrough.

And yet.

For all the kind words and interest, I struggle taking people at their word. Hunt always for evidence of them misdirecting me. Thank The Work, how it screwed with my mind. Two decades spent exposed to the worst in us. I’m six years removed, but The Work’s still with me. I suspect it always will be. Late at night, I sometimes ask myself, would I do it all over again?

I won’t bother answering. You wouldn’t know if I’m lying.