Michael Sears’ novels about disgraced Wall Street trader Jason Stafford give us a window into the world of high finance. His novels succeed because he infuses his complex plots with enough background about the stock market and money managing that anyone can understand without dumbing down these stories for those readers savvy about the intricacies of Wall Street.

Jason, who went to prison for two years for financial fraud, is on a mission to redeem himself and gain back his self-respect. But the heart of Sears’ novels is Jason’s work as a single father to an autistic son, who, to say the least, is a handful. But Jason loves his son unconditionally and through this Sears shows the challenges and rewards of this relationship.

Sears’ novels quickly found their readership. His debut Black Fridays tied for the most award nods—five—the year it was published. (The other author with five award nominations that year was Hank Phillippi Ryan.)

Black Fridays was nominated for an Edgar, the Thriller, Anthony, the Barry and the Shamus. The only award Sears’ novel was not nominated for is the Macavity.

Jason makes his fourth appearance in Sears’ Saving Jason, which was just published.

Before he began his book tour, Sears wrote this blog for Mystery Scene.

I Don’t Listen to Amy Winehouse When I Write

 
Because if I did, I wouldn’t ever get anything done.

I enjoy a wide range in music.

Like Jason Stafford, I like the Grateful Dead. I can put on a Dick’s Picks and write with no problem.

I also like jazz. And classical. Blues. World. New Age. Classic R&B. Alt.  

Not that I like everything, far from it.

I admit to being one of the few Long Islanders who would be content to never hear Captain Jack or Piano Man EVER again. Yes to Cyndi Lauper, no to Madonna.

I like Larry Carlton, John Scofield, and Larry Coryell, but George Benson never satisfies. Most of Miles Davis, but very little of Ornette Coleman.

And while I admit that 90 percent of the music I listen to was written and performed by someone who is now 50 or older (or no longer with us), I also like Snoop and Lady Gaga.  

But what do I listen to when I’m writing?

It could be any of the above. The music is more than a backdrop, but I don’t “actively” listen.

If the music demands too much of me, emotionally or intellectually (or physically—it’s hard not to get up and dance to Sly Stone, Stevie Wonder, or George Clinton), then I find myself drifting away from the story.

Sometimes it’s an artist, or a piece of music, or, especially in the classical music genre, a phrase that reaches out and grabs me and won’t let go.

One afternoon, I was struggling to edit an almost-due manuscript. My speakers were on low playing a collection of Puccini operas. Tosca came and went. Turandot followed.

I was fully engaged with my book, cutting, pasting, adding, or altering. Suddenly I found my eyes welling up with tears, my throat tightening and choking every breath. The Prince’s aria had snuck up on me and done it again.

Obviously, you say.

Nessun Dorma demands your attention.

OK, but why can Eric Clapton noodle away while I compose, but Jeff Beck insists that I put everything down and just listen? B.B. King is OK, but Albert King is not. I like them both. I like Dusty Springfield and Amy Winehouse, but only Amy interferes with my train of thought. Ella Fitzgerald is fine. Billie Holiday? Not a chance. Clannad? Fine.The Chieftans? Fine. De Danann? Sorry, no. I love their music, but it gets in the way.

Eclectic, yes.

But why does one artist let me focus on Jason Stafford and his son while another is like the cat on the keyboard.

If I am not giving my full attention, I will be barred from doing anything else anyway.

You can always lock the cat out of the room, or take the dog for a walk so he settles down.  

But what do you do when Amy Winehouse begins Back to Black?

I surrender.