One Bite at a Time

A Foolish Inconsistency is the Hobgoblin of Small Minds

2012-02-01T05:21:00.001-08:00

Yes, I know I got the quote wrong. In the context of today’s post, what I have here is correct.

Thomas Pluck recently posted an excellent blog to Crime Factory about foul language in books. The topic occasionally pops up, is debated for a couple of weeks, then subsides as writers find other things they can’t control to vent about. Pluck’s comments were timed with something that came to notice here.

The Beloved Spouse and I will occasionally watch a bit of stand-up on Comedy Central before turning in. Hop over to Channel 690, see what’s on, and stick around a while if it looks promising. We’re also regular viewers of both The Daily Show and The Colbert Report. With the Supreme Court currently looking into what can, and cannot, be said on television, one thing struck us: there is a strange inconsistency in what network Standards and Practices will allow, and what they won’t.

Let’s take Comedy Central, notably stand-up comics, Jon Stewart, and Stephen Colbert. They can’t say “fuck” or “shit” and get away with it; either word will be bleeped every time. This is in keeping with the late, great, George Carlin’s definition of the seven words you can never say on television. “Shit” is, however, permissible on FX, which is owned by Fox, which is the Official Network of Family Value Conservatives, as is “piss.” On Comedy Central—near as we can tell—you can be pissed off, but you can’t take a piss. A little weird, but it gets better.

CC allows the word “dick” as a reference to someone, but it can’t be used as a body part. You can be a dick, but you can’t have one, never mind why calling someone a dick is an insult. People act “dickish” all the time. “Balls” is okay, unless in the context of body part, so someone can have balls (“It takes a lot of balls to do that,” “You got some balls on you.”) but he cannot actually have balls. The origin of the phrase is, again, neglected. The secret here may be in the connection to what Archie Bunker so eloquently called “the groinal area.”

"Asshole” is a good one. You can say “ass” and you can say “hole,” but you can’t say “asshole.” Even better, they won’t bleep the whole word; just the “hole.” So “ass” is okay and “hole” is okay, but they are banned when combined, and it’s the “hole” that makes it obscene.

Then there is “goddamnit.” This one is okay for reasons that escape me. The Cultural Wars in this country are generally between the Christian Right (sometimes referred to as The Right) and people who generally want to be left alone and think we have bigger fish to fry (also known as The Wrong). A couple of ministers keep themselves in the public eye—and, not coincidentally, keep those contributions rolling in—by periodically pointing out the road to Perdition is paved with foul language and semi-second glimpses of Janet Jackson’s nipple. How does “goddamnit” get past these sentinels of propriety? I’m no Bible scholar, but isn’t taking the Lord Thy God’s name in vain one of the Ten Commandments? How does that get a pass, and “balls” doesn’t?

A study was recently released that says conservatives and racists are less intelligent. (Than what, we’re not so sure.) I don’t believe this—I’ll have more to say on From the Home Office in a couple of days—though inconsistencies like the above do give me pause. I sincerely don’t want to come across as insensitive—though, as regular readers know, I will if I feel the need—I’m genuinely curious about how this works, especially the “goddamnit” business. Feel free to enlighten me in the comments.

Elmore Leonard Analyzed

2012-01-30T18:30:00.001-08:00

And damn well, too. This is the best appreciation/analysis of Leonard’s work I’ve read.

Thanks to Jack Getze for pointing it out.

The Best Part

2012-01-27T05:36:00.001-08:00

What’s the best part about “publishing” a book? (I use the term advisedly, as putting one’s own work out as an e-book may strain some people’s definition.) Sure, the money’s nice. I’ve made over $80 from Wild Bill so far (that’s eight-oh, with a zero) and could crack triple digits. The fame is nice; this blog alone has nine followers. No book tour, so, alas, no groupies, though I do have a little something going on with the lady of the house.

Any of the above would have made Wild Bill a success for me. (Especially that last one.) What made it an unqualified success here at The Home Office was the attention the book received from writers whose work and opinions I had come to respect. Some I knew reasonably well, mostly online. Some I had only a nodding acquaintance with. There were even a couple I hadn’t known before who heard of the book one way or another and took the time to write enthusiastically about it.

I discovered Tim Hallinan when I was asked to review A Nail Through the Heart, his first Poke Rafferty novel. I’ve read everything he’s written since. Adrian McKinty became known to me when I reviewed The Dead Yard; I then kept up, and reached back to read Dead I Well May Be. (I’ve fallen a book behind, solely because no US publisher saw fit to print Falling Glass, which I believe won awards in more enlightened parts of the world. My copy is on its way as we speak.) I’d read a couple of Charlie Stella’s short stories and got my first exposure to his novels with I reviewed Shakedown. I’m about halfway through his complete oeuvre now. Tim Hallinan put Leighton Gage in touch with me; I’m working my way through the Inspector Silva series.

All of the above are writers I was but a fan boy of when I wrote Wild Bill. (Mike Dennis, Pat Browning, and Karen Treanor came to my attention after the fact, though their support is no less appreciated.) They were established writers who had achieved what I barely aspired to. Their compliments and willingness to extend themselves means, to me, that I’m not just jerking off when I lock myself in my office every day or evening and hammer out another page or two. Their comments have made my writing easier on those days when I feel stuck and go through the stage every writers has with every book, when he is convinced it’s a piece of shit and months have been wasted working on something no one will ever want to read, including the author. I can do this. I may not become rich—though $80 is nothing to sneeze at—but I have the satisfaction of knowing I can hold my own and not have people think, “He’s a nice guy, but a shitty writer.” (In truth, that never worries me much. I’m not that nice a guy.)

So, thanks to everyone who reviewed, commented on, or read Wild Bill. (For those who have not, it’s still available for $2.99 on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.) And, in the name of being careful what you ask for, my next book, Worst Enemies, will be available March 1. Details and more shameless self-promotion to come.

Adrian McKinty on Wild Bill

2012-01-23T18:26:00.001-08:00

Adrian McKinty, author of the Michael Forsythe novels (Dead I Well May Be, The Dead Yard, The Bloomsday Dead), as well as award-winning novels such as Fifty Grand and Falling Glass, has weighed in on our own humble effort, Wild Bill. Quoth Mr. McKinty:

Wild Bill is a thrilling story about one incident and its repercussions in the FBI's decades long pursuit of the Cosa Nostra. Funny, exciting, intense with splendid characterisation; this is an impressive debut.

Adrian’s newest, The Cold Cold Ground, has recently been released.

Many thanks, sir.

A Three-Way at Meanderings and Muses

2012-01-15T10:24:00.001-08:00

It’s not as though Pat Browning hadn’t done enough for Wild Bill and me; now she’s got us hooked up with herself and Tim Hallinan over at Kaye Barley’s fine blog, Meanderings and Muses. Stop on over to see what Pat, Tim, and I have to say about promotion, writing, small towns, and organized crime.

Many thanks to Kaye for the opportunity, to Pat for pulling everything together, and to both Pat and Tim for providing the erudite questions and responses that kept me on my toes. The experience was a pleasure from start to finish.

Wild Bill (and Me) at New Mystery Reader

2012-01-12T14:33:00.001-08:00

New Mystery Reader has posted a review of Wild Bill by Karen Treanor, as well as an interview Karen did with me. It was great fun, and many thanks go to Karen and Stephanie Padilla at NMR.

By the way, for those who are looking for good review sites, New Mystery Reader is an excellent resource. There are monthly author interviews, and the list of reviewed books is substantial and covers a broad range of crime interests. Well worth a look.

Criminal Minds

2012-01-09T05:28:00.001-08:00

I took a little time one night last week to solve the world’s problems with a friend. When I got home, The Beloved Spouse was curled up on the couch watching Criminal Minds on A&E or some other indistinguishable cable channel. I had nothing better to do at that hour, I like Joe Mantegna, so I plopped myself in a chair to see what I’ve been missing on commercial television.

Jesus Christ, is this show bad.

Where to start? The dialog. Half the show consists of FBI profilers telling each other about profiling, like they don’t already know. Expend a few ounces of effort and at least bring in an ignorant guest star if you’re going to explain things to us.

The cast. Once the credits were over, they might as well have run a screen insert in one corner with a head shot for all the more Mantegna does. Thomas Gibson, late of Dharma and Greg, walks around with a furrowed brow looking brooding and tormented. (TBS says she thinks his wife died. I think he’s constantly reminded he used to spend his work days with Jenna Elfman and is now stuck in this piece of shit. He doesn’t even have to act to look brooding and tormented.)

Deirdre Lovejoy (Rhonda Pearlman in The Wire) may be a fed; I’m not sure. TBS said she didn’t think so, which made it okay for them to explain Profiling 101 to her, but later I saw her with an official FBI windbreaker, so I’m not sure.

The rest of the team consists of the obligatory ice bitch female lead profiler/detective, a younger hunky guy, a younger chick who dresses just professionally enough to show how hot she’d be if she wasn’t dressed so professionally, and a black guy. There’s also the goofy-looking chick back at the office who can click a mouse three times and find sealed juvenile and foster home records, complete employment and substance abuse histories (including which meetings an individual attended last week), dental records, shoe size, rings size, and preferred alcoholic beverage. She solves the case for them in a couple of two-minute segments; the rest is padding.

Then there’s the plot. My episode showed a young husband and wife team travelling the northwest killing people for kicks and sexual gratification. When they turn to killing the man’s father because he abused him as a child—which is strictly a he said/he said situation—the master profilers deduce they’re going after the woman’s father next. They’re in Idaho; Dad is in Spokane, Washington. The killers are in a car, so the feds grab the ubiquitous government plane. Do they call the guy to warn him? Do they call local police to warn them? Hell, no. They fly the two youngest members of the team there, who then drive to the guy’s house to hear his wife tell them he’s at work—Duh!—which is where our kill crazed couple thought to go first. Do they call the police , or Dad, then? Fuck no. They hotfoot it over there to arrive—damn!—too late to save Dad, but just in time to create a hostage situation when the bloodthirsty wife’s young half-sister walks into the gas station just before they kill Dad in the back room.

As you might have guessed by now, these profilers are also gifted hostage negotiators. Having figured out wifey killed hubby’s old girlfriend so she could have him, they begin to tell him exactly what she’s going to do to keep him on the string while they make their escape. She then proceeds to do exactly what they predict within thirty seconds of each prediction. It was like watching an old Warner Brothers cartoon where Daffy Duck is thinks he’s been exposed to a germ and shows every possible symptom just as Bugs Bunny reads them to him.

Damn right I watched the whole show. It’s not every night I get to see a primer in how not to tell a story.

Best Reads For 2011

2012-01-02T11:40:00.001-08:00

I didn’t read quite as much this year as I had in the past, for several reasons, all of which have been documented elsewhere. That doesn’t mean I didn’t find plenty of books worthy of recommendation. I meant to have a list of ten, then twelve, the fifteen, but I could draw a bright line until I was into the twenties.

So here you go with the books I read last year and would be willing to read again, time permitting. They’re listed in alphabetical order; no preference should be inferred.

Absolute Zero Cool, Declan Burke. Publishing is more farked up than even I thought if this doesn’t establish Burke as someone to keep an eye on. Meta-fiction at its best, as the author argues with a character and himself to spin a tale no one else could have thought of, let along written.

Big Money and Big Numbers, Jack Getze. Getze’s trick is to show you the climax at the beginning, then work back toward it, a la Michael Clayton. Not only does Getze pull it off both times, he’s a lot funnier.

City of Lost Girls, Declan Hughes. Not Hughes’s best Ed Loy novel, and I still couldn’t bear to leave it off the list. There’s no one better working today.

Crashed and Little Elvises, Timothy Hallinan. Hallinan took a break from his Poke Rafferty thrillers to start an e-book series about a master burglar who works as sort of a PI for the underworld. The plots are witty and Hallinan hits a perfect balance of humor and action both times.

The Creative Writer’s Survival Guide, John McNally. Does for how to be a writer what Stephen King’s On Writing does for how to write. Young writers in particular should pay attention to what McNally has to say.

Eddie’s World, Charlie Stella. Stella first. The influence of George V. Higgins is writ large, but this is no knock-off. No one captures peripheral mob figures as well as Stella.

Generation Kill, Evan Wright. The book on which David Simon based his HBO series. Things have more perspective in the book. Must reading for anyone who wants a first hand look of what war is like without actually having to go.

Gun, Ray Banks. A novella that describes one day in the life of a just-released convict. Unforgettable.

The New Bill James Historical Baseball Abstract, Bill James. Even more detailed than the original. Maybe too much to read straight through, though James’s writing wears better than a lot of people who are supposed to be writers.

In Defense of Flogging, Peter Moskos. Thoughtful and thought-provoking look into how criminals are punished in America.

Joe Puma, PI, William Campbell Gault. I honest to God don’t remember why I bought this collection of five stories from the Fifties, but I sure am glad I did. First rate PI writing.

Lawyers, Guns, and Money, J.D. Rhoades. Crime and corruption in a small southern town described in perfect balance and style for the setting and material.

Maximum Bob, Elmore Leonard. I’d read it before, and I suspect I’ll read it again.

Pocket 47, Jude Hardin. A deft combination of complexity and readability. Hardin keeps this up and he’ll be the obscure no longer.

Road Rules, Jim Winter. More fun than anyone has ever had in Cleveland. Either Elmore Leonard or Carl Hiaasen would have been happy to write this.

Rut, Scott Phillips. Scariest post-apocalypse scenario yet: what happens if we keep doing what we’ve been doing. Phillips’s wit ensure nothing drags or becomes predictable.

Samaritan, Richard Price. Good intentions with questionable motivations. Not as gripping as Clockers, but a marvelous book.

Setup on Front Street, Mike Dennis. Don’t let the setting (Florida Keys) fool you. As hard-boiled as they come while still using the setting to maximum advantage. The first of a series; the second is already on my Kindle.

Shadow of the Dahlia, Jack Bludis. Maybe my favorite book of the year. Bludis has a reputation, but this was the first book of his I’d read. He captures the period perfectly with a riveting story.

Shit My Dad Says, Justin Halpern. Not just a compilation of tweets, Halpern provides some family history to place the quotes in perspective. He’s a good and funny writer himself, and the old man’s quotes are priceless, though some do seem a little prickish when you realize they were delivered to a twelve-year-old kid. (Sorry, I’m not going to go with the politically correct * when we all know it’s the I in shit.")

True Grit, Charles Portis. I’d seen both movies, finally got around to reading the book. Sometimes I wonder how the hell I can hold a job, waiting as long as I do for good stuff.

Two-Way Split, Allan Guthrie. Hard to say too much without giving away a key plot element. Pay close attention and you’ll not be disappointed.

A Vine in the Blood, Leighton Gage. This newest in the Chief Inspector Mario Silva series may be the best.

Best Reads, November-December

2012-01-01T08:09:00.001-08:00

Still a bit derelict about keeping up with this stuff. Things appear to be settling down, so I hope this year I can stay up on these posts.

A Vine in the Blood, Leighton Gage. Another in the Chief Inspector Silva series. This time’s Silva’s team of Brazilian federal police must find who kidnapped a star soccer player’s mother on the eve of the World Cup. Great story, well-developed characters, no weaknesses of craft. Maybe the best book in the Silva series.

Casino, Nicholas Pileggi. The book on which Martin Scorsese based the movie. Told primarily through interviews, which means everyone is an unreliable narrator. Pileggi edits artfully and allows the reader to make up his own mind about who’s worse than who. Lefty Rosenthal (DeNiro in the movie) does not come off nearly as well here.)

Eddie’s World, Charlie Stella. Stella’s first organized crime book, which is hard to believe. The writing is tight, the plot holds together, and the dialog is reminiscent of George V. Higgins. If you’re looking for a look into what it’s really like to be a connected—not made—guy, this is as good as place as any to start.

Interviews

2011-12-28T08:45:00.001-08:00

I’ve been an intermittent interviewer for six years, doing a couple a year on average. I enjoy the process and try to strike a balance of questions no one else will ask with questions that are asked often because people want to know the answers. (Never “Where do you get your ideas?” I’ve never asked that question, and I promise you I never will.) I have kiddingly patted myself on the back several times when an interview is well received, “reminding” everyone the key to a good interview is in the questions.

Turns out I was right.

I never expected anyone to care enough about Wild Bill to want to ask the author about it. Thankfully, I was wrong about that. I’m in the process of replying to my fourth set of questions this week. Each interview has been unlike the others, and each has been fun. The questioners have approached Wild Bill, and me, in unique manners, so the questions have forced me to think about different things, and even to consider things I hadn’t thought of while I was writing the book. The interviews have been even more gratifying than the good reviews, in part due to the give and take, and, I think, because I’m flattered that someone took enough of an interest in the book to want to know more about where it came from. They have been an unadulterated blessing.

Some interviewers can get away with a list of stock questions they ask everyone. These interviewers either A) are well-known in their own right, or B) have a list of kick-ass questions. Anyone can generate a list of five questions off the top of their head, the questions they hope get asked at a book signing. Those are fine to work into a longer interview, but they don’t tell anything about this author and this book the reader couldn't have found elsewhere. They aren’t the way to get thoughtful answers unless the questions are unique and versatile. (Not “Where do you get your ideas?”)

Based on my experience on both sides of the equation, the best way to get a good interview is to make it obvious you read the book, and have generated questions based on things you found in the book. I don’t mean just about the story; many authors are reluctant to reveal spoilers in their own work. (What can you expect from prima donnas?) Ask about the writing, the characters, something unique about how a plot point was handled, the setting, any influences. Sure you can work in a few like “Why do you write in this genre?” or “Can you recommend a few books?” People want to know that and authors are happy to tell them.

If you really want a good interview, pick something from the book that stands out and ask about it. I have been lucky enough to interview Timothy Hallinan and Leighton Gage, who set their books in Thailand and Brazil, respectively. Both are witty, articulate, and fun. I doubt either of them could give a bad interview from inside an iron lung. Pick out something that stood out about either Thailand or Brazil and let them run with it. They’ll do the work for you.

The key to a good interview, like the key to any relationship, is to make the author feel as though you’re doing this interview because you want to interview that author, not just “I do a series of interviews and I couldn’t think of anyone better.” Don’t kiss ass, but don’t be afraid to stroke the author a little. I doubt you’d get good responses if the tone of the interview is, “Your book is a piece of shit, but I wondered how anyone could write something so horrible.” They may not warm to you; authors have egos, too.

And, if you ask “Where do you get your ideas?” you deserve whatever happens to you.

(Many thanks to Charlie Stella, Tim Hallinan, Pat Browning, and Karen Treanor for teaching me how much fun it can be to be the interviewee.)

More Christmas Wishes

2011-12-24T07:54:00.000-08:00

Tim Hallinan, friend and superior author, has also found the poetry muse this Christmas. His is topical, and more generally entertaining.

E-Book Pricing: A Concisely Compiled Argument

2011-12-22T06:51:00.000-08:00

Declan Burke's Crime Always Pays blog is a constant source of information and entertainment. Dec is also a tireless promoter of other writers and the go-to guy for information on Irish crime fiction. Today he touches all the bases on the current controversy of e-book pricing. Well worth a read for both writers and readers.

Wild Bill Finds His Secret Santa

2011-12-21T15:59:00.000-08:00

Steve Weddle--co-editor of the collection Discount Noir* and contributor to many other fine collections--has posted his Christmas shopping recommendations over at the always worth reading Do Some Damage blog, and--it's a Christmas miracle!--Wild Bill has been included. While not even I would recommend reading this aloud to the tykes if Clement Moore can't be found, it might well make a nice gift for a Kindle- or Nook-toting adult who likes a brisk tale and isn't put off by a little sex and violence and foul language.

Mr. Weddle has put me in with some fast company, as he has also recommended books by Alan Heathcock, Bonnie Jo Campbell, John Hornor Jacobs, Benjamin Whitmer, Frank Bill, Lynn Kostoff, Duane Swierczynski, and Dennis Tafoya. Hop on over to DSD to read more about all of the above, as well as links to make your purchases easy.

Many thanks to Steve Weddle for putting his hard-earned cred on the line and vouching for me.

(* - Steve wrote what, to me, is one of the handful of greatest opening lines ever in his story, "Code Adam." "You just don't have the kind of day I was having and not kill someone.")

Happy Holidays From OBAAT

2011-12-21T15:39:00.000-08:00

Another pass around the sun

Is ending for us all

And I confess, the year that ebbs

Has held us all in thrall

With ups and downs and downs and ups,

Our heads we could but shake.

A hurricane was not enough;

We had our own earthquake.

The Sole Heir’s news is only good,

Her options she surveyed,

And changed her school from U of M

To down St. Mary’s way

At southern tip of Maryland,

A place she much prefers,

So strongly that, two hours away,

We still can hear her purr.

Her next year may be better still:

In May she’s off to France

Where studies medical will get

Their first prolonged glance.

She’ll stay six weeks in sunny Nice,

A Riviera clime,

She’ll learn, she’ll work, she’ll play, she’ll tour,

The time should be sublime.

The Spouse Beloved had a year

‘Twould rattle lesser souls

Her craft room’s devastation set

Her back on several goals.

The water of her discontent

Has seen its flow abate,

Its renovation’s tardiness

Is gone, no more she waits

For closet and for storage space,

More room to work her crafts,

It’s coming all together now

Despite some minor gaffes.

My year, it had a couple downs,

Though ups will far outlast,

Like surgery on both my eyes

Means they’re no longer glassed.

Twin cataracts their view had dimmed

Until both were removed,

Bionic lenses took their place;

My vision’s much improved.

A book has been produced, my first

To place in public view,

And though the sales have not been brisk,

I’ve good reviews in lieu.

Kind words from several writing peers

Describe success to me,

Wild Bill was first, two more next year,

How well they’ll do, we’ll see.

A lot of other stuff occurred

But, frankly, little good.

And mighty bored you all would be

If tell it all I would,

So I will pass, because we know

That bad times always fade

There’s no point to remember them,

To rest they should be laid.

Now once again a year will end

And all will celebrate

The winter solstice holidays

Of any faith you fete,

We hope you have a happy time,

Kick back or tie one on

That’s all for now, we’re signing off,

Till Twenty-Twelve is gone.

Discipline

2011-12-16T05:25:00.001-08:00

The end of the basement project is in sight. Much still remains to be done, but most of my work consists of carrying boxes downstairs so The Beloved Spouse can put things into their new homes. It’s time to get back to some semblance of normal life. That means my writing schedule has to ramp up.

That’s not the easiest thing to do. Getting back to work after taking off the summer is easy. I know going in I need to get busy again on the day after Labor Day. (Labor Day in the States is the first Monday in September.) It’s a clear-cut, binary decision.

This time the re-start is not so easily defined. Other habits that don’t require so much concentration have eased into what had been small pockets of time between tasks. Those pockets of time have grown, and the other habits have grown to fit the space available. An hour of 30 Rock reruns on Comedy Central now must be accommodated, as well as regular viewing of The Daily Show and The Colbert Report. Now it’s time to re-acquaint myself with a regular writing schedule.

Writing is not inspiration; neither is it patience. Writing is the discipline of finding something inside yourself that can pass as inspiration while forcing yourself to be patient at the same time you’re ignoring the siren song of something enjoyable that requires a lot less effort. (In my case, any televised hockey game.) To help with this, I have tasked myself with writing a blog post—either here or at From the Home Office—every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Inspiration is not required. Find a topic, sit my ass down and write about it.

This blog post is a example of what results when such a schedule has been set, self-discipline sits my ass down, and I got nothing.

Formatting Frustration

2011-12-14T15:22:00.001-08:00

Now that sales of Wild Bill are firmly into double digits (36 and the last-minute Christmas shoppers haven’t been heard from yet), it’s time to turn my attention to what comes next. Sure, a lot of writers would see three dozen sales and kick back, figuring the mountain has been climbed. Not me. The public is fickle. Staying out of sight for too long can be death to a fledgling author. Sure, 36 is an impressive number, but drop off the radar and sales plummet. There’s no guarantee the next book would even break the prestigious 30 mark.

Fortunately, I have several novels on the hard drive (“in the drawer,” in traditional terms) that are ready to go, thanks to a myriad of gatekeepers who have for years been not just willing, but eager to tell me I was a fine writer, they liked the book a lot, and were sure I’d have no trouble finding someone (else) to publish it. The plan is to launch one every six months or so until the backlog has been worked down. Target date for Worst Enemies is March 1.

Of course, the book must be formatted for Kindle first. (I have learned the double O in Nook stands for total sales expected, at least in my case. Little time will be spent in that sales channel.) E-Book Architects did a great job with Wild Bill, and I’d go to them again in a heartbeat, but I wondered how hard it would be to do it myself. I work on computers all say. I’m no HTML programmer, but I was curious to see what was involved. I still had a plenty of time to involve E-Book Architects if I got in over my head.

Amazon has an easy to follow checklist with everything that needs to be done, including a free, downloadable program that will do the heavy lifting. I format Word documents well, having done several for POD books put out by my writers group in the past, and have learned to keep things tidy as I go.

I got the list, downloaded the software, and spent a few minutes each night for a week or so following the directions. I loaded what I had onto my Kindle and it looked great, with two exceptions. Chapters did not start on new pages, and all paragraphs had first-line indents, which I didn’t want.

The page breaks were easy. I’d fallen into the shorthand method of using Ctrl-Enter to start a new page. This doesn’t convert properly; I had to use the menu commands, Insert > Page Break. Easy fix. Took no more than fifteen minutes to correct all sixty-plus chapters.

The paragraph indents were made of sterner stuff. (I want the first paragraph of each chapter, as well as the acknowledgements, to be left aligned. The rest can be indented.) I tried a few things, even looked at the underlying HTML and experimented. No dice. Internet research showed those “we know what’s best for everyone” bastards at Amazon have Kindles set up to indent all new paragraphs by default.

(Note: I am using the slang definition of the term “bastard” to describe the powers that be at Amazon. Per Dictionary.com: a vicious, despicable, or thoroughly disliked person. I would never imply, and have no reason to suspect, that Jeff Bezos or any of his minions were conceived under other than honorable circumstances. I think the definition I have chosen is commonly accepted enough to negate any libel issues.)

More research turned me on to a procedure that should work, though it involved downloading two programs (both free), formatting the book in one, saving it as an EPUB file, then opening it in the other program to convert it to MOBI. It doesn’t strike me as being as hard as it looks here, and I have some time off coming up for the holidays.

I also have E-Book Architects’ address already entered in a draft email.

Wild Bill Gets Some Cross-Genre Love

2011-12-12T05:01:00.001-08:00

Pat Browning, tireless owner and proprietor of the blog Morning’s at Noon (I wonder if she is a Tom Waits fan*), and author of Absinthe of Malice, has posted a review of Wild Bill to Amazon. Pat writes:

Dana King's debut novel, WILD BILL, is an attention grabber. The title character, FBI Special Agent Will Hickox, engages in a determined pursuit of organized crime, building his case over a period of two years, as crime leaders jockey back and forth for top positions.

Law enforcement does its own juggling act, with the beat cops, the FBI and the Department of Justice jockeying for position, until the DOJ demands that the case be wrapped up pronto.

This superbly written book goes on my personal "Best Of" list for 2011.

Pat also wrote a more thoroughgoing review for the DorothyL list serve. It’s just as flattering, but when a writer who doesn’t normally deal in the level of grit where Wild Bill lives says your book is “superbly written and goes on [her] personal”Best Of” list, there’s no point in gilding the lily.

Pat has also invited me to participate in a virtual conversation with her and Timothy Hallinan (The Queen of Patpong) next month. More details on that as they become available.

Many thanks, Pat. Absinthe of Malice is on my Kindle, ready to go.

(* – Possibly my favorite Tom Waits song is “Better Off Without a Wife,”** which contains the line “I can sleep until the crack of noon.”)

(** - This Humble Correspondent With Much to be Humble About is in no way better off without The Beloved Spouse.)

Up the Amazon Without a Paddle

2011-12-09T13:24:00.001-08:00

I own a Kindle and domost of my reading on it. It’s a great way to keep up with authors whose booksare hard to find or out of print and beats hell out of loading up a suitcasewith multiple books when taking a trip.

I published Wild Bill to Kindle last August and haveseveral more books in the pipeline. (WildBill was also published for Nook, but I have since learned the middle twocharacters in “Nook” describe my first three months’ sales there.) The 70%royalty is a good deal, and it was easy to do. I’m in the process of formattingmy next book, and it’s not rocket science, either.

As you can see, I’m tiedto Amazon both as a customer, and as an author. Now I feel a little icky aboutthe whole thing.

It started last summer,when word got out about the inhumanconditions workers at Amazon’s Lehigh Valley (PA) had to endure or face dismissal.(Note to too many journalists: the word is “inhuman.” “Inhumane” is how animalsare treated.) Earlier this week I learned of Amazon’s effortsto evade California’s attempt to get them to pay sales taxes like every otherretailer, which included paying a company three dollars per signature toget a referendum on the ballot. (Amazon has since come to an agreement withCalifornia pending the resolution of federal legislation. I wonder how manycampaign contributions will be made each way on that issue?) Yesterday’sbombshell was my learning of The Evil Empire’s newest campaignto undermine brick-and-mortar stores by offering shoppers discounts forreporting competitors’ prices back to Amazon via smart phones.

It’s not like Amazon isjust trying to level the playing field. They already have dramatic advantagesover traditional sales outlets due to lower overhead (which is fine, a directresult of not providing personal assistance, a choice retailers make forthemselves) and not paying sales taxes (which is, frankly, an unfaircompetitive advantage for Amazon). Isn’t making money hand over fist enough? Dothey have to subscribe to the Michael Corleone School of Business and crusheveryone else? And, when they do, what can we expect from them when we reallyhave no place else to buy or sell?

This kind of decisionhas been easy for me in the past. I don’t care for Wal-Mart’s businesspractices, so I don’t shop there. I think the economy in this allegedlyChristian nation will not be brought to its knees if the families of retail andmanufacturing workers can have one day a week to spend together, so I don’tshop on Sundays unless there is no way around it.

Now Amazon has proventhe old saying is true: I laid down with a pig and got dirty. I feel like I joined up with the Imperial Fleet to see the galaxy and found out I'm working for Darth Vader, The question is,what do I do about it? Doing nothing is the same as saying I’m okay with Amazon’srapacious business practices. Doing too much will hurt only me; Amazon won’tcare if I set myself on fire on the roof of the Library of Congress.

Here’s where I am today(I mean “today” as I write this. I’ve already changed my mind on this half adozen times, so this is a fluid position):
I’llcontinue to publish to Kindle. I make more money per sale than they do, and noone has to work in triple-digit heat to ship my books.
I' llpick a short list—ten, maybe—of writers whose books I’ll have a hard timegetting elsewhere and buy them for my Kindle. See warehouse note above.
I’llbuy the books of other authors who are in much the same boat as I am, on thepremise that I’ll hurt them more than I’ll hurt Amazon by boycotting the sitealtogether.
Otherbooks will be read either after purchase from a brick-and-mortar store or frommy public library.
I’llbust Amazon’s balls at every opportunity.

Am I fooling myself intothinking this will making a difference? No. It might if enough people do it,and someone has to go first.

Here’s my question: ismy level of rationalization/hypocrisy too great to overlook? I freely admitthere some in here, but I have to make my peace with the world as I find it,not how it would be if I were In Charge.

Please comment, andsolicit comments from others if you’re so inclined. I’m genuinely curious aboutthis. What do you plan to do, if anything? Why, or why not? Am I making toomuch of this? Not enough?

Even More Love for Wild Bill

2011-11-30T18:19:00.000-08:00

Leighton Gage is the author of the successful Chief Inspector Mario Silva series, set in Brazil. His books have been praised by outlets ranging from Booklist (“South America’s Kurt Wallender”) to the Toronto Globe and Mail (“Masterful”) to the Boston Globe (“Compelling”) to Publisher’s Weekly (“Intelligent and Subtle…suspenseful and sophisticated). His newest effort, A Vine in the Blood, will be available in hard copy in North America at the end of December, and is available for Kindle now.

Here is what he had to say about Wild Bill:

I’m no stranger to first novels.

Twice, I’ve served on juries where our task was to recognize the “Best Mystery/Thriller Novel Of The Year.”

Both times, it involved the reading of books written by well over 100 debut authors.

Few of them were anywhere near as good as Wild Bill. And none were significantly better.
Wild Bill is as lean as a whippet.

Dana King, the author, is a guy who has a natural talent for making every word count.

Characters in the books of many first-timers are often about as substantial as cardboard. And just as appetizing.

That’s not the case with King.

His voice is original.

And he’s really good at grasping cliché’s and turning them inside-out.

As a matter of fact, the only bad thing I can say about Wild Bill (and I’m trying really hard now) is that, personally, I don’t like the way it ends.

Not that King ended it badly. He didn’t. But the story didn’t come out the way I’d hoped it would.

Which, in a way, is another good thing to say about it.

Because my investment in the characters was great enough for me to care.

And when it comes to first novels, that doesn’t happen all that often, either.

Many thanks to Leighton for his kind words. Remember,Wild Bill is available now on Amazon as well as Barnes and Noble for that perfect $2.99 Kindle- or Nook-stuffer.

More Love for Wild Bill

2011-11-28T18:27:00.001-08:00

Mike Dennis is the author of Setup on Front Street (one of OBAAT’s Best Reads for June), The Take, and Bloodstains on the Wall. His newest book, Ghosts of Havana launches as a paperback in a couple of weeks and is available now for Kindle, Nook, and iPad. Here’s what Mike has to say about Wild Bill:

Chicago Outfit leaders Junior Bevilacqua and Frank Ferraro are locked in a mortal struggle for control of the organization, but it's not clear who's siding with whom in this well-crafted tale of mob intrigue. On the other side, the FBI and the Chicago PD have their own set of differences, and before you can say, "Godfather II", you realize no one can be trusted. Throw in a beautiful woman, married to someone else, and you have the makings of a great story. Dana King keeps it all together, even in those spots where he could've easily lost control of the plot, he maintains a tight weave with crisp dialogue and great tension. The characterizations ring with authenticity, right down to the minor players, and Frank Ferraro's final gesture makes a fitting end to this all-too-human novel.

Many thanks to Mike for his kind words.

What Happens While You’re Making Other Plans

2011-11-20T18:27:00.001-08:00

The last couple of months have been less than productive, at least from a writing perspective. I ended my summer hiatus and got about ten chapters into the next project when basement leakage demanded my attention. The Bouchercon trip was cancelled, the basement was emptied, and the floors were dug up with jackhammers to install a water management system guaranteed never to let water into the house again. (It has better not, for what it cost me.)

Then the damage done by the water people had to be fixed. Since The Beloved Spouse had been trying to make her basement craft room fit her needs since we moved in over five years, we bit the bullet and had that job done while the basement was empty. About halfway through that project I rolled over in bed and poked myself in the eye with my thumb, resulting in a corneal abrasion that required an eye patch for a couple of days. (I had a clear plastic eye guard from my cataract surgery, but the only dark patch we could find to shield the eye from light was a Halloween costume pirate patch.)

(Photo taken at Subway, where I requested, and was denied, a Pirate Discount.)

Both projects took longer than expected (of course), and everything that lived in the basement is boxed up and jammed into every square foot we could find in the living area of the house. We’ve been living in a place that would repel the hosts of one of those hoarders shows on cable.

At first I tried to write, and what I wrote was, as my friend Declan Burke would say, shite. I tried to re-write, and all I did was re-shite. My Happy Place had been destroyed. Nowhere in my house could I sit and not see work waiting to be done, except in the upstairs bathroom with the door closed.

Things started to get better a couple of weeks ago. TBS and I have painted, rebuilt shelves, laid tile, and generally done our best to qualify for poster children on DIY network. Today we laid the carpet in her craft room and deployed the furniture. The beginning of the end is upon us.

About the same time as we were able to start work, ideas started climbing out from under the rocks where they’d taken refuge. The beginnings of two of the mob stories I’m to write for a collection with Charlie Stella are on the disk now, with the format of a third. A good premise and the beginnings of an outline for the next novel, as well. To prime the pump, I’ve put myself on a schedule of blogging every other day, either here or From the Home Office. Over the long weekend, I hope to have time to look into formatting a novel for Kindle myself. (E-Book Architects did a great job at a very reasonable price for me, and they may still get this one. I’m curious about the process and want to see how close I can get.)

I expect to be back in the swing of things well before Christmas. This is yet another reason I’m glad I stopped worrying about getting a contract. Life intervenes, and life is more important than writing. It’s certainly more unpredictable.

Darker Than Noir

2011-11-16T19:09:00.001-08:00

Peter Rozovsky recently resurrected a discussion last year on his award-winning blog, Detectives Beyond Borders. Titled, “What Does Noir Mean to You?” it sparked an even better discussion than it had the first time he ran it. It also got me to thinking about noir, neo-noir, and my perceived differences between them.

This topic has been on my “to-do list” for some time. I’d always managed to find a way to avoid writing about it until Peter got me thinking about it again. I think the secret behind my procrastination is a unwillingness to admit to the conclusion I have drawn, for a couple of reasons. So it goes.

I like classic noir. Double Indemnity, The Postman Always Rings Twice, Body Heat (not such an old movie, but in the mold), even Sunset Boulevard. (Peter and I disagree whether this is noir or melodrama. I suspect we’re splitting hairs—I think we both believe it’s a masterpiece—and it might be fun to go back and forth about it for a while.) There’s something about the doomed man, often hoist with his own petard, who struggles unsuccessfully against the inevitable. Sometimes he knows he’s doomed from the start; sometimes not. These kinds of stories, done well, can probe human frailty in ways more “respectable” stories cannot.

We’re currently in a period where a genre called “neo-noir” is in vogue. I’ve read a lot of it. Even been considered a part of it for a fleeting moment, when my story “Green Gables” was included in Thuglit’s third (and, alas, final) anthology, Blood, Guts, and Whiskey. I know several of its leading adherents, at least online, and both enjoy their company and marvel at their chops.

It’s the stories that get me. I just don’t like the stories.

Not all of them, obviously. No genre is so devoid of merit I could not bear to read any of it. I’m sure there’s a chick lit cat cozy out there I’d enjoy, though I’m damned if I can think of what it might be. It’s the general mass of story content I’m talking about.

Traditional noir deals with depravity. Lust, greed, deceit, pick your favorite vice, they’re all in there somewhere. What gives the stories power is not the vice; it’s the effect that vice has on what is usually a relatively unextraordinary protagonist. Walter Neff (Double Indemnity) is not an evil person. A little too slick for his own good, and not as smart as he thinks he is, mainly because he too often thinks with his balls. Ned Racine (Body Heat) is basically a slacker who’s too lazy and apathetic to get into trouble until Matty Walker puts his glands in an uproar. (Testosterone improperly directed is a key element of much noir.) Joe Gillis of Sunset Boulevard isn’t even such a bad guy; he’s just in over his head. All of them could walk away at any time, and they seem to know it. They just can’t. Their helplessness in the face of the events they have set in motion is both fascinating and cautionary, like seeing a train run off a downed bridge in slow motion after watching it approach for several miles, knowing what would happen.

Neo-noir revels in its depravity; it’s the entire reason for the story, to see how bad things—and people—can get. The protagonist does not fall; he was at the bottom when he started. Too often the stories are to see how much other misery he can summon up on his way to the end. Alternatively, he may triumph over adversaries even more loathsome than me.

I’ve read a lot of this over the past couple of years, and I’m tired of it. Much of the writing is good, and the scenarios may be realistic, but only so many stories can send me to the shower after reading before the water bill becomes prohibitive. Maybe the standards/censorship of noir’s original period kept its writers from going here; or maybe they did go here, but those are the stories that did not survive.

I don’t have to root for someone in every story; I do need to care about someone.

Now I Know What Lee Child Feels Like

2011-11-05T18:16:00.001-07:00

The first royalty statement for wild Bill has appeared: $26.65. I’m not yet to the income level that will permit me to take over a bar for an evening at Bouchercon, but everyone who introduces themselves to me at next year’s conference will receive a stick of gum (flavor of my choice to be announced) from me personally.

Buy a few more copies, and I’m willing to raise the ante to those bite-sized Tootsie Rolls. Not that I’m begging for sales. Just sayin’.

Best Reads, September–October

2011-11-02T05:20:00.001-07:00

With the faint hope that things may soon return to normal here at The Home Office, it’s time to do a little catching up. I was able to slip in some worthwhile reading over the past several weeks. Here are my recommendations, in the order in which they were read.

Little Elvises, Timothy Hallinan. Hallinan’s Junior Bender series (e-book only) is funnier and less intense than his Poke Rafferty thrillers, but no less readable. Junior is a thief who serves as unlicensed PI to the underworld, getting himself out of scrapes by performing certain “services” for those who could do him harm. In Little Elvises he has to clear a cop’s uncle who was a shady music promoter fifty years ago and who may—or may not—be mobbed up. Hallinan has assembled an ensemble of characters that wears well and should provide ample fodder for a successful series.

Big Money, Jack Getze. The sequel to Big Numbers finds Austin Carr no longer living in a camper, but still making bad decisions. This time his boss has gone on vacation, leaving Austin to hold the bag without much to help him aside from the winning Carr smile and his wits, which cannot be relied upon any more than the smile. A New York-New Jersey mob war and federal investigators complicate things. Getze once again is able to pull off showing the reader right off the bat who is/are the bad guy/guys without telling you who they are, so you know how the climax sets up without knowing who is there. A fun read, perfectly balancing comedy, crime, and violence, without spoiling the effect of any.

Fox Five, Zoe Sharp. Sharp writes the kind of books I don’t usually read, unless they’re written by her. Charlotte “Charlie” Fox is a close protection agent (bodyguard to us in the States) who is involved in a series of thrillers. Sharp keeps Charlie believable by making her efficient (not a sexy killbot) yet not perfect (she still needs help from time to time). This collection of short stories is an excellent primer into Fox’s world, and should lead any reader to want to read the Fox novels.

Watch Me Die, Lee Goldberg. I’d forgotten how many humorous books I’d read recently until I put this list together. Goldberg does a great job with Harvey Mapes, a Walter Mitty for the 21st Century. Mapes works in the guard shack for a gated community but dreams of being a private investigator. When he’s finally given an opportunity, he researches investigative techniques by reading Travis McGee books and watching an Mannix marathon. That works about as well as could be expected. Goldberg keeps Harvey likeable and teases you just enough with what can go wrong without giving too much away. The ending is a little somber in tone compared to the rest of the book, but not enough to spoil the fun.

Gun, Ray Banks. Banks is the goods. Gun is a day in the life of Richie, recently released from jail, who is tasked with picking up a gun for a local crime boss. This is a bigger deal in England than it would be in the States, but still should be a simple pick up and deliver. Things go wrong and Richie finds himself far more involved than he intended. A true noir tale of a flawed but not wholly irredeemable character drawn down by circumstances and bad judgment, written by a master.

Road Rules, Jim Winter. Insurance companies, Russian gangsters, cops, feds, and the Catholic Church combine to give this chase story multiple injections of energy ad fun. Winter treads the line between what’s funny and making light of what isn’t funny with a deft touch. A large cast is well differentiated and easy to keep track of, and everything makes sense, in it’s own goofy way. The added twist in the last paragraph is the mint after a great dinner.

Joe Puma, PI, William Campbell Gault. Five first-rate PI stories from the 50s, hard-boiled without being self-conscious about it. There’s nothing neo or retro about Gault. He wrote these when they were the vogue and hold his own with anyone. I’d never heard of him before, and I forget how I heard of this colleciton, but he’s on my radar now.

As October Circles the Drain…

2011-10-30T10:45:00.001-07:00

October is always a tough writing month. I’ve been a seamhead a lot longer than I’ve been a writer, so the baseball playoffs always vie for my attention, even when they’re not compelling. This year’s playoffs were as intense and exciting as any in memory (38 of a possible 41 games were played, 13 of which were decided by one run); a lot of time was spent watching baseball.

This October had other complicating factors. One too many basement floods led to to cancellation of my trip to Bouchercon to have a water management system installed in our basement. This required everything except for furniture too large to be moved to be taken upstairs to the main floor, the bedroom floor, the attic, and even into the back yard, covered with tarps. There are only two places in my house where I can open my eyes and not see something out of place: in my office, seated at the desk, where patio storage area is beneath my line of sight; and in the bathroom, with the doors closed. Everyplace else reminds me of work still to be done. Even my office, my usual refuge for clearing my head, has stuff jammed into it.

The waterproofing is complete, and the contractors who are fixing the damage done by the waterproofers is almost done. Next weekend we can paint, the following weekend we can lay tile over the new concrete, and then, finally we can start putting things away. The house has been torn up since mid-September; we’ll be back to normal sometime after Thanksgiving.

Two weeks ago I spent a week in California at a business conference. I got to see some friends I don’t often see anymore, and the schedule was not taxing. I did catch a cold while I was there, and, or course, no writing got done. (I did polish a story for Patti Abbott’s writing challenge.)

This week I became complicit in my own demise by accidentally sticking my thumb in my eye, causing a corneal abrasion. (The Beloved Spouse described it as a rug burn on my eyeball.) It’s about healed now, but provided yet another excuse not to do much.

I tried to write through everything at first; several pages of shit were produced before I acknowledged I was terminally distracted and would be not only a happier person but a lot easier to live with if I just took a break and waited for something resembling normal life to resume. There was a time when this would have driven me crazy. Not anymore. I did what I could, and saw no reason to waste even more time undoing much of what I’d done during this period of disorder.

That’s why I haven’t been posting much, or writing much, or commenting on blogs much. Much of what I’ve read in the blogosphere has interested me little—that’s a different post—so I’ve not been as provoked as usual. Count your blessings. It won’t last forever.

The Best Part

2011-10-22T14:45:00.001-07:00

People who hope to make money from their writing shouldn’t take publishing advice from this blog. I’m happy to share my experiences and thoughts in the hope others can learn from my mistakes, but I’m not here for the money. I had my crisis of faith about that a year or so ago, and crossed the Rubicon into self-publishing e-books just to see what it’s like. Money doesn’t enter into it anymore.

The best news about this attitude is, what I had thought would be the best part has been the best part. Wild Bill has sold thirty copies the last time I checked. At $2.09 per copy, I can take the Beloved Spouse to Longhorn for a steak with the proceeds. Big deal. The good news is that people I never heard of have bought the book, and two of them have posted glowing (and unsolicited) reviews on Amazon. (The other Amazon review is from an old friend, and his support is also much appreciated.)

The best news is that people I cared about liking the book have liked it. I’m not talking about specific names; writers whose work and opinions I respect. Was I flattering myself to think of writers who had success—and, more importantly, who I considered to be my betters as writers—as peers?

Maybe not too much.

Charlie Stella—The Godfather of Organized Crime Fiction—was first. His glowing review and subsequent interview meant more to me than a publisher’s advance. I knew Charlie would be a tough sell; he knows a little of the ins and out of the kinds of people Wild Bill revolves around. For him to like it as much as he did was sufficient to consider the venture enough of a success to bear repeating.

Tim Hallinan’s endorsement a couple of weeks ago, along with its attending interview and comments from his readers, was my idea of a big splash book tour. Tim’s questions required substantial thought on my part (as did Charlie’s), and the comments from his readers were unexpectedly enthusiastic. Sales spiked after both events, and I am grateful to both Charlie and Tim for their encouragement and support.

This doesn’t mean I’m not hoping to sell a few more copies. It also doesn’t mean I’d not consider a publishing contract. What it does mean is anyone who might want to publish me needs to bring life-altering sums of money with them. I have thoroughly enjoyed the process, and the rewards have been more than adequate by my standards, based on the Reward to Bullshit Curve. I’m not going to give that up for a few thousand dollars and untold demands on my time and limitations on what I feel like writing.

I’ll release another e-book sometime over the winter, trying a few different things on the promotional aspects. It will sell or it won’t. If it receives anything like the attention Wild Bill has seen so far, it will be a rousing success.

(By the way, both Charlie and Tim will have new books available in 2012. Be ready.)

Tugboat

2011-10-17T13:15:00.000-07:00

Patti Abbott has another flash fiction challenge over at her blog. This time the task was Write a story in any genre of under 1000 words based on one of Reginald Marsh's paintings. My contribution is below.

Tugboat

Stinky wondered whatkept the tugboat from sinking. Tires and life preservers and ropes and all kindsof shit hung off the side. Taller than it was wide, looked like it mightcapsize every time a wave big enough to be seen hit anywhere but dead on. Amilk run tonight, the harbor smooth as glass. The only breeze in Stinky’s facecame from the boat’s movement.

He’d made this trip ahundred times on the schooner Dutch sent to meet the Canucks outside thethree-mile limit. Stinky came up with the idea to connect the boats withspecial ladders, rollers built in to slide the booze between boats. Built-upsides kept the cases from falling off. No lifting, no breakage, and the loadgot transferred in half the time.

Dutch didn’t pay anyattention when Stinky told him. “Yeah, Stinky. Do what you need to. I know you’lldo a good job.” The job Stinky did not good enough to merit a raise. So therewas some “breakage.” A thousand cases of hootch come off a boat, some getdropped. Bottles get broken. These became Stinky’s skim. Dutch knew what anacceptable breakage rate was and Stinky knew not to get greedy. He kicked alittle back to the Canucks and no one the wiser. Dutch didn’t get cheated, andStinky and the Canucks got a little extra taste.

A door opened behindStinky. Light poured onto the bow. Noodles said, “He’s out here, Mr. Flegenheimer.”The door closed and it was dark again.

Dutch walked to standwhere Stinky could see him. “Never trust a Dago.”

“You saying me, Dutch?Aronoff sound Italian to you?”

“It ain’t you I’mtalking about, Stinky. It’s you I’m talking to.Never trust a Dago. Don’t matter if he’s from Jersey or Canada or right off thegoddamn boat from Sicily. I told you not to trust them.”

“You know I don’t dealwith them unless I have to.”

“You dealt with themenough.” Dutch leaned on the rail, looked back to the skyline. Light twinkledin the Chrysler Building. “Charlie Lucky’s the worst of the bunch. He’s the onedone for you.”

“I met him one time inmy life, and it was you took me to see him that time.”

Dutch shook his head.“The guy on the boat. With all those scars on his face from smallpox or acne orsomething. Nunzio? He’s Charlie’s asshole buddy. Reports back to him of someoneeven spits over the side. I know about how you’re offloading the booze, and howmuch you’re skimming. That was clever, those rollers. Stupid thinking you couldfool me about it. Why didn’t you just tell me? I’d a give you a raise.”

“You give me a piece ofthe action?” Stinky waited a few seconds for a reply. “I didn’t think so. Youpay like we’re punching a clock. What do I get for a good idea? A twenty buckraise?”

“I paid how I pay whenyou come on. You was happy for the guarantee. You got no beef coming.”

“It’s been five yearsand I’m still making a lousy three hundred a week. What are you paying Berman?Ten grand, I hear.”

“Berman’s a genius, you stupidson of a bitch! You got any idea how much he makes for me every week, riggingthe numbers in Harlem? You know how many guys there are in the world can dothat?” Dutch held up an index finger. “Him. You had one good idea in your lifeand you kept it to yourself. Look where it got you. Dumb bastard.”

Dutch called for Noodlesand Hump and Lulu. Kicked the buckets that held Stinky’s feet. “That’s setabout enough. I was going to do you a favor and put your out of your miserybefore the boys dumped you over the side like the trash you are. Now you cankiss my ass. Give my regards to Legs and Julie when you see them.”

Interview at The Blog Cabin

2011-10-15T10:56:00.001-07:00

In addition to being a kick-ass writer, Timothy Hallinan is a true humanitarian and gentleman scholar, as can be seen in his erudite and probing interview of Yours Truly at Tim’s blog, The Blog Cabin.

Many thanks to Tim for his support and for questions that made me think about some things I hadn’t even thought about when I was writing Wild Bill.

Blatant (Not) Self-Promotion

2011-10-07T15:51:00.001-07:00

Timothy Hallinan is the author of three series of thrillers. His Simeon Grist novels led to the current, highly successful Poke Rafferty stories, which take place in Thailand. To fill the idle hours when he’s not writing a Rafferty book or traveling from California to Bangkok, he has also begun a series of e-books featuring professional burglar and ersatz PI to the underworld Junior Bender. His most recent Rafferty thriller, The Queen of Patpong, was nominated for both Edgar and Macavity Awards.

Mr. Hallinan has read Wild Bill, and was willing to share his thoughts for attribution:

Dana King's WILD BILL is a thriller that derives its thrills from the complex interactions of a group of fully-realized characters on both sides of the law -- although the boundary between one side and the other isn't always clear. Set into motion by the death of a Chicago crime boss, the story introduces us to a gallery of gangsters -- the best and most persuasive I've read in years -- and the frustrated, complicated, often despairing people who pursue them, both for the Feds and for the city of Chicago. King pulls together a large and varied cast, an extraordinary sense of place, and the ancient dynamic between good, evil, and the shades of gray in-between, and weaves it all into a juggernaut of a book that (literally) kept me up till all hours. I loved it.

Much appreciated, sir. Thank you.

Make Me a Job Creator

2011-09-25T13:37:00.000-07:00

The economy remains in the doldrums. Most can agree the problem is high unemployment. The differences are over how best to address it. I am somewhat to the left of center politically, so my first inclination is to think the government should do something to put people to work: infrastructure repairs and other public works projects come to mind.

It also occurs to me that Democrats are not always right. (Certainly not the crew we have in there now.) With that in mind, I am inexorably drawn, like a starving wolf to a lame bison, toward the idea of helping the job creators create more jobs. I don’t want to pay lip service to the idea. I want to do it.
I want to be a job creator.

I want to unleash the entrepreneurial whirlwind inside me and no longer be just a wage slave; I want to enslave others with wages I would pay. (Or at least help others to pay.) Here’s how you can help:

Buy a copy of Wild Bill, either for Amazon’s Kindle, or Barnes and Noble’s Nook. It’s only $2.99 at either outlet. Where else can you personally stimulate the American economy for such a paltry sum? Think of the good I can do with sufficient sales:

Amazon and B&N will have to hire additional staff to push electrical pulses through the Internet to keep up with the volume of orders.

Email providers such as Google and Yahoo! will have to hire more people to take the orders from those who want to advertise on the emails sent as gift notifications.

Those may be too abstract and dependent on the marketplace for you. I understand. To address that, I pledge to personally place someone on retainer to mop out my basement after its next periodic flood once sales hit a specific sales figure I have in mind but am not currently at liberty to disclose.

A lot of authors want you to buy their books. They say it’s so they can connect with their readers, that they feel a bond growing with every sale, like some woman with a babushka on her head and a wart on her chin can tell them every time someone reads a word they’ve written. Bull crap. They have payments to make on their villa in the south of France and the Maybach needs a new transmission.

I’m not like that. I don’t want you to consider the fact that I might make a couple of bucks if you buy the book.If you’re thinking of buying the book for me, don’t.

Do it for your country.

The Return of Blatant Self-Promotion

2011-09-22T12:39:00.001-07:00

Things were so scrambled here last weekend I had to cancel my long-anticipated trip to Bouchercon, so missing my weekly self-aggrandizement should come as no surprise.

As anyone who has ever dealt with a publisher’s marketing department realizes, looking at sales figures relative to promotional efforts is always a good news/bad news scenario. The good news is that Wild Bill has reached the coveted 20 sales threshold. That may not seem like much to Lee Child or Robert Crais, but it does represent a 17% increase in sales in a mere ten days! In your face, Jack Reacher.

The bad news is that it is impossible to tell if this sales pushpin (it’s too small to be a sales spike) was because of the most recent promotional efforts, or due to my skipping a week. Since I’m an American, I’ll do what we always do when information is not definite enough: the same as before, but more of it.

So, to borrow a page from the old National Lampoon, buy this book or these messages will continue.

Please don’t make me do something I don’t want to do. Think of it like one of those challenge grants on NPR. If sales are 25 or more, no promotional post will be made. If sales are less than 25 by then…

It will be on your head. My conscience is clear.

Wild Bill is available both for the Amazon Kindle and Barnes and Noble’s Nook for $2.99.

Little Elvises

2011-09-12T18:40:00.001-07:00

Junior Bender is back. Little Elvises, the second installment in Timothy Hallinan’s e-book only series, picks up where Crashed left off. Bender is in trouble not of his own making, squeezed by a cop who may not be bent but is certainly not ethical to help out the cop’s uncle, who may or may not be mobbed up.

Bender is a unique character, a professional burglar who serves as sort of a private investigator for the underworld. He can break into virtually anyplace. Not with high-tech gadgets that no self-respecting crook could afford in the real world. His wits will suffice. His solutions are ingenious, yet so simple that you’ll smack yourself in the forehead wondering why you didn’t think of it yourself.

As in Crashed, Little Elvises treads on tricky ground, a comedic novel with violence. The trick is not to make the violence itself seem laughable, but also not to dampen the humor. Hallinan avoids both with an ease that could make you forget how hard it is, had you not tried it yourself and failed dismally. (Yes, that would be me.)

Hallinan is one of the most diverse talents writing crime fiction today, as his most recent Poke Rafferty thriller, The Queen of Patpong, is up for an Anthony Award at this week’s Bouchercon. The Junior Bender books are nothing like the Rafferty series, yet both do what they do as well as any book written by soemone who specializes in one form or the other. Whichever direction Hallinan turns next, it will be worth waiting for. Fortunately you have have Little Elvises to hold you over till then.

Wild Bill Sales Growing

2011-09-11T11:17:00.001-07:00

With sales well into double digits, Wild Bill has established its niche in the publishing firmament. (Not unlike a spider in a web way off in a corner of the basement, behind the paint supplies and other stuff you need only once every two or six years.)

Remember how people felt who had a chance to buy into Microsoft or McDonalds on the ground floor? Chagrined and disappointed, that’s how they felt. Not because they lost a singular opportunity for wealth and a life of leisure. They felt that way because their joyless lives of unending drudgery reminded them every day of how they lacked the foresight and daring to move before the rest of the crowd had figured it out.

This is your chance not to make the same mistake. Wild Bill is available for Amazon Kindle and Barnes and Noble Nook for a measly $2.99. Try buying anything from Microsoft for $2.99. Even McDonald’s, for that matter. (Prices may vary by location. Does not include selections from Dollar Menu.)

This isn’t about me. I only bring it up so you don’t join those who missed the Microsoft and McDonald’s trains and are left standing in the rain at three in the morning at a station in the bad part of town hoping something else good comes along while you’re still young enough to enjoy it.

Road Rules, by Jim Winter

2011-09-09T04:00:00.000-07:00

Jim Winter is a writer from Cincinnati whose new book, Road Rules, hit the e-book trail on September 1. Jim has written reviews for January Magazine and Mystery Scene and the odd interview piece for The Rap Sheet and Crimespree. His short stories have appeared in Thrilling Detective, the original Plots With Guns, Spinetingler, andThug Lit. He writes regularly and well on subjects ranging from crime fiction to American history at his blog, Edged in Blue.

Jim was kind enough to stop by One Bite at a Time with an excerpt from Road Rules.
* * *
“Hello, Koradovich,” said Estevez. Behind him stood Simmons, with two uniform cops further back.

“Yes?” said Koradovich. “May I help you?”

Estevez reached into his pocket and shoved a card at Koradovich. “Carlo Estevez, Major Crimes Unit, Cleveland Police. This is my associate, Detective Charles Simmons. We'd like to ask you a few questions regarding a company you own.”

Koradovich spread his hands and looked around. “As you can see, this is my company. Andre the Giant's Clean Used Cars.”

“Are you sure about the clean part?” asked Simmons.

“Kiss my ass, Detective.”

“Has it sat in one of your cars?”

Estevez glared at the young detective. “Simmons.” He turned back to Koradovich. “We weren't discussing your primary business. No one questions you own a buy here/screw here lot. I'm here about another business, one you have a silent partnership in.”

“And that would be... what? Is someone selling drugs out of one of my apartment buildings? Or my bar? What, Lieutenant? I'm a busy man.”

“You are a partner in a firm that in turn is a partner in a company called Cossack Holdings. In fact, you seem to be the only partner worth mentioning.”

Koradovich leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. “Probably. Who knows? My accountant does a lot of things for tax purposes.”

“Like launder money through nail salons on the east side?” said Simmons.

“What's your point, Lieutenant? I've got a business to run.”

“Cossack Holdings... Nice name, by the way,” said Estevez. “No one would ever suspect a guy named 'Koradovich' as one of the partners.”

Koradovich waved his hand in a circle at Estevez.

“Anyway, Cossack Holdings owns a warehouse.”

“Allied Staging,” Simmons added.

“Allied Staging,” said Estevez. “Out in the valley off 480. Know it?”

A low bubbling sound came from under Koradovich, followed by a smell best described as organic.
The uniforms both covered their mouths and noses. Estevez waved his hand in front of his face. “Can I take that as a no?”

“It's no crime to own a warehouse, Lieutenant,” said Koradovich. “Lots of people own them. We Ukrainians call that 'investment property.' Familiar with the concept? I guess on a cop's salary, you wouldn't be.”

“You're right, Andre. It's not a crime to own a warehouse. It is, however, a crime to aid and abet grand larceny.” He perched on the edge of Koradovich's desk. “See, Allied had been contracted to store and secure a very rare artifact, The Chest of St. Jakob of Danzig. Perhaps you've heard of it?”

At Koradovich's elbow sat the morning's Plain Dealer, the headline proclaiming the police “baffled” in locating the stolen relic. “The media seems to think you can't find your own dicks if you unzipped your flies. That why you're harrassing me?”

“I'm here,” said Estevez, “because you own the property where the Chest was stolen. Among other things we can discuss downtown.”

“Maybe it was stolen during transport.”

Estevez shook his head. “It came from the airport by armored car and left by police escort. Both transport companies can account for their time. Your warehouse manager seems to have a problem accounting for his.”

“So what do you want me to do about it?”

Estevez smiled. “I want you to come downtown and answer a few questions.”

“And if I don't?”

“Well, you have a right to refuse. I'm sure you already knew that.”

“I also know I have a right to an attorney.”

Estevez motioned to the two uniforms. “Help Mr. Koradovich to the car, boys. Handcuffs won't be necessary. Just a friendly chat.” He turned back to Koradovich. “Ain't that right, Koradovich?”

“Yeah. Friendly. Let me call my friendly lawyer so he can give you a friendly reminder in what my rights are.”
* * *
My copy already resides on my Kindle. You can get yours by clicking any of the these links:
Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Road-Rules-ebook/dp/B005JKMUGS/ref=sr_1_11?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1314585842&sr=1-11
Nook: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/road-rules-jim-winter/1105140321?ean=2940013621459&itm=1&usri=road%2brules
Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/81734

Collateral Damage

2011-09-08T13:28:00.000-07:00

The earthquake knocked over a picture. The hurricane didn't even flicker the lights. Yesterday thunderstorms left us without power for twelve hours and water so deep I had waves behind me as I ran the wet vac at 2:30 in the morning.

Enough.

We have water in our basement almost as often as John Boehner reneges on a deal. Tomorrow I'm scouring Angie's List for wet basement contractors; they can come by during my scheduled time off next week. Interviewing contractors in Maryland and attending Bouchercon in St. Louis at the same time is beyond even my multi-tasking abilities, so I'm afraid Bouchercon will get a pass this year.

I'd ask anyone I might have shared a beverage with to meet me next year in Cleveland, but it's Cleveland, for Chrissakes. I'll probably go, but the Pittsburgh boy in me can't ask someone else to go to Cleveland with a clear conscience.

There's always Albany.

Interview at Temporary Knucksline

2011-09-05T10:57:00.001-07:00

Charlie Stella once again steps up as Wild Bill’s padrone, with a lengthy interview with your humble author at his blog, Temporary Knucksline. Charlie asks the good questions, and I give the best answers I can. Stop by and check it out, and peruse the rest of the site while you’re there.

Many thanks to Charlie for taking the time to interview me, and for his continuing support.

Best Reads for August

2011-09-03T15:18:00.001-07:00

I got bogged down in a long baseball book this month and didn’t cover as much ground as usual. Still, a couple of books stand out.

Big Numbers, Jack Getze. Austin Carr is a stockbroker driven into increased sleaziness because his income can’t keep up with his alimony and child-support obligations. New vistas of opportunity open up when his biggest client becomes terminally ill and his trophy wife has a plan to skim some money for herself before the kids can get it. Getze teases you with the ending first, but no names, then starts from the beginning, leaving several options for the bad guy. Or guys. You’re never quite sure until the end. The plot is involved, but confusing, you’re never quite sure which characters to trust, and the writing is easy on the eyes.

Absolute Zero Cool, Declan Burke. To say AZC is Elmore Leonard meets James Ellroy isn’t fair to Burke, the book, Leonard, or Ellroy. As unique a book as I’ve ever read, and worth a re-read so I have a little better idea what to expect from the get-go. (More detailed review here.)

Wild Bill Spans the Globe

2011-09-02T11:51:00.001-07:00

Barely a week after its release, Wild Bill is an international sensation, with satisfied readers from such disparate locations as Los Angeles, California and Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, with others strewn about the intervening 10,062 miles. (Note: The use of the word “sensation” does not imply an ego run amuck. Sensations are not universally good, as anyone who has recently has an “itching, burning, sensation” can attest. Just saying, is all.) The current sales rank is 106,488 in Amazon, which might not sound like much until you stop to think UNESCO estimates 288,355 books are published annually in the United States alone, which puts Wild Bill well into the top half without resorting to the treachery of an expensive, or even well-conceived, marketing campaign.

The arrival of Labor Day is the traditional time to say, “I want to relax over a three-day weekend with a piece of inexpensive crime fiction that’s worth every penny. “ What better way to say it than with a copy of Wild Bill, available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble for only $2.99? Spend the money you would have spent on sun screen on something intended to keep you shielded from the sun’s rays under an umbrella in the company of Wild Bill Hickox, Vinnie Dominos Agrigento, and Junior Bevilacqua.

Absolute Zero Cool–A Review

2011-08-31T15:23:00.001-07:00

I deliberately avoid reviews of books I know I’m going to read. Too many are thinly disguised book reports, recounting the major plot points until a couple of paragraphs at the end where the reviewer tells you if he liked it or not, and what he thinks it’s about. Most reviews, especially of the unpaid, online variety (like this one) leave the teacher in me yearning to give two grades. (“C+ for the content, but A- for the grammar and spelling. You can do better.”)

Because I don’t read reviews, I came to Declan Burke’s Absolute Zero Cool expecting something along the lines of Elmore Leonard channeled through several pints of Guinness. I’d read Dec’s previous books (Eightball Boogie, The Big O, and Crime Always Pays) and liked them a lot. His characters are fun, the dialog crackles, and the plots unfold well.

I knew the premise: a character from an unfinished novel comes to an author who closely resembles Declan Burke (even having written novels called The Big O and Crime Always Pays) and demands to be resurrected from the limbo into which unfulfilled fictional characters are cast. He’s different now, more likeable, worth working with/on again. Yes, he wants to blow up a hospital; no one’s perfect. The novel is the interplay between the author and the character. Sounded to me like a perfect set-up for someone of Dec’s gifts, playing with the author/character relationship, tweaking those who swear their characters “speak to them,” and their writing is little more than transcribing what they’re told in these literary séances.

I was right. I can’t think of anyone else who could have written this book. Hell, I don’t know anyone with the balls to consider writing this book. Certainly not me. All of the characteristics that drew me to his previous work are there, except it’s not Leonard sharing the pints; it’s James Ellroy. This isn’t crime for profit’s sake, with a little hipness thrown in; it’s depravity examining its navel.

The book doesn’t read like Ellroy. Burke wields the rapier where Ellroy uses a baseball bat, the book’s rough lyricism not unlike hearing The Commitments sing “Try a Little Tenderness.” I’m reminded of Ellroy by the darkness of Billy Karlsson’s thoughts and acts, noir-ish yet not completely self-destructive, leaving the reader to wonder at times who’s head he’s in, the author’s or the character’s, even though we know they’re both the same.

I stopped dog-earing pages halfway through. Already too much material to efficiently mine for quotes; might as well read the whole thing again. A riff on Tuesdays. A heartbreaking description of miscarriage. Recurring thoughts of sharks and Hitler, of everyday things we don’t like but accept, take them for granted because we all know that’s how things are, even if we won’t admit it. Billy knows, and the perambulations of his thought process drive someone mad. Probably not him; Billy was a nutter on Page One. Maybe it’s the author. Read on, start to follow the logic, to anticipate where it goes next, and the reader can only hope it’s not him.

How good is the writing? This good:

The opening paragraph:

The man at the foot of my bed is too sharply dressed to be anything but a lawyer or a pimp. He is reading, intently, which leads me to believe he is a pimp, as these days lawyers are more usually to be found writing novels than reading them.

When the author’s former agent says one of his books will be translated into Italian and that “Maybe the advance will pay for a weekend in Rome.”

Maybe. If I swim there.

When the author suggests Karlsson wanted to be a writer until repeated rejection turned him sour and led to his dream of blowing up the hospital, Billy replies:

Too narcissistic. Only a writer could be that self-absorbed.

Billy riffing on religion at the scene of an accident:

Priests are up to their oxters in the pus-filled boil of your fear, groping for the maggots they placed there before your birth. The concept of Original Sin is an evil so pure it verges on genius. Even the paedophiles wait for the child to leave the womb.

The author, realizing Billy is no longer fully under his control, if he ever was:

No Billy for three days running now. Maybe he isn’t coming back. Maybe he’s holed up in some garret, feverishly rewriting my life, consulting the story of Moses and Pharaoh for inspiration.

Is this how God felt when Einstein started doodling in the patent office? No wonder he struck Hawking down.

AZC is brilliant and baffling, enjoyable and vexing, funny and disturbing. I finished with much the feeling I get from Ellroy, a sense of “What just happened here?” understanding this is writing on a plane higher than I read. I don’t get it all, but I leave knowing I’ll be back to for another piece before too long.

How do you describe something unlike anything you’ve ever described before? Here’s a suggestion: read Absolute Zero Cool, then try writing a review. Let me know how it goes.

Absolute Zero Cool may be pre-ordered for November delivery at Amazon (US) here.

If you’d rather not wait, Amazon.uk can hook you up here. American Kindle readers can also click here.

Pleasuring Yourself

2011-08-28T11:41:00.001-07:00

Okay, maybe “Pleasing Yourself” would have been a more accurate title, but I got your attention, didn’t I?

James Scott Bell is a regular contributor to Kill Zone, a collaborative blog of crime fiction writers. His posts are always worth reading; today’s post resonated with me, for reasons that will become clear to regular readers here.

The crux of the post is a quote from Edna Ferber:

"Those critics or well-wishers who think that I could have written better than I have are flattering me. Always I have written at the top of my bent at that particular time. It may be that this or that, written five years later or one year earlier, or under different circumstances, might have been the better for it. But one writes as the opportunity and the material and the inclination shape themselves. This is certain: I never have written a line except to please myself. I never have written with an eye to what is called the public or the market or the trend or the editor or the reviewer. Good or bad, popular or unpopular, lasting or ephemeral, the words I have put down on paper were the best words I could summon at the time to express the things I wanted more than anything else to say."

Years before anyone ever dreamed of self-publishing electronic books, Ms. Ferber summarized a key reason for my decision to self-publish more eloquently than I have, or most likely will. (Hell, that was even before Ms. Ferber could have imagined being referred to as “Ms.”)

Wild Bill at Temporary Knucksline

2011-08-25T05:03:00.001-07:00

The first review of Wild Bill has come in, thanks to Charlie Stella (Johnny Porno, Shakedown, Cheapskates) through his always thought-provoking blog, Temporary Knucksline. Charlie was even thoughtful enough to provide his own blurbable excerpt:

Action packed, loaded with Higgins-like dialogue and clever, Leonard-like plotting, Wild Bill is more than a sure footed debut … it’s wonderful, a GREAT read.

To read Charlie’s entire review, click here. Take advantage of the links to pick up one of Charlie’s books while you’re there. If you like Wild Bill, you’ll love Charlie’s stuff.

Many thanks to Charlie, not least for his generous offer to allow me to co-write an anthology with him. Details to follow.

Wild Bill is Available for Kindle and Nook

2011-08-24T14:57:00.001-07:00

Those of you who follow the news closely enough may have heard a hurricane will strike the East Coast this weekend. Those of you who have experienced hurricanes know they can be damned inconvenient, especially when they fall on weekends. Everyone is pretty much confined to their homes, hoping the power doesn’t go out.

With this potential denial of entertainment in mind, we (okay, I) have decided not to wait for August 29 for Wild Bill’s release . It’s available for download now, both for Kindle and Nook.

Don’t delay. The power could go out at any time this weekend, and you’re going to need something to read. Don’t risk the chagrin of realizing too late you could have downloaded Wild Bill for your Kindle or Nook, but now it’s too late, as your home router is down.

Only $2.99. That’s less than the cost of a gallon of the gas you’ll save by not driving around this weekend. I can’t offer a better deal than that.

Did I mention it’s available now for both Kindle and Nook?

A Sample Scene from Wild Bill

2011-08-24T05:21:00.001-07:00

(Wild Bill will be available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble later this week.)

A taste from Wild Bill, to show a book that’s generally serious in tone can have some fun, too. No spoilers.

CHAPTER 33

Ben Borowski had the blues.

“You gonna tell us what’s up, or not?” Will tipped back his chair, heels on the desk. Eleven o’clock, and Ben hadn’t said ten words all day. Will had mixed emotions about drawing Ben out. Most days he’d be thinking up a fake call to get him out of the office, shut him up for a few minutes. “What happened? One of the dancers at Heavenly Bodies say you looked like her dad?”

The look from Ben stopped Will rocking his chair. He suppressed most of a grin, gave anyone in the office who wanted to listen time to gather. “Come on, Benny. Out with it. You know we’re not going to let it rest until you tell us.”

Ben glanced around the room, saw the usual suspects. Amanda Dalrymple. Fa, already turning a chair around so he could lean on the back to listen. Couple of guys from the Sal Enna team, in to compare notes. Will waved to Mike Satriale, on the phone in his office. Satriale ignored him, already in an animated discussion. Will extended his right arm in Ben's direction, wagged three fingers toward himself.

“Last night’s my night to take Shannon to dinner, right?” Ben divorced a year; his four-year-old daughter lived with the ex. “We go to Fuddruckers so she can mutilate her food and eat half an ounce of meat. Her mother’s on a vegetarian jag this month and it’ll piss her off when she hears where we went. So we walk out and there’s this Starbucks across the street, and Shannon wants one of those cookie things—what do they call them?—biscottis? Something like that. I think they taste like stale bread, but she loves them. I say, fine, I’ll get a hot chocolate, get her some milk to wash the thing down. We’ll be ten minutes late getting home. Not a crisis.”

“Why’d you get hot chocolate?” Fa said. “It was eighty degrees yesterday.”

“What else am I going to get? Coffee’s just as hot.”

“Iced coffee, Ben.” Amanda tilted her head, made a “yummy” face. “That iced shaken coffee is to die for.”

“Or iced tea, even,” Fa said.

“Or pop.” Will enjoyed having help to agitate Ben. Amanda and Fa were working out just fine. “Don’t they sell pop there?”

Ben faced all three for a second each, not sure where to start. He chose Will. “Not like you mean. They have stuff they call pop, but it’s not like anything I ever drank. I like hot chocolate, okay? If it makes you feel any better, let’s say I had an iced tea. Now can I tell the story you couldn’t live without?”

“Iced tea and biscotti?” Fa learned fast. “You serious?”

“I’m not eating the fucking biscotti. Shannon is. I’m just getting something to—”

“You’re not going to eat anything?” Will said.

“I just ate at Fuddruckers. Do you want to hear the story or don’t you?”

“Yes, we want to hear the story,” Will said. “You’re just doing a shitty job telling it, is all.”

Ben waited for quiet, checked every face in turn. The two agents from the Enna squad stood against the wall with semi-suppressed smiles. Ben’s stories were legend, especially with Will to disrupt them.

“We’re in there, Shannon’s eating her cookie—with some cold, white, whole, Vitamin D milk,” Ben said, glaring at Will when it looked like he might interrupt. “I’m drinking my hot chocolate—I mean iced tea—and this little girl from the next table starts talking to Shannon. I don’t pay much attention—it’s two little girls, they’re getting along—then the mother turns around to see what the kids are up to, and she’s hot. Long, black hair, beautiful face, pouty lips, nice, snug sweater over a great rack. I’m thinking she might be a little young, then I’m thinking she’s old enough to have a kid the same age as mine, what the hell?

“I start talking to her, work it around so she knows I’m with the Bureau—nice, stable, profession, background check already done—and I find out she works at Hooters on Wells Street. I start to say she’s perfect for it, but I catch myself in time.” This spoken to Amanda, who nodded approval. “Turns out she’s seen me in there, recognizes me once we get to talking.”

“She should,” Fa said. “You’re probably there more than she is.”

Everyone laughed but Ben. “So we talk. She’s a graduate student at DePaul, English Literature or English History. English something, I don’t remember.”

“I bet you’d remember if it was written on her sweater,” Amanda said. More laughter. Amanda blushed like a kid saying something clever her first time at the grown-up table for Thanksgiving. Ben started to weaken. He was in trouble if even Amanda could tee him up.

“So I ask what she’s doing in Starbucks, and she says she’s waiting for her mother so mom can sit the rug rat while Shelley—that’s the young mother’s name, Shelley—goes to work.”

“Thanks, Ben,” Will said. “I was about to offer twenty bucks if you could remember her name.”

Ben flashed him the finger. “Just then grandma walks in. Nice looking woman. I guess she would be, with a daughter who looks like this girl I’m talking to. We get introduced, and I’m thinking this is great. I get a chance to be nice to Mom, show some respect, this is moving right along.”

Ben stopped, tasted some of his cold, not iced, coffee. Blew his nose. Tied a shoe. Then the other one.

Will said, “Ben.”

Ben said, “So Grandma looks at me kind of funny, and says, ‘Ben Borowski? Are you with the FBI?’ And I’m thinking, sweet, somehow she knows I’m a respected law enforcement professional—” loud coughing from the audience, including the two visitors "—this can’t help but be a good thing. So I say, ‘Yes, that would be me,’ and Grandma says, ‘You don’t recognize me, do you? You took me to my sorority dance at Northwestern when Danny Connolly got sick at the last minute. We were both juniors.’ ”

The room erupted. Agents came from other rooms to see what all the noise was about, stood with confused faces while Ben’s audience wiped tears from their eyes.

“I tell you,” Ben said, “if that’s not a dick shriveler, nothing is.”

Wild Bill: Cast of Characters

2011-08-22T14:48:00.001-07:00

(Wild Bill will be available for Amazon Kindle On August 29; other formats to follow. )

Not to sound arrogant or conceited, but Wild Bill shares qualities with the greatest American fiction, writers such as Hemingway, Faulkner, and Twain. Words. Sentences, Paragraphs. Chapters. Grammar, for Chrissake.

And characters. Lots of them. Here’s the lowdown on a few.

Willard “Wild Bill” Hickox. Born Scranton PA. Graduated Penn State University. Joined FBI and; assigned to Los Angeles Field Office, Bank Robbery Detail. Received FBI Medal of Valor for apprehending or killing all four members of the notorious “Space Invaders” robbery crew when he came upon them unexpectedly in the commission of a robbery. Received FBI Medal for Meritorious Achievement for capturing fugitive felon David Wayne Longstreet. Transferred to Chicago Field Office, Organized Crime. Developed sources and informants for over twenty years and earned another Medal for Meritorious Achievement for his participation in Operations Silver Shovel and Family Secrets, among others. Wife, Sheila, killed in one-car accident during Hickox’s tenure in Los Angeles. No children, one brother. Romantically involved with Madeline Klimak.

Francis Albert Ferraro. Born Chicago IL. First arrest at age 15 for armed robbery; charges dropped. Arrested for Assault with Intent to Inflict Grave Bodily Injury for beating a man with a blackjack during a traffic incident; charges dropped when victim recanted. Suspected of five homicides and of ordering at least a dozen more. Criminal activities in connection with organized crime in Chicago include hijacking, extortion, bootlegging liquor and cigarettes, murder, usury, bid-rigging, gambling, auto theft, and pornography. Part of a triumvirate with Carmine Aliquo and Gianni Bevilacqua (both now deceased) that controlled the Chicago “Outfit.” In prison for Possession of a Controlled Substance (Marijuana) when Aliquo died and Bevilacqua assumed all power in Chicago. Engaged in violent dispute with Gianni Bevilacqua, Jr. for control of Outfit. Married, three children.

Gianni Bevilacqua, Jr. Born Oak Park IL. Attended one year at University of Illinois, Champaign-Urbana; dropped out. First arrest for Indecent Exposure and Public Urination while in college. Second arrest for Aggravated Assault, also in Champaign; charges dropped when victim recanted. Arrested for Possession with Intent to Distribute a Controlled Substance (Cocaine); charges dropped when evidence went missing. Criminal activities include hijacking, extortion, murder, usury, gambling, and distribution of methamphetamine. Currently underboss of Chicago Outfit, engaged in struggle with Frank Ferraro for overall control. Married, two children.

Mitchell Klimak. Born Bridgeview IL. Associate Degree in Criminal Justice, College of DuPage. Detective, Chicago Police Department Organized Crime squad. Awarded Department Commendation for his part in the arrest of known sex offender Alfredo Calderone while working as uniformed officer. Received FOP Distinguished Service Award and Joint Operations Award for participation in task force including city, state, and federal resources. Received Lifesaving Award for leaping into Lake Michigan in full uniform to rescue Michelle Sloane, 15. Allegations of unnecessary force resulted in one suspension, one reprimand, one dismissed charge. Married to Madeline Shea Klimak; two children.

Madeline Shea “Mad” Klimak. Born Morton Grove IL. Graduated with honors from Northwestern University. Six years in uniform, Chicago Police. Twenty years as investigator for Midwestern Casualty Insurance Company as fraud investigator. Nickname shortened from “Maddy” to “Mad” at age four, when she became so enraged by an older brother’s taunts she assaulted him; his injuries required ten stitches. Married to Mitch Klimak; two children.

Prologue to Wild Bill

2011-08-20T10:04:00.001-07:00

(Wild Bill will be available for Amazon Kindle on August 29; other formats to follow. Check the Wild Bill blog for updates and extras, such as character sketches and scene samples.)

The ceramic tile felt cool and dry against Gianni Bevilacqua’s cheek. A thread of drool ran from the corner of his mouth to the tile like the first strand of a spider web. Less pain in his left arm and chest now, but Gianni knew he’d die as sure as he’d known he was coming last night with Connie Tortorella.

Rosalie told him not to eat so many cannoli. “Eat some pizelles,” she said every night after dinner. “The cannoli are too rich for your cholesterol.” Cholesterol didn’t scare Gianni. He’d lied, cheated, manipulated, and killed to get to the top of the Chicago Outfit. He usurped authority and took down every tradition that didn’t suit him until he ran the whole operation. A pair of .22s behind his ear figured to get him long before cholesterol.

Gianni alone in the big house, Rosalie at Mass again, praying for his soul. Lot of good that did him, lying on the floor, eight in the morning, barely breathing. She should have prayed for something useful, like a tasty, low-fat cannoli.

Gianni’s soul didn’t interest him. The priests taught him young, everyone was on this earth to suffer for their greater reward in heaven. So be it. Gianni went about God’s work with a clear conscience, doling out suffering as he thought appropriate, sending some to their rewards even faster than God intended. He’d do what he had to if the invisible prick wanted him to suffer in the afterlife, too. How’d the saying go? Heaven doesn’t want me, and hell is afraid I’ll take over. A smile flickered in Gianni’s eyes, too weak to move his lips.

He’d had taken over before. Broke in with Momo Giancana, busting up policy wheels on the West Side before he was twenty. Saw Momo become the front boss, thinking he was the real thing, waving it in people’s faces. The man John Gotti only dreamed of being. Dated a McGuire Sister, fucked the president’s girlfriend, banged Marilyn Monroe on the side. He hung out with Sinatra, for Christ’s sake. Can’t get more big time than that.

Momo’s problem was, the Outfit didn’t go for flash. Tony Accardo had the big house; everything else, low profile. Momo got sent to Mexico to hustle señoritas in semi-retirement until his ego couldn’t take it anymore. He came back to be boss and the Outfit put him out of their misery in his own basement one night.

Gianni had more smarts than that. He stayed tight with everyone: soldiers, street bosses, all the big shooters. Greased skids, arbitrated disputes, made sure things worked like they were supposed to. Everyone thought he was on their side, and he was, when it suited him. When it didn’t, he had a story. It couldn’t be helped. The fat prick lied. They got to him first. I did what I could. I’ll make it up to you.

Luck is where preparation meets opportunity, and Gianni Bevilacqua had been preparing his whole life. When Carmine Aliquo died while consiglieri Frank Ferraro served three federal years, Gianni became the de facto boss. He added crews, promoted his supporters to street bosses, Gianni Junior to underboss. Ferraro came back from Lewisburg a true consiglieri: a counselor, in charge of nothing. Gianni Bevilacqua alone ran Chicago and points west.

Ferraro didn’t get to be consiglieri by letting things slide. Gianni made cosmetic changes and excuses to keep Ferraro off his back, all the while telling Junior he was being groomed for the top spot. For almost two years he maintained equilibrium between Frank and Junior, giving each only enough slack to keep him quiet. He’d sort it out sooner or later.

Now it was later, and nothing was settled. Gianni tried to lick the strand of drool from his lip. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Junior thought he was next in line; Ferraro would never stand for it. After seventy years of peaceful transitions, the Outfit would fight over turf like those babbos in New York. Just because Gianni couldn’t take it with him didn’t mean he had to leave anything behind.

New Blog Template

2011-08-20T09:47:00.000-07:00

Your eyes are fine. I finally got around to taking advantage of the new features Blogger has for blog templates. Don't be surprised if this is not the last change. You know how it is. Idle hands, devil's workshop.

Wild Bill Available for Kindle August 29

2011-08-18T10:28:00.001-07:00

My first e-book, Wild Bill, will be available for Kindle on Amazon.com, Monday, August 28. I’ll spare you all the flackery a corporate minion would inflict upon you about what a glorious work of unsurpassed genius it is and let you make up your own mind, based on the description that will appear in Amazon:

Will Hickox is a decorated FBI veteran with a legendary ability to cultivate informants, much closer to retirement than to the days when he earned the nickname “Wild Bill.” Operation Fallout should cut the head off of the Chicago mob and provide a fitting capstone to his career. When Outfit boss Gianni Bevilacqua dies and the resulting war places Fallout in jeopardy, Hickox does what he can to save it, and his retirement plans with his lover, Madeline Kilmak.

Wild Bill examines the stresses of Operation Fallout from the law enforcement, criminal, and personal perspectives, as Will and his peers fight to keep the investigation afloat amid the power struggle between Gianni’s son and elder statesman Frank Ferraro. Torn between wanting closure to the investigation and starting his retirement, Hickox weighs the dangers of involving himself and Operation Fallout in the war, blurring the line he walks with his informants.

All that for only $2.99. That’s right, for about the same cost as the amount of Starbucks you spill getting out the car with all the crap you carry to work each morning, you can have an original work of fiction in a state-of-the-art electronic format.

Stay tuned for the link to the Amazon page, and thanks for stopping by the blog.

Checking the Next Box

2011-08-16T08:48:00.001-07:00

eBook Architects returned my MOBI and EPUB files last week. Due to an action-packed week (a friend I haven’t seen in fourteen years in town, picking up The Sole heir’s new(er) car, and cleaning up the residue of a sump pump failure), I only today was able to finish proofing and returning the errors to the formatter.

Having read quite a few Kindle books now, I was prepared for a substantial list of errors. I’ve read—from major publishers, no less—with missing quotation marks, irregularly indented paragraphs, inconsistent justification, and words run together. Even XHTML code appearing where some English language symbol should be.

What I found were a total of six errors.

All of them mine.

I sent the comments back today and hope they’ll be returned before too long. Once they’re back, I’ll have the book posted to Kindle within a week. Many thanks to Joshua Tallent and everyone at eBook Architects for a wonderful job.

Absolute Zero Cool Rises From The Gutter

2011-08-13T12:57:00.001-07:00

The evening of August 10 was the official launch of Declan Burke’s new novel, Absolute Zero Cool. As is traditional, a launch party was held at the Gutter Bookshop in Dublin. (That’s Dublin, Ireland, for the more parochial Americans among you. And not that it’s traditional to hold launch parties at the Gutter Bookshop. They may be held anywhere. And for those who may feel a bit of gloom because you’d hope Dec’s career would be out of the gutter by now, fear not. By all accounts, the Gutter Bookshop intends its name ironically and is owned and operated by splendid folk he’d be a fool to disassociate himself from. Now that we have set the record for Longest Parenthetical Comment (contact Guiness, assuming they’re not still worn out from deliveries to the Gutter Bookshop), we shall proceed.)

The talented Mr. Burke was kind enough to submit to some questioning after ~~his recovery from~~ the ~~debauchery~~ festivities.

One Bite at a Time: First, congratulations on the publication of Absolute Zero Cool. My review will be forthcoming, but today let’s talk a little about the launch party. How many attended, not including the police who arrived near the end?

Declan Burke: Many thanks for the kind words, sir. I was hugely pleased with the turn-out for the launch party, not least because it took place on a typically Irish summer evening - grey skies, squally showers, intermittent gales. As to how many people were there, well, I’m afraid numbers have never been my strong suit. Words are my - actually, scratch that. I’d say there were about 80 people there, at one point or another, with which I was well pleased. And, yes, the SWAT team showed up at the end, but they were there to get John Connolly to sign their copies of HELL’S BELLS. So they don’t count.

OBAAT: Any names you’d care to share without risking legal action?

DB: Said John Connolly was good enough to launch the book on Liberties Press’ behalf, and lie through his teeth on mine. It was all very strange - at one point I thought my heterosexual male Irish soul would shrivel up and die with all the nice things being said. John also said he had read ABSOLUTE ZERO COOL not once, but twice, which might account for the slightly manic gleam in his eye during the proceedings. Actually, and all kidding aside, I was very chuffed by the fact that quite a few Irish writers turned out to support the evening - Arlene Hunt, Declan Hughes, Gene Kerrigan, John Banville, Alan Glynn, Ed O’Loughlin, Alan Monaghan, KT McCaffrey, Joe Joyce and Seamus Smyth were all there. Also, two names you might want to watch out for in the future - Rob Kitchin and Frank McGrath. All told, it was quite the humbling experience.

OBAAT: Considering the premise of the book, did any fictional characters appear?

DB: Well, given that the book’s main characters are an ‘unnamed writer’ - who has previously published EIGHTBALL BOOGIE and THE BIG O - and a character he previously created for an unpublished manuscript, the hospital porter Billy Karlsson, I guess you could say that one fictional character turned up on the night. And y’know, without getting too clever-clever about it, there is an element of truth in that. I mean, John Connolly was talking about ‘Declan Burke, the writer’, but Declan Burke the writer only exists for a couple of hours in any given day - most of the time, Declan Burke is way too busy trying to pay the mortgage and collect his baby girl from playschool, and mow the lawn, and doing all the 101 things that need to be done in any given day. Every time I sit down to write, it’s as if I need to reinvent ‘Declan Burke the writer’ - and I know that that’s an experience that most writers have. Other than myself, though, no other fictional characters showed up; or if they did, they didn’t make themselves known to me. Which, given that Billy Karlsson is a sociopathic hospital porter who takes it upon himself to blow up the hospital where he works, that’s probably for the best.

OBAAT: Can you describe a highlight or two from the festivities?

DB: Hand on heart, I can say that the highlight for me was being in a position - finally - where I could publicly acknowledge all the people who had helped to bring ABSOLUTE ZERO COOL to the point where we were having a launch party for it. Writers tend to bang on a bit about how writing is such a lonely existence, and it’s true, certainly, that it’s a job that needs to be done in isolation. But no man is an island, as they say, and it was great to be able to thank my wife, for example, for all the support she provides, in the way she helps to create the environment in which I do get to write; and Ed O’Loughlin, for example, who gave the manuscript a very severe and thorough read-through before it went to the publishers; the publisher himself, Sean O’Keeffe; and the in-house editor, Dan Bolger, the Pride of Philadelphia; and of course, everyone who paved the way all down the years, particularly my parents, who always had our house well stocked with books when I was a kid, and created an environment in which reading - and writing, for that matter - was so normal as to be unremarkable (although, when I did start to try to taking writing seriously, there were plenty of remarks made, all of them supportive). So yeah, my highlight was being in a position to say thanks to all those people who’d made it happen.

OBAAT: While I realize most readers hang on this blog’s every word like an infant clings to its mother’s breast, there may be the random stranger stopping by. Please give a brief description of what AZC is about, and how it came to be. (As I need not remind a writer as gifted as you, don’t allow the truth to get in the way of a good story here.)

DB: AZC is essentially about a hospital porter, Karlsson, who sets out to blow up the hospital where he works. Why? Well, throw another sod of turf on the fire and let me take you back a couple of years (picture grows fuzzy, soundtrack provided by a vibraphone) … I guess, like virtually everyone else on the planet, the 9/11 attack on the Twin Towers had a pretty profound effect on me; I wrote the first draft of the story not long after that happened. At the time, though, a lot of the commentary revolved around the fact that these terrorists had taken Western civilisation’s technology and used it against itself. Which was, in its own way, pretty frightening. What was even scarier to me, though, was the idea of people who weren’t outsiders, who weren’t necessarily of a different creed or colour, insiders, I guess - anyway, what happens when it’s one of your own, for the want of a better phrase, who sets out to strike at the heart of your civilised society? And Irish people, unfortunately, had been long conditioned to, or at least familiar with, the idea of Irish people blowing up Irish people, most of it taking place in Northern Ireland. Anyway, I started to wonder about what kind of target would be the most tempting for a terrorist who wanted to strike at the heart of Irish civilisation, and I quickly came up with the building that generally takes pride of place in most Irish towns in these increasingly secular times, the hospital. Now the hospital, in my opinion, represents the epitome of human advancement, being a kind of totem to compassion, the place where we take care of those who cannot take care of themselves - the sick, the old, the very young. Karlsson, hospital porter, more or less agrees, although - his mind diseased by logic - he believes that hospitals are actually a bad thing, in that eventually the process of keeping the sick and aged alive beyond their allotted span will eventually lead to a fatal weakening of the human race. And so, Karlsson believes, he needs to blow up a hospital in order to alert humanity to its clear and present danger …

So that was the first draft, which went in the drawer to gather dust while I went off to write THE BIG O, which was a comedy caper crime novel, and a lot more fun to write. Fast forward a few years, to when my wife was about to have our first baby; being totally clueless about what being a father would entail, I made the grand gesture (or so I thought) of announcing that I wouldn’t write at all for six months after the baby was born, so that I might be in some way useful. Writing being what it is, that lasted about three weeks; the compromise I suggested was that instead of writing something new, I’d redraft an old story (of which there were quite a few in the drawer at this stage). A couple of days later, standing at the office window staring out into my back yard (an essential part of the creative process, or so I’m led to believe), Karlsson ‘appeared‘, saying, “What about me? You created me, you brought me to life - but I’m stuck in this half-life limbo, this purgatory. Publish or I’m damned.” And so Karlsson - now calling himself Billy - and I sat down to rewrite the story. My part was to make him a more likeable sociopath, so he wouldn’t overly scare the horses; his job was to follow through and actually blow up the hospital, so as to give publishers a ‘high concept’ hook to hang the book on. And now, dear reader, read on …

OBAAT: Casting aside your renowned humility for a second, how did you get such an unorthodox book published in the current climate?

DB: Persistence and the kindness of strangers. AZC went out to a host of publishers, most of whom replied with rejection letters that began, “This is a wonderful story, but …” Eventually, I put the manuscript away again, and started working on something else. Then a colleague of mine (I review movies as part of my day job) asked to read it; she came back to me very enthusiastic about the book, and demanded that I start sending it out again, virtually shaming me into doing something about it. I took her at her word, and began sending out the book again. It was very quickly snapped up by Liberties Press, which is a relatively small but perfectly formed and very ambitious Irish publisher … In a way it’s very gratifying, particularly as the hard road to getting published is bound up in the story of AZC, and - grotesquely exaggerated, of course - how constant rejection can be so punishing as to impact negatively on the mind. Had I written the story and had it published straight away, I’d feel like a bit of a fraud; doing it this way, the long way, the hard way, makes it feel like I’ve actually earned it.

Thanks for taking the time to chat today, Declan. Absolute Zero Cool can be purchased (as a paperback or e-book) from either Amazon in the US or Amazon UK. Don’t dawdle, or you’ll feel like a twit when everyone else is giggling behind their copies and you still haven’t got the joke. Until you realize it’s on you.

Let the Proofreading Begin

2011-08-08T18:35:00.001-07:00

The e-book files for Wild Bill came back from the formatter’s this morning. I’m 26% through the .mobi file and have found one minor error, and one question to ask that may have been my fault in the first place.

There’s something different about seeing your book in someone else’s print—even electronic print—for the first time. It creates a distance between you and the finished product that wasn’t there before which makes it easier for me to read it as others have, which means it’s easier for me to see some of the warts. (None of which are so disfiguring that it won’t be worth your time and money to read it when it comes out in a few weeks.)

All things considered, it’s nice. Not like holding a bound copy of a book someone paid for the privilege of publishing, but still an accomplishment to take some pride in, considering how many people never finish a project, or can’t even bring themselves to start one in the first place.

Will it be successful? Based on my definition, it already is. Will it be a best-seller? Depends on your definition of best-seller. To me, if I make more money from this ebook than Todd Robinson paid me to print “Green Gables” in his Blood, Guts, and Whiskey anthology, then it is, by definition my best seller.

And that will do.

July’s Best Reads

2011-07-31T13:07:00.001-07:00

I’m having a good time taking the summer off from writing, though I can feel the itch starting to grow behind my right ear. Reading goes on year-round. Here are my favorite reads for July.

Shadow of the Dahlia, Jack Bludis. Bludis is another one of those writers I’ve been aware of for a while. When an interview in Allan Guthrie’s Criminal-E blog activated the Kindle Impulse Purchase section of my brain, I downloaded a copy. Bludis does a great job of catching post-war LA without going to the extremes that sometimes make reading James Ellroy a chore. The murder here may be related to the famous Black Dahlia killing, but is buried by the media attention afforded the Dahlia. A few shovelfuls of dirt may also have bee thrown by people who draw enough water to keep a story like this hidden, even without the Dahlia case to hog the headlines. Toss in a mob boss who wants the PI protagonist to find a husband for the boss’s daughter and the story is seamy enough to hint of Ellroy without making you feel as though you should shower afterward.

In Defense of Flogging, Peter Moskos. I discovered Moskos through his first book, Cop in the Hood, that tells of his year-and-a half working a sector in the Eastern District of Baltimore. He currently teaches criminal justice at John Jay College in New York. In Defense of Flogging is a thought-provoking book, the central premise of which is that our current system of incarceration is broken and has to be fixed. Moskos isn’t advocating flogging, but uses it to start a conversation Americans badly need to have.

Big Numbers, Jack Getze. Getze does an excellent job of taking a sleazy stockbroker, making downright criminal, and still make you root for him. Austin isn’t as bad as the events in Big Numbers force him to be if he wants to continue to have visitation rights for his children, but he doesn’t fight all that hard against him, either. By the end no one is sure who wants him dead more. This is the kind of story Carl Hiaasen could write the hell out of and sell a bazillion copies if it had a Florida developer angle to play with. Getze has a Jersey stockbroker and pulls it off well enough for Big Numbers to deserve more attention than it has received.

Shit My Dad Says, Justin Halpern. The popular series of tweets turned into a book is better than expected. More than just a series of shit his dad says, Halpern writes brief chapters to give some context to what his father has said over the years. This is both good and bad, as things an elderly man says to a grown child can be entertaining, while the same thing said by a father to a ten-twelve-thirteen-year-old boy make him look like a prick. The last chapter goes a long way toward redemption, and the book is pee your pants funny in spots.

A Hale Fellow, Well Met

2011-07-24T16:13:00.001-07:00

The Interwebs may differ whether it’s “Hail” or “Hale” and where it comes from, but it’s my blog and I know what I mean when I say it. In here, a “hale fellow, well met” is a person of generous good sprit with whom time spent is never wasted, being both entertaining and informative. Charlie Stella, for instance.

I was lucky enough to spend Saturday with Charlie, his cousin Jason, and Jason’s significant other, Allison at the Gettysburg battlefield. Conversation ranged from the Civil War to politics to writing to Tim McCarver. (Charlie is welcome to have him to run the Mets if he wants him. They can put McCarver in charge of NSA for all I care. So long as it gets him off television.)

This was the first time Charlie and I had met in the flesh. Pretty much a perfect day, though it was hotter than a bastard, not unlike the weather for the battle itself. The air-conditioned bus tour helped (the guide was well informed and personable), but the company was the key. Thanks to Charlie, Jason, and Allison for allowing me to share their day. I hope it won’t take as long to get together again.

Absolute Zero Cool

2011-07-17T08:40:00.001-07:00

My friendship with Declan Burke predates this blog. I met him via an interview after I had reviewed his novel The Big O, the appeal of which has not diminished with the passage of three years. He is a splendid person, a good friend and confederate, and has bucked me up more times than I care to remember as having needed to be bucked up.

His new book, Absolute Zero Cool, was officially released on July 7, though the big party will be August 10 at the award-winning Gutter Bookshop, Temple Bar, in Dublin. Stop by and hoist a pint or three; say “Dana sent me” and I’m sure Dec will give you a hale fellow well met slap on the back. (He’ll do it, anyway, but I always wanted to tell someone to say, “Dana sent me,” and this was my chance.)

My copy was pre-ordered and is winging/floating its way across the Atlantic Ocean to me as we speak. It will get bumped immediately to the head of my To Be Read queue, as a brief taste of an early draft told me this is something I’m going to want to read, and I’m already damned tired of waiting for it.

What’s that? Who the hell am I to tell you what to read, since I’ve already said I’m in the tank for Dec? Fine. Don’t take my word for it. To hell with you. Do yourself a favor, though, and see what others, people who have actually demonstrated some game, say about Absolute Zero Cool:

“A genuinely original take on noir, inventive and funny. Imagine, if you can, a cross between Flann O’Brien and Raymond Chandler.” – John Banville, author of THE SEA

Who in their right mind would want to blow up a hospital?

“Close it down, blow it up – what’s the difference?”

Billy Karlsson needs to get real. Literally. A hospital porter with a sideline in euthanasia, Billy is a character trapped in the purgatory of an abandoned novel. Deranged by logic, driven beyond sanity, Billy makes his final stand: if killing old people won’t cut the mustard, the whole hospital will have to go up in flames.

Only his creator can stop him now, the author who abandoned Billy to his half-life limbo, in which Billy schemes to do whatever it takes to get himself published, or be damned . . .

“ABSOLUTE ZERO COOL is unlike anything else you’ll read this year … Laugh-out-loud funny … This is writing at its dazzling, cleverest zenith. Think John Fowles, via Paul Auster and Rolling Stone … a feat of extraordinary alchemy.” – Ken Bruen, author of AMERICAN SKIN

Advance Praise for ABSOLUTE ZERO COOL:

“Stop waiting for Godot – he’s here. Declan Burke takes the existential dilemma of characters writing themselves and turns it on its ear, and then some. He gives it body and soul … an Irish soul.” - Reed Farrel Coleman, author of EMPTY EVER AFTER

“Declan Burke has broken the mould with ABSOLUTE ZERO COOL, which is actually very cool indeed. Funny, inventive and hugely entertaining crime fiction - I guarantee you’ll love it.” - Melissa Hill, author of SOMETHING FROM TIFFANY’S

“If you want to find something new and challenging, comic crime fiction is now the place to go … Declan Burke [is] at the vanguard of a new wave of young writers kicking against the clichés and producing ambitious, challenging, genre-bending works.” - Colin Bateman, author of NINE INCHES

“ABSOLUTE ZERO COOL is a surreal rollercoaster of a read, full of the blackest humour, and yet poignant. An outrageously funny novel ... The joy is in the writing itself, all sparky dialogue and wry observation, so smooth that when it cuts, it’s like finding razor blades in honey.” - Deborah Lawrenson, author of THE LANTERN

“Burke has written a deep, lyrical and moving crime novel … an intoxicating and exciting novel of which the master himself, Flann O’Brien, would be proud.” - Adrian McKinty, author of FIFTY GRAND

Now that your appetite has been whetted, you can queue up for your copy here.

Mark Your Calendar

2011-07-04T07:13:00.001-07:00

July 7 is a red letter day. No, not just because it’s Doc Severinsen’s birthday (also Gustav Mahler’s, but I never met Mahler personally, nor played a gig with him), but because Declan Burke’s new book, Absolute Zero Cool will drop this Thursday.

Dec has been a good friend to me and to this blog for several years, so yes, I’m in the tank. It should also be noted that we became acquainted when I interviewed him after reading and reviewing The Big O, which earned a highly coveted place on my ten best reads of 2008. (If Michelle Bachman can call herself a presidential candidate, I can call a spot on my list highly coveted.) It was the quality of his writing that served as our initial introduction; it wasn’t till later I learned what a good guy he is. A tireless promoter of all things good in Irish (and other) crime writing, his blog is updated more often Lindsey Lohan’s rap sheet. How his writing has failed to gain traction is pone of the great mysteries of the 21st Century, right up there with Snooki’s popularity.

I haven’t read AZC yet, so no spoiler warnings are necessary. Here’s the description from Irish Books Direct:

‘This man at the foot of my bed is too sharply dressed to be anything but a lawyer or a pimp. He is reading, intently, which leads me to believe he is more likely a pimp, as these days lawyers are more usually to be found writing novels than reading them.’ So begins an unforgettable trip into the seedy crime underworld and deep inside the author’s head. Rarely has a book within a book been more entertaining.

American readers can pre-order (as I have) at The Book Depository; shipping to the States is free. Based on Dec’s previous work and what I know of this book, it will be as much fun as you’re likely to have reading this year, and it will not go where you expect it.

June’s Best Reads

2011-07-01T05:20:00.001-07:00

I’m enjoying my summer off from writing (waiting for Wild Bill to come back from formatting by doing light prep research for uploading) by watching baseball (the Pirates are two games over .500 on July 1 and I lived to see it) and reading. Lots of reading. And, as you can see by the list below, lots of good reading.

Samaritan, Richard Price. Not his best, still better than just about everyone else. Price examines white guilt through the story of a writer who returns home to the project where he grew up and tries to do good for debatable reasons. As always, solving the crime is less important than how the principals respond to the act of solving the crime. The book goes on a little longer than it needs to, but the writing never drags. Easy to see how Price got hooked up with David Simon for The Wire. They were made for each other.

Charlie Opera, Charlie Stella. Not as polished as his more recent books, easy to see how this one launched Stella into multiple publications. What could have turned into yet another story of an innocent straight guy in over his head against the mob—winning implausibly when he had no business doing so—becomes the story of a resourceful man who’s straight, but as hard as the crooks who are after him. Law enforcement plays just enough of a role, and the hoods are just shortsighted enough, to keep things believable. Stella’s writing has become tighter over the years, but nothing drags here. It was fun to see where he came from.

Setup on Front Street, Mike Dennis. I’ve been aware of Mike Dennis from his blog and other sources for a while now, finally got around to reading him. Now I’m kicking myself for waiting so long. He hits the trifecta here: great, but not overdone setting (Key West), a protagonist who’s hard enough to get things done in the manner described while retaining your empathy, and a spot-on voice reminiscent of Mickey Spillane. I thought I might like it going in, but not nearly as much as I did. Dennis also has a knack too many writers have forgotten these days: get in, tell your story, and get out. No padding here.

Collateral Damage, the authors or the Do Some Damage blog. Several collaborative blogs have released collection in the past year or so. This one and its predecessor (Terminal Damage) are the best I’ve read. Not a weak story in the bunch, though Joelle Charbonneau, Russell MacLean, and John McFetridge stand out. Just about the most entertaining dollar you’ll ever spend. (Assuming you have a Kindle.)

Pocket 47, Jude Hardin. Kick ass. Hardin’s hero is a former musician turned PI (which I love, as one of my protags is a musician turned PI) who struggles to make ends meet in a manner reminiscent of Hickey and Boggs. Nicholas Colt gets involved in what appears to be a routine wandering sister case and finds himself seeing dead people. Okay, not really, but read the book to find out. Helluva read.

Good-bye, Columbo

2011-06-25T09:50:00.000-07:00

Aside from being a kick-ass writer, Adrian McKinty writes one of the best writer's blogs, covering a wide range of material, always in an informative, entertaining, and opinionated manner. He posted a BBC Radio piece by crime writer Mark Billingham to commemorate the passing of Peter Falk. It's less than ten minutes long, and beautifully done. Thanks to all concerned.

The Countdown Begins

2011-06-04T08:39:00.001-07:00

I received word yesterday that Wild Bill is scheduled to be formatted by August 9. Now I know exactly how much time I have to complete the ISBN online data, see exactly what needs to be done to upload it to various sites, and get the word out without being any more obnoxious than I usually am. (The last shouldn’t be too hard, considering how high I’ve set the bar over the years.)

May’s Best Reads

2011-06-03T15:13:00.001-07:00

May was busy at work and personally, so the quantity of reading that got done was limited. Still, I have a couple I can recommend wholeheartedly.

Maximum Bob, Elmore Leonard. A prime example of what made him the big deal he is today, taken from the period where he made hi8s reputation for being hip and funny while still keeping it real on the crime and violence front. The best thing about Leonard’s books from this period is, no matter how he portrays a character, or how much humor is dropped into the story, you never know for sure who will make it to the end until you get there. (Re-read.)

The Historical Baseball Abstract, Bill James. The King of Sabremetrics magnum opus. Updating the original while maintaining the writing and research what makes all of James’s work sing. A must for any serious fan of the history of the game, especially if you care about how its periods connect. (Not quite a re-read. I’d almost finished it before, and finally got around to it.

The End

2011-05-22T19:50:00.001-07:00

Many writers have a little ritual about their writing to celebrate a manuscript’s completion. I never type “The End” until I’m done with it, or as done as I can humanly be. Today I typed “The End” at the bottom of Grind Joint. Considering I sent another book in to be e-formatted this morning, I’d call that a rich and rewarding day.

Now I intend to take the summer off. Maybe I’ll outline the next book, write a short story or two, but nothing structured as a day in-day out activity. I did that for the first time last summer and it worked great. No burn out from the previous book, raring to go on the new project. (Thanks to Declan Burke for hinting that might be something for me to try. He’s quite wise, considering his youth.)

I’ll also spend some time this summer trying to get the word out about Wild Bill, but, since I don’t know yet when it will be ready (I’ve been told prep times are currently eleven weeks), I’m not going to get my knockers in a knot about it. It’s summer, it’s baseball season, the Pirates are flirting with .500, and if I wanted to stress about those things, I’d still be looking at traditional publishers.

Life is good.

Formatting Should Not Be an Afterthought

2011-05-22T09:23:00.001-07:00

The two primary problems with self-published e-books are shitty writing and formatting so bad it detracts from the writing. (Not that big publishers don’t release e-books with shitty formatting, but some of the independent jobs practically have to be decoded to be read.) I’ve already done what I can about the shitty writing in Wild Bill; today I sent the manuscript off to be properly formatted, along with its ISBN number and hi-resolution cover image. (Thanks to Chris Kaknevicius for allowing me to use his photograph, which has a panorama and an angle I couldn’t have chosen better myself; and to The Beloved Spouse for tweaking the resolution and adding the titles.)

I’m willing to accept criticism for the writing, but the formatting is beyond what I want to spend time on, at least at this time. Charlie Stella was kind enough to refer me to a small company that does this, and after trading emails with the owner, I’m looking forward to working with them.

I’ll keep the blog current as event continue. I don’t remember if I mentioned this before (not surprising, as the AARP card in my wallet can attest), but I hope some novice to e-publishing such as I am now may benefit from seeing what mistakes and tribulations I’ve have to go through. Good judgment comes from experience, and experience comes from bad judgment. With luck, someone else can gain experience from any bad judgments I might make along the way.

Best April Reads (and some catching up)

2011-05-01T08:24:00.000-07:00

I went through a reader’s slump the early part of the year. Not that everything I read was crap; nothing appealed to me enough to recommend it. That ended several weeks ago, but, once out of the habit, the monthly recommendations failed to materialize. Rather than wait for the clamor sure to result should I cease these posts completely (brief pause for laughter), I ‘ll do some catchi8ng up here.

Rut, Scott Phillips. The scariest kind of post-apocalyptic story, one that shows what things could be like if we keep going the way we have been. Phillips’s dry wit and easy style make this a fun read even as it creeps you out.

Generation Kill, Evan Wright. The book on which David Simon and HBO based the miniseries, it provides context Simon had no good way to describe. Wright looks back and lets the reader in on why some things were done the way they were, while Simon has to keep you with the Marines full time. The afterword of the new edition (written when the series came out) also places some of the characters in context. The respect that built between Wright and the Recon Marines is as obvious here as in the series. For a dispassionate look at the Iraq War, look no further.

The Lost Girls, Declan Hughes. Not Hughes’s best, but he and Ed Loy are so good it’s still highly recommended. Few crime writers can resist dipping their toe into the serial killer pool at least once; this is Hughes’s edition. Not as gruesome as many, and Ed continues to show growth. If you’re already hooked on Hughes and Loy, you’ll be happy to see how things are progressing.

Blood of the Wicked, Leighton Gage. The first of the Chief Inspector Silva series. Good, taut story and crisp writing makes it easy to see how he got contracts for more books. The interplay between his cops has improved as the series has progressed, but it’s worth the time to see how they all started out.

Crashed, Timothy Hallinan. Taking a holiday from the Poke Rafferty series, Hallinan writes a lighter tale with a new hero, burglar-for-hire Junior Bender. Hallinan has a gift for creating protagonists who are interesting because of how they react to their lives, not because of their addictions, mental hang-ups, or psychological baggage. A welcome relief and an entertaining read.

The Creative Writers Survival Guide, John McNally. Not a book about how to write, a book about how to be a writer. McNally covers the writer’s lot in life from picking a school to finding an agent to how to make enough money to not starve while you’re writing all this deathless prose, and does it in an easy to read, entertaining style that makes you wish he’d gone on a little more.

True Grit, Charles Portis. As good as they said, and better than either movie, both of which were very good. Confession: I’m more into Jeff Bridges than John Wayne, but as the action picked up later in the story I heard Rooster’s lines in The Duke’s voice. A quirky and wonderful read.

A Little Reminder

2011-04-25T16:53:00.001-07:00

I’m well aware my decision to forsake traditional publishing puts a glass ceiling over any writing career I might have, and I’m good with it. I’m even better after what happened today.

I want to state up front this is not a diatribe about agents. Agents have it tough now. The foundations of their business are set in quicksand and they’re getting squeezed on one side by publishers who want more out of authors all the time and on the other side by authors who think a book contract will buy them a villa in Capri. The agent I’m about to discuss is highly respected by everyone I know, including me. We’ve met, shared a couple of drinks in a small group, and my writing has always received a fair hearing. This rejection was complimentary, written with tact, and I have no quibble with the assessment.

It did, however, take the agent seven months to get around to it.

To me, that says more on the state of publishing than it does about this agent, and I’m too old for this bullshit. I’m fifty-five, and life is too short to live on gossamer-thin hopes that take the better part of a year to spin out. I don’t burn like I did as a young musician. I enjoy my quiet time more than I used to, and I’ve paid enough life dues that I don’t feel the need to wait indefinitely for someone to tell me to jump so I can ask how high.

I understand my path is not the way to fame and fortune; I’m not recommending it to others who may have different goals than I.

On the other hand, I’ve never missed a deadline, and I doubt I will.

The Creative Writer’s Survival Guide

2011-04-18T05:04:00.001-07:00

Finding books on how to write is easy. Lay in the parking lot outside any building housing an MFA program and sooner or later one will fall on you. Actually publishing a book, or even placing more than one short story in a respected publication such as the Pennysaver is optional. Many of these books dispense such valuable information as, “show, don’t tell,” or “grammar is good.”

In much shorter supply are books about how to be a writer. What to look for in a school, what’s involved in selling a book or story, and what will be asked of you once a contract has been accepted. How to keep ends together. Even whether you should become a writer in the first place. John McNally’s The Creative Writer’s Survival Guide is a welcome addition to this niche.

McNally’s credentials are substantial: three novels, two collections of short stories, the editor of six anthologies. His fiction, reviews, and essays have appeared in over one hundred publications, and he is currently an associate professor at Wake Forest University. (Full disclosure: McNally was a visiting writer at George Washington University in 2001-2002, where I was fortunate to be accepted into his workshop.)

TCWSG is broken into six parts, each consisting of several sections: The Decision to Become a Writer, Education and the Writer, Getting Published, Publicity, Employment for Writers, and The Writer’s Life. These are bookended with a brief introduction (The Writer’s Wonderland—Or: A Warning) and the notes, bibliography, acknowledgements, and index such a book requires. The layout is logical, progressing through the stages of a writer’s life as they as most likely to be encountered.

The book works as well as it does because McNally has scuffed around as much as a archetypal writer should. He never starved in a garret, though he did freeze in a trailer, where he was almost overcome by the fumes of its kerosene heater. (A plan to work Alaskan crab boats before Most Dangerous Catch made it cool was narrowly averted.) Anyone who hopes to earn a living from writing will have few life events that aren’t at least analogous to something McNally has done.

The other element to the book’s success is McNally’s writing. If easy reading truly is hard writing, then John McNally busts his ass. Conversational without becoming colloquial, TCWSG is as much fun to read as his fiction. There are no sections to be trudged through. Even what may seem at first glance to be the lair of dryness may be spiced up with an anecdote or a well-designed phrase. McNally is expert at Elmore Leonard’s credo to leave out the parts people skip, often by finding a way to make them worth reading.

Yes, I’m in the tank for him. He convinced me I had some talent, and has been encouraging throughout our relationship. Still, the only book I’ve read about the writing life that comes close to TCWSG is John Scalzi’s delightful You’re Not Fooling Anyone When You Take Your Laptop to a Coffee Shop. (Stephen King’s On Writing begins with a long and informative biographical section, but it’s much of it is a purging of his demons, and, hopefully, of little practical use to other writers, except as a cautionary tale.) The Creative Writer’s Survival Guide is thought provoking and fun, which is the best way to learn anything.

A Writer's Life

2011-04-14T08:31:00.000-07:00

Once again, The Onion knows more about what we do than most of us are willing to admit.

Crashed

2011-04-11T05:08:00.001-07:00

I’ve been a devotee of Timothy Hallinan’s work since I was asked to review A Nail Through the Heart, the first of his Poke Rafferty series. The Rafferty books started strong and got better, capped (so far) by last year’s The Queen of Patpong. Knowing how much effort Hallinan puts into the Rafferty books, and the emotional fatigue that must have been induced in writing Queen, it was no surprise when he opted for something lighter for his next project.

Junior Bender is a burglar. Not some cheap smash-and-grab asshole, Junior works mainly on commission, stealing specific things on demand for pre-set prices. When stealing a Paul Klee painting from the home of a notorious gangster goes south on him, Junior finds himself engaged with two organized crime operations, a crooked cop, and the pornography industry.

The Rafferty books always had laughs in them, no matter how serious the content. Hallinan has a good ear and light touch with his humor, and an appreciation of how characters have the capacity for it—even if unintentional—during the toughest moments. Crashed is intended to be more of a humorous read, as the story breezes along with more odd circumstances and quirky characters than can be found in any of the Rafferty books.

That’s doesn’t mean it’s fluff. The core subject matter is life and death, and Junior has a harder interior than may first appear. Thistle Downing is a cautionary character, and the issues surrounding Junior, his ex-wife, and their daughter are real enough to fit far more standard occupations than professional thief. The ending isn’t sure until it’s over. Still, the subtext is lighter, the smiles more frequent, and the cast more inclined to banter than in the Rafferty books.

What hasn’t changed is the quality of the writing. Hallinan writes scenes as memorable as anyone working today, and his descriptions are Chandler-esque at times, without sounded dated or derivative.

It’s easy to see why Hallinan would need a departure from Poke Rafferty’s increasingly dark adventures. Crashed is just what could be hoped for, something different that still has the basic elements that make Hallinan worth reading in the first place.

(By the way, if you haven’t read The Queen of Patpong, you really ought to get busy.)

Wild Bill Saddles Up

2011-04-04T18:43:00.001-07:00

I just sent the manuscript file for Wild Bill in to eBook Architects to have it formatted for Kindle and other electronic formats. Once it comes back, then I guess I’m committed to getting it out there, hopefully this summer.

Stay tuned.

Developing Genius

2011-03-31T05:38:00.000-07:00

Interesting post over at Pitchers and Poets yesterday. (Any baseball fan interested in more than the same old bullshit would do well to check P&P out regularly.) Eric Nusbaum took sabremetrician and writer Bill James to task over an article James wrote for Slate Magazine, lamenting how we as a nation don’t invest the same effort to develop writers as we do to find baseball players.

Nusbaum’s right; James’s article is “interesting but extremely flawed.” I’ll not rehash each writer’s points here; they speak more eloquently for themselves than I could. I will attempt to add a couple of argument stones to Nusbaum’s side of the scale.

Before I begin, note that I have been a Bill James devotee since I first saw a Baseball Abstract in 1982. Aside from being the father of modern baseball statistical analysis, he’s a wonderful and entertaining writer, with a keen intelligence not limited to baseball. Several of my life attitudes have been adopted from things Bill James wrote, and I’m better off because of it. (Example: he once took “baseball men” to task for dwelling on what a player couldn’t do, instead of capitalizing on what he did well. Good advice when dealing with anybody.)

James drops the ball uncharacteristically in several ways in this article. Nusbaum catches most; I have a couple more. Wondering why Topeka can produce a major league player every so often, but never a Shakespeare, even though it’s about the size of Shakespeare’s London, misses the point completely. If using Shakespeare (or Dickens) as an example, the comparison isn’t with producing a utility infielder, or even a player who held down a regular position for several years. The comparison there is with Willie Mays or Ted Williams. Few cities of any size have produced players of their accomplishment. If Topeka has, please point him out.

James also errs in his locations. Shakespeare wasn’t from London; he was born and grew up in Stratford-Upon-Avon. Dickens moved to London when he was three, but another James example, Graham Greene, grew up in Berkhamsted, Hertfordshire. They moved to London when they were already developing as writers. The analogy to Topeka would better be served to cite players who played minor league ball in Topeka, of which I’ll bet there are several well known names.

My arguments here are a hodge-podge, in part because so were James’s. So it goes. I suspect editorial and time constraints may have prevented his normal level of research. His point is still well taken: we don’t produce writers in anything like the quantities we crank out ballplayers.

Well, duh.

We never will. No one ever will, no matter how hard we might try. First, there’s no return on investment for writers. Scout the right ballplayer and you stand to make millions of dollars. The number of writers who can make a publisher comparatively rich can be counted on your digits. Baseball teams own the rights to their players’ work for six years after the reach the show; writers can change publishers with their underwear if they choose. No publisher is going to invest the money and effort to develop a writer who might give him one book, then leave.

Another key element is that baseball players—any athletes—are easier to spot. Watch twelve-year-old kids walk down the street. You can tell with some certainly which are the better athletes. Put a bat in their hands and it gets even easier. Choosing talent at the highest level is hard, but weeding out the chaff at the beginning of the pipeline is relatively easy.

Now take those same twelve-year-olds and tell me which one can write. What does a writer look like? How does he act? You can’t even tell by how he speaks. (People like to make fun of athletes, but I’ve heard some entertainingly inarticulate writers.) You just can’t tell with writers until you read what they’ve written, and even then you ought to read quite a bit before you predict someone to be a guaranteed success.
Comparing writers to athletes is a pointless exercise, not unlike saying Topeka has a population similar to Port St. Lucie FL, so why don’t they have spring training in Kansas, too? That’s comparing sunflowers and oranges.

The truth is, we have about as many writers—and ballplayers—as we need, or there would be more of them. Lord knows I’m not an ardent capitalist, but if we as a people wanted more writers, there would be more. We’d buy enough books for more of them to make a living at it. We don’t. I’m not saying it’s right or wrong, good or bad. It is what is is, and inventing convoluted comparisons to show how we are lacking because we don’t create more of them is like complaining about the uneven distribution of sunlight throughout the year. I don’t like it, either, but it’s not changing anytime soon, and we may not like it when it does.

City of Lost Girls

2011-03-22T17:21:00.001-07:00

No slave to the madding crowd, I. The fact that I waited six months after release to buy a book does not prevent me from waiting another six months to read it. Everyone waits their turn, no matter how much I revere their writing, or I might only read a small handful of writers.

Declan Hughes, for example.

Ed Loy is back resurrecting a friendship with a acclaimed Irish movie director he fell in with back in his Los Angeles sojourn. Ed’s job in those days was to clean up Jack Donovan’s romantic messes. That was also the cause of the falling out. Time heals most wounds, and Ed’s well along the path of understanding himself enough to forgive others, so he takes Jack’s case again, this time to determine the source of some threatening letters. When two young extra go missing from the set, Ed sees the connection no one else wants to, that three extras disappeared from the set of another Donovan film, never to be seen again.

Hughes sets himself a task with each novel. In All the Dead Voices he went back in time to show how the crimes of that book had origins in The Troubles. Here the new aspect is the introduction of first person narration from the killer’s perspective. He’s better at it than most, but the serial killer justifying himself to himself has been done so many times it’s become almost self-parody. Only the caliber of Hughes’s writing saves it from cliché, though it’s still the least strong aspect of the book.

Hughes has mastered the art of keeping a series fresh by allowing the characters to grow in non-stereotypical ways. Ed’s drinking is substantially reduced, though he’s not succumbed to the banality that accompanies the tortures of the dry drunk. His relationship with a woman is more strained by her fear that he will become too suburban than by his demons.

Tommy Owens becomes a more reliable friend all the time, accepting more responsibility and pulling it off better—though not without difficulties—with each book. Among the best sidekicks in any current series, Tommy’s value to Ed and to Hughes’s books is the equal of what is expected of Crais’s Joe Pike or John Connolly’s Louis, though Tommy is never as predictable as either.

Often compared to Chandler and Macdonald, Hughes is, to me, Ireland’s James Lee Burke. No one else can get away with the florid, unabashedly beautiful use of the language in describing actions that are far removed from any beauty, and still manage to keep the beauty in the description alone, attributing none to the act. No need to resort to odd spellings and apostrophes; the accents are right there on the page for anyone who reads with his ear as well as his eyes, and anyone who knowingly chooses to read Hughes with his eyes only is a fool.

One of the nice things about reading books a year after their release is that the next installment is that much closer. Lucky me.

Grind Joint

2011-03-16T14:40:00.001-07:00

I try to stay away from blatant self-promotion on the blog. It’s not as hard as one might think, since I have nothing to promote. (See above: A Humble Man, With Much To Be Humble About.) I will admit to being jazzed about Charlie Stella’s comments on my work-in-progress. (Charlie’s full blog entry here.)

To wit:

Grind Joint ... with the new manuscript service moniker (Knucksline Manuscript Service or KSM for short), we’ve now had our very first customer ... but let me say that we’re taking the fee under protest ... the book is called Grind Joint and the author is Dana King. The book, quite frankly, is terrific and is the second full length novel I’ve read by Mr. King. We feel it should be picked up by any agent out there looking for a new author with a ton of talent and/or any publisher looking to publish masterful writing and one terrific book (that is part of a terrific series). Grind Joint (about a casino going up in a small town) features local police and the nasty politics within the department, an up and coming real estate mogul who has bought his way to power, the one mistake he’s made (partnering with the wrong people--the Russian mob), some wonderful relationships between the well-rounded cast of characters and some of the poorer folk and dialogue as good as any out there surrounded by some superb narrative.
There is a home feel to the book that I had an unfair advantage with (having read a prior novel with the same core characters). Doc (not my Doc, who also has a book with Doc) Dougherty is a smart cop very protective of his own (including his family and home town--Penns River). He has an out-of-town cousin Nick in Penns River for a quick visit. The two are dynamic characters and as real as you’ll find in literature anywhere. There are other cops, civilians, witnesses, drug dealers, etc., but nothing is shirked in the development of these characters; none of them are picked from a formula/stereotypical shelf. King does a magnificent job of distinguishing one from another and each will tug at the strings of your heart in one way or another.
Frankly, this is masterful writing; a book that should be picked up post haste by any agents looking for new talent/publishers looking to publish page turning books featuring great writing.

Many thanks to Charlie for his support, encouragement, and excellent suggestions to improve the book. Anyone looking for a assessment of their work from someone who’s actually published multiple books (not just helped others, whose names may not be revealed), check out his reading service. Well worth your time, at a better than reasonable expense.

Hunting Down the Pleonasms

2011-03-15T05:16:00.001-07:00

It’s always fun to post rules for writing, if only to see how righteous the indignation becomes from those who don’t believe writing has any rules. If posting such rules riles your innards, think of them as guidelines, much the way New York drivers think of red lights.

When posting rules, it’s always good to get them from someone who knows what he’s talking about. Allan Guthrie is a kick-ass writer, though he has recently shuffled toward the dark side by becoming one of those gatekeepers all unpublished authors know is preventing them from finding the fame and fortune their writing deserves by keeping his jackboot firmly on their throats so his cronies can reap the rewards of literary success without competition. (Harumpf.) A few years ago, Mr. Guthrie took time off from smothering writers’ dreams in their cribs to publish a white paper he called, “Hunting Down the Pleonasms.” (Why someone in a field so intent on invoking the miscarriage of writers’ aspirations would take the time to share some of what has made him successful is beyond me. Must be part of the Gatekeepers’ Conspiracy I’m not clever enough to figure out.)

Anyway, Mr. Guthrie gave Adventure Books permission to reprint the document at its discretion. (See? The Inner Circle, working together.) I stumbled onto it there, after being directed from Facebook. Rarely have I seen so much good advice so well put, so I’m sharing it here, with a bow in the direction of the Adventure Books web site, and, of course, Allan Guthrie.

'Hunting Down the Pleonasms'

I can’t stress strongly enough that writing is subjective. We all strive for different goals. Consequently, we all need our own set of rules—and some of us don’t need rules at all! Personally, I like rules. If nothing else, it’s fun breaking them.

1: Avoid pleonasms. A pleonasm is a word or phrase which can be removed from a sentence without changing its meaning. For example, in “Hunting Down The Pleonasm”, ‘down’ is pleonastic. Cut it and the meaning of the sentence does not alter. Many words are used pleonastically: ‘just’, ‘that’ and ‘actually’ are three frequently-seen culprits (I actually just know that he’s the killer can be trimmed to I know he’s the killer), and phrases like ‘more or less’ and ‘in any shape or form’ are redundant.

2: Use oblique dialogue. Try to generate conflict at all times in your writing. Attempt the following experiment at home or work: spend the day refusing to answer your family and colleagues’ questions directly. Did you generate conflict? I bet you did. Apply that principle to your writing and your characters will respond likewise.

3: Use strong verbs in preference to adverbs. I won’t say avoid adverbs, period, because about once every fifty pages they’re okay! What’s not okay is to use an adverb as an excuse for failing to find the correct verb. To ‘walk slowly’ is much less effective than to ‘plod’ or ‘trudge’. To ‘connect strongly’ is much less effective than to ‘forge a connection’.

4: Cut adjectives where possible. See rule 3 (for ‘verb’ read ‘noun’).

5: Pairs of adjectives are exponentially worse than single adjectives. The ‘big, old’ man walked slowly towards the ‘tall, beautiful’ girl. When I read a sentence like that, I’m hoping he dies before he arrives at his destination. Mind you, that’s probably a cue for a ‘noisy, white’ ambulance to arrive. Wailingly, perhaps!

6: Keep speeches short. Any speech of more than three sentences should be broken up. Force your character to do something. Make him take note of his surroundings. Ground the reader. Create a sense of place.

7: If you find you’ve said the same thing more than once, choose the best and cut the rest. Frequently, I see the same idea presented several ways. It’s as if the writer is saying, “The first couple of images might not work, but the third one should do it. If not, maybe all three together will swing it.” The writer is repeating himself. Like this. This is a subtle form of pleonasm.

8: Show, don’t tell. Much vaunted advice, yet rarely heeded. An example: expressing emotion indirectly. Is your preferred reader intelligent? Yes? Then treat them accordingly. Tears were streaming down Lila’s face. She was very sad. Can the second sentence be inferred from the first? In context, let’s hope so. So cut it. If you want to engage your readers, don’t explain everything to them. Show them what’s happening and allow their intelligence to do the rest. And there’s a bonus to this approach. Because movies, of necessity, show rather than tell, this approach to your writing will help when it’s time to begin work on the screenplay adaptation of your novel!

9: Describe the environment in ways that are pertinent to the story. And try to make such descriptions active. Instead of describing a book lying on a table, have your psycho-killer protagonist pick it up, glance at it and move it to the arm of the sofa. He needs something to do to break up those long speeches, right?

10: Don’t be cute. In the above example, your protagonist should not be named Si Coe.

11: Avoid sounding ‘writerly’. Better to dirty up your prose. When you sound like a writer, your voice has crept in and authorial intrusion is always unwelcome. In the best writing, the author is invisible.

12: Fix your Point Of View (POV). Make it clear whose head you’re in as early as possible. And stay there for the duration of the scene. Unless you’re already a highly successful published novelist, in which case you can do what you like. The reality is that although most readers aren’t necessarily clued up on the finer points of POV, they know what’s confusing and what isn’t.

13: Don’t confuse the reader. If you write something you think might be unclear, it is. Big time. Change it or cut it.

14: Use ‘said’ to carry dialogue. Sid Fleischman calls ‘said’, “the invisible word.”

15: Whilst it’s good to assume your reader is intelligent, never assume they’re psychic.

16: Start scenes late and leave them early.

17: When writing a novel, start with your characters in action. Fill in any necessary backstory as you go along.

18: Give your characters clear goals. Always. Every scene. And provide obstacles to those goals. Always. Every scene. If the POV character in a scene does not have a goal, provide one or cut the scene. If there is no obstacle, add one or cut the scene.

19: Don’t allow characters who are sexually attracted to one another the opportunity to get into bed unless at least one of them has a jealous partner.

20: Torture your protagonist. It’s not enough for him to be stuck up a tree. You must throw rocks at him while he figures out how to get down.

21: Use all five senses in your descriptions. Smell and touch are too often neglected.

22: Vary your sentence lengths. I tend to write short, and it’s amazing what a difference combing a couple of sentences can make.

23: Don’t allow your fictional characters to speak in sentences. Unless you want them to sound fictional.

24: Cut out filtering devices, wherever possible. ‘He felt’, ‘he thought’, ‘he observed’ are all filters. They distance the reader from the character.

25: Avoid unnecessary repetition of tense. For example: I’d gone to the hospital. They’d kept me waiting for hours. Eventually, I’d seen a doctor. Usually, the first sentence is sufficient to establish tense. I’d gone to the hospital. They kept me waiting for hours. Eventually, I saw a doctor.

26: When you finish your book, pinpoint the weakest scene and cut it. If necessary, replace it with a sentence or paragraph.

27: Don’t plant information. How is Donald, your son? I’m quite sure Donald’s father doesn’t need reminding who Donald is. Their relationship is mentioned purely to provide the reader with information.

28: If an opinion expressed through dialogue makes your POV character look like a jerk, allow him to think it rather than say it. He’ll express the same opinion, but seem like a lot less of a jerk.

29: Characters who smile and grin a lot come across as deranged fools. Sighing and shrugging are also actions to avoid. Eliminating smiles, sighs and shrugs is almost always an improvement. Smiling sadly is a capital offence.

30: Pronouns are big trouble for such little words. The most useful piece of information I ever encountered on the little blighters was this: pronouns refer to the nearest matching noun backwards. For example: John took the knife out of its sheath and stabbed Paul with it. Well, that’s good news for Paul. If you travel backwards from ‘it’, you’ll see that John has stabbed Paul with the sheath! Observing this rule leads to much clearer writing.

31: Spot the moment of maximum tension and hold it for as long as possible. Or as John D. MacDonald put it: “Freeze the action and shoot him later.”

32: If something works, forget about the rule that says it shouldn’t

Why Haven't You Finished Your Novel?

2011-03-02T13:45:00.001-08:00

The Onion knows. As usual.

Slump Buster

2011-02-27T12:50:00.001-08:00

Patti Abbott has another flash fiction challenge on her blog. This is the original challenge:

On Saturday night, we passed a young woman on the street who was talking to her male companion and said, "I really don't mind the scars." A good start-up line for a little challenge perhaps.
So how about a 800 or so word story that contains that line in it with an end date of February 28th?

My selection is below. The others can be found through Patti’s blog.

Slump Buster

"I really don't mind the scars."

The third time Ashley had said that, so Mark thought maybe they bothered her more than she let on. Two white horizontal slashes across her forehead, a painful-looking red line along the base of her right jaw, and what could only be described as a furrow that ran from the corner of her right eye to the edge of her lip. Whoever gave those to her deserved whatever happened to him.

Ashley was still talking. Mark forced himself to pay attention, like he should have earlier.

“At first I did. I was like, ‘Ohmygod! No one is ever going to want me looking like this,’ so they sent me for counseling. I thought it was stupid. I was all, ‘It’s my face that’s cut up. My head’s fine.’ But you know, it’s amazing what they can do. They have support groups for everything. I always thought they’d be like all AA about it, a bunch of losers blaming their mothers for how crummy they turned out, but it wasn’t like that at all. Actually made me feel kind of guilty, crying over some scars, talking to people who were missing arms and legs. This one poor guy lost an ear and a nose in a fire. I thought, ‘If I can keep from staring at him, then I shouldn’t always feel like people are staring at me like some freak show.”

Mark shifted in his chair. He didn’t really want to hear any more, but he wasn’t sure where he’d go or what he’d do if he left.

Ashley said, “I met Margo there. We’d get together after meetings for a few drinks, started hanging out together. She’s the one who said I wasn’t a loser for living with someone who’d give me a face like this. I was just a bad picker. That the scars could be a good thing, make it easier to see which men were sincere and which ones weren’t.”

Mark definitely uncomfortable now. He’d thought of Ashley as what his friend Graham called a “slump buster,” a girl you normally wouldn’t look twice at, but would settle for if it had been too long. Parts of her were attractive: better than average body, how she walked, the way she wore her hair. Except for the face, serious deal breaker. Look at the bright side, he’d thought. Less competition, keep the lights out at her place, leave before the sun comes up.

“See, a guy who’s only into a girl for how it makes him look won’t bother with me. So anyone who spends some time with me is either serious, or just looking for a quick screw and figures I’ll be desperate.”

Mark made a sound he couldn’t remember making before. Ashley smiled. “It’s okay. Margo was more than just someone who hung out at that group. She has some—talents, said she saw some of those qualities in me. I didn’t believe her—I mean, there aren’t really witches, right?—but she showed me a few things and I’m all like “Ohmygod, you really did that, can you teach me?’ and she did. Some stuff, anyway. It’s not like I’m that girl in Harry Potter or anything, waving a wand and saying weird stuff and flying or going back in time.”

Ashley dried her hands, hung the dishtowel on a rack. “It’s not like I always can tell about a guy in advance. I mean, there’s witchy and then there’s full-out creepy, you know? And I have to admit, sometimes I do like to get laid for no other reason than it feels good. So I guess I’m kind of dishonest about that, letting the guy take me home so I get what I want, then, you know, doing what I do, but there’s justice in it, you know?”

Ashley walked to the kitchen door. It opened to the back of the house. A beautiful spring day, new leaves and blossoms on trees, the pond in the common area bluer than water had a right to be that time of year.
She said, “I mean, there’s like all those stories of the girl kissing the right frog and he turns into a prince. I just thought, how cool would it be it you could turn the wrong guy into a frog and mentioned it to Margo, you know, like no big deal. She taught me in just a couple of days. I mean, I feel kind of sorry for the homeless
guys we practiced on, but they’re doing better as frogs than they were as people, I bet.”

Ashley made a shooing motion. Mark jumped off the stool. “Go on, now. Scoot! If you hurry you can make it to the pond before the Simpsons’ dog comes around.”

I’m Stumped

2011-02-13T09:16:00.001-08:00

The Beloved Spouse and I watched the original 1962 version of The Manchurian candidate last night. Can someone please explain to me why this is such a revered film? I understand how it captured the zeitgeist of the time, but the dialog is stilted, the acting is hammy, the plot has more holes than a junkie streetwalker’s stockings, and what the hell was the deal with Janet Leigh's character?

Prologues

2011-02-07T17:07:00.001-08:00

It has been said of late that publishers don’t like to buy books with prologues. I can’t remember why; like so many pronouncements from the publishing industry, it carries the aura of someone speaking authoritatively when, in fact, he can barely distinguish shit from shinola. Given the current health of the publishing industry, this is not a great leap of faith.

I’ve finally gotten around to reading Adrian McKinty’s much acclaimed Dead I Well May Be. (Yes, I know about the speed with which my wheels grind, but they grind exceeding fine.) The book starts with a prologue that not only sets up the character of Michael Forsythe but explains how this Irish lad came to be in the United States in the first place. Concise, an exceptional example of showing and not telling, and establishes the mood for what is to come.

Apparently the prologue police weren’t able to get to McKinty in his current digs Down Under, as 2009’s Fifty Grand begins with not just a prologue, but a teaser prologue that jumps to well into the book, leaving the reader with anticipation of what is to come, but never hinting at how he’ll get there.

A poorly-written prologue can be a useless appendage, a tail that doesn’t wag the dog, but precedes it. That’s no reason to look disfavorably upon them. Prologues can also serve valuable table-setting functions, introduce characters and conflicts, and give the reader a taste of the writing before the story starts to roll in earnest.

Who shouldn’t write prologues? People who don’t write well should avoid them like the plague, although those folks probably should not write the rest of the book, either. Prologues should also be avoided by those who wish to adhere to conventional wisdom in the hope of improving their chances of publishing success, though conventional wisdom’s track record of late doesn’t have much to recommend it.

The avoidance of prologues is no more legitimate than the constant and sometimes unreasonable demands to “raise the stakes” to such levels the writer has no believable way of resolving the story. Does it serve a purpose, and not feel like a useless appendage? Leave it in. What the hell.

Rut

2011-02-03T18:03:00.001-08:00

I don’t do reviews anymore. They came to drain too much of the fun from my reading, having to justify every opinion. I’m not into a lot of mindless entertainment, but it’s nice to sit back and let a book take me to where it wants to go. I enjoy regaining the ability to do that, and I plan to keep it that wat.

Not reviewing doesn’t mean I won’t recommend good books when I find them, whether they’re new or not. I finished Scott Phillips’s newest, Rut, the other night, and that’s as good a place as any to start.

Rut has the best post-apocalyptic premise I’ve seen yet: just keep doing what you’re doing, and this is where you’ll end up. The town of Gower CO has dropped off the Big Grid; everything is solar. People ride bicycles. The Tar-Mart truck delivers when the weather allows, which is only a few months a year. Summer is routinely over one hundred degrees, and snowfalls measured in feet begin as early as September. Fundamentalists rule many states. This is America after the Tea Party gets through with it. (That’s my observation. The book is as apolitical on these points as it can be.)

The strength of any Phillips book (The Ice Harvest, Cottonwood) is the characters, who are always believable, never ordinary. Rut is no exception. From Bridget the biologist to Darla the geriatric skank to Dr. Glaspie, the physician/veterinarian/self-ordained minister to half a dozen others, it’s the people and always spot on dialog that keeps the story moving. Their actions make sense in context, though that context is their own.

Writers who can envelope readers in their world as well as can Phillips are few and far between, Rut is an excellent example of why I always keep an eye open for his books.

The business of Rut’s printing is also ahead of the curve. Concord Free Press gives the book away, on three conditions: you promise to pass it along when finished, you promise to make a contribution to a local charity, and you promise to tell them who got the money. Kudos to Concord and Phillips for making Rut available in this manner. For readers, it’s a golden opportunity to read well while doing good.

Another Step Down the Road

2011-01-26T13:53:00.000-08:00

Publisher HarperCollins is inserting a morals clause into its contracts with novelists.

From the article in eReads:

New language in the termination provision of the Harper’s boilerplate gives them the right to cancel a contract if “Author’s conduct evidences a lack of due regard for public conventions and morals, or if Author commits a crime or any other act that will tend to bring Author into serious contempt, and such behavior would materially damage the Work’s reputation or sales.” The consequences? Harper can terminate your book deal. Not only that, you’ll have to repay your advance. Harper may also avail itself of “other legal remedies” against you.

I can only think of one thing to say to HarperCollins and its owner, Rupert Murdoch:

Fuck you. The horse you rode in on shouldn't turn its back on me, either.

The Sopranos

2011-01-20T05:09:00.000-08:00

The Beloved Spouse and I recently finished a trip through all 86 episodes of The Sopranos. This is our third trip through most of them, the first since the series went off the air, and it's interesting to see how our perceptions have changed.

First, I remembered Seasons Five and Part One of Season Six as not being as good as the rest. I didn't see that at all this time. The stories were consistently tight, and the pacing was solid throughout each season. Yes, Tony's coma dreams after Uncle Junior shot him went on a bit long, but my memory of things dragging when Vito's homosexuality drove him out of Jersey didn't hold up. True, that wasn't their best sub-plot, but it wasn't dead weight, either.

The greatest accomplishment of David Chase and his writers has to be making us care for seven years about people who are, frankly, bad people. Not evil; that implies two dimensions. Everyone in the show had their virtues, but they didn't make up for being duplicitous, whining, conniving bastards the rest of the time. James Gandolfini is brilliant week in and week out, but Tony is, as he describes himself more than once, a malevolent prick. Yes, he loves his kids and animals, and does occasionally go out of his way to be nice. Not to get all Biblical, but were he to be weighed in the balance, he'd be found wanting.

Carmela is worse than a whore in her way. At least with a whore you know it's a cash transaction. AJ sets new standards for being a whiny little pussy. Meadow had her snotty bitch period as a teen, but in the end is probably the most likable character. She grows and matures while everyone else revels in their dysfunction. Of the hoods, Bobby Baccalieri is the most sympathetic. He's a violent criminal, too, but his loyalty--to his dead wife, his children, to Janice, and to Tony--is touching.

I've had almost four years to think about the famous last episode and its ending. Time to place it in context, use what I've learned about story in the interim to better appreciate it, so i was looking forward to it again. It's still a chickenshit cop-out. Chase didn't know what to do, so he did nothing. Granted, after seven years of being relentlessly non-judgmental about his characters, he didn't want to turn the ending into a morality play. Fine. He owed his audience better. Even Deadwood had a more satisfying ending, and David Milch didn't know that show was going to end when it did. (Though it was Milch's fault it did end, the selfish bastard.)

Now Tony and Paulie and Sil go back on the shelf until we've worked our way through Lonesome Dove, Generation Kill, Deadwood, and The Wire again. (Plus whatever else strikes our fancy in the interim. Justified? Terriers, even though it was canceled?) We'll be back to visit with The Sopranos in a couple of years. I'm sure we'll see different things again when we do. It's that good a show.

If the Shoö Fits

2011-01-20T04:44:00.001-08:00

In IKEA the other day with The Beloved Spouse, I noticed their faux Swedish name for wastebasket is "Dokument."

Insert your own pithy comments at will.

Outliers

2011-01-10T19:41:00.000-08:00

I see a lot of Internet postings lamenting the sad state of American culture. Seems a lot of bloggers are upset over the quality of books that get published, televisions shows that get aired, or movies that make it to the multiplex. The lack of public standards is sometimes taken personally, not only as an affront to good taste, but actively hindering talented people from making the living they deserve.

Get over it, folks. You want to bitch about something, get into a snit over the sun rising in the east. It's about as likely to change.

What we too often forget is that those of us who take the time to read and write (hopefully) thoughtful blogs are the outliers. No one is going to wager large sums of money on our tastes and preferences, because there aren't large numbers of us. It's a sucker's bet.

Another thing to keep in mind is that is has always been this way. We look back at writers who have stood the test of time and forget that 99.9% of their contemporaries were shit. We all know the stories of artists who starved in their lifetimes, only to find an audience, and redemption, after their death. Fat lot of good it did them. There are similar artists among us now; we just don't know who they are. We're too busy wading through the 99.9% contemporary shit quotient.

An elevated state, appreciative of art and the finer things in life, is not the normal human condition. Most people spend too much time holding things together to worry about whether Dan Brown's latest potboiler passes muster as literature. The average guy wants to come home after work and read something--if he chooses to read at all--that doesn't require a lot of mental heavy lifting. He's tired, bills have to be paid, and the kids are making too goddamn much noise in the other room for him to concentrate on David Foster Wallace or Gabriel Garcia Marquez, or even James Lee Burke. He doesn't want to have to draw cosmic conclusions from veiled inferences. He might be willing to play at putting together a puzzle if it's not too demanding, but probably not if he just did his taxes and found out the thousand dollar refund he'd hoped for is actually a five hundred dollar bill owed, and he doesn't have the five hundred.

That doesn't mean we outliers shouldn't try to meet our own standards, or to seek out those who share them. It does mean that if we choose to lament the state that makes us outliers, we're never going to be satisfied. Let people enjoy what they're going to enjoy. They will, anyway.

Best Reads of 2010

2011-01-03T14:04:00.000-08:00

I read a lot of good books last year; here's a list of those I recommend most highly. Many that made monthly lists don;t appear here; some who did not make the monthlies may. I looked at the list of what I'd read, the notes I'd taken, and thought of which books left me with the best impression. it's not a science.

Books are displayed in the order in which they were read. No ranking is implied.

Deadwood, Pete Dexter. Fantastic book. Told primarily from the perspective of Charlie Utter, the book seeps with dry humor and realistic Western bits. The dialog is superb. I've read that David Milch used this as source material for the TV series, and that Dexter was not happy with what Milch did with it. Both are great; both are different. Don't experience one expecting the other, and you'll love them both.

Gun Monkeys, Victor Gischler. I'd been meaning to read Gischler for quite a while, finally got around to it. Funny, while retaining believability, and the plot twists are a delight.

Let it Ride, John McFetridge. (Swap outside the U.S.) The third of McFetridge's crime novels shows the evolution of his style toward George V. Higgins. As always, the dialog sounds like people talking, and the plot and characters are presented without judgment or apology. He's been described as Canada's Elmore Leonard (a reasonable comparison, especially to Leonard's earlier, grittier books); he may also be turning Toronto into the 21st- Century's version of Chandler's Los Angeles.

Bury Me Deep, Megan Abbott. Holy shit. It took me a chapter or two to get into what seemed to be an archaic writing style that turns out to be critical to setting the book in time. As noir as it gets, without the neo-noir mannerisms of perversion and violence for their own sakes. Brilliantly based on a true story.

Johnny Porno, Charlie Stella. Stella writes about the aspects of organized crime most forget: not bosses, but the knockaround guys who grease the money wheels. A matter of fact telling of how easy it can be for someone to fall from respectable blue collar worker (as well as a reminder that blue collar work is, indeed, respectable) into the periphery of crime, and how there is no real periphery to crime. No one writers this kind of story better.

The Queen of Patpong, Timothy Hallinan. Every year I say Hallinan has outdone himself, and every year the Poke Rafferty series gets better. It's hard to believe he can write a better book than this. it's hard to believe anyone can write a better book than this.

Cop in the Hood, Peter Moskos. Not your ordinary cop's diary. Moskos worked for a year-and-a-half as a Baltimore cop to prepare his Masters thesis, so his opinions are those of an outsider who truly went native. This gives the Cop in the Hood a depth many allegedly similar books lack, as Moskos is able to step outside the moment when necessary. The history of the effects of drug and alcohol prohibition at the end of the book is an eye-opener.

Clockers, Richard Price. I discovered Price through The Wire, and there's a lot of The Wire in Clockers. A true crime novel, where the crime is the inciting action of a story about people's lives. As with Freedomland--the other Price book I've read--the resolution of the crime doesn't seem to matter so much by the time you get there. It's what happens to the people, and how they got there, that's important.

The Night Gardener, George Pelecanos. A lot of Pelecanos's writing escapes me. I can understand why he's so highly regarded, but something about him doesn't resonate with me. (Probably due to the frequent references to popular music of the 70s and 80s and cars.) In The Night Gardener he hits all his marks dead on and creates a book you'll not soon forget.

The Rare Coin Score, Richard Stark. I've loved Donald Westlake's books for years. Why it took me so long to read my first Richard Stark is a reasonable question for which I have no good answer. ("not as smart as he thinks he is" comes to mind.) This is, so far, my only Stark, so I can't say where it falls in his oeuvre, but even if it's the best, the others will still be worth reading.

Every Bitter Thing, Leighton Gage. Brazilian federal cops in a story Ed McBain would have enjoyed. The relationships--some better, some not so good--between the cops drive the story. The plot is just complicated enough, the clues just tantalizing enough, and the ending falls together nicely. This was my first Gage, but won't be my last.

Boyos, Richard Maranick. Another unapologetic, non-jedgmental look into the lives of criminals. Wacko Curran is not someone you'd like to know, but everything he does makes sense when iewed from his perspective. Pay attention as the ending comes together and you'll look forward to the next installment in Curran's saga.

Dancing Bear, James Crumley. I read The Last Good Kiss a couple of years ago and appreciated it without really enjoying it. (Of course, I had mononucleosis at the time, which could have had something to do with it.) Dancing Bear was such a good read I'm going to give Kiss another chance. Crumley was a hell of a writer, with a sparse--not Spartan--style, wo knew exactly how do insert humor, and how much.

Honorable Mention:
Complications, Atul Gawande
Fiddle Game, Richard Thompson
The Fourth Protocol, Frederick Forsythe
Gutshot Straight, Lou Berney
Tonight I Said Goodbye, Michael Koryta
Ghosts of Belfast, Stuart Neville
Romance, Ed McBain
Eight Men Out, Eliiot Asinof

Decembers Best Reads

2011-01-02T07:26:00.000-08:00

Sex, Thugs, and Rock and Roll - Todd Robinson, editor. Thuglit's second collection. Maybe not as consistent all the way through as the original (Hardcore Hardboiled), but still a first-class collection by excellent writers. Probably out of print, but worth looking up.

Moonlight Mile - Dennis Lehane. The much-anticipated sequel to Gone, Baby, Gone. Also not quite as good as the original, but Lehane now has a much broader oeuvre for comparison. The story is excellent, if somewhat constrained by Kenzie's inner angst over his work. Could use a little more Bubba, but Yefim the Russian gangster is a prize.

Below the Line, John McFetridge and Scott Albert. Big fun for anyone interested in how movies get made, or don't. A pastiche of fictional stories of what happens on a movie set, drawn from the authors' experiences. The book is good throughout, but the scene where the transport captain takes the star to a hockey game is worth the entire cost. Definitely out of print, worth picking up at a used bookstore if you can find it.

Looking Below the Line

2010-12-31T07:02:00.000-08:00

The Beloved Spouse and I are working our way through The Sopranos again, finished Season 5 last night. At one point, Tony’s sitting in his office at The Bing and Corky mentions, “I have that tape dispenser.” I immediately looked around him and thought, “Someone dressed that set,” and all the minutiae that are involved.

The whole set dressing thing would not have occurred to me had I not read Below the Line, by John McFetridge and Scott Albert. It’s a pastiche of stories—some related, some not—of the goings-on at a Toronto movie set, where an American movie is being made. The book gets into the friction between the Canadian and American sides (the Americans make films in Canada because it’s cheaper, then look down on the Canadians; the Canadians are happy for the business, but frustrated because the American 800-pound gorilla makes it harder to get good Canadian films made), but mostly it’s about all the stuff that has to happen for a move to get made that the audience never sees. (“Below the Line,” in movie parlance.)

It’s a fun book to read—the scene where the transport captain takes the star to a hockey game is laugh out loud funny---and also educational, without hitting you over the head about it. It’s full of conversations about finding locations, the frustrations of being a Production Assistant, dressing sets, and half a dozen other things that have to occur for you to see even a piece of shit at the local multiplex. (The book is, unfortunately, out of print, and not available on Kindle. I found my copy at an online used bookstore.)

Back to The Sopranos. Once TBS points out the tape dispenser, I’m watching for everything. Tony slides down a snowy hill outside Johnny Sack’s yard to escape the feds, and I think “Location scout. MoGib.” Johnny Sack slips and falls in the snow. “Stunt man.” Watch some of the fine work turned in by people who were under the radar as actors when the show was made, and I'm thinking, "Casting Director."

I even caught a goof. Tony meets Johnny outside his house, a foot of snow on the ground. Johnny said to be there at 6:30 AM, he had a plane to catch, and I’m thinking “No way is there that much sunlight at 6:30 that time of year in New Jersey. (I think that’s Continuity, but I’m not sure.)

I love that kind of thing. Some people would ask how I can enjoy the movie, seeing all the wires and engines that make its illusion work. I say it’s the cost of being a writer and wondering how things work under the hood. When I was a musician, one of my best teachers told a class I was in that we had chosen to devote our lives to music, we no longer had the luxury of listening purely for enjoyment; we had to think, “How did he do that? Why was that choice made?” The same holds true for writers, I think. Certainly so far as writing technique goes, and for cinematic choices, as well, since it’s still storytelling. What I’m noticing now is just another level, and it’s fun.

Also, I’m just curious. I see anything, and I want to know how it works, why it’s made that way. This means I’m rarely bored, and sometimes frustrated. That has “writer” pasted all over it, too.

Happy Holidays

2010-12-24T05:06:00.000-08:00

Each year goes faster than before,

They’re past before you know it,

So now it’s time for me to rhyme

And prove that I’m no poet.

This year began, as winters do,

With cold and lots of snow,

I’ll not complain, but ‘twere snow rain,

We’d had to learn to row.

The holidays last year did bring

A guest to share our rooms,

‘Twas Kaitlyn, Corky’s grand-daughter,

We hope she’ll be back soon.

Then dormant lay us all till May

When action came exploding

With news and schmooze and trips to Stu’s

All fun, with no foreboding.

We started off in Wilmington,

(That’s in North Carolina)

For Kaitlyn’s mother’s birthday fete,

And few trips have been finah.

Then later in that very month

We flew to Colorado,

Niece Aspen graduated there,

Amid much broo-ha-ha-do.

And in between the two I had

A story writ in print,

An honest-to-Faulkner printed book

With my words dropped right in’t.

(In case you all are wondering,

The plot line dealt with crime,

As this note has made very clear,

I’ll ne’er be paid for rhyme.)

In June I went to Chicago

To celebrate with Stu

His birthday, yes, the Big Five-O

With sightseeing and blues.

The summer’s end saw Corky back

In Flint to see old friends

With Suzie Ovick Diebolt Kna-

pinski her time did spend.

With Eric and with Aaron, too

Some hours she did share,

‘Twas fun, but they were too quick passed,

She sees them both so rare.

With fall came yet another feat,

In Rachel’s sophomore term,

Distinguished scholarship award

Her hard work thus affirmed.

As you can see from in your mail,

Beloved Spouse has been

Creating individual cards,

This poem to put within.

Unique they are, yours and the rest,

None has a perfect twin,

Hand-made and summoned with much thought

The craft she placed herein.

For all these things—and many more—

Our anniversary

Was special, even one day late,

Because we’ve learned to see

How everything must fit its place,

All undue stress be barred,

With friends and family like you,

That’s really not too hard.

We all hope you’ve enjoyed yourselves

As much as we’ve this year,

Now Rachel, Corky, and your scribe

Extend our annual cheer.

To each and every one of you

To find some small delight

For every time you rise from bed

May all your days be bright.

Success

2010-12-20T15:39:00.000-08:00

What constitutes a successful book? Is it making the New York Times bestseller list? A six-figure advance? How about a contract with a major house? Any contract at all? Self-publishing and hand-selling a few hundred copies? Or will a book that meets none of the above criteria be a success if you’re proud of how it came out, whether anyone else sees it or not?

The “right” answer is probably, “It depends.” What are your standards? Why did you write the book in the first place? If you wrote it to garner a $100,000 advance and it got $10,000, you might think it a failure. Maybe you would have happy with a contract, until you got one and found out that getting a contract is the easy part. What happens next is like watching sausage get made, and you’re the meat.

I’ve thought a lot about this lately. I have a book that has received excellent comments from its beta readers, and sent out an initial solicitation to several agents. All of those who bothered to get back to me passed. (One was temporarily closed to submissions and said I could get back to her later if I was so inclined.) This was not unexpected. That first batch were chosen as the cream of the crop, agents for well-known writers. Might as well start there and work down, right?

It was time to start on Level Two over a month ago. I’ve written “Agents” into my calendar several times, and found a reason not to do the research each time. Sure, a lot of it is because finding agents (or small publishers) to submit to and preparing the query packages is a pain in the ass, rewarded with a rejection an overwhelming percentage of the time, and I’m basically a lazy person about such things. Bad combination.

There’s more this time. I felt close to a contract a couple of years ago and started paying more attention to what I’d need to do after I got one. It wasn’t pretty. I’m lucky enough to have a full-time job that pays well. I’m not rich, but I’m not sweating out the weekly bill-paying chore, either. I also enjoy the life I have with my family. I wouldn’t mind more of it, but I can’t complain about my work-life balance.

I would if I got a contract. I understand what I’m about to describe aren’t universal truths, but they’re not uncommon, either. First thing the editor will do after signing the contract will be to suggest changes. Don’t take too long if you want your book to stay on the schedule. Send in the edits until he’s happy, then deal with the copy edits. They may have taken three months to get these ready; you have a few weeks—possibly only a few days—to get them back. Then the galleys. Same thing.

Once the book’s in print there’s marketing. This will not only become a likely time sink, but can get expensive, as many publishers have decided their responsibility toward creating a profitable book ends when the product ships to the warehouse. (Kind of depressing to have something you sweated over for a year or more thought of as “product,” too.) Promotion is up to you, to be done in your copious free time between the job that actually supports your family, and being with that family. Oh, and writing the next book. All for a few thousand dollars, which you may well have to spend—and more—as your self-provided promotional “budget.”

I’m from Western Pennsylvania, and we have a word for that: Bullshit.

Several years ago I came up with a concept I call the “Reward to Bullshit Curve.” (See below.

It’s a simple concept, and it applies to just about everything. As reward moves rightward, the amount of bullshit that can be tolerated increases. Obviously “reward” can be other than financial, or the perpetuation of the species would be in jeopardy. For great reward—money, fame, respect, love—a lot of bullshit can be endured. For the kind of money and acclaim someone like me figures to get out of a publishing contract, not so much.

Based on my experience and research, I would be shocked—shocked!—to receive an advance worth even as much as a month’s pay. Now a month’s pay is nothing to sneeze at, and I’d jump at it were my employer to offer it to me. (Fat chance there.) One month’s pay is not, however, a life altering sum of money. It’s a home improvement. Paydown on some mortgage principle. An extra conference or two during the year. If that, after I pay the aforementioned promotional expenses.

For that kind of money, the amount of bullshit to be tolerated is minimal. Anyone who thinks it’s a good deal to put up with more BS from writing than I do from my job for maybe less than one-tenth as money needs to think again. What about non-financial rewards? Ego boost? Not so much. I get all of that I need from the usually good reception The Beloved Spouse gives my competed chapters and short stories, and the comments I receive on blogs when answering flash fiction challenges. I’ve seen my work in print, for money, thanks to Todd Robinson and the now unfortunately defunct Thuglit. It was nice, and it felt good the first time I held it, but that’s over now and improvement in anything means moving forward.

This is where I was earlier this year, when I was ready to quit. (Thanks to my good mate Declan Burke for helping to buck me up by soliciting friends to comment here. It was much appreciated and one of the reasons why karma will find Squire Burke a consistent readership.) I came around, thanks to a couple of well-timed flash fiction challenges where my stories received flattering comments. I like writing. I enjoy thinking of the stories, and deciding on the best ways to tell them. I like building the characters and getting them to relate to each other. Hell, I even like editing. Why quit?

The problem is, novels are what I like writing most, and writing them while knowing what is to come if I am lucky enough to get a contract is intimidating. The publishing succubus was draining the life out of writing for me and I hadn’t even got that far. Writing novels I didn’t want to submit was too masturbatory even for me.

I’d said for years that someday, if I’d decided I just wasn’t going to get published, I’d stop writing and pay to have all the books I’d finished released as POD, one a year, but that would be my acknowledgement that I had given up. I was too hasty. Electronic publishing may make it possible for someone like me to be “published” on my own terms.

Some are asking, “Isn’t this a lot like declaring victory and pulling out?” Yes, it is. So what? It will allow me to continue to write, knowing anyone who wants to read my book will be able to download it for an as-yet undetermined price, probably around $2.99. (I may do a free promo, but I’m not giving them all away. My ego’s bigger than that.) I’ll use Crimespace, Facebook, and this blog to promote, and hope others say nice things about me on theirs. Maybe a blog tour, if I’m lucky.

Will I get rich? No. Will more than a handful of people read them? No. Do I care?

No.

I can write the book until I’m satisfied with it. It can be any length I want. It can be half a dozen long short stories, or two novellas. A series or standalone. Tie two series together. Maybe I’ll get an occasional email from a satisfied reader I didn’t know before. I’ll write at my own pace and take the summers off if I feel like it. I’ll be able to accommodate my work, personal, and writing lives in the proportions that work best for me, answering to no more masters than I feel comfortable with.

Success.

November's Recommended Reads

2010-12-08T17:05:00.000-08:00

I've been busier than a one-armed paperhanger at an ass-kicking contest lately, so the list of good books I read in November is tardy. No publishers have called to complain about the lack of the crucial OBAAT endorsement, so I guess I dodged that bullet.

Boyos, David Marinick - First rate crime story in the manner of Eddie Coyle. Marinick's a former Massachusetts state cop turned armored car robber turned writer who knows exactly how to leverage his experience in both previous careers to enhance the third. His characters are presented unapologetically and without judgment, and they talk like guys talking to each other, not for effect. Wacko Curran is a criminal bad enough to be successful in the Boston underworld, with enough fullness of personality to allow you to empathize with him. You'll end up thinking along with him, setting your moral code aside to work with his, not unlike how Tony Soprano sucked in so many people. He's definitely on the list to read more of.

Dancing Bear, James Crumley - I didn't care for The Last Good Kiss as much as I thought I would, and was about to give Crumley a pass. Then I went through a period of several weeks where I tripped over positive references to Dancing Bear every couple of days. I also remembered I was pretty sick when I read TLGK, and that could have clouded my judgment, so I ordered up Dancing Bear. Now I have to read TLGK again. Crumley reads like no one else, and Milo Milodragovitch is a protagonist--certainly not a hero--unlike any other.

Eight Men Out, Eliot Asinof - The true story of how the Black Sox threw the 1919 World Series. One of those stories you couldn't have made up, presented evenhandedly to allow the reader to make up his own mind whether the banned players were wronged, though there's no question where Asinof stood on the question of Sox owner Charles Comiskey. I NetFlixed the movie while reading the book, and truer depictions are rare. Highly recommended not just for baseball fans, but for anyone interested in a snapshot of America 90 years ago, and for the parallels to today.

Discount Noir, edited by Patti Abbott and Steve Weddle - A collection of over forty flash pieces, inspired by the web site, "The People of Walmart," created in response to a writing challenge on Patti's blog The stories were of such a high caliber, drew such a broad sample of talented writers, and offered so many different takes on the same germ of an idea, that e-publisher Untreed Reads took it on. A quick and varied read containing something to appeal to any fan of neo-noir, though not necessarily of Walmart.

Terminal Damage, by the writers of "Do Some Damage" - One of the most underrated writing blogs, "Do Some Damage" features eight crime writers discoursing on matters criminal. Terminal Damage is a collection of stories that all deal in some way with airport security. Fewer writers and longer stories than Discount Noir, still containing uniformly good writing and a wide range of takes from the same starting place, with the added benefit of working occasional bits of each other's stories into each other. This will make you want to read more by each of these writers.

What's In a Word?

2010-12-03T04:45:00.001-08:00

There's been a lot of talk around writing blogs recently about foul language. When is it appropriate, how much is appropriate, is it ever appropriate, how many readers will you lose because of it, what constitutes foul language. I'm no prude, but it does offend me when people who will gleefully read descriptions of the most horrible violence are then offended because this gruesome killer used a word on that reader's proscribed list.

I understand why some publishers and editors are leery. They in the business of making money, and lost sales cost money. (The discussion of whether sales lose for some reason are gained back by the flip side of that reason can be left for another day.) It's the readers who worry me. To say it's all right for Lucas Davenport's nemesis du annee to rape, mutilate, and kill half a dozen women; he'd better not say "fuck" while he's doing it. There's something disturbing about a mindset that allows for that. I can't shake the image of being attacked bya knife-wielding nut job, screaming for someone to get this fucker off me, and my only source of assistance is such a reader, who raps me across the knuckles as I bleed to death for having a potty mouth.

In the interest of keeping all words in their proper context, and celebrating their flexibility, here's a little primer on the variety of uses to which our most flexible, yet forbidden word, may be applied. This is not safe for work, school, or around those who are easily offended. You have been warned.