Just When I Think I'm Out...

I have a well-defined process for finishing a book. (Some might call it obsessive-compulsive. Reasonable people might think they’re right to do so. I prefer “well-defined.” You be the judge, then keep your opinion to yourself.)

Once I realize I have all the pieces in place and the writing is about as good as I can get it, I make up my mind that this next pass will be the last.

Day One: Read Chapter 1. Don’t do anything with it. Don’t even fix typos. Inevitably, things present themselves to be improved. Leave them be. Just read it so the writing ferments overnight.

Day Two: Edit Chapter 1 on the computer screen, most likely while reading sotto voce.

Read Chapter 2.

Day Three: Print Chapter 1 and read while reading aloud. Edit Chapter 2 on the screen. Read Chapter 3.

Day Four: Re-print Chapter 1 and read it aloud to The Beloved Spouse™; note problems and correct. (Shouldn’t be more than proofreading by now, but things sometimes pop up.) Print and edit Chapter 2 while reading aloud. Edit Chapter 3 on the screen. Read Chapter 4.

Repeat until, complete.

Then, and only then, can I type THE END.

This book is different. About two-thirds of the way through this process I realized the timelines were off. Nothing dramatic, and maybe I only noticed them because I’ve been bingeing Sons of Anarchy and their timelines make no sense at all, but it bothered me enough that I resolved to make another pass.

This is where things get messy. I essentially re-outlined the book, tore it apart, and put it back together in what I thought made more sense. This required stepping back and looking at the book as a whole; I needed to see the forest.

First I created a new set of index cards in Scrivener. (I did the first two drafts in Scrivener, then the serious editing in Word.) The plan was to paste the content back into Scrivener, re-arrange the cards as needed, then export back into Word for a final proofread. Problem: there are too many scenes to get them all onto one screen and still be able to read them easily.

Plan B was to put every chapter into an Excel spreadsheet. Same problem.

I ended up making a BFC (Big Fucking Calendar) on a three-foot-by-four-foot dry erase board in my office. Took notes on what had to go together and which had to happen before or after something else. No hurry to finish. I let things fall together as they wanted to. I know my process well enough to know that I work best in relatively short bursts, after which things can sit overnight.

Today I’m using a previously scheduled day off work to copy and paste what’s on the calendar into a new Word file. New chapter headings are needed, as I think the point I’m trying to make with all this obsessing agonizing over timing can be aided by not only marking each chapter with the date and time (hat tip to Mark Bergin and his fine novel Apprehension for the idea) but by noting which cops are involved so the reader can see how they get run around and how hard it is to focus on the task at hand sometimes.

It still won’t be done. I’ll edits to reflect chapters’ new positions. I’ll do searches for extraneous words that always sneak in, such as just, actually, enough, that. (If you’re not familiar with Allan Guthrie’s brilliant list of writing tips, “Hunting Down the Pleonasms,” you need to be.) A spell and grammar check. (Not that I love Word’s grammar but it does flag the passive sentences that slip in after spending all day writing shit for the government.) Then one more proof read to make sure the spell check hasn’t missed a word that’s spelled right but is the wrong word.

Then I can type THE END.

And fucking about time it will be. This book has taken me almost twice as long as anything else I’ve written. Some of that has to do with life’s interventions. I also can’t work as fast or as much at one stretch as I used to. The lion’s share is because this is in many ways the most ambitions book I’ve ever tried, a reach for me to see how many balls I can keep in the air. I think it’s come out pretty well, just as I’m also pretty sure I’ll not try one quite like it again.

November's Best Reads

Lots of good stuff read since last time, and more news on the way, but work still needs to be done. So, without further ad, my favorite November reads:

Every Bitter Thing, Leighton Gage. Leighton Gage’ death a couple of years ago was a great loss. His series featuring Chief Inspector Mario Silva of the Brazilian federal police has many of the best elements of Ed McBain’s 87^th Precinct, writ large across a nation. The rapport—not always without edge—between his cadre of cops is spot on, and the political reactions to the cases ring true. This is the first in the too-short series I’m re-reading from the start. After refreshing my memory here, I can’t wait to get to the next. If you haven’t read any of these books, you’re missing out. First rate stuff, right down the line.

The Drop, Dennis Lehane. Read this in two days during free time at NoirCon, which gives you an idea of how I blew through it. True, it’s not a long book, but it’s damn near perfect. Lehane is a master at making narrative flow like dialog, while writing dialog George V. Higgins would be proud of. Appropriately funny in spots, dark in spots, and with a twist that made me want to see the movie even more. Highest marks.

Cottonwood, Scott Phillips. Phillips never disappoints. Asking which of his books is my favorite will return a different answer, depending on whether I’ve most recently read: The Ice Harvest, The Walkaway, or Cottonwood. Right now it’s Cottonwood. I toy with the idea of writing a Western someday. If I do, this is exactly the tone I want to take. Scott can start lining up his legal team now. (The book appears to be out of print. Amazon has several links. The one provided is not a recommendation, just the first one listed.)

Queenpin, Megan Abbott. Great period read. It’s easy to see how this put her on the map. Her females are as tough as any man without being caricatures and their predicaments are realistic, as are the resolutions. Reminded me of The Grifters in the mentor-protégé relationship, though is derivative in no way. Sets up well for a sequel, if she ever chooses to. The period patter was a bit much, at times.

Black Rock, John McFetridge. I read a pre-release e-book and had trouble getting it onto my Kindle; the formatting didn’t come out right. I read it again in paper to have a little more of a pure reading experience and liked it even more. Kindles are great, but they can get between the author and reader in ways books do not, and this is a book you want nothing to be in the way of. (That’s called license, when a writer makes up grammar on the fly like I just did. Look it up.) McFetridge never received the public acclaim his Toronto series deserved. Let’s hope Constable Eddie Dougherty does, and that he doesn’t have to get old and cranky to do so.

Sucker Punch, Ray Banks. Working my way through the entire Cal Innes series, happened to read this one on the plane to Bouchercon, completely unaware Innes spends most of this story in LA making a mess of chaperoning a young boxer. Banks is as pitch-perfect a writer as I can name. Uses no more words than necessary, but no fewer, and exactly the right ones. His plots are as complex as they need to be, and his characters are alive the instant you first meet them. Grade A stuff.

Kill Clock, Allan Guthrie. An author/agent/editor/publisher polymath of a writer, Guthrie knows how to leverage the flexibility available in e-books to write stories only as long as they need to be. Pearce is the perfect anti-hero here, not looking for shit, but not going to put up with any, either. When he finds himself in a bad situation he had nothing to do with—and wants nothing to do with even more—he’s more than capable of bringing it to a head on his own. Guthrie doesn’t back away from his ending, which some won’t like, but is exactly what the story needed. The wry little coda at the end is a nice touch.

Breaking Point, Gerard Brennan. Another novella. Brennan, along with Guthrie and Banks, may have the best understanding of the benefits of the form. A sequel to The Point, Breaking Point picks up the story with some scores settled, but some still outstanding. Brian Morgan only wanted to buy some grass, but his dealer’s unrealistic ambitions suck him in a classic “wrong place/wrong time” scenario. Brennan isn’t as dark or hard edged as Guthrie, but his anti-hero is someone you can root for, while Kill Clock’s Pearce is someone who causes you to fear for the other guys.

TheLincoln Lawyer, Michael Connelly. I read for style as much as for anything else. This is why best-sellers rarely appeal to me: too bland. I live for books where I can read a particularly nice bit to The Beloved Spouse, or pause and sit back with the ultimate compliment: I wish I’d written that. Connelly rarely does that, so it’s a tribute to how well his plots and characters are drawn that his books envelope me as they do. His research is so well done, I use his books as research for my own. And I can’t put them down. I didn’t think I’d like the premise for The Lincoln Lawyer, but found it in a discount bin for six bucks. Once I picked it up, I couldn’t put it down.

Best Reads For 2011

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.

July's Good Reads

Swag, Elmore Leonard - John McFetridge cites this book almost as often as Toronto is colder than Miami. Since John is mistaken about such things even less frequently than that, I finally got around to reading it, and he's right again. Classic Leonard, with two criminals who aren't as smart as they think they are. The dialog is spot on, and the story is a little more tightly plotted than is Leonard's usual policy. The ending could have come right out of Donald Westlake, though with Westlake it wouldn't have been the ending.

Slammer, Allan Guthrie - A strange book that will leave you wondering what the hell is going on in places. A young prison guard finds himself in over his head dealing with the inmates, peers, and family life. Intimidated into to muling drugs for a powerful prisoner, the stress undoes him and soon he's no more sure than the reader about what's real and what isn't. Guthrie will keep you confused, but not so baffled you give up, and provides a denouement appropriate to the climax, which not all writers, thriller or otherwise, are willing--or able--to do.

Family Secrets, Jeff Coen - Non-fiction account of one of the largest and most important organized crime trials in American history. Murders unsolved for twenty years or more became public record when Frank Calabrese, Jr. and his Uncle Nick turned on Frank Sr. and testified for the Feds. By the time the investigation and trial were over, much of the upper levels of the Chicago Outfit were behind bars, and the workings of the Chicago mob were brought out into the light as never before. Coen's writing is straightforward and journalistic and appropriate to the material. No "creative non-fiction" is needed to enhance this story. Required reading for anyone with an interest in organized crime.