Greater Empathy Through Fiction?

I’ve heard it said that those who read fiction develop a greater sense of empathy. Maybe. It could also be an example of my favorite Latin logic fallacy, which I trot out at the drop of a hat because I love how it sounds: post hoc ergo propter hoc. (After this, therefore because of this.) It could be people with greater senses of empathy are attracted to novels, and those with less of that quality read non-fiction. I’ll leave that for greater minds to debate. There is no shortage of them in the world.

What I do know is that I have far more empathy for those whose situations vary from my own than I did as a younger man. There is no single date or occurrence that prompted it. I can say when the tide began to turn: The Wire. I came late to the show (as usual), picking up Season One with Season Four already in progress. I’d already read Homicide, so I was primed. Around this time I read The Corner and I started to to look past the superficial dissimilarities between my rural upbringing and what happens in the inner city of Baltimore.

My reading remained focused on crime, but crime with more diversity. While reviewing books for the New Mystery Reader web site I became sort of the unofficial Irish crime fiction reviewer, routinely assigned books by Declan Burke, Declan Hughes, Adrian McKinty, and Ken Bruen. NMR also exposed me to Tim Hallinan’s Poke Rafferty thrillers, set in Bangkok. Charlie Stella’s looks at mob life from the underside. Arnaldur Indriðason’s Iceland novels and Leighton Gage’s Chief Inspector Silva series. J. D. Rhoades’s unique brand of redneck noir. Friends steered me toward Daniel Woodrell

I learned that once one gets past the superficial differences in language, culture, justice systems, availability of weapons, and which side of the road to drive on, people are pretty much the same. With outliers on either side, the great majority of people pretty much want to be left alone to live their lives as happily as they can, and for their children to have it better than they do. The only thing that made me special was having the foresight to be born in a country that allowed me to do those things.

It’s now easier for me to imagine—and I am grateful beyond words that I only have to imagine—what it must be like to live in a place where those things are denied to people. Even worse, a place where your life—and the lives of your family—is in danger because of things you have no control over. Gender. Sexual orientation. Race or ethnicity. I include religion, too, as the major organized religions all preach peace. (I’ll not hold it against any religion if some of its followers defame the faith by their very existence. These people are apostates, and they exist in every religion.) How would I feel if I lost everything I owned and faced the option of death or flight that took me to a place where I didn’t speak the language and my customs seemed as strange to the current inhabitants as theirs do to me.

It has become fashionable to declare at great length and volume against immigrants and refugees, and every nation certainly has the right to set its own polices for both. When doing so, let’s not forget that the only thing that allows us to pass judgment on who is worthy to cross our borders is an accident of birth. I served in the military, pay my taxes, vote, and comply with summonses for jury duty without complaint. I view them as debts owed that I can never fully repay, but do the best I can.

Let’s remember how we all got to where we are during this holiday season. Some work harder than others, but it’s a sin of hubris for anyone in this country to believe for an instant that he or she has earned what we have. We’ve done our part, but we also started ahead of the game by being born into a situation that allowed—and often encouraged—us to become everything our gifts and efforts warranted. Any “earning” we did came after the fact. With that in mind, let’s take a minute this holiday season to reflect on our great and largely undeserved good fortune and learn a little fucking humility.

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.

Leighton Gage

Taking a break from relentless self-promotion today to comment on the passing of a good friend I never met.

I was fortunate to be asked to review Leighton Gage’s A Vine in the Blood when it was released several years ago. I’d not heard of him then, but Stephanie Padilla at New Mystery Reader had developed a good sense of what I liked and asked me to give it a try. My first thought was of how much the book reminded me of Ed McBain’s 87^th Precinct novels. Those familiar with me know I don’t toss this level of praise around lightly.

An interview was arranged, where I quickly learned Leighton’s writing was no better than second in his list of talents; he was a true mensch. Gracious with a reviewer who had zero publishing cred at the time, his enthusiasm and good humor were infectious. The interview interaction grew into an e-mail friendship. We didn’t correspond a lot, but when we did the exchanges were entertaining—to me, at least—and enthusiastic. A true gentleman, he was unceasingly appreciative of any mention I gave to his writing, with never a hint he expected a good review, though he never needed worry along those lines; his writing never disappointed.

He was also an ardent supporter of my writing. I still have the emails he sent after reading Wild Bill and Grind Joint; his Amazon reviews provided fodder for the blurbs on this blog. His support, along with several others, went a long way toward convincing me I wasn’t flattering myself by thinking I was a writer. For that alone I owe him a great debt.

I never shook Leighton’s hand, nor heard his voice. I was an admirer of his work and of him as a person, and I hope he thought of me as a friend. He will be greatly missed on multiple levels. My sincere and deepest sympathy goes out to his wife, Eide, who wrote in Facebook:

Should we cry because he died or smile because he lived?

The crying will pass. The smiles will last us forever.

Perfect Hatred

Leighton Gage has carved a nice niche for himself with his Chief Inspector Mario Silva series of mysteries set in Brazil. Gage knows how to use Brazil’s exotic beauty to his benefit, deftly juxtaposing it with extremes of wealth and poverty and corruption at all levels. The public officials and politicians who aren’t corrupt are as venal as their peers anywhere else. Gage’s gift is an ability to expose and explore all Brazil has to offer to a writer of crime fiction, while allowing the love of his adopted country to live in every line.

The United States has no equivalent of the Brazilian Federal Police. Their jurisdiction is nation-wide, and supersedes local authority. This allows them to open investigations on their own initiative, and gives Gage carte blanche with his plots, as there is no crime in Brazil in which the federals may not take an interest.

His newest book, Perfect Hatred, allows Gage to take full advantage of the breadth of the Brazilian federal police, Silva’s skills, and the devotion his team has for each other. The book begins with a horrific terrorist bombing; the bomb in a baby carriage, its intent disguised by the bomber’s use of a real baby to cover the explosive. In a province hundreds of miles away, a popular political candidate is shot to death at a televised campaign appearance, on the eve of defeating the incumbent. Silva’s team is split between the two and he is tasked with focusing on the assassination when his instinct is to concentrate on the bombing, as there is reason to believe this was not an isolated incident.

As if Silva isn’t busy enough, a high-ranking criminal who is about to go away forever has sworn vengeance on the prosecutor and cop who put him there; the cop is Silva.

Laid out like that, the book sounds like a hare-brained modern thriller, where the stakes are continuously raised and bodies pile up. (“Now it’s personal.”) This would likely be the case in the hands of a lesser writer. Gage has bigger plans, and better chops. The situation teeters on the brink of becoming out of control; Silva never does. He may be frustrated, angry, and even scared, but he’s the right man at the right time. He has personal problems and ghosts that affect him, but he’s not the stereotypical tormented series protagonist. He’s a good man under intense pressure from multiple sides, and he handles the situation with grace and as much humanity as he can muster. Not perfect and not always on time to be a savior, he’s the glue that holds everything in Gage’s fictional universe together. If his squad is the Brazilian equivalent of Ed McBain’s 87^th Precinct (the analogy that comes most often to mind), Silva is Gage’s Steve Carella.

The writing is perfect for the story, as it always is. Gage is of the school where the writer’s goal is to be as unobtrusive as possible, where he scored highest marks. Nothing will jump out at a first time reader, though those who have several Silva stories under their belts will start to recognize subtle touches that are Gage’s own. He understands suspense is the building of tension and violence is the release of at least some of it. He also trusts his situation, characters, and talent not to beat you over the head with how bad things are. If you don’t feel it on your own, you’re reading the wrong books.

Perfect Hatred may well be the best of an excellent series that gets better book by book. It is not to be missed.

The Best Part

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.

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.

Best Reads, November-December

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.

Even More Love for Wild Bill

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.