After Further Review

I started writing book reviews for New Mystery Reader in 2005, and will forever be grateful to Stephanie Padilla for the opportunity and encouragement she provided. At least half of the authors I read now became known to me through books I was asked to review, including many of my favorites. (John Connolly, Timothy Hallinan, and Declan Hughes jump to mind; there are several others.)

I've been on hiatus for a few months, and I think it's going to continue. The fact is, a lot of books that get published have many of the same strengths and weaknesses, and it got harder all the time to say the same things in different, and (hopefully) entertaining ways. I also found I was more quickly losing interest in books I didn't care for, which made going through to the end more of a chore than it should be.

Those things pushed me to take a break; what's keeping me from going back are the writers. I've been lucky enough to become friendly with fairly broad range of writers, from reading each others' blogs and trading comments on web sites such as Crimespace. Some I became friendly with after I reviewed their books and followed up with an interview. This was all well and good and fun, until a thought came to me one day:

What do I do when I get one of their books for review and I don't think much of it?

It's bound to happen. No offense to any of my writer friends, but I've read books by Elmore Leonard and said, "meh." The easy answer is, you tell the truth in an honest and straightforward manner, and they'll understand. They're writers. They know how it works. I've read uncomplimentary comments about my writing and not felt differently about the commenter. It's not a criticism of them as a person, it's the writing we have a difference about.

Still, I'm not going to do it, for the best reason I can think of: I don't want to.

It's not like I'm Jonathan Yardley or Michiko Kakutani. I'm not making a living at it, and people aren't subscribing to feeds with breathless anticipation of my next literary pronouncement. I owe readers an honest evaluation, and I'd be reluctant to give it to them if it meant I had to disparage a friend's work. So I won't. I'll read for the entertainment, and to learn a little, and I'll do my monthly "Good Reads" posts with single paragraph comments of books I liked. If I don't like a book, no one needs to know I read it.

The less seriously I take this whole writing business, the more I like it.

Ain't Technology Wonderful?

There's a new scam operating online that can actually be fun. "I Write Like" asks you to paste a sample of your writing into a text box, where its magical algorithm will "analyze" what you pasted and tell you who you write like. They'll even send you an electronic "certificate" you can post to your blog, bragging about which writer you most resemble. (This leads me to believe everyone who submits a sample is far more likely to resemble a literary great than some schmuck who sold fifteen copies of a coming-of-age soft porn book twenty years ago.)

I thought it would be fun to paste in the first couple of pages on my current project and see who I wrote like. This scene between two men in a strip club plotting the death of their wives was proclaimed to read like Mark Twain. This surprised me a little, as I've read all of Twain's books, and many of the shorter pieces, and I don't remember him using "fuck" at all, though I worked it in there six times.

Maybe this algorithm is more subtle and profound than I expected, or am myself. Next I pasted the last few paragraphs from Raymond Chandler's "The Simple Art of Murder," including the famous, "down these mean streets" section. I wanted to see if the computer thought it resembled Chandler.

Nope. Mario Puzo.

I liked The Godfather, and wholeheartedly agree with the description given to it by a critic whose name escapes me. ("The best bad book ever written.") I just don't see a lot of resemblance between Puzo's writing and Chandler's, aside from dealing with crime and using English.

I decided to go best two of three, and pasted in an excerpt from a data feed the system I work on gets nightly. It's nothing more than names, addresses, dates, and some column separators, and looks something like this:

TWX_2899|Simpson||Bart|111 15th Street, SW|Arlington, VA||20319||||(703) 555-9978|CONT|TWX_CONTRACTORS|N|06/22/2010|06/23/2010|e7213fbf43edbe4e8da2e6afe3f49a65

The computer was reminded of the work of David Foster Wallace. I would have said HAL9000, but maybe that's why I'm not more successful.

Back in the Saddle Again

I started the final draft of the work-in-progress Sunday night. I probably mind these polishing drafts less than anything else about writing; I have a routine that works for me, and I just plod through the entire book. Each day I read a chapter or two, edit on the screen what I read the previous day, and line edit a hard copy while I read it aloud. (The three steps are performed in reverse order from what is described here; it seemed to read easier this way.)

How do I feel about coming back to a writing routine after two months off? Meh. I don't mind the work, but I don't like the time it sucks out of my evenings. The plan is to finish this off by Labor Day, then decide if I want to start another project to fill the winter months. (I have a few story ideas I like percolating, so there shouldn't b a delay there, should I feel like continuing.)

The book itself is okay. I'm pretty happy with the quality of the writing and not changing a lot, mostly tightening and re-ordering words and sentences. I hope this doesn't come across like I'm an arrogant prick, but I really don't think it's the quality of my writing that has held me back. (I freely admit to being an arrogant prick; I just don't want to sound lime one.) The fault is not with the publishing industry, it's mine alone. The issue isn't so much with the quality of the writing, but with the something else of the writing. Story selection, maybe. Possibly my voice. As I've noted before, I try to write books I'd like to read; maybe my tastes aren't popular enough. Whatever. Let's finish this puppy up and get on with trying to sell it.

It would be remiss of me not to take a moment to thank those who have been encouraging, sympathetic, and generally made me feel as though they had my back. Of course, My Beloved Spouse heads the list, but Declan Burke and Charlie Stella have stood out with their support and patience with my whining. Thanks to them, and to all of you who have posted comments here, or sent emails. You are much appreciated.

Incoming Flack

I've been fortunate to write over a hundred reviews for New Mystery Reader over the past five years. During that time, I have been ever luckier to deal almost exclusively with NMR's patient and long-suffering editor, Stephanie Padilla. Stephanie has made sure books got to me and interviews were set up, so I rarely had to deal with the major publishers' publicists. For that I am eternally grateful.

Earlier this week a publicist slipped through my previously effective cordon and sent me an email directly. She must have got my address from a predecessor, as I don't recognize her name, but I did speak with a few publicists at Bouchercon a couple of year ago. Anyway, this (presumably delightful young) woman (since aren't all publicists that way) sent me an email with the following subject line, which has been tastefully redacted:

A brilliant blend of fact and fiction, XXX unravels one of the greatest unsolved mysteries …!

The body of the email was not only awfully familiar for someone who probably doesn't know me, but made it clear by the end she doesn't know me at all:

How are you? I wanted to check to see that you received a finished copy of XXX. Offering a fresh, contemporary spin on a fascinating period, XXX paints a lively world XXX, expertly capturing the panorama of social change and rich historical intrigue XXX. It is a fascinating work that I hope you will seriously consider for reviews and features in your publication or an interview with the author on your show. I look forward to speaking with you soon.

I had to ponder a suitable reply for a few days. This is what I came up with:

Dear XXX,

I am fine; thanks for asking. Sorry for my delay in replying, but it's been a hectic week. Who would have thought the Prince George's County jail doesn't take Discover? (Visa and Master Card only.)

As I have not received a copy of the book, I must reserve judgment for the time being as to whether it truly is "a brilliant blend of fact and fiction" that "[offers] a fresh, contemporary spin on a fascinating period in XXX's history." Nor can I determine if the lively world XXX paints expertly captures the panorama ofXXX. If the book arrives, I will happy to give it a look, though you need not send another, as I am currently between review publications and do not have a either a radio or television contract, much to my dismay.

Thanks for thinking of me.

What the hell. It's not like XXX was thinking of publishing me anytime soon. Even I should get to have some fun in the publishing business, right?

Jim Munford

I learned today my friend Jim Munford has died. Jim had to be ninety, and had been frail from the first time I met him in in the winter of 2002. The fact that learning of his death was not wholly unexpected does not make it any easier.

I know only passing bits of Jim's earlier life. He was a merchant seaman, and lived in New York for much of the Fifties and Sixties. A professional photographer, it was Jim who showed me how photography could be an art form. As someone with never more than a passing interest in the visual arts, I once took the Sole heir for a day trip from Maryland to Manhattan to see an exhibit of Jim's work. Had I been employed then, I might have bought any one of several of his photos.

I knew him best as a writer, though he didn't do a lot of writing during the too brief time of our acquaintance. (Commercial interest in his early photography picked up late in his life, and he became engrossed in capturing his images digitally.) We met as peers during a semester in George Washington University's Jenny Moore McKean program, that year taught by John McNally. Frankly, I thought of Jim as a bit of a prick early on, an attitude that fell away as my knowledge of writing grew. He had an insightful way of cutting through to the crux of the weaknesses of any piece, and came to be one of my most trusted advisers for writing problems during the years a rump group from McNally's class continued to meet periodically at Jim's home.

Jim was an audiophile and lover of classic jazz. He often had a vinyl LP of some great trumpeter playing when I arrived at his house, and would make me guess who it was. (Fortunately, I was better than fifty-fifty.) He could converse intelligently on more subjects than I am even aware of, and was a gentle soul who tirelessly encouraged the rest of us at every opportunity, remembering drafts and fragments of stories years later, asking we were going to something with a character we'd long ago given up on.

I have no idea what kind of father or husband he was, or what his personal habits might have been as a young man. The gentleman I knew-- and I never met a more gentle man--was a pleasure, and I never failed to look forward to our monthly visits. Now, as is always the case in these circumstances, I only wish I had made time for more of them.

Something to Consider

Writers are often told it's pointless to chase the market. By the time your book is ready, the market will have moved on. Write a young adult book about wizards and everyone wants religious symbol thrillers. Write one of those and the world has moved on to vampires. Write a vampire story and it's minotaurs everyone wants.

"Write what you'd like to read." Makes sense, since you're going to be reading the hell out of it for a year or more. No point going over and over something you don't want to read in the first place. There's a catch to this, too. What if your tastes aren't mainstream enough?

For most writers, I'm willing to wait for the paperback to come out. There are a small handful for whom that doesn't cut it. I want the new book as soon as it comes out. (Sooner, if I can wrangle an advance copy out of them.) Only one has a secure income from writing alone. One works a day job. Another works his ass off as a freelance writer, doesn't even have a contract now. Another has just written a book that I think nudges its way into masterpiece territory, and may lose his contract.

Most of their books don't sell well, though all of them write rings around me. And they're who come to mind when I sit down to "write what I'd like to read." Explains a lot about my level of success.

It's Not Just Us

Many (including me) have lamented ever-lower standards in the English language. Lax American education and a lack of editorial oversight are the usual culprits when someone complains about how Americans are ruining the mother tongue.

It ain’t just us.

The Guardian’s web site has an article—entertaining enough in its own right—about how the owners of the Los Angeles Dodgers have spent hundreds of thousands of dollars to have a Russian “scientist” named Vladimir Shpunt “beam thought waves to boost the team’s chances.” (The entire O’Malley family must be rolling over in their graves.)

This is not a sports blog. (That’s here.) The sentence of greatest interest in this context is the following: He [Shpunt] was introduced to Jamie McCourt in 2004 and claims to have cured her through long-distance energy transmission of an eye infection.

A quick reading leaves the impression Shpunt transmitted an eye infection to Ms. McCourt to cure her of an undisclosed ailment, one presumably more unpleasant than an eye infection. A more felicitous—and accurate—phrasing might be: He was introduced to Jamie McCourt in 2004 and claims to have cured her of an eye infection through long-distance energy transmission.

I don’t know where all our editors have gone, but at least I’m pretty sure it’s not England.