Southland

The Beloved Spouse and I were discussing when we'd find time to watch the episodes of Justified and South Park we have on the DVR when we remembered Southland dropped off our radar completely during and after the Olympics. We watched the first four episodes, then never came back. Neither of us feels any burning desire to catch up.

We both think the show was too inconsistent. The pilot was great, as close to The Wire as network TV is likely to get. After that, the sequence of episodes became too iambic for our tastes. The emphasis shifted from show to show: one week would mostly be spent with the street cops, the next almost exclusively with detectives. The shows focused on the black-and-whites were great; the detective shows were like watching Gray's Anatomy with guns. Too much of a soap opera.

Is it just us?

Interview With John McFetridge

My interview of John McFetridge and review of his new book Let it Ride are online at New Mystery Reader.

Nature vs. Nurture in Writing

Dan O’Shea has another thought-provoking post on his blog today, referring to posts by John Hornor and Chuck Wendig about how much of writing is talent alone, and how much of it can be taught. (There’s a lot more to their comments than that; go check them out. I’ll wait.)

I commented on the other blogs, but it occurred to me that my two comments tied well into a single blog post and, since I haven’t posted anything for about a week, I might as well get off my ass and do it.

Stephen King has my favorite take on how much one’s writing can be improved in his excellent book, On Writing. (Recommended for all writers, regardless of style or genre.) I don’t have the book handy, so I’ll paraphrase (while plagiarizing my comment on Dan’s blog):

There are four levels of writer: Incompetent, Competent, Good, and Great.

An Incompetent writer is, well, incompetent. Not much you can do with him.

A Competent writer can, with work and guidance, become a good writer.

A Good writer can, with sloth and dissipation, become a Competent writer. He cannot, however, become a Great writer, only a better writer.

Great writers are born. They can, however, piss that greatness away and become Good, or merely Competent. We all know people who have done this.

Greatness is that unteachable spark called talent, or a gift, or God’s Lips to our ear. Everything else can be learned. Incompetence is like anti-talent: no matter how hard you try, you’re just not wired that way. You’re never going to get it.

I suspect it’s not just writing. Every field is like this. I used to be a musician, and it’s certainly true there.

Can anything truly be taught? The best teacher I ever had says no one can teach you anything. Everything is learned through a combination of trial and error and rote. The teacher—if he’s good—is a guide. He uses his experience to suggest paths most likely to lead to success, and cautions against dead ends. He encourages, but not unrealistically.

So I’d say yes, writing can be learned, though it cannot be taught any more than anything else can. Which is still plenty.

Not Quite a Dream Come True

Well, someone finally offered me a book contract, with an advance and everything. There were a few caveats.

Among the documents I received were instructions on what I should do to promote the book, all on my time, at my expense. Okay, small publisher, this is the direction things have been moving the past few years. It's not unexpected.

This publisher uses the big distributors, but says up front there won't be any books in big stores. People can special order from Borders or Barnes and Noble, but they won't be stocked. Too much piffle with returns, and Borders is a slow pay. Again, not unexpected, but disappointing to have it laid out so starkly.

It's up to me to get the books into independent booksellers, too. By now I'm getting the distinct impression the publisher's sales staff is me. This, too, is not wholly unexpected, though the luster of getting a deal is officially fading.

Then I got to the good stuff: the contract itself. The publisher gets, for ten years, the right to publish or assign, without limitation, all hardcover, soft cover, and electronic version (including "mass market") editions in all print formats (large, small, or condensed). They also get all audio, electronic, television, movie, cinematic, and other versions, as well as general licensing rights to merchandise and other items based on the work. They'll split any secondary rights fees with me 50-50.

I am required to buy one hundred copies of the book, at a discount of 50% from the publisher's recommended retail price.

Royalties:

10% of list for trade paper.

3% of list for hard cover copies sold at discounts less than 40%.

25% of e-book sales.

25% of any hard covers sold at 40-60% discount, after the publisher's expenses for producing these copies have been deducted.

Finally, we get to the good part: the advance.

$25.00. They even spelled it out for me, so there would be no confusion: TWENTY-FIVE DOLLARS ($25.00).

I'm not arrogant about my writing skills. (Hard to be when I've been trying to get published for ten years.) This is not a guaranteed best seller. It's not going to make people cast aside their copies of the new Robert Crais or Lee Child or Ken Bruen so they can read it when it becomes available. But I'll be damned if I'm giving it away unless it was my idea to do so in the first place, just to see my name in print. I'm a whore, not a bimbo.

It's tough, reading their guarantee to have the book in print within eighteen months of a signed contract after ten years of trying. For the first time, I truly had an inkling of how virgin authors must feel when they hold their first copy of their first book. It's nice. For a few seconds I looked forward to it. Then I realized this is no better than vanity publishing, and a lot more expensive than going POD. I'm not saying I'll never do that, but I'm not going to delude myself into thinking I really "sold" a book.

I'm alleging no misconduct on the part of the publisher; they've done everything they said they'd do to this point, and have been up front about it. (I'm not going to name them, so don't ask.) I just thought some other fledgling author might come across this and get a better idea of what he or she is up against, maybe have a benchmark against which they can compare their offer. Or decide I'm an arrogant, self-centered prick who's walking away from a chance to get in on the ground floor. I'm not saying I'm right. Everyone can decide for themselves.

Just don't be surprised.

February's Best Reads

Olympic hockey cut into my February reading time, but what I read was first rate.

Let It Ride, by John McFetridge – The third installment of McFetridge’s saga of bikers who don’t ride much since they’re too busy taking over the Canadian drug trade has some characters from the previous two books (Dirty Sweet and Everybody Knows This is Nowhere.), but there’s no need to have read the first two before starting here. (Except that you haven’t read the first two, which is your loss.) McFetridge combines the best elements of Elmore Leonard and George V. Higgins into a unique style, writing what is truly a novel about crime. Lots of plotlines, lots of characters, this book is about shifting relationships and alliances with hard-edged dialog and well-drawn characters. Not for casual readers; Let It Ride demands your attention, then rewards it. (Released in Canada as Swap.)

Bury Me Deep, by Megan Abbott – Sometimes it takes me a while to catch on. I’ve been tripping over Megan Abbott’s name for over two years now, finally got around to reading her when my wife bought me a copy for my birthday. Fantastic writing. The neo-Thirties style took me a few pages to get used to, but once I caught the rhythm Abbott pulled me in a little deeper with each page. This is the book that proves you don’t have to start with a body on Page One and a shoot-out on Page Four. Abbott understands tension and suspense, making you wait until you can’t stand it anymore, and is still able to pull off the climax in an unexpected way. The rare book that lives up to all that’s been said about it.

Coming Clean

It's been a week, so I might as well fess up as to which lies I told in the Blatant Liar—Creative Writer challenge.

Everything I said was false. Except for being a close personal of Larry King. Hell of a nice guy. I worked with him at Computer Associates for a few years and we've stayed in touch ever since. Runs a small English language school in Japan now, we try to get together for Hooters' wings whenever he comes this side of the International Date Line. Larry's good people.

What? You're trying to tell me there's another one?

Sanctuary

Dan O'Shea has a flash fiction challenge over at his blog, Going Ballistic. My contribution is below; hop on over to Dan's blog for links to the rest.

SANCTUARY

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

"How long has it been since your last confession?"

Pause. "Long time. Twenty years, anyway."

"And now you've done something so bad you feel you have to come in?"

Another pause. "No, it's not that. There's something I'm going to do. Nothing bad. I just want to, you know, clear my conscience."

"What do you want to confess?"

An even longer pause. "I've done a lot of bad things. I never hurt anyone that didn't deserve it. I kinda fell into things and, well, I mean, times were tough and I was doing what I had to do. Pretty soon you're working for people you shouldn't be spending time with, and—look, I ain't proud of any of this, but I was making a living. A good living."

Late at night, the settling of a beam ricocheted through the empty church.

"That's pretty vague for a confession. If you're done, that is."

"This is hard to talk about."

"It's supposed to be. Contrition is the first step toward absolution."

Silence. The clearing of a throat. "You're saying I have to be sorry for what I did?"

"Going to confession doesn't hand you a Get Out of Hell Free card. Your sins can't be forgiven unless you repent."

"I wish I never did any of that stuff. Does that count?"

"Any of what stuff?"

"Jesus Christ, Father, do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Watch your mouth, and yes, you do."

A deep breath let out through the nose. Shifting feet. "I don't know where to start."

"Let's start with why you're here tonight."

"What do you think I came here for? I came to confess."

"Why tonight, of all nights? You said you haven't been to confession for at least twenty years. What's special about tonight?"

"I'm in trouble. In case things go wrong I want to be in a—what do you call it?—a state of grace."

"Are you in danger?"

"Yeah."

"Because of the things you came to confess?"

"Yes. No. It's complicated."

"You said before you were going to do something, but it wasn't bad. Is that why you came now?"

"In a way. Yeah, I guess." He blew his nose. "I said before I worked for people I shouldn't a spent time with. There's this guy, Mike Mannarino. People call him The Hook. Anyway, I started doing little things for him and he liked me. At least I thought he liked me. Worked for the guy twenty years, then I find out he sent me to do a job might be a set up, you know, to be sure everything was jake before he really committed to it. Like I was contrary in a mineshaft, or something.

"So he was right, and the job was screwed up and I got pinched. He either forgot or didn't care I had some things over my head, I couldn't take a fall. The cops bring me in, keep me there almost a week, I can't make bail. Talk to me every day, twice a day, and I stand up the whole time. I wouldn't tell them if they asked me who the quarterback for the Steelers was. They offered me deals. New life. All charges dropped. Uh-uh. I'm looking at five years and I don't say a word."

"Loyalty is admirable, even when it's misplaced."

"Loyalty, huh? Let me tell you about loyalty. This Mannarino, he bailed me out this afternoon."

"Didn't you want him to?"

"Yeah, a week ago. Today, maybe two hours after I'm out, I'm leaving Big Boy and someone takes a run at me. Like the word's out I talked, or something."

"You said you didn't."

"I didn't. That don't appear to be the word that got out."

"It could just be a misunderstanding."

"Guns don't misunderstand, Father. What I think happened is, Joe Rienstra let slip what happened that night I got picked up. He got a case hanging over him, too, and I was what they call collateral damage. Joe got to Mike first, with me in jail, and told him I talked, that's why bail was so low. Which it wasn't, or I woulda bonded myself out."

"I don't understand how any of this brought you here tonight."

"Because I ain't safe anyplace else, Father. I want to get good with God, then tomorrow I'm going to make the deal. Fuck Mike Mannarino, and fuck Joey Rienstra. I never did anything but stand up and this is what I get. I want my soul clean in case they get to me before I can get protection."

"I understand. I think your willingness to make things right with the police counts as contrition. Say a Hail Mary for me, and I'll pray for you."

"Just one Hail Mary? Thanks, Father. That seems pretty light."

"It's all you got time for, you rat bastard." Two shots from a .22 sounded like not much more than a couple of hard hand claps in the hollowness of the church.

Stretch Dolewicz eased himself out of the booth. Not squeamish, but sitting in a confessional for forty-five minutes with a dead priest who thought he was a hero not his idea of a good time. And now The Hook would want him to take care of Rienstra.

Fucking job.