Just like the Paul Sheldon character in Stephen King's Misery, I have my own little ritual when I finish a manuscript. I'm sure many writers do. Much tedious work remains--finding a publisher, for starters--but with all the writing done I can take a few days off with a clear conscience.
Sheldon had one drink and one cigarette as his celebration. I wait until I've made every improvement I can; only them do I type THE END at the bottom.
What can I say? I'm a hedonist.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Too Deep to be Popular? Or Vice Versa?
Crimespace currently has a couple of enthusiastic debates (here and here) about the endless dispute between literary fiction and genre fiction. Sides tend to form pretty quickly in such engagements. The “literary” side goes on about the “limitations” of genre writing, while the genre folks complain about the snobbery of the lits. I’m inclined to come down on the genre side, not solely because I write what would be called genre fiction, were anyone ever to publish it.
I was a musician in a previous life. Played in all my high school’s bands (literally), got a Bachelor’s Degree in Music Education. Spent three years in an Army band before getting a Master’s in Performance from New England Conservatory. Free-lanced around for several years playing in small orchestras, brass quintets, concert bands, whatever needed a trumpet part. This has allowed me to play, and appreciate, a wide range of music, and verify first hand that the same discussion goes on between classical and popular musicians constantly. I can safely say there is a degree of snobbery toward more popular forms of the music from many of those who exist on the more exalted plane; the popular musicians are not imagining it. They have their own blind spots, often citing the inaccessibility of classical music. The musicians’ arguments are too similar to writers’ not to be analogous.
Classical musicians deride “jazzers” for their imprecision and simplicity of structure. Jazz advocates claim classical players don’t swing. This argument moves through musical genres: jazzers often look down on country music, and it’s unusual to hear a young rocker acknowledge his debt to R & B. All of them can improve their own work by paying attention to the other. Jazz players can create tighter ensembles by listening to orchestras; orchestral pops concerts would be much better if the orchestras actually could swing.
Writers who consider themselves either, neither, or both ignore the precepts of either at their peril. The genre writer who fails to appreciate the implications of a more literary approach will find himself describing a rainstorm, instead of, in John Gardner’s words, “evoking the sensation of being rained upon.” The literary writer who looks condescendingly upon genre fiction as having nothing to teach him can evoke plenty of rain, but may have trouble getting his characters to do anything practical or believable once they are wet.
It’s been credited to too many people to be anything other than apocryphal, but everyone benefits if we all accept there are only two kinds of music or writing: good and bad. Subject matter, genre, or style determines neither. Both sides need to learn from the other if each is to remain vital. Literary writers cannot afford to travel the road too many of their musical brethren have, eventually writing only for themselves and those who wish to be considered part of the cognoscenti. Messages and themes, no matter how profound, lose their vitality and importance if the audience that can appreciate them is too small to matter. Popular forms that appeal too often to the least common denominator will find themselves passed over as those fickle tastes inevitably change.
On the other hand, as John Connolly’s experience shows, “literary” writers aren’t always just snobs. Sometimes they’re assholes, too.
I was a musician in a previous life. Played in all my high school’s bands (literally), got a Bachelor’s Degree in Music Education. Spent three years in an Army band before getting a Master’s in Performance from New England Conservatory. Free-lanced around for several years playing in small orchestras, brass quintets, concert bands, whatever needed a trumpet part. This has allowed me to play, and appreciate, a wide range of music, and verify first hand that the same discussion goes on between classical and popular musicians constantly. I can safely say there is a degree of snobbery toward more popular forms of the music from many of those who exist on the more exalted plane; the popular musicians are not imagining it. They have their own blind spots, often citing the inaccessibility of classical music. The musicians’ arguments are too similar to writers’ not to be analogous.
Classical musicians deride “jazzers” for their imprecision and simplicity of structure. Jazz advocates claim classical players don’t swing. This argument moves through musical genres: jazzers often look down on country music, and it’s unusual to hear a young rocker acknowledge his debt to R & B. All of them can improve their own work by paying attention to the other. Jazz players can create tighter ensembles by listening to orchestras; orchestral pops concerts would be much better if the orchestras actually could swing.
Writers who consider themselves either, neither, or both ignore the precepts of either at their peril. The genre writer who fails to appreciate the implications of a more literary approach will find himself describing a rainstorm, instead of, in John Gardner’s words, “evoking the sensation of being rained upon.” The literary writer who looks condescendingly upon genre fiction as having nothing to teach him can evoke plenty of rain, but may have trouble getting his characters to do anything practical or believable once they are wet.
It’s been credited to too many people to be anything other than apocryphal, but everyone benefits if we all accept there are only two kinds of music or writing: good and bad. Subject matter, genre, or style determines neither. Both sides need to learn from the other if each is to remain vital. Literary writers cannot afford to travel the road too many of their musical brethren have, eventually writing only for themselves and those who wish to be considered part of the cognoscenti. Messages and themes, no matter how profound, lose their vitality and importance if the audience that can appreciate them is too small to matter. Popular forms that appeal too often to the least common denominator will find themselves passed over as those fickle tastes inevitably change.
On the other hand, as John Connolly’s experience shows, “literary” writers aren’t always just snobs. Sometimes they’re assholes, too.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Social Climbing
Patti Abbott has invited your humble correspondent to contribute to her regular Forgotten Books Friday at her blog. Stop by and see my response here.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Rejection
I don’t save all my rejections to use as wallpaper or memorabilia. I read them, remember what’s worth remembering, and pitch them. Saves a lot of space for the TBR pile.
Three stick with me, which is probably why I don’t get too worked up over any of them. The first two are related. Several years ago I wrote a short story about a man who constantly feuds with his wife. They have their argument du jour and she goes upstairs to take a bath. He hears a bump from upstairs while he’s eating dinner, hollers up to ask what happened. She doesn’t answer, he goes up, and she’s dead. Classic bathtub accident.
He doesn’t think anyone will believe it was an accident, so he takes action he thinks will make the time of death seem later than it was, then goes to the local pub for his regular Monday night of football. Makes sure he’s seen—especially seen leaving—goes home, “finds” her, and calls it in. Of course, he doesn’t think of everything and winds up essentially framing himself.
Or did he do it? All the reader knows is what he tells someone who doesn’t reply, the entire story told through the husband’s words, ending with, “and you don’t believe me either, do you, Father?” I sent it to Ellery Queen, whose rejection said the story was too self-contained, it needed someone else at the end for him to play off of.
Easily done. I added a guard to walk him down Death Row and exchange an innocuous comment; the priest actually speaks. I sent the revised story to Alfred Hitchcock, who also rejected it, saying the added characters detracted from the atmosphere. I should have left it all in the guy’s head.
As Homer Simpson would say, “D’oh!”
My other fave is for a novel my agent is still shopping. We got the following reply from an editor who passed: “It’s too good to go straight to paperback, but not original enough for a hardcover series.”
My threshold for insult is pretty high; I would have swallowed my pride over even a paltry paperback offer.
So what’s the point? No one knows. No, not “no one knows the point;” no one knows what will sell and what won’t, or why. People have guesses. Thanks to experience and instinct, some are better guessers than others. J.K. Rowling took forever to get published. Elmore Leonard, already established as a top writer of Westerns, had something like a hundred rejections for his first crime story. James Lee Burke had two literary books published as a young man, then couldn’t get published again until he turned to crime. Meanwhile, every year high six-figure advances get paid to authors who will have more copies in recycling plants than on bookshelves.
So what is the point? Don’t take it personal, and don’t get discouraged. No one knows anything, not for a certainty. The only hard and fast rule to being published, observed by greats from Faulkner to Tolstoy to Dickens to Steinbeck, is to finish the book. Sure, lots of finished books don’t get published; no unfinished ones do.
Three stick with me, which is probably why I don’t get too worked up over any of them. The first two are related. Several years ago I wrote a short story about a man who constantly feuds with his wife. They have their argument du jour and she goes upstairs to take a bath. He hears a bump from upstairs while he’s eating dinner, hollers up to ask what happened. She doesn’t answer, he goes up, and she’s dead. Classic bathtub accident.
He doesn’t think anyone will believe it was an accident, so he takes action he thinks will make the time of death seem later than it was, then goes to the local pub for his regular Monday night of football. Makes sure he’s seen—especially seen leaving—goes home, “finds” her, and calls it in. Of course, he doesn’t think of everything and winds up essentially framing himself.
Or did he do it? All the reader knows is what he tells someone who doesn’t reply, the entire story told through the husband’s words, ending with, “and you don’t believe me either, do you, Father?” I sent it to Ellery Queen, whose rejection said the story was too self-contained, it needed someone else at the end for him to play off of.
Easily done. I added a guard to walk him down Death Row and exchange an innocuous comment; the priest actually speaks. I sent the revised story to Alfred Hitchcock, who also rejected it, saying the added characters detracted from the atmosphere. I should have left it all in the guy’s head.
As Homer Simpson would say, “D’oh!”
My other fave is for a novel my agent is still shopping. We got the following reply from an editor who passed: “It’s too good to go straight to paperback, but not original enough for a hardcover series.”
My threshold for insult is pretty high; I would have swallowed my pride over even a paltry paperback offer.
So what’s the point? No one knows. No, not “no one knows the point;” no one knows what will sell and what won’t, or why. People have guesses. Thanks to experience and instinct, some are better guessers than others. J.K. Rowling took forever to get published. Elmore Leonard, already established as a top writer of Westerns, had something like a hundred rejections for his first crime story. James Lee Burke had two literary books published as a young man, then couldn’t get published again until he turned to crime. Meanwhile, every year high six-figure advances get paid to authors who will have more copies in recycling plants than on bookshelves.
So what is the point? Don’t take it personal, and don’t get discouraged. No one knows anything, not for a certainty. The only hard and fast rule to being published, observed by greats from Faulkner to Tolstoy to Dickens to Steinbeck, is to finish the book. Sure, lots of finished books don’t get published; no unfinished ones do.
Monday, November 3, 2008
October Reading
A lot of writers’ blogs have started recapping what that writer has read over the past month. (Okay, maybe not a lot; Tim Hallinan and Declan Burke, for sure. They’re both excellent writers whose opinions I respect, so I’m not averse to using their examples for a few cheap credibility points.) October was a great, if somewhat light, reading month for me, so here are the highlights.
Trigger City, by Sean Chercover
Chercover’s second Ray Dudgeon PI story is a step up from what was obviously an excellent first book, since Big City, Bad Blood was nominated for every debut novel prize I can think of, and won its share. Tightly written with a great plot twist to raise the stakes in a believable manner halfway through, Trigger City is a polished and well-paced look at what the oft-maligned PI story can be in the Twenty-first Century.
In the Dark, by Mark Billingham
A departure from Billingham’s successful Tom Thorne series (though Thorne makes a cameo appearance), In the Dark is also his first attempt to step away from his established serial killer milieu. A multi-POV story that peels back the onion from both the police and criminal perspectives, it has two significant plot twists, and another peripheral surprise that’s definitely creepy. Once again, all are properly prepared and still surprising, providing for a satisfyingly adult read. This trend was continued in…
Everybody Knows This is Nowhere, by John McFetridge
Like Chercover’s Trigger City, this is McFetridge’s second novel in what is becoming more or less a series, following Dirty Sweet. That was a good book; EKTIN kicks ass. It’s the bad guys who are the connecting thread in McFetridge Toronto-based stories, cleaned-up bikers looking to take over as the pre-eminent organized crime operation in Canada. The stories unfold at their own paces, the dialog is spot on, and the humor is always organic. A couple more well placed plot twists combine with the best opening scene in recent memory to make this as entertaining a read as you’re likely to find.
The best thing about all three of these books is they’re written for adults. Not because the sex, language, and violence are over the top; these writers buck the trend not to make things too onerous for any eighth graders who might happen upon a copy. A bright eighth grader would probably enjoy all three, though Mom might not be too delighted at his discovery. What sets these books apart is the writers’ willingness to trust their readers to keep up without having everything explained to them. It’s easy to forget how well this can propel a story, as rarely as we see it today. (I hope to have more on this in a few days.)
Trigger City, by Sean Chercover
Chercover’s second Ray Dudgeon PI story is a step up from what was obviously an excellent first book, since Big City, Bad Blood was nominated for every debut novel prize I can think of, and won its share. Tightly written with a great plot twist to raise the stakes in a believable manner halfway through, Trigger City is a polished and well-paced look at what the oft-maligned PI story can be in the Twenty-first Century.
In the Dark, by Mark Billingham
A departure from Billingham’s successful Tom Thorne series (though Thorne makes a cameo appearance), In the Dark is also his first attempt to step away from his established serial killer milieu. A multi-POV story that peels back the onion from both the police and criminal perspectives, it has two significant plot twists, and another peripheral surprise that’s definitely creepy. Once again, all are properly prepared and still surprising, providing for a satisfyingly adult read. This trend was continued in…
Everybody Knows This is Nowhere, by John McFetridge
Like Chercover’s Trigger City, this is McFetridge’s second novel in what is becoming more or less a series, following Dirty Sweet. That was a good book; EKTIN kicks ass. It’s the bad guys who are the connecting thread in McFetridge Toronto-based stories, cleaned-up bikers looking to take over as the pre-eminent organized crime operation in Canada. The stories unfold at their own paces, the dialog is spot on, and the humor is always organic. A couple more well placed plot twists combine with the best opening scene in recent memory to make this as entertaining a read as you’re likely to find.
The best thing about all three of these books is they’re written for adults. Not because the sex, language, and violence are over the top; these writers buck the trend not to make things too onerous for any eighth graders who might happen upon a copy. A bright eighth grader would probably enjoy all three, though Mom might not be too delighted at his discovery. What sets these books apart is the writers’ willingness to trust their readers to keep up without having everything explained to them. It’s easy to forget how well this can propel a story, as rarely as we see it today. (I hope to have more on this in a few days.)
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Don't Quote Me on This
As Lionel Shriver notes in the Wall Street Journal, "Literature is not very popular these days. Anyone who writes literary fiction is happy to tell you it's a bitch to get literary fiction published. The reason it's a bitch is because much of it doesn't sell, and, in fairness to publishers, there's only so altruistic even the most high-minded editor can afford to be before they start turning out the lights and repossessing office furniture.
There are several reasons for this lack of sales potential. It's most often laid at the feet of the unwashed masses who refuse to look beyond American Idol and 24 for entertainment, and who think enlightenment is what happens when the sun comes up. This is, not surprisingly, the literary community's preferred view. Ignored is that community's tendency to turn its collective nose up at any novel that dares to become too popular. The pathology of this condition can easily be guessed at, and could keep a trained psychologist busy for several thousand words.
A key reason for this relegation of literary fiction to the fringes of public consciousness may be that literary writers seem less interested every year in writing for the public they would have buy their books. Please feel free to comment below and call me a block headed, undereducated dilettante, but the literary fiction of the past few decades seems more interested in receiving good reviews from Michiko Kakutani and authors' acknowledged peers than in actually being read. Story is passé; the sentence beautiful is all that matters. ("The sentence beautiful" can alternate with "the sentence indecipherable" to weed out lowbrows as necessary.)
Shriver picks up on this in his discussion of quotation marks. The timing is fortuitous for me, as I recently waded my way through the bramble-laden thickets of arcane prose Cormac McCarthy titled Blood Meridian. Like No Country for Old Men as cited by Shriver, Blood Meridian uses no quotation marks. It's up to you to figure out who is speaking, or if anyone is speaking at all. Given the weight of McCarthy's prose—much of which is, admittedly, beautiful in its nihilistic way—this can be a burden.
I read somewhere that a writer's first responsibility is to give the reader a fighting chance. (That's a paraphrase; I’d cite it properly if I could find it.) Conventional rules of punctuation evolved to do just that. Readers expect it, and use those little non-spoken marks to know where to pause, how long to pause, organize thoughts, and not insignificantly, who is speaking. And when. Readers see those marks and the mind responds accordingly. When missing, the reader's attention is diverted from the story while he figures out what's going on. Writers trifle with this at their peril.
Some may argue that readers fully equipped to appreciate McCarthy or others who dispense with quotation marks will have no trouble navigating the literary landscape without so many signs to clutter the scenery. To borrow the quote from Julie Myerson, "In my experience of the world, there are no marks separating out what I think and what I say, or what other people do." I don't have any trouble separating what I think from what I say, either, because I'm there when it happens. Leaving out quotations marks, or any other accepted punctuation, places the reader in a position where he must read the author's mind to know what’s going on.
Classical music has gone through the same evolution. Orchestras audiences are still primarily attracted to what’s referred to as the “standard repertoire.” Twentieth Century composers became increasingly less interested in appealing to the public than to the critics and other composers who might be able to adequately “understand” the depth and breadth of their musical vision. That’s their privilege, just as it’s okay for a writer to use, not use, or alter the meaning of punctuation—even words—if he wants to. Just don't be surprised when the lines don’t form at your signings.
There are several reasons for this lack of sales potential. It's most often laid at the feet of the unwashed masses who refuse to look beyond American Idol and 24 for entertainment, and who think enlightenment is what happens when the sun comes up. This is, not surprisingly, the literary community's preferred view. Ignored is that community's tendency to turn its collective nose up at any novel that dares to become too popular. The pathology of this condition can easily be guessed at, and could keep a trained psychologist busy for several thousand words.
A key reason for this relegation of literary fiction to the fringes of public consciousness may be that literary writers seem less interested every year in writing for the public they would have buy their books. Please feel free to comment below and call me a block headed, undereducated dilettante, but the literary fiction of the past few decades seems more interested in receiving good reviews from Michiko Kakutani and authors' acknowledged peers than in actually being read. Story is passé; the sentence beautiful is all that matters. ("The sentence beautiful" can alternate with "the sentence indecipherable" to weed out lowbrows as necessary.)
Shriver picks up on this in his discussion of quotation marks. The timing is fortuitous for me, as I recently waded my way through the bramble-laden thickets of arcane prose Cormac McCarthy titled Blood Meridian. Like No Country for Old Men as cited by Shriver, Blood Meridian uses no quotation marks. It's up to you to figure out who is speaking, or if anyone is speaking at all. Given the weight of McCarthy's prose—much of which is, admittedly, beautiful in its nihilistic way—this can be a burden.
I read somewhere that a writer's first responsibility is to give the reader a fighting chance. (That's a paraphrase; I’d cite it properly if I could find it.) Conventional rules of punctuation evolved to do just that. Readers expect it, and use those little non-spoken marks to know where to pause, how long to pause, organize thoughts, and not insignificantly, who is speaking. And when. Readers see those marks and the mind responds accordingly. When missing, the reader's attention is diverted from the story while he figures out what's going on. Writers trifle with this at their peril.
Some may argue that readers fully equipped to appreciate McCarthy or others who dispense with quotation marks will have no trouble navigating the literary landscape without so many signs to clutter the scenery. To borrow the quote from Julie Myerson, "In my experience of the world, there are no marks separating out what I think and what I say, or what other people do." I don't have any trouble separating what I think from what I say, either, because I'm there when it happens. Leaving out quotations marks, or any other accepted punctuation, places the reader in a position where he must read the author's mind to know what’s going on.
Classical music has gone through the same evolution. Orchestras audiences are still primarily attracted to what’s referred to as the “standard repertoire.” Twentieth Century composers became increasingly less interested in appealing to the public than to the critics and other composers who might be able to adequately “understand” the depth and breadth of their musical vision. That’s their privilege, just as it’s okay for a writer to use, not use, or alter the meaning of punctuation—even words—if he wants to. Just don't be surprised when the lines don’t form at your signings.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Bouchercon 2008
I'm back from Bouchercon and finally getting caught up on the rest of my life. I got some books to review, two interviews set up with authors, and a TBR pile exponentially larger than before the conference. A rousing success for someone who doesn't meet people easily and had only spoken to one person there before last week.
Much of the credit for that has to go to the crime fiction writing and reading community. I was told I would meet a nicer bunch of people, and I was still pleasantly surprised. The whole atmosphere was conducive to renewing acquaintances and starting new ones. My personal highlights:
Being recognized by John McFetridge, Peter Rozovsky, Sandra Ruttan, Brian Lindemuth, Angie Johnson-Schmit, and Zoe Sharp, based primarily on my comments to their blogs and Crimespace comments.
Meeting Declan Hughes while standing at a urinal. We each made a great show of washing up before shaking hands. A woman saw us coming out on her way to the ladies' room and said she never met anyone cool in the bathroom. I told her she was going to the wrong bathroom.
A enjoyable and wide-ranging chat with Austin Camacho between panels.
Learning not only that crime fiction writers are convincing liars (I was shocked! Shocked!) but that Laura Lippman can crank out fifty pushups on demand, Mark Billingham wore size 9 shoes and once played cricket with a frog, and that John Connolly found unexpected entertainment from the movie The Last of the Mohicans.
Sean Chercover, Bill Cameron, Libby Hellman, Harry Hunsicker, and Duane Swierczynski watched way too much television in their formative years. (And that the evil presence of John Boy Walton lurks behind everything Bill Cameron writes.)
Be very careful what you post online, because you should assume everyone reads everything you ever wrote.
It would be nice to allow Jack Reacher to deal with some of the nut jobs who sent Lee Child “reviews” of his latest book.
That listening to Declan Hughes talk about PI fiction can make a PI writer feel as though he’s answering a higher calling.
And, last but not least, it’s hard to imagine better company for a pleasant Saturday evening than (in alphabetical order) Declan Burke, Angie Johnson-Schmit, John McFetridge, Peter Rozovsky, and Gerald So, ably assisted at times by Donna Allen, Brian Lindemuth, Jeremy Trylch, and Greg from Philly, whose last name I would have caught had I know what a nice guy he was going to be.
You had to be there to get most—if any—of these references; you should have been there, anyway.
Next year: Indianapolis!
Much of the credit for that has to go to the crime fiction writing and reading community. I was told I would meet a nicer bunch of people, and I was still pleasantly surprised. The whole atmosphere was conducive to renewing acquaintances and starting new ones. My personal highlights:
Being recognized by John McFetridge, Peter Rozovsky, Sandra Ruttan, Brian Lindemuth, Angie Johnson-Schmit, and Zoe Sharp, based primarily on my comments to their blogs and Crimespace comments.
Meeting Declan Hughes while standing at a urinal. We each made a great show of washing up before shaking hands. A woman saw us coming out on her way to the ladies' room and said she never met anyone cool in the bathroom. I told her she was going to the wrong bathroom.
A enjoyable and wide-ranging chat with Austin Camacho between panels.
Learning not only that crime fiction writers are convincing liars (I was shocked! Shocked!) but that Laura Lippman can crank out fifty pushups on demand, Mark Billingham wore size 9 shoes and once played cricket with a frog, and that John Connolly found unexpected entertainment from the movie The Last of the Mohicans.
Sean Chercover, Bill Cameron, Libby Hellman, Harry Hunsicker, and Duane Swierczynski watched way too much television in their formative years. (And that the evil presence of John Boy Walton lurks behind everything Bill Cameron writes.)
Be very careful what you post online, because you should assume everyone reads everything you ever wrote.
It would be nice to allow Jack Reacher to deal with some of the nut jobs who sent Lee Child “reviews” of his latest book.
That listening to Declan Hughes talk about PI fiction can make a PI writer feel as though he’s answering a higher calling.
And, last but not least, it’s hard to imagine better company for a pleasant Saturday evening than (in alphabetical order) Declan Burke, Angie Johnson-Schmit, John McFetridge, Peter Rozovsky, and Gerald So, ably assisted at times by Donna Allen, Brian Lindemuth, Jeremy Trylch, and Greg from Philly, whose last name I would have caught had I know what a nice guy he was going to be.
You had to be there to get most—if any—of these references; you should have been there, anyway.
Next year: Indianapolis!
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