All right, beloved blog readers.....what's missing?
I'll go first. "It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again."
What are your favorites that aren't represented?
AFI's Top 100:
1. "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn," "Gone With the Wind," 1939.
2. "I'm going to make him an offer he can't refuse," "The Godfather," 1972.
3. "You don't understand! I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I could've been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am," "On the Waterfront," 1954.
4. "Toto, I've got a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore," "The Wizard of Oz," 1939.
5. "Here's looking at you, kid," "Casablanca," 1942.
6. "Go ahead, make my day," "Sudden Impact," 1983.
7. "All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up," "Sunset Blvd.," 1950.
8. "May the Force be with you," "Star Wars," 1977.
9. "Fasten your seatbelts. It's going to be a bumpy night," "All About Eve," 1950.
10. "You talking to me?" "Taxi Driver," 1976.
11. "What we've got here is failure to communicate," "Cool Hand Luke," 1967.
12. "I love the smell of napalm in the morning," "Apocalypse Now," 1979.
13. "Love means never having to say you're sorry," "Love Story," 1970.
14. "The stuff that dreams are made of," "The Maltese Falcon," 1941.
15. "E.T. phone home," "E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial," 1982.
16. "They call me Mister Tibbs!", "In the Heat of the Night," 1967.
17. "Rosebud," "Citizen Kane," 1941.
18. "Made it, Ma! Top of the world!", "White Heat," 1949.
19. "I'm as mad as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore!", "Network," 1976.
20. "Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship," "Casablanca," 1942.
21. "A census taker once tried to test me. I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti," "The Silence of the Lambs," 1991.
22. "Bond. James Bond," "Dr. No," 1962.
23. "There's no place like home," "The Wizard of Oz," 1939.
24. "I am big! It's the pictures that got small," "Sunset Blvd.," 1950.
25. "Show me the money!", "Jerry Maguire," 1996.
26. "Why don't you come up sometime and see me?", "She Done Him Wrong," 1933.
27. "I'm walking here! I'm walking here!", "Midnight Cowboy," 1969.
28. "Play it, Sam. Play 'As Time Goes By,'" "Casablanca," 1942.
29. "You can't handle the truth!", "A Few Good Men," 1992.
30. "I want to be alone," "Grand Hotel," 1932.
31. "After all, tomorrow is another day!", "Gone With the Wind," 1939.
32. "Round up the usual suspects," "Casablanca," 1942.
33. "I'll have what she's having," "When Harry Met Sally...," 1989.
34. "You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your lips together and blow," "To Have and Have Not," 1944.
35. "You're gonna need a bigger boat," "Jaws," 1975.
36. "Badges? We ain't got no badges! We don't need no badges! I don't have to show you any stinking badges!", "The Treasure of the Sierra Madre," 1948.
37. "I'll be back," "The Terminator," 1984.
38. "Today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth," "The Pride of the Yankees," 1942.
39. "If you build it, he will come," "Field of Dreams," 1989.
40. "Mama always said life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get," "Forrest Gump," 1994.
41. "We rob banks," "Bonnie and Clyde," 1967.
42. "Plastics," "The Graduate," 1967.
43. "We'll always have Paris," "Casablanca," 1942.
44. "I see dead people," "The Sixth Sense," 1999.
45. "Stella! Hey, Stella!", "A Streetcar Named Desire," 1951.
46. "Oh, Jerry, don't let's ask for the moon. We have the stars," "Now, Voyager," 1942.
47. "Shane. Shane. Come back!", "Shane," 1953.
48. "Well, nobody's perfect," "Some Like It Hot," 1959.
49. "It's alive! It's alive!", "Frankenstein," 1931.
50. "Houston, we have a problem," "Apollo 13," 1995.
51. "You've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel lucky?' Well, do ya, punk?", "Dirty Harry," 1971.
52. "You had me at `hello,'" "Jerry Maguire," 1996.
53. "One morning I shot an elephant in my pajamas. How he got in my pajamas, I don't know," "Animal Crackers," 1930.
54. "There's no crying in baseball!", "A League of Their Own," 1992.
55. "La-dee-da, la-dee-da," "Annie Hall," 1977.
56. "A boy's best friend is his mother," "Psycho," 1960.
57. "Greed, for lack of a better word, is good," "Wall Street," 1987.
58. "Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer," "The Godfather Part II," 1974.
59. "As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again," "Gone With the Wind," 1939.
60. "Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into!", "Sons of the Desert," 1933.
61. "Say `hello' to my little friend!", "Scarface," 1983.
62. "What a dump," "Beyond the Forest," 1949.
63. "Mrs. Robinson, you're trying to seduce me. Aren't you?", "The Graduate," 1967.
64. "Gentlemen, you can't fight in here! This is the War Room!", "Dr. Strangelove," 1964.
65. "Elementary, my dear Watson," "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes," 1929.
66. "Get your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape," "Planet of the Apes," 1968.
67. "Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine," "Casablanca," 1942.
68. "Here's Johnny!", "The Shining," 1980.
69. "They're here!", "Poltergeist," 1982.
70. "Is it safe?", "Marathon Man," 1976.
71. "Wait a minute, wait a minute. You ain't heard nothin' yet!", "The Jazz Singer," 1927.
72. "No wire hangers, ever!", "Mommie Dearest," 1981.
73. "Mother of mercy, is this the end of Rico?", "Little Caesar," 1930.
74. "Forget it, Jake, it's Chinatown," "Chinatown," 1974.
75. "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers," "A Streetcar Named Desire," 1951.
76. "Hasta la vista, baby," "Terminator 2: Judgment Day," 1991.
77. "Soylent Green is people!", "Soylent Green," 1973.
78. "Open the pod bay doors, HAL," "2001: A Space Odyssey," 1968.
79. Striker: "Surely you can't be serious." Rumack: "I am serious ... and don't call me Shirley," "Airplane!", 1980.
80. "Yo, Adrian!", "Rocky," 1976.
81. "Hello, gorgeous," "Funny Girl," 1968.
82. "Toga! Toga!", "National Lampoon's Animal House," 1978.
83. "Listen to them. Children of the night. What music they make," "Dracula," 1931.
84. "Oh, no, it wasn't the airplanes. It was Beauty killed the Beast," "King Kong," 1933.
85. "My precious," "The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers," 2002.
86. "Attica! Attica!", "Dog Day Afternoon," 1975.
87. "Sawyer, you're going out a youngster, but you've got to come back a star!", "42nd Street," 1933.
88. "Listen to me, mister. You're my knight in shining armor. Don't you forget it. You're going to get back on that horse, and I'm going to be right behind you, holding on tight, and away we're gonna go, go, go!", "On Golden Pond," 1981.
89. "Tell 'em to go out there with all they got and win just one for the Gipper," "Knute Rockne, All American," 1940.
90. "A martini. Shaken, not stirred," "Goldfinger," 1964.
91. "Who's on first," "The Naughty Nineties," 1945.
92. "Cinderella story. Outta nowhere. A former greenskeeper, now, about to become the Masters champion. It looks like a mirac ... It's in the hole! It's in the hole! It's in the hole!", "Caddyshack," 1980.
93. "Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death!", "Auntie Mame," 1958.
94. "I feel the need — the need for speed!", "Top Gun," 1986.
95. "Carpe diem. Seize the day, boys. Make your lives extraordinary," "Dead Poets Society," 1989.
96. "Snap out of it!", "Moonstruck," 1987.
97. "My mother thanks you. My father thanks you. My sister thanks you. And I thank you," "Yankee Doodle Dandy," 1942.
98. "Nobody puts Baby in a corner," "Dirty Dancing," 1987.
99. "I'll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too!", "The Wizard of Oz," 1939.
100. "I'm king of the world!", "Titanic," 1997.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Hollywood Slump
Box office is in its sixteen week of declining revenues, en route to its worst financial showing in twenty years.
And to this I say….no shit.
For years now, the studios have shifted their model to marketing to teens (with their disposable income and lazy-ass schedules, they represent a large movie-going sector and will see movies they like numerous times) and have geared everything toward a big first-weekend gross. Van Helsing is a classic example. Universal marketed the hell out of it—McDonald tie-ins, endless P&A, talk of TV, amusement-park, and film franchise tie-ins—so it exploded in weekend #1—$52 million, but wound up at only $120 mil (“only” because the budget was $170, P&A $50). The huge second and third weekend declines were due to the fact that, though the special effects were stunning, the story just wasn’t that great. Sure, the studio will recover through foreign and DVDs and not take a bath, but still, the focus, it seems, was more on marketing than creative development.
With how hard it is to develop and produce a quality picture, I believe the studios no longer really TRY—they know with an aggressive ad campaign they can cash in on opening weekend before word of mouth spreads that the movie is mediocre, and they know they can recoup with foreign/DVD/tie-ins. So using this mediocre model again and again is easier than putting in extra time and effort to ensure that a film is sophisticated and good.
A byproduct of this strategy is that movie-going sectors OTHER than teens have been alienated from going to theatres. I have to go to films—it’s essential to my job as a screenwriter to know who’s doing what and how well, and I’m a judge on the Mystery Writers of America’s Best Screenplay Committee and the Chair of the International Thriller Writers’ Best Script Panel—but my wife, for instance, has largely lost interest. Why? Of the last, maybe 20 films we’ve gone to, 18 have been a waste of time. She’s been disappointed so continuously that she’d rather stay home, read a book, rent an old DVD (or better, a new DVD of an old movie). When actual quality adult films (pardon the phrase) come out, they have a harder time drawing grown-ups back to the theaters because they’ve fallen out of the habit of attending.
And to this I say….no shit.
For years now, the studios have shifted their model to marketing to teens (with their disposable income and lazy-ass schedules, they represent a large movie-going sector and will see movies they like numerous times) and have geared everything toward a big first-weekend gross. Van Helsing is a classic example. Universal marketed the hell out of it—McDonald tie-ins, endless P&A, talk of TV, amusement-park, and film franchise tie-ins—so it exploded in weekend #1—$52 million, but wound up at only $120 mil (“only” because the budget was $170, P&A $50). The huge second and third weekend declines were due to the fact that, though the special effects were stunning, the story just wasn’t that great. Sure, the studio will recover through foreign and DVDs and not take a bath, but still, the focus, it seems, was more on marketing than creative development.
With how hard it is to develop and produce a quality picture, I believe the studios no longer really TRY—they know with an aggressive ad campaign they can cash in on opening weekend before word of mouth spreads that the movie is mediocre, and they know they can recoup with foreign/DVD/tie-ins. So using this mediocre model again and again is easier than putting in extra time and effort to ensure that a film is sophisticated and good.
A byproduct of this strategy is that movie-going sectors OTHER than teens have been alienated from going to theatres. I have to go to films—it’s essential to my job as a screenwriter to know who’s doing what and how well, and I’m a judge on the Mystery Writers of America’s Best Screenplay Committee and the Chair of the International Thriller Writers’ Best Script Panel—but my wife, for instance, has largely lost interest. Why? Of the last, maybe 20 films we’ve gone to, 18 have been a waste of time. She’s been disappointed so continuously that she’d rather stay home, read a book, rent an old DVD (or better, a new DVD of an old movie). When actual quality adult films (pardon the phrase) come out, they have a harder time drawing grown-ups back to the theaters because they’ve fallen out of the habit of attending.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
DO NO HARM Takes a Dirt Nap
On the sad stretch of Van Nuys where it intersects Ventura Boulevard, there is a Crown Books that went to a Supercrown that is now an unnamed store filled with remaindered copies of Whoopi Goldberg’s autobiography and kitty calendars (which I supposed beats Whoopi Goldberg calendars and kitty autobiographies). From the outside you might think it has been taken over by squatters. My one-time agent, Jess Taylor, was in from Brazil, and desirous of that finest offering of the City of Angels—In-N-Out. So we ate our Double-Doubles and ambled across the parking lot to the not-really-a-Supercrown. Together, we made fun of our various friends and colleagues who had been remaindered in such squalor. Ha! Peter’s latest is at five bucks while Joanne’s still selling at six fifty.
Then what do I spot?
My very own DO NO HARM, the telltale magic marker scrawl staining the page edges.
Without missing a beat, Jess turns to me and says, “I just figured out the name of the store: Ozymandias Books.”
Indeed.
For the record, here is Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poem.
Ozymandias
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desart…Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
Then what do I spot?
My very own DO NO HARM, the telltale magic marker scrawl staining the page edges.
Without missing a beat, Jess turns to me and says, “I just figured out the name of the store: Ozymandias Books.”
Indeed.
For the record, here is Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poem.
Ozymandias
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desart…Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Book Expo America Update
Taxi ride.
Great to see you! Great to see YOU!
Where's the galleys for Lee Child's book? That bitch in the lime-green jacket took two and now they're out.
This food sucks. Where's Rey's Original? Which one? Doesn't matter.
When are you signing galleys? Can't I just take one now?
Don't turn around. That's the agent I fired.
She switched houses but her editor doesn't know so don't tell her when you see her.
Taxi ride.
Martini.
Where's Judith Regan?
How long have you been at CAA?
Who else is here?
And you are? OH- of course.
Gin and tonic.
Taxi.
Jennifer Weiner's having a penthouse party. Right, but what if I get seen there? She seems nice and all, but IN HER SHOES? It'll ruin my image as a thriller writer. Who cares? Good point.
Taxi. Come on - you can take five. She'll sit in my lap. We'll give you a bigger tip. Where are you from? Really? I have family from Pakistan!
White wine.
EVERYONE'S at the Algonquin. Let's haul ass.
Taxi.
Cheese platter.
Martini.
More cheese.
Another gin and tonic.
Taxi ride.
Martini.
Martini.
Bourbon.
Uh oh.
Great to see you! Great to see YOU!
Where's the galleys for Lee Child's book? That bitch in the lime-green jacket took two and now they're out.
This food sucks. Where's Rey's Original? Which one? Doesn't matter.
When are you signing galleys? Can't I just take one now?
Don't turn around. That's the agent I fired.
She switched houses but her editor doesn't know so don't tell her when you see her.
Taxi ride.
Martini.
Where's Judith Regan?
How long have you been at CAA?
Who else is here?
And you are? OH- of course.
Gin and tonic.
Taxi.
Jennifer Weiner's having a penthouse party. Right, but what if I get seen there? She seems nice and all, but IN HER SHOES? It'll ruin my image as a thriller writer. Who cares? Good point.
Taxi. Come on - you can take five. She'll sit in my lap. We'll give you a bigger tip. Where are you from? Really? I have family from Pakistan!
White wine.
EVERYONE'S at the Algonquin. Let's haul ass.
Taxi.
Cheese platter.
Martini.
More cheese.
Another gin and tonic.
Taxi ride.
Martini.
Martini.
Bourbon.
Uh oh.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
Meeting Across the River
A new anthology is out based on an interesting premise. Edited by Jessica Kaye, and Richard Brewer (of Mystery Bookstore fame), Meeting Across the River is a collection of stories, each inspired by Bruce Springsteen's same-titled song. As Martin J. Smith points out in his compelling introduction, the tune, from BORN TO RUN, has haunting noir under(over?)tones that lend it nicely to interpretation by crime writers.
Stories from Eric Garcia, William Kent Krueger, C.J. Box, Steve Hamilton, Eddie Muller, Philip Reed, David Corbett, the inimitable Barbara Seranella, and others make up this collection.
When approaching the idea, I decided to combine noir elements with a thriller tone. My story, called "The Real Thing," a phrase I stole from the song, opens thus: "Abbud's head had been blown apart by sniper fire, his scalp lying beside the bone like a bad rug or a misplaced halo. Ebi Al-Mansouri stood frozen in place, bits of window glass embedded in his bearded face, his heart hammering so loudly it seemed to jar his vision. Bullet split the fifth-floor flat, raining in from all sides."
Stories from Eric Garcia, William Kent Krueger, C.J. Box, Steve Hamilton, Eddie Muller, Philip Reed, David Corbett, the inimitable Barbara Seranella, and others make up this collection.
When approaching the idea, I decided to combine noir elements with a thriller tone. My story, called "The Real Thing," a phrase I stole from the song, opens thus: "Abbud's head had been blown apart by sniper fire, his scalp lying beside the bone like a bad rug or a misplaced halo. Ebi Al-Mansouri stood frozen in place, bits of window glass embedded in his bearded face, his heart hammering so loudly it seemed to jar his vision. Bullet split the fifth-floor flat, raining in from all sides."
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
High Concept Low Quality
High concept is the end-all be-all for Hollywood and, increasingly, for publishing. But what is it? Essentially, it’s a script or book that can be summarized effectively in one or two sentences. And that has a hook—a plot reversal or inherent irony that is (we hope) unexpected and refreshing. A classic example is Armageddon: A giant meteor is headed for earth, and an unlikely crew of deep-sea drillers must land on it to explode it to save Earth. (What makes this truly high-concept is the constitution of the crew.) One of the clearest examples is Top Ten by Ryne Douglas Pearson. A serial killer is last on the FBI’s Top 10 most wanted list, but his ego demands he reach number one, so he decides to kill his way down the list to get there. But number three on the list is an FBI agent.
Some great books and film are high-concept, of course, and when paired with fine execution, they can make for art and entertainment at the highest level (think Hitchcock). But the trend toward high concept increasingly irritates me because as a writer, I find high concept one of the easiest parts of the jobs. I get five high-concept ideas a week. And that’s all they are. Ideas. The whole key, for me, is whether the ideas have story engines, enough meat to demand further exploration and plotting. What I find happening more and more is that novelists and screenwriters come up with a high-concept hook and sell their project on the basis of that, while not committing to the real work that elevates a project above mediocrity. Great high-concept hooks are inevitably exciting (how GREAT is the hook behind The Bourne Identity?) but as with everything, the devil is in the details (which Ludlum ALSO had down for his brand of fiction). Good pacing, plotting, plausibility, character development. So many blockbusters that have passed into popcorn and remainder obscurity suffer from writers who reached the first step and pitched camp there rather than toiling onward.
The job-and the art- is in what follows.
Some great books and film are high-concept, of course, and when paired with fine execution, they can make for art and entertainment at the highest level (think Hitchcock). But the trend toward high concept increasingly irritates me because as a writer, I find high concept one of the easiest parts of the jobs. I get five high-concept ideas a week. And that’s all they are. Ideas. The whole key, for me, is whether the ideas have story engines, enough meat to demand further exploration and plotting. What I find happening more and more is that novelists and screenwriters come up with a high-concept hook and sell their project on the basis of that, while not committing to the real work that elevates a project above mediocrity. Great high-concept hooks are inevitably exciting (how GREAT is the hook behind The Bourne Identity?) but as with everything, the devil is in the details (which Ludlum ALSO had down for his brand of fiction). Good pacing, plotting, plausibility, character development. So many blockbusters that have passed into popcorn and remainder obscurity suffer from writers who reached the first step and pitched camp there rather than toiling onward.
The job-and the art- is in what follows.
Saturday, April 30, 2005
Sir Otto Strikes Again
Otto Penzler, master bookseller and world-leading expert in the genre, is no stranger to controversy. I get a huge kick out of Otto and enjoy spending time with him. He's unafraid to speak his mind and he's got a sharp, cutting wit that makes sitting through awards banquets (when you're at his table), an entirely different kind of experience.
Since I've been misquoted and "edited" enough by journalists in the past, I know not to take the below quotations (reported in The Book Standard) at face value. I know firsthand that Otto has enormous respect for various female authors, and I'm sure that his comments were presented in the most controversial fashion possible. That said, Otto ain't afraid to state his case and he - like many readers of hard-boiled crime fiction - ain't no fan of the cozie.
The comments below raise some interesting issues. Do you have a strong preference for hard-boiled fiction over cozies? Do you think there's a gender bias for who writes what? For my part, I've read my share of brilliant crime fiction by women and seen a few awful cat mysteries by men, but I know I'll take a Boston Teran over a 200-pager where a cupcake attacks a calico.
___________________
Genteel? Or bloody? That distinction between two sub-genres of mystery books—“cozies” and “hard-boiled”—may determine who wins the Edgar Award for Best Novel tonight. And the outcome could go to the heart of a debate within the industry: Are female mystery-writers—most often the authors of the more non-threatening, proper cozies—even worthy of the award? Otto Penzler, dean of mystery-writing in America, says no.
“The women who write [cozies] stop the action to go shopping, create a recipe, or take care of cats,” he says. “Cozies are not serious literature. They don’t deserve to win. Men take [writing] more seriously as art. Men labor over a book to make it literature. There are wonderful exceptions, of course—P.D. James, Ruth Rendell.”
Margaret Maron, president of Mystery Writers of America, which doles out the Edgars, and winner of one herself (for Bootlegger’s Daughter in 1993), sniffs at this bias, as she considers it, saying that good writers have been overlooked by the MWA as a result of unfair favoring of male authors and their bloodier plots. “Wit, humor, and domesticity haven’t been considered as significant as blood and violence. Charlotte MacLeod was never nominated,” Maron says, recalling the late author of a series of cozies. “She wrote some very funny mysteries, but they were considered ‘soft.’ She didn’t use the ‘F’ word. She wasn’t walking those mean streets.’ ”
That McLeod and the majority of authors who write cozies are women raises a thorny question. Are the Edgars—and, by extension, the mystery industry as a whole—simply sexist?
Since I've been misquoted and "edited" enough by journalists in the past, I know not to take the below quotations (reported in The Book Standard) at face value. I know firsthand that Otto has enormous respect for various female authors, and I'm sure that his comments were presented in the most controversial fashion possible. That said, Otto ain't afraid to state his case and he - like many readers of hard-boiled crime fiction - ain't no fan of the cozie.
The comments below raise some interesting issues. Do you have a strong preference for hard-boiled fiction over cozies? Do you think there's a gender bias for who writes what? For my part, I've read my share of brilliant crime fiction by women and seen a few awful cat mysteries by men, but I know I'll take a Boston Teran over a 200-pager where a cupcake attacks a calico.
___________________
Genteel? Or bloody? That distinction between two sub-genres of mystery books—“cozies” and “hard-boiled”—may determine who wins the Edgar Award for Best Novel tonight. And the outcome could go to the heart of a debate within the industry: Are female mystery-writers—most often the authors of the more non-threatening, proper cozies—even worthy of the award? Otto Penzler, dean of mystery-writing in America, says no.
“The women who write [cozies] stop the action to go shopping, create a recipe, or take care of cats,” he says. “Cozies are not serious literature. They don’t deserve to win. Men take [writing] more seriously as art. Men labor over a book to make it literature. There are wonderful exceptions, of course—P.D. James, Ruth Rendell.”
Margaret Maron, president of Mystery Writers of America, which doles out the Edgars, and winner of one herself (for Bootlegger’s Daughter in 1993), sniffs at this bias, as she considers it, saying that good writers have been overlooked by the MWA as a result of unfair favoring of male authors and their bloodier plots. “Wit, humor, and domesticity haven’t been considered as significant as blood and violence. Charlotte MacLeod was never nominated,” Maron says, recalling the late author of a series of cozies. “She wrote some very funny mysteries, but they were considered ‘soft.’ She didn’t use the ‘F’ word. She wasn’t walking those mean streets.’ ”
That McLeod and the majority of authors who write cozies are women raises a thorny question. Are the Edgars—and, by extension, the mystery industry as a whole—simply sexist?
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Wrst adn Typnig Problems
So I brok emy wrist in a soccer match Sunday and monday found my arm ensconced i a cast (pruple!) from hand to elbow. Im, in the middle ofna editing phase right now, whuich is proving trying sinc e I cant reall y type so well. RThere is a certani amount of rfustratio n for someonme ike me whos used tp typing and wokring at a certain pace tobe slwed down so drasticaly.
But tehrs also somenthing of a freedom inm being permitted toi write emails and blog entries witht eh typos that most poeple use! No more spellchecK! No more porofreading! I wonder if my publisher will hbe happy with a new manuscript that looks like sthis.
But tehrs also somenthing of a freedom inm being permitted toi write emails and blog entries witht eh typos that most poeple use! No more spellchecK! No more porofreading! I wonder if my publisher will hbe happy with a new manuscript that looks like sthis.
Friday, April 15, 2005
Crazy Geek Reader Stats
Amazon offers new stats for books, evidently after incorporating aspects of Schott's Original Miscellany into their website. On the home page for a book, one can click on either a "concordance" or "text stats" link.
These links yielded the following information on The Program:
These are the 100 most frequently used words in this book.
across against arms away bear behind better call came chair chris come
cult day door down dray even eyes face father feel felt few fingers
first floor get girl go going good got gregg group guy hair hand hard
head himself hurwitz janie john know last leah left let light lips
little look looked man might mouth name nancy need new now old open own
people phone program pulled reggie right room said sat say see side
skate something stanley still take tannino td teacher tell thing think
thought three tim time tom took turned two voice want work years
Text Stats
Readability:/Complexity:
Fog Index: 7.6 (this is a measure of readability - between 7 and 8 is ideal)
Complex Words: 9%
Flesch Index: 71.0
Syllables/Word: 1.5
Flesch-Kincaid Index: 5.8
Words/Sentence: 10.0
Number of: Fun Stats:
Characters: 365,999
Words/Dollar:3,775
Words: 62,171
Words/Ounce:2,775
Sentences: 6,231
So here's my new ad for The Program: BUY NOW AND GET 3,775 WORDS PER DOLLAR!
These links yielded the following information on The Program:
These are the 100 most frequently used words in this book.
across against arms away bear behind better call came chair chris come
cult day door down dray even eyes face father feel felt few fingers
first floor get girl go going good got gregg group guy hair hand hard
head himself hurwitz janie john know last leah left let light lips
little look looked man might mouth name nancy need new now old open own
people phone program pulled reggie right room said sat say see side
skate something stanley still take tannino td teacher tell thing think
thought three tim time tom took turned two voice want work years
Text Stats
Readability:/Complexity:
Fog Index: 7.6 (this is a measure of readability - between 7 and 8 is ideal)
Complex Words: 9%
Flesch Index: 71.0
Syllables/Word: 1.5
Flesch-Kincaid Index: 5.8
Words/Sentence: 10.0
Number of: Fun Stats:
Characters: 365,999
Words/Dollar:3,775
Words: 62,171
Words/Ounce:2,775
Sentences: 6,231
So here's my new ad for The Program: BUY NOW AND GET 3,775 WORDS PER DOLLAR!
Monday, April 11, 2005
Rejoice, Baseball has Begun
Since I'm going to be chairing the Best Thriller Screenplay award for ITW and I'm on the Best Film committee for MWA, I'm not allowed to venture publicly (oh, okay, to publicly venture) opinions on thriller and mystery films. Bummer.
But Fever Pitch, the new Jimmy Fallon/Drew Barrymore movie, gladly falls into neither category. So get off your duff and go see it already. If you're a baseball fan, have baseball fans in your family, or have the misfortune to be married to a baseball fan, you'll get a kick out of it.
To that, I will merely add the following quotation, from no less an authority than John Cheever:
"All literary men are Red Sox fans. To be a Yankee fan in literary society is to endanger your life."
Of course, I believe that fans of the San Francisco Giants also tend to be Renaissance men, but then I might be biased.
But Fever Pitch, the new Jimmy Fallon/Drew Barrymore movie, gladly falls into neither category. So get off your duff and go see it already. If you're a baseball fan, have baseball fans in your family, or have the misfortune to be married to a baseball fan, you'll get a kick out of it.
To that, I will merely add the following quotation, from no less an authority than John Cheever:
"All literary men are Red Sox fans. To be a Yankee fan in literary society is to endanger your life."
Of course, I believe that fans of the San Francisco Giants also tend to be Renaissance men, but then I might be biased.
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Blurb Bitching II (The Sequel)
Okay, I got a fair number of emails in response to my Blurb Bitching blog entry (a few back) so I thought I’d answer the main questions being put to me.
What makes you more likely to blurb?
1. A personalized letter from the author. I’ve gotten a few really great letters from editors that made me crack a galley, but for the most part, if the author doesn’t even have time to enclose her thoughts, I generally don’t have time to read her manuscript. So don’t leave it solely to your publicist/editor/agent/friend who walks dogs with Thomas Harris. Have them do the hand-off, but make sure you get your voice in there.
2. If the person requesting a blurb from me is familiar with my work, and makes that somewhat clear in the cover letter. Nothing says arrogance like an unpublished writer asking me to read his manuscript who hasn’t bothered to read one of my books. When it came to the authors I asked for blurbs from, I made sure I’d read virtually everything they had in print. And if their oeuvres were unrealistically weighty, I made sure I’d read at least four or five of their novels.
3. I won’t blurb books from vanity presses.
4. If the damn thing looks good. I don’t care if it’s a social novel or a book of lesbian haiku, the first few pages better sing.
5. (And here I feel like Ms. Curmuckle, your high school college admissions advisor): Don’t make dumb-ass spelling and grammatical errors in your cover letter. If you can’t be bothered to figure out the difference between “it’s” and “its” in a one-paragraph note, you probably shouldn’t be pointing a 300-page manuscript my direction.
Will you always blurb your friends even if their books suck?
No. And Ayn Rand better quit asking.
Do you ever tell people you don’t like their books?
No. They’re not asking for a critique, just a blurb. So I’m not reading looking to be helpful from an editorial perspective. I never want to undermine a young (or old, for that matter) author early in her career with a rejection, so I will often beg off mediocre manuscripts due to exigencies of schedule, etc.. Often this isn’t an excuse; much of the time it’s true.
What makes you more likely to blurb?
1. A personalized letter from the author. I’ve gotten a few really great letters from editors that made me crack a galley, but for the most part, if the author doesn’t even have time to enclose her thoughts, I generally don’t have time to read her manuscript. So don’t leave it solely to your publicist/editor/agent/friend who walks dogs with Thomas Harris. Have them do the hand-off, but make sure you get your voice in there.
2. If the person requesting a blurb from me is familiar with my work, and makes that somewhat clear in the cover letter. Nothing says arrogance like an unpublished writer asking me to read his manuscript who hasn’t bothered to read one of my books. When it came to the authors I asked for blurbs from, I made sure I’d read virtually everything they had in print. And if their oeuvres were unrealistically weighty, I made sure I’d read at least four or five of their novels.
3. I won’t blurb books from vanity presses.
4. If the damn thing looks good. I don’t care if it’s a social novel or a book of lesbian haiku, the first few pages better sing.
5. (And here I feel like Ms. Curmuckle, your high school college admissions advisor): Don’t make dumb-ass spelling and grammatical errors in your cover letter. If you can’t be bothered to figure out the difference between “it’s” and “its” in a one-paragraph note, you probably shouldn’t be pointing a 300-page manuscript my direction.
Will you always blurb your friends even if their books suck?
No. And Ayn Rand better quit asking.
Do you ever tell people you don’t like their books?
No. They’re not asking for a critique, just a blurb. So I’m not reading looking to be helpful from an editorial perspective. I never want to undermine a young (or old, for that matter) author early in her career with a rejection, so I will often beg off mediocre manuscripts due to exigencies of schedule, etc.. Often this isn’t an excuse; much of the time it’s true.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
The State of Publishing (just north of Pennsylvania)
This reply to the question of how publishing works, written by my good friend and former agent Jess Taylor, provides a fine overview for those of you just entering the publishing world on what your expectations might (should?) be. He addresses a number of harsh realities. Published writers, obviously, have a wide range of experiences at the houses, some better than others (at numerous places in my reading, I stopped to be grateful for William Morrow).
Jess is an editorial expert of sorts, though it’s difficult to categorize the unique set of skills that constitute what he does. To hear more from him, check out his website at www.revizion.net.
__________________________
As the book agents got fond of saying at the end of the 80s--when the
brand-new, corporate-takeover boom was already showing signs of
weakening, though it had barely begun: editors don't edit and
publishers don't publish.
I thought for a long time (my first several years at Curtis Brown,
Ltd.'s New York office/HQ) that this was a catchy all-purpose kvetch.
But the more experienced I got, the more I realized its literal truth.
Editors are producers responsible for orchestrating the launch of a
production, which is a shame, since the publishers they work for
believe "publish" means "to print and bind" not "to bring before the public.”
40 years ago, when people like GP Putnam, Alfred Knopf, and all the
letters in F, S & G were still alive and running publishing houses, or at least remembered, publishers acquired books and published them not to make money (they had money--that was how they'd been able to go into something as leisurely as book publishing in the first place), but for the satisfaction and prestige this brought them.
They paid out modest advances and got even more modest returns.
20 years ago, when publishing was gobbled up by the entertainment
business, the entertainment conglomerates' blockbuster mentality began
to take over.
It has now done so pretty completely.
The "midlist" is gone. The midlist was the writers who were the
mainstay of a house. Between the 5 or 8 headliners, who got big
prizes, got mentioned for the Nobel and the Pulitzer, and the pikers
who wrote "category" books, often under an assumed name or someone
else's (series Western, or Romance, or Gothic Thriller), the
midlist people put out a book every 12 to 18 months, earned out their
advances, and went on to the next book and next contract. They did not become household names. Their books sold in the tens, possibly hundreds of thousands.
They got invited to speak at the Rotary Club lunch in Kansas City, and
went.
Once Hollywood-centered and international newspaper/magazine/electronic-media empires took over, there was no use for such writers. 100,000 copies?
That's nothing. Nothing to people who were accustomed to knowing
that 30 million viewers tuned in for some movie-of-the-week, or the
gross for a feature topped 100 million, at least when foreign and video were
added to the domestic.
The idea became, as it was pithily put by some higher-up addressing a
group that included a friend of mine at Random House ten years ago:
Either a bestseller or a contender for the National Book Award. If
it's not one or the other, and it's fiction, don't bring it to the meeting.
That is the mentality that prevails today, though of course there are
exceptions: houses, editors, days of the year. Some books still do get published the old-fashioned way, some editors do edit what they acquire, and some houses are able to bring these values consistently to bear.
Be that as it may, the bottom line is indeed the bottom line: your book enhances the prestige of the house (and its titular owner) by getting shortlisted for the Booker, or it tops the charts. If they can't realistically bet on it for one or the other, it's a very hard sell at that Monday-morning editorial meeting. An even harder sell at Sales Conference, because the sales force are the ones who have to go stump B&N and Borders.
So, that's the shift: since WWII, there has been a gradual, and then
precipitate disappearance of the gentlemen-publishers who were in it
for the fun, and the industry has been taken over by a bunch of
essentially misguided media/entertainment conglomerates that think
publishing should be a high-risk, high-return business like movies.
Unfortunately, authors and their agents have been all too happy to collude
with this--one of the reasons I left agenting was the realization that
authors by and large think they should be treated like artists, but
remunerated like Bill Gates. They also fail to realize that the
blockbuster authors generally make the big money BECAUSE they put out formula stuff--but formulaic in a way that the publishers can generate a demand for. And then control the supply. They can’t control the supply altogether, but then neither does OPEC or the Medellín Cartel.
In a better world, perhaps, authors would all be rich like doctors and New York City decorators; in this world, we have to set our sights elsewhere.
Ultimately, very few books--fiction or non--sell enough copies in hardcover and paper to pay back even a $75,000 advance. (Which, for the record, may be fine—the mere fact that the advance does not earn out does not mean the book lost money for the publisher.)
So, combining the corporatization of publishing and the me-too
attitude of the authors you get this:
Any given house's list has a truncated handful of authors who make
$1M+ per year, and another 25 or 30 who make a) next to nothing or b) literally nothing and have to cobble together a living as adjunct faculty, lecturers on cruise ships (you see them leaving Port Everglades daily). When the million-plus
guy doesn't sell enough to justify that, he gets cut way back, and his
agent scrambles to move him to another house that will, at least for a
book or two, humor the idea that it was the publishing, not the
poorly-executed books.
Naturally, this adds up to a mess. And forces the spiral ever-downward.
And in that mess, editors indeed are hardpressed to edit and publishers have better things to do than publish.
Editors acquire and launch; publishers shove a HUGE publicity effort
behind 5-10% of the output, and just print the rest and stuff it into the
warehouse. This is supported by a group of sales people who would,
were they highly talented in sales, most likely be selling something that would
make them real money, but having some kind of attachment to books sell those. The publicists are similarly hardworking, and similarly motivated more by an affinity for literature than by aptitude.
All this is not really such terrible news.
It just means that when you launch yourself as a writer, you have a
brief period--a few years--in which to become a headliner or get
relegated to the never-rans. That midlist position that near-supported a
lot of writers until the 80s is over.
It also means that your editor will almost surely have too little time, if he or she has the ability, to edit your book, so you and your agent must deliver, by which I mean submit at the outset, camera-ready art. Ready to format and put between covers. [This is good news for me; otherwise no one would need my services.]
It further means that you have to watchdog the whole process to be
sure they get the book out there properly. They will still flub it, but you will have the satisfaction when the bank forecloses and your kids return to public school of knowing you did what you could.
One thing is still the same: the great myth in publishing is the same
as the great myth in Hollywood--that there's just all this fabulous
undiscovered, neglected material out there. Go to the bookstore--if
the market were full of terrific stuff that does not get seen, would
they put so much effort into publishing that much garbage around the few titles they really love and believe in?
Every agent tells every client "publishing is in the worst shape it's
ever been in." One of my smartest clients recently told his agent,
Don't tell me that anymore. Publishing has been in the worst shape
it's ever been in since I got involved 10 years ago, so it's not news.
And of course, publishing was in really rotten shape in 1630 and in 56
BC. The whole idea of "author" or "editor" as a job for an adult is a
modern contrivance. [My own job more a contrivance still.]
Moreover, the public is still buying books in record numbers—especially in foreign territories, where the public is still learning to read.
They're just not buying the kinds of books we ourselves like: fiction and interesting, intelligent non-fiction. Not one of the 5 nominees
for the 2004 National Book Award had, at the time the award was
decided, sold even 2500 copies. Narrative non-fiction, at least, continues to gain strength.
All the above means, to repeat (it can't be overstated) you gotta
deliver the publishers a book they believe they can put into the
bookstores, get publicity for, and then watch sell itself. This is
not because they are lazy--they work hard; it's because no one has yet
figured out how to sell a book. It is a product for which, if the
author or subject is not already amply known, there is exactly zero demand
at the point it hits the market.
Publishers spend all their time trying to solve that unsolveable riddle.
So, you pretty much must provide camera-ready art. Starting with the
submission to the agent. From the point the book leaves our hands,
everyone between it and the eventual bookstore customer is a
salesperson.
Jess is an editorial expert of sorts, though it’s difficult to categorize the unique set of skills that constitute what he does. To hear more from him, check out his website at www.revizion.net.
__________________________
As the book agents got fond of saying at the end of the 80s--when the
brand-new, corporate-takeover boom was already showing signs of
weakening, though it had barely begun: editors don't edit and
publishers don't publish.
I thought for a long time (my first several years at Curtis Brown,
Ltd.'s New York office/HQ) that this was a catchy all-purpose kvetch.
But the more experienced I got, the more I realized its literal truth.
Editors are producers responsible for orchestrating the launch of a
production, which is a shame, since the publishers they work for
believe "publish" means "to print and bind" not "to bring before the public.”
40 years ago, when people like GP Putnam, Alfred Knopf, and all the
letters in F, S & G were still alive and running publishing houses, or at least remembered, publishers acquired books and published them not to make money (they had money--that was how they'd been able to go into something as leisurely as book publishing in the first place), but for the satisfaction and prestige this brought them.
They paid out modest advances and got even more modest returns.
20 years ago, when publishing was gobbled up by the entertainment
business, the entertainment conglomerates' blockbuster mentality began
to take over.
It has now done so pretty completely.
The "midlist" is gone. The midlist was the writers who were the
mainstay of a house. Between the 5 or 8 headliners, who got big
prizes, got mentioned for the Nobel and the Pulitzer, and the pikers
who wrote "category" books, often under an assumed name or someone
else's (series Western, or Romance, or Gothic Thriller), the
midlist people put out a book every 12 to 18 months, earned out their
advances, and went on to the next book and next contract. They did not become household names. Their books sold in the tens, possibly hundreds of thousands.
They got invited to speak at the Rotary Club lunch in Kansas City, and
went.
Once Hollywood-centered and international newspaper/magazine/electronic-media empires took over, there was no use for such writers. 100,000 copies?
That's nothing. Nothing to people who were accustomed to knowing
that 30 million viewers tuned in for some movie-of-the-week, or the
gross for a feature topped 100 million, at least when foreign and video were
added to the domestic.
The idea became, as it was pithily put by some higher-up addressing a
group that included a friend of mine at Random House ten years ago:
Either a bestseller or a contender for the National Book Award. If
it's not one or the other, and it's fiction, don't bring it to the meeting.
That is the mentality that prevails today, though of course there are
exceptions: houses, editors, days of the year. Some books still do get published the old-fashioned way, some editors do edit what they acquire, and some houses are able to bring these values consistently to bear.
Be that as it may, the bottom line is indeed the bottom line: your book enhances the prestige of the house (and its titular owner) by getting shortlisted for the Booker, or it tops the charts. If they can't realistically bet on it for one or the other, it's a very hard sell at that Monday-morning editorial meeting. An even harder sell at Sales Conference, because the sales force are the ones who have to go stump B&N and Borders.
So, that's the shift: since WWII, there has been a gradual, and then
precipitate disappearance of the gentlemen-publishers who were in it
for the fun, and the industry has been taken over by a bunch of
essentially misguided media/entertainment conglomerates that think
publishing should be a high-risk, high-return business like movies.
Unfortunately, authors and their agents have been all too happy to collude
with this--one of the reasons I left agenting was the realization that
authors by and large think they should be treated like artists, but
remunerated like Bill Gates. They also fail to realize that the
blockbuster authors generally make the big money BECAUSE they put out formula stuff--but formulaic in a way that the publishers can generate a demand for. And then control the supply. They can’t control the supply altogether, but then neither does OPEC or the Medellín Cartel.
In a better world, perhaps, authors would all be rich like doctors and New York City decorators; in this world, we have to set our sights elsewhere.
Ultimately, very few books--fiction or non--sell enough copies in hardcover and paper to pay back even a $75,000 advance. (Which, for the record, may be fine—the mere fact that the advance does not earn out does not mean the book lost money for the publisher.)
So, combining the corporatization of publishing and the me-too
attitude of the authors you get this:
Any given house's list has a truncated handful of authors who make
$1M+ per year, and another 25 or 30 who make a) next to nothing or b) literally nothing and have to cobble together a living as adjunct faculty, lecturers on cruise ships (you see them leaving Port Everglades daily). When the million-plus
guy doesn't sell enough to justify that, he gets cut way back, and his
agent scrambles to move him to another house that will, at least for a
book or two, humor the idea that it was the publishing, not the
poorly-executed books.
Naturally, this adds up to a mess. And forces the spiral ever-downward.
And in that mess, editors indeed are hardpressed to edit and publishers have better things to do than publish.
Editors acquire and launch; publishers shove a HUGE publicity effort
behind 5-10% of the output, and just print the rest and stuff it into the
warehouse. This is supported by a group of sales people who would,
were they highly talented in sales, most likely be selling something that would
make them real money, but having some kind of attachment to books sell those. The publicists are similarly hardworking, and similarly motivated more by an affinity for literature than by aptitude.
All this is not really such terrible news.
It just means that when you launch yourself as a writer, you have a
brief period--a few years--in which to become a headliner or get
relegated to the never-rans. That midlist position that near-supported a
lot of writers until the 80s is over.
It also means that your editor will almost surely have too little time, if he or she has the ability, to edit your book, so you and your agent must deliver, by which I mean submit at the outset, camera-ready art. Ready to format and put between covers. [This is good news for me; otherwise no one would need my services.]
It further means that you have to watchdog the whole process to be
sure they get the book out there properly. They will still flub it, but you will have the satisfaction when the bank forecloses and your kids return to public school of knowing you did what you could.
One thing is still the same: the great myth in publishing is the same
as the great myth in Hollywood--that there's just all this fabulous
undiscovered, neglected material out there. Go to the bookstore--if
the market were full of terrific stuff that does not get seen, would
they put so much effort into publishing that much garbage around the few titles they really love and believe in?
Every agent tells every client "publishing is in the worst shape it's
ever been in." One of my smartest clients recently told his agent,
Don't tell me that anymore. Publishing has been in the worst shape
it's ever been in since I got involved 10 years ago, so it's not news.
And of course, publishing was in really rotten shape in 1630 and in 56
BC. The whole idea of "author" or "editor" as a job for an adult is a
modern contrivance. [My own job more a contrivance still.]
Moreover, the public is still buying books in record numbers—especially in foreign territories, where the public is still learning to read.
They're just not buying the kinds of books we ourselves like: fiction and interesting, intelligent non-fiction. Not one of the 5 nominees
for the 2004 National Book Award had, at the time the award was
decided, sold even 2500 copies. Narrative non-fiction, at least, continues to gain strength.
All the above means, to repeat (it can't be overstated) you gotta
deliver the publishers a book they believe they can put into the
bookstores, get publicity for, and then watch sell itself. This is
not because they are lazy--they work hard; it's because no one has yet
figured out how to sell a book. It is a product for which, if the
author or subject is not already amply known, there is exactly zero demand
at the point it hits the market.
Publishers spend all their time trying to solve that unsolveable riddle.
So, you pretty much must provide camera-ready art. Starting with the
submission to the agent. From the point the book leaves our hands,
everyone between it and the eventual bookstore customer is a
salesperson.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
Doing Hard Times Right
Stanford University has sponsored a program called Rediscovering Dickens, where readers can experience Dickens's work the way it was intended - in installments. At their website, you can input your email and home address and receive either PDF files or newsprint mailings of a Dickens novel, every Friday for ten weeks.
Last year, they offered A Tale of Two Cities, and in January, they started distributing Hard Times.
The website is: http://dickens.stanford.edu
The program is run free of charge, so the magnanimous souls among you might consider offering a donation, also through the website.
Enjoy!
Last year, they offered A Tale of Two Cities, and in January, they started distributing Hard Times.
The website is: http://dickens.stanford.edu
The program is run free of charge, so the magnanimous souls among you might consider offering a donation, also through the website.
Enjoy!
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Events High and Low
Tod Golberg, one of my favorite smart-asses (and not just because he too has consonant trouble with his first name) posted the following on his blog about an event he and I did. His account genuinely made me laugh out loud and I post it for your consumption.
________
Every author has an odd story about things they've done for money or places they've signed or read that seem to, uh, compromise their artistic merits. (I once encountered Western writer Matt Braun -- and another gentleman whose name escapes me -- signing their novels in the frozen food section at a Smith's grocery in Las Vegas. It would have seemed tragic had they not been moving product at a fairly high clip.) Not to long ago, my brother Lee, Gregg Hurwitz and I did a talk inside the cramped living space of some people. I say "some people" because I can't remember who they were, why we were there or what confluence of events necessitated that the home in question, which was actually an apartment, be filled floor to ceiling with -- literally, to the ceiling -- bookcases crammed front and back and sideways with rotting paperback books, manifestos of different kinds, hardback books that smelled vaguely like my Poppa Cy's guest bedroom and, oddly, half-written film scripts...all of which tilted forward in such a way that I felt like I was continually being scolded by some other-worldly Book Beast. There were about 15 people in attendance, along with a rather delectable lemon bundt cake, and I kept thinking that at any moment the Feds were going to bust in and arrest us all for being Commie sympathizers. We spent an hour or so talking about ourselves and then another 15 minutes helping Gregg answer questions about his physique ("Why are you so well built and the Goldbergs are so...Jewish looking?") and then another 10 minutes extricating ourselves from our host, who wanted us to know he was also an "independent book editor" and that he could help us should we need it.
Before we all got into our respective cars, Gregg said, "We never speak of this night. Ever."
________
Every author has an odd story about things they've done for money or places they've signed or read that seem to, uh, compromise their artistic merits. (I once encountered Western writer Matt Braun -- and another gentleman whose name escapes me -- signing their novels in the frozen food section at a Smith's grocery in Las Vegas. It would have seemed tragic had they not been moving product at a fairly high clip.) Not to long ago, my brother Lee, Gregg Hurwitz and I did a talk inside the cramped living space of some people. I say "some people" because I can't remember who they were, why we were there or what confluence of events necessitated that the home in question, which was actually an apartment, be filled floor to ceiling with -- literally, to the ceiling -- bookcases crammed front and back and sideways with rotting paperback books, manifestos of different kinds, hardback books that smelled vaguely like my Poppa Cy's guest bedroom and, oddly, half-written film scripts...all of which tilted forward in such a way that I felt like I was continually being scolded by some other-worldly Book Beast. There were about 15 people in attendance, along with a rather delectable lemon bundt cake, and I kept thinking that at any moment the Feds were going to bust in and arrest us all for being Commie sympathizers. We spent an hour or so talking about ourselves and then another 15 minutes helping Gregg answer questions about his physique ("Why are you so well built and the Goldbergs are so...Jewish looking?") and then another 10 minutes extricating ourselves from our host, who wanted us to know he was also an "independent book editor" and that he could help us should we need it.
Before we all got into our respective cars, Gregg said, "We never speak of this night. Ever."
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Booklovers Rejoice!
This email was sent to me from a friend who has an amazing library. As is clear, he's a great lover of the written word. Some of the manuscripts/editions he touched reminds me of my days at the Bodleian Library at Oxford, where (after being virtually frisked) we could check out early Shakespeare folios and a first printing of Paradise Lost.
My friend's email follows:
__________________________________________________________________________
Attended the 38th SF International Antiquarian Book Fair this past Sat.
An amazing journey through the literary history of England and America.
It was so much fun and there was so much to learn from the booksellers.
In short, held and touched some of the most important works of literature:
First edition of Ulysses (value $150,000)
TS Eliot's Wasteland $65,000
TS Elitot's Prufrock (signed) $45,000
Faulkner's Sound and Fury (signed) $50,000
Fitzgerald's Great Gatsby $40,000
Salinger's Catcher in the Rye $45,000
Dickens Christmas Carol $45,000
Dickens Serial version of David Copperfield $17,000
Hemingway's Old Man and the Sea (signed) $30,000
The History of King Lear (Tate edition) $28,000
Shakespeare's Third Folio $150,000
A signed copy (by Abe Lincoln, 1864) of the Emancipation Proclamation:
value $1.5 million
I also saw first editions of just about every important work in modern
literature history. Stanford University had an incredible display of
just some of their most valuable rare books:
A second folio of Shakespeare's Works (1632)
A first edition Hypnerotomachia Poliphili (1499) (featured in the
bestselling Rule of Four)
A first edition of King James Bible (1611)
Dryden's Virgil (1697)
Dante's Diving Comedy (1497)
Also displayed were books owned by the founding fathers, each of which
had the owner's signature.
A bibliophile's dream....
Price to enter show: $10. Experience of holding historical
documents/books you couldn't really afford.... priceless.
My friend's email follows:
__________________________________________________________________________
Attended the 38th SF International Antiquarian Book Fair this past Sat.
An amazing journey through the literary history of England and America.
It was so much fun and there was so much to learn from the booksellers.
In short, held and touched some of the most important works of literature:
First edition of Ulysses (value $150,000)
TS Eliot's Wasteland $65,000
TS Elitot's Prufrock (signed) $45,000
Faulkner's Sound and Fury (signed) $50,000
Fitzgerald's Great Gatsby $40,000
Salinger's Catcher in the Rye $45,000
Dickens Christmas Carol $45,000
Dickens Serial version of David Copperfield $17,000
Hemingway's Old Man and the Sea (signed) $30,000
The History of King Lear (Tate edition) $28,000
Shakespeare's Third Folio $150,000
A signed copy (by Abe Lincoln, 1864) of the Emancipation Proclamation:
value $1.5 million
I also saw first editions of just about every important work in modern
literature history. Stanford University had an incredible display of
just some of their most valuable rare books:
A second folio of Shakespeare's Works (1632)
A first edition Hypnerotomachia Poliphili (1499) (featured in the
bestselling Rule of Four)
A first edition of King James Bible (1611)
Dryden's Virgil (1697)
Dante's Diving Comedy (1497)
Also displayed were books owned by the founding fathers, each of which
had the owner's signature.
A bibliophile's dream....
Price to enter show: $10. Experience of holding historical
documents/books you couldn't really afford.... priceless.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Blurb Bitching
In the panoply of sources that give rise to book complaint—blog entries, overheard bookstore conversations, friends’ bitching—I’ve noted a particular grievance that gets what I believe is unnecessary air time. Readers feel that the fix is in when an author who is mentioned in the acknowledgements also offers a blurb for the same book. (Complaining about blurb corruption reminds me of a popular joke among professors: “Why are academic squabbles so fierce? Because the stakes are so low.”)
This makes little sense to me (blurb complaining, not academic squabbles). I’ve always taken blurbing quite seriously, rejecting far more books than I’ve blurbed. In fact, I’ve only given a handful over the past few years: Blake Crouch’s Desert Places, Steven Sidor’s Skin River, Harley Jane Kozak’s Dating Dead Men—though neither Harley nor I can remember the blurb since it wasn’t used on the book jacket (we seem to recall this was because her editor felt her mysteries were tamer than my own, but we’re both out to lunch half the time so maybe I didn’t even actually blurb her)—Lee Goldberg for his Diagnosis Murder Series, and Gayle Lynds’s The Coil. Now. In an upcoming book which I’ve elected to blurb, I’m also mentioned favorably in the acknowledgments since I read the manuscript at a very early phase and shepherded the author along through edits, pairing with a lawyer/agent, and an eventual two book deal. My question is: If I believe that strongly in a novel, why WOULDN’T I blurb it also? It’s not some sort of blurb cronyism. It’s the last step in using whatever moderate influence I’ve acquired to endorse a book I believe should be read.
No matter how much talent you have, to make it in publishing, you always need the right help from the right people at the right time. Call it luck, call it fate, call it whatever you please, but though hard work and talent are a necessity (usually), few novelists I’ve met have gotten by on these alone. I caught some breaks early in my career, and I’m always grateful to those who read my work early and took a gamble, putting in their time and making use of their contacts for me. Though writing is fiercely independent, I do see a responsibility to give back to the community, to pass along the good karma that I’ve been fortunate enough to receive. I don’t give back to the writing community by telling author who need improvement that their books are fantastic, and I don’t give back to the reading community by endorsing crap.
I was privy to a conversation a few months ago between two talented gay writers who said they’ve had a hard time getting blurbs from straight authors for their books, because the straight authors are afraid they’ll lose readers over it, or that they’ll somehow be tainted by the association. What a shame. I blurb books strictly on the basis of what I like and what I believe merits commendation. And I do not solely blurb books that fall within the domain of what I believe my readership likes (I’m quite certain that my assumptions about my readers’ tastes are wrong anyways). Lee Goldberg’s Diagnosis Murder series, for instance, may not be the best match for Navy SEALs readers I acquired from MINUTES TO BURN, but guess what? The books say Diagnosis Murder on them. If one of my gritty tough-guy readers is dumb enough to buy Lee’s book thinking that it’ll be filled with demolition explosives and graphic violence, that’s his own problem. Lee is a talented writer who nailed the books he was writing. He accomplished what he set out to do and did a damn fine job of it. If a book’s tone or style is less clear and I have some concern that readers might buy it off my blurb not knowing what they’re getting into, I’ll make clear what the book is about in the blurb: “A touching series of lesbian vampire haiku…” Mike Connelly did this for me in DO NO HARM, making clear it was a medical thriller: “Hurwitz has put together a medical/psychological detective story that sticks in the mind long after the last page is turned.” A great endorsement, sure, but it also ensures that if one of his readers gets nauseas in hospitals, they’ll steer clear.
How each author decides to blurb is his or her own business and to be sure, a fair amount of bullshit clouds the endorsement picture, but please bear in mind: an acknowledgment in addition to a blurb may just mean that the author really liked the book and wanted to see it succeed in more ways than one.
This makes little sense to me (blurb complaining, not academic squabbles). I’ve always taken blurbing quite seriously, rejecting far more books than I’ve blurbed. In fact, I’ve only given a handful over the past few years: Blake Crouch’s Desert Places, Steven Sidor’s Skin River, Harley Jane Kozak’s Dating Dead Men—though neither Harley nor I can remember the blurb since it wasn’t used on the book jacket (we seem to recall this was because her editor felt her mysteries were tamer than my own, but we’re both out to lunch half the time so maybe I didn’t even actually blurb her)—Lee Goldberg for his Diagnosis Murder Series, and Gayle Lynds’s The Coil. Now. In an upcoming book which I’ve elected to blurb, I’m also mentioned favorably in the acknowledgments since I read the manuscript at a very early phase and shepherded the author along through edits, pairing with a lawyer/agent, and an eventual two book deal. My question is: If I believe that strongly in a novel, why WOULDN’T I blurb it also? It’s not some sort of blurb cronyism. It’s the last step in using whatever moderate influence I’ve acquired to endorse a book I believe should be read.
No matter how much talent you have, to make it in publishing, you always need the right help from the right people at the right time. Call it luck, call it fate, call it whatever you please, but though hard work and talent are a necessity (usually), few novelists I’ve met have gotten by on these alone. I caught some breaks early in my career, and I’m always grateful to those who read my work early and took a gamble, putting in their time and making use of their contacts for me. Though writing is fiercely independent, I do see a responsibility to give back to the community, to pass along the good karma that I’ve been fortunate enough to receive. I don’t give back to the writing community by telling author who need improvement that their books are fantastic, and I don’t give back to the reading community by endorsing crap.
I was privy to a conversation a few months ago between two talented gay writers who said they’ve had a hard time getting blurbs from straight authors for their books, because the straight authors are afraid they’ll lose readers over it, or that they’ll somehow be tainted by the association. What a shame. I blurb books strictly on the basis of what I like and what I believe merits commendation. And I do not solely blurb books that fall within the domain of what I believe my readership likes (I’m quite certain that my assumptions about my readers’ tastes are wrong anyways). Lee Goldberg’s Diagnosis Murder series, for instance, may not be the best match for Navy SEALs readers I acquired from MINUTES TO BURN, but guess what? The books say Diagnosis Murder on them. If one of my gritty tough-guy readers is dumb enough to buy Lee’s book thinking that it’ll be filled with demolition explosives and graphic violence, that’s his own problem. Lee is a talented writer who nailed the books he was writing. He accomplished what he set out to do and did a damn fine job of it. If a book’s tone or style is less clear and I have some concern that readers might buy it off my blurb not knowing what they’re getting into, I’ll make clear what the book is about in the blurb: “A touching series of lesbian vampire haiku…” Mike Connelly did this for me in DO NO HARM, making clear it was a medical thriller: “Hurwitz has put together a medical/psychological detective story that sticks in the mind long after the last page is turned.” A great endorsement, sure, but it also ensures that if one of his readers gets nauseas in hospitals, they’ll steer clear.
How each author decides to blurb is his or her own business and to be sure, a fair amount of bullshit clouds the endorsement picture, but please bear in mind: an acknowledgment in addition to a blurb may just mean that the author really liked the book and wanted to see it succeed in more ways than one.
Friday, February 11, 2005
The Good, the Bad, and the Crumley
He’s been recommended to me in bookstores from Milwaukee to Fort Worth. Mentioned conversationally by everyone from Mike Connelly to Bob Crais. Hailed as the next great AND the last great thing.
James Crumley.
I also recall hearing as much about the man himself as his books. (“He once ripped a spine out of a bear with his bare hands!” “I seen him drink a quart of cobra blood at the end of a four-day drunk”). It seems he’s captivated the minds and stoked the overactive imagination of the mystery community for years now.
So finally, at the urging of the inimitable Shelly McArthur (The Mystery Bookstore, Westwood, California) I picked up THE LAST GOOD KISS. An obvious homage to THE LONG GOODBYE (here’s where I risk getting an email from the man himself, saying, “You stupid fuck—I’ve never even READ The Long Goodbye”), it picks up the same twisted, the-mystery-you-think-you’re-trying-to-solve-ain’t-even-the-half-of-it-buster structure. A story leading to a mystery leading to another story, that in turn leads to another mystery. At the center, a drunken writer. Maybe that explains it.
Crumley’s tone manages to be one-of-a-kind AND dead-on, which seems like an impossibility until you read him.
He’s at his best in moments like:
“I knew the men were probably terrible people who whistled at pretty girls, treated their wives like servants, and voted for Nixon every chance they got, but as far as I was concerned, they beat the hell out of a Volvo-load of liberals for hard work and good times.”
(In particular, I love the “every chance they got”).
And, when our irascible protagonist is being, well, irascible:
“Goddamn it, Sughrue, has anybody ever talked to you about your hospitality?”
“Never twice,” I said.
And later, when one of Crumley’s characters wisely remarks of another:
“He’s an artist and all artists are children.”
I’m embarking on his WHORES next and hope to find it as engaging and incisively humorous.
James Crumley.
I also recall hearing as much about the man himself as his books. (“He once ripped a spine out of a bear with his bare hands!” “I seen him drink a quart of cobra blood at the end of a four-day drunk”). It seems he’s captivated the minds and stoked the overactive imagination of the mystery community for years now.
So finally, at the urging of the inimitable Shelly McArthur (The Mystery Bookstore, Westwood, California) I picked up THE LAST GOOD KISS. An obvious homage to THE LONG GOODBYE (here’s where I risk getting an email from the man himself, saying, “You stupid fuck—I’ve never even READ The Long Goodbye”), it picks up the same twisted, the-mystery-you-think-you’re-trying-to-solve-ain’t-even-the-half-of-it-buster structure. A story leading to a mystery leading to another story, that in turn leads to another mystery. At the center, a drunken writer. Maybe that explains it.
Crumley’s tone manages to be one-of-a-kind AND dead-on, which seems like an impossibility until you read him.
He’s at his best in moments like:
“I knew the men were probably terrible people who whistled at pretty girls, treated their wives like servants, and voted for Nixon every chance they got, but as far as I was concerned, they beat the hell out of a Volvo-load of liberals for hard work and good times.”
(In particular, I love the “every chance they got”).
And, when our irascible protagonist is being, well, irascible:
“Goddamn it, Sughrue, has anybody ever talked to you about your hospitality?”
“Never twice,” I said.
And later, when one of Crumley’s characters wisely remarks of another:
“He’s an artist and all artists are children.”
I’m embarking on his WHORES next and hope to find it as engaging and incisively humorous.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Why We Choose Books
I remember an article I read some years ago that tried to explain what makes you pluck one book from your shelf at a particular moment and start reading it. It’s quite odd. There are all those spines, staring at you from the bookcase like puppies at a pound—pick me, pick me!—and you walk by them, unmoved, week after week.
Until.
This week at the Hurwitz house, the chosen few were Louis Begley’s SHIPWRECK, Lynne Truss’s EATS, SHOOTS & LEAVES (dry, viciously smart), Paul Bowles’s COLLECTED SHORT STORIES (so brilliant, so nasty: “The Delicate Prey” made my skin crawl, “Pages from Cold Point” left me with my jaw ajar), Doyle’s ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES (a reread of an illustrated volume I had from childhood—I just finished rereading all Poe’s short stories and got hooked on the quick fix of brilliant short fiction), BLOOD WARRIORS by Michael Lee Lanning (a book devoted to America’s Military Elite units), and Steve Hodel’s BLACK DAHLIA AVENGER (which I read half of after participating in an event with him some months ago but it fell behind my bed which I only just moved this week. It is one of the most courageous books I’ve encountered—my hat’s off to him on every page).
So aside from the bizarre range that indicates my varied (perverse?) tastes, here’s what’s odd. I’ve owned all of these books for not just weeks, but months. They’ve sat along with OPERATION SHYLOCK and GLAMORAMA, and MOBY DICK (yes, I confess), patiently awaiting their moment under the reading lamp. So why now?
A variety of reasons, I’d guess. A trusted recommender will add a sense of urgency (see my last entry on Penn Jillette’s SOCK). There is the critical mass concept, but sometimes in my case that works against a book (I believe I’m the last person on the continent not to have read THE DA VINCI CODE. And out of no bias against the book; it just seems like so much less fun when everyone’s doing it). There’s the “I need to read this NOW for work” explanation (why a text on lock picking currently adorns my nightstand). Then there’s the “I just read an article that mentioned this author and recultivated (Now a word! Coming soon, to theatres everywhere!) my interest to crack their damn book.” And of course, especially for Catholics and Jews, there’s the guilt model: “I’m so ignorant, I can’t believe I’ve never read Trollope.” Oh—and mustn’t forget, the “I’m doing an event with this woman and have to read her so I don’t look like a mouth-breathing reprobate at the panel.”
And sometimes, all we’re seeking is motivation. I had the pleasure of being “in conversation” onstage with T Jeff Parker—one of my favorite authors—at the West Hollywood Book Fest a few months ago, so I used the upcoming event as an excuse to read four of his older books I hadn’t yet gotten to (all great—we sometimes hate Jeff too).
But I suppose in other, less karmic cases, it’s just a matter of moving the bed and seeing what’s fallen behind.
What makes you select the next?
Until.
This week at the Hurwitz house, the chosen few were Louis Begley’s SHIPWRECK, Lynne Truss’s EATS, SHOOTS & LEAVES (dry, viciously smart), Paul Bowles’s COLLECTED SHORT STORIES (so brilliant, so nasty: “The Delicate Prey” made my skin crawl, “Pages from Cold Point” left me with my jaw ajar), Doyle’s ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES (a reread of an illustrated volume I had from childhood—I just finished rereading all Poe’s short stories and got hooked on the quick fix of brilliant short fiction), BLOOD WARRIORS by Michael Lee Lanning (a book devoted to America’s Military Elite units), and Steve Hodel’s BLACK DAHLIA AVENGER (which I read half of after participating in an event with him some months ago but it fell behind my bed which I only just moved this week. It is one of the most courageous books I’ve encountered—my hat’s off to him on every page).
So aside from the bizarre range that indicates my varied (perverse?) tastes, here’s what’s odd. I’ve owned all of these books for not just weeks, but months. They’ve sat along with OPERATION SHYLOCK and GLAMORAMA, and MOBY DICK (yes, I confess), patiently awaiting their moment under the reading lamp. So why now?
A variety of reasons, I’d guess. A trusted recommender will add a sense of urgency (see my last entry on Penn Jillette’s SOCK). There is the critical mass concept, but sometimes in my case that works against a book (I believe I’m the last person on the continent not to have read THE DA VINCI CODE. And out of no bias against the book; it just seems like so much less fun when everyone’s doing it). There’s the “I need to read this NOW for work” explanation (why a text on lock picking currently adorns my nightstand). Then there’s the “I just read an article that mentioned this author and recultivated (Now a word! Coming soon, to theatres everywhere!) my interest to crack their damn book.” And of course, especially for Catholics and Jews, there’s the guilt model: “I’m so ignorant, I can’t believe I’ve never read Trollope.” Oh—and mustn’t forget, the “I’m doing an event with this woman and have to read her so I don’t look like a mouth-breathing reprobate at the panel.”
And sometimes, all we’re seeking is motivation. I had the pleasure of being “in conversation” onstage with T Jeff Parker—one of my favorite authors—at the West Hollywood Book Fest a few months ago, so I used the upcoming event as an excuse to read four of his older books I hadn’t yet gotten to (all great—we sometimes hate Jeff too).
But I suppose in other, less karmic cases, it’s just a matter of moving the bed and seeing what’s fallen behind.
What makes you select the next?
Thursday, January 27, 2005
Crazed Sock Monkey on the Loose
I just read a book I would generally not read. And I loved it. This is a great exercise, to pick up something outside the (in my case, frighteningly wide) boundaries of what one would normally encounter. I usually steer clear of novels written by celebrities, biographies of queens, and science fiction fantasy. Now keep in mind, this doesn’t mean I’ll never read a book from these genres—I’ve enjoyed my share of Asimov and Bradbury, for instance—but it means that when contending with the overwhelming number of books on my to-read shelf and to-buy list, that these categories are generally my few guiltless exceptions.
But then you get the strenuous recommendation from someone whose opinion you trust and you know you have to make room in your crowded head. In this case, the culprit was Clair Lamb of Mystery Bookstore and Answer Girl fame, who told me that SOCK was her “favorite book of the past year.” Now that ain’t no “I think you might dig this” rec, that’s a more strenuous exhortation. So I bought it.
It wasn’t until I got home that I realized that SOCK was written by Penn Jillette of Penn & Teller fame. Had I known that at the store, I might not have bought the book. Now while I recognize that Penn is a brilliant magician, I’m not inclined to believe that a great magician makes for a great novelist, thought mine is a fatuous argument. I mean, every novelist’s gotta have a day job at some point and why would being a famous magician make him any less inclined to pen (ha ha) a brilliant novel than if he were, say, a journalist, doctor, or cop, professions which have churned out their fair share of great novels. I suppose I thought, “Well, he’s a famous guy and someone in publicity thought they could market the hell out of his name so they bought his crappy manuscript.” Simple, simple me. It took no more than a few pages for me to realize what a colossally judgmental ass I was (am?).
This book is the real deal. It’s a “mystery” (not really) about a somewhat incompetent cop who sets out to solve a murder with a gay hairdresser friend and his sock monkey.
Oh, and it’s told from the perspective of the sock monkey.
It’s a brilliant, inspired, wholly unique, bizarre, philosophical piece. It plays with language as if it’s clay—you can TASTE how much Jillette loves words—surprises you with character, and hammers at your (mis)perceptions with a series of well-placed postmodern salvos that undercut the narrative while oddly reinforcing it.
If you’re a language junkie or a book junkie or just a plain old junkie, you should cast aside your doubts (oh wait, that was just me?) and dig in. I can say without hesitation it is one of the most original books I’ve read all year.
I love that sock monkey. What a clever, devious little mofo.
But then you get the strenuous recommendation from someone whose opinion you trust and you know you have to make room in your crowded head. In this case, the culprit was Clair Lamb of Mystery Bookstore and Answer Girl fame, who told me that SOCK was her “favorite book of the past year.” Now that ain’t no “I think you might dig this” rec, that’s a more strenuous exhortation. So I bought it.
It wasn’t until I got home that I realized that SOCK was written by Penn Jillette of Penn & Teller fame. Had I known that at the store, I might not have bought the book. Now while I recognize that Penn is a brilliant magician, I’m not inclined to believe that a great magician makes for a great novelist, thought mine is a fatuous argument. I mean, every novelist’s gotta have a day job at some point and why would being a famous magician make him any less inclined to pen (ha ha) a brilliant novel than if he were, say, a journalist, doctor, or cop, professions which have churned out their fair share of great novels. I suppose I thought, “Well, he’s a famous guy and someone in publicity thought they could market the hell out of his name so they bought his crappy manuscript.” Simple, simple me. It took no more than a few pages for me to realize what a colossally judgmental ass I was (am?).
This book is the real deal. It’s a “mystery” (not really) about a somewhat incompetent cop who sets out to solve a murder with a gay hairdresser friend and his sock monkey.
Oh, and it’s told from the perspective of the sock monkey.
It’s a brilliant, inspired, wholly unique, bizarre, philosophical piece. It plays with language as if it’s clay—you can TASTE how much Jillette loves words—surprises you with character, and hammers at your (mis)perceptions with a series of well-placed postmodern salvos that undercut the narrative while oddly reinforcing it.
If you’re a language junkie or a book junkie or just a plain old junkie, you should cast aside your doubts (oh wait, that was just me?) and dig in. I can say without hesitation it is one of the most original books I’ve read all year.
I love that sock monkey. What a clever, devious little mofo.
Thursday, January 20, 2005
I'm Not A Huge Check-Out-This-Web-Site Guy, But...
If there are two things I love, it's good TV and dictators. Okay, so maybe not really. But this game is interesting, as it bizarrely sets up a series of questions to guess which famous dictator or TV character you're pretending to be.
So why the hell am I posting about it on a writer's website? Well, I found interesting the types of questions the computer program generates in closing in on character. It's sort of an odd glimpse at the mechanics behind (bad?) character building - nothing I'd recommend to anyone writing their own characters, but compelling in a rubberneck sort of way nonetheless.
http://www.smalltime.com/dictator.html
Another fun game is to answer the questions as yourself and see who it guesses you to be. I was Stalin. No bad for a Jewish kid from the Bay Area.
So why the hell am I posting about it on a writer's website? Well, I found interesting the types of questions the computer program generates in closing in on character. It's sort of an odd glimpse at the mechanics behind (bad?) character building - nothing I'd recommend to anyone writing their own characters, but compelling in a rubberneck sort of way nonetheless.
http://www.smalltime.com/dictator.html
Another fun game is to answer the questions as yourself and see who it guesses you to be. I was Stalin. No bad for a Jewish kid from the Bay Area.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
Why I'd Rather Get Paper Cuts On My Tongue Than Proof Galleys
Apologies for the few-weeks delay on blog entries. And if you didn’t notice, well, never mind.
But I do have a good excuse.
Loathe as I am ever to complain about this, the best job around, I must say that I just emerged from what I find the most trying time of year. Galleys time.
The galleys arrived to my address on December 24th, with a brief apology from my editor. Timing is everything, they say, and there’s nothing like a holiday with a tedious job hanging over your head. Proofing the galleys, you see, isn’t fun like other editing. Second-pass on a manuscript, or even line edits, can be very stimulating because you’re ratcheting up the manuscript just that much more, making the cogs and slots align, finding that perfect turn of phrase. With galley editing, you’re mostly catching typesetting errors, looking for word repeats, or getting ambushed by errors that you’ve overlooked that will now be a huge pain in the ass to fix. And here’s the catch: no one can actually proofread your galleys except you. No matter how tempting it may sound, you can't leave it to the pub house proofreader. Because only you know if a key word got dropped in the typesetting process, or if that change that your copyeditor recommended but you rejected got sent through anyway. To do a thorough read on the manuscript takes me (depending on my mood and the particulars of the manuscript) about thirty to forty hours.
The catch is that galleys generally arrive, if you’re a book-a-year guy or gal, when you already have up a full head of steam on the next book. I have a tough time setting down a rough draft for a week or two and picking it back up. If I leave my creative mark for a significant period of time, it usually takes me a week or two to find my bearings once I dive back in. I used to drive myself nuts when I toured. Right when I’d get settled into a good rhythm, I’d pop out for a signing to Cleveland or Boston and completely lose my momentum, since I only used to be able to write at my desk. James Patterson offered me great advice on this front when I saw him at an event we did together (he the keynote, me the mere panelist). The exchange was simple:
JP: Do you write on the road?
GH: No, I can’t.
JP (with great gravity): Learn.
And so I have. Now when I’m working on a rough draft, I won’t let anything short of an emergency interrupt it. I write on planes, in hotel rooms, in the car (no, not when I’m driving). So if a script gig or an event comes up, I fit in my screenwriting and/or prep time at night and on weekends so as not to break my 9 to 6 commitment on the new book. And I’m happy to do it, because screenwriting and events are pretty goddamned fun. With galleys it’s the same way—except piling work after work when the additional work, well, kind of sucks, doesn’t make for a happy novelist. So after proofing galleys at night, when I return to my beloved rough draft the next morning, more characters die horrible deaths. I have to get out my aggravation somewhere.
But I do have a good excuse.
Loathe as I am ever to complain about this, the best job around, I must say that I just emerged from what I find the most trying time of year. Galleys time.
The galleys arrived to my address on December 24th, with a brief apology from my editor. Timing is everything, they say, and there’s nothing like a holiday with a tedious job hanging over your head. Proofing the galleys, you see, isn’t fun like other editing. Second-pass on a manuscript, or even line edits, can be very stimulating because you’re ratcheting up the manuscript just that much more, making the cogs and slots align, finding that perfect turn of phrase. With galley editing, you’re mostly catching typesetting errors, looking for word repeats, or getting ambushed by errors that you’ve overlooked that will now be a huge pain in the ass to fix. And here’s the catch: no one can actually proofread your galleys except you. No matter how tempting it may sound, you can't leave it to the pub house proofreader. Because only you know if a key word got dropped in the typesetting process, or if that change that your copyeditor recommended but you rejected got sent through anyway. To do a thorough read on the manuscript takes me (depending on my mood and the particulars of the manuscript) about thirty to forty hours.
The catch is that galleys generally arrive, if you’re a book-a-year guy or gal, when you already have up a full head of steam on the next book. I have a tough time setting down a rough draft for a week or two and picking it back up. If I leave my creative mark for a significant period of time, it usually takes me a week or two to find my bearings once I dive back in. I used to drive myself nuts when I toured. Right when I’d get settled into a good rhythm, I’d pop out for a signing to Cleveland or Boston and completely lose my momentum, since I only used to be able to write at my desk. James Patterson offered me great advice on this front when I saw him at an event we did together (he the keynote, me the mere panelist). The exchange was simple:
JP: Do you write on the road?
GH: No, I can’t.
JP (with great gravity): Learn.
And so I have. Now when I’m working on a rough draft, I won’t let anything short of an emergency interrupt it. I write on planes, in hotel rooms, in the car (no, not when I’m driving). So if a script gig or an event comes up, I fit in my screenwriting and/or prep time at night and on weekends so as not to break my 9 to 6 commitment on the new book. And I’m happy to do it, because screenwriting and events are pretty goddamned fun. With galleys it’s the same way—except piling work after work when the additional work, well, kind of sucks, doesn’t make for a happy novelist. So after proofing galleys at night, when I return to my beloved rough draft the next morning, more characters die horrible deaths. I have to get out my aggravation somewhere.
Sunday, January 02, 2005
What Makes a Thriller?
High-stakes…a ticking clock…violence on the page…the audience’s being aware of the villain’s plotting—odds are you’re already familiar with the elements that define a thriller if you’ve found your way to this website. You’ve also likely stumbled over the classic blurb and jacket-copy catch-phrases that these fundamentals, when well executed, give rise to: “breakneck pacing,” “white-knuckle action,” “roller-coaster ride,” “better than Cats.” Okay, so maybe not the last one. The bottom line is, thrillers are often badder, meaner, and bigger than other forms of crime fiction. Think Thomas Harris over Agatha Christie, or, in other mediums, 24 over Murder, She Wrote, or In the Line of Fire over Sleuth. In a thriller, you’re more likely to find Dr. Lecter in the kitchen with liver and fava beans than Colonel Mustard in the conservatory with the candlestick. So it goes. Concerned parent groups lobby here.
Having the reader in the pretentiously titled “superior” position—meaning they’re riding shotgun with the good guys AND the bad guys through various scenes—of course doesn’t mean that there aren’t surprises (or, in blurbspeak “more twists and turns than a….”). I tend to structure my books so that the reader follows both sides of an impending collision, but the scenes with the antagonists I write a bit more hazy on specifics, so it’s never entirely clear what they’re up to or when the plot is going to reverse itself. Toward the end of a book, I’ll often have my antagonist fall out of the plot for several chapters, so his or her reappearance is startling—surprising due to machinations set in motion while the author (poor sod) took his eye off the ball.
As a rule, research seems to play a significant role in thrillers. Of course, authors of other genres can be brilliant researchers (here I envision Tom Wolfe bludgeoning me with an ivory-headed cane for my crass generalization) but thriller writers in particular seem to enjoy rolling up their sleeves and getting dirt under their fingernails. Maybe this is because thrillers are rife with bomb-making and forensic trails—try writing about THOSE convincingly without doing some field work. I use my books almost as an excuse for continuing education. I’ve sneaked onto demolition ranges with Navy SEALs to blow up cars, conducted an interview with a hospital tech as he carved up a cadaver to deliver its parts to dissection lab, and most recently for The Program, I went undercover into mind-control cults in Los Angeles so I could create my own cult (for the novel, that is—or I suppose in real life too if I ever get bored). Interacting with cult members, witnessing the effusive testimonials, participating in group exercises, and submitting to “testing” gave me the background I needed to add the telling detail to give the Program its verisimilitude. I suppose that’s what I love the most about thrillers—it’s as much goddamned fun to write them as to read them.
Having the reader in the pretentiously titled “superior” position—meaning they’re riding shotgun with the good guys AND the bad guys through various scenes—of course doesn’t mean that there aren’t surprises (or, in blurbspeak “more twists and turns than a….”). I tend to structure my books so that the reader follows both sides of an impending collision, but the scenes with the antagonists I write a bit more hazy on specifics, so it’s never entirely clear what they’re up to or when the plot is going to reverse itself. Toward the end of a book, I’ll often have my antagonist fall out of the plot for several chapters, so his or her reappearance is startling—surprising due to machinations set in motion while the author (poor sod) took his eye off the ball.
As a rule, research seems to play a significant role in thrillers. Of course, authors of other genres can be brilliant researchers (here I envision Tom Wolfe bludgeoning me with an ivory-headed cane for my crass generalization) but thriller writers in particular seem to enjoy rolling up their sleeves and getting dirt under their fingernails. Maybe this is because thrillers are rife with bomb-making and forensic trails—try writing about THOSE convincingly without doing some field work. I use my books almost as an excuse for continuing education. I’ve sneaked onto demolition ranges with Navy SEALs to blow up cars, conducted an interview with a hospital tech as he carved up a cadaver to deliver its parts to dissection lab, and most recently for The Program, I went undercover into mind-control cults in Los Angeles so I could create my own cult (for the novel, that is—or I suppose in real life too if I ever get bored). Interacting with cult members, witnessing the effusive testimonials, participating in group exercises, and submitting to “testing” gave me the background I needed to add the telling detail to give the Program its verisimilitude. I suppose that’s what I love the most about thrillers—it’s as much goddamned fun to write them as to read them.
Friday, December 24, 2004
Books For Soldiers and More
This holiday slideshow of American troops abroad was sent to me by a soldier buddy of mine. I found it gave me a good perspective shift as we enter the holidays: http://www.iwo.com/heroes.htm
Regardless of politics, I think most people support the troops on the ground and wish for their safe return. We have a few opportunities this holiday season to make the soldiers' time in the Middle East a little easier, and to provide resources for Iraqi children.
Send a book or two at: http://booksforsoldiers.com/
As you know, many of the soldiers are getting by short on equipment and necessities. The Wounded Warrior project, at http://www.woundedwarriorproject.org/ is great - they let you send backpacks filled with everything from T-shirt to razors.
This organization, sponsored by actor Gary Sinise and Seabiscuit author Laura Hillenbrand, provides soldiers and volunteers the resources to reach out to the Iraqi people by building schools and providing learning supplies: http://www.operationiraqichildren.org/
Fisher House helps build homes near hospitals so family members can stay close to injured soldiers after their return to the United States: http://www.fisherhouse.org/
We're pretty goddamned lucky over here, and I think it's worth taking a minute to send something to those people—Iraqis and Americans—whose lives are at risk every minute of every day.
Have a great holiday season.
-GH
Regardless of politics, I think most people support the troops on the ground and wish for their safe return. We have a few opportunities this holiday season to make the soldiers' time in the Middle East a little easier, and to provide resources for Iraqi children.
Send a book or two at: http://booksforsoldiers.com/
As you know, many of the soldiers are getting by short on equipment and necessities. The Wounded Warrior project, at http://www.woundedwarriorproject.org/ is great - they let you send backpacks filled with everything from T-shirt to razors.
This organization, sponsored by actor Gary Sinise and Seabiscuit author Laura Hillenbrand, provides soldiers and volunteers the resources to reach out to the Iraqi people by building schools and providing learning supplies: http://www.operationiraqichildren.org/
Fisher House helps build homes near hospitals so family members can stay close to injured soldiers after their return to the United States: http://www.fisherhouse.org/
We're pretty goddamned lucky over here, and I think it's worth taking a minute to send something to those people—Iraqis and Americans—whose lives are at risk every minute of every day.
Have a great holiday season.
-GH
Friday, December 17, 2004
Updike's Got the Right Idea
So a few days after my last post, I read this article (below) about what Mr. Updike decided to do with his book overload problem. Seems a rather clever solution. It would be pretty great to buy a novel with John Updike's thoughts in the margins. I've long wondered what people would think if they came upon a book I used for research. I've scrawled many an idea in the margins of poison textbooks, CSI sourcebooks, and explosives manuals and I firmly believe that if a secondhand reader came across some of those notions in the course of their reading, it might keep them up nights. But I suppose that's my job anyways....
___________________________________
Author John Updike Sheds Old Books
By The Associated Press
MANCHESTER-BY-THE-SEA, Mass. - John Updike, like many a good book-lover, found the cellar of his house and shelves in his barn were being overrun with books he and his wife have collected over the years.
"They were just collecting dust and mouse droppings," the author told The Boston Globe in Friday's edition.
Their solution? Find someone who would pay for the used books, and haul them away.
"I'm at an age when you think about lightening your load, rather than dumping it on your heirs," said Updike, 72, a two-time Pulitzer Prize winner.
Mark Stolle, owner of Manchester by the Book store, bought Updike's collection. But not all of them will be re-sold cheaply.
In some of the books' margins are handwritten questions and analogies from the novelist and essayist — writings that Updike called his "scribblings." Those editions will go for between $200 and $1,000.
Updike, who counts himself a supporter of independent bookstores, doesn't mind that Stolle is making a profit.
"If he's able to make a few dollars on a few of the review copies scattered in there, all the better. He paid a fair price."
___________________________________
Author John Updike Sheds Old Books
By The Associated Press
MANCHESTER-BY-THE-SEA, Mass. - John Updike, like many a good book-lover, found the cellar of his house and shelves in his barn were being overrun with books he and his wife have collected over the years.
"They were just collecting dust and mouse droppings," the author told The Boston Globe in Friday's edition.
Their solution? Find someone who would pay for the used books, and haul them away.
"I'm at an age when you think about lightening your load, rather than dumping it on your heirs," said Updike, 72, a two-time Pulitzer Prize winner.
Mark Stolle, owner of Manchester by the Book store, bought Updike's collection. But not all of them will be re-sold cheaply.
In some of the books' margins are handwritten questions and analogies from the novelist and essayist — writings that Updike called his "scribblings." Those editions will go for between $200 and $1,000.
Updike, who counts himself a supporter of independent bookstores, doesn't mind that Stolle is making a profit.
"If he's able to make a few dollars on a few of the review copies scattered in there, all the better. He paid a fair price."
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
The Book-Space Continuum
One of the great advantages to being a writer is that you collect books in an accelerated fashion. Before I was published, I used to get books all the time as gifts and from fellow readers who passed along their “must-reads,” knowing I loved nothing more than to dig into a good narrative. When I sold The Tower to Simon & Schuster and paid my first visit to that great, gray building, I couldn’t believe it when my editor waved a hand at wall after wall of filled bookcases and said, “You can pick anything you want and take it with you.” I took a collection of Hemingway short stories, F Scott Fitzgerald letters, two anthologies, a host of thrillers, two science books, and a dictionary (I think he was expecting me to grab a paperback or two for the plane ride home, but he didn’t know who he was dealing with—a days-from-zero-bank-account-balance twenty-two year old). Since then books arrive, blissfully, in fours and fives, sometimes in tens. Galleys for blurbs, packages from agents and lawyers, sets from fellow authors, filled bags from bookseller events. It’s like heaven. The only problem is, the "to-be-read" stack, which used to maintain itself, by some ratio, to the “read” stack, is wholly out of control (I've had to start feeding it). I finally realized I don’t have to save and read EVERY book I’m given, so if something’s outside of my range of interest (which is a damn wide range), after much deliberation, I’ll part with it, but only if I can find it a happy home. After all, you can't just entrust a book to anybody. They’re like puppies, my books, and they keep breeding. I just built in wall-to-wall bookshelves in the biggest room in my house, thinking that would buy me and my wife some relief from the mounds rising from the floor, but to our chagrin, the shelves were almost immediately filled. And the books keep pouring in in gobs. And my friends keep writing them.
If you’ve got to have problems, though, I suppose this ain’t a bad one.
If you’ve got to have problems, though, I suppose this ain’t a bad one.
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
David Montgomery's Author, Blogger, and Reviewer Best Fiction List for 2004
Prominent reviewer David Montgomery polled 50 authors, journalists, and fans, asking them to name their favorite five books they read in the year 2004. The list includes Laurence Block, Michael Connelly, Robert Crais, Harley Jane Kozak, Lee Child, Barry Eisler, Robert Ferrigno, Lee Goldberg, Denise Hamilton, Terrill Lee Lankford, David Morrell, T Jefferson Parker, George Pelecanos, Thomas Perry, Scott Phillips, Gary Phillips and dozens more—not to mention yours truly. It's quite a list and a good chance to see what the writers are reading. And the bloggers and reviewers.
I must confess I left out one of my favorites: Olivia...and the Missing Toy.
The link to the Mystery Ink article is:
http://www.mysteryinkonline.com/top5.htm
I must confess I left out one of my favorites: Olivia...and the Missing Toy.
The link to the Mystery Ink article is:
http://www.mysteryinkonline.com/top5.htm
Thursday, December 02, 2004
The Source Code
I was flipping through some of TD's old journals the other day, and I came upon his notes enumerating several axioms which later evolved into the Program's Source Code. For those of you who've yet to Get With the Program, here's a starter course....
But please remember, mind control is a dangerous business. Do not try this at home.
THE SOURCE CODE
1. Take sole responsibility for your life. You alone cause all outcomes in your life.
2. Delete your Old Programming. Your Old Programming is everything your family and society has downloaded into you that you’ve never considered critically. Your Old Programming is the part of your past that’s holding you back.
3. Overwrite your Old Programming with the Program. You can always recover your Old Programming. It’s in the trash. You can always recover points from it and use them again.
4. Maximize your growth by minimizing your negativity, especially about the Program
5. Reject victimhood. Reject actions to please, to gratify, to ingratiate.
6. Your behavior should be for you. Nothing is more useless than behavior intended to ingratiate yourself to others. It is the epitome of powerlessness.
7. Exalt strength, not comfort.
8. Strive for fulfillment, not happiness.
9. Get with the Program.
But please remember, mind control is a dangerous business. Do not try this at home.
THE SOURCE CODE
1. Take sole responsibility for your life. You alone cause all outcomes in your life.
2. Delete your Old Programming. Your Old Programming is everything your family and society has downloaded into you that you’ve never considered critically. Your Old Programming is the part of your past that’s holding you back.
3. Overwrite your Old Programming with the Program. You can always recover your Old Programming. It’s in the trash. You can always recover points from it and use them again.
4. Maximize your growth by minimizing your negativity, especially about the Program
5. Reject victimhood. Reject actions to please, to gratify, to ingratiate.
6. Your behavior should be for you. Nothing is more useless than behavior intended to ingratiate yourself to others. It is the epitome of powerlessness.
7. Exalt strength, not comfort.
8. Strive for fulfillment, not happiness.
9. Get with the Program.
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Tell Me This Isn't a Charles Willeford Story....(or a Scott Phillips)
Here's my favorite news story of the year: the essence of dark noir....
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
A 13-year old Virginia Beach boy is being held at the Virginia Beach Detention Center after police say he abducted an exotic dancer last Tuesday night.
According to officials, the dancer showed up at a pre-arranged appointment at a residence - subsequently discovered to be vacant - in the 700 block of South Rosemont Road around 6:30pm.
The woman noticed the client was a juvenile, but was told that the contract was for his older brother. Police say the woman waited for a while, but no one else showed up.
Authorities say when the woman eventually tried to leave the residence, she was stopped by the juvenile who pointed a shotgun at her and ordered her to dance.
The dancer diverted the boy's attention and tried to dial 911 on her cell phone. According to police, the juvenile then grabbed the phone. During the struggle, the woman bit the boy's hand and was able to break free and run to her car.
Police say their investigation identified the suspect, and also led them to believe that another juvenile was involved in the plan to abduct the dancer. Investigators are working on identifying the second suspect.
The initial 13-year old suspect was arrested Thursday. He is charged with abduction by force, conspiracy, use of a firearm in the commission of a felony, brandishing a firearm, and transporting and possessing an assault firearm at age 13.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
A 13-year old Virginia Beach boy is being held at the Virginia Beach Detention Center after police say he abducted an exotic dancer last Tuesday night.
According to officials, the dancer showed up at a pre-arranged appointment at a residence - subsequently discovered to be vacant - in the 700 block of South Rosemont Road around 6:30pm.
The woman noticed the client was a juvenile, but was told that the contract was for his older brother. Police say the woman waited for a while, but no one else showed up.
Authorities say when the woman eventually tried to leave the residence, she was stopped by the juvenile who pointed a shotgun at her and ordered her to dance.
The dancer diverted the boy's attention and tried to dial 911 on her cell phone. According to police, the juvenile then grabbed the phone. During the struggle, the woman bit the boy's hand and was able to break free and run to her car.
Police say their investigation identified the suspect, and also led them to believe that another juvenile was involved in the plan to abduct the dancer. Investigators are working on identifying the second suspect.
The initial 13-year old suspect was arrested Thursday. He is charged with abduction by force, conspiracy, use of a firearm in the commission of a felony, brandishing a firearm, and transporting and possessing an assault firearm at age 13.
Friday, November 19, 2004
Tony Scott Goes Small Time on amazon.com
Amazon continues its push into popular culture with a series of five commissioned short films from major directors for the holiday season. Tony Scott has directed the first (http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/browse/-/13609401/ref=amb_center-11_149987_4/102-9967273-8127359) in his trademark quick-cut, jacked-pacing, mosaic-action style. In some ways, the ironic subject matter provides a clearer window into his tremendous talent than even his feature work because we already EXPECT his features to be riveting. With Agent Orange, you feel the stakes are Enemy-of-the-State high, when in fact, they're as low as a dropped goldfish (this is a reference, not a poor simile...actually, it's both). But Scott commands your attention and modulates your emotions nonetheless. It's a small piece of work to which Scott lends his big-time directoral trademarks.
Sunday, November 14, 2004
Andrew Lloyd Webber (and me!) on Adaptations
The film version of The Phantom of the Opera screened this evening at the Writer’s Guild, with Joel Schumacher and Andrew Lloyd Webber in conversation afterward (interviewed by JJ Abrams of Armageddon/Alias/Felicity fame). What I found most interesting was Webber’s reasoning for why he chose the material in the first place. He said he found the original book “confused” and that in choosing material that is imperfect, he finds more inspiration in terms of what he wants to bring to a story. This seems to make perfect sense to me—and in fact, it’s why I’m always puzzled when brilliant movies (Psycho, Stepford Wives) are remade. It’s often been said that only bad movies should be remade. As for material for adaptation, I know that when I have my screenwriter glasses on, I’d prefer a book with a good, yet underdeveloped premise to a book that’s perfect that I need merely to transcribe into a new format. I just don’t know what I’d add to the equation adapting, say, Elmore Leonard. I’d feel like a typist. That is, unless I was able to bring an entirely new sensibility to brilliant subject matter, as Baz Luhrmann did with Romeo & Juliet. Adapting my own work seems different—with The Kill Clause, it felt great being in control (however briefly) of the decision-making process as to which scenes to keep and which to cut, and as to deciding how to steer the story along. I felt as if I had the pick of the litter for every scene—I could select my favorite few moments or lines and build the script scene around those.
Schumacher pointed out that he drew a distinction in the film (which is more sexual than the stage version—lots of heaving bosoms and white stockings) between Christine’s innocent first love with Raoul and her more sexual attraction to the Phantom. I’ve always found the Phantom most compelling when interpreted as a personification of Christine’s enmeshment with her deceased father—an enmeshment she must shed in order to enter into an adult love affair. Either way, I agree with Lord Webber’s assessment that the original story is a confused one. “It couldn’t figure out what it wanted to be,” he said. “Part horror, part mystery, and part drama.” When he found the romance at the core, he said, he found his way to the heart of the story he wanted to write. I guess at the end of the day, that’s what we’re all trying to do when we sit down and stare at the blank page.
Schumacher pointed out that he drew a distinction in the film (which is more sexual than the stage version—lots of heaving bosoms and white stockings) between Christine’s innocent first love with Raoul and her more sexual attraction to the Phantom. I’ve always found the Phantom most compelling when interpreted as a personification of Christine’s enmeshment with her deceased father—an enmeshment she must shed in order to enter into an adult love affair. Either way, I agree with Lord Webber’s assessment that the original story is a confused one. “It couldn’t figure out what it wanted to be,” he said. “Part horror, part mystery, and part drama.” When he found the romance at the core, he said, he found his way to the heart of the story he wanted to write. I guess at the end of the day, that’s what we’re all trying to do when we sit down and stare at the blank page.
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
SCBA and High Speed Pursuits
Terrill Lee Lankford, my favorite irritable writer pal (my nickname for him, due to the twisted brand of advice he offers, is Uncle Evil), wrote the account below of our nearly doomed outing to the Southern California Booksellers Association award banquet. He was nominated for his latest, EARTHQUAKE WEATHER - a great, highly irreverent take on Hollywood.
As for our clown-car scene, when six of us were crammed in my tiny car, Kim-From-LA's legs-from-LA sticking out the window and Jeff Parker shaking his head with amusement, well, Terrill was good enough to hop out and take some photos. So if you're good and write him, maybe he'll post them on his site.
_______________________________
TROUBLE AT THE POLLS
by Terrill Lee Lankford
In the most stunning upset since last Tuesday, Edward Wright ran off with the Southern California Booksellers Association prize for Best Mystery of 2004 for his novel WHILE I DISAPPEAR at the gala awards event thrown down in Long Beach Saturday Night. Paula Woods, Denise Hamilton, Jacqueline Winspear and I had to console ourselves with good company and lots of drinks. I had my speech all prepared - and I got to use it. It went like this: "It was an honor just to be nominated." I've been practicing that speech since I found out my book had been selected as a nominee back in August. It was rolling off the tongue very easily after three months of practice.
You may be wondering how the SCBA knows what the Best Mystery of 2004 is when we're still in November, so I'll tell you a bit about how it works. The nominations come in from all the members of the SCBA - independent booksellers in Southern California - and the time frame is actually for books released between July 1 of 2003 and June 30, 2004. So all the books released after July 1, 2004 will qualify for best of 2005. I'm not sure why they do this other than the fact that they've traditionally held their big dinners in November (maybe they are beating all the other award ceremonies to the punch as well). Once the votes are in, they whittle the pack down to five books in each category and a committee of three jurors renders the final decision as to the winner.
The SCBA also votes on the best non-mystery novel of the year (they call it "fiction"), best non-fiction book of the year, and best children's book of the year. Among others joining the four of us in the loser's circle this year were Steve Martin and Julie Andrews. That's more good company.
The party this year was held at the Long Beach Aquarium, which was very cool. We were like television for the fish. More than three hundred people were in attendance - booksellers, authors, publishers, vendors. A three-course meal was provided and during each course the fifty or so authors in attendance rotated tables and got to know some of the people who keep us employed. After the shindig, everyone got a big bag of books to take home with them. Public humiliation was never so much fun.
But seriously, congratulations to Edward Wright, he's a great guy and a terrific writer. The prize was well earned. And many thanks to the members of the SCBA. It truly WAS an honor to be nominated.
EVEN MORE TROUBLE GOING HOME
My girlfriend Heidi and our friend Sandra accompanied me to the ceremony. Gregg Hurwitz (whose most recent bestseller is THE PROGRAM) called and wanted to ride down with us. We met him at his place and decided to take his car because it was larger than ours (I think he's got envy issues). After the ceremony our friend Kim Dower - the publicist more widely known as Kim-From-L.A. - needed a ride back to town because her rented car wasn't due to arrive for more than an hour (Kim doesn't drive on the freeways - but that's another strange story for another day). T. Jefferson Parker also needed a ride to his hotel. So we packed six people and six giant bags of books into the car and hit the road. We passed a cop on the way and instead of ticketing us he just shook his head in awe of the fact that some people never grow up. We looked like a bunch of wrinkled teenagers going to the drive-in in 1959.
After we dropped Jeff off there was slightly more room in the vehicle, but things were still tight for the hour long ride to L.A. Kim lives in the heart of the city so we had to perform a major detour to drop her off. And this is where things get weird. We're cutting up Fairfax at about midnight and all of a sudden we hear sirens behind us. Helicopters are also arriving on the scene, spotlights shining down on us. Hurwitz pulls his car halfway out of the fast lane (I later asked him if this was what he considered the "author's lane") and all of a sudden a vehicle on three wheels and a sparking rim flamed past us going about sixty, barely under control. It missed the side of our car by less than five inches. Fifteen police cars then ripped past us in hot pursuit. The guy tried to make a left turn about three blocks up and he crashed out at the corner. By the time we got there cops were everywhere, guns drawn and ready to rumble. More police cars were coming in from every direction.
Due to the late hour, the event was not on the news when we got home and I'm still not sure of the details - who the driver was, why he was running, how he got the flat tire (spike strip or bad maintenance?), and what happened to him after we cruised by, staring at his car like angry raccoons. All I know is, if that car had slammed into us it would have taken the police a long time to realize that the guy had not blown up a library.
See you next week!
TL
lankford2000@earthlink.net
As for our clown-car scene, when six of us were crammed in my tiny car, Kim-From-LA's legs-from-LA sticking out the window and Jeff Parker shaking his head with amusement, well, Terrill was good enough to hop out and take some photos. So if you're good and write him, maybe he'll post them on his site.
_______________________________
TROUBLE AT THE POLLS
by Terrill Lee Lankford
In the most stunning upset since last Tuesday, Edward Wright ran off with the Southern California Booksellers Association prize for Best Mystery of 2004 for his novel WHILE I DISAPPEAR at the gala awards event thrown down in Long Beach Saturday Night. Paula Woods, Denise Hamilton, Jacqueline Winspear and I had to console ourselves with good company and lots of drinks. I had my speech all prepared - and I got to use it. It went like this: "It was an honor just to be nominated." I've been practicing that speech since I found out my book had been selected as a nominee back in August. It was rolling off the tongue very easily after three months of practice.
You may be wondering how the SCBA knows what the Best Mystery of 2004 is when we're still in November, so I'll tell you a bit about how it works. The nominations come in from all the members of the SCBA - independent booksellers in Southern California - and the time frame is actually for books released between July 1 of 2003 and June 30, 2004. So all the books released after July 1, 2004 will qualify for best of 2005. I'm not sure why they do this other than the fact that they've traditionally held their big dinners in November (maybe they are beating all the other award ceremonies to the punch as well). Once the votes are in, they whittle the pack down to five books in each category and a committee of three jurors renders the final decision as to the winner.
The SCBA also votes on the best non-mystery novel of the year (they call it "fiction"), best non-fiction book of the year, and best children's book of the year. Among others joining the four of us in the loser's circle this year were Steve Martin and Julie Andrews. That's more good company.
The party this year was held at the Long Beach Aquarium, which was very cool. We were like television for the fish. More than three hundred people were in attendance - booksellers, authors, publishers, vendors. A three-course meal was provided and during each course the fifty or so authors in attendance rotated tables and got to know some of the people who keep us employed. After the shindig, everyone got a big bag of books to take home with them. Public humiliation was never so much fun.
But seriously, congratulations to Edward Wright, he's a great guy and a terrific writer. The prize was well earned. And many thanks to the members of the SCBA. It truly WAS an honor to be nominated.
EVEN MORE TROUBLE GOING HOME
My girlfriend Heidi and our friend Sandra accompanied me to the ceremony. Gregg Hurwitz (whose most recent bestseller is THE PROGRAM) called and wanted to ride down with us. We met him at his place and decided to take his car because it was larger than ours (I think he's got envy issues). After the ceremony our friend Kim Dower - the publicist more widely known as Kim-From-L.A. - needed a ride back to town because her rented car wasn't due to arrive for more than an hour (Kim doesn't drive on the freeways - but that's another strange story for another day). T. Jefferson Parker also needed a ride to his hotel. So we packed six people and six giant bags of books into the car and hit the road. We passed a cop on the way and instead of ticketing us he just shook his head in awe of the fact that some people never grow up. We looked like a bunch of wrinkled teenagers going to the drive-in in 1959.
After we dropped Jeff off there was slightly more room in the vehicle, but things were still tight for the hour long ride to L.A. Kim lives in the heart of the city so we had to perform a major detour to drop her off. And this is where things get weird. We're cutting up Fairfax at about midnight and all of a sudden we hear sirens behind us. Helicopters are also arriving on the scene, spotlights shining down on us. Hurwitz pulls his car halfway out of the fast lane (I later asked him if this was what he considered the "author's lane") and all of a sudden a vehicle on three wheels and a sparking rim flamed past us going about sixty, barely under control. It missed the side of our car by less than five inches. Fifteen police cars then ripped past us in hot pursuit. The guy tried to make a left turn about three blocks up and he crashed out at the corner. By the time we got there cops were everywhere, guns drawn and ready to rumble. More police cars were coming in from every direction.
Due to the late hour, the event was not on the news when we got home and I'm still not sure of the details - who the driver was, why he was running, how he got the flat tire (spike strip or bad maintenance?), and what happened to him after we cruised by, staring at his car like angry raccoons. All I know is, if that car had slammed into us it would have taken the police a long time to realize that the guy had not blown up a library.
See you next week!
TL
lankford2000@earthlink.net
Thursday, November 04, 2004
The Trouble With Biopics...and Taylor Hackford's Ray
Biopics are difficult, because a life doesn't adhere to the structure of narrative, no matter how hard the writer tries to mash it into one. Likewise for pacing - lives are inconvenient in their complexities. They’re often cyclical and they’ll stubbornly stick in a rut or cram all the good events into a condensed period of time (think of your own, for Christ’s sake). Then there’s those damned classic unities. How many jumps of decades can be managed gracefully within an hour and a half (or, as is the case more frequently, two-and-a-half)? But most difficult, I believe, is the fact that if a person is famous enough to have a film made of their life, well, we all know the tune, more or less, as well as the final notes. Malcolm X got shot, Tina Turner left Ike and pulled her life together, Ali beat Frasier and Ray Charles kicked drugs. All of them, coming from humble beginnings, made it big. As a crime fiction fanatic who thrills at unexpected turns, I find that advance notice of the road map detracts from my driving enjoyment.
But counterbalancing my hesitation for the genre were the big hopes I harbored for Ray. I’m an enormous Jamie Foxx fan, having seen him live hosting the ESPYs, and I’ve been continuously impressed and surprised by the range of his talent. He’s an inspired stand-up, actor, singer, dancer, and mimic. Let’s face it; the guy can do anything. Further, you can’t beat Ray Charles. Just the music in the trailers put me in a good mood and made me tap my feet.
I’m pleased to report I found the film delightful. I must say, for most of the movie Taylor Hackford is in his directorial groove. He incorporates music creatively and intelligently, and a few of the musical montages are truly breathtaking. Jamie Foxx does not disappoint—it’s a major league performance (he will be nominated). So dead-on is he in his capturing of Ray Charles that when Hackford cuts to footage of the real Ray in the credit-rolling afterglow of the film, I found the true images almost discordant. That said, the film still labors with some of the problems of the biopic form (flashbacks, struggling to synthesize and condense early childhood memories with myriad vigorous plot lines, trying to sustain and make compelling a wife who put up with philandering and decades of spousal heroin abuse). For the most part, Hackford and White did a splendid job with the script, but I felt for them as they struggled to put together a suitable ending. Lives generally don’t end conveniently. And even less often is a death (or, worse, a title-card-reported death) the punctuation mark with which to close a narrative.
But counterbalancing my hesitation for the genre were the big hopes I harbored for Ray. I’m an enormous Jamie Foxx fan, having seen him live hosting the ESPYs, and I’ve been continuously impressed and surprised by the range of his talent. He’s an inspired stand-up, actor, singer, dancer, and mimic. Let’s face it; the guy can do anything. Further, you can’t beat Ray Charles. Just the music in the trailers put me in a good mood and made me tap my feet.
I’m pleased to report I found the film delightful. I must say, for most of the movie Taylor Hackford is in his directorial groove. He incorporates music creatively and intelligently, and a few of the musical montages are truly breathtaking. Jamie Foxx does not disappoint—it’s a major league performance (he will be nominated). So dead-on is he in his capturing of Ray Charles that when Hackford cuts to footage of the real Ray in the credit-rolling afterglow of the film, I found the true images almost discordant. That said, the film still labors with some of the problems of the biopic form (flashbacks, struggling to synthesize and condense early childhood memories with myriad vigorous plot lines, trying to sustain and make compelling a wife who put up with philandering and decades of spousal heroin abuse). For the most part, Hackford and White did a splendid job with the script, but I felt for them as they struggled to put together a suitable ending. Lives generally don’t end conveniently. And even less often is a death (or, worse, a title-card-reported death) the punctuation mark with which to close a narrative.
Sunday, October 31, 2004
On Conspiracies and Pettiness
On Sarah Weinman’s excellent blog, (sarahweinman.com, aka, Confessions of an Idiosyncratic Mind), people weighed in on the Andrew Klavan debate (see my previous blog entry). As an example of the liberal ferocity rampant among readers and the book community at large, a few people wrote in about the unfair treatment that Robert Ferrigno received among anonymous reviewers on amazon after he expressed some conservative views in an interview. (To know what I think of nameless critics, see my blog entry Anne Rice vs. Anonymous Reviewers). Now I happen to think Robert is a talented writer and a nice guy, and it pisses me off that people slammed him unjustly—and especially sans cahones to sign their commentary. But if people think that political backlash is unique to one side of the spectrum, they are sorely mistaken. For all you writers out there, here’s an experiment: Go post an “I Love John Kerry” sign atop your website and see what pops up within hours on amazon. The point is that anywhere that readers can post comments without accountability, you’re gonna have slant and ugliness. The capacity for pettiness (especially when one is granted an opportunity in which their face and name can be withheld, but none of the vitriol) is neither unique to liberals nor conservatives. Believe me, the guys I hear from occasionally when I get the weight of a handgun off by a half gram (bless them – they’re generally respectful and want to keep me from looking dumb next go around) ain’t voting Nader. I never understand why both sides of the political spectrum squabble over who should be appointed greater martyr status. If you state your views as Robert did, or as Bill O’Reilly does, or as Michael Moore does, you’re gonna piss off people who hold opposing views, and some of them will respond without class or dignity. There’s no vast conspiracy there—it’s human nature.
Sunday, October 24, 2004
Andrew Klavan Takes On The (Liberal) Arts
Below find an article by Andrew Klavan – an excellent writer and friend of mine – and a few comments I had about his thoughts (which follow the article below). Check out Drew’s site at: www.andrewklavan.com.
Left Good. Right Bad. It's Called Art.
A conservative hero in a movie? That'll be the day.
By Andrew Klavan, Andrew Klavan's latest novel is "Shotgun Alley" (Forge, 2004).
Here's my new idea for a thriller. An ordinary guy wakes up one morning and his wife — who has joyfully devoted her life to him — has disappeared. His neighbor — a kind and intellectual Christian conservative — has become invisible. And his best friend — a peaceful man who supports the war in Iraq — has lost the power to speak. It's scary stuff, all right. I'm going to call it: "The Arts in America."
I don't like to make sweeping statements about the arts because there are always many exceptions. But I have a solid observational berth — I'm a novelist and screenwriter; I'm well read; I go to the movies often — and I can't help noticing that, in the last 25 years or so, large segments of the American population have practically vanished from our fictional landscape.
When was the last time you saw a conservative politician who was the hero of a movie — as opposed to the slavering villains of "The Manchurian Candidate," "The Contender" or "The American President"?
When was the last time you read a serious novel in which a full-time wife — not just a mother, but a wife — was happy with her life choice as opposed to being a Stepford robot or a trapped bird a la "The Hours"?
When was the last time — outside of pabulum like "Left Behind" or "Seventh Heaven" — you saw an intelligent Christian who wasn't a priest or a milquetoast or Mel Gibson?
It's not that I don't enjoy the stories being told by American artists — I do. And I'm not suggesting that the arts should be traditionalist in intent. I just think they should be more — pardon the word — inclusive. Self-fulfilled housewives, conservative good guys, intelligent people of faith not only exist, they're actually pretty thick on the ground, and I believe the American arts should accurately represent the full panoply of American life.
It's a commonplace and a truth that there are many liberals in Hollywood, and I know for a fact that many in the New York literary establishment are left-wing as well. There's nothing wrong with that per se, but it can have some unfortunate consequences.
People who associate only with the like-minded can sometimes forget that their opinions are just opinions, that their ideology is, in fact, an ideology and that good and reasonable people may disagree. As a result, alternative points of view may be demonized, and institutional intimidation and tacit censorship can begin to exclude opposing voices on the levels of both production and criticism.
I write crime fiction, much of it what you might call neo-hard-boiled. My stuff is not political — and certainly not traditional — but I try to let all my characters speak their minds.
When I submitted my latest novel, "Shotgun Alley," my editor — seeking only my good — suggested I tone down one character's nasty remarks about feminists. When I demurred, he pointed out that the book buyer for one of the major chains might order far fewer books because of it. I still declined, but I'm established and ornery. If I were just starting out, I would've had to be brave, which is much harder.
On the critical front, the cries of "Obscenity!" once meant to censor a "Ulysses" or a "Lady Chatterley's Lover," have now morphed into such loaded accusations as "Racism!" and "Sexism!" intended to silence dissent against the incredibly uniform outlook of mainstream intellectuals. When such dissent breaks through, man, those eggheads squeal like a Texas newsman caught with his pants down by a blogger in pajamas.
Gibson's "The Passion of the Christ" is the most obvious case in point. The whipping Mel gave Jesus in that picture was nothing compared with the bejesus the intelligentsia beat out of Mel.
The cries this time were of anti-Semitism and the methods were vicious. The man's father was attacked, his motives impugned and, in some genuinely low moments, Christopher Hitchens and Frank Rich hinted that the director was homosexual, a twice shameful thrust in that it slandered its target and reduced a mode of loving to a schoolyard taunt.
And why? Wasn't it really because Gibson used his artistic talent to present the Christ of fundamentalism? Hey, it's not my thing either, but if we can bring open minds to the partisan constructs of Oliver Stone and Michael Moore, why can't we spend a couple of hours believing in Mel Gibson's God?
Today, traditionalist values have been pushed underground into fantasy — which may account for the power and popularity of such stories. "The Lord of the Rings" trilogy preserved Tolkien's complex Christian understanding of evil, and "Spiderman 2," to these eyes at least, looked very much like an encrypted tribute to our fighting heroes in Afghanistan and Iraq.
But why can't such voices speak outright? I don't think I will lose anything if my neighbors are depicted sympathetically, even if they are among those good neighbors with whom I disagree.
After all, if art is meant to broaden minds, shouldn't it broaden the minds even of those as flawlessly moral, as politically infallible and as spiritually insightful as ourselves?
AND GREGG’S THOUGHTS:
Since it seems to me that the essence of fiction (and maybe crime fiction even moreso) is man against society, man against the power structure, man against impossible (or strenuous odds), it seems logical that such stories would favor the individual up against corrupt business. After all, who wants to see a big corporation crushing an individual - the odds aren't fair, and it ain't the type of archetypal narrative that hits the pleasure buttons in our rat-like brains. Maybe said corporation has a valid reason, even an ethical obligation, to crush the individual, but it doesn’t seem to me to make for great drama.
Some stories, such as Michael Mann's The Insider, do feature an ethical businessman - but there needs to be a context for his struggle for there to be an article then film, so he's set against Big Tobacco. But Michael Douglass was something of a hero in The Game, as was Cruise in Vanilla Sky - guys who yanked on the levers of power, then went in search of the truth. Clearly, the bias Andrew talks about IS present - no argument there - I just think there are numerous reasons beyond political slant for that, and also more exceptions than he indicated. When I write about the essence of fiction as being a conflict in which the protagonist doesn’t have the upper hand, that doesn’t carry with it any ideological weight. All that is necessary to the nature of the endeavor, in my humble estimation, is good writing and conflict. And since most writing is not exceptional, people go where is most obvious to fulfill these cookie-cutter conflicts. Examples of conversative themes – say a good businessman beset by self aggrandizing activitists - could certainly be compelling and – if executed properly - carry enormous dramatic weight. As did Oleander – the David Mamet play about the crushing stupidity of evolved forms of political correctness – victimhood wielded as weapon, which leaves its targets with no options for response or defense (except for richly deserved rageful stomping). But what most easily and readily fits the equation (man against forces larger than him) are those obvious conflicts - man against power structure, etc. Is it a vast liberal conspiracy? No – it’s the lowest common denominator for what fits the archetypal bill. One of my golden rules: Never explain by conspiracy what can be explained by stupidity or mediocrity. As Jung argued – the MECHANISM for creating archetypes is inherent in man, not the archetypes themselves. So if people have an instinct to choose a symbol for wisdom, within most cultures they will settle on a wise old man (or woman). It makes sense and it’s obvious. Likewise, unless someone is compelled to leap outside the conventional narrative structures (Bowles, Trollope, etc.), they’ll settle on what most easily fits the bill. Brilliant film and books are ALWAYS a leap beyond the prevailing winds (and usually beyond propagandistic fulfillments of contemporary politics of either side) - and therefore are always rare. Wisdom embodied in a little boy – sounds fascinating. But it requires someone of unusual talent to pull it off and make it convincing. Most hacks and formula writers will simply go with the old man.
As for happy moms - again, Andrew is right in general. But bear in mind Susan Faludi's great assessment of Fatal Attraction in which Ann Archer, mommy warrior of hearth and home defends her realm effectively against evil-bitch working woman-who-must-be-missing-something-due-to-her-lack-of-domesticity Glenn Close. Also, the template for The Missing with Cate Blanchett - tough-ass mom whose fury is unleashed after her kid is wronged seems another common theme. The maternal instinct-as-bad-ass source of power probably peaked with our girl Sigourney in Aliens, and while I certainly won't argue that that's a nice quiet tale of a happy Stepford gal, I do think that the maternal instinct is valued there (but yes, to Andrew’s point, she's a feminist working girl all right). Again, I do see Andrew’s point about the skew - and one thing I loved about his excellent novel Man and Wife (which I highly recommend to you all) is the wonderful portrayal of a wife and mother and the fact that marriage - and the way that a marriage is nestled in a fragile place in time where, for both parties, the past must be not too remembered and not too forgotten - is the centerpiece of the story. I do wish there were more books and films like it - that aren't afraid to have a marriage - a good, real marriage - play an important role. It's something I've tried to do with Dray and Tim in the Rackley novels.
In any event, I recommend you check out Drew’s site – again, it’s www.andrewklavan.com. I’ve come to rely on him – in his fiction, articles, and in conversation - for his smart, though-provoking takes on matters.
My name is Gregg Hurwitz and I approve this message (and apologize for using too many dashes and run-ons).
Left Good. Right Bad. It's Called Art.
A conservative hero in a movie? That'll be the day.
By Andrew Klavan, Andrew Klavan's latest novel is "Shotgun Alley" (Forge, 2004).
Here's my new idea for a thriller. An ordinary guy wakes up one morning and his wife — who has joyfully devoted her life to him — has disappeared. His neighbor — a kind and intellectual Christian conservative — has become invisible. And his best friend — a peaceful man who supports the war in Iraq — has lost the power to speak. It's scary stuff, all right. I'm going to call it: "The Arts in America."
I don't like to make sweeping statements about the arts because there are always many exceptions. But I have a solid observational berth — I'm a novelist and screenwriter; I'm well read; I go to the movies often — and I can't help noticing that, in the last 25 years or so, large segments of the American population have practically vanished from our fictional landscape.
When was the last time you saw a conservative politician who was the hero of a movie — as opposed to the slavering villains of "The Manchurian Candidate," "The Contender" or "The American President"?
When was the last time you read a serious novel in which a full-time wife — not just a mother, but a wife — was happy with her life choice as opposed to being a Stepford robot or a trapped bird a la "The Hours"?
When was the last time — outside of pabulum like "Left Behind" or "Seventh Heaven" — you saw an intelligent Christian who wasn't a priest or a milquetoast or Mel Gibson?
It's not that I don't enjoy the stories being told by American artists — I do. And I'm not suggesting that the arts should be traditionalist in intent. I just think they should be more — pardon the word — inclusive. Self-fulfilled housewives, conservative good guys, intelligent people of faith not only exist, they're actually pretty thick on the ground, and I believe the American arts should accurately represent the full panoply of American life.
It's a commonplace and a truth that there are many liberals in Hollywood, and I know for a fact that many in the New York literary establishment are left-wing as well. There's nothing wrong with that per se, but it can have some unfortunate consequences.
People who associate only with the like-minded can sometimes forget that their opinions are just opinions, that their ideology is, in fact, an ideology and that good and reasonable people may disagree. As a result, alternative points of view may be demonized, and institutional intimidation and tacit censorship can begin to exclude opposing voices on the levels of both production and criticism.
I write crime fiction, much of it what you might call neo-hard-boiled. My stuff is not political — and certainly not traditional — but I try to let all my characters speak their minds.
When I submitted my latest novel, "Shotgun Alley," my editor — seeking only my good — suggested I tone down one character's nasty remarks about feminists. When I demurred, he pointed out that the book buyer for one of the major chains might order far fewer books because of it. I still declined, but I'm established and ornery. If I were just starting out, I would've had to be brave, which is much harder.
On the critical front, the cries of "Obscenity!" once meant to censor a "Ulysses" or a "Lady Chatterley's Lover," have now morphed into such loaded accusations as "Racism!" and "Sexism!" intended to silence dissent against the incredibly uniform outlook of mainstream intellectuals. When such dissent breaks through, man, those eggheads squeal like a Texas newsman caught with his pants down by a blogger in pajamas.
Gibson's "The Passion of the Christ" is the most obvious case in point. The whipping Mel gave Jesus in that picture was nothing compared with the bejesus the intelligentsia beat out of Mel.
The cries this time were of anti-Semitism and the methods were vicious. The man's father was attacked, his motives impugned and, in some genuinely low moments, Christopher Hitchens and Frank Rich hinted that the director was homosexual, a twice shameful thrust in that it slandered its target and reduced a mode of loving to a schoolyard taunt.
And why? Wasn't it really because Gibson used his artistic talent to present the Christ of fundamentalism? Hey, it's not my thing either, but if we can bring open minds to the partisan constructs of Oliver Stone and Michael Moore, why can't we spend a couple of hours believing in Mel Gibson's God?
Today, traditionalist values have been pushed underground into fantasy — which may account for the power and popularity of such stories. "The Lord of the Rings" trilogy preserved Tolkien's complex Christian understanding of evil, and "Spiderman 2," to these eyes at least, looked very much like an encrypted tribute to our fighting heroes in Afghanistan and Iraq.
But why can't such voices speak outright? I don't think I will lose anything if my neighbors are depicted sympathetically, even if they are among those good neighbors with whom I disagree.
After all, if art is meant to broaden minds, shouldn't it broaden the minds even of those as flawlessly moral, as politically infallible and as spiritually insightful as ourselves?
AND GREGG’S THOUGHTS:
Since it seems to me that the essence of fiction (and maybe crime fiction even moreso) is man against society, man against the power structure, man against impossible (or strenuous odds), it seems logical that such stories would favor the individual up against corrupt business. After all, who wants to see a big corporation crushing an individual - the odds aren't fair, and it ain't the type of archetypal narrative that hits the pleasure buttons in our rat-like brains. Maybe said corporation has a valid reason, even an ethical obligation, to crush the individual, but it doesn’t seem to me to make for great drama.
Some stories, such as Michael Mann's The Insider, do feature an ethical businessman - but there needs to be a context for his struggle for there to be an article then film, so he's set against Big Tobacco. But Michael Douglass was something of a hero in The Game, as was Cruise in Vanilla Sky - guys who yanked on the levers of power, then went in search of the truth. Clearly, the bias Andrew talks about IS present - no argument there - I just think there are numerous reasons beyond political slant for that, and also more exceptions than he indicated. When I write about the essence of fiction as being a conflict in which the protagonist doesn’t have the upper hand, that doesn’t carry with it any ideological weight. All that is necessary to the nature of the endeavor, in my humble estimation, is good writing and conflict. And since most writing is not exceptional, people go where is most obvious to fulfill these cookie-cutter conflicts. Examples of conversative themes – say a good businessman beset by self aggrandizing activitists - could certainly be compelling and – if executed properly - carry enormous dramatic weight. As did Oleander – the David Mamet play about the crushing stupidity of evolved forms of political correctness – victimhood wielded as weapon, which leaves its targets with no options for response or defense (except for richly deserved rageful stomping). But what most easily and readily fits the equation (man against forces larger than him) are those obvious conflicts - man against power structure, etc. Is it a vast liberal conspiracy? No – it’s the lowest common denominator for what fits the archetypal bill. One of my golden rules: Never explain by conspiracy what can be explained by stupidity or mediocrity. As Jung argued – the MECHANISM for creating archetypes is inherent in man, not the archetypes themselves. So if people have an instinct to choose a symbol for wisdom, within most cultures they will settle on a wise old man (or woman). It makes sense and it’s obvious. Likewise, unless someone is compelled to leap outside the conventional narrative structures (Bowles, Trollope, etc.), they’ll settle on what most easily fits the bill. Brilliant film and books are ALWAYS a leap beyond the prevailing winds (and usually beyond propagandistic fulfillments of contemporary politics of either side) - and therefore are always rare. Wisdom embodied in a little boy – sounds fascinating. But it requires someone of unusual talent to pull it off and make it convincing. Most hacks and formula writers will simply go with the old man.
As for happy moms - again, Andrew is right in general. But bear in mind Susan Faludi's great assessment of Fatal Attraction in which Ann Archer, mommy warrior of hearth and home defends her realm effectively against evil-bitch working woman-who-must-be-missing-something-due-to-her-lack-of-domesticity Glenn Close. Also, the template for The Missing with Cate Blanchett - tough-ass mom whose fury is unleashed after her kid is wronged seems another common theme. The maternal instinct-as-bad-ass source of power probably peaked with our girl Sigourney in Aliens, and while I certainly won't argue that that's a nice quiet tale of a happy Stepford gal, I do think that the maternal instinct is valued there (but yes, to Andrew’s point, she's a feminist working girl all right). Again, I do see Andrew’s point about the skew - and one thing I loved about his excellent novel Man and Wife (which I highly recommend to you all) is the wonderful portrayal of a wife and mother and the fact that marriage - and the way that a marriage is nestled in a fragile place in time where, for both parties, the past must be not too remembered and not too forgotten - is the centerpiece of the story. I do wish there were more books and films like it - that aren't afraid to have a marriage - a good, real marriage - play an important role. It's something I've tried to do with Dray and Tim in the Rackley novels.
In any event, I recommend you check out Drew’s site – again, it’s www.andrewklavan.com. I’ve come to rely on him – in his fiction, articles, and in conversation - for his smart, though-provoking takes on matters.
My name is Gregg Hurwitz and I approve this message (and apologize for using too many dashes and run-ons).
Saturday, October 16, 2004
Anne Rice vs. Anonymous Reviewers
The following is a letter Anne Rice recently wrote to her negative reviewers for Blood Canticle on Amazon. I must confess I admire her confronting those who sling shit while hiding behind anonymity. My favorite acerbic professional reviewers - Anthony Lane and James Wolcott to name a few - certainly aren't afraid to add their Hancocks to their opinions. I find that signing one's review makes said review more A. Fair B. Constructive, and if not, then....C. At least incisive in its criticisms and above the whole witty this-book-is-a-piece-of-shit-and-the-author-can't-write school of scholary discourse. It seems all too predictable that the reviews that are the least forgiving and most personal are penned by readers who leave the name box blank.
As for Rice's confidence - well, while I certainly don't share her all her views of the editorial process, you gotta love a woman who'll put her home address out there by way of example for what it means to stand behind your views. If she meets one of her nameless reviewers on equal argumentative footing - or up a dark alley - I'm putting my money on Rice.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Seldom do I really answer those who criticize my work. In fact, the entire development of my career has been fueled by my ability to ignore denigrating and trivializing criticism as I realize my dreams and my goals. However there is something compelling about Amazon's willingness to publish just about anything, and the sheer outrageous stupidity of many things you've said here that actually touches my proletarian and Democratic soul. Also I use and enjoy Amazon and I do read the reviews of other people's books in many fields. In sum, I believe in what happens here. And so, I speak. First off, let me say that this is addressed only to some of you, who have posted outrageously negative comments here, and not to all. You are interrogating this text from the wrong perspective. Indeed, you aren't even reading it. You are projecting your own limitations on it. And you are giving a whole new meaning to the words "wide readership." And you have strained my Dickensean principles to the max. I'm justifiably proud of being read by intellectual giants and waitresses in trailer parks,in fact, I love it, but who in the world are you? Now to the book. Allow me to point out: nowhere in this text are you told that this is the last of the chronicles, nowhere are you promised curtain calls or a finale, nowhere are you told there will be a wrap-up of all the earlier material. The text tells you exactly what to expect. And it warns you specifically that if you did not enjoy Memnoch the Devil, you may not enjoy this book. This book is by and about a hero whom many of you have already rejected. And he tells you that you are likely to reject him again. And this book is most certainly written -- every word of it -- by me. If and when I can't write a book on my own, you'll know about it. And no, I have no intention of allowing any editor ever to distort, cut, or otherwise mutilate sentences that I have edited and re-edited, and organized and polished myself. I fought a great battle to achieve a status where I did not have to put up with editors making demands on me, and I will never relinquish that status. For me, novel writing is a virtuoso performance. It is not a collaborative art. Back to the novel itself: the character who tells the tale is my Lestat. I was with him more closely than I have ever been in this novel; his voice was as powerful for me as I've ever heard it. I experienced break through after break through as I walked with him, moved with him, saw through his eyes. What I ask of Lestat, Lestat unfailingly gives. For me, three hunting scenes, two which take place in hotels -- the lone woman waiting for the hit man, the slaughter at the pimp's party -- and the late night foray into the slums --stand with any similar scenes in all of the chronicles. They can be read aloud without a single hitch. Every word is in perfect place. The short chapter in which Lestat describes his love for Rowan Mayfair was for me a totally realized poem. There are other such scenes in this book. You don't get all this? Fine. But I experienced an intimacy with the character in those scenes that shattered all prior restraints, and when one is writing one does have to continuously and courageously fight a destructive tendency to inhibition and restraint. Getting really close to the subject matter is the achievement of only great art. Now, if it doesn't appeal to you, fine. You don't enjoy it? Read somebody else. But your stupid arrogant assumptions about me and what I am doing are slander. And you have used this site as if it were a public urinal to publish falsehood and lies. I'll never challenge your democratic freedom to do so, and yes, I'm answering you, but for what it's worth, be assured of the utter contempt I feel for you, especially those of you who post anonymously (and perhaps repeatedly?) and how glad I am that this book is the last one in a series that has invited your hateful and ugly responses. Now, to return to the narrative in question: Lestat's wanting to be a saint is a vision larded through and through with his characteristic vanity. It connects perfectly with his earlier ambitions to be an actor in Paris, a rock star in the modern age. If you can't see that, you aren't reading my work. In his conversation with the Pope he makes observations on the times which are in continuity with his observations on the late twentieth century in The Vampire Lestat, and in continuity with Marius' observations in that book and later in Queen of the Damned. The state of the world has always been an important theme in the chronicles. Lestat's comments matter. Every word he speaks is part of the achievement of this book. That Lestat renounced this saintly ambition within a matter of pages is plain enough for you to see. That he reverts to his old self is obvious, and that he intends to complete the tale of Blackwood Farm is also quite clear. There are many other themes and patterns in this work that I might mention -- the interplay between St.Juan Diago and Lestat, the invisible creature who doesn't "exist" in the eyes of the world is a case in point. There is also the theme of the snare of Blackwood Farm, the place where a human existence becomes so beguiling that Lestat relinquishes his power as if to a spell. The entire relationship between Lestat and Uncle Julien is carefully worked out. But I leave it to readers to discover how this complex and intricate novel establishes itself within a unique, if not unrivalled series of book. There are things to be said. And there is pleasure to be had. And readers will say wonderful things about Blood Canticle and they already are. There are readers out there and plenty of them who cherish the individuality of each of the chronicles which you so flippantly condemn. They can and do talk circles around you. And I am warmed by their response. Their letters, the papers they write in school, our face to face exchanges on the road -- these things sustain me when I read the utter trash that you post. But I feel I have said enough. If this reaches one reader who is curious about my work and shocked by the ugly reviews here, I've served my goals. And Yo, you dude, the slang police! Lestat talks like I do. He always has and he always will. You really wouldn't much like being around either one of us. And you don't have to be. If any of you want to say anything about all this by all means Email me at Anneobrienrice@mac.com. And if you want your money back for the book, send it to 1239 First Street, New Orleans, La, 70130. I'm not a coward about my real name or where I live. And yes, the Chronicles are no more! Thank God!
As for Rice's confidence - well, while I certainly don't share her all her views of the editorial process, you gotta love a woman who'll put her home address out there by way of example for what it means to stand behind your views. If she meets one of her nameless reviewers on equal argumentative footing - or up a dark alley - I'm putting my money on Rice.
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Seldom do I really answer those who criticize my work. In fact, the entire development of my career has been fueled by my ability to ignore denigrating and trivializing criticism as I realize my dreams and my goals. However there is something compelling about Amazon's willingness to publish just about anything, and the sheer outrageous stupidity of many things you've said here that actually touches my proletarian and Democratic soul. Also I use and enjoy Amazon and I do read the reviews of other people's books in many fields. In sum, I believe in what happens here. And so, I speak. First off, let me say that this is addressed only to some of you, who have posted outrageously negative comments here, and not to all. You are interrogating this text from the wrong perspective. Indeed, you aren't even reading it. You are projecting your own limitations on it. And you are giving a whole new meaning to the words "wide readership." And you have strained my Dickensean principles to the max. I'm justifiably proud of being read by intellectual giants and waitresses in trailer parks,in fact, I love it, but who in the world are you? Now to the book. Allow me to point out: nowhere in this text are you told that this is the last of the chronicles, nowhere are you promised curtain calls or a finale, nowhere are you told there will be a wrap-up of all the earlier material. The text tells you exactly what to expect. And it warns you specifically that if you did not enjoy Memnoch the Devil, you may not enjoy this book. This book is by and about a hero whom many of you have already rejected. And he tells you that you are likely to reject him again. And this book is most certainly written -- every word of it -- by me. If and when I can't write a book on my own, you'll know about it. And no, I have no intention of allowing any editor ever to distort, cut, or otherwise mutilate sentences that I have edited and re-edited, and organized and polished myself. I fought a great battle to achieve a status where I did not have to put up with editors making demands on me, and I will never relinquish that status. For me, novel writing is a virtuoso performance. It is not a collaborative art. Back to the novel itself: the character who tells the tale is my Lestat. I was with him more closely than I have ever been in this novel; his voice was as powerful for me as I've ever heard it. I experienced break through after break through as I walked with him, moved with him, saw through his eyes. What I ask of Lestat, Lestat unfailingly gives. For me, three hunting scenes, two which take place in hotels -- the lone woman waiting for the hit man, the slaughter at the pimp's party -- and the late night foray into the slums --stand with any similar scenes in all of the chronicles. They can be read aloud without a single hitch. Every word is in perfect place. The short chapter in which Lestat describes his love for Rowan Mayfair was for me a totally realized poem. There are other such scenes in this book. You don't get all this? Fine. But I experienced an intimacy with the character in those scenes that shattered all prior restraints, and when one is writing one does have to continuously and courageously fight a destructive tendency to inhibition and restraint. Getting really close to the subject matter is the achievement of only great art. Now, if it doesn't appeal to you, fine. You don't enjoy it? Read somebody else. But your stupid arrogant assumptions about me and what I am doing are slander. And you have used this site as if it were a public urinal to publish falsehood and lies. I'll never challenge your democratic freedom to do so, and yes, I'm answering you, but for what it's worth, be assured of the utter contempt I feel for you, especially those of you who post anonymously (and perhaps repeatedly?) and how glad I am that this book is the last one in a series that has invited your hateful and ugly responses. Now, to return to the narrative in question: Lestat's wanting to be a saint is a vision larded through and through with his characteristic vanity. It connects perfectly with his earlier ambitions to be an actor in Paris, a rock star in the modern age. If you can't see that, you aren't reading my work. In his conversation with the Pope he makes observations on the times which are in continuity with his observations on the late twentieth century in The Vampire Lestat, and in continuity with Marius' observations in that book and later in Queen of the Damned. The state of the world has always been an important theme in the chronicles. Lestat's comments matter. Every word he speaks is part of the achievement of this book. That Lestat renounced this saintly ambition within a matter of pages is plain enough for you to see. That he reverts to his old self is obvious, and that he intends to complete the tale of Blackwood Farm is also quite clear. There are many other themes and patterns in this work that I might mention -- the interplay between St.Juan Diago and Lestat, the invisible creature who doesn't "exist" in the eyes of the world is a case in point. There is also the theme of the snare of Blackwood Farm, the place where a human existence becomes so beguiling that Lestat relinquishes his power as if to a spell. The entire relationship between Lestat and Uncle Julien is carefully worked out. But I leave it to readers to discover how this complex and intricate novel establishes itself within a unique, if not unrivalled series of book. There are things to be said. And there is pleasure to be had. And readers will say wonderful things about Blood Canticle and they already are. There are readers out there and plenty of them who cherish the individuality of each of the chronicles which you so flippantly condemn. They can and do talk circles around you. And I am warmed by their response. Their letters, the papers they write in school, our face to face exchanges on the road -- these things sustain me when I read the utter trash that you post. But I feel I have said enough. If this reaches one reader who is curious about my work and shocked by the ugly reviews here, I've served my goals. And Yo, you dude, the slang police! Lestat talks like I do. He always has and he always will. You really wouldn't much like being around either one of us. And you don't have to be. If any of you want to say anything about all this by all means Email me at Anneobrienrice@mac.com. And if you want your money back for the book, send it to 1239 First Street, New Orleans, La, 70130. I'm not a coward about my real name or where I live. And yes, the Chronicles are no more! Thank God!
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Bouchercon
It only comes once a year....It involves lots of death, mayhem and alcohol....that's right - Bouchercon 2004. It was a well-run event this year, I thought. Toronto, as always, is a user-friendly city, though I must confess I'd almost forgotten that it actually gets cold in fall in other parts of the world, so spoiled am I by California weather. A lot of great authors showed up - everyone from Michael Connelly, Dennis Lehane, Gayle Lynds, Christopher Rice, Lee Goldberg, Ridley Pearson to some folks I hadn't met before, but enjoyed seeing, like Barry Eisner and Michael Collins (the other Michael Collins, Dennis Lynds's dopplegänger showed up too). For the banquet, I sat next to one of my favorite booksellers, Otto Penzler. Otto was in rare form, his acerbic wit complementing the proceedings.
I was on a panel with Mike and Dennis and Kirk Russell about the importance of place in our fiction. The topic was a bit limiting, I thought (as is the case with most panels, I found there's only so many times we could answer questions about a specific topic before the well runs dry..."Are there any places you WOULDN'T want to set a story?") but we got it rolling a bit later with some improv, and it was a lot of fun to be featured with authors whose work I respect so much. Most fun, as always, was seeing the hardcore genre readers, who really know their stuff. I'm always impressed with the range and scope of mystery fans' libraries.
I was on a panel with Mike and Dennis and Kirk Russell about the importance of place in our fiction. The topic was a bit limiting, I thought (as is the case with most panels, I found there's only so many times we could answer questions about a specific topic before the well runs dry..."Are there any places you WOULDN'T want to set a story?") but we got it rolling a bit later with some improv, and it was a lot of fun to be featured with authors whose work I respect so much. Most fun, as always, was seeing the hardcore genre readers, who really know their stuff. I'm always impressed with the range and scope of mystery fans' libraries.
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Grown-Up Movies
A lot of critics and writers have complained of late that in the rush for first-weekend-box-office numbers, studios have stopped making grown-up films. They gear their marketing dollars (and movies) toward a younger target audience - kids with disposable income who will be willing to go back and see a movie they like several times. Clearly, this isn't always the case, but I like to pass on word about movies-especially genre films-with a bit more depth.
So here are a couple of grown-up film recommendations.
MAN ON FIRE - if you missed this Tony Scott/Denzel remake, you should check it out. The characters in it are great. Here's an additional treat for you Creasy fans - a website dedicated to the book series' elusive and talented author, who writes under the pseudonym A.J. Quinnell:
http://web.singnet.com.sg/%7Etonym/quinnell.html
I also recently rented SPARTAN, a David Mamet film starring Val Kilmer. If you like Mamet, this one's a must-see. I was surprised that it was glossed over in theatres. It's a strong, tough piece of writing, loaded with twists and reveals that feel organic to the plot.
So here are a couple of grown-up film recommendations.
MAN ON FIRE - if you missed this Tony Scott/Denzel remake, you should check it out. The characters in it are great. Here's an additional treat for you Creasy fans - a website dedicated to the book series' elusive and talented author, who writes under the pseudonym A.J. Quinnell:
http://web.singnet.com.sg/%7Etonym/quinnell.html
I also recently rented SPARTAN, a David Mamet film starring Val Kilmer. If you like Mamet, this one's a must-see. I was surprised that it was glossed over in theatres. It's a strong, tough piece of writing, loaded with twists and reveals that feel organic to the plot.
Sunday, October 03, 2004
In a Contentious Season
It seems that with political debates and the close of Major League Baseball, everyone has more opinions than usual. Yesterday's San Francisco Giants game - in which the Los Angeles Dodgers came back and stunned my boys with a bottom-of-the-ninth victory - was one of the worst viewing experiences of my life (yes, I am a Giants fan through-and-through despite my relocation to this fine City of Angels). My grandfather, a Boston sports fanatic - used to get angina when his beloved Sox played the Yankees. My high blood pressure during political and sports seasons makes me wonder if being a writer (or reader) makes me more susceptible to the slings and arrows of contemporary competitions. Do you think we relate more, agonize more, suffer more because we've been conditioned to do so by burying ourselves in countless films and books? After all, conflict is story, more or less, and I've found the 9-inning variety to be as compelling and painful as anything Thomas Hardy ever set down.
In any event, there's always next season....
In any event, there's always next season....
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