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‘Always writing the Next Book’

In Writing, author, writers on February 24, 2012 at 7:37 am


On his entertaining blog, Abominations, fellow scribe Marc Schuster writes about a letter he once received from Fight Club author Chuck Palahniuk. “The reality of a career,” wrote Palahniuk, discussing various literary matters, “is that you’ll always be writing a Next Book.”

Very true.

Even when I’m trying to make a deadline and am up to my neck in a manuscript, I’m pondering what the next book will be. There’s always that fear the ideas will stop coming. As I write non-fiction books, it’s probably easier for me to stumble across story ideas than someone who writes fiction—but there’s always that worry in the back of my mind that I’ve drained the well dry.

Add to that the anxiety experienced by every journeyman author: Will I find a publisher who wants to release whatever I do next? I’ve had a pretty good run, thus far. Penguin published my first two books in the States and will be publishing my sixth book in October. I’ve had three mainstream publishers in the UK release my work. But none of that’s a guarantee that another publisher will take on my work in the future. I think scoring a bestseller probably seals that deal.

By the way . . . Marc’s latest book, available for pre-order, is called The Grievers.

Can ‘genre fiction’ qualify as ‘Great Literature’? Yes.

In writers, books on February 22, 2012 at 7:22 am


In a New York Times article last week, author Dominique Browning writes that while on a recent flight, she lost herself in a good book. So rapt was her attention, she stopped worrying about whether she would make her connection—in fact, she didn’t realize they had taken off until she pried her eyes from the page and looked out the window. The book, she writes, was the perfect kind of book to distract one’s mind from the many discomforts of air travel:

My heart and mind were plunged into an epic battle between good and evil, the struggle to establish a new world order, the heartbreak of love fractured by political imperative, the tragedy of families torn apart.

Was I reading War and Peace? Hardly. I have given up flying with Great Literature.

The book was George R.R. Martin’s Game of Thrones. When traveling, Browning tells us, her literary tastes veer towards Martin, Patricia Cornwell, P.D. James, and other scribes who write what many would call “genre fiction.” She loves the “narrative drive” of such authors and their ability to draw you into a story. No argument there. Martin, Cornwell, and James have all written fabulous books—and Browning openly discusses the joys of reading popular genres. What bothers me about the article is that she states several times that such books aren’t “Great Literature.” At one point, she writes:

I no longer take Great Literature on the road. It belongs nestled in my arms, deep in a comfortable chair by a crackling fire, where I can tend lovingly to every detail it whispers, where I can pay close attention to the dexterous play of intelligence and the lilting nuance of verbal agility.

There are those like Harold Bloom who believe only Shakespeare or Cormac McCarthy can write great literature (McCarthy’s refusal to use quotation marks drives me nuts, by the way), but that’s an idiotic stance. I’m not saying Browning is elitist, as Bloom would never admit to liking a fantasy novel, but I would argue a book that consumed her attention the way Game of Thrones did on that flight qualifies as great literature. When you get right down to it, a book’s main purpose is to entertain. A good book is a good book. It doesn’t matter who wrote it or when. Yes, we can be impressed with a writer’s vocabulary and the “nuance” of their “verbal agility”—but if the book ultimately bores us, is it still great? The definition, of course, is purely subjective. I love Steinbeck and John O’Hara’s Appointment in Samarra, but I also think Stephen King’s The Shining and Bag of Bones are examples of great literature.

Great literature draws you in, makes you forget your everyday worries and renders you oblivious to the passing of time. Going by this definition, I’d qualify the works of the late James Crumley—one of the most underrated crime novelists out there—as meeting such criteria. Consider the beauty of this passage from his book The Wrong Case:

A car full of drunks hissed over the Ripley Avenue bridge and down the ramp above us, fleeing through the night down black and wet streets, heading home or to another gaily lighted bar rife with music and dancing and sweaty women with bright eyes and lips like faded rose petals. As the driver down-shifted, the exhaust belched, the tires snickered across the slick pavement, a girl’s shrill laughter flew out, abandoned like an empty beer can in the skid. The colored lights from the discreet Riverfront sign reflected off the dark asphalt, wavering as the wind sifted the rain, glowing distantly like the lights of a city beneath a black sea.

It’s a wonderful piece of descriptive writing, typical of Crumley—a passage you’d want to enjoy in a comfortable chair by a glowing hearth, relishing the skill of an amazing writer. There is no shame in admitting that a popular author has created something of superior quality. Any writing that is able to remove us from the realities of everyday life is great literature.

Let the English majors shudder.

The day Hollywood called

In books on February 16, 2012 at 8:14 am

Sucker!

Valentine’s Day this year marked an anniversary for me, as it was on Feb. 14, 2011, Hollywood came knocking. Actually, it sent an e-mail and lured me in with a promise of great things. I’m not normally a naïve person, but I fell for the spiel and flattery. Then, just as quickly as it began, the all-too-brief acquaintance was over.


The person who contacted me was an Emmy Award-winning producer with major credits to his name. He wanted to chat about my first book, On the House, which details the bizarre murder of speakeasy habitué Michael Malloy in Prohibition-era New York. A gang of thugs, subsequently named “the Murder Trust” by the tabloids of the day, decided to take an insurance policy out on Malloy and do him in. Unfortunately for the would-be killers, Malloy proved to be a drunken marvel of indestructibility and survived multiple attempts on his life—each one more outrageous than the last—without realizing anyone was trying to kill him. The gang, consisting of a syphilitic speakeasy owner, crooked undertaker, trigger-happy gangster, desperate greengrocer, and alcoholic bartender, grew increasingly desperate with each failed attempt.

They fed him shots of rat poison and anti-freeze, served him sardine sandwiches laced with carpet tacks and metal shavings, got him drunk and buried him naked in the snow, all to no avail. When running Malloy over with a car failed to get the job done, the gang decided to kill someone who looked like Malloy but might prove to be an easier target. To cut a long story short, Malloy was eventually murdered. The members of the Murder Trust paid for their misdeeds in the electric chair. In the wake of his death, the downtrodden Malloy became the toast of New York society. Much like Seabiscuit, the guy became a symbol of Depression-era resilience.

The book—published in 2005 by Penguin’s Berkley imprint—is now out of print, but I continue to have a soft spot for it. Anyway, the producer wanted to chat about On the House and the other books I’ve written. Why, he wanted to know once we connected on the phone, was I spending my days in an office when I was obviously a “great, fucking writer”? He told me to send copies of all my books to him and his partner, an Academy Award-winning screenwriter. Initially, I did a pretty good job keeping my hopes grounded—but the guy kept working me up. At one point, he wrote in an e-mail, “You won’t be sorry!”

Guess what?

The guy vanished into the ether and cut off all communication just as suddenly as it began. A movie he produced hit theaters last year and his name appears in the trade publications attached to various projects with big-name stars, but we’re incommunicado. What really ticks me off about the whole thing is the fact I sent the dude free copies of all my books (including the last two copies I had of one book in particular). With all his success, couldn’t he have just purchased copies and slipped a few bucks in royalties into my pocket?

C’mon, show a writer some love–and respect!

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