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.
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.
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?
Editor’s Note: This post is aimed not at the really good writers out there who publish their own work, but those scribes guilty of self-publishing books with horrible spelling, bad grammar, clichéd similes, and countless other literary crimes.
For my recent trip to England, I downloaded several books onto my Kindle Fire, including Michael Morpurgo’s War Horse and the classic thriller The 39 Steps by John Buchan. Both were great reads. Not great, however, were a couple of self-published books I purchased from the Kindle store. I won’t reveal the titles or authors—but I will say that I won’t be reading anything by these offenders again. No one recommended the books to me; I stumbled across them on my own. I’m not angry I spent good money on said books, as they were only 99 cents each—I’m annoyed with the authors for publishing them in the first place. I love many different authors and a broad range of genres, but I can’t tolerate horrible writing.
There is nothing wrong with an author publishing his or her own work. While it gives a writer greater control over their creation, it also places on them a greater responsibility to produce something of quality. I’m not saying it has to be Shakespeare—but it should, at the very least, display the author’s basic understanding of grammar and an ability to produce decent prose. Obviously, if you publish through a traditional publishing house, you have editors and proofreaders vetting your copy. If you’re putting it out there yourself, the entire burden rests on your shoulders. If you’re self-publishing, you’re in essence an ambassador for a burgeoning field. If you have several lousy meals at a restaurant, you’d probably stop eating there. Likewise, how many bad self-published authors does one read before giving up on self-published books altogether?
According to a statistic I came across online, more than 74,000 self-published books were released in 2009! One can’t be shoddy and expect to stand out in a field that crowded. It’s tough enough trying to make it with a major publishing house behind you. There are great self-published authors out there (check out my friend Chris Randolph at Oktopods) who fret over every word and sentence. This, of course, is how it should be. Take pride in what you write. At least prove to the rest of us you know the difference between “there” and “their,” or when to use “it’s” versus “its.”
And never, when describing a murder, compare a blade cutting through flesh to a “hot knife slicing through butter.”
I’m not a big fan of “American Idol” (I blame Ryan Seacrest for unleashing the Kardashian plague), but I sometimes take grim pleasure in watching the audition episodes. I always feel sorry for the poor individuals with no vocal talent whatsoever who truly believe they can sing. It’s both comedic and horrifying to watch.
Bad singing is funny; bad writing isn’t—but why not? Because expressing ideas on paper in a clear, concise manner is a fundamental skill we should all possess. Not everyone is going to write with Churchillian eloquence, but everyone should have a basic understanding of how to construct a sentence.
Last Friday, my first night in London, I met my book editor for drinks and dinner at the Goat Tavern, a 300-year-old pub on Kensington High Street. It was our first face-to-face encounter. We worked together a couple of years ago on Dark City, my history of infamous crimes in wartime London. Said editor, Mark Beynon, is also an author. His most recent work is London’s Curse: Murder, Black Magic, and Tutankhamun in the 1920s West End, which implicates occultist Aleister Crowley in a series of murders that shocked London following the discovery of King Tut’s tomb.
It looks as though Mark and I may be working on another book together for publisher The History Press. Details have yet to be ironed out, and I’m still researching the tentative subject matter at hand . . . so we’ll see how things proceed. In other books news, Penguin will soon have the finished cover design for Human Game (scheduled for an October release) ready. Once they send it my way, I’ll post it here!
Last Sunday afternoon, I went to Paddington Station and caught a train north to visit family. Before my departure, I walked into the station’s Starbucks and ordered a latte. The young guy behind the register was of Eastern European descent and had a very thick accent. I must have also been hard to understand because it took me two tries to convey what I wanted to drink. He eventually picked up a paper cup and a pen and said something to me. Again, there was a communication breakdown. I could only assume he was asking me my name so he could write it on the cup, as they do in Starbucks here in the States. I said, “Simon.” He offered me nothing but a blank stare, so I proceeded to spell my name for him. He dully scribbled it on the side of the cup, looked at me, and said, “Why do you tell me your name?”
I felt the blood rush to my face. “I have no idea,” I said. “I thought that’s what you were asking me.”
“I wasn’t,” he replied—without offering any explanation as to what he had actually said to me.
When the barista (also Eastern European) was handed my cup to make the latte, she asked the cashier, “What is ‘Simon’?”
“I don’t know,” the cashier shrugged, pointing a finger at me. “He keeps telling me his name.”
By now, I just wanted to make a hasty retreat with my latte in hand. Mercifully, the barista got busy making my drink. When done, she thrust it in my direction and said, “This is yours.”
The suitcase is nearly packed; my reading selection for the plane is close to being finalized. Tomorrow, I take off for the United Kingdom. I’m being interviewed on Saturday for an upcoming episode of “Murder Casebook” on the UK Discovery Channel. The show will focus on the Blackout Ripper, a serial killer who stalked the nighttime streets of London in February 1942. He murdered four women and attacked two more in the course of a week before being apprehended by Scotland Yard. I wrote about the case in my second book, published by Penguin in the US under the title In the Dark and by JR Books in the UK as The Blackout Murders. It’s also covered in my most recent book, Dark City, which was published in Britain to commemorate the seventieth anniversary of the Blitz.
Friday night, I’m meeting my book editor for several pints and a good English meal (yes, I love English food: roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, fish and chips, sticky toffee pudding . . . the list goes on) at The Goat Tavern in Kensington. The pub features in one of Britain’s most notorious murder cases, for it was here John “Acid Bath” Haigh met one of his victims. Haigh’s modus operandi earned him his nickname. He would shoot his victims in the back of the head and then dispose of their bodies in acid.
My interview is tentatively taking place in the officer’s mess at RAF Uxbridge, the fighter base responsible for the defense of London and southeast England during the Battle of Britain. Winston Churchill visited the base’s operation bunker on August 16, 1940, to monitor the progress of an air battle. It was on this occasion he first uttered his famous remark, “Never has so much been owed by so many to so few.” Four days later, he would incorporate that phrase into one of his rousing war speeches.
What can I say? I’m a history geek, so all this stuff excites me! I’m not sure if I’ll have a chance to blog while I’m in the UK, but I’ll certainly be posting an update when I return!
Last night, while reading Hemingway: A Biography by Jeffrey Meyers, I came to what I consider the best part in any literary biography: a breakdown of the subject’s writing process. Even if reading the biography of an author I don’t necessarily enjoy, I’m always fascinated by the way they work and the approach they take when hunkering down with a manuscript. Last week, I posted Ian Fleming’s advice on writing. Here, according to Meyers, is Hemingway’s strategy:
Study the best literary models.
Master your subject through experience and reading.
Work in disciplined isolation.
Begin early in the morning and concentrate for several hours each day.
Begin by reading everything you have written from the start or, if engaged on a long book, from the last chapter.
Write slowly and deliberately.
Stop writing when things are going well and you know what will happen next so that you have sufficient momentum to continue the next day.
Do not discuss the material while writing about it.
Do not think about writing when you are finished for the day but allow your subconscious mind to ponder it.
Work continuously on a project once you start it.
Keep a record of your daily progress.
Make a list of titles after you have completed the work.
An interesting list, to be sure. The one thing that struck me was his advice to stop writing when things are going well to ensure you have something to write about the next time you’re at your desk. I’ve done this from the beginning, and it serves me very well. Working in “disciplined isolation,” however, is not something I can do. With a 10-month-old baby in the house, I have to change my fair share of diapers!
As for not discussing the work in progress . . . that’s a rule I break all the time. I tend to obsess on a story once I get going on it. If I’m stuck, I complain bitterly to my wife. If things are going really well, then I’m more than happy to blather on about it. I also never read a manuscript I’m working on until I’m completely done with the first draft. I think reading what you’re putting down on paper as you go along is a terrible idea. Personally, I’m guaranteed to fall into the trap of early editing and start rewriting everything before I have the rough draft done. That, for me, is the kiss of death.
I don’t write early in the morning but late at night when the house is dark and quiet. I’ll write for several hours if I can—but if the words aren’t flowing, I won’t force it. Admittedly, I don’t write slowly or deliberately. If the idea is fully formed in my head, I frantically pound the keys to get it down on paper before it vanishes into the ether. My revisions are slow and deliberate, but my first draft is a race to get the story out.
According to Meyers, “It often took Hemingway all morning to write a single perfect paragraph.”
Watching TV last night, I saw a commercial for the latest book churned out by the James Patterson factory. My general rule is to chat only about authors I like and not badmouth those I don’t—but Patterson drives me crazy (my apologies to the impressive number of Patterson fans out there). I tried reading Kiss the Girls several years ago when the Morgan Freeman movie hit theaters but just couldn’t get through it. The writing was pedestrian and the one-page chapters distracting. That aside, it’s not his writing that bothers me . . . it’s his approach to writing.
Those of us who write do so because we love the act itself. It’s wonderful to see your thoughts take shape on a page, and it’s an amazing feeling to finish a story and hold in your hands a completed manuscript. While I have yet to score a bestseller and certainly can’t afford to write books fulltime, I dream of the day—if it ever arrives—when I can devote myself fully to the profession. Of course, I want to make enough money doing it to sustain myself and my family, but my passion for writing is the primary motivator.
So, what does this have to do with James Patterson?
I don’t consider him a true writer. He’s more of an idea factory who leaves the writing to others. You’ll notice on most of his recent efforts, it’s his name and that of another author’s on the cover. He’s certainly not the only guy doing this these days. Tom Clancy and Clive Cussler are two others who come to mind—but Patterson seems to have taken it to a whole other level. In 2009, the Hatchette Book Group announced it had signed a deal that would see Patterson bang out 17 books through 2012 . . . that’s 17 books in three years. According to his website, Patterson already has four books due out this year: one in March, two in May, and one in July (he already released one earlier this month). Last year, he put out nine. Some may consider Stephen King a factory (personally, I’m a fan), but at least the man writes his own books.
I can only assume at this point in his career, Patterson doesn’t care about any sort of artistic integrity or quality control. He merely wants a paycheck. My feeling is that if you want to write books, then write books—don’t contract someone else out to do it. The publisher is also to blame here, as it obviously doesn’t care what’s slapped between two covers. You can’t churn out nine books in a year from one author and expect to deliver a quality product.
Ultimately, it’s the fans who are cheated.
My rant is over. I don’t know—maybe I’m just being overly critical.
Browsing other book-related blogs this morning, I came across the following video on Wragsthinks. Always interesting to hear writers discussing their habits.
For Christmas, my very generous wife gave me a Kindle Fire. Her message was clear: “E-books are the future. Why clutter our house with more books, when you can download them on this incredibly nifty gizmo and free-up some much needed shelf space?” While I’m certainly not a luddite, I am one who tends to romanticize the past and have long wished I lived in the 1920s or 1940s. In the twenties, it was fashionable to smoke and drink and hang out in Paris. In the forties, it was fashionable to smoke and drink and wear a fedora. There was, of course, WW2—but seeing as I’m a geek for history, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
But, I digress . . . back to the Kindle Fire. The other night, I downloaded my first two books: Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness and Michael Morpurgo’s War Horse. I plan to read both when I fly to England next week. I’ve already read the first few pages—or is it screens?—of Darkness and found it to be an okay experience. For one who loves the physical feel of a book, however, and the act of turning the page, it is slightly odd. My day job requires that I sit for eight hours and stare at a computer screen. If I’m working on a book, then I stare at a screen all evening after I get home. That being the case, I don’t really want to stare at another screen when I read for enjoyment. Don’t get me wrong: I’m willing to give the Kindle Fire a chance—and I do love the fact you can use it to stream movies. I’m just not sure it’ll ever become my preferred method of reading.
All this was driven home to me the other night as I casually browsed one of my bookshelves. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular—just looking. For no reason whatsoever, I pulled my copy of Stephen King’s Dreamcatcher from the shelf and randomly flipped through its pages. In the middle of the book, I came across four black-and-white photographs of my grandfather as a child. One picture, taken in 1920 when he was five, shows and his two sisters posting in their old-fashioned swimsuits in a Blackpool portrait studio. It was a pleasant surprise stumbling across these images I hadn’t looked at in several years. This sort of thing can’t happen with an e-book. Books (the paper variety) are great companions. Between their pages they can hold mementos of your life, whether it’s photographs, an old love letter, or a faded theater ticket. They can be reminders of friends and family and special events. Fred Vargas’s The Night’s Foul Work will always be the book I read on my honeymoon in Maui. Between its pages is the receipt for the whale-watching tour my wife and I went on.
Growing up, my parents always gave me books for my birthday and Christmas. Without exception, they always wrote something on the inside cover, saying they couldn’t wait to read my first published book. They offered nothing but encouragement, and those books are now something I treasure. You can’t do that with an e-book. You physically keep certain books with you throughout your life because of the memories attached to them. Is it possible to be that sentimental about an e-book?
My parents slipped a copy of Stephen King’s Misery into my hands when I was thirteen. I tore through it in a matter of days and decided shortly thereafter I wanted to be a writer. Taking it upon myself to read King’s other books, I thought—early on—that I’d want to pen ... Continue reading »
