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.

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!

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.

That’s all I want to say.

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.”

I took my coffee and scurried from the premises.

I taped my interview on Saturday. Originally scheduled to take place at RAF Uxbridge, an historic airbase with ties to Winston Churchill and the Battle of Britain, we ended up filming at RAF Northolt, an active airfield in West London. It, too, played a pivotal role in the defense of the capital during the Second World War and was the first base from which the famous Spitfire flew. For a history geek like me, it was very cool stuff!

The interview was a great experience. Surprisingly, I was pretty calm before hand thanks to the production team who did a great job making me feel at ease. We filmed in the Officer’s Mess in front of a large fireplace framed between the RAF’s official flag and the Union Jack. The subject was Gordon Frederick Cummins, an RAF cadet and serial killer who stalked the blacked-out streets of wartime London, murdering four women in a fashion similar to Jack the Ripper. The press ultimately dubbed Cummins “The Blackout Ripper.” I wrote about the case in my second book In the Dark (published in the UK as The Blackout Murders).

Fred Dinenage, the show’s host and well-known British TV reporter, had me walk through Cummins’s crime spree and detail each of the murders. He was a great interviewer and engaged me in a friendly, conversational style. I was once featured on Court TV’s “The Investigators.” Throughout that taping, the crew had to keep stopping the interview to put powder on my forehead to blunt the glare of the camera lights. I’m happy to say there were no such problems this time around.

The taping took the better part of three hours. I brought a camera with me–but I got so wrapped up in things, I forgot to take pictures! Naturally, once the interview was over, I thought of better ways to phrase the things I had said. Such is life.

All in all, it was an amazing experience and one for which I’m incredibly thankful. It would not have been possible without the perseverance of the wonderful Liz Kay at Talent TV South. So, to Liz, I say, “Cheers!”

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.”

Wouldn’t it be nice to have that luxury of time?

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.

Julie, the talented scribe over at Word Flows, was kind enough to bestow upon me the Versatile Blogger Award. Thanks, Julie! The honor comes with a few conditions attached; mainly, I share seven things about myself and point readers to fifteen other blogs. Would it be okay if I cheat a little here and suggest, say, four blogs? I’d post more but am battling a miserable cold. I hope this does not condemn me to Blogosphere Purgatory!

Seven things about myself:

1. I’ve never read a book of mine after it’s been published, as I’m afraid of what I might find.
2. I once sent Phil Collins several of my books, and he responded with a very nice thank you letter. The man is legend.
3. I can quote every line in almost every Dirty Harry movie.
4. I think Daniel Craig is a better James Bond than Sean Connery.
5. The working title for my next book is The Case that Foiled Fabian.
6. When I’m in the UK next week, I plan to gorge myself on roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.
7. I wish I could write like Ian Fleming.

Now, for those blogs. Here they are in no particular order:

Photobotos
Oktopod
Ooa revo
Eat, Sleep, Television