by Ben Small
I'm really torn this year by the start of the NFL season. I mean, here I am in the midst of plotting a one man crime wave, and the NFL is throwing all this felonious competition at me. How can I keep up with the National Felons League now back in action?
Sure I like the mano-o-mano stuff as much as the next guy, the slamming of the pads, the grunts, the crack-back blocks, clipping, the blood, that turf-in-helmet stuff that either means somebody got creamed or the guy's an ostrich. But heck, I was depressed enough when the NBA announced it was expanding and then drafted its next wave of future felons. (Yeah, those basketball guys are weenies, pikers at crime, pansies really. National Baby Association. They've got the tats and play the music and claim the creds, but when it's time to actually hit somebody, most of these overpaid goober-freaks play paddy-cake or have somebody in their entourage do their dirty work.)
C'mon, I need a break. We live in a media world. How can I draw attention to my crimes if everybody's following professional sport crime waves?
Dillinger didn't have this problem.
Back to the National Felons League, where exhibitions aren't limited to pre-season games. Imagine those end zone dances as pre-perp polkas. Assault, robbery, weapons violations, attempted murder...
And that's just during the game.
Sorta like prison university, but the inmates are paid more.
I watched the opening game: Giants vs. Redskins. Then I watched the Redskins coach mouth the words, "Just how stupid are you?" to a player who took a fifteen yard penalty on a felonious late hit. The player grinned through a blood-red mouth guard and flashed two fingers. Gang symbol or IQ? I don't know. And it pains me that I don't, pains me even more that I'm spending my time watching this stuff.
Then a helmeted player head-butted a helmetless opponent.
Battery: a touching with felonious intent.
Bad boy, bad, bad boy. A big, bad buttor bestowed a big, bad butt to a battered buttee's bloated brain.
Boo yah.
Too bad my kids are grown. They used to love this stuff. They'd see a head-butt like that, and they'd keep the school-kids bloody all week long.
Oh yeah, the drugs.... Break 'em out. Steroids, smeroids. Why not? The goal is to get big, isn't it? Who cares if there's brain-shrink? Besides, a lotta these guys can't read. Gotta have a brain before it can shrink. Some years ago, Ricky Williams, the top running back in football, said he was giving up the game because he didn't want people to know he smoked pot. He said this on 6o Minutes, a show with only about five million viewers.
I rest my case: no brain.
And yet, now Ricky's back.
Musta run out of baggies...
So is Ricky better than ever? Who knows? Ricky may run the wrong way. Wrong-Way-Ricky. Has a nice ring. Maybe we should look for smoke on Ricky's sidelines.
Steroids are just appetizers for these guys; there's much better stuff around. Ask former All-Pro linebacker Laurence Taylor. That white stuff on his nose came from lines, all right; just not those on the field. And those long huddles you see? No doubt some good stuff is being passed around. A No-Huddle Offense? Sounds like a meth-effect to me.
You know these guys love contact. Wives, girlfriends, boyfriends, dogs -- tackling dummies, tools for staying in shape during the off-season. Remember, this is the sport that gave us OJ and Rae Carruth. Where else can an athlete play in the playoffs a weekend after being caught with an illegal weapon and just a day after somebody in his entourage shot and killed a nightclub patron? Okay, so that was Chicago; maybe Chicago shouldn't count. A hundred-twenty-seven murders this summer. Chicago's on a roll.
But lawyers love NFL football players: They're annuities. JG Wentworth may even advance cash on future football-felon fees. Look what happened during the great lockout, when replacement players were brought in and the regulars had time off: massive law firm hiring sprees. Legal fee reimbursement must be part of the NFL benefit plan, along with bail bond delivery, fine payment, separate sections for parole officers on team planes, color coordinated ankle locks, suspension cruises, and search warrant pickup at a Will Call window. Now that's effective union representation.
So how do I compete? I can't possibly perv as many teenage girls; shoot up as many nightclubs; carry weapons on as many aircraft; plot as many girl-friend murders, or father and fail to support as many illegitimate children as these guys do, and I don't have the support system the NFL provides to keep me motivated and felonating.
It's just not fair.
Maybe I should organize and hold my own draft. Hello! Anybody out there who's brainless, witless, has no morals or self-control, takes drugs which shrink brains and privates alike, and who wants to have some fun abusing people and stealing their stuff? Applications are now being accepted. BYOD. Politicians and Lindsay Lohan get preferred treatment. Law enforcement -- unless corrupt -- need not apply.
And, oh yeah... go Bears.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Friday, September 5, 2008
Little Cat Feet
Gutenberg Memorial Sculpture, Berlin - photo from Wikipedia
=============
By Pat Browning
Change, like Sandburg’s fog, comes in on little cat feet.
Modern publishing started with Gutenberg. Almost 600 years later came offset printing, and then print-on-demand. Mercy, where will it end?
The signs are that there is no end, thanks to the Internet, but you can follow the changes like an Indian looking for broken twigs and crushed leaves on a forest trail.
Here’s a big broken twig for you, snapped on TV during the Democrat convention in Denver. Sen. Harry Reid of Nevada said, “The population center in this country has come west. It’s now west of the Mississippi.”
That’s good news for writers and fans of the western regional mystery. Tony Hillerman in New Mexico, J.A. Jance in Seattle, Joseph Wambaugh in Los Angeles, are the contemporary pioneers. Robert Fate, with his Baby Shark series set in Texas and Oklahoma, and Craig Johnson, with his Walt Longmire series set in Wyoming, are coming on strong.
Got me to thinking about the books I read during the past couple of weeks, all set in the West.
*BLOOD MEMORY by Margaret Coel, set in Colorado, a tale of skullduggery and the Cheyenne and Arapaho Indians. This is a standalone. Her Wind River mystery series is set among the Arapahos of the Wind River Reservation in Wyoming.
*SUMMER OF THE BIG BACHI by Naomi Hirahara, first of a series featuring a Japanese gardener in Southern California.
*KINDRED SPIRITS by Marilyn Meredith, latest in her Deputy Tempe Crabtree series set in the foothills of Central California.
*LOCATION LOCATION, latest in Kit Sloane’s Margot and Max series. Technically speaking, Margot and Max are in Panama for this one, but only to make a movie. Sloane may eventually do for the Hollywood movie industry what Wambaugh did for the LAPD.
Another twig snapped, this one on a different front, but also from coverage of the Democrat convention. Frank Rich, a New York Times columnist, writes in an Op-Ed piece:
“We, too, are made anxious and fearful by hard economic times and the prospect of wrenching change. YouTube, the medium that has transformed our culture and politics, didn’t exist four years ago. Four years from now, it’s entirely possible that some, even many, of the newspapers and magazines covering this campaign won’t exist in their current form, if they exist at all. The Big Three network evening newscasts, and network news divisions as we now know them, may also be extinct by then. … The Web, in its infinite iterations, is eroding all 20th-century media.”
Speaking of the Internet, here’s something posted to DorothyL by Carola Dunn, an author with a long list of Daisy Dalrymple mysteries to her credit. I repeat it here with her permission:
“All my regencies (previously published on paper) except a few novellas are available as e-books. I can’t say I’m making a fortune but it’s a very nice bit of change. Two Daisy short stories are available free online. I understand St. Martin’s is trying to figure out the best way to go electronic with their backlists, so one of these days, with any luck, all Daisy will be out there.”
Oh, but you ain’t heard nuthin’ yet.
Here’s a sci-fi novel with a difference. Try wrapping your mind around a Quillr, on Nicola Furlong’s page at www.hereendsthebeginning.com
The teaser (abbreviated):
“John the Apostle is a reclusive and temperamental rock star struggling to balance the pressure of celebrity with the burden of protecting an astounding secret. His charisma and stigmata attract global attention and curiosity yet he desperately wants to be left alone with his family.
“But when three unwelcome strangers infiltrate his secluded west-coast compound, all hell breaks loose… Scroll down and click the video… but beware… a Quillr is NOT a book. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED”
So what is a Quillr?
Quoting : “Quillr is the exciting new platform for multimedia storytelling combining text, audio and video. Part movie, part soundtrack, part graphic novel; with Quillrs, stories will no longer be read ... they'll be experienced.”
Gutenberg would be dumbfounded. Then again, maybe not.
An Interview with Elmore Leonard
by Jean Henry Mead
Elmore “Dutch” Leonard has always been an avowed reader. “A bookworm, yes,” he said, “beginning with The Bobbsey Twins and The Book House volumes of abridged classics that included everything from Beowulf to Treasure Island. In the fifth grade I read most of All Quiet on the Western Front serialized in the Detroit Times, and I wrote a World War I play that was staged in the classroom, my first piece of writing.”
The first nine years of his life were spent south of the Mason-Dixon line. Born in New Orleans in 1925, the youngest of two children, he lived in Dallas, Oklahoma City, and Memphis before moving to Detroit in 1934, during the World Series. Raised a Catholic, he graduated from Detroit High School and the University of Detroit, both Jesuit institutions where he majored in English and philosophy.
Leonard lusted for full-time writing, and remembered receiving a letter from his agent in 1951, trying to discourage him from quitting his advertising job to freelance. He had concentrated on truck advertising for Chevrolet and, by that time, had a tank full of writing catchy ads.
Getting out of bed each morning at five o’clock, he’d write two pages of fiction before going to work “with the rule that I couldn’t put the water on for coffee until I started writing. I’ve been a disciplined writer every since." While still working for the ad agency, he supplemented his early morning writings by placing a pad of paper in his desk drawer. With the drawer partially open, he’d write fiction on the job.
He first wrote western stories and novels because he liked western films. His novel, Hombre, evolved into a western film starring Paul Newman and earned him a modest $10,000. He then turned full attention to the other side of his genre coin and found that crime pays quite well. Stick and LaBrava made him an overnight sensation, earning him a lot of money, along with the film version of Stick, starring Burt Reynolds, a production he would rather not lay claim to.
“My humor is deadpan,” he said, “not slapstick.” The slightly-built, quiet-spoken novelist had written well all along, and his sudden popularity created some problems, the most serious of which was lack of time to write.
“It’s nice to get fan mail, a few letters a week, and being recognized on the street, but the interviews are wearing me out. I’m asked questions about writing, and about my purpose in the way I write that I’ve never thought of before. And I have to take time to think on the spot and come up with an answer. I’m learning quite a bit about what I do from recent interviews and getting answers too.”
When asked for advice to fledgling writers, he said, “The worst thing a novice can do is to try to sound like a writer. I guess the first thing you have to learn is how not to overwrite.” He also advised fledglings to “write. Don’t talk about it, do it. Read constantly, study the authors you like, pick one and imitate him the way a painter learns fine art by copying the masters. I studied Hemingway, as thousands of other writers have done. I feel that I learned to write westerns by rereading For Whom the Bell Tolls.”
A portrait of Hemingway hangs on the wall of his den, reminding him that he studied the revered novelist’s work for “construction, for what you leave out as well as what you put in.”
Excerpted from my book, MaverickWriters. The rest of the interview may be read at my website: http://jeanhenrymead.com/elmore_leonard_interview.htm.
Elmore “Dutch” Leonard has always been an avowed reader. “A bookworm, yes,” he said, “beginning with The Bobbsey Twins and The Book House volumes of abridged classics that included everything from Beowulf to Treasure Island. In the fifth grade I read most of All Quiet on the Western Front serialized in the Detroit Times, and I wrote a World War I play that was staged in the classroom, my first piece of writing.”
The first nine years of his life were spent south of the Mason-Dixon line. Born in New Orleans in 1925, the youngest of two children, he lived in Dallas, Oklahoma City, and Memphis before moving to Detroit in 1934, during the World Series. Raised a Catholic, he graduated from Detroit High School and the University of Detroit, both Jesuit institutions where he majored in English and philosophy.
Leonard lusted for full-time writing, and remembered receiving a letter from his agent in 1951, trying to discourage him from quitting his advertising job to freelance. He had concentrated on truck advertising for Chevrolet and, by that time, had a tank full of writing catchy ads.
Getting out of bed each morning at five o’clock, he’d write two pages of fiction before going to work “with the rule that I couldn’t put the water on for coffee until I started writing. I’ve been a disciplined writer every since." While still working for the ad agency, he supplemented his early morning writings by placing a pad of paper in his desk drawer. With the drawer partially open, he’d write fiction on the job.
He first wrote western stories and novels because he liked western films. His novel, Hombre, evolved into a western film starring Paul Newman and earned him a modest $10,000. He then turned full attention to the other side of his genre coin and found that crime pays quite well. Stick and LaBrava made him an overnight sensation, earning him a lot of money, along with the film version of Stick, starring Burt Reynolds, a production he would rather not lay claim to.
“My humor is deadpan,” he said, “not slapstick.” The slightly-built, quiet-spoken novelist had written well all along, and his sudden popularity created some problems, the most serious of which was lack of time to write.
“It’s nice to get fan mail, a few letters a week, and being recognized on the street, but the interviews are wearing me out. I’m asked questions about writing, and about my purpose in the way I write that I’ve never thought of before. And I have to take time to think on the spot and come up with an answer. I’m learning quite a bit about what I do from recent interviews and getting answers too.”
When asked for advice to fledgling writers, he said, “The worst thing a novice can do is to try to sound like a writer. I guess the first thing you have to learn is how not to overwrite.” He also advised fledglings to “write. Don’t talk about it, do it. Read constantly, study the authors you like, pick one and imitate him the way a painter learns fine art by copying the masters. I studied Hemingway, as thousands of other writers have done. I feel that I learned to write westerns by rereading For Whom the Bell Tolls.”
A portrait of Hemingway hangs on the wall of his den, reminding him that he studied the revered novelist’s work for “construction, for what you leave out as well as what you put in.”
Excerpted from my book, MaverickWriters. The rest of the interview may be read at my website: http://jeanhenrymead.com/elmore_leonard_interview.htm.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Nothing Hides Forever
By Beth Terrell
Today, I've been reading An Unfinished Canvas by Phyllis Gobbell and Michael Glasgow. For those of you who aren't familiar with it, it's an exceptionally well-researched true crime book about the disappearance of Janet Levine March and the eventual prosecution and conviction of her husband, Perry. Janet disappeared in 1996. Although her body was never found, there was a mountain of evidence (including the testimony of Perry's father, Arthur March) that Perry had murdered her.
Janet's murder, like the 1975 rape and murder of 9-year-old Marcia Trimble, hit Nashville hard. Of Marcia's death, Police Captain Mickey Miller said, "In that moment, Nashville lost its innocence. Our city has never been, and never will be, the same again. Every man, woman and child knew that if something that horrific could happen to that little girl, it could happen to anyone." I was 15 that year, older than Marcia, but like most of my peers, I followed the case religiously. For 33 days, while police searched for Marcia, we waited and worried, knowing something horrible had happened and unable to conceive of the evil mind that could have caused it. When she was found and we learned what had happened to her, it felt like the world would never be safe again.
When Janet disappeared in 1996, it was like "deja vu all over again," to quote the famous Yogi Berra. My friend Tammy was in Janet's book group and saw Janet shortly before she died. Later, Tam told me, "We all knew he had killed her. He was always so cold and arrogant. And we knew she would never have left those children."
Once again, my friends and I were riveted by the case. We were haunted by the thought that this woman--this artist, this mother, this book lover--someone a lot like me and my friends (though quite a bit richer) could have been murdered in her dream home by someone she had once loved. Murdered in the very place where she should have been safest.
Worse, for almost a decade, it looked like he'd gotten away with it. But the real-life detectives,, like our fictional protagonists, never gave up. In 2005, March was extradited to Nashville from the Mexican paradise to which he'd fled. The defense attorney insisted that, since there was no body, there was no evidence of murder. In hopes of creating a reasonable doubt, he spun a tale of a mysterious lover who had disposed of Janet's body after she took an overdose of sleeping pills. The jury didn't buy it, and in 2006, March was finally convicted of Janet's murder.
Two years ago, a friend of mine and his hashing group ("a drinking group with a running problem") were holding an event in a wooded area near the Kentucky/Tennessee border. One of the men came into camp swinging a leg bone. "Look here, guys," he said. or something to that effect. "I found a deer bone."
One of the others, whose day job was in the medical profession, paled. "That's not a deer," he said. "That's human."
Of course, they called the police. Waiting for the investigators to arrive, the hashers speculated that they might have found Janet March's remains. It was, after all, in the vicinity of the area where Arthur March claimed he and Perry had dumped Janet's body. They wondered if, at last, her bones would reveal their secrets and be released to her family.
It was not to be. The skeletonized remains belonged, not to Janet, but to another woman, a local woman who had been missing for two years. She too had been murdered.
Occasionally, my friends and I still talk about the Janet March tragedy. "That body will never be found," someone always says. "Perry made sure of that."
But I still hold out hope. Roads are widened and wilderness is developed. People bring their dogs to camp in wild areas. Rain and weather change the face of mountains, bury what lies on the surface and churn up what was buried beneath.
Nothing hides forever.
Today, I've been reading An Unfinished Canvas by Phyllis Gobbell and Michael Glasgow. For those of you who aren't familiar with it, it's an exceptionally well-researched true crime book about the disappearance of Janet Levine March and the eventual prosecution and conviction of her husband, Perry. Janet disappeared in 1996. Although her body was never found, there was a mountain of evidence (including the testimony of Perry's father, Arthur March) that Perry had murdered her.
Janet's murder, like the 1975 rape and murder of 9-year-old Marcia Trimble, hit Nashville hard. Of Marcia's death, Police Captain Mickey Miller said, "In that moment, Nashville lost its innocence. Our city has never been, and never will be, the same again. Every man, woman and child knew that if something that horrific could happen to that little girl, it could happen to anyone." I was 15 that year, older than Marcia, but like most of my peers, I followed the case religiously. For 33 days, while police searched for Marcia, we waited and worried, knowing something horrible had happened and unable to conceive of the evil mind that could have caused it. When she was found and we learned what had happened to her, it felt like the world would never be safe again.
When Janet disappeared in 1996, it was like "deja vu all over again," to quote the famous Yogi Berra. My friend Tammy was in Janet's book group and saw Janet shortly before she died. Later, Tam told me, "We all knew he had killed her. He was always so cold and arrogant. And we knew she would never have left those children."
Once again, my friends and I were riveted by the case. We were haunted by the thought that this woman--this artist, this mother, this book lover--someone a lot like me and my friends (though quite a bit richer) could have been murdered in her dream home by someone she had once loved. Murdered in the very place where she should have been safest.
Worse, for almost a decade, it looked like he'd gotten away with it. But the real-life detectives,, like our fictional protagonists, never gave up. In 2005, March was extradited to Nashville from the Mexican paradise to which he'd fled. The defense attorney insisted that, since there was no body, there was no evidence of murder. In hopes of creating a reasonable doubt, he spun a tale of a mysterious lover who had disposed of Janet's body after she took an overdose of sleeping pills. The jury didn't buy it, and in 2006, March was finally convicted of Janet's murder.
Two years ago, a friend of mine and his hashing group ("a drinking group with a running problem") were holding an event in a wooded area near the Kentucky/Tennessee border. One of the men came into camp swinging a leg bone. "Look here, guys," he said. or something to that effect. "I found a deer bone."
One of the others, whose day job was in the medical profession, paled. "That's not a deer," he said. "That's human."
Of course, they called the police. Waiting for the investigators to arrive, the hashers speculated that they might have found Janet March's remains. It was, after all, in the vicinity of the area where Arthur March claimed he and Perry had dumped Janet's body. They wondered if, at last, her bones would reveal their secrets and be released to her family.
It was not to be. The skeletonized remains belonged, not to Janet, but to another woman, a local woman who had been missing for two years. She too had been murdered.
Occasionally, my friends and I still talk about the Janet March tragedy. "That body will never be found," someone always says. "Perry made sure of that."
But I still hold out hope. Roads are widened and wilderness is developed. People bring their dogs to camp in wild areas. Rain and weather change the face of mountains, bury what lies on the surface and churn up what was buried beneath.
Nothing hides forever.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
The TRUTH
More than once, I’ve considered writing a book on The Truth. Of course, it would have to be non-fiction—or would it? After all, does anyone know really what “the truth” is? (For that matter, “Does anybody really know what time it is?”) So, does “truth” exist, or is it a perception of whatever one believes the truth to be? Hold that thought.
In nature, there are few absolutes. Physics and math come to mind as two that may qualify, but even “death” leaves room for interpretation. While death in our dimension is permanent, death in other dimensions leaves many unanswered questions. This is an interesting concept that I may explore in a later blog, but for now, let’s get back to the original topic.
During my last visit to Venice Beach, California, I saw a young man with “TRUTH” tattooed the full length of his lower legs. I have no idea why he did that, or what “truth” he was referring to, but I do know that his tattoos are permanent fixtures—at least until he has them removed. You see, even with tattoos, there are no absolutes.
The great thing about writing fiction is I can deny everything by claiming, “I made it all up.” So, even when I write about real events using real settings, my disclaimer frees me of liability. Whether writing about the actions of a past president, or a real in-flight fire on a cargo plane, any and all similarities can be denied—and “that’s the truth.”
When I write non-fiction, it is critical that my facts are accurate. If they weren’t, my writing career would quickly end. But I also recognize that when I write something the least bit controversial, each reader can have a different perception about what I wrote and challenge my version of “the truth.” In such cases, the magazine’s editor usually allows me to respond, and if it’s warranted, I do. However, I usually accept the other person’s view, realizing there is more than one way to view it.
Even the Beijing Olympics had controversy over “the truth”, as was the case of the Chinese gymnasts’ ages. Were these young women really sixteen, or fourteen, as some claimed? Some of the gymnasts’ documents submitted to the IOC showed these teens were legally sixteen, but there were other papers that suggested otherwise. And then there’s the question about their physical development, so what is “the truth?” This controversy will continue for years with no probable resolution.
More than once, I’ve thought about writing documentaries, but I’ve found it far more fascinating incorporating real events and settings into my novels. Fiction lets me tell stories within stories, and whether the reader picks up on the truth behind my fiction is irrelevant.
In nature, there are few absolutes. Physics and math come to mind as two that may qualify, but even “death” leaves room for interpretation. While death in our dimension is permanent, death in other dimensions leaves many unanswered questions. This is an interesting concept that I may explore in a later blog, but for now, let’s get back to the original topic.
During my last visit to Venice Beach, California, I saw a young man with “TRUTH” tattooed the full length of his lower legs. I have no idea why he did that, or what “truth” he was referring to, but I do know that his tattoos are permanent fixtures—at least until he has them removed. You see, even with tattoos, there are no absolutes.
The great thing about writing fiction is I can deny everything by claiming, “I made it all up.” So, even when I write about real events using real settings, my disclaimer frees me of liability. Whether writing about the actions of a past president, or a real in-flight fire on a cargo plane, any and all similarities can be denied—and “that’s the truth.”
When I write non-fiction, it is critical that my facts are accurate. If they weren’t, my writing career would quickly end. But I also recognize that when I write something the least bit controversial, each reader can have a different perception about what I wrote and challenge my version of “the truth.” In such cases, the magazine’s editor usually allows me to respond, and if it’s warranted, I do. However, I usually accept the other person’s view, realizing there is more than one way to view it.
Even the Beijing Olympics had controversy over “the truth”, as was the case of the Chinese gymnasts’ ages. Were these young women really sixteen, or fourteen, as some claimed? Some of the gymnasts’ documents submitted to the IOC showed these teens were legally sixteen, but there were other papers that suggested otherwise. And then there’s the question about their physical development, so what is “the truth?” This controversy will continue for years with no probable resolution.
More than once, I’ve thought about writing documentaries, but I’ve found it far more fascinating incorporating real events and settings into my novels. Fiction lets me tell stories within stories, and whether the reader picks up on the truth behind my fiction is irrelevant.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Want a Different Cup of Tea?
By Chester Campbell
Ben Small was right on with his depiction of that “scary dude,” James Lee Burke. I’d like to offer a completely different cup of tea, one I found both enjoyable and intriguing. I’m referring to Timothy Hallinan and his new series featuring expatriate travel writer Poke Rafferty. Poke (or Tim) chose Bangkok as his stomping grounds, and he haunts the seamy underbelly of the Thai capital.
I reached the end of the first chapter of the first book, A Nail Through the Heart, before I realized it was written in the present tense. Like lots of readers, I harbor a prejudice against present tense. Tim Hallinan does it seamlessly.
I recently finished the second in the series, The Fourth Watcher, which brings in more of Poke’s family background. Talk about dysfunctional families, you ain’t seen nothing yet. His immediate circle includes fianceé Rose, a former go-go dancer in Patpong Road, where bucks or baht will buy you anything, and adopted daughter Miaow, a waif he rescued off the street.
Past experience added to the intrigue of the setting as I spent a month traveling in Southeast Asia with my then-wife, son, and Korean daughter-in-law. That was back in 1987 when my son had just completed a tour of duty with an Army Special Forces team assigned to Thailand. We visited Korea, Singapore, Thailand, Hong Kong, and The Philippines.
The character Raffery’s name brought to mind Raffles Hotel in Singapore, where the Singapore Sling was invented. He’s much more complicated than the drink. The Bangkok descriptions reminded me of walking through the city on a Sunday morning, at times pushing it to keep pace with my son, a two-mile cross-country runner. Plus later in the week marveling at the dissonance of travel sounds while cars, trucks, buses, motorcycles, and assorted wheeled vehicles dodged about through hairbreadth holes in the traffic flow.
Tim Hallinan’s descriptions are not lengthy. In fact, most are quite brief. Pithy would be a good label. They paint a colorful picture in a few words. Like this image of Rose’s friend clutching a brown paper bag full of money:
“Peachy is staring at the bag as though it has a red digital countdown on its side, signaling the number of seconds before the world ends.”
Or this one:
“The man nearest Rafferty also has a gun in his hand, a tiny popgun just big enough to die from.”
The books are thrillers and full of suspense, but it’s the characters, including the city of Bangkok, that keep the story shining with brilliance and unputdownableness (so I made that one up; I can be creative, too).
As you might have guessed, Tim divides his time about half in the States (he hails from Los Angeles) and half in Southeast Asia, primarily Thailand and Cambodia. He also teaches writing and has a wealth of information on learning the craft under Writers’ Resources at his website: http://www.timothyhallinan.com/.
Ben Small was right on with his depiction of that “scary dude,” James Lee Burke. I’d like to offer a completely different cup of tea, one I found both enjoyable and intriguing. I’m referring to Timothy Hallinan and his new series featuring expatriate travel writer Poke Rafferty. Poke (or Tim) chose Bangkok as his stomping grounds, and he haunts the seamy underbelly of the Thai capital.
I reached the end of the first chapter of the first book, A Nail Through the Heart, before I realized it was written in the present tense. Like lots of readers, I harbor a prejudice against present tense. Tim Hallinan does it seamlessly.
I recently finished the second in the series, The Fourth Watcher, which brings in more of Poke’s family background. Talk about dysfunctional families, you ain’t seen nothing yet. His immediate circle includes fianceé Rose, a former go-go dancer in Patpong Road, where bucks or baht will buy you anything, and adopted daughter Miaow, a waif he rescued off the street.
Past experience added to the intrigue of the setting as I spent a month traveling in Southeast Asia with my then-wife, son, and Korean daughter-in-law. That was back in 1987 when my son had just completed a tour of duty with an Army Special Forces team assigned to Thailand. We visited Korea, Singapore, Thailand, Hong Kong, and The Philippines.
The character Raffery’s name brought to mind Raffles Hotel in Singapore, where the Singapore Sling was invented. He’s much more complicated than the drink. The Bangkok descriptions reminded me of walking through the city on a Sunday morning, at times pushing it to keep pace with my son, a two-mile cross-country runner. Plus later in the week marveling at the dissonance of travel sounds while cars, trucks, buses, motorcycles, and assorted wheeled vehicles dodged about through hairbreadth holes in the traffic flow.
Tim Hallinan’s descriptions are not lengthy. In fact, most are quite brief. Pithy would be a good label. They paint a colorful picture in a few words. Like this image of Rose’s friend clutching a brown paper bag full of money:
“Peachy is staring at the bag as though it has a red digital countdown on its side, signaling the number of seconds before the world ends.”
Or this one:
“The man nearest Rafferty also has a gun in his hand, a tiny popgun just big enough to die from.”
The books are thrillers and full of suspense, but it’s the characters, including the city of Bangkok, that keep the story shining with brilliance and unputdownableness (so I made that one up; I can be creative, too).
As you might have guessed, Tim divides his time about half in the States (he hails from Los Angeles) and half in Southeast Asia, primarily Thailand and Cambodia. He also teaches writing and has a wealth of information on learning the craft under Writers’ Resources at his website: http://www.timothyhallinan.com/.
Monday, September 1, 2008
James Lee Burke Is One Scary Dude
by Ben Small
For the longest time, I didn't read James Lee Burke. A friend had portrayed his writing as describing frogs on a bayou log. "How many times can you describe that frog?" my friend said.
Then I read Burke. Had some spare time, and one of his books appeared as if by magic. Okay, so I was curious: What was so great about a frog - Budweiser ads excepted - that merited description in oh so many books?
Well, wow! That frog does dance.
Most "How To" books urge the writer not to go overboard on description, to keep the picture portrayals strictly relevant to the story, lest the reader get side-tracked or bored. And many writers violate that rule, and are shot as a consequence. But Burke gets away with using descriptions to fill about a third of his page count.
How does he do this?
Simple. He puts the reader in the bayou, swimming in the muck and quicksand, swatting the mosquitoes, sweating like Kirstie Alley in a sauna, and stinking like a Kathy Reichs' bloated-body-bugfest.
And evidently, a lot of people like to experience that: mucking, swatting, sweating and stinking. Or is it that they don't; that they want to experience Louisiana without actually going there? I'd say count me in that post-Katrina group except for one thing: the food. My god, the food. Why can't Arizona make a decent facsimile of Louisiana gumbo?
Well, I've gotten side-tracked here. The mere thought of Louisiana food always does that to me. Back to James Lee Burke and his writing.
What kind of nutbag is this guy?
Stephen King and other writing authorities suggest writing what you know. If James Lee Burke is doing that, I can learn from this man. More or less, every one of his books I can remember has featured a cast of people you never want to meet: degenerate preachers; evil rich bad guys who lust after pretty young and innocent things; pimps and prostitutes; druggies and boozers; tattoed boob-ettes; gunbulls; prison rapists; mobsters; gamblers; hitmen; crooked cops and politicians, and last but not least, Clete Purcell.
Can there be a more degenerate character than Clete? Forget the gut, the unhealthy glow of 220-over-140 blood pressure readings, and his pock-marked and sweaty sun-burned neck. This stuff just makes Clete look like Larry, the cable guy. No, Clete's got the personality to match these wonderful characteristics. Pop your fingers and count: 1) Clete's always drunk and sweaty; 2) He can be counted on to say and do the dumbest of things to all the wrong people; 3) He's killed a federal informant; 4) He enjoys drugs and prostitutes; 5) He was a corrupt N.O. cop; 6) He's murdered a bunch of people in a plane crash; 7) He's probably left more teeth in toilets than a dental convention, and 8) He's been known to attack with innovative weapons such as hammers, fully oiled frying pans, and tire irons. (These tools are just for novelty; Clete likes guns, knives, saps and baseball bats, too.) Clete actually enjoyed Vietnam, thought it was a hoot. So, of course, with all these charms, how can Clete help but be a babe-magnet? His latest conquest: an FBI agent. Smart guy, that Purcell: Go with a chick who can bust you for lying. What's next: Playing medicine ball with a hornet's nest?
But seriously, how could Clete not be a stud? He's so vulnerable, isn't he? What that poor man has had to endure. Clete's seen more hospitals than Doc Kildare. Poor S-O-B had his hand squashed in a car door; he's been smashed with enough iron to make him fearful of magnets; he's been shot so many times he could strain spaghetti, and in the latest Burke masterpiece Swan Peak he was tied to a tree, blindfolded, doused with gasoline and forced to listen to a Zippo's spinning wheel.
Doesn't Clete ever wonder if it's smart having Dave Robicheaux as a buddy? Seems to me the only thing more hazardous is having Jessica Fletcher around.
And what about Dave? Poor ole Dave Robicheaux stands for truth and justice, and it's cost Dave plenty. He's had wives murdered and a daughter threatened. He's been suspended numerous times, suspected of murder over and over. He's been beaten, stabbed, shot, haunted by Vietnam nightmares, and don't ask about his parental issues. The guy's a drunk. And is it any wonder? Dave's hollow inside; he's not just got worms in his head, they're full-bodied snakes. In Swan Peak, Dave - the good guy - threatens to throw a preacher into an airplane propeller. My goodness, we thought water boarding was bad. And, oh, did I mention, he married a nun? Dave best do some serious repenting.
So getting back to my point: If what Stephen King and others say about writing what you know is true, James Lee Burke is one spooky dude.
But can I learn from this man? Hell yes, about description and the depravity of man.
Do I want to be his pal?
Hmmm...
Why not. I just bought a Total Gym. Chuck Norris is my buddy.
For the longest time, I didn't read James Lee Burke. A friend had portrayed his writing as describing frogs on a bayou log. "How many times can you describe that frog?" my friend said.
Then I read Burke. Had some spare time, and one of his books appeared as if by magic. Okay, so I was curious: What was so great about a frog - Budweiser ads excepted - that merited description in oh so many books?
Well, wow! That frog does dance.
Most "How To" books urge the writer not to go overboard on description, to keep the picture portrayals strictly relevant to the story, lest the reader get side-tracked or bored. And many writers violate that rule, and are shot as a consequence. But Burke gets away with using descriptions to fill about a third of his page count.
How does he do this?
Simple. He puts the reader in the bayou, swimming in the muck and quicksand, swatting the mosquitoes, sweating like Kirstie Alley in a sauna, and stinking like a Kathy Reichs' bloated-body-bugfest.
And evidently, a lot of people like to experience that: mucking, swatting, sweating and stinking. Or is it that they don't; that they want to experience Louisiana without actually going there? I'd say count me in that post-Katrina group except for one thing: the food. My god, the food. Why can't Arizona make a decent facsimile of Louisiana gumbo?
Well, I've gotten side-tracked here. The mere thought of Louisiana food always does that to me. Back to James Lee Burke and his writing.
What kind of nutbag is this guy?
Stephen King and other writing authorities suggest writing what you know. If James Lee Burke is doing that, I can learn from this man. More or less, every one of his books I can remember has featured a cast of people you never want to meet: degenerate preachers; evil rich bad guys who lust after pretty young and innocent things; pimps and prostitutes; druggies and boozers; tattoed boob-ettes; gunbulls; prison rapists; mobsters; gamblers; hitmen; crooked cops and politicians, and last but not least, Clete Purcell.
Can there be a more degenerate character than Clete? Forget the gut, the unhealthy glow of 220-over-140 blood pressure readings, and his pock-marked and sweaty sun-burned neck. This stuff just makes Clete look like Larry, the cable guy. No, Clete's got the personality to match these wonderful characteristics. Pop your fingers and count: 1) Clete's always drunk and sweaty; 2) He can be counted on to say and do the dumbest of things to all the wrong people; 3) He's killed a federal informant; 4) He enjoys drugs and prostitutes; 5) He was a corrupt N.O. cop; 6) He's murdered a bunch of people in a plane crash; 7) He's probably left more teeth in toilets than a dental convention, and 8) He's been known to attack with innovative weapons such as hammers, fully oiled frying pans, and tire irons. (These tools are just for novelty; Clete likes guns, knives, saps and baseball bats, too.) Clete actually enjoyed Vietnam, thought it was a hoot. So, of course, with all these charms, how can Clete help but be a babe-magnet? His latest conquest: an FBI agent. Smart guy, that Purcell: Go with a chick who can bust you for lying. What's next: Playing medicine ball with a hornet's nest?
But seriously, how could Clete not be a stud? He's so vulnerable, isn't he? What that poor man has had to endure. Clete's seen more hospitals than Doc Kildare. Poor S-O-B had his hand squashed in a car door; he's been smashed with enough iron to make him fearful of magnets; he's been shot so many times he could strain spaghetti, and in the latest Burke masterpiece Swan Peak he was tied to a tree, blindfolded, doused with gasoline and forced to listen to a Zippo's spinning wheel.
Doesn't Clete ever wonder if it's smart having Dave Robicheaux as a buddy? Seems to me the only thing more hazardous is having Jessica Fletcher around.
And what about Dave? Poor ole Dave Robicheaux stands for truth and justice, and it's cost Dave plenty. He's had wives murdered and a daughter threatened. He's been suspended numerous times, suspected of murder over and over. He's been beaten, stabbed, shot, haunted by Vietnam nightmares, and don't ask about his parental issues. The guy's a drunk. And is it any wonder? Dave's hollow inside; he's not just got worms in his head, they're full-bodied snakes. In Swan Peak, Dave - the good guy - threatens to throw a preacher into an airplane propeller. My goodness, we thought water boarding was bad. And, oh, did I mention, he married a nun? Dave best do some serious repenting.
So getting back to my point: If what Stephen King and others say about writing what you know is true, James Lee Burke is one spooky dude.
But can I learn from this man? Hell yes, about description and the depravity of man.
Do I want to be his pal?
Hmmm...
Why not. I just bought a Total Gym. Chuck Norris is my buddy.
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