David Thayer

At the end of my interview of literary agent Whitney Lee she invited me to lunch if I’m ever in Los Angeles. As the authorial equivalent of dogsbody, unwashed novitiate or wordy desperado, my first thought is a melange of scenes from all of those Woody Allen movies in which, babbling, I would shred my drivers license while graceful natives dining al fresco look on in horror. I dream of success that involves never leaving the house, a world in which lunch is convened without the necessity of my being present, where moguls jostle in silk suits and, yeah, uniformed dwarfs serve telephones. My agent, her glasses low on her aquiline nose, would toss Sonny Mehta a haughty glance before rejecting his ten book deal. Don’t insult us, she would say, while ordering a minuet of arugula with a pear champagne salsa.

Los Angeles. I can’t just go there. Whitney Lee would want to know why I was in town, and what the hell would I say? The conditional offer of lunch was predicated on more than simply being there, that I floated ashore on a desert thermal with the sort of free will deficiency we associate with rock stars or members of the Manson Family. That being in the Entertainment Capitol I can no longer conjugate Squeaky and Tex from Grumpy and Doc, or understand that choosing the right restaurant is the equivalent of being accepted at Harvard? No, some other spontaneous event must propel me back to the azure shores of the Golden State, something hefty, enough to risk Severe Tire Damage before merging onto Century Boulevard and driving fifty miles only to realize I’ve never left LAX. Just because I can spell arugula doesn’t mean I know what it is.

Kevin at Collected Miscellany wrote a review of Olen Steinhauer’s Bridge of Sighs. A few months ago I reviewed The Confession, the second novel in Olen’s excellent series. His latest, 39 Yalta Boulevard, was released by St. Martins-Minotaur in the past few weeks. I hope this series catches on and gains a readership. The stories are intelligent, well written, and slightly exotic by dint of setting and the point in history. All the books are well worth tracking down. Storm the Flatiron Building or go to a bookstore. No pushing and shoving unless you live in New York, then it’s okay, expected even.

Back in May your reporter won a $25 gift certificate from Partners N Crime bookstore in Greenwich Village. I took second place in the hard boiled contest for an entry called Stumptown Chump. While it was gratifying, it must be said that the Nevermores are given for bad writing, or, at least, stories that capture the essence of cliche. Still, 25 bucks represents the average annual income of freelance writers everywhere. That the prize will take the form of a book, not cash, is a bitter irony.

Why hasn’t this classic bit of political reportage been made into a movie? I’m talking about Tacitus’ Annales. You’ve got war, intrigue, a despotic emperor, real estate speculation, sex, Nero, and a happy ending. Logline: His mother wanted to do things on horseback no mother should ever want to do. Then she poisoned the dog.
Elevator pitch: author has no copyright protection. Sex, dogs, horses, poison. Call me.

Few things are more chilling than the prospect of reading other people’s poetry. This is especially true for graduates of important colleges where poetry fairly leaps out of the ground. I attended college in an office building in Lower Manhattan, not far from Wall Street and the Fulton Fish Market. Even actuaries write poetry, my friends. English Lit was a required course at this fine institution. One of the courses was Introduction to Poetry, a class a lot of actuaries and insurance accountants signed for in the hopes of catching up on much needed sleep. My classmates and I would gather at the picnic tables at Sloppy Louie’s to discuss The Belljar. We completed poetry assignments under the FDR Drive, long before the Seaport was gentrified into its current state of urban splendor. A few of the guys in the class became desperate enough to offer me money if only I’d write a poem they could turn in. The money went into a jar to be lost to the only professional card player in school. One guy got an A behind one of my poems, another guy got a D. Young Herbert Lay Dancing was voted the poem mostly likely to drive others into insurance accounting by a jury of fish brokers on a cigarette break. Fortunately I don’t know where the hell the poem is, or I’d publish it, right here and now. Yeah. The blogosphere offers total freedom.

My first Amazon review is of Lisa Selin Davis’ novel Belly. The review appeared on Collected Miscellany last Friday and after an exchange of emails, Ms. Davis asked me to post it on Amazon. Why? Someone had put up a review calling her a ‘manhater’ and questioning her qualifications as a writer and teacher. Anyway, if you’re curious about the whole thing I signed my name Sir Isaac Newton Gingrich. No I didn’t. The idiotic Amazon process required me to invent a name, so I chose David Thayer. I enjoyed Belly and think Davis is a hell of a good writer. Thanks to Miriam Parker at Time Warner Books who sent me the novel.

Kudos to Booksquare for putting up all the new links that now grace the page. I don’t know how she defied Norton Personal Firewall, a product that now controls my every thought and deed. Internet Explorer cautioned me against visiting this blog, so I pass the warning on in the spirit of blogospheric camaraderie. I forgot to link to Elizabeth Crane, whose story collection All This Heavenly Glory came out earlier this year.

Now that Manny Ramirez doesn’t have to wonder what the heck a ‘Met’ is, I think we can all settle down for the Dog Days. As some of you know, I’ve repeatedly offered my services as ace of the Yankee pitching staff, but no calls from Tampa. I’d need at least ten rehab starts and a hair transplant to get ready now. Don’t come crying to me in October, George.