David Thayer

Before critical thinking can begin, impressions form. It occurred to me today as I read four book reviews in rapid succession that these impressions are the antecedents of coherence, that prized state where argument and reason clear the path for expression. This involves a very private, unspoken process of discarding certain bits of information in favor of others. The brain performs this task without much active input from its owner, the way it causes a person to duck when an object is thrown. I’d like to spend a few minutes scrolling backward through the image and text that my brain processed for me, the same brain that causes me to duck and reminds me that hey, we don’t like Velveeta, Renaissance Art, The Red Sox, and we don’t like scrolling backward through an odd assortment of predispositions we’ve worked so hard to cultivate.

The four reviews left the retinal impressions of Carravagio’s Christ in the Garden, Maureen Dowd, a lurid retro book cover set on the subway, the demise of the Y chromosome, the precise prose of Kathryn Harrison, four centuries of artistic flux, and lingering impressions from John Harr’s previous work, A Civil Action. Dowd has a book out called Are Men Necessary? to which my initial response was to be pissed off, the very response her publisher was hoping for. My brain wants to buy the book in order to disprove the suggestion that it, my brain, has backed the wrong horse on the evolutionary scale. My brain knows that I’m a man. If I’m not necessary, guess who is out for work for the duration?

Like most people I’ve been necessary and unnecessary enough times and in enough circumstances to know which is which. My brain was relieved that Ms. Harrison didn’t jump on the Dowd bandwagon, and was eloquent in her critique. It is interesting to note that glamor and fame carry some magisterial powers like a court of good looking people deciding traffic fines. That Carravagio is now all the rage among art historians provokes the thought that critics are four hundred years late to that party, although that’s not the point of Harr’s new book.

Now, with a strange new craving for Velveeta, and six million years of Y chromosome stability as our guide, I return control of these meanderings to my brain. With a flip of the switch we’re ready for some football, some Coors Lite, some insightful commentary from the booth.

We were somewhere near Roseburg when the economic realities took hold. To fill the tank, pour that essence of refined distillate, use the facility, check the oil, wire transfer funds from Belize, experience burrito regret in the lower GI, all before reaching the golden state, in the hall of the mountain kings. The non-vintage Volvo showing signs of long term abuse, expressing itself in groans and creaks, sighs and whispers; Lars discovers that the paperback display contains seven different James Patterson novels, lucky seven, the exact number of casinos visible from our hilltop refueling station. Oh, our kingdoms for a major book deal thus insuring liquidity as we head for Destiny City to pitch our reality television series.

The Earl is reading Caesar’s Conquests. Sid Caesar? No, Julius. Tony needs a wifi outlet to maintain his blog, “Heart of Jersey.” Lars leads a column of scouts through the neighboring districts to determine the friendliness of the natives. He returns near dusk to supervise camp construction. The booty includes three cans of Coors Lite, four bags of Doritos, and a James Patterson novel; Lars sacked a village after they refused tribute. Tony settles down with Tacitus’ Annales while I refine the elevator pitch: Romans invade California. Threaten rollback of nurses’ wages. LA is cut off, although it takes several months for the natives to notice. Everyone in the bay area is forced to retake SATs.

The map reveals several large rivers and barrier mountains to the west. Desert to the east. We’ll strike a southward course along a wagon track, all right, we’ll take the I-5. Somehow we’ll avoid the Spanish garrisons at San Jose and Monterey; Lars insists that we sack and burn Carmel. Salinas and Watsonville are absolute musts; Tony wants to see the refinery at Martinez. I study the map with a sinking feeling that if we divide our forces, we’ll never reach Century City with our elevator pitch intact.

I must blog quietly. Lars arranged an appointment with Ballard’s most renowned studio photographer, Mister Tense. Tony Prawns observes from a corner of the room. After his meeting with the King County Council, Tony is depressed. His vision of North Jersey in the Pacific Northwest is meeting dogged resistance. Council members were especially alarmed by his proposal to flatten a few of Seattle’s hills and drain Lake Union. His thermal cracking unit number three would replace Queen Anne hill, yet still offer vistas to the west. An eternal flame above the city struck me as terribly romantic.

Mister Tense is preparing a backdrop for yours truly. I have written extensively on the importance of the Author Photo, now deemed most vital by ueber agents everywhere. Tony recommended an outdoor shot near his proposed Alki Beach tank farm and distillate storage; Mister Tense began shouting, so Lars spirited Tony off to the Danish bakery for salmonberry crumbcake, a local delicacy. They were accompanied by a phalanx of Seattle police officers and F. Howard Thunder of Homeland Security. Stout fellow; he carries a wand, yet it works for him. Mr. thunder suggested a ‘photo op’ with he and I grappling for control of the wand. Mister Tense rejected the idea out of hand.

Classically trained as he is, Mister Tense does fret about the details. I am sitting at a table, a simple oval draped with a cloth. There is a pitcher of water and, in my right hand, a quill. He has snatched away my yellow pad as it clashes with the desert palate he is striving for. The shot will be in profile as I gaze outward as though searching for inspiration. Was that a scream? Dare I look? Mister Tense is photographing a vintage Volvo in the next room…I think Tony and Mr. Thunder have returned and are grappling for control of the wand….being me requires perpetual patience. YHS, The Earl.

Another morning in the Pacific Northwest! Mr. Prawns departed our salon du journal for a morning jog. I hurried off to the nearest ‘hotspot’ for cafe au lait amid enhanced police presence. The aliens removed my ankle bracelet, a designer gizmo of no small expense, thus requiring the more traditional technique of shadowing me. I’m shattered by the news that Scooter Libby’s thriller is to be re-released this fall; my futures market for literature hedge fund took it in the chin as Tony might say. I’d instructed Depew to short Scooter only yesterday! As the losses mount, we’re dumping a Euro basket and acquiring an array of coffee table books until the market stabilises. Depew reports from the floor of the exchange:

“It’s madness here in the literary pit. I’m being jostled by James Patterson specialists, pummeled by the Scooter development. Ueber agents are weeping. They didn’t see this coming. The only things moving are November 07 contracts for Anthony Palmisano’s forthcoming “Jersey City in Pictures.” One of the traders is wondering aloud whether Judy’s book deal is real or mere ephemera…”

One does hope that the City of Ballard will underwrite the cost of my stay. Mr. Prawns has an exciting plan to convert the Seattle waterfront into an oil refinery. Our advisor, Lars, is a veteran of the North Sea jackup rigs, an oil man to the bone. So much to do! YHS, The Earl.

In a moment of weakness, during the course of my Babylonian Captivity, I dialed the telephone here in my room at seventy five cents for each fifteen seconds. Depew, upon answering, launched into a soliloquoy about ‘working conditions’ in the hopes of securing an inflationary increase in his hourly wage. I referred him to the Beige Book, wherein Fed Governors fret about this very thing. I urged him to ‘whip inflation now’ in the vain hopes of stirring his global sense of unease as low wages and high productivity are all that separate us from cost-push inflation. Chastened he admitted that the Bentley has a flat tyre. As if alien abduction were not enough on my plate, room service arrived forty minutes late with an order of sourdough toast, accompanied by boysenberry jam.

No matter. My new benefactor, Tony Prawns, assures me that the City of Ballard will no doubt pick up my hotel bill. In return I must wear my Kiss Me, I’m Norwegian baseball cap when out and about. Seattle PD is coordinating with the oafish DCI Borchardt in the matter of the beheaded Thuringian, exchanging emails from the Earl’s Own Dial-Up and Telephony equipment confiscated days ago.

I’ve offered to edit Tony’s query to Miss Snark which he slipped under the door in the wee hours. This is the text of his letter: Dear Miss Snark, You publish books, right? I wrote a book, so publish it already. Sincerely, Anthony ‘Tony Prawns’ Palmesano. Where to begin? I fear this forthright effort lacks finesse; now that I’ve had my fill of Boysenberry jam, I lift the only pen available in this two star establishment. Perhaps the Dutchess might be helpful here, if only I could call her when she’s not at home, or reverse the charges…hmm…My Beloved Miss Snark, Whose Radiance, Wit, and Wisdom…ah, the door buzzer. Where is that hat?

Ye Gods. I’m connected by wifi in a Starbuck’s coffee shop on Queen Anne hill. My return to earth was disconcerting; as I splashed down in Puget Sound I remember thinking these alien beings are rather reckless about reentry. They shoved me out of the door of their craft without so much as a by your leave. One wonders if the Thuringian Dressmaker didn’t suffer a similar fate, hurtling through space before being impaled on my fence. It’s a new theory of the crime, one I’m sending to the Dutchess for her critique this very night. Meanwhile, I’m established at an adequate if unspectacular hotel. They asked if I required turn down service and I said, no, I’m a writer, you see, I get turned down all the time. Ha! Mr. Prawns smashed me on the back when he heard that one, hale fellow that he is. I quite enjoyed Norway Night at the Ballard VFW. We ate fish and drank beer and danced colorful Norwegian dirges and polkas. Later, we wept.

Mr. Prawns was distraught about the Monday Night Football outcome. “Those aren’t the Patriots,” he confided. I’ll have to check with the Dowager Princess of Bavaria as to what a three deep zone might be; she blogs the NFL. Well, my soy and wheat germ no foam latte appears to be ready. Did I order decaf? I miss having my staff available for these sorts of questions, not that Haskell or Depew could be trusted to caf or decaf as the case may be. I’ll say yes, thus securing my wifi sans tariff as it were. YHS, The Earl.

The Dutchess here. Spent a lovely evening at the Earl’s with Madame Beauregard, the famed psychic. Haskell ordered pizza ( wicked boy) while Depew brooded. Chalfont-Smythe and her sidekick Frothingmunster fawned over DCI Borchardt and his manuscript Murder on St. Michael’s Mount, read aloud by the appalling gentleman farmer, Askew Rutherford. I caught them all in the earl’s library reading Galley Cat on the earl’s own home computer. None of them asked after the earl who is currently spending an improptu holiday in Seattle at a two star hotel. He’s been invited to a place called Jersey City by Mr. Prawns, the man who saved him from drowning. DCI Borchardt made personal telephone calls which I have detailed in a log. Ueber agent Andrew Wylie wants a resolution to the Thuringian dressmaker case. I sense Borchardt’s literary career is wobbling. We watched Monday Night Football on the earl’s plasma television, quite disconcerting due to the large screen. I thought the fellow on the slant right sideline hook was going to land in my lap!

Well, the Book Regatta is scheduled for next week. DCI Borchardt is standing in as master of ceremonies. I’ve penned an invitation to Linda Fairstein whilst Frothingmunster favors Tess Gerittsen or perhaps Ian Rankin. Poor Mr. Rankin was badly shaken by his previous encounter with the Earl; what about Ruth Rendel or Mark Billingham? We’ve explained that the earl was abducted by aliens, perhaps too vividly, I fear. Laurie King or Denise Mina might appreciate our circumstances. Or that JA Konrath fellow. So much to do. I think Depew resembles Hugh Grant in profile. TTFN.

A few months ago I sent a query about of Flamingo Dawn to a publisher. The query was a three paragraph pitch and they emailed in due course requesting the opening chapters. I sent them off with a little writer prayer during the dog days of August. This morning they wrote, asking for the full manuscript. The email included some observations that included the following:

“I hate the first page. Don’t like the main character, the setting, the violence, corruption or descriptors; object to simile near the bottom of page one. Rest of the sample okay.”

“Don’t like the non-sequential nature of the narrative. Did like dialogue, and one of the villains. Like the complexity, but this is not my favorite kind of thing, too noir.”

Okay. I’m thrilled that they want the entire manuscript. I’m a little worried because Flamingo Dawn is unconventional; the structure is defined by events that occur between noon on the first day and noon on the second where the story ends. Each character has some information about what is going on, but none of them know the whole story. Their povs are defined in part by the time of day or night they enter the fray; each of them is a life threatening circumstance triggered by one event, a murder in Rhinebeck, New York. The dead man is the chief of NYPD’s Intelligence Division. His killers have the names of every undercover cop in the city on a stolen disk.

The book is a murder mystery and the main character has to solve it. He doesn’t really want to dig too deep because he’s having an affair with the prime suspect; the reader isn’t sure whether he’s trying to protect her or his own career, because, at times, he does both. His ex-partner is an undercover cop experiencing the direct fallout of the crime; his cover is blown, his partner is dead and he joins forces with a criminal to survive the night.

Anyway, the manuscript is on its way, a paper boat bobbing in the swells. I’ll keep you informed as things develope. It’s very exciting and rather than anticipate rejection, I’ll enjoy the notion that they asked for it, which is why we write this stuff, isn’t it?

Only four weeks until Lee and Tod Goldberg arrive in town at the Mystery Bookstore. As though in anticipation the city is only digging up Cherry Street directly in front of the store, rather than hither and yon as before. The purpose of the digging is twofold: to make a lot of noise ( we know that it’s fun to make noise) and two: divert traffic. If you read GM Ford’s Red Tide you’d be ready for traffic diversions of all kinds. Shakespeare did some of this with Burnham Wood coming to Dunsinane; all traffic, all the time.

My sister is writing her next book in thirty days. Terri has signed up for the National Novel Writing Month; she is not returning telephone calls nor wasting time fretting about the NFL. In sympathy I’ve developed writer’s block as a kind of balancing counterweight to this burst of productivity. Here are some valid excuses: “Manny Ramirez: will he stay or will he go?” Manny is owed fifty seven million dollars by the Bosox. No one owes me money, so I’m blocked.

Other concerns: Britney, of course, whither her career? The muddled and murky cesspool of intrigue surrounding Scooter and Judy. The sudden rise of interest rates just when Mr. President is weakened by scandal after scandal. The flattening yield curve is bad for writing, and then there’s the housing bubble. If only Maureen Dowd would write a column that explains all of this.

Laila Lalami continues to garner reviews in major outlets. Today Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits is reviewed in the San Francisco Chronicle. Last time I checked at Moorish Girl, I think she’s in the Big Apple this weekend, reading at Cornelia Street Cafe and the Astor Place B&N. Last weekend she got a review in Newsday; hats off to her and her publisher, Algonquin.

I spent some quality time in the Elliot Bay Bookstore during a monsoon yesterday; I like the way they organize fiction into one large organic space with Jennifer Weiner next to David Foster Wallace and everyone except mysteries shelved together. A new release of William Kotzwinkle’s The Fan Man caught my eye. It’s only the greatest novel of the Twentieth Century. I can’t remember if Commodore Schmuck makes an appearance, wherein he is betrayed at the Bay of Crabs. When this book was released, Mr. President was defending the skies over Alabama. That’s old. That’s before The Partridge Family for the historians out there. But, after I Dream of Jeannie. In other words, a cultural sweet spot. I trace the decline and fall of western civilization to the Partridges, laying a heavy burden on their doorstep. Why? It marked the end of plausible deniablity. Ozzie and Harriet carried off miscommunication in a suburban Utopia marred only by acoustic riffs; the Partridges blew the doors off that construct and then Nixon resigned. What followed? The Disco era. Studio 54. Stagflation. Four hundred and fifty movies starring Patti Duke and/or Lindsey Wagner. Overdevelopment in Southern California, the completion of the Long Island Expressway, beach erosion, John Travolta’s First Comeback, scandal among the Royals, Greenmail, Madonna, and eventually, if not inexorably, widespread obesity. The Partridges!

Gotta go. That theme song is in my head.