David Thayer

It’s been a while since I’ve bitten the apple around here. I’m reading Liberation by Joanna Scott, a case of casting pearls before swine. I’m enjoying it and will attempt to marshal my thoughts into a review over the next few weeks. I stopped writing reviews for a few months after I exhausted my limited faculties on The Diviners; I don’t know why I enjoyed that book so much. It’s like a twenty inning baseball game where the crowd dwindles to a couple of geezers spitting seeds between their teeth after hijacking the deserted baseline boxes occupied by dilettantes who don’t understand that baseball is about endurance. Twenty innings…the game without a clock, the novel without an editor, only a few diehard fans remain…you get the picture, young Rick Moody is in the on-deck circle, he’s taking a few swings as the fourteenth pitcher of the day, a kid just called up from Trenton, a kid without a number or a uniform of his own, stares down for the sign. Okay, he’s ready and Moody’s in the batter’s box, and the organ player is ready, as are the family of five in the right field bleachers trying to do The Wave. Their ineptitude distracts Moody who takes a called strike on the inside corner…Mom is up…Dad is down, well, yeah, that’s the wave, allright, sez the Ump. Rick isn’t happy so he’s digging in; the kid from Trenton doesn’t appreciate Rick digging in, Rick showing him up, that calls for some chin music….

My God the organ player’s been unconsciousness since the fourteenth inning replaced by the New York Philharmonic’s rendition of The Magic Flute. Rick takes strike two looking. He’s jawing with the Ump about Mozart…the kid from Trenton cuts loose a four seamer…Rick will be awarded first base!This may be called on account of darkness, it’s dark somewhere, it has to be, doesn’t it? Or will be the sun rise to deflower the bleachers, to swell across the Wave, the Organ player, the perfect symmetry of the outfield grass? Will it rise and rise again…Phil?

Gerry, I think Mozart was just called up from Trenton. He was too small for the NFL where a wicked Cardinal withdrew his patronage…oh, they’re doing the Wave again.

The three finalists for crime fiction novel of the year are Mo Hayder, Ken Bruen, and Michael Connelly. The Wellington Leg Book Circle has all but wrapped its work in crime fiction and is moving on to literary fiction, although The Devil of Nanking may win the literary prize as well. “It’s happened before,” said a source who did not wish to be named, although we all know that AJC Howard secretly does want to be cited. “Denise Mina won both for Garnethill.”

As I read The Devil of Nanking I kept thinking about Shirley Hazzard’s The Great Fire and, to some extent, Denise Mina’s work as well. This does violate my rule about comparing one author to another; it defies logic as The Great Fire was the ultimate literary work. However, if we put these categories aside, The Devil of Nanking has beautiful prose, a complex protagonist and draws much of its power from her state of mind. In lesser hands Grey would be a young woman so clotted with guilt and obsession that we’d turn away from her, somewhat like Maureen in Garnethill. But Hayder blends history, setting, and psychology so well that the story becomes more compelling and satisfying as it goes along.

Let’s rebel against genre strictures. Ken Bruen’s The Magdalen Martyrs and Micheal Connelly’s The Lincoln Lawyer share the qualities of a good story told in a strong voice, paced in ways that fit the style and structure and atmosphere they’ve created. All the finalists tell stories with beginnings, middles, and endings, all of them create characters worth worrying about, characters who deal with adversity, danger, the consequences of their choices. Isn’t that literature?

Hello, this is the earl. Not the earl as you know him, but a chastened, weary earl. Some malady or other has struck, rendering the REM phase disfunctional. Like many of you, I face obstacles on the path to publication, aside from encounters with gastropods, blown head gaskets, and the like. I came across a survey of some seventy odd literary agents collected by Dee Power. Dee published the results of the survey which focuses reasons agents offer for rejection. I’ve taken the liberty of sharing some of those reasons while adding a few of my own.

Bad queries. Very high on the list. This pitfall is easily avoided. For instance, my own bad query letters are routinely quarantined after being read aloud in malls. Mrs. Joan Darcy and her eight year old son, Ethan, were instrumental in intercepting this Query: Voltaire’s Miasma will appeal to readers who routinely fly long distances, feeling trapped, resentful, poorly served, put upon, indeed, people for whom travel has become a postmodernist farce. “Sounds dumb,” Ethan said.

Bombast and Hyperbole: no strangers to the earl, bombast and hyperbole are the Pillars of Hercules through which my prose must pass! Forgive my poor attempt at humour; if you stare at the ceiling long enough, patterns emerge, maps of Greenland, that sort of thing.

What’s the book about? This must be revealed. For example, on page fifteen of my Standard Agent Query the plot of Voltaire’s Miasma begins to emerge. Agents resent this: they feel their life force ebbing by page three.

Explain your platform: very important these days. Some tips in this regard: try to become an assistant at Vogue or a contestant on a reality television show. Failing this, you may have to learn to write, a tedious process that offers no guarantee of success. Those of you who choose this option will receive letters that contain baffling or contradictory passages that may be harmful to your state of mind.

Hone your skills: yes, I know, this honing advice is both hortatory and useless. I think Cicero stood on street corners and practiced oratory, something that could be misconstrued these days. On the other hand, sometimes people will throw money. Reciting the words to Mr. Tambourine Man in a veleveteen greatcoat can be a profitable way to refine your subliminally implanted elevator pitch. Details of these activites need not appear in your initial query: put this information in your Bio.

Dateline: Seattle, Washington. Olivia Earthwindandfire reporting: “I’m standing on Queen Anne hill gazing westward….what? Oh Sorry. Gazing, as it happens, southward toward the Seattle Mystery Book Store on Cherry Street, scene of tomorrow’s joint appearance by Lee and Tod Goldberg, who’ve courageously abandoned near perfect weather conditions to come north. The forecast calls for rain, snow, sleet, frozen ears, red noses, wind, fog, drizzle, freshening breezes near the shore, colder inland and at elevation even as this reporter can attest, this is no time to be standing on Queen Anne or Magnolia Bluff. My CBC counterpart Robert Parker picks up the story from Ottawa. Robert?”

“Olivia, the press in this frigid capital are abuzz over the news that a few days ago, Canada was empty, its entire population having driven south. First to return were Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Demuth of Hamilton, Ontario. Fortunately, the Demuths were able to maintain much of the nation’s infrastructure during the unprecedented crisis. From grooming the slopes in BC to operating the locks between the Great Lakes, the Demuths hand their hands full. “It was cold on the Mackenzie,” Mr. Demuth said. He returned in time to sign BJ Ryan to a contract with the Bluejays. “We’re pooped,” said Mrs. Demuth.

“Officials are taking steps to see this does not reoccur. This is CBC correspondent Robert Parker reporting barechested from Bahia del Mar, Alberta.”

Dutchess here. My nominee for best crime novel of the year is The Devil Of Nanking by Mo Hayder. Please don’t leak this to the other members of the selection committee, some of whom, embittered by circumstance, often resort to browbeating when the final round looms. The rules governing the Wellington Leg Book Regatta are not simple. Last year there were fisticuffs after the Governing Board issued new directives in regard to drinking and reading. One wonders about the legitimacy of the entire process. Mrs. Chalfont-Smythe championed Ian Rankin to the point of issuing double dog dares to those in opposition; the ensuing melee at the earl’s Pool of Reflection left many scars.

DCI Borchardt is the wild card this year. He keeps his cards close to the chest. I think he’s leaning toward Barry Eisler. Borchardt buttonholed AJC Howard after Black Friday’s shopping frenzy at Mrs. Henn’s High Street Emporium. She reported an argument between the two men near her When in Rome display of swords and chest armour; Mrs. Henn is still seeing that Fed Governor fellow who spoke so passionately about the inverted yield curve at the Rudoplh christening.

Must fly. Gaston Warburton is waving. I fear he’s in the Michael Connelly camp. I do wish the Earl were here with his horse mounted infantry. This is chaos.

Tip of the cap to Booksquare who located a Slate article ( visualize squiggly link thing here.) The article details an attempt by the pharmaceutical industry to halt the flow of cheap drugs from our neighbor to the north, Canada. A lobbying group authorized the commission of a thriller called The Spivak Conspiracy. A cautionary tale, it was meant to terrify older Americans who buy their prescription drugs in Canada rather than paying full price in these United States. Plot Summary: Croatian Muslim Extremists Poison Canadian drug supply! Die like flies old people who shop in Canada!

I will let you read the Slate piece on your own. My great grandmother was from St. Catherine’s Ontario, and I was born facing Canada at Niagara Falls General Hospital. Yes, Canadians are different from Americans; those maple leaf backpacks signify more than just fond memories of Margaret Trudeau, Boom Boom Geoffrion and Maurice Richard.

But here’s what I’m thinking, and I’m ashamed of myself for thinking it. I wish that the lobbying group had offered me 100,000 US dollars to write the thriller they so desired. The Spivak Conspiracy would write itself. My hero, Joe Bob Pfizer-Merck, embittered love child and piano tuner, would slip into Canada near Plattsburg to rendezvous with Undercover Pharmacist Veronica Lake Ontario. Together with Veronica’s pal Betty, they’d expose a ring of Underpriced American Drugs sold on street corners to innocents abroad. Escaping a Mounty ambush, Joe Bob would blow up the secret cache of pills hoarded by the evil Dr. Quebec and his hockey loving cabal. Profits at drug companies would soar! They’d reinvest those profits in much needed marketing ideas like my novel. The film version would reinvent Ben Affleck, who in a sepia fadeout crescendo, would go over Niagara Falls in a barrel full of black market Viagra.

Tough to blog when you’re about to be beheaded. Or so one would think. This reporter tracked down the Earl at a KOA campsite in Kern County, California where the Volvo to the Stars has thrown a rod. Despite the rough conditions, the Earl was busy answering fan mail. The interview was conducted according to the BW Guiding Principles:
Q: Your celebrity seems to be limited to a handful of bookish people. Why is that?
A: It’s early days! I see myself as a literary Carmen Electra, at once accessible to the public, yet curiously aloof. It’s a complex persona, difficult to reduce to catch phrases without resorting to Latin.
Q: Are you the first victim of an abalone attack?
A: I think the abalone incident is behind us now. Lars, the Publicist of Gloom, has polled the entire campsite and forty three percent of the respondents regard gastropods with a heady blend of fear and respect.
Q: Michelle Campo-De Guerre wrote in Le Soir that you may be the worst writer on the planet. How does that make you feel?
A: Well, that one hurt. After years of training and preparation, endless hours of toil, spurious rejection letters, conferences, classes, and critique groups, I had hoped to be further along by now. With the Volvo on the sidelines, this is a wonderful opportunity for reflection, however. Saddened, shaken, torn from the bosom of Wellington Leg, I’m Kerouac awaiting my satori. That’s why we’re headed for Bakersfield.
Q: What Does Being in the Nine Rules Network mean for you?
A: A benediction. It lends this endeavor an air of legitimacy sadly lacking previously. As you may know, this blog is a constant tug of war between myself and others…unnamed others…wherein unseemly outbursts have been the rule of the day.
Q: Finally, what will you do if beheaded?
A: Carry on, of course. A sequel to Voltaire’s Miasma is in the works. I think Hollywood may beckon. Already Lars is in contact with ueber agents and sub agents, managers, handlers, wranglers, and roustabouts. We’ve formed an Entourage, including a leading Marine Biologist. We’re a head gasket away from fame!