Archive for February, 2006

Mystery, Suspense, Holes in the Street

Friday, February 3rd, 2006

I took a friend of mine for a spin through the Seattle Mystery Bookstore yesterday. He’s a reader who needed a book and I had to keep him away from the hole in the street in front of the store now in its seventh month of continuous operation. Pretty soon GM Ford or Earl Emerson will have to feature this dig in one of their novels. I thought the trip through the aisles revealed much about the state of our crime fiction union, so I’ll give you my impressions. Also Tod Goldberg needs something to read.
They had plenty of copies of Sara Gran’s novel, Dope. An impressive display near the front window, right on the pub date. Lee Goldberg, Dana Stabenow, Andrew Vacchs, Michael Connelly and Barbara Serenella had books on the front table; that’s an eclectic mix driven by an assortment of award nominations, personal appearances fore and aft, and the store’s own quirks. Robert Ferrigno’s latest Prayers for the Assassin caught my eye. He’s a home boy.

I rescued Tim from the cat mystery section and we plied through a John Connelly, Ken Bruen, Jason Starr section; as a civilian, Tim was unable to recover from the cat stuff. Yes, as far as I know these cats solve mysteries. I don’t know how they do it. Then we discovered that William Brodrick’s The Sixth Lamentation was out of print. Our last stop was the SoHo crime display. He’d read Rebeccca Pawel’s Death of a Nationalist but we couldn’t locate her newest book. On the way out I looked for releases from Hard Case Crime. Then the jackhammers began once more.

At lunch he’d been telling me how crazy his business has become. Book publishing has its travails, but so does banking, insurance and the restaurant biz. Crime fiction isn’t suffering from a dearth of talent. Even a specialty shop grapples to define what a mystery is, what might appeal to whom, and why. The breadth of choice is daunting, the categories vague to the unitiated. I didn’t solve the mystery of what sells and what languishes, but I worry that gimmicks will backfire if the writing becomes secondary to high concept titles that do not deliver the goods. That’s a tough hole to climb out of.

More Thoughts About Dope

Thursday, February 2nd, 2006

Today is the official release date of Sara Gran’s novel Dope. Sarah Weinman posted a link to an article by Bruce De Silva who says that the novel “is the first great noir novel from the mind of a woman.” Raymond Chandler and Jim Thompson are mentioned as points of comparison; Sarah’s post generated a heated debate in the backlogs with comments from Laura Lippman, Cornelia Read, David Montgomery and Tribe lighting the scoreboard. Jump over to Confessions of an Idiosyncratic Mind for the community take on the article.

I don’t compare authors in my written reviews, but it doesn’t mean I don’t think of them, I just don’t write them down. Comparisons in book reviews make me crazy although that’s a personal quirk, not a mission statement. When I read Dope and Saturn’s Return to New York, Sara Gran’s first novel, I enjoyed her spare style and linear stories; in the back of my mind lurked names like DeLillo, Lethem, and holy cow, Vonnegut. I wondered if satire isn’t her first love despite the absolute absence of overt satire in Dope, it lurked around the edges of Saturn’s Return. I can’t defend this thesis, but I believe that Dope is a literary work with elements of noir imbedded in the subject matter. In the interest of full disclosure I should tell you that The Big Lebowski is one of my favorite moives so much so that I wish for eight or nine sequels. So, consider the source.
Dope is an antidote to postmodernist horseshit so you’re wondering what Dom DeLillo is doing in my head while reading Sara Gran. Setting. East Village, places like that. It’s a weird association. See the note above. Regards, The Dude.

Staff Recommendations

Wednesday, February 1st, 2006

You have to wonder about a law enforcement agent skulking around in toga candida. DCI Borchardt has been dressing this way for a week now, long enough to rule out the toga party theory floated by Haskell. I only mention this because Borchardt has recommended Ciitzen Vince to those in the holding cell beneath the earl’s refurbished prison on Smokemifyougotem Strasse. Everyone incarcerated there stands accused of barratry aboard the luxurious MV Gastropod a conspiracy of sprawling dimensions.

I was dismayed to find that no one recommended Voltaire’s Miasma although several factors may have influenced the Edgar nominating panel. Lingering doubt over the authenticity of certain passages coupled with professional jealousy and a soupcon of schadenfreude may have doomed the effort. While it is true that we charged school children five dollars apiece to tour Great Puffinghammer, five dollars merely covered the cost of Haskell’s droll tour guide costume, a rented morning suit that required subsequent dry cleaning; my motto remains ‘suffer the children’ but I fear Lars made a hash of spinning the news. He is surrendering his post as my publicist to return full time to Volvo Repair and Maintenance and Gloom.

Doctor Peppy has taken the helm, already contacting ueberagent Lydia Careerbreaker on my behalf. Although he refers often to “Brad” and “Jen” neither of these individuals reside in these parts and may, in fact, be imaginary friends. This bears watching. The hogs are rustling in the fens; stout fellows!

Genre Fever

Wednesday, February 1st, 2006

Genre fever is with us again striking diverse corners of the literary community with its confounding blend of marketing jargon, uncomfortable truth and misleading labels, all designed to make life easier for the known consumer, a person who does not exist, but is nevertheless the gleam in the eye of publishers large and small. The known consumer, the KC, fits the following profile: he or she reads books, but does not know how to distinguish between them. KC is adrift in a sargasso sea of choices with Oprah as a kind of Lighthouse at Alexandria, a beacon in the darkness. But Oprah has crashed to the seabed, done in by the marauding Prince James. Our world is now dark.

KC is on their own. Whether strolling the wide open spaces of Walmart or the cagey confines of an indy bookstore they are left to their own devices, picking up books at random; books about relationships, weight loss, romance, suspense, politics, horticulture, music, critical tomes, pink ones, green ones, black ones. KC is looking for escape or knowledge or, heaven help them, redemption between the covers. Suffering from genre fever KC staggers into the daylight with a cartful of purchases designed to enhance their lifestyle, feed the kids, groom the dog, products whose purpose and utlity are obvious.

KC is a moving target, no pun intended. Casual readers, serious shoppers. There are many millions of them, all impervious to marketing efforts by publishers. They are not book lovers. KC buys three books a year two of them gifts one of them by Doctor Phil. Chasing KC is what is known as dumbing down; if we produce work that is shoddy enough, KC will reward us. KC will buy books. The light will shine again.