Ian Rankin and the Standalone Thriller
I read Ian Rankin’s Blood Hunt and don’t feel strongly enough about it to review it. It’s not a bad book and the sections in the Outer Hebrides were enjoyable. The ending is so abrupt that I wondered if a fire alarm had gone off forcing Mr. Rankin to abandon his word processor and gather his wordly possessions. Baseball fans are familiar with pitch counts where the pitcher is yanked off the mound by a coach examining a hand held device umpires use to keep track of balls and strikes. I like to amuse myself with ideas like that applied to writing; okay Rankin, take a shower pal, you’ve thrown 95,000 words down here and you’re done.
It’s horrible of me to cling to Inspector Rebus when Ian Rankin wants to branch out and retire Rebus before he burns out. I understand the desire to do something different. All of my spring training stories submitted to the Druidical & Literary have been spiked. Sure I can’t afford to go Florida or Arizona but if you’ve seen one ballgame, you can pretty much stay home and write about how Moose gave up ten runs in three ininngs but feels good because he used all of his pitches. How can you feel good when your pitches end up in the left field seats being pursued by middle-aged men wearing baseball jerseys and embarrassing the hell out of middle-aged men everywhere?
Maybe that explains the ending to Blood Hunt. Ian Rankin uses all of his pitches in this book and sometimes he’s dialed in and other times he can’t seem to get comfortable. I wonder if the standalone thriller is something he enjoys writing or feels he needs to. If Oliver Castinstone weren’t such a cheapskate I’d be on the next plane to Scotland to find out. Oh wait the Yankees B squad is playing the Tigers; let’s pretend we’re in Tampa.