David Thayer

Now that George W. Bush has discovered Albert Camus it’s safe to say that a new megatrend may be underway. Megatrends were popular in the Eighties as a kind of intellectual cosmetic surgery, smoothing out the wrinkles and frown lines of trickle down economics. If you were a child of the Eighties you may remember trickling down, the Laffer Curve, The Mad Greed is Good with fleeting glimpses of Walter Mondale, and the demise of organized labor. Anyway there were plenty of megatrends to worry about including the incipient collapse of capitalism, the fall of the dollar, and the beginning of conglomerization. Big companies swallowed little ones: check the publishing industry where hundreds of imprints became five conglomerates.

Bush may be reading Camus in search of one of the archetypes of Post WW11 philosophy wherein the failures of ideology became the groundwork for rejecting over achievers. The argument could be made that the antihero enjoyed a Renaissance from the scattered shards of existensialism; Camus rejected the institutions that support rational society, but couldn’t quite find a viable alternative outside the realm of theory. He was not a Sartre disciple when he died, he was not a Communist, nor an anarchist. His intellectual journey ended just a few years after Camus became a Nobel Laureate.

Bush has made a presidency out of heroic imagery. The fact that he’s reading Camus might indicate some realization on his part that archetypes and symbols of power have their limitations. His Mission Accomplished moment looks absurd now. Is this the end of anti-intellectualism? Probably not. I never thought of THE STRANGER as a beach book, but I guess that depends on where you’ve been beached and how fast the tide is running.

I’m reading Kate Atkinson’s CASE HISTORIES and enjoying her somewhat disjointed portrait of her private detective. She takes on the madness of vanished children from the points of view of surviving loved ones and then distills her character’s reaction through his experiences with these special people; Atkinson does a wonderful job of making this difficult group accessible despite the circumstances or, better yet, more accessible because of what has happened in their families.

With the earl imprisoned ONE MORE BITE OF THE APPLE has taken on a more professional tone, more of a literary blog than the mad blatherings of a novelist without portfolio or with the sort of portfolio that might land Newt on the cover of Vogue. This alteration had driven fans in some countries, Japan, for example, away while pulling some of the Eastern Bloc, Italy and Germany. Again our solid coterie of retirees in Costa Rica seem to visit no matter what’s going on, a tribute to the effects of retirement or the diminished state of daytime television. I don’t think Oprah discusses Mothra that often because if she did this blog would be out of business.

I’m trying to think of a creative way to make this more interesting, to focus on authors featured here even when they don’t have a new release. This thought is enshrined in its very own paragraph since it is unrelated to Mothra, Oprah, things to do in Costa Rica. What shall we do with this thing?

Dan Conaway, aka Mad Max, suspected of being Evil Editor, but certainly known to be Executive Editor at Penguin Putnam will attend the Maui Writers Conference this year. The conference is held over Labor Day Weekend in Wailea. A great many literary agents will be in attendance, so many that the balance of representational power will be out of alignment along the Atlantic-Pacific axis. if you live on Fiji you have a great shot at a SASE free encounter with a wandering agent.

New blood at Viking: Viking is publishing William Brodrick’s latest novel, THE GARDENS OF THE DEAD with a September release date. Brodrick’s SIXTH LAMENTATION was one of the better crime novels of 2004, a book worth reading before buying the new one. On a related Viking note, Josh Kendall has been acquiring titles since his arrival a few months ago. Let’s hope we see more crime and thriller releases from Viking.

Australian writer Dorothy Johnston has a new book out, THE WHITE TOWER from SMP-Minotaur. She’s a good writer and her story is well told and interesting. Otto Penzler is probably reading the book but refusing to admit it. Since David Isaac estimates that 17 American men read books, I’d like to point out that those 17 guys read a lot.

Cynicism aside I can hardly wait for the next edition of the New York Sun and with it the thoughts of Otto Penzler. Last week Otto raised eyebrows with his article in the Sun deploring the state of our beloved biz and its shackling uber-genre ChickLit. His logic rose like one of those strange fondues engulfing the metropolis in its irrevocable journey toward the kitchen floor along the lines of “What’s the Matter with Kids These Days?”

It turns out that Jennifer Weiner is to blame, for what I’m not sure, except Mickey Spillane died, a Golden Era passed, and a nice lady at Harper-Collins wants to have more wedding planner mysteries. Certainly impending nuptials are frought with emotional impedimenta as Julia Roberts has demonstrated over the years in Romantic Comedies. Not to enshrine Otto’s angst in the frivolity of modern film making, but discerning members of the viewing public can adjust their expectations based on the trailers. A few moments of strategic viewing reveals that Julia isn’t doing a remake of CITIZEN KANE. Books are trickier, of course, the stray reader could confuse Jennifer Weiner with Charlie Willeford and have a nervous breakdown if and when a hardboiled PI begins keeping a journal or chooses to rush the doorman at Saks for the Spring Sale. Otto fears our sensibilities will be hostage to a crime solving cat, that the crime genre is being hijacked by cozy authors, that the devil not only wears Prada, but understands what that means.

Otto blames Jennifer Weiner for writing a romantic mystery, for diluting a pure form. He implies her crossover is a sinister attempt to sell a bunch of books. I think every novelist is interested in selling a bunch of books. It’s cynical, I know, but I’m going right out and getting a cat, and on the way home, maybe I’ll plan a wedding.

Jack the Ripper Strasse 13: My cell is of no special design or construction, merely an oblong box with a single window, rudimentary appointments, a faded exclamation that Nixon’s the One abbraided into the stone. Ah, the vagaries of popular culture! They’ve confiscated my Freda Payne LP smuggled so cleverly by the Dowager Princess in amongst her possessions and accoutrements without which she is loathe to set forth. The guards, stout fellows all, have succumbed to the Breshnevian aura of the place and are dozing in the Day Room. The faint strains of Abba drift from somewhere beyond the walls: perhaps a seance is in progress or a shotgun wedding. Or the music is meant to torment an errant teenager in a remedial remand with accompaniment. Difficult to speculate as your reporter is himself shackled and restrained whilst awaiting the urgent resumption of the trial of the century.

Enough about me. One of the hogs snouted by earlier, pushing with vigor against the window bars. Indeed an entire of passel of hogs are outside milling around the alley. Their momentary indecision may be a byproduct of the Abba, known to confuse and paralyze the creatures. I gather my things as the opening bars of All Along the Watchtower, the Hendrix version, rattle the walls. Hog after hog now stand in a great pile, energized, bashing against the rusted steel of my cage. “Steady boys,” I whisper lest the guards stir themsleves as the metal grating crashes inward.

The opening is narrow and though I twist this way and that a certain ampleness of form inhibits my progress. The hogs hand up numerous appliances designed for this sort of endeavor, hacksaws, chain saws, sledge hammers, three ring binders, not so useful now, perhaps later. Good Lord, a table saw, radial saw, they’ve emptied the garage. I see they’ve pushed the Hispano-Suiza into place below me stuffed with an array of pillows taken from round the house without regard to color scheme. This is a Great Escape, without a doubt, impaired somewhat by my inability to blast away sufficient rock and, oh no….The Captain and Tenille.

Flee boys, I cry. We’ll breakout soon. Last time we were thwarted by 99 Luftballonen. Will the guards notice the gaping hole in my wall? The radial saw? YHS, The Earl.

I’m not sure I can pinpoint the precise moment that popular music became meaningless dreck. Sure you can blame it on Barry Manilow, but he coexisted when rock ate its young. Las Vegas called. They washed ashore with glitter lapels and a few precious tubes of Brylcreem for the pomps. No I think Barry’s off the hook. All the powder blue tuxedoes can’t be laid at his doorstep because The Clash weren’t even born yet. Think of the mass hysteria resulting from booking acts boring enough for the White House or the National Christmas Party. They’d applaud Perry Como’s disembodied cardigan. Black people are off the hook too, despite Barry White and Lionel Richey. Those were white guys owning Studio 54 when disco made hip replacement surgery inevitable.

Writers don’t have a Las Vegas to go to when they start to suck. There is no handy alternative universe, no White House bookings, no Long Island wedding industry to prop that shit up. When the prose is bad a whole bunch of vicious critics rip it apart, guys like Newt from Georgia on Amazon. They gotta say it or Pat Robertson will send a hit squad to speed you on to heaven.

Maybe there could be a town somewhere for writers in decline. Never mind the young and struggling. They’re hip, they’re okay. Let’s have a town with forty bookstores, sixty libraries, a town where a fading hack can get some sunshine. It would probably have to be in California or Spain, somewhere warm. Where did all the Rod McKuen books end up? Bodega Bay? Oh no that’s where Hitchcock filmed The Birds, dude. Imagine the stress of that after decades of decline you got birds all over you, big ones, cormorants, turtle doves, red tailed hawks. Where is that literary Las Vegas?

I’m on the last lap of my wip’s final rewrite before I send it out. It’s a process that requires the passion of the artist and the dispassion of the critic. The two headed monster within bleeds and bellows. Let’s not forget how to spell down the homestretch.

I’m putting the finishing touches on my review of George Pelecanos’ latest novel, THE NIGHT GARDENER before sending it off to January Magazine. After that I’ll put words to paper about Jason Starr’s LIGHTS OUT.  I have that review written in my head…yeah, I know that’s ridiculous, but the ideas are forming, waiting at the turnstile for a Metro card.

Hachette Books sent me CASE HISTORIES by Kate Atkinson along with her new one. The Lit Blog Coop did CASE HISTORIES as one of their selections; two chapters in I can see why. The hope is that in September I’ll interview the author if she’s amenable. Another recent arrival is Stuart McBride’s DYING LIGHT from SMP-Minotaur. I’m looking forward to reading Mr. McBride. SMP sent Ken Bruen’s CALIBRE along with several cozies. They arrived in a large box with the all cozies cringing in one corner while Ken stood tall in the middle. I also received Alexandra Sokoloff’s debut THE HARROWING. If you ever want to borrow a book…

It doesn’t take long swinging around the Lit blogosphere to realize how individual blogs are. Bud Parr reported that 300 bloggers have joined his Metaxu Cafe. Even someone without a blog joined although they left again, but 300 is a nice round number. I try to visit all of them over a period of time and it always amazes me how unique they are. There is nothing monolithic about the lit blog community; interests vary from children’s books to fantasy. Some blogs report the news, others describe the travails of writing, and one or two just thump the tub. John Baker has been interviewing lit bloggers asking why they blog, three favorite blogs, why they read fiction.

Now Bud Parr is asking for nominations for favorite blog entries among Metaxu Cafe’s membership. It’s worth noting that he went on vacation after making this announcement. Some of my favorite blog entries? It’s hard to compete with Steve Clackson’s launch of his novel SANDSTORM and the email exchange with Lee Goldberg. People were banned, dude. Banned.

I’ll have to give this question some more thought, check the Metaxu Cafe roster. This is a club that has me as a member, a cautionary note to be sure.

It sometimes happens that working on one project yields ideas for another. Thus proof reading THE WORKING DEAD got me going on another novel, THE NAMES which features some of the characters from WAYS TO DIE IN THE CONGO and has nothing to do the characters in THE WORKING DEAD. There is no doubt some mysterious affinity or connection between these two books although I’m not sure what it is. I have several drafts of THE NAMES and through some organic process better explored in TWELVE MONKEYS an actual story is emerging. Yes, if I bang on the keyboard long enough the characters take over and begin helping out rather than thwarting your reporter with conflcting goals and aims. That’s why I recommend hiring a ghost writer for those early drafts while you pose by the pool looking magisterial. Work on your tan.

The setup: Jessica Haight is on Zanzibar Island shooting a movie. After Jessica’s kidnapped and the film’s director murdered, her father, a man Jessica has never met, comes out of hiding to find her.

Here is a brief excerpt.

Bailiwick of Guernsey British Channel Islands

Tony Rhodes purchased a ceramic cookie jar in a shop called Cornet. The saleslady assured him he would be very pleased with the purchase. The jar depicted a mouse in farmer’s overalls wearing a yellow scarf. With a removable head the cookie jar had a capacity of some two quarts, she said, plenty of room for goodies.
“You must have grandchildren,” she said.

“Sweet tooth.”

After the grandchildren crack, Tony allowed her to wrap his treasure in the previous day’s edition of the Financial Times. He forked over five pounds, dumped the change into his pocket, and left the shop. The fat man’s barbershop was two minutes away, but Tony devoted fifteen minutes to evasion tactics, varying speed and direction every ninety seconds, backtracking past the Cornet clutching his mouse.

The cobble stone street was the width of a large alley. He entered the pub, ordering an ale and a plowman’s lunch. The landlord wiped the table down with a cloth before trundling off to fill the order. Tony took his package into the Gents and locked the door behind him.

After unwrapping the cookie jar, Tony lifted the mouse head free and glanced inside. He removed a bag of diamonds from his jacket pocket and dropped the bag into the cookie jar. Next he deposited a forged Canadian passport in the name of Henri Dumond of Trois Riviere, Quebec. Henri was okay for third world borders, but wouldn’t pass muster in Europe.

Someone rapped on the door. “Out in a sec,” Tony called. Footfalls sounded from the hall.

Tony removed his tweed jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He unfastened a bracelet on his left wrist, gold encrusted with sapphires before taking off a Rolex Oyster Perpetual. He strapped on a Casio watch with a plastic band, slipped the Rolex and the bracelet into the cookie jar. He paused for a moment. He really liked the Rolex—a gift from a deposed African dictator. Tony removed a second Rolex from his right wrist, a lady’s Oyster Perpetual.

The knock on the door was more insistent.

“Yeah, just a sec.”

Tony hesitated before dropping the Frozen Rope codebook into the cookie jar. On page forty-one of the book the names were written in plain text. He jotted the date on the upper right margin, closed the book, and placed it inside the ceramic mouse. Tony replaced the head, put on his jacket, rewrapped the cookie jar and left the bathroom.

A pleasant looking woman ushered her son forward. “All right, Jeremy, best hurry.”

Tony ate his lunch, drinking the ale, his eyes on the pub’s front door. He wondered if Sammy Moyer had gotten the message that Brazzaville was too hot in June. Tony wanted Sammy to run, but he hadn’t gotten the confirmation telex at the Bank of Lyon.

Sammy had provided a list of names, broken loose from network intercepts, vetted by no one other than Sammy. The list was the sort of raw intelligence that analysts would study for weeks, but the information frightened Tony and his immediate visceral response was belief. Some fool in Hollywood had written a screenplay based on real events, Tony’s personal history developed for the silver screen.

Another fool had greenlighted the project and hired Tony’s daughter to star. Only a handful of people knew of his brief marriage three decades earlier, let alone that the union had produced a child. In his line of work secrecy was vital and he’d taken steps to protect their identities. Now her name was on a list of potential targets, and he was fucked if he knew how that might have come to pass.

Tony paid his bill, picked his up his cookie jar and headed for the door.

Zanzibar Island, Indian Ocean

1300 GMT

Jessica Haight leaned over the railing of her balcony. The four star hotel in Zanzibar’s Stone Town sat on the beach facing the Indian Ocean. Her one bedroom suite faced the hotel pool and bar rather the ocean so when the urge struck her, she stood on tiptoes to catch a glimpse of the unfamiliar ocean.

Shooting had all but wrapped on the northern part of Zanzibar Island. Gus, the director, and one of the writers had flown to Mombasa that morning for a meeting with the executive producer. Jessica was under contract for another two weeks, and her agent had emailed that a commercial for French television might be in the cards. The French were arriving from Dar es Salaam on the afternoon ferry and were anxious to talk.

When Sirius, the Dog Star, rose in the heavens the Romans knew it was campaign time. Their legions would depart winter quarters, receive their marching orders and as their great general Marius once said, “go tune somebody up.” The onset of summer has the opposite effect in the publishing biz: when the dog star rises, activity slows. They don’t even trade Alfonso Soriano. Only Philadelphia stirred in the hazy heat but Philly isn’t where the publishing houses are. Of course the trading deadline has passed and publishers know that from now on authors have to clear waivers before being dealt.

Behind the scenes, though, things are happening. Writers conferences and conventions are in full swing. Rookie camps are full and scouts are looking for the next Big Thing. Your reporter is no exception, straddling both sides of the Mendoza Line, the mythical goal of all writers. Polishing my manuscript for submission, scouting post offices for relative insanity levels, proofreading, and rewriting.

I’ve been asked to review two books for January Magazine, Jason Starr’s LIGHTS OUT and George Pelecanos’ THE NIGHT GARDENER. I’m excited by the opportunity to review for January and hope to rise to the occasion; both are good books. I just finished LIGHTS OUT the first time I’ve read Jason Starr. I think the release date is in September. The working title for THE NIGHT GARDENER was MISSION MEN, before the manuscript went into galleys. Titles are funny things.