David Thayer

Mr. Jeremy Whiting of Rook Upon Castle used a robot to complete his 50,000 word NaNoWriMo novel according to Flying Squad Commander DCI Borchardt. The robot completed a potboiler called THAT SMYTHE WOMAN. It tells the story of an heiress, wrongly accused of murder, who finds peace in the building trades as a marble cutter. “It’s a pretty good story,” Borchardt said. “There are problems though. She falls in love with a robot. The Hero is a robot. The villain is described as ‘human.’”

The story is set in Seattle during 30 days of constant rain, snow mixed with rain, sleet, and football injuries. In the opening scene the main character, Ark, is seen pulling Subarus from ditches. He enjoys spot welding and Google searches. When Ark encounters the stranded Mrs. Smythe beneath a seismically challenged overpass, sparks fly. “Ark disassembles a Lexus SUV,” Borchardt said. “When he eats the windshield, though, one wonders whether the story isn’t riddled with magical realism.”

Professor Moriarity, speaking off the cuff, said that the robot was programmed to write genre fiction during a tune-up in September. “You can’t blame Ark for the state of modern literature,” he said. As for Mr. Whiting, his entry has been disqualified. His writing desk, with its coveted ocean view, will face the wall until further notice. A vintage Royal typewriter has been confiscated, and the robot author will be reconfigured for Subaru repair. “Deep down, he’s a body and fender man,” noted publicist Lars Kierkegaard. Lars landed a Saab Viggen fighter on the 405 at the height of the morning rush. “My windshield wiper broke,” he said. JT Leroy reporting.

Most of the time the struggle to achieve a goal is seen as moving from outside to inside: if the goal is a job, we want the company to lower the bridge that we may cross the moat. Once Inside a warm sense of belonging infuses the newcomer. It feels good. The outsider is no more, an identity discarded. Benefits blossom: health care, free parking, shrimp cocktail at the Holiday Party.

Consider the writer, the person who seeks publication for their work, not the casual dabbler, but the driven writer. This person has much in comon with the jobseeker with a few additional complications. The work they do is speculative. The job they seek exists in a precarious construct that requires the active participation of unknown others, an agent perhaps, an editor certainly. Not only is the writer firing a shot from half-court there is no guarantee that there is a basket for the ball to find. After a beautiful pirouette, an elegant release, the ball vanishes into oblivion.

The reason some value fiction above all else is this: the fiction writer is always an outsider, the process never completes. No matter how many novels someone produces, they start the next one alone. That singularity isn’t punishment, but an essential part of the job. Writers want free shrimp cocktail in a desperate way, but they know it isn’t good for them. That’s for insiders. Wipe the cocktail sauce from your chin. Begin again.

Dateline: Wellington Leg. In what some observers believe to be a first, VOLTAIRE’S MIASMA is being recalled by its publisher Big Fat Books GMBH. Problems associated with the tome include exploding Christmas tree lights, night blindness, poor tire alignment, and a sudden urge to speak French.

Graf von Sitzbaedchen, Chairman of Big Fat Industries, issued a prepared statement regarding the recall: “Members of our focus group included a cross section of Legians,” he said. “None of them spoke French before.”

Safe operation of the novel: like many Big Fat Books, VOLTAIRE’S MIASMA comes with a warning label. WARNING: YOU’LL LAUGH, YOU’LL CRY, YOU’LL WANT TO HUG A FRENCH PHILOSOPHER.

“It’s inappropriate for public transportation,” said Prudentia Chalfont-Smythe, chair of the Wellington Leg Francophone Committee. Chalfont-Smythe began smoking black tobacco cigarettes while reading the novel. “I was enveloped in a noxious cloud,” she said.

Some readers expressed the desire to watch Roger Vadim films although others found themselves drawn to Fassbinder. Wellington Leg’s art house theater was raided by the Flying Squad shortly before dawn. A man claiming to be Jean Luc Goddard was issued a summons after claiming he spoke no English.

Graf von Sitzbaedchen promised “four literary credits” to anyone returning VOLTAIRE’S MIASMA. The book will be pulped by a crew of city workers using Jose Canseco model hickory bats. Wendell Wilkie reporting.

Like a small boat on a storm tossed sea, Paul Auster’s TRAVELS IN THE SCRIPTORIUM arrived at my door. This is my first Auster experience, and I read the opening pages thinking of Jose Sarramago rather than Kafka, although Franz might dig the setup. The book is published by Henry Holt and Company. Holt always seems to have great catalogues full of interesting titles, but sometimes they are overshadowed by their other siblings in the Holzbrinck group.

Holt stepped out of the low profile last summer with Jed Rubenfeld’s INTERPRETATION OF MURDER. I don’t know how that book fared in the marketplace, but it was a dense story and I caved after several chapters. I lack several attributes in reading books that feature historical figures. I’m a fan of realism. My modernist sensibilities are more Rocky and Bullwinkle than Barth and Barthelme.

I give a big yes to all Latin American writers. I enjoy them more than Anglo-American writers. This contradicts my first assertion, my dedication to realism. My cultural perfect storm would be reading Vargas-Llosa during a Rocky and Bullwinkle Retrospective. That’s full disclosure.

I’d like to apologize to Leo Tolstoy. It was wrong to douse his beard with Dr. Pepper. This is why blogs will never be taken seriously by the Mainstream Media. Mea culpa.

Once more into the book, dear friends: Black Forest is an unregistered nano novel whose progress can only be tracked by your reporter. I picked up the gauntlet of the nanowritmo in the hopes of pushing the manuscript. Now it’s pushing back. 20,000 words complete with 6 days left. 30,000 words short of the goal. Looks like Butler University is a basketball superpower, I don’t know who J-Fed is, it didn’t rain yesterday, and Google vaulted over 500 dollars per share. I have more excuses somewhere, a long list, a short list, a revised short list and a Final Four. 30,000 words in 6 days?  We’ve seen that movie.

I’m happy with the progress. The other day I was working on the book finishing the last of the opening scenes and I began to doubt that the structure I’d planned was going to work, that Part One, the bridge to Part Two wouldn’t stretch across the tme line divide. I ignored the voice in my head and kept going only to realize that the first half of the novel dovetails into the second, eight years later, without jarring the story. This method of writing is called wandering through the desert until the oasis is found. My nano goal wasn’t so much to write a novel, but to write enough story to see if a novel might be in there somewhere.

Do my opening 130 pages need rewriting and editing? Sure. But not yet. I want to push it to the end and see where it goes. The ending I envision will probably morph into something unexpected. Meanwhile nano is a motivator to forge ahead.

The Thanksgiving Day Parade in downtown Wellington Leg featured the actual turnip used to thwart the Roman invasion and drive them to winter quarters. The turnip was carried aboard the float “If I Did It” designed by Bob of Bob’s Auto in Henley Hornbrook. Shakespearean actor Reginald Moss portrayed The Earl on his daring journey across Gastropod Alley. The actor “confesses” to throwing the turnip at a Roman sentry. Judge Hamilcar Frist, who presided at the earl’s trial, ordered the turnip seized by members of the Flying Squad.

CSI was summoned to dust the turnip. Finger print analysis revealed that Judge Frist had gone dancing the previous evening, read Thomas Pynchon’s latest novel, and still believed in Santa Claus. Citizens were once again sprayed with orange laminate and several tree limbs were confiscated and taken to the lab. Bob’s float was seized during the marching band’s rendition of “My Sharona.”

The Earl, who survived a battle with a Great Red, the largest of all abalone, waved to the crowd. His steed, The Lebowsky, is a mechanical horse that graces the entrance to the Metroplex in the Prince of Denmark Shopping Center. The Earl threw papier mache turnips to the crowd until DCI Borchardt diverted the parade along Virginia Woolf Place. High winds were blamed for the change in plans.

The “If I Did It” float will be crushed into a million little pieces according to CSI Catharine of Aragon. Anyone sprayed with orange laminate may file a complaint with the City of Wellington Leg, the Borough of Goth, or drop a line to Hizzoner, care of Wilfredo Tagesblatt, VP of Development. Lucky winners will appear on the reality TV show “When People Are Orange” on the Flox Network.

If you get the opportunity to read James Church’s A CORPSE IN THE KORYO, give it a shot. Enter the Stalinist time warp and meet Inspector O. The novel reminds me of Olen Steinhauer’s LIBERATION MOVEMENTS or Mo Hayder’s THE DEVIL OF NANKING for the combination of poetic descriptions and grim settings. Inspector O is a policeman in North Korea’s convoluted security apparatus. The jacket copy alludes to GORKY PARK by Martin Cruz Smith. Inspector O has some of the wry wit of Arkady Renko.

I think there are three NFL games scheduled for Thanksgiving Day. The early pilgrims played a lot of football and innovated Cover 2 and Cover Zero. They blitzed a lot. The ball was a deflated pig bladder so the games were defensive struggles.

My review of Thomas Lakeman’s THE SHADOW CATCHERS will appear in January Magazine in the next few days. It will appear in January’s Crime Fiction section. Check out the work of Ali Karim and Anthony Rainone as you browse around.

Wellington Leg: Thomas Pynchon, author of AGAINST THE DAY, made a splashy arrival in downtown Wellington Leg. As is his custom Pynchon commanded the coveted Ninth Floor of the Hotel Faz before an appearance on the balcony. The author threw chocolate bookmarks shaped like rainbows at thousands of admirers. The force of gravity carried the candies ever downward as though guided by a great hand.

When word leaked that the author planned to go clubbing, Hizzoner’s Polka House stayed open past ten to accomodate the great man. Marjorie Morningstar, who had threatened to reduce the towne’s bond rating, reported hundreds of raucous book fans rioting near the Fressgasse. “I called the police,” Marjorie said.

DCI Borchardt brought in cavalry units from the Decima Claudia Legion camped near Costco. The controversial decision to use Roman mercenaries is not without precedent. “They are providing mall security at the Prince of Denmark Shopping Center,” Borchardt revealed. “Only through the holidays,” he added.

The Pynch Me Tour will end with a public appearance at Eddie’s Book Nook around noon. Pynchon is expected to land by parachute on FoldingPaper Square. Hizzoner, the Towne Council, and the high school marching band will greet the author as he descends. Residents are advised to avoid the Historic Rotunda unless in possession of an Engraved Invitation. Beheadings scheduled for today will be postponed, according to VP of Development Wilfredo Tagesblatt. “This is wreaking havoc with our schedule,” he said.

“Pynchon loves the limelight,” observed Prudentia Chalfont-Smythe chair of the Pynch Me Committee. The first one hundred citizens to buy AGAINST THE DAY will receive a Smythe oven and a supply of Pop-Tarts. “With the earl driving his hogs to the higher hills we expect the event to go smoothly,” she added.

Alternative side of the street parking regulations will be reversed for the spectacle. Lot 49, Section V, is set aside for oxcarts and other “impedimenta.” Don’t even think about parking there.

In a coup for the Druidical & Literary, Leo Tolstoy dropped by the office to inqure about blogging. This being a weekend the only staffer available was Bobby G, cub reporter. Bobby is still upset about Johan Santana winning the Cy Young Award and he’s distraught that Pamela Anderson was a no show for the National Book Awards. Bobby kept his wits about him after Ken the Security Guard threatened Leo with a can of Mace.

BG: Hey, Mr. Tolstoy, when Hollywood adapted War and Peace were you pissed off? I was.

LT: What is that substance that leaps from a can and causes one to weep uncontrollably?

BG: That’s Mace. Ken used to work at the UCLA library.

LT: He seems philosophically adrift. Fortunately I’ve secreted a fresh apple beneath my beard. Tell me, young fellow, about this place you call the blogosphere. Is it real?

BG: I guess so. I don’t know how it works or anything.

LT: What of Czarist interference?

BG: Sports Illustrated has that problem, but we don’t. Maybe if we had advertisers that would be different. We do gossip mostly and try to promote the literary works of our owner.

LT: How dreadful.

BG: Oh yeah. Most of our readers are from Bulgaria.

LT: A lovely place.

BG: You know it’s funny that you smuggled that apple in here because this blog is called One More Bite of the Apple.

LT: What does it mean?

BG: Um, you know I’m only here on the weekend. My desk is in a stairwell. If you want, you can sit here behind the dashboard and blog for a while.

LT: What is this device?

BG: RSS feed. We’re not supposed to fiddle with it, but go ahead. Dude, I think your beard’s on fire. I’ll call Ken. No, wait, here’s some Dr. Pepper. Pour it on your beard. That was close.

LT: Blogging seems hazardous. Am I blogging now? Hello? What manner of madness is this?

When Judith Regan moved her imprint to Los Angeles, she made it clear she wanted to do tie-ins, books associated with television events, books that played to the popular culture. She wanted to redefine the way books and current events were presented to a mass audience. After all, headlines move fast. If Jimmy Olson were a cub reporter today, he’d probably be at a local television station, not the Daily Planet. Then again Jimmy might work for ReganBooks, writing copy for a celebrity weight lifter, bounty hunter, sous-chef. Jimmy might find that life with Ms. Regan moves faster than a speeding bullet.

She went three thousand miles to find OJ. He wasn’t missing, he sat atop the cultural slagheap of tarnished celebrity. OJ escaped justice but his freedom was vaccum locked by both his actions and the public perception that he’d gotten away with murder. OJ’s next headline would be an obituary. The collective consciousness would have one less fly buzzing around the room.

Hollywood execs are blown away by the brilliance of OJ’s hypothetical confession, the television tie-in, sweeps week, faltering ratings for Fox and, of course, by the book. Book sellers had to order the title without knowing the name of the author. Perhaps someone feared a backlash. Bill O’Reilly called the OJ book “a new low.”  That remains to be seen. Entertainment that defiles honest emotion will always seek its own level. Meanwhile our cub reporter can only marvel at the genius on display. Read all about it.