David Thayer

<p> Wellington Leg: A furious sell off rocked the Piltdown Exchange in a quadruple witching scenario that saw literary futures roiled on a day when neither James Patterson nor JD Robb published a book. Traders had hardly digested that news when the Live Hogs screen went dark. Mall Security was summoned to the scene after a floor specialist tripped over an RSS feed, spilled his soft drink,, and forgot his password creating what Dr. Pepper called “a pluperfect storm.”

<p> Over at the world rights pit, traders argued about Portugal and Hong Kong. “It got physical,” said a spokesperson, “They went all Vasco de Gama on one another.” Once the melee spread to the Live Hogs pit a jailbreak resulted in market weight porkers “running loose, pushing buttons and pulling levers.” The freight elevator that services the exchange made eleven trips to the basement in less than two minutes greatly straining the system.

<p> Not even photos of Oprah and Mitch Albom, always reassuring, could stem the panic. Rumors that the Yankees had traded Derek Jeter struck at three o’clock jarring the Celebrity Pit already frazzled by the news that Carmen Elektra wouldn’t win a Pulitzer.

<p> Trading curbs will be in effect for this morning’s opening. The big line for the Ladies Room was an “aberration” according to Dr. Pepper. Soothing Muzak will be notched higher after the opening bell, he said, signaling an end to easy credit in sub-prime markets.

<p> Now that the Oscars have passed and Martin Scorcese has won I want to recommend to you all the late Peter Boyle’s wonderful speech in TAXI DRIVER where he probes DeNiro’s psychotic character with some talk about what a man does makes the man what he is. This applies to women as well although what a woman does is only part of what she is. It’s a different for men who also understand in discourse with one another that the other guy is probably wrong while women seem to withhold that judgment until they hear what’s being said.

<p> What we do as writers gets the Boyle treatment all the time in that resume form: when not blogging or advising the president Our Hero enjoys wind surfing kayaking googling Scooter Libby making his finger into a gun winking nodding jogging in place forensic dentistry Ethiopian coffee shroud indenting purchasing tires gripping melodrama solicitation calls some forms of modern dance art jazz adjusting valves hairpieces gummy rings gummi bears deep sea diving speechs by Iranian politicians sea urchins and punctuation if not overdone.

<p> Finding time to write blogs reviews imaginary town council meetings fictitious map coordinates incisive commentary go to seven eleven slap on some Aqua Velva and wash the car? Incroyable!

<p> Where do they find the time?

<p> NB: I do think that html tags should be invisible and they used to be around here and now they’re not. I don’t know why this alteration has occurred but I think it means something. Maybe it’s an Artificial Intelligence thing, a prelude. I don’t know.

<p> David Isaak of Tomorrowville fame is conducting a survey on his blog about how novelists write their books. Some are planners, some are freewheelers while some freewheel before backing up from the edge of the precipice.

<p> David invited me to join the discussion by posting my process here on this very blog. His email arrived just as I was typing “the end” on a manuscript in one of those bizarre we are the world coincidence moments so frowned upon at famous writers school.  I should add that the novel just completed has reached this stage before and will reach this stage again in a few weeks after I “step away” from the project which means going into the kitchen and eating olives directly from the jar. I use a spoon because olive jars have narrow mouths like rattlesnakes or claims adjustors and very few famous writers that I’ve ever heard of contend they cannot work because their hand is trapped inside a jar of olives. That’s more of a movie star thing, and God knows, we’re not movie stars. So, I use a spoon.

<p> Essay wise we’re also battling the headwinds of the inescapable fact that while I have completed manuscripts none of them have been turned into books but rather returned to me, the creator of these manuscripts, with varying levels of thrust so that it may be said my process is limited to those preliminary rounds you used to see at Madison Square Garden where guys would go three rounds in a veil of cigar smoke thick enough to endanger great swathes of otherwise innocent citizens leaping from chairs crying “kill the bum!” If only novel writing, or manuscript writing, handed down from generations of monks in their cells, delivered that sort of audience participation or at least a solitary business mogul with hair a Florida orange might claim as its own, then you’d have a process on your hands.

<p> To summarize: it seems to me that Nolan Ryan used to soak his fingers in pickle brine to avoid blisters on his fingers and he could throw a baseball one hundred miles per hour past a man with a bat in his hand and a prayer on his lips. From now on I won’t use a spoon, I’ll take my chances with the rattlesnake and just reach for it.

<p> Wellington Leg, The Minories: On the very day that a three-toed sloth went missing from the zoo Ministry officials report that the Wellington Leg Spy Satellite was involved in a minor traffic accident. According to eye-witnesses the satellite was waiting for the light to change on Trump Boulevard when it was struck from behind by a second driver.

<p> CSI Caruso arrived on scene and cordoned off a 12 square block including the Historic Rotunda and Deflecting Pond. Paint chip analysis revealed that the driver of the second car “Prefers literary fiction, lite beer, roots for the New York Jets, and has only three toes.”

<p> DCI Borchardt, fresh from query writing class, admitted that “the focus of our inquiry is the escaped sloth. It’s extremely difficult for a three toed sloth to operate a motor vehicle, much less a stick shift.” That the sloth may have been using a “cellular telephone” shortly before impact is a matter of rank speculation.

<p> The satellite was towed to Ballard Auto Body and Publicity where Spin Doctor Miles Canopy had this to say: “We cannot rush to judgment. The satellite is resting comfortably in Bay 3 where our top publicist is preparing a written estimate. The people of Wellington Leg deserve an answer and we have answers in stock, thank goodness.”

<p> Earl Update: his dinghy may have entered Manila Bay under the cover of darkness. Satellite photos are inconclusive, but do reveal a three-toed sloth manning the helm. Geraldo reporting by satellite phone.

<p> A holiday mood prevails in the newsroom with all the Presidents birthdays mashed together into a convenient Monday observance. Wellington Leg is quiet although concerned that the earl’s impromptu attempt at circumnavigating the globe may end badly, not to mention the slight he received from critic Janet Maslin who overlooked VOLTAIRE’S MIASMA in her sweeping article on the current crop of thrillers.  Voltaire reimagined as a short reliever in the Dodgers farm system seems to capture the zeitgeist perfectly, philosophically speaking.

<p> But bitterness is a shallow cup as so many can attest, so let’s plunge into the body of the story without these asides and ponderous reflections. Sure, Voltaire needs work on his command and location, but he’s a Frenchman living in Visalia. Meanwhile at Eddie’s Book Nook this reporter must sort through the new arrivals while wiping a tear from his eye. Currently reading:

<p> THE ECHELON VENDETTA by David Stone. Speared by the aforementioned Ms. Maslin as a DaVinci Code knockoff THE ECHELON VENDETTA is no such thing despite the ominous scenes in a Cortona Italy chapel. Borrowing from Hamlet the ghost of a dead intelligence officer troubles the protagonist on several levels in a risky gambit whose outcome is yet unclear.

<p> John Shannon’s latest THE DARK STREETS promises much and delivers more. Steve Hockensmith returns with ON THE WRONG TRACK featuring his cowboy detectives first introduced in HOLMES ON THE RANGE.

<p> I finished Natsuo Kirino’s GROTESQUE a marvelous strange novel about the murder of two Tokyo prostitutes. It’s due out in March from Knopf.  TTFN, Prince Gaspar of Thuringia ( reduced to blogging after a harrowing encounter with Knights Templar.)

<p> I’ve been meaning to discuss the correct way to read the New York Times, welterweight on Saturday, journalistic Big Gulp on Sunday. You know what I’m talking about. If you live in New York City or environs you get all the sections missing in other parts of the globe, Real Estate, Classifieds ( want to be chair of Goldman Sachs? Read the Classifieds.) I know Brooklyn is expensive now. My former abode would sell for several millions now that I no longer live there, a tribute to the time value of money whose formula should apear in the Financial Section and so, for that matter, should fiction reviews.

<p> Over in Finance they’re worried about the inverted yield curve, that anamoly in which short term yields exceed those of longer maturities. This signals a recession based on historical analysis known as the Davinci Curve. Leonardo was aware of a secret cabal of tonsured fellows whose sole purpose in life was the Yield Curve. Meeting in obscure monasteries, observing the Rule of St. Benedict, these scholars diagrammed economic trends revealed centuries later under the governing principal that what goes up must come down.

<p> Example: throw GRAVITY’S RAINBOW into the air. After a few turns and abbreviated orbit the tome will return to earth very probably near its point of origin. To avoid injury be sure and read Maureen Dowd while wearing a Dick Cheney mask. That’s what Leonardo would do.

<p> Mix all the sections together: this is fun, shake the Sunday Times from side to side, although not in your driveway, especially in Westchester. Go inside first.  Spread the paper on the floor ( dog owners be warned) read a sentence from the Book Review then jump over to Sports. Carl Pavano has written a touching memoir read aloud by Fed Chairman Ben Bernanke dripping with Pre-War charm. That’s code, my friends. That’s a big fat newspaper.

Dream sequences are in disfavor now, probably for good reason. One being the motion picture industry’s fascination with presenting a major character’s sudden and inexplicable facility with advanced weapons, or Mandarin Chinese while the screen swims, or a musical interlude signals the distortion we are witnessing is nothing more than, you guessed it, a dream.

Little research exists in regard to dream sequences on blogs, although one might imagine that the rules of engagement are written somewhere, and billions of earth’s citizens already know this. I may be treading on the residue of someone’s cake after too much rain, but fortune favors the bold.

Still when Tony Soprano and Paul McCartney take me to lunch in order to impart advice on a minor non-literary totally off-topic real life issue, I have to confess that throwing caution to the winds and blogging about it could or might cause audiences in the Russian Federation to desist in their diligent and probably fruitless efforts to decipher what I’m talking about, that returning here day after day might take on a Chekhovian solemnity like ambassadors from another planet analyzing the true meaning of a Cameron Diaz movie and reaching the conclusion that above all earthlings are cute, but ultimately unable to successfully mate.

The cool part is I followed Tony’s advice. Sir Paul was less than helpful, perhaps sensing that my musical allegiances are found elsewhere, or he was unhappy about participating in this impromptu meal sprung from a stranger’s subconscious, although he was seated at the head of the table, a tribute to his body of work.

Tony’s advice was direct and simple, “You oughta talk to the guy.” The fact that I did talk to the guy and it worked out okay speaks volumes for the power of fictional characters versus celebrities. I had a garbage can in my hands during the conversation since I was putting the garbage out when he happened by, and we started talking and the moment for setting the garbage can down passed. Maybe he thought I was in the waste management business. A man holding a garbage can is someone to reckon with. I’m bringing one to my next meeting.

Karen Olsen, author of SECOND HAND SMOKE, dropped by a few weeks ago and was kind enough to mention the origin of the First Offenders blog, four crime fiction authors who have banded together in the blogosphere. Karen writes, “The four of us were on a “first timers” panel at Bouchercon in 2005, became fast friends because we didn’t know anyone there, hung out together and on the last night in Chicago, Jeff said maybe we should start a blog. A month later we were up and running, and it seems to still be pretty popular. I know there are a lot of lurkers, but we’ve got some regulars who post comments frequently. We try not to to get too personal and concentrate on writing and publishing. Although we do get off track occasionally. We also try to keep our posts short because there’s so little time and so many blogs :)”

Lori G. Armstrong, HALLOWED GROUND, Jeff Shelby WICKED BREAK, and Alison Gaylin YOU KILL ME form the rest of the intrepid quartet. Drop by and check them out, buy their books and drive their sales through the roof. Yes, I mean you.

Tod Goldberg, in his defense of his brother Lee, mentioned Fernando Llamas in passing becoming the first lit blogger to do so since the Internet was invented. Fernando’s work inspired me to become a writer and I’m outraged that Tod would include Fernando in a throwaway line considering his impact on post-modernism. Bird of Paradise is more than a flower, and Fernando wears that shirt proudly, as does Dom DeLillo.

Editor’s Note: I’m not sure about Dom DeLillo wearing a bird of paradise shirt. I think he would. I’ve dropped a Letter to Parade seeking clarification.

Additionale: Maybe I’ll be featured in Marilyn Vos Savant’s column.

Dateline the battle cruiser EMMA BOVARY: perturbed by Oliver Castinstone’s diabolical plan to convert this blog to a tabloid, the mighty EMMA BOVARY has trained her guns on the Druidical & Literary’s posh executive offices located in the bustling heart of Wellington Leg’s Financial District. A delegation from Hizzoner’s Office of Foreign Affairs is rowing across Gastropod Alley with our imbedded reporter The Earl of Watership Down, a man who needs no introduction. You may recall his bold iniative last year when he threw a turnip at a Roman sentry staving off certain defeat in the “clank heard round the world.”

This time under a flag of convenience ( sort of a 7-11 motif with what appears to be a map of New Hampshire in the background) the earl is prepared to parley with the interlopers. The problem, of course, is a running tide that is carrying his craft away from the EMMA BOVARY, indeed, the strong current is more than dogsbody UU Depew can cope with. It appears that the earl has vanished over the horizon.

No, wait I see something, a dark speck, the distinctive microwave antenna taking shape as the fog, something I should have mentioned earlier, lifts and all eyes turn to the unforgiving sea. Wellington Leg waits with bated breath…

Tune in next week for the continuation of FLAG OF CONVENIENCE. Is the earl lost at sea? Is Wellington Leg at the mercy of the Bourbon Pretender? Will this blog become a tabloid?  You’ll thrill as the answers to these and other somewhat unrelated questions are revealed in LOST WELLINGTON LEG, a gripping melodrama, sponsored by The Earl’s Own Green Tea Concoction. Drink it and be wonderful.

Wellington Leg: I’m a mystery fan and now a reviewer so going to Left Coast Crime last weekend was a double shot of fun mixed with professional interest. Like everyone who attends these events I learned a great deal, missed some events, met some great people and even managed to find parking. Here then some reporting:

I’d never met Jeff Pierce, the managing editor of January Magazine, the man who takes this reporter’s crime fiction reviews in hand, via email, and whips them into shape. I met Jeff and January’s founder, Linda Richards, as well as Stephen Miller and Megan Abbott. When Linda told me that January gets 35,000 hits a day I almost fell over.

Meeting Daniel Judson, author of THE DARKEST PLACE, one of my favorite books from 2006. Dan was bold enough to go for a walk during one of Wellington Leg’s signature cloudbursts. I discussed West Village geography with SJ Rozan, shook hands with the Killer Year gang, Sandra Ruttan, Bill Cameron, Toni McGee Causey, and Greg Battles. I spent some time catching up with Robert Dugoni whose thriller DAMAGE CONTROL is coming out Hachette this month.

Megan Abbott ( THE SONG IS YOU) and Peter Spiegelman ( RED CAT) discussed the events of 1964 in New York, the World’s Fair, Kitty Genovese, Bob Dylan performing for 14 people at a club on Bleecker. Why no one mentioned Marvelous Marv Throneberry is a mystery.

More highlights to come. I’ll tell you all about double clutching on the vertical while cashier vanishes and minivan closes distance blaring horn. Modern life, my friends, is all about parking.