David Thayer

Editors note: One More Bite of the Apple will have a Bulgarian focus for the foreseeable future. Who better qualified to cover the Bulgarian lit scene than our own Mandy Rice-Davies? Mandy received straight As in geography: if this blog had graphics you’d see a spinning globe with images downloaded from the Wellington Leg Spy Satellite. Sadly a misunderstanding at Walmart prevented the development of the spy satellite photos. Experts in suburban Langley will go to Walmart tomorrow with exact change.

Book Review Shuffle: The Jeffrey Archer column is suspended. Lord Archer has a new book deal but we believe Bulgarian rights are up for grabs.

Richard Nash, president of Soft Skull, is based in Brooklyn, but a move to Sofia may be in the offing, Mandy Rice-Davies reports: “With the Jets and Giants out of the playoffs why stay in New York?” she asks.

Ron Hogan and Dave Itzkoff may set up shop on the Black Sea. “They’ll discuss speculative fiction,” Mandy says.

Judith Regan on Bulgaria: Mandy?

John Updike’s next novel? Rabbit Bulgarianus: “I think the title is self-explanatory,” Mandy says.

Bookscan Report: A man carrying a golf umbrella purchased a copy of VOLTAIRE’S MIASMA at Eddie’s Book Nook. Once home he used the earl’s masterpiece to slay a Brown Recluse. “Overkill,” noted Mandy. “No return,” Eddie said. “I mean, yuck.”

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.

Linda Richards wrote to say that my review of Jason Starr’s LIGHTS OUT is posted at January Magazine. This is my second review for January and the link is on the right. I would’ve liked to have attended the session on book reviewing last night in Manhattan at the Housing Works Used Books Cafe. Frank Wilson, Maud Newton, Lizzie Skurnick, John Freeman of the National Book Critics Circle and Laurie Muchnick of Newsday formed the panel in which the role of bloggers as book reviews was examined. Bud Parr and James Marcus were in the audience so perhaps they will blog and enlighten.

What’s it like to review a book for January Magazine? With two in the can I’m working on a third novel, Thomas Lakeman’s THE SHADOW CATCHERS. It’s getting a little easier although your reporter finds these essay length reviews challenging. Part of the problem is my brain, like that of the mouse, can only absorb so much information at a time. I have to go into literary seclusion to spew forth a horrible first draft, rework it, and then email it to a living breathing editor. When that person responds my vision clouds with the struggle to understand what I said, he said, we said, and who wrote this thing in the first place? Unlike a terrible karaoke experience the review appears in print for other people to read. But the people at January make it better. Thank God.

One of the problems with the serial nature of blogging is introducing new readers into the world of this blog. This was brought home to me in a recent telephone conversation with sister Kate. The only segment she understood was the article about Terri. This is the Star Wars Effect wherein the text explaining all the parts about a galaxy far far away scroll into oblivion while you’re in the lobby negotiating for Junior Mints. New readers may be lost, confused, dazed, even gobsmacked by references that have scrolled into the archives. I’ve compiled an FAQ. If you feel I haven’t addressed a question, leave one in the comments unless you’re peddling Xanax.

FAQ: Isn’t this a literary blog? Barely. The whole idea is that The Earl is trying to jumpstart his literary career, promoting his book Voltaire’s Miasma. Complications arise, resulting in gripping melodrama. The Earl lives in Wellington Leg which is besieged by Roman troops and a harsh literary climate.

Isn’t His Advice to Writers Useless? Absolutely. However, if one does the opposite of what The Earl suggests, literary fame and fortune will follow.

Is Wellington Leg a real place? No. That’s why it can be under Roman seige and enjoy proximity to COSTCO.

Why is turnip throwing illegal? By decree of the Dowager Princess. She was struck by a turnip ( ye gods! passive voice!) She remains wary.

When will The Earl be beheaded? There’s no point to reality television without corporate sponsors. And we need a time slot.

I hope that clarifies things.

Apollo Screed, Managing Director of the Druidical & Literary, has announced a staff shakeup. Mr. Screed is focusing his wrath on the Arts section of the online magazine so popular in Costa Rica. After banning spandex in the Newsroom ( there was an unfortunate trend in stretch materials) Screed announced that book reviewer Prinz Gaspar of Moldavia will lose his parking privileges “unless or until the dreadful trend in fiction is corrected.” Prinz Gaspar, a fan of manga, has dithered on a repeated basis, failing to deliver his reviews on time for several months. “He’s devoting too much time to his experiments with spandex,” said an unnamed source.  Residents of Wellington Leg were appalled to discover that the Sundial in Mad Hatter Park is made of the stuff.

Hizzoner and cronies dropped in at Eddie’s Book Nook where Prinz Gaspar is employed as a barista. “There was pushing and shoving,” Eddie said. “I think they were playing touch football in the Spirituality section.” Hizzoner broke open on a go pattern before colliding with a cardboard likeness of Doctor Phil. “He was open,” said a spokesperson for the mayor, “there was plenty of separation.”

At the Metroplex ticket sales for “The Black Dahlia,” were brisk. Waltraut Frothingmunster, chair of the James Ellroy fan club, enjoyed the film along with 104 ounces of Diet Doctor Pepper. Some customers were disappointed according to Manager Ed Lebowsky. “They thought the movie was about flowers,” he said. “Don’t they read the reviews in the Druidical & Literary?”

The writing biz is turning into a standoff at a 7-11. On the one hand, you’ve got the writer, coming up for air after months or years of closet time. This person is badly in need of socialization. The only contact with the outside world: Miss Snark. Her treatise on the art of rejection is stapled to the hollow core door. Listening to her is like asking the night clerk at a Soviet hotel where the best restaurant in town is. Joe Stalin’s Diner, yum. A bit of socialist heaven.

But our hero is more intrepid. Having stumbled out of the lobby onto the street, he or she is ready to see things with their own eyes. There’s a guy on the corner running a three card monty. He explains the demise of intellectualism ( where have you been?). He takes a quick glance at your manuscript, sez, what kind of chick lit do you write? You don’t know if this is a reality check or the ravings of a street corner hustler. Somewhere in the back of your mind the rusted mechanism of critical thinking struggles to ignite. This guy has a sandwich board for Joe Stalin’s Diner.

Time for a Big Gulp. 84 ounces of ice and sugar ought to pop the spoon on that part of the brain devoted to evaluating information. Sure, you’ve walked up to a 7-11. No one in their right mind does that, but this is an emergency. In the back of the store, not far from the cases of Coors Light, is the manuscript evaluation booth. Jeez, the line is long. Maybe you ought to come back another time, not 2 am, maybe ten in the morning. This is nerve wracking. The guy in front of you used to be president of Iran. Dude, you manuscript’s in Farsi. Cool. Persian chick lit? Get outta here.

From the Styles Section of the Goth Mystery Shopper: Prudentia Chalfont-Smythe here. As you know summer is waning, and I’m blogging today in lieu of what’s his name. It’s quite exciting to be the summer fill-in editor of this on-line news magazine. One suspects that when Autumn arrives a major shakeup will ensue: do stay tuned as I plan a bit of coup. For instance this ridculous emphasis on crime fiction must be reevaluated ( for the full text of my memoranda on the subject stop by the Henley Hornbrook branch of the library. Ask for Mr. Fortinbras.)

Of course, the literary news of the day is the incarceration of The Earl. More shocking, to some at any rate, is the arrest of Marge, the afternoon cashier at Eddie’s Book Nook. Marge is famous for her short novels with illustrations, so one must pose the question did Marge invent the graphic novel? As I understand it graphic novels are rather like comic books ( ! ). One shudders at the prospect of future generations spending their time reading such things. Thus I endorse Marge’s detention on the grounds of cultural realpolitik. There I’ve said it!

Vote for me: please send your cards and letters indicating your desire that I become Editor in Chief of this blog. Simply say I heart Prudentia on standard 8 by 11 good quality bond paper. Once I’ve taken charge, we will ignore The Earl and his ridiculous antics. Between us I can tell you that literary agents and other publishing professionals are reluctant to attend our Literary Faire for fear of an encounter with you know who. My research also indicates that there is no such thing as Lord Cornwallis Simple Syndication or LCSS. With your support we can attend to these matters, turn this great ship around and make steam for Google’s upper echelon. Thanking you in advance, I remain, Your Once and Future Editor in Chief.

Gulliver Langston, the feared literary critic, has rendered his judgment on the Earl’s most recent novel, Rimbaud. “From the opening pages Rimbaud seizes the reader by the throat, applies pressure, choking off oxygen to the brain.”

Young Arthur Rimdaud, Twenty Second Earl of Watership Down, must secure his love, Faire Olive, from the clutches of the Dauphin. Without thought for his own safety Rimbaud boards the frigate Forthright, battling the French Navy, Armenian Pirates, and a sinister group of Ukrainians until he sails through the Pillars of Hercules. There he duels a Bourbon prince, invents electricity, and topples a Pretender before sailing onward. In the straights of Sardinia he sees Olive aboard the mighty tuna trawler Von Klausewitz. Rimbaud sinks the trawler but the Forthright is damaged by a Luftwaffe assault. He endures eleven years of exile posing as a Greek poet earning very little pay.

When word cometh of Olive’s proposed nuptials to the Dauphin’s deranged nephew, Rimbaud can wait no longer; he travels to the Isle of the Sirens where, bedeviled by distractions, he drinks absynthe and writes haikus. He mails these blunt missives to the Court where Olive reads them aloud to a coterie of critics. Incensed, the Dauphin launches his entire fleet. Rimbaud, somewhat out of shape from all the poetry writing, is taken in chains to Castle Gauche where chintz and brocade conceal a dark secret: Olive is vacationing in Turkey.

Rimbaud dons an ornate headband, enabling him to crush a Byzantine army, cross the Dardanelles and storm Istanbul. He reties the Gordion Knot, freeing Olive from her delusional belief that the Dauphin’s nephew is Alexander the Great. In a final climactic battle Rimbaud crushes Parthian forces seeking to spirit Olive away. He invades France and embraces Olive on the Pont Neuf. Then it’s off to Reno for a much deserved holiday.

Gulliver Langston’s column appears in the Druidical & Literary every third Wednesday of the month. His ongoing feud with The Earl may cloud his judgment, but he remains devoted to protecting the reading public from inferior prose. He does wonder if Rimbaud is off to Reno alone or in the company of Faire Olive since her vacation was interrupted by the novel’s somewhat improbable denouement. Could she get more time off on short notice? Also the pacing of the book suffers from the eleven year hiatus as virtually nothing happens for close to six hundred pages. Why a Greek poet? Does the main character understand Greek? Would the Luftwaffe attack a tuna boat? Aren’t tuna valuable?

Somewhere between the threat of asteroids striking the earth and the state of publishing is an elusive truth. That truth is captured in a single word, luck. Michael Allen of Grumpy Old Bookman used the word in a recent post, an excellent essay on his view of publishing. The word is luck. Some cultures devote considerable energy to the contemplation of luck and there is a fair amount of blues music devoted to the subject. You know its bad luck when the dame you’re head over heels for turns out to be on the lam or the guy of your dreams starts building mashed potato forts while watching the sky. It’s not bad luck if you drive an AMC Pacer or don’t like The Big Lebowsky. That’s bad judgment.

If you insist on being a writer then you know what’s coming next. Do you feel lucky? Well, do ya? Much of the literature devoted to writers emphasizes skill, the development of craft, and other difficult stuff that require hard work and patience. Not enough is written about luck, bona fortuna, kismet and karma. This blog aims to change all that and we’re going to start right now with a brief exercise designed to improve your luck.

Take the most recent pages you’ve written on your WIP. Yes, you can print on both sides of the page because this is a draft. Take your pages to a major intersection in your town, city, village or hamlet and begin handing them out like those people who hand out restaurant flyers. Be polite, but be firm. So you’re out there and you’re wondering if this is a good use of your time, that inner critic, oops there goes the Archbishop, that sort of thing. Now you’ve handed out all but one page and the last person you meet is Jane Friedman, CEO of Harper-Collins. Jane is a little disconcerted at first, thinking you’re a panhandler, but you’re giving, not taking, and she reads both sides of the page, cries out in awe and offers you a gigantic book deal on the spot.

Lucky? Not really. Someone stealing your AMC Pacer? That’s luck.

The Fettered Gourmet writes, “Lee Goldberg trashed writer Steve Clackson for posting the opening pages to his novel Sandstorm over at Steve’s blog of the same name. Apparently Steve emailed Lee to solicit feedback on his pages. He got that. Lee posted Steve’s email and launched a thousand ships ridiculing Steve’s work and his approach to developing a career as a novelist.”

Many issues arise in the Goldberg-Clackson affair. Attacking unpublished work? What for? Steve’s WIP is not a threat to public order, it’s just sitting on his blog. Steve was naughty to send email to Lee, but as the poet Virgil once wrote, fortune favors the bold. Steve is not the first writer to send out stuff to agents and publishers that isn’t quite ready. I was the first writer to do that. Mea culpa. It’s not as though there is an ancient memory at work here dooming any and all transmissions from rejected writers unless you count the Postal Service. They hate everyone.

We live and learn, rewrite, go to class, read a lot, rewrite, rewrite, and go to more classes. My agent once wrote “barf” in the margin next to one of my precious paragraphs. Any writer worth their salt can see the ambiguity there; is “barf” bad or is there a scintilla of hope for the rag tag collection of sentences? Okay, cut the paragraph and with it the simile comparing her hair to subway graffiti. Hang in there Steve.