Forgotten Books Friday

Bill Pronzini's GUN IN CHEEK is not your average critical work of the genre of mystery fiction. While books on writing mysteries will guide authors in what makes good writing and books of literary criticism will look carefully at the writing craft over a period of time, Pronzini's book is an encyclopedic reference of what a writer shouldn't do.

Published by Mysterious Press in 1982, GUN IN CHEEK is part of a series of like-minded books that the erudite Pronzini wrote, including SON OF GUN IN CHEEK and SIX-GUN IN CHEEK (a focus on Westerns rather than mysteries).

When I started writing my trunk novel of a young PI-in-training, I bought a crate full of books on how to write, both in the genre of mystery, as well as on general fiction and editing. Randomly coming across this book on one of my regular adventures in the Amazon, I thought it would also be a great idea to have a reference on what to avoid in my writing.

Pronzini delivered with this title, not so much in terms of improving my writing, but by giving me a guaranteed good laugh, as well as saving me the trouble of buying some truly horrid novels.

The book includes chapters on the amateur detective, the private eye, thrillers, Gothic novels (the true pioneers of mystery), pulp-paperbacks and short stories, as well as dedicated chapters on British and Oriental-based mysteries.

With a brilliantly self-deprecating introduction by some guy called Ed McBain, and with gems like the one below, GUN IN CHEEK is definitely worth a thorough going over.

"He poured himself a drink and counted the money. It came to ten thousand even, mostly in fifties and twenty-fives."

Brett Halliday, THE VIOLENT WORLD OF MICHAEL SHAYNE

The 123 Meme Ends Here

My creative energies have been sucked dry by my work schedule so I haven't been blogging much or spending too much time on the internet, aside from hanging out at The Wormwood Society. I still owe Barbara a post, but for now, this one's nice and easy.

The 123 Meme:

1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open it to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people, and acknowledge who tagged you.

Damien over at After Dark My Sweet tagged me, but since so many people have done this meme already, I'm going to be a complete rebel against society and not tag anyone else.

THE JOY OF MIXOLOGY by Gary Regan

"It turned out that the bar hadn't ordered the correct glassware for a Boston shaker, so this guy had just improvised. Even when the right glasses arrived, he decided to keep using the two metal pieces. Nothing wrong with that--it displays showmanship and imagination."

Best Of 2007

Some people like to do these lists because everybody else is doing it. Others refuse to do so for the same reason. I'm a combination of the two: if everyone else does it, then I don't want to, but I'm going to anyway ... because it's what I actually want to do.

But enough with the Maxwell Smart jokes and on with the list. As always, it's based on my personal reading of the year, which has nothing to do with publishing date. Since tracking it, I've learned that I only read about thirty books a year, all chosen by a whim of the moment.

EVERY DEAD THING by John Connolly

Famed for its hourglass shaped plot (one story tapers into the next), the first Charlie Parker novel is filled to the brim with lyrical writing and beautifully gruesome imagery.

CITIZEN VINCE by Jess Walter

There are two novels in this list about crims trying to get clean or stay clean, with both having a decidedly literary bent. Walter does a brilliant job here of fleshing out so much in so few words that I really should get off my arse and read some of his other work as soon as possible.

NO DOMINION by Charlie Huston

Thankfully the world of books generally does a fair sight better with sequels than cinema does, but in the hands of Charlie Huston, disappointment seems to never be on the cards. Thanks to vampire private investigator Joe Pitt, I want to be Charlie Huston when I grow up.

BENEATH A PANAMANIAN MOON by David Terrenoire

Piano-playing spy John Harper has a damned fine sense of humour and a softer side when compared to more traditional protagonists in the genre and it's these differences that bring Terrenoire's debut floating up above the rest. It took me far too long to get around to reading this, but the day David writes another novel is the day I queue up for it.

SATURDAY'S CHILD by Ray Banks

Other than wanting to be the love child of Charlie Huston and Ray Banks, I can't say enough about this fine piece of work. But if I had to choose my absolute favourite of this list, it would be a close fight between this one and the next.

THE WINTER OF FRANKIE MACHINE by Don Winslow

The retired hitman being pulled back into the biz is not a particularly new idea, but the depth of Frank "Frankie the Machine" Macchiano lifts this to the top of the foam from the cappuccino. Bob De Niro's working on a film of this and, as long as he doesn't stuff it up, I'll be one of the early viewers.

DOUBLE INDEMNITY by James M. Cain

Only one classic this year, and it was one I'd seen the movie of, so I wasn't amazingly shocked by the unfolding of the plot. Still, I gobbled down this timeless and twisted tale of desire in a couple of evening sessions. And it tasted damned good, I tell you.

RAZOR by Larry Writer

This year I delved into non-fiction of various subjects, but this account of the razor gang wars of 1920s Sydney reads almost like fiction, so I'm including it here. The detail of the research is mind blowing and made even more impressive by being set in locations that I know well. Whatever the newspapers of today may say, Sydney is a far safer city than it used to be.

THE CONFESSION by Olen Steinhauer

In my blogging travels I've come across a number of authors whose work I've read, but this is the first time I've read a second book from any of them (that has more to do with my playing catch up than the quality of the writing). I'm extremely glad I did. Everything I liked about Olen's first in the series, THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS, is in its sequel, but the story is taken to another level here. I can't think of any better endorsement of this amazing Eastern European spy series other than saying I have the next two books waiting on my shelf.

I was very tempted to include Joe R. Lansdale's LOST ECHOES in the list, even though I'm only about a third of the way in. Although I doubt very much that I'll be disappointed with the rest of it, I have to be fair, so I've kept it to a simple mention.

In Real Life: Katherine Howell and Leigh Redhead

Having entered the world of crime fiction on the Internet about the same time I started reading properly again, I've had the distinct pleasure of getting to know much more than a handful of people, virtually. I've exchanged critiques, indulged in conversation on forums, even emailed about personal issues, but I've never actually met anyone in person. Until just the other day.

Authors Katherine Howell and Leigh Redhead happened to be dropping into Better Read Than Dead, one of my favourite book stores. My local, in fact. So when I received an email from Katherine inviting me to coffee afterwards, I was well chuffed. And a little anxious.

See, the people I know In Real Life are people I've met through friends, at clubs or parties, at work ... but never through the Internet. Considering I'm a programmer by day, you'd think I'd be fine with this. And I am. It's just that ... I've never met anyone through the Internet before. In all honesty, I was a little nervous to meet them both.

And I did this about about fifteen minutes after I'd planned to, on account of confusing the meeting spot with another cafe that happened to be right up the other end of King Street. After an embarrassing phone call to Katherine--embarrassing because I only live just down the road--I made it to the cafe, hot and sweaty from the brisk walk in the unusually warm sun.

The cafe was chaotic and noisy, so while we made our introductions, I ordered a coffee to calm my nerves. Yes, Mr. I Just Quit Caffeine decided to have a coffee. To relax. With my jitters now in full force, we powered through the conversation, learning a lot about each other's experiences in the world of writing in a very short time.

What I learned:

• Leigh did roughly the same PI course as me, although she dropped out further into it, but not before having a rollicking good time on the surveillance practical.
• Katherine has seen people die and live again, but none of them have gone on to write psychic self-help books about their experiences. Although there was one woman who thought she died for two weeks before returning to this material plane. The only explanation I could offer for this was the wanton use of chemicals.
  
• Both Leigh and Katherine were the only crime writers during their shared time at Varuna, the NIDA of the writing industry in Australia.
  
• I'm not the only writer who has complicated strategies for procrastination and Internet avoidance / addiction.
• Australian publishers seem to put a fair amount of effort into promoting their authors.
• Peter Temple is probably not going to join Crimespace (yes, I hope he sees this). Actually, I just made this one up. But I'm still hoping he sees it. And joins. Peter?
  
• When Katherine and Leigh saw the Crimespace t-shirt pictured above, they both wanted one. I must look into ways of getting them printed in bulk. Until then ... there's always the store.
• And one last plug for Crimespace: Leigh and Katherine were amazed at the number of very cool crime fiction authors out there in the world.
  

It was great to meet and chat with Katherine and Leigh. Not just because it was the first time I could share out loud the thoughts I've had locked inside my head for the last three years (must remember to avoid mentioning my fetish for sniffing book binding glue), but also because they were both nice enough not to run away screaming.

I'm currently powering through Leigh's debut novel, PEEPSHOW, but I couldn't miss the opportunity to get signed copies of their books. Leigh's being CHERRY PIE, the latest in the same series as the debut, and Katherine's being FRANTIC, the beginning of what promises to be an exciting series.

By all accounts, it looks like I'm in for a great read.

Interviews from ABC: Katherine Howell, Leigh Redhead

Big Face Of Books

Made with the help of LibraryThing and MacOSaiX (PC users can try Andrea Mosaic).

Gained In Translation

Computer based language translation is always good for a few laughs, but I've never been the subject of the original text before, so I thought I'd share what happens when Germans and Italians write about me.

What have I learned from this? I have learned that I am The Macher who writes yellow and pumps benzine. I'm sure this makes a lot more sense in the original languages, but I'm still planning on taking my new-found powers on board. Except maybe the bit about writing yellow. Unless I can find some snow.

This frippery leads me nicely onto the subject of translation of fiction. I'm working my way through the first issue of Murdaland and the stories translated from Spanish to English both exhibit a similar quirkiness that I've seen before.

Months ago now, I read Haruki Murakami's HARD-BOILED WONDERLAND AND THE END OF THE WORLD. Even though it was originally in Japanese, the Spanish short stories from Murdaland have the same wonderful inconsistencies. I don't think this has anything to do with the quality of the translation, but there are definite artefacts when thoughts are shifted into a different culture and system of thinking.

I say system of thinking because I'm of the opinion that each language has a base set of assumptions that affect every thought made through that language. Some languages attach gender to inanimate objects, some don't have an equivalent word for 'self-esteem', some have many words to describe different types of snow, some only have one word for love.

While meaning can be lost in translation, something else can happen too. A well-turned phrase, a combination of words that would not normally exist in English can bring a smile to your face or create a poetic rhythm that has its own charm. The foreignness of the culture or the thinking behind the writing is what makes it so fresh.

But it doesn't always work and I've found that there are passages that I zoom through with glee then get pulled up short when a joke or idea doesn't translate well to English. I can't help but wonder what would have happened if the writer wrote in English from the beginning. But like Douglas Adam's poet who wrote on leaves and whose work was ruined when time travellers gave him liquid paper, I doubt the final work would have the same originality.

Something lost, but something gained. I might go read some Arnaldur Indridason right now.

Murdaland Hits Australia

It's been a while since I've attached a book to my face and affected a cheesy, noirish stare. So when my first copy of Murdaland showed up on the great shore of Terra Australis, I figured the time had come again. And it was a great excuse to improve my Photoshop skillz.

The book itself is beautifully designed, complete with a satiny matt feel that my grubby hands love running over. I'm such a sucker for a good cover. To tell you the truth, I haven't even read a word of it yet, just skimmed through to get a feel for it. I want to devote my complete attention to Murdaland's first issue (right now that's taken up by Ray Banks' SATURDAY'S CHILD), because it's the type of crime fiction that excites me. And I may be the only one in Australia with a copy, so it feels somewhat exclusive.

It amazes me that what is supposed to be a magazine is, in reality, a book. A whole goddamned book of short crime fiction. And they're going to do it twice a year. I'm really looking forward to more issues, and I may just make it my personal mission in life to get one of my stories in there.

What Do I Read?

After all that huge-in-your-face-logo-talkin-like-I'm-never-gonna-post-here-again, Marshal Zeringue over at Writers Read (of course they do!) has posted a little ditty on, well, What I Read.

Also up on the site are a few names that might be familiar to my irregular readers: Libby Fischer Hellmann, Kevin Guilfoile, and Paul Guyot.

Ken Bruen Appreciation Day

The word had passed around on various forums and blogs, and the word had said that Ken Bruen was the crime writer to be reading. I was but a wide-eyed cadet in the world of crime fiction, so I kept at least one of those wide eyes on the lookout for Bruen novels.

Couldn't find one.

What was up? If this guy was so crash hot, why weren't his novels in Borders or Dymocks or Kinokuniya? The conundrum stumped me for a couple of weeks, until I figured out that all these stores only kept the latest novels on their shelves, at least when it came to the good stuff, the stuff that not absolutely everyone that had read THE DA VINCI CODE knew about.

Then I stumbled upon Abbey's.

Hidden in the heart of the city of Sydney, tucked in a street behind the Queen Victoria Building, Abbey's was a bookstore that specialised in language books or history or non-fiction. But not crime. Turned out I was dead wrong. They had it all.

First thing I did was look into this Bruen bloke. Got hold of a copy of THE GUARDS. Grabbed a Willeford too, something about custard and sharks. Took the books home, had trouble tossing up between the two. Something about the idea of custard and sharks was immensely appealing. But I opened up THE GUARDS and flicked through the publishing credits and such. Then I read the first page.

I was hooked.

But that thing that he did with the one word paragraphs was gimmicky.

Unnecessary.

Cheap.

Still, the rhythm of the writing was pure, flowing like nectar across my eyes. I was pulled into Jack Taylor's world, and I was pulled in deep. There in the bar next to him, I smelled the decade's old stains of smoke, booze, vomit. I felt his stress, wanted a release myself. Wouldn't have minded to have a drink and then just keep going till I hit oblivion.

I had to pull out. Pull back from his world. In time, I finished the book. Just took it slower than before. Bruen's words were an aged liquor that needed to be savoured, not devoured in one sitting with a splash of Coke.

But something about the book bugged me. Maybe it reminded me too much of the times I had to drag my dad out of the pub, when I should have been at home watching The Greatest American Hero or The A-Team. Yeah, I think that was it. But it wasn't long before I felt the taste for more. Went back to Abbey's, hands shaking, eyes darting. My addiction was writ huge across my face. Grabbed a copy of THE KILLING OF THE TINKERS.

This book was different.

Same rhythms, same paragraphs, but now it felt right. Like I was meant to be doing it all along, reading books like this. Bruen had me programmed now. Brainwashed. And I loved it.

Now I've read THE MAGDALEN MARTYRS and RILKE ON BLACK. Got copies of BUST and HER LAST CALL TO LOUIS MACNEICE in waiting, and I'm itching to get my grubby hands on THE DRAMATIST. I hear it's even better than THE KILLING OF THE TINKERS. And don't get me started on THE PRIEST or AMERICAN SKIN. I have to drag this stuff out. If I don't, I'll be left with nothing.

What'll I do then?

Standouts Of The Year: 2006

Much like the effect of a good thick ale on the brain cells, the holiday season is winding down my writing. The novel is moving along at the rate of paragraphs a day and I haven't posted in a whole week.

My writing may have slowed down but my reading has picked up. Something I started doing early last year is keeping track of every book I read. Seeing all the titles in a list helps me to pick what type of book I feel like reading next.

Last year I read a total of 22 books, but this year I made a more concerted effort to raise that figure. Regular reading has probably improved my reading speed as well and the total of 38 books this year attests to that.

Plenty of those books were well written and worthy of praise, but some gelled with me more than the others. I can put myself back into their worlds with the simple reminder of a character's name or a scene or title.

And here they are.

Peter Temple: THE BROKEN SHORE

Although I prefer Temple's Jack Irish novels, there's something about this one that resonates. I can picture myself in Port Munro as Detective Senior Sergeant Joe Cashin, living with two dogs and working on my property, trying to resurrect one of its buildings. Temple's spare prose perfectly captures the laconic rhythm of speech and mood from the smaller parts of Australia.

Ken Bruen: THE KILLING OF THE TINKERS

As an aspiring crime writer, it's dangerous for me to read Bruen's work, but I make sure to savour it at regular intervals. This Jack Taylor novel had a better mix of humour and hardness than THE GUARDS. The ending absolutely blew me away. Luckily I have quite a few Bruen novels to catch up with before I get to the stage where I have to wait to read more. I want to be Bruen when I grow up.

Charles Willeford: THE SHARK-INFESTED CUSTARD

Willeford's writing style is something I haven't seen anywhere else. He gets into my head, feeding off my thoughts, presenting the story of four Miami boys getting into serious trouble in a way that makes me feel part of the action. And that title. Just try to tell me you've heard one better.

Jim Thompson: THE KILLER INSIDE ME

Tribe slapped me upside the head to make sure I got off my arse and rescued this from a teetering pile of books-in-waiting. Tribe was right, Kubrick was right ("Probably the most chilling and believable first-person story of a criminally warped mind I have ever encountered."), and Thompson was right on the money with this cold piece of work.

Richard Aleas: LITTLE GIRL LOST

Hard Case Crime's cunningly disguised Charles Ardai wrote this spot-on example of how a PI novel can still work in our day and age. Holding the little paperback and smelling its pages while reading was a modern retro joy. And the story was so good I wrote a one sentence summary of each scene so I could see how the whole thing flowed.

Malcolm Gladwell: THE TIPPING POINT

Some great ideas in this, although I'd come across many of them in James Gleick's CHAOS. Here they're transplanted onto people and marketing in clear prose in a small book. Since I've read it, I can't help classifying people as Mavens or Collectors ... read the book and you'll understand.

Jeff Lindsay: DARKLY DREAMING DEXTER

While some of the internal monologue is repetitive, the whole idea and execution of Dexter, the good-guy serial killer is just plain fun. And now there's a TV series of the show that's even better.

Sara Gran: COME CLOSER

This is the book that inspired me to include the supernatural in my next novel. As the story progresses it becomes more and more uncomfortable and eerie, with a noir sensibility throughout. With one book I've become a Sara Gran fan for life. I'll get crucified for this, but I think it's even better than her following novel, DOPE.

Steven Torres: THE CONCRETE MAZE

I've written my own review of this already, so I won't repeat any of that here. But I will say that it's the very real emotional impact of this book that has made it stick with me.

Charlie Huston: ALREADY DEAD

Finished this one only last week and it's one of the few books that had me moving through at least fifty pages without being aware of time or hunger. The combination of vampire and PI novel is something that completely tickles my fancy. But then, I am half Romanian. The sequel for this one is out very soon so my credit card is ramped up and ready to go.

A Week Between Posts

This is terrible. Just terrible.

I've had absolutely nothing to post about for a whole week.

So now, in point form to keep it from creating too much boredom, I bring you my week of nothing:

• Read Reed Farrell Coleman's WALKING THE PERFECT SQUARE and Harold Schecter's DEVIANT. Loved them both. Without lubrication.
• Finished the single player campaign of Tom Clancy's Ghost Recon: Advanced Warfighter. An unwieldy title, but a brilliant game.
• Obsessed over the imaginary purchase of a Samsung 32" LCD TV.
• Received the new battery for my Powerbook laptop. So now I don't have to keep this thing plugged in to power all day.
• Watched more Big Brother than I care to admit.
• Ate far too many packets of Nong Shim noodles and drank too much vanilla Coke.
  
• Realised I knew more about the plot of Neighbours than I care to admit.
• Spent hours in bookshops without spending a cent. I already have way too many books to read.
• Bought two books anyway. Finished Deviant and am making my way slowly through Leadbelly, an account of the underworld wars in Melbourne over the last decade or so.
• After a whole week of thinking about my next post, I ended up with this.
  

Stay tuned for more exciting snippets of life Down In The Hole.

The Fun And Games Continue

The writing is going slow at the moment, probably because I'm not actually writing. Aside from the hours being sucked up by my new toy, I'm trying to get to know my main character better.

Reading Jeff Lindsay's DARKLY DREAMING DEXTER and watching WONDERFALLS (as well as processing feedback from Steven & Stephen), has made me get back to the basics of my main character. I'm trying to nail down who he really is in a few sentences, and also fleshing out about five pages of notes.

Dexter is all about a strong first-person voice, with plenty of internal monologue (perhaps a little too much). As Stephen told me, this is something that seems to be missing in my writing so far. I don't want to add the amount of reflection that Dexter has, but as it stands now, my novel makes Danny come across as somewhat distant. It's the other characters that shine instead.

And I'm going to have plenty of time to really nail the whole thing, once I leave my current job.

Yes, I gave notice a couple of weeks ago, so I'll be running away from the exciting world of poker maching programming come Easter. I have a few months' savings to keep me writing full time, as well as the support of a top-notch lass in the form of Mary.

I have a four-to-six tier plan, with numerous offside-contingencies, fail-safe backup systems, as well as other hyphenated-strategic-dollops-of-bullshit.

With one of these tiers, if all goes well, my entry to the Debut Dagger awards will get me a nomination, which will prompt my credit cards to battle it out over who's going to pay for my trip to London. At this point I plan to have a completed novel in my pocket (I'll make sure to wear very baggy pants), and a lucrative publishing deal will spring into my lap, even while I suffer from jet lag.

Next rung down the ladder of tiers will be the St. Martin's Best PI Novel competition, assuming they even go ahead with it this year.

And then?

If I can scrounge together enough moxy to get hold of a driver's license, I suppose I'll become a pizza delivery driver. More likely, I'll re-enter the world of Poker Machine Programming, hopefully with a megabuck-size increase in remuneration.

Failing all of this, I will become an Xbox.

Dirty Old Book

That's what I'm reading right now. No, not something of questionable taste with pages stuck together, just something old and yellowing. It's got that musty smell and it's a hardback, not something that's common in new novels in our sunburnt country.

The book looks sunburnt, too. Take off the tacky cover with the author photo of Peter Corris sporting equally tacky shades and you have a plain, brown cover. You also have Corris' first book, The Dying Trade.

I've read a couple of much later Cliff Hardy novels, but this is the first in the series that now totals twenty-six, with the latest book only out a couple of months ago.

It's easy to see that like many PI authors, Corris was heavily influenced by Chandler and the like, but it's filtered through Corris' own Australian eyes. A little heavy on the description for my taste, and maybe that's a side effect of it having been written exactly twenty-six years ago. Yes, Corris has written one book a year in the Cliff Hardy series, not to mention Browning, PI and some non-fiction work.

When I started writing my novel, I became obsessed with reading first books of PI series, and this was one that I had a lot of trouble tracking down. Eventually found it online, through a local bookseller of second hand and collector's editions. Fifty pages in, and I'm hooked. Corris always knew what he was doing.

Excuse me, I have to get back to being musty. It gets me all excitable.

Hmm. I feel a strong urge to wash my hands right about now.

The Tipping Point

Just finished reading this excellent book by Malcolm Gladwell. For once, it's not fiction and it's not crime. It's a cross between marketing, psychology and chaos mathematics, although there's not an equation or mathematical concept in sight.

James Gleick's Chaos was an in-depth study of the mathematics and the history behind chaos, the simple idea that little things can make a big difference. The Tipping Point is a more easily understandable and practical exploration of the same idea.

The difference between the two books is similar to the difference between learning about computers and learning how to use them.

Gladwell deals with subjects like teenage suicide and smoking, crime in New York, Sesame Street and, of course, shoes. Somehow it manages to tie all of these together under the umbrella of epidemics. The idea that little things can make a big difference is gently hammered home by each case study.

But this is no dry book at all. It's very well written and the words glide off the page. By the end of it you can't help thinking about everyone and everything around you in a slightly different light.

Which person is a Maven? Or a Salesman, or a Connector?

What's the context, what's the stickiness factor?

What am I talking about?

Go and read the book. It's one of the few essential texts on popular science that doesn't read like a textbook at all.

Seriously. Read it. Be Tipped.

On The Killing Floor

Having just finished Lee Child's Killing Floor, I thought I'd throw up a few reactions to it. Not a review, just some things I noticed.

Jack Reacher is a smart guy. He's so smart that everyone around him--even those who have twenty years experience in police work--defer to his opinion. He's great at problem solving, but as the novel wears on, the logic he uses is increasingly suspect.

Jack Reacher is an amazing driver. In the one novel, he skirted, accelerated, nosed, lurched, swung, blasted, slowed, spun the wheel, turned, pulled up, threaded, wafted, parked, reversed, rolled, jinked, wallowed and drove whatever car he could lay his hands on.

The first hundred pages had me smiling at the quality of the writing, the depth of the character, and the excitement of the action.

The last hundred pages had me smiling at the abundance of coincidence, the sheer proportion of the events, and the John Woo-like slo-mo sequences.

Even though I suddenly have a hankering for some Barry Eisler, will I read more Jack Reacher novels?

Definitely.

To Be Read

On Saturday I went to a day long seminar called Demystifying Book Publishing which was a helluva lot of fun, and as far as I can tell, the best introduction to the publishing industry in Australia.

I plan to write about this in the next couple of days, but it will take a team of highly trained linguists to decipher the words in my notebook.

Until then, I give you my current TBR pile, in no particular order:

• Lee Child: Killing Floor
• Peter Corris: The Dying Trade
• Mark Billingham: Lazybones
• Peter Doyle: The Devil's Jump
• Robert Gott: A Thing Of Blood
• Jake Arnott: The Long Firm
• Steve Martin: Picasso at the Lapin Agile and Other Plays
• Jim Thompson: The Killer Inside Me
• Michael Robotham: The Suspect
• Arnaldur Indridason: Jar City
• Marele Day: The Life And Crimes Of Harry Lavender
  
• Stuart Kaminsky: Behind The Mystery
• Pulp: Toni Johnson-Woods
• The Classic Era Of Crime Fiction: Peter Haining
• Richard Aleas: Little Girl Lost
• Gary Provost: Making Your Words Work
• Dwight Swain: Techniques of the Selling Writer
• Sybil Steinberg: Writers And Their Craft--Volume II
• Michael Michalko: Cracking Creativity
• Shunryu Suzuki: Branching Streams Flow In The Darkness

All this doesn't count the thirty or so titles I keep on my Amazon Wishlist, or the twenty more I have hidden away in a spreadsheet under the same title as this post.

Should I just give up and kill myself now? Or will Mary do it for me the next time she sees me buy another book?

Book Meme

Every now and then, we must fall prey to these viral internet concoctions.

Stolen from Tribe.

Book Meme: 123.5 is supposed to work as follows:

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.
5. Don't search around and look for the "coolest" book you can find. Do what's actually next to you.

And my sentence is from THE EMPTY BEACH by Peter Corris.

"I thought very seriously about the packet of cigarettes on the table next to the flagon, but decided on more wine instead."

Police Photos

Xmas is over and what have I done? Ate and drank, rested, ate and drank and ... shopped.

The eating and drinking involved going over to The Not Wife's parents' turkey farm. No, they don't plant turkey seeds and water them until they turn into turkeys. Instead, like normal turkey farmers, they have three huge sheds with gas heaters and feeding equipment. Can you guess what we ate?

Turkeys.

Slices of turkey meat, turkey stew, turkey pie, turkey and potatoes, turkey ice cream, turkey cordial, the list goes on.

After recovering from all that heavy resting, with Xmas cashola in hand, we powered our way into the city. This was extremely masochistic of us, but much like a Wendy's hot dog, we thought it would all turn out fine. Of course, we ended up feeling sick. The city was chockers, which means filled with people, not chocolates. Stocktake sales had begun and the escalators in stores were so full that security guards had become makeshift escalator traffic cops.

One happy outcome from our misadventure was the purchase of books. After looking in every other bookstore in the city, Abbey's came through for me again.

Got hold of Kaminsky & Roberts' Behind The Mystery, an excellent collection of interviews and photos of everyone's favourite mystery writers. The other purchase was a huge book of Sydney police photos from 1912-1948.



The photos have an other-worldy quality that crawls over your skin, creating a feeling of dread which only increases as you turn the pages. I'm planning on checking out the related exhibition at the Justice & Police Museum in Circular Quay.

Peter Temple: Bad Debts

I talked about reading Peter Temple's 'Bad Debts' the other day and I wasn't exactly sure if I liked it. I've changed my mind. The book is bloody good. I say 'bloody' because I'm not sure if I should say 'fucking'.

Not being a fan of horse racing, woodwork, or footy held me back from enjoying it because these are the interests of the main character, Jack Irish. But now that I've finished the whole book--which included not being able to tear my eyes away from the last fifty pages--I can say that even those parts of it held my interest. After I acclimatised to Jack Irish's world I found myself caring about everything that happened to him.

The Australian flavour of the book, in this case Melbournian, was completely convincing. No, it was real. The feeling of each street, suburb, and location was perfectly rendered by a few choice descriptions at each point. I never felt like I didn't know where I was in Irish's world. And none of the Australianisms made me cringe. They were all spot-on. Even the romance in the book worked for me, and it often doesn't in crime novels. I found myself rooting for Jack and his female interest.

Rooting. That's funny.

I'm looking forward to reading more of Temple's work. His writing is something that is worth aspiring to.

Locality

I'm reading Peter Temple's 'Bad Debts' and mostly enjoying it. Mostly. The characters sing, the prose is clipped tight, and I like the way there are no chapters: just scene breaks or page breaks. It feels very real.

The problem is that I'm not sure I like it.

It's set in Australia, Melbourne to be exact; in racetracks, pubs, and poor housing areas. These are all places I don't really want to be spending time in. They are the parts of Australia that I don't like.

If it was set in America or England I would probably find it more interesting. I could get caught up in the local flavour of grime without getting too close to reality. Which is the main problem, really. I read to escape. I don't want reality, I already have that. I want some element of fantasy, whether that is through location, style, or just plain imagination.

Still, it is a ripping yarn, and I'm powering through it. At the very least, I can learn about the writing, if not the locale.