The Bastard Hand sold...

... and it's only about time, right?
In January, I got an e-mail from the editor and publisher of the remarkable New Pulp Press, saying that he'd read the first two chapters of The Bastard Hand (posted over there to the right) and was interested in seeing the rest. I'd previously shopped the book around to a few literary agents, without success-- "too offensive", some said, or "too difficult to market", or even just "Not for us". Frankly, I'd given up on finding a good home for it.
And then along comes New Pulp, a publisher that exists for the sole purpose of putting out weird psycho-noir that doesn't even have a nodding acquaintance with the mainstream. The editor took about a month to read The Bastard Hand before getting back to me with the good news: he loves the book, he GETS the book, and he wants to publish it.
I'm very very pleased about this whole thing. I knew from the beginning that The Bastard Hand wasn't something that would ever find a big market; it's just not that kind of book. But after examining other books that New Pulp has put out, I'm thrilled to be associated with them. They are a publisher of integrity and particular vision and I think they're a perfect match for The Bastard Hand.
Look for the novel to appear in January of 2011.

The Stranger

You probably know the basic story: Mersault, a Frenchman living in French Algiers, commits a murder for no immediately discernable reason, stands trial, and is confronted by a world which sees things considerably different than he does. The Stranger a short, simple story, fast-moving and engaging. But of course there is much more to it than that.
Mersault is notable for his strangely detached personality. He feels emotions just like anyone else, but he’s usually only capable of registering them on an intellectual level. For him, there is only the moment that he lives in, and the very immediate future. He doesn’t understand regret. He doesn’t understand the need of other people to inject false meaning into the universe. And he doesn’t understand that he is different than them. It’s this last that plagues him during his trial, when he finds himself unable and unwilling to pretend, to play-act grief at his mother’s funeral for instance or to create a plausible reason why he shot his victim three more times after he’d already killed him. These things, Mersault tells us, are entirely pointless. He is not a bad man—he’s just incapable of seeing the world for anything other than what it is, and, like a visitor from another planet, he can only view the false pieties and surface-y emotions of those around him with a curious, clinical detachment.
On one level, you could argue (as the prosecution in the novel does) that Mersault is a sort of sociopathic monster, incapable of real love or kindness. But it’s not really true—he does feel those things, and does take pleasure from making someone else happy (he agrees to marry Marie because he knows it will please her, he expresses sympathy to Salamano when his dog disappears, he writes a letter for Raymond) but the satisfaction he derives is temporary and inconsequential.
I was in my twenties the first time I read The Stranger. I read it again about ten years later. And now, another ten years on, I just read it again. The book has a strangely cumulative effect; I find more and more to appreciate in it the older I get. Albert Camus denied being an existentialist, but The Stranger is certainly an existentialist work, and some readers find it dark or depressing—I think those readers miss the point. To me, the ending is almost uplifting (granted, in a strangely impersonal way) in it’s acknowledgement of the “gentle indifference of the universe”, and the realization that the only meaning that exists is the meaning you have given things.
“To feel it so like myself, indeed, so brotherly, made me realize that I’d been happy, and that I was happy still.”

Stick and move

My friend Christian is a writer of very elegant and imaginative fantasy, and he’s also a formidable practitioner of the martial arts. He’s a friendly, outgoing guy, wouldn’t hurt a fly. And yet he’s more than capable of removing my ass, shooting a few hoops with it, and very politely handing it back to me.
When demonstrating these skills, he likes to say, “Stick and move, man. Stick and move.”
I mention all that by way of talking about something completely different.
Lately I’ve read a handful of “suspense thrillers” by some modern writers. Best-seller types. Huge names. I won’t mention who they are, because I don’t like talking ill of other writers (even when my comments will have less than NO effect whatsoever on their success). Suffice to say, they are writers who are active now and each new release is accompanied by book tours, media coverage, and commercial accolades.
I’ve learned to HATE these books.
The reason: in my reading mix are a great many old titles, reprints, put out by a handful of small-to-medium sized publishers, Hard Case Crime being the most commercially successful of them. Writers of paperback originals in the ‘50’s and early ‘60’s, guys like Gil Brewer, Day Keene, Peter Rabe, Charles Willeford, etc. You read a few of those books, you really start developing a hunger for them. My hunger led me to seek out new writers, one’s still doing it, who perhaps mirror the raw story-driven brevity of those guys.
And I’ve found that, yes, there are some writers out there now who fit that bill. But not a single one of them has seen the best-seller lists—or if they have, they haven’t stuck around long enough there to get overly comfortable.
The problem with these best-selling suspense novels is simple. Bloat. Bloat, bloat, bloat.
Here’s my two-cents on the subject: a suspense novel should move fast. It should be the sort of thing you can devour in one or perhaps two sittings. I mean, that’s the very nature of suspense. Sure, there are going to be exceptions to that rule. But for the most part, the suspense novels that knock me out are almost always fast-moving, lean, without baggage.
Let’s leave out the pages and pages of inner soliloqueies, shall we? Let’s leave out the unconvincing and uninteresting love interest. Let’s leave out the psychoanalysis. Let’s get back to the STORY, whattaya say?
I’m just gonna say it: in most cases (and again, there are exceptions), a good suspense novel should come in at no more than, say, 250-300 pages. My own first novel, The Bastard Hand, breaks that rule, I know—but if I knew then what I know now, it would be a good 50-75 pages shorter. I think the novel still works, but I can tell you that I’m unlikely to write anything that long ever again.
Stick and move, Christian says. Damn good advice for writing a suspense novel. Stick and move.

Reading in '09

Well, thank goodness THAT'S over.

2009 was probably a rough year for everyone, the economy being what it is, blah blah blah. Keep your fingers crossed that '10 will be better.

But on the bright side (cuz I'm such a proponent of looking at the bright side...) '09 was an excellent reading year for me. Over 60 books read, most of them quite enjoyed. The obsession with crime fiction that began towards the end of '08 continued unabated throughout the year. I also read a record number of non-fiction books (that's my wife's influence rubbing off on me), and toward the end of the year some more speculative fiction made it into the mix.

I was able to catch up on a great deal of "classic" noir, some of which I'd read before but most of it quite new to me. My world was particularly rocked by Cornell Woolrich, Harry Whittington, Day Keene, Charles Williams, and the old stand-by John D. MacDonald.

Horace McCoy's novel They Shoot Horses, Don't They? was especially noteworthy for its mercilessness, and Ira Levin's A Kiss Before Dying is one of the finest noirs I've ever read.

A more modern take on the genre was Andrew Vachss' The Getaway Man-- a book I can't recommend highly enough. In the top five for the whole year, that one.

Quite by accident, I stumbled upon the first three Barker & Llewlyn series of Victorian adventure-mysteries by Will Thomas-- Some Danger Involved, To Kingdom Come, and The Limehouse Text, and was blown away. Huge fun.

Two short story collections made my life a happier place this year-- Neil Gaiman's Smoke & Mirrors, and Stephen King's Just After Sunset.

In non-fiction, I found myself obsessing over philosophy, particularly questions of existence and reality. Two books by Simon Blackburn, Think and Truth, fueled the fire, and Jim Baggott's A Beginner's Guide to Reality kept my spirit warm for some time.

The major discover for me of '09 was the awesome work of Richard Stark. On a whim, I picked up Slayground and Plunder Squad from the library and was absolutely blown away. After that, thanks to the recent reprints from University of Chicago Press, I devoured the first two books in the uncanny Parker series, The Hunter and The Man With the Getaway Face.

So that's the reading year. Immensely satisfying, even if almost everything else about that 365 days was a drag.

We're a few days into 2010 now... I didn't make any New Year resolutions, but I'll make a few now: continue to read, enjoy as diverse a selection of material as possible, write like crazy, don't ignore the rest of the world, and try to relax and have fun.

Happy New Year.

Articles

Did I mention already that I've been writing articles and interviews for Real Detroit Weekly? It's going pretty well; the last few weeks I've averaged one or two pieces per week. The most recent issue I have three. Here's a link to one of them: http://www.realdetroitweekly.com/content/article_5855.shtml

I actually enjoy writing non-fiction almost as much as fiction, especially when I'm allowed some stylistic latitude. RDW provides that latitude. My first couple of stories for them kinda sucked... I didn't really have a handle on what they wanted. But they're getting better, I think. If you scroll back to my interview with Roky Erickson, you'll find that's when I first started getting the hang of it.

Joe the Unbeliever meets God

Imagine for just a few moments that the Christians are right, and that there IS a God, just like in the Bible, and there is a Heaven and there is a Hell. It’s not a pretty thought, but just use your imagination for a minute. We, as unbelievers, would be in a great deal of trouble, right? There’s no question that, IF it was all true, we’d be prime candidates for a reallllly bad time.

What would those first few moments be like, right before demons impaled you with pitchforks and tossed you screaming into the Lake O’ Fire? With any luck, God would give you a minute or two to state your case—not that it would do any good, but I have to think that a God who puts the stamp of approval on something as monstrously obscene as Hell would have just enough mean-spirited humor to hear you out.

Here’s how it would go:

God: “Anything to say for yourself before your eternal damnation commences?”

Joe the Unbeliever: “Yeah, if you don’t mind. This is totally bogus.”

God: “You had your chance, kid. I gave you every opportunity to worship me.”

Joe: (fighting panic) “Yeah, sure, God, but you never gave me a reason to!”

God: “What, burning for all eternity is not a good reason to worship me?”

Joe: “There’s so many things wrong with that statement, I hardly know where to start. I mean, even if I did believe in you when I was alive, the threat of eternal torment doesn’t exactly fill me with love for you! Fear, sure, but—“

God: “Fear, love, whatever. The choice was simple, and it was yours to make. You chose poorly.”

Joe: “But that’s not my fault! You’re the one who gave me the ability to choose! You set me up! I’m like… I’m like a metaphysical fall guy!”

God: “Metaphysical fall guy. Hah.”

Joe: “I’m glad you can laugh about it. My point is, there was absolutely NO indication that you were anything but a fairy tale. All the Christians had was their old book, and no one with any sense would take it seriously. It’s full of—“

God: “That’s your mistake, not taking it seriously.”

Joe: “Apparently so, but come on! I was saying, it’s full of crazy, nonsensical… well, nonsense! The world was created in seven days, the—“

God: “Six days. I rested on the seventh day.”

Joe: “Okay, six days, then. Man was made out of, what, clay or something and woman was made from his rib? I mean, we’re supposed to take that seriously??”

God: “I fail to see why not. It IS the divine Word of God, after all.”

Joe: “But you made the rules, God, you made the rules and then you used them against us. You gave us the intellect to examine things and think critically. You’d have to know that, doing that, we’d eventually dismantle the stories in the Bible and reveal them for the crap they are!”

God: “You’d better watch your tongue, kid. You could wind up in a lot of trouble.”

Joe: “How much worse could it be?? I’m in Hell, for Christ’s sake.”

God: “Don’t take the Lord’s name in… oh, never mind.”

Joe: “And then there’s making the sun stand still for an entire day. Come on, man, if you’re real, then that means you’re responsible for the laws of physics and all the other rules that govern the universe, right? So what’s with this ‘making the sun stand still’ thing?”

God: “The rules of physics don’t apply to me. I’m God, right?”

Joe: “Well, that’s just great, thanks for that terrific insight. Are you so powerful that you can make a stone so heavy that—“

God: “That even I can’t lift it? Get some new material, kid, I’ve heard that a thousand times.”

Joe: (nearly frantic now) “Look, here’s my point. You gave us the knowledge of right and wrong. You gave us free will, to choose whatever path seemed right to us. You set up the irrefutable laws of nature (although maybe not SO irrefutable, apparently), and you did all this knowing FULL WELL what would happen in the end.”

God: “I think I know where you’re going with this, but please do continue.”

Joe: “Of course you know where I’m going with this. You ALWAYS know where everyone is going with everything. You’re omnipotent. And that’s my point. If you knew that granting free will and knowledge of good and evil would lead to more people rejecting you than accepting you, why did you do it to begin with? Huh? Answer me that one!”

God: “Kid, do you really think that your ability to think critically is the most important thing about you? Faith, kid, that’s the key. Faith and love for me, your loving God.”

Joe: “I led a good life, God. I was kind and decent to other people. I always tried to do the right thing.”

God: “The right thing? You mean, like, that time you stole from your mother?”

Joe: “Oh.”

God: “Or when you lied to your girlfriend about what you did that time when you visited Los Angeles? Sure, what a good guy you were.”

Joe: “Okay, so I wasn’t perfect. But I always tried. I always did the best I could, and I never deliberately hurt anyone.”

God: “Well, good for you, kid. What do you want, a medal? Here’s the irony of that: if you’d accepted my boy Jesus into your heart, you could have lied and cheated and stole until the day you died, but guess what? You’d be in Heaven right now.”

Joe: (silent for a long moment, stunned. And then--) “Wow. You… you’re kind of a big bastard, aren’t you? You set us all up to fail. Are you psychotic?”

God: “Keeping talking, kid.”

Joe: “Never mind that question, I know the answer. You ARE psychotic. Anyone who’s even GLANCED through the Old Testament can see that. You’re jealous and petty and… evil, even. You know what, God? Even if there WAS proof of your existence when I was alive, I think… I think I STILL would have rejected you.”

God: (chuckles) “So. No regrets, then?”

Joe: (stoically, even though he’s shaking in his boots) “No. No regrets. I rejected you then, God, and I reject you now.”

God: (shrugs) “That’s too bad. I was ready to give you another chance, up in Heaven, but if you have your mind made up—“

Joe: “What? Wait a sec—“

But God pushes the shiny button, and off Joe plummets, to eternal damnation.

'bout Goddamn time!

Hellooooo, temporary lay-off!

Time to kick the writing into high gear, finally. Between doing work for Real Detroit Weekly, finishing up two novels, and various short stories and essays, I should stay pretty busy, right? There's a new bit I put up over there in the "Novels" section, even.

So happy! Whoo! Let the productivity begin!