Anybody visiting Black Irish Blarney today needs to send out some solidarity and support to Irish crime writer Declan Burke.  The man's post today on CRIME ALWAYS PAYS challenges the balance of dreams versus practical demands we all face.  A reality check for all trying to hack through the lunchmeat and make a go of this crime writing business. 

Declan is a great writer and needs a virtual pat on the back, maybe a laugh, and definitely well wishes from our supportive writing community--a writing community like no other.

Be well, Dec, be well.

Scrolling the news on BBC this a.m. and hey, would you look at that,  my sadsack P.I.Charlie Byrne was way ahead of the plastic surgery in the nether regions curve last Spring when David Cranmer posted my story MAINTENANCE over on  Beat to a Pulp.  Not that we need to revisit that story, Charlie's grown a bit since then, but if you want to jump here. 

Tasty Waves

So, like, yeah...there's like these totally unexplored oceans, right? 'Cha.. and I'm, like, thinkin' I could, like, y'know, be the first intergalactic surfer, y'know? Catch me a ride on one of the shuttles, brah, and totally--hold on a sec-- (rasp of a lighter, sound of bong chamber roiling.  Pause.  Exhale.) Where was I?  Oh yeah.  Spaceships.  So like blast off to one of these planets and rip these tasty bomboras with not a single kook in the lineup, right?  Awwwwesome.

Ladies and gentlemen, the set of your next sci-fi novel.

Engage @ Pulp Speed

"But then, King has always produced at pulp speed. "Nov.22, 2007-March 14, 2009" proclaims the final page of Under the Dome; that's 1100 pages in 480 days...writing flat-out keeps him close to his story, close to his source. It seems to magnetize his imagination: by the final third of this novel King is effortlessly drawing in T.S. Eliot and the Book of Revelation, the patient etherized upon the table and the Star Wormwood."  - New York Times Book Review 11/8/09

That's speed.  King-sized.

Lot of Meat on That Bone

Sorry, Sparky, it's a dog eat dog world out there, and we're all wearing MilkBone underwear.  If we have to eat you to save ourselves, well so be it.  Breaded with panko and served with a bowl of sweet chili sauce?  Braised with winter vegetables or grilled on mesquite chips?  Mmmm...thank you for making breakfast so awesome, Mr. Ellis, you mad bastard.

Saturday - No Biggie

Trucking up to Jersey today. Face time with the folks. Got the soundtrack mixed for the drive. Will do the usual things. Find great food. Play in the water. See friends. Wonder where all the time has gone. Ask myself for the millionth time a whole lot of whys. Looks to be a glorious weekend weather wise, maybe even a half way decent swell coming in. Next week I start my latest project with zeal. It's going to take strength to cut what needs to be cut, face what demons need to be faced. But I just finished a big story and its now under the knife and out of my hands. Can only do one thing. Go forward. Keep trying. Onward.

I Like My Comedy Black Please: Friday Forgotten Book - LOOT by Joe Orton

Rolling out the old steamer trunk, dusting off my theater hat today.

I love comic crime novels, the ones that deftly mix the mechanisms of the genre and zing-pow-zap you with caustic laser-beam humor... leaving you, well, in stitches.

The usual suspects poke their heads up from the end of the bed--Gischler, Swierczynski, Konrath, Crais, Phillips, Hockensmith, freakin' Crumley. As an aspiring crime writer I look to these masters and many others when I seek to relieve the darker spirals of my stories. But I also lookback at my studies in theater as well.... my joyful fascination with its long comic traditions.

Which brings me to my Friday forgotten book...a great play worth reading and seeing. Critics bashed it in its day, but now the play is recognized as a black farce classic: LOOT by Joe Orton.

Meet skeevy bank robbers Hal and Dennis. Not only do they decide to rob a bank next to a funeral home where Dennis slaves, they head back to Hal's house to hide out. Oh. And by the way Hal's mum? She's dead and laid out for viewing. Perfect place to hide the money might be the coffin, right? Oh, no. Dear God, no, no, no, no, no....

I was lucky enough to see an excellent production of this play once. Even if the actors aren't pros, you'll die laughing.

In New Jersey Last Night: Charlie Byrne

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I sat on my friend Stevie Maguire's worn out couch and switched off the television.

"Hey!" Stevie cried foul, Froot Loops and green-stained soy milk dribbling down his pointy beard,"I was watchin' that, man. Turn that back on."

I looked at him. I tossed the TV remote in the wicker basket on the coffee table in front of us and crossed the living room to the hall. I opened the hall closet's accordion doors and searched the top shelf. Stevie kept his board games there.

"You want to play dominoes?" I asked over my shoulder, "Mexican Train? How about a nickle a point?"

Stevie blinked, "Mexican Train ? Freakin' dominoes? Dude, I was watching that election coverage."

I waved a hand. "Bah...it doesn't matter."

He was adamant. "Doesn't matter? Doesn't matter? The exit polls don't mean squat, yo."

I shrugged and pulled down the metal, oblong bin. I gave the dominoes a good shake. Sounded like a tiny coffin full of bones.

"Exit polls...listen to yourself, Stevie. Nothing's going to get better. The beard looses, we get that fat fuck. Believe me, jowly frat boy's knees will get tired too, there'll just be different people in line."

"Cynic."

"Nobody likes taxes, man, but God help us we want good roads, crackerjack schools, and all our expensive waterfront real estate beefed up from erosion. Who's going to pay?"

"Come on, it's not that bad."

"Politics in Jersey-- it has always been corrupt, doesn't matter what side you're on. The last great politician from this state of any real promise was eaten alive when he ran for president."

"Who? Bradley?"

"Give the boy a star."

I came back into the living room, "Face it. It's out of our hands. Servants and masters, masters and servants...false hope and rumors of false hope...mankind will never see an end of trouble and blah, blah, blah."

Stevie probed his Tupperware bowl of Foot Loops with a spoon, "Dig the bitter philosopher."

I shook the domino bin again. "Dime a point?"

Stevie set down his cereal and ran a hand through his crazy mane of hair.

"Gonna clean you out, my man."

###

Lots of elections yesterday, ballot initiatives...to all those who feel triumphant or disappointed, everyone's day will come. Take heart.

Fuel to Burn

I believe in the healing power of food. No great spark of revelation there. After all, I did graduate at the top of my class from culinary school. Okay, not the tippity-top but in the top three--you should've seen my final exam--we blew the budget on wine and enough foie gras to make a glutton sweat fat for a year. Would've made the top slot at graduation if chef didn't have it in for me, that French hardass. I think he caught me and some of the other guys in checks and clogs checking out his wife when she wore this---well, let's just days the outfit was breathtaking. Those boots were not just made for walking, if you catch my shimmy.

When writing these days the fuel for me is simple. What I typically power up with is coffee and good French bread. Strong bitter tea is a good substitute for the coffee but only if it's so bitter the back of my throat feels like its been scraped with a golf shoe. Somehow strong coffee and bread combo (the classic French breakfast staple) just powers me through almost any reluctance to hit the keyboard. Not too much coffee that I become snappy and irritable. Anyway, just more blog b.s. from this jerk as I'm waiting for the coffee to brew.