Fiction, Reviews

‘Armored,’ by Mark Greaney

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Mark Greaney is the author of the very impressive Gray Man thriller series. I’ve enjoyed them, though I haven’t kept up with them recently. But I saw he’d started a new series, about security specialist Josh Duffy. I got a deal on Armored, so I checked it out. Greaney still knows how to write a gripping story.

Joshua Duffy, private security operative, lost a leg in Beirut, in a heroic action to protect a client’s wife. This left him in the humiliating position of being unable to find any job better than mall cop. Even more embarrassing, his wife is working nights cleaning offices – and making more money than he is.

So when he runs into an old buddy at the mall, and learns that he’s been hired for a job protecting a UN delegation tasked with making peace between drug cartels in Mexico, he asks the friend to get him in. He does not tell him about his missing leg. To his surprise, he gets the job, and soon he’s flying south of the border with a ragtag collection of bottom-of-the-barrel bodyguards – the company they’re working for doesn’t have the best reputation.

Theirs is a mission marked for disaster – and not by chance. Josh and his new buddies turn out to be nothing more than counters in a big game being played by high-level players, who have no plans to let any of them go home alive.

Plotting a story like this one has to be a daunting task – I’m not sure I could do it. The action tends toward what I like to call the “cinematic” – the kind you believe when you see it on a theater screen, but which seems less plausible when reading. That fortune which proverbially favors the bold requires some pretty intricate choreography of events to achieve in a story where every bend of the road brings a daunting new setback. I never entirely believed this story, but it was just believably enough – and exciting enough – to keep me riveted.

I enjoyed Armored immensely, and recommend it without reservation. Cautions for language and violence. References to Christian faith are uniformly respectful.

Music

Sunday Singing: Deck Thyself, My Soul, with Gladness

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Here’s a devotional hymn from German poet Johann Franck (1618-1677), translated into English by scholar Catherine Winkworth (1827-1878).

I will greatly rejoice in the LORD;
my soul shall exult in my God,
for he has clothed me with the garments of salvation;
he has covered me with the robe of righteousness,
as a bridegroom decks himself like a priest with a beautiful headdress,
and as a bride adorns herself with her jewels. (Isaiah 61:10 ESV)

1 Deck thyself, my soul, with gladness,
leave the gloomy haunts of sadness;
come into the daylight’s splendour,
there with joy thy praises render
unto him whose grace unbounded
hath this wondrous banquet founded:
high o’er all the heavens he reigneth,
yet to dwell with thee he deigneth.

2 Now I sink before thee lowly,
filled with joy most deep and holy,
as with trembling awe and wonder
on thy mighty works I ponder:
how, by mystery surrounded,
depth no mortal ever sounded,
none may dare to pierce unbidden
secrets that with thee are hidden.

3 Sun, who all my life dost brighten,
light, who dost my soul enlighten,
joy, the sweetest heart e’er knoweth,
fount, whence all my being floweth,
at thy feet I cry, my Maker,
let me be a fit partaker
of this blessed food from heaven,
for our good, thy glory, given.

4 Jesus, Bread of Life, I pray thee,
let me gladly here obey thee;
never to my hurt invited,
be thy love with love requited:
from this banquet let me measure,
Lord, how vast and deep its treasure;
through the gifts thou here dost give me,
as thy guest in heaven receive me.

Writing

Writer’s journal: Dormancy and perfectionism

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Photo credit Glenn Carstens-Peters. glenncarstenspeters. Unsplash license.

I imagine some of you are more interested in how my Work In Progress is coming along than in my flounderings in the unfamiliar waters of book narration. So I’ll tell you about that part of the business tonight.

The Baldur Game continues dormant for the moment. This is a good thing. Every writer (except for those wild geniuses who can solo on the first flight) has had the experience of getting a piece just as good as they believe they possibly can get it, and then they put it aside for one reason or another, and discover, on taking it up again, all kinds of howlers and barbarisms they’d never guessed at. It’s like the wallpaper in your house. After a while it goes invisible. Time away lets you see it with fresh eyes again, as if it were someone else’s work. And someone else’s work is infinitely easier to critique.

So I’ve got the book out right now for reading with three friends, whom I’ve instructed to be bloody, bold, and resolute. Give it to me straight. I may not be able to take it, but I’ll pretend I can. Act like a professional.

That’s what being a professional means, really.

One of the readers has already started offering suggestions, and some of them seem to me quite good. But following them up will mean thinking some things through, plot-wise. Plotting kills me. I’m not a plotter by nature. Four characters in The Baldur Game are noted as good chess players – Erling Skjalgsson (my hero, in case you’re new here), King Olaf of Norway, King Knut of Denmark, and Jarl Ulf of Denmark. I wonder how well I’ve portrayed those men, these good plotters. I’m told I don’t write women very well. I wonder if I write leaders well.

Then there’s the eternal problem of when to stop tinkering. There are writers, I’m told, who never get to the point where they think a work is good enough. There’s a character in Balzac’s Pére Goriot, if I remember correctly (I read it in college), who has been working on a novel for years, but has never gotten past the first sentence. He sits down to write each day, and immediately finds something wrong with that one sentence, and then spends his whole session revising it again. We know he’ll never complete the novel. His aspiration surpasses human capabilities.

I’m not like that, thank goodness. Eventually I do come to a point where I’m pretty sure that if I tinker with the thing any more, I’ll just spoil it.

It’s also possible I’m just lazy, and have thus failed to achieve my true potential.

But that sounds silly to me.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Kill Chase,’ by M. K. Farrar

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I feel cheated. I was tricked into reading Kill Chase, a book I wouldn’t have read if I’d known more about its author, and what’s worse, I liked it.

Two fishermen on the River Avon, near Bristol, England, hook a nasty catch – a severed human arm wrapped in a plastic bag. They call the police, who drag the river and find more body parts – from two different corpses.

Assigned to the case is Detective Inspector Ryan Chase, who’s having a hard time of it these days. He’s still mourning the death of his daughter, and his divorce from his wife. He works to distract his mind, and has developed symptoms of OCD.

He and his team have little to go on – how do you identify who dumped body parts in a river? Their investigations will lead them into the world of the homeless, and the good samaritans who serve them – but victims and victimizers can be hard to distinguish from one another.

Kill Chase was one of the more compelling books I’ve read in a while. The emphasis was on character, and I cared about Ryan Chase’s life and that of his partner, a young woman caring for her mentally disabled brother. I cared about the other characters too.

At the end, when I saw the author’s bio, I realized the reason for this emotion-intensive approach (Warning: sexism follows). The author, M. K. Farrar, is a woman. I should have guessed. Nowadays, authors who use initials instead of first names are usually female. Most of the time I watch out for that.

The author’s sex probably also explains the abundance of female police in this book. The Bristol force appears to be about 60 percent women, and all the important cops (except for Ryan himself) are female.

But I can’t deny that the author did a pretty good job of portraying her male hero. Fair play to her, as they say in Ireland.

Kill Chase is an impressive police procedural, Recommended.

Uncategorized

Spring achieved, and a ‘writing’ update

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Photo credit: Matt Botsford. Unsplash license.

Before I get to my tale of angst, I feel I ought to note that today was beautiful in terms of weather. Nearly 70 degrees. It was the first day of the year I slid the screens down in a couple windows and opened them for fresh air. I always feel an easing of the soul when this happens. The dark time is ended. We’ve made it through alive.

I have another ‘writing’ update – and the collective holds its collective breath. (No breath for you! Your social credit score has fallen below permissible levels!)

As I’ve told you before, I’ve been plugging along, trying to learn Audacity, the free recording software that most aspiring book narrators seem to start with. Audacity is quite sophisticated, really, which is part of what scares me.

Thinking back to radio school (Brown Institute, Minneapolis, 1980), I enjoyed a peculiar place in my class. Aside from being one of the oldest students, I was generally considered (or so I remember it) the best copy reader and the worst engineer. A popular, oft-repeated story told of how I panicked in the control room one day, reached desperately for some dial or other, and went over backward in my chair (it had casters), so that I presented the spectacle, through the control booth window, of my feet waving in the air.

This story was completely true.

The disconnect I seem to have with my hands – sort of like a seven-second delay – has always prevented me from handling any mechanical device with confidence, from a can opener to an automobile. Also, I seem to lack the common male aptitude for spatial visualization. So I’m clumsy with any kind of equipment. Typing is a repetitive and minimalistic task, so I can handle that. I’m not much good for anything more demanding.

But today, my drilling with Audacity – just recording and playing and editing a little, throwing my work away at the end of each session – seems to have begun to bear fruit. I’m feeling a little more confident with it. Not a master, but not a stranger in town anymore. That’s gratifying.

One of my major regrets in my life comes from those radio school days. One of my instructors, a professional broadcaster who taught as a side gig, offered to help me get into voiceover work. He considered me talented enough to make it in that business. I was flattered, and made a preliminary demo reel, just for his critique.

He critiqued it. Suggested some improvements.

I was embarrassed that it wasn’t perfect, and I gave up.

This was stupid. I had a chance to get into a field where I could have prospered. But that never-silenced Voice In My Head argued me out of trying any more. My whole life could have been different if I’d accepted the criticism, made improvements, and kept at it until I made the thing work.

The Voice In My Head, I realized recently, doesn’t really hate me. It’s just terrified of failure. It’s trying to protect me from getting hurt. It fails proactively, because it’s less painful to just surrender at the start, rather than trying and falling on my face.

This book narration thing, it seems to me, is a second chance. This time I’m going to try. This time I’m going to take the risk.

Honestly, what do I have to lose?

Fiction, Reviews

‘Holy Disorders,’ by Edmund Crispin

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Edmund Crispin (real name Robert Bruce Montgomery) was one of the great names of England’s Golden Age of Detection (under the Montgomery name he was a noted composer of music in various fields, ranging from saucy film scores to reverent sacred works). His most famous literary creation is Professor Gervase Fenn, an English professor at a fictional Oxford college. Holy Disorders is one of Crispin’s later works.

The story starts with Fenn’s friend Geoffrey Vintner, a composer of church music, receiving a muddled telegram from Fenn, demanding that he travel immediately to the fictional cathedral town of Tolnbridge – and bring a butterfly net! The lengthy description of Geoffrey’s journey, during which he is attacked three times by thugs, has a fantastical, dreamlike quality that reminded me a little of Chesterton’s The Man Who Was Thursday.

When he arrives in Tolnbridge, Geoffrey finds that Fenn has completely forgotten about him – which isn’t unusual. But the cathedral organist has been attacked and is in the hospital, and Fenn is investigating. That very night, the bishop is killed in the cathedral, and the organist is murdered in the hospital. Fenn and Geoffrey go to work comparing alibis and witness accounts, eventually uncovering hidden, unsuspected evil.

Holy Disorders is fairly disordered in its own right, in terms of plot. The puzzle is complicated, and the action often less than plausible. I also have to say that I figured out the murderer’s identity before I was supposed to.

The story had other problems too. I liked the writing – very classic English and erudite. But my main problem with the book was that our hero, Gervase Fenn, was one of the most unlikeable heroes I’ve ever encountered (not the worst, but hardly endearing). He shares with Sherlock Holmes a tendency to rudeness. But Holmes possessed some manners, and was only rude when necessary. Fenn genuinely doesn’t seem to care – which makes his occasional moral pronouncements sound unconvincing.

There are many churchmen in this book, and none of them are very saintly, while a couple are unworthy characters. The attitude to Christianity overall seems positive though, though the author’s theology appears weak. I was disturbed by attempts to partly justify the old witch trials (this is a subject on which I have strong views).

Modern readers will be amused by the depiction of “marihuana” in this story. I loathe pot personally, but we know today that it’s not anything like as addictive as it’s portrayed here.

There are no sex scenes, though I was surprised by a scene where a couple swim together in the nude. Very racy for a book published in 1940.

My final judgment on Holy Disorders is that it has its pleasures, but is not a great mystery novel. Edmund Crispin, perhaps, deserves another reading, selecting a better example of his craft. I actually enjoyed the book more than not, in spite of its weaknesses.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Deep Shadow,’ by Nick Sullivan

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Boone Fischer is a divemaster who works guiding scuba excursions on the remote island of Bonaire in the Caribbean. He likes the job, but is restless, so he’s taken another job on another island. The problem is that he’s now falling in love with Emily, an English girl he’s working with, and hasn’t yet worked up the nerve to tell her he’s leaving.

One day while diving, Boone spots something he’s never seen before – a submarine. It’s not military or scientific. Emily snaps a couple pictures of it. These pictures prove of interest to two American customers – who just happen to be military. They make inquiries, and learn that there are rumors that a Venezuelan drug cartel has hired Russian engineers to build them a large sub for smuggling purposes.

What none of them know is that the cartel itself has been betrayed – one of their engineers is a Muslim extremist, and his plan is to take the sub and use it not for smuggling – but as a massive bomb.

That’s the premise of Nick Sullivan’s Deep Shadow. Boone, our hero, aside from being young and strong and agile, is also fortunate in being an expert in Brazilian martial arts. He’ll need them. In fact, luck plays, perhaps, too large a part in this story from a plotting perspective. The Caribbean is a large body of water – what are the odds Luke would stumble on the submarine, not once, but twice, purely by happenstance?

Overall, there was nothing wrong with Deep Shadow. It was a well-told, exciting adventure story. The prose was professional. I found it a little simplistic – it reminded me of those kids’ novels I used to read, where the boy gets involved with spies or detectives or something, figures out what’s wrong before the adults do, and ends up the hero. However, Deep Shadow makes no claim to be Dostoevski – it promises a rousing adventure story, and it delivers just that.

There’s violence, but not too graphic, and hints of sex but no sex scenes. If you’re looking for uncomplicated action entertainment, perhaps for reading on the beach, Deep Shadow is a good choice.

Music

Sunday Singing: Up From the Grave He Arose

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Lars talked about rousing Easter music last week, so I thought I’d find one for today. “Up From the Grave He Arose” was written by American preacher and hymn writer Robert Lowry (1826-1899). It’s one of those stirring kind of songs that calls up images of evangelistic rallies or brass bands on the sidewalk.

“God raised him up, loosing the pangs of death, because it was not possible for him to be held by it.” (Acts 2:24 ESV)

1 Low in the grave he lay, Jesus my Savior,
waiting the coming day, Jesus my Lord!

Refrain:
Up from the grave he arose;
with a mighty triumph o’er his foes;
he arose a victor from the dark domain,
and he lives forever, with his saints to reign.
He arose! He arose! Hallelujah! Christ arose!

2 Vainly they watch his bed, Jesus my Savior,
vainly they seal the dead, Jesus my Lord! [Refrain]

3 Death cannot keep its prey, Jesus my Savior;
he tore the bars away, Jesus my Lord! [Refrain]

Poetry

My Daughter Has Published Her Poetry

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Earlier this year, my oldest daughter told me she had published a book of her poetry. She didn’t ask me about it ahead of time. She didn’t come to me with an idea and say she understood I’ve looked into writing and publishing for years so maybe I would have some thoughts. No. She just made it happen behind my back.

As you would expect, I reacted as gently and affirmingly as could be imagined. I think I yelled at her. I tried to keep a level head and ask questions like, “What do you mean?!” and “Are you kidding me?”

But this is the world we have. Little girls can earn their own money and pay for publishing services, not unlike those which have employed me in the past, and get their words in print on actual pages and physical books–without their father’s involvement.

Her book is Silent Beauty Speaks. It’s a collection of nature poems, efforts at capturing the sunrise or a night’s calm.

The gentle swell of airy song,
The lullaby of breath belongs
To quiet winds that round the ear,
Whispering softly,
"Do not fear."

That’s a stanza from “Lilac Night.” Here’s her opening poem, “A Marbled Sky.”

When first I rose, and laid my eyes
Upon the marbled sunrise,
The moving clouds of dark and gold,
I saw a story yet untold
The expectation of the day
A light to hold, to hope, and pray
May I find grace enough today

I’d love to hear your thoughts on her work, not that I would share them. I’m too critical on my own. Any criticism you have will stay between us. But if you say you’ve been moved to invest in the future of humanity, I might pass that on.

Photo: Luke Ellis-Craven via Unsplash

Reviews

Watching Jeremy Brett’s ‘Sherlock Holmes’

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I’ve found myself watching some of the old Jeremy Brett Sherlock Holmes episodes from the 1990s, on YouTube. They’re all there, I think, or at least most of them. I’d forgotten how truly excellent they were, especially at the beginning. Toward the end, Jeremy Brett was visibly unwell and putting on weight, and those scripts, based on inferior Conan Doyle stories, were (in my opinion) weaker.

I was surprised to discover that Jeremy Brett played Freddy in the 1964 film version of “My Fair Lady.” He was good in that role, but playing what they used to call “Juvenile” parts was not his true destiny.  (I always thought Freddy should have gotten the girl, and indeed that’s what happens in G. B. Shaw’s original play.)

Granada Productions made a serious effort to do Sherlock Holmes in a manner faithful to the original stories. The series bowled me over back in the day, and it has aged excellently. Brett got the job because he resembled Sidney Paget’s original illustrations – except that Paget’s Holmes was pretty bald. The sets were great, the costumes were great, and Brett’s performance was at once faithful to Doyle’s descriptions and wildly original. Doyle tells us that Holmes would have made a great actor, and Brett plays him as an actor, affecting theatrical gestures and vocal flourishes. One wonders whether the man is quite sane (Brett’s life story suggests he wasn’t entirely), but we always wondered about Holmes the same way.

If you’re looking for top-shelf literary adaptations, check these out.