Fiction, Reviews

‘Runaway,’ by Peter May

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But there was something else in her gaze, something that I have never been able to identify, which left me unsettled then, and still to this day. A look that has haunted my worst nightmares and darkest hours. Almost as if God himself had peered through a crack in the brittle shell of my mortality to pass his judgment upon me ahead of the grave.

It’s not often I encounter a book that’s not only different from what I expected it to be, but wonderfully different. I expected Peter May’s Runaway to be yet another Baby Boomer paeon to the “glories” of the Swinging 60s. It is no such thing. Far from it.

Jack Mackay is a resident of Edinburgh, a man dwindling into old age. He has been edged out of his house by his daughter’s family and installed in a nursing home. He’s consumed with regrets over an unsuccessful life, over sins committed, dreams unfulfilled, and opportunities thrown away.

Then he’s summoned by an old friend, Maurice Cohen, who was lead singer of the band they were in together in their teens. In 1965, aged 17, they “ran away” to London, to be rock stars like the Beatles. Instead they experienced violence, victimization, and a peripheral connection with a famous celebrity murder.

Maurie is in the terminal stages of cancer now; not much time left. He shows Jack a newspaper story, telling how the man accused of the celebrity murder, who disappeared at the time, has now been found murdered. Maurie says the man was not guilty. He himself knows who did it, and they have an obligation to go to London and set things right.

It sounds insane, but Maurie doesn’t have much time left, and Jack feels a personal debt. They collect Dave, one of the other surviving band members, and dragoon Jack’s couch potato grandson, Ricky, into driving them. They set off on a ridiculous, ill-planned pilgrimage, retracing the route of their ridiculous, ill-planned “escape” 50 years before. Along the way we follow two parallel accounts – Jack’s own first-person memoir of the original trip, and a third-person account of their present 2015 journey. We will learn the source of Jack’s guilt, and the secret Maurie has been hoarding all these years, leading up to an explosive conclusion.

 I have no idea what Peter May believes. I suspect that, like most sensible modern people, he probably wouldn’t care much for my beliefs. But I have to say that I have rarely encountered a better description of sin and guilt – from the human point of view – than I found in Runaway. It amazed and moved me.

This is no CBA novel. Cautions for very adult themes. But I highly recommend Runaway to adult readers.

Fiction, Reviews

‘The Emperor’s Sword,’ by Andrew Klavan

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I could tell just by looking at their faces that they were awed by the genius of my writing. At least, I could tell they were pretending to be awed by the genius of my writing – and really, this was Hollywood, so what was the difference? In this town, to be admired and to be in a position where people had to pretend to admire you were pretty much the same thing. In fact, the latter might’ve been a little tastier than the former, when you came right down to it.

I’d been waiting for the third and final volume of Andrew Klavan’s Another World fantasy series, but somehow I missed its release. I have remedied that omission now.

The Emperor’s Sword opens on a world in some ways far weirder than the fantasy world to and from which its hero has been shuttling. That weird world is Hollywood. Austin Lively has made it to the big time. He’s sold a screenplay to a major studio, he goes to the best parties, and he’s being hailed as an “important new talent.” He has an expensive car, an expensive home, and his pick of eager starlets to share his bed. However, like Hamlet, he has dreams, dreams that remind him of places and adventures he just can’t remember and doesn’t want to believe in.

But when his neglected girlfriend Jane is framed for murder, the memories come back in a storm. He has an unfinished job to do in the Other Kingdom, and he can’t save Jane unless he completes that job. He returns to the Other Kingdom, only to find it’s too late. The Emperor to whom he was to bring a message is dead. And Austin now needs to fight a duel he can’t win to save innocent people from death.

Fortunately, in the Other Kingdom, death sometimes works differently than it does here.

Nobody, but nobody, knows how to build plot tension like Andrew Klavan. The Emperor’s Sword puts you on a roller coaster like those old movie serials tried to, but failed. The roller coaster works here. The reader accompanies the hero from the depths of despair to the peaks of triumph and back, with barely a moment to catch his breath.

There’s also a lot of (no doubt semi-autobiographical) realism about Hollywood, and how truly evil and soul-destroying the industry and its culture can be. I do not recommend this book for younger readers, because there’s some very sordid stuff going on here. It pleases me, on the other hand, that top-grade fantasy is being written for an adult audience.

I’m a harsh critic of fantasy – I compare everything to a) Tolkien, or b) the things I imagine my own work to be. In terms of fantastic imagination, I wouldn’t say this book climbs the heights. Some of it seems kind of boiler-plate medieval to me. But in terms of storytelling and plotting – mixed in an uplifting way with brutal spiritual honesty – it would be hard to do better. Highly recommended for adults.

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The Vikings of Hastings

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Big weekend. I saw new (old) things, did my Viking shtick, sold books, and exerted myself more than I’m used to these days. Probably good for me, but it made me thoughtful too.

I’m embarrassed, as a native of southeastern Minnesota, to have had to learn this, but there’s a pretty neat museum in the town of Hastings that I’d never heard of before. It’s called the Little Log House Pioneer Village, and one assumes it started modestly and just grew. It features a large collection of historical buildings, from pioneer cabins to hotels and post offices and gas stations. Some of the stuff goes back only to my childhood, but that’s a long time, after all.

The picture above shows you where we were camped (and by our camp, I mean my tent and awning). Looking up the street you can see just a little of the collection of buildings at the museum. The white building dominating the left-hand side is the town hall from Nininger, Minnesota, a storied place in Minnesota history. It was a utopian community, which Ignatius Donnelly (a radical Republican who eventually become a Populist) promoted as a model community of the future. The crash of 1857 doomed it, leaving Donnelly bankrupt.

Donnelly, a Philadelphia native, was Lieutenant Governor of Minnesota from 1860-1863, and also a congressman and a state representative. He ran for Vice President on the People’s Party ticket in 1900. His greatest fame, though, was as a writer, a forerunner to today’s pseudoscience cranks. This was a man born for the cable channels. His book on Atlantis: The Antidiluvian World is still being reprinted, and continues to be studied by ancient mystery geeks. He also wrote a book about the Great Flood, and championed Francis Bacon as the author of Shakespeare’s plays. In addition, he was a pioneer of Science Fiction, writing a future dystopia novel called Caesar’s Column that was a big success in its time.

The Little Log House Museum hosts an Antique Power Show (steam engines, tractors and classic vehicles) every year. I’m told the place is generally packed for the event. They skipped it last year, of course. And the public seems to still be cautious – our crowds this year were only fair. Still, I sold a moderate quantity of books, and had some pleasant interactions with my species in fairly pleasant weather. It was hot, but I enjoyed fair shade under my awning (better the second day, when we moved my tent onto the east-west tree line). This was not my usual group of Vikings, but a couple of the younger members plus a group of very young new recruits. This made me, perforce, the village elder, and occasional dispenser of dad jokes. I let them have the combat shows all to themselves, but lent some of them arms and armor.

These days I feel my age more every time I do one of these events, but in fact I felt less tired the second day than I expected, and I feel less wiped out today than I also expected. My main concern right now is carrying stuff up and down my basement steps, because there’s no room to store my Viking things on the main floor of my house – and let me tell you, Viking things are heavy (as are books). I need to think about cutting back – not on the events I attend, but on the impedimenta I bring along. I expect I’m going to have to downsize my operation to a plain book table in time.

I was happy, through the good efforts of my printer, Elroy Vesta of EJ Enterprises, Fergus Falls, MN, to have the new paper edition of The Year of the Warrior available to hand sell. I meant to get my picture taken with it in costume this weekend, but it slipped my mind. Here’s a more modest picture.

Non-fiction

America’s Year of Peril

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When she first heard that Pearl Harbor had been attacked, sixteen-year-old Elaine R. Engelson of Brooklyn was “amazed and ashamed” of her “weakness in facing a world crisis.” She wrote to the New York Times the next day that although she, like many others, had “felt the inevitability of war” for some time, “the thought of it actually having come upon us was sudden.” The horrifying events in Hawaii suddenly changed the rhythms of the teenager’s life. She had grown accustomed to countless airplanes flying overhead, but on December 8, the sound of an approaching plane produced a new sense of dread. Although “the world has not yet come to an end by any means,” she had the ominous feeling that “we are on the brink of a precipice overhanging a world of complete darkness.” What was at stake, she said, was something she and many Americans had not fully appreciated until then: “We are fighting to save the world from a fate worse than death.” For a stunned nation, it seemed impossible that the U.S. Pacific Fleet had been caught so unaware. Over twenty-four hundred Americans had died, and the navy had lost eight battleships…. Along with shock and anger came another reaction, shared by millions on both coasts. People wondered if Pearl Harbor was just a prelude to something far worse. In a Gallup poll taken shortly after December 7, 60 percent responded that it was “very likely” or “fairly likely” that the West Coast would be attacked in the next few weeks.

World News Group named Tracy Campbell’s The Year of Peril: America in 1942 their 2020 History Book of the Year for telling history with dramatic flair. They share an excerpt of the book in today’s Saturday series post.

Fiction, Reviews

‘A Poison Tree,’ by J. E. Mayhew

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The template of the English police procedural novel seems to be fairly well established. There’s an experienced senior officer – perhaps a bit crusty – and a diverse team of younger detectives with more or less to learn. In my experience, one can usually expect good team rapport and friendly teasing. That pattern gets varied a little in A Poison Tree, first in a series about DCI Will Blake, who commands a squad in England’s Wirral district (outside Liverpool).

Blake (don’t mention the poet William Blake to him) has recently returned to work after upheaval in his family and the loss of his wife. (Right now one of his major concerns is his mother’s cat, which he has inherited and which seems to hate him.) His investigative team has not yet gelled; there’s tension between them and they’re not entirely confident about their boss yet. One particular problem is the obligatory homosexual on the team – much is made of the subtle hazing he receives – but on the other hand, there’s a suggestion he’s a bit of a prat for being so touchy about the matter.

When a beautiful teenaged girl is found murdered in a park, the major clue seems to be that someone took away the shoes she was wearing, vintage shoes she found at a charity shop. Then it turns out the shoes have a history – they belonged to a young girl who was similarly murdered decades ago – the shoes first disappeared at that time. Clues lead back to the story of a local celebrity, a rich girl who operated as a sort of Nancy Drew, “helping” the police to solve crimes.

The plot of A Poison Tree is complex and convoluted. I must admit I lost track of the characters, contemporary and historical, who figured in the story. The final solution was tragic, almost in the Greek sense, and possibly a little over the top.

I finished the book, but I’m not sure I can recommend it wholeheartedly. It was kind of hard to follow. I did like Blake, though.

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Notes noted during a break in translation

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Today is one of my industrious days. A little translation work came in. Proofreading, actually, which is fairly easy and I believe I do it well. It doesn’t pay much because it goes fast and this employer pays by the hour. But it’s income. And not devoid of fun.

The project – which I won’t give you a hint about, not even the format – is one we’ve been working on, off and on, for years now. I recall remembering it recently, and thinking, “Well, that one must have died in production.” But here it is again.

The wheels of cinema grind slowly.

Not long ago I saw a news item that announced they were starting production on the very first project I ever worked on. I’d long written it off as a sad casualty – I’d really liked it and wanted to see it made. And behold, it’s getting done, at last.

Makes me feel better about the rate my novels are coming out.

I expect I’ll be able to post something tomorrow, but if I don’t show up, remember I’ll be at the Little Log House Antique Power event in Hastings, Minnesota on Saturday and Sunday. God willing.

Bookselling, Writing

Novel-Writing and Mower

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At last I found a lawn guy. I chose the guy who put up a flyer at my church, rather than any of the hard-sell sharks who went all feeding-frenzy on me after I waded into the Home Advisor waters. I may be sorry I made the choice one day, but at the moment I’m pleased with my sales resistance.

No word on the car yet, of course. I have a Viking event this weekend (the link to the Little Log House Antique Power Show is here, if you’re going to be near Hastings, Minnesota), and I’ve been forced to beg a ride from a fellow Viking who can accommodate all my stuff in his vehicle. I’ll owe him a favor now… heaven knows what might be asked of me one day. (I draw the line at felony-level violence.) I hope to have the new paper edition of The Year of the Warrior to sell at this event, and that kind of excites me.

I’m almost surprised to say it, but the new novel, King of Rogaland, is coming together, I think. Now that I’m starting to get the various plot threads tied up properly, I like what I’m seeing. I’ve got ongoing themes happening here; a uniformity of effect (I hope). One oddity of this book (for me) is that it includes more embedded stories than my previous books. By that I mean a character in my story sitting down and telling a story of his own. These interpolated tales, in general (I think), also advance the unified theme. Another oddity is that there are no major battles (hypocritical of me, I suppose, as I’ve criticized Stephen Lawhead for lacking the nerve to write battles). But the final confrontation is – I think – dramatic enough to have a similar artistic effect.

I read a quotation recently that impressed me. I don’t recall the source, or the exact words. But the gist of it was, “The better you get as a writer, the harder writing will be for you, because your critical standards will be raised.” So just go ahead and do it – if you’re having this problem, you’re probably a better writer than you think.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Tear It Down,’ by Nick Petrie

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As far as pure entertainment goes, you can hardly do better than Nick Petrie’s bombastic Peter Ash thriller series. These books are extreme in every way. Nevertheless, speaking for myself, I’m growing a teeny bit uncomfortable with them.

Peter Ash is, if you remember, a Marine combat veteran who came home with a peculiar form of PTSD. He is claustrophobic, and mostly stays out of doors. Over the course of his adventures he’s acquired a fortune in “found” money, a faithful friend who is a former Milwaukee gangster, and a feisty journalist girlfriend. Tear It Down finds him trying to settle down with the girlfriend, June. He’s exerting himself to make it work, but June can tell it takes an effort. So when her friend Wanda calls from Memphis, saying people are harassing her, she tells Peter to scoot – go help Wanda. Work it out of his system.

Wanda is a photographer who suffers from PTSD of her own. She’s been photographing war zones, and is now taking pictures of urban gangs. She doesn’t know why somebody drove a pickup truck through the front wall of her house, though. It seems both extreme, and an odd way to make a statement, when they could just shoot her.

Peter has barely arrived when he’s confronted by a kid with a gun, who wants to hijack his camper truck. Peter could take the gun away, but he instinctively likes the boy, and gives the truck up rather than hurt him. Later he learns that the boy is a gifted musician in big trouble – Peter would like to help him, if he could only find him. And he’d also like his truck back.

Solving these problems will involve bringing in his dangerous friend Lewis from Milwaukee, and chasing down a couple of desperate rednecks with their sights on a historical treasure. These guys are crazy, and not above turning a machine gun on innocent bystanders.

It speaks well of author Petrie that he wants to do good as well as entertain with Tear It Down. He tries to confront issues of race and social oppression in a positive (and hopeful) way. And that was part of my problem. I found his solutions a little glib, and not much more plausible than the book’s over-the-top plot.

Also, I’m getting a little tired of Peter’s girlfriend, June. She seems to be a good person, and is good for Peter. But we are informed that a foul mouth is one of her “virtues.” I’ve gotten accustomed to profanity in books, but treating it as a positive good is kind of extreme for this small-town boy.

I don’t know. I may go back to the Peter Ash books after a while. They’re engaging and entertaining. But I’m going to cool it on them for now.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Murder In Our Midst,’ by Bruce Beckham

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If you’re looking for big thrills, Bruce Beckham’s Inspector Skelgill mysteries are generally not for you. These stories take the cozy route, most of the time, and the plot of Murder In Our Midst is pretty much right out of Agatha Christie.

The school clique that centered around beautiful Daisy Mills decades ago has gathered again at a lodge in the English Lakes District, to support her after the death (by poisoning) of her third husband. For fun, they bring out a Ouija board, and the planchet spells out something about murder. The next morning, Daisy is found drowned in a pool near a waterfall.

When the police call goes out, Inspector Skelgill and DS Jones are in a boat on a nearby lake. He’s trying to teach her fly fishing. They answer the call and start interviewing witnesses. Evidence indicates murder, so it becomes a question of evaluating alibis. In some ways, we never really get out of high school; old loves and hatreds still endure…

I enjoy the Skelgill series, and the quiet nature of the stories has something to do with it. These books are almost as much about appreciation of the charms of the scenery as about murders and characters. Murder In Our Midst was not one of my favorites. It was the kind of story where you have to keep track of a lot of characters, some of whom aren’t all that memorable, along with various time lines.

But it was kind of like time with old friends, so I won’t pan the book.

I’ll say this – I hope this is a series where characters age slower than in real time. Because if DS Jones is waiting for Skelgill to make a romantic move on her, I fear she’s going to be waiting a while.

Music, Uncategorized

‘Aura Lea’

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Another week has been transferred to history’s OUT box. On balance, it won’t be remembered by future biographers as one of my better ones. But it could have been worse.

No word about the car, of course. I keep hoping the July 30 date they gave me for part delivery was only a worst-case scenario, but we live in a fallen world. (In the Garden of Eden, I’m sure, car parts always arrived on time.)

Then there was my struggle to find a new lawn guy, which I chronicled yesterday. I’ve determined to leave the final decision until Monday, because I still want to talk to the guy who put a flyer up at my church. But if he doesn’t show this weekend, I’ll go with one of the Home Advisor sharks.

Had a couple plumbers over today, to look at my water heater, which has been making disquieting banging noises. The diagnosis? Sludge build-up – no doubt due to the high mineral content of our local water. Recommendation: new water heater. Which my home warranty program should pay for, but there will be the deductible. I expect that will be in addition to the deductible I already paid for the plumber’s visit today.

What else? I just put a package in the mail to Sweden. There’s a company (I won’t say its name) that advertises Viking accouterments on Jackson Crawford’s YouTube channel. I sent away to them for a linen tunic, because I wanted a new under-tunic (the ones I’ve been wearing are getting threadbare). I ordered XXL, and got it, and it was too small. So I ordered a XXXL, and that was too small too.

I mean no offense to Swedes when I say that their definition of “large” is somewhat different from mine. And I’m well aware that Americans in general, and I in particular, are way too fat. Which is too bad, because it seems to be well-made product.

But the fact remains that these shirts aren’t suited to a large segment of the American market. To add injury to ignorance, the return postage cost almost what one of the shirts cost me.

Little shocks to the bank account; they add up. But those are the terms of my life these days – the Lord provides. And sometimes I need to make small economies.

On the plus side, I’ve made substantial progress on King of Rogaland. I feel at this point that I’m beginning to get a handle on the project. In fact, I think this could be the best book I’ve ever written. I think I’m a better artist than I was 45 years ago, which ought to be expected, or I’m doing something wrong.

The song in the video above is “Aura Lee,” an American piece sometimes attributed (wrongly) to Stephen Foster. The lyrics were in fact written by the American poet W. W. Fosdick, who died in 1862, aged 37. The melody was by an English immigrant, George R. Poulton, who died in 1867, aged 38 (according to Wikipedia, he was tarred and feathered in 1864 for having an affair with a young student).

The song was published in 1861, and became tremendously popular with soldiers on both sides of the Civil War. One can understand why. I’ve always loved it. Elvis Presley used the melody for his song “Love Me Tender,” but I prefer the original. This rendition is done in period style by the 97th Regimental String Band.

May sunshine come along with your weekend, and swallows in the air.