I may or may not be posting here tomorrow night, contingent on circumstances. I’ll again be in beautiful, scenic Brainerd, Minnesota for the Crow Wing County Viking Festival. Last year’s local news report on the festival is posted about — though reluctantly, as their cameraman completely blew the opportunity to capture the excitement of my presence.
If you’re in the area, here’s the web site. The festival is held at the Crow Wing County fairgrounds and begins 9:30 a.m. Saturday.
Storytelling is an art distinct from, but not incompatible with, literary quality. Sometimes you’ll find a book that contains a fair number of flaws, but it still pulls you in.
That was the case for me with Darren Sugrue’s Shred of Doubt. Lately I’d been afraid that increased viewing of YouTube videos (Jordan Peterson and others) was damaging my ability to enjoy fiction. But Shred of Doubt grabbed me and held on all the way.
Jimmy Quinn is an Irish marine biologist. He hasn’t been in Hyannis, Massachusetts in 25 years. Back then he was a student working in a diner, earning money for University back home. That year he fell in love with Chelsea Thomas, a local girl who also worked at the diner. Just before he was due to go home, Chelsea disappeared, never to be seen again. Evidence pointed to another worker at the diner, a fellow with an unrequited crush on Chelsea, and he went to prison for life.
But now Jimmy is back in Hyannis, attending a conference. He goes to the diner to see an old friend who still works there. The friend, hesitantly, gives him something he’s been holding on to. It’s Chelsea’s diary, which he found hidden in the locker room long after the case had been closed. Jimmy reads it through and discovers things he never knew about her. Suddenly he’s obsessed. He forgets the conference and his duties. He has to discover the truth about what really happened to Chelsea. Could she still be alive? Did an innocent man go to prison?
There were many points in this book where I thought the author was reaching a bit. Some of the plot points seemed forced. The psychology, I think, was more TV movie than real life. There were homophone errors.
Also, he talked about a safety on a Glock (they don’t have them. [Full disclosure, I made the same mistake in a manuscript myself once, but a friend corrected it for me.])
Nevertheless, the pure storytelling was masterful. I had a hard time putting Shred of Doubt down.
Cautions for language, adult situations, and fairly explicit sex.
I feel a little guilty reviewing Jay Heavner’s Can’t Depend On Murder. My impression is that the author is a good guy with the best intentions for telling an inspiring story. A Christian story. But like so many other Christian writers, he hasn’t figured out how to do that.
However, the thing is, the book is set in Brevard County, Florida in 1988. As it happens, I was living in Brevard County in 1988, and the little town where I was living even gets a mention here. So I read the thing. And now, because I need to post something tonight, I pretty much have to review the poor book.
Roger Pyles is a semi-hermit living in an old house trailer. He is apparently part of the police department in his little town in North Brevard County, but they pay him next to nothing and he doesn’t generally have any duties. He was once a college professor, but suffered a tragedy and fled to Florida. He lives with his dog and a stray donkey he rescued, but an ex-girlfriend and the son she bore him live nearby.
Then an old Indian called Shaman shows up to deliver a cryptic message about approaching danger. A tree accordingly falls on Roger’s trailer, just the start of a series of catastrophes. There’s some talk of Roger consulting on a serial killer investigation, but that gets solved before he has to move a muscle. Various dangers to himself and his loved ones are hinted at, but everything blows over in the end.
If that sounds like not much of a story, well, that’s what we’re dealing with here. Mysteries and perils are hinted at, but never come to anything. Instead there is dialogue – lots and lots of dialogue. Now I like good dialogue. It brings characters alive. But it’s got to be good dialogue. One element of good dialogue is efficiency. You don’t waste the reader’s time with every hello and goodbye. You know when to end a joke, and you don’t have to tell the reader that people laughed at it.
Most of all, you don’t preach. (I confess I’m hesitant to raise this point, since I fear I sin in this regard in my own books, but I’m the reviewer here, so it must be said.) The author incorporates repeated conversations, sometimes with an actual preacher character and often improbably motivated, about God and the meaning of life and the problem of evil. Our hero Roger is portrayed as a respectful agnostic, but the Christians score all the debating points.
I agree entirely with the points, but I don’t think they were very effectively dramatized.
Once you finish the book you realize there’s a larger context – greater powers than Roger and his friends are manipulating the world around them. That might have been an effective plot device in a better-written book. But it’s not effective here. It just left me scratching my head.
Also, Roger has a cell phone. How many people had cell phones in rural Florida in ’88?
Also, the character of the Shaman is just silly. He talks like Tonto.
I can’t recommend Can’t Depend On Murder.
From our Trust the Science desk, respected scientific researchers have had their work called into question by evidence of data manipulation. Last month, the president of Stanford stepped down because the student newspaper asked an expert to review his published neurobiological papers to clear up allegations that had been raised years before. Pete Judo explains in this video.
On November 29, 2022, Theo Baker wrote in The Stanford Daily:
Silvia Bulfone-Paus, a prominent German researcher, was forced to step down as the director of the Borstel Institute in 2011 after image manipulation was found in several of her papers (Bulfone-Paus blamed two of her post-doc researchers). Carlo Croce, an Ohio State University professor, was beset with similar allegations in 2017 — an official review conducted by the university found earlier this year that he had not manipulated imagery himself, but the professor was disciplined over “management problems,” and two of his researchers, who were determined to have made the falsifications, were dismissed. And Gregg Semenza, a Nobel-prize-winning scientist, retracted 17 papers after allegations were made on PubPeer.
. . .
Scientific journals and institutions have historically been reluctant to investigate alleged misconduct, particularly by powerful scientists, experts say.
Noah Sutherland is an investigator with New York’s Bureau of Criminal Investigation. He’s taking a much-needed vacation in Florida when he gets a visit from a colleague, who informs him that his twin brother, a sheriff’s deputy in their home community of High Peaks in the Adirondacks, has been killed in the line of duty. He was found shot to death next to his car on a deserted country road – and drugs from the evidence locker were found in his trunk.
So begins In Cold Blood, by Jack Hunt (not to be confused with Truman Capote’s book, and I’m fairly sure it won’t be). Noah doesn’t believe for a minute that his brother was into anything shady, but he knows it’s none of his business. He isn’t assigned to this part of the state, and they would never let him investigate his own brother’s death even if he were. Except that they do let him do it, due to a somewhat improbable concatenation of circumstances. Now he’ll have to navigate all kinds of old relationships and small town rivalries as he tries to discover what kind of shadowy local forces have conspired to destroy an honest cop. On top of all this there’s his difficult father, who’s never forgiven him for not joining the sheriff’s department himself, in the family tradition.
The story here wasn’t bad, though there were several improbabilities, notably Noah’s assignment to the case in the first place (as mentioned), and the fact that an officer shoots and kills someone without being placed on temporary desk duty. Also, the prose is rough – the author is prone to word confusions and sheer clunkiness of expression – “He crouched down and touched his finger against the smallest amount of glass.”
In the great bell curve of literature, there’s some that’s very good, some that’s very bad, and the vast majority is somewhere in the middle. One shouldn’t be too disappointed if a book possesses both strengths and weaknesses. I thought the characters and dialogue in In Cold Blood were good, but the writing was spotty (though I’ve seen worse). I did finish the book, and I got it for free, so I won’t trash it too much.
Fanny Crosby (1820-1915), a great Methodist hymn composer, gave us today’s song in 1882. She wrote poems before her conversion in 1950 and afterward about 8,000 hymns, many of which have not been set to music.
“The LORD is near to the brokenhearted
and saves the crushed in spirit.
. . .
The LORD redeems the life of his servants;
none of those who take refuge in him will be condemned.”
(Psalm 34:18,22 ESV)
1 Redeemed how I love to proclaim it,
Redeemed by the blood of the Lamb;
Redeemed through his infinite mercy
His child and forever I am.
Refrain:
Redeemed, redeeemed,
Redeemed by the blood of the Lamb,
Redeemed, redeemed,
His child and forever I am.
2 Redeemed, and so happy in Jesus,
No language my rapture can tell,
I know that the light of his presence
With me doth continually dwell.
[Refrain]
3 I think of my blessed Redeemer,
I think of him all the day long,
I sing, for I cannot be silent,
His love is the theme of my song.
[Refrain]
4 I know I shall see in his beauty
The King in whose law I delight,
Who lovingly guardeth my footsteps,
And giveth me songs in the night.
[Refrain]
5 I know there’s a crown that is waiting
In yonder bright mansion for me,
And soon, with the spirits made perfect,
At home with the Lord I shall be.
[Refrain]
Recently, a TV adaptation of a popular Marvel comics storyline ended its run by tripping over its feet and kissing the synthetic rubber track. Many superhero fans didn’t even watch, and many others hated their experience (not everyone, just many). The director said he was told not to read the source material and that he didn’t want to make a story that leaned into its own genre, so the show introduced story elements and tone only to set them on the shelf. I don’t know what the producers were expecting. It’s the latest installment of high value entertainment prospects that failed.
If you’d like to watch a fantasy series that is actually well-written and different to most Americans, look up Tale of the Nine-Tailed, a 16-episode Korean series starring Lee Dong Wook and Jo Bo Ah and directed by Kang Shin Hyo. The story focuses on mythological foxes (gumiho), who are traditionally wily and mischievous. The old stories say the nine-tailed fox is seeking to become human by some trial over a thousand years. The main fox of this story was once a mountain god who fell in love with a young woman. When that woman was murdered, he gave up his divine position in hopes of finding her reincarnation one day.
At the beginning of Tale of the Nine-Tailed, Lee Yeon, the fox, is hunting down lesser foxes who are posing as humans and killing them. I forget why he is hunting them, if it’s more than just defending humanity. TV producer Nam Ji Ah is building evidence for her version of X files when she notices Yeon’s distinctive umbrella. Somehow, she ropes him into accompanying her to a remote island village where she hopes to find a clue to her parents’ disappearance (her motive for researching paranormal accounts). In these 3-4 episodes, the show has a horror tone. Traditional Korean shamanism is displayed throughout the series, and you see some of the ugly practices in these episodes. It lightens up after this, leaning first into a romantic storyline and plunging into fantasy for the rest of it. Yeon is plagued by many things, primarily his murderous half-brother Rang, who resembles Loki in attitude and miscreant behavior. The tension between the brothers is compelling to watch.
I mention it here because the writing is strong throughout. Wikipedia credits Han Woo-ri for this. Bravo. Yeon is presented as crafty with great, but not unlimited, knowledge. Many mythological foes come after him, and they never lay a hand on him because he’s an idiot. He works the situation, turning the tables when he can. None of his victories feels forced or as if he has read the script. Once, the irritating trope of loving her so much he can’t tell the truth is used to bridge two episodes, but it’s short lived and nothing else stands out as clichéd.
A second season was released this summer on Amazon. I hope I can find a way to see it.
In other news —
Reviews: Bad reviews can be helpful. “Instead of specialties, we were known by our critical styles: We were the Shredder, the Beheader and the Fredder.”
Funny Stuff: “A sense of humour is just common sense, dancing. Those who lack humour are without judgment and should be trusted with nothing.”
Sorry about not posting last night. I got back from Moorhead pretty late, having burned both gasoline and élan vital.
My “new” car ran just fine – wait a minute, I don’t think I’ve written about the new car here. It’s a 2005 Subaru Forester XT. Burgundy in color. Been wanting a red car for a long time, and the word on the street is these are pretty reliable. Which will make for a nice change. Also lots of room for Viking impedimenta. Anyway, she ran fine. I call her Sigrid the Haughty.
Fargo-Moorhead is about a four-hour drive from here. Although my speaking engagement was in Moorhead, Minnesota (which we like to call the Soviet Zone), I’d made a motel reservation in Fargo, North Dakota (the American Zone), just across the state border. Because I just sleep better knowing the taxes are lower. I had no complaints about the motel room until 2:00 a.m., which my phone rang. The clerk said my neighbors were complaining about the noise. This confused me, as I was asleep, and alone. It only occurred to me later that they might have been talking about my snoring. Naw, what are the chances of that?
The bygdelags are a Norwegian-American institution. Originally, as I understand it, they were organizations allowing people who came from particular regions of the old country to maintain contact over here. Nowadays they concentrate more on genealogy and keeping traditions alive. They meet for annual gatherings known as stevnes. I’d lectured to the Tre (Three) Lag Stevne twice in the past. This year a couple more lags had joined in, so it became the Flere (Several) Lag Stevne, and we were meeting in Moorhead.
I arrived in plenty of time for my 10:45 time slot, and set up my book table. When the room cleared after the previous speaker, I hurried in to set up, only to encounter something I’d never experienced before when lecturing –
Everything worked. The first time.
I plugged my laptop into the projector line and there was my image on the screen. No problem. You have to understand, I always bring my own projector in case of technical emergencies – because in my experience, something always goes wrong with projection systems. Belt and suspenders is my motto.
But they’d been running the stevne for two days already, and they had everything taped down, ready to plug and play. It was too good to be true, I thought. Surely I was being set up by fate for disaster.
But no, there was no disaster. My lecture went great. The room was nearly full. The audience was attentive, and they laughed in the right places. My talk was basically a condensed version of the account of my trip to Norway I posted here a little more than a year ago. I was worried it might be self-indulgent, too much like a neighbor’s home movies.
But you can tell when your audience is with you, and I had this bunch, apparently, at God dag. The only thing that bothered me was a distinguished-looking gentleman in the front row who seemed to be dozing off. But he came to me afterwards, when I was selling books, and told me he’d attended both my previous lectures and was a big fan. Said he enjoyed my talk very much. We discussed Haugeanism.
I figure he probably just dozed off because somebody kept him awake with their snoring in the next room the night before.
Another audience member told me that what made my lecture enjoyable was that I supplemented my photographs with stories and history. Stories make all the difference. That makes sense to me.
Anyway, it was a good day, and I sold a reasonable number of books. I’m very grateful to the Flere Lag Stevne.
One does not look for great variety in Bruce Beckham’s Inspector Skelgill novels, set in England’s Cumbria. Skelgill himself is a thoroughly eccentric country detective, not a linear thinker but intuitive, his instincts honed by time spent in nature. Nor do his subordinates surprise us much. DS Leyton, a London transplant, is stolid but loyal and dependable, the Watson of the team. DS Jones, an attractive young woman, is smart and can be expected to rise in the service. There’s also deep but private attraction between her and Skelgill.
In Murder on the Farm, their publicity-hungry superior agrees to lend Jones to a team of television documentarians who are re-examining an old unsolved murder. Back in the 1970s, a young man was murdered with a shotgun while making a delivery to a posh country estate. Later, two local criminals were arrested and convicted in the case. But their conviction has been overturned, based on police misconduct. There is another possible suspect, an unpleasant fellow who served ten years for a later, similar shotgun killing. The star of the documentary team, a celebrity criminologist, is certain this man is the true killer. He has a plan to unmask him in front of the cameras, producing amazement and high ratings.
Skelgill is concerned, first of all, that the criminologist has sexual designs on DS Jones. But more than that, he thinks the criminologist’s scenario is simplistic. He himself perceives deeper and more sinister possibilities and a wider range of suspects.
Murder on the Farm offers all the usual pleasures of this series: Skelgill’s disingenuous simplicity, political and departmental pressures, Cumbrian food and dialects, wheels within wheels. I enjoyed reading it. No bad words that I recall or gratuitous sex or violence.
Joel Miller has been reading classic novels this year and reviewed Sigrid Undset’s Kristin Lavransdatter this week.
“If you peel away the layer of ideas and conceptions that are particular to your own time period,” Undset once said, “then you can step right into the Middle Ages and see life from the medieval point of view—and it will coincide with your own view.”
In Sigrid Undset’s skillful hands, it’s impossible to imagine any other outcome.
