Champion's Books For Writers

Ed Champion is a remarkable reader, critic, etc. (feel free to add to the list of how remarkable he is), and in this interview he recommends books for writers.

Ultimately, a novelist’s job — irrespective of whether she is writing speculative fiction or hard realism — is to understand how human behavior emerges from systematic consequence. If you can generate an atmosphere based on systematic consequence, then your novel will likely feel “real” even if it is set in a land populated by dancing elves or talking fruit.

For plot structure, “read Richard Stark.” For great openers, Burgess, Cain, and Murray have good examples.

Tampa Burn, by Randy Wayne White

Tampa Burn

Tampa Burn, by Randy Wayne White, struck me as a fascinating study in excellent story set-up and development, capped by a middling resolution. The amateur psychological wiseacre in me suspects that the author himself must be ambivalent about the kind of stories he writes, and that ambivalence is working itself out in the reader’s sight.

If you’re not already familiar with him, Marion (“Doc”) Ford, White’s continuing hero, is a semi-retired US government commando and assassin, now living in happy obscurity in Florida, making his living as a marine biologist. His peace is frequently disturbed, however, sometimes by other people’s problems which can only be solved with his special skills, and sometimes by a call from his espionage handlers, who still keep him on a slack string.

In terms of creating and building dramatic tension, Tampa Burn is admirable. I thought, as I read, that I’d rarely come across a suspense novel so well plotted. At the beginning, Doc is contemplating proposing to his long-time on-again, off-again girlfriend, Dewey Nye. Suddenly his life is invaded by his old lover Pilar Fuentes, the one other woman he’s never been able to quite get over. She has recently informed Doc that her teenaged son Laken is in fact his (Doc’s) son. Doc has been keeping in touch with the boy, but Pilar has kept him at a distance. Up until now.

Now Laken has been kidnapped, apparently by a mysterious figure known across Central America as Incendiaro—the Burner. He has that name because he is horribly disfigured by burn scars himself, and gets pleasure from watching other people burn. Continue reading Tampa Burn, by Randy Wayne White

"Is the line getting gray? Or am I going blind?"

You’ve probably seen it on the web today. Secretly filmed footage of a New Jersey Planned Parenthood manager, repeating recent history by explaining (to a man and woman claiming to be a pimp and a prostitute) ways to get STD testing, contraception and abortions for girls as young as fourteen. According to the description given, these fictional girls are obviously sex slaves illegally smuggled into the U.S. from other countries. The manager seems to have no qualms about telling them she doesn’t want to know various things, and giving advice on how to fool the physician’s assistant on site. “We all hate her.”

I won’t disagree with most of the conclusions drawn by various commentators. Certainly this is further evidence that Planned Parenthood, which should never have gotten government funding in the first place, ought to be cut off.

But I think I detect a deeper problem.

I don’t think Planned Parenthood’s organizational management is actively supportive of child sexual slavery. Whether this manager’s attitude is typical, I have no way of knowing.

But I think her behavior ought to be no surprise, given the nature of the enterprise.

Why would a modern, educated woman—certainly a feminist, since that’s part of Planned Parenthood’s brief—collude so easily in the degradation of little girls?

My guess is that she came to this gradually. It’s the result of a desensitization process. One every one of us experiences, to some extent or another, in our time.

The first time she saw the results of an actual abortion (I would imagine) she was shocked. Probably had a few bad nights.

But she told herself, “I mustn’t judge. It’s not for me to judge.”

The first time she encountered a fourteen year-old girl impregnated by her fifteen-year-old boyfriend, she probably frowned. Then she told herself, “It’s not for me to judge.”

When a fourteen-year-old girl who’d been impregnated by her 26-year-old boyfriend came in, she was tempted to call the police.

But hey, how could she judge in this situation, either? She didn’t know these people. And anyway, somebody might ask embarrassing questions about the last fourteen-year-old girl she’d treated off the record.

And so it goes. At each stage, past compromises lead to new compromises.

Eventually, she can see no moral lines at all. “There ain’t no right, there ain’t no wrong. There’s just things people do. It’s not for me to judge.”

In our age, the greatest sin is judging sexual behavior. You can judge the wearing of fur, and smoking, and using “offensive” words, but hands off sex. Any kind of sex. The kinkier, the more sacrosanct.

This is the disease of our age, and it will kill us if we don’t address it and change our thinking.

And how was your weekend?

If you follow the writings of James Lileks (and who doesn’t?), and read today’s Bleat, you’ll recall that he describes his weekend. For some inexplicable reason, however, he fails to mention what must have been the most memorable part of his Saturday.

He met me.

It came to pass in this manner. I told you on Friday that I’d be doing an interview with Mitch Berg and Ed Morrissey of the Northern Alliance on their regular Saturday show on WWTC AM 1280, here in the Twin Cities. What I didn’t know was that Ed wouldn’t be among those present. This explains Mitch’s invitation to me to come aboard, since he likes to inject a larger than usual dose of piffle on such occasions.

So I show up at the studio in Eagan at 2:00 p.m., a half hour early, as I’d projected, and pull into the parking lot. I pass a green Element automobile, but think nothing of it.

Heading toward the studio, my book in hand, I glance at the green Element, and there stands a compact figure I recognize immediately from his photographs, smoking a “small, evil cigar.”

“James Lileks,” I said.

He admitted this, his meditations ruined, and I introduced myself as a regular commenter on the Bleat. He pretended to remember me.

“What are you here for?” he asked.

“I’m on at 2:30 with Mitch,” I said.

“Oh. I’m on with Mitch at 2:00.”

Mitch had told me he’d have a guest just prior to me. He hadn’t told me it would be Minnesota’s most famous conservative humorist.

James offered to show me the way, got us buzzed in, and led me down the stairs to the basement studios (much nicer than I expected). I introduced myself to Mitch, whom I’d never actually met before, and Mitch asked me if I’d care to share my time with James.

Ask me a hard one, Mitch. Ask me if I’d like a date with Gabrielle Anwar. Ask me if I’d like an all-expense-paid trip to Norway.

A three-headed radio show with Mitch Berg and James Lileks? That’s not a tough decision.

So I sat in the green room, watching through the windows as Mitch and James did the first segment, and then they invited me in, found me a seat at the table, and issued me a pair of headphones. We chatted a bit while the commercials ran, and then it was show time.

I assumed it would be the kind of interview I’ve done before, where they ask me about the themes of my book, but Mitch moved on smoothly from that. He wanted to have fun—talk about Vikings in general, and kick the conversational ball around. Bad Viking movies, for instance, provide a fertile field for mockery.

It was great. Mitch is a tremendous host, and deserves a better paying gig. James Lileks is… well, pretty much what he seems to be in his writing. He’s dry, witty, erudite, and very classy. He treated me in every way as if we were fellow writers on the same level.

All in all, I like to think it was a little like the Algonquin Round Table, just without alcohol, tobacco smoke, or Dorothy Parker.

It was over too fast. We chatted a bit, said our goodbyes, and I drove home.

I hardly need to add that I suffered with adrenaline poisoning the rest of the day, and slept very little that night. Sunday I crashed, the gray clouds loomed, and packs of black dogs licked the back of my neck with their cold, pebbly tongues.

Pretty much what you’d expect.

But it was a great opportunity, and an unforgettable experience. Mitch and James are tops, and I’d take a bullet for either one of them.

You can listen here. Hour 2 of the January 29, 2011 broadcast is the one you want. It’s on top as of the time of this posting.

Ahead: a weekend, and… another place

Just a reminder. If you live in the Twin Cities area of Minnesota, you can catch me live, in studio, being interviewed by the crack team of Mitch Berg (of Shot In the Dark) and Ed Morrissey (of Hot Air) tomorrow (Saturday) at 2:30 p.m. Central, on AM 1280, “The Patriot,” WWTC.

If you can’t catch me live, you can access the podcast here, once it’s posted. (I think you can listen live, too, but I’m not sure how that works.) My interview will be in the second hour.

Andrew Klavan does a video feature called “Klavan On the Culture” periodically, on his blog. I think this is my favorite so far. It’s about Good Intentions.

The sun goes down on the battlements

A comic strip I follow online used the word “fortnight” today.

It’s an odd word, “fortnight,” at least for an American. It means “two weeks,” of course. But we rarely use it over here because—let’s face it—it doesn’t take any less time or effort to say than “two weeks.”

Pragmatic people, we Yanks.

I can see the use of the word in situations where one is paid every two weeks, as so many of us are, though. It would be kind of cool to say, “I get paid fortnightly.” That saves a couple syllables off “I get paid every two weeks.”

But that can’t be the original reason the English use it. The word itself is very old, going back to times before anybody got a regular salary. Perhaps serfs in Olde England got their ration of lard fortnightly, or something.

Still, the word brings back one personal memory. The sort of thing that means nothing to anybody else in the world, but to me alone.

In the misty past, when I was but a callow lad, giveaway calendars were far more common than they are today. Nobody ever thought of having a store in the mall (malls did exist, even then) around Christmas to sell calendars, because everybody got all the calendars they needed from the grocery store, and the hardware store, and the drug store, and there was often a pile in church (Free! Take One!) supplied by the local mortuary. (I have a mortuary calendar for 2011, which I picked up in church this year. A blast from the past. Hadn’t seen that in years.)

Anyway, I remember one calendar my folks got somewhere one year around 1960. I think it may have come from a drugstore, but I’m probably wrong. It was a “Fortnight Calendar.” I’d never seen one of those before, and I’ve never seen one since. You turned the page every two weeks. We hung it in the “sun porch,” an enclosed porch with a lot of windows, where Dad kept his desk.

The fact that the calendar was laid out in a fortnight format wasn’t the only unusual thing about it. It also contained information. Every square had a notation of some historical event that had happened on that day. There were also little notes in the empty squares, containing obscure, random information.

I loved that calendar.

It was not replaced the following year. If my folks got a calendar from the same business, it was some different kind. People probably complained that they’d rather have something with a pretty picture.

Me, I never found anything to read that was as interesting to me as that calendar, until I finally got on the internet.

Now I think about it, though, I’m not entirely sure the fortnight calendar and the random information calendar were the same calendar at all. I may be conflating two memories.

“Conflating.” Also a word I’m fond of.

Updated and corrected: Nuggets of nonsense from Norway

Bruce Bawer at the PJ Tatler offered a couple links the other day to a brace of rather alarming opinion columns in the Norwegian newspaper Aftenposten (I’m not sure about his characterization of Aftenposten as “Norway’s most conservative” major paper; I guess that may be true, in the sense that Lenin is the best-preserved Russian revolutionary).

One was written by Stein Lillevolden, a Norwegian leftist, about the new book by Danish editor Flemming Rose, the man who published the “Muhammed cartoons.” I won’t translate the entire article, but the gist of it is that (Lillevold claims) Rose wrongly appeals to the book I Will Bear Witness to the End, by the Jewish-German philologist Victor Klemperer. Lillevolden thinks Rose misses Klemperer’s true point, and anyway it’s apples and oranges. Continue reading Updated and corrected: Nuggets of nonsense from Norway

Book Reviews, Creative Culture