Ah, summer reading. Beach books. The Shur, as they say in Jersey. And another thriller by Steven King.
No, I don't read Steven King. But I do my share of library visits. I take out six books and like two. Or fewer.
Ahoy the cliché frigate! Avast ye copycats! Raise The Sameness Ensign!
In every Western, there's a guy named Kincaid. And a dusty courtesan in a musty saloon, dying to quit the life and get back East to her ailing aunt.
Bathrooms are not for evacuation, only quick showers (and possibly couples' water sports).
Every British spy belongs to a posh private club, where he meets with his graying, astute handler over sole fillets or kidney pie. The spy's wife was murdered by terrorists, but he has a beyond-cute toddler. In steps a nanny to watch the kid. Then the spy falls in love with nanny and has some Sealy Calisthenics with her before he heads off on his perilous mission. Every person in such books is rich, even The Bad Guys.
Among cops, there is always one fat Irish guy who is afraid of action. He sits at a desk and swills Jameson all day from a bottle he pulls out of a drawer.
Action heroes do not eat.
Only women strip to the buff and peruse themselves in full-length mirrors. This usually ends with a "I'm not so bad for forty" line.
Every American cloak-and-dagger dude either works for—or is pursued by—a super-secret organization with a cloudy name such as The Group. This cadre has headquarters hidden in the bowels of a building. Or the earth. Not even the president knows about them, but they always have a ton of money and unlimited resources.
The first two paragraphs of every book are filled with fancypants language. E.g., "Ominous clouds scudded over the inky ocean." Then these contrivances vanish.
Whenever a man cooks, he is grilling a steak.
Often, a waifish woman appears. It is not evident whose side she is on, but she needs The Good Guy to shield/hide her. He takes her under his wing, but she always impedes his Good Guy derring-do. She eventually saves his bacon and they finally engage in some canoodling of a quick, unemotional manner. He leaves her at the end. His job is too dangerous.
Every male lawyer is unkempt and disorganized. The chair next to him is filled by a younger woman who does all the dirty work so that the guy can eviscerate the key witness. She is from a well-off family and broke their hearts when she quit her prestigious job at a well-heeled firm to take up with The Hero. She is overworked and underpaid, but knows she is doing The Right Thing. If the pair hook up, it is brief, and both deem it a mistake.
Add lawyers: In the early goings-on of every trial, the Hero Defense Attorney realizes his case is worth shit. The snotty D. A, pokes fun at him, telling him his case is worth shit. Then the same female assistant finds a surprise witness, and the tide turns. In the end the D. A. doesn't just lose; he is humiliated.
Every high school teacher is a woman who never marries, but was engaged to Doug, who was killed in a war. She ages, becomes dowdy, and her students love her.
If there is a woman cop, she is loathed by all the men in the precinct. She eventually kicks the shit out of a bad guy to prove herself, and the wise-cracking men now admire her.
No villainess is ever blonde. She is a sexy, leggy, dark woman who may bed The Hero before she tries to kill him. She has only one name, usually Vesta.
No one eats hot dogs. Or takes out the garbage. Or has diarrhea, acne or lice.
At the violent climax of an action book, the police always show up too late. Even though Bad People have been massacred and property destroyed, the whole shebang is sorted in a jiffy. No charges are filed, and the book ends with The Hero's arm in a sling as he plots his next caper.
It's still okay to have an Asian villain. His name is Wang. He has amassed scads of Bag Guys and ill-gotten wealth, but The Hero and six other allies take out the entire fortress of evil.
As the highly paid assassin—who is an ex-military sharpshooter gone rogue—is about to the pull the trigger and dispatch a Kashgiristani pacifist clad in robes, a car or other impediment gets in the way. Every one of these gunslingers is mentally unstable and never goes to trial but is killed by Good People.
Pre-teens—a boy and a girl spending a summer together—can't stand each other. They will eventually kiss once.
People who have been shot or stabbed can miraculously diagnose their own condition. "You guys go ahead. I'm not gonna make it, Charlie. Give this letter to Vicky."
Novelists who shy away from graphic Naughty Bits will put a couple in the percale right near the end of chapter. There will be one kiss and then the pair fall into an "eddying whirlpool of delight." Here, the chapter ends.
As does my blog. I have to go put my arm in a sling and get nursed back to health by a reasonably starched nurse named Jillian.
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
The Magic of Saint's
Yes, the apostrophe is valid. Saint's is more than a place. I'll 'splain.
Saint Mary's by-the-Sea actually refers to a non-denominational chapel, built on a spit of land that surrounds my old neighborhood of Black Rock, in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Now, people take the title to mean an entire roadway, walkway and seawall that rims the thumb-shaped Rock where it abuts Long Island Sound, Black Rock Harbor and Ash Creek.
Newcomers to The Rock never call the place "Saint's," but we back-in-the-day folks do.
My first memories were of the beach. Well, kind of a beach. That little spit where the chapel once stood (allegedly built by a well-to-do local in honor of his widow) was our beach. My mother would trundle my brother and me a good half-mile with all sorts of impedimenta: food, drink, blankets towels, a transistor, you name it. All in a red wagon. Somehow, we fit.
Bathing was a dicey thing. The tide had to be high. We would tiptoe over the rocks into a narrow strand of water between the beach and the swampy terrain of Ash Creek. Sometimes, Mom—bathing cap and all, would brave the waters. She was our float. Even though the channel was never more than three feet deep, Tom and I had our life raft.
The circuit was a great bike ride. Sunday mornings were the best times to collect bottles discarded by weekend revelers. We'd see Coney Island Whitefish too, remnants of intra-vehicle canoodling. I had a vague idea what the nasty things were used for. Oh, I would learn.
When we got older, we'd brave The Current. This was a wider channel off the beach—and a challenging swim—that led to Fabulous Fairfield. And Jennings beach.
We knew we were interlopers. Somehow, the locals did, too. Nonetheless, we'd use the snack bar and ogle Perfect Blonde Fairfield Girls with their seamless tans and skimpier suits.
Summertime evenings spent at The Point. This was the elbow (far left in photo) that adjoined the beach. "Goin' down Saint's?" was the standard query. Dozens of cars would park. Discreet beers, with Bridgeport's finest looking the other way. I smoked my first joint there, peering up at the stars, trying to talk myself into an ersatz high.
Saint's was definitely my sexual primer. A phone number written with eyebrow pencil on an emery board. My hand slipping onto a no-can-touch place on Mary Pat Maloney's blouse. Then a half-hour of explaining it away. I almost lost my virginity there. Wha? Alas, the Volkswagen was too damn small.
Or sometimes, we'd just sit and watch the sun go down. Or rise behind Fayerweather Lighthouse.
Of course, all this has changed. The beach—much larger—has been taken over by Chard-sipping, hand-wringing do-gooders who now call it The Sand Spit Sea Sanctuary or somesuch fancypants moniker. It is evidently the home of the the endangered Blue-tailed, Snot-nosed Petrel. Fun is not allowed. Either are People from the Wrong Side of Town, if the parvenus had their way.
Park police make sure all vehicles are gone by dusk. People ride carbon-fiber bikes, often wearing silly, nut-crunching Tour de Sainte's shorts. Others with Just the Right Shoes walk their flawlessly groomed Schipperkes, tailed by spouses toting biodegradable fecal-disposal bags.
But, to me—and many others—it's still Saint's. A walk or drive around there makes memories erupt.
Once, after arriving home at the inanely named Fairfield Metro—it should be Black Rock—train station, a friend picked me up. Before we got to my destination, she said, "Once around Saint's, Ace?"
Yes, indeed.
Saint Mary's by-the-Sea actually refers to a non-denominational chapel, built on a spit of land that surrounds my old neighborhood of Black Rock, in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Now, people take the title to mean an entire roadway, walkway and seawall that rims the thumb-shaped Rock where it abuts Long Island Sound, Black Rock Harbor and Ash Creek.
 |
| The original chapel--from the Wayback machine. |
My first memories were of the beach. Well, kind of a beach. That little spit where the chapel once stood (allegedly built by a well-to-do local in honor of his widow) was our beach. My mother would trundle my brother and me a good half-mile with all sorts of impedimenta: food, drink, blankets towels, a transistor, you name it. All in a red wagon. Somehow, we fit.
Bathing was a dicey thing. The tide had to be high. We would tiptoe over the rocks into a narrow strand of water between the beach and the swampy terrain of Ash Creek. Sometimes, Mom—bathing cap and all, would brave the waters. She was our float. Even though the channel was never more than three feet deep, Tom and I had our life raft.
The circuit was a great bike ride. Sunday mornings were the best times to collect bottles discarded by weekend revelers. We'd see Coney Island Whitefish too, remnants of intra-vehicle canoodling. I had a vague idea what the nasty things were used for. Oh, I would learn.
When we got older, we'd brave The Current. This was a wider channel off the beach—and a challenging swim—that led to Fabulous Fairfield. And Jennings beach.
We knew we were interlopers. Somehow, the locals did, too. Nonetheless, we'd use the snack bar and ogle Perfect Blonde Fairfield Girls with their seamless tans and skimpier suits.
Summertime evenings spent at The Point. This was the elbow (far left in photo) that adjoined the beach. "Goin' down Saint's?" was the standard query. Dozens of cars would park. Discreet beers, with Bridgeport's finest looking the other way. I smoked my first joint there, peering up at the stars, trying to talk myself into an ersatz high.
 |
| Beach and "The Point" on far left |
Saint's was definitely my sexual primer. A phone number written with eyebrow pencil on an emery board. My hand slipping onto a no-can-touch place on Mary Pat Maloney's blouse. Then a half-hour of explaining it away. I almost lost my virginity there. Wha? Alas, the Volkswagen was too damn small.
Of course, all this has changed. The beach—much larger—has been taken over by Chard-sipping, hand-wringing do-gooders who now call it The Sand Spit Sea Sanctuary or somesuch fancypants moniker. It is evidently the home of the the endangered Blue-tailed, Snot-nosed Petrel. Fun is not allowed. Either are People from the Wrong Side of Town, if the parvenus had their way.
Park police make sure all vehicles are gone by dusk. People ride carbon-fiber bikes, often wearing silly, nut-crunching Tour de Sainte's shorts. Others with Just the Right Shoes walk their flawlessly groomed Schipperkes, tailed by spouses toting biodegradable fecal-disposal bags.
But, to me—and many others—it's still Saint's. A walk or drive around there makes memories erupt.
 |
| The walkway today. Look Ma, no Shih Tzus! |
Once, after arriving home at the inanely named Fairfield Metro—it should be Black Rock—train station, a friend picked me up. Before we got to my destination, she said, "Once around Saint's, Ace?"
Yes, indeed.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
15 Things To Know If You're Friends with a Writer
Yes, we are different. So are you.
1. We don't all write books. Some of us do. Others write ad copy, webicles, columns, poetry and the like. If I had written "Just do it," I'd be blogging from somewhere in Kaua'i, with my toes in the sand and a liveried servant bringing me tall, rummified tropical drinks with umbrellas in them.
2. Writing is work. If you think all we do is lounge around and pick up a pen when we get a great notion, think again. Ask a reporter who has a few minutes to dash off 500 words. Term papers were a walk in the park compared to this. Although we don't wield pickaxes, after a few hours of agonizing over a short story, we are fried. And so you would be.
3. "Will you put me in one of your stories?" No.
4. We notice things. It might be the wrinkle of a nose or the cranky sound of a beat-up Pinto. We will use it all. Or not. I recently copied a friend's appearance as a model for a character in a short story. She was flattered.
5. "My cousin's husband writes poetry." Swell.
6. We are pretty much like you. Not all writers wear berets and chug absinthe in an atelier on La Rive Gauche. We need charcoal for our grills, have thimble collections and emit flatus. But what we do might be more intense and personal than your job.
7. We get paid for this. A far-from-BFF acquaintance once asked me to pen a cover letter. I quoted her a price. When she got her panties in a knot, I said, "You work for the cable company. Can I get a free box for my sunporch?"
8. Yes, we bristle at bad grammar. It's our nature. Words are our currency, our Linus blanket, our friends. If we write, "They should have went elsewhere ..." an editor might have our heads on a platter. Or force us to watch Swamp Bachelors. So when you speak or write in this fashion, it raises flags. Like white socks with a tuxedo.
9. Not all writing is "fancy." Neil Peart of Rush has 387 drums and plays them loud and fast. He's not the best drummer. Pick up anything by Elmore Leonard. You won't need a dictionary. And you will be enthralled.
10. When we use an unpopular word, there's a reason. Sometimes will agonize over a single adjective. So, a weak descriptor like "pretty" becomes stronger with "winsome." Once, a woman slapped me because I said "milieu." It was the exact word I wanted to use in the situation. And she hit hard, too.
11. This gets to us. Perhaps we are moodier, more introspective or more fragile than, say, mechanics. But we are both trying to fix a Bentley. Bear with us. Most writers—heck, just about all truly creative people—I know have poured their lives into what they do. This path is not for everybody.
12. "What are you reading?" Sometimes nothing, especially if I'm in the midst of a major project. My brain just gets too tired. A Yuengling or two will do. But we read people you read. With the possible exception of some of the white-zinfandel writers. If you want to delve into some serious writerly writing, try Don DeLillo.
13. No, you can't read what we're working on. It isn't done yet. When we make love, we usually undress. Yes, I trust my WIHL (woman I hopelessly love) with snippets. If we do share something with you, we need a reaction.
14. Yes, the rewards are fabulous. There is no joy I have experienced that even touches on the frisson I feel when I truly reach a reader. An ex-con once told me (early in my career) to drop everything in my life and keep writing. A dear cousin—whom I have met just once—said she feels she knows me after reading my scribbles. You can't replace this.
15. "I always wanted to be a writer." To quote the great H. L. Mencken, "Go write."
1. We don't all write books. Some of us do. Others write ad copy, webicles, columns, poetry and the like. If I had written "Just do it," I'd be blogging from somewhere in Kaua'i, with my toes in the sand and a liveried servant bringing me tall, rummified tropical drinks with umbrellas in them.
2. Writing is work. If you think all we do is lounge around and pick up a pen when we get a great notion, think again. Ask a reporter who has a few minutes to dash off 500 words. Term papers were a walk in the park compared to this. Although we don't wield pickaxes, after a few hours of agonizing over a short story, we are fried. And so you would be.
3. "Will you put me in one of your stories?" No.
4. We notice things. It might be the wrinkle of a nose or the cranky sound of a beat-up Pinto. We will use it all. Or not. I recently copied a friend's appearance as a model for a character in a short story. She was flattered.
5. "My cousin's husband writes poetry." Swell.
6. We are pretty much like you. Not all writers wear berets and chug absinthe in an atelier on La Rive Gauche. We need charcoal for our grills, have thimble collections and emit flatus. But what we do might be more intense and personal than your job.
7. We get paid for this. A far-from-BFF acquaintance once asked me to pen a cover letter. I quoted her a price. When she got her panties in a knot, I said, "You work for the cable company. Can I get a free box for my sunporch?"
8. Yes, we bristle at bad grammar. It's our nature. Words are our currency, our Linus blanket, our friends. If we write, "They should have went elsewhere ..." an editor might have our heads on a platter. Or force us to watch Swamp Bachelors. So when you speak or write in this fashion, it raises flags. Like white socks with a tuxedo.
9. Not all writing is "fancy." Neil Peart of Rush has 387 drums and plays them loud and fast. He's not the best drummer. Pick up anything by Elmore Leonard. You won't need a dictionary. And you will be enthralled.
10. When we use an unpopular word, there's a reason. Sometimes will agonize over a single adjective. So, a weak descriptor like "pretty" becomes stronger with "winsome." Once, a woman slapped me because I said "milieu." It was the exact word I wanted to use in the situation. And she hit hard, too.
11. This gets to us. Perhaps we are moodier, more introspective or more fragile than, say, mechanics. But we are both trying to fix a Bentley. Bear with us. Most writers—heck, just about all truly creative people—I know have poured their lives into what they do. This path is not for everybody.
12. "What are you reading?" Sometimes nothing, especially if I'm in the midst of a major project. My brain just gets too tired. A Yuengling or two will do. But we read people you read. With the possible exception of some of the white-zinfandel writers. If you want to delve into some serious writerly writing, try Don DeLillo.
13. No, you can't read what we're working on. It isn't done yet. When we make love, we usually undress. Yes, I trust my WIHL (woman I hopelessly love) with snippets. If we do share something with you, we need a reaction.
14. Yes, the rewards are fabulous. There is no joy I have experienced that even touches on the frisson I feel when I truly reach a reader. An ex-con once told me (early in my career) to drop everything in my life and keep writing. A dear cousin—whom I have met just once—said she feels she knows me after reading my scribbles. You can't replace this.
15. "I always wanted to be a writer." To quote the great H. L. Mencken, "Go write."
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