Apres le deluge

Yesterday, Publisher’s Lunch linked to a piece in the Wall Street Journal (full text after the jump, thanks to the donation of a kind blog reader) written by noted crime writer Jim Fusilli about his 18-month tenure as the mystery critic for the Boston Globe. It was one of the toughest assignments of his life:

It’s been five months since I stopped reviewing mysteries and crime fiction for the Boston Globe, and still my stomach clenches whenever a UPS or FedEx truck approaches my front door. I dread the thought that the driver will hop out and deliver yet another big shipment of books, all demanding immediate attention, few displaying the craft and precision required to create a vibrant novel and at least one or two gems readers might prize forever.

Writing that monthly column for the Globe was easily the worse job I’ve ever had, and this coming from a man once responsible for the nightly hamburger run for a dock’s worth of Teamsters. The assessment has nothing to do with the Globe or Boston, which, one could argue, is the epicenter of American crime fiction, what with Robert B. Parker, Dennis Lehane, Linda Barnes, Jeremiah Healy, Philip R. Craig and many others setting their books in and around the region. I was delighted to be asked, and happy to write the first few columns.

And then the books started to come.

It’s that kind of deluge that makes some scream for mercy. Ron, over at Beatrice, relates:

Most of the complaints will be familiar to any book reviewer; e.g. “For every superior work of genre fiction… there were dozens that disqualified themselves for serious consideration through dull writing, erratic pacing, meandering plots and wooden characters. Many new writers tried too hard to sound like an old master, and several of today’s old masters tried hard not at all.” And I can assure you he’s not lying about how quickly the books pile up around every bit of free space in one’s living quarters. If it weren’t for the fact that one out of every thirty or so is something the Significant Other wants to read, I don’t think their presence would be tolerated nearly as well as it is…

No kidding. To think I once had a TBR that was miniscule at worst. Not anymore. Luckily, I read awfully fast and do try hard to keep up, but it’s hard not to succumb to the urge to wave the white flag of defeat as the pile of books threatens to overtake me once and for all…

Burdened by Books: A Reviewer Prefers the Role of Reviewee

It’s been five months since I stopped reviewing mysteries and crime fiction

for the Boston Globe, and still my stomach clenches whenever a UPS or FedEx

truck approaches my front door. I dread the thought that the driver will

hop out and deliver yet another big shipment of books, all demanding immediate

attention, few displaying the craft and precision required to create a

vibrant novel and at least one or two gems readers might prize forever.

Writing that monthly column for the Globe was easily the worse job I’ve

ever had, and this coming from a man once responsible for the nightly hamburger

run for a dock’s worth of Teamsters. The assessment has nothing to do with

the Globe or Boston, which, one could argue, is the epicenter of American

crime fiction, what with Robert B. Parker, Dennis Lehane, Linda Barnes,

Jeremiah Healy, Philip R. Craig and many others setting their books in

and around the region. I was delighted to be asked, and happy to write

the first few columns.

And then the books started to come.

And they kept coming and coming, sometimes in final form, other times in

an early version known as arcs, and suddenly there were huge stacks, each

bearing a Post-It note I’d created to separate them by month of publication.

My office floor wasn’t the only place overrun with books: When we put our

house up for sale, potential buyers who opened closets were greeted by

scores of books and arcs. One night, a teetering tower in my office tumbled

over and, thinking we had a burglar, I ran downstairs to confront him —

with a book I grabbed off the stack on the nightstand.

In most cases, the cavalcade of books came unaccompanied by useful information.

I’d usually get a cookie-cutter press release, one that attempted to summarize

a novel with language both flaccid and hyperbolic. Usually, it included

praise for the author from other critics — an intimidation tactic, perhaps

— and from authors who may be a friend. Sometimes, an arc would arrive

with a glossy press kit, but almost invariably the quality of the press

kit was in inverse proportion to the quality of the work. Some of the best

books I read during my tenure came unannounced.

Not only were there too many books, there were too many bad books. For

every superior work of genre fiction, like “The Killing of the Tinkers”

by Ken Bruen or Magdalen Nabb’s “Some Bitter Taste,” there were dozens

that disqualified themselves for serious consideration through dull writing,

erratic pacing, meandering plots and wooden characters. Many new writers

tried too hard to sound like an old master, and several of today’s old

masters tried hard not at all. The rewards of commercial success and not

a passion for writing was too often the apparent motive for the enterprise.

And yet many books were highly entertaining, and some of those just missed

the field’s standard of excellence. Thus, every book in every pile, which

sometimes grew to 25 or 30 books high, demanded to be read for at least

a few chapters.

When I loved a book — Gregory McDonald’s sweet and clever “Flynn’s World”

or George Harrar’s troubling “The Spinning Man” — the story and characters

stayed with me for days. But so did characters in books that fell apart

before the stories took off, and there was a nagging feeling that something

should have been done by the books’ editors, that some guidance would have

directed the authors toward superior writing.

What was most heartbreaking about the job — and here’s what made it worse

than lugging sacks of greasy burgers back to the loading dock — was thoroughly

enjoying the experience of reading a crime novel, writing a glowing review

and later learning that the book failed to find its audience. This happened

twice, with Robert Rice’s “The Nature of Midnight” and I.J. Parker’s “The

Hell Screen,” both terrifically imaginative works. Not long after my reviews

appeared, I learned that Mr. Rice and Ms. Parker were to be dropped by

their publishers for lack of sales. Ms. Parker’s tales of an amateur detective

in 14th- century Japan have found a new home at Viking, but Mr. Rice’s

series featuring two Montana-based postal inspectors is still adrift and,

I’m told, may not continue.

Growing weary of the deluge and left with a nagging sense of defeat, I

finally quit, concentrating my energies on my own crime series, some screenwriting

opportunities and the joy of my work as a music critic. My experience as

a book critic encouraged me to re-examine how I can help promote my own

fiction. I figure if reviewers are overwhelmed, readers are too. So this

year, I’ll be making more in-store appearances — I think I’ll be in about

30 bookstores across the country in the fall on behalf my new novel, “Hard,

Hard City” — and fine-tuning my Web site so it’s more reader friendly.

Spending time with readers, the most important people in the process of

writing and selling books, can rejuvenate a writer. It’s good for the soul,

not just good business.

Meanwhile, the books still come but with less frequency, and now I have

time to read for pleasure, something I had surrendered. Thus relieved,

I have almost no desire to tell anyone what I’m reading or what I think

of it.

By the way, have you read “Southwesterly Wind,” the new Inspector Espinosa

novel by Luis Alfredo Garcia-Roza? It’s terrific.

—

Mr. Fusilli last wrote on Madonna in concert.