Aboard the blogrolling express

And let’s start with Duane Swierczynski, taking time out from his insane life (as the editor-in-chief of the Philadelphia City Paper, novelist, and beer lover) to interview Ray Banks on the occasion of the publication of THE BIG BLIND. Banks talks about how to insulate windows, all manners beer, and what fuels his writing:

**So tell me about the *real* Ray Banks. Dig deep down into your soul.

What fuels the pulsating core of your sensate heart? (In one word only,

please.)**

RAGE.

Okay, okay. You can use more than one word.

PLENTY RAGE. Ahem. Not like the miffed monkeys in 28 Days Later,

either. But anger’s a big part of me, I think. I got angry reading

crap, so I started writing it. But at least my crap’s shorter. I

started writing in prison. There was this lad in the next cell, Big

Doug. He liked to collect people’s toes. But he wrote the most

heartbreaking haikus you ever read.

But yeah, rage. Rage at

myself, rage at the shite that passes for fiction in some circles, rage

at a lot of things. I’m an angry young man. One day I hope to be an

angry old man with a stick.

Speaking of beer, kinda, Bryon Quertermous still can’t find a good bar in Ann Arbor to drink in and hit on, er, make the acquaintance of new people. So he’d really like to start up his own:

I need to start my own bar. Just for writers and mystery fans. I could

attach them to large mystery bookstores and have theme shots based on

the locale and famous mystery writers. For sports fans we’d have a

whole collection of Baltimore Ravens games on the tube. It would look

like any other bar, but you would know that every person you approached

would have at least one common interest. And Donna Moore and I would

travel with our imaginary band too all of the locations. I had a great

title for the place but too many $1 bottles of Labatt Blue seem to have

misplaced it. This would also be a great place to hold the annual

“Drunky” awards.

Perhaps some of the topics that could be discussed at Bryon’s metaphorical bar include neglected books of 2004 and the so-called existence of writer groupies, both sparking serious comment buzz over at Tingle Alley (where CAAF’s been on a serious roll of late.)

Then there’s Charlie Stella, who’s getting into the holiday spirit by penning a song about his travails on Atkins to the tune of “My Favorite Things”:

So, Santa, quick come slip me some grub;

And a bottle of Chianti, come show me the love.

I was made large; this diet is a farce;

It’s no longer carbohydrates I wanna dodge.

When the dog bites, when the bee stings,

when I’m feeling fat,

I simply remember The Palm, Becks and Chivas,

And enough with Mr. Atkins, I want that!

Stuart MacBride’s gone back into hibernation for the moment, but before doing so he wondered why writing his second novel brought on so much fear:

This is something that comes and goes at the moment:
the fear that the book the second won’t be anything like as well
received as Cold Granite. This is partly because I’ve never actually
read Cold Granite and partly because I can’t believe the thing is
anywhere near as good as everyone keeps saying. Well, it can’t be can
it: I wrote it. (Maybe they’ve all gone mad?)

The
trouble with all this enthusiasm for book one is that while I’m writing
book two, there’s a fair amount of pressure to make sure it’s as least
as good as a book I’ve never read and can’t figure out why everyone
likes. OK the pressure is all of my own making, no one from HC is
breathing down my neck – far from it. They’ve not even demanded a
synopsis or a treatment. I sort of gave them a rough idea of what it
was going to be about while quaffing fizzy wine at their offices, and
they seem happy with that. Godblessem. So the problem isn’t them, it’s
not Agent Phil (Double-Oh-Four-Foot-Three-Inches) and it certainly
isn’t the cat. It’s just me.

And finally, John Rickards presents A Very Special Holiday Story with a rather telling opening paragraph:

It was an ordinary Friday night, just like any other. The Easter Bunny

was forty bucks in the hole to the Tooth Fairy and Jack Frost was

complaining that the Cheshire Cat was cheating.

Happy holidays, everybody!