Literary Influence Buffet

Since, here in the pixel covered hallowed halls of “Idiosyncratic Mind,“we are concerned with the art of writing and all the wealth, fame, and spiritual serenity it conveys upon its practitioners, I thought I’d start off with a note about some of my favorites.

At the London Book Fair Lit Idol event, Val McDermid compared my writing, in an aside, to Elmore Leonard.  That’s good, I guess.  I like his work very much and count him as a huge influence.  Though, truth be told, being compared to a legend, however tangentially, is never helpful in the end.  Witness a comment on the Elmore Leonard fan site from a devotee who read my “Idol” entry and commented, “This is the winner?”  I must say, I was very grateful to Val for the compliment, however misguided, and more importantly, for bumming me a cigarette later.

So those two, Leonard and McDermid loom large on my list of influential writers, but I must confess that until recently “genre” fiction was not my cup of scrumpy.  Frankly, in my reading days I didn’t make many distinctions about what shelf each book I picked up came from.  I just looked for good books.  Now after a certain amount of immersion in the “industry,” it remains my privately held contention that all good books are “Crime Fiction.”  (Certainly “To Kill a Mockingbird” fits the bill, as do “Moby Dick” – an aquatic mammalian serial killer – “Ulysses” – a Dublin P.I. story, and even Kafka’s “The Castle” – kind of a “Law and Order” precursor.)

I only got into “Crime” at the urging of an old college acquaintance turned novelist, Ron Hansen, who advised me that “…genre might be a good path to take…”  Whether he was right or not is yet to be seen.

I am currently a “fan” (How I shudder to use the word) of Colin Bateman, whose first novel was snatched from the slush pile and who has great ideas in bathtubs.  How could you not admire that kind of career?

I am also intensely loyal to a few friends I’ve met (electronically and other wise)  John Rickards (who is already linked in the “cabana boy” list to your right) has supervised all three of my London trips, and is one of the writers I most enjoy “talking shop” with – despite the slurring.  Kay Mitchell former Dagger “organiser” (see, I’ve even picked up a Brit spellcheck utility) whose advice, and support has been invaluable.

Michael Jecks (Past CWA PooBah) has also been a great help, though his placement of my name on the Dagger Luncheon seating chart always seems to have been done with a certain cruel humour. 

– As an aside, when it comes to Historicals I count Mr. Jecks and another on-line friend, I.J.Parker, among my favorites. –

My catholic reading habits also led me to Phillip K. Dick, whom I count as one of the best of Twentieth Century writers – though admittedly uneven at times.  (What do you expect when a guy eats methedrine, locks himself in a room and emerges in 36 hours with a complete novel?)  My brother-in-law, Kent Bellows (NSFW if your boss dislikes fine art) did a portrait of Dick for “Rolling Stone” way back when, and eventually got to be friends with the guy.  As a result I ended up with a complete collection and consider “Man in the High Castle” required reading for anyone who wants to understand 20th Century fiction.  (Yes, I can make the case that “High Castle” is a crime novel as well.)

And as long as I’m rummaging through the cardboard boxes in the basement let me mention a truly odd personal pleasure.  Kyril Bonfiglioli.

Leo Carey’s article says it all.  An excerpt:

“One reason that Bonfiglioli’s books have never quite found the readership they deserve is that, although they are ostensibly crime novels, they are far too badly behaved—too full of improbability and capricious digression—to please crime fans. The plot of “Don’t Point That Thing at Me” (first published in 1973) is too complicated to be properly explained, and much too silly. Briefly, Mortdecai arranges the theft of the Goya for an American oil tycoon who has also become involved in blackmailing someone high up in the British government. Pretty soon, the secret services of Britain and America, and maybe even the associates of the tycoon, want Mortdecai dead, for various reasons. As chaotic as it is, this plot looks positively Aristotelian compared with that of the sequel, “After You with the Pistol” (1979), a teetering construction involving Chinese tongs, white slavers, and a plot to kill the Queen of England.”

There, I’ve set the table.  Later perhaps we can discuss “Harmful Books.”