Leavin' on a Jet Plane

Tomorrow morning I’m catching a Czech Airlines flight from Budapest to Prague, then a second flight to JFK, where for two nights I’ll be back in the Big Apple. Why? A PR lunch on Monday with editors and reviewers from various publications, put together by my generous publishers, St Martin’s Minotaur. If that wasn’t fantastic enough, the guests o’honor are Ken Bruen and myself…which means a good time’s going to be had, even if I show up in a sour mood.



On the way back, I’m going to try to do a couple-day stayover in Prague in order to do some final detail research for Liberation Movements (or The Istanbul Variations). My research technique (which some journalist friends consider the crappiest technique on the planet) usually involves as little research as is required to write a story. Only after the story’s written do I get out to the places I need to see and fix what I’ve gotten wrong, adding details I couldn’t have know about otherwise.



I first learned this approach in grad school, from Andre Dubus III, a stunning novelist. There are different schools of thought on this, but in Andre’s school one tries to find a story from within one’s self. You can’t write a story, particularly one dealing with other cultures, without some measure of research, but at some point the writer must separate from the facts in order to write the tale he needs to write. My problem back in 1999 when I was in Romania writing my failed opus was that I forgot this rule, and as a result the bulk of the novel read like lengthy research notes stacked end-on-end, rather than as a compelling tale.



Another professor and brilliant writer, Christopher Tilghman, referred to his technique as the dumb approach (or something along those lines‚Äîit‚Äôs been years), meaning that you write without “thinking”. This essentially means (if I remember right) that you try to tap into the subconscious and let it run the show. (Just to be clear, there’s nothing “magical” about this, no “other voice” speaking through you—it’s simply the result of years of practice, where the techniques of writing and plotting and characterization are so ingrained that they’re forgotten, like a musician who doesn’t need to think about where they’re going to place their fingers on the cello strings.) When Chris tells this to other fiction writers, they nod with a kind of understanding; when he tells it to critics or literary theorists, they raise the corner of their lips in scorn. Either you get it, or you don’t.



I’ve had heated debates with a friend here about how much one should plan, not only the story and characters, but also the themes, motifs and (god forbid) “message”. I’m firmly of the camp that you research minimally, then zone out and write a story as best you can, planning ahead only when necessary to get you moving again. The abstract levels of the story, the themes, will come naturally out of your personal obsessions. Often, I only learn what my story’s themes are once I’ve finished a book—and it’s always a surprise.



So that’s that. I’ll try to get my lazy ass to post a NY report when I return next week, at least to let everyone know if Ken Bruen’s still alive.

(Originally posted at the Contemporary Nomad)

Goodbye Enlightenment

Living in Europe, I’m in the sometimes uncomfortable position of seeing my country from afar—literally, and through the eyes of Europeans. I, like most Americans, often engage in a knee-jerk defense of the motherland, because, quite clearly, outside opinions are based on limited knowledge. Few of these people have walked the streets of my home, and it’s fair to say that none are familiar with the actual texture of American culture, particularly the culture of mid-America, that bastion of white-wood churches and prayer meetings.



But whenever I return home, it becomes obvious to me that my defense is really just an innate response. I don’t agree with many of my government’s policies, either foreign or domestic, and like many people within its borders, I’m terribly worried. When I return to my family’s residence in Texas, all the extremes of the religio-politic Fundamentalist culture are in my face, and I feel as if I’m on another planet. Really.



What is it? Is it a hatred of religion? Though I’m not a fan of organized religion, I’ve long outgrown any passionate distaste for it. Religion exists in many cultures without interfering with the rule of law, but in America this is less and less the case. The growth of Fundamentalism and its power over national progress and the definition of American nationalism—they scare the pants off of me.



Enter Anatol Lieven’s America Right or Wrong: An Anatomy of American Nationalism, recently reviewed at the New York Review of Books. I’m eager to get hold of this one, despite the fact that it will be ridiculed in America as the product of yet another “atheist” European.



Brian Urquhart’s review is praising and sharp, drawing attention to the book’s flaws and successes, and should be read from beginning to end. But for those of you not willing to make the leap, here are a few excerpts dealing with the notion of the Enlightenment, and its position in contemporary America:

[Lieven] quotes a survey from 2000 which found that white evangelical Protestants made up 23.1 percent of the population; Catholics, the largest Christian group, were 27.3 percent. The first figure is certainly larger now. Fundamentalist evangelical beliefs, Lieven argues, are pre-Enlightenment in origin and anti-Enlightenment in substance. Both modern science and a rational basis for human discourse are highly suspect in these circles. Treacherous East Coast liberal and intellectual elites, atheist Europeans, the godless UN, and others who have proudly embraced the Enlightenment are particular villains.



[…]



In his recent book on the Scottish Enlightenment James Buchan writes of Edinburgh in the early eighteenth century, “Men and women were coming to suspect that knowledge acquired through skepticism might be more useful in this world below than knowledge ‘revealed’ by scripture.” It is a painful thought that in the United States in the twenty-first century we might be turning away from the world of the Enlightenment which inspired the Founding Fathers. Of all the thoughts provoked by Lieven’s book this is the most disturbing, both for America and for the world. Since religious freedom and popular elections are both sacrosanct rights of the American people, it is a particularly delicate one. Is it possible that America could eventually vote to go back on the Enlightenment?

Titles, redux, again

It’s been verified in the UK that my third book, which was acquired by HarperCollins, will be called The Vienna Assignment—while in the US it’s called 36 Yalta Boulevard.



Anyone who visits these pages knows this is a common story for my books—my own titles are rarely market enough, and when books move into foreign editions the new publishers like to change the names (except Sweden, which has magnanimously made no attempt to alter them)—the most obvious example being France, which is retitling all of them as statements with “comrade”: Dear Comrade; No, Comrade; etc.



My own titles are based on the premise that they should come primarily from the book’s themes, and be able to be understood and interpreted on different levels. Which is why I like my title for my fourth book. Liberation Movements is on the surface a phrase terrorist groups of the ‘seventies used to describe themselves, and is taken from a Baader-Meinhof manifesto quoted in the book. And since the book deals with terrorism, this works. But there is also a musical motif running throughout the book, the storyline constructed in some ways like a three-voiced musical piece; and each character, in his own way, finds some kind of “liberation” by the end. Thus Liberation Movements becomes a musical title.



Despite my excitement, I know—I know—it will be nixed even before it reaches committee. It won’t be replaced by a bad title, no, but not one with this kind of tailor-made resonance.



When title debates first started over my second book, I found myself in New York, up late drinking with the magnificent Ken Bruen. Since I considered myself pretty new to the game, I asked him, “How much of a fight do you put up to keep your titles?” He answered with a quizzical look, so I expanded some. He reached for his drink (I think it was a g&t), took a drag from his cigarette, and said,



“I never let them touch my titles.”



So then I knew—all this rigmarole over my titles wasn’t “business as usual”, the way my publishers were trying to fool me into thinking. This was a ruse, and I was being played for a chump. So with the next book, I said, “You can’t touch this.”



Silence.



Days pass.



Then I get a vaguely frustrated, but kind response explaining that the PR people are excited about Name #2, and it might cause problems to insist on Name #1—because if you don’t have the PR people behind you, you’re dead in the water. And besides, Name #2 will entice a reader who’s never heard of you before, and that’s what we want, right? We want people to see the title and take it to the cashier. And, well, the PR people have been doing this job for a very long time, and perhaps they actually know their job. Isn’t that possible?



And so I caved, as I always do.



Right now, I’m reading Norman Sherry’s enormously engaging 3-volume The Life of Graham Greene*, in which I learn that with his early books, his titles pretty much never made it through to the end (I don’t yet know about his later titles). Heinemann, his publisher (and publisher of my first two books in the UK), was always nixing his titles and coming up with something else. There’s no sign Greene was upset by these changes—in fact, he seemed to put his trust in the publisher’s decisions. And if that was good enough for him…



All this is just to provoke you to comment with your own thoughts and experiences. I’m curious how widespread these editorial changes are. If I find the world is riddled with them, then it’ll make it easier for me next time round, when Liberation Movements is retitled Action Man #4: Revenge of the Terrible Terrorists!.



————————————-



*NOTE: Strangely, if you follow the Graham Greene link, you’ll find that Amazon.com only offers volumes 2 and 3 of the trilogy. My observations are from vol 1—1904-1939—which I picked up from Amazon.co.uk. Does someone think American readers aren’t interested in how the great man got his start?

(Originally posted at the Contemporary Nomad)

Day's End

It’s been a day of endings and, finally, a little rest. Today I FedEx’d the page proofs to 36 Yalta Boulevard, which ended up needing more tinkering than I expected when they arrived. But the effort was well worth it, because I’m quite pleased with the result—in a way I don’t think I was at the completion of the previous two books.



In addition, I sent in the complete fourth book, for the moment called (though we all know these things change) Liberation Movements. It’s quite a departure from the style and pace of the other books, which evokes two feelings: a sense of pleasure at seeing myself branch out, and fear. I’m just waiting for my publisher to send back a brief note, saying, “Eh? What’s this? Send us the real book, okay?”



And in a way, I find myself, or at least a malicious part of me, asking the same question. It’s what happens once you’ve put out a few books, and while there’s no wide public for my books, the ones who like them are coming to know what to expect in one way or another. A single (often brooding) main character, with the narrative sticking unerringly to his point of view, and a slow movement into chaos. The chaos remains in this, and is in fact racheted up quite a bit, but there are three main characters, each of whom speak differently, creating a whole tale often by indirection, so that only the reader can piece the whole thing together.



Writing it here, though, I remember that it actually works pretty well. So what am I worried about?



My career.

(Originally posted at the Contemporary Nomad)

Il Ponte dei Sospiri

I’ve just learned that the Italian edition of The Bridge of Sighs is available this month from Neri Pozza Editore.



In a surprise move, they decided at the last minute to keep the English title and translate it back into Italian (the English title, of course, is a translation from Italian). This was after a number of title changes planned to imitate the French edition’s insistence on using the word comrade in each title—an idea I was never very hot on. But in the end it’s suspected that the word “comrade” in the French edition (Cher Camarade) injured its marketability, and so the Italians went with the original.



Titles, in my limited experience, are pretty flexible—particularly once you’ve sold a book to another country. And it’s encouraging to see the Italian go back to Il Ponte dei Sospiri.

(Originally posted at the Contemporary Nomad)

The Monocle #3

A month late, I’ve always felt, is better than nothing. And I live by this maxim.



The Monocle has returned with its third issue.



You’ll notice that on the surface it’s slimmer than before, but that’s only illusion. Largely because of this admittedly infrequent blog, I find I have little fresh to say. So I’m trying a new tact, bringing in talent from this side of the Atlantic for your reading pleasure. Who knows where it will go?



For this issue, besides a piece by myself, there are two contributors—John Nadler, a tango-dancing Canadian journalist, and Robin Hunt (see bottom-most entry on the linked page), an English ne’er do well. With each contributor’s piece is a link to this blog, where you should feel free to note your comments on anything you’ve read below. The pieces, I feel, will inevitably provoke a response of some kind.

(Originally posted at the Contemporary Nomad)

Looking Back

It’s that time of year when you look back and ask, “What the hell have I been doing all this time?” I remember last December, berating myself for only just keeping up with my publishing schedule and doing nothing more. I resolved that 2004 would be different.



And, surprisingly, it was.



I got to know a horde of interesting people from this strange business. The Edgars brought me to New York where I could drink with many of them, people like Ms Weinman, Mr Bruen, and Mr Starr; I visited kind folks in amazing bookstores and saw first-hand the glory that comes when you get enough mystery folk together in one room. I’ve yet to meet Mr Wignall, but we’ve kept up a mutually beneficial correspondence, and in a similarly virtual vein I’ve chatted with the fine people of 4MA and listened in on the benefits of having Deadly Pleasures. The world is full of interesting people.



Work-wise, I’ve realized, I could hardly have done better. Five award nominations, fantastic reviews, and more work than I thought myself capable of. This year I wrote most of 36 Yalta Boulevard, finishing the third in the series, as well as writing a solid draft of Number 4. I revised The Middle Ages, a screenplay I first penned last year, and wrote a second screenplay. And for the first time since grad school I’ve gone back to short stories, penning one for the forthcoming Bruen-edited Dublin Noir and writing two others having nothing at all to do with Dublin.



All this work has taken its toll, no doubt. My excuse for a social life has become something my friends laugh at, and despite trying hard I won’t be getting out my Monocle newsletter this month as scheduled. But when I look back I think about the old days, when simply writing a book in the space of a year was the most herculean task I could imagine. Of course, at that time I was working a full-time job. But now I have a job that is as full-time as a New York lawyer’s, if not more so. My girlfriend mentions now and then that I’m never not working—even when watching a crappy movie on HBO, I’m looking for narrative concepts and trying to analyze what would have made the film succeed.



The work never ends, never ceases, and this, in the end, is all a writer can ask for.

(Originally posted at the Contemporary Nomad)

UK

It’s been an up-and-down couple weeks in the UK, beginning last week when I learned Random House UK wouldn’t be renewing their contract to acquire my third and fourth books. This wasn’t entirely unexpected, for despite some generous reviews, UK sales have been lackluster, and within the company a series of personnel changes have confused things a bit. That was the down, then this week the up arrived in the form of being acquired by HarperCollins UK, by an editor who apparently wanted to acquire me back in the beginning, when the first two books were being sold.



In addition, Mr Wignall kindly sent me news of a late-coming but still very welcome review of Confession in the Daily Telegraph yesterday. It was interesting in large part because of its criticisms. Since it’s not online, I’ll post a bit here.



It begins:

In most thrillers, the protagonists gather at some stage to have a clunky conversation that serves as a plot summary. Where this scene occurs in the scheme of the book is a fair indication of the novelist’s opinion of his or her readers’ intelligence. If it is early on, or if (God forbid) there is more than one scene of this nature, it suggests the author does not believe his reader can hold more than two consecutive facts in his head. Olen Steinhauer has great confidence - perhaps too much - in his readers, and his scene comes towards the very end. By that time, it provides a welcome respite from the complications, misunderstandings and confusion that ripple through this first-rate thriller.

Telegraph

Steinhauer is sometimes so elegant a writer that it is difficult to distinguish one character’s dialogue from another, but this is a powerful, thought-provoking literary thriller in the mould of Philip Kerr’s Berlin Noir trilogy. I hope it is the second in a good, long series.

Ms Weinmanit

Another update

Besides wasting time on my Macintosh with music software, I’ve actually been writing. Yesterday marked the end of the first draft of the fourth book in my series—nameless, as I’m not fooling myself anymore into thinking I actually know my titles. It was a fast one compared to the others, an experiment in swiftness that I think has paid off. Moving ahead in time, this one focuses on 1975, Armenian terrorism (with a touch of Baader-Meinhof) and Soviet psychotronic research.



Otherwise, I also finished a draft of an also-untitled story for Ken Bruen, who is editing the forthcoming Akashic anthology, Dublin Noir. Unlike the novel draft, I think this one is heading for the wastebasket, to be rebuilt from the ground up. Luckily, it’s not due until February.



I mentioned at some point in the past that I was working on a short film to accompany the release of 36 Yalta Boulevard, however the constraints of my life are weighing in, and I’ve decided to shelve the idea. However, a lesser form of the film—a chronology of the life of Brano Sev—will appear on the website in its place.



When not writing, and instead of creating searing and insightful posts for this blog, I’ve found myself listening to this oft-maligned but, to me, rather wonderful 1984 gem from Robert Smith’s frantic days when he was doing triple-duty with The Cure, Siouxsie, and his side project, The Glove. While seen as unfocused and “surreal”, it’s really a great record, though my girlfriend tells me there was some controversy over it in 1984 when a young European obsessed with it took his own life. Oh well.

(Originally posted at the Contemporary Nomad)

Sorry Everybody...

…but one last election related post. This link is from my mother, who said CNN is talking about all the conservative hate-mail being thrown at www.sorryeverybody.com.

(Originally posted at the Contemporary Nomad)