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Sorry about that headline, gang. I just can't resist a good pun. Or a bad one, obviously.
Spanking's been on my mind (which is not usual for me, I swear!) thanks to something I just discovered: Spanking scenes are one of the big draws to this site. Which is bizarre, of course, since there aren't any spanking scenes on this site.
What you will find is one (allegedly) humorous essay by Big Red about accidentally stumbling upon a cowboy spanking video while surfing YouTube. But that was enough, apparently, to make this a primo destination for spankfans, as "spanking + cowboys + movies" is now the fourth most-popular Google search bringing viewers to this blog. So I guess I should take this opportunity to say, "Welcome, bottom-swatting enthusiasts! I don't think you're going to find what you're looking for here, but feel free to stay a spell."
The third-most popular Google search leading here, by the way, is "Jeremy + Britt." Which has nothing to do, I'm assuming, with a theoretical love match between Jeremy Irons and Britt Eklund. More likely, folks are looking for information on the late, great Jeremy Brett, and they're snookered into coming here because his name was once misspelled in a comment posted to the site. If so, let me say this: "Welcome, Jeremy Brett/Britt enthusiasts! And welcome, too, to all of you who dream of seeing Jeremy Irons and Britt Eklund sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. I don't think you're going to find what you're looking for here, but feel free to stay a spell."
Oh, and the top two Google searches leading here? They are (thank God!) "Holmes + on + the + Range" and "Steve + Hockensmith." Which means I should probably pause here to say, "Welcome, Holmes on the Range and Steve Hockensmith enthusiasts! I sure hope you find what you're looking for here. And please please please -- don't let the spanking stuff scare you away...."
Steve Hockensmith
August 8, 2008
As readers of this blog have probably figured out, I'm not a very "with it" guy. I am, in fact, almost entirely without it. Whatever "it" is. I'm not even cool enough to know.
What I mean to say is I'm not hip to the jive. I'm behind the curve, under the radar and out of the loop.
Which explains why it would take me two weeks to respond to an interesting thread on someone's else's site. Up to the minute I am not. I'm not even up to the decade.
So I probably shouldn't waste even more time by prolonging this lead-in, should I? Alright. Fine. Let's cut to the chase. Or, more appropriately, link to the debate.
A while back, reviewer/nice guy/goatee wearer/father/hyphenate David J. Montgomery posted an entry on his blog about the (in his opinion) generally poor quality of crime fiction published so far this year. On this, I will have to take David's word for it. Like I said: not with it. (Though I will point out that a certain historical mystery published in early '08 is, of course, a classic that will live forever in the hearts of book lovers everywhere.)
Still, with it or not, I do feel qualified (or at least opinionated enough) to weigh in on one comment David made. In the midst of a discussion of his "2008 sucks" premise on Sarah Weinman's blog, David said this: "...shouldn't every book try to be a great book? Does anyone really set out to just be okay?"
My answer to these questions would be, in brief, "Not necessarily" and "You betcha!" Unfortunately, brief doesn't really cut it. I'm going to have to explain myself, dammit. Pardon me while I brew up a pot of coffee.
O.K. I'm back, thoroughly caffeinated. Let's do this thing.
First, there's the question of greatness. Well...what the heck is it? What makes a book "great"? Is it emotional heft? Intellectual rigor? Piercing insight? Thrills'n'chills? Belly laughs? Originality? Heaps of hot sex? Delicious recipes for the family on the go?
The answer, of course, is all of the above. Or none of the above. Or some, in combination.
That's a lot of contradictory answers, of course...and they're all right! My point being: It depends on the book. Not every book is War and Peace, nor should every book be. There are big stories and there are small stories. Epic and intimate. Loud and quiet. In a perfect world, each of these different stories would be well told -- flawless crystallizations of the author's intent. But even then, they wouldn't all be knock-your-socks-off WOW!s.
Gregory Mcdonald's Fletch books neither left me weeping nor set my pulse to pounding, but they're really good and I'm glad I read them. Ditto Rex Stout's Nero Wolfe books. Ditto A Confederacy of Dunces, for that matter. Ditto the works of Jean Shepherd and James Thurber and Garrison Keillor.
Here's another way to look at it. The Godfather is Great. But Election is great. Lawrence of Arabia is Great. But Heathers is great. The Bridge on the River Kwai -- Great. Bottle Rocket -- great. Amadeus -- Great. The Big Lebowski -- great. And John Ford made a lot of Great movies, but if you'd told him they were Great -- as in Great Art -- he would've spat in your eye.
Not every film can or should aspire to Greatness of the Oscar- (or even box office-) approved variety. Not all of them should be trying to knock your socks off. Another example: Tender Mercies. A simple story played out on a small scale with almost no suspense or tension or even drama, really. My socks stayed on. But it's a good movie.
There should be room for films -- and books -- like that.
Which isn't to say (to finally get to David's second question, the one about whether authors ever "set out to just be okay") that I'm making some sort of impassioned stand for low standards here. There are writers who set their own bar low in the sense that quality storytelling means less to them than meeting a deadline, collecting a check and pleasing a particular (perhaps easily pleased) constituency. I'm betting some of these folks are even writing books they wouldn't enjoy reading themselves -- they're just going where the money is. Hence my "You betcha!" about 500 paragraphs back.
Speaking personally, I want all my books to be great, and I've worked hard (and I like to think I've succeeded) at making each better than the one that preceded it. But if I worried too much about Greatness or Sock-Blowingness or whatever, I think it would get in the way.
Best to focus on the job at hand -- telling a good story with as much clarity, creativity and humanity as I can muster -- and let others apply the labels when it's done.
Steve Hockensmith
July 24, 2008
Some of you might have noticed that Big Red hasn't been popping up here much lately. Well, I think I've figured out where he's wandered off to. On a recent business trip, I made a shocking discovery: Big Red has, quite inexplicably, opened a shop for University of Nebraska leisurewear and memorabilia...in Phoenix. 
Don't believe me? Here's the proof (courtesy of Phoenix's own Ken and Patti O'Brien).
Why would a crime-solving cowboy from Kansas want to sell University of Nebraska apparel in the middle of the Arizona desert? Sounds like a mystery even Old Red couldn't hope to crack....
Steve Hockensmith
July 9, 2008
Forget baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and Chevrolet. Nothing's more American than a good, old-fashioned Western. So what better way to give America a big July Fourth "Sal-ute!" than to pause and appreciate the greatest oaters ever made? And conveniently enough, the Western Writers of America (WWA) has just released their list of the top 100 Westerns of all time!
So let's hear it for those Western classics The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (#11) and The Last Picture Show (#45) and The Grapes of Wrath (#46) and Bad Day at Black Rock (#47) and Thunderheart (#66) and No Country for Old Men (#79) and...and....
Chuh?
Alright, The Last Picture Show is set in Texas, but beyond that it's about as Westerny as Last Tango in Paris. The other films singled out above are set in the West, too, but they all take place long after the close of the frontier. And I see The Last of the Mohicans on the WWA's list, as well, and that takes place in the great "Western" region now known as...New England.
First off, I understand that such lists aren't meant to be taken too seriously. They're a way of stirring up conversation, shining light on forgotten gems and, yes, scoring a little free publicity. Nothing wrong with that!
But secondly...The Last freakin' Picture Show? CHUH?!?
 It makes me wonder why the classic disco musical Can't Stop the Music wasn't honored, as well. After all, the Village People prominently featured both a cowboy and an Indian. What could be more Western than that? Or how about Chinatown? You can't get much further West than Los Angeles, you know. Not without falling off the continent, anyway. And hey -- Jack Nicholson even wears a hat!
And how about Midnight Cowboy and Drugstore Cowboy and Space Cowboys? They've got "cowboy" right in the title! And The Electric Horseman and Brokeback Mountain are about cowboys. Why where they left out?
Now, let me pause here to say that I like The Last Picture Show and The Grapes of Wrath and Bad Day at Black Rock and Thunderheart and No Country for Old Men and The Last of the Mohicans. The Treasure of the Sierra Madre is one of my favorite movies from any genre, bar none. These are fine films we're talking about here. They're just not, in my mind, fine Westerns.
Which isn't to say a Western has to star John Wayne and feature at least one calvary charge, one gunfight, one hooker with a heart of gold and either Ward Bond or Jack Elam. But I would say this.
To be a Western, a film has to take place (duh) in the American West. It also should be set during the reign of "Manifest Destiny" -- the expansionist ideal that spurred the spread of European culture westward across the Plains in the second half of the 19th century.
Oh, and most of the guys should wear cowboy hats. And at least a few of the women should wear bonnets. And there should be horses -- lots and lots of horses. And, by cracky, Ward Bond or Jack Elam should be in it, whenever possible.
But hey -- don't get the idea I'm giving the wonderful, Western-loving folks of the WWA a hard time here. I kid because I love. And most of their picks are dandy by me. I'd just arrange things a bit differently. And, in fact, I'm about to. Because as much as I might carp about the WWA's list...well...it's fun to make lists, isn't it?
And now, without further ado (and, man -- that was a lot of ado), my personal Western top 10:
(1) Little Big Man
(2) Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
(3) Rio Bravo
(4) Unforgiven
(5) Dances with Wolves
(6) The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
(7) Red River
(8) The Searchers
(9) She Wore a Yellow Ribbon
(10) For a Few Dollars More
Note: The Ox Bow Incident probably should've made my list because it's so good. It's just no fun.
Note: Blazing Saddles probably should've made my list because it's so fun. It's just so dumb. (Not that dumb can't be brilliant....)
Honorable mention: Hombre, Destry Rides Again, The Outlaw Josey Wales, Bend of the River, Shane, The Wild Bunch, Winchester '73, Ride the High Country, Fort Apache, The Mark of Zorro (which I had to leave out because it's not a Western by my own definition -- blast those accursed rules!)
Special honorable mention: HBO's Deadwood, which is better than 90% of the movies on the WWA list.
Special dishonorable mention: High Noon. I mean, it's O.K. and all. But come on. We can admit it, can't we? Just between us friends? It's really pretty boring, isn't it? Or is it just me?
Final note: Feel free to tell me I'm full of crap.
Steve Hockensmith
July 4, 2008
What I've been watching while slowly going crazy waiting for editorial comments on the new book:
The worst music video ever?
The forgotten Doctor Who episode "Invasion of the Japanese Cheese Men."
The worst music video ever?
Art that wrestles with Death...literally.
And finally, the worst music video EVER!
Steve Hockensmith
June 26, 2008
Here's a blast from the past for you. Remember a few weeks back when I was on a big nostalgia kick and I was going to revisit the music and movies and books of 1984? Ahhhhh, those were the days, eh? The spring of 2008. We dreamed big back then, didn't we?
But things are different now. It's the summer of 2008, and torpor has set in. "Hot enough for you?" -- that's the only topic I've got the will to wrestle with at this point. And the topic'll win. Pin me in five seconds flat. Because I can barely work up the energy to even strap on my jock.
Oh, my. I just took that metaphor waaaaaaaaaaay too far, didn't I? My apologies. Let's begin again.
Remember a few weeks back when I was on a big nostalgia kick and I was going to revisit the music and movies and books of 1984? Well, screw that. Let's talk about something fresh, something happenin', something now. Let's talk about Indiana Jones and the Yada Yada Yada.
Alright, actually, let's not. I made the mistake of talking about it with a friend in the theater while the credits were still rolling, and by the time the cineserfs came in to sweep up the popcorn, I liked the film 37% less than I had before the conversation began. In other words, it's a fun enough flick, but don't make the mistake of thinking about it.
So let's talk about my new favorite movie, instead: Guy Maddin's immortal "Sissy Boy Slap Party." I don't know what describes it better: "The Three Stooges meet Robert Mapplethorpe" or "a gay '50s stag reel as directed by Jackie Chan." You can watch it here, if you dare. But be warned: It's slaptastic! Oh, and someone parks a bicycle in a man's butt cheeks. So, you know...it's not for everyone. In fact, it's not really for anyone except maybe the five or so people on planet Earth who find Fabio-types slapping each other silly gut-bustingly hilarious. I just happen to be one of the few, the not-so-proud, the deeply ill.
You know what? Now I'm kinda sorry I brought up "Sissy Boy Slap Party" at all. Who do I think I am -- a federal judge? I can't afford to alienate my constituency.
So since I obviously have nothing to say today...uhhhhh....
Hot enough for you?
Steve Hockensmith
June 21, 2008
I am not a flamer. Oh, I've been mistaken for gay on occasion -- I think it's because I have a fondness for cardigans and don't know squat about football. But that's not what I mean. I'm talking about posting inflammatory messages online.
In general, I'm a peace-loving, law-abiding cyber-citizen, and though I'm sometimes tempted to talk smack (or type smack, to be more accurate), I almost always resist the urge. To paraphrase the bumper sticker, "FLAME WARS ARE NOT THE ANSWER."
But I have given in to the Dark Side a few times, most embarrassingly three years ago, when an item on author Joe Konrath's blog prompted me to FLAME ON! like the freakin' Human Torch. I still disagree with what Joe wrote -- we'll get to that in a minute -- but I shouldn't have fire-bombed the guy in the comments section of his own blog. That's like leaving a flaming bag of dog poop on a coworker's front porch. Not cool.
I'm too filled with chagrin to read the exchange again, but if you feel like rubbernecking, you can find it all via the magic of Google. (Just search for "Steve + Hockensmith + Biodome." Really.) Or you can rely on the following, completely unbiased synopsis.
At the end of a long blog entry on a completely unrelated topic, Joe wrote that the only reliable measuring stick for quality in art is popularity. Incensed, I left a message cogently arguing that this position was, in fact, poo-poo. Joe fired back that what I'd written was double stinky poo-poo. I responded with a brilliantly delineated dissertation on the essence of true art, objectivity versus subjectivity, post-modernism and the films of Pauly Shore. The upshot being that Joe was filled with poo-poo ca-ca, and so was his old man. Joe launched a blistering counter-attack, accusing me of being "a big poopyhead." I eloquently sidestepped this broadside by pointing out that it takes one to know one. Joe then gave me a noogie. I parried with a merciless wedgie.
And so on.
But here's the point. (Yes! There is one!) Joe quite innocently shared his opinion that commercial success can be an objective measure of excellence. And that really pissed me off. Why?
It probably has something to do with my personal tastes. To be blunt, I like some pretty weird, unpopular shit. And I don't say that to position myself as some sort of avant-garde hipster. Avant-garde hipsters don't drive their kids to preschool wearing the T-shirt and sweatpants they slept in the night before. Avant-garde hipsters don't love Panda Express. Plus, when I'm talking about weird, unpopular shit, I'm talking about weird unpopular shit like ska and Doctor Who and this crazy S.O.B. and this madman and this brilliant lunatic. (O.K., the madman -- Guy Maddin -- is actually pretty avant-garde. But I like his stuff because I think it's funny.)
I also tend to side with the underdog. DC over Marvel. Star Trek over Star Wars. Genre writers over Pulitzer Prize winners. Unsigned bar bands over every American Idol finalist ever.
So it rankles a bit when I hear that profitability and quality are supposedly synonymous. Ishtar wasn't so bad and Spider-Man 3 was a pile of crap, I don't care what the final box-office tallies were.
But why bring all this up again now? Because I've seemingly doomed some more weird, unpopular, brilliant, hilarious shit merely by dint of liking it.
A few months back, you see, my local paper -- the San Francisco Chronicle -- introduced a few new strips to the comics page. And one of them was this: Lio, by Mark Tatulli. It's about a cheerful little boy and the dark, twisted world he lives in...and loves. And the shocking, unbelievable thing about it? It's different. And even more shocking and unbelievable? It's funny.
Here's a strip that isn't just recycling Family Circus or Bloom County or (God help us!) Garfield. It has a unique style -- wordless, grotesque, yet oddly jolly -- that hearkens back to the visual gag strips of old without seeming corny or musty. Nancy meets the Addams Family.
To my amazement, I soon found myself doing something I hadn't done in years: laughing at a comic strip. Sure, Get Fuzzy and Mutts are always good for a smile. But actual laughs? Not so often.
My morning routine shifted. I didn't even do my usual scan of the headlines to make sure the world wasn't ending. It was straight to Lio.
So of course it had to happen. The Chronicle recently asked readers what they think of the new strips, and the people spoke.
And the people said, "Lio sucks."
This week, the paper announced that it'll be conducting yet another reader poll in July. Which means the editor's ax is no doubt hanging over my little friend Lio's head. And Joe's theory would hold that, should the strip be cut from the Chronicle -- should it ultimately fail entirely -- it simply wasn't good enough. Popularity = quality.
Yet Mallard Fillmore lives on? B.C. lives on? Cathy lives on? And all are therefore objectively better?
Well, I've said it before and I'll say it again.
Poo-poo ca-ca.
Steve Hockensmith
June 14, 2008
We're having a heat wave, folks. A tropical heat wave. The temperature's rising, and it isn't surprising, cuz there's big loads of hot news.
*FLASH! In case any of y'all missed it, I've got an essay up over at the dandy-fine crime blog collective The Rap Sheet. My piece (part of the Forgotten Books thread kicked off by writer/blogger/educator/mother/etc. Patti Abbott) is all about a work I consider a lost crime genre classic: Robert Cormier's I Am the Cheese. If you've never heard of I Am the Cheese and find the title off-putting, (A) yes, it's a kid's book and (B) no, it's not about a bank-robbing block of muenster.
*FLASH! Good news for all my paisanos: Holmes on the Range is available in Italian at last. Can a Big Red/Old Red opera be far behind? I assume the Home/Holmes pun in the original title wouldn't translate, though, because the Italian edition (from Milan-based publisher Hobby & Work) is called Sherlock Holmes, Montana. (In a note from the translator at the end of the book, I spot a reference to the "missione impossibile" Big Red's narration represented. Even I know enough Italian to figure out what that means. Best of luck to the poor slob who's even now slaving away on the Japanese translation....)
*FLASH! Not only is the Black Dove audiobook now available, it's already won an Earphones Award from AudioFile magazine. I actually don't know a thing about the Earphones Award, but I assume -- you know, it being an award and all -- that it means they liked it. And it turns out the On the Wrong Track audiobook won one last year! I had no idea! (It's kinda cool to think there are awards floating around out there I don't even know I won. I wonder when someone'll get around to telling me about my Pulitzer?) Once again, William "Bob the Builder" Dufris does a bang-up job with the narration.
*FLASH! It's time for me to get back to get back to work....
Steve Hockensmith
June 9, 2008
In spring, every mystery fan's fancy turns to awards. So fancy this: Over the weekend, several Saddle Pals learned they were up for big-time honors. In fact, so many Pals found out they were nominees, I'd hate to list them here for fear of leaving any out. So I'll just single out one -- Writer to Watch and Innocent Pleasure Brett Battles, who scored a much-deserved Barry nom for Best Thriller -- and send you here and here for the full list of finalists.
Alright, I'll single out one other nominee. If I don't do it, who will? Because, you see, said nominee is me: I'm up for an Anthony in the Best Short Story category. The story in question is "Dear Dr. Watson," a Big Red/Old Red tale that appeared in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine last year.
Since Anthony winners are picked by folks going to the Bouchercon mystery convention, I've decided to post the story in its entirety for potential voters. Click here to check it out.
Sorry the formatting looks a little funky. I hate HTML.
BTW, for those of you who noticed that I'm up against Laura Lippman for an award to be given away in Baltimore -- yes, I know. I'm toast. But you can't blame a guy for trying, right?
Steve Hockensmith
June 2, 2008
Your parents have to love you. Your grandparents have to
love you. They've got no choice. It's in the job description. And somewhere
around third or fourth grade, you figure that out.
"Grandma acts like I'm Liberace when I play the piano," you
think one day, "but I suck." Or your mom's cooing over how good you look in
that baggy-assed powder-blue leisure suit Aunt Whoever sent, and you say to
yourself, "Well, of course I'm a 'handsome little man' to you...you're my mom."
And round about the same time, you finally figure out that
all the other adults in the world -- teachers, neighbors, librarians, that old
lady at church who always smells like Ben Gay -- aren't obligated to like or even tolerate you any longer.
You're old enough to have a fully developed personality...which means you're
old enough to really rub some people the wrong way, and you're not cute enough
to get away with it anymore. "My, what an imaginative child" becomes "He's
quite the little weirdo, isn't he?"
Which is why it's so cool when you find an adult who's
simpatico -- who seems to get you and like you and have some kind of faith in
you -- yet isn't a blood relation. They don't have to take an interest in you
and act as if they enjoy your company and give you the general impression that
you're A-O.K. in their book. But they do. And you're not obligated to like them,
either. After all, most grown-ups are still pretty intimidating. I mean...what
the hell are those people thinking, anyway? They're utterly incomprehensible. Yet
with those special few, you do feel that you know them. At least enough to know
you truly like them.
It would probably be overstating things to call such adults
your friends. When you're nine years old, your friend is the kid you read comic
books with and ride your bike with and set toy soldiers on fire with. And
they're not exactly another parent, these simpatico adults. I mean, they'll give you a
Twinkie if you ask nice. They'll make you sausage gravy and biscuits after a
sleepover with their kid. They'll loan you dry clothes when you fall in the
pool. But they're not the ones buying a new set of Garanimals when it's time to
go back to school in the fall.
And they're not necessarily role models, either...at least
not in that straightforward "I wanna be a policeman like Jodi's dad!" way. The
lesson isn't necessarily "Here's the way you should live." It's "There are
other ways to live." And that's an important lesson for a kid to learn.
There's no word in English for what I'm trying to get at. So
I'll make up my own. Squish friend-role-model-adult-parents together and you
get...froldultents?
Alright, I’m not making up my own word for it, cuz "froldultents" blows. So let's just use a name.
Let's just say Nancy Harrington.
Nancy has never really been Nancy to me, though. She was "Mrs.
Harrington" from the time I met her (when I was all of 4) up to the last time I
saw her five years ago. I couldn't call her "Nancy"! She was my parmodiend!
(Oof. I think that's even worse than froldultent.)
And you know one of the greatest things about Mrs.
Harrington? I don't think she'd mind one bit that I'm getting all goofy and
pseudo-philosophical even when I'm writing what is, in its a weird way, an
obituary. If you want just the facts, ma'am, you can go here and see the real
deal. She wrote it herself, and she did a great job. But there were several
things she didn't mention. I'll just throw in a few.
Mrs. Harrington was my best friend's mom.
Mrs. Harrington was a smart lady who lived by her own rules.
Mrs. Harrington was funny as hell, and she knew how to
laugh, too.
Mrs. Harrington was, to me, whatever it is I've been trying
to describe.
Mrs. Harrington will be missed.
Steve Hockensmith
May 27, 2008
"Music has charms to soothe a savage breast," the old saying goes. Or the savage beast, depending on which version of the saying you prefer. I'm not a breast man, myself. Bugs Bunny says "beast," and that's good enough for me.
Whichever way you slice it, beast or breast, music's pretty good for getting you through high school, too. Because let's face it -- those years are plenty savage.
As part of my ongoing voyage of discovery back to those thrilling days of yesteryear -- known more precisely, if less thrillingly, as 1984 -- I've revisited some of the music I was soothing my savageness with back then. And it turns out '84 was a pivotal moment for me, musically.
I was 15 as the year started off, yet still unformed in terms of my musical tastes. And by "unformed," of course, I mean totally clueless. My fave albums the previous year, I recall, were Billy Joel's An Innocent Man, Men at Work's Business as Usual and the Return of the Jedi soundtrack, with some old Simon & Garfunkel, Blondie and Monty Python thrown in. That's not just a mixed bag. It's been put through a Cuisinart.
With '84, however, would finally come order. I was about to hang ten on the New Wave...just as it was turning into the Old Wave and petering out entirely. What can I say? I'm not an early adopter. I've always been more of a late schmo. And I was living in West Virginia at the time, a place where Supertramp was still considered "out there" and suspiciously airy-fairy.
Thank god for MTV. Back then -- you know, when the network played music -- it was the only way a boy trapped in the hollers could hear bands that didn't make the Mountain State Top 40. Which would be a lot of bands, given that the Mountain State Top 40 consisted entirely of tracks from Def Leppard's Pyromania. Quite an accomplishment for a differently abled (and spelled) jungle cat, seeing as the album only has 10 songs.
To be fair, MTV played a lot of Def Leppard, too. But they mixed in less gel-dependent bands, as well. Which is how I happened to catch this video.
For those of you who hate following blind links, I'll just tell you: It was for the Madness song "Wings of a Dove," and it was off-the-wall, goofy, self-deprecating and very, very different. Kinda like me, come to think of it (though when folks refer to me as "different," it's probably not always meant as a compliment).
I loved it. No, I take that back. I LUVed it. MTV had finally fulfilled its real purpose: making kids run out and blow all their cash on albums. Because that's exactly what I did....
TO BE CONTINUED.
WHETHER YOU WANT IT TO BE OR NOT.
Steve Hockensmith
May 23, 2008
I've been feeling kind of nostalgic about the mid-'80s lately. Or maybe "nostalgic" is the wrong for it.
I haven't been idealizing those years in a cartoony Happy Days/That '70s Show kind of way. Most of it was way, way too boring for that. And I haven't been pining for it, either. I was a teenager at the time, so even when it wasn't boring, it was still excruciatingly awkward.
I think maybe I'm more curious than anything else. Looking back on those years last week, I tried to dredge up what it was like being me at the time. And I'm not so sure I got it right. Was I really the happy-go-lucky nerdling I made myself out to be?
Well, the nerd part would be easy enough to verify: All I'd have to do is crack open one of my high school yearbooks and look at my own picture. Which I'm wise enough in my dotage never to do.
But what about the happy-go-lucky? I remember being pretty miserable a lot of the time, actually. Especially if I had to go to school or church or the grocery store or the mall or...anywhere more than five yards from my bedroom or the TV, really. Even going out to get the mail was risky. I mean, somebody might see you out there....
Yet I always managed to make it out to the movies -- even if my excitement was tinged with terror because I was going to see Ghost Busters on a Friday night and there were going to be a lot of kids from school there. And you could actually coax me into the light of day to go to a book store or a comic book shop, too. Or a record store, though you'd have been lucky to find one in my old town that stocked anything other than Def Leppard and Stryper.
In a weird way, escapism -- the movies and books and comics and music -- was the only thing connecting me to the rest of humanity at all. Without it, I think I would've just found a nice, quiet spot in the basement and spent the tail end of the Reagan years collecting cobwebs.
So if I want to remember what life felt like for me back then -- want to recover my Lost Self like Indiana Jones digging up some ancient treasure -- there's really only one way to do it. And no, I'm not talking about hypnotic regression. Or borrowing a TARDIS. Or getting hit on the head by a falling flower pot, although that did seem to work in old movies sometimes.
No, the only time machine I need is pop culture...enhanced by a little Boone's Farm, maybe. Because that had its place back then, too.
At the top of my Netflix queue: Romancing the Stone.
Just ordered from eBay: Café Blue (a.k.a. My Ever Changing Moods).
On my bedside table: an '80s-era science fiction Best Of anthology.
And in my heart and head...well, we'll see....
The Wayback Machine's been set for 1984, gang. Better strap yourselves in.
Steve Hockensmith
May 8, 2008
I'll be turning 40 in a few months, and I've noticed a strange feeling coming over me as my birthday draws nigh. It's not the urge to buy a red Lamborghini or chase younger women or anything else off the midlife crisis checklist. I don't go in for clichés.
And what's more, I can't afford a Lamborghini. Maybe a Hyundai. Used. I mean, really used. Which probably wouldn't be much of a chick magnet.
No, it's not a sporty Phallusmobile or an ego-boosting PYT I find myself pining for. It's much, much more shameful than that.
I'm excited about an Indiana Jones movie.
If I were casually interested in Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, that would be one thing. Borderline indifferent, and I could maybe salvage my dignity.
But, no. I'm geeked out. I'll be there opening weekend with an extra 10 bucks in my pocket for popcorn and a Coke.
Only...will 10 bucks even get you popcorn and a Coke anymore? The last time I was this psyched for an Indiana Jones flick, it was 1984. The movie was Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, and, if memory serves, you could buy a large popcorn and medium soda for two bits, with enough left over for a crank or two on the nickelodeon machine in the lobby.
But perhaps memory doesn't serve. Remember, I'm almost 40.
Almost 40...and hyped up by the same silly action movies I loved when I was 15. Is that alright, I wonder? Shouldn't I be on pins and needles about something serious? Something important? Something grown up? The next John Updike novel. The new Errol Morris documentary. The Democratic primaries.
(Aside: I actually was on pins and needles about the Democratic primaries until about a month ago. Now I just wanna barf.)
I mean, 40 seems as good a time as any to do some reappraising. To look back and see how far one's come. And I guess I'll look back and see that I've come all the way from The Temple of Doom to The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Which really isn't much of a journey.
I'd like to think I'm not the same person I was 24 years ago. I weigh a little more now. And my hair has some gray in it. And....
Alright, other than that, I probably am the same person I was 24 years ago. And that guy was a geek. Nerdus Americanus. Dorkus Maximus.
I don't think it bothered him much, though. Yeah, the no-date-on-Saturday-night thing got to be a drag. But it's not like he wanted to be a jock or a preppy or a burnout or whatever else guys could be in a John Hughes movie. He was O.K. with being a total Poindexter.
Maybe that's the way I've really devolved. When I was a kid, I wasn't ashamed to be first in line for an Indiana Jones movie. Why should I judge myself now that I'm a man?
In the words of the poet, I yam what I yam. And I yam a geek, John Updike be damned.
So I'm gonna start saving up for that popcorn and Coke now. If I set aside a twenty each week, I should have enough just in time for opening night....
Steve Hockensmith
May 1, 2008
I've been "memed." Which isn't like being "slimed" in the old Ghostbusters movies. (Hmmmm...am I the only one who's surprised Hollywood hasn't remade those yet?) No, being memed is a good thing, provided you've got time for a little literary silliness. And I always try to make time for that.
I'm not really up on these "meme" things, actually, but as best I can make out they're the online equivalent of a Chinese fire drill...one you can be drafted into. And literary Web maven Marshal Zeringue has drafted me. Now I'm supposed to grab the nearest book and let you know what the sixth, seventh and eighth lines are on page 123.
There's only one problem, and I'm totally not joking here, folks. The nearest book to me is the magnum opus Pooh and the Dragon, which my 4-year-old daughter left on my desk yesterday. As you might expect, there is no page 123. In fact, the thing's so short, it doesn't even have page numbers. So I'll just hit you with lines six through eight of the whole thing.
"No, we weren't scared," Roo giggled. "Why would we be?" He yawned.
Scintillating stuff!
Going slightly further afield -- like an extra six inches away on my desk -- is a book with both the prerequisite number of pages and a slightly more worldly vibe. That book being The Killer Inside Me by Jim Thompson. I just finished reading it a couple days ago, and let me tell you -- it's no Pooh and the Dragon. And I mean that in the best possible way.
Here's what's meme-able from the book.
"You hurt me."
"I did?" I said. "Gosh, I'm sorry, honey."
Not so scintillating stuff! Which is a shame, because this book has some killer lines in it. Oh, well. Ours is not to wonder why, ours is but to meme or die.
Speaking of which, like an online Typhoid Mary, I'm now supposed to pass the meme on to my friends. (Short aside. At my high school, the following words were painted on the gym wall: "SCHOOL SPIRIT IS CONTAGIOUS...LET'S HAVE AN EPIDEMIC!" Needless to say, I was the sort of kid who had no problem thinking of "school spirit" as an infectious disease, and I managed to remain safely inoculated all the way through graduation.)
Here's who I'm tagging:
Kevin Wignall
Brett Battles
John Schramm
Ed Gorman
Steven Torres
(I would've included my gal pal Sophie Littlefield, but it looks like she memed herself. Which is condemned by the Vatican, I think. Oh, and sorry for using the term "gal pal." I worked for People magazine one summer, and ever since I can't get that phrase out of my head.)
Sorry if this messes with your busy day, Kevin, Brett, John, Ed and Steven. But as the old saying goes: "Meme spirit is contagious...let's have an epidemic!"
Steve Hockensmith
April 23, 2008
$%#@! I'm still not done with a first draft of the new book! So no real blog post today, kids. Will you settle for some news flashes, instead?
FLASH! The new issue of the Mystery Readers Journal is out, and it includes an essay by moi. My topic: cussin' in historical mysteries. Hot damn! Click here to take a look!
FLASH! The fine folks at the Emporia Gazette in Kansas have given The Black Dove an official Jayhawk thumbs up. Click here to read the review!
FLASH! I don't have another news item, yet I know I can't get away with just two flashes. So...ummm...wanna see the worst Superman movie ever? Click here to totally blow three minutes of your life you'll never be able to get back!
Steve Hockensmith
April 20, 2008
The nice folks over at readingwriters.com recently asked me an interesting question for their online newsletter: What's on your desk? And seeing as part of the answer recently came up in the blog, I thought I'd share my thoughts here.
Plus, it'll give me yet another excuse not to write a real blog entry this week. Clever, eh?
So, without further adieu...and by "adieu," of course, I mean self-justifying hooey....
"What's on your desk?" is a good question to ask a writer. But
I've got a better one, if said writer is me: "What isn't on your desk?" The
answer being, "An Edgar Award -- dammit! -- and not much else."
A desk is for writing, yes. Researching, brainstorming,
outlining, yeah yeah yeah. But my desk also happens to be where I do most of my
accumulating. And I'm not talking about wealth and power.
(I'm a writer, remember?
We're in it for love, not money, right?)
(Although, then again, we
wouldn't actually say no to more cash, would we...?)
Alas, it's not checks that are piling up on my desk -- unless
you count the ones waiting to go in the mail to Visa and the phone company and
the IRS and on and on and on. And piling up beside all that are books,
contracts, royalty statements, fan letters (well, O.K. -- there's one), pens,
pencils, notebooks, CDs, DVDs, stuffed animals (I try to keep my kids away from
the computer, but it just can't be done) and a depressingly long To Do list
from which nothing ever seems to Get Done.
In fact, if you were to visit my home office, you might not
believe I have a desk at all. You'd just walk into the bedroom that's been
designated Daddy's Place and assume you'd stumbled into one of those old houses
where 90-year-old twin sisters with a hundred cats stockpile every issue of The
Cleveland Plain Dealer dating back to 1949. Then you'd run out screaming before
the stack of Life magazines -- or, in my case, the complete Time Life "Old
West" collection -- can fall over and crush you.
Which isn't to say my desk isn't organized. It's just organized
in piles, heaps and mounds. (I like the heaps best because you don't have to
lift anything to search through them. You just stick a hand in and start
sifting.)
But though I'm a slob, I do have my anal side. It's just not things
I care about organizing. It's my work. And here's how I do it.
Some writers motivate themselves with dreams of success. Some do
it with the simple joy of creation. Me, I'm a guilt and fear man. Hence, the
Big Board and the Calendar.
The Big Board is...well, a big board. A big dry-erase board, to
be a bit more precise. On it is a grid tracking word count and chapters
completed week by week leading up to the deadline for my next book. Its
purpose: allowing me to size up, at a glance, whether or not I'm on schedule.
And then have a nervous
breakdown when I see I'm not.
And then whip myself into
a writing frenzy to get back on track.
And then have another
nervous breakdown when I see I'm still behind.
Masochistic? You bet! But
it works.
The Calendar is...well, a calendar. (Do you sense a theme
developing with the names I give to things?) It hangs next to my desk, and I
turn to it at the end of every work day and write down the number of words I’ve
managed to produce.
Why? Because sometimes the Big Board doesn't make me feel badly
enough.
"Just 842 words today? But last Wednesday I wrote 849 words! I'm
slipping! I shouldn't have stayed up so late last night watching Doctor Who.
I'm such a loser! Or maybe I'm developing Alzheimer's...."
Obviously, I need panic the way other writers need coffee, and
if I don't get it I have to create it.
Oh, and I need coffee, too. Pot after pot of it. That's why so
many of my piles, heaps and mounds are stained brown.
In conclusion, I see by the Calendar that I only added 833 words
to my new novel today, and the Big Board tells me I'm two weeks behind
schedule, so what the heck am I doing working on something else? ARGH!!!
Now where was that cup of coffee? I know it's on this desk somewhere....
Steve Hockensmith
April 13, 2008
You might have noticed that Big Red hasn't been around here much lately. Well, there's a reason for that. The man's busy. And as Shirley MacLaine and Ramtha the Enlightened One can tell you, channeling's hard work, and frankly I haven't had the energy to dredge up Otto the Unenlightened One for the blog.
I've been hanging with Big Red all the livelong day, you see. All the dadburned night, too. Click on the picture, and you'll know why.
That's what I call The Big Board. It charts my progress on whatever project I'm toiling on. And as you can see, it's pretty full...but not as full as it's supposed to be. The next "Holmes on the Range" book's due in three weeks, and forget revising -- I haven't even finished a rough draft yet.
Yes, friends, it's Panic Time. Which makes it Ulcer Time, too. Not to mention Drinking So Much Coffee You Get a Splitting Headache Time. Soon to be followed by Begging Your Editor for More Time Time.
When, oh when, will it finally be Miller Time?
Steve Hockensmith
April 10, 2008
P.S.: Oh, don't worry about the book, folks. A draft'll be done sooner or later, and the time will be found to rub it, buff it and Turtle Wax it but good. I just like wallowing in agony until it's finally done.
Why haven't I been blogging around here much lately?
Deadlines.
Am I finally going to post a blog entry today?
Kinda.
What do I mean kinda?
Read on.
Why do I keep asking rhetorical questions?
Because it's an easy way to write and I don't have much time.
Speaking of which, here's what I'll be putting up today: my lamest post ever! Huzzah!
What drives Internet search traffic? (I know, I know -- back to the rhetorical questions again. Sorry! I'm almost through.)
Celebrities.
Could my blog use a boost in Web traffic?
Heck, yeah!
What's the cheapest, easiest way to lure more suckers...I mean, surfers here?
A big bunch of celebrity names posted for no particular reason, that's what.
Hence....
Famous or semi-famous people I met in person while working as a journalist: Hugh Jackman, Bryan Singer, Anna Paquin, David Byrne, Chris Carter, Robert Sean Leonard, Dennis Lehane, Robert Conrad
Famous or semi-famous people I met in person and annoyed so much they ran away at the first opportunity: David Byrne
Famous or semi-famous people in whose glow I have basked (at a range of up to 20 yards): Roger Daltrey, Crispin Glover, Harry Hamlin, Dennis Quaid, Larry "Bud" Melman, Ed Begley Jr., Paul Shaffer, Gillian Anderson, David Duchovny, Justine Bateman, The Karate Kid, Meatloaf, Roger Ebert, Chelsea Clinton
Famous or semi-famous people I stood next to but was instructed not to speak to: Gillian Anderson
Famous or semi-famous people I stood next to but was instructed not to speak to or look at: David Duchovny
Famous or semi-famous people I have spoken to on the phone: William Shatner, Bob Newhart, Stephen King, Ray Bradbury, James Iha, Glenn Danzig, Julia Sweeney, Sarah Vowell, John Waters, Patrick Macnee, Michael Connelly, James Roday, Steven Bochco, Darren McGavin, Tom Sizemore, Paul Giamatti, James Michener, Mike Myers, Jonathan Frakes, Brent Spiner, David Simon, Dave Barry, Val Kilmer, J.K. Simmons, Charles Nelson Reilly, Roger Corman, Wolfgang Petersen, Barry Sonnenfeld, Doctor Who #7
Famous or semi-famous people I spoke to on the phone who scared the %$#& outta me: Tom Sizemore
Famous or semi-famous people I tried to speak to on the phone but was not allowed to: too many to list
Famous or semi-famous people I would actually sorta like to meet: Bigfoot, "Suggs" McPherson, Kurt Vonnegut (oh, well)
Famous or semi-famous people I can't even remember encountering because my memory is so bad: probably a lot, actually
Spectacularly famous people I have never encountered in any way but whose names will increase traffic to my site: Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, Jennifer Lopez, Jessica Alba, Lindsay Lohan, Madonna, Elvis
Random phrases that will increase traffic to my site: Star Wars, The Da Vinci Code, recipes, bran muffins, chicken cacciatore, MILF
Things I should really be doing other than this: my taxes, finishing the next damn book
Steve Hockensmith
April 3, 2008
The Author Interviews site has posted a lengthy Q&A with Saddle Pal Bill Crider. The interviewer: moi. Tomorrow, in part two, Bill throws out the Qs and I toss back the As.
Click here to feel the love.
Steve Hockensmith
March 30, 2008
UPDATE: Bill Grills, Vol. 1 is now up -- click here to see me get the third degree.
"When I was a boy," every grandfather should say at some point or other, "I had to walk five miles every day just to get to school."
Or, if they're a little more creative maybe, they could say, "When I was a boy, I had to walk 10 miles in the snow every day just to get to a one-room schoolhouse warmed by a broken-down wood-burning stove."
Or, if they're feeling particularly pathological, they could even try, "When I was a boy, I had to walk 50 miles in hot lava just to get to the outhouse...and all we had for toilet paper was more lava!"
And maybe some of their grandkids would even believe them. Well, the 3-year-olds, anyway. And the dumb ones.
But grandfathers are supposed to spout off with things like that. That's what grandfathers are for. (That and driving grandmothers crazy.)
But what will I be able to say when I'm a grampappy?
"When I was a boy, we didn't even have cable television."
And the kiddies'll scream their little lungs out...assuming they even know what "cable television" is. By the time I have grandchildren, the networks will probably be beaming Baywatch: The Next Generation directly into people's brains.
I got to thinking about all this today as I checked out Hulu.com, a new (to me, at least) site that brings mankind one step closer to its ultimate destiny.
And what is that destiny?
Boldly going where no man has gone before? Nah.
Peace, love and understanding? Puh-leeze.
Armageddon? Well, maybe.
But here's what I was thinking of. The new mandate for the masses: WE ALL MUST BE ENTERTAINED AT ALL TIMES!!!
Hulu.com is the latest website to offer free TV shows for instantaneous viewing. It's got a pretty good selection, too -- or a wide one, anyway. (Reruns of Airwolf and Galactica 1980 probably shouldn't be referenced in any sentence containing the word "good.")
Hulu is paradise, as I would've imagined it as a lad. Because (as mentioned in my future grandfatherly rambling above), we didn't have cable television until I was 10 or 11, so up till then I was at the mercy of Southern Indiana's broadcast programmers. Which meant I was watching fishing shows and local wrestling when what I really wanted was Star Trek and Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea.
But the thing is, though...I didn't watch those fishing and wrestling shows. Not for more than a couple minutes. After that, I went flipping around between our four channels and I found other things to watch. Things a 10- or 11-year-old wouldn't have even tried, unless he had no choice. Such as, for instance, the old black-and-white mysteries and Westerns and comedies that used to fill the PBS station's weekend schedule. Or -- if it was Bette Davis Week, let's say, and let's remember I was a grade school boy...and a straight one -- I might actually turn the TV off and get back to my books and comics.
As the Bible would put it, And It Was Good. Being deprived (as a 21st century kid might reckon it) turned out to be a gift. I was frustrated because none of the local stations showed Wild Wild West, so I ended up watching Fort Apache instead...which means I came out miles ahead.
So the grandfatherly thought in my head as I look at Hulu is this: If young people can watch whatever they want, whenever they want, will they ever discover anything new...which is to say, anything old? Why would kids ever stray outside of their advertiser-approved demographic comfort zones if they don't have to?
Or, to recycle another old fogy chestnut....
When I was a boy, we didn't have all these new-fangled "Hulus" and "TiVos" and "YouTubes" -- and we liked it that way!
Steve Hockensmith
March 25, 2008
I'd really love to write a real blog entry for y'all -- really, I would! But gosh, how can I with so much news to get to first?
FLASH! The fine folks at Reviewing the Evidence have reviewed The Black Dove. Their verdict: guilty...of being great!
FLASH! The equally fine folks at Bookgasm have also reviewed The Black Dove. Their reaction: orgasmic!
FLASH! I've added two L.A.-area dates to the Doings and Transpirings page. Look for me at Mysteries to Die For in Thousand Oaks on April 26, then the next day at the L.A. Mystery Bookstore booth at the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books.
FLASH! Five of my stories have been added to the short fiction lineup over at Sony's eBook Store. A few of them are even pretty good! Which ones? Hey...that's for you to decide!
FLASH! O.K., O.K. -- it was a little lame of me to leave you hanging like that with the last FLASH!. So here's more to go on. None of the stories are about Big Red and Old Red. "The Case of the Unfortunate Fortune Cookie" and "The Macguffin Theft Case" are loosely linked spoofs of Old School mystery series. "Didn't Do Nothing" and "Blarney" are noir-ish tales of despair and desperation. And "Fred Menace, Commie for Hire"...well, that's just plain wacky. It's also my favorite. Hope that helps....
Flashily yours,
Steve
Just a quick note today to spread the good vibes: The Black Dove is chugging along (#6 on the IMBA bestseller list for February! Booyakasha!) and I'm feeling the media love, baby.
FLASH! The great Eddie "Czar of Noir" Muller gives me a shout-out in his latest "Guilty Bystander" column for the San Francisco Chronicle!
FLASH! My local paper digs The Black Dove!
FLASH! The Contra Costa Times thinks I'm worth blowing 20 column inches on!
FLASH! The fine folks at Reviewing the Evidence have posted an interview with me, too!
FLASH! The Black Dove book tour is almost over! (That's actually not big, exciting news, but it makes me kinda happy.)
Have a great weekend, everybody -- and remember to keep it flashy!
Steve "The Flash" Hockensmith
March 14, 2008
As the old joke goes (more or less), I just flew back from Denver, and boy are my arms tired. Only I'm not joking. My arms are tired. And so are my legs and my eyes and my ears and my liver and, most of all, my brain. Conventions do that to me.
I was in Denver for Left Coast Crime, you see, which means I spent most of my time in the Mile High City doing what writers always do when they get together: getting Mile High.
On our publisher's bar tab, I mean. Mystery writers, of all people, know better than to mess with Johnny Law by dabbling with illicit substances. As a great crime writer so memorably put it, "The weed of crime bears bitter fruit"...which, now that I think of it, strikes me as a mixed metaphor. Shouldn't he have said, "The weed of crime bears ouchy little prickles"?
Anyway, we leave doobies and goofballs and such to the romance novel crowd.
I'm too wiped out for a real con report of the sort blogging authors are probably supposed to post. But I can share a few quick lessons I've learned.
THINGS NOT TO DO IN DENVER WHEN YOU'RE DEAD (DRUNK)
*Tell Marcus Sakey he reminds you of The Fonz. Like, half a dozen times. Marcus seems to be a nice guy with a good sense of humor, but one more "Ayyyyyy!" and this Potsie probably would've gotten a wedgie.
*Accidentally spit on people when you laugh. This constitutes an official "exchange of body fluids," and most folks don't appreciate it...even if you do point out that you're chewing gum and your saliva is, therefore, "Winter Fresh."
*Use the phrase "I don't like most thrillers and I have no desire to write them" in a car full of perfectly nice, wonderfully talented THRILLER WRITERS.
Fortunately, I managed to do a few things right, too. First and foremost being meeting dozens of delightful, enthusiastic readers. (Yes, dozens. Of course, I'm not claiming that they all read me. But they read, at least.)
And while reconnecting with a ton of writerly Saddle Pals, I met a long list of great writers for the first time, including the aforementioned Marcus "Fonzie" Sakey, Theresa "Pinkie Tuscadero" Schwegel, Troy "Richie Cunningham" Cook, Craig "McCloud" Johnson, Barbara "Mrs. Columbo" Fister, Jess "That Girl" Lourey, Mark "Mr. Green Jeans" Zubro, "Trapper Chris" Grabenstein, Susan Arnout "Should the Nickname Come Before Arnout?" Smith and Jeri "Too Smart for Television" Westerson. I also met my psychic doppelganger, Steven "Match Game '76" Sidor, though whether he's the evil twin or I am, I can't say.
Thanks to them all for their friendliness and freely shared insights
And forgiveness, in a few cases....
Steve "Supertrain" Hockensmith
March 10, 2008
I'm only 39 years old, but I've been an old fart for a long, long time. Hell, I could've joined AARP when I was 12. Even back then, I loved black and white movies, looked down on that raucous rock'n'roll noise and mistrusted "those crazy kids today" (you know -- my peers). I even sucked at Donkey Kong. Put me in a blazer and white Sansabelt slacks pulled up to my nipples, and I would've fit right in around any mobile home park in Florida.
I hipped up a little during my late teens and twenties, but I was still never someone you could call Mr. Zeitgeist. I liked my Howard Hawks and my Bobby Darin and my cardigan sweaters just fine, thank you, and I was more than happy to let grunge and raves and all the rest of it pass me by. (In case you haven't guessed, I have no idea what "all the rest of it" even is. A hundred bandwagons have rolled past me since the time I could even tell you what bandwagons I was missing.)
All this would be but an amusing quirk of character -- "That Hockensmith...what a fuddy duddy!" -- if not for one thing: I make my living as a writer. And for a writer, being out of touch with the zeitgeist can be a dangerous thing.
I can't help but dwell on that a bit now that my latest book has finally been released into that Darwinian jungle we call the free marketplace. Can novels by Mr. Fuddy Duddy compete with novels by Mr. Zeitgeist? I worry.
In the midst of a lovely, glowing profile of me and my work in Mystery News, Lynn Kaczmarek recently wrote the following: "In this time of the 'thriller,' I wondered why on earth anyone would want to begin such a series [as the 'Holmes on the Range' books]." The panel I've been assigned to at Left Coast Crime this week is "Killing with Kindness: Traditional Mysteries"...which may as well be called "For Namby-Pambies Only: Out of Touch and Proud of It!" (No offense, hard-working LCC volunteers! I'm happy to have the slot!) And I couldn't help but notice last week when Saddle Pal, Writer to Watch and all-around good guy Brett Battles cited me when he was asked to name his favorite "guilty pleasure" reads.
Pleasure? Great!
Guilty? Of what?!?
Actually, I think I know. Though Brett (God bless you, sir!) says very nice things about my books, he mentions that they're not the kind of thing he usually reads. Because I'm guessing that he -- like most crime fiction readers today, it seems -- prefers thrillers and hardboiled and noir to puzzle mysteries with clues and red herrings and all that musty old Agatha Christie stuff.
In other words, I'm not now enough. And you know what? I'm guilty as sin and I know it.
So now I'm just left to wonder...what's my sentence?
Steve Hockensmith
March 3, 2008
Hear ye, hear ye (again)!
*I (and, by extension, The Black Dove) have just taken blogster/genius/saint Marshal Zeringue's Page 99 Test, which is sort of like The Pepsi Challenge without the carbonated cola beverages. Check it out!
*Blogster/genius/saint J. Kingston Pierce of January Magazine has named The Black Dove a Pierce's Pick for the week. Actually, he did it like two weeks ago, but I only noticed it yesterday. So sue me! I've been busy! Check it out!
*Blogster/genius/saint Barb Carges has given her thumbs up to The Black Dove. (O.K., she quibbles a little -- the darker tone wasn't to her liking. But still, she calls the book "well written," "excellent" and "well worth the price of the hardcover edition," so I'm happy.) Check it out!
*I'm still too busy to write anything here that has, you know, thoughts and ideas and stuff like that. But hear ye, hear ye -- I'll get off my butt and do some real blogging soon.
Steve Hockensmith
March 2, 2008
Hear ye, hear ye!
*Critic/blogster/genius/saint David J. Montgomery has named The Black Dove his Book of the Week. Check it out!
*The February/March issue of Mystery News sports a front-page profile of yours truly penned by co-publisher/managing editor/genius/saint Lynn Kaczmarek. Check it out!
*The same issue of Mystery News features a glowing review of The Black Dove by critic/genius/saint Tim Davis. Unfortunately, you can't Check it out! because it's not available online. But here's a taste: "Well-written, fast-paced, filled with historical atmosphere and plenty of quirky characters, and featuring the most genuinely funny narrator-protagonist in modern mystery fiction, this highly recommended adventure of the Amlingmeyer brothers will be thoroughly enjoyed by fans of classic Holmesian-style mysteries." Huzzah!
*I'm still burned out on blogging after surviving Steve Week (Minus Two) over at St. Martin's Minotaur's Moments in Crime site. So, please -- check that out (if you haven't already). Cuz hear ye, hear ye...I'm done.
Steve Hockensmith
February 26, 2008
America, are you ready to rock?!? I sure hope so, because Hockapalooza '08 is officially underway.
It kicked off last night with a Black Dove signing at the lovely Moon News Bookstore in beautiful, bucolic Half Moon Bay, Calif. Tonight it continues at A Great Good Place for Books in Oakland. And after that, it's on to my literary home away from home, "M" Is for Mystery, before continuing at a ton of other great stores across this great land of ours. (Well, across California, Arizona and Colorado, anyway.)
And don't think the media's got such a bad case of Obamamania they can't take a moment to notice widdle ol' me. Anneli Rufus of the East Bay Express has written a lovely profile of moi, which all you non-East Bayers can read here.
Look for more exciting tour updates soon. I'm cranking this one up to 11, people!
Steve Hockensmith
February 21, 2008
The boys are back in town! Today marks the official release of The Black Dove, the third Big Red/Old Red mystery.
This time, the brothers find themselves down and out in San Francisco. When a friend from an earlier adventure gets into trouble with the Chinatown tongs, the guys take it upon themselves to save the day. Only pretty soon it's Big Red and Old Red who need saving. There's a reason they used to call tong members "hatchet men," you know....
The Black Dove -- ask for it by name.
Oh, and don't forget to buy it, too.
Steve Hockensmith
February 19, 2008
So I know I said yesterday there'd be nothing new here while I was guest-blogging over at Moments in Crime. And I was right...more or less. Because this is just a note to tell you there's still nothing new to see here -- but there's something absolutely miraculous to see here.
This morning, you see, the Los Angeles Times ran the sort of review authors dream about getting. It was enthusiastic. It was insightful. It was in the L.A. freakin' Times! And most importantly of all, I suppose, it was a review of my new book, The Black Dove.
God bless you, Dick Lochte. I would close with the classic author-to-critic thank you -- "The check is in the mail" -- but that wouldn't quite cover it. No, indeedy.
My first-born child is in the mail.
Steve Hockensmith
February 16, 2008
As the movie cop standing next to the crime scene tape always says: "Move along, people. Nothing to see here."
I won't be posting any updates here until sometime next week. But despair not, o my people! That's only because there's a regular Hockensmith Blogfest going on over at Moments in Crime, the official blog for St. Martin's Minotaur authors. I'll be doing my thing over there for the next five days.
And what exactly is my "thing"? Well, there's only one way to find out....
Steve Hockensmith
February 15, 2008
Spidey sense tingling? Feel a disturbance in the Force? Can't sleep, can't eat? Developing a strange rash in your nether regions?
Not to fear. Those are all symptoms of Amlingmeyer Fever: the uncontrollable urge to rush out and buy a Big Red/Old Red book that isn't available yet.
Well, I'm not so sure about the rash, actually. That you might want to have a doctor look at. But the rest of it -- that's Amlingmeyer Fever, alright.
Fortunately, there is a cure...and it's almost at hand. On February 19, Big Red and Old Red will be back in The Black Dove, their third novel-length adventure.
Until then, there are other ways to keep the fever down. Like reading all the good reviews the new book's been getting. No, I'm not talking about the thumbs ups from Library Journal, Booklist, Publishers Weekly and Kirkus. That's old news...but well worth mentioning again, as long as the subject's come up.
Hey, everybody, don't forget: The Black Dove got thumbs ups from Library Journal, Booklist, Publishers Weekly and Kirkus!
But it was actually a slew of new reviews I was thinking of. The Historical Novel Society just posted one on their Editor's Choice page, for instance. (You have to scroll down down DOWN to see it, but trust me: It's there.) And the fine folks at the Mystery One bookstore in Milwaukee have put one up here. Why, even Harriet Klausner likes the book, and we all know how hard she is to please! And the fabtacular Gayle Surrette of Gumshoe Review not only digs The Black Dove, she apparently thinks I'm alright, too: She's posted an interview with me here.
Could this sudden outbreak of Amlingmeyer Fever turn into an outright epidemic? Let's hope so!
And don't you dare go and get inoculated. I need all the victims...excuse me, readers I can get.
Steve Hockensmith
February 9, 2008
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen and all the ships at sea!
ITEM! Dates for the Black Dove publicity tour have been posted here! Will the Hockapalooza bandwagon be rolling through your town? Sources say there's only one way to find out!
ITEM! A preview of the new Big Red/Old Red short story "The Devil's Acre" is available on the Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine website! Sources say the story takes place between On the Wrong Track and The Black Dove!
ITEM! The Super Music Friend Show is on! Sources say, "Enjoy!"
ITEM! Saddle Pals Ken Bruen and Kevin Wignall are both finalists for Edgar Awards! Sources say, "Congrats!"
ITEM! On the Wrong Track has been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize! Sources say, "Huh?"
ITEM! That last item isn't true! Sources say, "Oh, ha ha. Very funny."
ITEM! A new study confirms rumors that growing old sucks! Sources say, "Duh!"
ITEM! The first five folks to sign up for Big Red's e-newsletter will get a free copy of the February 2008 Ellery Queen! Sources say, "That's the one with 'The Devil's Acre' in it, by the way!"
ITEM! < | | |
