The Chandler/Hammit Debate

Have you ever read something created by the writer, Raymond Chandler? You haven't? 

Oh my . . . 

In my opinion, Raymond Chandler is the inventor of the modern American pulp-fiction detective.  Oh sure, sure. Most pundits would say American pulp-fiction was actually created by a writer by the name of Dashiell Hammit. And indeed, I'll give credit where credit is due. Hammit  arrived on the scene just before the arrival of Chandler. Hammit wrote fast-paced, hard hitting mysteries with bodies dropping on every other page and gun-play that would satisfy any ham-fisted thug. He also filled his pages with dry, sarcastic wordplay that instantly separated his novels from everyone else who came before him.

Raymond Chandler

You can't help but find yourself compelled with Hammit's creations. It seems like everyone on the planet has heard the titles to two of his most famous books, i.e.; The Maltese Falcon and The Thin Man.

Two novels which I re-read again and again because they're just that satisfying to do.

But look at it this way.

Comparing the two writers is like comparing the sufferings of a patient with a badly ruptured appendicitis. Do you want this poor fellow to walk into a butcher's shop to get the help he needs?

Or would you prefer seeing the patient walk into the waiting room of a world-class surgeon?

That's the difference between Hammit's style of word-play versus Chandler's. The ham-fisted, shoot first and ask no questions later kind of anti-hero. Versus the delicious word play artistry of a reluctant hero forced to step forward to help those who can't, or won't, help themselves.

I urge you to decide for yourself who was the better of the two. Go out and find a copy of Hammit's The Thin Man and read it. And then find a copy of Chandler's Farewell, My Lovely. I'm betting you'll enjoy both. Which one will you enjoy the most?

(And while you're at it, let me know something. Did I misspell Dashiell Hammit's last name? Again?)

Dammit Sherlock, where do we go from here?

 I'm deep into the writing of the book--and I'm facing the biggest frickin' traffic intersection in my life.  I assume a writer, when they begin a project, begins with a relatively clear image on how the journey goes forward.

So for the next dozen or so pages, maybe even four or five chapters into the tome, the going is relatively fast. Sure, there are some bumps and bruises along the way. But that's to be expected.

I mean . . . come on. You're writing a damn novel.  It may not be rocket science. But to those who are not rocket scientists, it's pretty damn close.

But then . . . oh boy.

Somewhere deep in the novel (for me roughly around the 100 page mark) you realize you're trapped in the that nebulous aura of vagary called The Middle Book. That means you've created so many characters and launched them in so many different trajectories, you find yourself in a maze of possibilities you no longer can control. You become lost in an ocean of possibilities.

Some pundit (that is, some person who almost knows what they're talking about) once described writing a novel is much like playing a chess game. There's the Opening Game. Followed by The Middle Game. And naturally, The End Game bringing the conclusion to the epic battle.

In chess there is a point system that one can tally up points for each opposite chess piece you can remove from the board. Of course, in the opening of the game, the score starts out 0/0 until one or the other player takes a chess piece. And then the points begin to pile up as the game goes along.

But then an interesting phenomenon happens. There is an initial flurry of pieces being taken off the board by each player. The Middle Game arrives .And along with it, the curious realization comes along that, no matter what piece you take off the board from your opponent, the points awarded will be equal in worth. So which piece do you go after next?

The same is true in writing a novel. So many characters are in play. So many plot lines suddenly open up, you realize you can find yourself traveling down a path you never thought possible. But it becomes even more curious. That unexpected plot line, in turn, can come spiraling into a dead end, and off you go down a different path altogether.

So the question is, what do you do next?

Answer? 

Either stay on the new course you've taken and follow it to the bitter end. Or, and this is what I think happens for most novelists, you do nothing. You let the characters in the novel take over and just follow where they want to go.

In the end, if you don't like where you wound up with, you can always go back and tear out sections  and rewrite those sections which  which veered you veered off into never-neverland. 

On the other hand, deciding to go along with your characters as they chart out their own paths might create a better book. And ultimately, that's what you want isn't it?

Poetic Noir

 Hello . . . remember me? 

I'm the eccentric writer who likes to muse over his potentially eccentric writing. Not that it matters much; few people travel down this oddball lane of dubious verbiage as I do. But then, on the other hand, maybe there might be one or two of you who will  stumble along, eyes looking downward and glued into the pages of a novel, and runs into me.

Now wouldn't that be wonderful. Stranger things do happen in this world.

Today's helping of literary fancy is called Poetic Noir. My definition of this non-existent term would go like this: Turning the ordinary Noir novel into a vivid portrait of imagery and emotions much like an artist capturing the light and fascination of an intriguing personality on a piece of canvas.

Essentially, how do you design a salad bowl of random words into a coherent roadmap of sentences which fascinates a reader's entire interest into the world you've created for him? Ah, that's the conundrum. And no two writers, or fans of Noir (or any genre), will ever come to a common agreement.

But let me end this smear of provocative nonsense with an example of something I'm writing on currently.  Below is the first page of a short-story called 'Call Me Smitty.'  You can find the entire short-story in a collection of short-stories entitled, There Is No Johnny.

See if it tickles your fancy.

In the darkened solitude of the car, he watched her hurriedly walk across the semi-deserted street and step up onto the opposite curb. All the time moving underneath the curved expanse of a red umbrella. 

 Red. 

 Her favorite color. Red umbrella. Red shoes. A red dress. A red car. Red … Like the color of blood. 

 The rain was coming down hard. Pelting the sidewalks and street with droplets big enough to almost knock someone out. Like getting hit with a blackjack. Unexpected. Making everyone run and dance between raindrops, seeking some form of safety from the deluge. It drenched every living creature with a wet monotony that simply refused to let up. Made dogs growl and snap at their own masters. Made women think about killing their husbands. Made husbands think about their wives. Unpleasantly. Especially in this part of town. A rough neighborhood. Whorehouses. Pawnshops. Cheap saloons.