Book Reviews by Elizabeth A. White

I’m very pleased to welcome Chris Holm to the blog today. Anyone who’s ever read a short story by Chris knew immediately he was destined for something big, and with Chris’s book Dead Harvest, the first in a trilogy from Angry Robot Books, set to be released next Tuesday, February 28th, it seems big is finally here. Today Chris shares how he found inspiration for the book’s protagonist, Sam, in Hell.

That Dante guy was onto something.

See, I grew up in a Catholic family. Catholic families know from punishment. From month-long groundings to wallopings to threats of violent murder, I’ve heard it all. (My personal fave was my mom’s common refrain of “Come here so I can smack you.” Seriously, is that like some kind of aptitude test? Who snaps to when they hear that ol’ chestnut?) But when it comes to scaring kids straight, the best most Sunday Schools can muster is the old lake-of-fire routine. And sure, it don’t sound good exactly, but for a kid raised on Stephen King and A Nightmare on Elm Street, that hell didn’t hardly impress.

Then I read Dante’s INFERNO. Suddenly, hell had my attention.

Sometime during middle school, this must’ve been. Yeah, I know: I was kind of a morbid kid. But I’d yet to discover punk, so I was all about Poe and King and Zeppelin and Black Sabbath, and I figured “Dude gets lost in woods and wanders into hell” was just the sort of thing I should be reading.

Turns out, it was just the sort of thing I should be reading. And, impressionable child that I was, it messed me up a tiny little bit. (more…)

Very pleased to welcome Pearce Hansen to the blog today. Pearce is the author of the books Street Raised, Gun Sex (free today only!), and Stagger Bay, which I’ll be reviewing tomorrow.

I was born in the middle of the post war paperback boom, when more books were printed, sold and read than at any time before in history. Those rickety rotating pocket books stands were everywhere I went with my family: drugstores, bus stations, supermarkets, even barber shops. Those pulp covers fascinated me: lurid colors and vibrant composition – blazing guns, big breasted women in swooning peril, and a granite jawed hero going toe to toe with either a sneering villain or a tentacled monster.

The smell of those books was great too. I’d see them at rummage sales and flea markets and I had to riffle the already crumbling pages, smell the scent of decomposing cheap paper. I loved them.

Through the years books were always my friends. I was a book gypsy for Moe Moskowitz of Moe’s Books on Telegraph in Berkeley – he taught me to spot first editions and books of value at yard sales, then bring them to him and sell at a profit – he made his pile to be sure, but it was hardly an unpaid internship on my part. Eventually I became a book merchant in my own right buying low and selling high at the Alameda Penny Market – one of the craziest ‘thieves’ markets’ in history I’ll bet, coming in at a time when the hippies were segueing into the drug dealing culture, and when the Angels and the Black Panthers still dominated the East Bay subculture like the T Rexes in Jurassic Park (more…)

Though no stranger to those familiar with the world of crime fiction short stories, where she had been publishing successfully since 2007, Hilary Davidson announced herself to the world at large in 2010 with her full-length debut, The Damage Done. The book went on to rack up a ton of accolades and make countless best of the year lists, including mine, and with good reason. Tomorrow will see the release of Hilary’s follow up, The Next One to Fall, along with my review of it. Today, however, Hilary has stopped by to talk about the inspiration behind The Next One to Fall.

Hilary at Machu Picchu in the Cusco Region of Peru

My second novel, THE NEXT ONE TO FALL, is being released on Valentine’s Day — an ironic date, given that the book is anything but romantic. At the center of the story is a man who grew up in a wealthy, powerful family; his wives and girlfriends have a tendency to die or disappear in exotic places.

While I was writing the book, I occasionally wondered if people would think that idea too far-fetched. But at the same time, I was keenly aware of stories about women who’d been killed — or who had vanished — while traveling. There were three women in particular whose cases resonated with me, and I ended up mentioning them in the book.

One is Julie Ward, a wildlife photographer who was murdered in Kenya in 1988. The authorities, not wanting to disrupt their tourist trade, tried to pretend her death was a suicide, as if Ward had decided to hack herself apart with a machete. When that explanation was shown to be patently false, the authorities then blamed her death on wild animals. To this day, no one has been convicted of the crime, even though private investigators and Ward’s family have built a substantial case against a Kenyan man. Ward’s death was a terrible reminder that, in parts of the world that are dependent on their tourist trade, the desire to maintain the status quo can outweigh the desire for justice. (more…)

I’m pleased to welcome back LA Times bestselling author Dianne Emley for a continuing look at her Iris Thorne series. I’ll be reviewing the series’s second entry, Slow Squeeze, tomorrow. Originally published in the early 90’s, it’s been an interesting experience for Dianne to revisit books she hadn’t looked at in nearly a decade.

Thank you, Elizabeth, for allowing me to participate again in your blog. Last December, I wrote about revisiting my first book, Cold Call, (the first Iris Thorne mystery) and the debut author I was in 1993. This post focuses on my second book (and the second in the series), Slow Squeeze, published in 1994.

I’ve gently edited and am republishing the five Iris Thorne mysteries as e-books and trade paperbacks. The third, Fast Friends, will be re-released soon. Books four and five—Foolproof and Pushover—will be out later this year.

When I landed a two-book deal with Simon and Schuster for Cold Call and a second, unnamed, Iris Thorne mystery, my elation soon turned to terror. Writing Cold Call was a hobby, a lark. I took all the time I wanted to polish it in blissful privacy. Now, I reported to an editor and had a deadline for the second book, all while holding down a full-time day job. Like my mother is fond of saying, don’t wish too hard for what you want because you might get it.

The title of this post is only somewhat tongue-in-cheek. When I exceeded my wildest dreams by landing that book contract, my early morning writing hobby suddenly became public. The warning about the sophomore jinx was delivered by a childhood friend, also an avid scribbler, who was perhaps a wee bit jealous. I asked him, “What do you mean?” I honestly had never heard that phrase before. Oh, to be young and naïve. I was soon to have the scales yanked from my eyes. (more…)

I’ll be reviewing The Distant Shore by Mariam Kobras in the not too distant future, but wanted to go ahead and welcome her for a guest post during her “Love is in the Air” Blog Hop & Giveaway.

My son is slaying dragons.

Not real dragons, of course, they are just evil critters in a video game. He battles them with virtual swords and words of power that pluck the beasts from the sky and make them vulnerable. He needs to kill them before he can go on winning the world of Skyrim and be a hero.

I enjoy watching him play these games, it’s a bit like watching a very long, interactive movie. I know the characters, feel for them, wishing they will win their battles for freedom and get a piece of happiness in that cold, rocky land of theirs. Skyrim is not a game for the faint of heart, and it’s definitely not for those who are afraid of dragons.

Here I am watching my teenage son play, when I’m supposed to be writing this guest post for the blog hop.
Last night, sitting in this same spot on the Chesterfield couch my sister gave me when she moved to Scotland (different story; I’m only bragging about the Chesterfield.) I was whining at my dear publisher about this blog hop and how I hated to be torn away from my “real” writing for so long to do all these posts, and how I was scared that I’d lost it and would never be able to write another word or a book again.

Of course, being a good publisher, MaryChris kicked my butt and told me to just get moving, she was quite sure I had lost nothing, and would be just fine, and there were a lot of novels in me yet. There was only this one post left for me to write just now, and then I’d be free to return to Jon and Naomi and their story.

Here’s the thing.

Even while we were talking about this, I had this epiphany, this moment of enlightenment, when, for an instant, I understood the meaning of “Writer’s Block”. Writer’s Block, this much discussed, famed, feared state of mind when a writer thinks she has nothing more to say, when she believes the well has dried up. When she thinks there will never be another word, chapter, let alone another book, and this career is over before it even really started.

I felt that way last night. I felt as if I’d never be able to return to my novel, never be able to pick up the thread and find the story again. And it wasn’t because I didn’t want to write. (more…)

In somewhat of a departure, today I am welcoming a guest reviewer. Jason Duke is not just any old reviewer, however, he is himself a crime fiction author. Even more noteworthy and deserving of respect, he is also a U.S. Army and Iraqi war veteran. Please welcome Jason for the first of what will be semi-regular guest reviews.

Pulp Press boasts a line of pocket-sized crime novellas, whose gritty fast-paced revenge plots, pulp cover art, and fabricated torn edges, are designed with a worthwhile goal in mind towards recapturing the nostalgia for the dime novel and pulp’s golden-era. Their motto: “Turn off your T.V. and discover fiction like it used to be…”

One such novella, Danny Hogan’s “Killer Tease”, sets the standard for the kind of reputation Pulp Press seeks. A bare bones revenge story about an aging burlesque dancer named Eloise Murphy, the title lives up to what the Pulp Press line is about. Initially the target of a diabolical revenge scheme, she manages to turn the tables instead. In her long career as a dancer (which, apparently, is not the same as stripping!), Murphy has earned a tough-as-nails reputation and as many enemies.

The story is fast in the very beginning when Murphy loses yet another dancing gig, then kind of plods along as she tries to figure out her next move, then quickly picks back up again when she is offered to work for a shady, unscrupulous character named Napoleon Hammerstein. In fact, outside of her mate Hunter and her cat Sinatra, there is (literally) no-one that can be trusted in this story. The best part of the book is when it is revealed to Murphy on entering the dance stage that she has been tricked by Hammerstein to in fact perform for all the men she has ever beaten over the years. That aha moment when the men begin clamoring on stage to exact their revenge is truly exceptional. (more…)

Frequent visitor – hell, he has his own archive section! – Jeff Strand is back. This time he wants to talk a little about his new novella, Faint of Heart, which I’ll be reviewing tomorrow, as well as share his thoughts on the different types of reviews authors get. Please, don’t make him cry.

The digital edition of my new novella, Faint of Heart, is now available. Some early readers, including Ms. Elizabeth A. White, think it’s one of my best books. I’m hoping the rest of the world will like it, too, but whenever you publish a book, some people are going to think it suuuuuucks!

I’m okay with bad reviews. I mean, I feel kinda sick to my stomach when I read them, but it’s part of the business. A book that gets nothing but glowing reviews is a book that has only found a very small audience. If you check Rotten Tomatoes, some people didn’t even like The Muppets. How can anybody be so dead inside that they didn’t like The Muppets?

As a rule, one of the dumbest things you can do as an author is respond defensively to negative reviews. You look like a whiny jerk. Especially the “Let’s see YOU write a book!” response. You don’t need to be a published novelist to have an informed opinion about books any more than I need to know how to properly slaughter a cow to say that the beef shish kabobs I had this weekend were total garbage.

That said, here are some reviews that annoy me… (more…)

Today reformed pyromaniac Stephen Blackmoore stops by to share a little about how the dark side of the City of Angels shaped his novel City of the Lost, which I’ll be reviewing tomorrow. And if you’re in the LA area, be sure to check out Stephen and a horde of other authors reading their work at Noir at the Bar on Jan 22nd.

In January of 1934 G. Warren Shufelt, a mining engineer, believed that a race of lizard people were living in tunnels underneath Downtown L.A. Not only did he think these lizard people were there, but he also believed that they had gold and other treasures in their underground city. He even said he had photographed some of these treasures with “radio X-rays”. Four foot long gold tablets upon which 5000 years of ancient lizard man lore was written.

He dug a shaft on North Hill Street in an effort to find the entrance. He even made a map of it showing the tunnel locations, various rooms and their dimensions and where all the gold was supposed to be.

Could it be true? Could there be a race of Lovecraftian lizardmen living under the streets of L.A.?

Well, no, of course not, but for a while somebody believed it. The L.A. Times even printed a front page story about it. Showed the map and everything.

L.A. can be a weird, funny and truly creepy place. Lizard people, the curse of Griffith Park, haunts a-plenty. Horrors and weirdness of the more mundane variety, too. There’s The Black Dahlia, Charles Manson, The Night Stalker, The Grim Sleeper.

Hell, just the other day a couple hikers found some Armenian guy’s head in a bag in Bronson Canyon. No word yet on where the rest of him is. I don’t think they’ll find him. (more…)

Tomorrow I will be reviewing Absolute Zero Cool by Declan Burke. Today I’m pleased to welcome Declan for a guest post, in which he ruminates on violence in crime fiction and the author’s “right” to write about it, and comes to a rather unexpected personal conclusion.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so busy. Really, Elizabeth’s gracious offer to host a guest post by yours truly couldn’t have come at a better time.

Seriously.

Right now I’m supposed to be doing a final redraft on my latest book, Slaughter’s Hound (it’s a sequel to my first book, Eightball Boogie). And I am. Except I’m so busy fiddling with a word here or a comma there, an entire paragraph over there and three pages of exposition virtually everywhere, that I don’t have time to think about the bigger picture, and about what the book is really saying. So I’m very grateful for this opportunity to type out loud, as it were, and discover a thing or two about where the story is going.

I hope.

Anyway, as you can probably appreciate from the title, Slaughter’s Hound is not a cosy in which the mystery of the missing mittens is solved by a cat detective (note to self: sketch out synopsis for story about a serial-killer rabid dog who hunts down cat detectives). No, Slaughter’s Hound is old school. In fact, it kind of harks back to the Old West, and a time and place where the law was what the man with fastest draw said it was. In essence, it’s an eye-for-an-eye retribution tale featuring a protagonist who is, politically speaking, perhaps just a little to the left of LA Confidential’s Bud White.

This didn’t happen by accident, of course. I deliberately set out to write a right-wing treatise, mainly because Irish crime fiction, while offering virtually every other kind of variation on the crime / mystery novel, has yet to unearth its very own Mickey Spillane or early James Ellroy. Consciously or otherwise, most Irish writers cleave to the liberal model of the crime novel, which is to say that evil is not just always defeated, but is seen to be defeated, and generally as a result of the hero’s innate goodness, which usually manifests itself as a superior intellect and emotional intelligence, both of which the dastardly criminal lacks, being working class and stupid and starved of affection because his parents were working class and stupid and emotionally stunted. And on it goes. (more…)

After six successful novels set in her native Ireland, including five in her QuicK Investigations series, author Arlene Hunt has decided to kick down the door here on the shores of the U.S. with her latest release, The Chosen, by setting the action in the woods and mountains of upstate North Carolina. Tomorrow I’ll be reviewing The Chosen, but today I’m pleased to welcome Arlene to explain why she felt she had to “Go West.”

For as long as I can remember my fascination with all things crime came with a distinctly American flavour. I grew up in a foster home. Kitty (my elderly foster mother) watched Kojak, Hawaii 5 0, Hill Street Blues, CHiPs and just about every cop show that could be caught on a two-station black and white television set the size and shape of a packet of cornflakes. I was her willing companion (plus it meant I got to stay up late and hot chocolate).

The seed was sown. As soon as I could I left behind Enid Blyton and Judy Blume novels and discovered Joseph Wambaugh and Stephen King. I loved the horror novels, but it was crime that drew me in and kept me hooked. I was amazed at how people spoke in crime novels, stunned by the wit and black humour, and in awe of the tension and violence. It became something of an obsession with me to get my paws on as many crime novels as possible, books that had Kitty ever cracked their spines would immediately have been confiscated (I’m trying to picture Kitty’s expression had she read some of the exchanges between ‘Spermwhale’ Whalen and ‘Roscoe’ Rules in The Choirboys). I had an ally in Kitty’s husband, a garrulous ex-army man, who plied my interest with both tales of war and dog-eared paperbacks, where men shot first, asked pertinent questions later, and always with a mysterious broad skulking in the shadows. (more…)