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The following, written by Jim Fusilli, was published in The Wall Street Journal on July 6, 2004. It's been five months since I stopped reviewing mysteries and crime fiction for the Boston Globe, and still my stomach clenches whenever a UPS or FedEx truck approaches my front door. I dread the thought that the driver will hop out and deliver yet another big shipment of books, all demanding immediate attention, few displaying the craft and precision required to create a vibrant novel and at least one or two gems readers might prize forever. Writing that monthly column for the Globe was easily the worse job I've ever had, and this coming from a man once responsible for the nightly hamburger run for a dock's worth of Teamsters. The assessment has nothing to do with the Globe or Boston, which, one could argue, is the epicenter of American crime fiction, what with Robert B. Parker, Dennis Lehane, Linda Barnes, Jeremiah Healy, Philip R. Craig and many others setting their books in and around the region. I was delighted to be asked, and happy to write the first few columns. And then the books started to come. And they kept coming and coming, sometimes in final form, other times in an early version known as arcs, and suddenly there were huge stacks, each bearing a Post-It note I'd created to separate them by month of publication. My office floor wasn't the only place overrun with books: When we put our house up for sale, potential buyers who opened closets were greeted by scores of books and arcs. One night, a teetering tower in my office tumbled over and, thinking we had a burglar, I ran downstairs to confront him -- with a book I grabbed off the stack on the nightstand. In most cases, the cavalcade of books came unaccompanied by useful information. I'd usually get a cookie-cutter press release, one that attempted to summarize a novel with language both flaccid and hyperbolic. Usually, it included praise for the author from other critics -- an intimidation tactic, perhaps -- and from authors who may be a friend. Sometimes, an arc would arrive with a glossy press kit, but almost invariably the quality of the press kit was in inverse proportion to the quality of the work. Some of the best books I read during my tenure came unannounced. Not only were there too many books, there were too many bad books. For every superior work of genre fiction, like "The Killing of the Tinkers" by Ken Bruen or Magdalen Nabb's "Some Bitter Taste," there were dozens that disqualified themselves for serious consideration through dull writing, erratic pacing, meandering plots and wooden characters. Many new writers tried too hard to sound like an old master, and several of today's old masters tried hard not at all. The rewards of commercial success and not a passion for writing was too often the apparent motive for the enterprise. And yet many books were highly entertaining, and some of those just missed the field's standard of excellence. Thus, every book in every pile, which sometimes grew to 25 or 30 books high, demanded to be read for at least a few chapters. When I loved a book -- Gregory McDonald's sweet and clever "Flynn's World" or George Harrar's troubling "The Spinning Man" -- the story and characters stayed with me for days. But so did characters in books that fell apart before the stories took off, and there was a nagging feeling that something should have been done by the books' editors, that some guidance would have directed the authors toward superior writing. What was most heartbreaking about the job -- and here's what made it worse than lugging sacks of greasy burgers back to the loading dock -- was thoroughly enjoying the experience of reading a crime novel, writing a glowing review and later learning that the book failed to find its audience. This happened twice, with Robert Rice's "The Nature of Midnight" and I.J. Parker's "The Hell Screen," both terrifically imaginative works. Not long after my reviews appeared, I learned that Mr. Rice and Ms. Parker were to be dropped by their publishers for lack of sales. Ms. Parker's tales of an amateur detective in 14th-century Japan have found a new home at Viking, but Mr. Rice's series featuring two Montana-based postal inspectors is still adrift and, I'm told, may not continue. Growing weary of the deluge and left with a nagging sense of defeat, I finally quit, concentrating my energies on my own crime series, some screenwriting opportunities and the joy of my work as a music critic. My experience as a book critic encouraged me to re-examine how I can help promote my own fiction. I figure if reviewers are overwhelmed, readers are too. So this year, I'll be making more in-store appearances -- I think I'll be in about 20 bookstores across the country in the fall on behalf my new novel, "Hard, Hard City" -- and fine-tuning my Web site so it's more reader friendly. Spending time with readers, the most important people in the process of writing and selling books, can rejuvenate a writer. It's good for the soul, not just good business. Meanwhile, the books still come but with less frequency, and now I have time to read for pleasure, something I had surrendered. Thus relieved, I have almost no desire to tell anyone what I'm reading or what I think of it. By the way, have you read "Southwesterly Wind," the new Inspector Espinosa novel by Luis Alfredo Garcia-Roza? It's terrific. Reprinted with permission |
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