Great First Line

THE SMOKE CARRIED UP FROM THE Cahuenga Pass and flattened beneath a layer of cool crossing air. From where Harry Bosch watched, the smoke looked like a gray anvil rising up the pass. The late afternoon sun gave the gray a pinkish tint at its highest point, tapering down to deep black at its root, which was a brushfire moving up the hillside on the east side of the cut.

Connelly, Michael - The Black Ice

Yep, I am back to writing out the first lines of books. Micheal Connelly's first lines are just as good as Lawrence Sanders who I think is the best of them all.

In these first few sentences Michael Connelly does all of the things that I find both intriguing and irritate me about Californians. Connelly (and most Californians) are obsessed with the nomenclature of their area and particularly so when discussing traffic patterns and highways. I despise this but I suppose he is trying to immerse the character in the writing and the setting.

The other thing that Connelly does that Sanders does as well is use color in the imagery. That "gray anvil" or "pinkish tint" and "deep black" are all there giving more depth to the sentence. I like the fact that there is that next level of modifiers in first sentences. These tell me that Connelly, unlike other sentences and passages that just move the story along, this first sentence is crafted and tuned to what it is now.

Expelling Demons

No update today . . . only that I'm on track and ahead of schedule already and I'm not even on the flight or waiting at the airport. Things are trending up.

Today it's about getting rid of ghosts. One thing I love about writing is that it lets a writer put himself/herself into the mind of a character and really expel some demons and ghosts that may be lurking there. My character is dealing with a breakup, a slow, agonizing one that he doesn't want to have to face but is forced upon him. Working him through that is really helping me through some stuff, but it's not enough. Today I found myself asking, "What more can I do to really screw this guy up."

One of my favorite books that I've read lately is "The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August" by Claire North (here and here). One of the things I loved about the book is that the author put her main character through so much pain and suffering. To put it simply he relives his live over and over again and remembers all of his previous lives. There's a lot more to the plot than that, but she kills Harry off in some spectacular ways. The death at the hands of his arch enemy in Russia is particularly unnerving.

I loved the movie The Butterfly Effect because I enjoyed the idea of someone being able to change the world and their own timeline through small changes in their life. I also enjoyed the movie 12 Monkey's for the same reason, the paradox of people going back in time and making changes that affect the future. Groundhog Day with Bill Murray (which savvy readers will know I've written about many times before and even contacted the author, see here) is also a favorite of mine, although I think the movie is a bit too light hearted. Harry August leaves them all in the dust.

Still and all it's a love story as well as a great story about friends and enemies. It was always the love story that appealed to me because the main character was not only able to meet the love of his life, but also to shape his next life to make sure he marries her. Sadly, it never worked out the way he hoped with her, which I suppose was Miss North's way of saying a person can never truly find and manufacture true love, still that was the part that drew me in the most. Perhaps it will be something I find time to explore in NaNo 2018!

Morning's Still Working . . .

I'm still waking up early to write every morning, but "early" has taken on quite a fluid meaning during the holidays.

Also, I've noticed an uptick in readership over the last couple of days. Who out there is reading this (as if I didn't already know). So, as a sop to my fan(s), I'm rededicating myself to journaling. You can thank of curse me later.

To that end, I'm writing about what could have been my favorite book of 2016. During my hiatus from writing here, I've finished quite a few books. Throughout 2016 I've read the following:

The Stand by Stephen King - What a great walk down memory lane (see here).

The Manchurian Candidate - Great book, but you could watch the movie and get the same thing (see here).

Four to Score by Evanovich - My fave for rainy day quick reads. It's eerie how much she's modeled her love interest(s) off of me (see here).

Icon by Frederick Forsyth - Even better than Red Storm Rising (see here).

Jack Reacher Running Blind - No comment. Just a time waster as so many of his are (see here).

The Third Deadly Sin - I've spent too much time telling this audience about my favorite author, but I'm sad that this will be the last new book of his I'll ever read (see here).

But among all the books I've read this year, The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August by Claire North (see here) is hands down the best of the bunch. 

The first line is actually one of the last lines, so by posting the first line here, you get a two-fer:

I am writing this for you. My enemy. My friend. You know, already, you must know. You have lost.

North, Claire - The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August 

After that introduction the story starts and starts quickly:

The second cataclysm began in my eleventh life, in 1996. I was dying my usual death, slipping away in a warm morphine haze, which she interrupted like an ice cube down my spine.

Like my favorite sci-fi author, Vernor Vinge (see here), Claire North does and outstanding job of creating a believable alternate universe. In this case it is alternate universes. The crux of the story is that Harry gets to relive his same life over and over. Easily the most intriguing thing I've ever read if only because it makes one think of all the things that person would do differently. The story wanders a bit, jumping back and forth from one life to another but always showing that journey toward the cataclysm. One of the most fun and entertaining books I've read lately. 

I love what must have been the impetus behind the story, finding a religious teaching or obscure idea, interpreting it into modern times and providing a structure and rules to it that make sense and completely engross the reader. Then taking even that a step further and adding a plot, characters and story line that is just as compelling as the world that has been created. 

But still, I loved it most for the thoughts and fantasies it inspired in me. Sure there are those who will disparage the idea that lives can be re-lived just the way you want them, to them I say "pshaw!" And one thing I loved most about this novel is that it showed that those people who you loved and liked in one life continued to be the same people no matter the life you find yourself in. 

So jealous of Harry and his ability to relive his life. I now hope that when I die I wake up and find myself reborn just like he does. 

Back to an Old Friend

The problem with having a favorite author who is no longer around is that once you've read all their stuff, it's hard to go back and enjoy their works in the same way that you enjoyed them the first time around. I'm going back to read an old friend. Dick Francis. One of my many favorite authors. I'm sure I've read Reflex before, but now that I don't remember it, I think now is a great time to go back and reacquaint myself.

The first line isn't too bad considering some of the others (see here):

Winded and coughing, I lay on one elbow and spat out a mouthful of grass and mud. The horse I’d been riding raised its weight off my ankle, scrambled untidily to its feet and departed at an unfeeling gallop. I waited for things to settle: chest heaving, bones still rattling from the bang, sense of balance recovering from a thirty-mile-an-hour somersault and a few tumbling rolls. No harm done. Nothing broken. Just another fall.

Francis, Dick - Reflex

One of the few good things about going back and re-reading novels is that I like to remember where I was when I read them, and think about who I used for the character models and what places I used for the setting. When I was younger and had a very small history of English country houses to pull from, I always used my parent's friends, the Turner's house as the setting for so many of Dick Francis' novels. It's a tudor style home and was the closest I could get to envisioning British homes.

I also like to remember who it was I envisioned in different roles. Whenever I read a Stephanie Plum mystery (see evidence of that guilty pleasure here) I have a very clear image of the real person in my life who I use in that role. She's perfect for it even though she looks nothing like the way Stephanie Plum is described. Same goes for Jack Ryan. Got me a person for that role too. I like to read these old novels and remember who I used. Usually I remember then think to myself, "What were you thinking!"

Completely Complete . . . Sigh

My favorite authors when I was younger were probably Stephen King (here) and Louis L'amour (here). Stephen King is good a long, interesting yarns. Louis has that black, white, no moral relativism, man against man and nature story.

Once I hit my teens I think I fell in love with Dick Francis (here). Had never been to a horse race, but reading about his adventures around the horse racing world was spectacular to me. Also, I loved the way the story didn't necessarily have to do with racing, racing was sometimes tangential.

Then, later, as an adult, I ran across Archy McNally. What a fun character. But I ran out of them quickly and for more than a decade I was Lawrence Sanders-less.

It wasn't until just a few years ago that I did a bit of research and found out that Lawrence Sanders (here) wrote some much more gritty and more interesting detective stories with New York City as the backdrop. I fell immediately in love with them.

Sadly, I think I've read my last of these.

I just finished The Third Deadly Sin (here) and although it wasn't the best, I sure do love the way Sanders writes. I'll miss being able to read things like:

SOME DAYS LASTED FOREVER; some were never born. She awoke in a fury of expectation, gone as soon as felt; the world closed about. Once again life became a succession of swan pecks. 

Zoe Kohler, blinking, woke holding a saggy breast, soft as a broken bird. The other wrist was clamped between her thighs. She was conscious of the phlegmy light of late winter, leaking through drawn blinds.

Outside, she knew, would be a metal day, no sun, and a sky that pressed. The air would smell of sulfur. She heard traffic drone and, within the apartment house, the dull thumps of morning doors. In the corner of her bedroom a radiator hissed derisively.

Sanders, Lawrence - The Third Deadly Sin

So, now that I've read my last, I'll  be sad for a bit. But, it was serendipity that lead me to the Edward X Delaney series in the first place, perhaps a bit of serendipity will come again and I'll find some more.

Back to an Old Favorite

The title is "Back to an Old Favorite" but can I really say that when it's the son of a favorite?

Whenever I'm casting about for something to read I will commonly go back to the old standards and favorite authors. Go look through this blog and you'll see some of those favorites quite easily. There's Lawrence Sanders (see here), Dick Francis (here), Fredrick Forsyth (here), even some Evanovich (here) and several others. They are safe, secure, you know what you're going to get and it's like walking into a party where you know everyone and there will be some, but not too many, surprises.

This time it's Dick Francis' Damage (buy it here) . . .but it's really by Felix Francis his son. Why is it "Dick Francis' Damage?" Did Dick Francis outline the novel and Felix just complete it? Is he just drawing off the fame and reputation of his father by using his name? (I know, I know . . . it's this . . . but bear with me). Before I continue, let me share with you the first line. I love compiling this list of first lines (see here) and going back and reading them all. This one may be one that I skip over.

I’ve had the test results and the news isn’t good.” 

I couldn’t get the words out of my head. 

I was sitting in the shadows at the back of a race-program kiosk near the north entrance to Cheltenham racetrack, scanning the faces of the crowd as they flooded through the turnstiles. 

I was looking out for any one of the fifty or so individuals who were banned from British racetracks, but my mind kept drifting back to the telephone conversation I’d had that morning with my sister. 

“I’ve had the test results and the news isn’t good.” 

“In what way?” I asked with rising dread.

“It’s cancer,” she said quietly.

Francis, Felix - Dick Francis's Damage

Now, one my suspect that whipping out a word like "cancer" would instantly make for a good first line, but for my money, that could be one of the more boring story openings in existence (that could be hyperbole . . . I still have quite a few more to read).

Now back to Felix. Nothing against my own pops, but I wouldn't want people coming to a train meet that I called "David Hannah's Train Meet" when in effect there was no trace of my father in it. Felix should break out on his own I say. I understand the need to make a living and the desire to continue the work of his father, but have some courage to just call it, Felix Francis' Damage.

Not to mention the fact that as far as books go, his aren't too bad. I don't think they're as solidly good as his father's but they're pretty close (see here). Also, there were some stinker Dick Francis books out there. Felix I hope will one day drop the Dick Francis banner at the top of his books and go fly free on his own.

This is an irksome to me in many ways, not least of which I find Felix not quite as good as his father, but also because of Vincent Lardo. I feel dismayed whenever I go out to read a new Lawrence Sanders book because there are no new ones. His Archy McNally character could be one of my favorite characters ever (despite being a blatant rip off of Archie Goodwin of the Nero Wolf series . . . see here), but there is old Vincent Lardo continuing the series in Sanders' absence.

On the one hand I think it's the height of patheticism to have to use someone else's characters and fame to create your own. On the other hand it sure is nice to have even the semblance of a growing library out there of some of my favorite authors. I'd love to know what others think about this as well.

A Bit of Humor at the End

I got to the end of The Fourth Deadly Sin and actually finished a chapter too early. When I read the below line I thought sure that was the end. It goes so perfectly in my series for "last lines."

He looked up suddenly, and beyond the city’s glow saw the stars whirling their ascending courses . So small, he thought. All the poor, scrabbling people on earth caught up in a life we never made, breaking ourselves trying to manage. 

Philosophers said you could laugh or you could weep. Delaney preferred to think there was a middle ground, an amused struggle in which you recognized the odds and knew you’d never beat them. Which was no reason to stop trying. Las Vegas did all right. 

When he came to his brownstone, the lights were on, the Christmas wreath still on the door. And inside was the companionship of a loving woman, a tot of brandy, a good cigar. And later, a warm bed and blessed sleep. 

“Thank you, God,” he said aloud, and started up the steps.

But no, that's not it. There's a whole chapter more. And instead of ending with Delaney looking up at the stars, contemplating God and his life, he leaves the reader with a note of humor.

“Well, right now I’m in Sylvia Otherton’s apartment and we’ve been working on the Ouija board. You read about that in my previous reports, didn’t you, sir?” 

“Oh, yes,” Delaney said, rolling his eyes upward. “I read about the Ouija board.” 

“Well, the first question we asked, weeks ago, was who killed him. And the board spelled out ‘Blind .’ B-L -I-N-D. Then, the second time, we asked if it was a stranger who killed him, and the board spelled out ‘Ni.’ N-I.” 

“Yes, I recall,” Delaney said patiently. “Very interesting. But what does it mean?” 

“Well, get this, sir …” Estrella said. “Tonight we asked the spirit of Simon Ellerbee whether it was a man or a woman who killed him, and the Ouija board spelled out ‘Wiman.’ W-I-M-A-N. Now that didn’t make much sense at first. But then I realized this board has a slight glitch and is pointing to ‘I’ when it means ‘O.’ If you follow that, you’ll see that the killer was blond, not blind. And the board meant to say ‘No’ instead of ‘Ni’ when we asked if the murderer was a stranger. And the final answer should have been ‘Woman’ instead of ‘Wiman.’ So as I see it, sir, the person we’re looking for is a blond woman who was not a stranger to the victim.”

“Thank you very much,” Delaney said gravely.

Sanders, Lawrence - The Fourth Deadly Sin

Although I liked the ending about the stars much more, I think it's clever that Sanders finds for his readers a Ouija Board that has a problem with O's and I's. Who would have thought of that?

Shimmering Like a Butterfly's Wing

I love the morning series (here) . . . anyone who reads this site must know that by now. Heck, I'm even thinking about making a book that is nothing more than a compendium of morning quotes from novels.

Nevertheless, there was a second morning description in The Fourth Deadly Sin by Lawrence Sanders to go along with this one (here). In fact it was after I read this one that I realized that Sanders starts many of his chapters with descriptions of the morning. The man just loved mornings I guess.

The next morning Delaney felt equally optimistic as he and Monica set out with the Boones for Diane Ellerbee’s country home. “Looks like a splendid day,” Delaney gloated. And so it was. 

A blue sky shimmered like a butterfly’s wing. The sun was a hot plate and there, to the east, one could see a faint smudge of white moon. The sharp air bit like ether, and the whole world seemed scrubbed and polished.

Sanders, Lawrence - The Fourth Deadly Sin

Then a few pages later there was this one:

He lumbered over to Samuelson’s office at 79th Street and Madison Avenue. It was a harshly cold morning, the air still but the temperature in the teens. Delaney was thankful for his flannel muffler, vested suit, and balbriggan underwear. He thrust his gloved hands into his overcoat pockets, but he felt the cold in his feet, a numbing chill from the frozen pavement.

Sanders, Lawrence - The Fourth Deadly Sin

This second one occurs when the detective is on the way to confront the murderer. I like that he uses the morning as a springboard to give insight into the characters mood as well as his demeanor, and one other truly Sanderian aspect of characterization: the characters wardrobe.

Count me in the column of those who like it. He's got a way with words, why not lend that capability to descriptions of mornings.

In the upcoming book I predict Sanders may have a whole chapter to himself.

Two Fer in the First Pages

After yesterday's raveling (see here), I was surprised to find another quotable line for this blog in the first few pages of The Fourth Deadly Sin.

Whenever I think about quotes about the morning, I think of Roger's comment from a few July's ago (see here). When I posed the question, "I wonder why authors love to write about the morning so much." Roger wrote:

It's because mornings are so much more vital. After you've said, "the evening sun cast an ochre smear over the dying sky", or something like that; what more is there to say.

Still, it's no longer in doubt. Whether because it speaks of new beginnings or perhaps they say just as much about the night but I haven't started a series on it, author's love writing about the morning.

By Monday morning the sky had been rinsed; a casaba sun loomed; and pedestrians strode with opened coats flapping. A chill breeze nipped, but New York had the lift of early winter, with stores preparing for Christmas, and street vendors hawking hot pretzels and roasted chestnuts.

Sanders, Lawrence - The Fourth Deadly Sin

A "casablanca sun" is right up there with "a wine dark sea." And I particularly enjoy the fact that he references (not too obliquely) the November chain mail sky from the first line (see here).

The First Line of the Fourth Deadly Sin

Other than quotes about the morning (see here) and Tuesday's post (here), I love looking at first lines (see all of them here). I love that so many people put so much thoughts into first lines. I truly love first lines that are horrid and over thought. This one I love for the prose.

The November sky over Manhattan was chain mail, raveling into steely rain. A black night with coughs of thunder , lightning stabs that made abrupt days. Dr. Simon Ellerbee, standing at his office window, peered out to look at life on the street below. He saw only the reflection of his own haunted face. 

He could not have said how it started, or why. He, who had always been so certain, now buffeted and trembling … 

All hearts have dark corners, where the death of a loved one is occasionally wished, laughter offends, and even beauty becomes a rebuke.

Sanders, Lawrence - The Fourth Deadly Sin 

Granted, Lawrence Sanders is among my favorite authors (see here) so his lines should naturally speak to me, but having recently been to Manhattan, having seen a sky that was "chain mail, raveling into steely rain", this one I particularly like.

Just can't get past the fact that I think the sky should be "unraveling" instead of "raveling."

All Out of Order

I just realized I got all out of order with that last book, McNally's Secret by Lawrence Sanders. I forgot to post the first line, and boy is it a doozey. So, to make up for that oversight, today I offer the following:

I POURED A FEW drops of an ’87 Mondavi Chardonnay into her navel and leaned down to slurp it out.

Sanders, Lawrence - McNally's Secret

Now I'm a fan of Sanders, so I was going to read on regardless of the first line. But for non-fans I would imagine this would be the type of line to make a fellow read on.

Another Morning . . . Another Blog Post

I was wondering what I was going to write about today, there's a great post (here) at The Kill Zone, a great one on why writer's need editors (here) also at The Kill Zone, then there is a terrific infographic (here) that I found on the Corner.

Then I read this:

I came out into a nothing morning , the sky as colorless as a slate pavement, the air unmoving and damp. It was bloody hot , and a nice, refreshing cloudburst would have been a blessing. But that leaden sky offered no shadows and no hope. All in all, a grayish scene— enough to depress the most chipper of do-gooders and make one ponder the value of crawling out of bed on such a blah day.

Sanders, Lawrence - McNally's Secret 

Not so much a line about the morning, as I've been cataloging (here), but more of a passage. A good one too.

Lastly

Savvy readers of this blog know that I compile a list of "last lines" (see here) as a counter-punch to my first lines (see here) compendium. Secondly, it helps me remember which books I've read and what I thought about them. That being said, today's latest addition is below.

I sighed and went into the bedroom to phone. I had two calls to make. The first to Al Georgio, telling that estimable man that no, I would not marry him. The second to Jack Smack, telling that flighty tap dancer that yes, I would move in with him. 

You can be logical about other people’s lives, but never about your own.

Sanders, Lawrence - The Eighth Commandment

It's a slight twist at the end. I expected the protagonist to choose Al. It's fun to see that she didn't.

As I said before (see here) I love Lawrence Sanders' McNally mysteries and I am loving reading his older material even more. There's more seriousness, more gravitas, and the stories are more fleshed out. This was the first I've read of his where he got into the mind of a femme and I have to say I think he did it quite well. I wish he had written more.

Apropos to Be One Day After Yesterday's Post

On the heel's of yesterday's post, where I lambasted Big Red's Daughter for being a pointless, waste of time to read, comes this post.

For years I would answer people who ask that my favorite writer is Dick Francis. I loved that he wrote about horse racing, but every main character wasn't necessarily a jockey. Instead he took bites from around the periphery of racing which made it so much more interesting. I loved that his writing was just flowery enough, to the point and quick but with enough color to make it fun. I loved that although he had a series, every main character was a new one. Each book was fresh and new but at the same time a reader and fan knew basically what they were going to get.

I won't be able to answer so easily anymore for I think that Lawrence Sanders might be my new fave.

I fell in love with Lawrence Sanders' books late in his career. I've written in this blog about how much I enjoy his writing (here). That seems appropriate if only cause Sanders started writing late in his life. Still, I loved the McNally books. They were vibrant and fun and the fact that Archy could list the ingredients of his gourmet lunch so succinctly, or run by the Pelican Club for a vodka gimlet at nine in the morning or wear his puce beret with such aplomb. What did I dislike? They were a tad too frolicsome. They lacked gravitas.

I found the gravitas that was lacking in The Sixth Commandment. I can't wait to read all of Sanders' earlier works now that I know what to expect. It was as if I was reading a Robin Cook mystery (I generally find the writing too trite) and an Archy McNally novel. It was a terrific blend of serious mystery and fun loving life liver. There were still the early morning gimlets, the alcoholism, the spectacular vocabulary and too in depth descriptions of wardrobe, but in The Sixth Commandment there is a reason for it.

The final passage, which loses something by not reading the entire chapter, is:

About 9: 30 P.M., on my third highball, I gave up, and sat down near the phone, trying to plan how to handle it. I brought over several sheets of paper and the sharpened pencils. I started making notes. 

“Hello?” she would say. 

“Powell,” I’d say, “please don’t hang up. This is Samuel Todd. I want to apologize to you for the way I acted. There is nothing you can call me as bad as what I’ve called myself. I’m phoning now to ask if there is any way we can get together again. To beg you. I will accept any conditions, endure any restraints, suffer any ignominy, do anything you demand, if you’ll only let me see you again.” 

It went on and on like that. Abject surrender. I made copious notes. I imagined objections she might have, and I jotted down what my answer should be. I covered three pages with humility, crawling, total submission. I thought sure that, if she didn’t hang up immediately, I could weasel my way back into her favor, or at least persuade her to give me a chance to prove how much I loved her and needed her. 

And if she brought up the difference in our ages again, I prepared a special speech on that: 

“Powell, the past week has taught me what a lot of bullshit the whole business of age can be. What’s important is enjoying each other’s company, having interests in common, loving, and keeping sympathy and understanding on the front burner, warm and ready when needed.” 

I read over everything I had written. I thought I had a real lawyer’s brief , ready for any eventuality. I couldn’t think of a single way she might react, from hot curses to cold silence, that I wasn’t prepared to answer.

I mixed a fresh drink, drained half of it, picked up the phone. I arranged my speeches in front of me. I took a deep breath. I dialed her number. 

She picked it up on the third ring.

“Hello?” she said. 

“Powell,” I said, “please don’t hang—” 

“Todd?” she said. “Get your ass over here.”

I ran.

Sanders, Lawrence - The Sixth Commandment

I can't wait to read more.

Sixth Thing First

I chewed through Lawrence Sanders' McNally Series and loved every single moment of them. I think I may have liked them too much. It's nice to go back in time a bit and read his early stuff. It's like seeing the conception of Archie McNally but in a rougher, less refined manner. Plus, that's a pretty damn good first line.

LATE NOVEMBER, AND THE world was dying. A wild wind hooted faintly outside the windows. Inside, the air had been breathed too many times.

Sanders, Lawrence - The Sixth Commandment