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Books, Reviews, Writing
Strictly Shut-Ended: “Quiller Balalaika”
12.21.09 | Permalink | 3 CommentsSo last night I finished Quiller Balalaika, the 19th and final novel about British superspy Quiller by Elleston Trevor (under his pen name “Adam Hall”). It was written in 1995, and deals with the rise of organized crime is post-Soviet Russia. It’s an above average entry in the series, and seemed especially good after the disjointed Kobra Manifesto. I intentionally saved Balalaika until then end, and not just because it was the last in the series. I read it last because, as he wrote it, Trevor was dying from cancer.
If the reality of his daily life affected the story, I didn’t notice it much. Perhaps in Quiller’s gambit to bring home the big prize, in which he risks more than he ever has before, and even admits to it, or in his open spirituality, but even these are not out of character with the rest of the books. And this is no “last episode”; unlike “M*A*S*H” or “Cheers”, for example, this is just one more adventure in a string of them. Trevor had said what he wanted, and didn’t have anything to add.
More remarkable is the fact that this book includes afterwords by Trevor’s wife and his adult son, in which they describe the last months and even days of his life. The writer loved life, wanted more, and keenly felt the loss of things he would never do. One thing he was damned sure he would do: finish his final work, dictating the last few pages as he was too weak to type.
Then the book was done, and so was he.
I wish I had met him. He was attending conventions as late as 1995, when he was already quite ill, and if I had been involved at all in mystery fandom then, we might have met. He sounds like such an interesting man, a proper gentleman, but engaging rather than reserved.
I wonder if we can see reflections of him in Quiller, his greatest creation. Quiller’s passion, his compassion, his discipline and neuroticism. Quiller could be fatalistic, could see that there may be no way out, could know that one day there would be no way out, and yet he always tried to pull one last rabbit out of the hat…
When I finish up a series like this and know that I’ll never read another Quiller book, I always feel a sense of loss. I always want more. But in this case it’s not just the books I’ll miss. I could have met him if I’d only known, and now, it’s too late.
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Writing
New Story – The Ins and Outs
Got a new story up at Spinetingler Magazine. “The Ins and Outs” is about one paranoid New Yorker who is rather disturbed to discover that they really are out to get him.
It was originally inspired by a challenge issued by Paul Guyot, to create a story containing both an armored car and children’s clothing. I came up with an idea, wrote a few pages – and tossed it in a drawer. A couple of years ago I was trying to get back to writing more, so I pulled it out and completed it. The people I showed it to seemed to like it, so I looked around and decided Spinetingler was the best place for it.
Then-editor Sandra Ruttan approved, so here it is.
My original idea was for a sort of superheated Cornell Woolrich kind of style, and the plot does show some Woolrich influences, right down to the deus-ex-machina ending. I could never get the voice down, though. It always sounded like an H.P. Lovecraft story, so in the end I ran with it. Writing like Lovecraft is easy, but I defy anyone to write like Cornell Woolrich.
I had some problems with some of the rather serious elements in what’s essentially an unserious story, but nobody else seemed to feel that way. What do you think?
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Writing
Short-Short? How About Short-Short-Short!
A while ago Doug Hoffman had a writing contest at his Balls and Walnuts blog. The rules: all entries had to be 75 words long. Not 75 or less. Exactly 75. This tight constraint made for some interesting entries. Here’s the best I could do:
He turned. Too late, I saw the gun.
Wait. Back up.
I was the shadow, he was the subject. Go where he goes, see who he sees. Get paid.
He wasn’t supposed to have a gun, but that’s life.
A hole through my jacket. A little blood. Him, running towards me, stumbling, shouting. “No! I thought you were her husband!”
Then I held a gun, too. “You’re a lousy shot,” I said.
I was better.
What surprised me was how easily I fell into the rhythm of a crime story, even in just a few sentences. Quite possibly it’s a sign that things have gotten a little too familiar, and I need to write something else for a while.
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Me, Writing
Smug Alert
In The Economists’ fine obituary of Harold Pinter, they mention how he raged against the “bourgeois smugness of the London theatre scene”, among other things. And I have to say that’s exactly what I feel when I write.
Er, not rage. Bourgeois smugness. Is that wrong? Should I not feel that?
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Writing
The Purpose Of Prose
There’s an interesting discussion going on over at Crimespace about “lean” or “muscular” prose, what it is and why it’s used. Gerald So has also weighed in on his own blog..
I think that this misses the point of writing. To me, writing in a particular style is not a goal. My goal is to write in the style that fits the story, whatever that may be. I recently sold a story in which the narrator is an over-educated, almost hysterical neurotic, and just finished another in which the narrator is a laconic cowboy. Each is written in a style that would not be appropriate for the other. Now, it’s true that some styles do come more naturally to me than others; for example, I had trouble writing with a story that was intended to be in a loose, objective third-person point of view, in which narrative summary would substitute for much of the dialog.
In a broader sense, I think that prose should generally appear effortless. It should serve only to further the story and should not call attention to itself needlessly. When I say “further the story”, I’m not just talking about plot, but also character, setting, tone – if possible, each sentence should further more than one of these, for example pushing the plot forward while giving insight into a character.
This type of writing is very common in genres such as mystery or science fiction, less so in literary fiction. Sometimes literary fiction seems to be like Olympic gymnastics: capable of amazing feats, but certainly not effortless. I personally believe that this striving for effect weakens the overall work and should be disposed of quietly.
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