As picky as a nit

The air was warm and rancid, like raccoon breath infused with the aroma of just-eaten sardines.

Okay, so that's just ridiculous. What do I know what raccoon breath smells like? And do raccoons even eat sardines? Wouldn't it have been better to leave that sentence at "warm and rancid" or to have written something like "The air was warm and rancid-smelling from the mounds of seaweed washed ashore, the gnats and sandflies feasting on the microscopic creatures tapped inside"?

Certainly a writer uses too many similes if they get in the way of the story. Not too far into Feast Day of Fools by James Lee Burke I found myself groaning over another simile, rolling my eyes, wondering how in the hell he comes up with these things. This is Burke's twentieth or so book - are they all like this, nearly every paragraph containing a "like" or an "as though"? Has he ever re-used a simile? Does he spend hours with a notebook and pen, looking at a cloud and thinking "how many ways can I describe that?"

The dialogue in this book made me cringe. Everyone from major lowlifes to "beaners" to the sheriff are all great philosophers, especially as they stand provoking the guy with the rifle pointed between their eyes. The bad guys were so similar I couldn't keep them straight. The story was too convoluted. And, seriously, as we near the end of the book with the big shoot-out/rescue scene, lose the backstory. I don't care about your thoughts about Nam as you prepare to face the baddest of the bad guys. I skimmed those paragraphs. BTW, Burke used "palpable" twice but at least they were three hundred pages apart.

In spite of all this I may buy the previous book in the series where we get introduced to Sheriff Hack and his wide-assed deputy Pam. I liked them. To me their characters were as intriguing as a box of Sees candies.

----

So on this particular day the air stunk. It was a couple days after the surf had been kicked up a little bit by that non-hurricane Pablo and the beach was covered with mounds of seaweed, as though hastily crocheted afghans had been tossed from above. On the day after the mini-storm the beach had pretty much been wiped clean but, in my experience, it's two days later that's good for shelling so I headed down to "jingle shell" beach.

Lately I've had a difficult time leaving the house. After four months of staying indoors, avoiding the heat and humidity, I'm out of the habit of walking. I'm out of the habit of doing anything outdoors. Whenever I open the sliding glass doors I expect to be met with a slap of hot wet air. But, no, the air is fresh and light and so I'm reestablishing old walking habits.

Jingle shell beach did not disappoint. After a few years of shell gathering I have the luxury of only picking up the perfect shells. These are jingle shells from just three beach excursions, along with a sand dollar and those wonderful fan-like shells that are so rare here.

Hopefully with this walking I'll lose my summer coat. I'll refurbish my winter tan. People who live in deserts do things backwards - out in the winter, holed up in the summer. My joy at winter days spent scouring the beach is nearly palpable.

Author Crush - Pete Dexter

I could weep.

It's love. Unrequited love. He doesn't even know I exist (unless the postmistress forwarded my fan letter). And he's married. And his wife seems really nice. But still, just a few minutes alone with this man...would that be a blessing or a curse? Would my craving be satisfied or would I want more?

It's this that's got my heart a'flutterin' and my spirits weighted and soaring at the same time: A review in the NY Times of Jim Harrison's new book, The Great Leader, by Pete Dexter.

I'm embarrassed to admit that I've never been able to get through a Jim Harrison novel. Being from the Pacific Northwest that's kind of sacrilegious, I know. But when I saw that the review of his new book was written by Pete Dexter I headed to the NY Times website to give it a look.

Jesus, I love Pete Dexter's voice, his writing style, his humor, his point of view. I'd read anything by him - even a review of a book I don't think I'm interested in. And then there's this synchronistic bit. I'm reading William Goldman's book Adventures in the Screen Trade and I'm smack-dab in the middle of the chapter on auteurs and the whole concept of the director as creator/author of the movie and then - whack! - I read this in Pete Dexter's review of The Great Leader:

I know enough about literature now to foresee that Jim Harrison’s new novel, “The Great Leader,” will be easier than the Bible was to option to the movies. For one thing, there will be fewer producers claiming they developed the material, and for another the protagonist has a more accessible arc. Possibly you are thinking that I haven’t learned my lesson, but trust me: I don’t have to be at that meeting to know what everybody is going to say.

This is exactly the kind of stuff Goldman's writing about. And that damn character arc - the thing I've been thinking about a lot lately. Do characters have to grow? Can't they be just as fucked up in the end as they were in the beginning?

It's obvious that Pete Dexter is one of my soulmates (along with Ken Bruen and Luis Urrea). For instance, he writes in this review that he generally skips dream sequences in novels - as do I! (that's meant to be read like the Priceline ad currently running with William Shatner). (Shit, Mr. Dexter doesn't like references to popular culture.)

When I started reading the review I was too infatuated with Pete Dexter's writing to care much about the subject. Yeah, yeah, yeah, Jim Harrison, can't get through him, blah blah blah, but the reviewer (I'm trying to get away from using "Pete Dexter" three times in one small paragraph) managed to make me interested in the book. I may just give Mr. Harrison another try. It'll give me something to do while I wait for Pete Dexter's next book.

Kindling

Buying a Kindle made sense.

Living in 120 square feet means my home's short on space. Hell, I already pay for a storage unit in Arizona which is filled mostly with books - signed first editions and advance readers copies.

Because those 120 sq feet are movable, towing weight is always a factor (books weigh a lot).

There are no bookstores in this little fishing village.

The trailer park office has bookcases filled with paperbacks the snowbirds leave behind - mostly Tom Clancy and Nora Roberts - which, even in desperation, are not to my liking.

Without a local bookstore I've had to learn patience but mostly I'm an instant-gratification reader: when I want a book, I want it now.

So the Kindle made sense. Even though I felt like a traitor, a whore, a politician, by selling out independent booksellers to amazon dot com.

I've had the little bugger now for three days and if I were to write a review on Amazon I'd give it three stars.

Right out of the box I did not like the way the ink stayed on the screen when moving to the next page. I sent an email to a friend and asked if this was normal or a glitch. He said it was normal and it never bothered him. Now that I'm 22% into my first book (no such thing as page numbers in the Kindle) I've grown accustomed to the screen change.

I can't quite get the grip right. Maybe it's because my hands are small that they sort of cramp up. Also, I keep accidentally hitting the page back and forward buttons on the lefthand side of the reader.

The 3g version is nifty. The book I bought - Devil by Ken Bruen - arrived in seconds even though there were only 2 bars for signal strength.

I'm worried about dropping the thing should I doze off. Reading in the tub is not a problem because I don't have one. How do you keep the screen clean?

When I ordered the Kindle I worried that all my old books would wind up as kindling, that I'd be so in love with the thing I'd burn them in the fire pit to save that 32 bucks a month. Not so. There's still nothing like holding a book - flipping through the pages, reading the jacket cover. And there are books I will definitely buy in their hard cover editions when they come out like Luis Urrea's followup to The Hummingbird's Daughter (Queen of America) and Wild by Cheryl Strayed.

When I move back to the States, I'll go back to my independent bookstores - if there are any.

On that note it's not surprising that the bookstore in Tubac closed. The people who bought Tortuga Books in Tubac put in an espresso machine, made the place comfy. But their big big mistake: They shrink-wrapped the books!!!! No reading the inside jacket or the book's first line. (Whenever Bob at 23rd Avenue Books in Portland had a book he knew I'd love, he'd shove it in my hands and say "here, read the first sentence.") Why in the world have coffee and sofas when you can't browse the books? I knew I'd never buy a book there. I guess I wasn't the only one who felt that way.

Guardian Books of the Year

One of my literary crushes selects a book written by one of my literary crushes as one of his favorite books of last year. Roddy Doyle picks Willy Vlautin's Lean on Pete. It's brilliant!!!

Roddy Doyle

Amy Bloom's collection Where the God of Love Hangs Out (Granta) is brilliant. The stories are shocking and lovely. Willy Vlautin's Lean on Pete (Faber) is only brilliant; I hated finishing it. Joseph O'Connor's Ghost Light (Harvill Secker) is absolutely brilliant – a beautifully written love story and, somehow, a chunk of Irish social and political history. There's a section in the middle of Emma Donoghue's Room (Picador) that reminded me of reading Catch 22 when I was 15 – the same excitement, the same "I've never read anything like this before". The whole book is absolutely f**kin' brilliant.

I wrote a review of Lean on Pete on my secret website. I'll see if I can attach it here.

Damn you, Willy, for making a grown woman cry. I mean, really, I'm used to your gritty down-on-your luck stories and songs but you've never made me cry. There I was, reading this book as I watched pelicans dive for fish and I've got tears running down my cheeks. I hoped no one would see me. Especially a Mexican or a Seri Indian because I'd have a hard time explaining those tears in Mexican.

I hated myself for rushing through this book. It was like sitting down and eating a whole box of Cheez-its when it's your last box or really wishing you would've made that bottle of Tangueray last a little longer. I didn't want the book to end but I was anxious to see how it ended. Please have a happy ending, I begged as I raced through the pages.

I was in Portland last year and I was planning on seeing you at Music Millenium because your band Richmond Fontaine had just released a new album. I had already seen Pete Dexter at Wordstock and so I couldn't believe my luck that within a matter of days I would meet two of my favorite writers. But you got sick and had to cancel the Music M show.

A friend of mine knows you, knows your girlfriend so maybe I'll get to meet you one of these days. In the meantime, I'll need some time to recuperate from Lean on Pete. Too bad I drank all my gin.

Luis Alberto Urrea

When I was younger, a teenager, I had movie star posters on my wall until my squirrel, Garfunkel, tore them down for her nest. Now if I had walls I’d tack up book jacket photos of my author crushes - Pete Dexter, Tim Winton, Colum McCann, Ian Rankin, Larry Brown, Nick Hornby, Charles Bowden, Willy Vlautin – to name a few. And Luis Alberto Urrea.

As my newest author crush, Luis should be grateful I’m too poor to leave Mexico thus saving him from a crazy stalker lady. With every book I read, my crush deepens. I’m liable to be thrown over the edge when book two of Hummingbird’s Daughter is published next year.

My first Urrea book was Devil’s Highway, the story of a disastrous immigrant crossing in the Sonoran Desert. I’d bought the book at 23^rd Avenue Books in Portland for my southwest road trip. I was having lunch at a café in Sonoita, Arizona, when I started Devil’s Highway. It is a terrific primer on the struggles immigrants – and Border Patrol – face in the Arizona desert. I was struck by Luis’ ability to write a remarkable story without glorifying or demonizing either side.

I’ve since owned and loaned three copies of Devil’s Highway including my hard cover edition. I guess some books are meant to travel. My copies have most certainly traversed the Sonoran Desert - and the border - many times.

Into the North and The Hummingbird’s Daughter followed. Then In Search of Snow and Nobody’s Son. I own Hummingbird’s Daughter in both English and Spanish (Hija de la Chuparosa). I had fantasies of sitting with my friend Edgar as he read the English version and I the Spanish. Never happened. Both books are above our abilities, even Edgar’s who speaks nearly perfect English.

Luis is my “friend” on Facebook. I love that he posts nearly every day. He also has a website I visit often. For now I am limited to cyber stalking.

When I have a house with walls his jacket photo will be there along with Willy, Pete, Colum et al. When I have a house with walls maybe he’ll come visit after a reading in Tucson. I can have him to dinner with Pete Dexter (who has a house in southern Arizona) along with Charles Bowden ‘cause he lives in Arizona too. Maybe Willy will stop by after a gig in Tucson with his band Richmond Fontaine.

You're never too old to dream. And you're never too old to have crushes.

A Bad Review

I prefer writing reviews of books I like. That said, I find this book so insufferable that I have to vent. How'd something like this get published? How'd she snag an agent? Her query letter must've been fantabulous.

I picked this book up because it has a storyline that appeals to me. It involves ranching, illegal immigrants, love. I really liked the cover. (I'm a sucker for good packaging which is why my last shampoo was from L'Oreal. Lumenescent purple tube with salmon-colored cap. Pretty. It looked expensive.) I checked this book's reviews on Amazon dot com and most were good but only a few readers commented. I'm thinking now they were written by friends of the author, her agent, maybe someone at the publishing house.

It's a book where I have to read a sentence more than once in order to figure out what the author is saying. I can't follow. Always a fan of run-on sentences (I think mine are unfairly targeted by the writers in my writing group), hers are making me rethink my fondness. For instance this: "Also, she produced a very nice foal every three years or so for her owner Mary Friel, who loved her devotedly, as did Alice, to whom she was a regular source of income, a great trail mount, and an occasional schoolmistress in dressage." Huh? We're talking about a horse here but I did wonder if the owner wasn't the source of income. Maybe it's me. I prefer my writing sharp, to the point, like Willie Vlautin's or James Ellroy's.

And speaking of Ellroy, that man's a dialogue wizard. This author's dialogue SUCKS! I know bad dialogue; the dialogue in my book sucks, too, which is why I keep it to a minimum. Not only do conversations in this book feel forced and unreal but the characters are always calling each other terms of endearment such as sweet-hot, toots, kid, slick, my love.... You get the drift. I actually roll my eyes and murmur not another one! I'm writing them down. Sweet-hot!!

Sixty-five pages in and I may give up. I don't want to. I have very few books to read. I could go to the trailer park office where the gringo snowbirds leave their paperbacks but they're mostly Tom Clancys or Nora Roberts. I'm not that desperate for reading material. Yet.

The Reaper's Line

Lee Morgan II is someone I'd probably enjoy running into at the Longhorn in Amado, Arizona. We'd sit down over beers and he'd regale all present with tales of his life as a Customs Service Special Agent busting drug smugglers while having to deal with corruption on both sides of the border. Mr. Morgan never holds back - not in his language, not in his feelings about both governments, not in naming names. I was curious to see if he would mention an old neighbor of mine who used to work the border and sure enough, there he was, a man Lee has no respect for and he doesn't hide that fact.

I wish more people would read this book given today's illegal immigration fury. Lee writes how important it is to make a distinction between the dope smugglers crossing our southern border and the poor people who come north looking for jobs. He paints the Minutemen and other vigilante groups as racist and a dangerous hindrance for law enforcement. I was sickened by the chapter on the Barnett brothers who own a ranch in Cochise County and who at one point wanted to have "safari adventures for people who wanted to track down illegal aliens."

It's also interesting to read about the obstacles agents face in trying to do their jobs - for instance, they have no radio contact with highway patrol. How crazy is that? Pretty fucking nuts and he'll guarandamntee that!