Now DorothyL posters have put on the boxing gloves to debate the MWA (Mystery Writer's of America) approved publishers debate. It started on the Sisters In Crime Internet Chapter and has segued to DorothyL, a mystery readers, fans (and writers) list serve.
In a nutshell, MWA decided to "vet" various mystery publishers, in terms of advance paid, length of time in publishing, number of copies printed. This was done to separate the sheep from the goats, but screams of "elitist" rent the air and writers who were not on the approved list (the have-nots) beat their breasts and accused MWA of arbitrary decisions regarding publishers, and pointed out, fairly I think, that some dreadful books are published by major publishing houses and some good books are either self-published or published by very small presses that do not meet MWA's criteria. The small (now defunct) e-publisher that first published The Shadow Warriors would no longer pass muster.
This is a debate that goes round and round and like many things in life there is no good answer. I was thirty-seven when I learned that, a bolt of lightning to be sure in my still young lfe. A right way and a wrong way and eeek, no good way at all. What a revelation! There is no good answer. Some people never learn that, so I consider myself fortunate. Consider: "what do we do about Iraq" as an example. No good answer.
I sit on the sidelines of the MWA/vs. small press debate, and only hope they don't change the rules to boot me. Grandfathered in is not a comfy place. Sort of like being a legacy at an Ivy League school. No, even worse.
Suck it up, the only alternative. Whatchagonnado?
Grapeshot
Showing posts with label Dorothy L. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dorothy L. Show all posts
Friday, August 31, 2007
Thursday, August 23, 2007
The Warlord's Son
For months I have been savoring, a few pages at a time, the novel, The Warlord's Son, by Dan Fesperman. At some point, I had a feeling that maybe things weren't going to end all that well for some of the characters, and so I peeked into the last part of the book which I never, ever do but I did with this one. There were the 3 main characters, hale and hearty having escaped from the wild lands beyond the Khyber Pass.
So I read on, confident that things would work out well, although the author, now that I think about it, was signalling wildly that everything would NOT work out well. So you believe what you want to believe. Yesterday, on the train, I read and read and finally took the book up to bed last night to finish it.
Yikes, did I get a surprise. There was another twist at the ending a things did not work out, as signalled. It bothered me all night. "It's a book!" I told myself this morning. Why was I so upset? Maybe that one of the protagonists had been betrayed by his countrymen. It seemed like such a likely scenario, and he walked into it so blindly, desperate to put the pieces together of the wonderful story he was going to write. I guess it sounded true. And lately, true has not been good. Not at all. So it was just a book, but it also held up a mirror to our time, and of course I didn't like the image in the mirror. Nobody would.
On the listserve DorothyL, the question was asked about East German mysteries, and I had to pipe up that agents didn't want to touch them, which is true in my case. I always wonder a bit ruefully if I had a bunch of neo-Nazis and low lifes would the agents have been keener on the book. Never mind the Stasi, and the KGB and the Russian navy and even the dog that formerly patrolled the border, an ex-wall dog. Never mind the Vietnamese almost-slave labor. Where the hell are the neo-Nazis? Okay, maybe the story just stinks. But it doesn't. It's pretty cool actually, with a really neat ending with twists and turns.
One can read Proust before bedtime with the assurance that none of the main characters will die a violent death, although right now I am reading the part that introduced Albertine. Whenever I read about her, the image of the face of one of my high school friends inserts itself. She just looks like Albertine.
Some of the Burning Man honchos had dinner at our little place in Nevada this week. But I wasn't there to hostess, alas. Thinking of desperate ways to get to the Man this year. It's like a religion. I see myself on a run up to Lowell to the store that sells whorish dresses to find a costume. And maybe a run by St. Vincent DePaul for some outre duds. I see my credit card bill next month. Gaaaaa!
Onward,
Grapeshot
So I read on, confident that things would work out well, although the author, now that I think about it, was signalling wildly that everything would NOT work out well. So you believe what you want to believe. Yesterday, on the train, I read and read and finally took the book up to bed last night to finish it.
Yikes, did I get a surprise. There was another twist at the ending a things did not work out, as signalled. It bothered me all night. "It's a book!" I told myself this morning. Why was I so upset? Maybe that one of the protagonists had been betrayed by his countrymen. It seemed like such a likely scenario, and he walked into it so blindly, desperate to put the pieces together of the wonderful story he was going to write. I guess it sounded true. And lately, true has not been good. Not at all. So it was just a book, but it also held up a mirror to our time, and of course I didn't like the image in the mirror. Nobody would.
On the listserve DorothyL, the question was asked about East German mysteries, and I had to pipe up that agents didn't want to touch them, which is true in my case. I always wonder a bit ruefully if I had a bunch of neo-Nazis and low lifes would the agents have been keener on the book. Never mind the Stasi, and the KGB and the Russian navy and even the dog that formerly patrolled the border, an ex-wall dog. Never mind the Vietnamese almost-slave labor. Where the hell are the neo-Nazis? Okay, maybe the story just stinks. But it doesn't. It's pretty cool actually, with a really neat ending with twists and turns.
One can read Proust before bedtime with the assurance that none of the main characters will die a violent death, although right now I am reading the part that introduced Albertine. Whenever I read about her, the image of the face of one of my high school friends inserts itself. She just looks like Albertine.
Some of the Burning Man honchos had dinner at our little place in Nevada this week. But I wasn't there to hostess, alas. Thinking of desperate ways to get to the Man this year. It's like a religion. I see myself on a run up to Lowell to the store that sells whorish dresses to find a costume. And maybe a run by St. Vincent DePaul for some outre duds. I see my credit card bill next month. Gaaaaa!
Onward,
Grapeshot
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