Chuck Butcher has seen enough to call it "well drawn"I can already tell you that there is an economy of styling and language and the protagonist is well drawn and developing over time without the irritation of the author doing all the work and leaving me just reading words.True enough--as an author, I have always been exceptional about not doing all the work. (Some have said I don't do any at all, but that's a post for another time.) Will Chuck like the book at page 135 or 264 (the final page)? No time to wait for those judgments--when good reviews are to be had, I'm taking them.
It provides the additional opportunity to flog the novel--something other bloggers do relentlessly when they put out a book. True, those are generally related to politics, but this is no time for quibbling. You've heard it from a reliable source, so now you know what to do: go buy this well drawn novel.
It takes roughly 7-10 days from the time you order for it to arrive, so there's still plenty of time to order 37 copies and have done with all your holiday shopping. Or, you know, one. Whatever. Just don't delay--order your copy now, while supplies last!!!*
Just to further entice, I'll include an excerpt in the comments--I'll select a particularly fine example of me doing not doing all the work.
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*Damn print-on-demand, robbing me of a legitimate sales hook.
1 comment:
Excerpt
Charlie, the protagonist, and Janie, his new girlfriend, go to their first movie together. It is a big deal, for he aspires to make film and she doesn't want to go to a dud their first time out. (Charlie is short, Janie tall--thus the "dachshund" crack.)
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Janie was uncharacteristically jubilant for a grim January evening. She had his arm in a two-handed grip as they walked along Northeast Broadway, one arm through his, the other like a pincer on his humerus. Her long legs in full canter, dragging him along.
“Come on, we’re gonna be late.” They had selected Wenders’s Wings of Desire, playing at the Hollywood. He grinned and dragged his feet. The joy and clinging pleased him, and he wasn’t in a hurry for it to end.
“Let’s get those little dachshund legs of yours moving.”
Janie, with some ritual, had been intent on choosing a worthy movie. The big event of the season was Unforgiven, but she rejected Clint. Good press or no, she wasn’t allowing a western to be their first movie together. Other first-runs rejected: The Scent of a Woman, The Crying Game, Glengarry Glen Ross. On Charlie’s recommendation, they decided on the Wenders.
“You’re sure this guy is good? You don’t hear much about German directors, you know.”
“He’s good.”
“Except that Nazi, what was her name?
“Leni Refenstahl.”
“Yes. He’s not like her, is he? A crypto-fascist or something like that?”
“He’s not a crypto-fascist.”
“But he is good enough, right? I don’t want a second-rater from Germany, Charlie. This has got to be good. We could go to The Crying Game instead.”
“Wenders is one of the best. Seriously.”
“All right,” she said, floating out a final sortie of skepticism to test him. “If you say so.”
“I haven’t seen this particular movie, but I’m willing to bet that you will have seen nothing like it. Wenders is unique.”
Satisfied, she gave him one of her huge, guileless Janie smiles.
Seven minutes later they stood at the rear of the theater, eyeing seats. “There,” she pointed to the right wing of the theater.
“What are you talking about? We’re not sitting off to the side. Look, there’s a whole row right there in the middle.”
“I like the side. It’s like you’re peeking in on real life.”
“Well, today we’re sitting in the middle.” He attempted to drag her.
“Charlie—”
“Ah!” He held up an index finger. “I’m running the show today. As requested.” They smiled at each other. Different smiles, for different reasons. “No voyeurism today,” he said, leading her to the center of the theater. “Today a proper viewing.”
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