So, as the weather gurus are shouting their dire predictions on TV, the local police are calling each home to warn of impending doom, and my mother is repeating every minute change in the forecast, my thoughts are on what the hell do I read if the power goes, and there’s no DVD’s of Mannix, or reruns of Perry Mason to watch? Would I be forced to have a conversation?? I think not. So, scurry around I will to unearth absorbing, fascinating titles, while winds threaten to down every tree, and rain causes leaves to clog the gutters. Sadly, we left the battery search until there are none in the county, so if I find something readable, I’ll be straining my eyes via candles, the old fashioned way.
crime fiction
The Butter Did It and A Incomparable Bookman
The Butter Did It. This is a running joke my friend Jamie McCoy will meet me with whenever he wants to point out my fallibility. Back when hypermodern collecting was all the rage, I would tout the newest first time author, depending on print run, etc. Not all new authors were great or even remained authors. Some faded quickly leaving behind a couple of signed books in someone’s hopeful collection of possible appreciating volumes. The Butter Did It melted away into oblivion and with it Jamie’s hope of resale at a profit. It became the symbol for Jamie and I, of the silliness in believing every new novel could or should be collected. If I now recommend some book I think was a fantastic read, or possible investment, he utters those cholesterol filled words and we both chuckle, me a bit ruefully. Recently, Jamie had some heart related issues, and I swore to my husband I was going to create a card with the cover of the book on it and declare, ‘Yep, that’s right, Jamie, The Butter Did It! ‘ I never fulfilled that task, much to my regret, lol.
My Ride With Gus–Best 100 Mysteries of All Time
My Ride With Gus Charles Carillo 1996–available
As soon as my eyes hit the first paragraph of My Ride With Gus, this second time around, I remembered why I loved it so much. Fast paced, hip–90s style–and seriously funny, the original premise of a hapless rather self centered successful architect accidentally killing an unwanted New Year’s Eve club pickup, slowly evolves into a warm, layered, surprising novel, rich in family dynamics and misconceptions that engage the reader long past the initial crime. As a New Yorker, even one who hasn’t lived in the city for a few years, the setting and authentic language of the novel is especially appealing.
New York Is Book Country No More
New York hasn’t been book country since the tragic day of 9/11, in my opinion. Because of the security risks, a tradition died. Every year the city would have a street fair full of books, authors, publishers, and people wandering up and down a particular part of Fifth Ave in late Sept. Although the fair did try to reestablish itself for a couple of years, after moving to The Village, and then Central Park, it lost much of its luster and girth and finally petered out.
The Anthony Award Winners Announced
The 2012 Bouchercon fan conference concluded its 4 day run and this year’s winners of the coveted award named after Anthony Boucher, critic and crime fiction author, were presented Saturday evening.
Here is the list of nominees. The winners are highlighted.
Bookselling–A Solitary Job?
Working in a bookstore can be a solitary job. If alone, one can shelve books quietly, study the synopsis of a particular title without worrying about time constraints, enjoy just being surrounded by words. In two of my mystery bookstore jobs I was alone a great deal. My desk was upstairs within new hardcovers and collectible titles at one job. Enya’s soothing voice echoed around the room –over and over and over and over and, well you get the idea. If a customer did venture up the twisted staircase, they usually were known to me, and we would discuss what titles they had read, what they needed to read, and or collect, and then off they would go with whatever purchases they decided upon. I didn’t even have the responsibility of ringing them up. I did order hardcovers, set up signings, invoice customers, etc., etc., etc., and it kept me in perpetual motion. I answered the phone, took orders, blah blah. I was never without something to do. Which is a good thing, because I was also in a state of perpetual anxiety. At least when I first began the job. I’d just come from managing a bookstore where the owner had passed away, and wanted to do a exemplary job at my new manager’s position at a prestigious specialty bookstore. Normally worries would have passed within a reasonable time, but the extra added pressure of a popular former manager starting part-time exactly at the moment I took over the job, gave me pause to wonder–what’s up with that? And if I don’t perform up to expectations, will I be history and the former manager slide right in?
Composition For Four Hands–Best 100 Mysteries of All Time
Composition for Four Hands—Hilda Lawrence–1947-OOP
“They wheeled her chair to the big bay window in her bedroom. She’d been fed and bathed. She’d had what they called her forty winks. They said it was such a beautiful afternoon and wasn’t she lucky to have such a nice window? Then they left her.”
This is the ominous beginning to a story that builds in suspense. Unusual, that it’s not told in the first person, considering the main character is completely paralyzed. I would have probably gone with Nora Manson telling the story from her personal point of view, of her terror in the unknown and the fact that she was being targeted by someone in her own home, someone wanted to kill her.
Songs For The Missing
One of our ferrets disappeared. One minute he was in the Queens apartment, the next I couldn’t locate him when putting the ferrets back in their cage at night. I’d not made them go into the cage for a couple of days, so I didn’t know when he actually went missing. The entire apartment was ferret proofed, meaning, all areas of danger were closed up, no holes in walls, or in back of the stove or refrigerator. At first, I had no misgivings–ferrets sleep deeply in burrowing spaces–so my husband and I started our routine of checking all the typical spots–in clothes left lying around, under the bed sheets, below the chairs or sofa, and in closets, although they usually weren’t open. When these didn’t pan out and after we had checked and rechecked, we then took the entire place apart, becoming more and more alarmed when he didn’t turn up. By around 4 in the morning, we realized he just wasn’t there.