Thursday, August 31, 2017

Hammett and Me

It's always fun to talk about Dashiell Hammett. Nick and Nora Charles were his finest creation. If it weren't for the sparkling Depression-era magic of Nick and Nora (The Thin Man), their cocktail parties and speakeasies, deluxe hotel suites and inherited wealth, there'd be no Chris and Peachy. I got lucky in life several times, enjoyed every minute of first class accommodation, fine restaurants and nightclubs.

Of course, Hammett was a far superior writer. That doesn't bother me. Happy to write my little adventures, a modern tale of wealth and privilege, which are not interchangeable or synonymous. The privilege in question is daring, buckets of it, personal and professional. Having money is a curse or blessing, depending on the circumstances. In my third novel of Chris and Peachy, money blows up in their faces. Won't have any in the end, flat broke, except for a beach house and an office on Sunset Boulevard. If they want to eat and drink, they'll have to go back to work as private investigators for hire, a fourth book for sure.

Last night I agreed with Cass, bemoaned my overly honest mansplaining of sexuality. It was natural to use the first person voice, a tradition of hardboiled "dicks" (take that any way you like, it's a convention of the genre to use that truncation; police detectives are "bulls"). It's a manly occupation, despite Hollywood's insistence that goofballs and OCD pooftahs can do just as well. Not true. Detectives deal in life and death, carry a gun for specific reasons.

Finally found Chris a really cool weapon, a compact SIG P320, low recoil 9x19mm, no safety, just draw and shoot. Peachy's Ruger is the sort of weapon a girl would like -- well, a girl who likewise knows no compunction about killing in self-defense or slightly ahead of the curve. People like this exist. They're difficult to get along with, unless they ignore you.

Great fun writing. Also heartbreaking, thrilling, fearful, tender, and sexy. Fifteen years ago, I had to explain without blushing that I was a modern Jefferson (never mind why). Now, it's Dashiell Hammett, an infinitely easier job :) that seems to take infinitely more time, over a year so far -- writing every day, seven days a week, hammering hard men and healthy women on the page, whether it sells or not. I expect to be banned altogether. Something amusingly noble about that, when you think about it, guilty of thought crime.

Wilda knew. "You've had sex before," she remarked, after reading A Portrait of Valor. Yup. It had to be honest, if I was to remain faithful to who Chris and Peachy were, especially Chris, a Marine Corps officer, war hero, tough guy, proud to be a man. Not overly bright but a man of action -- a far better man than I happen to be, which is the privilege of an author, to project an ideal character, someone worthy of the days and weeks and months it takes to breathe life into fiction. People don't do this for drippy shit that meanders like a slow sewer, says nothing about life on life's terms, what men want from women and are willing to fight for, if they must. Anything worth having involves fighting for it, sooner or later.

https://www.amazon.com/Chris-Peachy-Files-Cable-Blount/dp/197392630X

No comments:

Post a Comment