I just finished reading Donald Westlake‘s latest Richard Stark book, Ask the Parrot. As expected, it’s a taut thriller with nary a wasted word. Three words, however, caught my eye: blat, hawasim and acheiropoietoi. Westlake, particularly in Stark mode, is notorious for his clean, efficient prose. These red-flag words stuck out of the text and made me do a bit of digging.

After a bit of Googling, I found this, from the Oxford University Press blog, of all things, which explains that Westlake put the words in Ask the Parrot in response to a challenge of sorts. Erin McKean, editor in Chief of Oxford’s American Dictionaries, asked Westlake to use the words as part of the feature “Use It or Lose It” on the now-defunct public radio show The Next Big Thing. The idea of the feature is to ask writers to use words that are in danger of falling out of the dictionary because of disuse, or might not make it in at all. Westlake took the challenge, issued during this Next Big Thing show from November 2004, and followed up with the results here.

Now, about those words. Westlake used:
Blat – a low-quality newspaper
Hawasim – used in the Iraqi war to refer to petty thieves or looters
Acheiropoietoi – which comes from the Greek, meaning “not made by human hands”

As you can see from McKean’s post on the OUP blog, Westlake did an admirable job of incorporating the words into his work. They did stick out, but it’s hard to imagine a way to use them that would be completely seamless.

As for the book itself, it’s a crackling good read, released just last month. It is interesting enough without the lexicographical intrigue. It isn’t just a follow-up to his last Parker novel, Nobody Runs Forever; it literally picks up right where that novel left off. Picking up Ask the Parrot is like turning the next page at the end of Nobody Runs Forever. Anyone who reads these in order is immediately dropped back into the situation and the effect is like a jolt of energy.

William Kristol recently suggested that Westlake be awarded the Nobel Prize for literature because he is “smart, clever and witty — a prolific craftsman — and quite deep.” The point is hard to argue. Anyone looking for an entry point to Westlake’s Parker novels would do well to read James Wolcott’s lukewarm review of Ask the Parrot in the Dec. 3 New York Times.

The reason you know about James Sallis likely depends on what you like to read. Be it poetry, non-fiction about music, mystery novels, science fiction or literary criticism, it’s likely you’ve come across his work. It even more likely that once you did, you made a note to seek out more of it.

Sallis is perhaps best known for the series of six mystery novels that feature private eye Lew Griffin. He ended the series in 2000 because, as he says here, “it was done.” He went on to start a new series with Cypress Grove and Cripple Creek, this one following Turner, a Memphis cop who retires to a cabin in the rural South. There are shades of James Lee Burke’s Dave Robicheaux and Steve Hamilton’s Alex McNight in Turner, but thanks to Sallis’ economical prose, the feel of these compact yarns is entirely his own. In between, he penned the taught thriller Drive, which is headed for the silver screen soon.

Eclecticism ought not to be as rare as it is in the literary world, but few take it as far as Sallis. While he doesn’t seem to find it an extraordinary feat, he does defend it and decry a business that seeks to pigeonhole writers into one slot. “Literature is not a table with three dishes: it’s this huge buffet with all manner of dishes,” he told the Guardian in 2001. “You wander about it at will, take what you want or need, come back for seconds. Everything’s there.”

Sallis can stock an entire buffet himself. From his mysteries to science fiction novels like Renderings to musicological studies like The Guitar Players or literary biographies such as Chester Himes: A Life, he seems to have done it all. That doesn’t count the book reviews he writes for the Boston Globe and elsewhere. Oh, and did I mention his various translation projects?

If that’s not enough, he also plays guitar, Dobro, mandolin, banjo and fiddle with the Phoenix-based roots band Three-Legged Dog.

The prolific writer takes a look back with his next book, Potato Tree, which comprises the stories from the now out-of-print Limits of the Sensible World and many previously uncollected stories, which will be published by Host Publications in early 2007. In the meantime, a great place to catch up with the many facets of his work is with The James Sallis Reader from Point Blank Press.

TIRBD: You left the successful Lew Griffin series behind while it still seemed to have plenty of momentum commercially. Was it simply time to move on, or is this indicative of your seeming reluctance to be pigeon-holed into any one genre or style?

JS: I didn’t leave it behind: it was done. Remember that the cycle began as a short story – essentially the first section of The Long-Legged Fly – and continued only because I kept wanting to know more about this character and his world. I thought the first novel was it. Then I thought the second was. With the sixth, Lew’s story had been told. Incidentally, I tend to think of the cycle not as six novels but as one very long one.

It’s not that I’m reluctant to be pigeonholed – I don’t stay up nights figuring out how to dodge bullets – but that I just naturally go back and forth; that’s the way my mi
nd works. And while in my criticism and reviewing I do sometimes carp against categorization, I am speaking up for others. I’ve no problem with being characterized as a crime novelist. It puts me in excellent company.

Regarding that eclecticism in your work, do you consciously choose a particular discipline to write in at certain times – such as deciding to write a mystery or a poem – or do you simply write what comes to you?

The discipline chooses me. If you look at something like The James Sallis Reader or my forthcoming new collection, Potato Tree, you’ll see quite a stew: fantasy, science fiction, poetry, mainstream fiction, “literary” fiction. The substance of the thing comes to you – the feeling of it, the weight of it, the characters, a voice – and you go looking to find the right container.

Drive was a critical and commercial breakout for you. Why do you think it connected so well, and do you have any thoughts about it being made into a film?

A commercial breakout, yes, though in a small way; and I’ve always received great reviews. I’ve no idea why that novel got the attention it did, except for what I tell my students: It’s all the luck of the draw. I think it could make a great film. One could almost film it directly from the novel.

You will receive a Lifetime Achievement Award at Bouchercon 2007, recognizing your mystery writing. Any qualms about receiving notice for that part of your work as you try to keep your pen dipped in many different inkwells?

For many years, while being nominated again and again, I’ve successfully evaded receiving any major award. Fast footwork is everything. Now those feisty people at Bouchercon have spoiled a perfect record. Qualms? Well, it’s a lifetime achievement award, which might give one pause – what my friend Larry Block calls the “Look, he’s still alive!” award.

You have another collection on the way (Potato Tree), this time gathering some of your short fiction. Do such glances over your shoulder offer you any insight into your own work, or provide any meaningful context after the fact for what came next?

Not really. It’s rather interesting getting reacquainted with the person who wrote those stories, though. And they do bring a flood of memories. Sometimes it’s like looking at old photos of yourself: “Why did they let me buy those shoes? I wore my hair like that?” Then you come across a story that you just know you could never write today – now that you know how, now that you always look three ways before crossing the street.

Does writing critically about writing and writers, as you do for the Boston Globe and elsewhere, teach you anything about your own work?

Nothing specific. But what it does – as with teaching – is cause you to think about what you are doing, to get out of your own head and gain perspective. Good to climb the tree from time to time and look down on that small clearing you thought was the world. The most important benefit, with both teaching and critical writing, is rededication: remembering why this is important, and why I do it.

Music plays an important role in your work, both in your non-fiction specifically about music and in your fiction. It’s difficult to inject music into fiction without it coming off as a ploy to show how hip the author is, and you are among the few that can pull it off. Any reason why, and why do you make the effort to do so?

Yes, all too often music is brought onstage as a shibboleth, a badge of exception – or is employed in the way that brand names are, as a shortcut to characterization. I never set out to write about music in the stories and novels. Music, obviously, is very much part of the fabric of my life. So it tends to bubble up out of the stew, just as so much else does: my being Southern, my liberalism and skepticism, my disaffection for religion and psychiatry, my love of food and books and those pushed to the margins by our society.

Welcome to the official launch of the Monday Interview. After a couple of test runs earlier this year, I’m ready to make this an official weekly feature here at TIRBD. I couldn’t be happier to kick things off with George Pelecanos, one of the country’s finest writers.

Fans of Pelecanos’ crime novels are keenly aware that the author is a music fan. Both through the presence of contemporaneous artists and songs in his work and the now-familiar “tour music” postings on his web page that highlight the CDs he takes on book tours, he makes it clear that tunes are an important part of his life.

Recently, he took that to a new level, penning the lyrics for a song by musician Steve Wynn. The track, “Cindy, It Was Always You,” was a stand-out on Wynn’s latest disc with his band, the Miracle 3, …tick …tick …tick. Wynn also backed Pelecanos at a few readings done to promote the author’s latest book, the riveting The Night Gardener. The cover of a limited edition disc issued by Wynn to commemorate that pairing quotes Pelecanos as saying “Steve paints short stories with guitar. I’m just out here trying to have some fun. Enjoy this aural cocktail, mixed at the intersection of sonic and noir.”

As Pelecanos’ stature grows, so does the number of interviews with him available on the web. Some of the best are here, here and here. I decided to choose a slightly different tack and questioned him about music and the way he uses it in his work. What follows is our Q&A, conducted by e-mail earlier this month.

TIRBD: Do you play an instrument or write music of your own, or have such forays been limited to projects like that with Steve Wynn on “Cindy”?

GP: I’m strictly a fan. I played trumpet when I was a kid but I didn’t really have the aptitude for it. I admire musicians the same way I admire master carpenters or good car mechanics, which is why I like checking out live music but rarely go to book readings. I know all about the man behind the curtain. There’s no sense of wonder for me there.

Did writing lyrics for that song and seeing how Steve put them to music give you any insight into music in general or about how good songs are put together?

What he did surprised me. I was thinking he would record one of his epic, slow-burn numbers like “The Deep End” or “Good and Bad.” Instead he turned it into a garage band thing. And it really worked. What I learned was that lyrics are overrated. In the end, it’s the music that makes you reach for the dial on the dash. That song is nothing without Steve Wynn and the performance of the band.

Does the mention of songs in your work happen organically or is there research involved to ensure that they are contemporaneous with what is taking place? If research has been involved, what discoveries have you made that you’ve added to your collection?

Both. I try to keep the mention of songs organic to the arena and especially to character. With some of the period novels I do extensive research, which can be little more than buying a shitload of music before I start to write the book. Hard Revolution was like that. I was alive in the Sixties but I was a kid. Rock and soul really gets into your consciousness when you start feeling your sexuality. So I had to give myself an education in Deep Soul. I read many books (the best was Guralnick’s Sweet Soul Music) and soul obsessive web sites, like the John Ridley page. I bought and downloaded a bunch of tracks. Meanwhile, fans were sending me obscure compilations. Discovering all of those artists and that type of music left a lasting impression on me. I wrote that book three or four years ago and I am still collecting soul music from that period. It’s a perk that comes with my job.

Do you listen to music as you work, particularly the songs and artists that your characters are listening to?

I can’t listen to vocals when I write. The singing collides with the words racing through my head. I listen to film soundtracks, mainly. Morricone, Lalo Schifrin, Elmer Bernstein, John Barry, Bernard Hermann… like that.

What are your thoughts about genre as it relates to racial groups and other ethnographic distinctions? Correct me if my memory is faulty, but it seems your black characters listen exclusively to R’n’B and soul music. You are evidence that not everyone fits into a narrow category, though at times it seems as if you use music tastes as shorthand for character traits (Derek Strange vs. Terry Quinn for example).

Don’t forget go-go, the sound of D.C. But yeah, I think that’s accurate. I’ve never lived anywhere but the Washington area, and everything I know is what I see around here. In my experience, black people of a certain generation generally listen to R&B, soul and hip-hop. White folks are generally into rock and blues. Black and white teenagers, in my neighborhood at least, listen to hip-hop and go-go. Sure, there are exceptions. But there’s no reason to stretch credulity. Strange would listen to R&B and soul. It’s embedded deep inside him. Quinn is a Springsteen/Steve Earle guy. That whole outlaw highwayman thing is part of his self image, and his downfall. The differences make for some interesting conversation between the two men.

When referencing music in writing, you are somewhat dependent on the reader being familiar with the artist or song for the atmosphere to truly be set. Does that affect what you choose? Is writing for TV on “The Wire,” where music is a part of the finished product, a different experience because of that?

I don’t go out of my way to use obscure references. The choices are all about what the character would be listening to. As for “The Wire,” many of the music choices are tied to the budget we have for the show. You can blow half your licensing budget for the season on one song if you’re not careful. As writers we have some input, but ultimately it often comes down to money. What we’ve tried to do, whenever possible, is plug some house music, indigenous to Baltimore, and Baltimore hip-hop into the mix.

Have you written any non-fiction about music, or do you restrict your writing to your novels?

Only on my web site. I do an annual Tour Music feature that talks about the stuff I’ve been listening to and why I’m into it. I’m just having fun.

I made a great new mystery writer discovery last week, tearing through the first two books from Steve Hamilton. I came across Hamilton’s name while reading Craig McDonald’s book Art in the Blood, in which he interviews 20 mystery and crime authors. I picked it up to read about favorites like Ken Bruen, Michael Connelly, George Pelecanos and Ian Rankin, but decided to read the entire thing to see what I might be missing.

I came away with a list of new (to me) authors to check out, and started with Hamilton. I’m surprised I had never picked up on him, as his debut novel, A Cold Day in Paradise, seemed to win every major mystery award upon its release in 1997. No matter, I dove in and was hooked on the story of former cop Alex McNight. While there are shades of James Lee Burke’s Dave Robicheaux or, perhaps more pointedly, James Sallis’ new protagonist Turner, Hamilton’s setting in the Upper Peninsula gives the books a decidedly chilly twist. I’ll be working to catch up with the series over the coming months.

That alone would be enough to recommend McDonald’s book, but it’s a solid collection not to be missed by mystery fans. As Bruen says in the introduction, “The dream interviewer. Sharp, learned, darkly humorous, emphatic, probing but not intrusive… tricky balance. And hey, guess what…? Nothing about Craig in the interview.” Even better, however, is the fact that McDonald is clearly intimately familiar with the authors’ work. He cites character and plot details that reveal close reading, and it propels these interviews into interesting territory.

It stands in sharp contrast with another recent mystery author interview collection, Behind the Mysteries by mystery author Stuart Kaminsky. I’ve never read Kaminsky’s work, and his effort here makes it unlikely I will. The questions make Larry King seem incisive and deep, and the slipshod attention to detail was startling.