On Bad Reviews

Today on Dead Guy, I'm talking about four kinds of bad reviews, and why I only like one of them.

DEAD HARVEST by Chris F. Holm

I’m not normally a big reader of fantasy, urban or otherwise. I don’t have anything against it, but there are already more books on this earth than I’ll be able to read in my lifetime, so I have to choose. Sometimes, though, I make exceptions. DEAD HARVEST is one, and it’s a doozy.

Because I knew author Chris Holm’s short stories, I knew already that he is a talented storyteller. If I’m honest, though, I underestimated his power to create characters and worlds that are as compelling as the one we find in DEAD HARVEST.

Sam Thornton is a new take on the grim reaper. He collects souls for a living—because he’s been damned to do so—but he’s actually quite a nice guy. Likeable, even. He’s a good guy stuck with a lousy gig for all of eternity. The thing is, the people whose souls he’s instructed to grab are no great shakes themselves, so while it’s still an unenviable task, he plods along. Until, that is, he’s instructed to collect the soul from someone who has, he thinks, been wrongly targeted.

The inhabitants of Sam’s world are fascinating, each in his or her own way. I didn’t necessarily like them all, but I was mesmerized to read what would happen to them, to learn their secrets and understand their motivations.

Kate MacNeil is either a sadistic, cold-blooded killer or a sweet, innocent young lady. We’re not sure which until well into the story. I guessed repeatedly, and in the end, I was wrong. Sam’s handler, Lilith, is either a bitch or an ally (again, I guessed wrong while reading). His colleague, Bishop, is richly drawn and creepy as all hell. Different characters and story details will stand out to each reader because DEAD HARVEST is that kind of story.

I was also impressed with the humor in DEAD HARVEST, and the cadence of the story. If you’re into audiobooks, I would suggest checking this one out; as I read the book, I thought several times what a treat it would be to have this story read to me…it’s just suited to audio.

Most importantly, perhaps, this story does not preach. It’s about forces of good and evil, yes, and human souls, but it’s not religious. It also avoids the trap into which many fantasy stories fall of being overly complicated and convoluted. It is troubling in many ways, and will stay with you long after you turn the last page, but only in good ways. Luckily, the next installment in The Collector series, THE WRONG GOODBYE, arrives on shelves on September 25.


Author's website: www.chrisfholm.com

Buy the Book:

Interview with a Character: Sam Thornton

Sam Thornton is the nicest, most fascinating grim reaper you'll ever want to meet. He is as human a gent as you'll find, and has a wit that comes, I suppose, from roaming around for centuries with no end in sight.. Sam made his debut in DEAD HARVEST (my review is here), and will be back in THE WRONG GOODBYE later this September. Author Chris Holm was kind enough to ask Sam to field some questions for me--enjoy!

Do you have a favorite band or song?

My wife, Elizabeth, always had a fondness for Benny Goodman. Whenever I hear him play, I'm brought back to our tenement apartment in Staten Island. I can smell her braciole cooking away on the stovetop; I can see her swaying in time to that big-band sound. So to me, Benny Goodman's as close to heaven as this damned soul's ever gonna get.

Your job affords you the opportunity to travel extensively…where’s your favorite place you’ve visited?

It's funny: in my capacity as a Collector, I've seen the inside of royal palaces and five-diamond hotels; I've strolled the midnight streets of Paris and the black-sand beaches of Hawaii. But by far the most wonderful place I've ever visited was a tiny little thatch-hut village in the Colombian wilds. Place is so small, I don't think it even has a name, and it sure ain't much to look at.

I'd been chasing down this real bastard of a mark named Varela. He's a major player in the international coke trade. Varela caught wind that I was coming for him, and fled into the rainforest. Took me days to catch up to him, and days more to get back out. When I stumbled, half-starved and half-mad, out of the jungle, it was into this village. Crazy as I looked and sounded, those people shoulda run me out on a rail. Shoulda chased me off with torches and pitchforks. But instead, they took me in. Gave me food and clothes and shelter, though they had so little of each themselves. And I'm forever grateful for their hospitality. Its folks like them that keep me thinking there's still good left in this Godforsaken world.

Were you a member of a church before you were a collector? If so, which one and do you miss it?

In life, I'd like to think I took to heart the whole do-unto-others thing, but wasn't what you'd call the pious sort. Me and Elizabeth, we went to church -- Catholic, if it matters -- but it was more out of habit and out of tradition than any deep, philosophical yearning. This was the Thirties and Forties, you understand -- long before Vatican II -- so mass for us was a somber, impenetrable, Latin-laced affair; most folks who attended had only the faintest of notions what any of it meant. Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure that hasn't much changed over the decades, but at least the words themselves are easier to follow.

Over the years and through your travels, have you had the occasion to interact with any well-known figures?

Collectors never kill and tell.

Oh, who am I kidding? I've already blabbed my story for anyone who wants to read it. So let me say this: my very first collection out the gate was a doozy and a half. But that's a story for another time...

You’re a sensitive guy, but you have a pretty harsh job. What’s the collection you felt worst about?

Truth be told, they're all pretty lousy. See, when a Collector takes a human soul to deliver it to hell, he or she experiences every moment that brought that person to that point -- every triumph, every horror. In the case of freelance kills -- those folks so evil, hell won't wait around for them to die -- that means we've got a front-row seat to the worst transgressions of humanity, and believe me, that ain't no picnic. But contract kills -- folks who've bargained away their souls for fame or money or whatever -- aren't much better. Contract kills are usually decent enough people -- they just want a better hand than they've been dealt. In their case, the Collector experiences a lifetime of decency, of disappointment -- and does so with the realization we've condemned that poor sad sap to an eternity of torment. So either way, my job's a world of suck.

I was one of the latter, by the way. This job serves as my eternal punishment, my end of the bargain.

You've seen some of the worst of human nature. Considering this, what’s your best advice for us average Janes and Joes?

If a deal seems too good to be true, it probably is. Devil's bargains come in all shapes and sizes, and most folks don't know they've made one until they meet the likes of me. So be careful what you wish for, and don't shake on any deal you wouldn't bet your life on.

Despite everything you’ve seen and experienced, you seem to maintain a certain sense of wonder. What (still) amazes you?

Every day, I'm reminded what brutal, vicious creatures humans are. But once and a while, one of us will do something so goddamn beautiful, it makes the rest worth weathering. That is never not amazing. And that's what keeps me holding on to whatever tiny shred of decency I've got left.

Thank you!!

Sure. A word of warning, though, since I like you and I'm feeling generous. If ever our paths cross again, don't assume it's for a followup. Run.

The Kindness of Strangers

In 1983, when I was 12 years old, my father made the bold decision to move us to Hawaii. He wasn’t in the military…he was just cold. As a teacher, he could work anywhere, and he thought Hawaii would be a good place for us. We had moved from Seattle to San Diego some months previously, but found that the Southern California winters weren’t as comfy as the Beach Boys would have you think.

When we arrived in Honolulu, it was during the Christmas school break. Rather than enroll me in a new school halfway through the year, he decided to give me a program of independent study while he checked out the schools available. He always took the choice of which school I’d attend very seriously.

Hawaii School for Girls

The school he picked for me was Hawaii School for Girls, a (very) small, all-girls, secular, independent school housed in a bright pink building perched right on the side of Diamond Head. He was impressed with the headmaster, Joseph Pynchon, the teachers, the small class size, the excellent curriculum, and the feel of the place. HSG was not the least bit institutional, but rather was a true community, back in the days when community existed only in the real world, not online.

I started at HSG in 8^th grade, when I was 13. I was not a social kid—being around new people made me incredibly nervous—but I quickly found real friends there. I also found teachers who had a more profound impact on me than I can put into words. Sybille Brinkman taught me French and German, and also served as a mentor, role model, occasional parent, and oftentimes friend. Jack Gilmar showed me that history is told through perspectives, and gave me a deep and abiding appreciation for the natural world around us. Carolyn Arbuckle showed me that it was preferable to be myself rather than anyone’s conception of what I should  be, and also nurtured my love of reading and writing.

There were others, of course, but you get the idea. While my teenage life was as tough as everyone’s is, at HSG, I found an environment in which I thrived.

At the end of 9^th grade, disaster struck. HSG was a private school, and while the fees were not enormous, they were far beyond my dad’s humble means. In the 1980s, teachers were no better paid than they are today. My first two years had been underwritten by a distant and beloved family member, but when her husband died, she couldn’t continue to pay my tuition. As much as he didn’t want to, he was going to have to pull me out of HSG.

We went together to tell Mr. Pynchon. I was in tears, although I tried to buck up. We sat in the guest chairs in front of Mr. Pynchon’s big desk, and my dad explained that I wouldn’t be able to return to HSG the next September while I whimpered.

Mr. Pynchon listened, and then, in his kind, gentle, and always authoritative manner, said, “No. Erin will be back. We’ll take care of it.”

You see, while HSG was a private school and many of the girls came from extraordinarily wealthy families, it was not elitist. Not in the least. It had a scholarship fund, and this is where my tuition came from for the following three years.

The scholarship fund came from a number of sources, including Hoopla, an annual auction, private donations, and the children’s fair that was held one weekend each year. As a scholarship recipient, I never knew where exactly the money that allowed me to receive such a stellar education came from; Mr. Pynchon never would have allowed that because to him—and everyone else at HSG—I was an equal, not a charity case. Over the years, he and the teachers and administrators at HSG guided me to get the most from my time there, and it worked. I edited the yearbook. I acted in plays. I got good grades. I thrived.

Children's Fair, with Carrie and Bianca

At the annual children’s fair, all the students had different jobs. Some made and served taco salad. Some manned the kiddie rides. And some of us did short plays for the kids. We had a blast. The children’s fair never would have been possible without the participation of the entire school community, as well as volunteers who came to help out. I never considered at the time that perhaps my scholarship benefactor was on campus as I slathered white makeup on.

The people of HSG formed the person I am today. My experiences there have stayed with me. I’ve always been grateful for my time there.

Almost seven years ago, my husband and I—having followed a circuitous route that led us though Chicago, Honolulu, Spokane, Boston, Dublin and London—moved into a house on a fairly small street in the relatively tiny city of St. Petersburg, Florida. We have always thought we were meant to end up in this house for many reasons, not the least of which is the lovely neighbors with whom we’re surrounded.

The couple just up the street from us, Sharyn and Alex Klahm, also traveled around before landing here on 10^th Street a few years before we arrived. From Boston and LA respectively, they’ve also lived in many different places over the years, including Honolulu. We’ve always loved talking with them because they are smart, funny, deeply compassionate people, and we share a perspective on almost all things political, and most definitely all things feline. Sharyn and Alex are the most vigilant cat people I’ve ever met, and their benevolence extends to all creatures. When we ended up with two baby raccoons a while back, it was Sharyn who put us in touch with raccoon experts, and who stood and cheered with us as we watched the momma raccoon retrieve her babies.  

I’d never known many details of their time in Hawaii. I knew Sharyn was a social worker there. I knew they had a huge plumeria tree at their home. But that’s about it. It only ever came up in passing, and we’d made “funny old world” remarks about the fact that we’d all experienced living on the same small and remote island.

Last week, Sharyn came with us to see Amy Goodman speak (Alex was out of town on business; he is a gifted metalwork artist). Sharyn has recommended to us in the past that we attend one of Amy’s events, and when I saw a notice in one of the free papers I happened to pick up that she was appearing in town again, I bought tickets before I had time to talk myself out of it (we’re not big ‘evening event’ types). When we saw Sharyn earlier in the week, she explained that Alex was away but she would love to go too, so we made plans to go together.

The event was fantastic—Sharyn was absolutely right that Amy is a passionate, articulate, and fearless journalist. As we chatted on the drive home, Sharyn happened to ask, “Where did you go to school in Hawaii?”

I answered as I always do, starting with the assumption that the person to whom I’m speaking, even if she’s lived in Hawaii, won’t necessarily be familiar with HSG. “Oh, it was a small school. You probably saw the building it was in, though. It’s bright pink and right on the side of Diamond Head…”

“Oh! Did you go to Hawaii School for Girls?”

“Yes, I sure did.”

 “We helped put girls through that school! We used to volunteer there. I thought it was important to support because it seemed to really be encouraging young women to be leaders. When did you graduate?”

“1988. When were you and Alex there?”

And then came one of those moments when your world changes. When things shift just slightly and your sense of awe grows enormously.

“We were there until 1986.”

Which means I directly benefited from their contributions to HSG. I am one of those girls they helped put through school. I roamed around campus when they were there helping with the children’s fair. We might have even spoken briefly.

Without their kindness, I would not be who I am or where I am. And today, we’re neighbors.

Depending on how you count, there are anywhere from 43 million to a billion streets in the United States, which is populated by more than 300 million human beings. I’m no statistician, but I have to think that the chances of my ending up living on the same street as people who so deeply impacted by life almost a quarter-century ago but whom I never knew are too infinitesimal to measure.

And yet, it happened.

I’ve long believed that things happen for a reason, that there are forces greater than ourselves at work in the universe. But now, I know it for certain. I was meant to know Sharyn and Alex, and they were meant to know me. To see the very real impact their kindness had. To give us all a reason to be compassionate in a world that seems too often consumed by hate, to be humane when it’s often easier to turn a blind eye to the needs of others.

To give me the opportunity to say thank you. Thank you, Sharyn and Alex, for doing something selfless that gave me the ability to live a full and rich life, and taught me values and skills that have touched those beyond me as well. Thank you for your kindness.

I’m sharing this story because I find it too remarkable to not be told. And also because, at the conclusion of Amy Goodman’s talk, my husband, Sharyn, and I sat rapt as she told us not to be silent. To use our voices though all means available. This is my soapbox, and I hope this story illustrates for you that kindnesses, big and small, have far more impact than you might realize, and that compassion is, always and forever, worthwhile.

Fall into Books

This is not me. But I do often
drink coffee and read.

Happy September!

I have not (yet) written as many book reviews this year as I would like. Doesn’t mean I haven’t been reading, though, and some of the titles on which I have yet to opine are ones I really enjoyed. So I wanted to give you a quick list, just in case you’re looking for something fantastic to read this fall.

I still plan to write full reviews of these books and others, of course, but in the meantime, here are quick summaries of 15 of them in no particular order (links lead to author's website, except James Bowen, which leads to his Facebook page)…

THE NEXT ONE TO FALL by Hilary Davidson: Don’t have the time or finances for a trip to Peru? Never fear, reading this one is as good as making the trip. With a protagonist and sidekick who are among my new favorites, it’s a fast story that has just the right amount of melodrama (which I do mean as a compliment).

THE HOUSE OF SILK by Anthony Horowitz: I wasn’t planning on reading this until it was vehemently recommended by Pop Culture Nerd. I am forever in her debt for making me read it.

TRAIL OF BLOOD by Lisa Black: This one sat on my shelf for quite a while, and I read it because Lisa was going to be at an event I was attending. Turns out, she’s a fantastic storyteller, and this is one of a few books I’ve read this year that move between different time periods with exceptional aplomb.

BLEED FOR ME by Michael Robotham: Despite the fact that I really wanted to slap primary character psychologist Joe O'Loughlin upside the head at several points though this book, I got lost in the story.

FIFTEEN DIGITS by Nick Santora: Totally not my cup of tea, but damned if this wasn’t a bunch of fun. Like a TV show that everyone calls a “guilty pleasure,” only because it’s a book, there’s no guilt in it.

THE DEMANDS by Mark Billingham (GOOD AS DEAD is the UK title): Tom Thorne is back in what is, in my less-than humble opinion, the best Thorne tale so far by quite a ways. In a story that takes place over the course of just a few days, Billingham manages to draw characters more richly through a plot that is as smart as it is compelling.

DARE ME by Megan Abbott: I wasn’t a cheerleader in high school, and so maybe this is why I saw this as less of a “cheerleader story” and more of a plain old murder mystery.

CREOLE BELLE by James Lee Burke: I believe this book to be one of the most important of this century. If you have not read it, please do.

THE SURVIVOR by Gregg Hurwitz: This is one of just a handful of specific books I was really looking forward to reading this year (as a general rule, I prefer to let myself be surprised by my next read, rather than planning far in advance), and it does not disappoint. Hurwitz knows how to make readers’ adrenaline rush while tugging at their heartstrings, and he does so masterfully.

THE PROPHET by Michael Koryta: I had to learn quite a lot about football to fully appreciate this story, but it was worth the effort. While it’s not my favorite of Koryta’s books (that honor still goes to THE CYPRESS HOUSE), it kept me turning the pages as fast as I could read.

INTO THE DARKEST CORNER and REVENGE OF THE TIDE (DARK TIDE is the American title) by Elizabeth Haynes: These aren’t a series, and both are superb. Haynes has a manner of storytelling that gets into your psyche…and stays there.

SHARP OBJECTS by Gillian Flynn: While everyone and his uncle has was reading GONE GIRL, I figured it was time I finally get around to reading Gillian Flynn. So I began at the beginning with this one. I’m only sorry I didn’t get to it sooner.

LIVE BY NIGHT by Dennis Lehane: This one’s not out until October 2, and if you’re smart, you’ll preorder it right now. It is as fine a piece of storytelling as I’ve read in quite some time. And no, I’m not biased by the fact that it makes my city of residence look pretty damn cool.

SAFE HOUSE by Chris Ewan: This one has it all: location, characters, delightfully twisty plot…and motorcycles! Lots of motorcycles. Part police procedural and part thriller, this is a fantastic read.

STREET CAT NAMED BOB by James Bowen: One of the loveliest Saturdays I’ve spent so far this year was consumed by this book. It isn’t crime fiction—although crimes do happen—but rather is a story about what can happen when humans open their hearts.