Acrylic version of Cotton Candy.
Seen at the hockey game
Finished painting of old lady in the super coat
I saw an older woman at the doctor’s who had a fabulous patchwork coat on.
Book reviews used to come in the daily newspapers, not just in the Times and other ‘papers of record’ but in local morning and evening newspapers.
Those days are numbered if not totally gone. Now the lucky writer sees her book in digital print, as in this nice review of Fires of London from the folks at lambdaliterary.org.
That good writers’ organization Sisters in Crime, still alas very much needed, has a new promotion, featuring a rotating series of member’s book covers on their website.
I was happy to learn that Fires of London was chosen as one for the next two weeks. See it and the other choices at the bottom of the page at www.sistersincrime.org.
I’ve been reading some of the mysteries that John Banville writes as Benjamin Black, featuring the hard drinking pathologist, Dr. Quirk in 1950’s Dublin. The novels are very good but what has struck me as a fellow writer is Banville’s cleverness in picking the 1950’s.
I’d forgotten how much time in a novel can be taken up with drinking and, especially with smoking. These short novels would lose at least 20 pages apiece if the nicotine addicts kicked the cancer sticks. The modern, relatively smoke-free novel is clearly superior from a public health standpoint, but even this non-smoker must admit certain literary disadvantages to modern tobacco abstinence.
How atmospheric those old smoking scenes were. And how many little character traits could be revealed, how many shifts of emotion. Sucking the smoke in greedily as so many of Banville’s characters do. Delaying crucial moments with the business of lighting up. Signaling finality and resolution by stabbing out a butt.
Our lungs gain is the mystery genre’s loss.
Happy Valentine’s Day