Derek Davis's Blog
April 10, 2018
Back Alleys
Well, lovers of great literature, the paperback of my short story collection, Back Alleys, is finally available, after a long slog with Amazon over the cover photo.
Here’s my blurb:
From the depths of the human mind to the reaches of extra-galactic space, these stories embrace anything and everything that's human (and non-human). Visit Prester John in his hidden Indian kingdom, Satiety Jones on the bottom of the sea, Meester Seven on the planet Altamoria IV, and an introspective witness to murder in, yes, a back alley. Lawyer Kestrel learns unlikely lessons as he defends a woman who turned the homeless to soup, Mikael Yorum leaves a gift for Johann Sebastian Bach, the Turks bombard Philadelphia, and Rabelais gives advice to Santa deep into booze and depression at the North Pole.
As usual for me, these stories don’t belong to any given genre, don’t consciously reflect any specific outlook, philosophical or otherwise. They are stories, meant to be read and enjoyed for their simple existence. Some are straightforward with only a few kinks, others revel in convoluted style. Most are short, though a couple roam the world.
Dip in, dip out, read them in the tub, leave them in a conspicuous place when you’re through to confound the public. And whether you love them, hate them or shrug your mental shoulders, please leave a review on Amazon.
Here’s my blurb:
From the depths of the human mind to the reaches of extra-galactic space, these stories embrace anything and everything that's human (and non-human). Visit Prester John in his hidden Indian kingdom, Satiety Jones on the bottom of the sea, Meester Seven on the planet Altamoria IV, and an introspective witness to murder in, yes, a back alley. Lawyer Kestrel learns unlikely lessons as he defends a woman who turned the homeless to soup, Mikael Yorum leaves a gift for Johann Sebastian Bach, the Turks bombard Philadelphia, and Rabelais gives advice to Santa deep into booze and depression at the North Pole.
As usual for me, these stories don’t belong to any given genre, don’t consciously reflect any specific outlook, philosophical or otherwise. They are stories, meant to be read and enjoyed for their simple existence. Some are straightforward with only a few kinks, others revel in convoluted style. Most are short, though a couple roam the world.
Dip in, dip out, read them in the tub, leave them in a conspicuous place when you’re through to confound the public. And whether you love them, hate them or shrug your mental shoulders, please leave a review on Amazon.
July 22, 2017
Lickhaven
I'm trying, rather lackadaisically, to get back to writing on the blog my wife Linda and I started several years back:
lickhaven.com, where I don't talk about books. Much.
She's a potter, does wonderful, functional work; you can see some of it there.
Got a couple posts up. I don't have a very "acceptable" way of looking at things, so expect to be confused or offended on occasion if you visit.
lickhaven.com, where I don't talk about books. Much.
She's a potter, does wonderful, functional work; you can see some of it there.
Got a couple posts up. I don't have a very "acceptable" way of looking at things, so expect to be confused or offended on occasion if you visit.
June 27, 2017
The upside of failure
Well, I had my "reading" of No Bike at the local winery and – nobody came! Not a soul. But I got practice reading a selection to the owner and her helper. But the main result of the failed reading was a vast sense of relief. My stabs at promotion had had no effect at all, but they took time, angst and most of all psychic energy better put to other things – like writing.
No Bike and a much longer, more involved piece, "Evolution," sprang from a period (early 1980s) when I wrote just to write, to please myself and put together a work that would be as close to possible a personal perfection, even if it would never cause much rattle on the literary Richter scale.
These last weeks I've been wading through Thomas Pynchon's Mason & Dixon, one of the most extraordinary novels of the 20th century (review coming soon). For me, it was a slow read because he chose to use 18th century language and typography and to explain the elements of astronomy and surveying as though the reader is a wholly intelligent inhabitant of the Enlightenment. As with Gravity's Rainbow and, really, pretty much anything else Pynchon's written, it was exuded in exactly the spirit I'm talking about – writing for the sake of writing to satisfy that inner need for perfection.
That's what I want to get back to and stay with. So instead of feeling defeated, even momentarily, by the lack of immediate response, I feel liberated.
Hey, though, buy the book. It's good.
No Bike and a much longer, more involved piece, "Evolution," sprang from a period (early 1980s) when I wrote just to write, to please myself and put together a work that would be as close to possible a personal perfection, even if it would never cause much rattle on the literary Richter scale.
These last weeks I've been wading through Thomas Pynchon's Mason & Dixon, one of the most extraordinary novels of the 20th century (review coming soon). For me, it was a slow read because he chose to use 18th century language and typography and to explain the elements of astronomy and surveying as though the reader is a wholly intelligent inhabitant of the Enlightenment. As with Gravity's Rainbow and, really, pretty much anything else Pynchon's written, it was exuded in exactly the spirit I'm talking about – writing for the sake of writing to satisfy that inner need for perfection.
That's what I want to get back to and stay with. So instead of feeling defeated, even momentarily, by the lack of immediate response, I feel liberated.
Hey, though, buy the book. It's good.
June 2, 2017
Something different
Those of you who looked at the free sample of Gifts of a Dead Man and didn't like it will probably love No Bike (coming on June 29). Conversely, the two or three who loved Dead Man may well hate No Bike. The two novels are almost diametric opposites.
Pete and Millie, the stars of Dead Man, are decent, quiet, likeable – in Pete's case, almost self effacing. Turkle, the brilliant but self-destructive protagonist of No Bike lives on anger, adrenaline and confrontation.
Dead Man smacks of magical realism, with unearthly encounters, comic book heroes of the '50s and old radio detectives interacting with a paralyzed would-be shamus. Then there are the 8-year-old twins who blow things up. And the Grey Man who digs miniature worlds out of the ground by his leanto.
No Bike charges straight ahead, a smooth plotline filled with violence and retribution that does as much damage to Turkle as to anyone he plots to annihilate. The setting is again the Midwest, this time the home of the Golden Horde, the most feared biker gang to blast out of Nebraska. Oh, they are nasty, and the women who attach themselves to the Horde, like Heaven's Baby, live on the edge of existence.
No Bike is very different from what cane before. I don't like to write the same thing twice.
Pete and Millie, the stars of Dead Man, are decent, quiet, likeable – in Pete's case, almost self effacing. Turkle, the brilliant but self-destructive protagonist of No Bike lives on anger, adrenaline and confrontation.
Dead Man smacks of magical realism, with unearthly encounters, comic book heroes of the '50s and old radio detectives interacting with a paralyzed would-be shamus. Then there are the 8-year-old twins who blow things up. And the Grey Man who digs miniature worlds out of the ground by his leanto.
No Bike charges straight ahead, a smooth plotline filled with violence and retribution that does as much damage to Turkle as to anyone he plots to annihilate. The setting is again the Midwest, this time the home of the Golden Horde, the most feared biker gang to blast out of Nebraska. Oh, they are nasty, and the women who attach themselves to the Horde, like Heaven's Baby, live on the edge of existence.
No Bike is very different from what cane before. I don't like to write the same thing twice.
May 19, 2017
"No Bike"
My second novel, to be published as an ebook by Smashwords and for Kindle on June 29, 2017. My first to be completed, though, more years ago than it is polite to talk about. Too many people have told me I've waited too many years, sitting on this. I finally decided they're right. So, for all you fans of violence and degradation:
The sunlight saved you. They had set the wire across the road, the three dead-eyed riders, the third man exuding an almost subhuman filth. Had they meant to kill you or just sever your legs?
Your hog is wrecked, your arm is broken, but your anger is intact – always. You're small for a biker, but you can outthink most of the human race and you're tenacious, vicious as you seek revenge. Not for the damage to your body, but for their unforgivable arrogance of letting you live.
Turkle knows a lot, maybe too much for his own good, but he doesn't know where these bikers came from, where they were going, why they targeted him, a loner. But he'll track them down, oh yes he will. Especially the third man.
Along the way, he has to play down his intelligence, put his mind in temporary storage to be one of them in their physical and moral squalor.
He'll have his way, but at what cost? To Dorsal – the only friend he has ever acknowledged – to strung-out Heaven's Baby and beautiful Sally, to dopey, innocent T Rex. To himself.
Some things are worth hunting down. But it doesn't always pay to find them.
The sunlight saved you. They had set the wire across the road, the three dead-eyed riders, the third man exuding an almost subhuman filth. Had they meant to kill you or just sever your legs?
Your hog is wrecked, your arm is broken, but your anger is intact – always. You're small for a biker, but you can outthink most of the human race and you're tenacious, vicious as you seek revenge. Not for the damage to your body, but for their unforgivable arrogance of letting you live.
Turkle knows a lot, maybe too much for his own good, but he doesn't know where these bikers came from, where they were going, why they targeted him, a loner. But he'll track them down, oh yes he will. Especially the third man.
Along the way, he has to play down his intelligence, put his mind in temporary storage to be one of them in their physical and moral squalor.
He'll have his way, but at what cost? To Dorsal – the only friend he has ever acknowledged – to strung-out Heaven's Baby and beautiful Sally, to dopey, innocent T Rex. To himself.
Some things are worth hunting down. But it doesn't always pay to find them.
May 13, 2011
The Chiseler
Writing occasional pieces on '40s and '50s radio shows at The Chiseler (chiseler.org), which covers all sorts of pre-mod social-cultural matters. I've salted away over 2,000 old-time radio shows on my Mac. They go well with dinner.
