Books I Wish I'd Written, part 2

From memory it was back about two or three years, some new literary sensation from Europe, complete with a bag of prizes and a truckload of critical acclaim and enough media coverage to papier mâché the Brandenburg Gate. Lucky boy. I had to review the book and make some crap money so that I could squeeze some cash onto my credit card and buy back the time I’d spent wasting my time on the book review. On credit. And the book made me ill and for the first time in my life I didn’t want to read fiction, ever again, if reading fiction was going to be the unadulterated agony that the book in question was. I took a couple of aspirin and drank some gin and fell into a fitful sleep on the couch.

Then Donald E. Westlake came to me in a dream. I knew it was him, even though he didn’t say a word, just sat there at the end of the couch, grinning. I was a little embarrassed because I hadn’t yet read any of his books, though I’d been meaning to. But he put me at ease. There was something all-knowing about the calm look he was giving me, and the way he slowly nodded his head. Then he spoke and said: “You’re an idiot.” He left and I woke up.

The first book I got hold of was his 1969 novel SOMEBODY OWES ME MONEY. I read the first line and felt an enormous pressure lift from my head and I rejoiced.

“I bet none of it would have happened if I wasn’t so eloquent.”

Of course, I went looking for more. I found out about one of his many pen names — Richard Stark — and discovered the Parker novels. Boy. Wow. You know good when you see it. The goodness just pours into you. Then it’s like molten sunshine glowing in your chest. There’s nothing to say, just smile and feel the warmth. Hope for more. There are over twenty books in the Parker series, and I’m so happy and grateful to be healthy once again.

THE OUTFIT was the third novel in the series, published in 1963. The one I wish I’d written. Here Parker, the heist guy protagonist, gets into a tangle with the Mob. The story-telling finesse, the poise and precision of the writing, the style and the craftsmanship of the whole is enough to make you kneel down in I-am-not-worthy-Sir humbleness. I always keep a copy near to hand, in case another new literary sensation leaves me with bird flu symptoms or a nasty rash. For the love of fiction, I encourage you to do the same…