Against my better judgement, the lights in my apartment are connected to a wireless network controlled via an app. There are physical buttons, but they are located near the plugs, at ground level and often behind obstructions. When I leave, turning off the light requires digging my phone out of my pocket, typing in the unlock code, opening the app, waiting for it to detect the network, then tapping a button to turn off the light. I do all of this while standing an inch or so away from the old wall switch, the use of which would achieve the same result in a fraction of the time. As a result of this modernity, every time I leave the apartment, I feel the uncontrollable urge to make sure I’m listening to the title theme from French director Jacques Tati’s 1958 masterpiece Mon Oncle. I am, at that moment, Monsieur Hulot. Continue reading…
Posted November 1, 2007
I worked in my local library all through junior high and high school. One of the lingering benefits was that for years I knew where all the brand new books were kept: after they were entered into the system, but before they were put on the shelf. It was like being an explorer. Not only were the books pristine and untouched, but there was also the chance that I might make some fabulous discovery before anyone else.
Then one day in 1993, I did.
It was utterly unprepossessing at first sight: a slim category romance from the Harlequin Temptation line with a startlingly bad cover. Its sheer unattractiveness of it caught my eye. Up till then Harlequin and Silhouette had used drawings in their cover art, and had never aimed for photo-realism. This one had an actual photo, and a cheesey one at that. Idly I opened the book, wondering about the poor author stuck with such an unfortunate cover… and after just a few pages, realized it didn’t matter. Because any book written by Jennifer Crusie was going to find its way into the hands of hordes of readers.
That particular book was Manhunting, and it was Jennifer Crusie’s first novel. She had come to the attention of Harlequin when she won a novella contest the previous year. Her entry ‘Sizzle’, was published by Harlequin as a chapbook, and was given out as a little bonus to subscribers. It’s one of the few pieces from Crusie’s time with Harlequin that hasn’t been reissued in one form or another, for which she says she’s very grateful.
What made Crusie such a welcome addition to the genre? Well, for one thing, her characters always feel like real people instead of cardboard cutouts. They own pets; they love their jobs (or hate them); they try and sometime fail, and feel foolish, and try again anyway. She’s written about divorces, funerals, political ambition, and legalizing marijuana – all within the particular confines of the category romance. And secondly, she’s funny. Not pretending to be, or trying to be: funny.
Humour is subjective. What’s funny to A might be unfunny to B and incomprehensible to C. It is also, as any comedian will tell you, darned hard. Crusie’s pitch perfect ear for dialogue makes it seem easy. And it works because it’s delivered by real people. They talk fast, they insult each other, they’re funny not because they’re trying to make jokes, or deliver one-liners, but because sometime people are just plain funny.
After writing six very successful books, Crusie left Harlequin over a ‘moral rights’ clause the company wanted to insert into all contracts. She wrote two more category-length books, for the now-defunct Bantam Loveswept line. Then she turned her hand to writing longer romances for St. Martin’s. Once again, she challenged everyone’s idea of what a romance could be.
Her first single title, Tell Me Lies begins with a woman discovering that her husband is having an affair, again. Then she finds out he’s planning to take their daughter out of the country. Then he’s murdered. And then a case full of stolen cash appears in her car. Doesn’t sound terribly funny – but in Crusie’s hands it is. Not all the time, of course, that would be tedious. But Crusie proves that just because something is serious doesn’t mean it has to be full of angst or depression.
Crusie herself knows a bit about depression. It put her through a period of total block: she was unable to write, and unable to care. During that time, she attended the Maui Writer’s retreat where she met Bob Mayer, who said, “We should write a book together”.
Mayer, a former Green Beret, writes straight-up action suspense novels, as well as military SF under the name, Robert Doherty. They have very different writing routines, techniques and audiences (not to mention lives). But their writing voices are not dissimilar. Don’t Look Down, the first novel they wrote together, hit the NYT list. The second, the recently released Agnes And The Hitman is even better.
The other thing Crusie and Mayer do together extremely well is teach. They’ve given writing workshops all around the US, explaining plot structure, characterization, point-of-view – the ‘Bob and Jenny’ show, as they call it, touches all aspects of the writing process. You can see the workshop for yourself at their joint website, and reap the benefits of a most original, and highly welcome, partnership.
Chris Szego wants to be Crusie when she grows up.