This morning I woke up from some odd dream with the realization that my three favorite authors are dead. Of course, I already knew this. But somehow that knowledge worked its way into my subconscious and disturbed me while I slept. It’s bothered me all day, and I’m not sure why.
Lloyd Alexander, author of a variety of books for children, died in 2007. I grew up reading the Chronicles of Prydain, and then rereading them, and rereading them. To this day I don’t think there’s been a series of books I’ve read more than The Book of Three, The Black Cauldron, The Castle of Llyr, Taran Wanderer, and The High King. I even got a copy of the hard-to-find The Foundling: And Other Tales of Prydain back before Amazon.com (and the internet) existed. I guess these books are to me what Harry Potter is to children (and adults) these days, but I’ll always consider them more enjoyable and more poignant than anything having to do with Hogwarts or quidditch or wizardry in general. And I like Harry Potter. But as far as children’s literature, it just doesn’t compare.
Alexander taught me that a story can teach you something while still being entertaining. Later, it helped me realized that it was possible to root a story in myth — the oldest form of storytelling — and yet make it something new. In the end, however, I guess the main thing was that I saw myself in his characters. I related to Taran from the minute I read the first sentence in the first book:
Taran wanted to make a sword; but Coll, charged with the practical side of his education, decided on horseshoes.
Douglas Adams, author of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy died of a heart attack in 2001. I discovered him when I was in middle school, after I’d already developed an interest in science fiction via Star Wars, Buck Rogers, Battlestar Galactica, and Doctor Who. But I hadn’t really read any science fiction authors, and to this day I can’t force myself to read most of them. I just can’t handle hard, serious sci-fi. It usually makes me want to gouge out my eyes with a spork. Adams had a way of blending the best parts of science fiction with the most absurd humor. And while he probably isn’t the reason why I fell in love with sci-fi, he’s likely the one to blame for my belief that I could write it. That I could enjoy writing it.
Evan Hunter (aka Ed McBain) tops the list as my favorite author. Best known for his gritty crime novels, notably the 87th Precinct police procedurals, which consists of 54 novels spanning 1956 (Cop Hater) to 2005 (Fiddlers), he passed away of laryngeal cancer in 2005 before he could complete the series with a book named “Exit” that was meant to be published after his death.
“I usually start with a corpse. I then ask myself how the corpse got to be that way and I try to find out-just as the cops would. I plot, loosely, usually a chapter or two ahead, going back to make sure that everything fits - all the clues are in the right places, all the bodies are accounted for…(I) believe strongly in the long arm of coincidence because I know cops well, I know how much it contributes to the solving of real police cases.”
You might be wondering how a kid who grew up reading myth-based fantasy books for children, then humorous sci-fi novels by a British author, would end up loving police procedurals. I began reading Ed Mcbain in high school, completely by accident, when my mother ordered a book named Lightning from some mail order book club. She was expecting “Lightning” by Dean Koontz, but somehow ended up with the 87th Precinct novel instead. I complained to her one day that I had nothing to read, so she suggested I read it. I can’t say why I got hooked — perhaps it was a small town kid reading about cops in the big city — but after I finished that one I moved on to Eight Black Horses, where I discovered the Deaf Man. From there it was all over. Since then I’ve managed to read every book in the series.
Of all three authors, Ed McBain probably influenced my writing style the most, especially my dialogue. And although I spent a good deal of my young adulthood trying to emulate his work, I’ve come to realize that I have no real desire to write police procedurals. I appreciate a good crime novel, especially a good mystery, but as far as I’m concerned, police stories are best left to the experts.
The thing that saddens me the most is that I was reading his books up until the day he died. Since my childhood I’ve only read a few other Lloyd Alexander books, and Douglas Adams wasn’t really writing anymore, but every time I’d see a McBain book at a bookstore, especialy a novel of the Eight-Seven, I’d get all excited. The dream that I had last night (and a probably quite a few other nights) is that I discover an 87th Precinct novel that I haven’t read or one that I didn’t know was released. I’m in a bookstore that doesn’t exist, looking through books that aren’t real, and I discover Steve Carella, Meyer Meyer, Cotton Hawes, Bert Kling and Fat Ollie Weeks solving yet another murder in Isola.
Maybe these dreams have less to do with my favorite authors and more to do with wanting to reclaim pieces of my past. But I guess, when it comes right down to it, these authors’ stories are as much a part of my past as any childhood memories I have. Falling off the merry-go-round at recess, my first crush on a girl, and learning how to ride a bike go hand in hand with drawing the black sword of Dyrnwyn, visiting the restaurant at the end of the universe in the Heart of Gold, and getting set on fire by arsonists while undercover as a homeless person.
