Secret Dead Blog Interview: Jeff Wong

After I posted my "Book Report" a few days ago, artist/illustrator Jeff Wong--who is the man responsible for the cool cover of The Archer Files--dropped me a line. Somehow, I was able to con him into answering a few questions for Secret Dead Blog. (See what you get when you write me? No good deed goes unpunished.)

Secret Dead Blog: You have quite a Ross Macdonald collection. What's the prize of the bunch?

Jeff Wong: As a book collector, I love having 1st editions, but, the material that excites me most is the handwritten manuscripts and letters. The letters I have span close to 40 years of correspondence, which creates a nice day to day biography of sorts. It's hard to pick just one of the manuscripts, but, if forced, it would probably be an archive for a piece of self parody that Ken Millar/Ross Macdonald wrote circa 1959 called "The Macdonald Case". It is comprised of 6 holograph drafts and a carbon typescript. The last of the 6 handwritten drafts was edited many years later (evidenced by Millar's microscopic later hand, suggesting he revisited the material in the late 70s). The drafts were written in 2 different notebooks (both spiralbound, with different 3 ring hole sizes). Millar was clearly alternating between notebooks, editing and honing the piece, copying and revising from notebook to notebook. In this short work (a rare stab at humour), mystery writer, Ross Macdonald brings his new novel, The Galton Case, to the literary critic, Kenneth Millar to be evaluated. It's a first person POV, written by Kenneth Millar. In it, Kenneth Millar is critical of Ross Macdonald's use of similes, Macdonald quotes Aristotle as a defense of the use of similitudes, and the Mystery Writers of America factor into the story as "the Organization". It's a fascinating look at the author wrestling with himself & his work and the different drafts give insight to the creative process; getting to see the crossed out words, their replacements, and editorial choices in each successive version until the piece is honed to 3 typed pages is nothing short of bliss. This is a privilege that we will see less and less of in the digital age.

SDB: When you were first given The Archer Files assignment, how did you approach it?
JW: I began with a sketch of Ken Millar as Archer in an office -- the stereotypical private-eye office with filing cabinets, desk with green blotter, and an oscillating fan. My initial idea was to have Archer reading the 1955 Bantam paperback of The Name is Archer, and include Lew Archer: Private Investigator and Strangers in Town in the background on a bulletin board. I was working on the image digitally and was getting caught up in working on it. It was getting closer to looking like a finish than just an initial sketch. I wasn't entirely happy with the image. It felt a little awkward, stiff, and clumsy, but, I thought I could fix it if it were approved. I was also too caught up in trying to set the scene in 1955 and included the famous Marilyn Monroe calendar from that year in the background; this was out of character for Archer, and as Tom Nolan (Macdonald's biographer and editor of The Archer Files), later pointed out, something Ken Millar would've strongly objected to. I took a walk one day and an idea popped into my head. Why not pay tribute to the history of the Archer short stories and mimic the original Bantam cover? As much as I adored the Mitchell Hooks cover, I always got the sense the artwork was a bit generic and might've been something that was sitting in the flat files at the Bantam offices. Seeing Archer with a six shooter always made me think this was for a Western. The romance vignette in the lower right corner never rang true. Here was a chance to include things that tied into the stories that were more appropriate. I didn't think Doug Greene (the publisher at Crippen & Landru) or Tom would go for this idea, but, it was the one that I was secretly hoping they'd approve, even though I'd already spent several weeks on the other image. I dashed off a quick digital sketch, reworking the Bantam cover with Millar's face. I sent them both sketches, and thankfully they much preferred the Bantam idea. I was relieved. They felt it was clever, and quite fitting to have Millar as Archer. Tom offered the suggestions of including the Warner Brothers water reservoir and the Santa Barbara Courthouse clock tower since Hollywood factored into the Archer canon quite often, and that the Millars were known to frequent the court sessions in Santa Barbara. I knew I had to retain the shooting vignette to show this book contained crime stories, and to retain a strong visual link to the original image. As a Macdonald collector, I loved the idea of paying tribute to the original collection while making "improvements". My father was a package designer (he designed the original Milky Way bar wrapper), so, I've always been fascinated how things are presented. I knew I wanted to emulate the Bantam book as closely as possible, so that the book would be old and familiar, yet new at the same time. It would be a book cover for Macdonald collectors by a Macdonald collector. I'm grateful to Doug and Tom for indulging my idea to carry the project to the logical extreme and giving me complete freedom to ape the front, spine, back, and title page. With the help of a friend, I was able to identify all of the original fonts used. The greatest challenge was redoing the calligraphic type for the back cover. I was going to do the cover art in the computer (I've mostly switched to digital in the last few years), but it dawned on me that I was going to be the owner of the original cover art of an important Ross Macdonald book and in a sense become part of my own Ross Macdonald collection. Was I insane? Who wants to hang a digital print when it could be a real painting instead? I did the painting in traditional media and am glad I did.

SDB: Why do you think a character like Lew Archer has endured all these years?
JW: I was beginning to wonder if people are still reading Ross Macdonald these days. Michael Chabon mentioned him recently, so, I guess so. I recently gave a friend a copy of The Chill, so I'm rereading it to discuss it with her. The writing still holds up for me. The use of foreshadowing using birds, the similes -- still artful in my book. I know Ken Millar felt Archer was so thin, if he stood sideways you wouldn't see him, and that the other characters were the ones he wanted you to remember, but, I always felt he was wrong on that front. For me, it is Lew Archer's unique voice that endures. How he sees the world in metaphor and simile, his compassion and sensitivity, his documentation of the California landscape at the time -- these are the things that resonate long after I've forgotten about the mother, or wayward son.

SDB: What's up next for you?
JW: I'm going to be working on a cover for a book by Kevin Avery about my dear friend, Paul Nelson, who passed away last summer. He was one of the few critics who defended Bob Dylan going electric at Newport, worked for Mercury Records and signed the New York Dolls, and was an editor at Rolling Stone Magazine (in Paul's cover story about Warren Zevon, Ken Millar factors into it in a big way). Paul conducted 39+ hours of interviews with Ken Millar between 1976 and 1978. I only wish Paul had lived to see the publication of The Archer Files, as he would've been one of the few people who would appreciate how much being involved in this project has meant to me.

Lights Out

We had a blackout at the City Paper office this week. It was just one of those freak things. (Pretty sure we paid our bill.)

I was in the middle of writing an e-mail when ... pop. Nothing. The gentle, ever-present hum that we never notice was gone.

That the computers and lights went out wasn't a surprise. The phones were dead, too, because like most modern telephonic equipment without a rotary dial, they run on electricity.

Here's something I didn't know runs on electricity: the water in the bathroom.

Which meant using the bathroom in the dark, then trying to wash your hands with a dwindling supply of water.

Now that was interesting.

When the lights went out, we didn't know how long it would last. At first I stepped into the newsroom and said something stupid like, "OK, folks, break out the pencils and crayons. We've got a paper to put out!"

But as the minutes ticked by, I began to think: Jesus. Are we going to have to put this paper out with pencils and crayons?

The only functioning pieces of equipment on the third floor of 123 Chestnut were our cell phones, and a few intern laptops, with varying degrees of battery life. They wouldn't do us a damn bit of good — not with our wireless knocked out, too.

Some intern made a joke about this being like a Die Hard movie.

One of my editors looked at me and asked, "Hey, think this is an EMP blast?"

I laughed ... then quickly looked outside.

Thankfully, things seemed relatively normal. Looked like it was only our building. But what if we ever did lose power? Like, for weeks or months on end?

Perpetrating journalism would be a little tough.

When the lights went out on Monday, a large portion of the content in this paper was trapped in computer servers. We hadn't printed much of it out — that comes later, during the sign-off stage.

I walked back to my desk, and looked around, and realized that there was literally nothing I could do.

The power came back on about an hour later. Everything hummed back to life.

So what does this have to do with our Summer Book Quarterly?

Books: the only form of popular entertainment you can't take out with an EMP.

OK, seriously now: There's much concern in the publishing community over book reviews, or the growing lack thereof. Just this week the San Diego Union-Tribune announced it would be killing its stand-alone book review section, which is what an increasing number of dailies are doing.

Fewer stand-alone review sections means fewer reviews. Fewer chances to get your book noticed.

Some say that the Net is there to pick up the slack, that there are countless blogs, review sites and lit journals online to spread the good word.

Which is true. I routinely visit places like Bookgasm and Bookslut and GalleyCat (the names, I know, I know) all the time.

But I'm part of the choir; I'm a book nerd. What preachin' publishers want is to catch the attention of readers who aren't necessarily book readers, or maybe only read a handful of books a year. Those people aren't surfing book sites. They're skimming mass media and stop only when something jumps out at them.

This is why I'm glad that book reviews still thrive in the alt-weeklies — including this alt-weekly. I won't lie to you; there was a dark moment last year when we considered pruning back our coverage (which went against my very DNA). But we decided that such a move would run counter to our mission as an arts and entertainment journal. If we can't preserve a home for book reviews, who the hell will?

Especially the kind of reviews you'll find in this BQ, edited by Patrick Rapa. You see, Pat's not just a book nerd. It's worse. He's a short-story nerd. Even keeps a blog (ireadashortstorytoday.com) about them. Freakin' weird, right?

Just try finding a section dedicated to that in your average daily newspaper.

So I hope something jumps out at you in this summer's BQ. There's nothing better, in the doggiest days of the Philadelphia summer, than a good book, a cold beer and a comfortable place to sit.

And when the EMP hits, you can keep on reading.

(Simulcast at www.citypaper.net.)

If I'm Ever Looking for a Pen Name...

(Image courtesy David "Hale" Smith.)

Book Report

Book I'm Reading Now: Volk's Game by Brent Ghelfi (Henry Holt)

Book I Want to Read Next, but Might Save for Summer Vacation Because It's So Damn Cool: The Archer Files by Ross MacDonald (Crippen & Landru)

Two Books I've Just Read That Aren't Out Yet and I Really Dug: Patriot Acts by Greg Rucka (Bantam) and The Crime Writer by Gregg Hurwitz (Viking)

Three Books That Aren't Out Yet That I Desperately Want to Read: The Shotgun Rule by Charlie Huston (Ballantine), Crooked Little Vein by Warren Ellis (William Morrow), and The 47th Samurai by Stephen Hunter (Simon & Schuster)

Two Books That Are Out Today That I'm Very Much Looking Forward To: The Mark by Jason Pinter (Mira) and The Cleaner by Brett Battles (Bantam)

Two Books That I Just Recommended to Al Guthrie, and Want to Read Again Because I Mentioned Them: The Drive-In 1 & 2 by Joe R. Lansdale (Bantam)

One Reprint That I Liked Even More the Second Time Around: Miami Purity by Vicki Hendricks (Busted Flush Press)

Last Book Recommended to Me: Volk's Game by Brent Ghelfi

Last Nonfiction Book I Read: Murder off the Rack: Critical Studies of Ten Paperback Masters, edited by Jon L. Breen and Martin H. Greenburg (Scarecrow Press)

Book I Already Own That I Want to Reread Because of Clive Owen and Frank Miller: Trouble is My Business by Raymond Chandler (Vintage)

How about you?

The Plot Thickens...

(Courtesy CollegeHumor.com.)

Smoke

There is a certain time when I am at peace. When my mind is clear, and life is reduced to its necessary elements. When I stand behind my house and stare at the sky, and quietly reflect upon the day's events, or future plans. When I am delighted by the laughter of my children.

When am I at such peace?

When I am in my back driveway, grilling meat.

I don't know what happened, but it came on strong this year. I've grilled for years, ever since the summer of 1998 when we lived in a tiny apartment in Brooklyn that somehow, impossibly, was blessed with a back deck. (And for only $1,110 a month!) So I grilled dogs and burgers. Sometimes a piece of chicken on a patch of tinfoil, but that's not really grilling. That's using an outdoor oven.

And every summer since then, I've grilled. It is expected of me. But my repertoire remained frozen in 1998: Dogs. Burgers. The occasional piece of chicken on a patch of tinfoil.

This year, everything changed.

Don't know if it was turning 35 or what, but suddenly I was fascinated by grilling. I looked up recipes online. I consulted books for tips. My menu grew exponentially — to chops and ribs and clams and God help me, I'm even thinking about vegetables and kebabs now.

This past weekend, for Father's Day, the kids gave me something I'd been hinting about for a few weeks now.

Oh yeah, I've gone charcoal.

Granted, it took me three hours to properly cook four pieces of chicken. (I don't think I added enough briquettes.) But the euphoric smell of the char, of the ash, of the roasting flesh ... it's still in my head as I type these words. I want to stand up, gather the entire staff of the City Paper and take them on an El ride to my house, where I will pour the Kingsford and await the intoxicating splendor of burning stuff.

Such pleasure it brings me.

Which means, of course, that it's doomed.

I can picture it now. Me, out back with a Yuengling pounder, putting the final touches on my Southwest-style shark kebabs, when a guy in a suit will walk down my driveway.

He'll be a city councilman. He'll ask me what I think I'm doing.

Grilling, I'll tell him. Want a kebab?

What about the secondhand smoke?

Huh?

The councilman will point to the house next door.

Do you think it's fair that your neighbors have to put up with all this smoke?

Hey, I'll tell him. That was only the first time, because I forget to open the vents at the bottom of the grill.

The city councilman will shake his head, sad expression on his face.

Sorry. This won't do.

He'll pull a bright and shiny piece of legislation from his jacket pocket.

And these words will echo in my head as I'm dragged, screaming, from my beautiful little 22-inch Weber kettle grill, trying desperately to stab my attackers with a two-pronged fork:

When they came for the smokers, you said nothing.

When they came for the trans fats, you said nothing.

When they came for the hippies playing guitar in the park, you said nothing.

Yeah. Frickin' guitar players in the park. This week's City Paper cover story by newcomer Will Dean details the latest skirmish in this city's war on personal freedoms.

My dad used to play his guitar outside. He'd smoke, too, and probably have a slice of pound cake between sets. In this town, that makes my dad a three-strikes lifer. Some may cry "police state" and all that, but I think the reason for the assault on the citizens of Philadelphia is more banal.

We've got a city full of serious problems: rampant murder, a broken education system, widespread, corruption, stalled economic development.

So what do our leaders go after?

The hippie with the pound cake.

In other words, the low-hanging fruit.

The stuff that grabs headlines, and makes it look like they're actually doing work.

I don't need City Council to tell me what to do with my lungs. I don't need the legislative branch of the fifth — whoops — sixth largest city in the U.S. wrestling over their abortion stance. I don't need them to snatch the pound cake from my table. And I don't need them to roust musicians from a public park.

Seriously, Council, enough of this shit.

Don't piss me off. I've got a two-pronged fork, and I'm not afraid to use it.

(Simulcast at www.citypaper.net.)

Re: Generation

I'm out of it.

I'm writing this on three hours' sleep. Last night, my sister gave birth to a healthy baby boy, even though he was about a month early. (Guess the little guy isn't meant to be a journalist when grows up.)

I wasn't there. Instead, I stayed home with our own two kids while my wife drove down to the hospital. So I paced back and forth in front of my cell phone. Word came shortly before 1 a.m. that all was fine, even though they had to open my sister up and deliver the baby like toast.

Around 2 a.m. I decided to lie down and try to read for a while, keep myself awake until the wife returned. Before I knew it, I had drifted under the gentle shroud of sleep for about six seconds before my cell phone rang. I flipped it open. Part of my brain — confused as to why I suddenly and violently decided to kick it back to consciousness — sent commands to my body to make it tremble uncontrollably.

Mmrrrrpf, I said.

My wife told me she was coming home soon.

Ummpf, I said, which translates to: I'll try to wait up for you.

I tried to wait up for her.

And I succeeded, until the last six seconds before she arrived. Again, the gossamer quilt of blissful repose drifted down over my head ...

The front door opened.

My brain was like, Fuck you, dude.

We stayed up and talked for a while — the kind of talk you have when you're both way too tired.

Do they know who the father is, I asked.

Stop it, my wife said.

(My sister is actually married to a great guy. Polish. From Bridesburg. What's not to love?)

Still can't believe my baby sister had a kid, I said.

Both of them, my wife reminded me.

(My youngest sister, Marcy, gave birth to a little boy just one month and 11 days ago.)

When that happened, I asked the same question:

Do they know who the father is?

Stop it, my wife said.

We also talked about how crazy it was that my parents, who are only in their mid-50s, now have seven grandchildren. Stranger still that my grandfather, who's 81, can claim 12 great-grandchildren. Whenever I look at the Ben Franklin Bridge, I think of my grandfather, because they were born the same year.

But forget them. I think this is crazy for me. I was 10 years old when my sister was born. I remember it well, because my dad was out playing a music gig (he was the guitarist in a cover band called False Teeth, even though he was only 33 at the time). My dad had to leave before the final set and rush over to Rolling Hill Hospital in Elkins Park to meet his firstborn daughter, Jamie.

I don't know if anyone's ever told my sister this, but I'm fairly sure my parents named her after a Van Halen song.

My little sister Jamie was my first experience with a real live baby. Like, one that could die if you didn't take care of it right. Sure, there was my younger brother Gregg, but I was 3 years old when he was born, hence not quite eligible for baby-sitting duties. And one of the objects of being an older brother is to try to kill your younger brother every once in a while. Toughens him up.

So Jamie was my first hint of what raising a baby was like — the sleepless nights, the crying, the feeding, the changing.

I wanted nothing to do with it.

Only crazy people had babies, I thought. They're too much damn work.

I was 30 when our son was born; 31 for our daughter.

But I knew the deal back when I was 10: they are too much damn work.

The passage of time between 10 and 30, though, is really startling. I have vivid memories of being 10, as vivid as my memories of sitting up last night, pacing back and forth in front of a cell phone. Twenty years, in a flash.

Generations are like waves slapping against a beach. You can see those who have gone before you, and if you're lucky, spent time with them before they disappear into the sand. You can look back and see the wave behind you. Bigger and bolder than any other wave.

I guess I'm midwave right now. And maybe I should spend more time looking forward and backward. Because it doesn't take too long before...

I'm out of it.

(Simulcast at www.citypaper.net.)

The Usual, and Not So Usual, Suspects

The U.S. edition of Allan Guthrie's Hard Man is out today, and I strongly recommend you obtain a copy of your own, lest he send El Muerte after you. (Bolivian hit men are not to be trifled with.) Today is also Mr. Guthrie's birthday; he turns 107. What keeps him so young and apple-cheeked? Huge vats of skin cream. I watched him apply it. It's unsettling. So let's all make sure we support Mr. Guthrie's work so he can buy more skin cream. Of course, it also helps that Hard Man is hilarious, disturbing and full of surprises that come when you least expect them. It's the perfect Father's Day present. If you have that kind of dad.

Want to win a copy of Barry Eisler's Requiem for an Assassin? Head on over to CHUD.com and prepare to be bad. Real bad.

Seth Harwood, recently featured on a special edition of Shannon Clute and Richard Edwards' Behind the Black Mask, just launched his latest podcast a few days ago: Jack Palms II: This Is Life. I'm still catching up with the first 'cast, but I like the cut of this young man's jib. (Or something like that.) Check it out.

Surely I can't be the only one who's been digging Simon Spurrier's hit man/zombie epic Contract, which is available online, in huge weekly chunks, for free?

And while you can also read David Wellington's excellent hardboiled vampire epic 13 Bullets online for free, I recommend picking up the trade paperback from Three Rivers Press, the cover of which makes stunning use of silver and gore.

Over at FantasyBookSpot.com...

... there's this big sprawling interview with me, courtesy cool guy Brian Lindenmuth. Strange thing is: we started this Q&A back in October, I believe, and just finished it off last week. Go ahead. Find the seams. I dare you to find the seams!

Big thanks to Brian for hurling these questions my way.

BEAing and Nothingness

Diet Coke Plus works wonders. I left at 7 a.m. scooped up McGoran, then Pettit, and more or less rocketed up the NJ Turnpike. I hit the Lincoln Tunnel (a.k.a., the Mouth of Hell) by something like 8:40 a.m. Parking was a little tough, though. We found a cheap place at 35th and 9th Avenue that featured huge metal frames to stack cars. But it was a bit of walk to the Javits Center. Poor McGoran had to carry a box of Body Traces. Pettit would have offered to help, but instead he chose to power-smoke eighteen cigarettes in a row. And I was busy, like... checking out the city, or something. (Sorry, Jon!)

My 10:30 signing at the MWA booth was fantastic. There was a steady stream of people eager to pick up their Severance Package; next to me, Megan Abbott was signing a serious number of Queenpins. Thanks to everyone who stopped by, but especially Regina Barnes at The Toadstool Bookshop in New Hampshire (who totally made my day), Paul Lutz at Dead End Books in Long Island, Charles Spataro at Nothing Like a Good Book, Bobby McCue from the Mystery Bookstore in L.A., and Greg Gillespie from Port Richmond Books in good ol' Philly.

Afterward I hit the floor a bit with David Hale Smith, headmaster of the DHS Galaxy of Stars. Wait. That makes it sound like we danced. We totally didn't dance. However, as I walked DHS to his taxi, we did discuss Brazilian waxing techniques. Make of that what you will.

I also stopped by the Quirk Books booth, where they had a nice display of The Crimes of Dr. Watson. No, the book isn't published yet; on display were something called "blads" that contained a few sample pages within the real covers. And let me tell you, the cover is pretty damn wild. Just wait until you run your fingers over one.

My only complaint about BEA: the heat. Goddamn was it H-O-T-T in there. At times, it felt like I was wandering a sandy beach, looking for a place to drop my gear and collapse. The only guaranteed cool spot was in the men's room, where the AC was blasting, for some odd reason. However, if you hang in the men's room too long, they usually call security.

Before I knew it, I had lost six pounds of water and it was time to drive back to Philly. The walk back to the parking lot was long. And uphill. Oh, and it was 95 degrees and humid. We still didn't offer to help McGoran carry anything. Oh, how we suck.

Ungodly

I'm up at this ungodly hour on a Saturday morning because I'm trying to drink enough Diet Coke Plus (now with vitamins and minerals!) to become alert enough to operate a motor vehicle and drive it to New York City for BookExpo America. Diet Coke Plus is interesting; tastes just like the Diet Coke I know and love (and drink every morning, because Swierczy doesn't do coffee) with absolutely no side effects whatsoever except my heart racing a little more quickly and oh did I mention that Jon McGoran (a.k.a. D.H. Dublin) will be joining me for the ride as well as Ed "Hardcore Book Nerd" Pettit so that's why I have to leave soon because i'm picking them up first before headed to the turnpike and then to new york city where I have to find parking my god hope i'm not late because itll be just like that dream i had once where i was late for my own brain surgery and all of the surgeons stood there and pointed and laughed and laughedandlaughedandlaughed and then the guy with the bonesaw said okay funs over lets get this guys skullcracked and i freakedand said the onlything that came to mind: how do you like your blue eyed boy now mr death...

Wow. Diet Coke Plus. Swierczy says: Thumbs up!