So, fuck it. Here’s the review.

Jeff Vandermeer’s Finch.

First, let’s not get crazy. This is not going to be a well-organized or smartly conceived review. I just don’t have time to go through it that way. It’s a hard knock life, little babies. You’re gonna have to cope.

Second, I’ll do a quick summation, but don’t expect any spoilers or plot details. For me, personally, I find that reviews so often go to the plot details, as if they’re what really matters. That doesn’t matter to me. Everything else does, but how the plot unfolds? Not so much.

Third and finally, The Great And Mighty Hindmarch talks up Finch far more effectively than I will. Be advised. He wrote two posts on the novel: one here, one here.

The Gist

Our protagonist, Finch, is not a detective. It’s like a mantra to him: “I am not a detective. I am not a detective.”

And yet — hey, too fucking bad, the guy’s a detective. He’s forced to be by the brutish fungal masters that rule this fantastical city of Ambergris, and in the opening of the book Finch is working a case involving two Very Strange Bodies in a apartment, and these two bodies are so cryptic, so mysterious, that they serve as the springboard for an unholy unraveling of mystery and conspiracy. That one loose thread will pull the whole goddamn sweater apart for not just Finch, but the people he knows, the city he loves, and even those fungal masters (gray caps).

It’s classic noir. One thing leads to another, to another, to another — it’s an inverted pyramid, and the sharp pointy tip is pressing down on Finch’s back with all the weight of the world above him.

(A quote on the cover by Richard Morgan calls it “fungal noir,” which is so perfect a descriptor I wish he’d have stopped there — he goes on to call it “steampunk delirium,” which is so imperfect I wish he wouldn’t have included it. Oh, and one of my Writing Totems, Joe Lansdale, sells it on the back cover: “Heavy with shadows and dark as sin, detective, fantasy… I loved it. In fact, I’m a little jealous.”

High praise from one of my heroes.

Hey, Joe, I’m jealous, too. This book is a masters class on how to write a crime novel and a fantasy novel, together or separate.

Let’s get into what I adored about the book.

Fantasy Doesn’t Stiffen My Nips

I’ve noted it before: I don’t like fantasy for the most part. I think most of it falls back on convention. It jumps up and down in the Tolkien pool, splashing and squealing, so often ignoring what can be possible with fantasy. You look at the raw potential represented by the genre, and it’s infinite. Literally. “Fantasy can be about anything.” You have no boundaries. You are not fettered to any one notion or convention. And yet, so many authors take no such liberties and have no fun with it, and keep dragging their wheeled carts in the same muddy ruts left by those who had come before.

That is not Finch.

Vandermeer has his own thing going on here, and its deserving of mighty praise. He has created a world that feels familiar, but is dotted with landmarks that feel wholly alien and removed from anything we know and expect. The fungus alone has its own presence in this book, and the descriptions are moist, fetid, fractal, strange. No elves. No orcs. No dragons or fairies. It’s fungal guns. It’s memory bulbs. It’s spore cameras. It’s gray caps and Partials and — well, all that stuff you’ll have to discover for yourself.

It’s never inaccessible. Therein lies another problem with fantasy: for me, fantasy novels so often present a too-high barrier-to-entry. Lots of fantastic words and concepts ill-explained — clumsy attempts to “show, don’t tell” end up being neither, talking to me about weird concepts without context, and it stops me up. If I get ten pages into a book and I cannot tell you what’s happening, that book is down, gone, game over. I’m unforgiving with novels; perhaps not a good way to be, but it’s how I be, dangit. Finch presents alien concepts, but frames them in a context that feels real, with characters that seem authentic and interesting, and he doesn’t focus on the whiz-bang of the weirdness. He lets that be almost an afterthought — it matters, but it doesn’t matter as much as who Finch is, what he’s doing, how he’s feeling. It doesn’t flaunt the fantasy. And, when you finally get around to understanding things, it’s because he shows you how these things work. He doesn’t explain them. It’s like a painting, almost — you can run your hands across the textured canvas and make out details. Vandermeer is just pointing our gaze and our fingertips to different spots within the image.

Further, Vandermeer gets that it’s not about the fantasy. The fantasy doesn’t matter. The fantasy just frames it. It allows him to rearrange old story ideas and make them new. But it never dominates. It’s an old story, and I say that and mean that in the best way. It feels familiar, but uncertain.

It’s weird. I’d almost argue that “fantasy” is a fake genre after reading this book. If I were to look at a Stephen King book, or a Don DeLillo book, or a John McFetridge book, I’d never say, “This is in the Real World genre, because it takes place in Our World.” I’d say, “Oh, this one’s horror, this one’s contemporary America, this one’s crime.”

Fantasy isn’t a genre. It’s a setting. You can tell any kind of story in that setting, but too many authors seem over-focused on it being a genre, with the trappings of said genre.

Vandermeer clearly gives a middle finger to those conventions, because dangit if he isn’t telling a great piece of detective fiction in a fantasy setting. I’d love to see him take other genres and apply them to the setting of Ambergris — a city that feels alive to me, alive as any city I’ve been in. (One small failing of the book: no map of the city. I feel like I could’ve used it in the beginning, though as the book pushes forth you start getting a picture of the whole thing come together. Actually, I may have said it before, but Finch feels like a great example of a book that could have a whole transmedia experience packaged in and around it — an Ambergris “map app” could be the star of said package. But I’ll talk more about transmedia later in the week, I think.)

For the record, I’d compare this to China Mieville if you’re looking for a close comparison.

What Else?

What a ludicrously bold and ambiguous header!

I apologize; I’m really not doing this novel justice.

Let’s talk briefly about the other things I loved about this book.

The characters? Yes. Finch starts off a cipher — an appropriate thing given that the book is as much about deciphering the character of John Finch as it is unraveling the mystery of the two dead bodies. Finch is our vehicle into this story, and we feel every nagging question, every turn down uncertain alleys and hallways, every tortured moment (mentally and physically). It’s a rough road. Rougher when you see how other characters fare: Wyte, Ethan Bliss, Sintra, and so forth. Their notes feel elegant, spare, just enough, just right.

The description? As said, it drips. It comes alive not with overwrought prose, but once more with brief and almost-perfect language. Vandermeer has chosen his words carefully; many novels are sloppily written, and frankly, that often works just fine. He takes it to a whole other level. The ideas here are truly bizarre, but his forthright language that deviates only occasionally into the poetic makes such strangeness accessible.

The plot? The plot is fine, but like with any noir, it’s hard to get your hands around it. Rather, it is the story — the whole circle of encompassed events and characters and possibilities — that engages me. Our line through that circle, the plot, is one that is hard to see. With noir, I find I don’t come for the plot — noir seems to be about plot, but it’s not. It’s about how the characters move through the plot and what that means for them.

Anything I Didn’t Like?

The “no-map” thing got me early on, but eventually ceased to be an issue.

The book clearly ties to some other Ambergris tales, and for selfish reasons (I haven’t read those) I wish he would’ve left out those connections — but, then again, those connections are what bolster my ideas that this is the perfect transmedia novel. It has tie-outs. It has other stories that spin forth from its prose. Had it been easy to follow those trails, those threads, I wouldn’t have found it as troubling. Again, selfish.

A few characters could’ve used a little more meat to their bones — yes, yes, selfish. Selfish because I loved what I got, and wanted more. A single bite, not nearly enough.

But really, that’s about it.

Vandermeer’s novel is a gift, a revelation that Good Is Good. Doesn’t matter what genre it is — I don’t care much for fantasy, and here is a fantasy novel I adore. Anything can be good when given by a great and gracious hand. I look forward to reading more of Vandermeer’s work — I have to wonder, is Finch a major step-up for him, or has his work always been like this? I recall reading that his other work strikes a very different mood and isn’t like this one at all. That might be great, though I’ll note it could be disappointing: I love this book so much that it’ll be hard to read other work that doesn’t at least capture some of what I loved here. The curse of the creator: create something great, and everyone wants that again and again. Me, I just want more Finch.

Thus unfolded a cosmic chain of events.

Well, okay, not exactly cosmic. What happened was, Robert Devereaux — the author of said book — read that post. And then he contacted me on Facebook, and then he got my address, and then he sent me a brand spanking new signed, numbered hardback copy of Santa Steps Out.

Holy crap.

This is ludicrously awesome.

I mean, we’re talking pants-wettingly great. My pants are sodden with joy.

Plainly, Robert Devereaux is a bad-ass human being. And that is in addition to being an excellent writer.

Go buy Santa Claus Conquers The Homophobes.

He’s also got a free novel in PDF over at his site — Deadolescence: A Tale Of Love And Sacrifice. Check that, too.

I am geeked.

Oh, and I know I’m over here blogging twice in one day. You shut up. If Will Hindmarch can do it, so can I. Suck on those plums, buddy.

Mister Slaughter proves that nicely. Though, “nicely” is perhaps the wrong word for a book soaked in brutality and blood.

But we’ll get to that.

If you’re not familiar, Robert McCammon left the writing world for a while, but returned a handful of years back with Speaks the Nightbird, but you can read more about that in an earlier post of mine (“Robert McCammon Will Rock Your Effing Eyeface“). After Speaks the Nightbird came the truly excellent (and meaty!) Queen of Bedlam. The first, Nightbird, was in many ways a different novel than what we’re getting now in the series — it’s a slower, more ponderous read, concerned with the threshold between supernatural and reasonable thinking.

That book gave us a character, however: Matthew Corbett. In that book, Corbett is a judicial clerk working the trial of an accused witch in the Carolina colony.

That changes in Bedlam, when Corbett finds a variant course for his life: as a detective and “solver of problems” for the mysterious Herrald Agency along with hulking cohort Hudson Greathouse. Here, the series dips into a more Sherlock Holmes-ain vibe — a welcome shift from Nightbird, honestly. While the series still maintains its moral questions and still gives us a world in transition (this is before the Revolutionary War, mind), it captures a faster pace, and makes the mysteries come fast and furious as Corbett and Greathouse must navigate the echelons of New York City to uncover the truth about a serial killer known as “The Masker.”

Fast-forward, and here we are with Mister Slaughter.

Holy shit, it’s good. In fact, I haven’t enjoyed a book like this in years.

Listen, when I do reviews, I don’t like to speak overmuch about the plot. Each page offers surprises big and small, and I hesitate to turn you away from discovering too many of these moments for yourself. That’s your journey. Still, you need some nuggets, so here goes.

Corbett and Greathouse are tasked with the escort of a prisoner from an asylum in Pennsylvania (seen at the end of Queen of Bedlam) back to New York City. Seems easy enough. The patient-slash-prisoner, however, is a mad brute by the name of Tyranthus Slaughter, and as always, McCammon weaves an elegant and economical portrait in short order:

“He had a big barrel chest and shoulders that swelled his ashen-hued asylum clothing, yes, but his arms and legs appeared to be almost spindly. He was about the same height as Matthew, yet he stood in a crook-backed stance that testified to some malformation of the spine. His hands, however, were instruments worthy of special attention: they were abnormally large, the fingers long and knuckles knotty, the nails black with encrusted grime and grown out jagged and sharp as little blades. [...] But for all that, Slaughter had a long, aristocratic nose with a narrow bridge and nostrils that flared ever so elegantly, as if he could not stand the stink of his own skin.”

Of course, the escorting doesn’t… go so well — would we expect otherwise? Corbett and Greathouse make a choice — a bad choice, a choice we know to be the wrong one (see my earlier post on the crafting of suspense, if you care), and the rest of the book is devoted to how Corbett cleans up the mess and madness born from this ill-advised decision.

Corbett must pursue Slaughter and bring him to justice.

This is a Herculean — or, perhaps, a Sisyphean — task.

He pursues this serial killer through woods and town and city, with each step on this journey ever more torturous (and tortuous, really, for plot could be said to thicken).

Make no mistake: this is McCammon flirting more boldly with his horror roots. Slaughter is a monster. The things he does in this book are unflinchingly dark. While he initially comes off as genial and almost comical, his actions betray that facade. Listen, I’m kind of a fucked-up guy. Most things meant to get a reaction out of me don’t. But the way Slaughter torments and murders the innocents he encounters will drain the blood from your face (and, apparently, spatter that blood all over the pages of this book). I can think of two instances where my jaw was left hanging open on my chest, and I had to tell my wife why I was staring slack-mouthed at a distant point. McCammon punches low, and punches hard. It’s only made more effective the way that McCammon masterfully builds tension and strings together language that is equal parts plain-spoken and lyrical.

Slaughter is a compelling character, of course — oh, how we love our monsters. McCammon gives us one of the best, and for me, a Top 10 Villain (and Top 5 Serial Killer, right up there with Hannibal Lecter):

“Thank you for allowing me some practice.” Slaughter was leaning over the edge, a dark shape without a face. “Get the rust out of my joints. I appreciate knowing that my judgment of human nature has not been impaired during my time away from the pleasures this world has to offer. So good day, sirs, and may you rot in the deepest pit of Hell set aside for men who think themselves so very smart.” He offered a faceless bow, then drew away from the well…

But, really, it’s Corbett’s arc that impresses. He begins as something of a preening peacock; fresh from the celebrity status granted to him due to the events that unfolded in Bedlam, Slaughter’s quote above really speaks very well to who Corbett believes himself to be: smart, valuable, perhaps a little precious. But Corbett is dragged through the mud. He’s almost killed on… maybe three different occasions in the book? Four? He’s bloody. Battered. And he’s left morally wounded, if not mortally so, by how his own character frailties allowed a monster like Slaughter to cause such damage to the world in such short order.

My only concern throughout the novel was a feeling that McCammon did such a powerful job establishing a dynamic world in the New York City of Bedlam, and moreover helped put larger plots in motion that did not see conclusion, that when those plots failed to manifest throughout the large middle of this book, I wondered — would we have to wait to see any continuation of what had come before? Was he leaving us hanging? Would those plots ever manifest?

Bzzt. Patience, patience. McCammon takes the third act of Slaughter and ties it all together. He carried the ball forward. The story progresses, and carries Corbett along with it.

Even better, what he shows us with certainty is that this is by no means the last book in the series. That is, for me, the best news of all. McCammon is not only fully back in the game, but has given us characters and stories that will continue on. I can’t lie; I hunger to read more. (You’d also do yourself a favor and read McCammon’s closing epilogue, in which he discusses the challenges of historical authenticity versus fact, and how to navigate that authenticity to bring a good tale to life. Writers in particular could learn a lot from McCammon.) When I read that McCammon was getting out of the writing game, I grew depressed. Not that I’d hung my hopes on publication to him; but, if the woes of the industry could bring down a legend such as him, what would it do to a wriggling grub such as myself? So, with McCammon back in full form, I feel only energized by the promise and power of good writing, and how that good writing will eventually find its audience.

So, do you trust me?

Like mystery? Horror? Compelling moral quandaries? Excellent characters? Heart-crushing tension?

Then do me a favor.

Read this series. I’d forgive you if you skipped Speaks the Nightbird and went right to Queen of Bedlam. In fact, do that. Mister Slaughter hits shelves in January, which means you have plenty of time to read Bedlam before it drops. Bedlam’s pretty cheap right now at Amazon, actually…

Thanks to Subterranean Press for the ARC, by the way.

7th Son: Descent hits today. And I’m telling you to go buy it. (Or, if you’re into awesome incentives, buy many.)

Why buy it?

First, J.C. Hutchins is good people. He did it his way. He was not thwarted. The guy’s a goddamn machine. (Or, shit, maybe he has a buncha clones of himself running around. It would explain a lot.) If you do not choose to believe that he is either machine or clone, perhaps consider him in the running for a writer totem spirit — some ancient entity deep in the woods, fueling your beating heart and churning guts with the mighty power of Bad-Ass Writing. (Reference: My writing partner interviewed Hutchins over the summer for the Workbook Project. Listen here.)

Second, because I went ahead and checked out the first ten chapters of the book, which are free to you should you choose to click here. They’re good. They’re real good. Some books, even good ones, present a kind of “barrier to entry.” Not this. It’s a smooth read. It’s Colt 45 with Lando Calrissian. (Though, it’s arguably also like the Sarlacc, what with the “sucking you in helplessly until it’s done with you” part. But much prettier.)

And that’s that. I’m off to go buy the book. Maybe you want to, too. Honor the totem spirit. Leave a bloody heart on his altar, tonight.

We’ve had some good times. Haven’t we? Wine and song. Meth and hookers. Pterodactlyl porn and powdered tiger penis. Whatever. It’s been great. But — no, no, sit down, you need to hear this — it’s time for you to recognize that if this relationship is going to move forward, then we have to be on the same page.

You need to share in my love — some might say worship, veneration, even mad-minded froth-mouthed obsession — over Robert McCammon and his work.

Wuzza? You haven’t read any McCammon?

See, Internet? That’s what I’m talking about. It’s like you don’t even know me.

*wipes tears away*

Internet, you might think you know good writers. You might think you’re a good writer. Mmm. Ehhhhh. No. Not so much. Not until you’re tapped into McCammon Mania. Not until you’ve learned to love the McCammon. But! I’m here to help. I want to make you better! I want to improve you. Like a cyborg, but with more “words to read” and less “limbs replaced with icy circuitry.”

So, here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m going to give you a reading list. And if you love me, you’re going to read all the books found on this reading list.

Every last word.

Relax. It won’t hurt. It’ll feel good. Your eyeface and brainscape will thank me.

What I’ve done — and this is a lot of work on my behalf, so I’ll expect you to send me gratitude in the form of cash prizes and other free shit — is placed all of Robert McCammon’s books in order of Big Awesome to Less Awesome (But Still Awesome). Okay? That’s it. Just go down the list as if you’re following the bouncing ball, and you’ll be good to go.

1. Boy’s Life

Every writer has a small list of those books. Not books that made you want to be a writer, but rather, books that told you you had to be a writer. This is one of those books for me. It’s a book about being a boy, about racism, and best of all (for me), about storytelling. McCammon started out writing horror, but over time he started to segue away from out-and-out horror and into mystery, and this is a great pivot point for that transformation. To learn about the corpse in the lake, the boy Cory must uncover the secret of the green feather — but moving deeper into that mystery is moving deeper into a very bad place. It’s a great example of how to see how a knot is tied you must first unravel the knot. You will read this book or I will punch you in the throat. That’s a serious threat, Internet. You know I love you, though.

2. Swan Song

Sure, yes, mm-hmm, Stephen King’s The Stand is great. I won’t deny you that. But it’s a distant second place to this bad-ass novel of the nuclear apocalypse. This book scared the poop out of my body and then the poop became animate and tried to eat me and digest me and then poop me out of its body. The Man with the Scarlet Eye? The Job’s Mask? Severing limbs? Cockroaches in the sink? Sister Creep? Paw-Paw? The Straitjacket Game? Gott im Himmel. Just thinking about this book makes me want to go back and re-read it. Hope thrives in a world blasted by nuclear winter. It’s horrifying. It’s hopeful. It’s awesome. Oh, it’s also like, 900 pages or something. I have one of the few hardback copies of this book in existence: a signed, numbered and illustrated copy. Every nerd has his nerd possessions, the rare few Objects of Geek Obsession that he would risk life and limb to protect. I don’t have many anymore, but remains one of ‘em for me.

3. Queen of Bedlam

This is McCammon’s most recent novel (Mister Slaughter comes out in January, 2010, though I am very fortunate to have an ARC of it, and I’ll be sure to post my glowing review when I’m done with it), and it serves as a glorious return to form. See, what happened was this: McCammon was a horror writer for a long time, but over time he found himself wanting to tell different kinds of stories. No crime in that. Ah, but because the publishing world is rarely kind (and in many cases self-defeating), they basically told McCammon to shut up and keep writing horror, kay, thanks, bye. McCammon tried to break out, but couldn’t (and this sounds not unlike the way some recording artists try to break their contracts and continue making music they love), and ended up depressed and in what he called the “sunless realm.” He wrote an interesting letter about this experience that’s good for any writer to read. Anyway. Point is, he came back out of darkness and emerged with a new series set in pre-Revolutionary War America, with a young “detective” character named Matthew Corbett. Queen of Bedlam is the second novel in the series (the first is at #6), and was a rollicking, riotous, adventurous read. The hunt for a serial killer? The realities of early America? New York City seen in its formative stages? Mystery? Madness? Falcons tearing out eyes? Yes! Want an excerpt? Done. You can thank me later. Or now. Actually, just thank me now.

4. Wolf’s Hour

This will be an easy sell. Werewolves plus Nazis equals Awesome. Still not sold? Sheesh. Romance? Coming-of-age? Death train? Pulp sensibilities? This book drips with goodness. A super-fun adventure-spy-horror-historical beast. Let this beast clamp its ragged mouth on your neck and shake you till you’re dead.

5. Gone South

The writing in this is book is waaaay better than its position at #5 belies, but frankly, “werewolves fighting Nazis” just gets me all-a-giggly. Anyway. This right here, despite having been written in 1992, is a novel of the Now. Recession plays a big part, as do veterans from a ceaseless war (Viet Nam instead of Iraq). Plus, you get an Elvis impersonator named Pelvis Eisley, a fleshy unformed twin brother, cancer, and a man running from his past and into an uncertain future.

6. Speaks the Nightbird

The start of the Matthew Corbett series, and the return of McCammon from that sunless realm. And what a return it is! “It had been a joyful day for frogs and mud hens.” (Excerpt!) Witchcraft, bears, the Carolina colony, ratcatchers… so, so good. The series doesn’t yet have its groove, though, the groove that will be set by Queen of Bedlam and Mister Slaughter. (Oh, and you might casually note that my Speaks the Nightbird review is linked to from the McCammon site, ahem, ahem.)

7. Mine

This a very strong psychological thriller, but McCammon calls it a “ghost story” where the ghosts are that of time and place — a whacked-out 60s radical (“Mary Terror”) kidnaps a woman’s child because she thinks it’s her own. It’s a powerful, lunatic paean to motherhood, and it’s a killer thriller throughout. But, really? The real reason to read? The bestest character ever. Earl Van Diver. Just… just trust me. You do trust me by now, don’t you, Internet? Put your faith in me. He’s a man of spare parts. He’s a man who should be dead. Read it.

8. Stinger

This was the first McCammon I read, and it hooked me from day one. It showed me that I was reading someone whose work was above the caliber of, say, Koontz and King’s material at the time. Stinger’s just a fuckin’ weird-ass book, and it’s great. Horror sci-fi. Small town besieged by a shapeshifting alien menace known as “Stinger.” It’s a bounty-hunter in search of another alien… okay, it sounds stupid. And it kind of is? But it’s a blast. A gory, bizarre blast.

9. Mystery Walk

Indian spiritualism versus Deep South evangelism. Another pretty weird horror piece involving a shape-changing demon ghost. I should actually read this one again.

10. They Thirst

Setting this somewhat apocalyptic vampire novel in Los Angeles allowed McCammon to play with the brutality and vanity of these creatures, and I like to think he contributed very much to my ideas of What Makes Vampires Scary rather than What Makes Vampires Cool. I’m surprised this never ended up as a film. Actually, I’m surprised most of his work failed to end up on film. (It’s worth noting that McCammon “gets” vampires in a much scarier way in one of his short works, “Miracle Mile,” found in Under The Fang.) Oh, and if you want to see a horrible German cover of this book where it appears that Barack Obama is a fuzzy vampire bat, please click here.

11. Usher’s Passing

Another weird one, but a good one. Basically, imagine a continuation of the Usher family from Poe’s “Fall of the House of Usher,” and you have this book. It’s worth it for the novelty; I can’t say it stands out in any overt, holy-shit way, but I still remember devouring it. It’s another I should probably re-read. Hell, I might just go through all these again. (Like I have the time. Good one, Wendig!)

12. Everything Else

His first three novels — Baal, Bethany’s Sin, and Night Boat — are good enough, but not so great that I demand you read them. You will be forgiven if you leave these off your list, Internet. We can still be friends. I do recommend any short fiction of his, whether it’s from the Blue World collection from other anthologies. (Heck, he wrote a great Batman story — “On a Beautiful Summer’s Day, He Was.”) In his masterful short work, McCammon’s covered zombies, werewolves, vampires, pulp action heroes, serial killers, yellowjackets, ghosts… I mean, the guy’s great. Really. So what the hell are you waiting for? Hey, you can even read some of this stuff online, for free. His zombie story, “Eat Me?” The incredible story of a past-his-prime pulp star, “Night Calls the Green Falcon?” Or OH MY GOD HORROR PENIS in “The Thang“…! You’ve got your work cut out, Internet. Don’t worry. I’ll wait. I’ll sit here quietly, hands steepled… while you get to work.