38 is the New 18—Right, Mr. Chandler?
Today is my 38th birthday. I know...thrilling.
As I near 40, I imagine I should feel old. But I don't. In fact, I've never been healthier—physically, emotionally or spiritually. I've learned to stop fighting Life and to allow things to happen in their own time. I've taken up golf and show some promise in the sport. And I've been alcohol-free for five years now, so I haven't woken up in alleys in Boston for quite a while. I haven't done that in 18 years, so that's something, right?
I contemplate immortality as a comic book character.
In my writing, I've made great progress in the past few years, both in terms of craft and the business. And even though my mystery novels have yet to be published, I'm not discouraged. My idol, Raymond Chandler, didn't get his first novel published until he was 50. There's hope for me yet.
And maybe it's fitting that, like Chandler, I should have to wait to be published. I want to bring to detective fiction the same high standard of style and artistry that he brought. And make no mistake, Chandler was a literary artist. A true original.
Whenever composition notebooks go on sale, I buy the suckers in bulk because I keep notebooks on every conceivable subject that interests me. One of my favorites is titled "Great Writing Examples," and it's loaded with lines by Raymond Chandler.
The notebook, in case you didn't believe me.
Most of my writing idols are Old School guys' guys: Hemingway, Parker, Doyle, MacLean, Brewer, Westlake, Fleming and Chandler. But especially Chandler. He's my touchstone.
I've read and re-read every one of his novels several times. Why? Because of my love of the line. Chandler's novels are loaded with lines that are so apt, so deliciously evocative, that I'll quote them to myself for weeks afterwards.
When I finish with one of Chandler's novels, I type out a page of
my favorite lines and tape it in my notebook. Hot, right?
Because I'm feeling frisky and generous today (after all, it is my birthday), I'm going to share a few of Chandler's best with you. Consider them a gift.
She was a blonde all right. The kind of blonde that would make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window.
She smelled the way the Taj Mahal looks by moonlight.
Her voice faded off into a sort of soft whisper, like a mortician asking for a down payment.
He hoisted a couple of eyebrows that would have interested a Fuller Brush man.
The house was leaking guests out into the evening air now. Voices were fading, cars were starting, goodbyes were bouncing around like rubber balls.
She went out slowly. The way she did it hadn't been learned at business college.
And the help was round-shouldered from carrying trays with drinks across the terrace to a swimming pool about the size of Lake Huron but a lot neater.
She leaned back and a pulse beat in her throat. She was exquisite, she was dark, she was deadly.
Her hair was a hot sunset.
I believe I've written a few lines as memorable as Chandler's, but you'll have to wait until the novels are published so you can decide for yourself.
Thank you for spending part of your day with me, on my birthday. The thought of your visiting makes being 38 a little more tolerable.