Friday, April 18, 2025

I hate Raymond Chandler...

Column + Writing

Sometimes, I try to be inspired by other authors. And I have to admit I'm awfully impressed and influenced by two specific, grand names: Raymond Chandler and Roger Zelazny.

But it's hard to get even close...

Sometimes I delude myself into thinking I 'got' it...


Trying hard...

Here's a snippet of something I wrote:

I’m not sure if I have been lost in thoughts or succeeded in dozing off, but I start paying attention again when the swaying and bumping stops and the roar of the engine dies. The early dawn welcomes us with a golden glow that separates the serrated horizon from a cloudless sky, and the sun is getting ready to scorch the world.

The way forward is blocked by a barrier wearing a sign that says we’re about to enter land under the management of the US Bureau of Indian Affairs. I’m pretty sure Mom and I are going to ignore the No Unauthorized Access sign below it. There’s enough space to drive around the barrier, and deep tracks show that’s what other people have been doing.

The clock glued to the dash tells me it’s half past five. AM, obviously.

I rub my eyes and then try to work the kinks out of my back. My voice creaks. “This ain’t Kansas anymore.”


I'm proud of the above. It's like being able to cut myself one little slice from that Philip Marlowe cake. But is it good enough? Am I good enough?


Trying too hard 😄

And then, I resample Chandler's work. It's just... damn, I almost hate Chandler. It is, as Derek (another Discord poster) said, the ease of it all...

Chandler:

It was about eleven o'clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills. I was wearing my powder-blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display handkerchief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark blue clocks on them. I was neat, clean, shaved, and sober, and I didn't care who knew it. I was everything the well-dressed private detective ought to be. I was calling on four million dollars.


Me:

I rang the doorbell. Twice.

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