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Psychoanalyse him, Danno.
Jun. 10th, 2008 09:55 amThe genre of fiction which sells more than any other by volume is crime and detection and the result of this market demand is that authors are forever looking for new settings and ideas for their books; from the beginning of the genre with amateur or professional detectives, you can now get crime and murder mysery novels set in Ancient Egypt, Rome and Greece.
It's inevitable that with market demand for new ideas within the genre that anything unusual will get the big-bucks marketing treatment, as did The Interpretation of Murder last year. Featuring Sigmund Freud as the detective, it isn't a very good book and reads a bit like fanic, but given my writing things like Mars or Bust! and Jeeves and the Lost Ark, I suppose I can hardly criticise.
What I can do, however, is think of just how much better a crime novel featuring freud could have been.
Sigmund Freud, PI
It was a hot day in the big city. I had two slugs in me; one was lead and the other bourbon, and I was looking at making it three when my door opened and she walked in.
My Name’s Freud, Sigmund Freud. I’ve got two friends. Their names are Smith and Wesson, and I’m a dick. By which I mean detective. Not the other sort. I wouldn’t want you to think I was confused on the matter, because I’m not. Nor am I obsessed. I think I’d better say I’m a ‘tec. Not a dick. No.
She was the sort of dame that you’d dream about. The sort of dream where you’d wake up shouting and covered in sweat, not sure whether it was from fear or desire. Like the dreams about my mother which I don’t have. She looked me up and down. I repaid the compliment. She said she had a problem. I suggested mild hysteria and prescribed bed rest. She said her problem was her father.
I should have guessed that. It always is.
She showed me a picture. It was kind of blurry, indistinct, like it could have been anything. I asked her what it was and she asked me what I thought it was. I told her it was either a bird in profile or a pair of breasts and she said it was the former, and looked at me strangely. Apparently it was a picture of the Maltese Inkblot, a priceless artifact which had been stolen by a fat man. I asked if the fat man was her father. She told me that I was a man of few ideas.
Apparently this inkblot was a family heirloom and worth a bundle, and it belonged to her father but the fat man had stolen it and she wanted me to get it back. I asked her why me, and she said it was because I was a dick. I said I was a tec, and she said whatever.
It's inevitable that with market demand for new ideas within the genre that anything unusual will get the big-bucks marketing treatment, as did The Interpretation of Murder last year. Featuring Sigmund Freud as the detective, it isn't a very good book and reads a bit like fanic, but given my writing things like Mars or Bust! and Jeeves and the Lost Ark, I suppose I can hardly criticise.
What I can do, however, is think of just how much better a crime novel featuring freud could have been.
Sigmund Freud, PI
It was a hot day in the big city. I had two slugs in me; one was lead and the other bourbon, and I was looking at making it three when my door opened and she walked in.
My Name’s Freud, Sigmund Freud. I’ve got two friends. Their names are Smith and Wesson, and I’m a dick. By which I mean detective. Not the other sort. I wouldn’t want you to think I was confused on the matter, because I’m not. Nor am I obsessed. I think I’d better say I’m a ‘tec. Not a dick. No.
She was the sort of dame that you’d dream about. The sort of dream where you’d wake up shouting and covered in sweat, not sure whether it was from fear or desire. Like the dreams about my mother which I don’t have. She looked me up and down. I repaid the compliment. She said she had a problem. I suggested mild hysteria and prescribed bed rest. She said her problem was her father.
I should have guessed that. It always is.
She showed me a picture. It was kind of blurry, indistinct, like it could have been anything. I asked her what it was and she asked me what I thought it was. I told her it was either a bird in profile or a pair of breasts and she said it was the former, and looked at me strangely. Apparently it was a picture of the Maltese Inkblot, a priceless artifact which had been stolen by a fat man. I asked if the fat man was her father. She told me that I was a man of few ideas.
Apparently this inkblot was a family heirloom and worth a bundle, and it belonged to her father but the fat man had stolen it and she wanted me to get it back. I asked her why me, and she said it was because I was a dick. I said I was a tec, and she said whatever.
