WALTZING COWBOYS – Sarah Collins Honenberger

I always make it a point to buy at least one book at book signings where I'm also pushing product. My motives are mixed. I joke that it's like priming a pump. I buy one of yours and you reciprocate. I did this at my first signing, with three other authors, and ended up spending more than I made even though the reciprocal theory bore some return. But it was in December and the books I bought were gifts--signed gifts, at that--which took care of the bulk of my Christmas shopping.

My most recent signing featured seven authors, too many to engage the reciprocal ploy without depleting my bank account even if my purchases generated any sales of mine. I bought one book, figuring it might start a rush to my table. It didn't, although I managed to sell one to a walk-in customer.

Deciding which book to buy was the rub. Cramped for space in the small store, I was positioned on the second-floor landing between two "Jessica Fletchers" who'd already each published several dozen of the kind of mysteries known as "cozies," which are distinguished from "hard boiled" mysteries at first sight by their titles and cover art suggesting a dearth of on-page violence. I wasn't in the market for a cozy. A third author, one of the four on the ground floor, was also peddling cozies.

I should note that had any of the three cozy authors bought one or both of my books I'd have reciprocated. It's the way I roll. But they didn't so I rolled on by. Two of the others had books I'd bought the previous year. This left Sarah Collins Honenberger. I almost rolled by her, too, as her books looked literary and I rarely buy literary without a proper introduction.

Yet, here we were, standing near one another in a small bookstore with her three novels arranged unpretentiously on a small table. She seemed relaxed and friendly. I politely asked her about her books and she talked about them enthusiastically but without any huckster's hype. Her sales savvy nonetheless zeroed in on the book she sensed most interested me--Waltzing Cowboys. I thought at first it might be a Brokeback Mountain-type story, but I didn't say this. She told me it was about an old cowboy who goes to New York to find the son he'd abandoned decades earlier.

Possibly without realizing it, although I suspect she sensed this somehow, too, she mentioned she saw the story as perfect for a movie starring my favorite actor.

"A friend of mine in L.A. knows Robert socially. I'm hoping she'll show it to him." She tried to restrain the excitement in her voice, but I picked up on it. It blossomed full blown when she saw she'd struck pay dirt with me.

Sarah Collins Honenberger

I finished the book last night. A good read. Literary, oh yes, but a fascinating story and well-crafted, leaving me hungry for what takes place after the book ends. I'd buy the sequel in a New York minute. And, yes, Honenberger was right, Waltzing Cowboys is perfect for Robert Duvall.

So who does the waltzing? Would this be a movie Donald Trump might find excuses to avoid--or attend wearing an elaborate disguise, were that even possible? Perhaps the latter should the Orange One's, um, curiosity be aroused by the thought of the delicate dance cowboys and untamed horses do before they feel comfortable with each other. This occurs in beautifully intimate detail in the first chapter, which Honenberger had entered in a short story contest several years earlier, winning first place.

"Rhue's prairie dance with Delilah stood on its own as a story until [the cowboy's] past in New York City rose up like a ghostly mourner from Vince's funeral and begged me to explore Ford's life without a father," she writes in the book's acknowledgments. Waltzing Cowboys was the thoughtful, literary and deeply entertaining result.

[find more Friday's Forgotten Books reviewed at Todd Mason's amazingly eclectic blog:

http://socialistjazz.blogspot.com/]

JACKSTRAW – Ron Faust

Jackstraw is the perfect tonic for this election year of our discontent. Tired of worrying (or hoping) an obscenely rich populist presidential candidate will upset our traditional two-party system by running on a third-party ticket? Watch through a rifle scope in vicarious delight (or horror) as obscenely rich populist presidential candidate Hamilton Keyes's head explodes on a dais next to his drop-dead gorgeous running mate who has already taken a bullet just beneath her magnificent bosom and is lying crumpled at his feet the moment his candidacy comes to its abrupt conclusion in a tiny fictitious Latin American “republic.”

The person actually looking through the rifle scope when this happens is Thomas “Jack” Jackstraw, a soldier of fortune looking to make a last big score with an eye toward taking the loot and slipping into obscure retirement. We are with Jackstraw when he pulls the trigger, and we watch with him as Rachel Leah Valentine collapses after the bullet strikes her chest. He then sees another bullet, not his, turn her running mate's head into a pinkish cloud.

Jackstraw has presumed his assignment to fake the assassination of Rachel Leah Valentine, whom he'd fitted with body armor ahead of time, is a set up. He figures he's marked to be killed afterward as a patsy. Earlier he had helped capture four U.S. missionaries whose release the U.S. candidates had “negotiated” to boost the popularity back home of their American Patriotic Party. He knows too much.

He had a plan to elude the police waiting for him in the building from which he'd shot the vice presidential candidate. He had not anticipated the second shot, the killing shot, fired from a room adjoining his and forcing him to improvise his escape. After breaking into the next room and killing the police and real assassin there, he unbands the $250,000 cash downpayment for his services and dumps the loose bills out the fourth-story window into a swirling breeze to distract the crowd that had gathered to see the U.S. candidates. In the ensuing hullabalooo we make it to safety. But Jackstraw, the novel, is far from over.

The first-person narrative Ron Faust uses in this final entry to his fifteen-novel oeuvre works counter-intuitively well in distancing us from Faust himself. Thomas Jackstraw gives us opinions on such as personality, politics, government, and morality that in lesser writers are apt to come across as a virtually transparent veil for his or her personal outlook. I attribute this distance to Faust's artistry in creating a character so intimately believable we find ourselves merging with Jackstraw's sensibility. We forget he's really Ron Faust.

Not that we know much about Ron Faust. The most interesting thing—the only thing--besides his writing? He pitched minor league baseball in Louisiana a couple of seasons. Born in Illinois, 1936; died in Wisconsin, 2011. No obituary. The guy was more elusive than Pynchon or Salinger. More puzzling, his work went largely unknown despite being compared by critics to Hemingway, John D. MacDonald, Hunter S. Thompson and Peter Matthiessen. Scott Turow, bestselling author of Presumed Innocent, said of Faust: "A writer of enormous talent, a stylist to admire and a storyteller of great power."

Dumbfounded that although I'm a Wisconsin native and work as a writer, I first learned of Ron Faust only two years ago on Ben Boulden's Gravetapping blog.

Jackstraw wasn't published until two years after Faust's death at age 75. This makes me wonder if he'd had trouble finding a publisher. The idea such might have been the case saddens me. Makes me angry. The novel is too damned good to be deemed unmarketable by any publisher, and we know marketability trumps all other considerations these days. No grey area there.

Yet, had Faust hung on five more years he might have had his first bestseller with Jackstraw. I think you would agree, if you've been following the ongoing White House scramble these days and are as frustrated, disappointed, and angered as I get almost daily as each new unimaginable revelation plays out on the Internet. Here's some perspective from Jackstraw:

It seemed to me that she had easily won the debate, but to the political reporters she was glib, facile, reckless, uninformed—a "loose cannon." The media corps seemed to uniformly despise Rachel and the APP, and could scarcely conceal their scorn for her supporters. They deliberately antagonized her. It was a daily game of let's-see-if-we-can-make-the-candidate-lose-it. Rachel fought back in her cool, ironic style, and won over some viewers enraged at how the commentators ganged up on her.

When a male TV journalist asked her if she opposed homosexual relationships, she replied: "For you, no; for me, yes."

Another reporter wondered how she, a single woman for so many years, satisfied her physical urges. Rachel said, "Some physical urges I suppress, like now—I'm not going to slap your face." Then she smiled, which allowed her to get away with such a comment.

"People say you're too sharp-tongued," a female reporter said. "People say you're too pointy-headed," Rachel replied.

A political opponent was quoted as saying that if Rachel Leah Valentine were elected president the country would soon be at war or, "God forbid, in an economic depression."

"It sounds," Rachel told reporters, "like he's more afraid of losing his money than losing his life.”

But eventually the scandals, the semi-substantiated rumors, the constant attacks by the media and political opponents began to erode her support. The APP's poll numbers dropped—down to 19 percent of the electorate, 17 percent, 14 . . . Rachel, evidently accepting defeat at last, became anarchic and cheerfully vituperative.

She called both print and broadcast journalists"corporate lickspittles." She said she had never met a journalist or news anchor who wasn't an intellectual and social parvenu. As for free speech in America, Rachel asserted that you got what you paid for. She said that the big corporations and the Republicrats were united in opposing anyone or anything that threatened to interfere in their private monopoly game with America's wealth. She said that her political opponents knew that if you lie down with dogs you'll get up with fleas . . . but if you lie down for the Corporate State you'll get up with money. She said that the multi-national corporations—with their media lackeys—and the Republicrat politicians together operated the world's biggest whorehouse, and the citizen had only to ask whether he was going to be screwed fore or aft.

Wait...didn't I just read that on Huffpost?

[for more Friday's Forgotten Books see the listing on Patti Abbott's unforgettable blog]