Bruce Beckham's Blog, page 2
February 19, 2025
Missing the Point?
Revenge of the Tipping Point: Overstories, Superspreaders, and the Rise of Social Engineering by Malcolm GladwellMy rating: 2 of 5 stars
The original The Tipping Point was considered a seminal work. As a professional marketer I remember devouring its thesis, as I tried to make sense of consumer behaviour.
The best part of three decades and a pandemic later, what could be the new interpretation? In December I heard the author interviewed and added it to my Christmas wish-list, a small library I am now diligently working through.
But … hmm. I soon found myself straining to follow a tale that rambled through bank robberies in LA, resistance to vaccination in Waldorf schools, and Medicare fraud in Florida.
Seventy-plus pages in, and in the absence of an emerging unifying theory, I began to form my own opinion: that here were clusters of variables desperately seeking an equation.
Now, I might be entirely wrong. But there was the towering presence of unread books beside my bed. A tipping point was reached: one night the TBR pile, next morning the DNF shelf.
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February 13, 2025
Legal, decent, honest & truthful
The Case of the Lonely Accountant by Simon MasonMy rating: 2 of 5 stars
A ‘finder’ of missing persons is sent by the police to Bournemouth (that’s a leafy English seaside town) to track down the sad executive of the title. He works his way through various connections and has an incidental fling with an exotic stranger staying in the same hotel. He unearths clues, mostly mundane, some improbable.
He seemed down in the dumps, and no character stood out. I was still trying to work out whom to root for when, abruptly, the story concluded.
I remember turning the book over in my hands, baffled. It felt like a standard paperback. Then I noticed the thick, double folded flaps and, inside, the generous line-spacing and point size. At a rough count, I made it 45,000 words – or half a typical Agatha Christie.
Emblazoned on the front cover are two quotes:
“Unputdownable”
David Pearce
“Utterly compelling”
Mick Herron
When I worked in advertising, our mantra was “Legal, Decent, Honest & Truthful.” Set deliverable expectations, and the customer will return.
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January 26, 2025
Poison pen?
A is for Arsenic: The Poisons of Agatha Christie by Kathryn HarkupMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
I might almost have thought this book was written just for me. As an aficionado of all things Agatha Christie, and an amateur botanist to boot, it also contains fascinating true-life accounts of notorious murders.
What I hadn’t quite appreciated was the industrial scale by which Agatha Christie poisoned her victims – nor (and here is perhaps the reason why) that she had qualified and worked as an apothecary’s assistant in 1917.
She wasted little time in putting her knowledge into practice, employing strychnine in The Mysterious Affair at Styles, her first novel, published in 1920.
The book is amenable to dipping in and out of, though I found myself reading from cover to cover and looking forward to it each time I picked it up.
One small caveat – I studied Chemistry at university and there were times when I needed every grain of memory to follow the molecular formulae and descriptions of reactions – but these sections are skippable to no great detriment to the whole.
I sense a sinister botanist lurking in the Cumbrian fells!
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January 18, 2025
Karla's Choice
Karla's Choice by Nick HarkawayMy rating: 2 of 5 stars
The protagonist (Smiley, I think – although this is questionable) is only mildly engaging and distinctly vanilla in character. The antagonist (Karla, I think), ideally relentless and remorseless is mainly absent and anonymous. Jeopardy is thin on the ground and is largely the province of peripheral characters about whom I didn’t find I cared. There are oodles of well-written words but in the form of exposition that bogs down the progress of what is a mundane plot – which in turn labours to an uncertain climax and peters out. Plaintive monotone narration made the audiobook quite an ordeal. I was disappointed as I had high hopes and, having recommended it, now must face the wrath of our street book group.
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December 29, 2024
The Talented Mr Ripley
The Talented Mr. Ripley by Patricia HighsmithMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
There aren’t many books that I have shelved as “6 stars” but my first reading of The Talented Mr Ripley left me in no doubt where this one was going.
Not only was it my introduction to Patricia Highsmith’s own singular talent – that of writing suspense – but also to the experience of becoming entirely invested in the survival of the anti-hero, in this case the charming murderous psychopath, Tom Ripley.
I have watched all three screen versions of the novel, but none really comes close to capturing the fine balance, the knife edge that Tom Ripley walks between success and disaster, while all the time taking the reader with him on his journey towards riches and freedom.
In her book about writing, Plotting and Writing Suspense Fiction, in answer to the question, “What is suspense?” she replies, “A story in which the possibility of violent action, even death, is close all the time.” What she adds in the first of the five Ripley novels is that the possibility of capture is also close all the time – and I think this, in tandem with the reader’s reluctant admiration for Tom, is what elevates this story above most.
I shan’t try to outline the plot, other than to say that at times it feels like protagonist and author are vying to outdo one another with their audacity!
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June 12, 2023
Past Imperfect
A small case for the present tense.
I recently re-read Great Expectations, and in starting out it soon struck me that I had entirely forgotten the plot. Would Pip realise his hopes? Would he get the girl? And which girl?
Writing in the first person, Dickens repeatedly points out that here is an autobiographical memoir, recounted omnisciently with the benefit of broad hindsight and lofty maturity.
Things seem to run smoothly, until – maybe three-quarters of the way in – Pip finds himself in mortal jeopardy. You may recall the scene – the drunken vengeful monster Orlick has him trussed up for a brutal execution out on the lonely Kent marshes.
The reader is on tenterhooks. All those hours invested with Pip and his long climb to glory, only to crash to an ignominious end.
But – hold your horses (I thought). Pip’s the narrator. There’s a hundred pages to go. Ergo he lives to tell the tale!
This logic rather killed the tension. The question became not would Pip escape, but how would Pip escape? I could rest easy.
I’m not sure this was the effect that Dickens desired – but he had written himself into a cul-de-sac. Past tense, first person – there was no way out.
Now, I’m always ready to suspend disbelief – there has to be some author’s license – but this technical paradox has long troubled me. Just how do you construct a credible mystery when the reader knows you know the outcome?
Now, the present tense is much maligned, but it does offer a solution. And while some readers find it too elementary, I would point the open-minded to the first chapter of John Updike’s Rabbit is Rich.
You can find it on Amazon by clicking Look Inside. See if you agree with me: the live-action filmic quality is spine-tingling, and the growing sense of anticipation palpable. (And a Pulitzer Prize to boot.)
I recently re-read Great Expectations, and in starting out it soon struck me that I had entirely forgotten the plot. Would Pip realise his hopes? Would he get the girl? And which girl?
Writing in the first person, Dickens repeatedly points out that here is an autobiographical memoir, recounted omnisciently with the benefit of broad hindsight and lofty maturity.
Things seem to run smoothly, until – maybe three-quarters of the way in – Pip finds himself in mortal jeopardy. You may recall the scene – the drunken vengeful monster Orlick has him trussed up for a brutal execution out on the lonely Kent marshes.
The reader is on tenterhooks. All those hours invested with Pip and his long climb to glory, only to crash to an ignominious end.
But – hold your horses (I thought). Pip’s the narrator. There’s a hundred pages to go. Ergo he lives to tell the tale!
This logic rather killed the tension. The question became not would Pip escape, but how would Pip escape? I could rest easy.
I’m not sure this was the effect that Dickens desired – but he had written himself into a cul-de-sac. Past tense, first person – there was no way out.
Now, I’m always ready to suspend disbelief – there has to be some author’s license – but this technical paradox has long troubled me. Just how do you construct a credible mystery when the reader knows you know the outcome?
Now, the present tense is much maligned, but it does offer a solution. And while some readers find it too elementary, I would point the open-minded to the first chapter of John Updike’s Rabbit is Rich.
You can find it on Amazon by clicking Look Inside. See if you agree with me: the live-action filmic quality is spine-tingling, and the growing sense of anticipation palpable. (And a Pulitzer Prize to boot.)
October 20, 2022
The Magnificent Seven
I am presently listening to the audiobook of East of Eden. Something tells me I ought to be forbearing. Isn’t this one of those classic bucket list novels?
But right now I’m being pummelled by yet another salvo of characters (9 members of the same family), with little respite from those who have come before.
I may need to search for and print off a copy of the cast – although I’m worried about inadvertently unearthing a spoiler.
For whodunits I prefer paperbacks so that I can write inside the cover, names as they crop up, along with any suspicious traits or behaviour. It is a relief to be able to refer back when someone re-emerges – though I am still quite hopeless at finding the perpetrator.
Logging the characters is trickier when it comes to an audiobook. Pausing is problematic. You might be driving. And what exactly was the spelling?
This got me thinking about books I have marked DNF (did not finish, as the saying goes). Three examples:
1) LA Confidential by James Ellroy, 40 characters mentioned in first 15 pages.
2) A Dark Adapted Eye by Barbara Vine (aka Ruth Rendell), 37 characters by 10% thru.
3) Mrs McGinty’s Dead by Agatha Christie (which I did actually finish but only with frequent recourse to my notes), 19 characters.
So, how many characters in a novel is too many?
When I worked in marketing, I would quote to my clients Sir Walter Scott (no slouch himself, when it came to verbosity) – he usefully stated, “We should not disregard the time and patience of our audience.”
I would go further, and add the memory capacity of our audience.
Writing copy for ads, I used to remind myself of this finding from research:
“Retention declines when the number of words in a sentence exceeds seven.”
While it is tempting cheekily to observe, why take twelve words to say it? – I think the lesson from advertising is persuasive. And there are other authoritative studies that suggest, for optimum learning, 7 plus or minus 2 is the range in which to operate.
After all, if it’s good enough for colours of the rainbow, days of the week, dwarves, seas and sins, surely seven characters is plenty for a competent author to be getting on with?
But right now I’m being pummelled by yet another salvo of characters (9 members of the same family), with little respite from those who have come before.
I may need to search for and print off a copy of the cast – although I’m worried about inadvertently unearthing a spoiler.
For whodunits I prefer paperbacks so that I can write inside the cover, names as they crop up, along with any suspicious traits or behaviour. It is a relief to be able to refer back when someone re-emerges – though I am still quite hopeless at finding the perpetrator.
Logging the characters is trickier when it comes to an audiobook. Pausing is problematic. You might be driving. And what exactly was the spelling?
This got me thinking about books I have marked DNF (did not finish, as the saying goes). Three examples:
1) LA Confidential by James Ellroy, 40 characters mentioned in first 15 pages.
2) A Dark Adapted Eye by Barbara Vine (aka Ruth Rendell), 37 characters by 10% thru.
3) Mrs McGinty’s Dead by Agatha Christie (which I did actually finish but only with frequent recourse to my notes), 19 characters.
So, how many characters in a novel is too many?
When I worked in marketing, I would quote to my clients Sir Walter Scott (no slouch himself, when it came to verbosity) – he usefully stated, “We should not disregard the time and patience of our audience.”
I would go further, and add the memory capacity of our audience.
Writing copy for ads, I used to remind myself of this finding from research:
“Retention declines when the number of words in a sentence exceeds seven.”
While it is tempting cheekily to observe, why take twelve words to say it? – I think the lesson from advertising is persuasive. And there are other authoritative studies that suggest, for optimum learning, 7 plus or minus 2 is the range in which to operate.
After all, if it’s good enough for colours of the rainbow, days of the week, dwarves, seas and sins, surely seven characters is plenty for a competent author to be getting on with?
January 1, 2022
Plot or Pants
This strikes me as one of those ‘lost in translation’ moments, at least as far as English is concerned. Pants, in particular, is problematic, referring to an entirely different layer of clothing, depending upon which side of the Atlantic you sit.
In the writing context, however, the intra-pants distinction is relatively academic, whereas the plot-pants dichotomy is a hot topic of debate. To cut to the chase, there are ‘plotters’ and ‘pantsers’ (honestly). The former methodically plan out their literary journey, the latter metaphorically fly by the seat of their pants. (And it really doesn’t matter which pants, even on a Zoom call with your editor.)
Reputedly in the plotter camp are J.K. Rowling, John Grisham and James Patterson. Famous pantsers include Mark Twain, Stephen King and Raymond Chandler.
One glance at this list tells you there can be no right answer. It would seem to be a matter of personal preference. I come down on the side of the fence where you must look out for the protruding nail.
To flesh out a skeleton plot strikes me as the literary equivalent of painting by numbers. And I really can’t imagine how you can possibly have all your best ideas in advance. It would be like going fishing with a list of what you were about to catch, or to the football knowing the score (though maybe I would take that one).
There must be merit, however, in the alternative method; certainly, less stress as the deadline approaches and the end is still not in sight. About this time of year I receive emails from Amazon suggesting I might like to pre-order the book with which I am simultaneously wrangling. No pressure!
On reflection, in practice there must be fifty shades of grey; a hybrid approach. It stands to reason that you can’t write a novel without some vague notion of the plot. And surely even the most pig-headed planners will change course for a humdinger of a brainwave.
Which brings me back to transatlantic semantics. While you can see where my loyalties lie, I ought to mention that ‘pants’ is also British slang for ‘rubbish’ or ‘hopeless’!
In the writing context, however, the intra-pants distinction is relatively academic, whereas the plot-pants dichotomy is a hot topic of debate. To cut to the chase, there are ‘plotters’ and ‘pantsers’ (honestly). The former methodically plan out their literary journey, the latter metaphorically fly by the seat of their pants. (And it really doesn’t matter which pants, even on a Zoom call with your editor.)
Reputedly in the plotter camp are J.K. Rowling, John Grisham and James Patterson. Famous pantsers include Mark Twain, Stephen King and Raymond Chandler.
One glance at this list tells you there can be no right answer. It would seem to be a matter of personal preference. I come down on the side of the fence where you must look out for the protruding nail.
To flesh out a skeleton plot strikes me as the literary equivalent of painting by numbers. And I really can’t imagine how you can possibly have all your best ideas in advance. It would be like going fishing with a list of what you were about to catch, or to the football knowing the score (though maybe I would take that one).
There must be merit, however, in the alternative method; certainly, less stress as the deadline approaches and the end is still not in sight. About this time of year I receive emails from Amazon suggesting I might like to pre-order the book with which I am simultaneously wrangling. No pressure!
On reflection, in practice there must be fifty shades of grey; a hybrid approach. It stands to reason that you can’t write a novel without some vague notion of the plot. And surely even the most pig-headed planners will change course for a humdinger of a brainwave.
Which brings me back to transatlantic semantics. While you can see where my loyalties lie, I ought to mention that ‘pants’ is also British slang for ‘rubbish’ or ‘hopeless’!
April 10, 2021
Dance the Flamingo
This is ironic, but I’ve been trying without success to find the word that means: “to use the wrong word”. “Malapropism” is an approximation (as in the headline), but that seems to me a more extreme version of the condition. It reminds me of someone I used to work with, who would say things like, “She’s as sharp as a button” and “I’m not putting my head above the pulpit”.
On the theme of pulpits, in my time as a copywriter, I was a devotee of great Scot, David Ogilvy, the one-time Aga salesman who took American advertising by storm in the 1950s. In his marketing bible ‘Ogilvy on Advertising’ he wrote that, following research he changed “Dove makes soap obsolete” to “Dove makes soap old-fashioned” because consumers did not understand the word “obsolete”. On a later occasion a journalist asked him what the word “ineffable” meant, in an ad for Hathaway shirts. Ogilvy had to admit he hadn’t the faintest idea!
Hands up, I fall into this latter camp. Funny how you get a word into your head and one day find you skipped the semantics. Lately, sharp-eyed readers have chastised me for the misuse of “prone”, “simper” and “laconic”.
And then there’s “eponymous”. Never mind bemoaning that my characters are too shallow or my plots implausible, my jokes cringeworthy or my use of the present tense facile; this word generates more dissent than all the rest put together.
Now, it’s not as if I don’t know what “eponymous” means. And when you write about Buttermere the hamlet and Buttermere the lake; Grasmere the village and Grasmere the lake; and Windermere the town and Windermere the lake (you get the idea) ... it’s nigh on impossible to finish the sentence without “eponymous” sneaking under the radar. Cue the complaints.
I looked online for “most hated words” and prominent were moist, munch and maggots (all of which, worryingly, apply to Skelgill at one time or another). “Eponymous” didn’t figure, but it strikes me that it clearly lacks a fan club. It’s time to seek out and destroy.
July 2021 is the next time I have to update the front matter across the DI Skelgill series, so watch this space. In the meantime, if you find any ‘Dancing Flamingos’ – please let me know!
On the theme of pulpits, in my time as a copywriter, I was a devotee of great Scot, David Ogilvy, the one-time Aga salesman who took American advertising by storm in the 1950s. In his marketing bible ‘Ogilvy on Advertising’ he wrote that, following research he changed “Dove makes soap obsolete” to “Dove makes soap old-fashioned” because consumers did not understand the word “obsolete”. On a later occasion a journalist asked him what the word “ineffable” meant, in an ad for Hathaway shirts. Ogilvy had to admit he hadn’t the faintest idea!
Hands up, I fall into this latter camp. Funny how you get a word into your head and one day find you skipped the semantics. Lately, sharp-eyed readers have chastised me for the misuse of “prone”, “simper” and “laconic”.
And then there’s “eponymous”. Never mind bemoaning that my characters are too shallow or my plots implausible, my jokes cringeworthy or my use of the present tense facile; this word generates more dissent than all the rest put together.
Now, it’s not as if I don’t know what “eponymous” means. And when you write about Buttermere the hamlet and Buttermere the lake; Grasmere the village and Grasmere the lake; and Windermere the town and Windermere the lake (you get the idea) ... it’s nigh on impossible to finish the sentence without “eponymous” sneaking under the radar. Cue the complaints.
I looked online for “most hated words” and prominent were moist, munch and maggots (all of which, worryingly, apply to Skelgill at one time or another). “Eponymous” didn’t figure, but it strikes me that it clearly lacks a fan club. It’s time to seek out and destroy.
July 2021 is the next time I have to update the front matter across the DI Skelgill series, so watch this space. In the meantime, if you find any ‘Dancing Flamingos’ – please let me know!
May 19, 2020
Fake views
The saying goes that ‘truth is stranger than fiction’ – but I can’t help feeling it’s really the other way around. At least, when you think about it, there’s something very strange about fiction.
At the moment – after several false starts – I’m hooked on The Reivers, by William Faulkner.
I’m not sure exactly when the novel and I gained traction, but here am I wondering – worrying – will Ned and Boon smuggle ‘Lightning’ by train to Parsham? Will the race take place? Will injured Lucius ride? Will they win back Grandfather’s automobile? Will they make it home to Jefferson?
But there is no Lightning. There is no Lucius. There is no race, nor Parsham, nor Jefferson – nor is there Grandfather’s automobile, the root cause of all the fictitious trouble!
How can this be, that I am taking so seriously these figments of the author’s imagination? And why do I prefer these ‘fake views’ to the real thing?
Clearly, I am not alone. I think it’s fair to say it’s the human condition. We love fiction.
But at what point did our ancestors, huddled around the campfire, work out that there was more to storytelling than the facts? Surely the whole idea was to exchange useful tips for avoiding sabre-toothed tigers, hairy Neanderthals and deadly nightshade?
Perhaps it was a matter of supply and demand. There were only so many true tales to tell, and many more long dark nights to fill.
Did some bright spark, pressed for a story (it being their turn), eyes and ears of the tribe upon them... make something up?
And it worked. The others liked it! To hell with veracity – so long as it’s plausible who cares if it’s true?
At the moment – after several false starts – I’m hooked on The Reivers, by William Faulkner.
I’m not sure exactly when the novel and I gained traction, but here am I wondering – worrying – will Ned and Boon smuggle ‘Lightning’ by train to Parsham? Will the race take place? Will injured Lucius ride? Will they win back Grandfather’s automobile? Will they make it home to Jefferson?
But there is no Lightning. There is no Lucius. There is no race, nor Parsham, nor Jefferson – nor is there Grandfather’s automobile, the root cause of all the fictitious trouble!
How can this be, that I am taking so seriously these figments of the author’s imagination? And why do I prefer these ‘fake views’ to the real thing?
Clearly, I am not alone. I think it’s fair to say it’s the human condition. We love fiction.
But at what point did our ancestors, huddled around the campfire, work out that there was more to storytelling than the facts? Surely the whole idea was to exchange useful tips for avoiding sabre-toothed tigers, hairy Neanderthals and deadly nightshade?
Perhaps it was a matter of supply and demand. There were only so many true tales to tell, and many more long dark nights to fill.
Did some bright spark, pressed for a story (it being their turn), eyes and ears of the tribe upon them... make something up?
And it worked. The others liked it! To hell with veracity – so long as it’s plausible who cares if it’s true?
