Generation Starship? Or Generation Novel...

Arkwright - Allen Steele

It’s getting harder and harder to be a science fiction fan. For one thing, the library and bookstore shelves that used to be filled with space operas are now jammed with vampire tales. For another, there just don’t seem to be any more Asimovs, Clarkes, Sturgeons or Silverbergs coming down the pike (Charlie Stross, perhaps, excepted). To make matters worse, fans have recently been subjected to a slew of long novels that read more like soap operas than space operas – some fairly good (Neal Stephenson’s Seveneves) and some not quite so good (the John Sandford and Ctein collaboration, Saturn Run). And then there’s the just plain bad: Allen Steele’s Arkwright.

Kadrey's Episodic Fiction Flat

The Everything Box - Richard Kadrey

Imagine, if you will, the angel sent to Earth after the Noahic flood with specific instructions to kill off any unauthorized survivors. Go ahead, imagine him – his name’s Qaphsiel, and this is his first big assignment (normally he’s in charge of office supplies)… and he blows it. Yep, Qaphsiel had The Everything Box in his pocket, but he lost it… “Crap!”

The Fat Twin

Nowhere Girl - Susan Strecker

Do identical twins have a supernatural bond, the ability to communicate across time and space in a way no one else can penetrate? Cady Bernard certainly believes they do – and she should know, since she’s an identical twin. That is, she was: once. Sixteen years ago; half her life; Cady’s twin sister Savannah died…. a homicide… her body found in an abandoned house on the hill behind their high school. Cady knew without being told that her sister was gone.

Time files. After battling self-abuse (cutting, attempted suicide) in the aftermath of her sister’s death, Cady grew up and became a best-selling author… an author who writes what she knows: murder. She’s (unhappily) married to a bassoon-tooting psychiatrist she suspects is 1) ashamed that she makes more money than he does and 2) probably playing hide-the-salami with his waiflike receptionist. Because, although Savannah Martino was gorgeous, luminous, slim and lovely; twin sis Cadence was and remains the “chubby” one. Apparently epigenesis rules…

McCallum's Fiction Debut a Misfire

Once a Crooked Man - David McCallum

I’ve always considered it rather depressing that one of the surest ways to get a novel published (at least back in the days before rampant self-publishing) was to already have a degree of celebrity. Take a look at all the dozens of actors and singers who’ve published children’s books – Madonna, Sting, Cate Blanchett, etc. – for example. Even in my favorite genre, the mystery, more than a few actors have been published. Some – Harley Jane Kozak or Hugh Laurie  – have actually done a fairly good job. Others (say, Gillian Anderson) haven’t done so well. Into the midst of that second group, regrettable, comes veteran actor David McCallum with his debut novel, Once a Crooked Man.

Harry Murphy , New York-based actor, had just finished yet another audition – spoiler alert: he wouldn’t win the part – and badly needed to pee. So he slipped into the Chinese restaurant he was passing, hoping to empty an overflowing bladder. The four men at the table chased him off, so a desperate Harry ducked into the neighboring alley and watered the brick wall instead. What he overheard standing under an open window was (somehow) sufficient to send the young man across the pond to London, planning to warn a complete stranger (for whom he had only a surname) that someone in America planned to terminate their arrangement, whatever it was – permanently.

Cornwell's Personal Problems with the FBI Ruin "Depraved Heart"

Depraved Heart - Patricia Cornwell

Read any Scarpetta novels lately? Well, I have—but I haven’t bought one in years, and don’t intend to buy any in the future. In fact, I’m not even sure I want to read another one, because… well, because they just keep getting worse and worse. I did read the latest one, Depraved Heart, however; and I’m here to warn you not to bother.

“Why?” you might ask. Well, mainly because it was lousy. No, it was worse than lousy: it was an overblown and bloated complaint that, frankly, says a lot more about author Patricia Cornwell’s mindset than it does about her writing skills. While her two most recent volumes (Flesh and Blood and Dust at least featured some fairly interesting forensic investigations, the 23rd installment in the Scarpetta series devolves into nothing but a 466-page rant about the FBI. At the risk of getting distracted by the tabloid descriptions of Scarpetta’s messy personal life circa the mid-1990s, we have to ask, “What is your problem with the FBI, Patricia?”