Community of Women (17 page)
Oh, like hell they did. What urgency could such a project possibly have. Did they have a cover? A firm publication date? No, of course not. But these were questions that never occurred to me. I rose to the occasion, sort of, by taking a room down the street from our apartment, at a hotel on the corner of Broadway and 69th. (There were two hotels at that intersection, the Sherman Square and the Spencer Arms, and I took a room at one of them. The one on the southeast corner, whichever it was.)
Ard was a pro, with a string of mysteries and westerns, and he probably would have made the book work; on the other hand, it may have taken some of the sting out of dying to know that he wouldn’t have to finish it. He left behind a couple of chapters and an outline, and I’m sure he’d have departed from the outline and come up with something that made a little more sense. I probably departed from the outline myself, it was impossible not to, but I didn’t agonize over it because the folks at Monarch needed this Right Away.
So I went to my rented room each morning, and worked all day, and went home to have dinner with my wife, and went back for a few more hours of writing. I don’t know how long it took me to deliver the book, but it had to be less than a week. If the people at Monarch hated it, they kept it to themselves. It was published:
Babe in the Woods, a Lou Largo Novel by William Ard
.
John Jakes, who went on to make a very big name for himself as a writer of historical fiction, ghosted three more Lou Largo novels, but he got to plot them himself; I’m sure they were a lot better than mine.
I wonder if they told him they needed the books Right Away.
Well, if Beacon needed
Community of Women
right away, that’s how they would get it. And to tell you the truth, I welcomed the pressure. It gave me something to do while we were in Buffalo.
I wrote the book over a weekend. Three, four days. Something like that. It seems to me it went reasonably well, but I can’t say I remember much of the plot or characters. I might recognize elements if I were to read the book, but toward what end? It’s by not reading my early work that I’m able to agree to make it available once again.
I do remember one character. He’s a writer, and his name is Lincoln Barclay, and he’s the rare man to be found home during the daytime in this suburban wonderland. Which of course gives him opportunities for adventure.
Oh, really? A writer, you say, getting all that Westchester County action? A writer with the initials LB?
Hey, the editor on the train had his fantasies. Why shouldn’t I have mine?
—Lawrence Block
Greenwich Village
Lawrence Block ([email protected]) welcomes your email responses; he reads them all, and replies when he can.
Lawrence Block (b. 1938) is the recipient of a Grand Master Award from the Mystery Writers of America and an internationally renowned bestselling author. His prolific career spans over one hundred books, including four bestselling series as well as dozens of short stories, articles, and books on writing. He has won four Edgar and Shamus Awards, two Falcon Awards from the Maltese Falcon Society of Japan, the Nero and Philip Marlowe Awards, a Lifetime Achievement Award from the Private Eye Writers of America, and the Cartier Diamond Dagger from the Crime Writers Association of the United Kingdom. In France, he has been awarded the title Grand Maitre du Roman Noir and has twice received the Societe 813 trophy.
Born in Buffalo, New York, Block attended Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio. Leaving school before graduation, he moved to New York City, a locale that features prominently in most of his works. His earliest published writing appeared in the 1950s, frequently under pseudonyms, and many of these novels are now considered classics of the pulp fiction genre. During his early writing years, Block also worked in the mailroom of a publishing house and reviewed the submission slush pile for a literary agency. He has cited the latter experience as a valuable lesson for a beginning writer.
Block’s first short story, “You Can’t Lose,” was published in 1957 in
Manhunt
, the first of dozens of short stories and articles that he would publish over the years in publications including
American Heritage
,
Redbook
,
Playboy
,
Cosmopolitan
,
GQ
, and the
New York Times
. His short fiction has been featured and reprinted in over eleven collections including
Enough Rope
(2002), which is comprised of eighty-four of his short stories.
In 1966, Block introduced the insomniac protagonist Evan Tanner in the novel
The Thief Who Couldn’t Sleep
. Block’s diverse heroes also include the urbane and witty bookseller—and thief-on-the-side—Bernie Rhodenbarr; the gritty recovering alcoholic and private investigator Matthew Scudder; and Chip Harrison, the comical assistant to a private investigator with a Nero Wolfe fixation who appears in
No Score
,
Chip Harrison Scores Again
,
Make Out with Murder
, and
The Topless Tulip Caper
. Block has also written several short stories and novels featuring Keller, a professional hit man. Block’s work is praised for his richly imagined and varied characters and frequent use of humor.
A father of three daughters, Block lives in New York City with his second wife, Lynne. When he isn’t touring or attending mystery conventions, he and Lynne are frequent travelers, as members of the Travelers’ Century Club for nearly a decade now, and have visited about 150 countries.
A four-year-old Block in 1942.
Block during the summer of 1944, with his baby sister, Betsy.
Block’s 1955 yearbook picture from Bennett High School in Buffalo, New York.
Block in 1983, in a cap and leather jacket. Block says that he “later lost the cap, and some son of a bitch stole the jacket. Don’t even ask about the hair.”
Block with his eldest daughter, Amy, at her wedding in October 1984.
Seen here around 1990, Block works in his office on New York’s West 13th Street with, he says, “a bad haircut, an ugly shirt, and a few extra pounds.”
Block at a bookstore appearance in support of
A Walk Among the Tombstones
, his tenth Matthew Scudder novel, on Veterans Day, 1992.
