Where to begin? Here's the description from Amazon:
At the end of the 19th century an intrepid Tibetan youth from an Indian orphanage is enlisted in the name of Her Majesty to guide a mysterious Norwegian named Sigerson on a mission to the forbidden city of Lhasa. The clandestine operation leads to intrigue, danger, and ultimately, murder. In the face of mortal consequences, Sigerson must solve the crime from deep undercover.
Drawing on Kipling and Conan Doyle for inspiration, The Hawk Sahib represents a new direction for David Mazzotta. His sharply observed characters and economical style make for a breakneck-paced historical mystery.
This was a very difficult book to write. In the process, I discovered I do not have a particular talent for plotting. That is to say, the bulk of the time I spent on this was outlining the sequence of events and inferences. I gained a tremendous respect for writers of mysteries, and a certain level of awe for those who can string together something complex that does not come off as contrived manufactured.
The location and subject are quite esoteric and archaic. Does anyone know who Kipling is anymore? How about Conan Doyle? A reading by a standard-issue woke college freshman would probably lose me my job, even though in the context of the era in which it is set it is fine. Look at it this way: is there anyone alive under the age of 60 that can pronounce "Sahib'' and not find it troubling? That is to say, the audience is, I'm afraid, very small. It is not a comedy, in fact it is likely the darkest book I've written, though still, I hope, very entertaining.
It sets up a sequel as it ends, so evidently I want to torture myself by having to plot another mystery -- certainly not until I retire. I will say this: If you recognize the name Sigerson you will probably enjoy it. If you know, you know.
Now for the personal stuff. In the course of writing this I have come to some revelations about myself. Firstly, once I do retire, I suspect I will write a lot. I don't know if I can ever reach the level of output of 25 years ago, when I had this blog, books, and football column going all at once, but I will have time and when I have time, I write. They say writing is only enjoyable in the past tense. Writing is work, having written is fun. In fact, writing is more of a compulsion. There is no point in resisting it, as you would work, and there is no particular joy in completing it, since the compulsion is not relieved. It just is, and I feel it will continue to be once I have time for it again. Look, if I retire at 65, that gives me at least another 15 years of productive writing. That's a gift.
The other realization is how self-indulgent my approach is to writing. I write whatever I want. I have no concern for sales or an audience or the opinions of others. If over the course of its existence The Hawk Sahib sells no more than a handful of copies, I'm fine with that. I write what I write and that's that. (I seem to be developing an affinity for tautology. That makes three in this post alone. Not good.)
Contrast that with Lee Child, who writes the Jack Reacher series of manly thrillers, one of which I am ripping through now. They sell billions. They can at times be formulaic. To me they are a bit wordy but I think that is true of just about every book. What they are is perfectly targeted to his readers, of which I am one. A common, rather smug belief might be that Lee Child is simply a commercial machine, his work eschews artistry for commercial reward. That belief is wrong. Lee Child is writing for other people. He is a craftsman of the highest order and that takes talent. In my juvenile years I might have deluded myself that, in a flurry of sophomoric editorializing, I was dedicated to the artistry of writing and it's the crass uncivilized world that makes him rich and me not. The fact is he is giving the world what it desires, and I am giving myself what I desire. I am more selfish than authentic.
There is no room in the commercial book industry for me, nor should there be. It is truly a blessing that there isn't. Years ago, we're I to have become a successful mainstream novelist, I would have lived a very different life than I have. I would have been brown-nosing the Upper West Side cognoscenti. Making dreary small talk with strangers who show up for a signing. Trying to supplement my income by teaching creative writing. And I also would have fallen to poverty once the well ran dry. No, I definitely lucked out by failing as a novelist.
I can write the stories I want and ramble on endlessly in blog posts. Who's got it better than me?
Still, I am not entirely self-absorbed. I would like anyone who is moved to read my work to enjoy it. And if you are so moved, I hope you enjoy The Hawk Sahib.
