busker

Sherman Alexie book sale

I am a huge fan of Sherman Alexie and am thrilled to hear that his first 'young adult novel', The Absolutely True Diary of a part-time Indian has been sold to Little, Brown, for publication in early 2007.

I'm told it's "loosely based on his childhood, about a smart but awkward Native American boy as he leaves the reservation and becomes a new student in an all-white high school".

Am not *entirely* sure what a 'young adult novel' is, but it seems that Little, Brown also bought a *second* YA novel, a picture book.

Anyway, splendid news.

Slightly less literary and splendid is the NY Daily News' report of:

"Runaway deal?: Fresh from copping a plea to faking her own abduction, "Runaway Bride" Jennifer Wilbanks seems ready to cash in. I hear that Queen of All Media Judith Regan is close to inking a mid-six-figure deal with the 32-year-old Wilbanks and her on-again, off-again future husband, John Mason, that includes movie-of-the-week rights (possibly for NBC) and a network television interview - maybe with Katie Couric. No comments all around."

I like the closing "No comments" comment.

Movie News - The incomparable Harry Crews is heading for celluloid with the filming of The Hawk is Dying.

Like Adam Hall's Quiller novels, Crews is unfilmable, so I dread the mess they can make. But let me not be pessimistic ahead of time. I see that Paul Giametti is cast and he has the sort of southern gothic freaky weirdness of all Crews' creations, so maybe someone is thinking straight.

I came across Crews because it was my job to promote his UK editions, otherwise I doubt I'd have even heard of him.

As with Elmore Leonard, to whom I also failed utterly to wake London's literary editors, none of my efforts made a jot of difference to the lack of reviews and sales of this talented writer.

Absolute genius, absolutely terrifying.

I drew up a list of all the Soho and rough south London pubs I drank nervously in and made sure of taking Harry for our end-of-day drinks.

He's a tough guy and with no need to have truck with fops like me, except it was my publicity schedule and I was chauffeur and keeper of the expense account so he bore my company and nervous fluting chatter with brooding monosyllabic civility.

Actually, a disinctly brooding monosyllabic silence fell over the public bars on our entrance, and I'd never been served with such alacrity.

In an effort to curry favor with Harry - and sidestep his curled lip at my choice of warm beer - I started shadowing his preference for the hard stuff, bourbons, vodka, tequila. Mistake.

Tottering back with refills, I once excitedly confided in him my thrill at the unaccustomed prompt service I was enjoying in his company. He fixed me a long and level look. Finally, he picked up his shot glass, gazed at it awhile and took a ruminative sip:

"Can't help you there, boy. Don't seem to run inna that problem too often."