Paul Tremblay‘s debut novel, The Little Sleep, not only sports a eye-catching title, but a premise that’s just as intriguing.
Obviously, the title’s supposed to get the reader thinking of noir classic, The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler–so one expects the lone-wolf, tougher than nails, sardonically witty gumshoe typified by Philip Marlowe. But Tremblay’s protagonist, Mark Genevich, has one challenge his predecessors in the genre doesn’t have…he’s a narcoleptic. So he’s falling asleep, hallucinating and losing control of his body and the most inconvenient times (for Genevich, anyway…the occasionally seem a convenient deus ex machina to get Tremblay out of a scene).
Initially, the book didn’t do much for me–had a hard time caring for Genevich or his problem, his client, and the early chapters seemed a little too erratic. But I hung in there, and eventually, Genevich explains his disorder enough that you can accept the bouncing-around nature of the first chapters. I’m still not sure how sympathetic Tremblay ever makes him, but you do at least start to want him to figure out what’s going on–which is close enough.
I remember when I started working the graveyard shift (I guess 3rd shift is the term we’re supposed to use now), I had a lot of days where I couldn’t be sure that I wouldn’t fall asleep w/o warning–in a theater, during a slow after-dinner conversation, on the road(!)–and I recognized the embarrassment, anger and confusion Genevich displayed. No matter what precautions he took, the very real danger of waking in a different place or his body not acting like he intended always loomed large. I’m assuming Tremblay has no first-hand knowledge of the disorder, but he sure acts like he does.
Genevich’s path to solving this particular case follows many of the typical hardboiled paths, but he cannot travel those paths like his forefathers because of his disorder. Unlike with Monk, Genvich’s problem is never fodder for humor–unlike Monk’s OCD, which would’ve been very easy, and probably very entertaining. Tremblay sticks to the high road, however, resulting in a deeper, probably more satisfyingk, read.

Thankfully, the Queen is the head of a covert operations team (or the fairy tale equivalent thereof) made up of princesses who rarely qualify as damsels in distress.
Just knocked off Jim Butcher’s
If one’s going to write about superheroes there’s really only so much you can do–A. Write a prose equivalent of a comic book or B. Go out of your way to make sure that no once can describe your work as an example of “A.” Typically, the “A” books are shoddy, and wouldn’t be accepted as a script by a decent comic publisher; and the “B” books are so caught up in not being “A”s that they lose something–they might do well exploring the nature of “heroes” or satirizing/politicizing the genre or whatever, but they don’t work as novels.
I was able to steal 10 minutes here and there, and was able to finish Elvis Cole’s latest adventure. This is the best Cole in years (
I know not all of you read comics, but for the few of you who do regularly/occasionally, let me heartily recommend
If I had more energy, I’d go through the archives and see how many of Lee Goldberg’s