Wednesday, February 02, 2011


I love Victor Gischler, so I have really no idea why it took me so long to reading The Deputy... Ok, part of it was money...

... but there was something else.

No, it wasn't that dull cover, which could as easily be the cover to nearly anything that ever was - or even could be - called "The Deputy" with nearly equal effectiveness.

I think a lot of it was fear of it. Damn Gischler - picture me saying it like Jerry Seinfeld says "Newman" - keeps writing things that are just a little too close to things I'm working on.

And there's where I should have relaxed.

Because while we clearly like similar pitches, he always takes them off in directions I would never have dreamed of.

So his "white trash western" goes off to dozens of unexpected and delightful directions, in a rip-roaring read front to finish. In fact, by the end, it's gone so far off course of anything I'd have written, I forgot I'd been worried about that in the first place.

I can only wish I could come up with a moment like "Damn, Roy. What the fuck?"

And you'll just have to pick up a copy and give it read to understand why.

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