Yeah, yeah, I missed a whole month of potential blog posts, and when I was MIA from the web on Hammett’s birthday, some people even got worried enough to make sure I hadn’t died quietly on the side.
Nope, just sidetracked — I was thinking about doing my Red Harvest discovery for the birthday, I think that’s special enough for the occasion, but didn’t quite have time to write it up.
But if you want something birthdayesque, Nathan Ward — deep into writing on his upcoming biography of Hammett — popped me a note on Wednesday to say:
I opened up The New Yorker and there’s a freaking Hammett story in it! It’s certainly better than the last discovered one about the swimmers. Summer is looking up.
That could swerve as a birthday treat — on the stands now, if you’re interested. I’ll probably wait for the collection of previously unpublished Hammett stories — and long out-of-print stories, and what not — that is due in November. I’m betting this one will be in there — and the one about the swimmers, which I haven’t read yet, either.
Get them all in one place, knock them over fast, that’s what I like to do. I’m lined up to do a print review of that book, so I’ll save my energies on the subject until then.
