The Little sister - Raymond Chandler (1949)

The original ice-pick thriller?

"Her name is Orfamay Quest and she's come all the way from Manhattan, Kansas, to find her missing brother Orrin. Or least ways that's what she tells PI Philip Marlowe, offering him a measly twenty bucks for the privilege. But Marlowe's feeling charitable - though it's not long before he wishes he wasn't so sweet. You see, Orrin's trail leads Marlowe to luscious movie starlets, uppity gangsters, suspicious cops and corpses with ice picks jammed in their necks. When trouble comes calling, sometimes it's best to pretend to be out?"

The Little Sister, with its overcomplicated and somewhat strained plotline, is not one of Chandler’s best, though even his lesser efforts show flashes of genius. Chandler's noirish tour of Hollywood feels a little worn and tired, however - much like Mr Marlowe himself I suppose.

“Easy Marlowe, you’re not human tonight”

Tintin and The Secret of Literature - Tom McCarthy

Tom McCarthy's engagingly written and playful exploration of Tintin's various tombs, crypts, crevices, ships, halls, urns, crannies and, yes, even clits, is by turns frustrating and entertaining. At the very least the book is to be appreciated for its palpable and infectious affection for Hergé's boy reporter. I was left slightly disappointed, however, by the book's failure to engage with the particularities of Hergé's medium and in what ways it might diverge from the literature to which it holds 'the secret.'

The Mysteries of Pittsburgh - Michael Chabon (1988)

A book that should be mandatory reading for aspiring writers, The Mysteries of Pittsburgh is a testament to the fact that good writing is something that requires practice, effort and, perhaps even, a little maturity. Chabon's first book, started when he was just 21 is so blindingly inferior to his better efforts that only my continued astonishment at its awfulness kept me reading to the end.

Coming across as part-autobiographical and part-wish-fulfillment fantasy, the plot centres around, Art Bechstein, a directionless, colourless university graduate with an unlikely family background - he's the son of a Jewish money launderer working for the mob. Meeting two alluring and attractive students at the University Library, Arthur and the improbably named Phlox, Art bounces back and forth between the two and enters into the constellation of characters that surround them, and crosses orbits, catastrophically, with Cleveland, a highly-literate biker with criminal ambitions. The problems, aside from Art's blank nothingness, begin with the fact that neither Phlox or Arthur are very compelling characters. Neither are their respective worlds very glamarous or exciting. So it's not just a little difficult to understand Art's enchantment. In fact, it's downright irritating and hints at a lack of experience on Chabon's part which feels embarrassingly revealing. As if to compensate, the Cleveland character tries to inject a little excitement and weight into the narrative by using his connection to Art to get himself a gig as a jewel-thief. Overly ambitious and careless, Cleveland draws down the wrath of Papa Bechstein who promptly orders him to be disposed of. Cleveland dies in a melodramatic and overwrought set-piece centred around the 'Cloud Factory' - a mysterious, quasi-mythological factory which produces perfect puffs of smoke - clouds - in a secluded little Pittsburgh valley. Bleaurgh.

Still, worth reading for the reassuring message that, yes, you too can be a writer. Well, maybe. If you every just got on with it.