Besides seeing his books (less frequently, it seems) on the shelves of used bookstores I scrounge through, I also am aware of him due to modern mystery/thriller writers. They're all there, whether it's Lee Child in an interview, or Carl Hiaasen writing an introduction to re-released editions, many current writers throw themselves at the MacDonald altar.
And this raises the apposite question: why haven't I read any of his stuff? Well, now I have (
It's more than action, or characterization, it's the way he brings it to you in a roundabout way. I had to re-read a section because I wasn't sure if Trav and one of his lady friends had rolled around together. Instead of having McGee brood, MacDonald has him stir awake in bed and think "all the little gods of irony must whoop and weep and roll on the floors of Olympus when they tune in on the night thoughts of a truly fatuous male." Or as McGee flies cross-country: "A stewardess took a special and personal interest in me. She was a little bigger than they usually are, and a little older than the norm. She was styled for abundant lactation, and her uniform blouse was not."
The irreconcilable trouble I have with John D. MacDonald is that he's no longer alive, and dead people rarely write. At least I have