THE KAISHO, by Eric Lustbader (HarperCollins, $195).
ERIC Lustbader now writes just like an old chef cooks shortly before retirement. He knows what is necessary for a great creation, has certainly produced them in a long and illustrious past and knows just what spices to add, and in what quantity.
The trouble is that the process becomes too automatic and lacks that vital element necessary to turn a list of ingredients into more than the sum of its parts. The sparkle disappears.
Thriller writers eventually use a well-tried and tested formula to churn out one pot-boiler after another to jaded readers.
As is the case with this novel, cash-laden authors also discover the joys of all-expenses-paid research, and collect a mass of data on places and people which is filed away for future reference.
When the creative juices are flowing this data merely informs writing. The necessity of meeting a publisher's deadline, however, increases the possibility of whole chunks of it emerging as thinly-veiled location setting.