The Adjustment League (a novel by Mike Barnes)

PRAISE FOR THE ADJUSTMENT LEAGUE
“Masterful … The Adjustment League is suspenseful, exquisitely written and—at times—corrosively funny.”—Maclean’s, Feature Profile and Editor’s Pick
“Mike Barnes’s The Adjustment League weaves together elements of a psychological drama and a noir thriller as it follows a nameless man who feels compelled to right the wrongs inflicted on the helpless … The dialogue flows naturally within a narrative that tightens, flares, and grows intense with perceptive  descriptions, references, and allusions … [B]oth a literary tour de force and a deft psychological thriller.”—Foreword Reviews 

“Recounted in fragmented, almost impressionistic prose that is sharp as glass shards, The Adjustment League...is an intense journey into the underbelly of contemporary society, and a visceral descent into darkness. It is a powerful and original work, which succeeds as a mystery and something altogether deeper.”—Quill and Quire

“The Adjustment League is a unique Noir thriller, fast-paced, dark and chilling but infused with a poet’s rich and compelling lode of metaphor and language – a dark gem of a book.”—Goodreads 

“The Adjustment League’s superpower is in its crackling portraits. The Super takes his place in the queue of great damaged detectives (see Sherlock Holmes). ...It’s this Superman’s mind that’s stronger than steel.”—The Globe and Mail 

“A deftly crafted noir mystery/suspense thriller of a novel by an author who is a master of the genre, The Adjustment League is a riveting read from cover to cover and highly recommended for community library collections.”

—Midwest Book Review 

“A literary thriller of stabbing insight that’s often corrosively funny”—Maclean's Best Books of 2016 

Book Riot's Best Books of 2016

PRAISE FOR MIKE BARNES
“… fiercely alive, marked by a sharp, unerring eye for detail and a wonderful way with metaphors.”—Toronto Star
“His lucid prose brings to mind Poe’s Gothic horror, Hunter S. Thompson’s strangeness (without the drug-craze), and William Burroughs’ ellipsis (without the disintegration). But it is perhaps closest to Roald Dahl’s intimate exploration of human oddity and use of surprise in Switch Bitch.”—Globe and Mail
“Barnes writes like a contrary angel, dazzling with his deft craft and smacking readers in the gut with concentrated and perceptive subjects.”—Malahat Review


Published 23 August 2016 by Biblioasis .

Profile of author and book in Maclean's magazine (18 August 2016 issue).

Essays by author published online by Maclean's (links also within article):
Living and Writing with Mental Illness (originally entitled "Lifebook and Beast")
Being Upfront about Mental Illness  (originally entitled "Inside-Out (Following Giselle)")
The Collective Fear of Alzheimer's (originally entitled "Where is Everybody?")
My Favourite Reading Place (originally entitled "The Freight Elevator") 

Reviews: 

Foreword Reviews 
Goodreads 
Quill and Quire 
The Globe and Mail
Midwest Book Review

Author Interviews:

Open Book "Lucky Seven" interview 
Hamilton Review of Books

Related Essays by Author: 

Top 6 Reasons to Beware of Top 10 Writing Tips (posted in The Strand)

A Room in the Dark (posted on Beatrice)

A Maiden Aunt

A Maiden Aunt

Wanting to arrange some words on a page,

I suddenly recall my Aunt Mary’s hands:

how, beneath the loud exuberant voice

that so annoyed my parents, unremarked,

her slim, turquoise-veined fingers

roamed alertly over the silverware and china   

she’d washed and polished earlier,

setting out the places where we’d eat

our once-a-year dinner in her home.

Worlds

Worlds

A bright spring day, a loved one ill,

Fresh greening air, her curtains drawn.

Putting on weight with these midnight snacks

While she can’t keep down ginger ale.

Worlds so myriad, unparalleled—

Yet touching, crossing, inter-dwelt. 

 

 

...of all the things...

Such mystery sometimes in what gladdens or afflicts the heart: of all the things I saw today, this one strengthened me most

Old woman with a little blue-vested dog

coming out of the Bayview Village Mall washroom—

she so ancient, her companion minuscule,
held together by a taut thin line of pink.

Cold Fireflies

Cold Fireflies

Right-minded so far today

after three months of crazy—

what relief can compare?

It’s too deep for joy. Too delicate.

Three, four hours now since

waking in the still bed,

waking slowly, the covers                                    

not torn apart, the walls blank and holding.  

No breakthroughs yet. But

how long can it last?                                            

I’m half afraid to write these lines.                       

Even thinking them feels reckless.  

Just now. Watch these specks                              

of snow, so tiny, so intermittent,

appear and disappear in the air,

jig this way and dance that, cold            

fireflies, some finding their way

to the dark ground, where they melt.          

Lazy Song at Last

Lazy Song at Last

Write this on the breezes stirring

in this quiet, nameless spot where      

woodland rock descends to wetlands.

Take the ambitions I’ve no use for

anymore, sail them on a maple key

down this trickle emptying the bog.

With luck they’ll find the river I

hear faintly beyond the trees, maybe

reach Lake Huron before freeze-up.

But even if they stop at the next        

windless inlet, snagged on some chance

tangle of debris, it’s enough to watch

as they drift silently away, helped

by these straying breaths of pine.

Hold Hands

Hold Hands

     after Robert Fulghum

Hold hands, yes, when crossing busy streets,

or on icy sidewalks, or slippery stairs,

hold hands when walking in the park,

hold hands when walking up the street to the convenience

store and back again. Hold hands if you feel like it.

Hold hands when receiving milk from another’s body,

or offering it, or looking on as a not-so-innocent

bystander of whatever sex.

Hold hands before you kiss,

hold hands after making love.

Hold hands like they do in the movies

(there’s no need to try to be original),

hold hands when no one else is doing it

and when everyone in sight already is

(see originality). Hold hands with strangers,

not every chance you get (obviously) but

certainly far more often than you do now.

Hold hands when getting good news

you can’t believe, hold hands

when getting bad news you can.

Hold hands today, you’ll thank yourself tomorrow

and—this part’s magical—you’ll thank yourself yesterday

                                                            too.

Hold hands when you feel like it and sometimes when you

don’t. Hold hands across a table in a restaurant

and in waiting rooms, and as the plane takes off

and lands. Hold hands when it’s obviously

the right thing to do, and sometimes when it might be

exactly the wrong thing—chance it then sometimes too.

Hold hands at your own times, for your own reasons.

Hold hands at home.

Hold hands with yourself (you don’t need

to call it prayer though you’re welcome to).

Hold hands when the lights go down

and when they come back up again.

Hold hands at awesome spectacles, hold hands

at ordinary ones, hold hands at famous fabulous

landmarks and famous boring ones and famous mixtures

                                                  of both.

Hold hands when you’re least expected to

and also when you’re most expected to

(this was said already but it’s important).

Hold hands at places and events too numerous

to mention and easily imagined by anybody:

beaches, fireworks displays, off and on in

movies, your child’s first recital, your child’s

last recital, someone’s graduation, entering or leaving

a cemetery etc. etc.

Hold hands fairly soon after reading this poem.

Hold hands long after you’ve forgotten it.

Hold hands when one or both of you

is going into the dark, and hold hands when one

of you doesn’t come back. Keep holding hands

a little longer when an official- or kind-sounding voice

tells you it’s time to let go, because it

isn’t quite. Not yet. Hold hands.