Happy news from the LA Times, which reports that Raymond Chandler will get his very own star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. He joins a select bunch of writers honoured by the movies in this way, including Ray Bradbury and Dr Seuss.

But why wasn't he there already? I've recently emerged from a Chandler reading streak – it had been far too long. In the introduction to my most recent re-read, The Lady in the Lake, Jonathan Kellerman sums up his appeal: "What keeps the reader turning pages are dead-eye observations of hypocrisy, self-delusion and evil, tormented characters about whose fate we come to care and an hypnotic sense of place that has never been surpassed by any other crime writer." Spot on.

Kellerman also quotes a passage from Chandler's short story Red Wind where he summons up the Santa Anas winds in just a few short lines, "those hot dry winds that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze part ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen." I'm a long way from LA right now, but even a small slice of Chandler makes me feel just a little bit nearer.

Writers have always been undervalued in Tinseltown, despite the fact that, like almost half of the best picture nominees at this year's Oscars, many great films have a great book inside them.

Authors may not have the glamour of a Marilyn Monroe or a Cary Grant, but I'd love to see a spot reserved for Agatha Christie, or JRR Tolkien. Or how about a push for (my hero) Stephen King. With an adaptation coming up of American Pastoral, maybe it's time for Philip Roth. He may be bowing out of public life – but I bet he wouldn't be averse to a Hollywood star …