The Organ Grinder’s Monkey And Me

God bless Glenn Harper. These days, when contemplating the Hesperian-like wreckage of what used to be a writing career, it’s very easy to slip from pessimism into a paralysing funk. Matters are improved not one whit when you receive missives from fellow scribes letting you know that their agents have suggested they rewrite (say) ULYSSES with added radioactive werewolves, and in a forthright, accessible style akin to that of James Patterson. Most days, in fact, news from the outside world tends to filter through as confirmation of the fact that, in this brave new world of books we live in, writers are increasingly likely to succeed as the publishing industry’s equivalent of the organ grinder’s monkey. Yes, you’re the one that’s front of house, and you’re the one going around with the tin cup; but the music is getting wonkier by the day, and that organ grinder isn’t noted for his enlightened view on going splitsies with the monkey.
  Being an incorrigible romantic / naïve no-hoper, I have a fairly jaundiced take on market-driven publishing. I won’t, for example, be reading the Jane Austen / zombie novels in this lifetime, and nor will be I be reading any other half-baked, crass, formulaic horseshit, or not unless someone pays me to review it. The reasons for this include my being a literary snob and life being too short, but there’s also, I think, the fact that I have an in-built resistance to simplistic, short-term answers to complex questions. There’s also the fact that, other than our kids, books are the most precious things we have the capacity to create, and if you disagree with that then you’re probably best off visiting another blog.
  Put simply, books are not just another commodity. You can argue the case for music, art, sculpture, theatre and so forth at your leisure, but books are unique. If Western scholars had ‘rediscovered’ great symphonies or paintings in the chambers and galleries of the Muslim world during the 12th and 13th centuries, would the Renaissance have flourished as a result? It’s possible, but unlikely. Books are the thing, and even though the format might change from parchment and scroll to book and digital screen, there is nothing quite like a book for offering up a comprehensive breadth and depth of information, be that information trading in emotion, psychology, logic, philosophy or technology.
  I deal for the most part in fiction here at Crime Always Pays, so with that in mind, and one eye on the market-driven publishing model currently holding sway, let me ask this: where would the world be if JM Barrie, say, had consulted market trends before writing PETER PAN? Or Kurt Vonnegut and SLAUGHTERHOUSE 5? Or JD Salinger and THE CATCHER IN THE RYE? Or Jim Crace with QUARANTINE, or William Golding with THE LORD OF THE FLIES, or Milan Kundera with THE UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF BEING, Nikos Kazantstakis with ZORBA THE GREEK, John Fowles with THE FRENCH LIEUTENTANT’S WOMAN? How much would have been lost had Flannery O’Connor’s editor suggested she needed a few vampires to brighten up her tales? THE BUTCHER BOY, FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS, ALL THE PRETTY HORSES, THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS, THE NIGHT OF THE HUNTER, GONE WITH THE WIND, MOBY DICK, AMONGST WOMEN, RIDDLEY WALKER … You catch my drift. Great books are not written with one eye on the latest Nielsen results. Great books are the product of a singular vision unpolluted by any concern other than that of the story itself. That most of the books above (a very personal list, and one taken from glancing at the shelves around me, but you’ll have your own variation) became bestsellers despite the marketplace and not because of it is something to celebrate; and it’s pertinent too that they’re the kind of bestsellers that aren’t here and gone in six months, but consistently sell across decades and generations.
  Speaking of which, and going back to Glenn Harper – my Kindle-only novel CRIME ALWAYS PAYS has virtually nothing in common with the above list of books other than it’s available to read in the English language (I can’t even claim a paper-and-ink connection), being a modestly humorous crime caper set in the Greek islands. Given that its predecessor, THE BIG O, was written to contain the absolute minimum of death and violence for a crime novel, it does have a very tenuous parallel with the novels mentioned above, in that it has no interest in following trends and suchlike. Which may explain why THE BIG O sank like the proverbial granite submarine on publication, and why its Kindle-only follow-up currently languishes (as of Saturday evening, January 30th) at # 49,163 on the Kindle charts.
  But lo, there’s a ray of light, and it comes all delightfully Glenn Harper-shaped. Quoth Glenn:

Good news for those who, like myself, don’t own a Kindle (and thus have up to now not been able to get Declan Burke’s Kindle-only crime novel, CRIME ALWAYS PAYS). Kindle is now available as an i-phone or ipod-touch app (free), and Crime Always Pays is quite legible on an ipod-touch screen (plus it’s only US$1.25. PLUS Kindle is now also available as a free downloadable application for the PC, and soon to be available for Mac. Is this Kindle-strikes-back, after the rollout of the iPad?

  Erm, I dunno. But if you want to make an incorrigibly romantic pessimist a happy-ish man, feel free to let all your iPhone-wielding friends and family know that CRIME ALWAYS PAYS is available in all sorts of new formats (techie details available here). All nods, winks, links and plugs welcome.
  Meanwhile, apologies for the rant, and it’s back to capering about a-top the organ grinder’s organ (oo-er, Missus), and working on a story that features the bare minimum of radioactive werewolves. Wish me luck, people …

Nobody Move, This Is A Review: Bateman, Bruen and Coleman, Glynn

Yours truly had a piece in the Sunday Independent this week, in which were reviewed the latest offerings from The Artist Formerly Known as Colin Bateman, Ken Bruen and Reed Farrel Coleman, and Alan Glynn. To wit:

THE DAY OF THE JACK RUSSELL is the whimsical title to Bateman’s latest offering, and the second title in a year from a new Bateman series which features a hero who goes under the moniker of Mystery Man. I use the word “hero” advisedly: Bateman’s protagonist is the owner of a Belfast bookshop specialising in crime fiction, and a man who likes to dabble in puzzles and the solving of crimes unlikely to put him in any serious danger. He is a whinging hypochondriac, a coward and misogynist, a bookworm nerd who nonetheless gets the girl and saves the day. He may well turn out to be Colin Bateman’s most endearing creation.

  For the rest, clickety-click here …
  Meanwhile, for those of you in the Dublin area this coming Saturday (30th), Declan Hughes and Arlene Hunt are doing a couple of readings from their forthcoming tomes, CITY OF LOST GIRLS and BLOOD MONEY, respectively. Squire Hughes has all the details here …
  Finally, I heard a snippet on the radio yesterday that suggests Kevin Power’s BAD DAY IN BLACKROCK is to be adapted for a movie. Which should be a very interesting project, given that the novel is a fictional reimagining of a high-profile real life event. If anyone has any details, I’m all ears …

Casting A Cold Eye On Melanie Yeats

Ellen McCarthy got in touch this week, which was nice, to send me on a copy of her new novel, SILENT CROSSING, which was nicer still, and even included a note, which last had me trembling on the verge of ecstasy. Anyhoo, SILENT CROSSING is Ellen’s third offering, with the blurb elves wittering thusly:

A young man emerges from a car crash on a remote road in Boston. Although he walks away unscathed the crash has claimed an innocent life. Sixteen years later Melanie Yeats walks into a Garda station with her hands stained in blood. As she gradually reveals her story the detectives are left with more questions than answers. What is the connection between Melanie, her missing husband, the car crash in Boston and the death of a young woman? Is Melanie a murderer or a victim? Whose blood is on her hands? Where will her story lead them?

  For more, clickety-click here …
  Also in touch was KT McCaffrey, to let me know the date and details of his launch for NO CURTAIN CALL, the latest Emma Boylan outing, but I’m not telling you them now because the launch isn’t until April and you’ll only forget. Herewith be the blurb elves:

When the naked, blood-encrusted body of a well-known property developer is discovered on a graveyard slab, the media frenzy surrounding the story is overwhelming. Investigative journalist Emma Boylan is assigned to the case but she soon discovers that she will be playing second fiddle to a rival male reporter, much to her displeasure. Peeved at being sidelined, Emma embarks on a line of inquiry that leads her deep into the dark side of London's West End. Dead bodies continue to turn up amid the most elaborate theatrical settings imaginable. Undeterred, she probes further into disturbing deeds that have been a long time hidden. Now she must peel away layer after layer of deception until events collide and spiral into a terrifying, spectacular climax …

  Also in touch this week, albeit indirectly, was Brian McGilloway, whose fourth Inspector Devlin novel landed on the mat. The blurb elves being a busy little bunch this week, here’s their take on THE RISING:

When Garda Inspector Benedict Devlin is summoned to a burning barn, he finds inside the charred remains of a man who is quickly identified as a local drug dealer, Martin Kielty. It soon becomes clear that Kielty’s death was no accident, and suspicion falls on a local vigilante group. Former paramilitaries, the men call themselves The Rising. Meanwhile, a former colleague’s teenage son has gone missing during a seaside camping trip. Devlin is relieved when the boy’s mother, Caroline Williams, receives a text message from her son’s phone, and so when a body is reported, washed up on a nearby beach, the inspector is baffled. When another drug dealer is killed, Devlin realises that the spate of deaths is more complex than mere vigilantism. But just as it seems he is close to understanding the case, a personal crisis will strike at the heart of Ben’s own family, and he will be forced to confront the compromises his career has forced upon him. With his fourth novel, McGilloway announces himself as one of the most exciting crime novelists around: gripping, heartbreaking and always surprising, The Rising is a tour de force – McGilloway’s most personal novel so far.

  Finally, and as my mother used to say, the dead arose and spoke to many – or near enough, for lo, Declan Hughes has started blogging again, the better to report on the many nice people saying many nice things about ALL THE DEAD VOICES. For all the skinny, clickety-click here …

  This week I have been mostly reading: THE LOSS ADJUSTOR by Aifric Campbell; THE CAVES OF THE SUN by Adrian Bailey; and RIDDLEY WALKER by Russell Hoban.

“Ya Wanna Do It Here Or Down The Station, Punk?”: Ian Sansom

Yep, it’s rubber-hose time, folks: a rapid-fire Q&A for those shifty-looking usual suspects ...

What crime novel would you most like to have written?
Georges Simenon, THE MAN WHO WATCHED TRAINS GO BY.

What fictional character would you most like to have been?
Bartleby the Scrivener.

Who do you read for guilty pleasures?
The Bible.

Most satisfying writing moment?
There are no satisfying writing moments.

The best Irish crime novel is …?
Flann O’Brien, AT-SWIM-TWO-BIRDS.

What Irish crime novel would make a great movie?
See above.

Worst / best thing about being a writer?
It’s all good.

The pitch for your next book is …?
Currently under inspection.

Who are you reading right now?
Stefan Zweig.

God appears and says you can only write OR read. Which would it be?
I refuse to do business with terrorists.

The three best words to describe your own writing are …?
Oi va voi.

Ian Sansom’s THE BAD BOOK AFFAIR is published by Fourth Estate.

The Future’s So Bright, We Gotta Wear Goggles

First off, a belated happy New Year; and thanks to everyone who has been in touch to see if I’d fallen down a well, or had a nervous breakdown, or had some natural disaster befall me. Christmas was hugely enjoyable, especially as Lily was just about old enough to appreciate it for the first time; and even though we’ve been snowed or iced in for what seems like a couple of years now, we’re all safe and warm and in very good form.
  The reason for the radio silence on the blog is going to sound a bit selfish, I’m afraid. Basically, early in December, I was putting together a piece to upload when it dawned on me (very late, but I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer) that it was a little bit perverse that I couldn’t find the time to write for myself, but had time to promote other writers. In fact, it was counter-intuitive, particularly as I’ve had a story screaming around my head since even before I announced I was going to stop writing. In fact, that story was the reason I made that announcement; knowing I wouldn’t have the time to do it justice, I wanted to draw a line under the writing for the foreseeable future.
  What has happened in the last month, then, is that with the time I’ve stolen away from blogging, and with extra time available over the holidays, I’ve made a start on a new story. Right now I’m about five thousand words in, which isn’t a huge amount for a month’s work (there were a couple of false starts), and loving it; I’ve had decent feedback from a couple of people whose opinions I trust; and there’s a real fire to the writing that I haven’t felt now in a few years, even if (and perhaps because) the story is probably the least commercial one I’ve ever taken on (sorry, Al). So, upward and onward on that score: hopefully, as the year wears on, I’ll still be able to find the time to keep working away at it.
  What that means for the blog I really don’t know. I can definitely say that I’ll be blogging far less than I used to; and I can also say that the occasional posts will very probably be more me-oriented than of yore; and having said that, I have no doubt that I’ll be featuring other writers besides me. But – a good complaint to have in these times – I’m busier than ever with work, the actual paying kind, and with the writing taking precedence over the blog (which is as it should be, and something I think I lost sight of over the last few years), the posts will probably be so intermittent as to be virtually useless. We’ll see how it goes.
  Meantime, it looks like being an interesting year. I’ve already been on TV, on RTE’s The View, which was good fun to do (January 5th, for those interested); the collection of essays from Irish crime writers, DOWN THOSE GREEN STREETS, is with a publisher awaiting a green light; I have two novels still under consideration from publishers; a couple of invites to summer festivals have already come in; I’m hugely enjoying the story I’m working on; and all in all, it feels like a very fecund time. Despite the cold snap we’re having here in Ireland – and it’s a historical event at this stage, and snowing again as I write, with 10 cms due tomorrow, and temperatures of -13 forecast for tonight – we’re already three weeks past the shortest day of the year, and the sun is on its way back, and the sap is rising. I sincerely hope that all of you are in as fine a fettle.