Is the critical world doing society a disservice by setting crime fiction apart from undefined literature and well beneath it in terms of merit?

As it happens I have rather strong opinions on the subject, and as the former Exec Vice President of Mystery Writers of America, a lecturer at Hofstra University in creative writing, I teach courses on writing mystery fiction; a stretch, I know – and someone who began as a poet, I feel well qualified to contend that there is a lot of crime fiction that is equal to or better than so-called literary fiction. I would suggest that Daniel Woodrell, Philip Kerr, Laura Lippman, George Pelecanos, Megan Abbott et al are as skilled with the English language as anyone you might summon up from the literary field and that their books deal with as many of the big questions as any literary author. There are segments of the crime fiction world that are, of course, exploitative and silly, but is this not true of literary fiction?

Why do you write, for whom do you write, and what makes your writing worth reading?

I write because it’s an affliction. I write because I’m compelled to write. It’s a motor that steers the driver. I am not one of those authors who consider the end game before they begin. I write for me and hope other people like it and find value in it. I’m not judging people who do it differently, but I couldn’t do it any other way. As to why people read my work, such as they do, I am always suspect of answering this. I think what crime writing offers, as opposed to most other genres, are niches. Some people read only PI novels, some only procedurals, some cozies, some hardboiled, some only noir. Then there are those that read for plot, others for characters, some even for setting.

Given this variety, does crime fiction deserve more critical attention?

Of course I’m a self-interested party here, but yes, I do believe the genre deserves more critical attention – critical being the key word. As in all genres, there’s great mystery fiction and there’s crap. The issue with our genre is that because it’s so popular, you have a lot of crap to wade through to get to the good and great. Frankly, critics and reviewers are simply overwhelmed. I won’t mention his name, but I had a friend who did book reviews for a major American newspaper. He got so many books to review, it was silly. His own publisher sent him his own book to review. I mean, how absurd is that? But beyond the reviewers and the critics, I think mystery fiction is too often ignored and dismissed by the intelligentsia. It’s ridiculous that Daniel Woodrell or Ken Bruen aren’t taught at college level. To dismiss any art simply on the basis of form is foolish.

When form becomes formula, does it also become a liability to the genre’s reputation?

This is always a difficult question to answer. Look, cozies are comfort food, but there’s nothing wrong with meatloaf and chicken soup. Some cooks make better meatloaf and chicken soup than others. Why should I reject cozies? I may not write them or enjoy them, but I don’t object to them. I also find it unfair that mystery writers are asked to make this choice. Does anyone say to George Clooney, do farces and comedies ruin movies? Does anyone think less of Citizen Kane or The Godfather because another moviemaker made Citizen Ruth or Dear God? I think it’s a false choice. In fact, I think formula can work for a skillful writer. I go back to my previous answer. To dismiss any art simply on the basis of form is foolish. Good writing is good writing.

Does good writing have an agenda – does yours?

Personally, I am interested in the fate of humankind, but my writing is about what interests me at a particular moment. I worry about writing with an agenda, regardless of how well-intentioned that agenda. This is not to say I do not use social commentary – it’s one of the things I’m known for – or that I don’t philosophize. As long as a writer never forgets that his or her first job is entertainment and to stay within the confines of the story being told, he or she can do anything. This relates to your question about formula. A skilful writer can use the form to say all manner of things while sticking to the formula.

On the topic of social commentary, what are the complexities that account for crime, and what are the considerations that animate your antagonists?

I’m afraid I know too much about crime to attach any sort of significance to it beyond the act. Crime is usually done out of weakness, lack of impulse control, strong emotion, or fear. Remove drugs, alcohol, and guns from the equation and you’d see a remarkable drop in crime. As to what goes into creating my antagonist, I want him or her to be entertaining. I’m just not one of those people who see writing the bad guy as a surrogate for things inside me. I went to therapy for that and I take out my aggression on the basketball court.

What do you make of heroes?

I reject the notion of heroes. Just as I believe all humans are capable, given the right motivation and set of circumstances, of the most heinous acts, so too do I believe that all humans are capable of the most heroic acts. I believe in heroic acts, not in heroes.

Given the ongoing abuse of civil rights and due process, is crime fiction reflecting a contemporary suspiciousness of systematic policing?

This is the great motivator behind PI, detective fiction. In many, many cases, it is a single citizen who feels he or she has been ill-served by the system – that justice has been denied them of their loved ones, hence they turn to the PI for justice. This is why I think there will be a resurgence in PI fiction. The PI is the one against the many; the citizen against the state.

Is good crime fiction about the big questions, or what do you make of its confrontation with mystery?

I teach a course at Hofstra University in writing crime fiction, and one of the first things I say is that all fiction is mystery fiction. Let’s start with Hamlet and Macbeth, for instance. Isn’t Moby-Dick a revenge novel? How did Gatsby earn his fortune? Even on a very fundamental level, all fiction asks the big questions: Who am I? How did I get here? Where am I going? What does it mean? These are the big mysteries. But what crime fiction does is supply an accessible route to the big questions. You don’t have to have read Kant or Sartre to read crime fiction, but you can certainly point to mystery fiction that has been informed by them. Mine, for instance.

Is the reinforcement of core values an accident or its appeal?

Making sense of the senseless is the writer’s mission. One of them, anyway. I think people read crime fiction to be entertained. If the by product of that happens to be a reinforcement of core values, great. But if you read someone like my friend Jason Starr or even some of Ken Bruen’s stuff, where’s the reinforcement of core values? In fact, what I love about noir is that it rejects core values… well, other than survival at all costs.

Where does that leave us?

You want the facts, read non-fiction. You want the truth, read fiction.

What does that make your long-term relationship with your characters?

Problematical. At times they are like my children away at college. I love them, but they’re not present. However, when I’m writing about them, it’s like they’re back home and very present. For instance, I rarely think of Moe Prager unless I’m writing a Moe book. When I’m writing a Moe book, he is constantly with me, even in my sleep.

If you had to start all over tomorrow, what would be your last thought before going to bed tonight?

I hope I’m better in the morning.

In that hope, thank you for your candid answers.

Len, it was my pleasure. Too often we’re asked the same silly questions and it is always fun and stimulating to discuss the genre on a deeper level than: “Where do you get your ideas from?”

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Is your writing about the healing quality of story-telling in the tradition of the shaman trickster tale and the Joycean search for identity?

I tell my students that whenever they are asked a really smart question they must smile at the interviewer and respond with a resounding Yes, perhaps complimenting the interviewer on catching that. So: Yes. But what else do we have to shore against the ruins? Art, religion, philosophy, novels – aren’t they all stories of a kind?

If Lew Griffin remains true to the genre’s promise of chaos returned to order, and if he does so out of superior veracity to himself and the memory of those he has lost, are you suggesting that just because we have stopped believing in something we were once promised, it doesn’t mean the promise was a lie?

The promises are mostly those we make to ourselves, aren’t they? And that may be largely what the six novels – with their insistence upon literature and the various manners in which we cobble together our lives from magpied fragments – are ‘about’.

Do you really believe that our lives are an effort to wring order from chaos – or that art is?  As artists, we’re compulsive pattern makers, nothing more. And we’re the same in our lives, forever adopting, discarding, and revising patterns – beliefs, ceremonies, communities – that make things seem more cohesive, less messy. Knowing these are lies, we choose to believe them. Or perhaps it’s just that I read Camus at too early an age.

Why does your Griffin Cycle revolve around the power of memory?

“Memory, more poet than reporter.” I can’t remember now who I stole that from, but I’m certain the originator would be pleased with me for putting the notion to good use – through six (albeit shortish) novels.

We are here in the present, but we do not live in it; we are forever moving towards, and forever moving away; or, as Gertrude Stein put it, our participation in the present is always diluted by anticipation (the future) and memory (the past). As writer and as musician I am most interested in borderlands – where the world, its objects and its certainties, blur. That borderland where existence, memory and anticipation co-exist is one of those places.

What differences do you see between American and European literature, today?

American literature, it seems to me, is all about struggles between the individual and society. (Distinctly different from European novels dealing with man or woman finding his/her place in society?) I’ve spoken and written at length on this: We’ve a frontier mentality we can’t shed, yet have no frontier to accommodate it, only cities, inner cities, shopping malls, highways, and suburbs.

If humanity is constituted in our inconsistency, contradictions, and conflicting desires, are Plot and Theme the enemies of Character?

Enemies? Probably not, but they’re not on the same team when it comes to trying to evoke as fully as possible a life and the world in which that life takes place. What I call the forty-page syndrome, where you’re reading along, really getting into a novel, then the plot kicks in hard and all the coolest stuff – the textures, the messiness, the digressions – starts falling away. One doesn’t have to champion the plotless and wandering in order to decry the privileging of “story” (patterns imposed from without) over substance (eliciting patterns from within the narrative and characters themselves).

By recycling story patterns you show that memory is often loyal to models we accept simply because they have gained the validity of repeated experience. You also show that it ought to be questioned when Lew reminds the reader that his best efforts at reconstructing events should not be accepted as reliable evidence. Should we find pleasure in these cycles, as we do in Baroque and Blues music, where we find pleasure in the pattern of repetition with variation?

Wow. I mean, Yes.

Pattern-making, as I suggest above, is what it’s all about – the snake’s eyes. A musician plays a phrase off the 9th chord, then echoes it, contrasts it, turns it inside out; one dancer moves to the right, the other balances with a move to the left. Anticipation, surprise. The patterns seem necessary, to hold things – along with our apprehension and comprehension of them – together. But the patterns are temporizing, mutable. Once they become fixed in life, vitality is gone; and in art, creativity. A friend, who plays with African musicians, was told by them to “Put some confusion in it!” Absolutely.

Why do you write crime fiction?

Crime writing, as I write it, is the nearest I can come to gathering up the world I see around me in all its complexity, contradiction, beauty, terror, grace, and violence.

Does your work draw its power from the confrontation with mystery, miracle, and authority?

Don’t our lives draw their power from precisely that?

Do you mind explaining the literary effect of your writing by explaining the metaphor ‘grass, an assassin of polish’?

It’s stolen (like all my thoughts) from someone else, in this case Lawrence Durrell, a poem titled “Style.” Seeking a metaphor, he rummages through various grand notions: wind rolling in the trees and so on, finally settling for “grass, an assassin of polish.” You pick up an insignificant blade, toss it back down – and only then discover that it has cut you, “the thread of blood from the unfelt stroke.”

Subtlety.  Subterfuge.  The unexpected.

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How would you describe yourself in a sentence?

A Scotsman, a husband, a writer, a drinker and a bad guitar player.

How would your best friend describe you in a sentence?

A drunk.

Crime fiction is at its best when…

It is dark and dangerous.

The worst literary vice is…

Using big words to try to look clever.

The highest literary order a writer can aspire to is…

Having a reader like his work.

What’s your favourite word?

Discombobulate.

Which single word would you remove from the parlance of our time?

Awesome.

Which single profession would you remove from the business world?

Salesman.

Which single person would you remove from the planet?

No one. Why shouldn’t they suffer like the rest of us?

Which fictional character is going to be shot, come the literary revolution?

Bella from Twilight.

Which fictional character would you most like to meet in real life?

Doctor Henry Jeckyll

What’s the best one-liner you’ve ever read or written?

“She smelled the way the Taj Mahal looks by moonlight.” – The Little Sister

An American, an Englishman and a Scotsman walk into a bar…

You’d think one of them might have spotted it.

Your five favourite party guests are…

Raymond Chandler, Albert Einstein, Patricia Highsmith, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Bessie Smith.

Which book by another author do you wish you had written?

The Maltese Falcon

Sum up your latest book in no more than 10 words, including its title:

Sherlock Holmes: Revenant. An old foe returns from the dead.

What scene or theme did it start with?

An unconscious Lord in the Houses of Parliament starts mouthing the motto of an old Scots family.

What was the greatest challenge in writing it?

Getting the Holmes voice right while adding an element of the supernatural.

What was the greatest moment in writing it?

When the McGuffin, a small Scotsman in disguise, revealed himself to me. A genuine ‘A-Ha’ moment.

What are the greatest problems in writing today?

Reaching a fractured audience. Books are so much less a part of life than they were even thirty years ago.

What are the greatest opportunities in writing today?

Reaching a fractured audience. There are many more venues for writers to explore than when I started out. I have work in print, ebook, audio, film, comic strip, and I’m sure when the time comes that it gets beamed straight into people’s brains then I’ll be there to.

What’s the most amusing situation you’ve found yourself in because of your writing?

I did a convention signing where, backstage, I went to the toilet and was sandwiched in the urinals between Batman and Darth Vader.

If God exists, what will be your first words upon opening the pearly gates?

Where’s the bar?

Have the recent trend of police procedurals and noir novels affected your writing?

Only to the extent that everything is grist to the mill. I do read widely, both in the crime and horror genres, but my crime fiction in particular keeps returning to older, pulpier, bases. My series character, Glasgow PI Derek Adams, is a Bogart and Chandler fan, and it is the movies and Americana of the ‘40s that I find a lot of my inspiration for him, rather than in the modern procedural. Paradoxically, forensics and noir have affected my horror fiction more than my crime fiction, helped along by my background in Biological Science.

You said of your novel The Valley that it was your tribute to Conan Doyle. Where you referring to its 19th century setting or the theme of its adventure narrative?

The origins of The Valley are pretty simple to trace. In Fortean circles there have been attempts to find a picture that many claim to have seen, yet no-one has been able to find. This fabled photograph is said to show a group of Civil-War era men standing in a row wearing big grins. Spread-eagled on the ground in front of them is the body of a huge bird, a being that could only come from pre-history. In some accounts this bird is a giant eagle, in others it is even stranger, a leathery, paper thin Pterosaur. Whatever the case, that image was the thing in my mind, and I had a “What if…” moment, wondering what would happen if cowboys came across a Lost World. From that single thought, the initial concept of The Valley was born.

There’s a long tradition of Lost World tales, both in movies and fiction. Over the years I’ve devoured as many as I can find, from Conan Doyle through Haggard, from Tarzan in Pellucidar to Doug McLure in The Land that Time Forgot. Many of these tales involve dinosaurs, but I wanted something different. For a while I didn’t know exactly what “creatures” I needed, but that all changed as soon as the setting clicked. Back in 2005 I had the good fortune to holiday in the Rockies. It was while scanning through photographs of that trip that the thought of the high mountain valley came to me, and when Neil Jackson told me about Montana and the Big Hole Valley, I knew I’d found my spot. And the pictures of the ice and snow from my trip also gave me the era from which I would draw my creatures – the last Ice Age. I now knew that my protagonists would be heading into a Lost Valley where relic animals lived, and that these creatures would be hairy and large. I had an image of a herd of mammoths by a partially-frozen lake, and that was the image that drove me on in the early concepts.

But, to wind back to the question, yes, Doyle is the granddaddy of the genre, and his works were among the first things I remember reading. If The Valley is a tribute to anyone, it is to him.

Is this suspense harder to maintain than when it has human for, when a detective investigates psychological motivation as a means of creating order from chaos?

I believe the opposite is true. A monster is often just that – monstrous, unknown and unknowable. Maintaining a distance from what people understand as real life is the hard bit, but no harder than trying to make readers understand a criminal or murderer whose thought patterns are far away from their own. As I said, a dark unknown is sometimes easier, as everyone has their own fears and phobias that they can project onto an unseen, impersonal presence.

Ever since the opening scene of The Big Sleep, Marlowe and his disciples have been seen as latter day knights in shining armour. How did you go from that tribute to the Watchers trilogy?

It’s all about the struggle of the dark against the light. The time and place, and the way it plays out are in some ways secondary to that. And when you’re dealing with archetypes, there’s only so many to go around, and it’s not surprising that the same concepts of death and betrayal, love and loss, turn up wherever, and whenever, the story is placed.

Plus, there are antecedents – occult detectives who may seem to use the trappings of crime solvers, but get involved in the supernatural. William Hjortsberg’s Falling Angel – the book that led to the movie Angel Heart – is a fine example, an expert blending of gumshoe and deviltry that is one of my favourite books. Likewise, in the movies, we have cops facing a demon in Denzel Washington’s Fallen that plays like a police procedural taken to a very dark place.

And even further back, in the ‘gentleman detective’ era, we have seekers of truth in occult cases in John Silence and Carnacki. Even Holmes himself came close to supernatural conclusions at times.

I’ve recently explored this for myself, in The Midnight Eye Files stories, in a series of Carnacki stories, and I even got a chance to have Holmes fight a Necromancer in Edinburgh in an anthology appearance in Gaslight Grotesque. It seems there is quite a market for this kind of merging of crime and supernatural, and I intend to write a lot more of it.

Do you feel at home in Scottish literature?

Stevenson in particular is a big influence. He is a master of plotting, and of putting innocents into situations far out of their usual comfort zones while still maintaining a grounding in their previous, calmer, reality. His way with a loveable rogue in Treasure Island and Kidnapped in particular is also a big influence. Other Scottish writers who have influenced me include John Buchan, Iain Banks and, more in my youth than now, Alistair MacLean and Nigel Tranter. From them I learned how to use the scope of both the Scottish landscape and its history while still keeping the characters alive.

How important is Scottish folklore and mythology to you as a writer?

Most of my work, long and short form, has been set in Scotland, and a lot of it uses the history and folklore. There’s just something about the misty landscapes and old buildings that speaks straight to my soul. Bloody Celts… we get all sentimental at the least wee thing.

But I think it’s the people that influence me most. Everybody in Scotland’s got stories to tell, and once you get them going, you can’t stop them. I love chatting to people, usually in pubs, and finding out the weird shit they’ve experienced. My Glasgow PI, Derek Adams is mainly based on a bloke I met years ago in a bar in Partick, and quite a few of the characters that turn up and talk too much in my books can be found in real life in bars in Glasgow, Edinburgh and St Andrews.

I grew up on the West Coast of Scotland in an environment where the supernatural was almost commonplace. My grannie certainly had a touch of ‘the sight’, always knowing when someone in the family was in trouble. There are numerous stories told of family members meeting other, long dead, family in their dreams, and I myself have had more than a few encounters with dead family, plus meetings with what I can only class as residents of faerie. I have had several precognitive dreams, one of which saved me from a potentially fatal car crash.

I have a deep love of old places, in particular menhirs and stone circles, and I’ve spent quite a lot of time travelling the UK and Europe just to visit archaeological remains. I also love what is widely known as ‘weird shit’. I’ve spent far too much time surfing and reading Fortean, paranormal and cryptozoological websites. The cryptozoological stuff especially fascinates me, and provides a direct stimulus for a lot of my fiction.

So, there’s that, and the fact that I grew up with the sixties explosion of popular culture embracing the supernatural and the weird. Hammer horror movies got me young, and led me back to the Universal originals. My early reading somehow all tended to gravitate in similar directions, with DC comics leading me into pulp and to finding Tarzan. Tarzan is the second novel I remember reading. The first was Treasure Island, so I was already well on the way to the land of adventure even then. I quickly read everything of Burroughs I could find. Then I devoured Wells, Verne and Haggard. I moved on to Conan Doyle before I was twelve, and Professor Challenger’s adventures in spiritualism led me, almost directly, to Dennis Wheatley, Algernon Blackwood, and then on to Lovecraft. Then Stephen King came along.

There’s a separate but related thread of a deep love of detective novels running parallel to this, as Conan Doyle also gave me Holmes, then I moved on to Christie, Chandler, Hammett, Ross MacDonald and Ed McBain, reading everything by them I could find.

Mix all that lot together, add a dash of ZULU, a hefty slug of heroic fantasy from Howard, Leiber and Moorcock, a sprinkle of fast moving Scottish thrillers from John Buchan and Alistair MacLean, and a final pinch of piratical swashbuckling. Leave to marinate for fifty years and what do you get?

A psyche with a deep love of the weird in its most basic forms and the urge to beat the shit out of monsters.

Where does your work find its widest audience?

I’d love to be better known in Scotland, but the sad truth is that the big markets are in the States, and that’s where I find most of my readers. My readership is generally in the fantasy and horror fields, not really known as a big draw in Scotland. That said, I’ve sold several short crime stories to The Weekly News which is still widely read. My Grannies would have been proud of me.

Do your historical settings allow you to explore another side of Scotland, past and present?

Over the years I’ve written many stories set in my native country, in particular in the Watchers series where I got a chance to examine the Jacobite Rebellion in a new way – by having Bonnie Prince Charlie, and the whole highland army, as vampires. It let me look at how the people south of Hadrian’s Wall viewed the “demons” from the North, and how they would react to an invasion.

That series was written ten years ago now, and ever since I’ve been itching to write some more historical fantasy set in Scotland. Going back to earlier times allows you to say things about Scottish culture without knocking people over the head with a ‘message’.

I’ve toyed with several ideas, but it was only last year that things started to firm up. It took the death of two of my favourite writers to give me a kick. David Gemmell’s muscular swordplay and Robert Holdstock’s grip on mythic archetypes and the importance of history mixed in my head and gave me a sword-for-hire in 16th Century Scotland.

The late 1590s were a time of turmoil. Scotland was on the verge of many changes that would shape its future, from religious reformation, to the union of the crowns with England. But in many ways the country was still rooted in its medieval past, and fear of witches and demons was still a large part of everyday life. Seton confronts demons, both internal and external, as he wanders on the fringes of history.

Robert Howard has covered similar ground with Solomon Kane, but I wanted Augustus Seton to be more of a pragmatist, a man set on his path through having succumbed to his baser desires, and now forced to pay the penalty. Seton’s antecedents are characters from my teenage reading: the aforementioned Kane, Moorcock’s Elric and Corum, and, possibly the main one, Gemmell’s Jon Shannow, The Jerusalem Man, forever seeking personal redemption.

I also wanted Seton to be a seeker after truth, continually trying to find ways to explain the supernatural events that shaped him. This will lead him down many Fortean alleys, confronting demons and witches, but also getting involved in other manifestations of the weird, from the Grey Man of Ben MacDui, to the Kilbirnie Wyrm and even encounters with the Grim Reaper himself. Which brings me to more of Seton’s antecedents – occult detectives, like Carnacki and John Silence, through to Karl Kolchak. Like these others, Seton, as he gets more experienced in the ways of the Dark Side, finds that the weird seems to seek him out for personal attention. This gives me a chance to mix history with fantasy, playing with the wide variety of tales in Scottish Folklore, and making up some of my own.

What is your ambition in blending these facets of Scottish storytelling?

My ambition here is to attempt to blend fact and fancy such that the reader can’t be sure if they are dealing with myth or history, folklore or things plucked from my mind. And yet again, there are antecedents from which I’ve drawn. Scotland has produced several writers willing to weave the country’s history and magic into their stories, from Stevenson’s Kidnapped, Walter Scott’s romantic fancies, and John Buchan’s taut thrillers. Stevenson in particular manages to provide fast paced entertainment that also educates even as you’re carried along by the sheer page-turning brilliance of his plotting and the solidity and truth of his characterisations. That’s what I’m striving for with Seton.

He’s still a character in development. The four stories in the first collection – coming soon – are his first adventures in what I hope will become a long and wild career of monster smiting, demon slaying and general mayhem with a bit of history thrown in.

What is it that attracts you most to genre fiction?

It’s pulp fiction that interests me, and I find that it crosses many genres almost seamlessly. I rarely think about ‘genre’ anyway. I write what I want to write and leave marketing labels to the publishers. That said, there is a freedom in writing about the supernatural where, instead of having a man come in with a gun to get the scene moving, you can have any manner of things going on as long as you can explain them away to the reader’s satisfaction. The verisimilitude matters though – the reader has to believe – and that can be difficult to pull off.

Can you tell me about the criticism your writing has received?

There’s a fair degree of snobbery in this business, where writers who are not deemed ‘literary’ are looked down on. I have a great quote on my web page from one such writer who thinks of himself as highbrow. It sums up exactly what I’m talking about.

“William Meikle is… the author of the most clichéd, derivative drivel imaginable… the critical acclaim he receives from his peers is virtually non-existent.”

It’s the last bit that I find interesting. I don’t write in order to get critical acclaim from my peers, and when I’ve encountered writers that do, like the poster of that comment, they are mostly pretentious, boring wankers who frequent message boards where they can massage each others’ egos.

Then there’s the fact that pulp has always had a bad name. I think you have to have grown up with pulp to ‘get’ it. A lot of writers have been told that pulp equals bad plotting and that you have to have deep psychological insight in your work for it to be valid. They’ve also been told that pulp equals bad writing, and they believe it. Whereas I remember the joy I got from early Moorcock, from Mickey Spillane and further back, A.E. Merritt and H. Rider Haggard. I’d love to have a chance to write a Tarzan, John Carter, Allan Quartermain, Mike Hammer or Conan novel, whereas a lot of writers I know would sniff and turn their noses up at the very thought of it. Too many people have never known the sheer pleasure of a fast moving, action based story – not in print anyway. I blame movies for some of this, and good old fashioned elitism and snobbery for the rest.

The good news is, I have publishers who do ‘get’ it. Black Death Books let me indulge my occult PI leanings, and I’ve now found an outlet for my creature features.

How big are these canvasses you intend to paint on?

In the past I have preferred small canvasses, keeping things tight and focusing on character. But over the past year I’ve tried to branch out more. I have an Alien Invasion novel in the works, and a couple of Hollywood-blockbuster style creature features. But I will always return to Derek Adams, walking the streets of a slightly stylised Glasgow that only exists in my mind, and thirty years ago when I stomped the same streets.

What do you know now that you wish you’d known when you started writing?

That I should write what I want to write, not what I think the market wants. I spent too much time trying to force square stories into round holes.

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What are your thoughts on the current state of crime fiction?

It has always been my contention that non-fiction possesses, as its primary purpose, the conveyance of information, whereas the primary purpose of fiction is to evoke an emotion. Crime fiction has, for a long time, been recognised as the most widely read type of ‘genre fiction’, and thus one has to ask why. Are we reading it in order to subject ourselves to emotional and mental effects that we otherwise would never experience? I believe we are, at least to some degree.

Another thought I have had on this subject relates to our expectations in the field of the law versus justice. It seems to me that post-World War Two there was a waning belief in the efficacy and honesty of the legal system. It seems that people started to appreciate the fact that the law served to seek its own ends; that the law was there for the lawyers, not for the society. Justice became expensive, slow, ineffective, and people wanted the ‘Sam Spades’ and ‘Philip Marlowes’ as these characters represented justice outside the law – swift, honest, effective, decisive, and ‘the good always vanquished the bad’.

The only question I have yet to really resolve in my own mind is the seeming insatiable appetite that a great deal of readers seem to have for excessively violent and gruesome crime fiction. The vast majority of readers of such material, perhaps surprisingly, are women. This is a question that has raised its head at many library events and talks I have done, and has often been answered by suggesting the vicarious appreciation factor, that readers often desire to be ‘scared’ in such a way as no direct harm or threat of harm is brought into play.

Personally, I feel this is perhaps too simplistic a view.

Why do you write?

I have to write. It’s really that simple. It is a vocation, a purpose, a raison d’être for me. I don’t know that this is the case for all authors, but certainly those that have battled and persisted against all opposition to get published would fall into that category. I am driven to write, in all honesty. For me, there is a dynamic in the writing itself that is addictive to me.

I have been told that there are fundamentally two types of writers: those who find it a chore, a burden, an onerous task, and they are overwhelmingly relieved when they have actually put something on paper – and such an attitude begs the question why they write at all – and the second category who love the process of writing itself, and would continue to write regardless of whether or not they were published. I’m in the second category, and I find it cathartic and purposeful.

Of what cultural importance is storytelling to you?

I think storytelling is as old as language and no less important. The myths and sagas of old were an effort to keep the past alive, and thus inform the future. I think writers write because they have to, and if writing wasn’t an option they would do some other creative thing. At a Lit. Fest in Dubai we were interested to learn that many, many authors were also cooks, musicians, painters, sculptors etc. I think there is a creative urge – I certainly have it as a photographer, a musician, a painter, and I even studied ballet for eight years! – and I believe that writing is one route for expression, but not the only one.

Why do you read?

I am not sure really. I read for emotional engagement, and thus I read across all genres.

Why do you read crime fiction?

Vicarious danger, excitement, emotional engagement, having to solve a puzzle, a hope that – by reading about the psychology of crime, and thus the psychology of the darker side of Man – one will better understand the psyche of Man altogether.

Do you have a particular reader in mind as you write?

I write for myself, and for my friends. I do not have a ‘perfect reader’ per se, but I do write for readers in general. The impulse is to tell as good a story as possible. The intent is to evoke as strong an emotion in a reader as possible. I think the real power of a novel is not to entertain, but to evoke an emotion, and when I am writing I am always working towards creating the greatest emotional effect possible.

So what do you make of the relationship crime fiction has with our current culture of fear?

I think the current culture of fear is a manufactured state, and a betrayal of people and society. I believe it has been generated by the politicians, the media, the psychiatric industry, the medical profession and the Police authorities. I think people are beginning to see through the facade, and they are getting very fed up of it. I hope that’s the case. I don’t watch soap operas, but every week my wife buys a magazine that details what’s on television – which I also watch very, very little of – and every soap story advertised on the front of this magazine deals with rape, murder, arson, kidnapping, affairs, betrayals, adultery, divorce and death. This is not life. This is sensationalism at its worst. This is what TV executives and programme producers think we wish to be entertained by. I think it’s outrageous.

Now you’ve got me ranting! I cannot really comment on the relationship between the culture of fear and crime writing, because I read very little contemporary crime fiction, and almost none written by British authors as I find it very much-of-a-muchness.

Since real crime has inspired imitation in crime fiction, has crime fiction had an impact on real crime?

Both crime fiction – books – and crime fiction – TV and film – are spectacularly unrealistic in representing the reality of crime, so much so that the percentage of successful convictions in the UK has dropped dramatically over the past few years, and even the Police and the legal system are now referring to this as the ‘CSI Factor’.

This is simply the fact that people are ‘expecting’ DNA and probative evidence in order to convict a criminal, and in the absence of that they do not convict. In all honesty, 15% of rapes result in DNA being obtained, and of those fifteen percent of cases about one percent of that fifteen result in a conviction from DNA. Crime fiction and life are not the same, never have been, and never will be.

What’s the appeal of crime fiction’s renegade protagonist?

I think we want to believe that there are people out there who ‘know what to do’ and can do it, and sometimes take steps to ensure that justice is carried out despite the law. Perhaps they are models that we aspire to, but I think that it’s more a case of considering it from an idealist perspective. I think the society portrayed in fiction is the society we would like – within reason – but I think, even as we read, we are aware that this is not the case.

We like to be reminded that justice is possible, that the law is not always there simply to serve the lawyers, and that there are certain core principles relating to ethics, morals, decisions, integrity, honesty etc that we feel as inherent axioms, and society is continually demonstrating that those axioms are invalid, outmoded etc. I don’t believe they are, and I believe that we want to be shown that they are still valid because we fundamentally want them to be. We like to be right. We want to be honest. We want to be sociable and ethical and constructive. The criminal element makes up about 2.5% of the population, and we – as a social people – don’t agree with crime.

My opinion is that crime fiction, and certainly the prevalence of the central character – acting outside the constraints of the law, the individual who can take responsibility for some situation, some injustice, and then see that justice is done - started after WWII. I believe that people, seeing that law was beginning to serve the lawyers, that the Police were corrupt, that the courts provided slow, expensive ‘justice’ that was no justice at all, were intrigued by the possibility that there might be a character representing a degree of integrity and rightness in his/her dealings with violations of the law. I think that people read crime fiction – perhaps – to be reminded of the fact that justice can still be seen to be done, and that there are individuals in life who can overcome the criminal system in place in this society and set things right.

Has writing about the criminal system changed the way you look at criminals?

I think that a person becomes a criminal at the point they lose their self-respect. It is that simple. Restore an individual’s self-respect and he starts to respect others. If you don’t respect others they become ‘targets’ and ‘victims’.

Do you see the popularity of crime fiction as indicative of a wish to understand this better?

I think, very simply, that it goes back to the fundamental desire – on all our parts – to understand as much as we can about people, about other human beings. I think that people have long-since appreciated that the more one understands about life, the better one will succeed and survive. I think you will find that people who read, i.e. those who have the lifelong love affairs with books, as we do, are also inquisitive people in general. They want to know more. They want to find out more. They possibly have higher-than-average IQs. I think it comes from a desire to understand life better.

Does this “desire to understand life better” make you write from your own experience?

We’re talking situational dynamics here – the familial, social, educational, environmental factors that direct an individual towards crime, or in fact any action in their lives. I worked for many, many years with recovering drug addicts and also in the field of criminal rehabilitation. I have found conclusively that the incidence of crime and drug use relates precisely and incontrovertibly to education levels. The higher the level of literacy – the lower the instances of crime and drug use.

In spite of such concerns, does the crime writer still sit at the table of literature like a transvestite cousin at a family gathering – does fashion humour him while studiously ignoring his fabulous hat?

A friend of mine, another crime writer, said that crime writers were ‘the smokers of the literary world’. Literary writers sit indoors and watch the smokers smoking outside, thinking ‘dirty, horrible people… but they do look like they’re having fun…’ which amused me greatly. So, the answer to your question is yes, I would think so.

What are your five favourite crime novels?

I have to include In Cold Blood by Capote, though not fiction, it was written in the style of a work of fiction, and – as far as I’m concerned – is one of the finest books ever written, fiction, non-fiction or otherwise. The fact that Capote never did publish another word, just as Lee never published after To Kill A Mockingbird leads me to believe that there are some authors who write a book that defines them, perhaps says everything they needed to say, and thus the necessity to publish again and again becomes redundant.

My second choice has to be Conan Doyle. There are four novels and fifty-six short stories, most often published as a Complete Sherlock Holmes volume. I believe that Conan Doyle revolutionised crime writing much the way that Christie did. It was – essentially – a new genre that was created, and I think his plots are utterly masterful.

Thirdly, Winter’s Bone by Daniel Woodrell, and – once again – perhaps not classified as a ‘crime novel’, it is nevertheless a story about a criminal and the attempts by his daughter to find him when the Police come looking. Sparse, stunning prose. Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.

Fourth, because I have to include a McCarthy, it will have to be No Country for Old Men as this perhaps falls into the crime category most easily. Again, stunning prose. I always try to read those books that make me work harder as a writer. I like to read books that challenge me, and McCarthy does that.

Lastly, To Kill A Mockingbird, the best ‘legal thriller’ ever written, and – once more – a challenge when it comes to classification as a crime novel, but I think the thing we are learning more and more these days is that genres really are being relaxed, and parameters are falling away, and people are enjoying books simply because they are great stories.

If your writing career were to start all over tomorrow, what would be your last thought before going to sleep tonight?

My first thought: I hope it doesn’t take another fifteen years and twenty-two novels to get published! What else would I think? I think I would grit my teeth, clench my fists, and psych myself up for a battle. It’s a tough business, but once you’ve been in that battle there’s nothing else that could replace it. Or I’d just decide to be an alcoholic blues guitarist and to hell with the books!

CLICK HERE FOR THE ONE BOOK EVERYBODY SHOULD READ: The Anniversary Man

In Nine Kinds of Pain, Leonard Fritz offers a Detroit back story too many of us have come to ignore; how and what and why an impoverished city is permitted to rot as if walled in from the rest of our world. He uses characters on both sides of the law to portray the hell of trying to survive hell; an alcoholic priest on the edge, in love with a prostitute the way Jesus loved Mary Magdalene; a suicidal cop in love with his wife the way a cuckold can’t get enough abuse; the prostitute seeking shelter from a killer in the arms of the church (wherein that priest falls in love – or is it much needed lust?). There’s the city itself, the cloud of doom hovering over each and all the characters in the city of Detroit as told by an omniscient voice of wisdom providing both warning and grace to the understandably (or not) naive.

Beware, for instance, the Devil’s Night. Fritz offers more than the advertised thriller in this economic gem. Social issues abound; from drugs to poverty to marital discord, suicide, loss of faith, faith in loss … you name it, this book swoops in and out of the issues of our day. I was two hundred pages into a best-selling novel I’m reading for my MFA class when the ARC for the Fritz book was close at hand. I started reading and didn’t stop. I’ll go back to the funny best-seller later, I decided. In Nine Kinds of Pain was way too gripping and more my kind of a read to have to wait another four hundred pages of very well crafted humour.

Fritz strategically places graphic cartoon-like strips in this work. As one who never read (or is ever likely to read) a graphic novel, they surprised me. I thought them brilliant. Last year’s Pulitzer Prize winning fiction (A Visit from the Goon Squad) also used graphics (including a Power Point presentation). I suspect A Visit from the Goon Squad didn’t work for me because of the bands/music references I just wasn’t aware of. In any event, I took three tries at the prize winner and never finished reading it. No knock on the book; it just wasn’t for me. Reading In Nine Kinds of Pain, I was quickly absorbed, and the third time I’ll read this one, it’ll be because I reread most books I find to be extra special.

Lenny Fritz, a modern day Hubert Selby Jr./Jack Kerouac, has written a gem. It isn’t Elmore Leonard’s Detroit. It’s darker, it’s colder, it isn’t guised in clever dialogue that makes us smile; this dialogue is the real and gritty deal. In a word, it’s better. Hats off to New Pulp Press for this discovery and this gift to us all.

© 2012 The Crime of it All Suffusion theme by Sayontan Sinha