“Ya Wanna Do It Here Or Down The Station, Punk?”: Russel D. McLean

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?
I don’t know if I’d like to have written it, because then I’d never have had the pleasure of discovering one of the most damned amazing books I ever read, but perhaps James Ellroy’s LA CONFIDENTIAL. When I read, I read for voice ... and Ellroy has voice.

What fictional character would you most like to have been?
I’d have to say Parker from Richard Stark’s novels. He’s my total antithesis - cool, in control and utterly ruthless. And yet ... as cruel as he is, there’s something to admire in him for all that.

Who do you read for guilty pleasures?
Since I don’t really “get” the fantasy - as in more high fantasy - genre (although I love urban fantasy, SF and horror works) I think that makes my guiltiest pleasure Scott Lynch’s League of Gentlemen Bastard series (LIES OF LOCKE LAMORA and RED SEAS UNDER RED SKIES). The books were forced on me by a fantasy specialist I used to work alongside and while I was extremely dubious, I figured I’d read them as a favour more than anything. Damned if they didn’t defy every expectation that I have with the genre. So yeah, they probably count as a guilty pleasure - or at least something I wouldn’t normally admit to reading.

Most satisfying writing moment?
Getting that first book deal. I had to take the cool at work on the shop floor and tried my best to remain calm. Actually grabbed one of my colleagues for support. Then when I hung up on my agent I walked calmly into the back-shop and gave out an almighty holler as I danced a dance of joy. A beautiful moment. Although maybe not for anyone observing.

The best Irish crime novel is …?
Oh, but youse guys are putting out some of the best writers of the moment. I have to pick just one? Oh ... let’s say McKinty’s THE DEAD YARD, which just ... wow, it blew me away. I love the way McKinty can tell a powerful, action packed story and still imbue it with smarts, subtlety and some genuinely hard questions/themes. This is what a crime novel should be like.

What Irish crime novel would make a great movie?
I’d dearly love to see a well done adaptation of John Connolly’s Parker novels up there on the screen. But they’d have to be done with a great deal of thought and deliberation; the books are a lot more subtle than a mere surface skim might imply. But if we’re talking novels set in Ireland, then let’s see McKinty’s THE BLOOMSDAY DEAD, perhaps. Again, you’d need a damn fine script and director, but do it right and you’d have that rare thing: a thinking man’s action movie.

Worst / best thing about being a writer?
Worst thing is realising that all your scribbling is about to be up for scrutiny. Best thing is knowing that all your scribbling is up for scrutiny. I reckon you only realise the difference when you get there.

The pitch for your next book is …?
A missing girl. A shady ex-investigator. Dundonian PI J McNee is heading for dark places when he goes in search of a LOST SISTER.

Who are you reading right now?
I’m near finished Stieg Larsson’s THE GIRL WHO PLAYED WITH FIRE. Really ups the stakes from THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO and Lisbeth Salander is an absolutely fascinating character.

God appears and says you can only write OR read. Which would it be?
Moments like this would make me sway from agnosticism to full on atheism just so I could tell the Big Man to get lost and leave me my free will intact. But regardless ... I’d probably say, as long as I had some other creative outlet (maybe I’d go try and follow up those old dreams of being an actor) I might read. Because a writer is nothing if he doesn’t read, doesn’t understand how a reader’s mind works.

The three best words to describe your own writing are …?
Ray Banks called me, “tight, sleek and controlled” and who am I to argue with that?

Russel McLean’s debut novel is THE GOOD SON. He can be found at These Aye Mean Streets

Two Tales Of, Erm, Two Cities

A couple of early looks at two of the CAP Towers’ most anticipated reads of 2009, folks. Up first is The Artist Formerly Known As Colin Bateman’s MYSTERY MAN, with the blurb elves wittering thusly:

He’s the Man With No Name and the owner of No Alibis, a mystery bookshop in Belfast. But when a detective agency next door goes bust, the agency’s clients start calling into his shop asking him to solve their cases. It’s not as if there’s any danger involved. It’s an easy way to sell books to his gullible customers and Alison, the beautiful girl in the jewellery shop across the road, will surely be impressed. Except she’s not – because she can see the bigger picture. And when they break into the shuttered shop next door on a dare, they have their answer. Suddenly they’re catapulted along a murder trail which leads them from small-time publishing to modern dance to Nazi concentration camps and serial killers …

  Nice. “I enjoyed writing MYSTERY MAN so much,” says the Batemeister, “that I’m already half way through the follow up – THE DAY OF THE JACK RUSSELL.” He says it somewhere over here, where there’s also the first two chapters of the novel available for your perusal.
  Meanwhile, Gene Kerrigan is back, back, BACK! Huzzah, etc. DARK TIMES IN THE CITY goes deep into the bowels of the coke-fuelled beast that is post-Celtic Tiger Ireland, to wit:

Danny Callaghan is having a quiet drink in a Dublin pub when two men with guns walk in. They’re here to take care of a minor problem – petty criminal Walter Bennett. On impulse, Callaghan intervenes to save Walter’s life. Soon, his own survival is in question. With a troubled past and an uncertain future, Danny finds himself drawn into a vicious scheme of revenge. DARK TIMES IN THE CITY depicts an edgy city where affluence and cocaine fuel a ruthless gang culture, and a man’s fleeting impulse may cost the lives of those who matter most to him. Kerrigan’s new novel is his finest yet; gripping from start to finish, powerful, original and impossible to put down.

  So there you have it. Two very fine writers operating at opposite ends of the spectrum, North and South, and two of the very few bright spots on the horizon of the recession-darkened cesspit that is Ireland 2009. Go chaps!

“This Business Was Never Meant To Sustain Limousines”

Two interesting pieces for your perusal today, folks, which appear to send mixed messages but actually dovetail depressingly well. First, the Wall Street Journal on why publishers can’t afford to break out of the ‘blockbuster trap’:

When a publisher spends an inordinate amount on an acquisition, it will do everything in its power to make that project a market success. Most importantly, this means supporting the book with higher-than-average marketing, advertising and distribution support … With such high stakes and money tied up in a few big projects in the pipeline, the need to score big with a next project becomes more pressing, and the process repeats itself. The result is a spiral of ever-increasing bets on the most promising concepts, creating a “blockbuster trap.”

  And then there’s the New York Times on ‘the new austerity rippling through the industry’. To wit:

Amid a relentless string of layoffs and pay-freeze announcements, book publishers are clamping down on some of the business’s most glittery and cozy traditions. Austerity measures are rippling throughout the industry as it confronts the worst retailing landscape in memory. “This business was never meant to sustain limousines,” said Amanda Urban, a literary agent who represents Cormac McCarthy and Toni Morrison, among other authors …
  For authors it means the prospect of smaller advances and fewer books being acquired.

The Embiggened O # 4,067: Whatever Happened To Hot-Shot Hamish?

It’s self-aggrandizing Sunday, folks, and there’s a rather nice review of our humble tome THE BIG O over at Crime Scene Scotland. Be warned, however – this one is compromised to hell and back, in a handbasket, as Donna Moore would have it, given that I met the very personable author and CSS supremo Russel McLean at the Baltimore Bouchercon, and I’m hoping to feature him in the Q&A section of CAP in the very near future, and that the reviewer, Tony Black, featured heavily on these very pages last year, on the occasion of the arrival of his debut novel, PAYING FOR IT.
  With that in mind, read on, or don’t. The gist of the review runneth thusly:

“THE BIG O is one big-old crazy caper with an eerie hint of Elmore Leonard and a brash, bold, ball-bustin’ tempo … As a stylist, Burke is as kick-ass Irish as the great Ken Bruen … The really big appeal of THE BIG O, however, is that there is simply nothing like it – nothing close – on the bookshelves today.” – Crime Scene Scotland

  For more in a similar vein, clickety-click here …

Now That’s What I Call An Irish Crime Writer # 1: The ROCK

Being part the first of what will probably be a very short series on my new heroes for 2009, to wit:

O’Connor, Roger, for many years a prominent character in Irish affairs, son of Roger Conner, the descendant of an opulent London merchant, was born at Connerville, in the County of Cork, in 1762. Possessed of ample means, and having received a good education, he was called to the English Bar in 1784. He more than once suffered imprisonment for being involved in the revolutionary designs of the United Irishmen, and was consigned to Fort George in Scotland, with his brother Arthur, Thomas A. Emmet, Neilson, and others. He was subsequently engaged in several not very creditable transactions. He was proved to have wasted his brother Arthur’s property, which he held in trust, to the extent of £10,000. His residence, Dangan Castle, once the home of the Wellesley family, was burnt down shortly after he had effected an insurance for £5,000, Twice married, he eloped with a married lady. In 1817 he was tried at Trim for complicity in the robbery of the Galway coach and murder of the guard, and was acquitted, although there were grounds for believing that he had planned the affair to secure certain letters, the possession of which was of importance to him. An agent to whom he had paid £700 was robbed of the money before he was clear of O’Connor’s land, by persons who were never discovered. Roger O’Connor has been described as “a hale, hearty, joyous, good-humoured, kindly- looking, broad-faced, honest-minded seeming person - a man in the full vigour of life … His conversational powers were of a high order; his manner was fascinating; his tone of voice sweet and persuasive; his style impressive, full of energy, and apparent candour; his language eloquent, and always appropriate.” In 1822 he published, in London, in two bulky volumes, Chronicles of Eri, being the History of the Gael, Sciot Iber, or Irish People; translated from the Original Manuscripts in the Phoenician Dialect of the Scythian Language. The work is dedicated to his friend Sir Francis Burdett, and is illustrated with numerous maps and plates. A portrait of the author faces the title-page, with the words: “O’Connor Cier-rige, head of his race, and O’Connor, chief of the prostrated people of this nation. Soumis, pas vaincus.” The book is an extraordinary production; as far as the annals are concerned, a piece of gross literary forgery. Roger O’Connor openly advocated the most extreme free-thinking opinions in religion. He died at Kilcrea, County of Cork, 27th January 1834, aged 71, and was buried in the vault of the MacCarthys at Kilcrea.

  Apparently O’Connor adopted the acronym ROCK, for ‘Roger O’Connor, King’. Oh, and the ‘certain letters’ he was alleged to have robbed the Galway mail to secure were love letters that would have incriminated his good friend, Sir Francis Burdett.
  They just don’t make ’em like that anymore, do they?

DARK TIMES IN THE CITY: 2009’s TBR Pile Starts Here

Depressing news at the start of the year, folks – I’m sure you’ve already caught the news that Donald Westlake (right, with Benny Blanco standing) has died. I’m probably only one of thousands of would-be scribblers who were influenced by THE HUNTER, and Point Blank, with Lee Marvin as Parker, remains one of my favourite movies. Peter Rozovsky has penned a rather nice tribute – or tributes – to Westlake’s career right around here.
  But, in the spirit of unbridled optimism currently funnelling through CAP Towers, I’m going to look ahead to the year coming, and the rather splendid array of Irish crime fiction novels on their way down the pike. To wit:

TAFKAC Bateman, MYSTERY MAN
John Connolly, THE LOVERS
Alan Glynn, WINTERLAND
Declan Hughes, ALL THE DEAD VOICES
Gene Kerrigan, DARK TIMES IN THE CITY
Brian McGilloway, BLEED A RIVER DEEP
Adrian McKinty, FIFTY GRAND
Stuart Neville, THE TWELVE

  On top of that little lot, there’s Ken Bruen’s collaboration with Reed Farrel Coleman, TOWER, to look forward to, and a veritable dawn chorus of little birdies assures me that Arlene Hunt, Alex Barclay and Tana French are currently wearing their fingers down to the third knuckle as they craft their latest offerings. And, if all the planets align, and Pluto flies up Uranus, etc., there might even be a follow-up to THE BIG O for your perusal.
  I’m sure there’ll be more novels to come, although the bad news for Benny Blanco fans is that Benny is back in John Banville mode. Which means we should see a new Banville novel sometime around September, 2012. Hurrah!
  Over to you, folks – who have I forgotten / left out / maliciously deleted from the list because he or she is so good he or she shames us all?

New Year Revolutions

Happy New Year, folks. I hope 2009 is everything you – yes, YOU – want it to be.
  As for myself, a year half as good as 2008 would be a very good year indeed. The main reason for that, of course, was the arrival of the Princess Lilyput (right, in full-on Eskimo mode), who put this writing malarkey, and the whole business of living, into perspective. Cyril Connolly once said that the pram in the hall is the enemy of creativity, although the flip side of that equation is that creativity is the enemy of the pram in the hall. And I might be a sap, but I like that there’s a pram in my hall.
  Last year was a terrific year, no doubt. As most of you already know, our humble tome THE BIG O was published in the States, which was the realisation of a life-long dream. It took a hell of a lot of hard work to get to that point, and it was hugely gratifying to see it pay off, even if it then sank like a book-shaped stone. But there’s no shame in that. There’s a lot of books published every year, and very few of them manage to top the New York Times’ best-seller list. THE BIG O gave us a fun ride on the rollercoaster, and I met some brilliant people as a result. And while I could sit here and grouse about the bewildering variety of circumstances that conspired to hole THE BIG O below the waterline, the fact remains that I’d be grousing about a book of mine that went out into the big, bad world and was taken seriously by a large number of people whose opinions and work I’ve respected for some time now. Back when I was a kid with vague ambitions to be a writer, I was totally ignorant of the issues that actually matter to the industry. All I wanted was the respect of my peers. So that, too, was hugely gratifying.
  Looking forward to 2009, I have a follow-up to THE BIG O already in the can, which may or may not see the light of day some time this year. I’m also working on a book of crime fiction essays written by Irish crime writers, which is in prospect a terrific read, and something I’m hoping will reach a shelf near you late in 2009. And, naturally, I’m tap-tap-tapping away on a new book, which I’m hoping to get finished at some stage this year.
  All of that, though, will take place, or not, against the backdrop of potentially the worst recession for generations, which means that my real work – i.e., paying work – will take precedence over writing, blogging and generalised faffing about. And everything this year, given the ridiculous amount of work I put into generalised faffing about last year, will take a back seat to my one and only New Year’s Resolution, which is to spend more time with Lily and Aileen.
  For the first time in many years I did no work at all over the Christmas period. And what I realised was that, as much as I love to read and write, and the two are inseparable, I don’t need them in the same way, or as fundamentally, as I need my little girl. The world of books is a seductive one, and it’s one of my deepest hopes that Lily grows up to love books and appreciate their wonder, but I have no intention of sacrificing the most valuable years of our lives to closeting myself away at a desk while she starts to crawl, and walk, and says her first words, downstairs.
  The writing and publishing of books can, has, and possibly will make me happy. But what I realised over the holidays is that I’m already happy, and I’m happy because of the pram in the hall, and happy in a place where even books don’t reach.
  I’m sure every writer reading this will be thinking I’m a sap, that the hard facts are that we’ll all need to work twice as hard this year than we did last year, because the economy is screwed and fewer and fewer writers are going to make it for the foreseeable future. But the truth is that I am a sap, and that I don’t care: 2009 is the Year of Lily. Peace, out.