“Ya Wanna Do It Here Or Down The Station, Punk?”: Eoin Colfer

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 would love to have written SILENCE OF THE LAMBS, and not just for all the residuals and royalties, but also because it is a groundbreaker and I think that is a part of what all writers are trying to do; redefine a genre, become the new standard. And I think that is what Thomas Harris did with SILENCE.

What fictional character would you most like to have been?
I think I would like to have been Doctor Watson. Watson followed Holmes around taking notes, so he was involved in the thrilling adventures but also got to do what I love best: write. Having to fight in the Afghan wars might be a bit of a drawback.

Who do you read for guilty pleasures?
I do occasionally fall back on the big crime writers like Jo Nesbo or Michael Connelly. They are always reliable fun, especially on a holiday. Of course I seethe with jealousy as I read but these guys undeniably put a top class thriller together. John Sandford is another one.

Most satisfying writing moment?
I think when Artemis Fowl was voted the UK’s favourite Puffin Classic ever. In your face, Roald Dahl. Sorry, that was childish.

The best Irish crime novel is …?
That’s a hard one. I do like me a bit of Ken Bruen. I love AMERICAN SKIN. But I would have to throw EIGHTBALL BOOGIE in there, and also an old collaboration novel I really enjoyed called YEATS IS DEAD in which Pauline McLynn and Marian Keyes totally crushed the opposition.

What Irish crime novel would make a great movie?
I think my last crime book, PLUGGED, would be a good a good movie, but besides my stuff I think MYSTERY MAN by Colin Bateman would possibly be the funniest crime movie ever, in the right hands. It’s probably being made as I type.

Worst / best thing about being a writer?
The best thing about being a writer is that you are allowed to choose your own music in the office and also build a shrine to your own accomplishments. The worst thing is that there are not many things sadder than a middle aged man looking at pictures of himself when he was for a brief moment cool, while listening to Whitesnake.

The pitch for your next book is …?
It’s a time travel trilogy where the FBI have discovered a wormhole and are using it to hide federal witnesses in the past.

Who are you reading right now?
I am reading SNOWDROPS by AD Miller, a brilliant evocation of new Russia and the crime that is rife there.

God appears and says you can only write OR read. Which would it be?
I would have to say read. Otherwise I could only read my own stuff and how shit would that be. Especially since I wrote it.

The three best words to describe your own writing are …?
Day by Day.

Eoin Colfer’s THE LAST GUARDIAN, the last in the Artemis Fowl series of novels, is published by Puffin.

“Wouldn’t It Be Nice To See A Work Of Pulp Win The Booker Prize?”

Erm, no. Allen Barra penned a mildly controversial piece for The Daily Beast earlier this week, suggesting that Benjamin Black, the alter-ego of John Banville (right), should win the Booker Prize. Herewith be the gist:

“One reason, I think, that critics are giddy over Black is that—let’s just say it—he’s more fun to read than Banville. (Well, some of Banville.) THE SEA is as exquisite as an Irish mist, but I won’t read DOCTOR COPERNICUS, KEPLER, and THE NEWTON LETTER again for all the whiskey in Quirke’s favourite pub. Another reason is that Benjamin Black’s territory is a new one for critics who regard themselves as “serious.” I suspect most of them have never dipped into the sordid but seductive world of Irish crime fiction—Patrick McGinley, for instance, or Ken Bruen, who is direct enough about his debt to Chandler to title a book DOWN THESE GREEN STREETS and whose detective, Jack Taylor, is so dissipated he makes Quirke seem like “a parfait genteel knight.” Banville might take it as an insult, though I think Black would not, that the Quirke novels are as good as anything produced by his contemporaries.
  “In 2006, when Banville accepted the Booker Prize for THE SEA—and, to be clear, if they had asked me, I would have voted for it—he made his famous statement, “It’s nice to see a work of art win the Booker Prize.” The egoism expressed in this statement bothers me not at all, but the deliberate tossing about of the phrase “work of art” makes me think that the man who used it was a pretentious prig who could do with a cheap thrill or two. Perhaps there is a difference between John Banville and Benjamin Black; if so, I think I prefer the latter. Black is Banville to be sure, and as Groucho said, outside of the improvement, you can’t tell the difference.
  “Wouldn’t it be nice to see a work of pulp win the Booker Prize?”

  A couple of things about all that:
  One, a work of pulp will never win the Booker Prize, because the Booker Prize isn’t awarded for pulp. It’s like suggesting that a pole-vaulter should win the gold medal for the javelin, because they’re both Olympic sports and involve running for a bit with a big stick and then letting go. The Booker Prize is what it is; I honestly don’t get this obsession some crime fiction writers and readers have with a crime novel winning it. To me it suggests an inferiority complex, that crime fiction will only be fully validated when it wins a literary prize. The truth is, if you want to win the Booker Prize, or be in with a chance of winning it, at least, then write the kind of book that tends to win the Booker Prize. And yes, I know that there’s great excitement about the fact that AD Miller’s SNOWDROPS has been shortlisted for this year’s Booker (along with Patrick DeWitt’s western SISTERS AND BROTHERS), and happy days for AD Miller if the book wins. Would it change the way people read and write crime fiction? Should it? Isn’t one of the attractions of crime fiction that it’s the half-breed outlaw of the publishing world? It is for me, at least. Do I want or need to see the kind of stories I like to write and read receive some kind of belated pat on the head as they pass through the gilded pillars into the whited sepulchre? Because - and it gives me no great pleasure to say this - literary fiction is on its knees. And not just in terms of sales - how often have we read the latest in an interminable series of ‘the novel is dead’ eulogies, in which some writer we’ve never heard of laments the fact that the literary novel has disappeared up its own fundament? The fact of the matter is, the literary novel is a vampire, a beautiful but dead shell which requires regular infusions of new blood in order to maintain the illusion of vitality, sucking up inspiration from the genres it purports to despise. Maybe crime fiction and AD Miller’s SNOWDROPS is just the latest victim, who knows. And really, who cares?
  Secondly, and as all Three Regular Readers will be aware, Ken Bruen has yet to write a book called DOWN THESE GREEN STREETS, although he did contribute a short story to the collection of essays, interviews and short fictions published by Liberties Press earlier this year.
  Thirdly, John Banville is as entitled to a sense of humour as anyone else, and his ‘It’s nice to see a work of art win the Booker Prize’ comment was as much mischief as it was any kind of qualitative judgement on previous winners.
  As to whether Benjamin Black is as good, or better, a writer than John Banville, well, that’s a matter of opinion, and mine is that Banville is the better writer by some distance. But one thing is certain: Benny Blanco don’t write no pulp, in either guise.