Tag Archives: Adrian McKinty

Bookwitch bites #142

It was nice to find myself in the company of Chris Riddell* and Judith Kerr for breakfast yesterday. Not for real, and it’s not as we were all in Hay or anything, but these two lovely people had dragged themselves into a radio studio ‘early’ on a Sunday morning to share their thoughts about Manchester and Hitler and whether to keep the truth from children.

Judit Kerr, stolen, borrowed from Chris Riddell

The downside to that, as Judith said, is that children think anyway and come up with the oddest ideas. So Hitler wasn’t actually hiding behind the hanging decoration in the toilet. But she sort of believed he might be. And Chris mentioned that his immediate reaction on hearing the Manchester news was to think of his daughter, recently graduated from University there. It’s how we function; we grab something close to ourselves.

In the Guardian Review we could read an extract from Philip Pullman’s Book of Dust. It didn’t take more than a few sentences and I was back in Lyra’s world. I already like Malcolm and his suspicious mind.

Jonathan Stroud, The Empty Grave

Another book to look forward to is Jonathan Stroud’s last Lockwood – The Empty Grave – which had a cover reveal this week. I tend to sneer a bit at reveals like this, but I found myself quite taken with it. Lovely to see George at long last. And I’d say that whereas an empty grave could be seen as a positive thing, I don’t think we should have such sweet expectations here (because where is the corpse?).

Awards are good. Especially when given to the right people for the right books. Some favourites of mine have recently managed this. Simon Mason was awarded Best Crime Novel for Young Adults at CrimeFest for Kid Got Shot. Robin Stevens got the award for Best Crime Novel for Children. I’m simply pleased that the younger books are getting attention like this.

Adrian McKinty won the Edgar for Rain Dogs, which is no minor thing, and is well deserved. He seems quite pleased, judging by this blog post. At home in Australia minding the children, Adrian sent his wife to receive the prize.

(*I’m counting on Mr Riddell’s goodwill in not minding having his sketch stolen by me, as usual.)

Police at the Station and They Don’t Look Friendly

Will Duffy be riding into the sunset at the end of Adrian McKinty’s sixth novel about our – well, mine – favourite RUC detective? It’s quite obvious throughout the book that Duffy has had enough. More enough than before. You read and hope Adrian isn’t paving the way for killing Duffy, because it’d clearly be easier to kill someone tired of his current existence. But then he has a girlfriend and daughter to live for, although the relationship with Beth isn’t going well.

Adrian McKinty, Police at the Station and They Don't Look Friendly

Duffy is forced to dig his own grave, but as it comes first in the book, you hope it won’t be as final as it is made to look. Life in 1980s Northern Ireland seems harder than ever, and it’s not just the IRA or their Protestant counterparts. Duffy has always annnoyed his superiors, but never more than now.

Two attacks with bows and arrows, leaving one man dead, are mystifying the police, and as always it is hard to get witnesses to come forward, because they ‘didn’t see anything.’ Healthier that way.

I could be wrong, but the religious division felt worse than ever. And ironically some of Duffy’s strongest support comes from the Protestants around him. Although school friends are not always wrong, even at times like these.

He swears a lot, drives too fast and he drinks far too much, but Duffy is still someone you want for your friend. Just like Carrickfergus in 1988 appears to be more attractive than I suppose it was, back then. You want it to end well, even if this could be Duffy’s final mystery. You want his two fellow detectives to survive, too, and you’re even hoping for a rosy future for us all.

Hah.

And the bow and arrow thing is obvious once you know how and why.

Did I ever mention how much I love these books?

That’s funny

Much as I don’t enjoy the trend of famous comedians suddenly discovering that they need to write a children’s book, and doing very well and getting plenty of publisher attention for their efforts, it has caused one improvement to the state of things. Humour is now seen as something worth considering.

I have always liked humorous fiction. I have long felt there’s not enough of it, and also that it’s been so wrong to look down on it. As though humorous fiction is to children’s fiction as children’s fiction is to Booker prize type fiction; i.e. inferior.

It’s not. In fact, I’d suggest that just like writing for children requires more skill, and not less, to write good humour means you have to be really excellent at what you do. Not everyone can do it, or do it well, but when they can, the results can be spectacular.

A couple of weeks ago Adrian McKinty blogged about his twenty funniest novels and it’s an interesting list. I agree with his choice, about the ones I’ve read. I might have picked others, and it could be Adrian doesn’t find them funny, or that he’s not read the same books I have. These things happen.

I do agree with him about this, though: ‘It’s got be funny throughout too. One really funny scene as in Kingsley Amis’s Lucky Jim for example just doesn’t cut it. I’m also not allowing anything that people say is funny but which actually isn’t or perhaps used to be funny but isn’t anymore. I’ve read Gargantua and Pantagruel and they are not funny. Shakespeare’s comedies are not funny. Dickens is not funny.’

There’s a lot in life that’s not funny. But there’s also a lot that is. And yes, I hated Lucky Jim the first time I read it. Loved it on the second read. But Adrian is right; one funny scene isn’t enough. (Apart from The Vicar Of Nibbleswicke, I don’t reckon Roald Dahl is funny. Not in that way.)

I’ve not thought this through enough so I can give you my own list, but Terry Pratchett is obviously on it. Would be, I mean, if there was a list. And even if I stick to children’s books, I reckon Douglas Adams has to be on it. From there it is a quick jump to Eoin Colfer and from him to many other Irish authors (it must be the water?), and then jump again, to Frank Cottrell Boyce, Joan Aiken, Morris Gleitzman, Debi Gliori, Barry Hutchison, Hilary McKay, Andy Mulligan, Kate DiCamillo. And last but not least, my fairy blogmother Meg Rosoff. She doesn’t only kill goats.

My apologies to anyone not mentioned. I didn’t go about this scientifically, but merely wanted to mention that being funny is a good thing. A good read is good for your wellbeing, and a funny read is even better. Go on, find something to make you laugh! Preferably until you cry. The hankies are on me.

The goat

I nearly always read the news one day late, and sometimes not at all. But one morning this week my attention was drawn to the short piece about the goat in a Carrickfergus shop.

Goats are nearly always fun, but I primarily noticed it because of Carrickfergus, where I’ve never been, but which is home to one of my most favourite detectives, Adrian McKinty’s Duffy.

Then, for some reason, I decided to dive into my junkmail, which I hardly ever do. (I ought to really, as it often contains important stuff.) Found a tweet by Adrian McKinty about funny books, and followed the trail to Adrian’s blog, thinking it was odd how he cropped up twice in a morning.

On the blog I followed the trail further to Adrian’s new website where – naturally – there was a goat. In Carrickfergus. In a shop. You couldn’t make it up.

Except Adrian did. The *new, as yet unpublished sixth Duffy (yay!) has a scene where Duffy encounters a goat in Carrickfergus.

Duffy and the goat

The annoying thing about this deliciously funny coincidence will be that in future people will say Adrian borrowed the incident from the news.

*Police at the Station and They Don’t Look Friendly.

Bookwitch bites #137

No, no, no. David Walliams is not ‘the biggest name in children’s books.’ He just isn’t. He’s a famous man, and he writes books many children enjoy, and they sell well. But he is not the biggest, no matter what festivals such as Bath say in their sales emails. I realise they are happy to have him coming, and I’m glad they are happy, but for bigness we need to look elsewhere. Or even in their own festival programme, where surely Michael Morpurgo is a not inconsiderable name.

Michael, since we’ve moved on to him, opened an exhibition at Seven Stories this weekend. I’d have loved to go, but somehow Newcastle appeared to be further away than I had hoped. I’m guessing it’s a similarly informative exhibition about Michael and his work, rather like the Jacqueline Wilson one a few years ago. It should be well worth going to.

Moving on to adult crime, Marnie Riches is yet again in with a chance of winning an award for her George McKenzie books. This time it’s the Tess Gerritsen Award for Best Series, and if you click here you can vote for her. (Or someone else, should you be so minded…) I did, and it was easy. Marnie might want to kiss you for it, or so she says, but if you run fast enough this can – hopefully – be avoided.

There’s no end to awards that can be won, so I’ve got my fingers crossed for Adrian McKinty and his Rain Dogs in the Theakston’s Crime Novel of the Year Award. His publisher has made this page for Adrian, where you can read about when he met Jimmy Savile, as well as Adrian’s future with colouring books. I’m sure it’s going to be bright.

Into Swedish

Stephen Booth, Bron

I read in the paper that Swedish is one of the biggest sources for books translated into English. That’s good, but I also like for books to travel the other way. And generally I feel it’s not that unusual, as Swedes like their Anglo-Saxon fiction, and authors like Stephen Booth find that their first translation is into Swedish.

But then there are the books by people I love who don’t get to make the move and it irritates me. I’m quite good at griping about it. Sometimes it helps, but generally not. The one I go on about the most is Adrian McKinty. Not only are his books terrific, but I reckon that his Sean Duffy series especially would appeal greatly to Swedes.

Adrian McKinty, Kall, Kall Jord

So I was pleased to get a comment on Swedish Bookwitch a week or so ago, on an old post about my interview with Adrian. It was from Nils Larsson, a translator, who told me he was about to start work on the first Duffy book. I looked him up, and he has translated a lot of crime, lots of big names, for thirty years or so. That sounds like recommendation enough.

The publisher is Modernista, and I looked them up too, as I’d never heard of them. That was more interesting than I’d expected. The first links you come to are all about how they annoy everyone else in the business by buying the translation rights to books they don’t have the publication rights for.

That sounded odd, and I don’t lay claim to understanding it, except it seems strange, bordering on the dodgy. They say it’s perfectly all right and that they are very helpful, while their opponents say the opposite. As they would.

James Oswald, Bödelns Sång

Hopefully they are nice and normal most of the time, and simply publish books like anyone else. I had a look at their list and found another favourite of mine; James Oswald. They have three of his books out now, and by sheer coincidence James posted a photo of his latest Swedish translation on Facebook just as I had discovered this new-to-me publisher. James told me that he’d had some contact with his Swedish translator about various timeline inconsistencies that no one else had noticed. He says we are very literal-minded… Bödelns Sång is published this week.

Adrian McKinty’s Kall, Kall Jord won’t be out until October, but anything that good is worth waiting for.

Bookwitch bites #136

The rain is very wet as I write this. There is lots of it. We’ve got men working on making a new front garden and the Resident IT Consultant is feeling guilty for leaving them out in the rain. I told him they must do this a lot, so are used to it, and that they can’t very well put paving down inside the house anyway.

Here is Adrian McKinty reading the first chapter from his latest novel, Rain Dogs. It’s the one where Duffy meets Muhammad Ali. It’s rather nice hearing Adrian’s voice. It brings you closer to Carrickfergus.

Whether the weather was drier in Wexford when Eoin Colfer was a boy, I have no idea. But the photo the Guardian used for their column looks lovely and sunny. Here is the Laureate na nÓg musing about slightly illegal behaviour during his childhood. Me, I use my own photo to avoid argument (other than Eoin being told off for waving at me). It’s from the same occasion as theirs.

Eoin Colfer

Someone else who is very friendly and has a fancy title is the new Scottish Makar, Jackie Kay. I have to admit to being rather hazy on what a makar actually is, as I only encountered the term after moving north (for some reason you don’t talk so much about particularly Scottish things down south). Looking it up on Wikipedia the answer is poet or bard. And Jackie certainly is that. I’m so pleased they chose her as our new Makar.

Jackie Kay

And, there is the Manchester connection, too. Jackie still lives there, while being thoroughly Scottish.