Last Monday I went to hear one of my favorite mystery authors, Ian Rankin, who is Scots, read from his latest book, The Naming of the Dead, which I have actually read, surprise surprise. I like Rankin's novels because he is funny yet he gets into the more meaningful questions about our existence. His protagonist, Rebus, is something of a curmudgeon, a cynic, not unlike myself. More so, interestingly, than Rankin, I think.
I was very excited to get to hear him. He was as entertaining as I could have asked for. He was telling stories from the moment he got to the lectern--obviously his natural element. He described the process of writing The Naming of the Dead. One thing I appreciate about his writing is that he readily comes across on the page as laid-back, even conversational. His process as he described it seemed organic. He mentioned that he wrote to answer certain questions--or to put it another way, he began with just a bit of the story and wrote to satisfy his need for an ending which was satisfying to him. (Truth, but not necessarily the truth.)
During the question/answer period he said some of his favorites among his own books were Black and Blue, The Falls, and the one which proceeded this one, Fleshmarket Alley. (Originally called Fleshmarket Close but changed here in the states because American readers can't be expected to know what a close is, right?) I don't really have any favorites. Truth to tell, it is Rankin's writing I like. He himself said the plot is the easiest thing. Which someone questioned--perhaps a struggling writer?--but he said something to the effect that plots are heavy on the ground--it is the locale and the background--even the title, that comes first. Then comes the question...
Seeing him (eye candy) and hearing him--funny eruditer--gave me a huge lift.
Thank you, Jennifer...
3 comments:
hee hee. You're welcome! I had a really good time too, and I haven't even read any of his books!
This was yet another great Rebus novel by Rakin, but the almost total "translation" of British English into the American I found irritating and finally, in the epilogue, actually insulting. The publisher must have a very low opinion of us Yanks. They missed one, however: On page 393 the phrase "at weekends" somehow slipped through.
Jen: It was a fine evening.
Anonymous: Aw, why can't they just leave it? One thing I enjoy about British, Irish or Scots novels is their use of unusual (to me, the usual, of course, for them) nouns, esp. Jeez! What do we have to do to find the originals?
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