'Cause I got some weird ideas in my head


Pictured: coming onstage for Sunday's crime panel at the Frankfurt Book Fair with Paul Cleave, Alix Bosco (AKA Greg McGee) and Paddy Richardson, hosted by Wolf Dorn. Paul talked about his Christchurch serial killer novels and writing unsuitable stories at school. Greg talked about how writing a female protagonist gave him the idea of creating a female pseudonym to go with it, as a way of protecting his creation. He thought the critics went much easier on unknown Alix than they would ever would have done on the author of Foreskin's Lament. Paddy talked about writing non-gory crime, and the importance of narrative. She hadn't considered herself a crime writer initially, but came to it later -- something I had a chance to talk to her about when we caught up the next day. Wolf asked me about the influence of film and music on Shirker, which was published in Germany by DTV. All of us (novelist Dorn included) write differently from one another. I said I thought crime-writing was to literature what the blues were to music: a form that has spawned countless variations.

The pavilion was packed, as you can kind of see. That big light in the corner was a lot brighter on stage, but the audience certainly sounded as if they enjoyed what we had to say. Big ups to Wolf for hosting the event.

It took me years to write, will you take a look?


Darragh McManus dusted off his old copy of Shirker for the Guardian's 2011 Halloween Reading List:
Set in New Zealand, this tale of one man cheating death is one of the best crime novels I've ever read. Beautiful artful prose, a great, twisting noir story, and a seriously spooky, sexy atmosphere. You'll feel all sorts of chills running along your spine.
Respect. The news went out on Quote Unquote, Crime Watch and Beattie's Book Blog – hat-tip to Stephen, Craig & Graham and big ups to Darragh. My thanks.

(I remember when I was small listening to the Beatles' 'Paperback Writer' and thinking, what other sort is there?)

Auckland on air

This Sunday France Culture will broadcast a documentary about Auckland featuring in situ readings from my novels Departure Lounge, Shirker, Electric and The Church of John Coltrane along with interviews with Auckland artists, musicians and general creative types. You can read about the broadcast and the podcast at the France Culture site.

Honey, we ain't ever goin' home

My third novel Shirker (2000) has been pirated. I came across the torrent link when I was searching for information about one of the German editions (DTV). The novel is one of six German language titles organised alphabetically and compressed as a 53mb RAR file -- about the size of a compressed audio CD -- and so is likely to be one of many published books someone has made available on the internet for free.

Shirker was published internationally and in several non-English editions -- French, German, Italian -- but never as an ebook. The pirated version is a non-flowing-text PDF which would be a chore to convert into MOBI or EPUB format but not impossible. You could also print it out, although the cost of ink and paper would be comparable to the printed book and heavier to carry.

Like the weather, new technology rolls in whether it's welcome or not. A revised edition of my first novel Pack of Lies (1993) has just been published on Kindle (you can find it here); there are plans to put out ebook versions of Heaven and The Man Who Wasn't Feeling Himself as well. In the meantime someone has left a battered version of Shirker on the digital park bench: anyone can pick it up.

His nibs


I got into clutch pencils late. I'm a fan of the old-fashioned wooden kind (2B) which I enjoy sharpening with a pocket knife (a 60mm Laguiole) or the aluminium-bodied sharpener that my grandfather gave me, which I've carried around the globe several times. When I was in Bali the humidity was so intense that graphite was the only thing that could make a mark on the wilting page but in London both knives and wood shavings are frowned upon so I picked up a plastic-barrelled clutch from Ryman's in Oxford Street and have never looked back. The Staedtler pictured here is aluminium with a plastic cap - 2B, 0.5mm leads. The metal barrel encourages the user to press harder than necessary - it's like holding a scalpel or a dentist's tool - but it has a nice action on newsprint, which is good for the NYT crossword. The Staedtler is also extremely well-balanced, and cylindrical. (With clutch pencils many people go for Pentels which are hexagonal, too short and set with a clip that's too low in the body. Fine for sketching perhaps, but useless for writing.)

The Rotring cartridge fountain pen glides across Moleskine stock as smoothly as a pencil. Rotring's black ink leaves a very satisfying mark but their red is rather wan. This model has a medium fine nib and a beautifully straight cylindrical barrel with no adornments which makes the grip comfortable, although the proportions are slightly wide; if I'm writing for a longer stretch I tend to change to the more slender Aurora. The Rotring is also very reliable. It has never leaked either in heat or an airplane cabin, and the shaft accommodates a spare second cartridge which cleverly balances the pen. It's also excellent for drawing, which can be a distraction. I have two but can identify this one as the going-away present I received when I left the Auckland City Art Gallery because it has a little dent in the cap.

I don't really like ballpoints but they write on anything so you need to have one. This model has obvious appeal because it's from the Royal Plaza on Scotts Singapore but it also has an extremely satisfying click action. Virgin Atlantic also do an excellent complimentary ballpoint although the clip is loose and easily lost. Flashing either sort about gives lazy thinkers the impression that you're richer and more successful than you are. (Disclosure: VA flight attendants on the Heathrow / LAX do a fantastic gin and tonic.) Both are also light enough to tuck behind your ear. I'm right-handed but put pens behind my left ear because I am contrary. (I can also write left-handed: I was very bored as a child.)

My Aurora uses longer Parker refills and tends to leak. It's fitted with a fine nib but with use the tines have spread to the point where it must be a medium now. I used this pen to write most of Shirker and Electric, using green legal pads because I found the colour soothing and it made the pages easy to spot after being inserted in a white-paged ms. (In New Zealand legal pads came in an onion skin finish but in the UK they're called Conference Pads and are scratchy, thick and no fun.) The Aurora's nib benefits from a smoother writing surface; at the moment I'm mostly using it on the Ryman wire bound Shorthand notebook. Because it's old it tends to leak, especially on planes, and the slit admits too much ink for recycled stock. Nevertheless this is the pen I use most - it's mah thinkin' pen. I use it as often as I use the lap top.

My disposable pen of choice is a Pilot V Ball which is the most precise marker on a Moleskine or almost any other stock. If you want to diagram something, it's ideal. But the short moulded barrels are ridged to secure the cap and the moulding digs after a while, which drives me nuts. What's wrong with a smooth shaft, people? The rolling tip also encourages poor penmanship so after half a page I end up writing like a doctor. I use the black one when I need to make notes or doodle during phone calls, the red to correct a typescript and the green to run big diagonal slashes across the page when I'm juggling the black, red ink and pencilled notes.

Translation

I've yet to meet every one of my translators. Strangers assume that the process of having your words swapped into a different language is intimate but I've found it's almost the opposite. The publisher gives the translator the novel and the translator comes back to the author with questions, and even then only sometimes. My French translators have had many questions, the Italians a few and the Germans hardly any. The biggest sticking problems with language have been those between editors in the UK and the US but even these have been merely a matter of a few words or a local phrase. In such cases the most important language becomes that of the printer, "STET" and "COLLOQ" being two useful examples.

Overall the experience of having my work transformed so efficiently and without fuss has been a nice reality check. No matter how much you sweat over a novel, in the end that's all it is: just another book.

My French translators Anouk Neuhoff and Isabelle Chapman speak English as well as I do plus a few other languages besides. I blame them for my dismal French because they are excellent conversationalists and even better hosts. Whenever I've attempted a few phrases in their presence their comments are nothing but kind. Anouk translated Shirker and Electric for Christian Bourgois in Paris, and Isabelle translated Departure Lounge. It's my impression that each has imparted her own style to my work but I don't know what that might be. I do know that in France even readers of popular fiction can pay as much attention to the translator's name as they do to the author's. Which is logical if not sobering.

The effects of translation on a writer's work can of course be radical. A good modern example is the Japanese author Haruki Murakami whose novels lurch in accessibility depending on whether his translator is Jay Rubin or Alfred Birnbaum. Rubin's English language version of Murakami is poetic and calm but Birnbaum's, I'm told, is "more Japanese." If readers of Lugenspiele (Pack of Lies - Aus dem neuseelandischen Englisch von Dietmar Hefendehl) or Fuori dal tempo (Shirker - traduzione di Massimo Ortelio e Annamaria Raffo) are experiencing a similar disjunction I can only be thankful to be in such company.

As a writer I owe a great deal to works in translation. When I was growing up in south Auckland the local cinema screened Italian spaghetti westerns and Hong Kong martial arts pictures in which the overdubbed dialogue or subtitles was an integral part of the viewing experience. Similarly the local library held an oddly comprehensive collection of French and Japanese novels which I enjoyed as much for the clarity of the translator's prose as I did for the stories. There were doubtless gaps in meaning but like scratches in a favourite vinyl LP or reflections in a painting's glazing the disjunctions seemed a natural part of the work.

Subsequently the thought that a novel might be translated has encouraged me to focus not on the details of language so much as the broader story. Even if my words will be changed I know the brute narrative will survive. The first question an author is always asked is "What's it about?" so it helps to be able to say in English or any other language. Travellers to foreign lands know how far they can spin out simple phrases such as "Do you have a table?" and "What time is the ferry?" Authors likewise could do well practicing the sentence beginning "My novel is..." Try it some time. Translating the words is easy: finding them in the first place is hard.

(Sunday Star Times, 2004)