Lynne Patrick
The rhyme goes
Remember, remember, the fifth of November,
Gunpowder, treason and plot.
I forget the rest, or maybe I never knew it; that was the part we chanted in the playground on what is variously known as Firework Night or Bonfire Night (because there are bonfires and fireworks), or Guy Fawkes Night (because he was the guy with the gunpowder, back in 1605, and I only know the year because I just looked it up on Wikipedia.)
I was never a huge fan of fireworks and bonfire parties, so normally November fifth is just an ordinary day for me. But yesterday was a little different from usual. Several things happened which I feel moved to record for whatever passes for posterity in the blogosphere. So here goes.
No fewer than three of my favourite authors published new books. Probably a lot more authors as well, but these are the three which top my list. In no particular order, except maybe I’ll do it alphabetically to avoid offending anyone:
Jeff Cohen, The Thrill of the Haunt.
Chris Nickson, The Crooked Spire.
Julia Spencer-Fleming, Through the Evil Days.
One is on order and I’m expecting it any day. One is going to be the subject of a window display in our local Waterstones, so will be easily available. See you there later in the month, Chris. The third is... more difficult. Jeff, if you can persuade your publisher to sell in the UK through The Hive, I just might be able to get hold of your books in between visits to the US. Yes, I know I can get them from A*****, but I’ve made no secret of how I feel about that. And Marilyn, if you’re coming to the UK again any time soon, by which I mean before we get to New Jersey, which could be a while, I’m sure we can strike some kind of deal.
The other event of note was the announcement of the ‘best’ mystery writer, novel and series of all time, as decided by members of the Crime Writers Association. In each case the result was kind of inevitable. Maybe I wouldn’t have voted that way, but I can see where it came from.
Best series went to Sherlock Holmes.
Best writer was – guess who? It had to be, didn’t it? In fact, I’d go so far as to say no one else was ever seriously in the running. With eighty-plus novels, many dozen short stories and a substantial pile of play scripts over a career spanning more than half a century, the much venerated Ms Christie has the rest beat, at least for sheer quantity and work rate. I can only think of Nora Roberts as another contender for the title of most prolific. And best novel? The good lady again. I have to say if I was going to choose one of the eighty-plus (though it’s entirely possible I haven’t read them all) I would agree with the CWA that it would probably be The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, which is very cleverly done.
But best? Isn’t that an entirely personal judgement? Maybe even just about the most personal judgement it’s possible to make? I think Agatha herself would be the first to disclaim any right to call herself the best of anything at all. She wrote entertainment, not great literature.
Not that I mean to detract in any way from dear Agatha’s achievement. In a way she could be said to have laid the foundations for the genre we all know and love so much, and it’s to her great credit that her books are still known, loved and in print almost a century after the first one was published.
Maybe she really is the favourite of enough of the six hundred-odd CWA members to put her at the top of the list. Certainly when I used to ask potential customers at book fairs who their favourite author was, Agatha came up more often than most. But as I said at greater length last week, the key word there is favourite.
I just worry about that word best.
Recent Comments