I Googled "How To Rob A Bank"

Awhile back, I needed a good look at how a person would crack a bank vault. I carefully worded my Google search so as not to say "How to rob a bank", but Google came back with "Did you mean how to rob a bank?"

Gee, thanks Google!

Result? I this fascinating guy:

Jeff Sitar is apparently the world's fastest safe cracker. He's been featured on magazine shows on several networks, has his own wildly 90's website, and is the only guy you're going to see cracking a bank vault, unless you ride with a totally different crew than I do. I got a little obsessed with Sitar after watching this video and taking a look at his website. He's just an average joe from Jersey who can crack any safe by touch alone. He says he's never used this skill to steal because it would mean he couldn't work or compete - but isn't that exactly what someone would say if they had robbed a bank?

Not making any allegations, just wondering aloud.

There's even an article titled "How To Rob A Bank." Clay Tumey did a Reddit "Ask Me Anything" session and the result of that was published at Deadspin. There are some interesting tidbits for a writer trying to make a believable bank robbery happen in their book. He claims that dye packs tend to be in with the twenties, so he asked specifically for fifties and hundreds. He also says he did his research before hand, and noted that the people who get caught are always the people with partners. Of course, Tumey eventually got caught, too, but it may explain how he got away for so long.

Pictured: 4 guys who were too dumb to work alone.

Good thing any good story has more than one character. If a live bank robber says working in pairs is troublesome, I'm going to believe it. But I won't let my characters know. I might Google something that also means "how to rob a bank" but my characters have a little more finesse. They know better than these goons who actually did type "How to rob a bank" into a search engine and then immediately robbed a bank.

It's astounding how many major publications run articles with titles like "What You Should Know Before Robbing A Bank." Our fascination with bank robbers and intricate heists is a well documented cultural phenomenon, but we like books and movies about serial killers, too, and I don't think USA Today would publish an article title "What You Need To Know Before Going on A Killing Spree." I think there's some idea that since the banks are insured, and most robberies go off without any violence, that it just isn't as bad to rob a bank as it is to commit other crimes. Very few people are interested in how a burglar invades a home and figures out where the good jewelry is, but if you look up "heist movie" on IMDB, you'll be overwhelmed with results.

This is good news for anyone working on a heist novel, for sure. Probably bad news for the FDIC.

Stretch

By Russel D McLean

Its easy for a writer to get stuck in a rut, to find themselves slinging the same kind of words over and over again. Its easy to feel like you're on repeat, that once you're known for something, that's all folk want from you. And its easy to feel that once you know how to sling words a certain way that's all you can do.

Writing non fiction used to scare the hell out of me. It was a strange proposition and one that seemed too close to the essays that I did in university; assignments with marks and the sense that you passed or failed depending on some rigid sense of style.

(That said, looking over some of my old essays, I'm amazed I got away with slipping lots of Philip K Dick and Bob Dylan quotes into essays on logic)

I always wanted to try it, but never knew how. And my fear kept telling me that I couldn't write non fiction, that I was destined to write fiction all the time. That I wasn't smart enough to do the whole non fic thing. I could review occasionally, but even then, I never felt I was that good at it; that I needed to get better, needed to find a more coherent and consistent approach (although I am still proud of the reviews that were done - and occasionally still are - at Crime Scene Scotland).

But things happen. And one of those things for me was meeting my partner, Lesley McDowell (aka, most of the time on here, the Literary Critic). We have different reading and writing styles and habits, But I think that one of the nice things about living with another writer is that you learn things from each other, and from Lesley I have learned about approaching non fictioin and criticism in ways they never taught you at university, about how voice is still important and that a sense of narrative is absolutely vital. When I did interviews previously, they were always direct scripts of conversations between myself and another writer. The kind of transcript that can be interesting, but is never quite as fascinating as a narrative interview can be (when done well).

I messed about with a few non fiction things here and there for other websites. I did a narrative non fic pie ce about my relationship with the character of Philip Marlowe for Five Leaves publications. And then I did something I would never have concieved of even six months earlier: I pitched an idea for an interview to a national newspaper.

The idea was to talk to Charles Ardai - head of Hard Case Crime - about one of his novelists being, in reality, Michael Crichton and how these new editions were the first time Crichton's name would appear on the cover. I was going to New York anyway and I approached Charles about the idea before even pitching it. I think getting him on board maybe helped sell the idea. I was given a date and a deadline. And a whole new set of worries.

In listening to the tape of my interview with Charles, I realised that I couldn't just do a straight report. I didn't have the space. I had to find something to hook the article around. I had over an hour of recording and 1800 words to use. But then I started to realise something. In fiction writing, I "leave out the parts the readers tend to skip" (following the advice of Elmore Leonard). So why couldn't I do the same here? And while I was at it, why couldn't I find a "theme" to our wide ranging conversation - something that would allow to start with one idea and develop it through the interview. And it came down to the idea of voices. Charles and I talked about the voices of people with "lost manuscripts" and how discovering something new by a favourite author can be like rediscovering an old friend or a reminder of a loved one. There was a beautiful quote from Charles that I used at the end of the article, even though it came somewhat earlier in our talk. I found the narrative of the interview. I treated it like a piece of fiction.

And it worked.

But in writing that - and writing subsequent non fiction pieces - I have found that my approach to fiction writing has changed, too. There are aspects of the narrative non fiction that I think are helping me better understand how to structure fiction. The discipline of a different style of writing is starting to affect the way I understand the kind of writing I have become used to.

I've always talked about how writer should be influenced by all media. As a corollary I should add that writers should always look to stretch themselves by trying different forms and disciplines. By trying new things. No only - in this new world - will you then have extra avenues of publication, but you will also perhaps make yourself even better at the very thing you already know how to do.

At least that's how its working for me right now.

Russel's new book, Mothers of the Disappeared, will be out in the UK on the 30 April and in the US in August.

Entirely Coincidental

By Russel D McLean

One of the strangest stories I read over the last week was this one:

Scarlett Johanson suing an author for using her likeness in his works (or saying a character looks like her).

But it brings up an interesting point of where real life and fiction collide. After all, many authors use real life people as the basis for characters to varying degrees. I’ve certainly named a few characters after people I know (mostly it’s a private joke and they’ve asked or I’ve asked, and even then I’ve been careful about what I do to these characters). The character of “Sooty” Soutar in Father Confessor is loosely based on someone I know both in terms of name and his physical presence. I’ve been namechecked in a few works of fiction, once or twice by nicknames rather than my real name.

Once, I was even accidentally "cameoed" in a book by a writer I know who had a particularly horrific character work out of an address I used to live at. I knew it was a coincidence (the writer in question had no idea that used to be my address, and he certainly didn't intend for anyone to believe this character we in any way related to me) but people I knew didn’t, and had assumed it was a joke in bad taste. Its now become a joke in quite good taste, of course, and an object lesson in how despite your best efforts you’re probably going to wind up getting some people confused about real life and fiction.

And of course then there’s Peter James using a character by the name of Amis Smallbone as a stab at a public figure of words who rudely dissed him.

But where does the line end?

All characters in this work of fiction bear no resemblance to persons living or dead?

To what degree?

In American Psycho* there’s a scene where Tom Cruise shares a lift with our protagonist. There’s a dialogue between the two. Nothing particularly terrible. In fact it’s kind of bland** But it got me wondering, in light of Johansson’s case, what was Cruise’s reaction to the cameo and how did he feel to be associated with this kind of character, even in passing?

At what point do we pass into use for public domain? Without using celebrities and their public personas for comparison or even scene setting, how can fiction in any way relate to the real world as it is now? They become short hand for certain associations. In the same way that music, objects and brands can be used to say something, so can the association of a certain type of celebrity. To say that someone has a Tom Cruise smile, or Roger Moore eyebrows brings with it a cultural association that sets an immediate kind of mood.
Not only that, but it helps to ground works in a certain place or time. For example, set a book in the eighties or beyond and talk about Roger Moore eyebrows, it makes sense. But set that book in the mid-1700s and the comparison is not only anachronistic but it destroys any suspension of disbelief.

Hate on Dan Brown as much as you like, but he’s very clever in using celebrity shorthand for his character descriptions. By comparing Langdon to Harrison Ford “in Harris Tweed” he sets up a very immediate association in the reader’s head, especially given Ford’s associations with characters whom Brown would like the reader to identify his character with (Indiana Jones - - yes, Langdon isn’t a brawny kind of guy but he is a man who investigates the mysterious and by making that association, Brown is able to get readers to accept the kind of journey upon which Langdon embarks)

But how much can or should we use celebrity in our fiction? Tom Cain’s debut novel used the real life death of Diana Princess of Wales as a starting point, but refused to name her specifically, perhaps relying on the implication of her life as enough of a hint to readers as to what he was really talking about. And of course a number of authors have fictionalised famous people in often unflattering ways. Ellroy’s depictions of historical figures is often disturbing and unsettling. Is he using them fairly? Certainly he uses them to service his view of the world and the use of them helps us to believe that what he is writing about is plausible is not actual.

There are lines, certainly. Lines that should not be crossed. If American Psycho had for example implicated Cruise in some horrific act that was at odds with what we know him as a public figure then that would be a cause for him to complain, in the same way that I might complain if someone used a “Russel McLean” who was a no good piece of shit dog killer in their fiction and who lived at my address and shared my taste in clothes, music and so forth.

But what point are you public enough to be fair game for fiction writers? At what point can you not complain if you are used merely as a comparison or in a purely fictional sense where it is very clear that this is not the real “you”?

I understand why Johansson might be unsettled at the idea of being mention in a fictional work. But is it any different to appearing in the National Enquirer or a tabloid where rumour is reported as truth?

And more importantly, if we were not allowed to let elements of reality – specifically the mention and use of public domain figures such as celebrities – intrude on our fiction, how would that affect our storytelling and the way that it relates to readers? Its not a question that I have an easy answer to, but I suspect that were we not to use famous faces as signposts, were we not to include an element of the real in our fiction, then it would make it that much harder for readers to engage with our work as it would be unable to function as a reasonable simulacra of the real world.

*I know it’s a classic but I’m in the midst of it right now and finding it a bit of a slog

**Which is the point, of course.

Sick Transit Gloria

By Russel D McLean

“I think crime writers are very sick people.”

Thus spake a commenter on this article on Patricia Cornwell. Let’s leave aside whether one likes or dislikes Cornwell’s works* and think about this commenter.

“…very sick people.”

Why?

“Once one has had even a glimpse of a wicked deed as words on a page, it stays put in the imagination- the torment is transmitted by a third party, crime writers spread about their material- it is the canker (sic) of warped minds.”

Which sounds like a bad thing. And maybe it is to a degree. In reality no one wants to confront the worst that humanity has to offer. Yet myself and other crime writers (or worse, horror writers) do so all the time. We distill terrible acts and place them on the page in the name of entertainment.

What the bloody hell is wrong with us?

Well, let’s leave aside the fact that our readers are clearly worse because they want more of the same and right now, please. And let’s think about entertainment.

The Greeks were clearly as sick – maybe more so – as any modern crime writer. Their tragedies were built on buckets of gore. Oedipus Rex is clearly the work of a screwed up mind. Yet it is a classic of literature. Even Shakespeare - - he wrote Titus Andronicus, where incest, cannibalism and a thousand other atrocities are depicted, and of course Hamlet where just about everybody dies**

Drama – at its heart – is conflict. And conflict is not pretty. It never has been. It never will be. I can accept that certain people don’t want to be reminded of ugly truths in this world – and in fact, at times, even I can’t take it and want to escape from such things – but the principle of entertainment is not merely diversion. Fiction and drama are our ways of coping with the world. By dealing with something in a fictional narrative we are excising it, in a sense. By confronting darkness on some level we process our reaction to it in a safe environment.

Fiction without conflict, without some essential darkness, is worthless. Even in the lightest of comedies, there is conflict and loss and struggle, even if it is over seemingly inane stakes. The fact is, however, that crime fiction and other dark forms of writing allow the reader and the writer to make sense of those things in the world that may otherwise be senseless. A person cannot cope with life by running away from that which makes them uncomfortable.
Good fiction – whether we see it as harmless “entertainment” or not – is always about making some sense of life. To be effective in doing this, sometimes that means going to places that we may find unsettling, confronting parts of ourselves and others we might otherwise run away from. There is no sickness or “canker” in admitting that people do bad things. There is more sickness in denying this, perhaps, in pretending that the world is all sweetness and life.

Not that I propose for an instant all fiction should be a bleak and soul-destroying gaze into the absolute depths of human suffering.

Far from it.

As in all things, I believe in balance. Sometimes I’ll want to be reassured and reminded that things can work out for the best, that there is good in people. Sometimes I’ll want to try and work out why people behave in the terrible ways they sometimes do.

Fiction can and should tackle both these extremes and everything in between.

Fiction should – no matter if it does it by subtext, by text, even by accident – make us think. Even if that thought is merely, “This is/isn’t how I want to live my life”

If it doesn’t do that and if it doesn’t strike a balance, then I wonder, what the point would be of it at all.


*For what its worth I think her first four or five books utterly revolutionised the crime fiction scene and were in and of themselves very good examples of the new genre. After that, well, I found the series lost its rhythms. But clearly hundreds of thousands of readers disagree. And mu opinion's just one drop in the ocean.
**There was originally a joke here that was based on the fact my brain was tired and utterly misremembered the plot of Hamlet. Which just goes to show that even your beardy hero slips up every once in a while***
***There was also a third foot note which is the one Ray Banks refers to.

Why Fiction?

By Russel D McLean

There’s always the one guy. Usually at a party. The one who overhears that I’m a writer (I try not to bring the subject up myself, if I’m honest) and says, “What do you write?” The one who, when I tell him I write crime fiction says, “I don’t read fiction. Who has time for that?”

I wouldn’t mind if he stopped there. But he usually doesn’t (and believe me when I say its usually a man and he’s usually desperate to tell me all about what he does for a living which actually makes my life sound rather exciting even if all I really do is swear at a computer screen most of the day). Usually he goes on to explain how one learns nothing from fiction (and he’s desperate to tell me its not just genre fiction like I write, its any fiction). How there’s no point to it. Its an indulgence and really what does anyone get out of reading?

Today’s post is for That Guy.

Because I really don’t want to say it to his face.*

Because he won’t listen. And it doesn’t matter what I say, he’s made up his mind.

But, at the risk of lecturing** I think I need to get this off my chest. I think I need to talk about the value I think fiction – any fiction – has in our society.

Because fiction – not writing it, but reading it – is more essential than one might realise. And not just because it’s sometimes a fun way of slipping learning into life. After all, everything I know about jail I learned from reading STONE CITY and everything I know about New York I learned from Lawrence Block and Charlie Stella. And by God I’ve never been to Louisiana, but James Lee Burke makes me believe I have. And let’s not get started on the fact that watching The Sopranos**** taught me to be a better cook.

But all of that’s neither here nor there. That Guy would argue sure, but a guide book or cookery book would probably be a lot more accurate.

So then what’s the point?

The point is that fiction, at its heart, is about emotional narrative. Fiction is about people dealing with situations. Fiction is a way for the reader to see the world through other eyes, to react to someone else’s story. To figure out the world.

Fiction removes us from reality. But not in that negative, lazy way that so many people think it does. No, fiction allows to step back from life and start to examine it in an indirect way. It can clarify our lives in unexpected ways. Fiction allows to ask questions of character and situation in a safe environment and take the answers to those questions and apply them to reality. Fiction – reading fiction – is a kind of therapy, I suppose. It is not an escape from the world so much as a way of dealing with it.

Crime fiction is of course the perfect example. By examining people in extreme situations, we can engage in a dialogue with the text about a number of issues that may affect us in real life. How to deal with loss, betrayal, anger, hatred. Reading is not a one way street. Whether we accept it or not the way we interact with stories has an effect on us when in our daily lives, in our thoughts and attitudes. Sometimes its subtle. Sometimes it’s a clear and definite thing. Look at how many people were affected, for example, by Catcher in the Rye.

Fiction, in whatever form we can get it, is essential to our lives. It allows us to figure the world, to look at it from another angle.

And if nothing else, it’s just plain fun to read.

With thanks to Rachel Marsh for stepping at the last moment when I realised I couldn’t write last week’s post.

*Can I also point out That Guy is many guys and I haven’t run into them recently, thank goodness, but then I haven’t been to many parties recently…

**Sorry, Dave White***

***Also, sorry for the footnotes… I know you hate those.

****Yes, its television but its still a form of fiction. Deal with it. And, yes, Ralphie was spot on about mixing the spaghetti with the gravy for thirty seconds before serving…

Fiction and Uncomfortable Truths

By Russel D McLean

It was all over the twitter-feeds earlier this week.

A young-adult title that dealt very specifically with rape. That confronted what it was like for a victim who felt they couldn’t speak out.

Heartbreaking.

Tough to read.

Unsettling.

But essential in many ways. Yes, we want to protect children from the realities of life, but we also have to educate them about the truths they will face.

Unless, of course, we live in Republic, MO, where a Dr Wesley Scoggins has asked that this book – Speak – be removed from the school libraries on the grounds that it is “soft pornography.”

A book written from the point of view of a victim of sexual abuse, written to show that silence over this kind of event is wrong, is “soft pornography”. Its something we do not want our children exposed to.

Not because they’re offended, but because it brings up uncomfortable issues. And because, in Mr Scoggins world, even a rape scene is “pornography”. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t pornography designed to titillate? I never much doubt that the scene in question was designed in such a way. Particularly since the theme of the book is speaking up about an issue everyone else would rather not talk about.

I think that “soft pornography” line says more about Scoggins attitude than anything else. Also, his reaction to Slaughterhouse Five *in the same article* is wonderful. “The f-word is plastered on almost every other page,” apparently.

Really?

Did we read the same book?

(and while I’m at it, you want to go and read The Good Son, Mr Scoggins. I’ll show you language that could make a sailor blush… also, I remember a good friend of mine at school chose Trainspotting as his review of personal reading in fifth year… now there’s a book I would say you might have some point in worrying about, although I’d still disagree with you if a teenager is ready to read such a book)

Look, here’s the thing: we can object to the realities of life all we like but we cannot hide from them. And fiction is one of our ways of dealing with issues. I know everyone likes to talk about “escapist” fiction, but serious fiction that tackles unsettling issues head on can be absolutely essential to dealing with everyday life. And even more-so for the “young adult” market. Yes, such books have to be handled sensitively. But just because the idea of the topic upsets you does not mean you should call for a banning of the book.

A book like Speak can – if well done, and I’m giving the book the benefit of the doubt that it is well done since I am not familiar with it myself – open teenage reader’s minds to the idea of what someone else might be going through, give them an empathy and an understanding of other’s experiences. Or it can perhaps persuade someone who is going through a similar experience to have the courage to speak out rather than hide what happened because this is an issue that no one talks about.

Fiction has to deal with issues.

It can’t all be about escapism.

I have a memory of a book I had in my early teens called something like, “My Mate Hamid”. I can’t find a trace of it now, but I remember it was a story about a white kid at a UK school who makes friends with a Pakistani pupil at his school, the only kid of a different skin tone in attendance. Simple, right? Except it wasn’t. It was about racism. I remember the sheer anger I felt at reading about other kids taunting with, “Paki-lover” and trying to figure out why some people would attack someone else just because they came from another place. I have memories of the two characters running away from bigger kids who were hurling bricks. That angered me, and made me start to realise things about how some people could be cruel for the most ridiculous reasons. The book, from what I recall, wasn’t graphic or adult in a way that might have truly upset or confused, but it was pitched just right for my development at that stage.

What I’m saying is that books can deal with tough issues for teenage and young adult readers without us necessarily screaming “oh, but its too much for the darlings!” Young people aren’t as daft as we give them credit for and whether you like it or not they’re going to deal with some very tough issues in their day to day life, and fiction can help them to deal with that. As it can help adults, too.

And you know what, instead of banning books, maybe it would help if parents and teachers talked to children about books and about the issues raised. A book like Speak isn’t pornography. It’s the start of a debate and a learning process. And, sure, I wouldn’t want younger children reading it, but when it comes to the older teenagers… how long do we protect them from the world? Because whether we like it or not, sooner or later they will encounter harsh truths about the world and I would rather they were prepared for them than not. Even if its simply through fiction that helps them understand experiences they hopefully will not encounter but that others they meet will have.

Dime Story Mystery

By Jay Stringer

I shake a lot these days.

I tried to spit three hours ago and my lips are still sore. I wont be doing that again for a while. Rosie says things get better; she says it’s all worth it in the end. I don’t really believe a word she says though, because she died in 1996.

The bed is wet and not very comfortable. Its good though; its warm, and wet is better than cold.

Rosie used to stand on the street corner. I’d see her every Wednesday. She’d always be holding the same bag of sweets, sucking on them between her teeth, telling stories to cute strangers and asking for favours. She was really sweet. I think, sometimes, that I loved her before I even met her. I’d always loved her. There was magic in the way she talked and the stories she told. She carried herself like she was an old movie star. One of the big pampered ones from black and white, when Hollywood meant something more than sleaze and money. The way she went on, it was like it was perfectly natural for someone to be an old time movie star and a young girl on the streets. Like you could be both at once.

We believed it.

Moving to the city was the best thing I ever did. If I hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t have done anything. I’d still be back home. My parents would still be asking me when I was going to get a job, and my friends would still be tapping me for money.

But here in the city? Nobody taps me for money.

I moved up with my best friend, Billy. He played bass and had really cool hair. Wore tartan trousers in a way that didn’t look stupid. I tried it once. Looked stupid.

Billy loved Rosie, too. He’d talk about her all the time, and I think his songs were about her. She broke his heart just like mine, but the difference was he came up here to get his heart broken. Its what he’d always wanted; singing songs about girls even before he knew what girls were.

Music does that to you.

There was someone hammering on my door a couple of minutes ago, but I didn’t hear what they were saying and I didn’t move. They always stop eventually.

I remember the first time I spoke to Rosie. She gave me a grin, the sort that she didn’t give to just anyone. She told me all about the films she’d been in and all the rich men who’d bought her jewellery. I told her I was in a band, and she looped her arm round mine and we walked down the street arm in arm. We got drunk on a rooftop and shouted at the sky.

It was great, I’d recommend it.

Last time I watched the news, they talked about how it had never been this hot in the city before, that even in the shade it was hot. I remember they showed someone frying an egg on the roof of a car. I can believe it. I just want some rain. Have you ever got high in the rain? It’s the best feeling. It doesn’t matter what you’re taking, rain makes it better. You can sit and feel it, only you’ll really feel it, you know? Or you can cry about how beautiful it is. Rosie was a crier. She’d sit and cry at most things, when she got like that;

Snow

Rain

Nightfall.

She was crying the last time I saw her. Her makeup was streaked and dark and her dress was torn. She’d been out on the town, but the comedown had been epic, it was showing no signs of stopping.

She said, “Would you believe me if I said I was Jesus?”

I said, “Would you believe me if I told you anything?”

She hugged us both for most of the night and nobody ever saw her after that.

I argued with Billy last time I saw him. He said I was fucked up, that I’d stolen money from him. I don’t know what he was on about, I spent an hour helping him look for that money. If I had taken it, I would have known where to look, wouldn’t I?

I sneezed yesterday and blood came away with it, and I’m having all sorts of problems you don’t want to know about. I spoke to this guy who told me he knew what I was going through. He quoted scripture and Bob Dylan. His hair was matted and I wondered if that’s how people looked when they got saved. All I know is that he said he’d help me if I gave him some money. I had money in my pocket.

He went away after that. I haven’t seen him since. I’ll just stay here until he gets back.