As
I have a VSB (very significant birthday) this week, I asked my pal to guest for
me so I have more time to eat cake. He is the ‘Frankie’ of The Frankie Fruitie in
the Cook Book. He escaped from doing a stint at the Killer Cook Off at Bloody
Scotland by using the lame excuse that he was flying out to Bouchercon. My revenge for his lack of loyalty and good
sense was to extract this blog from him. On pain of death...
Now
to be clear….. this is Frank Muir…
it says something like 'Strategy is buying a bottle of wine when taking a lady out to dinner.
Tactics is getting her to drink it!'
But
the Frank Muir blogging here is this one…
Although he is known by another name in the USA. T Frank Muir; and in the UK - TF Muir I think. Confused? So is he most of the time. I think it might stand for 'The Frank Muir.'
He
has less money than his namesake, but at least has a pulse. The other passed away some years ago.
Which begs a question... Frank (the crime writer) tells a funny story about his first ever event at The Edinburgh International Book Festival selling out. He was stunned. He
couldn’t believe he was so popular, that being his first book and all. Then realised
that the crowd were actually there to see the other Frank Muir. That gentleman
had been dead for a few years so what were the public expecting to see?
As
for what you are expecting to see? Be warned those readers of a sensitive
disposition - this blog contains a picture of a crime writer wearing shorts.
Here is Frank explaining himself, a Glaswegian writing about the East Coast...honestly, can't trust some folk....
I am often asked why,
having been born and raised and now living once again in Glasgow, I chose St.
Andrews as the setting for my crime series, and I always give some version of the
same answer – my wife, Anne, and I had driven up from Glasgow for a long weekend
in St Andrews, a place we visit more than any other, and on a cold winter’s
night, with not a cloud in the sky, while walking back to our hotel after an
evening in the pub, we turned into a side-street and I just stopped. Maybe I’d
had too much to drink, or my mind was filled with thoughts of romance, but I was
simply struck by the setting.
Behind us lay the
castle ruins; to the left, the cathedral ruins; and ahead, this ancient street
as narrow as a lane, with old stone buildings either side, eerily shadowed by
moonlight. Call it a moment of epiphany if you like, but as I stood there, it hit
me with a clarity that stunned me that this place – the old grey town of St
Andrews – would make a perfect setting for a crime series. And therein lay the
seed of another idea, that I had thought of crime ‘series,’ and not a
standalone story.
St Andrews Golf Course (well one of them!)
We entered the street,
and I have to say that with thoughts of murder and mayhem churning through my
mind, I clung closer to my wife, the pair of us keeping to the middle of the
road. As we walked back, and my thoughts fermented, I came to see that St.
Andrews had national recognition from Prince William attending the University,
and also international recognition from the town being renowned as the home of
golf. And with its sheer seaside cliffs, its stone harbour pier, black roiling
seas and golden beaches, and of course that cold, wet, miserable Scottish
weather blasting the town senseless, it seemed to me that here was a place just
waiting to be written about.
A bit of the University
Mind made up, and eager
to begin writing, all I needed was the name of my detective, which came to me
in the space of a couple of heartbeats – Andy Gilchrist. Where the name
Gilchrist sprang from I had no idea, and the ease with which it popped up had
me worried that I must know someone by that name. But I racked my brain,
probed my memory banks, talked to my wife about it, and came up with a blank.
No, I knew no one by the name of Gilchrist, so Andy Gilchrist it was.
Now, all of this
happened over twelve years ago, when Prince William first attended St Andrews University
(at one time I feared he might be King by the time my crime series was ever
published), but it was only this year that I finally came to understand where
the name Gilchrist had come from.
great place to tumble a body off the cliffs!
I visited my cousin,
Tom, whom I had not seen since the death of my mother sixteen years ago, and as
long-lost cousins tend to do we talked about family and relationships therein.
We both shared the same grandparents, and I mentioned that I planned to carry
out a genealogical search on our family one day, although I knew I could never
go back any further than our Grandpa John Rae on my mother’s side, because my
mother told me that her father had been adopted at birth. Tom, who had read my
crime series, looked at his wife, Jane, for a long moment, then back at me, and
said, ‘We thought you knew.’ I must have given him a blank look, for he then told
me that John Rae had been Grandpa’s adopted name, but that he had been christened
John Gilchrist. Hairs really do rise on the back of the neck, and electricity
really does zap up and down spines. I was a perfect example of horripilation
full bore – I still shiver when I recall that moment.
However, the realisation
that somewhere deep in the darkest canyons of my subconscious had lain some
genetic memory passed down to me through my Grandpa John, now raised another
more perplexing, perhaps even worrying, thought.
more golfers spoiling a good view, and indeed a good walk.
Another question I am
often asked is – where do you get the ideas for your gruesome scenes in your
crime novels? I always give an answer along the lines of: I read a lot, and I
read a lot of crime, so I write what I like to read, and ideas just come to me.
And the psychology of the criminal mind fascinates me. What drives someone to
kill? How do they feel in the act of murder? How can they then live with it?
And in the end, I say that I just make it up, that it is all a figment of my
imagination.
The latest bestseller
Up until that meeting
with my cousin, I had always thought the answer was simply that. Now I wonder
if my gift for writing believable scenes of violence and all things gruesome is
not just imagination, but the faintest recollections of genetic memory passed
down to me from long dead relatives.
If so, I must be
descended from a frightening, murderous lot. So now I worry that my murder
scenes are not just figments of my imagination, but are based on fact. Maybe
murder really is everywhere. I guess we will never know.
But it does make you
wonder.
Frank in a denim kilt. Or is it shorts?
We may never know.....we might not want to!
We may never know.....we might not want to!
Caro Ramsay 4th October 2013 GB
You're right, Caro, Frank is so much more handsome in real life than on the radio. And, yes, considering the way what he envisions comes true I intend to stay on his good side. Sorry we missed each other at Bouchercon, Frank, it would have been grand to exchange Caro stories at the bar. Maybe next time?
ReplyDeleteBy the way, Caro... HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAR CARO, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU.
ReplyDeleteSo you finally hit the big three-ohh Congratulations!