Today's
guest blog is by debut author Barbra Leslie
I
have a confession to make.
Until the late 2000s, the only mystery books I’d ever read were Agatha
Christies. (I loved cozy English books when I was a child, and if
there was murder in the drawing room at the same time, well, so be it!) Like
any writer, I have always been a reader: from my grandmother’s discarded
Harlequin Romances when I was a girl to the Victorians by the time I was a
young teenager, I read anything and everything I could get my hands on. I
went from Norman Mailer to George Eliot, from T.S. Eliot to (God help me) Ayn
Rand. But somehow – maybe because there weren’t any in the house
when I was growing up, and maybe because my very limited pocket money (earned
from working at Zellers, a local budget department store, one of the two big
stores in the rural Nova Scotia town in which I grew up) meant that when I was
set loose in a bookstore, I wanted to choose books I had heard of, read about,
knew were considered classics. I was a fervent autodidact.
Yes,
I realize how painfully snobbish that sounds, now. Snobbish was the
last thing I could ever have been considered, however, growing up as I
did. I was the last of six children, living in an apartment over my
family’s small grocery store in a rural village. But I thought
mysteries were, like science fiction (another favourite genre of mine now), the
equivalent of the Harlequin Romances I had long ago discarded – perhaps
entertaining, but throw-away fiction, to be picked up at the three-for-a-dollar
bin at charity shops.
Fast
forward to late 2007, perhaps 2008. My mother had fallen and broken
her ankle and foot badly, and needed someone with her – she wasn’t strong
enough for crutches and she was unable to walk. I flew from Toronto,
where I live, to Nova Scotia to be with her for a bit. In the years
since I’d last stayed with my mother for any period of time – in other words,
since high school – she had discovered her own love for mysteries, and her
bookshelves were crammed with books I’d never read before. For a
book junkie like me? Heaven.
And,
I was hooked.
While
I have since read more varied and widely within the genre, the first
mystery/crime writers I read as an adult were those my mother loved.
James
Lee Burke: I wish I could remember which of James Lee Burke’s Dave
Robicheaux series I read first. His writing is so lush, it’s like a
hot, humid summer night in Louisiana – the setting for the series. His
hero is an Iberia Parish homicide detective/private detective/bait shop owner
(the series spans many years), a Vietnam vet who struggles with sobriety and
his often off-the-rails partner, Clete Purcell. Dave’s moral
code is what drives the series, his tortured goodness in the face of evil. James
Lee Burke was the first mystery writer I read, and was moved to tears while
reading. While I am loathe to pick a favourite of that series, I
think The Tin Roof Blowdown, his post-Katrina Robicheaux, is one of the best
American novels of that decade. I haven’t yet read Burke’s Holland
series – and as a book lover, is there any nicer feeling than having books from
a favourite author to look forward to?
Dennis
Lehane: Dennis Lehane is an American treasure, and his
Kenzie-Gennaro books probably had the most influence on me at the time,
putting the bug in my ear to want to write my own crime fiction. His
style is more old-school noir than James Lee Burke’s almost Southern Gothic
style. The south Boston, urban P.I.-style books are deceptively
simple, but they pick you up and don’t let you go. The plots are
tight, the violence feels absolutely real, and the supporting characters are as
entertaining as the main ones – a great feat.
Robert B Parker: My mother was a huge Robert B Parker fan - and I'm glad
she got to see one of her favourite actors, Tom Selleck, play Parker's Jesse
Stone in s series of TV movies. (The fact that they were also filmed in
Nova Scotia, where she lived, made it even more of a thrill for her.) But
her favourite series and mine- and most of Parker's readers, come to that - are
the Spenser books. Spenser, again, is like an old-school noir hero - the
gentle tough guy who likes to crack wise. He's smart, loyal and dogged,
and doesn't suffer fools gladly; a Raymond Chandler character if ever there was
one. He was one writer who could make my mother laugh when she was
reading; a memory of her that I treasure.
My
mother died in November 2010 of mesothelioma. So while I have other
favourites now – Nicola Griffith’s Aud series, Patricia Highsmith, Tana
French’s Dublin Murder Squad series, off the top of my head – it’s the early
mysteries I read and talked about with my mother that I will always have the
most fondness for.
Cracked by
Barbra Leslie Titan Books £7.99 (Out now)
Danielle
Cleary is a nice middle-class girl with a bad habit. After her stormy marriage
to the love of her life ends, the former personal trainer and amateur fighter
jumps down the rabbit hole into a world of crack cocaine -- delivered to her
door by a polite but slightly deranged dealer – and endless game shows, with
her best friend Gene. But when Danny’s twin sister Ginger is murdered, Danny
and her rock musician brother fly to California to find their nephews – and the
people who killed their sister. Fighting withdrawal, nosy cops and crazy
drug dealers, she kicks ass and takes names, embracing her inner vigilante in a
quest to avenge her sister and save her family. Cracked is a
darkly comic roller-coaster ride to redemption. From the streets of
Toronto to the underbelly of Orange County; from private jets to the depths of
the Maine wilderness, Danny struggles with bad guys and her own demons to find
the killers.
You
can follow her on Twitter (@barbrajleslie