The Official S. J. Bolton Blog

It's Monday morning and I'm back at my desk, struggling against an almost overwhelming feeling of anti-climax now that the Theakston's Old Peculier crime-writing festival is over. Because, in spite of small child's prediction coming true and my not winning either award I was shortlisted for, I had a fantastic time.

I think what impressed me most about Harrogate, as well as the slick organisation and sheer number of crime-fiction fans present, was the relaxed and friendly atmosphere it managed to create, when readers got to meet (and occasionally grill) their favourite authors and when authors, who spend much of their year alone, can hear feedback directly from the people who make our writing lives possible.

Highlights of the Festival for me included:

The Penned In panel on Friday, when three men, including Jonathan Aitken, who've spent time in prison talked about their experiences inside and how writing has impacted upon their lives since. I was in two minds about it beforehand, I really don't approve of people making money from (their own) crimes, but came out of the session a catholic convert. Each man spoke so movingly about the redemptive power of the written word and about the impact being able to read and write had upon his time in prison and his life subsequently.

The Transworld dinner on Friday evening, when I sat on Larry Finley's right, with Lee Child at the foot of the table and Tess Gerritsen directly opposite me. I'll admit, I had to pinch myself.

Meeting and having lunch with American crime writer Lisa Gardner, whose stellar success in the US has yet to be replicated over here. It's only a matter of time, she's as talented as she's charming.

Taking part in The Outer Limits panel on Saturday morning, brilliantly chaired by Andrew Taylor and featuring some very clever and funny writers, Patricia Duncker, Sarah Pinborough, Phil Rickman (as well as me). We concluding that not only is crime fiction mixed with the weird tale the most challenging of all sub genres to write, but also the most enjoyable and satisfying to read. And that God is one of us. (You probably had to be there!)

Recording a Q & A session with Lee Child, that will shortly be released onto YouTube and that concludes with, I kid you not, my asking him if he'd ever had sex in a lift with a ferret.

Champagne tea party at Betty's, with strawberry jam scones to die for. Belinda Bauer nearly had my eye out when I ate one in front of her.

Room 101, on Saturday evening, when Lee Child was asked to name his pet hates of crime fiction (sidekicks, snarky reviews, mirrors and the phrase: there's been a murder) and argue the case for them to be consigned to Room 101.

And finally, because it demonstrates so well that whilst the Harrogate festival makes its authors feel very important, it never allows them to get too big for their boots, the sheer number of women who came up to me at the opening party and whispered in my ear: "I really love your …shoes!"

They were from Hobbs, Elle Diagonal Cut Court, in Geranium.

It's Friday morning, the other residents of Transworld Towers have still to show their faces in the light of day and, by now, the world will know that Lee Child was the very worthy (and extremely popular) winner of the Theakston's Old Peculier Prize for his fabulous novel, 61 Hours. What can I tell you that the world's media may not have done? Well, the first words of his very gracious acceptance speech were: "Well, bloody 'ell" and he celebrated his win with a roast beef sandwich and a glass of champagne as the clock struck midnight.

It was the culmination of a brilliant evening, far more enjoyable than I expected, if a little nerve wracking at times. Great to meet Stuart MacBride and Mark Billingham in the green room beforehand, even if I did occasionally have the feeling I'd been teleported to an old episode of Men Behaving Badly. (They were last seen heading for a karaoke bar in town) Nice also to catch up with Andrew Taylor, who'll be chairing my panel tomorrow and to meet William Ryan, a softly spoken and very charming Irishman who was shortlisted for his debut novel, The Holy Thief.

I met my Dutch editor for the first time, and had chance to catch up with my US publisher, Andrew Martin, who introduced me to the exceptionally nice Lisa Gardner.

The star of the evening though, without doubt, was Baroness (PD) James who in her 91st year was presented with a lifetime achievement award. Val MacDermid's very moving tribute speech brought tears to my eyes, but Lady James' acceptance practically had me sobbing. 'You won't win the Booker Prize,' she told us all, 'But you will bring joy to millions of people.' She also declared that from now on, Adam Dalgleish will drink no other beer but Theakston's Old Peculier.

I think Mark Joesbury and Harry Laycock might just enjoy a pint or two as well.

Off now to catch the first event of the day, Martina Cole.

Thursday 21 July, 5.15pm.

Arrived in Harrogate and had to squeeze my car into a very tight space under the eagle eye of Val McDermid.  Haven't seen anyone else I know so far but I have been chasing round like a dervish, trying to find a nude leather clutch bag to wear with the only pair of shoes I could find to match my coral pink dress. Four hours on Bond Street and nude was honestly the closest we could get.  But no handbag.

So, immediately after I get a grudging nod of approval from Val (it was a very tight spot) I raced out. You would not believe how many coral pink accessories there are in Harrogate.

I now have two hours to go before the big opening party, when I have to take to the stage with Lee Child, Mark Billingham, Stuart MacBride, Andrew Taylor and William Ryan to see which of us has won the sparkly beer barrel. My money is still on MacBride, even if he did call me a sodding arse monkey on Twitter yesterday.  How naive am I? I had to look it up!

The Hotel du Vin in Harrogate in just gorgeous and I seriously thought I might drown in the shower.  Just two hours to glam up before i have to leave. Wish me luck!

I'm still thinking, and worrying, about The Outer Limits panel that I have to appear on at the Theakston's Old Peculiar Crime Festival on Saturday. Andrew Taylor, Phil Rickman, Patricia Duncker, Sarah Pinborough and I have to discuss the growing popularity of tales of the weird and the wonderful.

Because, one of many things that interests (and worries) me about the whole business is why I've been invited onto the panel in the first place.

Whilst I freely admit to being a lover of supernatural stories, I don't consider myself to be a writer of them. In fact, quite the contrary. My books might masquerade as spine-chilling, fingers-on-the-back-of-the-neck tales, but from the first chapter, the crimes are investigated according to strict scientific and legal principles and ultimately, the mystery is fully explained. I'm heavy on atmosphere, I borrow any number of devices from classic Gothic literature, I get a real kick out of scaring the bejezzuz out of my readers but, at the end of the day, I'm as quick to pull on my latex gloves as is Cornwell. What I do is to blend spooky folklore with forensics. I'm something new.

Well no, actually, I'm not. I came across the definitive work on supernatural horror in literature by HP Lovecraft, and according to him, Mrs Ann Radcliffe (1764 - 1823), considered by many to be the grandmother of the atmospheric suspense novel, was doing it centuries ago. Mrs Radcliffe had, according to HP, "a provoking custom of destroying her own phantoms at the last, through laboured mechanical explanations." He revisits this theme more than once. He talks about "prosaically dragging down" when I would say "explaining scientifically". He accuses authors of "injuring their creations by natural explanations."

Ouch!

Not only am I not remotely original, I'm something of a limp hybrid who lacks the courage of her convictions and wimps out at the eleventh hour, thereby dishonouring the glorious phantom and bigging up the mundane pathologist. I was talking about this to Mr B at the weekend, on the way to watch Harry Potter, and he said, 'Yeah, just like Scooby Doo.'

Scooby-Bloody-Doo?

Trouble is, he's right. That's exactly what Scooby Doo does. Sets you up to expect a creepy story of ghosts, ghouls, and vampires and then, at the end, unmasks the villain to reveal the perfectly ordinary bloke who works down the petrol station. I am writing in the tradition of Scooby Doo. They're going to laugh me off the stage.

But before they do, I'm going to quote HP Lovecraft at 'em one more time, because he argues that a tale of the macabre is not about plot resolution, but about the mood it engenders in the reader. To be considered a truly weird tale, he says, a story must, first and foremost, offer atmosphere. A weird tale is judged, not by the author's intent, or by the mechanics of the plot, but by one simple test: does it excite in the reader a deep sense of dread, of contact with unknown spheres and powers, a subtle attitude of awed listening, as if for the beating of black wings.  Well now, do I do that?  Here's a wee snippet from Blood Harvest:

Harry opened the door to the church crypt. The stale smell of things long since forgotten came stealing up toward him. He picked up the flashlight and the box of tools he'd brought with him from his car. The darkness below seemed to have grown denser.

It had been so much easier to walk down these steps when it had been daylight outside, when he hadn't been alone, and before the corpses of murdered children started turning up. Last time he'd been here, evil hadn't come close enough to stroke him on the back of the neck.

In the beam of the torch, the darkness seemed to be moving, as though gathering its forces, waiting for him to dare, knowing he probably wouldn't. He was a man of God. Was this the night he was to discover his faith was a sham?

I'm off shopping today. Last minute shoes, clutch bags, etc. I am the only woman on the shortlist of six for the Theakston's Old Peculiar Crime Novel of the Year, and on one thing I am determined: I will be wearing the prettiest dress!

When I was nine years old, my mother brought a Ouija board home, lent to her by a work colleague. She and I, and one of her mates, spent the evening around the dining-room table, communing with the spirit world. 'Course, we didn't know that's what we were doing, I think we just thought it was a wackier than usual board game and I definitely don't remember being scared, just intrigued.

Not long after that, rumours started circulating that Ouija boards were illegal in the UK (can't actually find out whether this is true or not) and for the first time I realised just how daring we'd been that night. I became the only kid in school who'd actually experienced one. I was able to say, with absolute conviction, that it worked. Something, beyond our conscious selves, was moving the planchette around that night.

I haven't seen one since, but I've often wondered if that Ouija Board encounter was the start of my love affair with the macabre. I've been thinking about it a lot just lately, because in a few days time I have to take to the stage at the Theakston's Old Peculiar Crime Writing Festival in Harrogate and talk about the fashion for blending hard-hitting, gritty crime with tales of the unexpected.

Best-selling crime writer, Andrew Taylor will be chairing the panel, The Outer Limits, and will be joined by Sarah Pinborough, Phil Rickman, Patricia Duncker and me. What interests me about the subject, and I hope my fellow panellists will shed a little light, is why, given that tales of the daemoniac are ingrained in every culture in the world, have they never been accepted into the mainstream of crime-writing?

The oldest and strongest emotion known to man is fear. (Whole load of tosh talked about it being love: it's not, it's fear) The oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown. Consequently, from the time we started painting, spirits and demons have featured in our artwork; from the moment the first song was sung, our music and poetry has touched upon the weirdly horrible; and since we've been telling each other stories, these stories have included tales of the other, nebulous world that sits in parallel to our own.

So why is it that, although I can cite any number of perfectly respectable writers who've dabbled in the dark arts, (Dickens, Wilkie Collins, Henry James, Browning, WW Jacobs) it still lies on the fringe of respectable genre fiction?

Well, I have a theory (and it won't make me popular) that only the truly sensitive can appreciate the story of horror. Let me explain: our modern lives are so exceptionally busy, fraught with demands and deadlines; we worry about our jobs, our nuclear families, our extended families, our status, our finances, our health, the list goes on. We simply do not have the time, or space in the brain, to step back and listen for the scratching of fingernails down the window pane, for the beating of black wings at twilight. We dismiss the weird as rubbish when, what we really mean is, we do not have sufficient emotional energy to let our imaginations to be receptive to something new. For these, the majority, tales of ordinary feelings and everyday events (albeit dark and dangerous ones in the case of crime aficionados) take first place.

If you think I'm talking twaddle consider, for a second, the fabulous popularity of horrible and fantastic fiction among teenagers and young adults. People under the age of 21, generally speaking, have little to occupy their minds other than school work, body image and whether the boy in the upper sixth fancies them back. Young people can detach, and consequently still have the emotional sensitivity to be receptive to a weird tale. Fast forward a few years and all the anxieties listed above come into play. Some of us, of course, never lose our ability to detach and we are the ones who continue to love the spectrally macabre. Those who can detach a little more than others are, quite possibly, the ones who write it.

So there you go, I have to sit on stage in six days time and tell around a hundred crime fans, some of 'em pretty butch, that they're just not sensitive enough to appreciate spooky stuff. Wish me luck!

By the way, the Ouija Board told my nine-year-old self that I would marry a man called Simon. Mr B is not called Simon, but I guess there's still time for fate to determine whether a) there really was an all-seeing spirit with us that evening or b) I was just thinking of that grimly spotty kid across the back.