As Mark Timlin’s new Sharman collection, Reap the Whirlwind, appears, we get the latest from the man himself…
The question any writer of a serial character must answer is “Where did he or she come from?”
With Sharman, the answer is easy. From hunger. I was forty years old, broke, living on the dole, and kipping on several uncomfortable sofas and sofa beds. Sofa surfing I believe they call it now.
So, one afternoon, watching a black and white war film on a tiny black and white TV, which as all I could afford, I starting writing what turned into A Good Year For The Roses.
Somehow it got published, followed by the other fifteen or so sequels, and a TV series. Not so bad really.
But where did he come from?
Sharman was born from all those cowboy films I watched as a kid. Likewise cop shows and movies. But mostly from the books I read and re-read as a teenager locked away in my lonely room listening to American rock and roll, rhythm and blues and jazz.
But which writers especially? Chandler of course, Ross McDonald, John D. MacDonald, then this side if the Atlantic, the blessed Dame Agatha, the Gently series, J.J Marric’s Gideon series, Ted Lewis, then later Hazell, Marker in Public Eye, Callan. You name them, I watched, looked and learned.
Not forgetting, as if I could, Robert B Parker (probably my favourite PI author, except for maybe John Connolly. These choices are soooo tough. Actually it is Connolly, because he wouldn’t dream of giving Charlie Parker the world’s most annoying girlfriend. You know who I mean) Later on Michael Connolly, Terril Lee Lankford, Loren D. Esterman, Joe Lansdale, Richard Stark, and more than there is paper to print their names. but the superstar who taught me how to do it right was Elmore Leonard. I remember reading about his character (Stick, I think) sitting in a bar, ordering a certain drink, smoking a certain cigarette and listening to a certain song on the jukebox. Nothing happened but that for half a page. No plot, no action, no love scene. No nothing but atmosphere. “I can do that,” I thought, and I did. Whether or not I succeeded is up to the reader.
So that’s how it happened, and somehow without ever troubling the best seller lists I managed to make a living at writing crime fiction for knocking on thirty five years.
Then, a few years back I sold everything worth selling and moved down to a house in Wales where I live in perfect harmony with Lucy, our cat Schmoo, eating our home grown veg, donating to what seems like a dozen animal charities, and hugging trees with the best of them.
But still I sometimes fancied telling a tale or two, even though years ago I killed off Sharman. Ah, but here’s the thing. Sharman didn’t die, and now, in his late sixties lives back in his island paradise behind high walls looked after by his wife Rita, and step-children Jaycey and Little Gloria. Remember,you read it here first.
So why short stories? Simple. Most crime novels are too long. Seems like readers want value for money, as hard backs now come in at twenty quid a pop. Can’t blame them. But then, the last John Connolly was over seven hundred pages, and that was too short. But JC is the exception that proves the rule. So again, why short stories? Don’t forget that Hammet’s Continental Op only appeared in two novels and over seventy short stories.Whatever is good for the Dash is good enough for me. And to return to Robert B. His books were short. So short in fact that his publishers took to using a slightly larger font size, wider margins and deeper lineage (if that’s a word) The fact that you, or rather I could read a new Spenser novel in a afternoon didn’t detract from the enjoyment of same. Just remember what a wonderful afternoon that was.
So that’s about it. My health has suffered from all those years on the road, and all those nights (and days) in Soho and its environs. No self pity though. I had my fun, and now I’m paying the price. As the song goes: Don’t cry for me auntie Tina.
Finally, I just hope that I haven’t lost my touch and the stories are as good as I think they are, and readers everywhere enjoy reading them.And with a bit of luck if the good Lord’s willing and the creek don’t rise, there’ll be another book of short stories next year. And if I should kick the bucket before then, bury me with a twenty dollar gold piece, so I can buy a round in heaven.
