One of the best decisions I made as a writer was to stop writing Logan McRae.* Which sounds a bit … unwise, but bear with me – I have reasons.
Way back in the LongAgo, when I first had a bash at writing a “straight” crime novel** I decided that Logan McRae’s world would age in real time. For every year that passed out here, one would pass in there too. This was A Cunning Plan on my part, because it meant I could keep things interesting between books by having stuff happen to him while we’re not watching. After all, I was writing about a real city and that changed all the time: it made sense for Logan’s world to do the same.
It was my way of keeping things fresh between books – if the characters weren’t just wrapped in old newspapers and stuck in a box in the attic until it was time to play with them next time, they’d be more interesting to write about.
By the time the last Logan book came out in 2019, I’d been torturing the poor sod for fourteen years, over thirteen novels, two novellas, and a couple of short stories. And as much as he needed a break from me, I needed one from him too. So I gave him a happy-ish ending, then off I went on a four-year binge – writing books that tormented someone else for a change.***
Which was fun.
But the lure of doing something to mark the 20th Anniversary of when Cold Granite first besmirched the nation’s bookshelves was too great to ignore. So, I fetched the box from the attic, unwrapped everyone from their newspaper, and set them to work once more.
I thought it would be a challenge, getting back into the Logan swing of things, after five years – that is half a decade after all – but it was like finding a comfy jumper at the back of the wardrobe that was always a favourite, but you haven’t worn for a while. Oh, and it still fits after all these years.****
Because I’m a contrary stinker, I wanted the 20th Anniversary book to be a bit of a mirror image to Cold Granite. That was set in the dead of winter, with lots of rain and snow, whereas this one would be in the sweltering depths of a desiccating summer. A crackling fever-dream of a book, full of strange imagery and twisted characters. Where illness is sweeping through the police force – so the characters burn like the city – leaving Logan facing an increasingly unmanageable caseload as his colleagues fall sick and he inherits their problems and disasters. Throw in the dysfunctional medial landscape we now live in, a hefty dollop of murder and revenge, then drench the lot in petrol and stick a match to it. Which explains the title: This House of Burning Bones.
And you know what? Writing it has given me the taste for Logan McRae’s blood again.
Poor sod.
* Ooh… OMINOUS!
** Up to that point, I’d been dabbling in Sci-Fi crime, urban fantasy crime, and comedic crime, much to the existential pain of my agent at the time. He had bills to pay and kids to feed, so thought it would be nice if I wrote a book that someone might actually want to publish.
*** Well, a number of someone elses.
**** Which is important. And unlikely in my house. Ever since the first lockdown I have become more and more like a hairy Space Hopper. Only less orange. Because that would be far too Trump-like.*****
***** Apparently, Space Hoppers are called “Hoppity Hops” in the USA, which explains a lot (none of it good).
This House of Burning Bones by Stuart MacBride is published by Macmillan
