Alasdair Grey, A Personal Obituary

By James Campbell

Alisdair’s drawing of L. M. Affrossman

Over the last few days there have been many fine obituaries about Alasdair Grey, written by people with a greater gift for the art form than I can emulate. They have spoken of his magnificent writing, his majestic art work and his many other achievements with far greater eloquence than I possess. It would therefore be redundant of me to praise Alasdair Grey the Artist and writer, but he was more than that, he was also a man, a proud father and, to me, a good friend.

Alasdair and I first met over 40 years ago, when we were introduced by a mutual acquaintance, the writer Chris Boyce. I was a brash young man without an artistic bone in my body; Alasdair was twice my age and already recognised as a magnificent artist. We had very little in common but weirdly, that didn’t matter. So when People talk of him, it is not the literary or artistic giant that I remember it is the man who was my friend.

We drank together, went for long walks, and talked about nearly every subject under the sun. We discussed the Architecture of Glasgow, Philosophy, Science Fiction, History and, on a theoretical level, Politics. No matter what we discussed, one fact remained constant, we never fell out, we might agree to disagree, but our discussions always remained courteous and civilised. Because that was the very core of Alasdair, courtesy! He was polite and kindly to everyone, unless they inspired a different response, and even then he never reacted with anger or violence. Because Alasdair Gray was above all things a civilised man. He was kind, generous, considerate and loyal; he maintained great pride in his son Andrew, and talked about him often. He was a lifelong socialist who would give away his last shilling or bite of food if asked, and would have given a beggar the shirt off his back.

I remember when the BBC transferred a 60s documentary to video tape and proudly gave him a copy. Alasdair had to explain that he didn’t have a video player, or for that matter a TV. These items were quickly delivered to the Grey residence, thereupon I was summoned to plug them in and press play. Because the subject of the documentary was a man who had never owned or gained the knowledge of how to work such devices.

I last saw Alasdair about two weeks before he died, He had asked me to bring round the new book “The Unforgiven King” by “L.M. Affrossman” , saying that he was looking forward to reading it, as he had enjoyed her last book so much. (Lesley and Alasdair are old friends). I now know that he was already ill, but insisted on hiding it from everyone for as long as he could. We talked about various things, including His Saltire Prize award, (he joked that he would believe it when the cheque arrived). For some reason we also discussed alien societies in literature, I recommended a book that he said sounded interesting, and then discovered that one of his favourites was “The Mote in God’s Eye” by “Niven and Pournelle”. I managed to surprise him by revealing the existence of a sequel which he knew nothing about, and promised to find out the details and forward them to him.

We arranged to meet again before New-year and I said goodbye not knowing that we would never see each other again.

I phoned back a week later with the details of the books that I had promised, and Alasdair was his usual cheery self. He thanked me for the information and said that he would order both volumes and looked forward to discussing them with me once he had read them. He asked me to tell Lesley than he was over half way through her book and was “enjoying it very much; it’s a magnificent achievement. Tell her she must come and see me”. I promised to pass the message along and that sadly was the last time I spoke to him.

So, it’s only right that the world will remember Alasdair Gray for his many achievements, but I will remember the man who spent his last conversation with me passing on congratulations and encouragement to another. A man whose enthusiasm and love of life was only surpassed by his love for his family. A man I was proud to call......My Friend.

The perils of being a crime writer

“Oh, Philosophers may rhyme

Of the perils writing crime,

Yet the duties are delightful and the privileges great…”

(From “The Gondoliers.” My profound apologies to Messrs Gilbert and Sullivan)

So, the perils of being a crime writer? Well, I`d say the greatest peril is the risk that writing, crime or otherwise, takes over your life! As I dream up my plot-lines, I have frequently found myself unable to concentrate on reading other authors` works, I can easily tune out of a movie if it fails to captivate me and I will often miss the content of family conversations (mind you, with a wife and two teenage daughters, who can blame me?)

I even took my laptop on our three-week summer trip to Florida, for goodness sake! In my hand-luggage too, along with my trusty Nikon 35mm film camera. A glutton for punishment, me; it seems that I can`t live without my characters and their stories and therein lies another of the perils. They all seem very real to me but I suppose that they must, otherwise how would I be able to relate their feelings, how they react to different situations? But when I fell in love with my female lead? Hmm…

Of course, that didn`t happen by accident; I suspect I wrote her to be fallen in love with – just as I wrote my DCI to have pity felt for him, my criminals to be reviled. But the lines can become blurred sometimes. As my Detective Sergeant would say “don`t get involved…` but it`s impossible. They are part of me and there is a big part of me in them.

And, of course, when you read “any resemblance to characters, living or dead, is entirely co-incidental…”

Really? You think…?

Take the discovery of the body in the loch, for example. A month or so after I started started writing, I had the entire plot set out in my head, based around that gruesome event. Then, out of the blue, a poor soul, suffering from Alzheimer`s, tragically went missing, presumed drowned in said Loch. Eventually his body was found (ironically by a rower) not in the loch but in a ditch near the water. However, for a number of weeks it was assumed that, sooner or later, his body would turn up in the loch itself, in all likelihood discovered by a rower. The peril of fact being stranger than fiction…

As to the “duties and privileges” – well, writing “Sins” has been one of the best experiences of my life; absorbing, exciting and great fun. I have met some lovely people, I have talked endlessly and excitedly about my book and about writing, I have enjoyed every minute and continue to do so as I write the next chapter of DCI Grant McVicar and DS Briony Quinn.

“And the culminating pleasure

That we treasure beyond measure

Is the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done!”

A call to readers

Many of us look at reviews when we consider buying a book. I often find reviews useful in a number of ways, they can give a better understanding of the plot, the quality of the writing, and that essential ingredient that makes a truly engaging book impossible to put down. Whether from other authors, or from readers, reviews are an excellent tool to help the consumer decide what to buy.

But reviews also benefit the authors, a good review can increase sales and sometimes aid in media coverage, while bad reviews can do the opposite. This of course has little effect on bestselling authors; they usually have a loyal following who automatically buy their latest offering, while the media also tends to give plenty of publicity to the stars of the literary firmament.

But what about new authors who are trying to make their way in the marketplace?

For a new author, or simply one which is not yet well known; reviews can make the difference between success or abject failure. A writer can produce a masterpiece, but if few people ever find out about it, the sales will not reflect the quality of the work, and in some cases the author will become so discouraged that they simply give up.

Most readers recognize truly great writing when they see it, but very few will post a review, it simply doesn’t occur to them. But if you enjoyed a book, or even better were transported by it, it’s in your own best interests to review it. Because if you don’t, that author may never write again and we the readers will miss out on the massive enjoyment that they could have given us.

So if you liked a book, do yourself and everyone else a favour, leave a review and help to make the literary world a better place.

Jim Campbell

Don't play misty for me

I was pleased to hear Neil Gaiman talking recently on the difficulties of being creative. He likened finding a narrative to walking through mist. This is very similar to my own experience. I am ever envious of writers, who claim to love a ‘blank page’ or the chance to find out what their characters are going to do next. In my own personal experience I bumble around in fog that would have struck fear into the stout heart of Rupert the Bear. Words come to me through the fog. I hear them, catch sight of their shadows, listen to their echoes. Often I have no inkling how they fit in the narrative or if I’m being led astray by a kind of creative willow the wisp.

It is possible for me to wander days in this mist searching for the story-line. I think three weeks was my all time low, and when I finally emerged, damp and very frustrated, it was with the single word, ‘sunrise’ in my mind.

It isn’t a comfortable or pleasant place to wander, this mist. So why do I do it you ask? Because the words I find are beautiful and perfect, and tantalizing and addictive. And each one fits like an infinitesimal piece of a gigantic jigsaw puzzle until finally I have it in front of me, the story that no-one else saw because very few of us like to spend time lost in the mist. Hey ho, time to get my scarf and check trousers on.

L. M. Affrossman