Maybe it’s something to do with the fact that children’s publishing is run almost exclusively by women, or maybe it’s that the moral guardians like kids’ books to be good for you rather than good for a fight. It wasn’t always like this; in the past, boys grew up on stuff such as Treasure Island and Kidnapped and, God help us, Biggles. But nowadays, well, it’s no wonder boys don’t read.
Anthony Horowitz realised there was a huge gap in the market when he created his brilliant series about Alex Rider, a Bond-style teenage spy, and he’s been cleaning up. So, when I was approached to write some thrillers about the real James Bond as a boy, I jumped at the chance. I have three boys of my own. I know what they like, and I know they’re not getting it.
Not that I would have read my own books as a teenager; I was a terrible snob. Anything that had a whiff of popular culture I would avoid like the plague. No pop music, no big Hollywood films; it was only classical music and obscure European art-house fare for me, and when it came to books, the longer and more difficult the better. Give me Kafka, or the novels of Samuel Beckett, and I was happy. I know what you’re thinking — what an idiot.
At university, in the late 1970s, I studied contemporary American experimental literature. It was the time of postmodernism, and writers such as Kathy Acker, inspired by William Burroughs, were taking different genres and mixing them up in their books. They used bits of western novels, hard-boiled thrillers, pornography, science fiction, whatever. I joined in and wrote two huge, impenetrable novels in the same style. I was proud of them for a while, but then buried them in a box. The reason I ditched them was because a friend gave me a pile of American thrillers, and my world was changed forever. The excitement and sheer joy of reading those books for the first time was intense. Forget pastiche, here was the real thing, written by this great swathe of extraordinary writers — Patricia Highsmith, Elmore Leonard, Charles Willeford, George V Higgins (who wrote edgy thrillers composed entirely of dialogue), the great James M Cain, who could write a thriller about anything, be it starting up a pie business or being an opera singer; Joseph Wambaugh, James Ellroy, and Jim Thompson, king of the pulp-thriller writers, often imitated but never bettered. Within the genre, I realised, you could do anything. These books, often written quickly for a trashy readership, could be as experimental as any literary novel, and a damned sight more enjoyable.
Like a mosquito suddenly sticking its snout into a fat vein, I bloated up on, well, blood. For a few years, I never had to think about what to read, because there was always another classic thriller on the pile. I gorged my way through them all, but eventually I’d read it all. I was jabbing all over the body to try to find fresh veins, but it was no good. Since then, reading has got tougher. I’ve tried to find contemporary authors to replace them, but find most modern stuff too formulaic and predictable. It’s as though all the authors have been to college to study how to write successful crime fiction. Anyone half good is pounced on, over-promoted and forced to churn out endless books about the same character, usually yet another detective.
My own writing changed. I suddenly thought, why am I producing these obscure, tricksy, books with thriller pastiches in them? Why all the artsy-fartsy evasions?Why don’t I just try to write a straight thriller? The type of books I was reading. Let’s be honest about this, I thought, I’m never going to write a great literary masterpiece. But I could write a good, readable thriller and entertain a few people.
The other thing that happened was that I got around to reading Ian Fleming. James Bond had always been there. I grew up with him; the first film I can remember going to is Thunderball, and there were always long rows of paperbacks in W H Smith alongside Agatha Christie and westerns. But were the books any good? I soon discovered how insanely readable they are, and how seductive (and occasionally outrageous) Fleming’s voice is. The man invented a genre. The world of films and books has never been the same since.
My first published novel is written in the style of American, hard-boiled crime fiction, but with the structure of a Bond book. Is it a “great” novel? Who cares? The irony is that all the great writers have been forgotten. All the “serious” novelists who won all those awards for their fat books, who bothers with them now? But Conan Doyle, Raymond Chandler, Christie, and, of course, Fleming are still read in huge numbers and are constantly reprinted. Fleming had an elder brother, Peter, who was a much-feted travel writer. He was always the golden boy, while Ian was dismissed as a writer of cheap, grubby books. But it’s Ian’s books that are enjoyed today. Virtually no other British authors of the 1950s are still read in any significant numbers.
Kids, don’t worry, when you grow up there’s a wide world of fantastic crime books out there, waiting for you; and, who knows, maybe a few more will be published that you can read now.
Charlie Higson talks about his children’s novel SilverFin at The Sunday Times Oxford Literary Festival on Saturday, April 16, at 6.30pm
