Given that my debut novel
BLOOD TEARS will be released next May (2012) I was especially interested in the
author sessions at Harrogate Crime Writing Festival. How would I answer that, was the thought that
ran through my head several times a day.
One session homed in on
the subject of violence against women in fiction. Why we read it and why
writers write about it. In the past I’ve heard opponents of this argue there is
misogyny at work here. This is too
facile an answer and doesn’t account for the fact that women write roughly the same
amount of books as men, read 70% of fiction and make up 85% of the publishing
industry. If women really thought this was a form of misogyny would they read/
write/ publish it? Don’t think so.
A prime facet of reader
interest in thriller/ crime fiction is tension and my own theory is that this
issue raises the stakes. If the subject is male I don’t care quite so much.
Harsh but true. If the potential victim is female or a child then my anxiety
levels are raised so much higher.
Val McDermid spoke
eloquently about it and explained her view that women live with the threat of
violence all of their lives. She said that women are warned from a young age to
not walk alone in certain areas, to be aware of how they dress, or behave – and
these warning have a strong impact – and one of the side effects of this is to enjoy
the violence in novels. It’s a vicarious fear and thrill when on the page. A
woman may not be able to feel safe walking home in the dark, but she can read
about it in the safety of her bedroom.
In another session Tess
Gerritson words chimed with my own opinion. She said that she polled her
readers for their views on this subject. She was amazed by the response. Her
readers told her they don’t want to read about male victims of violence because
they simply didn’t care.
That same evening I had
talked myself out at the bar. Thinking it was around 11pm, I checked someone’s
watch to see that it was gone 2am. How the feck did that happen? I said my
goodbyes (I know, I’m a wimp) and set off on the half mile walk to my hotel. This
was around about the time I regretted wearing a brand new pair of shoes. Which
is what you do, innit? Wear new shoes when you are going to be on your feet for
a good chunk of eighteen hours a day for three days. I had a bruise on one heel
and a blister on the other as I negotiated the narrow, poorly-lit, tree-lined
streets.
Around the first corner
and a young man was energetically emptying the contents of his stomach over a
hedge while his girlfriend rubbed his back.
I gave them a wide berth, in my strange double limp while offering the
woman a smile of sympathy. She shook her head slowly and mouthed the word
“wanker”.
Did she mean me, I
wondered as I turned the next corner into another quiet, dimly lit street that swung
round in a slow stretch to the left.
Just ahead of me was a young woman, tight jeans, strappy top, clutching
a handbag to her side.
The way she tightened her
grip on her bag and held it tightly to her side reminded of Val McDermid’s comments
earlier. A young woman was ahead of me in the dark, alone in a quiet side
street. I stopped walking as if I’d walked into a wall. I was the guy. I was
the potential threat to this girl. How could I re-assure her I only wanted to
peel off my shoes and get into my bed?
I started to hum. Loudly.
Music is cool right? I was making noise. I couldn’t possibly be planning to run
up and attack her. I stopped. I sounded deranged. I began to walk again. In a
tip-toe. Now she would be worrying I’d gone silent, so I walked with a heavy
tread. Which really hurt my blister, so I slowed down. Heavy and slow, that was
how to do it. Right?
At this point she crossed
the road. Jeez, I was freaking her out.
Should I shout a hello? Would that be friendly and non-threatening? I
picked up my pace and placed my feet on the ground, leading with the ball of my
feet.
Quiet and fast that would be better, no?
I was drawing level with
her now and gave myself a mental shake. I’d been in this situation plenty of
times and I usually just minded my own business and forgot about the other
person. So, I picked the pace up more, trying to disguise my limp which I’m
sure made me look like I had taken a dump in my trousers.
As I kicked off my shoes
in my hotel room a memory of a writers’ event at my local writers club popped
into my head. A visiting CID detective informed us that statistically a young
man is much, much more likely to be a victim of a violent crime (from other
young men). So ladies, I would always be fully aware of safety concerns, but if
there is a lone male behind you on a quiet street it is very possible he is
going through the same pantomime I was.
