Something amazing happened this week.
If you follow me on Twitter or Facebook you may have noticed I’ve mentioned it once or twice. Maybe more. No, definitely more.
On Thursday the longlist for the very first McIlvanney Prize for Scottish Crime Book of the Year was announced.
And my name was on it, for ‘Open Wounds’.
Can I tell you that my flabber was well and truly ghasted?
I mean, look at the names on there – Ian Rankin, Val McDermid, Lin Anderson, Chris Brookmyre, Stuart MacBride, James Oswald, Doug Johnstone, Lesley Kelly, ES Thomson!
I mean, jings. I was the only name I had to Google!
To say I’m honoured is something of an understatement and not just because of the scribblers with whom I’m figuratively rubbing shoulders.
The Late William McIlvanney was a giant among writers, not just those of us down there in the mean streets of crime.
I recall reading ‘Laidlaw’ for the first time, way back in 1977. I got my copy from the Mystery and Thriller Guild, remember them? I discovered so many great writers through mail order book clubs and it’s a shame they have now passed into oblivion.
I still have that hardback because I hate parting with books, although by necessity I’ve had to unload a number recently.
But my favourites will never go.
My regret is that I never met Mr McIlvanney, although I did stand beside him one evening as darkness fell during Bloody Scotland. We were outside the Royal Highland Hotel and I didn’t pluck up the courage to speak to him. I wish I had.
It’s fitting the Scottish Crime Book of the Year is now awarded in his name.
Every writer on the list owes him a debt. He didn’t create what later became Tartan Noir (a term I hate but it’ll do for now). He said that himself. But he did pave the way for the rest of us to come along like a Celtic charge, a swarm of tough Scots careering towards shelves with pens and PCs held like claymores.
Whoever wins come September will be doubly proud. First that their work has been recognised. And then because the winning title will be forever associated with greatness.
When the announcement is made at Bloody Scotland, I like to think that, wherever the greats go when the writing is done, the man himself will smile and raise an approving glass.
