Archive for December, 2009

Beckham guest posts on this blog

david-victoria-beckham-armani

I don’t like soccer, but I do have a soft spot for David Beckham. Let me explain.

My father-in-law told me the other day he was looking forward to relaxing in front of an American football game. The New York Giants were playing another group of steroidal mutants. Though it was the end of the season, eight teams were still in for the playoffs. “So the games have some meaning,” said Ike.

Of course, I know about meaningless occasions—I covered the Mideast peace process for more than a decade. I saw what Ike was getting at, but it made me think about the way we search for meaning in life.

Which lead me to David Beckham.

Some of you (New York Giants fans, for example) may have no idea who he is. Well, he’s a soccer player. His teams: England, Manchester United, Real Madrid, and presently the LA Galaxy.

Some of you (Giants types, again) may have no idea what the LA Galaxy is. Frankly neither do I. They play soccer. Not so very well, compared to Manchester and Madrid, but well enough to make the final of the US Major League Soccer thingy this year.

What’s a nice boy from the East End of London doing prancing about in a second-rate league in a country that traditionally requires its major sportsmen to be either 300 pounds, 7-feet tall, chewing-tobacco addicts, or toothless? (You know which sports I mean.)

The answer: he’s having a bloody good time.

I made the connection recently while heading through Rome’s Termini rail station. The main concourse was plastered with enormous billboards pushing a particular brand of underwear. Sporting their skivvies, tanned to an unnatural degree, from platform 1 to platform 25: David and his distressingly ferrel wife Victoria, probably the least interesting of the group of singers once called The Spice Girls. (The most interesting ones have, since splitting up the group, appeared on the London stage and claimed to have fathered Eddie Murphy’s love child.)

David, or “Becks” as he’s known to British tabloids, squeezed his chunky little abs and had his hair slicked down for the photos. He looked like Herman Goering’s wet dream. Right down to the strange traces of a Hitlerian mustache and the feathering of pubic hair creeping over the top of his tightie whities.

My first instinct was to be thankful that Israel’s train system is so bad I never find myself on a station concourse, forced to regard the posturings of ill-educated millionaires and their over-priced grape-smugglers.

But as my train rumbled south to Naples, I reconsidered.

I like the fact that Becks has, essentially, put football behind him and gone off to ply his trade in a country where his celebrity is all he has. Only when you’ve left the youthful urge to “compete” can you uncover what really makes you tick. In my case that meant ditching journalism for fiction; for Becks, it was dropping out of European soccer.

He isn’t competing for “meaningful” goals like the European Champions League. He played in the final of the MLS, but to most of the world’s soccer buffs that’s somewhat less important than women’s beach soccer.

It’s a sharp contrast to his former teammates who slog through the English winter for the chance to get kicked black and blue by the best defenses in Italy, while enduring a spray of spittle and swear-words each time they approach the “fans” at the sidelines.

No one wants to see them in their underwear.

All of which leads me to the conclusion that Becks has something in common with we International Crime Authors on this blog. We’ve eschewed the traditional writing route (whatever that is, but it seems to involve going to the University of Iowa—no, thanks) and we often write about obscure places and un-American people that make our agents groan. That is, as Colin Cotterill wrote here last week, heroes who can’t reasonably be played in a movie by anyone on the Hollywood A-list for reasons of ethnicity. (Though my wife maintains Al Pacino would do a good job as Omar Yussef, my Palestinian detective.)

And so Becks has taken himself off to a place where he can live a life more interesting than the one he left behind. Not a smart career move, many journalists wrote, when he crossed the Atlantic. Like writing a novel set in the Palestinian town of Nablus, which apparently is a gap on the map to most Americans.

So I say, Becks, try putting together a slim volume of noir. Throw in a few lines about “heading south on La Cienaga,” dropping in at a boutique on Rodeo Drive, and winding along Mulholland for a party at Madonna’s place. Some nude sunbathing with Nic Cage on a deck overlooking the beach at Malibu. Oh and it’s a mystery, so don’t forget the victim: maybe a former British pop singer found dead in Emporio Armani underwear, preferably in the first chapter before we have to hear her speak.

Do this, and we’ll be prepared to offer you a spot as a guest blogger.

As for me, I’ve been working out, swimming, doing some pilates. What about a contract for underwear modeling? I currently wear Celio, but I’m prepared to endorse a wide range of “banana hammocks.” Offers to the comments section of this blog, please.

Happy 2010

If you were expecting a list of my New Year resolutions, you are going to be disappointed. I don’t make resolutions, especially not at New Year. They are, in my experience, doomed to failure. What this means is that come the 1st January I will be happily sinning my way into yet another decade. Hurrah!

It’s my choice, even though the ‘clean’ living and the ‘concerned’ among you may shake your heads in despair. My choice, my life and, to bring me neatly to the nub of this New Year rant, my business too. I’ve been thinking a lot about what we as human beings might want and need from the new decade and, in my humble opinion, it is this:

We need to mind our own business.

Simple and not the cop-out some would view this statement to be because, to my way of thinking, ‘minding our own business’ is not the same as not caring about those less fortunate than ourselves or ignoring those in trouble. We can still and must, help others. What we need, what we MUST leave out is putting pressure on those others to conform to our standards. It always brings trouble. Look at the Crusades! Look at what the imposition of Communism did to eastern Europe! Look at Osama bin Laden and all his acolytes!

Make it your mission for 2010 not to impose whatever your thing is on people who do not want it. If they ASK you, then that is a different matter. But what I’m talking about is the, admittedly very nice, man who tried to save my soul in the shopping centre of a large northern town a few weeks ago. He was very sincere, he clearly cared a lot but I did not want to know. Even when he continued to talk at me as I walked away from him, I still did not want to know. If I wish to find God, if indeed I have already found Him but want to keep that to myself, that is my business and mine alone. I will not respond to scare tactics, appeals to my ‘better’ nature or threats. And the same goes for politics. I will vote the way I feel is right for me and only very reasoned, very a-personal entreaties will have any effect upon what I do.

Missions other than what I have outlined above are, I feel, always partisan and always, ultimately, doomed to failure. Our ex-Prime Minister, Tony Blair was, if you recall, on a mission to save mankind from Saddam Hussein when he committed troops to invade Iraq alongside the Americans in 2003. That went well. Not!

So Nadel’s New Year message, such as it is from an old sinner like me, is do your best, care, show compassion, but do NOT try to change people’s heads. Let people have that little space. For some folk in our troubled world, that is the only space they actually possess.

My Relationship with Susan Boyle

There are probably only two people on the planet who haven’t heard of Susan Boyle. Knowing my luck, both of you will be reading this blob so I’ll give you a quick rundown of the tumultuous events that led to her becoming the most viewed person on Youtube, ever, and the artist with the best selling album in the UK in 2009. Susan, a Scott of Irish parents, is the youngest of ten children. Until this year she was volunteering at the local church, singing karaoke and knitting socks for sailors. She is, what used to be called a ‘spinster’. It’s too bad that word is now banned in educated circles because it suits her very nicely. In her own words she’s “Never been kissed,” which, if you consider just how yucky kissing is, might not be a bad thing. But, some unkind folk might describe her as the type of person you’d duck behind the frozen produce section of the supermarket to avoid. When she strutted out on the stage at ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ in her shiny sack of a dress and her frizzy licorice candy floss hairstyle I’d not be surprised if every member of the studio audience cringed and summoned to mind an embarrassing relative they’d hate to see on national television. The strains of I Dreamed a Dream filled the auditorium, the audience gritted its collective teeth and closed its eyes and the unthinkable happened. Susan Boyle sang like an angel (Not that I’ve ever met anyone sober who’s actually heard an angel sing). The viewers, ashamed to a man to have expected so little, gave the frumpy church volunteer a standing ovation and the rest, as they say, is history. She’s a millionaire several times over and next month she’s off to sing for Abigail Bartlet at the White House.

The point isn’t merely an expression of jealousy. It’s this. When Susan stepped out onto the stage she didn’t just suddenly develop a singing voice. She’d had it for forty odd years. Her light had been kept under a wide and slightly saggy bushel but it was there. She’d just fallen off the edge of her equilibrium at what Malcolm Gladwell called the Tipping Point. There was a lot of complicated stuff in that book I was forced to skip over because I played rugby when I was young and got hit on the head a lot, but basically I think he was trying to say that there comes a time when losers can get lucky. Take Lin Ping for example. Lin Ping was born a loser. Lin Ping is a panda. The panda is an endangered specie which I suppose is to be expected of a beast with a lot of meat and few self-defense skills. Had she been born in the wild she’d undoubtedly be dead by now. But Lin Ping hit her tipping point even before she was born. She was begat by Chuang Chuang and Lin Hui at the Chiang Mai zoo and is by far the biggest celebrity in Thailand. She’s been visited by royalty and movie stars and Susan Boyle. Lin Ping has her own Facebook page and (this is true) a 24-hour reality cable channel where you can watch her sleep twenty-three hours a day. There is a very fine line between fame and being eaten by wildcats.

Writers are notorious for inadvertently slipping out of obscurity and becoming overnight sensations after years of being nobody. Raymond Chandler wrote his first novel, the Big Sleep, when he was in his fifties because his wife told him she didn’t want to be married to an alcoholic bookkeeper any longer. William Burroughs had to actually shoot his wife to stimulate a literary career. Roald Dahl had an airplane crash and wrote notes about it at the behest of C.S. Forester. The latter submitted those notes to a magazine under Dahl’s by-line thus convincing Dahl he could write. After twelve rejections, J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter was published because the publisher’s eight-year-old daughter picked up the first chapter and liked it. Dan Brown was discovered whilst spray painting blasphemy on the back wall of a church. (Okay, I made that last one up). The list would go on but my Google finger is exhausted. I suppose what I need to say here is, “I’m ready for my tipping point now, Mr. Gladwell”. It doesn’t take a lot of skill. Just a heavy dollop of good luck. My book falling out the back of Tiger Wood’s crashed car. The relocation of Guantanamo to the bog behind our house. David Beckham announcing that Brooklyn has already devoured the first seven Dr. Siri books and is eagerly awaiting the eighth. Pak Nam Lang Suan – specifically Jess’s oven – proven to be the core of global warming. Little things like that can make all the difference. I could rocket to the celebrity author A list. Yes, skill plays a part but it isn’t compulsory. Even Paris Hilton had a tipping point although I think a porn tape starring me might just tip me in the wrong direction.

No, I think I have to go the way of Susan. Make everyone think I’m just a frumpy, unwanted, penniless, cozy mystery writer then whip out my Bic and let the angels do the job for me. If only I could sing.

Reasons to Write and Reasons Not to Write

Every author has there own private reasons why they devote precious hours of their lives to writing a book. For this author, it is the passion I have for constructing the narrative and characters. Writing for me is unlocking a door to a room where I enter into the fictional realm. This realm feels as real as the real one. The line between sanity and the loony bin is remembering there is such a distinction.

I have far more control in the fictional world than in the real world, where like everyone else, control over most things is elusive at best.

In the world of writers there is more than a fair share of delusion. Two spring to mind. That secretly the writer feels that his or her story is so original, unique and compelling that it will be sell millions of copies and they will appear on the cover of Time magazine, receive a call from Stockholm, and Christmas cards from William Buffet and Bill Gates saying, “Welcome to the club.”

Publishing is a business where a few authors make most of the money. It makes getting a starting spot on a professional sports seem egalitarian. Here’s some hard numbers from The Telegraph (UK) about authors in the UK.

“The top 100 authors dominate sales. As The Bookseller has explained, some 100,000 titles are published every year, but these authors account for £1 in every £6 spent on books and a fifth of revenue. J K Rowling, who has seven of the decade’s top 10 bestsellers, sold 29 million books with a sales value of £215 million, but Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code was the bestselling book of the decade, selling 5.2 million copies to 4.4 million for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.”

Here are the top ten best selling authors in the UK:

1 J K Rowling 29,084,999 £225.9m
2 Roger Hargreaves 14,163,141 £26.6m
3 Dan Brown 13,372,007 £74.1m
4 Jacqueline Wilson 12,673,148 £69.9m
5 Terry Pratchett 10,455,397 £77.2m
6 John Grisham 9,862,998 £65.9m
7 Richard Parsons 9,561,776 £49.2m
8 Danielle Steel 9,119,149 £51m
9 James Patterson 8,172,647 £53.8m
10 Enid Blyton 7,910,758 £31.2m

If you are lucky enough to get a mainstream publisher in London or New York, you must be realistic that getting the call doesn’t mean you are going to break into the top ten or even the top hundred. That is an exclusive club. And even within the club you can see a huge drop between #1 and #2 spots on the list.

In the United States, how many people are book readers? That is a central question that any author needs to keep in mind. There might be 300 million people in the United States but that isn’t the market for books. It is much smaller. The former executive editor in chief at Random House, Jim Milliot has written an inside examination of what goes on inside of the mind of those in publishing houses who acquire books. There always will be the one or two authors with mega sales. And people read about those sales and figure I can write a book better than that.

People working in publishing houses are more realistic about the prospect of a book selling in large numbers. In many cases, the hugely successful bestseller is bought by people who don’t fall into the category of hardcore readers of fiction (or non-fiction). Not everyone has an interest in reading as a diversion or a form of entertainment. It doesn’t make them less intelligent, thoughtful and creative; it is just they rarely buy a book. They spend their leisure time on other activities.

The chances of being struck by a meteorite are greater than your book hitting the sales numbers of a Dan Brown or J.K. Rowling. But the volume of book sales does raise an interesting question: When the fans who buy a Brown or Rowling book are deducted from the pool of regular book readers how many are leftover?

“When you are trying to acquire books that hundreds of thousands of people will buy, read, and like, you have to have some of the eclectic and demotic taste of the reading public. I have this completely unfounded theory that there are a million very good — engaged, smart, enthusiastic — generalist readers in America. There are five hundred thousand extremely good such readers. There are two hundred and fifty thousand excellent readers. There are a hundred and twenty-five thousand alert, active, demanding, well-educated (sometimes self-well-educated), and thoughtful — that is, literarily superb — readers in America. More than half of those people will happen not to have the time or taste for the book you are publishing.”

Link:http://bnreview.barnesandnoble.com/t5/Reviews-Essays/Redactor-Agonistes/ba-p/1367

Lesson: don’t write in order to become rich. Almost any job will produce a living with better hours, benefits and pay.

And so you are thinking, but yes, that’s the old publishing model. The ebook revolution gives me a chance to break into the exclusive list. This is more delusional thinking. Ebook sales remain a tiny fraction of overall sales. The revenues to those in the top ten from ebook sales could be classified as a rounding off error. As thousands if not millions of more writers seek to go directly to the ebook route to publication, it will be nearly impossible for any writer to make as much as a panhandler working the lunchtime crowd in Union Square.

The second delusion is that success translates into endurance over the long run. Books come and go. Some make a big splash and then like a rock thrown into a lake sink to the bottom and forgotten about. Others stick around for 20 or 30 years before drifting to the bottom. Here’s the top 15 ebooks listed on Project Gutenburg as the most popular for 23rd December. No doubt in a month other books will be on the list and others will disappear.

  • A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens (638)
  • The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (378)
  • The Kama Sutra of Vatsyayana by Vatsyayana (347)
  • The Outline of Science, Vol. 1 (of 4) by J. Arthur Thomson (323)
  • Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen (321)
  • Manners, Customs, and Dress During the Middle Ages and During the Renaissance Period by P. L. Jacob (289)
  • Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll (283)
  • Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion by David Hume (266)
  • The Art of War by Sunzi 6th cent. B.C. (253)
  • Illustrated History of Furniture by Frederick Litchfield (229)
  • Ulysses by James Joyce (212)
  • The Arabian Nights Entertainments by Anonymous (210)
  • Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain (199)
  • The Edge of the Knife by H. Beam Piper (198)
  • A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens (197)

Of course popularity must be placed in the context that these books are ebooks, free, and easy to download.

Not even a Nobel Prize is any indication of durability for an author or book. Project Gutenburg lists Nobel Prize winner for literature. Here are some author’s who won the prize that you aren’t likely to find in your bookstore or in literary discussions with your friends.

1903 Bjornstjerne BJORNSON (1832-1910)
1905 Henryk SIENKIEWICZ (1846-1916)
1910 Paul HEYSE (1830-1914)
1911 Maurice MAETERLINCK (1862-1949)
1913 Rabindranath TAGORE (1861-1941)
1921 Anatole FRANCE (1844-1924)
1927 Henri BERGSON (1859-1941)
1934 Luigi PIRANDELLO (1867-1936)

These authors won the highest literary prize for literature.

Tagore and France might ring a bell for some but the others? Stones in the bottom of the lake.

Lesson: don’t live your life as an author based on a deluded sense that immorality is yours if only you can get your book published. Live your life every day as if it is the last day on the planet. If you manage to float for awhile in the huge lake of eternal time think of that as a miracle. Sometimes miracles occur. Like a black swan the unexpected happens. But black swans are events outside of anyone’s control and should be outside of the way you decide to live your life.

Write because it is a journey you feel compelled to take. Write to explore idea, cultures and language. Write because the pleasure that comes from constructing a scene, a character, story or dialogue gives you a sense of bliss. Write because it helps you understand yourself, the world, and those you love and care about. But don’t lock yourself in a room to write because you dream of riches and fame. That’s a mug’s game.

Setting up an author blog

Because I’m such a hip and happening author, I’m redoing my blog. Actually, I’m not redoing it. My friend Harry’s doing it. He’s hip and happening. The point of the blog is to make me LOOK that way.

Until now I’ve mused about the writing of my books, my book tours and research, about the world of publishing and otherwise, on Blogger. Which is simple and easy to use. However, I’m informed by friends who know about these things that Blogger looks dreadfully old-fashioned and that it’s not so easy to do anything but the simplest things on it.

So change I must. This is where Harry Rubenstein, who sings in Jerusalem’s most obscure band, in which I play bass, steps in. He also has a company which consults on company web sites and sets up professional blogs. Harry is doing my blog for nothing, because he’s a friend and because I’ve promised to base a character on him in a future novel who will either be killed or have fried artichoke thrown in his face.

[Note: This isn’t going to be one of those sad authorial blog posts which lament the fact that writers can no longer sit alone in their rooms for years thinking great thoughts before having to face the world. (If that’s how I viewed blogging, I wouldn’t write a blog post about it. Surprising how many writers don’t quite get that irony…)]

I’m quite happy to engage in blogging, social networking, making videos for Youtube, guest blogging and virtual book-touring. (Only “quite happy,” because after all I’m not a teenager.) I’ve put a lot of time into making www.mattbeynonrees.com a good central site for all interviews and articles and reviews… and photos and audio and video… and stuff in foreign languages… and links to my social networking profiles.

But the blog didn’t look so good. Time for a change.

As I’ve had professional help with this, I thought I’d lay out for any writer out there who’s getting more into the interweb thingy (pretty much everyone, if the people I meet at crime writing conferences are a representative sample) how to go about it.

First, the blog needs to be on WordPress. Word Press isn’t as simple to set up as Blogger. You may need a computer savvy type to help you create the blog.

Get your domain name (the www…etc.) and sign up for a server. A good server provider is BlueHost.com.

Set up a blog account at WordPress. But, you say, that gives you a page that looks very basic, too basic in fact. For the “theme” that makes it look like an actual blog, you go to a site like Woothemes or Themeforest. Pick one you like, then get your computer savvy friend to, as it were, superimpose the theme over the basic blog.

Still with your computer savvy friend, put in a few widgets. Most of these are invisible to the blog reader (spam filters, for example), but others can be seen. Like the Youtube widget which allows you to embed a Youtube video on your homepage.

Ok, so now you’ve got a blog. Which is where Blogger stops.

But WordPress has what’re called static pages. That’s more like a website. You have the blog page, probably as your Homepage. But then you have a tool bar along the top with other static pages. Let’s say those pages are: About (your bio,) Books (yours, of course), Contact.

To sign up for a good Contact form, rather than having people email you, go to http://kontactr.com/signup/.

Then you can quite easily load up the other pages with all the stuff that you might otherwise put onto a website. The WordPress blog can, essentially, be your website. The web designer who made my main website says she now designs all her sites on Word Press.

Once you’ve sat with your computer pal in front of your new WordPress dashboard for just a matter of minutes you’ll be able to post your blog musings with natty little photos beside them. You’ll post links to other people’s websites. They will in turn post links to yours and make you famous all over the internet.

Then, when your eyes are so blurry you can’t really see any more… Well, then it’s time for you to go and write your book. For the checklist on how to do that, you’ll have to wait for another week…

New Beginnings

There is an old saying amongst authors that you are ‘only as good as your last book’. I think that most of us would agree that there is a lot of truth in this. That said, I have had the experience of having a book savaged by a critic which then went on to win a major award. In this business there is very little that is fixed and opinions amongst critics do, and always have, differed. What has changed is that now the opinions on books by members of the public are also widely broadcast, on the Internet. It’s great that people can express themselves on Amazon or on one of the many sites that exist to encourage discussion and debate. Great, but sometimes for an author, daunting.

On January 7th 2010 my new İkmen book ‘Death by Design’ will be published in the UK. The plot is based around the shady world of counterfeit luxury goods and, for the first time ever, it sees İkmen operating, in part, outside Turkey. This reflects and is meant to reflect the reality of the ‘knock-off’ trade which is now international. My point being that criminal organisations are no longer limited in either their actions, their geographical locations or their demographical make-up. Some people want money and power and some of those are willing to go anywhere, do anything and, figuratively, get into bed with anyone, in order to achieve their ambitions. It is an alarming development which, though hardly new, is now that much more efficient due, in large part, to the Internet. Worldwide communication is now instant. Long gone are the days when you had to book a telephone call from İstanbul to London at least two hours in advance. And that is a good thing – or not.

I’ve always looked forward to the publication of all my books. Not only do I get paid but I also get to find out what other people think about what I have done. Looking at reviews in the national press was always and continues to be both exciting and a little worrying. Now however, one must or rather could, look on the net as well. Reviews of best selling books are everywhere ranging in tone from the slavishly sycophantic through to the viscerally vicious. Reviews of books like mine are also pretty common too. In his ‘The Lost People of Amazon’ blog back in November, Colin made some very good and very sensible observations on just this phenomenon. Some people will genuinely not ‘get’ my book and that is fine – what will they make of İkmen outside Turkey for instance? But some will vent their bitter spleen and there is nothing any of us can do about it.

I have heard that some authors do sometimes respond to bad reader reviews. But I am not and will never be one of them. Why? Well, I have this friend who runs a small hotel in Turkey. This place no longer has a physical guest book but does invite comment on its website. Most of these are very complimentary. One a few years ago, however was not. The guest clearly didn’t ‘get’ the place at all. My friend who was upset by this, very gently expressed sorrow and tried to explain. What developed from this was, to my way of thinking, a case of stalking. Every day brought another tirade of abuse which went on for over a year. Personally I would have informed the authorities, but my friend is a gentle soul and would not have wanted to get this erstwhile ‘guest’ into trouble.

So I may or may not read reviews of ‘Death by Design’ but then again I might possibly just stick my fingers in my ears and sing ‘La! La! La! La! La!’

My Book the Movie

WARNING – THIS IS A USED BLOB

Last week I mentioned something about Keanu Reeves NOT taking out a movie option on Dr. Siri. It reminded me of a guest blob I did a while back for Marshal Zeringue who has a whole aviary of fascinating blob sites you can find through http://mybookthemovie.blogspot.com. Marshal has very kindly given me permission to recycle that blob. This was my take on how I would cast Curse of the Pogo Stick were it left up to me and a couple of glasses of red.

It’s my own silly fault. I know that now. How am I ever going to break into Hollywood without a western protagonist? My sin, you see, is that all my characters are Lao. So far in the series there have been only one direct and one peripheral role for honkies and one of those was a Soviet circus performer. How can I get my movie made without any A-list actors queued up to play the main role of Dr. Siri Paiboun?

We could use makeup I suppose. In fifteen movies, Charlie Chan was played by a Swede, Warner Oland, and nobody noticed he was a Norseman. (I hesitate to suggest there was any racism involved in the fact that audiences could so happily accept him as an émigré from mainland China.) When poor old Warner passed away, who took over the mantle of the most famous Chinese in the west? Sidney Toler, a Scot. When they were looking for an actor to play Kentaro Moto, in a popular series about a Japanese secret agent they needed to look no further than Peter Lorre, the world’s most famous Hungarian. And after Lorre had made a Japanese name for himself in eight feature films, when it came to a remake, The Return of Mr. Moto, even as late as 1965, who did they call? (Sidney Toler was busy), good old Henry Silva, a New York Sicilian. It looks like there just weren’t any real Asians around in them days.

So, assuming we go with the clothes pegs behind the ears method, who should I ring in? I figure if they could make Dustin Hoffman look a hundred in Little Big Man, surely they could make him Asian. But if we’re going American, I suppose we’d have to look at the box office hotties first and work our way down the list. Tom Cruise has the height requirements but Siri would be a franchise and Tommy doubles his fees for sequels. Bruce Willis couldn’t make a movie where he doesn’t take off his shirt. No, I think I’ll go with Will Smith. He’s on a rocket these days, and I saw what those special effects wallah’s did with the Wayan brothers in White Chicks. So, good, we have Will as Dr. Siri. From there it should be easy. Even when I was writing the first book I had Paris Hilton pegged for Nurse Dtui. All right, she’s on the light side but she’s a serious method actress and for the opportunity to win a role like this I’d bet she’d eat her little heart out. I’ll go with Will Ferrell as inspector Phosy just for the whimsical hell of it. We need a ‘serious actor’ to bring some legitimacy to this project, so, of the available Oscar winners, I’m going with Sir Anthony Hopkins whose Comrade Civilai would be the perfect foil for Smith’s Dr. Siri.

Of course there will be certain pressures from the studio. They might argue that with all these non-Asian actors in key roles, wouldn’t it be more economical in the long run to just relocate the story to Los Angeles? I’d make feeble arguments about sense of place and history, they’d offer me lots more money, and the next thing you know, the Mahosot morgue is a road-kill clearing center just outside Santa Monica. (I’ve already started this adaptation just in case.) Siri, now Sol Prospero, of African /Nicaraguan descent, trained in New York as a classical dancer now finds himself reluctantly running the road kill center. But the ghosts of the flattened animals talk to him and he sets out to find who ran them over…that sort of thing. Unless it became really popular I’d disclaim all responsibility for it and say Hollywood destroyed a perfectly good book.

That’s the path you’re inevitably led down if you start messing with your ethnicity. But I’m just as buggered if I try to tap into the tiny pool of Asian actors who have been let in through the tradesman’s entrance of Hollywood. I suppose another one of my faults is that I’ve created an Asian character who doesn’t perform martial arts. Really, what use is he? If I’d only had the foresight to give Siri a black belt in something, I know we’d be on the big screen already: Yun-Fat Chow as the wise, brooding, Kung Fu kicking, Dr. Siri Paiboun. Ken Watanabe as the swarthy, dark-browed, samurai sword swinging, Comrade Civilai. Gong Li as the lithe, pert-breasted, karate chopping, nurse Dtui. It really is the only way we’ll get on the screen in North America. I mean, who’s going to find a bunch of non-arse-kicking, wall-climbing, impossible-somersaulting, tree-flying Asians credible?

The Schadenfreude Chronicles

Schadenfreude is one of those German words you find in articles about people like Tiger Woods, Eliot Spitzer, Mark Sanford, David Letterman, and others who find their infidelities have crashed through their careers, marriages, and social standing. Letterman emerged with few visible wounds. The others are, as they say, burnt toast. Back to the German word which derives from Schaden, “adversity, harm”, and Freude, “joy.”

The question is why people seem to experience so much joy as they watch others fall from the high point of success and go splat on the pavement and roll into the gutter. What is it that makes people high on their pain and suffering? And the third question, is schadenfreude one of those Western concepts that doesn’t translate into Asian cultures such as Thailand?

The closest cousin to schadenfreude in Thai is the phrase สมน้ำหน้า, som nam na. It crops up most often in Thailand when there is someone you don’t like who has been visited by misfortune. It might be the cranky, demanding boss who trips and falls down the stairs. Or it might be a noisy neighbor who is arrested for domestic violence. The general translation into English of som nam na is along the lines: “He/She got what he/she deserved”; “Serves him right”; or “I’m laughing at your misfortune.”

The heart of the Thai view is one of cosmic justice being visited. The person who is judged to be a bad person or disliked is punished and the larger forces of the universe are thought to be the agency for such justice.

But this isn’t really in the same league as full-blown schadenfreude. As in the schadenfreude cultures, the person who has fallen is not disliked or hated; he or she, to the contrary is greatly admired. And that admiration is often closely linked with the person’s starring role as following the strict moral codes of society. The trio of Tiger Woods, Eliot Spitzer and Mark Sanford were banished not for a failure of job performance. They stumbled and fell over the moral code they had come to be associated with. Their brand image was honed as being the best shining examples of the moral values of their culture.

With schadenfreude in the Western sense is the person who assumes the mantle of virtue and then violates the moral code of upon which virtue rest is pretty much destroyed. It’s not in the same league as the hated boss who stumbled over a stray soi dog and scrapped his hands. Tiger Woods is out of the game of golf—at least for an immediate future. Eliot Spitzer and Mark Sanford wander the earth like Marley’s ghost in the afterlife of politics. Because they were caught with having sex with women other than their wives. And the press was happy to play the part of Scourge.

Studies in the West have demonstrated the reality of this delight in ruin of the lives of others who fail to live up to their moral hype. One theory is watching a powerful person fail due to a gotcha moment of destruction increases their self-esteem. I am more inclined to the view that secretly many people in morally strict cultures are happy to see the high and mighty to preach a good sermon end upon on tabloids next to a picture of a smiling hooker. It redeems their secret belief that no one can ever fully meet such a demanding code and those who seem the most pure are simply faking it.

This makes sense in a weird way once we concede that like other primates we live in a complicated social, economic and political hierarchy. There are those above us and those below us. There are those on your own level. Your friends, neighbors, family are mainly at the same level. You may know someone who sweeps the streets for a living and someone who is a famous singer, comic, movie star, politician, or (sound of clearing of the throat) professional golfer. But if the guy sweeping the street is caught in an infidelity and his wife leaves him you are unlikely to feel schadenfreude. You will more likely feel pity or compassion. But if that famous guy everyone admires is caught in a short time hotel and it broadcast on the BBC, CNN, Huffington Post and The NewYork Times, you may be quietly dancing and singing with joy. “You see, the guy can hit the ball 400 feet in a straight line but will jump into the bed of a pretty waitress faster than a short order cook can deliver a ham and cheese sandwich.”

Is this emotional reaction to the disclosure of moral lapses hard-wired in our species? Or is it a product of our distinctive culture? On the surface, it doesn’t appear that every culture has the same appetite for Schadenfreude. But going below the surface it may be that, given the chance, we are all candidates for experiencing the joy that is schadenfreude. The more stringent the moral code, the harder the fall; the more joy in watching the front men for that code tumble to the ground.

People—regardless of culture—live inside a fairly confined power structure. Most people learn (and are taught) it is in their best interest to keep their head down, get on with their jobs, families and lives. Not to make waves. Go along to get along. But there is a class of individuals who seek to break out from the pack. Let’s call them the strivers. These are highly ambitious people we remember from school who actually studied and wanted to do well and make us look like slackers. We never forgave them. Even though we admired their accomplishments, their discipline, their efforts, and courage, in our heart of hearts, they made us feel inadequate. Faithful, loyal, always correct and proper, never out of line. We wished to be them and held a secret grudge against them for our own failings.

It gets worse. One experiment suggested that it’s men who get the adrenaline high of super job in seeing someone up the social chain kicked in the teeth. Women, as it turns out have more empathy. The major cause is the envy men feel toward the accomplishments of other men and the access successful men have to women. The joy is released from the dark place of secret envy. Not that Thais are immune from envy. It is a human condition and it is certainly present in social life. The issue here is envy coupled with another person’s fall or failure that inflicts pain and suffering on that person. Thais, in this case, don’t feel the same sense of joy. The reason is the Tiger Woods of the larger world don’t build a marketing empire based on following the precepts of Christian morality. When they fail and fall, it isn’t because of a sexual moral lapse. They may have been caught cheating, lying, stealing, murdering, maiming or other like sins. Sexual adventures don’t figure into the picture as they do in the West. This frees the Thais to be more detached emotionally as they interpret what has happened to the person as the result of cosmic justice. The ledger has been balanced. The ying and yang restored.

In Buddhism there is the Pali concept of mudita or “sympathetic joy” or “happiness in another’s good fortune,” which is the reverse of schadenfreude. A case can be made that women have the mudita gene and men don’t. Thailand being a Buddhist country, the idea of mudita may have taken seed and in that garden of schadenfreude, like an evil weed, simply hasn’t done all that well. There is another Thai concept somphet that translates as feeling pity for another’s misfortune. The downfall evokes sorrow or sadness, mixed with pity and compassion, and possibly a little bit of contempt. Someone who induces the feeling of somphet is called na somphet: pathetic. What is absent, though is a sense of joy as in schadenfreude.

Another possibility is that schadenfreude is way to judge the way men accept their place in the existing power structure. If that power structure is contested, and men down the hierarchy feel a sense of unfairness, then the fall of someone powerful offers them a rare opportunity to experience joy of seeing another humbled. That person, after all by falling, merely proves that those above them are no different or better, and all the money and power and wealth can’t protect them from their own excesses. In Thailand, until recent events, most people have accepted with a kind of fatalism their place in the hierarchy. In the West, strivers use the moral code to fast track up the success ladder. Sponsors and voters love the family man who only has eyes for his wife, kids and law mower.

In Thailand if someone above them fails, it doesn’t really give a sense of joy. Just the opposite; it is a sense of fear and gloom as there is security in a power structure where everyone knows their place, rank and status. If one leads a good life, then there is a chance of being reborn to a higher place in the hierarchy. Conversely, if someone with higher standing does something bad, that person will suffer by being reborn to a lesser rank. Schadenfreude has a cosmic, more long-range implication. It is part of the long-range missile system that locks on and shoots down the moral offenders, giving the audience a reason to stand up, applaud and dance with joy.

If the Thai power structure was more egalitarian and moralistic about infidelity, Thais might share the experience of schadenfreude in seeing their fellow Thais fall down from the upper echelons of society. But I suspect that the more rigid Thai power structure may have prevented such a fall in all but the most serious cases. Some sections of society contain people who are too big to fail. The place in the structure doesn’t necessarily correspond to highly ambitious striving individuals but people who occupy a position in the structure for other reasons. Morality is a personal matter. It doesn’t figure into downfalls that produce joy. This isn’t just a peculiar feature of Thai culture, I’d venture to say it is prevalent in many non-Western cultures. China comes to mind.

Those who are allowed to fail are a narrower category than in the West, where anyone can suffer a self-inflicted loss. There is no structured protection in the protection. The other woman can get paid money to spill the beans on anyone. No one in that system is safe from such a scandal. But in Thailand it is more natural to feel sorrow or pity for those who do fall, as they are the ones who, as it turns out, weren’t powerful enough to be granted immunity to the fickle gods who visit failure.

We envy other people’s luck, success, and power. We have an emotional reaction when such a person falls. We can call it schadenfreude. But it is raw emotion. The longer and harder the fall, the more joy and delight. With the Thais, they also feel this joy and delight but the nature and degree of the fall is different. The low-ranking Thais have no dreams of reaching for the stars. Opening a beauty salon or corner store is a common aim. But ambition, in the Western sense, is looked upon in a negative way in Thai culture. You stay at your station in life. Your expectations are to improve your lot but not to reinvent yourself into a high status person. This is a big divide between Thai culture and Western culture.

What rubs Thais the wrong way is when an individual tries to break free of the existing power structure and to go far beyond their rank. An ambitious ‘commoner’ politician using populist techniques to reach to the sky is viewed by many as highly unbecoming and grating to the Thai sensibilities. When such a person fails, the Thais say som nam na, but don’t necessary feel any joy or delight. They have more a feeling of satisfaction that the social universe remains intact. If such a person is married and has a string of lovers on the side, no one takes notice. And there is a good reason: that striver isn’t putting himself on a moral pedestal.

Some years ago when the overwhelming majority of Thais who supported the official policy of extra judicial execution of so-called drug dealers. The murder of these people brought the community a sense of justice. The policy personalized a collective sense of justice to kill the so-called bad guys. Even if a number of the murdered people turned out not to be drug dealers, that was thought to be a small price to pay in order to justify the larger sense of communal justice.

People who are truly powerful in some cultures are never allowed to fall. The social and political system provides them with cover, immunity, and protection. There is little or no opportunity for schadenfreude to operate within this protected class. To fall in the Western sense, means exposure to failure follows a person up the ladder of success. In Thailand when someone fails it means they had no real status or power so there is little joy, perhaps except among his enemies. Because that person has been thrown to the hungry dogs is not so much a cause for joy but either a cleansing by the community as a whole or reinforcement that those who strive for the stars are playing a dangerous game which in a system structured with a high probability such a person will fail.

What did the person do to cause his down fall? As mentioned before, in each case of Tiger Woods, Eliot Spitzer and Mark Sanford, it was the exposure of their infidelity that was the cause of their fall from the height of power and fame. In the Western media there were reports of enough schadenfreude if harassed to a power grid, the joy could have fueled electrical generators from New York to London. But the lights in Bangkok would have required the old-fashion supply of energy to shine. It is not just how a culture protects and defines its social structure, it is also about what kinds of activities that subject a person to humiliation of the sort that will destroy their career.

A case can be made that Tiger Woods, Eliot Spitzer and Mark Sanford’s extra-martial activities wouldn’t have set off the same reaction in Thailand, and in many other places in Asia. Certainly there would have been those who would have condemned the actions, and they would have had their say. But would the three men have been abandoned by all, forced into an exile from their careers, separated from their fame and power? The answer is schadenfreude based on the moral values in one culture doesn’t translate directly into how another culture’s elites are wire for success and failure. And that is a cause that leaves people in both cultures scratching their heads trying to understand the emotional reactions of the other.

Bad Language

“I don’t think the Lao talk like that,” she said.

“Of course they don’t,” I agreed. “They speak Lao.”

“So why don’t you make the conversations more reflective of the way they actually talk?”

“And how would you like me to go about that?”

She was a short, elderly lady with a salmon rinse but there was a fire extinguisher within easy reach and it wouldn’t have been that difficult for me to grab it and extinguish her. She’d stalked me to the bar after my modest public appearance in Washington and bolted herself into my personal space like an unwanted bathroom fitting. Like Tiger, I try to keep my private life private (but not, my dear wife, for the same reasons) and I was hoping for some time with old friends before my flight later that night. But salmon head continued to harangue.

The language question didn’t come up as often as I’d expected it to. But when it did it was invariably from people who’d never been to Laos, or Asia, or out of their towns. An email writer once suggested my characters all spoke like Brits in a pub. I think his intention was to wound me but I considered it something of an achievement. Let me take you back to my initial editorial meeting with myself before the first Siri book was published.

I had three possible linguistic roads to travel, four if you include throwing in a token white guy and having all my characters talk to him in English. But token white guys had been grossly overused and I didn’t want any in my books, thereby screwing up any chance of Keanu Reeves buying my movie rights. So I had Lao characters speaking together in Lao language. My options were, A. Translate word for word. B. Use an internationally acceptable Chinamanspeak, or, C. Apply colloquial English appropriate for the characters.

I did make attempts at A. Here’s what a conversation between Siri and Civilai would look like if it were translated directly from Lao.

Siri: Brother hungry for water, yes? Have alcohol rice be house.

Civilai: Wife of I not want have I eat alcohol.

Siri: So, not necessary must tell.

Civilai: Fun a lot.

Siri: Older brother must go room water before.

Civilai: Ha! Sack urine of brother not strong.

Siri: Thank heart.

Civilai: Not is a thing.

Hemmingway did something similar in For Whom the Bell Tolls (“How do they call thou, friend?” and “I obscenityin the milk.”) and got away with it. So it was an option and there might eventually have been a Nobel Prize on the end of it. But it was just too damned annoying.

So I looked at option B. There are, I discovered, one or two internationally accepted Asia-speaks. They all involve speech impediments of some kind. For example, you can’t go far wrong with the good old ‘r’ to ‘l’ juxtaposition as perfected by Cato in the Pink Panther movies, “I’m velly solly, Inspector Crouseau.”

Then there’s just plum grammatically wrong. “He good horse. No buck.” (Hop Sing, Bonanza). But all that sloppy syntax and pronunciation can be forgiven if you know when to throw in a handful of inscrutability. “Hasty conclusion like toy balloon – easy blow up, easy pop.” (Charlie Chan). All I needed to do was have Dr. Siri throw out lines such as, “Ah so. Autopsy rike communist party – rots of guts and heart but no bleathing.” But my problem was Siri and Civilai didn’t speak incorrectly. They were educated men and had mastered their own language with a certain amount of aplomb. They discussed politics and told jokes. And funny stories are notoriously unfunny in translation. (Case in point. Joke I just heard on the Thai radio: “I bought medicine yesterday. It cost 30,000 baht.” “What medicine costs 30,000 baht?” “Yamaha.”) Pause for laughter.

So, what could I do? I resorted to option C. At my intimate editorial meeting I decided that I wanted to show the relationships between the characters, and the best way to do that was through a medium that my readers could relate to. I wanted them to imagine sitting with these old men in a pub in Sussex or a bar in Queens bemoaning the state of the government. And to be honest, we aren’t worlds apart. Every unwashed, rantingly annoying street bum in London has counterparts in Moscow, Los Angeles, Bujumbura… and Vientiane. And I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a small elderly woman with a salmon rinse haranguing some poor minor celebrity right this second somewhere along the banks of the Mekhong.

How weird is your life?

I was in London last week where, amongst other things, I met up with a friend from Turkey. P is an ex-pat who has lived in Turkey for some years but who still has family in the UK. She was in London to look after one of her relatives who recently had to have an operation. When I met up with her she was tired and quite worn out by her recent exertions – not with her relative, but with the bureaucracy she’d had to go through to get her relative even the most basic community care.

The treatment P’s relative received in hospital was adequate. It was however the issue about ‘what happens next?’ that caused the problems. Having worked in health myself, what my friend then told me about left hands not knowing what right hands are doing, about off-hand and disinterested practitioners and time-scales of staggering uncertainty and wooliness were nothing new to me. What was new was her shock as an ex-pat of some years standing. Her horror and sadness at the fabulous system she remembered, weighted down by leaden bureaucracy, insane targets, pathological fear of litigation and the legacy of successive governments initiatives to ‘improve’ the National Health Service, were written on her face like curses.

‘It’s like Kafka,’ she told me. ‘It’s like being in the bloody ‘Trial’!’

And of course subliminally I know this. I have several sick relatives that I have to take to various hospitals and health centres and those places are generally full of well-meaning people. But every visit is exhausting both for my relatives and for me and this is mainly because what happens to a sick person in the community is in no way ‘joined up’ – to use a once much loved governmental term. You get your pills from one place, your physio from another, you might be able to talk to someone about aids and adaptations for your home but then maybe that won’t be possible after all. If you need a wheelchair that may arrive while you still need it as may your welfare benefits. But if they don’t then, hey, there it is, the way it is. Oh and if your doctor is still reminding you about an upcoming smear test when you’ve been dead for six months your relatives had better not complain because it isn’t the doctor’s fault. It’s just The System. All these things are. Just The System.

Well, it stinks. P and her troubles made me think again about these things and look at just how weird my life as a person involved in care really is. It doesn’t need to be of course but then that is assuming the non-existence of The System. We are indeed very fortunate here in the UK to have an National Health System at all. I know that. I know how much health care costs elsewhere and I am cognisant of just how lucky we are. But all the paper-shuffling, the counting of things that don’t count, the fear of people and the lack of understanding of how people are when they are ill or in pain has to stop. If it doesn’t then one day The System will fall down and, as well as taking all of its poor suffering patients, nurses and other staff with it, it will also bring down all those who make their living from complicating the whole thing. Those who make policy, who attempt to ‘join’ us all ‘up’ should think on. One day The System might just make an end of you.

The Authors


Barbara Nadel


Christoper G. Moore


Colin Cotterill


Matt Beynon Rees












COUNTER 155146
(since July 15th, 2009)