The crime writer on bingeing on West Wing, taking time out on computer games and the joys of first-class train travel
Illustration by Alan Vest
When I first became a full-time writer, I mostly had writing days. People seldom wanted to listen to me read, consult my opinion or watch me perform. But the combination of success and the proliferation of literary festivals and media platforms has profoundly altered the even tenor of my mostly isolated days.
That’s probably a benefit; the observation and the company of others is, after all, what provides a writer with raw material. Left to our own devices, we’ve got a tendency to adopt the habits of a hermit crab.
I tend to write in 20‑minute bursts. That seems to be the length of my concentration span
Now I try to carve out a chunk of the year when the other calls on my time are kept to a minimum. Three or four months when I can more or less stay at home and write. January, February, March and, when I can get away with it, into April. When the weather is at its most miserable and I mind being indoors least. But my life is complicated, so even then I spend the equivalent of one of most people’s working days on trains each week.
AS she prepares to release her 30th novel this week, there’s little doubt that Val McDermid is one of Scotland’s most prolific writers.
Throw in non-fiction releases, a kids’ book, short story collections, some plays and radio dramas – all in less than 30 years – and you would be right in thinking the ideas run thick and fast.
But there was one time in her career when Val suffered writers’ block – and the experience left her so frazzled she made sure it would never happen again. “About 12 years ago I changed my novel-writing process quite dramatically,” explained Val, from Kirkcaldy.
Tartan noir queen Val McDermid on her love for her son, playing folk clubs with Billy Connolly – and experiencing profound heartbreak
At 16 I was preparing for my Oxford entrance exam. I was very driven. I pushed myself in everything. I played hockey for the 1st 11 in the East of Scotland. I played guitar and sang in folk clubs. I won debating prizes. Everything I did, I wanted to do really well.
I was very much of the working class generation where we thought education was the key to doing well in life. My parents were bright people who passed their exams to go to high school but had to leave at 14 because their families couldn’t afford it. They never got to reach their potential. So they very much encouraged me not be trapped by circumstances. But they had mixed feelings about my going to Oxford. It was a long way away from Kirkcaldy – the only time we’d gone to England was a weekend in Blackpool. And it was a long way intellectually as well. So I think they were really a bit nervous for me, as well as very proud. But I think they saw that I was always going to go my own way.
The crime writer on bingeing on West Wing, taking time out on computer games and the joys of first-class train travel
