[hissing]
I’m happiest in that vague borderland between daylight and shadows; that’s where I go in search of stories to tell, particularly stories about crimes.
I used to read all kinds of books before I began writing myself, and what I noticed was that the ones that really held my attention, that made the most indelible impression on me, were the ones that were concerned with justice and punishment.
That’s the theme of most novels, one way or another; crime is the driving force of the narrative, even if we’re reading about something quite unrelated along the way.
I suppose I must have been about thirty when I set about systematically working my way through the detective fiction canon, starting with Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers and other classic authors of the twenties and thirties, before moving on to the Swedish husband-and-wife team Sjöwall and Wahlöö, whose stories were hugely popular at that time in the seventies, then anything I could find on the bookshelves of friends and relatives.
What sort of thing do you read nowadays?
I read very widely. Whenever I have a free moment, I pick up a book. It keeps me going, keeps me young. That’s what books are for: they help you travel to places you wouldn’t otherwise be able to visit, journey through worlds that don’t exist.
At Christmas all I want from my friends are books; there’s no other feeling as tantalizing as opening a parcel containing a volume you haven’t yet read or weren’t even aware existed.
For me, Christmas is basically a good book, and it’s the same with holidays – they’re just an excuse for me to indulge my passion for reading in new surroundings.
Which gives you more pleasure, Elín, writing books or reading them?
[pause]
That’s an excellent question. I don’t remember being asked that before. Although I never feel more alive than when I’m writing, I’d be the first to admit that reading is easier. Less effort, more relaxing, which is how it should be, of course.
But I’ve never regarded writing as work; it’s too enjoyable for that. A blank page is like a challenge that I feel compelled to take up.
Of course, I started writing long before my first book was published, but that was just for my drawer and will never see the light of day. It’s for my eyes only. And I still write for myself, for my own entertainment.
Speaking of which, you stopped after ten crime novels in . . .
Ten novels about crimes, yes.
Ten novels about crimes, in almost twenty years. One book every two years, as regular as clockwork.
As clockwork? I don’t know if that’s a good analogy. A clock ticks a lot faster than me.
But then you stopped?
Yes, it was enough. The series was complete and I was satisfied with the final shape.
Did it never occur to you to write one more, or even two? Just to take advantage of the momentum, to ride the wave of your popularity?
Never. I won’t pretend that I planned it that way from the beginning, from my first book, but after two or three I began to calculate how old I’d be after ten – I’d be twenty years older – and that seemed like a suitable time to stop.
Then the series began to take on an overall shape. Really, I should be grateful that I was given the chance to finish it.
I’ve heard that you write your books longhand...
Yes, right up to the last. That’s how I was taught to write when I was young, to write stories, physically wielding a pen.
I used to do it for my own amusement. I still sit at this desk, in this shabby old chair, and write by hand.
You may have noticed that the computer is placed behind me, not on the desk itself. That’s the way it should be. You should only use it for assistance. I regard the computer as no more than a reference tool.
You were over forty when your first crime novel came out in 1984...
Unusual, maybe, I suppose I’ll have to concede that, but I think sometimes you need a degree of maturity before taking a step that large.
Because publishing a book is no joke, you know. It isn’t so much the writing, it’s having to share your thoughts with anyone who cares to read them that’s the hard part, even if we’re talking about fiction. After all, there’s always a grain of truth in every novel.
Incidentally, since you brought up the question of age, P. D. James started writing crime novels relatively late, when she was in her forties, and she’s still at it, and only gets better with age.
Anyway, writing makes me happy. It feels good to create something. For me, the pleasure lies in the physical act of writing, getting the text down on paper – quite literally, as I said.
On the other hand, there’s nothing more tedious than having to reread your own work. With every edit, something dies inside you – it’s like losing a little piece of yourself each time.
Meanwhile the hourglass is running out and you can see your soul reflected there; watch it gradually trickling away. Only then do you fully understand the meaning of lost time.
[pause]
Has it been an enjoyable journey?
It’s not over yet. I’m still going strong, though I’m not producing any novels. I still love all the buzz around it, love telling people about my books and chatting to my readers both here in Iceland and abroad.
Though I travel less often than I used to, I still make the odd trip. It’s a wonderful feeling to have reached so many readers, perhaps encouraged someone who didn’t read much before to pick up a book. Introduced them to the magic of literature.
Sjöwall and Wahlöö also wrote exactly ten books. Is that where the idea came from?
You know, that question isn’t quite as original as the one you asked before. I’ve answered it so often. Sjöwall and Wahlöö didn’t have exclusive rights to that number, but I probably did have the thought at the back of my mind.
Like so many other good authors, they taught me to write about crime, though personally I think I have more in common with Christie and Sayers.
You’ve lived alone in recent years...
[pause]
If you don’t mind, I’d rather not go into that. I’ve kept my personal life out of the limelight, as you know. Let’s just stick to books for now.
[pause]
Looking back, do you have any regrets?
I suggest we take a short break here. We can carry on afterwards.
[hissing]
