The same week my crime novel Broken was published in Iceland, it received two very different reviews. One appeared in Stundin, a magazine focused on investigative journalism; the other was in Morgunblaðið, Iceland’s largest and most conservative newspaper—heavily funded by the elite who became wealthy through the country’s fishing quota system. That system gave exclusive rights to a few powerful players over a natural resource that supposedly belongs to the nation as a whole. In theory, it's owned by everyone—but in practice, only a select few profit.
Unsurprisingly, their review was scathing. They dismissed my depiction of Iceland as implausible and exaggerated. The review in Stundin took a different approach—they described the novel as a snapshot of a society in turmoil.
Negative reviews are never fun. But I have a rule: if I come across a bad review of one of my books, I give myself an hour to sulk—then I move on and get over it. Strangely enough, during the same week Broken was released and those two reviews were published, three real-life crimes occurred in Reykjavík—the capital of Iceland—that closely mirrored the events in my novel.
I gave myself an hour to feel vindicated—then let the familiar doubts about my worth as a crime writer creep back in.
Then something unexpected yet welcome happened. It was around Christmas—the busiest time of year for writers and publishers in Iceland, thanks to the tradition of giving books as Christmas gifts. As writers, we usually spend this time hustling—doing readings and signings across the country. I was invited to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to give a reading for the staff, followed by a Q&A session.
One of the central characters in my novel is Rado, a cop who arrived in Iceland as a child war refugee and worked hard to assimilate into Icelandic society—so much so that he eventually joined the Icelandic police force. When I created this character—whom I’ve grown quite attached to—I imagined some Icelandic readers might struggle to believe that someone like him could become a police officer in Iceland.
In the ministry’s lobby, under police guard, I underwent a security check and signed in. The officer who frisked me? Guess his name—and where he was born.
I let myself enjoy a full day believing that everything was okay in Iceland.
Jon Atli Jonasson
