You look so nice
and decent, how is it that you write such horrific novels? I'm
often asked that kind of question. And the answer is, I didn't
exactly choose to, I more or less was compelled to. The characters
I meet up with in my fictions, they just seem to take over.
Before becoming a
mystery writer, I'd written about fifteen books, mainstream
novels mostly, some poetry, some books for children. Those works
were singularly free of crime - no murders, no brutality. And,
I have to confess, no career breakthrough either. In those early
novels, I often wrote from a woman's perspective. I believed
strongly that women occupied a weak position in society, socially,
financially, biologically. I had hoped that if I wrote about
the travails of all those poor women dealing with their inferior
status, I'd be able to change the world for the better .. ,.
But I gradually came to realize most people didn't care to read
about things like that. As a matter of fact, without the encouragement
of readers to sustain me, I myself tired of the subject. And
it was in that very time that Justine came on the scene - Justine
Dalvik, the main character of my novel Good
Night, My Darling!
Justine came to me
virtually fully formed; it fell to me merely to tell her story.
The notable fact about her was that she had had a deplorable
childhood. Her mother died when the girl was four. Her father
remarried - his secretary Flora, a woman without scruples or
patience. At school the girl was bullied. After all, her name
rang rather strange, and she had no mother. Children can be
cruel. I remember one thing that motivated me to write the book
was my appalled fascination with the bullying phenomenon. It
went on when I was a child, it goes on today. I was not a bullying
person myself, neither was I bullied. I was one of the silent
ones who stood by looking and did nothing to try to stop it.
The novel would start
when Justine was already grown up. She was about 45 years old,
more or less getting on with her life (that's the way I saw
her first). Still, she was at a disadvantage. You must remember
she was both physically and emotionally scarred from childhood.
It was my obligation to help her get revenge - Justine: Justice
- but how? That was the question. At that point in the writing,
the only thing I knew was that it might happen that at most
one or two persons were going to be killed. And how do you kill
people? That was something else I didn't know. Neither did Justine.
I worked as a journalist
for 30 years. My earlier novels I had written while I was on
leave for short periods of time, and only now and then. I no
longer work as a journalist. If you just have a couple of weeks
a year at your disposal, you don't have sufficient time to do
the research necessary in order to create a credible world for
In any event, I felt
compelled, as I say, to help Justine get her revenge. I looked
around the peaceful community where I lived. Suddenly it seemed
so boring, so dull. I decided to send Justine out into the world.
So I let her meet Nathan and fall in love with him. Nathan was
a bit younger than she, and quite different from her. He was
an adventurer, divorced, and had been married several times.
At the time of their meeting, he was starting a travel agency
for intrepid adventurers, and was going to take a small group
with him on a test trip to the wild jungle of Malaysia. He asked
Justine, "Do you want to come along, it's a place where no white
woman has ever been?" Of course Justine wanted to go, to follow
him, she was so in love with him. I think Nathan was in love
with her too. But maybe he had a semi-conscious motive as well.
Maybe he was interested in seeing how many hardships a woman
of her age could bear, a woman who wasn't at all used to the
In order to describe
the hardships, it became necessary for me to experience some
of them. Thus there was no other way but for me to make my way
to the wild Malaysian jungle (though maybe I wasn't the first
white woman to do so). Yet the necessity was absolute. Details
are so very important to give verisimilitude to a plot.
Nor was I used to
the outdoor life myself. No, I am not Justine, but both she
and I quickly realized what a rough rugged ordeal lay ahead.
You know, it isn't possible to walk in the jungle, you have
to crawl, you have to slide in the mud, and you often stumble
and get thorns from evil bushes stuck in your fingers. Justine
and I were among the oldest members of our respective groups,
and the younger members often had to wait for us to catch up.
And when at last we caught up, they were eager to continue!
It was unbelievably stressful. And then there was the heat and
the humidity. With the relative humidity at 90 per cent, the
minute you entered the jungle, the process of putrefaction started
in your clothes. More disturbing still were the leeches. They
came at you even if you tried to shelter yourself in tight garments.
They still ended up on your skin. You didn't feel any pain but
there you were, bleeding profusely, and of course that wasn't
very agreeable. The bites looked like the Mercedes' icon - such
a detail is a bargain for an author.
At night we slept
on the ground. We didn't have a tent, just a little piece of
plastic over our heads. It turned out that wasn't enough. Every
evening it started to rain - cats and dogs. They don't call
it the rain forest for nothing! Everything was wet. Nothing
would ever be dry again.
Included in Justine's
group was a sexy young female photographer, her name was Martina.
Nathan had engaged her to compose a brochure about the new travel
agency. But soon into the trip Justine began to suspect Nathan
and Martina were having an affair, one that transcended business
interests. Justine's nerves at this point were close to shattering;
she herself was on the verge of a breakdown. Indeed I noticed
as I was writing how she was getting more and more furious.
Then one morning when she went down to the river to wash away
the caked mud from her body, she spotted Nathan and Martina
walking closely together. Without informing Justine, they had
taken off in search of elephants to take some pictures. Too
late - it was then Justine broke.
I can reveal at this
point that Justine happens, just happens, to find just lying
there in the jungle an appropriate murder weapon, and a very
effective one at that. She would never have found that kind
of weapon anywhere in Sweden. A blowpipe. I tried firing - blowing
into - a blowpipe too; I wanted to know what it felt like when
you put the device to your lips and ... blew. Otherwise how
would I know to describe it?
Two persons die in
Malaysia. I can further reveal that Justine had a great deal
to do with their deaths. Of course she's suspected and the police
investigate her, but no one can pin the crime on her. No one
has any proof. So she is free to go back to Sweden. And so she
does. But now that she has tasted revenge, she likes the taste.
Now nobody can stop her, not even me, her creator! And something
strange happens. I notice that she pulls me into the ongoing
murder spree. She needs my help and I am constrained to help
her, even if I don't want to, even if I'm sometimes sickened.
When I showed the
manuscript I'd written to my publisher, I think he thought I'd
written something extra, something diverting between what I
usually wrote. Even I didn't quite understand what I'd been
doing. The book was published, and, to my great surprise, it
was nominated for Best Swedish Crime Novel by The Swedish Academy
of Crime Fiction. I couldn't believe my good fortune. Evidently
I had written a crime novel! Then, not only was the book nominated,
it actually won the Award! And people bought the book and read
it! The publication now underwent a process quite different
from my earlier publications. Suddenly - and for the first time
in my life - foreign publishers expressed interest in my writing
and bought the rights. Especially in Germany there's a huge
interest in my books. With the American edition, Good Night,
My Darling has now been translated into nine languages. The
novel, then, signalled the breakthrough I thought would never
come. And so I came to understand this is the kind of reading
readers enjoy - vicariously, I trust.
My characters have
continued to murder. I don't want them to do that. All the time
and with all my heart I try to stop them. I like them. I don't
want the m to spoil their lives. I've got a responsibility for
them because I am their progenitor. I try to tell them, Be careful
now! Don't do that! Stop drinking! Don't be so damned jealous!
At first they seem to be listening, but later on they don't,
and then they start to act out all in their own individual ways.
Indeed one of them made me kill off a man whom I liked very,
very much. If! had resisted (I couldn't, really), there would
have been no novel at all. What a dilemma that would have been!
Unlike most other
crime authors, I write from inside the mind (and heart) of the
murderers, from inside the unhappy, mostly quite common persons
who suddenly find themselves in a situation they can't extricate
themselves from in ways other than by using violence. I am very
interested in the human mind. I never dwell on the investigative
process in my stories. Yes, cops sometimes are present, but
they're not the main characters. I am not interested in the
solution of the crime, only how it can happen.
Up till now I've
written about 25 books, seven of which are thrillers. I prefer
calling these latter books psychological thrillers.
The latest one is
a stand-alone sequel to Good Night, My Darling. It's called
The Shadow in the
I felt I had to follow
up on what happened to Justine and the others closest to her
(who were still alive when I left them ... ). Justine was never
caught in the first book. How was she now? Did she feel guilt
for she had done? The new novel was published in 2005 and it
too was awarded The Swedish Academy of Crime Fiction's prize
for Best Swedish Crime Novel. I'm the only Swedish female crime
writer who has won the award twice. Of course I am very proud
This spring I've
just completed a new novel, a semi-autobiographical work: Curled
Up Like an O (Ligga som ett O).
Perhaps it will provide
the answer to the question so many of my readers continue to
ask, namely, why I who look so nice and decent still write such