An author by any other name

I like to say I'm a fan of British detective/crime novels, but really I'm a fan of Reginald Hill and his Dalziel and Pascoe series. (Literally addicted, but that's for another post.)

However, since this is a finite series and I have pretty much caught up on all the books (still need to locate a few) I have decided to branch out and set my sights on Ian Rankin.

Ian Rankin has received considerable acclaim for his Inspector John Rebus series of detective novels, which contain snippets of Scottish history. So it was with great excitement that I picked up an Ian Rankin novel on a bargain table. The book: Bleeding Hearts. The verdict: almost too awful for words.

It should be noted that when I book-shop and see something by an author I like or would like to read, I tend to just grab the book and eagerly rush home to better study the content. In the case of Bleeding Hearts, I picked it up while in Parry Sound for Christmas. I was just thrilled to find an Ian Rankin book on the discount table; an author as praised and well-reviewed as he tends not to fall to the lowly depths of discount. But after reading this book, I can see why.

I think the problem stems from the fact this was Ian Rankin writing as Jack Harvey. I had no idea Rankin ever wrote anything under a pseudonym, but now that I know, I will forever avoid any Jack Harvey book. I can understand why an author would write under another name, especially if the author has created a series based on a certain character and wants to try something new. Writing under a pen name gives the freedom to explore new ideas, but one would expect a good writer to still write well, regardless of the published name. The only other example I can think of at this time is Stephen King writing as Richard Bachman; like him or hate him, Stephen King/Richard Bachman wrote pretty decent books. Even if you don't care for the subject matter, the writing was always good.

But not Jack Harvey. The book seemed to break every rule of good writing. It was full of cliches, far-fetched coincidences, crappy dialogue, extraneous and irrelevant characters, poorly-developed main characters, and an utterly ridiculous, trapped-in-a-corner-total-cop-out ending. It was like Dan Brown has morphed into a British detective novelist.

This will not stop me from reading Ian Rankin though; I'm quite looking forward to picking up Knots and Crosses, the first book in the Inspector Rebus series. As well, Rankin released Exit Music in September 2007, which is potentially the final book in the Inspector Rebus series. Hopefully this means he'll feel free to write about other subjects and settings without having to hide behind another name and without compromising in quality.

(Of course, I'm buying into the reviews here, and assuming the Rebus books are quality. I really hope I'm not disappointed again. But that is the chance one takes. Makes it kind of exciting, don't you think?)