The curse of the overactive creative brain

Meet Benedict Fell and Jackson Mann

EDIT: So, I’ve now discovered that the name ‘Gideon Fell’ is already a (very different) character in mystery novels from the 1930s. What are the chances? So, I’ve now changed the name Gideon Fell to Benedict Fell.

I am convinced I had never heard of the Gideon Fell character before now, but surely I must have?! I mean, it’s not exactly a common name.

Anyway, the original article continues now.

‘Where do you get your ideas from?’ is the question authors are most-often asked. I don’t really know the answer to that one.

I also don’t know how to turn the ideas off.

They come at me from all angles, when I’m least expecting them. I might be brushing my teeth when I think it would be fun to do a Hoon penpal service—a series of 12 physical letters in the voice of Bob Hoon that readers could subscribed to have mailed out to them once a month, and which would all tell one long story, with some fun asides about the life of Bob and his sister, Berta.

I might be driving my daughter to her musical theatre class when I come up with the plot of an action movie where Jason Statham plays Jace Stetson, a retired SAS soldier turned small-town sheriff, dealing with a crooked mayor and his six-hundred highly trained contract killers.

I could be eating dinner when I accidentally devise a six-issue horror comic series, or just falling asleep when an idea for a video game slides into my head and refuses to shut the hell up.

Each idea lights up like a little explosion, drawing attention to itself and flashing away, demanding that I pay attention to it, focus on it, and start noodling away at turning it into a real thing.

I’ve been writing a lot for the past few years. A lot. In fact, since 2008, I’ve written almost 250 books, plus hundreds of comic strips, and a dozen or more screenplays—not to mention all the short stories, blog posts, social media stuff, and Substacks.

Last year, I told myself that I was going to slow down a bit. That was right before I took on contracts for five books with publishers (two with Bookouture, and three Audible Originals), renewed my print book contract with Canelo for more DCI Logan books, and plotted out the next DI Filson and Bob Hoon books.

I also wrote ten issues of various comics, set-up a publishing course, created a directory of the Highlands, and prepared to launch a whisky.

You’d think that would be enough, wouldn’t you? But then an entirely new series of books popped into my head, which I plan writing next year. I thought I’d share them with you now, so you know what’s coming.

Here’s the (still very rough) concept for the series.

They used to call Benedict Fell the king of crime fiction. His Mannhunter novels sold millions, made him rich, and gave him a reputation for writing the perfect murder.

But that was before the breakdown. Before the cancelled tour, the unfinished final book, and the very public fall from literary grace.

Now he’s holed up on Dumbrae—a bleak, wind-battered island off the Scottish coast—trying to drink tea, ignore his inbox, and forget he was ever famous. But when bodies start turning up with clues pulled straight from his books, Benedict realises someone isn’t just reading his work. They’re using it.

And as the murders continue, it becomes clear: the only person who can solve them is the man who once made a living creating them.

Each book in the series finds Benny being dragged—by nosy locals, desperate police, or sheer morbid curiosity—into solving a murder that’s often uncomfortably close to home. With help (and frequent hindrance) from the chaotic Dumbrae Book Group, a wildly unpredictable fanbase, and his own deeply flawed instincts, Benny must dust off his storytelling skills and unravel the one plot he never wanted to be part of:

His own.

Darkly funny, smartly plotted, and soaked in Highland drizzle, The Benedict Fell Mysteries are where classic whodunits meet reluctant heroes, literary in-jokes, and the odd suspicious traybake.

You’d think that would be enough, wouldn’t you? You’d think an entirely new series would be enough to keep my brain ticking over.

But, no.

Noooo, no.

You see, almost as soon as it had come up with the Benedict Fell series, my brain decided that what I should also do is write the Mannhunter series to go alongside it.

If the Robert Hoon series is a sort of Scottish cousin to the Jack Reacher-type action hero protagonist, then Jackson Mann is the ultimate, dialled-up-to-eleven parody version that’s deadly serious to the point of being absurd, and full of quotes like, “Fight me, man to Mann!” and “You guys just messed with the wrong Mann…”

You can probably tell that I can’t get either idea out of my head at the moment.

In fact, here’s the start of the first Benedict Fell novel, MURDER BY THE BOOK, which I just wrote this afternoon. Again, it isn’t anywhere near final, but it’ll give you more of a feel for where I’m going with it.

He was a Mann who shouldn’t exist.

Jackson Mann was never meant to rescue those hostages from the top of the Eiffel Tower. He was never meant to take down that corrupt Nebraskan sheriff, take on the Mexican cartels, or take out those Russian spies.

He definitely wasn’t meant to fire all those bullets, defuse all those bombs, kiss all those women, or salute all those flags.

Jackson Mann wasn’t supposed to do any of that stuff, because he was never meant to have existed in the first place.

The fact that he did was a scathing indictment on the publishing industry as a whole. The original Jackson Mann book—The First Mann—was written as a joke. It was a clever satire on the state of the industry, and on its apparent addiction to square-jawed, haunted-by-their-past heroes with a strong moral code and a willingness to get their hands dirty.

Mostly named Jack.

It wasn’t an actual, proper novel. It was a protest, of sorts. A raised middle finger to the Big Five.

Eleven books, two divisively miscast movies, and one first-person-shooter video game later, Jackson Mann was still bloody going.

Mann of War, Mann of Action, One Mann Army—each book was more insipid and by-the-numbers than the one before. Each one sold better, too. Jackson became the Mann of the moment, and that moment dragged on for the best part of a decade.

To the utter dismay of Benedict Arthur Fell, he found himself trapped in a Mann’s world. Benedict had utterly detested everything about the character of Jackson Mann from day one.

Which was unfortunate, really, given that he was the one who had created him.

So, yeah. That’s what my brain’s been doing to me lately. Let me know if you’ll be reading the Benedict Fell and/or Jackson Mann books when I get around to writing them next year.