The Missoulian has reported that James Crumley died yesterday afternoon, which is incredibly sad news. You can't overstate the influence Crumley had on the generations of crime writers to follow in his wake, from Michael Connelly, Laura Lippman, George Pelecanos and Dennis Lehane, to whippersnappers like Ray Banks, Dave White and Anthony Neil Smith (and countless others). He was certainly a huge influence on me, which is why I was so ridiculously nervous about approaching him at Bouchercon 2005 in Chicago a little over three years ago. Al Guthrie can attest to this. We saw Crumley approaching the hotel bar, and part of me so very badly wanted to say hello, buy him a drink, tell him how much his work meant to me. But I couldn't bring myself to do it. He was JAMES CRUMLEY for God's sake, and who was I to bother him? I was paralyzed. Al laughed, shook his head at me. I went up to my room.
Less than a year later, I was able to finally meet him, and even sat on a panel with him at Con Misterio in Austin. But still, I was starstruck into dumb silence, even though we'd technically worked together on the geezer noir anthology, Damn Near Dead--Crumley had graciously supplied the introduction.
I just reread that intro. Here are the opening lines:
People often suggest that life should be a learning experience. Perhaps something like a nice, small Southern liberal arts, with a final exam, which if you pass, lets you drift softly into a pleasant eternity. If life is like college, I've screwed up again; I missed the assignment.
Crumley's life was by no means soft, but I pray he's gone to that pleasant eternity. And I hope he knows how much he's respected and admired by those left behind.
But God, I wish I'd had the balls to buy him that drink in Chicago.
Addendum: Be sure to check out Laura's interview with Crumley, reprinted from Crimespree, over at her blog. Essential reading.
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