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The Editing Blog: for Editors, Proofreaders and Writers

FOR EDITORS, PROOFREADERS AND WRITERS

Addressing others in dialogue: Using vocatives

27/5/2019

8 Comments

 
A vocative expression is one in which a person is directly referred to in dialogue. It needn’t be someone’s name; it could be a form of address that relates to their job or position, or a term of endearment, respect or disrespect. Here’s how to work with them.
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Purpose of vocative expressions
Vocatives serve several purposes in fiction writing:
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1. They help readers keep track of who’s saying what to whom. This is especially useful when a character is talking to two or more people.
     ‘Dan, can you take the father into Interview Room 2? I don’t want him having to face the mother – not yet, anyway.’ Charlie flicked through the file and scanned down the penultimate page. ‘Deputy Douglas, I know you’re new to the team but I’d like you to handle the mom.’

2. They can enrich characters’ emotions by conveying a deeper sense of urgency, frustration, surprise or patience.
     “For God’s sake, Amir! Get a move on.”

​     ‘Inspector Witherspoon,’ Hightower began slowly, as though talking to a thick-skulled child, ‘if you’ll trouble yourself to lift Dr Slocum’s head, you’ll see why I considered his death suspicious.’ (The Inspector and Mrs Jeffries, p. 3)
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3. Readers can learn quickly about how characters relate to each other. Does one rank higher or defer to the other? Perhaps they’re friends, lovers, or loathe each other.
     ‘And who could tell after the blast if the explosion wasn’t atomic?’ he asked.
​     ‘No, my Lady. They’ll not risk anything that illegal. Radiation lingers. The evidence is hard to erase.’ (Dune, p. 181)

     ‘Is that what you thought, honey? I’m so sorry – I never meant for you to find out.’

     “Hey, Captain Letch. Try thinking with your head instead of your dick. Maybe you’ll find out whodunit before someone else gets killed.”
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Overuse that distracts
Overusing people’s names and titles can be grating. Vocatives aren’t the only way of signalling who’s being talked to – you could use action beats (See: What are action beats and how can you use them in fiction writing?). And if there are only two people in a scene it will be unnecessary to continually use direct forms of address.

Think about the natural speech you hear in your everyday life. Most of the time, people don’t use vocative expressions excessively. Follow their lead in your novel.

Compare the following examples:
The Big Sleep, p. 140:
     ‘Nice work, Marlowe. Are you my bodyguard now?’ Her voice had a harsh note.
     ‘Looks that way. Here’s the bag.’
     She took it. I said: ‘Have you a car with you?’
     She laughed. ‘I came with a man. What are you doing here?’

Butchered version:
     ‘Nice work, Marlowe. Are you my bodyguard now?’ Her voice had a harsh note.
     ‘Looks that way, Vivian. Here’s the bag.’
     She took it. I said: ‘Have you a car with you, Vivian?’
     ​She laughed. ‘I came with a man. What are you doing here, Marlowe?’
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The original version is much cleaner. The vocative in the first line helps to convey Vivian’s sarcasm. After that, Chandler lets us do the work and the conversation sounds natural.
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How to punctuate vocatives
Commas are required for clarity.
  • If the vocative expression comes at the beginning of the sentence, place a comma after it.
  • If the vocative expression comes at the end of the sentence, place a comma before it.
  • If the vocative expression interrupts a sentence, place a comma before and after it.
  • A vocative at the beginning of a sentence can also stand alone, in which case it will be followed by a full stop (period) or exclamation mark.
         There was a high-pitched scream and, almost simultaneously, a cry from the lounge. Jonesy jumped off her lap and padded under the bed, reappearing a moment later with a dead mouse in his jaws.
     ​‘Jonesy! Where did you get that?’ (29 Seconds, p. 157)

     ‘Jake, is that your new car over there?’ Mal said.
     
     ‘You don’t have a clue who I am, do you, you bumbling fool?’ Lord Pompous asked.

     ‘Did you know, Beelzebub, that your wings are scorched?’ Lucifer said, poking the fiery brimstone.
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Punctuating vocative expressions incorrectly can lead to ambiguity. Compare the following examples of dialogue. Notice how the missing comma changes the meaning from expressions of address to instructions to carry out acts of violence.
With vocative comma
Without comma
“Let’s eat, children,” said a salivating Wendy.
“Let’s eat children,” said a salivating Wendy.
‘Shoot, Sergeant Ash!’ ordered the captain.
‘Shoot Sergeant Ash!’ ordered the captain.
Lower-case or upper-case initials?
Should you use lower-case or upper-case initials when addressing a person in written dialogue? It depends.

People’s names
Names are proper nouns and therefore always take initial capital letters in the vocative case.
     “What the hell are you doing with that novel, Louise? You’ve changed how all the vocative expressions are punctuated,” said Johnny.

     ‘You, Ringo, are a cad and a bounder. However, I’m prepared to forgive you because of your excellent taste in music,’ said George, thumbing through five different editions of The White Album.

Terms of respect, endearment and abuse
Vocative terms of respect and endearment take lower case when used generally. Examples include: madam, sir, m’lady, miss, milord, mister; buddy, sweetie, darling, love, dear; and dopehead, fuckwit and plenty more I’d love to write here but won’t!
          To get a lawyer would mean calling on my family for finances. The only officer I would have really liked—a barrister who had been sailing with us several times—was obvious. “As far as I’m concerned, sir,” I said, “I’d be glad if you’d act for me.” (Maddon’s Rock, p. 75)

     ‘Honestly, darling. I’d never do anything to hurt you. He means nothing to me. Nothing.’

     Marie yawned and flicked a crumb off the table. “Don’t push it, love. I have neither the time nor the patience.”

     ‘Hey, numbskull! Try searching on Google before you email a busy colleague with your query.’

     The sounds of the steps grew louder, and the whistling went on cheerfully. In a moment the jerkin showed. I stepped out between the two cars and said: ‘Got a match, buddy?’ (The Big Sleep, p. 96)

     ‘Maybe in the service,’ Reacher said. ‘Not necessarily in some half-assed private company.’
     ‘I don’t see a difference.’
     ‘Well, you ought to, soldier.’
     ​‘Watch your mouth, pal. I’m helping you out here.’ (The Hard Way, p. 141)
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When terms of respect are used in conjunction with names, they become proper nouns and take upper case. Endearments and insults usually remain in lower case because they’re used adjectivally.
     “For shame! For shame!” cried the lady’s maid. “What shocking conduct, Miss Eyre, to strike a young gentleman, your benefactress’s son. Your young master.” (Jane Eyre, Chapter 2)

     ‘Surely you realized, Master Doolittle, that your father could talk to the animals,’ said Eliza as she slid off the pushmi-pullyu.

     ​‘You, dear Jack, are the light of my life,’ said Bobby. ‘Well, nearly – sweet baby James glows a little brighter.’
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Titles of rank and nobility
Titles of rank and nobility take initial capitals when used vocatively. Examples include: Your Majesty, Commander, Constable, Agent, Lord, and Detective Inspector.
     ‘I’d like you to handle this personally, Superintendent. It’s going to require quite a delicate hand.’ ​She kept her expression steady. This was an assignment for a detective inspector at most. (The Punishment She Deserves)

     “What, Agent Copperbonce, do you think you are doing with that pineapple?”
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Compare these with narrative text and dialogue that include indirect address forms. If the relational titles are used as names (proper nouns), we retain upper case. If we’re using common nouns with determiners (a modifying word that references a noun such as ‘a’, ‘the’, ‘each’, ‘her’ and ‘my’) we use lower case.
     The commander knocked on the door and marched in without waiting for an invitation.

     Fifteen minutes later, the chief called the squad into the incident room.

     ‘I’ve asked Inspector Harnby to take a look at the case. Hope that’s okay with you.’

     ‘That other constable is a waste of space, don’t you agree, Constable MacMillan?’

Titles indicating a relationship
When used as a form of direct address, relational titles take upper case. Examples include: Mother, Uncle, Dad, Auntie, Grandma and Papa.
     ‘I’m begging you, Dad, don’t make me watch that Jimi Hendrix docudrama again. Thirty-five times is enough.’ I smashed the guitar over the back of the sofa and stuck my nose in the air. ‘See? It’s never going to happen.’

     “Oh, don't refer him to me, Mama! I have just one word to say of the whole tribe – they are a nuisance.” (Jane Eyre, Chapter 17)

Again, compare these with narrative text and dialogue that include indirect address forms. If the relational titles are used as names (proper nouns), we retain upper case. If we’re using common nouns with determiners, we use lower case.
     I thought back to the earlier conversation. Hadn’t his dad said we could catch the 8.15 from Waterloo if we put our skates on?

     ‘Can you ask your uncle if we can stay at his place this weekend?’

     ‘Every grandmother receives a free cup of tea and a slice of cake. Do you think Gran would like to come?’

     The guy’s mom was an absolute monster, or so he’d heard. That was just one side of the story, though. Best to check before bowling in and arresting anyone.

Summing up
Use vocatives as follows:
  • to convey who’s being spoken to
  • to enrich mood and emotion
  • to indicate what the mood or relationship is between the speakers
Use appropriate punctuation to set off forms of address in order to avoid ambiguity. And be judicious – overuse will distract and irritate readers.

And, thank you, dear reader, for getting to the end of this article! (See what I did there?)

Cited sources
  • 29 Seconds. T.M. Logan. Zaffre Publishing, 2018
  • Dune. Frank Herbert. New English Library, 1984
  • Jane Eyre. Charlotte Brontë. Scholastic, 2014. Kindle edition
  • Maddon’s Rock. Hammond Innes. Fontana Books, 1947
  • The Big Sleep. Raymond Chandler. Penguin, 1948
  • The Hard Way. Lee Child. Bantam Books, 2006
  • The Inspector and Mrs Jeffries. Emily Brightwell. C&R Crime, 2013
  • The Punishment She Deserves. Elizabeth George. Hodder, 2019. Kindle edition 
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.

She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP), a member of ACES, a Partner Member of The Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLi), and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
​
  • Get in touch: Louise Harnby | Fiction Editor & Proofreader
  • Connect: Twitter at @LouiseHarnby, Facebook and LinkedIn
  • Learn: Books and courses
  • Discover: Resources for authors and editors
8 Comments

Writing dialogue and thoughts: 8 problems and how to fix them

20/5/2019

10 Comments

 
Powerful dialogue and thoughts enrich a story without the reader noticing. When done poorly they distract at best and bore at worst. Here are 8 problems to watch out for, and ideas about how to solve them.
How to write natural dialogue and thoughts
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Problem 1: Maid-and-butler dialogue
Is one of your characters telling another something they already know just so you can let your reader access backstory? If so, you’ve written maid-and-butler dialogue. It’s a literary misfire and should be avoided.

Here's an extreme example:
     ‘Hi, Jenny! It’s good to see you after your three years at Nottingham University. Bet you’re delighted with that first-class honours degree in archaeology.’
     ​‘Thanks. Yeah, I’m thrilled to bits, though there have been times when I’ve yearned for your nine-to-five job as an editor in a small fiction publishing company on the outskirts of Norwich.’

SOLUTIONS
  • Dialogue should be purposeful. If you’re using it to introduce information, have the characters seek answers to questions they don’t know the answers to.
  • Unveil backstory that’s known to the speakers through the narrator, not the speech:
     ‘Hi, Jenny! Good to see you. Been a while.’
    Three years in fact. Clever Jen had notched up a first in archaeology from Nottingham Uni while I was inching my way up the publishing ladder with a small fiction press on the outskirts of Norwich.
     ‘Yup,’ she said. ‘Seems like an age. How’s tricks in the world of business? Found the next Booker Prize winner yet?’

Problem 2: Real but mundane
The conversations many of us have in real life are deathly boring. Here’s one I had recently:
     ‘Fancy a brew?’
     ‘Yes, please. Coffee please. Er, or tea. Um, whatever you’re having. As long as it’s wet and warm.’
     ‘I’m having coffee but I’m happy to make you tea.’
     ‘No, erm, coffee’s perfect. Thanks.’
     ‘Milk and sugar?’
     ‘Just milk. No sugar, thanks.’
     ‘Okay.’
     ‘Cheers.’
     ‘Um, can I use your bathroom?’
     ​‘Of course you can. There’s extra loo roll in the cabinet if you need it.’

It’s realistic, certainly, but has no place in a novel. Most of the words are a waste of space, and the trees that were felled to create the paper on which they’re written deserve better.

Dialogue needs to be natural, but not too natural. The best dialogue is a hybrid of the real and the contrived, ‘a kind of stylised representation of speech’ as Nicola Morgan calls it in Write to be Published (p. 151).

SOLUTIONS
  • No one in Star Trek ever goes to the loo. Viewers know that the crew members of the USS Enterprise need to use the bathroom and like their hot drinks served in a variety of ways. The writers know all of that’s best left to our imagination. The same applies in novels.
  • Replace filler dialogue with narrative or speech that drives the novel forward.
  • Minimize the stumbles. They’re natural and frequent in real life, but mar the flow of dialogue when overdone on the page.

Problem 3: Written accented dialogue
It can be tempting to convey accents with phonetic spellings, as in these appalling examples below:
‘Zis cannot be ’appening. Zer family would sinc it unacczeptable.’

‘Ve have vays of getting vat ve vant.’

There are so many problems with this approach that I recommend you avoid it altogether. Bear in mind that dialogue tells us what words have been spoken, not how they’re spelled.
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Phonetic spelling can turn dialogue into pastiche, and offensive pastiche at that. It’s also difficult to absorb and distracts readers from your story.

SOLUTIONS
  • If your novel is written in, for example, British English, use standard spelling regardless of how your character pronounces words.
  • Use location rather than pronunciation to enrich characterization – how where they’re from affects the story, their perception of the conflict or their approach to solving it.
  • Read ‘How to convey accents in fiction writing: Beyond phonetic spelling’ for more ideas on how to flavour characters’ voices.

Problem 4: Troublesome tags
The function of speech tags is to tell the reader who’s speaking. They shouldn’t push the dialogue into the background. Nor should they repeat what the reader knows from the dialogue.

​Furthermore, the verbs we use to tag the dialogue should be speech-related. Otherwise we end up with a reality crash that jars the reader.
‘That dress looks ridiculous,’ guffawed Marie.

‘Come here. Let me show you how it works,’ demonstrated Jonathan.

‘I swear I’ll stick this knife where the sun doesn’t shine if you don’t give me the letter,’ brandished Marcus.

SOLUTIONS
  • Said is often best. Readers are so used to seeing it that it’s almost invisible.
  • Use action beats to indicate movement.
  • Use emotionally evocative adverbs to modify the tag.
  • Recast the dialogue so that a showy tag is unnecessary.
  • Read ‘Dialogue tags and how to use them in fiction writing’ for more ideas on tagging artfully.
  • Read ‘What are action beats and how can you use them in fiction writing?’

Problem 5: Talking heads and monologues
Some books can turn into podcasts on the page when dialogue isn’t grounded in the physical environment.

Too much dialogue can make the reader feel dissociated from the story, as if the characters are talking in the cloud.

In Jo Nesbo’s The Bat, McCormack starts talking on p. 249. On p. 250, Nesbo introduces one line of movement: ‘He turned from the window and faced Harry.’ Then McCormack’s off again. He doesn’t stop talking until p. 251.

It’s a monologue in which Hole, the viewpoint character, seems to be nothing more than a receptacle for McCormack’s ear bending. There’s a little bit of back and forth with Hole, plus some action beats in the lower third of p. 251, but then McCormack’s off again for all of p. 252 and the top third of p. 253.

The blue highlights show how much of these four pages are taken up with just one character’s speech.
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Perhaps it’s deliberate, a way of showing that McCormack’s feeling jaded, worn down by the business of policing. Plus, Jo Nesbo has a big enough fan base to get away with this. However, for the writer who’s building readership, lengthy passages of speech that aren’t grounded in their environment could turn into snooze-fests.

SOLUTIONS
  • Think about what’s physically surrounding your characters. What can they smell, see, hear? Where are they and what time of day is it?
  • How are the characters moving as they talk? Are they fidgeting, escaping, hiding, snuggling?
  • If your viewpoint character is on the listening end of a long rant, how are they feeling and moving? What are they seeing?
  • Could some of the dialogue be recast as narrative?
  • If you’re worried about slowing the pace, use action beats rather than longer narrative descriptions to break up the speech.

Problem 6: ‘Too many vocatives, Louise.’
The vocative case enables the writer to indicate who’s being spoken to in dialogue. In a bid to avoid speech tagging, some less experienced writers overuse vocatives, which renders the speech unnatural.

Next time you get the opportunity to listen to a conversation between two people, notice how often they use each other’s names. You might find they don’t, other than for emphasis.
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Overuse can labour dialogue, as this example illustrates:
     ‘Louise, did you murder the sheriff?’
     ‘I didn’t murder anyone, Johnny. And I’m gutted that you felt the need to even ask that question.’
     ‘I’m sorry, Louise, but it’s standard procedure.’
     ‘Johnny, you don’t really think I could’ve done that, do you?
     ​‘Not for a second, Louise. Just playing by the rules.’

The exception is dialogue between ranking officers or titled people and their staff. Omitting the sir, Your Lordship, Your Majesty, milady and the like would be unrealistic:
     ‘Sergeant, how many arrests have been made?’
     ‘Twelve, sir. We’re expecting two more today.’
     ‘Any news on the Merton Street lead?’
     ‘Not yet, sir.’
     ‘Keep me informed, will you?’
​     ‘Yes, sir.’

SOLUTIONS
  • Use vocatives appropriately and sparingly.
  • Speech tags and action beats are alternatives that you can bring into the mix.
  • Trust your reader. If there are only two people in conversation, indicative nudges once in a while as to who’s speaking will be enough.
  • Read ‘How to punctuate dialogue in a novel’ for guidance on how to punctuate vocative expressions.

​Problem 7: Thoughts in speech marks
Speech marks (or quotation marks) have one function – to show the reader that a character is speaking out loud. While some recognized style guides allow for the use of speech marks to indicate thoughts, most professional editors and experienced writers don’t recommend this method because it’s confusing.

Some authors might be tempted to use a different speech-mark style to indicate a thought. Again, this is confusing. Your reader might assume that you’ve not edited for consistency.

Here’s an example in which dialogue and thought have become muddled:
     “Jackson, put that gun down. You’ll hurt someone.”
     “No way. Not until I have some guarantees.”
     Jackson gripped the weapon and glanced left then right. He was surrounded by agents, all of them armed to the teeth.
     ​‘Fuck fuck fuck. How the hell am I going to get out of this one?’ he thought.

​SOLUTIONS
  • Reserve speech marks for the spoken word and keep the style consistent.
  • Render thoughts in italic or roman.
  • Experiment by combining short present-tense italicized thoughts with past-tense free indirect style.
  • Read ‘ How to write thoughts in fiction ’ for a more detailed analysis of how to show what characters are thinking.
  • Read ‘3 reasons to use free indirect speech in your crime fiction’ (the principles apply across genres).

Problem 8: Thinking unlikely thoughts
If your character’s in the middle of an escape, a heist, great sex, or a mixed-martial arts smackdown, thoughts need to be handled with care to remain realistic. High-intensity scenes require rapid-fire thoughts otherwise the thinking becomes intrusive and moderates the pace of the action.
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Here’s an extreme example of how things can go awry:
     Fleur dove behind the chair as the wall exploded. She fumbled for the phone, choking on brick dust, and punched a number onto the screen. Pick up, dammit. God, what I wouldn’t give for a hot bath, a long gin and a warm fire. I haven’t taken time off in ages – not since last summer when I went to the Lakes for a couple of weeks. When this is over and done with, I’m going to hunker down and chill for a few months … just me, the dog and a sandy beach.
​     
Gunfire sent her scrambling on her belly for the door.

Some writers use a character’s thoughts as a conduit for providing physical description. Take care with this. In reality, it’s rare for us to look in a mirror and notice our brown hair, green eyes or big feet. Instead, we’re more likely to frame those ideas in terms of criticism, appreciation or concern:

Compare these two examples:
Unlikely thought
Thought framed in criticism
Louise stopped in front of the mirror. Time to brush those blonde locks, she thought.
​Louise stopped in front of the mirror. Christ, blonde really isn’t my colour, she thought.
SOLUTIONS
  • Read the character’s thoughts out loud. Would you articulate them internally in that situation?
  • Think about your character’s emotional state – would they have time to think and, if so, what would be on their mind in that moment?
  • Read ‘Unveiling your characters: Physical description with style’ for more tips on how to describe characters.
  • Read ‘3 reasons to use free indirect speech in your crime fiction’ for more ideas about how to convey what’s going on in a character’s head.

Summing up
‘Dialogue isn’t a report of everything that characters say. It’s the compelling and noteworthy real-time, purpose-filled talk that plays out in front of the reader,’ writes Beth Hill (p. 157): The same can be said of thoughts.

Reality takes a nosedive when it comes to the novel because only a little of what people think and say in real life will drive a story forward. Most of it is dull.

Here’s Sol Stein (p. 113): ‘People won’t buy your novel to hear idiot talk. They get that free from relatives, friends, and at the supermarket. […] Some writers make the mistake of thinking that dialogue is overheard. Wrong! Dialogue is invented and the writer is the inventor.’

Invent dialogue and thoughts that show readers what is being felt (emotion) and what is happening (action).

Cited sources and other resources
  • Stein on Writing. By Sol Stein. St. Martin's Press. 2014
  • The Magic of Fiction, 2nd ed. By Beth Hill. Title Page Books. 2016​
  • ​Dialogue resources for authors and editors
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.

She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP), a member of ACES, a Partner Member of The Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLi), and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
​
  • Get in touch: Louise Harnby | Fiction Editor & Proofreader
  • Connect: Twitter at @LouiseHarnby, Facebook and LinkedIn
  • Learn: Books and courses
  • Discover: Resources for authors and editors
10 Comments

Fingerprint forensics for beginner crime-fiction writers

13/5/2019

4 Comments

 
If you’re including fingerprint science in your fiction writing, these tips will help you get the basics right.
Fingerprint forensics for beginner crime-fiction writers
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Fingerprints are an established part of forensic procedure. If they’re in your novel, you’ll need to think about the science, the degree to which you’ll stay true to reality, and how much detail to include without turning your fiction into a textbook.

Here are 9 tips to get you started.

1. Know how a fingerprint is formed
In ‘Introduction to Forensic Science’, Penny Haddrill describes fingerprints as follows:
‘On our fingers and toes there are many fine ridges. These ridges form recognisable patterns and are formed during the gestation period of the foetus during pregnancy. Fingerprints are produced from the contact between the ridges present on our fingers and a surface. The transfer is achieved by the deposition of the secretions from our glands associated with the ridges on our skin or by contaminants present on the finger surface.’

2. Know your terminology
If you’re seeking authenticity, the terminology you use will be determined by where your novel’s investigators are based. If your fiction is set in the UK at least, ‘fingerprint’ and ‘fingermark’ mean different things:

  • PRINT: A fingerprint refers to what is taken from a known/controlled source. For example, if your suspect is arrested, their fingerprints will be taken by the police using specialist equipment. The prints will be of high quality and include all the ridge detail.
  • MARK: A fingermark refers to what is taken from an unknown/uncontrolled source. Your investigator might find fingermarks at a crime scene or elsewhere on an object that’s suspected of being related to the crime scene. Fingermarks are the ridge patterns (either full or partial, and from one digit or several) left behind on surfaces. The marks will usually be of lower quality, and might be smudged or otherwise contaminated.

3. Categorize your fingermarks correctly
In Explore Forensics, Jack Claridge offers three categories of mark (though, again, in your novel’s jurisdiction, these might be referred to as prints):

  • Impressed marks (visible to the naked eye): These are found when a person’s finger has been pressed into a malleable substance such as wax, clay, or wet paint. They’re sometimes referred to as plastic marks.
  • Patent marks (visible to the naked eye): These are found on a surface that’s come into contact with a finger on which there is a residue of, say, blood, oil, dirt, or some other liquid or powder material.
  • Latent marks (invisible to the naked eye): The skin secretes sweat from pores. Sweat mixes with external particles in the air, and the body’s natural oils, and sits on the ridges of the fingers. When those fingers come into contact with a surface (particularly something hard or shiny, such as glass) the ridges leave a fingermark that can be exposed under high-intensity light sources or displayed by dusting with a fine powder or chemicals.

4. Understand where the science wobbles  
It is believed that no two fingerprints are alike but there is no empirical evidence to prove this.

While it’s true that, to date, identical fingerprint matches have not been found, there are enough similar ‘matching points’ between two people’s prints such that false positives and negatives have occurred.

Says Laura Spinney in Nature:
‘Fingerprint analysis is fundamentally subjective. Examiners often have to work with incomplete or distorted prints — where a finger slid across a surface, for example — and they have to select the relevant features from what is available. What is judged relevant therefore changes from case to case and examiner to examiner.'

You might want to bear this in mind when your characters are doing or talking about fingerprint uniqueness.

5. Get the twin stuff right
Identical twins have almost identical DNA because they develop from one zygote (created by one egg and one sperm) that splits into two embryos.
​

Fingerprints, however, are formed during foetal development. Here's Spinney again:
‘The ridges and furrows on any given fingertip develop in the womb, [and are] shaped by such a complex combination of genetic and environmental factors that not even identical twins share prints.’

With that in mind, don’t make the mistake of hanging your plot on murderous monozygotic mayhem created by a couple of trickster twins. Their DNA might be an almost perfect match, but their paw prints won’t be.

6. Acknowledge real-world procedure and bias
The Centre for Forensic Science identifies four separate stages in the methodology of fingermark collection: ACE-V.
ACE-V
  • Analysis – all the features of the mark, including any distortions, are analysed by the examiner. Remember, the mark may well be of lower quality than an exemplar fingerprint because it’s smudged or partial or has been contaminated in some way. Marks are analysed in terms of their overall pattern (e.g. loop, regular arch, tented arch, whorl), their ridge characteristics (more detailed ‘minutiae’), and the size, shape and frequency of pores and ridge edges.
  • Comparison – the features are compared with a fingerprint in the database.
  • Evaluation – the examiner decides whether there’s a match. It might be impossible to conclude either way because a comparison can’t be carried out between a partial mark and a full print.
  • Verification – more than one specialist examiner should verify the match.

​In Forensics, Val McDermid discusses a miscarriage of justice that occurred because of flawed procedure (pp. 134–7). A partial fingermark left at the scene of a horrific bombing in Madrid in 2004 was analysed in comparison with a suspect’s fingerprints.

​In other words, the A and C were not separate procedures. The examiner went looking for points of similarity rather than taking into account the differences, even though only a partial fingermark was available. This introduced unacceptable bias and led to erroneous findings. She summarizes the FBI’s later conclusions:
'First of all the expert should analyse the mark in detail, describing as many minutiae as she can. Only afterwards should she examine possible matches and carry out a comparison. When analysis and comparison happen simultaneously, experts run the risk of finding matching minutiae [ridge characteristics) because they are looking for them.’
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Does this mean you can’t have flawed procedure in your novel? Not at all – it could be a great plot point.

Just bear in mind that the issue of bias is on the agenda for the forensics community internationally. Read ‘A Review of the FBI’s Handling of the Brandon Mayfield Case’ in its entirety if you want more insights into the challenges of fingerprint forensics.

Furthermore, many police forces are having to endure budget cuts. Stretched resources can lead to corner-cutting. How might that affect your story?

7. Familiarize yourself with processing and enhancement
Latent fingermarks are currently processed using the following techniques. To find out more, read Dr Chris Lennard’s paper, ‘The detection and enhancement of latent fingerprints’, presented at the 13th INTERPOL Forensic Science Symposium.

  • Powder suspension – enhances latent marks on non-porous surfaces. A suspension of coloured metal and detergent is painted onto the surface, then washed off, leaving the fingermark exposed. The mark is photographed.
  • Powders – enhances latent marks on non-porous surfaces. Coloured metal powder – aluminium for glass; black powder for UPVC – is brushed onto the surface, exposing the mark. The mark is photographed or lifted using tape.
  • Cyanoacrylate – enhances latent marks on non-porous surfaces. This compound is found in superglue. The vapour reacts with some marks, producing white crystals on the mark’s ridges. The crystalline can be dyed or dusted with dark powder to further enhance the mark. The mark is then photographed.
  • Ninhydrin – enhances latent marks on porous surfaces. The surface is covered with the chemical then baked. It reacts with amino acids in the finger mark and turns purple. The mark is photographed.

Exemplar fingerprints – those taken directly from an individual in controlled circumstances – are captured via two methods:

  • Ink-rolling (called Tenprints in the UK) – the fingertips and palms are rolled in ink and re-rolled onto card, then photographed.
  • Scanning (called Livescan in the UK and US) – the fingertips and palms are scanned electronically.

Read about how two law-enforcement organizations – one in the UK and one in the US – use ink and scanning technology here:
​
  • FBI: Recording legible fingerprints
  • Northumbria Police: Tenprints

​8. Use the right fingerprint databases
Images of fingermarks extracted from a crime scene can be uploaded to databases containing both fingerprints (and other biometrics) of known individuals and fingermarks that have yet to be identified.

The main fingerprint databases are:

  • UK: IDENT1
  • US: IAFIS – Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System
  • Australia: National Automated Fingerprint Identification System
  • Eurodac – specifically for identifying asylum seekers and illegal immigrants
  • INTERPOL fingerprints database

9. Decide how far to bend the rules
Do you need to worry about any of this? After all, it’s fiction!

​It depends on the subgenre of your writing, and how your readers are likely to respond to deviations from reality. If your novel is set in an alternative world or in the future, you can play it however you want.


If, however, you’re writing a realistic procedural, you could alienate sticklers if you get it wrong, especially those who are police officers, forensic scientists, scene-of-crime officers, and fingerprint examiners.

TV shows like Silent Witness and CSI offer audiences a single viewpoint. Most viewers accept that the real world involves more complex investigations with many more players. Books, like TV shows, entertain us, so readers too will indulge writers who bend the rules to a degree.

Even if you don’t want to go for maximum authenticity, consider sprinkling your narrative with factual information that grounds your investigation just enough to head off those whose fingers are hovering over the one-star button in Amazon’s review pane!

Further reading and related resources
  • 3 reasons to use free indirect speech in crime fiction​
  • A Review of the FBI’s Handling of the Brandon Mayfield Case, US Department of Justice, 2006
  • Crime writing resources for indie authors
  • Fingerprint Examination – Terminology, Definitions and Acronyms, Forensic Science Regulator, 2013
  • Forensics: The Anatomy of Crime, by Val McDermid. Wellcome Collection, 2015
  • Introduction to Forensic Science (online course), with Penny Haddrill, Centre for Forensic Science, University of Strathclyde, 2018
  • Latent Prints, by Jack Claridge. Explore Forensics, 2017
  • Playing with sentence length in crime fiction. Is it time to trim the fat?
  • ​Playing with the rhythm of fiction: commas and conjunctions
  • Science in court: The fine print, by Laura Spinney. Nature 464, 344–6, 2010
  • The Detection and Enhancement of Latent Fingerprints, presented at the 13th INTERPOL Forensic Science Symposium, by Dr Chris Lennard, 2001
  • Why ‘suddenly’ can spoil your crime fiction: Advice for new writers
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.

She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP), a member of ACES, a Partner Member of The Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLi), and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
​
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4 Comments

Two ways to write about physical violence in crime fiction and thrillers

6/5/2019

4 Comments

 
Not every reader can stomach violence in fiction, and not every writer wants to go the whole hog with it. Here are two ways to approach it: compressed reporting after the fact; and showing it all as it happens.
2 ways to write about physical violence in fiction
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Compressed reporting after the fact
Reporting the outcome of violence after the fact can be a superb alternative to detailed descriptions that might upset or sicken authors and their readers. This technique is used on the screen too. 
​
In Series 5, Episode 3 of Line of Duty (BBC1), the perpetrator breaks into the home of a core character’s ex-wife. The transgressor proceeds to torture the victim. There’s a drill involved and lots of screaming. It’s gross. Well, it would be if we saw it. But we don’t. All we see is the outcome.

The ex-wife lies in a hospital bed, bandaged from head to toe. We glimpse patches of skin, her flesh swollen and angry. Her face is physically untouched though trauma is etched into it. And even the slightest movement results in a whimper and a wince; despite the medication, she’s in pain. All we know so far is that something awful has happened to her but we don’t know what.

The scene cuts to two police officers listening to an audio file of the torture. Now we hear the drill and the screams. The officers play a little of the audio then switch it off and express their horror. A phone conversation with the victim’s husband ensues and we discover a little more about what’s been done to the woman. They finish the call and discuss the crime between themselves. Then the audio’s back and we hear a few more snatches. Off again, and there’s more analysis.
​
It’s a powerful rendition of extreme violence that protects viewers from the gory detail but leaves us in no doubt about the suffering that’s been endured.
This method can work just as beautifully in a novel. It’s not that the violence is diminished but that we access less of it.

Harlan Coben’s Run Away (Century, 2019, pp. 68–9) provides an excellent example. Aaron, a corrupt and possessive junkie, has been murdered. Coben elects not to show us the violence as it plays out. Instead, we learn what happened via a later conversation between Simon and Ingrid.
     “The murder,” Simon said. “It was gruesome.”
​     Ingrid wore a long thin coat. She dug her hands into her pockets. “Go on.”
​     “Aaron was mutilated.”
​     “How?”
​     ​“Do you really need the details?” he asked.
[...]
​     “According to Hester’s source, the killer slit Aaron’s throat, though she said that’s a tame way of putting it. The knife went deep into his neck. Almost took off his head. They sliced off three fingers. They also cut off ...”
​     “Pre- or post-mortem?” Ingrid asked in her physician tone.
​     “The amputations. Was he still alive for them?”
​     “I don’t know,” Simon said. “Does it matter?”
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Two things stand out about this scene:

  • The question that Simon asks Ingrid (‘Do you really need the details?’) is the same one Coben’s asking his readers. He decides to give us just enough to shake us up, but not so much that we’re hurling into a bucket. The ellipsis is a well-placed pause that forces us to do some of the work. Overall, it’s lean but rich. The author doesn’t over-egg it for the sake of grossing us out.
  • The violence is not diluted, yet Ingrid’s clinical detachment – she’s gone into doctor mode – gives us a breather and contrasts with Simon’s higher emotional state. The dialogue acts as a framework within which the horror is divulged; but it also gives us insights into the characters’ personalities. In other words, it’s not all about the murder.

​Cosies are a subgenre that bend particularly well to compressed after-the-fact reporting. Yes, people get hurt and die in grisly ways but most of the horror is left to the imagination.

Here’s an example from Emily Brightwell’s The Inspector and Mrs Jeffries (C&R Crime, 2013, pp. 1–3):
     Witherspoon leaned forward and examined the dead man. It was not a chore he relished. The fact was, he was rather squeamish about dead people, but as corpses went, this was a rather nice one. At least it wasn’t covered in blood.
[…]
​     “The doctor was obviously reading when death occurred,” Witherspoon said. “See how his head is resting on that book. Except for the rather peculiar way his arms are flopped out, one each side, you’d think he was merely taking a nap.”
     “Well he isn’t napping,” snapped the doctor, glaring at Witherspoon. “He’s dead and the circumstances are very suspicious.”
​     “Suspicious?” Witherspoon echoed. He didn’t think there was anything suspicious about a dead person in a doctor’s surgery. Mind you there were more dead people in hospitals, but surely, if one couldn’t die in a hospital, a surgery was the next best place.
[…]
​     “Inspector Witherspoon,” Hightower began slowly, as though talking to a thick-skulled child, “if you’d trouble yourself to lift Dr. Slocum’s head, you’ll see why I considered his death suspicious.”
​     Witherspoon swallowed hard and rolled the dead man’s head to one side. He tried not to shudder as a pair of open, beady gray eyes gazed up at him. The face surrounding those eyes was puffed up like bread dough, and the flesh was flushed a bright pink. A hideously swollen tongue protruded from between lips that had been stretched in a horrible parody of a smile.
​     ​Inspector Witherspoon quickly turned the face away and stepped back.
​     “As you can see, he’s swelled up like a bullfrog,” Hightower continued. “He may well have actually died of heart failure, but I assure you, it was brought on by something else. […] Dr. Slocum’s been poisoned.”
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Brightwell focuses on the impact of the poison on the body; unlike in the Line of Duty screen example, there’s nothing that tells us about the suffering endured. That’s the cosy way.

And as with the Coben example, the implied violence is balanced by dialogue that unveils character personality. It’s not just the readers who shy away from the horror; Inspector Witherspoon does too. We also learn how he’s perceived by others in the scene – as a bumbling buffoon who can’t see the obvious. This sets the scene nicely for Mrs Jeffries’ more capable intervention later on in the novel.

Showing it all as it happens
Some acts of violence – such as fight scenes – work best when we’re shown everything as it plays out. Rendering a fight after the fact (as in the examples above) would destroy the dramatic tension.

Still, a fight scene needs to hold the reader’s attention. That means paying attention to pacing and providing just enough stage direction to enable the reader to understand the choreography.

This extract from The Poison Artist by Jonathan Moore (Orion, 2014, pp. 244–5) appealed to me because it avoids high-octane, kickass tropes. Rather, the author captures the transgressor’s mysterious sensuality in the violent narrative. Her psychotically calm speech and composed movements have an ethereal quality. In sharp contrast, the protagonist’s actions are punctuated with sentence fragments that elevate the pace and introduce tension.
     He bent forward, suddenly, and caught himself with one hand on his knee. Like a runner who hits his limit. Winded and beaten. When Kennon looked up, Caleb could see veins and tendons bulging in his neck. Their eyes met.
​     “Don’t move,” Kennon said.
​     This time, his voice wasn’t much more than a whisper.
​     Emmeline stood to her full height and took a step toward Kennon. He fired the gun at her. Caleb didn’t know if he was trying to hit her or not. A candle inside a glass sphere exploded three feet from Emmeline’s ankle. Closer, in fact, to Caleb’s head. Behind her, the man on the mattress went on twitching. The device clamped to his face was made of iron. Thumbscrews ran along both its sides in double rows.
​     “Inspector, you’ll hit somebody,” Emmeline said.
​     She kept coming toward him. Her dress was cut long in the back, so that its hem trailed on the floor behind her, a black train. Emmeline stepped carefully between the candles, but her dress swept over them. They tipped, spelling wax, sending up smoke as they went out. Caleb got to his back and struggled until his cuffed hands were behind his thighs. He didn’t take his eyes of Emmeline.
​     “You look sick, Inspector,” Emmeline said. “I could get you something to drink. A glass of water, maybe? Something a little stronger?”
​     Kennon fired again and Emmeline didn’t even flinch.
​     The bullet missed her by ten feet, punching a hole in the back of the building.
​     “Stop—”
​     “You should be more careful what you touch,” Emmeline said. “Some things can go right through the skin.”
​     ​Kennon fell onto his knees. His face was purple.
Picture

Moore, like Coben, doesn’t overwork it. The scene never drags even though the pace changes depending on who we’re watching.

Here’s a high-octane example from Robert Ludlum’s The Matlock Paper (Orion, 1973/2005, pp. 268–9). Ludlum never bores us, just tells us straight. The pace is quick and every word counts.
     But the man came closer. He wasn’t sure. And closer. The beam of light was just above Matlock now. Then it moved to his midsection and Matlock could see the large barrel of the ugly black automatic.
​     It was the second, the instant he’d waited for.
​     He whipped his right hand up towards the weapon, simultaneously springing his whole body against the legs of the man in the raincoat. He held the automatic’s barrel, forcing it with all his strength toward the ground. The gun fired twice, the impact of the explosions nearly shattering Matlock’s hand, the sounds partially muted by wet earth and the slashing rain.
​     The man was beneath him now, twisting on his side, thrashing with his legs and free arm against the heavier Matlock. Matlock flung himself on the pinned arm and sank his teeth into the wrist above the hand holding the weapon. He bit into the flesh until he could feel the blood spurting out, mingled with the cold rain.
​     ​The man released the automatic, screaming in anguish. Matlock grabbed for the gun, wrested it free, and smashed it repeatedly into the man’s face.
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Ludlum keeps the stage direction lean and the pace consistent. But I also love how he introduces the earth and rain into the narrative, but only briefly. The weather doesn’t distract us. The mentions are just enough to ground the violence in a physical environment that can be felt and heard; the men aren’t fighting in white space.
 
Lean is good but not too lean! Omitting the detail would render the scene inauthentic.

Imagine reading this:
     Lamaison saw his chance, and he took it. But Reacher was ready and took him down. Game over.

​Really? So how did he manage that? Was is that easy? Jack Reacher’s good but he’s human. Readers still need to know how he won the day, how he was challenged, what obstacles he had to overcome. That way we can rally behind him.

​Here’s the real extract from Lee Child’s Bad Luck and Trouble (Bantam, 2007, p. 492). Child gives us the detail, shows us the choreography of the fight, but it’s focused. None of the steps are repeated so we don’t get bored.
​     Lamaison saw his chance, and he took it. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and scrabbled his heels on the carpet, trying to get his feet under him. But Reacher was ready. Readier than he had ever been. He kicked Lamaison hard in the side and swung an elbow that caught him on the ear. Wrestled him face down on the floor and got a knee between his shoulder blades and jammed the SIG against the top of his spine. Lamaison’s head was up and Reacher knew he was staring out into the void. He feet were drumming on the carpet. He was screaming. Reacher could hear him clearly over the noise. He could feel his chest heaving.
​     ​Too late, Reacher thought. You reap what you sow.
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​Child uses sentence fragments to accelerate the pace, and polysyndeton to introduce a sense of rampancy. And he deepens our interest by shifting the narrative distance – we move from observers in the wings to right inside Reacher’s head.

Summing up
For showing-it-all violence:
  • Provide stage direction and choreography but avoid repetition.
  • Play with narrative distance (using thoughts and free indirect speech).
  • Experiment with commas and conjunctions (asyndetic and polysyndetic constructions) for rhythmic effect and to introduce tension.
  • Alter sentence length and evaluate the impact on pace.
  • Don’t forget the environment – will glimpses of it enrich a reader’s experience of the violence?

For reporting-after-the-fact violence:
  • Focus on outcomes. Even if we haven’t followed the violence as it occurred, what are the after-effects? Think bodily injury, emotional trauma, and damage to the environment (though consider genre).
  • Use dialogue to explore the violence through other characters’ perceptions of and responses to it. Might you introduce contrasting emotions to unveil character traits?
  • Keep it short. While a show-it-all fight scene might fall over one or two pages, trust your reader to do more of the work in this case. Give them nudges that enable them to join the dots.

A final word. If your scenes of violence include weapons or specialist fighting techniques, do your research. Some of your readers will know their guns and martial arts. Placing suppressors on pistols that don’t take them or getting your martial arts moves wrong will pull readers out of your story and provide the pedants with excuses to knock stars off your Amazon reviews.

Further reading
  • Dialogue tags: How to show who’s speaking
  • How to convey accents
  • How to punctuate dialogue
  • How to use free indirect speech
  • How to write novels for readers, not viewers
  • How to write thoughts
  • Physical description with style
  • Playing with sentence length
  • Playing with the rhythm of fiction: commas and conjunctions
  • Using adverbs in fiction writing
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with independent authors of commercial fiction, particularly crime, thriller and mystery writers.
​
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Society for Editors and Proofreaders (SfEP), a member of ACES, a Partner Member of The Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLi), and an Associate Member of the Crime Writers’ Association (CWA).
4 Comments
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