FOR EDITORS, PROOFREADERS AND WRITERS

Learn how to use controlled misdirection to guide your reader towards convincing but incorrect interpretations, and build deeper, more engaging mysteries.

• What is controlled misdirection?
• What’s the difference between a red herring and controlled misdirection?
  
• Writing controlled misdirection: The golden rules
• What controlled misdirection is not: Common misconceptions
• How controlled misdirection works: The mechanics (with examples)

Controlled misdirection is a deliberate storytelling technique that leads the reader towards a convincing but incorrect interpretation of information.

When done well, it doesn’t feel like a trick but like something natural and logical – even though, later, that information will turn out to be incomplete or misjudged.

I like to separate controlled misdirection from red herrings because the latter feels heavier. Red herrings work by building a false but plausible explanatory path that steers the reader towards an incorrect conclusion, only to collapse later under the weight of the real solution.

However, sometimes writers like to introduce other points of misdirection that are less weighty. These focus not on shaping the conclusion, but how information is interpreted in the moment.

The writer presents accurate, relevant details in a way that encourages the reader (and often the protagonist) to infer the wrong meaning from them. That’s what I call ‘controlled misdirection’.

Key distinction
At their core, the difference is this:

Controlled misdirection shapes how the reader interprets information, while red herrings construct a complete but ultimately false explanation.
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In practice, both can appear alongside each other in crime fiction. They’re just operating slightly differently.

All controlled misdirection should be:

• believable: The incorrect interpretation must feel entirely plausible within the story. Focus on how character motives, circumstances or evidence can be reasonably misread. If the interpretation feels forced, readers will recognize the manipulation and disengage from your story.

• true to perspective: Misdirection must respect the limits of your narrative point of view. In restricted or limited POV (common in crime fiction and thrillers), the reader can only interpret what the viewpoint character could realistically observe, infer or misunderstand.

• relevant: Misdirection should connect meaningfully to the story’s central logic, otherwise it becomes clutter and risks frustrating the reader. 

• grounded in truth: The underlying information should be accurate and meaningful. Controlled misdirection works best when the reader isn’t being deceived by falsehoods, but by how those truths are framed and understood.

• timely: Introduce the misdirection early enough that it can genuinely compete with the real solution in the reader’s mind. If it appears too late, readers might already be committed to the correct interpretation, making the misdirection feel artificial or forced.

• substantial: Readers of crime and thriller fiction expect to be misled, but the misdirecting details must be substantial enough that, in hindsight, it feels convincing rather than flimsy. Thin or superficial distractions won’t earn that reaction.

• specific: Effective misdirection points towards a clear, incorrect interpretation rather than vague ambiguity. Ambiguity has its place, but misdirection works best when the reader feels confident in their reasoning.

• restrained: Too much competing misdirection can overwhelm the reader and become difficult to manage within the story. It’s better if you use a few well-developed misdirections that readers can invest in, rather than a large number that risk confusion.

• resolved: Every misdirection should be accounted for by the end of the story so that readers understand how they were misled and where the truth actually lay. This makes the experience feel fair.

Here’s what controlled misdirection isn’t.

It’s not a lie
Controlled misdirection isn’t a licence to mislead readers with false information. The reader is given accurate details, but encouraged to interpret them in a particular way.

It’s not a twist
Twists are sudden, unexpected revelations that reshape a reader’s interpretation of earlier events and alter their understanding of the story. In short, they resolve uncertainty, whereas controlled misdirection seeks to prolong it.

It’s not a red herring (according to my framework) 
It’s not a red herring, at least in the classical sense, though the two often operate in close proximity in contemporary crime fiction and thrillers.

Think of it like this: Controlled misdirection gives the reader true information, but shapes how they interpret it. A red herring, by contrast, introduces a coherent but ultimately false theory that steers the reader towards an incorrect conclusion.

It’s not foreshadowing
Controlled misdirection and foreshadowing can look similar on the surface but they’re actually working in two different directions.

Controlled misdirection points away from the truth, guides the reader to an interpretation that feels right at the time, but turns out to be incomplete or incorrect, whereas foreshadowing nudges the reader towards it.

It’s not withholding
Withholding is about when information is revealed – it's a timing choice. Controlled misdirection, on the other hand, is active in the present and guides the reader towards an incorrect interpretation – ​it’s a shaping choice.

Here’s a quick 4-step framework, followed by a couple of worked examples, that you can use to build effective misdirection.

1. The setup: Readers are given accurate, relevant information
2. The misdirect: That information is interpreted incorrectly
3. The justification: The incorrect interpretation feels plausible at the time
4. The turn: The information is later reinterpreted correctly

Below are two examples of controlled misdirection in action.

Example 1: Misdirection through forensic interpretation
The setup: Readers are given accurate, relevant information

• A man is found dead in his office late at night. There are no injuries and no signs of forced entry, just a collapsed body and a half-finished drink on his desk.
• A toxicology report identifies a rare industrial compound in the victim’s bloodstream. Trace amounts are also found on the rim of his glass.

The misdirect: The information is interpreted incorrectly

• Investigators conclude that the victim was deliberately poisoned using this compound, most likely by putting it into his drink.

The justification: The incorrect interpretation is plausible at the time

• The compound is used in industrial cleaning products and isn’t something the victim would likely have come into contact with accidentally.
• A cleaning contractor had access to the office and the chemical, and a batch of the compound appears to be unaccounted for. 
• The forensic evidence seems consistent and reliable, which reinforces the poisoning theory.

The turn: Later, this information can be reinterpreted correctly

• It’s discovered that the victim was taking medication that, when combined with alcohol, produces the same chemical signature at the cleaning compound. It’s this reaction, not deliberate poisoning, that caused the death.
• The trace residue on the glass came from routine cleaning, and the missing batch is traced to a logging error. 
• The initial toxicology result was technically accurate but misinterpreted, pointing investigators in the wrong direction until new information allowed the evidence to be correctly understood.

Example 2: Misdirection through behavioural interpretation
The setup: Readers are given accurate, relevant information

• A woman is found dead in her home. There are no signs of forced entry. Neighbours recall hearing an argument the night before. 
• Her husband says he discovered the body. He has no clear alibi for the estimated time of death and seems unusually calm when he’s interviewed.
• Financial records show he recently increased her life insurance policy, and he has a fresh scratch on his wrist.

The misdirect: The information is interpreted incorrectly

• Investigators conclude that the husband killed his wife, likely following a domestic dispute, with financial gain as a possible motive.

The justification: The incorrect interpretation is plausible at the time

• The marital tension, lack of alibi and financial incentive align with the investigator theory and follow a pattern they’ve seen before.
• The physical mark suggests a struggle, and the husband’s demeanour during questioning is interpreted as detachment or concealment. 

The turn: Later, this information can be reinterpreted correctly

• It’s revealed that the argument was about the victim’s worsening illness and her refusal of further treatment. The life insurance policy had been increased to cover medical costs and provide security. 
• The scratch came from the husband’s attempt to revive her. 
• His calmness was the result of shock, not guilt. 
• The evidence was accurate, but its meaning had been misread, directing suspicion toward an innocent man while the true cause of death lay elsewhere.

Effective controlled misdirection doesn’t make the reader feel tricked. Rather, it makes them realize that they formed an interpretation that felt logical at the time, given the information available, but turned out to be incorrect.

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) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.

• Get in touch: Louise Harnby | Crime Fiction & Thriller Editor
• Connect: X @LouiseHarnby, Facebook and LinkedIn
• Learn: Books and courses
• Discover: Resources for authors and editors

This practical framework shows you 9 steps for line editing scenes in crime and thriller fiction so that every sentence pulls its weight and delivers the appropriate level of tension.

• ​Why your novel’s not gripping the reader
• What is line editing?
• Checking for clarity
• Managing narrative velocity with sentence length
• Building micro-tension with rhythmic tools
• Regulating what the reader knows, and when
• Controlling narrative point of view
• Strengthening your verbs
• Sharpening dialogue with subtext
• Ensuring description matches the stakes
• Reviewing your story beginnings and chapter endings

If you feel like your novel’s not gripping the reader, it’s all too easy to blame something going on at story level. Perhaps it’s not twisty enough. Maybe the plot’s too thin. Perhaps the structure’s not balanced and the prose feels saggy in the middle of the book.

Before you rework the whole thing, take a step back and ask yourself if it’s the line work.

The reason I say that is because line editing for crime fiction and thrillers takes place within the same foundational framework as any other genre. However, there’s an additional matter that needs engineering at line level: tension.
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That tension can’t just live at the macro level – in the story. It has to have a home in the sentences too.

Structural editing is SHAPING work. It examines big-picture elements like plot, pacing, structure, character arcs and coherence. Editors focus on improving the clarity and impact of the whole story.

Proofreading is QUALITY CONTROL work. It focuses on surface issues, amending spelling, grammar, punctuation, formatting and consistency issues to ensure the novel’s ready for publication.
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Line editing is EXPRESSION work. It sits in between the structural and proofreading stages, and considers what the scene is trying to do – whether that’s creating drama, building tension, revealing character, conveying information – and then making stylistic improvements to ensure the language actually achieves that.
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Use the framework below to check each scene and make sure that every sentence is pulling its weight.

The first step is to check for clarity. Here, you’re making sure that:
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• actions are easy to follow
• the cause and effect are clear
• your sentences aren’t overloaded with clauses.

Just because a line is lean doesn’t mean it needs to be boring. Sometimes writers need to tell it like it is and give the reader the cleanest pathway through so that they can live in the moment of the action rather than having to untangle it.

This is particularly important in high-stakes situations, where the clock is ticking or a character’s in pursuit or being pursued.

Examples

• Tangled: He moved off urgently towards the rear exit after glancing briefly at his watch, taking the left, then what he thought might have been the second right, and another turn after that. He wondered if the door would be locked and realized that if it was, he’d have to retrace his steps.
• Clear: He checked his watch and hurried to the rear exit. Left. Second right. Another right. What if the damn door was locked? No matter. He’d retrace his steps.

In the edited version, clarity has been improved by following a cleaner telling of the order of play: time (the watch), movement (hurried) and path (direction).

I’ve also used more precise verbs ('checked' and 'hurried') to show how the character’s actions are controlled. This means we can ditch the adverbs ('urgently' and 'briefly') because those verbs do the heavy-lifting.

I’ve also suggested free indirect speech ('What if the … no matter'). That’s more concise and takes us into the character’s headspace without the need for the cluttering filter words ('wondered' and 'realized').

Key principle: Keep tension intact my ensuring your reader doesn’t have to stop and re-read a sentence.

Narrative velocity is the speed at which the reader perceives events taking place in a story. At scene level, it’s shaped by sentence structure, pacing and how quickly information and action are delivered.

​Just because you’re writing crime fiction or a thriller doesn’t mean the pace has to rocket in every sentence. Instead, make sure it’s controlled in a way that shows rather than tells the perceived speed.

How sentence length affects perceived speed
As a general rule, long sentences tend to slow the pace of a scene, while short sentences accelerate it. There’s space for both, of course, so think about what’s happening in your scene in terms of stakes. Is danger increasing? Is time running out? Is something shocking revealed? Try shortening your sentences in those cases.

For extra impact, use sentence fragments – though sparingly, because then the reader won’t notice that you’re doing it, only how it makes them feel.
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If, however, the scene is more reflective – perhaps a law-enforcement officer is trying to make sense of some inconsistent evidence, or they’re remembering a former case – a longer sentence will mirror the more stretched-out thought process.

Example

Notice how in the example above, the leading longer sentences elongate the perceived time, reflecting the tedious graft that our character’s putting in. Then, as something unexpected is discovered, shorter sentences and fragments make the prose snappier. This truncates the moment into something immediate and jarring.

This mirrors real-life human experience. When we’re under pressure we tend to think in bursts, whereas when we’re in a safe, calm space we have more time for reflection. By controlling the length of a sentence in prose we can mirror that tension, or the lack of it.

Key principle: Mix up sentence length so that you’re reflecting mood.

Rhythm determines how quickly a reader moves through a scene. Faster rhythms can convey urgency, action, fear, anger and shock. Slower rhythms can convey sadness, calm, thoughtfulness and introspection. Interruptions to rhythm force the reader to pay attention.

We’ve already looked at how sentence length affects pacing, so here are five more rhythmic devices that you can call on at line editing stage to create or ease tension.
Think about what’s happening in the scene and what the character’s feeling, then consider which tool might be most effective:
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• Anaphora: This is the repetition of a word or phrase at the beginning of successive clauses. It can help create a sense of rising passion, obsession or desperation.
• Asyndeton: This is the deliberate omission of conjunctions between parts of a sentence. It can help convey urgency, speed and panic.
• Periodic sentences: In these, the main clause is backloaded. They’re great for slow reveals, tension or poetic moments.
• Polysyndeton: This is the deliberate use of many conjunctions in close succession. It can evoke a sense of overwhelm, abundance or tedium.
• Short one-line paragraphs: These are single paragraphs comprising just a few words, and are superb for shocks, revelations and gut-punch moments. 

Examples
In all five examples below, there are different levels of micro-tension in play, and the rhythmic tools help mirror the emotional pressure experienced by the characters.

• Anaphora: He wanted silence. He wanted sleep. He wanted to forget the gunshot and the blood.

The repetition feels weighty and emphasizes the character’s desperate longing and the pressure he’s feeling.

• Asyndeton: He saw the door, the blood, the open window, the broken glass, the shoes still by the bed.

The omission of conjunctions in the asyndeton example allows the list to flow rapidly, conveying urgency.

• Periodic sentence: In the corner, slumped in a battered leather chair and snoring lightly, was Arjun.

Postponing who’s in the chair builds suspense.

• Polysyndeton: She ran through the rain and the mud and the wind, chasing a voice she could barely hear.

The succession of conjunctions mirrors the character’s exhausting pursuit.

Short one-line paragraph: The man in the photo was him.

By giving this pithy one-liner its own space, the revelation lands hard.

Key principle: Rhythmic tools help readers tap into character experience viscerally, but they need to be used judiciously so that that they don’t overshadow the story.

​When there’s a gap between what’s happening and what the reader understands about it, you create suspense. It’s your chance to make them wait and wonder what’s going to happen – to tease them so that their anticipation builds! And all the while, tension increases.

If a particular scene has important information or a surprise in it, even a small one, look for line editing opportunities to delay the reveal by a line or two. If you have several revelations in your scene, think about how you can break them up so they land in stages.

Example

In the example above, the tension builds as Marv grapples with his conundrum, and the reader isn’t any the wiser. We uncover the reveal at the same time as him.

​I’ve kept that reveal short, concrete and slightly incomplete to maximize impact. This means the reader has to do some of the work in that moment. Further revelation and explanation can come later. 

What the reader knows, or doesn’t know, is key, so review the scene to check that you’ve reinforced the limits of your chosen narrative point-of-view style.

If you’ve used a limited or subjective viewpoint, which is common in crime fiction and thrillers, check that:

• your descriptions are anchored in what the perspective/viewpoint character can experience (see, hear, touch, taste, think, feel)
• any accidental ‘camera drifts’ into omniscience are reworked so that viewpoint remains intact
• uncertainty stays uncertain until the perspective character earns the right to know something because they’ve experienced it.

Examples (Arjun is the perspective character)

• Unearned knowledge: Arjun held his breath. The killer had come up behind him and raised his gun.
• Earned knowledge: Arjun held his breath. Something had shifted behind him.

In the first example, Arjun can’t know that a person is behind him, never mind one holding a gun, precisely because this action is happening behind him. In the revised version, he senses movement, but that’s all.

The reader knows only what the character knows, and if Arjun’s uncertain, so are we. That delay in information adds to the tension.

Key principle: Limit the information reported in the narrative to what the perspective character can experience.  

If you want to maximise tension, looking at your verbs is a great place to start. Small tweaks can make a big difference to whether an action feels like it’s gentler and happening at arm’s length, or strong and immediate.

Generally speaking, weak verbs dilute tension, while stronger ones amplify it, so line edit in a way that focuses the reader’s attention sharply on what’s being done.

Example
Imagine an escape scene and take a look at the following two options: 

• Weaker verbs: He was running down the corridor, trying to get away.
• Stronger verbs: He sprinted down the corridor and skidded left.

Nothing’s technically wrong with the first version, but the action feels expository. Note the verb – ‘was running’. It’s the past continuous tense, or action in progress. That’s grammatically unproblematic but it’s somewhat soft. This is exacerbated by the addition of a clause that reminds the reader what they already know given that this is an escape scene.

The second version seeks to draw the reader into the moment. I’ve suggested a more forceful verb – ‘sprinted’. Using the simple past tense conveys urgency. I’ve also replaced the expository ‘trying to get away’ with an additional precise verb – ‘skidded’. 

Now we leave the reader to join up the dots, and instead of telling them what the intention is – to escape – we focus on what the character’s doing right now. It’s a small change, but one that transforms the energy in the scene and makes it feel more tense.

Key principle: If a verb has scaffolding around it – ‘was [verb]ing’, ‘began to [verb]’, ‘seemed to [verb]’ – experiment with stripping it down so it’s more precise and conveys a sense of impact rather than effort.

Real-life speech is often filled with stuff that comes out of social norms (eg saying hello and goodbye, offering drinks, talking about the weather).

However, including this in your crime fiction or thriller risks ripping the tension out of a scene because it’s not what the reader’s interested in. When you’re line editing, look for opportunities to:
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• cut filler and pleasantries
• let characters evade or deflect
• use interruption and silence.

Example: Authentic but distracting

Example: Focused and tension-filled

The first version feels real enough, but it's rather expository. There’s no tension between the two speakers.

​In the second version, the filler is gone, and one of the characters is cagey, then interruptive when their colleague goes on the defence. The subtext – that one of them missed something – is shown rather than told.

Key principle: Dialogue should do triple duty – reveal character (voice), show the mood (the subtext of the conversation), and deliver intent (so that the story advances).

Line editing is also the time to consider whether the stakes in a scene are apparent. The reader should never forget what’s at risk, so check that characters’ actions and reactions match the situation. 

Examples of high stakes could include:

• a killer and detective have come face to face
• a hostage negotiation is unravelling
• evidence is about to be destroyed
• someone’s undercover identity is about to be exposed
• a witness is deciding whether they dare testify.

In these situations, line edit to ensure your description is targeted and precise. That way, the information conveyed is vivid but delivered fast, creating more immediate pressure-based tension. 

Examples of low stakes could include:

• the routine questioning of a witness
• surveying a crime scene
• following a lead
• doing paperwork, research or background-checking
• non-confrontational surveillance.

In these situations, the description can be more detailed and the pace slower. You can still deliver tension, but it’s more stretched out because there’s no imminent threat. 

Examples

• High stakes: She crossed the room. Yanked open the top drawer of the filing cabinet.
• Low stakes: The room was beige and sparsely furnished – a wooden desk, a chair, a lamp with no shade and a ragged flex, and, in the far left corner, a filing cabinet. She went over to it and pulled open the top drawer.

In the high-stakes example, the description is more focused on the immediate movement, which inflates a sense of urgency. Here, the prose creates a mood that’s abrupt and determined. 

In the low-stakes example, the character is able to move in a more procedural fashion, and take in their surroundings and notice the details. Here, the prose describes a drab, neglected space, and creates a bleak and institutional mood.

Key principle: Ensure the level of detail given to the reader reflects the character’s ability to process it in any given situation.

A super first line in a novel makes readers ask questions and creates a sense of intrigue that draws the reader in. Think of it as a tension pull.  

A powerful closing line in a chapter withholds just enough resolution or adds a twist, which creates momentum. This is the tension push – the encouragement to turn the page and read the next chapter. 

Examples: Opening lines that pull readers into a novel

• The body wasn’t the worst part – it was what was missing from the room.
• He was already lying when he said he hadn’t been there.
• The first time she saw the file, it didn’t exist.
• I’m in trouble.

Those four novel opening lines provide mystery, imbalance and unanswered implication. Rather than explaining, they disturb the equilibrium and force the reader to ask questions.

Examples: Closing lines that push readers onto the next chapter

• ‘There’s something you need to know.’
• The person who opens the door is not who I’m expecting.
• She’s seen this script before, and knows exactly who wrote it.
• He froze. That wasn’t the sound of the wind. 

Those four chapter closing lines function as momentum triggers. Each one either opens a new question, shifts the reader’s perception or interrupts their certainty.

Key principle: Start the book with something that disrupts normal expectations of situation, logic or truth. End a chapter at a moment where certainty shifts.

Every story needs to have a great plot – a structured sequence of events where characters pursue goals, face obstacles and experience change through conflict and resolution. Getting that right is structural or developmental editing work – the shaping stage.

But every novel needs to work at line level too, because that expression work is what will keep readers interested and focused, rather than skimming.

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) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.

• Get in touch: Louise Harnby | Crime Fiction & Thriller Editor
• Connect: X @LouiseHarnby, Facebook and LinkedIn
• Learn: Books and courses
• Discover: Resources for authors and editors​