A BLOG FOR EDITORS, PROOFREADERS AND WRITERS

This post shows you how you can use commas and conjunctions to alter the rhythm of a sentence. Changing the rhythm can help your readers immerse themselves deeper in the mood of your narrative and the emotions of your characters.

Standard grammar advice – the stuff we learned when we were kids – calls for lists with three or more items (or phrases or clauses) in a sentence to be separated by a comma, and for a conjunction to be inserted before the final item:

Her arsenal of weapons included rifles, pistols and machetes.

Or, if your preference is to use the serial (or Oxford comma):

Her arsenal of weapons included rifles, pistols, and machetes.

The use of this one conjunction is called syndeton, and it moderates the pace.

When it comes to fiction, standard grammar works very well for the most part. However, there are other accepted literary devices you can use to help your readers feel the scene you’ve written in a different way: asyndeton and polysyndeton.

I’ve used examples from crime fiction in this article but the principles apply across genres.
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More on syndetic constructions
Syndeton is everywhere. It’s the most oft-used way of constructing a sentence with multiple clauses, and it works well because it aids clarity: this thing, that thing and that other thing.
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Here’s an excerpt from At Risk by Stella Rimington (p. 369):

And here’s an example from Jo Nesbo’s first Harry Hole thriller, The Bat (p. 250):

This second excerpt is taken from a chapter in which the head of the crime squad, Neil McCormack, delivers a long speech to the protagonist, Harry Hole. Harry has just spent nearly an hour delivering his own monologue, updating McCormack on everything that’s happened so far.

The mood of the entire scene is one of contemplation and resignation. The characters give each other the space to talk without rushing. Their behaviour feels controlled, and the way they talk is measured.

The grammatical structure of the sentence (syndetic) is a good choice because it moderates the speed at which we read, and reflects the mood.

Omitting conjunctions – asyndeton
Authors might choose on occasion to change the mood of a sentence by deliberately removing the conjunction. Separating all the items with only commas accelerates the rhythm.

That speeding-up can have a variety of effects:

• Imparting emotions – for example, frustration, futility, despair, desperation, determination, fear, hysteria or urgency.
• Indicating that a person is speaking rapidly.
• Evoking a sense of dislocation by bringing clinical precision to the narrative.
• Adding weight to each clause, thereby increasing drama.

Let’s go back to the Nesbo example and see what happens when we change it:

‘They helped the Allies against the Germans and the Italians, the South Koreans against the North Koreans, the Americans against the Japanese and the North Vietnamese.’

By omitting the conjunction and inserting a comma, a sense of frustration and urgency is introduced. It’s subtle, certainly, but that’s the beauty of it.

If Nesbo had wanted to convey more immediacy, he could have elected to make these small changes. They would have altered the rhythm and showed (without spelling it out) that McCormack’s tone had changed or the pace of his speech had increased.

Here are two examples from Robert Ludlum’s The Janson Directive (p. 274 and p. 355):

In the example above, Ludlum could have introduced ‘and’ after/instead of the final comma of the first sentence with no detrimental effects, but I think its omission brings a sense of urgency and determination to the writing that reflects the tension of the scene.

In the excerpt below, he uses asyndeton to evoke a sense of futility, frustration and anger. The reader is forced to become bogged down in the senseless loss of life from a bullet to the head:

Asyndetic constructions can be particularly effective in noir and hardboiled crime fiction. These genres don’t shy away from the dark underbelly of their settings. The characters are often as damaged as the gritty environments they work within, and a sense of hollowness and futility underpins the novels.

Here’s an excerpt from The Little Sister (p. 177) by the king of hardboiled, Raymond Chandler:

Imagine that second sentence with ‘and’ after (or instead of) the final comma. It would ruin the flow and remove the utter sense of despair and hopelessness. Chandler doesn’t overdo it though. He saves his use of the asyndetic for the right moments rather than littering his pages with it.

Using multiple conjunctions – polysyndeton
Another technique for altering rhythm is that of using multiple conjunctions. Polysyndetic constructions are interesting in that they can work both ways:

• You might introduce multiple conjunctions to evoke a sense of excitement or hysteria. In this case the pace would be accelerated.
• Or you might use them to create a sense of overwhelm. In this case the pace would be moderated as the reader is pulled into the mire of the narrative.

In the following example, Chandler (p. 103) shows us two different groups of people waiting in a reception area that the main character, Philip Marlowe, has entered. By using a conjunction between each adjective describing the hopefuls, he enhances the brightness of their mood. This in turn tells us more than Chandler gives us in terms of words about the other group. We can imagine their boredom and frustration:

There’s a powerful example of the polysyndetic in Kate Hamer’s The Girl in the Red Coat (p. 151). Hamer uses it to enrich a child-character’s voice. Carmel has been abducted and is experiencing a kind of dislocation as she plays with two other children. The multiple conjunctions serve to emphasize the overwhelming giddiness. There’s almost no time to take a breath:

Beware the comma splice
Asyndeton should not be confused with the comma splice.

A comma splice describes two independent clauses joined by a comma rather than a conjunction or an alternative punctuation mark. I recommend you avoid it because some readers will think it's an error and might leave negative reviews.

​The standard-punctuation column in the table below shows how the authors have got it just right. The right-hand column shows you how the non-standard comma-spliced versions would appear.

I hope this overview of syndeton, asyndeton, polysyndeton and the comma splice will help you to discover new ways of playing with the rhythm of your own writing while keeping the punctuation pedants at bay!

Resources and works cited

• At Risk by Stella Rimington. Arrow, 2015.
• Literary Devices: Literary Devices, Terms, and Elements. This site is stacked with accessible guidance on definitions and terminology.
• More free crime writing tools, tips and resources.
• Other more general self-publishing guidance.
• The Bat by Jo Nesbo. Vintage, 2013.
• The Girl in the Red Coat by Kate Hamer. Faber & Faber, 2015.
• The Janson Directive by Robert Ludlum. Orion, 2003.
• The Little Sister by Raymond Chandler. Penguin, 1955.

If you're self-publishing within a strict budget, this booklet will help you decide how best to invest.

The guidance is broken down into sections that reflect the recommended order of play and the outcomes you want to achieve.

Click on the image to download your free copy.

Some crime writers are planners. Some are pantsers (so called because they fly by the seat of their pants). Neither is better than the other. What matters is that the method you choose to write your story works for you and results in a tale well told.

Being either a planner or a pantser won’t determine whether you sell lots of books. A story that makes sense – one that reads as if you had carefully planned it – is what’s key to creating an experience that readers will relish.

So what do some of the big-name crime writers have to say on the matter?

What’s right for you?
‘The more I talk to other crime writers the more I start to become fairly sure that for each writer there is an ideal way, but there isn’t one ideal way,’ says Sophie Hannah.

I think I’ve read everything Harlan Coben’s ever written. If I haven’t, it’s waiting in the pile or on the Kindle. If you’d asked me, I’d have marked him as a planner. His stories hang together so well; he ties up every loose end. And I always have that ‘Ah, that’s what happened’ moment. But in fact, Coben’s a pantser:

​Maybe you’re like him or Julia Heaberlin:

​Or perhaps you’re like Susan Spann:

Or Hannah:

​To help you decide whether to plan or pants, consider the following:
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• Will planning impede your creativity?
• How fast do you write?
• When do you want to find out whether your plot works?
• Are you a linear or a non-linear writer?
• How will you decide where to plant your clues?
• How will you ensure your story has a cohesive structure?’

Planning and creativity
Some writers fear that planning will mute their creativity and the process of discovery. The following excerpt is from an article from the NY Book Editors blog:

Heaberlin feels that surrendering control to her characters is essential to the creative unfolding of her stories:

However, passionate planners feel differently. Their plans are as much a form of artistry as the actual writing. Here’s Hannah on how a plan needn’t thwart spontaneity:

Time frame and process
Some authors write multiple drafts to ensure the book’s plot works. That slows down the process. Hannah’s detailed planning approach means her first draft works; she’s already identified where the problems are before she gets started on the actual writing process.

​Jeffery ​Deaver concurs:

He then walks around talking to himself, deciding where on the whiteboard the clues need to go so that the main plot and various subplots will work. And if he finds that a clue won’t work in a particular place because, say, character X doesn’t know Y yet, he moves the post-it note. It’s an eight-month process but once it’s done, ‘writing comes quickly’.
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Still, don’t get too comfy! Andy Martin spent the best part of 12 months in the company of Lee Child as he wrote Make Me:

Which just goes to show that being a pantser doesn’t necessarily mean being a slow writer.

Does the plot work?
If you’re a pantser, the idea of finding yourself stuck in a hole after months of writing might not terrify you. Lee Child doesn’t let it stop him.

In an interview with Harry Brett, Heaberlin acknowledges the need for third-party assistance to fill in the gaps and polish her stories:

Contrast that approach with those of these two planners:

What kind of writer are you?
In an interview with Henry Sutton in May 2018, Deaver discussed how planning can help the non-linear writer:

So Deaver’s method allows him to concentrate on telling the part of the story he wants to tell when he wants to tell it.

For every writer who frets at the thought of not knowing where they’re going, there’s another for whom that’s a thrill. Child is a linear writer, and Zachary Petit thinks that ‘very well may be the key to his sharp, bestselling prose’.

If you too enjoy sharing the rollercoaster ride with your protagonist, pantsing could be the best way for you to tell your story. If not, detailed planning might suit you better.

Clue planting
Spann has a two-handed strategy for planning. And it’s all to do with the clues.
The first outline – the one that will determine what she writes – needn’t be particularly detailed. It’s a map of each scene, and each clue, that enables her to keep her sleuth on track.
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Just as important, however, is the other outline:

​I like her on- and offstage approach, and I think it’s particularly worth bearing in mind if you’re a self-publisher who’s not going to be commissioning developmental or structural editing.

What you don’t want is to go straight to working with a line or copyeditor and have them tell you your clues don’t make sense, because you’d be paying them to paint your walls even though there are still large cracks in the plasterwork.
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That offstage outline could help you to complete the build before you start tidying up.

The importance of structure
One thing’s for sure: whether you choose to plan or pants your way through the process, put structure front and centre. Recall my comment above about how Coben always leaves me feeling like he must have had everything worked out from the outset. That’s because however he gets from A to B, he understands structure.

Pantsing isn’t about ignoring structure, but about shifting the order of play. Says Deaver:

And here’s domestic noir author Julia Crouch to wrap things up for us:

Good luck with your planning or pantsing!

Further reading

• Andy Martin. The man with no plot: How I watched Lee Child write a Jack Reacher novel. The Conversation. 2015.
• Harlan Coben. FAQ.
• How to write crime – Harry Brett in conversation with Sophie Hannah and Julia Heaberlin. Waterstones, Norwich. 2018.
• Jeffery Deaver – The cutting edge. Henry Sutton in conversation with Jeffery Deaver. National Centre for Writing. 2018.
• Julia Crouch. Five tips for keeping your readers gripped. Noirwich. 2018.
• NY Book Editors. Planning to outline your novel? Don’t.
• Sophie Hannah. Why and how I plan my novels. 2018.
• Susan Spann. 25 things you need to know about writing mysteries. TerribleMinds: Chuck Wendig. 2013.
• The different levels of editing: Proofreading and beyond. Louise Harnby. The Parlour, 2011.
• Zachary Petit. Lee Child debunks the biggest writing myths. 2012.

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Are you using free indirect speech in your writing? This article provides an overview of what it is and how it can spice up your crime fiction.

​This post featured in Joel Friedlander's Carnival of the Indies #94

What is free indirect speech?
In a nutshell, free indirect speech offers the essence of first-person dialogue or thought but through a third-person viewpoint.

The character’s voice takes the lead, but without the clutter of speech marks, speech tags, italic, or other devices to indicate who’s thinking or saying what.

It’s a useful tool to have in your sentence-level toolbox because:

1. It’s flexible and can add interest
2. It can make for a leaner narrative
3. It can deepen our understanding of a character

The table below shows three contrasting third-person narrative styles in action so you can see how free indirect speech works:

It’s also referred to as free indirect style and free indirect discourse.
 
1. Flexibility and interest
Free indirect speech (FIS) is flexible because it can be blended seamlessly with other third-person narrative styles.
 
Let’s say you want to convey information about a character’s physical description, their experiences, and their thoughts – what they think and delivered in the way they’d say it.
 
You could use third-person objective for the description, third-person limited for the experience, and free indirect speech for some of the thought processes.
 
In other words, you have a single narrative viewpoint but styled in different ways. You’re not changing the viewpoint, but rather shifting the distance between the reader and the character. And that can make your prose more interesting.
 
Here’s an example from Val McDermid’s Insidious Intent (p. 14). She begins with a more distant third-person narrator who reports what had been on Elinor Blessing’s mind, and when. Then she shifts to free indirect speech (the bold text). This gives us temporary access to Blessing’s innermost thoughts – her irritation – and her lightly sweary tone, but still in the third-person:

Philip Prowse employs a similar shift in Hellyer’s Trip (p. 194):

​2. A leaner narrative
FIS is a useful tool when you want to declutter.
 
Direct speech and thoughts are often tagged so that the reader knows who’s speaking/thinking:
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• ‘Blah blah,’ she said.
• Blah blah, she wondered.

 
With regard to thoughts, there’s nothing wrong with a reader being told that a character thought this or wondered that, but tagging can be interruptive and render your prose overworked and laboured if that’s the only device you use.
 
Imagine your viewpoint character’s in a tight spot – a fight scene with an arch enemy. The pace of the action is lightning quick and you want that to be reflected in how your viewpoint character experiences the scene. FIS enables you to ditch the tags, focus on what’s going on in the character’s head, and maintain a cracking pace.
 
The opening chapter of Stephen Lloyd Jones’s The Silenced contains numerous examples of free indirect speech dotted about. Mallory is being hunted by the bad guys. She’s already disarmed one in a violent confrontation and fears more are on the way. Jones keeps the tension high by splintering descriptions of step-by-step action with free-indirect-styled insights into his protagonist’s deepest thought processes as, ridden with terror, she tries to find a way out of her predicament:

​Here’s an excerpt from Lee Child’s The Hard Way (p. 64). Child doesn’t use FIS to close the narrative distance. Instead, he opts to shift into first-person thoughts. Reacher is wondering if he’s been made, and whether it matters:

Some might argue that this is a little clunkier than going down the FIS route, but perhaps he wanted to retain a sense of Reacher’s clinical, military-style dissection of the problem in hand.
 
If Child had elected to use FIS, it might have looked like this:
 
Had they seen him? Of course they had. Close to certainty. The mugger saw him – that’s for damn sure. And those other guys were smarter than any mugger. [...] But had they been worried? No, they’d seen a professional opportunity. That’s all.
 
It’s a good reminder that choice of narrative style isn’t about right or wrong but about intention – what works for your writing and your character in a particular situation.

3. Deeper insight into characters
A third-person narrator is the bridge between the character and the reader. As such, it has its own voice. If there’s more than one viewpoint character in your novel, we can learn what we need to know via a narrator but the voice will not be the same as when the characters are speaking in the first person.
 
FIS allows the reader to stay in third-person but access a character’s intimate world view and their voice. It closes the distance between the reader and the character because the bridging narrator is pushed to the side, but only temporarily.
 
That temporary pushing-aside means the writer isn’t bound to the character’s voice, state of mind and internal processing. When the narrator takes up its role once more, the reader takes a step back.
 
Furthermore, there might be times when we need to hear that character’s voice but the spoken word would seem unnatural:

• Perhaps they don’t have time to verbalize (a high-octane escape scene).
• Maybe they’re on their own and talking to themselves isn’t a known trait.
• Speaking out loud would give them away.
• Dialogue would seem forced because a character wouldn’t give voice to the words in real life.

 
FIS therefore allows a character to speak without speech – a silent voice, if you like.
 
Think about transgressor narratives in particular. If you want to give your readers intimate insights into a perpetrator’s pathology and motivations, but are writing in the third-person, FIS could be just the ticket.
 
Here’s an example from Harlan Coben’s Stay Close (chapter 25). Ken and his partner Barbie are a murderous couple bound together by sadism and psychopathy. Ken is preparing for the capture and torture of a police officer whom he believes is a threat:

This excerpt is from an audiobook. While listening, I could hear how the voice artist, Nick Landrum, used pitch to shift narrative distance.
 
The book’s entire narrative is in the third-person, but Landrum used a higher pitch when presenting the narrator voice. Ken’s dialogue, however, is in a lower pitch, and so is the free indirect speech of this character – we get to hear the essence of Ken even when he’s not speaking out loud.
 
If you’re considering turning your novel into an audiobook, FIS could enrich the emotionality of the telling, and the connection with your listener.
 
A closer look at narrative distance
To decide whether to play with free indirect speech, consider narrative distance and the impact it can have on a scene.
 
Look at these short paragraphs, all of which convey the same information. All are grammatically correct but the reader’s experience is different because of the way in which the information is given, and by whom.

Your choice will depend on your intention. Think about your character, their personality, the situation they’re in, which emotions they’re experiencing, and the degree to which you want your reader to intimately connect with them.
 
Consider the following examples in relation to the table above:

• Is the scene fast-paced and do you want to keep your sentences lean and keen to reflect that pace? The viewpoint character might not have the mental space to articulate fully rounded thoughts or speech because they’re in a fight or trying to escape. In that case, the free indirect style of 5 might suit you. So might 6 if you’re writing in the first person.
• Is the viewpoint character hiding, observing something going on but invisible to those around them? If they feel in command but are taking care to remain unnoticed, 2 might offer you the required tension while enabling you to retain tight control over the narrative via a narrator.
• If your character has the space to think but is panicking, you might prefer 3 or 4. Anxiety can lead people to articulate complex thoughts, even voice them out loud, in the search for clarity.
• If your viewpoint character’s personality is cooler, more detached, you might prefer the emotional disconnectedness of 1.
• And if you’re writing in the third-person, but want the reader to feel intimately connected with the viewpoint character, you might swing back to the free indirect style of 5.

 
Wrapping up
FIS is used across genres, but I think it’s a particularly effective tool in crime writing because of its ability to simultaneously embrace brevity and communicate intimacy.
 
Jon Gingerich sums up as follows: ‘Free Indirect Discourse takes advantage of the biggest asset a first-person P.O.V. has (access) and combines it with the single best benefit of a third-person narrative (reliability). It allows the narrator to dig deep into a character’s thoughts and emotions without being permanently tied to that person’s P.O.V. Done correctly, it can offer the best of both worlds.’
 
If you haven’t yet played with it, give it a go, especially if you’re looking for ways to trim the fat.
 
Further reading

• ‘A beginner’s guide to narrative point of view in crime fiction.’ Louise Harnby, 2018
• ‘The Benefits of Free Indirect Discourse.’ LitReactor, 2012
• Hellyer’s Trip by Philip Prowse. Kernel Books, 2018
• Insidious Intent by Val McDermid. Little, Brown, 2017
• Stay Close by Harlan Coben. Whole Story Audiobooks, 2012
• The Hard Way by Lee Child. Bantam Press, 2006
• The Silenced by Stephen Lloyd Jones. Headline, 2018

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If you’re not sure what a narrative point of view is, or how to use it effectively in your crime writing, this post is for you.

This post featured in Joel Friedlander's Carnival of the Indies #93

This is rather a lengthy article so I've created a free PDF ebook that you can download to your preferred device and read at your leisure. Scroll to the bottom of the post and click on the image to access your copy.
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What is narrative point of view?
Point of view (POV) describes whose head we’re in when we read a book ... from whose perspective we discover what’s going on – and the smells, sounds, sights and emotions involved.

There can be multiple viewpoints in a book, not all of which have to belong to a character. And to complicate things, editors’ and authors’ opinions differ as to which approach works best, and what jars and why.

In this article, I’ll review the most-oft-used POVs and show you examples from published crime fiction. I’ll also explain why I think they’re effective.

POV can be tricky – it’s probably the one thing I see beginner authors stumbling over the most. My aim is to keep the guidance as straightforward as possible, not because I think you should only do it this way or that way, but because most people (myself included) handle complexity best when they start with the foundations and build up and out.

Why should you bother nailing POV?
Pro editors and experienced writers agree on one thing: it’s worth the beginner author’s time to understand POV so that they can make decisions about which to use, where, and why. Consider the following:
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• A better read: The right POV in the right place enriches the reader’s experience; the opposite will mean your book is not as immersive as it might have been. It might even confuse or frustrate your reader. I’m assuming you want your book to be the best it can be, so understanding how narrative POV works, and how to use viewpoint with intent, will help you in that endeavour.
• A better price: If you’re working with a professional editor, whether a story-level editor (developmental, structural editing) or a sentence-level editor (line editing, copyediting, proofreading), there’ll be less to fix if your POV doesn’t jar.
• A better fix: Some beginner authors, for reasons of budget, choose not to work with a developmental editor. This is the shaping stage in which decisions about how POV will be handled are made. If you go straight to working with a line editor or copyeditor, and they encounter major POV problems, it’s likely that their editing will have to be more invasive than either you or the editor would have liked. Plus, the fix might not be as elegant as it would have been if any problems had been attended to before the sentence-level work began.

Narrative point of view in action

I’ve used the following books to explore POV in crime writing:

• Dead Lions by Mick Herron: Herron offers a masterclass in omniscient POV early on.
• I See You by Clare Mackintosh: Interesting mystery-building through use of a first-person transgressor narrative.
• The Fix by David Baldacci: Nice examples of blending third-person limited and objective.
• The Word is Murder by Anthony Horowitz: First-person viewpoint throughout, made more interesting because the author is a character in his own book!
• Time to Win by Harry Brett: Great example of tight, third-person-limited POV, with several viewpoint characters controlled via chapters.

1. Third person
This viewpoint comes broadly in two forms – limited and objective. I’ve placed it first on the list because:
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• It’s the one that most writers find easiest to master at the beginning of their journey.
• Readers are used to encountering it in contemporary fiction.
• The limited version provides intimacy – we get to explore a character’s emotions and hear their voice; the objective version offers a more neutral flexibility when we need some distance to look around and beyond.

​THIRD-PERSON LIMITED
This is a deeper POV. We get to sit in a character’s skin – experience what they see, hear, feel and think. That provides an immersive experience for readers. It’s as if we’re them.

The voice is distinctive. The narrative will convey the viewpoint character’s way of speaking and thinking. For example, if character X is sweary, that can be reflected in the narrative rather than just in their contribution to dialogue.

However, it’s called third-person limited for a reason. Strictly speaking, what that character can’t see or know shouldn’t be reported. In the above examples, we’re left with questions – of destination and the origin of a smell.

Third-person limited is effective in crime writing because the author doesn’t want to give everything away at once. The limitations over what can be known, and therefore divulged, allow the writer to control the unveiling of information via the viewpoint character.

Recommendation
I recommend you stick to a single character's POV per chapter or section to avoid confusion or interruption.

That’s worth heeding. It means the reader’s trust has been lost, that they’ve been pulled out of the story rather than drawn further into it.
​
Trickier still is narrative ping pong, where within one section we bounce back and forth between the POVs of Character X and Character Y.

Here’s a made-up example that demonstrates how things can go wrong.

The problem with this kind of setup is that it ‘alienates the reader from both perspectives. She is unable to identify with either because there’s no telling when it will be yanked away’ (Mittelmark and Newman, p. 161).

In other words, the reader has been prevented from immersing themselves in the character's version of the story. Stay in the head of one character per chapter or section and you’ll make your writing life easier.

THIRD-PERSON OBJECTIVE
This is a useful viewpoint for the author who wants to convey descriptive information – height, weight, facial expression, environment. Developmental editor Sophie Playle asks us to imagine ‘a floating camera following the characters around.’
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Here’s an example from David Baldacci.

The objectivity allows the writer to explore detail what would be unnatural for a character to deliver in their own voice. The narrative voice is neutral.

We’re not accessing thoughts, opinions and emotions with an objective POV, just the stuff that any onlooker could see, hear or smell.

In crime fiction, that can be useful because the reader will be forced to reach their own conclusions as to the reasons for or motivations behind a particular event or behaviour. In other words, it’s mysterious.

However, it can be distancing if overused. We don’t get under a character’s skin. It’s harder to understand what motivates them unless they express it through dialogue.

Dialogue is great as long as it’s not dull. Real-life conversations are sometimes littered with mundanity but we don’t want that cluttering a novel. Furthermore, real conversations don’t usually express emotion in the way that prose does.

Recommendation
Use third-person objective POV to create suspense, to make your reader wonder, and ask their own questions, and to provide scene-setting information, but blend with a limited viewpoint for deeper emotional engagement.
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In the first paragraph of the example below, Baldacci uses third-person objective to give us background facts. In the second, he switches to limited to explain the character’s feelings. It's a lovely fusion.

2. First person
First-person narrative POVs are the most intimate, the most immediate, and the least flexible. The reader is privy to an individual character’s thoughts, emotions and experiences, all told through a distinctive voice. We can only see, hear, smell and feel what the character sees, hears, smells and feels, and are compelled to move through the story knowing only what they know, and at their pace.

However, used throughout an entire novel, from on character only, it can be draining for the reader. There’s no way of taking a breather, particularly when only one POV is offered.

This POV is particularly effective in crime fiction when an author wants to offer a distinct transgressor narrative that explores the predator’s twisted psyche intimately, and in a way that enables the reader to understand their motivations – what’s making them think and behave so monstrously.
​
Here’s an example from I See You (p. 176).

Mackintosh punctuates her third-person narrative (a police officer’s) with this first-person viewpoint of an anonymous predator, though she keeps the narratives distinct by giving them their own chapters.
 
The chapters given over to the transgressor provide a rich sense of cat and mouse when juxtaposed with the more distanced police-procedural storyline. Note how the predator-narrator in the above example bends their perceptions into a warped reality – there are no maybes here; they’ve decided that this is the way things are and justify their actions accordingly.

And because Mackintosh is using the present tense for her first-person narrative, she’s able to retain tight control over the unveiling. We’re right in the now of the novel. It’s deeply suspenseful, but emotionally demanding to read. For that reason, these chapters are usually shorter.

In The Word is Murder, author Anthony Horowitz is one of the characters! The viewpoint is first person (his), but most of the novel is set in the following two tenses: the past (I did, I saw) and the past perfect (I had been approached, I had first read). We’re not confined to now. That’s important because it means the story doesn’t drag.

The author himself is almost like Playle’s floating camera. We see the protagonist – the detective (Hawthorne) who solves the crime – through Horowitz’s eyes as he accompanies him to interviews with suspects and on visits to crime scenes.

The author-character offers his own theories, even pursues his own lines of investigation, and interjects with stories about his life and career. This adds interest but, ultimately, it’s the detective who grounds the crime story; it’s through him that we access the procedural elements and the answer to whodunnit.

Recommendation
First-person narratives introduce depth and explain motivations, but they can be difficult to sustain when they’re emotionally challenging, as is the case with transgressor and victim viewpoints. Your reader might be given space to breathe if you introduce an alternative, perhaps a detective’s or journalist’s.

Playle points out that the opposite problem can occur when the character isn’t ‘interesting enough to maintain a continuous presence.’ Too much I can be restrictive if it doesn’t allow for the telling of other interpretations. That’s why Horowitz’s approach works so well, because he’s often narrating live from the scene with a detective.

One last thought: if you’re basing your whole novel in the first person, be cautious about using the present tense throughout. The past might give you more flexibility, particularly if you’re writing action-heavy scenes where, in reality, the character wouldn’t have time to give much thought to the consequences and motivations of their behaviour.

3. Omniscient
I’ve given the biggest page space to this because it’s probably the trickiest to master.

Omniscient means all-knowing. It’s the most flexible of narrative viewpoints because it gives the reader potential access to every character’s external and internal experiences. It’s also the least intimate.

Imagine a futuristic news helicopter. Inside, our roving reporter shifts her camera from one person to another, and one setting to another. She’s also got some serious kit, stuff that enables her to tap everyone’s phones, TVs and computers. But that’s not all; the characters’ brains are bugged too; our reporter knows what they’re thinking. She can see, hear and smell it all!

Mick Herron is the author of the Jackson Lamb thrillers, a series about MI5 officers who’ve screwed up and been sent to Slough House to shuffle paper.

Herron offers a masterclass in effective omniscient POV. He doesn’t use a helicopter or a god though; he uses a cat.

He imagines our feline friend sneaking ‘like a rumour’ (p. 9) into Slough House and checking out the various rooms’ occupants.

Of course, a cat doesn’t think or behave with intention like a human. The cat can’t possibly know any of the things that we’re told during its wanderings. Instead, Herron uses it as a cheeky tool to introduce the cast, the environs, and the atmosphere of Slough House ...

INTRODUCTIONS
Dead Lions is book 2 of the series. Herron wants to introduce us to a cast of characters, most of whom appeared in book 1. However, he respects the fact that not all his readers will have read the first book, and that those who have might have forgotten who these people are and why they’re important.
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The omniscient POV allows him to do the introductions quickly and cleanly, and democratically. None of the characters are explored in depth. Rather, Herron gives us a snapshot of what he wants us to know about them, what makes them tick.

FREEDOM TO ROAM QUICKLY
Through the imaginary cat, we’re given the freedom to roam without intrusion. No single character’s feelings or experiences dominate over the others. It’s a form of speedy literary democracy.
​
That roving feline shows us not only key details about each character, but also how they perceive each other. That’s difficult to do with first-person and third-person narration without offering lengthy and interruptive explanations of how the information was acquired.

TENSION
Finally, take a look at how Herron uses the omniscient to convey a sense of tension that sets up the next scene.
​
The main man, Jackson Lamb, head of ops, is not in residence. And that’s unusual.
Rather than hopping from one internal monologue to another, or cluttering the text with dull dialogue in which the various characters express their confusion about their boss’s absence, the omniscient narrator tells us in only 18 words (‘Simply put ...’) that everyone knows he’s absent, and no one knows why.

The narration throughout this section is distant, devoid of emotion. It’s literally a cat’s-eye view.

WHAT OMNISCIENT IS NOT
So an omniscient viewpoint can be powerful. However, it needs to be controlled and used with purpose.

If we’re accessing one character’s thoughts and experiences, and suddenly we jump to another character’s viewpoint, it can jar the reader.

Imagine you’re listening to your best friend tell you about a difficult experience. Even though it didn’t happen to you, her description of the event helps you to imagine the challenges she faced, the emotions she grappled with. You’re thoroughly immersed and emotionally connected.

Then someone else barges up to you both and tells you what it was like for them. Your friend butts back in to wrestle the telling back to her.

Would the interruption annoy and frustrate you? Would you feel like your efforts to invest in your friend’s story were being thwarted?

The impact is the same when it occurs in a book (unless you're using dialogue). That viewpoint ping pong is not omniscient POV. It’s third-person limited gone awry.

Recommendation
I’d recommend caution. The beauty of crime writing lies in the unveiling, in the immersion, and overuse of an omniscient narrator blocks this.

The all-seeing eye can be an effective tool in the purposeful way Herron’s used it at the start of Dead Lions, but used throughout an entire novel it would destroy the tension, and distance the reader from the characters.

Summary
There’s nothing wrong with experimenting with different narrative viewpoints in crime fiction. Switching can add interest and tension, heighten conflict, and help readers build varying levels of intimacy with different characters.

What is important is that authors choose a POV with intention, and recognize the benefits and limitations of their choices.

Let's finish with the wise words of domestic noir novelist, Julia Crouch:

​Further reading

• For an excellent overview of narrative point of view – including the difference between the author, narrator and viewpoint character, and the pros and cons of each approach – read ‘Slipping into character – understanding the impact of narrative point of view’. Sophie Playle. The Parlour, 2017.
• Dead Lions. Mick Herron. First published by Soho Press in 2013. The edition I used was published by John Murray in 2017.
• 'Five tips for keeping your readers gripped'. Julia Crouch, NoirWich, 2018.
• How Not to Write a Novel. Howard Mittelmark and Sandra Newman. Published by Penguin in 2009.
• I See You. Clare Mackintosh. Published by Sphere in 2016.
• The Fix. David Baldacci. Published by Pan Books in 2017.
• The Word is Murder. Anthony Horowitz. Published by Arrow in 2018.
• Time to Win. Harry Brett. Published by Corsair in 2017.

Today’s post is about creating tension in crime fiction with sentence length. I look at how overwriting can mar the pace of a novel and frustrate a reader, and how less can sometimes be more.

This post featured in Joel Friedlander's Carnival of the Indies #93

Around eighty per cent of the books that end up in my editing studio are in the crime fiction genre.

One of the most common problems I encounter is overwriting. That’s not because the authors are poor writers. It’s because they’re nervous writers.

It takes a lot of hard graft to put enough words on a page to make a book. Yet it takes an equal amount of courage to remove them ... or some of them.

‘What if the reader just doesn’t get it?’
‘What if they’ve forgotten what I told them above?’
‘What if I haven’t provided enough detail?’
‘What if I just love both ways I’ve said that?’

These are the kinds of questions that result in anxious authors bulking up their prose.

In a bid to help you trim the fat, I’m going to explore the following:

• Trusting your reader
• Feisty fragments and snappy shorties
• Damage by dilution
• Letting go of what you love

​Trusting your reader
The issue is sometimes one of trust – in the author’s own writing and in the reader’s ability to fill in the gaps. Some genres of fiction lend themselves well to more flowery prose that goes off at a tangent for a moment, a little narrative indulgence for the purpose of artistry or even titillation.

Crime fiction, however, is all about the page turn. That doesn’t mean that the description isn’t rich, but there is an expectation of forward momentum. Avid readers of the genre love it for the thrill of the ride.

Great characterization is key, of course. We want the protagonist to draw us in, the antagonist to pique our curiosity, and the supporting cast to deepen the picture, but ultimately we want to know whodunnit.

And that means we want words that help us understand what’s happening, why, where, who’s doing it, whom it’s being done to, why it’s being done, and how it feels.

And we only need to be told once. We might need a little clarifying nudge here and there but we’re capable of extracting a lot with less than you might think.

Feisty fragments and snappy shorties
If you’re trying to evoke tension in your reader, short sentences and fragments can be very effective.
​
Look at the following examples and notice how the authors keep their narratives lean.

Here’s an excerpt from Gone Bad by JB Turner:

Turner gives us just enough to set the scene – when, where, who and what – but no more. He trusts us to fill in the gaps.

He might have given a more detailed description of the forest – its sounds and smells. He might have delved deeper into Cain’s emotions, or helped us to picture the backpack by detailing the colour, make, number of pockets and zips, and where the ammo was being held. He could have told us, word for word, how Cain loaded the gun, how careful he was, which bullets he used.

But he doesn’t. Turner leaves it to us to imagine the woods, to see in our mind’s eye the loading of the rifle, and to sense the cold hard determination of the shooter. And the backpack gets no more than a passing mention, because to do more would slow the pace and act as a distraction.

And the result is just right – Goldilocks would approve.
​
Now consider the choppy fragments in Jens Lapidus’s Life Deluxe:

Lapidus loves the colon more than any other author I’ve come across! It’s a hard piece of punctuation but it works because the characters we’re being introduced to lead hard lives. They’re always looking over their shoulders, thinking in short snaps, weighing up what’s in front of them ... and what might be behind.

Lapidus dares to trust us, dares not bore us. And because of, rather than despite, the short sentences and fragmented prose, reading the scene is an immersive experience for the reader. I recall a sense of taut fatigue as I read this book, like I was right there, ever watchful, on my guard.

This author’s deliberate punctuation choices and choppy style mean the word count is reduced but the tension is heightened. He doesn’t pad his narrative with purple prose and stage direction. Like Turner, he trusts us to do the work.

Damage by dilution
Consider your own writing. Leave your draft alone for a few days. Then return to it and see what happens if you take a more reductive approach to a scene.
​
​It's all about balance at the end of the day. Not too much but not to little. Howard Mittelmark & Sandra Newman write:

I’m not suggesting you remove information the reader needs to know, but asking you whether there is material your reader doesn’t need to know, material that might bore them or hold them back.

Neither am I suggesting you avoid creating emotive scenes that are high on tension.
Rather, might you build this tension with shorter, tighter sentences that demand your reader do some of the work?

And I’m not suggesting you should limit every sentence in your book to five words – not at all. I’m suggesting that you might use this technique when you think it would work, when it would push your reader forward, when fewer words – the right words – would work as well or better than more, especially if you know you tend to overwrite.

​Letting go of what you love
For some authors it’s not about trust, but about not wanting to let go. Perhaps you found two delicious ways to say the same thing and now you can’t bear to cut either. Or you constructed a stunning paragraph but it’s interrupting the conflict or the action.
​
In The Magic of Fiction, veteran editor Beth Hill says:

Hill asks authors to grab ‘the liberty to cut words as freely as you added them’ and then to enrich what’s left.

1. Precision: Use specific descriptive nouns and verbs that are appropriate to the scene and to the character’s voice.
2. Finesse: Eradicate waffle from phrases so that they’re 'pitch perfect' – use punctuation and words that match the mood: harsh scenes could benefit from words that are pronounced harshly and contain hard consonants.
3. Length: Play with ‘short and punchy words and short, hard-hitting phrases and incomplete sentences’.

It’s tricky for some beginner writers, I know, but repetition and interruption mean there are redundant words in your writing. And to make your novel sparkle, you need to let go of them because they’re not adding something new, they’re not in the right place, or they’re in the way.

Take courage. Try it with and without. You might be surprised.

Cited works and further reading

• Gone Bad. JB Turner. No Way Back Press, 2015
• How Not to Write a Novel. Howard Mittelmark and Sandra Newman. Penguin, 2009
• Life Deluxe. Jens Lapidus. Pan, 2015
• The Magic of Fiction, 2nd edition. Beth Hill. Title Page Books, 2016

If you'd like to access more tips and resources for self-publishers, visit the Self-publishers page on my website. Try these in particular:
​

• 5 tips for writing about physical pain in fiction
• 11 things that helped me succeed as a self-published author
• The art of firearms in fiction
• Crime fiction subgenres: Where does your novel fit?
• How to be a better writer: Using a growth mindset to hone your craft
• Slipping into character – understanding the impact of narrative point of view
• What's the difference between a rule and a preference?

​

Today, I discuss the negative impact that just one word can have on narrative tension: Suddenly.
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I’m not suggesting writers eradicate it, but rather use it judiciously and with intention.

This post featured in Joel Friedlander's Carnival of the Indies #92

I edit a lot of crime fiction written by beginner and emerging authors. I’m an avid reader of the genre too. Reading a genre isn’t enough to make anyone an expert in it, but it does afford the editor plenty of opportunities to see it written well, and to experience it as a punter ... to ask: Why do I like that? What is it about that scene that works so well? What’s hooking me here?

There’s one word that great crime writers put on the page with care – suddenly. However, many new or developing writers struggle to leave it out.

Two reasons for overuse stand out:
​

1. ​The writer is trying to counter wordiness
2. The writer doesn’t realize their existing words have done the job

​I’ve grabbed a handful of crime fiction from my own bookshelves, and taken examples from these books to show how suddenly-free writing can be more immediate and immersive.

​1. Countering wordiness
Some developing writers record every nod, every furrowed brow. All that mundane stuff happens in real life. And in the movies we get to see it played out onscreen. That doesn’t mean it all needs to go into a novel.

Readers don’t behave like viewers. When I’m watching a film I expect to be spoon-fed to a degree – dialogue, facial expression, action, and a healthy dollop of incidental music to tell me who’s feeling what and why.

The reason it works with film is because a chunk of that stuff happens simultaneously, and even I, impatient soul that I am, don’t get bored.

When I’m reading a book, my brain works differently. I don’t want all that stage direction. Too much of it distracts me and that’s when I’m most likely to lose interest.

When a new writer hasn’t learned the art of crafting the story so that there are just enough nudges to keep the narrative rich, but not so many that it becomes tedious, suddenly rears its head. Suddenly becomes an apology for overwriting – an exciting reward for sticking around.

Only it doesn’t work. It’s just one more word on the page that the reader doesn’t need.

Solution: Keep your crime writing lean
Not every writer wants to strip their writing back to the bare bones but ask yourself whether you’ve introduced a sentence with Suddenly purely to reengage the reader.

If so, tighten up the preceding narrative so that you don’t lose them in the first place. Less is sometimes more.

Example
Here’s a scene from Tell No Lies by Gregg Hurwitz, featuring the protagonist, Daniel Brasher (p. 393):

A less experienced writer might have been tempted to overwork the preceding description and the line conveying Daniel’s anxiety ... and that could have led to a Suddenly barging its way onto the starting blocks of the final sentence to drag the reader out of the protagonist’s head and back into the external action.

​It could have gone like this:

Instead, Hurwitz has given us just enough to know that our protagonist is fretful. We hear the metallic boom in the same moment Daniel does. We imagine how it might make him jump. There are 58 words instead of 114.

​And the writing in the shorter, published example is tighter, the tension higher. The boom comes suddenly, but Hurwitz doesn’t tell us so. He doesn’t need to.

2. Redundancy – the verb’s already done the work
Even those novice writers who’ve conquered their noisy narrative can still be tempted to nudge unnecessarily with suddenly.

I see this most often in the following scene types:
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• Fights: Suddenly, the masked man launched himself forward and crashed into Jake.
• Realizations: Suddenly, it dawned on her. It’d been staring her in the face all along.
• Emotional shifts: Suddenly, Ash’s face lit up with excitement.
• Grisly action: Suddenly, the woman’s torso exploded.
• Unexpected sounds: The phone trilled suddenly from his inside pocket.
• Shock events: Suddenly, Emma slammed on the brakes and the car skidded to a halt.

Certainly, writers who use suddenly are doing so with good intention – to give the reader a now-nudge. However, in most cases it’s unnecessary to convey immediacy and adds nothing to the narrative.

In the above examples, the immediacy is rendered perfectly with the verbs launched, dawned, lit up, exploded, trilled and slammed.

By adding suddenly into the mix, the reader is pulled out of the story, as if the author has tapped them on the shoulder and whispered, ‘Hey, you, something big’s coming. Just so you know. Right then, as you were. Carry on reading.’ That’s an interruption – the opposite of what the writer intended.

Now the reader’s no longer moving at the same pace as the character. They’re one step ahead rather than immersed in the moment.

Solution: Test the sentence out loud
Say it first with suddenly, then without. Ninety per cent of the time, the slimline version will work better. When that’s the case, hit the delete button.
​

• Fights: The masked man launched himself forward and crashed into Jake.
• Realizations: Then it dawned on her. It’d been staring her in the face all along.
• Emotional shifts: Ash’s face lit up with excitement.
• Grisly action: The woman’s torso exploded.
• Unexpected sounds: The phone trilled from his inside pocket.
• Shock events: Emma slammed on the brakes and the car skidded to a halt.

Published suddenly-free examples
Here are some published examples for comparison. None of the authors felt the need to nudge the reader into immediacy.

The Barclay example is particularly interesting. The narrative point of view in this chapter is that of the antagonist. From his perspective, the violence is almost mundane, which renders the scene all the more horrific for the reader.

A now-nudge in this paragraph wouldn’t have been just superfluous; it would have countered the perversity of our tension being heightened through being forced to immerse ourselves in Cory’s psychosis.

When suddenly works a treat
Suddenly-free isn’t a rule. Don’t ban it from your novel! There are times when it works beautifully:
​

• There were ten of them, all big, corralling the guy into the corner. Pip watched, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

​In this made-up example, the inclusion of suddenly subtly changes our perspective of Pip’s situation. There's a subtle immediacy to his discomfort has emerged only now, that in the seconds before he’d watched bu not felt threatened.

And so it’s not that suddenly does or doesn’t work. Rather, it depends on the writer’s intention.

Your turn ... how do you maintain tension with minimal interruption? Are there particular adverbs you use with caution?

If you'd like to access more tips and resources for self-publishers, visit the  Self-publishers page on my website. Try these in particular:
​

• 5 tips for writing about physical pain in fiction
• 11 things that helped me succeed as a self-published author
• The art of firearms in fiction
• How to be a better writer: Using a growth mindset to hone your craft
• Slipping into character – understanding the impact of narrative point of view
• What's the difference between a rule and a preference?

​

Crime fiction falls into a range of subgenres. Knowing where your novel fits helps you understand what readers expect, which published writers you can learn from, and how you might stand out.

This post featured in Joel Friedlander's Carnival of the Indies #91
If you'd prefer to watch a video, scroll down to the bottom of the article.

This article provides an overview of some of the established subgenres, though the list isn’t exhaustive.

There’s crossover certainly and, depending on the commentator, crime fiction gets chopped up into subgenres variously.

I’ve elected not to focus on inverted-detective fiction, heists and capers, LGBTQ mysteries, feminist crime fiction, or romantic suspense, but these subgenres and more all have their place in the market.

One thing’s for sure: ‘Crime fiction is never static and never appears to be running out of ideas,’ says Barbara Henderson.

Two more reasons to know your subgenre
If you’re going it alone, one of your publishing jobs will be to help your readers find your book. When you upload to Amazon, Smashwords or any other distribution platform, you’ll need to decide which BISAC headings to place your book under.

And if you’re going down the traditional publishing route, identifying your subgenre(s) will help a literary agent understand which publishers have a best-fit list and where in a bookstore your novel will be shelved.

If the fit isn’t obvious to you, it could be harder to convince your agent that your book’s marketable.

Ultimately, though, it's the writing that needs to be top-notch, not strict conformity to one or another subgenre. These days, it's probably harder to find crime fiction that isn't fusion of subgenres!

Cosy crime fiction

If much of today’s crime fiction seems gritty, even gratuitously violent, and that’s not the way you want to write, fret not. Cosy crime is alive and kicking (though gently).

What distinguishes the cosy? Murder yes, but leave out the gore, the pain, and depressing social commentary. Your protagonist might well be flawed but no more so than anyone else in the novel, and your readers will embrace your hero’s quirkiness with a skip in their step.

That doesn’t mean the cosy isn’t tight on plot and well-paced action that drive the novel forward. Contemporary readers want fantastic mysteries with twists and turns that will keep them guessing.

Cosies can be liberating for the playful crime writer who wants to explore the genre with non-traditional characters placed in non-traditional settings: 

• ​Agatha Raisin is a former PR agent who moves to a village in the Cotswolds.
• Amy Myers’ Auguste Didier Mysteries feature a Victorian master chef cum sleuth.
• Lilian Jackson Braun’s The Cat Who … Mysteries feature Jim Qwilleran and his sleuthing cat Koko.
• Nancy J. Cohen’s Bad Hair Day Mysteries feature a beauty-salon owner.

Classic detective – the Golden Age and beyond

​

RD Collins locates the start of the genre with Poe’s The Murders in the Rue Morgue. It found its feet with Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes and entered into a Golden Age in the 1920s with Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot and Dorothy L Sayers’ Lord Peter Wimsey, among others.
​
The Golden Age introduced ‘rules’ for the genre. Reba White Williams summarizes these as follows:

1. All the clues available to the investigator must be available to the reader.
2. There must be a body and we must be introduced to it quickly.
3. The perpetrator can’t conveniently appear out of nowhere in the finale.
4. The crime must be solved by deduction rather than coincidence.
5. There must be multiple clues that can be interpreted in a variety of ways, and more than one suspect.
6. Details must be accurate.

See also the quote further down from Otto Penzler about locked-room mysteries – no cheating with doubles and magic!

​Today’s authors must abide by the same rules, no matter whether their tales are set in Oxford with Morse, LA with Bosch, or Reykjavik with Erlendur.

Hardboiled crime fiction

That’s a quote from Raymond Chandler in conversation with Ian Fleming in 1958. Chandler’s response was to write crime fiction that was gritty, depressing, violent, cynical and seedy.
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Hardboiled crime writing, as it came to be known, pulls no punches. The protagonists aren’t invulnerable superheroes. And the environments within which they operate are those of contrast – urban decay and tourist hotspots, hope and corruption.

If your crime writing falls into this category, don’t set an amateur protagonist sleuth alongside foolish law-enforcement officers who have neither brains nor access to detection resources.

Hardboiled isn’t pretty but it’s rich in believability. Plots are fattened with complex characters, social commentary and, of course, murder.

Says Matthew Lewin on the contemporary hardboiled crime fiction of James Lee Burke and James Ellroy:

​Think Harry Bosch. Tim Walker refers to his creator Michael Connelly as ‘the modern Raymond Chandler’. ‘Connelly says he still sees it as a duty to acknowledge the social climate in his novels’.

​Think also Rebus; Ian Rankin, like Connelly, fuses hardboiled with police procedural masterfully. 

With hardboiled, even when the crime is solved, your readers won’t expect to close the book feeling that everyone will live happily ever after.

​Historical crime fiction

Popular series feature CJ Sansom’s Shardlake, SJ Parris’s Giordano Bruno, Susanna Gregory’s Thomas Chaloner, and Ellis Peters’ Brother Cadfael.

The genre is as interesting for its criminal investigations as for the lessons in social history afforded to the reader. And because the reader needs to understand the historical setting, these novels are often long.

Sansom’s Dark Fire comes in at a whopping 600-plus pages. I have the hardback version and I’m sure I bulked up my biceps just carrying the book from Waterstones to the car park.

If historical fiction floats your writing boat, be prepared to put in the research. Many of your readers will know their history so you’ll need to dig deep.

It’s no accident that the protagonists in these novels are curious renegade monks, lawyers, scholars and the like. The criminal justice system as it exists in our era bears little resemblance to that in these bygone days. Consider the following:

• How did the law work in your time period and location?
• Where did power reside? With the church, the monarchy, the government, or the military?
• What obstacles would your protagonist have been up against? Think gender, access to education, and class boundaries for starters.
• Would your antagonist have had an easier ride than a contemporary baddie? Think modern forensics, technology, transport, communications and socio-economic factors.

Some historical fiction is cosier and shorter. Consider David Dickinson’s Lord Powerscourt and Emily Brightwell’s Mrs Jeffries. These Victorian mysteries offer plenty of intrigue and good old-fashioned murder, but we’re spared the grisly details.

Don’t be surprised to see this lighter crime fiction splashed with a dose of humour as the authors cast their gaze over the social-economic and gender disparities typical of the era.

​Still, if the Regency or Victorian cosy is your bag, you’ll still need to gen up on period details.

​Legal and medical crime fiction

Courtrooms, labs and hospitals make for great crime fiction, and ‘lawyers and doctors make effective protagonists since they seem to exist on a plane far above the rest of us. Although popular, these tales are usually penned by actual lawyers and doctors due to the demands of the information presented,’ writes Stephen D. Rogers.

Here are some examples:

• John Grisham (A Time to Kill, The Runaway Jury) is a former criminal lawyer.
• Kathy Reichs (Déjà Dead, Bare Bones) is certified by the American Board of Forensic Anthropology.
• Robin Cook (Coma, Godplayer) is a trained medical doctor.

That old trope of writing what you know comes into play here and it’s a good reminder that using your own specialist knowledge to bring authenticity to your crime writing makes good sense. And if you’re not a former cop, doc or lawyer but you have friends who are, be sure to pick their brains.

In particular, research the role of your legal or medical protagonist and ensure that the powers of investigation you assign to them are appropriate for their location.

​Even if you’re pushing the boundaries of existing science, to give your reader the best experience the foundations will need to be solid.

Locked-room crime fiction

The crime scene is that of a moving train, a secluded and heavily guarded house, an aeroplane, a single-track road with only one way in and one way out ... less whodunnit, more howdunnit.
​
A locked-room novelist is the illusionist of crime writing, the creator of ‘impossible’ fiction. And yet not so impossible as it turns out, as our brilliant protagonist gradually reveals all.

Take care though. No cheating is allowed with locked-room crime. Says Otto Penzler:

Well-known examples include:

• And Then There Were None: Agatha Christie
• The Hollow Man: John Dickson Carr
• The Murders in the Rue Morgue: Edgar Allan Poe

​The artistry of the locked-room mystery lies in the author’s ability to deliver a reveal that doesn’t rely on a device that doesn’t exist in real life, that doesn’t require information to be deliberately withheld from the reader, and isn’t so obvious as to be deducible at the beginning of the story.

I recommend The Locked-room Mysteries, Penzler’s superb anthology for aspiring locked-room crime writers who want to see masters at work. It's huge – over 930 pages – ​and heavy, but literally worth its weight.

Police procedural

If you’re writing a police procedural, your in-depth research will need to be top-notch. The angle you take will be determined by your protagonist’s skills. Examples include:

• Harry Bosch: detective (Michael Connelly)
• Jenny Cooper: coroner (MR Hall)
• John Rebus: detective (Ian Rankin)
• Kay Scarpetta: medical examiner (Patricia Cornwell)
• Kurt Wallander: detective (Henning Mankell)
• Lincoln Rhyme: forensic consultant (Jeffery Deaver)
• Temperance Brennan: forensic anthropologist (Kathy Reichs)

Procedurals are notable for their thoroughly researched and authentic rendering of detection, evidence-gathering, forensics, autopsies, and interrogation procedures in order to solve the novel’s crime(s).

Wowser tools and tech don’t come at the cost of strong characterization though. Rhyme is paralyzed following an on-scene accident. Cooper is recovering from the breakdown of her marriage. Rebus has a history of trauma dating from his former military career. Wallander has diabetes, and his daughter attempted suicide in her teenage years.

These in-depth backstories provide complexity and conflict – a kind of layering that fattens the plot without complicating it.

I find Cooper a little whiny, Rebus grumpy, Scarpetta arrogant, Wallander depressing. That doesn’t stop me falling in love with them though. In fact, flawed characters can balance the sterility of the procedural details.
​
And you, the writer, might find a protagonist with foibles more enjoyable to write. Mankell did:

Spy thriller

When it comes to spy stories, your protagonist is a spook, the nation’s safety the hook. It’s a race against time – against a larger-than-life antagonist – in order to save, well, everyone. The plots are usually complex and the action high-octane.
​
‘When you’re writing spy fiction you have one overriding goal: to keep the reader turning the pages,’ says Graeme Shimmin.
​
Here’s some great advice from Kathrine Roid: Don’t wing it when it comes to plot:

If you’re wandering into spy-fi territory, you’ll have a little more freedom to play with gadgetry. If you’re keeping it real, do the research. Know your guns and your gear so that your protagonist doesn’t end up more tactifool than tactical.

But old on a mo. Your spy crime fiction doesn’t have to be a sprint like Robert Ludlum’s or Clive Cussler’s. Mick Herron is one of my favourite writers. The pace might be a little gentler but the brooding narrative is utterly believable. His Jackson Lamb series features the ‘slow horses’ – MI5 agents who’ve messed up and been put out to graze in the backwoods of inactive service.

Herron’s crime isn’t spy-fi – there are no wacky gadgets to get Lamb’s crew out of a fix. The characters are vulnerable, disgruntled, and bored ... until there’s a crime and Lamb suspects the spooks. It’s a fine example of character-driven writing with attention to detail on Service procedural and detection legwork.

Private eye and amateur sleuth

The private-eye tradition crosses subgenres: from cosy to hardboiled to classic thriller.

• For cosies, consider MC Beaton’s Agatha Raisin mysteries and Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple. Here, the amateur sleuth is surrounded by far less knowledgeable and somewhat hapless police officers.
• For hardboiled, think Chandler’s Philip Marlowe and Tim Weaver’s David Raker. Raker is a former journalist who, following the death of his wife, turns to investigating missing persons.
• Sara Paretsky and Sue Grafton offer two examples of gritty female PI protagonists in the form of V.I. Warshawski and Kinsey Millhone.
• One of my favourites is ‘accidental detective’ Myron Bolitar, a slightly softer-boiled sports agent with excellent martial arts skills and a compelling backup team.
• And let us not forget Precious Ramotswe, Alexander McCall Smith’s delicious founder of the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency. McCall Smith manages to keep things light without getting too cosy, and captivate without shocking. It’s gentle, penetrating crime fiction.

Telling your story through a point-of-view character who works outside law enforcement has its advantages: your protagonist can behave and move in ways that a detective can’t, at least not without risking their job.

On the other hand, your sleuth won’t have access to the wealth of contemporary resources available to the police.
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And take care not to make your amateur’s successes depend on witless professionals. Certainly, every organization/service has its fools and bad apples, and crime fiction is the perfect tool with which to explore police and state corruption, but contemporary readers are unlikely to engage with a novel whose chief investigator is an oaf.

Transgressor/noir

If this is your bag, you’ll go where others fear to tread. Whodunnit is still in the mix, but whydunnit is close behind.

It shares the grit of hardboiled but is distinctive for its focus on the narratives of the transgressor (Eoin McNamee: Resurrection Man), the victim (Larsson: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo), or both (Lippman: I’d Know You Anywhere).

The authors who do this subgenre best seem almost to be able to channel their characters’ psychosocial conflict, and dig deep into the predator–prey relationship.

And even when the detective is the protagonist, they’re less superhero than anti-hero, troubled by demons, working despite – rather than within – an establishment as troubled as them (James Ellroy: LA Confidential; Antonin Varenne: Bed of Nails).

​Says Penzler in ‘Noir fiction is about losers, not private eyes’:

​Regional variants – e.g. Tartan, Scandinavian, Emerald – that represent the landscape, culture, idiom, and social and political identity of their settings have emerged to international acclaim.

A quick note on subgenre fusion

Your book might well fall into what Agnieszka Sienkiewicz-Charlish calls genre syncretism: ‘the hard-boiled detective story, the police procedural, Gothic fiction and the psycho-social novel’. She offers Rankin’s Rebus novels as an example.

Consider also China Miéville's The City & The City. In this novel, two locations occupy the same physical space. At heart, it's a police procedural, but there's a speculative/fantasy take on the hardboiled tradition: the shiny surfaces of one city butt up against a grubbier alternate, yet residents of each are legally bound to 'unsee' each other. As such, Mieville incorporates a subtle commentary on state authoritarianism, surveillance and corruption into a murder investigation.

Genre syncretism can help your work stand out, but take care to recognize the conventions of each so that the core subgenre elements are all done well. No reader will thank you for promising a fusion of hardboiled and police procedural if both are half-baked. Good writing trumps everything.

I hope you find this useful and wish you sleuthing success on your crime-writing journey!

And there's that video I promised for those of you who'd prefer to watch or listen.

​Further reading

• ‘From cozy to caper: A guide to mystery genres’: Stephen D. Rogers, Writing World, 2002
• ‘Henning Mankell: I'm not afraid of dying’: Interview with John Preston, The Telegraph, 2011
• ‘How to write a crime novel’: Penguin Random House webinar with Dr Barbara Henderson, 2018
• ‘How to write a spy novel’: Kathrine Roid, 2011
• ‘In conversation: Ian Fleming and Raymond Chandler’: Transcript published in Five Dials, 1958
• ‘Michael Connelly interview: The modern Raymond Chandler on Bosch, The Long Goodbye, and LA's neighbourhoods’: The Independent, 2016
• ‘Modern hardboiled crime’: Matthew Lewin, The Guardian, 2009
• ‘Murder most cosy: Why mystery novels involving quilts and cats are big business’: Alison Flood, The Guardian, 2015
• ‘Noir fiction is about losers, not private eyes’: Otto Penzler, Huffington Post, 2010
• ‘Tartan noir: Crime, Scotland and genre in Ian Rankin’s Rebus novels’: Agnieszka Sienkiewicz-Charlish
• The Art of Firearms in Fiction
• ‘The best locked-room mysteries: when impossible crimes aren’t’: Otto Penzler, Huffington Post, 2014
• ‘The Golden Age of detective fiction’: Reba White Williams
• The Locked-room Mysteries: Otto Penzler, Corvus, 2014
• ‘The origins of detective fiction’: RD Collins, Classic Crime Fiction, 2004
• ‘Writing spy fiction with an unputdownable plot’: Graeme Shimmin

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