A BLOG FOR EDITORS, PROOFREADERS AND WRITERS

When the order of characters’ movements is told with the words ‘before’ and ‘after’, there’s a risk that readers will focus on timeline rather than story. That distraction can reduce engagement and dumb down the writing.

​Here’s what to look out for and how to fix the problem.

In this article, we’ll look at tacit and explicit chronologies of action, and assess which style of writing is more immersive and why.

Why writers include ‘before’ and ‘after’
The inclusion of ‘before’ and ‘after’ to tell the order of play is not an indication of poor grammar – not at all. There’s nothing grammatically wrong with these constructions.

More usually, it’s an indication of insecurity. The author hasn’t learned to trust the power of their words on the page, or the ability of their readers to perceive the meaning behind those words.

It’s also why writers sometimes use several adjectives with similar meanings rather than one strong one, or an adverbial phrase to fortify a weak verb.

Some authors also fear that their writing will come across as too ‘plain’ or ‘simple’. Chronological nudges are an attempt to ornament the prose.

Tacit chronology of action
The things that we do occur in a sequence; they have a chronology. This is as much the case in real life as it is on the screen, in an audiobook and in the pages of a novel. That chronology is tacit – we don’t need to explain it because it’s understood.

Take a look at this excerpt from The Devil’s Dice by Roz Watkins (p. 79, HQ, 2019):

Watkins doesn’t tell us explicitly that the shuddering occurred before the laptop was put down, or that the laptop was moved before the character shifted the cat onto their knee. And yet we know. The sequence of events is implied by the order in which she places each clause. It’s tacit.

• First thing that happens: shudders
• Next thing that happens: moves laptop
• Next thing that happens: manoeuvres cat
• Next thing that happens: leans
• Next thing that happens: inhales cat odour

 
And that’s the thing with strong line craft – it allows the reader to immerse themselves in the chronology of action by showing us, clause by clause, what’s transpiring, instead of tapping us on the shoulder and telling us.

Explicit chronology of action
Let’s recast the Watkins excerpt with some explicit taps on the shoulder:

I see this use of timeline nudges frequently in the fiction writing of less experienced authors, and it’s problematic when overused. Here’s why.

1. Some readers might feel patronized
Not every reader will notice the use of chronology nudges. But some will, and since no author wants to alienate a chunk of their readership, why push the story over a cliff when we can work out the sequence of events from the order of the words?

Telling readers that X was done before doing Y, or after doing Z, is akin to saying: ‘Hey, just in case you’re not clever enough, let me spell it out for you.’

​It’s a dumbing-down that readers in the know won’t appreciate.

2. The inclusion is unnecessary
If you’re still not convinced, ask yourself whether the inclusion of ‘before’ or ‘after’ as timeline nudges is necessary. It often isn’t.

If a character’s shuddering occurs at the beginning of a sentence, the reader will assume that shuddering is what’s happening right now. If a new action follows that shuddering, the reader will assume that – just like in real life – the moment has passed and something else is happening in the new now of the novel.

3. The reader is focused on the wrong thing
When writers create immersive fiction, the reader feels as if they are in the moment – this is happening, now that, now the other.

‘Before’ and ‘after’ are distractions that focus the reader on when rather than what’s happening. The former is telling; the latter is showing.

4. There are more words than are necessary
Not enough words leaves readers hungry for clarity. Too many gives them indigestion. The artistry comes in the form of balance.

​As long as the sequence of events can be understood by the reader, consider whether timeline nudges such as ‘before’ and ‘after’ are cluttering your prose.

The power of tacit chronology – more examples
Take a look at these pairs of narrative text, each of which has a shown tacit chronology and an alternative told explicit sequence. Which versions are more suspenseful? Which are most immediate? Which flow better when you read them out loud?
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I’ve used examples from published fiction for the tacit versions, and taken a little artistic licence – altering them in ways their authors never intended – for the explicit chronologies.

In the original version, the ‘and’ between the initial breath and the walk into the kitchen is a fine example of the power of a conjunction. It’s almost invisible, which gives us the space to take that breath with the viewpoint character. And having taken it, we’re ready to go into the kitchen with them.

In the edited version, ‘before’ pulls us away from that moment. The tension has fallen out of the sentence.

In the original version, it’s as if we’re in the room, watching the man as he smiles and leans back. There is space for that action to have its moment. Then he blows the smoke – that’s the new moment; we’ve left the other behind.

In the edited version, ‘after’ shoves us past the leaning back and smiling before we’ve had a chance to savour it. It’s already gone, even though we’re still reading about it.

​In the original version, Crichton shows us the action. Perhaps, like me, you can hear the chunter of the helicopter blades in the air. Who’s in this helicopter? Men in uniform. They jump out. What will happen next? We’re shown: they fling open the door. There’s a sense of order, of clandestine and militaristic precision.

In the edited version, ‘before’ saps the suspense from the final sentence. We’re focused on the timeline rather than the action.

Summing up
The table below summarizes the impact of tacit and explicit chronology on prose.

Take a look at your narrative. If ‘before’ and ‘after’ are telling rather than showing, recast gently and reread out loud. Is the order of play still clear? Is the prose more immersive? If so, there’ll be fewer words but what’s there will be all the richer.
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And if you’re worried that your prose will be too plain, think again. Immersive writing allows the reader to decorate the story with their own imagination.

If your characters’ intention to act is trumping their action, a small recast could be in order. This article shows you how ‘to’ can affect immediacy and plausibility in certain circumstances.

The intention to act
Take a look at these sentences:
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1. Jan reached up to switch on the light. The attic was empty. Almost.
2. Andrew picked up the phone to call Carla. She answered on the third ring.
3. I get out of the car to walk towards the caravan. The curtains are open so I peek through the plastic window. No one’s home.

What’s noticeable in these examples is that the character does X in order to achieve Y. Let’s be clear – there’s nothing wrong with any of the sentences in terms of either grammar or syntax. A proofreader wouldn’t touch them. A line editor, however, would take a closer look.
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In all three cases the narrator is describing the intention to act, rather than the act itself. And that can be problematic for a couple of reasons.
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• The action is where our attention is supposed to be. That’s how we move through the story at the same pace as the viewpoint character. When intention creeps in instead, the narrative distance – how close the reader feels to the story and the viewpoint character’s place within it at a given moment – widens. The narrative is less immediate.
• We need the action if the prose is to retain its plausibility. It’s essentially a question of logic and whether the infinitive form of the verb allows us to move from A to B.

Removing ‘to’
Now look at what happens when we remove the ‘to’, introduce a conjunction and tweak the conjugation.
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1. Jan reached up and switched on the light. The attic was empty. Almost.
2. Andrew picked up the phone and called Carla. She answered on the third ring.
3. I get out of the car and walk over to the caravan. The curtains are open so I peek through the plastic window. No one’s home.

In (1), now we’re moving through the story with Jan. She acts and we go with her. We feel closer to her, as if we are her. In the unedited example, she discovers the empty attic and yet the light never got switched on – all we had was her intention to do it. The ‘and’ fixes that problem.

In (2), Andrew picked up a phone and made a call. We’re doing those things with him. And Carla can now answer on the third ring because Andrew made a call, rather than just picking up the phone with the intention of getting in touch with her.

In (3), readers are focused on my journey to the caravan, not the reason why I get out of the car (to walk over to the caravan). And now that I do walking rather than just car-exiting, I can get to that caravan and peek through the window.

Shown prose versus told prose – which to choose
This problematic use of infinitives can be framed in terms of showing and telling. There’s room for both in any story, but, as always, context is everything.

Here are three points to bear in mind when deciding whether to ditch your ‘to’ and recast.

• An infinitive tells us why. A conjunction + verb shows us how.
• An infinitive holds us still – it’s motivation-based. A conjunction + verb shows us movement – it’s action-based.
• An infinitive tells us about what’s impending. A conjunction + verb shows us what’s happening in the now.

Conjunctions aren’t the only option. There are other ways of fixing told motivation-based prose where action is what the author really wants to convey. Let’s revisit one of our earlier examples. Each recast has a slightly different mood, but the ‘to’ has been ditched.
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• I get out of the car and walk over to the caravan. The curtains are open so I peek through the plastic window. No one’s home.
• I get out of the car, walk over to the caravan, peek through the plastic window. The curtains are open. No one’s home.
• I get out of the car. Walk over to the caravan. The curtains are open so I peek through the plastic window. No one’s home.

Red flags – words and phrases to watch out for
What we mustn’t do is hunt out every example of an infinitive verb form and hit the DELETE button. That would be catastrophic. Instead, during the revision process, check what the following words and phrases are doing to your prose.
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• in an attempt to [verb]
• in order to [verb]
• so as to [verb]
• to [verb]

Are they showing motivation or impending action? Is that what you want? And will the logic hold up?

‘To’ and viewpoint drops
Infinitives can also interfere with point of view. In this case, it’s not immediacy at stake but what it’s possible for the viewpoint character to know.

Take a look at these examples:

1. I jump over the wall and land on the soft verge. Dan’s German shepherd greets me. The dog bares its teeth, preparing to bite.
2. Matty. The guy was a pain, had done nothing but hold her back all day. Denise shoved him hard in the back. He grabbed the side of the boat to steady himself.

​In (1), I’m the viewpoint character. All is well until I meet the dog. It bares its teeth. We’re still good. But then the infinitive slips in, and with it I’m now privy to the dog’s intention – to bite. It’s a step too far. Perhaps the dog’s been trained to snarl. Maybe it’s more a warning than an impending attack.

The scene could demand I get bitten or escape intact. Either way, what matters is that we’re not in the dog’s head so we can’t know its intention. A recast that shows what happens, rather than telling what might, is in order.

• The painful version: The dog bares its teeth, leaps forward and clamps its jaw around my arm, puncturing the skin.
• The injury-free version: I jump over the wall and land on the soft verge. Dan’s German shepherd greets me. The dog bares its teeth and I freeze. It backs off, so I give it a wide berth and trot down the road.

In (2), Denise is the viewpoint character. We have access to her thoughts via the free indirect discourse: The guy was a pain ... That Matty grabbed the side of the boat is fine. In fact, it’s a solid example of shown prose because although we don’t have access to his intentions or motivations (because we’re not in his head) we can make a good guess at what they are from his observable action – grabbing the side of the boat.

The infinitive tells us why he grabbed the side of the boat. And that’s a problem because we can’t know; we’re not in his head. All we can do is see through Denise’s eyes. Yes, it’s likely that he’s steadying himself, but why not let the reader do the work? His actions are enough to show them.

A recast might go like this:

• Matty. The guy was a pain, had done nothing but hold her back all day. Denise shoved him hard in the back and he grabbed the side of the boat.

Or this more staccato version:
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• Matty. The guy was a pain, had done nothing but hold her back all day. Denise shoved him hard in the back. He grabbed the side of the boat.

​When intention is the intention!
There are times when the infinitive form of a verb is a good choice because intention, purpose or desire is exactly what the author wants to convey, not the action itself.

Here’s an excerpt from Nuala Ellwood’s Day of the Accident (Penguin, 2019, p. 94). The viewpoint character intends to talk but the action never happens. We’re supposed to focus on the intention, so the infinitives – to speak, to defend myself – work.

​Here are some additional (made-up) examples of where motivation is the order of the day. The character does X for the purpose of achieving Y, and the infinitive is effective.
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• I take deep breaths to calm myself.
• He’d worked his backside off with this parole officer to stay out of trouble.
• Arthur went to pull Excalibur from the stone but Merlin’s scream stopped him in his tracks.
• I’ve made a decision. I’ll fill up her petrol tank with diesel to trash the engine. That’ll teach her.

​Summing up
If you want your characters to act, show those actions in your prose rather than telling readers about intention. Replace the infinitives with a conjunction and modify how the verb’s conjugated. Or, for a more staccato feel, try commas, or closing the sentence with a full point and starting a new one.

If it’s motivation you want, a ‘to’ plus a verb has the right to stand.

You have a choice when it comes to tense in your fiction’s narrative. Here’s an overview of the tenses you’ll most likely be working with, and some guidance on the benefits and challenges of each.

The present tense
Here’s an overview of the present tense, with basic examples:

• Simple present: I write a novel; he writes a novel
• Present progressive (also called present continuous): I am writing a novel; he is writing a novel
• Present perfect: I have written a novel; he has written a novel
• Present perfect progressive: I have been writing a novel; he has been writing a novel

The present is immediate, and that right-nowness forces the reader to stick close to the viewpoint character. We’re in the moment with them. That’s why it appeals to some fiction authors, and why others find it restrictive.
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With second-person viewpoints, the present tense is intensely voyeuristic, invasive even. Here’s an excerpt from Iain Banks’s Complicity (p. 60). This is a transgressor narrative with a difference – the narrator is anonymous, at least until later in the novel:

And in this example from a later chapter (p. 90), we’re back with the protagonist. Here, the main narrative tense is present. The viewpoint is first-person:

RECOMMENDATION
​The present tense is great if you want to shorten the distance between the reader and the viewpoint character. 

Present tense works particularly well for short fiction because space is limited. I use it often in my own shorts and flashes because it enables me to pack an immersive punch quickly. 

However, it’s tricky to manage if there are multiple viewpoint-character chapters or sections, all operating in the present tense. You’ll need to keep a close eye on the timelines so that the reader’s clear on what ‘now’ really means. If your plot twist hinges on deliberately duping them via your use of tense rather than story craft, you’ll break their trust.

The present tense can also be tiring for readers because it’s emotionally immersive. If you’re writing a novel, you might consider using it only for certain viewpoint characters – your transgressor or victim, for example.

In Let Me Lie, Clare Mackintosh mixes it up: the Anna-viewpoint chapters are set in first-person present; the Murray-viewpoint chapters are third-person past. 

The past tense
Now let’s turn to the past tense, starting with some basic examples:

• Simple past: I wrote a novel; he wrote a novel
• Past progressive: I was writing a novel; he was writing a novel
• Past perfect: I had written a novel; he had written a novel
• Past perfect progressive: I had been writing a novel; he had been writing a novel
• Habitual past: I would write a chapter every week; he would write a chapter every week; I used to write a chapter every week; he used to write a chapter every week

The past tense is the choice of most contemporary commercial fiction writers. What’s interesting is that readers are so used to this style that they can still immerse themselves in a past-tense narrative as though the story is unfolding now.

Here’s an excerpt from T. M. Logan’s 29 Seconds (p. 73). We’re given a past-tense narrative with a third-person limited viewpoint (Sarah’s):

WHEN PAST TENSE FLOPS – UNDERSTANDING PAST PERFECT​
​Less experienced writers can end up in a pickle when referencing events that happened earlier than their novel’s now.

The crucial thing to remember is that when we set a novel in the past tense, anything that happens in the story’s past will likely need the past perfect, at least when the action is introduced.

Here’s an excerpt from The Wife Between Us (p. 57) by Greer Hendricks and Sarah Pekkanen. This chapter’s primary narrative tense is past (see underlined verb):

When we’re told that ‘She stood’, that’s the novel’s now. But when the narrator recalls events that happened further back in time (bold) – Samantha’s decorating her bed, and the two women’s procuring a rug – these need to be anchored in the past-perfect tense: had, had been.

When authors fail to anchor past events in a novel whose now is already set in the past tense, the reader will be confused.

RENDERING BYGONE ROUTINE – UNDERSTANDING HABITUAL PAST
Now and then, you might want to reference events from your novel’s past that happened routinely or habitually. This is where the habitual past tense comes into play, and the tools are would and used to.

This excerpt from The Templar's Garden by Catherine Clover illustrates the usage. The narrative is set in third-person past but the viewpoint character is recalling regular journeys taken earlier in her life:

And in Time To Win (p. 62), Harry Brett uses the simple past and past progressive for the most part, but then Frank, the viewpoint character, recalls something he’d done habitually in former times:

Like the past perfect, the habitual past acts as an anchor, so that readers don’t mix up the reminiscence of a routine event with the novel’s now. 

To see that confusion in action, replace ‘used to enjoy’ with the simple past: ‘enjoyed’. It reads as if Frank is enjoying driving down South Denes Road right now. 

If you don’t want to use the habitual past, then an alternative anchor is necessary. Here I’ve added an anchoring clause and changed the tense to past perfect (he’d, or he had):
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• Back in the day, he’d enjoyed driving down [...]

RECOMMENDATION
The past tense is flexible; it’s easier to shift narrative distance (the distance between the reader and the narrator) than is the case with the present tense, though this does increase the risk of flatter writing. Dramatic scenes – fights, escapes, arguments – could end up laboured if the writing isn’t lean and rich.

Still, it’s traditional and readers are used to it. No one will get tired of reading in the past as long as the line craft is strong.

Do take care, however, with rendering events that have taken place in your novel’s past. Use the past perfect or the habitual past when necessary to ensure your readers know what happened when. 

Summing up
Write in the tense you feel most comfortable with, and that you think readers of your genre will be most comfortable reading. The past and the present both have their challenges and their advantages. The most important thing is that readers know where and when they are in the story. 

Cited sources 

• 29 Seconds, T. M. Logan, Zaffre, 2018
• Complicity, Iain Banks, Abacus, 1994
• The Templar’s Garden, Catherine Clover, The Holywell Press, 2017
• The Wife Between Us, Greer Hendricks and Sarah Pekkanen, Pan, 2018
• Time to Win, Harry Brett, Corsair, 2017

If you’re including fingerprint science in your fiction writing, these tips will help you get the basics right.

Fingerprints are an established part of forensic procedure. If they’re in your novel, you’ll need to think about the science, the degree to which you’ll stay true to reality, and how much detail to include without turning your fiction into a textbook.

Here are 9 tips to get you started.

1. Know how a fingerprint is formed
In ‘Introduction to Forensic Science’, Penny Haddrill describes fingerprints as follows:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Says Laura Spinney in Nature:

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

5. Get the twin stuff right
Identical twins have almost identical DNA because they develop from one zygote (created by one egg and one sperm) that splits into two embryos.
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Fingerprints, however, are formed during foetal development. Here's Spinney again:

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

6. Acknowledge real-world procedure and bias
The Centre for Forensic Science identifies four separate stages in the methodology of fingermark collection: ACE-V.

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

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

​In other words, the A and C were not separate procedures. The examiner went looking for points of similarity rather than taking into account the differences, even though only a partial fingermark was available. This introduced unacceptable bias and led to erroneous findings. She summarizes the FBI’s later conclusions:

Does this mean you can’t have flawed procedure in your novel? Not at all – it could be a great plot point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The main fingerprint databases are:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Further reading and related resources

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

Not every reader can stomach violence in fiction, and not every writer wants to go the whole hog with it. Here are two ways to approach it: compressed reporting after the fact; and showing it all as it happens.

Compressed reporting after the fact
Reporting the outcome of violence after the fact can be a superb alternative to detailed descriptions that might upset or sicken authors and their readers. This technique is used on the screen too. 
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In Series 5, Episode 3 of Line of Duty (BBC1), the perpetrator breaks into the home of a core character’s ex-wife. The transgressor proceeds to torture the victim. There’s a drill involved and lots of screaming. It’s gross. Well, it would be if we saw it. But we don’t. All we see is the outcome.

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

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

Harlan Coben’s Run Away (Century, 2019, pp. 68–9) provides an excellent example. Aaron, a corrupt and possessive junkie, has been murdered. Coben elects not to show us the violence as it plays out. Instead, we learn what happened via a later conversation between Simon and Ingrid.

Two things stand out about this scene:

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

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

Here’s an example from Emily Brightwell’s The Inspector and Mrs Jeffries (C&R Crime, 2013, pp. 1–3):

Brightwell focuses on the impact of the poison on the body; unlike in the Line of Duty screen example, there’s nothing that tells us about the suffering endured. That’s the cosy way.

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

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

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

This extract from The Poison Artist by Jonathan Moore (Orion, 2014, pp. 244–5) appealed to me because it avoids high-octane, kickass tropes. Rather, the author captures the transgressor’s mysterious sensuality in the violent narrative. Her psychotically calm speech and composed movements have an ethereal quality. In sharp contrast, the protagonist’s actions are punctuated with sentence fragments that elevate the pace and introduce tension.

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

Here’s a high-octane example from Robert Ludlum’s The Matlock Paper (Orion, 1973/2005, pp. 268–9). Ludlum never bores us, just tells us straight. The pace is quick and every word counts.

Ludlum keeps the stage direction lean and the pace consistent. But I also love how he introduces the earth and rain into the narrative, but only briefly. The weather doesn’t distract us. The mentions are just enough to ground the violence in a physical environment that can be felt and heard; the men aren’t fighting in white space.
 
Lean is good but not too lean! Omitting the detail would render the scene inauthentic.

Imagine reading this:

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

​Here’s the real extract from Lee Child’s Bad Luck and Trouble (Bantam, 2007, p. 492). Child gives us the detail, shows us the choreography of the fight, but it’s focused. None of the steps are repeated so we don’t get bored.

​Child uses sentence fragments to accelerate the pace, and polysyndeton to introduce a sense of rampancy. And he deepens our interest by shifting the narrative distance – we move from observers in the wings to right inside Reacher’s head.

Summing up
For showing-it-all violence:

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

For reporting-after-the-fact violence:

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

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

Further reading

• Dialogue tags: How to show who’s speaking
• How to convey accents
• How to punctuate dialogue
• How to use free indirect speech
• How to write novels for readers, not viewers
• How to write thoughts
• Physical description with style
• Playing with sentence length
• Playing with the rhythm of fiction: commas and conjunctions
• Using adverbs in fiction writing

If you’re looking for ways to inject some drama into your novel’s sentences, omitting filter words could be just the ticket. Do so judiciously though. Including them can add texture to mood and voice.

What are filter words?
Filter words are verbs that increase the narrative distance, reminding us that what we’re reading is being told by someone rather than experienced, or shown, through the eyes of the character.

Examples include noticed, seemed, spotted, saw, realized, felt, thought, wondered, believed, knew, decided.

I see more extensive filtering in books written by less experienced novelists who’ve not yet learned to trust their characters’ voices, who are uncomfortable about playing with devices such as free indirect style, or who are still learning the craft of injecting drama into narrative.

I’ve taken some examples from published fiction and introduced filtering so you can see the difference, and how by avoiding filter words the writers have brought immediacy to their narratives:

When filter words distract
Filter words – particularly when they’re used as a narrative staple – tap the reader on the shoulder and say, ‘You’re not in this book. Someone else is experiencing this.’ They’re a reminder that doing is being done.

Of course, we as readers know this to be true. Still, there’s nothing like immersing yourself in a character’s journey.

Here’s an extreme example I made up:

The text is horribly laboured – overly cluttered with doing being done. When confronted with a novel filled with filtering, readers will be tempted to skim, which means they might miss something crucial. A worst-case scenario is that they’ll give up because it’s not an enjoyable experience.

​Now let’s tighten it up by removing the filter words:

We’ve lost none of the detail but now the prose is more emotionally immersive. We can better feel John’s predicament because we’re not repeatedly told that he’s doing the doing. It’s narration that feels less narrated.

When filter words add texture
I’m not suggesting you ban all filter words. When used intentionally they have a layering effect that can enrich a novel.

• You might want to pepper your narrative style with some telling filters to mix things up.
• Perhaps the narrative distance in much of the surrounding text is close and you want to ease the tension and pull the reader back.
• You might use filter words to introduce a different mood, for example, more enquiring or deliberative.
• You might even need them so that your prose makes sense – sometimes a character does realize or watch or think something, and we need to know that.
• Filter words can deepen character voice, especially in a first-person narrative.

The Mackintosh example above is in first person. I think my filtered version works; it’s just different. Or perhaps it would be stronger with only one of the filters. Either way, one might argue that it imparts a deeper sense of the character’s scouring the envelope for clues.

I still prefer Mackintosh’s approach because I like my crime fiction on the nose, but the experiment demonstrates that filter words aren’t wrong or right, but rather devices you can use to play with the reader’s experience of your story and the characters moving around within it.

Here’s an example from Philip Prowse’s Hellyer’s Trip, p. 194:

Prowse uses a filter word here: knew. He then follows through with free indirect style to close the narrative distance and take us right inside the character’s head while still maintaining a third-person viewpoint.

So let’s look at what happens when we remove ‘He knew’.

I think the unfiltered version works very well but it does change the feel of the writing. Gone is the sense of deliberation. All four sentences are immediate. To my ear, the rhythm accelerates. And although there’s a feel of telling with the inclusion of ‘He knew’ in the published version, there’s also an increased sense of despondency, as if the character has had time to think this over and arrive at this knowledge.

I mentioned character voice above. Here are two examples from Play Dead by David Rosenfelt:

Rosenfelt’s writing is tight. He never drops a beat. When he uses a filter word it’s with intention. Those who’ve read the Andy Carpenter series will know that this fictional attorney’s voice drips with a delicious acerbity, and the character thinks, acts and speaks with purpose.

​When we’re told he realizes something it’s because the author wants us to have a sense of dawning awareness, not because he couldn’t be bothered to cast the sentence in a way that avoided it.

Most of the time, Rosenfelt avoids filter words: ‘I’m so pissed …’ not ‘I feel so pissed …’; ‘He spends most of the time …’ not ‘I listen to him …’. However, he chooses to tag ‘I don’t think’ onto the beginning of the final sentence rather than going with something like ‘My silent treatment isn’t bringing him to his knees.’ And, actually, the protagonist’s thinking is what deepens the voice and the immediacy.

Summing up
To keep your prose tight, look out for filter words that tell of doing being done. Then consider whether a gentle recast without them will improve your prose. How does the revised text make you feel? Is the meaning still clear? Is the mood you’re seeking evident?

If the prose feels more dramatic and immersive, you’ve done your novel and your readers a favour. If you lose something in the revision, like voice, mood or intention, reintroduce your filters at the appropriate points.

Action beats are short descriptions that come before, between or just after dialogue. Here’s how to use them in your fiction writing.

What do action beats do?
Action beats enrich characters’ voices by telling us about their emotions, their movements and their intentions while they’re speaking. They can even tell us who’s speaking and whether their speech is reliable or not. And they can ensure that readers don’t become bored.

In that sense, we can think of them as alternative narrative ‘voices’ that enrich our perceptions of, or engagement with, the characters.

1. The voice breaker
Long chunks of dialogue can be off-putting. Action beats can act as rhythm moderators that break up the speech and its tagging.

​2. The emotional voice
Action beats can be mood indicators. In real life, we express what we’re feeling or sensing – for example, sadness, pain and frustration – with our bodies as much as our voices. Emotions manifest physically.
​
In fiction, complementary action beats can enrich the reader’s understanding of character emotions but without clumsy dialogue tags or adverbial modifiers that distract from the dialogue.

​Here are some examples:

3. The physical voice
​Perhaps you’ve heard of the term ‘talking heads syndrome’. When there’s a lot of dialogue, the reader can end up dislocated from the environment, as if the characters are speaking in a vacuum or floating in white space.

In ‘The Dreaded “Talking Heads Syndrome”’, writer James Boyle discusses an example from a writer in his critique group:

‘... [they] wrote a scene for a mystery story in which a detective is arguing with her boss. Though somewhat trite, the dialogue was realistic and believable, but there was virtually no description of their surroundings, no description of how the characters react to their environment.’
​
Action beats ground the dialogue by quickly giving it physicality – a geographical region, a room, a time of day, the weather conditions, even a body. They keep the reader grounded in the scene, which helps retain immersion.

​Here are a few more examples:

4. The alternative voice
What a character says via dialogue and what they mean or think might be very different. Action beats can act as an alternative voice that indicates reticence or unreliability. They say what the character can’t or won’t.

​The examples below show you how it works:

5. The voice indicator
Action beats and dialogue run on from each other because they’re connected. That means we can use beats instead of tags; they tell the reader who’s speaking.

Once more, I've given you some examples below:

How to lay out action beats and dialogue
Because action beats relate to dialogue, we run them on rather than creating a paragraph return.

Here’s an example from Alexander McCall Smith’s The No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency (p.125):

How to punctuate and format actions beats
Before the dialogue
The action beat ends with a full point. An opening speech mark follows. The first word of the dialogue takes a capital letter.

• He jabbed at the chintz curtain. ‘This is the problem. My gran thought this was modern. That was in 1978.’

Note that I’ve styled this with single quotation marks, but doubles might be your preference, especially if you’re writing in US English.

After the dialogue
The dialogue finishes with a full point followed by a closing speech mark. The first word of the action beat takes a capital letter.

• ‘This is the problem. My gran thought this was modern. That was in 1978.’ He jabbed at the chintz curtain.

Again, I’ve used single quotation marks, but doubles are fine too. It’s a style choice.

Within the dialogue
You have several choices about how to handle this depending on where the beat goes and what punctuation style you choose.

Example 1: Mid-sentence
In this case, the beat interrupts the dialogue mid-sentence, which lends emphasis to the word ‘This’.

If you’re writing in British English style, you might prefer spaced en dashes and single quotation marks. This is how it looks:

• ‘This’ – he jabbed at the chintz curtain – ‘is the problem. My gran thought this was modern. That was in 1978.’

If you’re writing in US English style, you might go with closed-up em dashes and double quotation marks. This is how it looks:

• “This”—he jabbed at the chintz curtain—“is the problem. My gran thought this was modern. That was in 1978.”

Notice the lack of initial capital letters and the omission of commas in both examples.

Example 2: Between complete sentences
In this case, the beat interrupts the dialogue between sentences. This is how it works:

• ‘This is the problem.’ He jabbed at the chintz curtain. ‘My gran thought this was modern. That was in 1978.’

Notice that because the sentences in the dialogue are complete, we punctuate and capitalize according to the Before the dialogue and After the dialogue examples above.
​
Overuse, repetition and cliché
As is always the case with good writing, devices such as action beats, free indirect speech, dialogue tags, and anaphora work best when the reader can’t identify a writing pattern. Instead, mix things up so that your reader doesn’t guess which literary tool’s coming.

Pay attention to whether you repeat particular action beats, particularly clichéd ones. If your characters often purse their lips, furrow their brows, rake their hands through their hair, spit on the ground, or roll their eyes while they’re speaking, it’s time to think of alternative ways to express despair, disgruntlement or annoyance.

Summing up
Use action beats to enrich the emotionality of your characters’ speech and add interest to your writing. Think about how they can anchor the dialogue in a physical space, and whether they’ll provide an alternative to a speech tag so we know who’s saying what. However, watch out for oft-repeated phrases that turn beats from pop to pattern.

​Cited sources

• Closed Casket by Sophie Hannah. Harper, 2017
• Don't Let Go by Harlan Coben. Arrow, 2018
• Sleeping in the Ground by Peter Robinson. Hodder & Stoughton, 2018
• The Cold Cold Ground by Adrian McKinty. Serpent's Tail, 2012
• The Dreaded 'Talking Heads Syndrome', James Boyle, 2014

Adverbs and adverbial phrases sometimes get a bit of a pummelling, and yet they needn’t intrude and shouldn’t be removed indiscriminately. An adverb is no more likely to spoil a sentence than a poorly chosen adjective or noun.
​
Use them purposefully in your writing when they bring clarity, but remove them when they create clunk.

Are there rules? You won’t find any in this article, just common-sense guidance to help beginner writers make informed decisions.

The fiction writer – and the fiction editor – who takes a formulaic approach to the treatment of adverbs is heading for trouble.

A note on form
Not all adverbs end in –ly (e.g. backwards, inside) and not all words ending in –ly are adverbs (e.g. deadly is an adjective and anomaly is a noun).

That’s one good reason not to eradicate all –ly words from your writing.

To work out whether a word or phrase is behaving adverbially, focus on what it’s modifying not on how it’s spelled.

Verb and adverbs – a quick refresher
A verb is a doing word; it describes a physical or mental action or state of being.

An adverb is a word that describes a verb (just as an adjective describes a noun).

​An adverbial phrase behaves in the same way but uses two or more words to describe the verb (or verb phrase).

Clunk: Telling us what we already know from dialogue
Here are four examples where the adverb (in bold) attached to the speech tag is redundant because the information in the dialogue does the same job:

These aren’t rules but guidelines. Test it. Remove the adverb and read the sentence aloud. Is the intention still clear from the dialogue you’ve written? If so, great – you can lose the adverb. If it’s not, can you recast the dialogue? Consider the following:

In (1), dialogue and supporting speech tag seem a little flat. In (2), the adverb helps us to understand John’s mood. In (3), we lose the adverb but the mood intention is supplied by the additional dialogue. In (4), the adverb repeats the mood intention.

None of above four examples is grammatically incorrect, but (1) is possibly underwritten and (4) is definitely overwritten.

Context is everything though. If you’re writing a high-octane crime-thriller scene in which the pace is fast and furious, (1) might just be perfect, (2) and (3) would slow the reader down, and (4) would still be a non-starter.

Clunk: Telling us what we already know from the speech tag
Here are three examples where the adverb (in bold) is redundant because the verb (in italic) provides the same information:

Beginner writers sometimes trip up with double tells in speech tags because they’re trying not to overuse ‘said’. A replacement verb is introduced but the clarifying adverb (which served to give intention to ‘said’) is left intact even though it’s no longer needed.

‘Said’ is a rather delicious speech tag because it’s almost invisible. (For an examination of tagging, read: ‘Dialogue tags and how to use them in fiction writing’.)

Readers are so used to seeing ‘said’ that they slide over it without a glance. And that means they stay immersed in the conversation on the page, which if you’re writing dialogue is exactly where you want them.

Clunk: Telling us what we already know from the verb
Here are three examples where the adverb or adverbial phrase (in bold) is redundant because the verb (in italic) provides similar information in the narrative:

Slips like these can occur because the writer is still learning to trust their reader. They fear there are too few words or that the description isn’t rich enough. And sometimes writers just run away with themselves, so deeply are they immersed in the world they’ve created and what their characters are experiencing.

This is why drafting and redrafting are so important, and why a fresh set of professional eyes can give the writer courage. I hire people to check most of my own writing because I know that even when I’m writing educational non-fiction I’m so desperate to get my point across that I can sometimes end up in a right old tangle!

Self-editing is hard – professional editors know this. Don’t beat yourself up if you’re prone to double tells – you’re only human. Instead, cross-check your adverbs against your verbs to make sure you’re not repeating yourself.

Clunk: Dragging us away from immediacy
Some adverbs like suddenly, immediately and instantly can do the opposite of what's intended. Overuse can make the action less sudden, less instant. I cover this in detail in Why ‘suddenly’ can spoil your crime fiction: Advice for new writers.

In brief, these adverbs can act like taps on the shoulder that prevent the reader from moving through a story at the same pace as the character. The suddenness of the action is told to us first instead of being experienced by us.

Compare these examples. They demonstrate how removing the adverbs can leave the immediacy of events intact.

​Purposeful adverbs
Adverbs, used well, can show motivation, indicate mood, and enrich our imagining of a scene.

I love books that tell it straight because every word pushes me forward. David Rosenfelt is a writer who never disappoints. His Andy Carpenter series features a tenacious lawyer with a dry wit.

The author’s prose is sharp as a knife. Does he use adverbs? Absolutely, though sparingly and they’re always purpose-filled.

Summing up
Use adverbs when they help your reader understand more than they would have without them. A well-placed adverb or adverbial phrase will help you keep your prose leaner because it will nudge a reader towards imagining the action, the mood of the characters and what their intentions are.

If they’re repetitive clutter that add nothing we couldn’t have guessed, get rid of them. If the narrative or dialogue feels flat, head for a thesaurus and find alternative verbs that will bring your prose to life.

Every writer has a process. What works for you might not work for someone else, and your approach might change over time. Here are 6 tips from indie author Kristina Adams that show how changing your writing process to suit mindset and circumstances can help you grow as a writer.

When I set out to publish my first book, I had no idea what I was doing. I made the whole thing up as I went along, absorbing as much advice as I could in the short space of time I had.

I’d set myself a tight deadline – to write, edit, and publish a book in a year – which, when you have no idea what you’re doing and you’re a one-woman band working a full-time job, is pretty insane.

Fast-forward to now, and I’ve published four books and have a somewhat better idea of what I’m doing. I’m no expert, but I have come to accept that my writing process changes as I mature as a writer, as I grow as a person, and as my circumstances in life change.

So let’s take a look at what's changed, and what you can learn from my ever-changing writing process ...

1. Planning is your friend
I never used to plan my writing. My dissertation tutor tried to convince me of the importance of planning, but I wouldn’t listen to him. (Pro tip: always listen to people more experienced than you, especially when you’re paying them.)
 
When I started writing a book with multiple points of view and several spin-offs involved, his advice finally sunk in.
 
Now, I don’t write anything without at least the hint of a plan first. Sometimes that plan is simply what the ending will be. Other times it’s so elaborate that there’s no room for missteps.
 
It’s important to plan properly, though.
 
A few years ago, I took part in NaNoWriMo. I was so excited that I’d planned my novel weeks in advance. When I went to write it in the October, I discovered – to my horror – that I hadn’t planned it very well at all. The Big Reveal scene was described as ‘Poppy finds out who the murderer is’. That was it. I’d spent all that time planning but hadn’t actually worked out the most important detail in a crime novel. Insert face palm here.
 
The draft ended up being all over the place. I forced myself to hit the NaNoWriMo word count, but hated the piece so much that I almost quit writing fiction all together. (Another lesson learnt: don’t force yourself to finish a piece that you really, really don’t like any more. Not unless there’s someone else’s money on the line.)
 
You don’t need to know every step along the way when you plan. I like to see it as akin to planning a journey: you know the destination and what stops you’ll make along the way, but you don’t know the other cars, the scenery, or the people you’ll come across.
 
Planning is your friend, folks. It doesn’t dampen the creativity; it just stops you from digging yourself into a massive hole.

2. Listen to your body
This may seem like an odd thing to say in a post about writing, but as someone with six chronic health issues, I really do need to listen to my body.
 
Too much stress exacerbates my fibromyalgia, which then means I’m too tired and in too much pain to function. It’s therefore imperative that when I start to feel weak, the pain gets too much, or the room starts spinning, I go to bed and close my eyes.

Sometimes that rest is a couple of hours; other times it’s days. Either way, if I didn’t rest, I’d end up in a much worse state and wouldn’t be able to write or publish at all.
 
So many people come to me and say, ‘I feel tired all the time’. If you fall into this category, I have three pieces of advice:

1. Listen to your body. It’s telling you to sleep, so sleep. Lack of sleep does nothing but make you more ill.
2. Talk to your doctor because chronic tiredness can be a sign of anything from a vitamin D deficiency to chronic fatigue syndrome.
3. This is the perfect time to write! When you’re half asleep you’re too tired to self-edit, which means you’re less critical of your ideas. You should never, ever write and edit as you go along because these are two very different skills that require very different mindsets. The one upside to being tired all the time is that your brain just doesn’t have the attention span to write and edit. It’s easier for you to tap into your subconscious, making it easier to write and harder to be critical.

3. Abandon your book (just for a while)
It’s amazing how many things you can spot when you’ve taken a break from working on something. The longer you leave something in the drawer for, the more you’ll spot and the easier it is to work through any issues that you may or may not know about.

I didn’t have much time to do this when working on What Happens in New York, but with more recent books I’ve written a first draft, then gone on to write another first draft of something else before going back to it. This means I’m working on first drafts while in a writing mindset; then I can switch to an editor’s mindset.

Switching rapidly between writing and editing can be difficult, which is why I like to do them in bulk for longer projects. It strengthens my skills in both as I’m in that mindset for longer. It also means I’m less likely to overthink things during the crucial (but ugly) first-draft stage.

4. Ask for help
My local writing community has been pivotal to my growth as a writer. Whenever I get stuck on a particular issue, there’s always someone who can help. I have one friend in particular who’s brilliant at fixing plot holes, and so when I was unsure of something in my most recent book, she was the first person I went to. She helped me to figure everything out, and suddenly the book wasn’t so intimidating any more.

I can’t emphasize enough the importance of a support network. Even if your support network doesn’t consist of other writers or editors (although it helps), having people in your corner that you go to for help when you need it makes a huge difference to your growth and your confidence as a writer.

If you don’t have access to a physical writing community, there are plenty available online. Facebook, Twitter, and even Second Life have writing communities, and there are a plethora of websites that are dedicated to writing, too.

​5. Be realistic with deadlines
When I set myself a 12-month deadline to publish What Happens in New York, I had no idea how much work was involved in self-publishing (unless one has a budget that far exceeds my monthly salary). Had I known, I would’ve set myself a different deadline.
 
I ended up rushing a lot of processes early on and making rookie mistakes that make me cringe when I look back on them.
 
Nowadays, I don’t put anything up for pre-order until the book is in a state that I’m happy with and only requires one last read-through to check for any niggling issues that might have been missed.
 
Having a public deadline definitely helped to motivate me. Had I not had it, I may well have kept procrastinating, coming up with an abundance of excuses why I shouldn’t hit the ‘Submit for pre-order’ button.
 
These days I don’t make my deadlines quite so public – I tell a few close friends that I know will hold me accountable instead. These are both fans of my writing and fans of me, which encourages me to keep going while also offering moral support when things go wrong.

6. Accept that you know nothing
The less you know, the more room you have to grow.

The more room you have to grow, the more you can succeed.

Everyone knows something that you don’t know, which is why it’s important to take advice from as many sources as you can. If someone has said something mean, acknowledge it, then ignore it. But if someone offers constructive criticism, take some time to think about their comments. It may be hurtful, but often the greatest pain comes from the greatest truths. 

No one likes their writing to be criticized, but it’s the only way you’ll improve as a writer. 

If those comments come from your target audience, it’s especially important to listen since they’re the ones that will download your book. If they don’t like something, they’re the ones you really need to pay attention to before you do something that could dampen your sales. 

As time goes on, you’ll learn the difference between constructive feedback and someone who's just got an axe to grind and you just happened to be their unfortunate target. 

In the end ...
Everyone’s writing process is different. That’s part of what I find most fascinating about writing. I love hearing how different people write in different ways. I have some friends who plan their books in so much depth that they only need one or two edits. I have others who love editing but can’t stand first-draft stage.

What really matters is that you find a writing process that works for you. Your writing process will change as you grow, and as your circumstances in life change. That’s natural. When you accept that, it becomes a lot easier to get your writing done.

It also means you’re kinder to yourself, which means that you’re more relaxed. When you’re more relaxed, you can write better because you’re not putting too much pressure on yourself. Then, when you write better, you achieve more. And in the end, isn’t that what we all want?

If you write fiction, chances are your characters will be thinking. This article shows you several different ways of conveying what’s going on in their heads.

First off, there is no rule. Instead there are standard ways and not-so-standard ways of conveying thoughts in fiction.

Rules are problematic because they lead writers down a prescriptive road that can render their fiction difficult to read, and lacking in aesthetic on the page.

Method 1: Quotation marks
The Chicago Manual of Style (CMOS) has this advice (13.43: ‘Unspoken discourse’):

This is undoubtedly my least-favourite option. ​I recommend you use the speech-mark style with caution. I can’t remember the last time I saw this approach used in commercial fiction coming out of a mainstream publisher’s stable. That doesn’t mean it hasn’t been, of course!

I dislike it intensely, and many fiction publishers seem to be choosing other methods by preference, but those aren’t good reasons to avoid it. Your style is your choice. The best reason for avoiding it is that using speech marks could confuse your reader.

The beauty of speech marks – or quotation marks – is that they indicate speech. When you put speech marks around a character’s thoughts, your reader will immediately assume they’re reading the spoken word.

Look at the CMOS example above. Only when we hit thought Vera do we realize she’s not speaking at all. She’s thinking.

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

If, like me, you want something a little cleaner, something that won’t pull your reader out of the story because you led them down a speech-based garden path only to pull them up short at the gate, here are a few alternatives.

Method 2: Italic text
You can render your thoughts in italic text. For short thought streams, this is a common approach.

Let’s return to the CMOS example and see what it looks like:

The advantages of this style are as follows:

• It’s a standard approach that readers will be familiar with.
• There’s no confusion. It’s clear that Vera’s not speaking out loud because the speech marks have been omitted.

However, some readers find that large chunks of italic strain their eyes. I’m one of them. I’m much more likely to skim over huge passages of italic because it’s not a pleasant reading experience.

If that text is masking a clue, or a key character trait, information about an important event or something else that holds the plot together, it’s essential that the reader accesses it.

Look at the Vera example again. There are two thought tags – thought Vera and she told herself – just to ram the point home that she’s thinking. Some readers and writers might consider two tags overkill, but they do help to break up the italic text and don’t jar as much as they might.

But imagine if Vera’s thought stream had gone something like this:

That’s a lot of italic to get one’s retinas around. If you have a long stream of consciousness, you might prefer another method.

Method 3: Normal body text
This style forgoes speech marks and italic, and sticks to normal text. This is how it looks with the longer Vera example:

The advantage of this style is that it’s easy on the eye. However, some readers might be jarred by changes in tense.
 
If your narrative is set in the past tense and set in the third person (as in this example with Vera) and you use the same text style for present-tense direct thoughts, then in a longer thought stream you could pull your reader out of the story.
 
And if this happens frequently, your prose will be riddled with flip-flopping tenses that are at best frustrating and at worst confusing.

Method 4: Free indirect style
Another option is to use free indirect style (sometimes called free indirect discourse or free indirect speech). This style offers the essence of first-person thought but through a third-person viewpoint.

The advantages of this style are as follows:

• The character’s voice is foremost but gone is the clutter of speech marks, speech tags, and italic.
• The thoughts can be formatted in the normal body-text style but without the risk of jarring the reader because the tense will be consistent with the main narrative.
• The shift away from the thought stream and into the usual third-person narrative is seamless.

Let’s return to Vera to see how this works:

The free indirect style does keep the narrative distance close but it’s still not quite as immediate at the present-tense first person. So is there anything else we can do?

Method 5: Mix it up
A more creative option might be to combine direct and indirect thought styles.

In the example below we begin with two sentences that use the italic style for the present-tense first-person thought, and we retain the thought tags to break up the text.

Then we move into roman text but cast the thought stream in the free indirect style, which matches the main narrative: third-person past tense.

The advantages of this style are as follows:
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• It’s flexible. The character’s voice is foremost throughout. The narrative distance shifts from the immediacy of the present-tense first person but is still close – we’re still in Vera’s head even when we’re in the third person.
• The italic doesn’t dominate, so the text is easy on the reader’s eye.
• Given that the thought stream is quite long, it still doesn’t feel invasive. The shift into free indirect style gives us a breather. This approach might therefore suit you if your character is having an inner rant and the inner turmoil feels overworked.
• We’ve retained the seamless shift back to the main third-person past-tense narrative comfortably.

Summing up
As with many sentence-level decisions in fiction writing, rendering thoughts is about style choices rather than a single prescriptive rule. Choose the solution that fits your story best. This might mean making different decisions at various points in your novel depending on what’s going on.

Consider combining approaches if you have longer thought streams and want to be sure of retaining reader engagement.

And, finally, avoid speech marks when it comes thoughts. They’re called speech marks for a reason and are best reserved for talking and muttering!

Cited works and related resources

• 3 reasons to use free indirect speech
• Dialogue tags and how to use them in fiction writing
• How to punctuate dialogue in a novel
• How to use apostrophes in fiction writing
• Playing with sentence length
• Playing with the rhythm of fiction: commas and conjunctions
• The Chicago Manual of Style, 17th ed. University of Chicago Press, 2017
• Unveiling your characters: Physical description with style
• Why ‘suddenly’ can spoil your fiction

Novels and screenplays are two very different art forms. When a story is presented to a reader as if it were something being watched in a cinema or on TV, the book begins to wobble.

Great screenwriters can be great novelists, but being the former doesn’t guarantee the latter.

Description and dialogue
When a novelist approaches their story as if it’s going to be watched, the narrative and dialogue can become overwritten.

In TV shows and movies, characters do lots of quite mundane things – walking into and out of rooms, opening and shutting doors, scratching their heads, putting the kettle on, wringing their hands, frowning, standing up, sitting down, walking over to windows and gazing out of them, picking up tea cups or beer bottles and taking a sip or a slug.

They say hello and goodbye, and hmm, mmm, er, um and aah as they talk to each other and themselves.

All this stuff happens quickly and provides a backdrop to the main action and dialogue. Sometimes there’ll be a backing track to assist with mood creation.

Some of that mundane stuff can go into a novel, but when it’s replicated in full it can be tedious to read and does nothing to drive the novel forward.

Example: taut description and dialogue in a novel
Here’s a scene from Harlan Coben’s Don’t Let Go (Penguin Random House, 2017, p. 201). There are 122 words.

Example: description and dialogue in a screenplay
If we were watching that on TV, we’d be shown a great deal more.​

• We’d the see colour of the garage, the material it’s constructed from, the car pulling up and stopping.
• The driver would switch off the engine, then both men would undo their seatbelts, exit the car, close their doors and walk to the garage. One would open the side door and they’d both walk through as the door closed behind them. Then they’d walk down the steps, reach the door of the basement and open it.
• Once in the room, David would flick the light switch, walk over to the safe, bend down, move the dial, left, then right, then left again.
• The camera might flip from the concentration on his face and the beads of sweat on his forehead to the way his trousers pull down over his backside as he bends.
• We might watch and hear his laboured breathing or the slight grunt he lets out as he works.
• He might scratch his face, touch his hair, purse his lips, or look up at the other man (Nap).
• Nap, meanwhile, would be doing a bunch of things with his own body.
• As for the conversation, either man might sigh, pause, stammer, belch or cough at any point, and at no time would it moderate the pace of the film because the camera can show us many of these things simultaneously.

In his book, Coben omits almost all of that.

Instead, he lets the reader do the work. Good choice because all that stage direction would be boring to read. It could take a page to get through it all, maybe two, and none of it would drive the novel forward.

He gives us just enough to imagine the setting in our mind’s eye, then gets down to business with the interesting elements of the story.

He and we know that no one’s walking through doors spectre-like; they need to be opened and shut. No one’s leaving the car running; the engine will be switched off. And natural speech invariably includes noise and pause.

Example: overwriting in a novel
Here’s my mangled example of how that might have looked if the detail of the screen version had been written into the novel. There are 421 words.

Word dump
Writers who choose to write novels for viewers rather than readers risk adding ten, maybe twenty thousand words to their books that don’t need to be in there.

I’m not advocating removing description; I’m advocating writing for the page. That means making sure that the description is relevant rather than suffocating, enriching rather than boring.

If you have pages of characters making small talk about how they take their coffee over the noise the kettle’s making, that small talk needs to be central to the plot. So does the whistle of the kettle. And if it takes 500 words to get your character out of their car, there needs to be a reason for that.

If that information is just filler, give your reader the nudges they need and dump the rest into a box for when you write the screenplay version. Your director will the delighted! 

Viewpoint characters
Viewpoint can unravel when a novelist approaches their story like a screenwriter.

When a novelist selects a viewpoint character for a section or chapter of their book, the reader will experience the story through that character’s perspective – what they see, smell, hear, touch and think.

Viewpoint characters allow the reader to immerse themselves in the moment, and for that reason they’re tremendously enriching.

Example: viewpoint on the screen 
Imagine watching this short scene on TV:

1. One of the characters, Matt, ducks under a hedge. We seem him grimacing, shutting his eyes tightly. Then the camera cuts to a close-up of the thorns in the hedge pressing into his head. Perhaps there’s a trickle of blood down one side of his neck.
2. The camera stays with Matt and we see him mouth the word ‘bitch’.
3. We hear the clip-clopping of heels, and the camera moves to a lone woman on a footpath in the garden – Adriana. She speaks into her phone, saying, ‘He can’t have gone far. Find him and take him out,’ then rubs her throat. She continues to talk, telling the person on the other end of the line that she’d had a skinful the previous night and is furious about Matt’s interference, which is all she needs because she feels like she has cold coming on.
4. The camera cuts to another character, John. He’s clad in black. We hear him reply to her, telling her not to worry, then watch as he peeks over a wall and sees Adriana.
5. The view shifts to Adriana. She’s putting her phone in her pocket. Her expression is one of anger and frustration.
6. We go back to John. He pulls down a balaclava and moves stealthily towards an area at the back of the house. He’s almost invisible in the darkness of the night but we see him in the shadows because the camera shows us where he is.
7. Now it’s back to Matt. He’s still hunched up in the hedge, eyes wide, body still.
8. The camera zooms out so that we can see Adriana moving ever closer to where Matt’s hiding. She’s getting nearer.
9. The view moves in on Adriana. We see her flinch and purse her lips. She hobbles just a little, then bends to adjust her shoe. The camera view tilts down to her feet and we see the redness of the skin where it’s rubbing against her stilettos.
10. The camera cuts to Matt, still in the hedge. But now he’s smiling, enjoying Adriana’s discomfort.
11. Notice that the viewer can’t know what anyone’s thinking unless we are told through dialogue or facial expression. Gesturing will fill in the gaps. A soundtrack will also create mood.

Example: confused viewpoint in a novel
What some beginner writers do is render the scene in a way that partially mimics the screen version. That’s because they’re familiar with how stories are presented on the TV or in film.

The problem is that there are multiple viewpoints that force the reader to bounce from one character’s experience to another. We never invest in Matt, Adriana or John because as soon as we try to immerse ourselves in the experience of one of those people, we’re dragged into the head of another.

The result is a wonky hybrid of novel and screenplay. We know what everyone’s doing, thinking and seeing. It rips out the tension and destroys the structure of the scene.

Example: singular immersive viewpoint in a novel
If, however, the writer commits to the viewpoint of one character, the prose is very different. In this version, we lose John completely. Adriana is visible but only from Matt’s perspective. We don’t have access to her thoughts, only what Matt thinks might be going on in her head based on what he knows, sees and hears.
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It’s shorter, certainly, but the tension is back and the writing is tighter.

Summing up
If you’re at the start of your writing journey, take care to craft words for the page, not for the screen. Keep the boring stuff out, even if it’s realistic. You’ll reduce your wordcount but enhance reader engagement.
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Look to books written by your favourite novelists for inspiration on how to build a beautiful page, rather than the Netflix adaptations. Your writing will be all the better for it, I promise.

Will your reader immerse themselves in your crime novel’s setting? Will the world you’ve built make sense, even if it’s a work of fantasy? And is it coherent? If you’re not sure, create a wiki.

A world-building wiki will help you keep track of your novel’s environment and the rules that govern it. And that will go some way to protecting your plot and maintaining a logical narrative.

‘But I write crime, not fantasy ...’
Even if your novel’s setting is the world as we know it right now, a world-building wiki is still useful.

I live in a hamlet in Norfolk (the UK one). Some of the things I have to deal with in my day-to-day life are different to those of friends who live only ten miles away in the city of Norwich.

How does all of this relate to fiction writing?

​One of my author clients bases his books in the Colorado Rockies. I know the lie of the land – how the weather affects the local population on a seasonal basis, how the pine smells in the spring, how the mountain passes are treacherous in the winter.

Then there’s the town where the sheriff’s office is located. And it is a sheriff rather than a chief constable who’s in charge of this fictional county’s law enforcement. I know about the guns people carry, the idiomatic turns of phrase they use, and where they tuck their chewing tobacco when they speak.

I live five thousand miles away and have never visited this region of the US, and yet I swear if I drove into that town with a flat tyre, I could locate the garage and a find place to grab a latte while the mechanic was fixing my car – without having to ask a soul.

And that’s because my author is a great world-builder.
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He writes crime thrillers, but he never forgets that most of his readers aren’t cops; that many don’t even live in the US, never mind near the Colorado Rockies; and that no one lives in Rocky Points … because he made it up.

Environments of the not-now and the not-here
Crime fiction is as versatile a genre as any other. For not-here, think about Chris Brookmyre’s Places in the Darkness. The Ciudad de Cielo space station makes the Colorado Rockies seem like a mere hop. It’s crime fiction, but spacey!

For not-now, how about C. J. Sansom’s Shardlake series. It’s crime fiction but the Tudor world in which our lawyer-detective operates bears little resemblance to that of a modern detective.

And then there’s China Miéville’s not-here and not-now The City & The City. It’s a richly gritty world of hardboiled crime fiction where things don’t work in quite the same way. However, the narrative feels utterly reliable.

All three authors are fine crime-writing world-builders, and their plots never unravel because the worlds they’ve shown us work.

Your wiki and your plot
Not everything in your wiki has to end up in your book, but all of the information will help you keep track of who’s who, what’s where, and how. That means you can keep the environment(s) in which your story is set coherent.

Furthermore, if you decide to write a series, your wiki will help you maintain consistency across books. Even if you switch to a new location, even a new planet, and different rules come into play, it’s a space in which you can record the additional information and keep yourself on track.

Let’s look at some of the elements you might include in your crime wiki.

Physical environment
Where does your story take place and how will the geography, geology and climate play with your plot? Does the landscape or the weather restrict or empower your characters, and if so, how?

Real or fantastical, every world must obey its own scientific laws. Continuity is key, and your wiki will help you stay on track.

Imagine your protagonist’s partner dies because the paramedic’s oxygen tank is empty, but they live on a world where the population breathes mainly nitrogen. Even your characters’ inhalations can blow a hole in your plot if you don’t keep track of the rules of your physical environment.
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If you’re setting a story in a real place that you’ve not visited, the wiki is where you record the details you’ll need to stop pedantic locals getting the hump when your hero sprints from the Tube station at Amersham to the next stop on the line. Chalfont & Latimer looks close by on the London Underground map, but trust me, it’s not for sprinting. Embankment to Charing Cross, yes!

Culture, language and faith
Use your wiki to record the ideas, customs, belief systems and social behaviours that distinguish your world, and how those will impact on your characters. Record also how your characters speak, and whether they are out of place in the setting, or fully integrated.

How will you reflect the way people speak in your world? Do people from the region in which the novel’s set have a particular idiom or dialect, and will you express this just through dialogue or in the narrative too?

Will you offer nudges here and there or include it consistently and heavily throughout the book?
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It goes without saying that if you include phrasing in a language you’re not fluent in, get it checked by someone who is. Google Translate is not the tool of choice here.

Rules of governance
Record who’s in control and how the rule of law works in your novel’s setting. If you’re mimicking reality, there might be variations not just between countries but also between states, counties, provinces or municipalities.

Who makes the law? Who upholds it? What powers do they have? What are their titles? Who are they accountable to? What are the checks and balances that restrict them? And what does sentencing and punishment look like in the world you’ve created?

How about the rules of engagement and the customary notifications given to characters apprehended by law enforcement? If a right-to-silence warning is given to a suspect arrested in the UK, and it’s referred to as a Miranda warning, your narrator’s reliability will be compromised. The term ‘caution’ is used in this neck of the woods.

Make notes about the way the jurisprudence system works, and the rights of your world’s citizens in the locations you situate them. For example, time and place will determine how long a person can be held without access to legal representation, and how they might be punished if they’re found guilty of a crime.

If your story is taking place in a fantastical setting, you can decide how all of this works. Still, your wiki will ensure there’s continuity in the way you apply your fictional rule of law to your characters.

Science, technology, engineering and medicine ... and guns
Your wiki is the perfect place to record essential information about science, tech and weaponry – what it is, how it works, who has access to it and what it’s used for.

If you’re going for authenticity, make notes about how it works in the real world. How heavy is a Glock 19, and can a suppressor be attached to the barrel? What noise does a suppressed gun really make – is it just a pop or something louder?

Years ago, I read a novel by a very well-known fantasy and horror writer. One of the subplots hinged on the DNA of a set of identical twins – one egg, one sperm, one zygote, which had split into two embryos. They had almost identical DNA. Only they didn’t because our twins were different sexes. That meant they were fraternal, not identical. The only thing they’d shared was a womb. A technical error pulled the plot to pieces.

Food, drink and dress
What do people eat and drink in this world, and how do they dress?

Are there foodstuffs or materials that are restricted, impractical, unaffordable or impossible to access for some or all of the characters in your world?

Does what people eat and how they dress indicate something about their status, their identity, their belief system, and what are the norms and rules surrounding their choices?

Even if this information isn’t integral to the plot, it can still help your reader immerse themselves in your narrative as they experience the colours, textures, tastes and smells of the world in which your characters are moving.

Heterogeneity in homogeneity
As with real life, just because a group of people share a location, a job, a faith, doesn’t mean they’re all the same.

Unless homogeneity is central to the plot, it can suck the soul from a novel because it’s unusual.