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Learn how to use foreshadowing in crime fiction and thrillers to build suspense, plant clues and keep readers guessing without giving too much away.
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What foreshadowing is
Foreshadowing is the controlled planting of information that only becomes fully meaningful later in a story. Think of it as a warning or sign – one that might be subtle or more explicit.
Rather than announcing what will happen, writers place carefully chosen details into the narrative so that, in hindsight, the outcome feels both surprising but logical. In crime fiction and thrillers, that’s especially important because the reader is actively encouraged to try to unravel the mystery rather than just follow it. Foreshadowing can be part of that problem-solving process. Is foreshadowing always about unease?
People sometimes assume that foreshadowing is about uneasy or ominous vibes, especially in crime fiction and thrillers. That association probably comes from how frequently the technique is used in those genres, rather than from what foreshadowing actually is.
In fact, foreshadowing is a neutral mechanism – one through which emotion is born. In other words, the emotion is the consequence. Foreshadowing details can certainly create a sense of unease, but they could equally produce other emotions. Which ones will depend on your story. Possibilities could include:
What effective foreshadowing achieves
Done effectively, foreshadowing:
Foreshadowing and shared uncertainty
Foreshadowing works best when the reader and viewpoint character have the same limited knowledge and shared uncertainty. In this situation:
Foreshadowing inside a state of shared uncertainty is especially powerful because it feels like the fictional world is gradually revealing itself to both of you at once, rather than the author speaking to the reader. And that’s the key thing. When you introduce foreshadowing to your writing, you don’t want it to seem like some external narrator is tapping your reader on the shoulder and shouting hints into their ear. Instead, suggestion is embedded into the character’s experience. How foreshadowing drives suspense
Suspense is the sustained feeling of uncertainty and anticipation that arises when a reader knows something important is at stake but doesn’t yet know how, when or whether it will be resolved.
Foreshadowing can help build suspense by separating information from understanding. For example, a character (and therefore the reader) could:
Suspense emerges from the gap between what’s seen and what’s understood. Instead, the reader will ask: What does this mean? Why was this detail included? Is this important or misleading? When done well, foreshadowing keeps those questions active but doesn’t answer them too early. 4 examples of effective and poor foreshadowing
Here are four examples of when foreshadowing works … and when it doesn’t, each one with a short analysis of what’s going on.
Example 1: Viewpoint focus
This example includes details that foreshadow the possibility of data manipulation and internal misconduct.
Comparing the two
Notice how in the first version, the reader and the detective are investigating together. We’re inside her head and know only what she knows and feels, and what she can objectively observe. This preserves the close, restricted viewpoint, and builds a sense of uncertainty that can be explored in more detail as the investigation progresses. In the second version, however, we have a god’s-eye view. The narrative’s no longer bound by what Harris can perceive, infer or reasonably suspect. Instead, readers now have access to information that they haven’t earned the right to know because Harris hasn’t discovered it – ie Lane’s manipulation two weeks earlier. Viewpoint integrity has collapsed, and a plot point has been given away so that there’s no longer any anticipation. Any questions the reader had have been answered. Craft takeaway Foreshadowing works by embedding clues within the character’s experience. If you step outside that experience to explain those clues, you’re no longer foreshadowing. You’re simply giving the game away.
Example 2: Evidence assessment
This example includes details that foreshadow potential issues with the evidence’s provenance and integrity.
Comparing the two
In the first version, there’s a cluster of small signals that foreshadow problems with the evidence:
Taken together, these don’t point directly at the truth, but at the uncertainty of what might be the truth. The radio callout is handled credibly so that it intensifies urgency without blocking access to the information. Crucially, the evidence is captured but not yet understood. That keeps the reader in suspense, asking not what the footage shows, but whether it can be trusted, who placed it there, and how it might need to be reinterpreted. In the second version, two of those same signals are still present but they’re not acted on. The shared source and uncertain provenance both suggest that the footage may be unreliable, yet the investigator treats it as effectively definitive. The doubt is raised, then immediately flattened. This is where the foreshadowing breaks down. The story introduces uncertainty but fails to follow through on its implications, so the detail stops functioning as foreshadowing and becomes clutter. Craft takeaway Foreshadowing isn’t just about planting clues but also about honouring what those clues imply. If you introduce doubt, follow through on it. Otherwise, it isn’t foreshadowing; it’s just noise.
Example 3: Emotional history
This example includes details that foreshadow unresolved trauma or past wrongdoing.
Comparing the two
In the first version, there are foreshadowing details that create uncertainty around what Emily means when she references her past. These are:
That combination creates tension because nothing is explained, but the signs are that there’s more to the conversation than meets the eye. The second version just spits it out. There’s nothing left to infer, suspect or anticipate. By answering questions too early, rather than encouraging the reader to form those questions through the foreshadowing signals, the tension and suspense plummet. Craft takeaway Effective foreshadowing provides cues without confirming what they mean. The moment a cue is fully explained, it stops functioning as foreshadowing and becomes exposition.
Example 4: Ominous event
This example includes details that foreshadow the later significance and threat associated with the envelope.
Comparing the two
The foreshadowing in these versions is more explicit than in Examples 1–3, yet only one is effective. The difference comes down to trust: one shows, while the other tells. The first version trusts the reader to notice patterns – the flicker, the silence and the weight of the envelope – and draw their own conclusions. It builds unease through specific sensory details while still leaving space for uncertainty and interpretation. Contrast this with the second version, which doesn’t trust the reader at all. It repeatedly interrupts itself to explain what everything means and why it matters, draining the tension and making the voice feel performative. Craft takeaway When you’re tempted to explain why a detail matters, cut the explanation and strengthen the detail instead. A concrete image (like the unexpected weight of the envelope) will carry far more tension than a sentence telling the reader it’s important. Tips for controlling foreshadowing
Here are some practical tips to help you control your foreshadowing:
Plant early and pay off later Introduce details long before they become important, rather than in the moment of revelation. That way no one will be able to accuse you of unearned writing – whereby the outcomes, emotions or revelations aren’t justified by what’s come before, making them feel unconvincing to the reader. Look ordinary at first mention Effective foreshadowing detail looks like ordinary but interesting detail at first mention, but gains further meaning later. Vary the level of clarity Some of your foreshadowing details can be obvious in hindsight, giving your reader an of-course moment. Others might be almost invisible until they’re re-examined. By varying the level of clarity, you avoid setting up patterns that the reader might spot. Ensure retrospective meaning Effective foreshadowed detail has a purpose and always earns its place later. If you put something in but it never becomes relevant, there’s a risk that you’ve unnecessarily cluttered your prose. Track reader knowledge Make sure you track what clues the reader has actually been shown and can reasonably remember, so that they can recognize them and accept the logic in play. Avoid signalling too loudly If the reader can guess the outcome too early because your foreshadowing signals are noisy, you’ll turn an opportunity for suspense into confirmation. The key with good foreshadowing is to ensure it’s both subtle and relevant. Summing up
Foreshadowing is not about hiding information or predicting outcomes in advance, but about shaping how readers interpret information over time.
The most effective foreshadowing often feels like ordinary detail in the moment, and then becomes meaningful in hindsight. But even more explicit foreshadowing that hints at a future dramatic event needs to hold back so that there’s space for the reader’s curiosity and anticipation. Do your best not to overexplain too early. That way you’ll preserve the tension and suspense. About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
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Learn how to use red herrings to create believable false conclusions, deepen mystery structure, and keep readers confidently wrong at just the right moments.
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What is a red herring?
A red herring is a storytelling device that introduces information that appears to support a plausible explanation, but ultimately leads to the wrong conclusion.
Bear in mind that red herrings are not always limited to characters or their motives. Some writers construct them around how an entire fictional world works. What’s the difference between a red herring and controlled misdirection?
I like to separate red herrings from the idea of controlled misdirection because a red herring feels heavier.
While it does involve misdirection, it works by building a false but plausible explanatory path that steers the reader towards an incorrect conclusion, only to collapse later under the weight of the real solution. This not only delays the reader’s understanding, but also forces them to construct a competing narrative that appears to solve the mystery … until it doesn’t. Sometimes writers like to introduce other points of misdirection that are less weighty. These focus not on shaping the conclusion, but how information is interpreted in the moment. These are what I call ‘controlled misdirection’. >> Find out more about controlled misdirection here. Key distinction At their core, the difference is this: Controlled misdirection shapes how the reader interprets information, while red herrings construct a complete but ultimately false explanation. In practice, both can appear alongside each other in crime fiction. They’re just operating slightly differently. Writing red herrings: The golden rules
All effective red herrings should be:
What a red herring is not: Common misconceptions
Here’s what a red herring is not ...
It’s not controlled misdirection (according to my framework) Controlled misdirection uses true information that’s misinterpreted. A red herring may include this, but its defining feature is the construction of a complete but ultimately false explanation. It’s not a twist Twists are sudden, unexpected revelations that reshape a reader’s interpretation of earlier events and alter their understanding of the story. In short, they resolve uncertainty, whereas red herrings prolong it by sending the reader down the wrong path. It’s not foreshadowing Foreshadowing plants early clues or hints that later gain meaning, while a red herring builds a complete but false path that’s later exposed as untrue. It’s not factual deception A red herring does not mislead the reader about facts. Instead, it misleads them about the explanation those facts appear to support. It’s not withholding Withholding is about timing – when information is revealed. A red herring is about what explanation the reader is encouraged to believe, not when information appears. How red herrings work: The mechanics
Here’s a simple framework for constructing effective red herrings, followed by a couple of examples of the mechanism in practice.
Below are a couple of examples from two published novels. I’ve framed the analyses broadly so that they focus on the mechanisms rather than any plot details. However, if these books are on your reading list, perhaps come back to this article when you’ve devoured the novels. That way, you’ll enter those fictional worlds completely green. These examples show how the same underlying mechanism can operate at different levels: worldbuilding in one case, and character psychology in another. Example 1: The Bedlam Stacks, by Natasha Pulley Pulley’s novel is a smashing example of how a red herring can go beyond suspects and be structural, working on how the story’s world works. The setup
The reinforcement
The commitment
The collapse
Example 2: Gone Girl, by Gillian Flynn Flynn’s novel is an excellent example of layered red herrings based around people and psychology. The setup
The reinforcement
The commitment
The collapse
Summing up
A strong red herring should distract the reader’s attention, but it must do so in a way that makes them believe in what is a complete and convincing explanation of the mystery, even though it will ultimately prove false.
The key is to stick to the golden rules so that readers are confidently wrong, but for the right reasons. About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Learn how to use controlled misdirection to guide your reader towards convincing but incorrect interpretations, and build deeper, more engaging mysteries.
In this post
What is controlled misdirection?
Controlled misdirection is a deliberate storytelling technique that leads the reader towards a convincing but incorrect interpretation of information.
When done well, it doesn’t feel like a trick but like something natural and logical – even though, later, that information will turn out to be incomplete or misjudged. What’s the difference between a red herring and controlled misdirection?
I like to separate controlled misdirection from red herrings because the latter feels heavier. Red herrings work by building a false but plausible explanatory path that steers the reader towards an incorrect conclusion, only to collapse later under the weight of the real solution.
However, sometimes writers like to introduce other points of misdirection that are less weighty. These focus not on shaping the conclusion, but how information is interpreted in the moment. The writer presents accurate, relevant details in a way that encourages the reader (and often the protagonist) to infer the wrong meaning from them. That’s what I call ‘controlled misdirection’. >> Find out more about red herrings here. Key distinction At their core, the difference is this: Controlled misdirection shapes how the reader interprets information, while red herrings construct a complete but ultimately false explanation. In practice, both can appear alongside each other in crime fiction. They’re just operating slightly differently. Writing controlled misdirection: The golden rules
All controlled misdirection should be:
What controlled misdirection is not: Common misconceptions
Here’s what controlled misdirection isn’t.
It’s not a lie Controlled misdirection isn’t a licence to mislead readers with false information. The reader is given accurate details, but encouraged to interpret them in a particular way. It’s not a twist Twists are sudden, unexpected revelations that reshape a reader’s interpretation of earlier events and alter their understanding of the story. In short, they resolve uncertainty, whereas controlled misdirection seeks to prolong it. It’s not a red herring (according to my framework) It’s not a red herring, at least in the classical sense, though the two often operate in close proximity in contemporary crime fiction and thrillers. Think of it like this: Controlled misdirection gives the reader true information, but shapes how they interpret it. A red herring, by contrast, introduces a coherent but ultimately false theory that steers the reader towards an incorrect conclusion. It’s not foreshadowing Controlled misdirection and foreshadowing can look similar on the surface but they’re actually working in two different directions. Controlled misdirection points away from the truth, guides the reader to an interpretation that feels right at the time, but turns out to be incomplete or incorrect, whereas foreshadowing nudges the reader towards it. It’s not withholding Withholding is about when information is revealed – it's a timing choice. Controlled misdirection, on the other hand, is active in the present and guides the reader towards an incorrect interpretation – it’s a shaping choice. How controlled misdirection works: The mechanics
Here’s a quick 4-step framework, followed by a couple of worked examples, that you can use to build effective misdirection.
Below are two examples of controlled misdirection in action. Example 1: Misdirection through forensic interpretation The setup: Readers are given accurate, relevant information
The misdirect: The information is interpreted incorrectly
The justification: The incorrect interpretation is plausible at the time
The turn: Later, this information can be reinterpreted correctly
Example 2: Misdirection through behavioural interpretation The setup: Readers are given accurate, relevant information
The misdirect: The information is interpreted incorrectly
The justification: The incorrect interpretation is plausible at the time
The turn: Later, this information can be reinterpreted correctly
Summing up
Effective controlled misdirection doesn’t make the reader feel tricked. Rather, it makes them realize that they formed an interpretation that felt logical at the time, given the information available, but turned out to be incorrect.
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
This practical framework shows you 9 steps for line editing scenes in crime and thriller fiction so that every sentence pulls its weight and delivers the appropriate level of tension.
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Why your novel’s not gripping the reader
If you feel like your novel’s not gripping the reader, it’s all too easy to blame something going on at story level. Perhaps it’s not twisty enough. Maybe the plot’s too thin. Perhaps the structure’s not balanced and the prose feels saggy in the middle of the book.
Before you rework the whole thing, take a step back and ask yourself if it’s the line work. The reason I say that is because line editing for crime fiction and thrillers takes place within the same foundational framework as any other genre. However, there’s an additional matter that needs engineering at line level: tension. That tension can’t just live at the macro level – in the story. It has to have a home in the sentences too. What is line editing?
Structural editing is SHAPING work. It examines big-picture elements like plot, pacing, structure, character arcs and coherence. Editors focus on improving the clarity and impact of the whole story.
Proofreading is QUALITY CONTROL work. It focuses on surface issues, amending spelling, grammar, punctuation, formatting and consistency issues to ensure the novel’s ready for publication. Line editing is EXPRESSION work. It sits in between the structural and proofreading stages, and considers what the scene is trying to do – whether that’s creating drama, building tension, revealing character, conveying information – and then making stylistic improvements to ensure the language actually achieves that. Use the framework below to check each scene and make sure that every sentence is pulling its weight. 1. Check for clarity
The first step is to check for clarity. Here, you’re making sure that:
Just because a line is lean doesn’t mean it needs to be boring. Sometimes writers need to tell it like it is and give the reader the cleanest pathway through so that they can live in the moment of the action rather than having to untangle it. This is particularly important in high-stakes situations, where the clock is ticking or a character’s in pursuit or being pursued. Examples
In the edited version, clarity has been improved by following a cleaner telling of the order of play: time (the watch), movement (hurried) and path (direction). I’ve also used more precise verbs ('checked' and 'hurried') to show how the character’s actions are controlled. This means we can ditch the adverbs ('urgently' and 'briefly') because those verbs do the heavy-lifting. I’ve also suggested free indirect speech ('What if the … no matter'). That’s more concise and takes us into the character’s headspace without the need for the cluttering filter words ('wondered' and 'realized'). Key principle: Keep tension intact my ensuring your reader doesn’t have to stop and re-read a sentence. 2. Manage narrative velocity with sentence length
Narrative velocity is the speed at which the reader perceives events taking place in a story. At scene level, it’s shaped by sentence structure, pacing and how quickly information and action are delivered.
Just because you’re writing crime fiction or a thriller doesn’t mean the pace has to rocket in every sentence. Instead, make sure it’s controlled in a way that shows rather than tells the perceived speed. How sentence length affects perceived speed As a general rule, long sentences tend to slow the pace of a scene, while short sentences accelerate it. There’s space for both, of course, so think about what’s happening in your scene in terms of stakes. Is danger increasing? Is time running out? Is something shocking revealed? Try shortening your sentences in those cases. For extra impact, use sentence fragments – though sparingly, because then the reader won’t notice that you’re doing it, only how it makes them feel. If, however, the scene is more reflective – perhaps a law-enforcement officer is trying to make sense of some inconsistent evidence, or they’re remembering a former case – a longer sentence will mirror the more stretched-out thought process. Example
Notice how in the example above, the leading longer sentences elongate the perceived time, reflecting the tedious graft that our character’s putting in. Then, as something unexpected is discovered, shorter sentences and fragments make the prose snappier. This truncates the moment into something immediate and jarring.
This mirrors real-life human experience. When we’re under pressure we tend to think in bursts, whereas when we’re in a safe, calm space we have more time for reflection. By controlling the length of a sentence in prose we can mirror that tension, or the lack of it. Key principle: Mix up sentence length so that you’re reflecting mood. 3. Build micro-tension with rhythmic tools
Rhythm determines how quickly a reader moves through a scene. Faster rhythms can convey urgency, action, fear, anger and shock. Slower rhythms can convey sadness, calm, thoughtfulness and introspection. Interruptions to rhythm force the reader to pay attention.
We’ve already looked at how sentence length affects pacing, so here are five more rhythmic devices that you can call on at line editing stage to create or ease tension. Think about what’s happening in the scene and what the character’s feeling, then consider which tool might be most effective:
Examples In all five examples below, there are different levels of micro-tension in play, and the rhythmic tools help mirror the emotional pressure experienced by the characters.
The repetition feels weighty and emphasizes the character’s desperate longing and the pressure he’s feeling.
The omission of conjunctions in the asyndeton example allows the list to flow rapidly, conveying urgency.
Postponing who’s in the chair builds suspense.
The succession of conjunctions mirrors the character’s exhausting pursuit.
Short one-line paragraph: The man in the photo was him.
By giving this pithy one-liner its own space, the revelation lands hard.
Key principle: Rhythmic tools help readers tap into character experience viscerally, but they need to be used judiciously so that that they don’t overshadow the story.
4. Regulate what the reader knows, and when
When there’s a gap between what’s happening and what the reader understands about it, you create suspense. It’s your chance to make them wait and wonder what’s going to happen – to tease them so that their anticipation builds! And all the while, tension increases.
If a particular scene has important information or a surprise in it, even a small one, look for line editing opportunities to delay the reveal by a line or two. If you have several revelations in your scene, think about how you can break them up so they land in stages. Example
In the example above, the tension builds as Marv grapples with his conundrum, and the reader isn’t any the wiser. We uncover the reveal at the same time as him.
I’ve kept that reveal short, concrete and slightly incomplete to maximize impact. This means the reader has to do some of the work in that moment. Further revelation and explanation can come later. 5. Control narrative point of view
What the reader knows, or doesn’t know, is key, so review the scene to check that you’ve reinforced the limits of your chosen narrative point-of-view style.
If you’ve used a limited or subjective viewpoint, which is common in crime fiction and thrillers, check that:
Examples (Arjun is the perspective character)
In the first example, Arjun can’t know that a person is behind him, never mind one holding a gun, precisely because this action is happening behind him. In the revised version, he senses movement, but that’s all. The reader knows only what the character knows, and if Arjun’s uncertain, so are we. That delay in information adds to the tension. Key principle: Limit the information reported in the narrative to what the perspective character can experience. 6. Strengthen your verbs
If you want to maximise tension, looking at your verbs is a great place to start. Small tweaks can make a big difference to whether an action feels like it’s gentler and happening at arm’s length, or strong and immediate.
Generally speaking, weak verbs dilute tension, while stronger ones amplify it, so line edit in a way that focuses the reader’s attention sharply on what’s being done. Example Imagine an escape scene and take a look at the following two options:
Nothing’s technically wrong with the first version, but the action feels expository. Note the verb – ‘was running’. It’s the past continuous tense, or action in progress. That’s grammatically unproblematic but it’s somewhat soft. This is exacerbated by the addition of a clause that reminds the reader what they already know given that this is an escape scene. The second version seeks to draw the reader into the moment. I’ve suggested a more forceful verb – ‘sprinted’. Using the simple past tense conveys urgency. I’ve also replaced the expository ‘trying to get away’ with an additional precise verb – ‘skidded’. Now we leave the reader to join up the dots, and instead of telling them what the intention is – to escape – we focus on what the character’s doing right now. It’s a small change, but one that transforms the energy in the scene and makes it feel more tense. Key principle: If a verb has scaffolding around it – ‘was [verb]ing’, ‘began to [verb]’, ‘seemed to [verb]’ – experiment with stripping it down so it’s more precise and conveys a sense of impact rather than effort. 7. Sharpen dialogue with subtext
Real-life speech is often filled with stuff that comes out of social norms (eg saying hello and goodbye, offering drinks, talking about the weather).
However, including this in your crime fiction or thriller risks ripping the tension out of a scene because it’s not what the reader’s interested in. When you’re line editing, look for opportunities to:
Example: Authentic but distracting
Example: Focused and tension-filled
The first version feels real enough, but it's rather expository. There’s no tension between the two speakers.
In the second version, the filler is gone, and one of the characters is cagey, then interruptive when their colleague goes on the defence. The subtext – that one of them missed something – is shown rather than told. Key principle: Dialogue should do triple duty – reveal character (voice), show the mood (the subtext of the conversation), and deliver intent (so that the story advances). 8. Ensure description matches the stakes
Line editing is also the time to consider whether the stakes in a scene are apparent. The reader should never forget what’s at risk, so check that characters’ actions and reactions match the situation.
Examples of high stakes could include:
In these situations, line edit to ensure your description is targeted and precise. That way, the information conveyed is vivid but delivered fast, creating more immediate pressure-based tension. Examples of low stakes could include:
In these situations, the description can be more detailed and the pace slower. You can still deliver tension, but it’s more stretched out because there’s no imminent threat. Examples
In the high-stakes example, the description is more focused on the immediate movement, which inflates a sense of urgency. Here, the prose creates a mood that’s abrupt and determined. In the low-stakes example, the character is able to move in a more procedural fashion, and take in their surroundings and notice the details. Here, the prose describes a drab, neglected space, and creates a bleak and institutional mood. Key principle: Ensure the level of detail given to the reader reflects the character’s ability to process it in any given situation. 9. Review your story beginnings and chapter endings
A super first line in a novel makes readers ask questions and creates a sense of intrigue that draws the reader in. Think of it as a tension pull.
A powerful closing line in a chapter withholds just enough resolution or adds a twist, which creates momentum. This is the tension push – the encouragement to turn the page and read the next chapter. Examples: Opening lines that pull readers into a novel
Those four novel opening lines provide mystery, imbalance and unanswered implication. Rather than explaining, they disturb the equilibrium and force the reader to ask questions. Examples: Closing lines that push readers onto the next chapter
Those four chapter closing lines function as momentum triggers. Each one either opens a new question, shifts the reader’s perception or interrupts their certainty. Key principle: Start the book with something that disrupts normal expectations of situation, logic or truth. End a chapter at a moment where certainty shifts. Summing up
Every story needs to have a great plot – a structured sequence of events where characters pursue goals, face obstacles and experience change through conflict and resolution. Getting that right is structural or developmental editing work – the shaping stage.
But every novel needs to work at line level too, because that expression work is what will keep readers interested and focused, rather than skimming. About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Learn how to compress your thrillers and crime fiction writing with strong verbs that convey motion, emotion and pace.
What is a verb?
A verb is a word that describes an action or a state of being. For example:
Strong and weak verbs
There are different ways of classifying verbs from a grammatical point of view, but this article uses the terms ‘strong’ and ‘weak’ to describe stylistic impact.
Strong verbs Strong verbs carry the action all by themselves without needing help from other words to make the sentence convey energy and momentum. A precise, vivid verb can replace a string of modifiers. It makes a line faster and sharper, and can trigger a sense of immediacy, danger, tension or suspense in the reader. Weak verbs Weak verbs are vaguer or more generalized, and often rely on help from additional description to explain the action. They tend to slow the pace down. There’s room for both There’s no such thing as ‘wrong’ or ‘right’ when it comes to writing. Strong and weak verbs both have their place. Instead, the writer can make a choice based on the mood they want to create in the scene and how they want the reader to feel in that moment. A comparison of strong and weak verbs
Take a look at the following comparative examples of phrases. They show how a carefully placed strong verb can show rather than tell us something. For example:
In the first sentence, there’s a verbal phrase in play – ‘tried to pull open’. Those four words create a distance between the character and what they’re doing. We focus on the ‘trying’ rather than on the connection between the character’s hands and the drawer. The pace feels gentler, slower, less immediate.
By replacing that verbal phrase with a single strong verb – ‘yanked’ – the action is more immediate. But there’s emotion being conveyed in that action too:
And those emotional undercurrents imply that the character is under pressure, perhaps feeling frustrated, angry or fearful (depending on the scene’s context). In other words, the stronger verb shows the character’s effort through action rather than explanation.
Create immediacy by adjusting filler verbs
Look out for filler verbs in your crime and thriller writing. These act more like padding than action, and sit in the sentence without contributing much.
Common examples include: was, were, seemed, appeared, began, trying and started. These constructions add extra words without adding tension. Writers can create momentum in action scenes by making just small alterations. Here, we’re not talking about changing the verb to a different one, but modifying what we’ve got. Take a look at these examples:
In each of the three pairs above, removal of the filler verb in favour of a tighter revision makes the action feel as if it’s happening now. For the reader, that’s a more immersive experience.
Create impact by interrogating adverbs
Sometimes a writer will use adverbs to intensify the emotion or tension in a sentence.
Adverbs are words that describe or modify verbs (in the same way that adjectives describe or modify nouns). In these next examples, most of the verbs are weak, and it’s the adverb that’s doing the heavy lifting.
I’d never suggest obliterating every single adverb or adverbial phrase from a piece of prose – regardless of what genre the author’s writing in – but I do think robust editing requires us to consider whether those adverbs are creating momentum and energy.
This is particularly important in dramatic scenes, of which there are often plenty in crime fiction, mysteries and thrillers. We want the reader in the moment with the perspective character’s movement, not fighting with the words that describe it. Since the verb is where the action actually happens, it makes sense to interrogate whether readers are being distracted from it. In the examples above, the writer has the opportunity to consider whether a stronger verb might offer precision that shows what the adverb is telling – which means they can ditch the adverb. Here’s what that revision might look like when we use stronger verbs that combine movement and emotion:
Now the sentences are tighter and more engaging.
Making movement thrilling with strong verbs
Crime fiction and thrillers rely on movement – there might be pursuits, fights, discoveries and escapes. And in all those cases, verbs need to carry that movement in a way that captures emotion.
Instead of weaker neutral verbs like went, looked or moved, think about whether verbs that imply force, violence, emotional state or speed might be more effective. Compare the following:
Careful choices allow writers (or their editors) to capture an entire mood in a single verb.
Practise control with a verb-intensity ladder
One way to hone your verb-choosing skills is to build intensity ladders. These help you see how different words, which mean a similar thing, affect the emotional intensity and urgency of a scene.
To be clear, this isn’t about ranking verbs in order of what’s right or wrong or good or bad, but about controlling the impact you want to have on the reader. Here’s an example where the intensity level moves from calm to extreme. The action we’re considering involves the opening of a door.
Door-opening intensity ladder
Here’s another example. This time the action involves the act of moving away from a situation.
Moving-away intensity ladder
When you pick verbs that are lower in intensity, the tension will be quieter and the pace slower. When you choose verbs that are higher in intensity, the tension will be more acute and the pace faster.
What works best in any particular scene will depend on the context, but the point is that just one verb helps you turn up or turn down the dial and control motion, emotion and pace. A tip for editing verbs
If you’re a writer who’s self-editing, or a professional editor providing support for an author, try this exercise. Ask yourself:
Summing up
When looking at word choices in crime fiction and thriller writing, think about which verbs act as controlled triggers for motion, emotion and pace.
The power lies in choosing something that already carries the meaning, because then there’s no need to add adverbials and filler. About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Explore seven effective types of thriller opening lines, and how published novelists are using them to convince their audiences to keep on reading.
In this article
The recognizable patterns in thriller opening lines
The opening line of a thriller has a difficult job. In a single sentence it must capture attention and convince readers that the story is worth their time.
While great first lines vary in style, there are some recognizable patterns. Understanding these can help writers craft first sentences that hook readers immediately. Below we’ll look at seven types of thriller opening lines – each illustrated with examples from published novels – and examine why they work and what writers can learn from them. What these opening lines have in common
Despite their differences, superb thriller first lines usually share several notable qualities:
1. First-line focus on a pursuit
Some thrillers begin with motion already underway: someone is chasing, escaping or searching.
Example: The Gunslinger, Stephen King (Hodder Paperback edition, 2003)
Why it works
Readers are thrust straight into the middle of a high-stakes chase. In a single line, we sense the tension: one character fleeing, another in pursuit. The sentence immediately conveys motion, suspense and intrigue, and prompts questions like: Who are these figures and what is at stake? NOTABLE QUALITIES: Curiosity | Tension or conflict | Momentum Lesson for writers Movement signals urgency. Starting with that signals that the story is already underway and that the reader has arrived in the middle of something important. 2. First-line focus on psychological mindset
These first lines hook readers by revealing a shocking fact, personal truth or secret. They often feel rather confessional create powerful psychological intrigue because they invite readers into a character’s headspace.
Example 1: Dark Places, Gillian Flynn (Phoenix edition, 2010)
Why it works
The opening plunges readers into the narrator’s psyche, exposing an unsettling inner darkness before any plot events occur. This early insight builds psychological tension, making us question the narrator’s reliability and wonder how their mindset will shape the story. NOTABLE QUALITIES: Curiosity | Tension or conflict | Voice Example 2: The Martian, Andy Weir (Del Rey edition, 2014)
Why it works
In those first four words, the narrator signals that disaster has struck. The candid, no-nonsense tone generates immediate suspense, encouraging readers to ask: What has happened? How will the character cope? NOTABLE QUALITIES: Stakes | Curiosity | Tension or conflict | Voice Lesson for writers Confessional first lines can draw readers directly into a character’s predicament or provide striking psychological insight in just a few words. These two examples are also good reminders that a strong narrative voice can be just as compelling as action or a crime. 3. First-line focus on a shocking statement
A bold or disturbing statement can grab readers immediately, forcing them to confront moral tension or danger.
Example: I Will Find You, Harlan Coben (Penguin edition, 2023)
Why it works
A single, startling sentence conveys both shock and intrigue. It instantly raises questions and emotional stakes. Readers want to understand the circumstances that led the narrator, speaking directly to us, to this moment. NOTABLE QUALITIES: Stakes | Curiosity | Tension or conflict | Voice | Momentum Lesson for writers A single unexpected statement can create a powerful hook if it suggests a deeper story. 5. First-line focus on a crime or transgression
Some thrillers’ opening lines reveal a crime or transgression that has already occurred or is in progress.
Example: Paradise, Toni Morrison (Vintage edition, 1999)
Why it works
The sentence is shocking, violent and blunt, though we’re not given any context. That ambiguity forces readers to ask questions: Who are ‘they’? Who are the other girls that it’s implied are also going to be shot? Why have these girls been targeted? NOTABLE QUALITIES: Curiosity | Tension or conflict | Momentum Lesson for writers Introducing the crime early tells readers exactly what kind of story they’re entering. 6. First-line focus on the environment
Some thrillers begin by establishing an unsettling atmosphere.
Example 1: Neuromancer, William Gibson (Gateway edition, 2016)
Why it works
This line uses a striking image to establish a bleak, dystopian environment. It signals that the world of the story may feel strange or unsettling. NOTABLE QUALITIES: Tension or conflict | Voice Example 2: The Day of the Jackal, Frederick Forsyth (Arrow edition, 2011)
Why it works
This opening sentence starts with information about the weather and the time. It could have been dull, but the author uses it as an artful anchor for the life‑or‑death clause that follows. The stark, cold setting mirrors the flat, cold voice, as if the narrator has accepted the inevitability of the execution. NOTABLE QUALITIES: Stakes | Tension or conflict | Voice Lesson for writers A vivid or unusual image can establish tone while creating curiosity about the setting. And environmental information can be highly effective as long as it’s used to amplify a character’s mood. 7. First-line focus on foreboding
This type of opening signals that something terrible has already happened, or is about to happen.
Example 1: Everybody Knows, Jordan Harper (Faber & Faber edition, 2023)
Why it works
In just three stark words, this first line establishes a vivid, ominous setting that suggests chaos and danger. Something catastrophic is happening in a familiar city, and readers want to know what caused it and what the consequences will be. NOTABLE QUALITIES: Stakes | Curiosity | Tension or conflict | Momentum Example 2: Gone Before Goodbye, Harlan Coben and Reese Witherspoon (Penguin, 2026)
Why it works
In just five words, this line creates immediate tension. By emphasizing what the narrator doesn’t hear, it heightens the sense of unseen danger. The absence of sound signals that something is amiss, prompting readers to ask: What’s happening, and what threat lurks nearby? NOTABLE QUALITIES: Curiosity | Tension or conflict | Momentum Lesson for writers Opening lines that imply catastrophe, danger or abnormality can be incredibly effective. By hinting that something is wrong, rather than explaining it immediately, activate the reader’s curiosity and tension, and compel them to keep going. Summing up
A thriller’s first line doesn’t have to feature explosions or violence. What matters is that it avoids the mundane.
That means encouraging questions and making the reader feel something – for example shock, surprise, disgust, fear, confusion – so that they want to continue beyond the opening sentence and into the rest of the story. About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Explore 10 weak thriller opening lines and learn how to turn them into compelling hooks that grab the reader, set the tone and hint at something that piques their curiosity.
The weight carried by the opening line
The opening line of a mystery or thriller carries an enormous amount of weight. In just a few words, it has to hook the reader, set the tone and indicate a problem or predicament that will pique the reader’s interest.
Manuscripts with first lines that feature routine description, backstory or everyday dialogue can feel flat rather than gripping. In this article, we’ll look at 10 examples of weak first lines, explain why they don’t work, and show how small revisions can turn them into compelling hooks. If you’re writing a mystery, crime novel or psychological thriller, these examples will help you craft a first sentence that immediately grabs readers … and keeps them wanting to read. Example 1: Generic description
Weak first line
Why it’s ineffective
The description is generic and objective. There’s no character, no tension and no intrigue. Suggested improvement
Why the revision helps
The objectivity remains, but now the reader is immediately introduced to a crime – one that makes us ask questions: Whose body? How did they die? And by whose hand? Example 2: Routine activity
Weak first line
Why it’s ineffective
While there’s a human being involved in this line, Harris’s actions are mundane. The sentence is front loaded with activity related to where he sits. Even though a murder weapon is mentioned, that’s not particularly interesting given the detective’s job. There’s no reason for us to do anything with this line than skim over it. Suggested improvement
Why the revision helps
Now there’s a conundrum for us to consider – the familiarity of the weapon. This creates a pressure point for Harris, and a mystery that readers want an explanation for. Example 3: Focus on backstory
Weak first line
Why it’s ineffective
The focus here is on the past rather than the present, and that backstory is generalised and mundane. Suggested improvement
Why the revision helps
Now there’s momentum. The word ‘first’ introduces foreshadowing – readers will assume that there’s more than one dead body. The mention of proximity to a named character forces us to wonder about her role: Is Martha a potential victim, too, or is she a transgressor? Example 4: No intrigue
Weak first line
Why it’s ineffective
So what? the reader might think. Waking up early in the morning is not intriguing. It’s commonplace. Suggested improvement
Why the revision helps
Now there’s immediate tension. The word ‘someone’ implies that another person entering the house is unexpected. And yet ‘unlocking’ suggests they have a key. That leads to readers asking questions: Who’s in his space? Should they be there? Is John in danger? Example 5: Vague observation
Weak first line
Why it’s ineffective
This line tells us readers nothing about why they should care about this peaceful place, nor why they should carry on reading about it. Suggested improvement
Why the revision helps
The revised line is still told from an objective perspective, and the peacefulness has been left intact. However, that information is now sharply juxtaposed with a shocking discovery. Using contrast helps to create surprise and intrigue. Example 6: Dull dialogue
Weak first line
Why it’s ineffective
This is mundane speech – the kind of thing millions of people say to each other at times and spaces across the entire planet. It won’t compel a reader to continue. Suggested improvement
Why the revision helps
Now we have an instant mystery. Readers will wonder what the ‘it’ is that Tom didn’t do, and they’ll want to know why he’s doubting himself. Example 7: Tensionless thoughts
Weak first line
Why it’s ineffective
There’s no pressure point in this character thought. It’s skimmable information. Suggested improvement
Why the revision helps
Now we understand the possible emotional stakes in play. Maybe this information comes as a horrific shock to Emily. Or maybe it will be revealed that she killed him. It actually doesn’t matter. All that’s important is that this is personal, and the reader will be invested in understanding why. Example 8: Boring environment
Weak first line
Why it’s ineffective
The description feels flat and doesn’t convey any personality or tension. Suggested improvement
Why the revision helps
Now we have an anonymous narrator with a clear agenda. While the motive is as yet unclear, which creates suspense, the tone is distinctly menacing. Readers will be wondering who this character is and what Flint’s done to evoke such anger. Example 9: Flat impact
Weak first line
Why it’s ineffective
This at least introduces an interesting premise – that of the return of a missing person. However, it feels a little flat and lacks impact. Suggested improvement
Why the revision helps
In the revised version, the missing person has a name. And by leading with punchy description of how long Flowers has been missing for, the follow-up clause about her unexpected return creates shock and intrigue. Example 10: No threat
Weak first line
Why it’s ineffective
While the use of a second-person narrative hints at voyeurism, there’s nothing in that line that indicates anything’s out of whack. Suggested improvement
Why the revision helps
The expository information about the mailbox, envelope and photograph are still there, as is the voyeuristic narration. However, by giving readers a small nudge about what’s in that image, there’s an imminent sense of threat. Summing up
A great opening line to any thriller or mystery usually does at least one of these things:
If these aren't evident in your first line, it’s worth revisiting. About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Learn what every thriller must accomplish in its first five pages, including compelling opening lines, early pressure points, clear viewpoint characters and narrative momentum. Discover how to hook readers, build tension and set the stage for a gripping, page-turning story from the very first sentence.
In this article
Why the first 5 pages are a pitch to the reader
Thrillers live or die by their opening pages. We can think of them as a hook or a pitch – the thing that convinces readers to invest in the rest of the novel. This is the space that sets the tone, whets the appetite and sells the idea of what’s to come.
Readers pick up a thriller expecting immediate tension, momentum and intrigue. An editor will be looking for those same qualities too. Here’s what you should look out for when reviewing your first five pages. 1. Is the opening line compelling?
The very first line in a novel sets expectations for the entire story. When it comes to thrillers, readers love hearing a distinctive voice, a sense of movement or tension, and a hint of the predicament or situation a character’s dealing with.
Weak opening lines These often begin with neutral description or background information. For example:
These opening lines struggle because nothing specific or interesting is happening. The information is generic. There are no stakes and no reason for the reader to be curious. Strong opening lines Strong opening lines feature a character in motion or a problem. Harlan Coben is brilliant at writing knock-out opening lines. Take a look at these examples and compare them with the yawn fest above:
Notice how he zooms right in on a problem – rejection, harm, murder. It’s not just that Coben gets to the point. It’s that he injects so much emotion into each of those sentences. He does this by making sure that the psychic distance between the reader and the narrator feels close, like the character is talking to us intimately … There’s oodles of suspense too. Absolutely no way are we putting down any of those books after we’ve read their opening lines because, in just a few words, the author has made us a promise – that having set the scene he will answer the questions we’re already asking:
Tip for writers and editors If the opening line doesn’t pique the reader’s curiosity, or create tension or intrigue, consider a recast. 2. Have you introduced a pressure point?
A thriller's first five pages don’t need to be infused with violence or high-octane action, but they should show the reader where the pressure is.
Weak pressure Review your first few pages and make sure they’re not dominated by the routine and mundane. Waking up, commuting and casual conversations risk making your reader skim. Readers of the genre expect to be thrilled, and if you don’t satisfy that appetite early on, they may disengage and start wondering when the story’s going to pick up. Strong pressure Here’s how authors might could inject pressure points into the early pages of their stories:
Tip for writers and editors Scan the first pages for early conflict or unusual events. Ask yourself this: Is there an indication that something’s already wrong or off? If not, and exposition or a calm setup are dominating, consider how curiosity, danger or high stakes could be introduced. 3. Is a clear point-of-view character present?
When readers can step into a character’s perspective early on, they become engaged faster and more deeply invested in the story.
It doesn’t have to be the protagonist. It could be an anonymous antagonist or transgressor. It could be a victim. The point is that we want to know whose story we’re following in those first few pages. Weak perspectives A thriller whose early pages focus on vague, objective information with no emotional resonance can distance readers. We end up not understanding who we’re supposed to be rooting for or who we want to see stopped. Strong perspectives Readers are people. They know what it is to be human – to love, to fear, to hate, to despair. Compelling opening pages feed that innate knowledge. They provide information that helps us invest in a particular character, even if that emotional investment is negative. We should get an early sense of the following:
Tip for writers and editors Consider whether the first five pages tell readers what the viewpoint character stands to lose, why this situation matters to them and what is motivating them to act? If those personal stakes aren’t shown early on, the prose will feel flat and readers might switch off. 4. Have you created momentum?
Thrillers rely heavily on forward movement throughout, but the opening pages are particularly critical because that’s where writers get their first chance to earn readers’ trust and prove that momentum will be attended to.
Weak momentum The first five pages are not the place for information dumps that provide:
There is definitely a place for all of that stuff, but it’s better to introduce it appropriately after the story has got moving, particularly if it’s detailed. Not doing so means things could end up feeling rather static. Strong momentum Early pages that focus tightly on a problem, a mystery, a decision or an unusual situation will hold readers’ attention. We don’t need to be given all the answers or supporting information at this point – there’s a whole novel to do that. And in fact, not having all the background helps build intrigue and drive curiosity. The opening five pages of TM Logan’s 29 Seconds (Zaffre, 2018) give a superb example of narrative momentum. Readers are offered the following:
Throughout these few pages we’re presented with, first, a mystery, then tension as she tries to manage her shock and fear during the harassment. There are more questions than answers, but Logan makes us wait, concentrating on momentum rather than filling in all the detail. Tip for writers and editors Focus on motion rather than explanations in the first five pages. That energy will ensure that readers are prepared to wait for the detail that fills in all the gaps. Summing up
The first five pages of a thriller should do four things:
When those elements are in place, readers will want to turn pages 6, 7 and beyond. About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Learn about why character names matter, how to approach the ‘hard-to-pronounce’ issue, and practical strategies for making your characters memorable, readable and believable.
In this article
Why character names are more than just labels
The name you choose for a character is a vital part of storytelling. A well-chosen name can signal personality, social background, culture or even foreshadow events in your story.
On the other hand, confusing, repetitive or inconsistent names can pull readers out of the narrative, making them struggle to remember your characters or follow the plot. In this article, we’ll explore why character names matter, how to approach the ‘hard-to-pronounce’ issue, and look at some practical strategies for making your characters memorable, readable and believable. Why names matter
A character’s name is often the first thing a reader learns about them. It can:
For example, in one of Jeff Carson’s series, the protagonist is called ‘David Wolf’. This evokes a certain intelligence, strength and cunning that blends familiarity with a primal, instinctive edge. In Chris Brookmyre’s Places of Darkness – a novel set in the future and on a vast space station orbiting earth – the cynical security officer entangled in organized crime is called Nikki Freeman. The first name feels casual and friendly, while the last name suggests autonomy, resilience and someone unbound by convention or authority. Consider also these two examples from Philip K Dick novels:
Dick’s names often balance familiarity with eccentricity, helping readers navigate surreal, speculative worlds while subtly suggesting character traits or thematic resonance. Beyond meaning, names help readers track characters across scenes. In novels with large casts and complex plots, distinct names prevent confusion. Embracing diversity in character naming
Today’s literary landscape is global, and character names reflect that. A name might be culturally or regionally specific, and can reflect both real-world multiculturalism and the inventive worlds of speculative crime and mystery fiction.
Speculative fiction, fantasy, science fiction and other world-building genres have long embraced invented names to convey a sense of otherworldliness or cultural specificity. In crime fiction, mystery and thrillers, readers are also increasingly encountering names from cultures and regions that they may not be familiar with. Regional branches of the noir tradition in particular – French, Tartan, Nordic, Afro, Asian – are rich and popular, and explore human weakness, moral uncertainty and the darker side of society. With that, we get characters who have authentic names, the pronunciation of which may not at first sight be obvious to some readers: Examples include:
‘Hard-to-pronounce’ names
When thinking the challenges of pronunciation, we need to start with a question: Hard to pronounce for whom?
When we say that a name’s hard to pronounce, we have to recognize that all we’re doing is reflecting our own personal perceptions and language abilities. There is no such thing as a universally ‘hard-to-pronounce’ name. What I – as a white, British person who’s something of a monoglot and not nearly as well travelled as I’d like to be – might find hard to pronounce is not what someone else might struggle with. Consider the examples I gave above – Mma Precious Ramotswe, Keita Mori, Kacper Ryx, Sartaj Singh and Ganesh Gaitonde. Those with a more intimate knowledge of life in Botswana, Japan, Poland and India would not need help pronouncing those character names in the way I would. The answer isn’t to choose alternative names and rip the authenticity from the novel in service of Western European or North American readers' comfort zones. Instead, authors wanting to help out their audience and maximise engagement can take various steps … Helping readers with pronunciation
It’s great to see diversity in the genre because this reflects the diversity in the readership base. Authors, however, do have to recognize that naming characters in ways that are universally accessible (at least on first read) is an impossible task.
That diversity will necessarily introduce challenges for some, and names that feel unfamiliar could trip them up and cause disengagement, no matter how brilliant the plot. The solution is to offer gentle cues that feel natural to the story, rather than forcing explanations on readers. That way, authors can maintain the narrative flow while helping readers engage. Some strategies could include: Phonetic hints in dialogue Show characters correcting pronunciation naturally. For example:
That’s the approach Pulley takes in The Watchmaker of Filigree Street to help readers pronounce Keita Mori’s name.
Contextual clues You could use other characters’ reactions or narrative descriptions to reinforce pronunciation subtly. For example, a viewpoint character’s narrative might go as follows:
Glossaries or appendices
It’s not uncommon in fantasy and science fiction to include glossaries that list pronunciation alongside character names, locations and worldbuilding terms. This can be an option for crime and thriller writers too. Helping readers with naming conventions
Some readers may be unfamiliar with naming conventions in other parts of the world. These can signal:
Example In Jar City, Arnaldur Indriðason's detective and criminal characters refer to each other by first name, which reflects the patronymic naming convention in Iceland and how first names don't always indicate social intimacy. Explaining to readers Crime and thriller writers can follow Indriðason's approach by including an explanatory note for readers in the front matter of the book. This helps the audience understand social nuance, hierarchy and cultural authenticity, which are especially important in novels where status matters. Names as character signposts
Names can also act as subtle character signposts. They can hint at personality, social standing or plot function.
Balancing uniqueness with readability
The trick is finding the sweet spot between authenticity, uniqueness and readability. Here are two practical tips:
Distinctiveness Distinctiveness is particularly important in crime fiction, mysteries and thrillers so that readers don’t end up confusing suspects, detectives and witnesses.
Pronounceable structure Names should be speakable, even if that means helping your reader learn how to speak them (as discussed above). The role of nicknames and titles
A carefully applied nickname or title can prevent confusion while reinforcing personality or status, especially in ensemble casts.
Nicknames These can make characters more approachable or signal relationships. One of my authors, whose characters were Polish, took this approach and it was very effective. A police officer with the last name ‘Cherniawski’ was often referred to in narrative and dialogue as Cheri, when it was appropriate to do so. As well as signalling intimacy between characters, it also helped Western European and North American audiences shift their attention away from pronunciation and towards character action. Titles or ranks These are especially useful in crime, military or political fiction, for example ‘Detective Rivera’ or ‘Captain Leong’. Aliases These can add mystery or misdirection, particularly in thrillers and espionage. Testing names in context
Before finalizing names, test them to make sure they work.
Read them aloud Reading aloud is a valuable exercise in crime fiction and thrillers, where names will appear frequently in dialogue, police reports and investigative notes. A character’s name should flow within the prose rather than interrupting it. Ask beta readers Can they pronounce the characters’ names easily? If they’re struggling, but you’re committed to retaining the name for the purpose of authenticity, check whether there are cues you can introduce to help readers learn quickly. Check context Do the names you’ve chosen fit within the cultural or regional context of the novel? Two common pitfalls to watch out for
When naming characters, watch out for:
1. Unintentional associations You may have created characters whose heritage is different from your own. Do some research to ensure that your characters’ names don’t inadvertently evoke real people, brands or stereotypes, particularly if those conflict with the character’s persona. For example, unless you’re writing satirical crime fiction, it won’t make sense to call a lazy, overweight investigator ‘Venus Williams’. The reader will all too frequently end up thinking of an athletic superstar, and your characterization will be undermined. Google Search is your friend here. 2. Inconsistency (especially across series) Check that characters’ names are spelled consistently and that their titles are consistent. Ms Abi Starling shouldn’t become Miss Abby Sterling. Maintaining a character list or spreadsheet with name spellings, nicknames and relationships can help you keep track of consistency, especially if you’re writing a book series. A handy little tool you can use for this purpose, if you’re working in Word, is a macro called ProperNounAlyse. Summing up
A character’s name is one of the first things a reader encounters, and it often lingers long after the story ends. Thoughtfully chosen names improve clarity, reinforce characterization and deepen immersion.
Even hard-to-pronounce or culturally specific names can work beautifully when authors provide cues, context and consistency. In short, the best names are:
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Before you send your manuscript to an agent, editor or beta reader, use this comprehensive 10-step checklist to ensure your story is as tight, compelling and credible as possible.
Why self-editing is part of the writing process
A loose end, unconvincing motive, lack of tension and suspense, or mistimed reveal can unravel an otherwise gripping story. For that reason, self-editing is more than just a final step. Instead, think of it as a critical part of your writing craft process.
Check #1: Plot and structure: Does the mystery hold up?
Start with the backbone of your story: the plot.
Strong crime fiction and thrillers typically follow a clear trajectory – setup, investigation, escalation and resolution. That doesn’t mean the novel has to be predictable, but the reader does need to be able to see the logic in the events as they unfold. In particular, ask yourself whether there any coincidences that solve too problems conveniently. It’s important that any key twists feel earned, rather than shoehorned in to make the story work. Pay special attention to your ending. A satisfying resolution should feel both surprising and inevitable. TIP: One useful technique is to work backwards from the reveal. Does every major plot point support that conclusion? Check #2: Clues and red herrings: Are you playing fair?
Crime, mystery and thriller readers love trying to solve the puzzle alongside the protagonist. That means you need to play fair.
Every crucial clue should have been planted before the reveal. That means finding a balance between keeping those clues obscure but not completely hidden. not hidden, but not obvious either. As for red herrings, these need to mislead without feeling manipulative or obvious. If readers feel they’ve been tricked rather than challenged, the story loses credibility. The Golden Age writers were particularly adept at this, making sure that all the pieces are there and, ultimately, fit together. TIP: Ask yourself whether an attentive reader could solve this mystery well before the ending? Check #3: Character behaviour: Is it consistent and logical?
In this genre, the transgressive behaviour hinges on human behaviour – the characters’ motives, opportunities and psychology.
Consistency doesn’t require that a character can’t change. They can, and in that case that change will be key to the story’s arc. However, that change needs to make sense for the reader and driven in a way that’s clear to them. Review each major character and check that:
TIP: Pay special attention to your antagonist. Their actions must make sense within the logic of the story. A brilliant twist won’t land well if the character behind it feels underdeveloped or inconsistent. Check #4: Character names: Are they distinct?
Confusion is the enemy of tight crime and thriller writing. And nothing’s more confusing that when characters have the same names.
Of course, that’s something we experience in everyday life, but when it comes to novel writing, readers need to be able to identify who’s who. That becomes even more important when you’re writing a series because to ensure continuity, there’ll be no going back! Make sure that:
TIP: Create a simple character list or spreadsheet to track names, titles, appearances, traits and relationships. Check #5: Timeline and continuity: Does everything add up?
Crime, mystery and thrillers often involve intricate timelines – alibis, movements, sequences of events. This is where many drafts fall apart.
Comb your draft manuscript and check the following:
TIP: Creating a separate timeline document can make this job easier. List exactly where each character is at every key moment. If something doesn’t line up there, it won’t line up for your reader either. Check #6: Procedure: Is it plausible but engaging?
You don’t need to be a forensic expert to write in this genre, but your story does need to feel plausible, even if the setting is speculative.
Chris Brookmyre’s Places in the Darkness is a superb example. It follows a murder investigation on a near-future space station, where politics, class and human behaviour drive the mystery. Despite the speculative setting, it feels plausible because the crime – and its motives – are grounded in recognisably human conflicts. Bear in mind that fiction can become dull if it mirrors real investigations too closely – lots of details about paperwork, delays and routine steps can drain tension and suspense. Check the following:
TIP: Prioritise tension over total realism. Include only the procedural details that increase the stakes, help the reader make sense of the investigation or reveal a character more deeply. Check #7: Is the dialogue engaging and purposeful?
Dialogue is one of the most powerful tools for building tension and revealing character.
When a character’s speech focuses too much on everyday but mundane information – like discussions about the weather or how people take their coffee – readers can become bored, even though what’s being said would happen in real life. As you edit:
TIP: Read your dialogue aloud. If it feels awkward to say, it’ll feel awkward to read. Check #8: Pacing and suspense: Do they keep readers hooked?
Crime, mysteries and thrillers need to pull readers forward relentlessly.
Each scene should either advance the plot, deepen character or increase tension – ideally all three. If it doesn’t, consider cutting or rewriting it. Look out for:
TIP: End every chapter with a question or unresolved tension. This article has 7 suggestions that will help you do that at line level. Check #9: Point of view: Are the shifts in perspective clear?
When readers have access to what’s going on in every character’s head in a single scene, head-hopping might be in play.
That can rip tension and suspense from your novel because readers know what everyone’s thinking and feeling. Nothing’s withheld. More crucially, perhaps, it stops them investing in a character’s experience in the moment. The psychic distance widens and makes them feel like they’re a distant observer rather than a participant. Of course, it’s fine to have more than one viewpoint character, but check that:
TIP: Highlight every sentence in which there’s information that your POV character couldn’t directly perceive or know. If anything slips through (another character’s thoughts, unseen actions), you’ve broken viewpoint, and it’s time to revise so everything is filtered strictly through that character’s experience. Check #10: Line craft: Is your writing sharp?
Effective line craft sharpens prose by making every sentence purposeful, precise and engaging. When we line edit, we’re seeking to enhance clarity, tone and rhythm and to eliminate excess.
That way the story flows smoothly and keeps readers immersed. Zoom in on your narrative and focus on the following:
TIP: Trust your readers, then cut unnecessary words. If a word, phrase or sentence doesn’t reveal character, advance the plot or heighten tension, remove it. Summing up
Robust self-editing will mean your draft is in the best shape possible before it goes to someone else. It might feel like a time-consuming thing to do, but it will save you time in the long run, and perhaps even money.
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
This post explores how oversimplifications of human motivation as ‘good’ versus ‘evil’ can damage crime fiction, mysteries and thrillers.
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The trouble with clear-cut morality
In real life, morality is murky. Few people do harm ‘just because’. People do bad things for complex reasons, and those in investigative roles – and apparently on the side of justice – don’t always behave impeccably.
Compelling contemporary crime fiction tends to avoid rigid binaries that present ‘good’ and ‘bad’ characters, where the villain is evil because they commit a crime, and the sleuth is good because they solve it. Going down that route can weaken character development, limit emotional relatability and misrepresent how justice manifests in a way that’s plausible. How to turn flat caricatures into relatable characters
In a binary model, the villain is ‘monsterized’ as inherently bad – the evil psychopath or lowlife. The focus is more on the nastiness they’ve done.
Meanwhile, the investigator is ‘heroized’ as inherently good – the wonderful restorer of order. The focus is on how they’ve saved the day. However, when you provide a deeper understanding of the reasons why a criminal acted as they did, and when you make space for a sleuth’s flaws, doubts and moral ambiguity, readers are able to access more plausible and fully rounded characters with human backstories and worldviews, however flawed. An example from the bookshelf One of my favourite examples of a flawed law-enforcement officer is Mick Herron’s Jackson Lamb, the unkempt, chain-smoking, foul-mouthed and flatulent head of Slough House, home to MI5 agents who’ve made career-ending mistakes. He’s vicious but protective, revolting but brilliant, both burned out and razor-sharp, more anti-hero than saviour. It’s Lamb’s complexity that keeps readers turning the page.
Prompt for writers and editors
Check your villain and sleuth. Where are the cracks that could move them away from binary stereotypes and towards human beings that your readers feel compelled to get under the skin of? Does the sleuth wonder if they're doing the right thing? Does the criminal regret, justify or second-guess themself? Making space for this adds tension. Exploring justice that reflects reality
Ditching binary models of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ allows you to explore crime and justice in a way that engages readers who’ve experienced systemic injustice in real life, as well as those whose privilege means they haven’t.
For example, a criminal’s actions might stem from something far more alarming than pure greed. It could be grounded in, or driven by, their experience of poverty, fear, abuse, racial- or class-based oppression. Taking this approach asks readers to consider where biases in the system are, who the establishment serves, and whether equal opportunity really stands up under the microscope. Examples from the bookshelf When I first read The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood over thirty years ago, Aunt Lydia, one of Gilead’s enforcers, didn’t get a voice, so I had no access to her motivations as a perpetrator. In The Testaments, she finally gets to narrate. It’s a glorious study of how abuse, fear and oppression can drive the most appalling behaviours, and what deeper motivation might lie beyond. On the surface, SA Cosby’s Razorblade Tears is a revenge thriller focusing on two former conmen – one Black, one white – bent on dishing out justice after their sons are murdered. But embedded within the criminality is a powerful story about grief and the prejudice each man must confront within himself. Prompt for writers and editors Check your assumptions. What lived experiences do your villain and sleuth bring to the table, and how do those affect their perception of the crime, evading detection and the approach to the investigation? Avoid telling readers who’s ‘right’ and who’s ‘wrong'. Instead, show them conflicting perspectives and allow them to decide for themselves. Ask questions about your perpetrators and your investigators: What does this person want and fear? What trauma or injustice shaped their choices? Who might see them as a hero, and who might see them as a villain? Building tension through real-world themes
Avoiding traditional ‘good’ and ‘bad’ binaries encourages space for exploring themes that cement tension throughout the novel, and speak to readers living in the world as it is now … or the one it might be in the not-too-distant future.
Through those themes, you might explore societies’ values, and what constitutes criminal behaviour in terms of your own and your readers’ values. Are there are circumstances where bad deeds might be justified for the greater good? For example, could the perpetrator and the investigator both be grappling with thorny concepts that make who’s ‘right’ and who’s ‘wrong’ ambiguous?
An example from the bookshelf Tom R Weaver’s debut thriller Artificial Wisdom mixes cli-fi, techno-political intrigue and ethical tension. It asks readers to consider whether truth matters more than survival, and whether we should trust our fate to humanity alone or something beyond it. Prompt for writers and editors Check your underlying themes. Which big-picture questions might you draw the reader's attention to and that don’t have clearcut answers? What happens when the system itself is unjust? What if both the criminal and sleuth are victims of the same failing structure? Summing up
Crime fiction and thrillers can reveal uncomfortable truths about people and systems. By embracing ambiguity, you can craft more emotionally resonant and morally engaging stories.
To keep your characters interesting and out of binary waters, ask yourself whether the most compelling villain might be one who almost persuades us, and whether the most unforgettable hero might be one who almost breaks our trust. Other resources you might like
About Louise
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Backstory helps readers understand why characters act the way they do and what their motivations are. This post offers five tips on how to introduce it so that it enriches, rather than distracts from, the main story.
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What is character backstory?
Backstory is the fictional history of a character before the main plot begins. It could include past events, relationships, traumas or achievements that shape their present behaviour and decisions. Backstory should be:
To ensure you hit the mark, think about which of the following mechanisms might work best for your novel. 1. Drip feed the information
Think of backstory as the seasoning rather than the main dish. It can be tempting to give readers everything you want them to know about the past in a dedicated and detailed chapter. However, this comes with risk. Your reader, who’s itching to move forward and find out what’s going to happen next, is forced backwards.
The focus is no longer on the now of the novel, but on a different time and space. That in itself can be distracting. Plus, by giving readers all this backstory in one fell swoop, you could lose the opportunity to introduce suspense, mystery or intrigue. Instead of an information dump, try instead a brief but telling reference that’s related to the current action. For example, if your character’s past involves an event that’s made them mistrustful of small spaces, you could hint at this in the narrative, but explain it more fully in a piece of dialogue later on. Here’s how that might look at first mention. The backstory nudge is in bold.
This way, you’re revealing backstory in smaller chunks – ones that invite the reader to think: What happened last time he went into a dark alley?
This builds suspense and leaves readers with questions that you can answer later. And for now, the reader stays in the moment with Baz, running towards the square and finding safety in the crowd. 2. Use natural dialogue
Dialogue can be a superb way of unveiling backstory. Depending on when it comes up, you can drip feed or go into more detail.
The key is to ensure that it sounds natural rather than being a convenient tool. For example, if Marcus already knows about Baz’s fears, the following will feel overworked. The dialogue is for the reader’s benefit only, not what these two people might actually say to each other. What to avoid
This kind of dialogue-for-convenience is sometimes referred to as maid-and-butler dialogue. To avoid it, try something like the following instead.
What to do instead
Again, this version hints at a traumatic event in the past, but leaves an intriguing space for more to be revealed later.
3. Interject with narrative reflection
If the time has come to reveal more, you could use the space between the dialogue to offer a little more insight.
Take care to restrain it. Give the reader just enough, then pull them back to the present action. Here’s how that might look.
4. Use other characters to reveal backstory
You could decide to hint at a character’s backstory through how others see them. Again, readers should be given only what they need to know, and the reveal should be relevant to the scene.
Notice how we’re given a nudge about something in Baz’s past that means alternative arrangements have to be made. These add a little complexity to the plan Fi and Marcus are working on, but there’s space to explore in more detail at a later point.
If it’s time to introduce that extra detail, an alternative could see Marcus reflecting internally on a plan he’s put together. Here, the backstory is more detailed but it’s still relevant to the present issue that he’s focusing on – planning an escape.
5. Use sounds, objects or settings as triggers
The external environment can be effective tools with which to introduce backstory. Your protagonist might see, hear or touch something that triggers a memory or an emotion.
Here are two examples. Once more, they’re mere nudges that make the reader ask questions, rather than lengthy explanations that risk flattening the prose.
Summing up
Backstory is as a tool that gives your crime fiction and its characters emotional depth at any point it’s introduced. If it doesn’t affect how the reader engages with the story in the moment, remove it.
Keep it taut so that the reader remains engrossed in the novel’s present – what the characters are doing/feeling now. Nudges and hints at first mention are often far more suspenseful and intriguing. If backstory is dragging on for multiple paragraphs or even chapters – a within-novel biography – rethink its structure and how you might break it up so that you reveal it gradually. Other resources you might like
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Find out how to balance the scenes in a crime novel or thriller by using different types of beats that help readers understand the fictional world they’re immersed in. There's a free sample scene analysis too!
What’s in this post?
5 types of beats in the fiction writer’s and editor’s toolbox
Fiction writers, and the editors who support them, can use different types of beats to make a scene interesting: emotion, action, inaction, description and dialogue beats.
All have their place. Here’s how each works to create a more fully rounded scene. I’ve focused on examples from crime fiction and thrillers, but the advice below could equally be applied to other genres. Emotion beats
Emotion beats tell readers how the viewpoint character is feeling. They bring sensibility to a scene.
A viewpoint character is the character from whose perspective we experience the story. In first-person-limited and third-person-limited narratives, readers have access to what’s going on inside their heads – for example, their emotions, thoughts and decision-making processes. Access to this internal space helps us empathize with them and make sense of their motivations. That doesn’t mean we have to like them, but we do understand them. And that brings them to life and makes them more interesting.
Example from published fiction
Adrian McKinty, The Chain, Orion, 2020 (Kindle version, Chapter 1)
Action beats
Action beats help readers imagine how a character is physically behaving and can give us insights into the environment and the person’s traits. They bring movement to a scene.
Perhaps a viewpoint character stands up because the overly soft chair is making their sciatica play up; maybe an object’s being discussed, and they push it away in disgust; or perhaps they rub their bare feet across the rough pile of a rug in order to soothe themselves in an unformattable situation. These beats are particularly useful when an author wants to convey emotions being experienced by a non-viewpoint character whose internal head-space isn’t accessible in limited narrative styles. Perhaps wiping sweat off their forehead indicates they’re feeling nervous, or their fidgeting with a beer mat indicates boredom.
Example from published fiction
Harlan Coben, Win, Arrow, 2021 (Kindle edition, Chapter 1)
Inaction beats
Inaction beats are pauses, hesitations and moments of silence or stillness. Even when these are short, they help the reader understand pace. They bring breathing space to a scene.
They’re powerful because they can show rather than tell more than one character’s contemplation, consideration, indecision, or shock. The prose might state the stillness or silence directly, or it can be nuanced and come in the form of a character’s taking stock of a situation or bracing themselves for a potential upset.
Example from published fiction
Kate Hamer, The Girl in the Red Coat, Faber & Faber, 2015 (Kindle edition, Chapter 6)
Description beats
Description beats give readers objective information about the character or environment. They bring stability to a scene.
They help readers understand what characters are wearing, what they look like, what’s surrounding them, what they can hear, see, smell, touch or taste. That brings the scene alive.
Example from published fiction
Harlan Coben, Win, Arrow, 2021 (Kindle edition, Chapter 1)
Dialogue beats
Dialogue beats tell readers what characters are saying and let readers hear those distinct voices in action. Vocal speech can be heard, and so dialogue beats bring expression to a scene.
Like action beats, dialogue is an opportunity to bring depth to non-viewpoint characters in limited narrative styles. Their internal opinions and feelings – which we don’t have access to because we’re not in their heads – are revealed to us.
Example from published fiction
Adrian McKinty, The Chain, Orion, 2020 (Kindle version, Chapter 1)
Why mixing up beats makes scenes more interesting
Too much of anything is rarely a good thing, and the same applies to a novel’s beats. When a scene’s constructed primarily around a particular type of beat, there’s a risk the reader will become frustrated and lose interest.
Writers and their publishing teams can use the drafting and editing stages to analyse the prose and evaluate whether there’s sufficient balance. How to analyse a scene for beat balance
Must all 5 beats be introduced? No, certainly not. There’s no formula to writing compelling fiction. Good line craft means making a judgement about what’s missing and what might be added.
APPROACH 1 One way of approaching this is to think not in terms of the different types of beats but instead in terms of what they contribute, and whether there’s too much or too little. And so writers and their editors can ask: Which of the following should the reader experience in this scene, and are they present? Here’s a summary of those elements:
Example: Is too much expression dampening the scene? An over-reliance on dialogue – even if it’s extremely well written – leaves a reader with no nudges about the emotions characters are experiencing or the environment they’re operating in. It’s two or more talking heads on a page. If there should be expression in the scene, but the characters are chattering too much, think how you might turn the volume down, or at least disrupt it. Consider introducing a few action, description and emotion beats. Or even turn some of the information contained within the speech into narrative. Example: Is too much stability flattening the scene? An over-reliance on objective description – even if it gives the reader a rich sense of the environment – leaves readers with no way of accessing mood. It’s a menu of what’s where. Description should stabilise the scene, not crush it so that it’s as flat as a pancake. Help readers get under the skin of the characters and their environment by adding emotion or dialogue, or a little action that gives the scene some movement.
APPROACH 2
Another option is to colour-code the text in a scene according to what type of beats are in play. This can help authors and editors evaluate whether one type of beat is overbearing, and where they might add in additional types of beat to disrupt that dominance. It's a powerful way of communicating the problem visually and quickly. Summing up
Using different types of beats in a scene helps readers to understand where the character is, what’s around them, how they feel and what’s important to them. Over-reliance on one type can lead to boredom and frustration; mix things up to keep them interested and turning the page.
Download a free beats booklet
Other resources you might like
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Are your thriller’s sentences front-loaded with filter words? If so, you could be slowing your reader down. This post explains what filter words are, how they affect a sentence and how to decide whether to include them or ditch them.
What’s in this post ...
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Why the start of a sentence is important
If you’ve read any guidance about online writing, you’ll have come across the concept of front-loading a sentence. It means putting the most important stuff at the start. The idea is that website visitors are busy and scan for relevance. The quicker they find it, the more likely they are to engage.
While a novel that reads like a Google snippet from start to finish isn’t likely to win any prizes, the principle is worth paying attention to because the information at the start of a novel’s sentence is still what the reader will pay most attention to. The start of a sentence is therefore valuable real estate. If filter words are being assigned to that top spot too often, more interesting subjects and verbs are likely being demoted. What are filter words?
In everyday speech, we sometimes use the term ‘filter’ to convey a sense of slowdown or separation, usually because of a barrier of some sort. For example:
In literature, filter words are verbs that do a similar thing – they slow down the reader’s access to what the viewpoint character is experiencing. Examples include 'watched', 'saw', 'noticed', 'spotted', 'looked at', 'felt', 'thought', 'wondered', 'heard', 'realised' and 'knew'. Take a look at this short excerpt from Chapter 2 of Razorblade Tears by S.A. Cosby.
Ike is the viewpoint character, which means we experience the scene from his perspective.
Notice first what’s front-loading those two sentences. The subjects (Ike in the first, ‘she’ – Ike’s wife – in the second) and the verbs ‘let go’ and ‘slumped’. That front-loading forces our gaze outwards – first towards Ike, then towards the movement of Ike’s wife’s body. Now let’s introduce a filter word.
Now the second sentence is front-loaded with a new verb – ‘watched’. Our access to the movement (the slumping) has been slowed down. We can’t shift directly to it without taking an extra step that involves centring our gaze for just a second on Ike’s watching.
In that brief moment, we’re no longer looking outward at what Ike’s experiencing. Instead, we’re looking inward at Ike and how he acquires that experience – by watching. Less experienced writers can be tempted to overuse filter words. Indeed, it’s one of the most common problems I see in my editing studio. At sentence-level revision stage – whether that work’s being done by the writer themselves or with the help of a professional editor – it’s therefore worth watching out for them and assessing whether they’re impeding the novel’s pace. When filter words reduce momentum
Thrillers are supposed to thrill, and action-packed scenes such as escapes, fights, heists and chases need to be written with razor-sharp precision so that readers don’t start skimming.
Problematic filter words can appear anywhere in a sentence, but front-loading sentences with them is even more likely to rip the momentum out of the prose. If you want your readers to focus on the action, make sure that any you retain are earning their keep. Take a look at an excerpt from a published thriller that I’ve fiddled with. It’s a heist scene and the action takes place in a matter of seconds. The viewpoint character is coked up to his eyeballs and desperate, acting on impulse.
The three instances of filtering moderate the pace and draw our attention towards the narrator’s doing knowing, thinking and watching, none of which are as interesting as what he knows, thinks and watches. All those filter words act as barriers that the reader has to jump over in order to get to the action.
We could even argue that they introduce a sort of voyeurism – as if Ronnie is reflecting on the impact of his violence, almost in slow motion. But that’s not what’s going on here. Rather, he’s wired, out of control and operating in the moment. And that’s why the unadulterated version of Blacktop Wasteland (p. 113) – also by S.A. Cosby – is perfect:
The filter words have gone, and with them the unintended pathological introspection, but the momentum is restored. We're in the moment with Ronnie as he lashes out. It's no less violent but the pace of the prose now mirrors the action authentically.
When filter words make space for reflection
Sometimes, however, the author wants us to slow down, step back and focus inward on the acquisition of experience.
Let’s take a look at another example from Cosby’s Razorblade Tears, this one also from Chapter 2.
The filter phrase is ‘looked at’, and it’s important. Ike is looking hard at what’s in front of him. As will be revealed later, this girl is his murdered son’s daughter. Ike recalls something he’d said to his son a few months earlier: ‘But that little girl, she gonna have it hard enough already. She's half Black. Her mama was somebody you paid to carry her, and she got two gay daddies. So now what?’
Ike and his wife will now be raising the little girl. Cosby wants to focus our attention inward for a moment on Ike’s reflection, and the filter word makes space for that. While filter words can be effective when they’re used to create a sense of introspection, littering prose with them will be disruptive and pull the reader out of the viewpoint character's headspace. In other words, the psychic or narrative distance will be widened and we’ll feel disconnected from the immediacy of the character’s experience. For that reason, always use filter words judiciously. In the above example, Cosby offers just a single nudge, and it’s enough. Summing up
Every filter word needs to be assessed on its own merits. Some will have a place in a novel because the author wants to introduce a sense of introspection into a viewpoint character’s narrative. Just bear in mind the following:
Further reading
Take a look at these related resources for editors and writers. They'll help you develop your fiction line craft:
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Want to use grammatical expletives in your crime, mystery and thriller fiction? These words serve as place holders or fillers in a sentence. They shift emphasis and can affect rhythm. Used injudiciously, however, they can be cluttering tension-wreckers. Here's how to strike a balance.  What are expletives?Because expletives shift emphasis, they have a syntactic function. However, they don’t in themselves contribute anything to our understanding of the sentence. In other words, they don't have a semantic role. You might also see them called syntactic expletives. Common examples are:
Take a look at the following pair. The first sentence is introduced by an expletive.
When used well, expletives are enrichment tools that allow an author to play with a narrative voice’s register and the rhythm of sentences. When prose is overloaded with them, it can feel cluttered with filler words that add nothing but ink on the page. At best, they widen the narrative distance between the reader and the POV character; at worst, they flatten a sentence and destroy suspense and tension. Flat expletives that merit fixingToo much telling of what there is or was can rip the immediacy from a scene and encourage skimming. That’s a problem – it means the reader isn’t engaged and risks missing something. Furthermore, if they’re not performing their rhythmic or emphasis role, expletives make sentence navigation more difficult because all they're doing is cluttering the prose. Here's an example. Think I've overworked it? There are published books from mainstream presses with passages just like this made-up one. FLAT EXPLETIVE
The problem with the expletives in the passage above is that readers are bogged down in what there was rather than the viewpoint character's experience of discovery. Let's revise it to fix the problem. THE FIX
Notice how the narrative distance has been reduced in the revised passage. Now it's as if we're in the viewpoint character's head, moving with her second by second. We can focus on the room, the dried-blood fingermarks, the whimper, and the scream rather than the being of those things – their was-ness. Removing the expletives and swapping in stronger verbs (smudged, shattered) enables us to tighten up the prose and introduce immediacy. And now there's no need for the told 'suddenly' – we experience the suddenness through the in-the-moment shattering. Expletives that pack a punchAs is always the case, obliterating expletives from a novel would be inappropriate because sometimes they're the perfect tool to help out with rhythm and emphasis. The opening paragraph of Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities (p. 1) uses expletives galore, and masterfully at that. The repetition (anaphora) brings a steady rhythm to the passage that ensures the reader gives equal weight to the contrasting extremes – from best and worst to hope and despair. The expletives introduce a detached sense of reportage that forces us forward rather than allowing us to dwell on any of the heavens or hells on offer. It’s simultaneously mundane and monstrous, and that's why it's magical.
And here’s an example from Dog Tags (p. 1) where omission of the expletive would rip the energy from the opening first line of the chapter and interfere with our understanding of which words we’re supposed to emphasize.
Summing upGrammatical expletives are a normal part of language and have every right to be in a novel. Overloading can destroy tension and make for a laboured narrative, but a purposeful peppering can amplify character emotion, moderate rhythm, and make space for the introduction of big themes in small spaces without sensory clutter. Cited works and further reading
About Louise HarnbyLouise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers. She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
If you’re including fingerprint science in your fiction writing, these tips will help you get the basics right.
Forensic procedure
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:
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.
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.
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.
Exemplar fingerprints – those taken directly from an individual in controlled circumstances – are captured via two methods:
Read about how two law-enforcement organizations – one in the UK and one in the US – use ink and scanning technology here:
8. Use recognized 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:
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
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
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.
Example: Line of Duty In Series 5, Episode 3 of Line of Duty (BBC1), the perpetrator breaks into the home of a core character’s ex-wife. The transgressor proceeds to torture the victim. There’s a drill involved and lots of screaming. It’s gross. Well, it would be if we saw it. But we don’t. All we see is the outcome. The ex-wife lies in a hospital bed, bandaged from head to toe. We glimpse patches of skin, her flesh swollen and angry. Her face is physically untouched though trauma is etched into it. And even the slightest movement results in a whimper and a wince; despite the medication, she’s in pain. All we know so far is that something awful has happened to her but we don’t know what. The scene cuts to two police officers listening to an audio file of the torture. Now we hear the drill and the screams. The officers play a little of the audio then switch it off and express their horror. A phone conversation with the victim’s husband ensues and we discover a little more about what’s been done to the woman. They finish the call and discuss the crime between themselves. Then the audio’s back and we hear a few more snatches. Off again, and there’s more analysis. It’s a powerful rendition of extreme violence that protects viewers from the gory detail but leaves us in no doubt about the suffering that’s been endured. This method can work just as beautifully in a novel. It’s not that the violence is diminished but that we access less of it. Example: Run Away 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:
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. Example: The Inspector and Mrs Jeffries 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. Example: The Poison Artist 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.
Example: The Matlock Paper 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.
Example: Bad Luck and Trouble 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:
For reporting-after-the-fact violence:
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
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP), a member of ACES, a Partner Member of The Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLi), and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
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 compendium.
What is a world-building compendium?
A world-building compendium is a concise collection of information, gathered into one place, that 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 compendium is still useful.
I used to live in a small village in Norfolk (the UK one). Some of the things I had to deal with in my day-to-day life were different to those of friends who live only ten miles away in the city of Norwich.
For example, they’re connected to mains drainage. I, however, had to book the honey pot man to come and empty the septic tank once a year! Normal for me; weird for others.
And then there’s my local pal. He has the same drainage issues, but his working day is very different to mine. He’s a police officer. His work takes him directly into situations that I’m familiar with only at a distance, through the crime fiction I edit and the shows I watch on TV.
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. 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 compendium and your plot
Not everything in your compendium 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 compendium 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 compendium. 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 compendium 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. If you’re setting a story in a real place that you’ve not visited, the compendium 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 compendium 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.
Consider how historical cosy crime narratives find clever ways to enable characters who are restricted by socio-economic or gender disparities typical of the eras they’re set in.
A good example is Emily Brightwell’s Mrs Jeffries. She’s a Victorian housekeeper who nimbly engineers a higher quality of detection than her boss, the hapless Inspector Witherspoon, would be capable of without the help of his domestic staff. 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? 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 compendium 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 compendium 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.
Michael J. Sullivan’s Hollow World is a mystery thriller set in the future where a person’s physical appearance is determined by their job. That doesn’t stop him looking for ways to distinguish the identities of his worker groups – through belief systems, styles of dress, hobbies and passions, even the way they move and smile.
Use your compendium to record which differences and similarities make sense in your world, and how you will reflect them. Other quirks
Record information about any other quirks that are story-specific in a miscellaneous section.
I nearly came undone with my own writing when embarking on a piece of flash fiction centred around where I live in Norfolk. During my research into pheasant shooting, I found out that my wee tale had come undone before I’d put a word on the page. Initially, I’d centred my plot around a crime being ignored during the summer because of the gunshots from legal pheasant-shooting parties.
Turned out this would have been impossible because the law in England prohibits shoots of that specific bird during the summertime.
Still, better that I made my discovery early on. Fixing it later would have required rewriting. The information I gleaned from my research would have gone straight into a compendium if I’d been writing an 80K-word novel rather than 800 words of flash. Summing up
You can include whatever you need to in your compendium. Fundamentally, it’s about consistency and continuity, such that your plot isn’t plundered because you forgot something crucial about your world and how it works.
More than that though, a reliable world is a believable world, even if it’s completely fabricated. When your readers feel like they can visit without having to ask where to grab a cuppa, you know you’ve built something beautiful. About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
If you’re including authentic technical or procedural information in your crime writing, you’ll be wearing your research hat. Your story should come first, of course. However, be sure to get your facts straight before you decide if and how far you’re going to bend reality.
Variations in procedure
Procedure varies between region and country, and when your novel is set will also determine the relevance of the resources I’ve included. Still, even those outside your jurisdiction might spark an insight that drives your storyline further or deepens your characterization
Conversations, consultations and ride-alongs
My brushes with the law have been limited to bad parking. Still, I know a few coppers socially, and it’s to them I’d head for procedural guidance in the first instance.
If you know a police officer, a forensic anthropologist, a crime-scene investigator, a barrister, or whatever, ask them if you can pick their brains. They’ll have expert subject knowledge and insights, and your talking with them face to face could be the most powerful tool of all. If you don’t have existing contacts, ask your friends for theirs or put a call out on social media. A writer recently requested help from munitions experts via the Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLi) Facebook group. Several commenters provided advice and one offered to put her in touch with an expert. If your book's set in the UK, try Consulting Cops or Graham Bartlett, author and crime fiction advisor. Both have teams of law-enforcement experts who'll help you keep your facts straight. Here’s crime writer Julie Heaberlin discussing the importance of researching and feeling comfortable approaching experts, especially to bring deeper layering to her novels:
In a bid to improve relations between the police service and the public, some larger forces now operate ride-along schemes that allow members of the public to patrol with an officer. In the UK, these include Avon & Somerset, Nottinghamshire, Essex, Lincolnshire, Lancashire, Humberside and Warwickshire Police.
Search online using the keywords ‘ride-along police [your country/state/city]’ and see what comes up. Watch and read
How about TV and movies? Your favourite crime dramas and fiction might have been meticulously researched. Then again, they might not. In ‘Five Rules for Writing Thrillers’ David Morrell urges writers to do the research but to use caution:
Morrell talks more about how research makes him ‘a fuller person’ and how he learned to fly in order to create an authentic pilot for his book The Shimmer. The expense of a pilot’s licence will probably be out of reach for the average self-publisher. YouTube could be the solution.
Use Wikipedia
Wikipedia is great for any sleuthing writer wanting to track down information about criminal procedure. Do, however, use the primary sources cited in the references to verify the information. In the online masterclass ‘How to Write a Crime Novel’ Dr Barbara Henderson recommends using at least two sources for internet-verification purposes.
Here are some searches to get you started: Security agencies
MI5 – the UK’s homeland security service
Visit the official site of MI5. There’s information on how it handles covert surveillance, communications interception, and intelligence gathering, plus a brief overview of its history since its creation in 1909. Christopher Andrew’s The Defence of the Realm is the first authorized history of the service. Published by Penguin in 2010, it’s available on Amazon and in major bookstores. Visit The National Archives and type MI5 into the search box. That will give you access to all the files that have been released into the public domain to date. National Crime Agency (UK) The NCA is tasked with protecting UK citizens from organized crime. Its website has articles and reports about cybercrime, money laundering, drugs and firearms seizure, bribery and corruption, and trafficking. I recommend looking at the NCA’s free in-depth but readable reports such as the National Strategic Assessment of Serious and Organised Crime 2018, which outlines threats, vulnerabilities, the impact of technology, and response strategies. MI6 (SIS) – the UK’s secret intelligence service Visit the official website of the SIS to find out how it handles overseas intelligence gathering and covert operations. There’s a brief overview of the service’s history and some vignettes that illustrate how intelligence officers operate. Keith Jeffery’s MI6: The History of the Secret Intelligence Service 1909–1949 is ‘the first – and only – history of the Secret Intelligence Service, written with full and unrestricted access to the closed archives of the Service for the period 1909–1949’. If you want historical information, this is a good place to start. GCHQ – Government Communications Headquarters (UK) The GCHQ website is worth visiting just to see the building from which it operates in Cheltenham! There’s an overview of GCHQ history, operations, its various operational bases, and how it works with Britain’s other security services to manage global threats. For a more in-depth study of the service, start with Richard Aldrich’s GCHQ: The Uncensored Story of Britain's Most Secret Intelligence Agency. FBI – Federal Bureau of Investigation (USA) The FBI’s website is packed with the usual overview material of how and why, but I think the go-to resources are the likes of the free Handbook of Forensic Services, the Terrorist Explosive Device Analytical Center (TEDAC) page, and the training guidance. The easiest way to navigate around the site is to head to the FBI home page and scroll down to the links in the footer. NSA – National Security Agency The NSA website is the place to go for twenty-first-century code-breaking information, and there’s a ton of information about cybersecurity and intelligence. Head for the Publications section to get free access to The Next Wave and various research papers. The material is dense but could be just the ticket for building backstories for cybergeek characters. Police forces
Michael O'Byrne is a former police officer who worked in Hong Kong, and later with the Metropolitan Police (sometimes referred to as New Scotland Yard). Try the second edition of his Crime Writer's Guide to Police Practice and Procedure.
INTERPOL This is the world’s largest police force with nearly 200 member countries. The Expertise section of its website is rammed with useful and readable information on procedure, technical tools, investigative skills, officer training, fugitive investigations, border management and more. UK police forces Police procedure will vary depending on where you live. You can access a list of all UK police force websites here: Police forces, including the British Transport Police, the Central Motorway Policing Group, the Civil Nuclear Constabulary, the Ministry of Defence Police and the Port of Dover Police An Garda Síochána – Ireland’s national police and security service The easiest way to navigate the Garda’s website is to head for the home page and scroll down to the sitemap at the bottom. There you’ll find links to information on policing principles, organizational structure, and the history of the service. The Crime section is particularly strong on terminology and procedure. Legal resources
Lawtons Solicitors’ website has an excellent Knowledge Centre filled with articles on parliamentary acts, offences, criminal charges and police procedure. What are the drug classifications in the UK? and Police Station interviews are just two examples.
Ann Rule’s advice on attending trials is aimed at true-crime writers, but you could use the guidance for fictional inspiration: Breaking Into True Crime: Ann Rule’s 9 Tips for Studying Courtroom Trials. Crown Prosecution Service (UK): The Crown Prosecution Service (CPS) website provides detailed prosecution guidance for criminal justice professionals. It is extremely dense, and so it should be; it wasn’t designed for novelists! See, for example, the section on Core Foundation Principles for Forensic Science Providers: DNA-17 Profiling. Still, there’s a wealth of information there for those prepared to wade through it. Department of Justice (USA): The DOJ site offers guidance on the role of the Attorney General, the organizational structure of the department, lots of statistical information, and maps of federal facilities. Forensics resources
Historical crime writing resources
Weapons research
Summing up
I hope you find these resources useful. I’ve barely been able to scratch the surface, not least because I’m busy trying to book a ride-along with my local bobby! While I sort that out, here’s some wise advice from David Morrell:
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
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:
What to consider
To help you decide whether to plan or pants, consider the following:
Will planning thwart your 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:
Will planning speed up the writing 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’.
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.
Surmounting obstacles
If you’re a pantser, the idea of finding yourself stuck in a hole after months of writing might not terrify you. Lee Child certainly doesn’t let it stop him.
Says Henry Sutton,
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.
How will you plant your clues?
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. 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. 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
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Are you using free indirect speech in your writing? This article provides an overview of what it is and how it can spice up crime fiction and thrillers.
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. It’s also referred to as free indirect style and free indirect discourse.
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:
Let's look at three contrasting third-person narrative styles in action so you can see how free indirect speech works:
Indirect/reported
Direct/quoted
Free indirect speech
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:
Espionage author 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:
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:
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:
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 (psychic) 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.
Example 1
Example 2
Example 3
Example 4
Example 5
Example 6
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:
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. More resources
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Sentence length can affect tension. This post looks at how overwriting can mar the pace of a novel and frustrate a reader, and how less can sometimes be more.
How anxiousness can lead to overwriting
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
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 too 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.
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
If you'd like to access more tips and resources for self-publishers, visit the resource library on my website. Try these in particular:
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Learn about why the word ‘suddenly’ can damage the tension in crime fiction and thrillers unless used judiciously and with intention.
Why some authors struggle to omit ‘suddenly’
There’s one word that great crime and thriller 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:
I’ve grabbed a handful of crime fiction from my own bookshelves, and taken examples from these books to show you 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, where I've made up some examples to show you how that might look on the page.
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. Here are the revised sentences for each scene type, with 'suddenly' removed so you can compare them with the originals above.
Published ‘suddenly’-free examples
Here are some published examples for comparison. None of the authors felt the need to nudge the reader into immediacy.
SHOCK EVENT AND FIGHT
EMOTIONAL SHIFT
UNEXPECTED SOUND
GRISLY ACTION
The Barclay example above 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:
In this made-up example, the inclusion of 'suddenly' gently changes our perspective of Pip’s situation. There's a subtle immediacy to his discomfort that has emerged only now, in that during the seconds before he’d watched but not felt threatened. And so it’s not that 'suddenly' does or doesn’t work. Rather, it depends on the writer’s intention. About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
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.
Setting the scene
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 good 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:
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:
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.
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:
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:
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:
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:
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.
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. 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. More resources
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
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