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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.
In this post
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.
In this post ...
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.
Explore seven effective types of thriller opening lines, and how published novelists are using them to convince their audiences to keep on reading.
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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 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.
In this post
Read on to find out more about:
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.
In this post ...
Read on to find out more about:
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.
Here are 6 tips that will help emerging indie authors make informed decisions about their editing and writing process during NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) and beyond.
1. Understand the different types of editing
Regardless of whether an author’s doing their own editing or working with someone like me, I always advise them to make sure they understand the different levels of editing and the order of play.
The first draft of a book is unlikely to be ready for proofreading. Instead, focus on structure first – so how the story hangs together as a whole. Next comes stylistic line work that focuses on the flow and rhythm of prose. Copyediting comes after that. This is the more technical side of the work that looks at consistency and clarity. Only then is it time for the quality-control stage: proofreading. Writers who want to know more can watch a video, listen to a podcast episode or download a booklet. 
2. Top tools and methods for writers on a budget
To make the most of your budget, focus on the five Cs:
Community Take a look at the Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLi) and the Society of Authors. They’re two fine examples of organizations who are dedicated to supporting writers at different stages of their journey. Membership includes access to free and affordable paid-for events and resources. But they offer something else that’s incredibly valuable too – a network of like-minded people. Trying to make your mark in the publishing world can feel overwhelming, so being able to get advice and inspiration from others on the same journey is priceless. Content There’s a ton of useful – and free – guidance about the craft of writing online, so it’s worth budget-sensitive writers spending time digging around in the search engines. However, those interested in sentence-level guidance can visit my resource library as a first port of call. I also recommend The Creative Penn, a superb knowledge bank through which Joanna Penn guides aspiring authors on how to write, how to get their books published and how to make their work visible. I love Joanna’s genuine and approachable teaching style, and how she makes self-publishing accessible to everyone. Craft books Books are the most affordable way I know of accessing high-quality guidance. There are lots – too many to mention here – but I recommend fiction writers start with The Magic of Fiction by Beth Hill because it pays attention to structure and helps writers create a great first draft. My own Editing Fiction at Sentence Level focuses on line craft that helps writers refine the flow, rhythm, mood, voice and style of their prose. 
For non-fiction writers, Andy Maslen’s Write to Sell is an excellent tool for any content creator who wants to craft a compelling message, something that’s critical for authors when they’re promoting their books.
And Joanna Penn’s How to Write Non-Fiction takes authors step by step through the whole book-creation process – from mindset to marketing and everything else in between. Courses Love learning at your own pace? Online courses are an affordable and convenient way to study in a multimedia environment. There are lots to choose from. For starters, take a look at Joanna Penn’s business-focused author courses, and for craft-based tuition for fiction, try Narrative Distance: A Toolbox for Writers and Editors and Preparing Your Book for Submission, two courses from my own training stable. The National Writing Centre also offers online training that aims to build authors’ confidence. Some of their courses are even free. The NWC also partners with the University of East Anglia to provide more in-depth premium creative-writing courses that come with tutor support. Conscious language Anyone who’s aware of the events surrounding Kate Clanchy’s Some Kids I Taught and What They Taught Me will understand the importance of reviewing their work through the lens of representation. I’m not for a minute suggesting that a work of fiction or non-fiction has to follow a set of prescribed ‘rules’ about what can or can’t be written, but rather that writing means applying the same mindfulness to the words we put on a page as those that come out of our mouths. When we write, we’re building a relationship with our readers, even though we don’t know who most of them are. And so consciously considering whether our words are helping or harming is just good human practice – one that means our books function as we intend them to, whether that’s to teach or to entertain. For authors who want a little more guidance on this, I have a free booklet on inclusive and respectful writing. It doesn’t prescribe, just helps writers make informed decisions. 
3. Manage your first draft appropriately
The first draft isn’t usually something that should be sent to an editor. More often, the first draft is where the author lays down the story just as it comes.
Once that’s done, put the book away – just let it sit for a while – then revisit it and decide what’s working and what isn’t, what needs refining, amplifying or deleting. Perhaps follow Sophie Hannah and Jeffery Deaver’s lead and create detailed outlines that help keep you on track even at first-draft stage. You can read more about Hannah’s method in ‘Why and how I plan my novels’. If you do decide to work with an editor, invest time in finding someone who’s a great fit for you: someone who gets you and is engaged with what you’re doing with your writing. That person should also be offering the right level of editing (see 1. Understand the different types of editing). And tell them if you’re nervous about being edited; it’s perfectly normal to feel that way. Just bear in mind that they’re on your side and are working for you, for your book and for your reader! 4. Understand the difference between style, convention and peevery
I'm sometimes asked: 'What’s your biggest writing pet peeve as an editor?' My answer is: There’s no room for pet peeves in professional editing – or at least there shouldn’t be.
Do I have preferences? I do – everyone does – but that’s all they are and they have no business in the work that editors do for their clients. Our job is to focus on a client’s goals, the world of their story, and the readers who’ll come along for the journey. There are stylistic and grammatical conventions in writing, and a professional editor should understand those and be mindful of them, but editing requires a malleable mindset that respects voice and rhythm as much as anything else. It’s about sense and sensibility, not prescriptivism and pedantry. Listen right here to this collection of episodes from The Editing Podcast on language, grammar and style: 5. Recognize the pros and cons of being your own publisher
The main advantage of being an indie author is that you get to control everything.
The main disadvantage is … you get to control everything! You’re the publisher as well as the writer, which means you decide which books to write and publish, what the cover will look like, which levels of editorial help to commission, which channels to distribute your book through, what the price will be, what formats the book will be available in, and how your promotion strategy will play out. That’s a lot of work – work that costs you time and money. Publishers will do some of it for you. Still, that will come at a cost because you’ll be taking a royalty that’s likely lower than the return from selling direct. Being your own publisher isn’t everyone’s wheelhouse, but for those who want to be in control, there’s never been a better time to wear that hat because of all the technical solutions available to authors. Any writer can use Amazon. It’s the biggest bookstore on the planet. But you might want to sell direct via your website, too, because that’s your very own shop window. Platforms like Payhip and BookFunnel have made that possible, and it’s made it easy … not just for you but for your customers too. And for authors who are not only writing but also teaching about writing, there are multiple platforms that support that too – LearnDash (Wordpress plugin), LearnWorlds and Teachable for example. 6. Take control of cramped and communal work spaces
Having a dedicated work space means you're not shifting two large monitors and a hard drive off the dinner table every evening. For those working from home, having a place where your business ‘lives’ helps you separate writing from family life.
I realize that everyone’s situation is different, but I hope at least one of the following tips will speak to anyone trying to carve out a dedicated work space.
Summing up
There’s a lot to think about when you decide to become your own publisher – not just what you write but also who supports you during that process, the ways you’ll invest in developing your craft and how to manage the space in which your books are written.
You’re not alone. There’s a ton of help available to help you … whatever your budget and whatever subject or genre you’re writing in. These 6 tips barely scratch the surface, but I hope they at least inspire you to take the next steps of your indie-author journey with confidence. 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.
Here’s why it’s worth paying attention to the length of your novel whether you’re publishing independently or submitting to an agent with the aim of securing a publishing contract.
What determines word count?
Guidance on word counts differs according to:
The infographic below provides a very rough guide to word counts – lower and upper limits and a midpoint. These align with publishing convention. And these are conventions rather than rules, which is why the ranges are rather wide for some genres. 
Economics: Printing costs
Pages cost money. KDP says: ‘Printing costs vary depending on page count and ink type (black ink or color ink). Trim size, bleed settings, and cover finish don’t affect printing cost.’
Bear in mind, however, that your chosen trim size will affect the number of words you or your designer fits on a page and therefore the page count, which in turn will affect printing costs. It’s therefore worth experimenting with different trim sizes and interior designs if you’re going down the print-on-demand route. There’ll be an optimal design that offers the desired aesthetic for your budget. Approximate calculations are available via the KDP print cost calculator. If you’re printing in bulk with your own printer, there might be economies of scale on offer for larger print runs. Talk to the supplier and your formatter about how to keep costs down by tweaking the interior design without impacting on readability. Economics: Editing costs
Generally, the more words in a book, the more each stage of editing will cost. Line editing 80K words will take perhaps a week longer than line editing 50K words.
If you’re working with a pro editor, remember to factor your word count into your chosen editor’s fee structure. Expectations: Audience sweet spots
Readers have expectations. Back when my child was four, I expected the picture books I read for them to be shorter than the thrillers I read to myself.
And I don’t mind digging into 100K words or so for Baldacci because his books are quite detailed. Sue Grafton’s Alphabet mystery series has a different feel to it and I’ve come to expect a quicker read – around the 55–75K-word mark. And if you're self-publishing, consider this from the IngramSpark blog: ‘With less time available for reading, it makes sense that readers want to get to the last page quicker. The trend for the past few years has been to publish books with less than 200 pages on average, or around 50,000 words’ (Self-publishing Trends 2018–2019). Expectations: Agents and publishers
Agents want to sell books to publishers, and publishers want to sell books to readers.
Hitting an industry-standard isn’t about word count in itself. It’s about ensuring that the story is told with enough words, and only enough words so that readers are engaged. Paying attention to word-count conventions reduces an author’s chances of ending up in a slush pile because there aren't red flags indicating overwriting if the novel is huge, and undeveloped story if the book's shorter than standard. Why word counts help authors focus on quality
If you’re self-publishing, you’re in control. You might decide your thriller needs to be 130K words. If every word drives the story forward and holds the reader’s attention, great.
When the book's too long If, however, 20K words are cluttering adverbs and adverbial phrases that could be removed or replaced with stronger verbs, the novel’s length isn’t serving the reader. Or perhaps there are 30K words of laboured stage direction – detail that describes every mundane movement a character makes to remove themselves from a car, climb a flight of stairs, or move from one room to another. Often, nudges that enable the reader to make sense of space and place are enough. Readers don’t count words, but they will start skimming over them if the prose isn’t tight. And so even if your first draft has X,000 words, use the revision stage to consider what needs to be removed or tweaked. When the book's too short If your novel’s word count is substantially lower than industry conventions, consider what might be missing. There could be structural issues such as a too predictable plot, undeveloped character arcs, or too few obstacles. There could also be opportunities to show rather than tell a scene so that the narrative distance decreases and the reader is drawn deeper into character experience. The difference between word count and page count
When it comes to novel length, bear in mind that page counts are affected by design (e.g. trim size, margin size, font size, layout) whereas word counts are determined by story alone.
Pro formatters can adjust the page count of a printed book by tweaking the design, though there are limitations. No reader will be convinced that they’re holding an 80K-work crime novel just because 50K words are set in a Times New Roman 18. On the other hand, if you’ve written 100K words aimed at the middle-grade market (8–12 years), you’d be wise to reduce the word count considerably rather than asking your designer to make your book look shorter by squeezing more words on each page! Furthermore, when it comes to ebooks, there’s no such thing as a standard page because the reader controls how much text appears on the screen. Ebooks lengths are therefore measured in kilobytes (KB), not pages. Summing up
It’s a cliché but a good story is as long as it needs to be. Longer novels shouldn’t be longer because they haven’t been edited, and shorter novels shouldn’t be shorter because the story is insufficiently fleshed out.
Pay attention to word counts as part of an evaluation process that ensures the words that need to be on the page are on the page, and those that needn’t be there are removed. That way, your story will be in the best shape for your readers. Related resources for authors
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.
Novels and screenplays are two very different art forms. When a story is presented to a reader as if it were something being watched in a cinema or on TV, the book begins to wobble.
Great screenwriters can be great novelists, but being the former doesn’t guarantee the latter.
Description and dialogue
When a novelist approaches their story as if it’s going to be watched, the narrative and dialogue can become overwritten.
In TV shows and movies, characters do lots of quite mundane things – walking into and out of rooms, opening and shutting doors, scratching their heads, putting the kettle on, wringing their hands, frowning, standing up, sitting down, walking over to windows and gazing out of them, picking up tea cups or beer bottles and taking a sip or a slug. They say hello and goodbye, and hmm, mmm, er, um and aah as they talk to each other and themselves. All this stuff happens quickly and provides a backdrop to the main action and dialogue. Sometimes there’ll be a backing track to assist with mood creation. Some of that mundane stuff can go into a novel, but when it’s replicated in full it can be tedious to read and does nothing to drive the novel forward. Example: taut description and dialogue in a novel Here’s a scene from Harlan Coben’s Don’t Let Go (Penguin Random House, 2017, p. 201). There are 122 words.
Example: description and dialogue in a screenplay If we were watching that on TV, we’d be shown a great deal more.
In his book, Coben omits almost all of that. Instead, he lets the reader do the work. Good choice because all that stage direction would be boring to read. It could take a page to get through it all, maybe two, and none of it would drive the novel forward. He gives us just enough to imagine the setting in our mind’s eye, then gets down to business with the interesting elements of the story. He and we know that no one’s walking through doors spectre-like; they need to be opened and shut. No one’s leaving the car running; the engine will be switched off. And natural speech invariably includes noise and pause. Example: overwriting in a novel Here’s my mangled example of how that might have looked if the detail of the screen version had been written into the novel. There are 421 words.
Word dump
Writers who choose to write novels for viewers rather than readers risk adding ten, maybe twenty thousand words to their books that don’t need to be in there. I’m not advocating removing description; I’m advocating writing for the page. That means making sure that the description is relevant rather than suffocating, enriching rather than boring. If you have pages of characters making small talk about how they take their coffee over the noise the kettle’s making, that small talk needs to be central to the plot. So does the whistle of the kettle. And if it takes 500 words to get your character out of their car, there needs to be a reason for that. If that information is just filler, give your reader the nudges they need and dump the rest into a box for when you write the screenplay version. Your director will the delighted!
Viewpoint characters
Viewpoint can unravel when a novelist approaches their story like a screenwriter.
When a novelist selects a viewpoint character for a section or chapter of their book, the reader will experience the story through that character’s perspective – what they see, smell, hear, touch and think. Viewpoint characters allow the reader to immerse themselves in the moment, and for that reason they’re tremendously enriching. Example: viewpoint on the screen Imagine watching this short scene on TV:
Example: confused viewpoint in a novel What some beginner writers do is render the scene in a way that partially mimics the screen version. That’s because they’re familiar with how stories are presented on the TV or in film.
The problem is that there are multiple viewpoints that force the reader to bounce from one character’s experience to another. We never invest in Matt, Adriana or John because as soon as we try to immerse ourselves in the experience of one of those people, we’re dragged into the head of another.
The result is a wonky hybrid of novel and screenplay. We know what everyone’s doing, thinking and seeing. It rips out the tension and destroys the structure of the scene. Example: singular immersive viewpoint in a novel If, however, the writer commits to the viewpoint of one character, the prose is very different. In this version, we lose John completely. Adriana is visible but only from Matt’s perspective. We don’t have access to her thoughts, only what Matt thinks might be going on in her head based on what he knows, sees and hears. It’s shorter, certainly, but the tension is back and the writing is tighter.
Summing up
If you’re at the start of your writing journey, take care to craft words for the page, not for the screen. Keep the boring stuff out, even if it’s realistic. You’ll reduce your wordcount but enhance reader engagement.
Look to books written by your favourite novelists for inspiration on how to build a beautiful page, rather than the Netflix adaptations. Your writing will be all the better for it, I promise. 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.
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.
What is flash fiction and can its creation make us better writers and better editors?
In July 2018, I wrote my first piece of flash fiction and submitted it to the Noirwich Crime Writing Festival’s flash fiction competition. Here’s what I learned. 
What is flash fiction?
Think of a tiny story that packs a large wallop … that’s flash fiction. It’s not always called that. Some call it micro fiction, others nano fiction. I’ve also heard it called the shortie, short-short and postcard fiction.
How long is it? There’s no consensus other than it’s short ... very short. Some types of flash fiction have established word counts – the dribble with 50 words, the drabble with 100 words, and Twitterature – no more than 280 characters. If Twitterature seems like a challenge, imagine writing it when the character-count limitation was 140! So what are the key components and what can they teach writers of longer-form fiction? 1. Brevity – making every word count
Keeping things tight is one of the biggest challenges faced by many of the beginner novelists I work with.
Overwriting usually occurs because the author hasn’t yet learned to trust their reader. Will that single adjective be enough? Maybe another sentence that says a similar thing would be in order, just for clarification … Often, it’s not a reflection of a writer’s ability to write, but about confidence. Getting the balance right comes with experience and not a little courage. A line editor can help with overwriting – they bring fresh eyes to the book, and can advise on what can safely be removed without damaging flow, sense, rhythm and tension, and in a way that respects style and voice. Flash fiction helps writers practise the art of precision in the extreme. And when it comes to self-editing your novel, you can ask yourself this: ‘If this were a short story and my word count was restricted, is this the way I’d construct this sentence?’ The answer might be ‘No, but I’d be missing an opportunity to enrich the narrative and the dialogue in a way that’s best for my book.’ That’s a great answer. Still, the flash fiction writer is forced to be disciplined, and when it comes to writing longer works, that discipline will get you used to thinking in terms of making sure every word counts, and comfortable with removing those that don’t. A limited word count also encourages writers to experiment with literary devices such as free indirect speech, sentence fragments, action beats, and asyndeton, all of which can facilitate brevity but enrich tension, immediacy, mood and rhythm. 2. Structure – shaping the story
Stories need structure. No writer wants to get to the end of their novel only to realize that the denouement occurred ten chapters earlier. Sophie Hannah calls it ‘story architecture’, which I think is both a practical and a beautiful way of thinking about how a writer helps their readers experience a novel.
There are different ways to shape stories but the most common is the three-act structure. First, the beginning or hook that draws us in. Second, the middle where the confrontation takes place. This is where we come to understand the characters’ motivations and the conflict or obstacles in their way. Third, is the end where the denouement or resolution occurs. Says Julia Crouch, ‘If you have any storytelling bones in you at all, you will more than likely, even subconsciously, end up with a structure like this.’ How does flash fiction help? Do you even need to worry about structure when you’re writing such a short piece of work? Absolutely! No one will enjoy an 80,000-word novel that’s poorly structured. The same applies to 800 words. The only difference is that with flash fiction they’ll lose interest quicker. Flash fiction is a story form in its own right. It’s not about pulling an excerpt from a longer-form piece of writing. Flash must have structure – a beginning, a middle and an end. Something must happen to someone or something, and readers must leave the story feeling satisfied, that the story is complete, that they’ve been on a journey, albeit a short one. Without structure, it will descend into nothing more than an extract. Perhaps flash is akin to poetry – squeezing big ideas into small spaces. That too, though, is good practice for the novelist, because it encourages writers to think about the discipline of shaping, and the journey that the reader will be taken on. 3. Strong endings – surprises and twists
There’s nothing more disappointing than a book that hooks you into turning page after page only to sag into a giant anti-climax.
‘Endings are so important to the reader and you will never please everyone,’ says Nicola Morgan. ‘Readers do want the end to feel “right”, though. They have spent time with these characters and they care what happens to them.’ How and when novelists decide to tie up all or most of the loose ends will depend on style, genre, and whether the book is part of a series, but there must be some sort of closure so that your readers aren’t left hanging. Flash fiction is a challenge to write, but it’s a challenge to read too, particularly for those who love to get stuck into a world and the characters who move around within it. It’s therefore an excellent format in which to practice packing a final punch, even if that amounts to just one or two sentences. This form of writing also allows writers to play with readers’ expectations of resolution in quirky ways. You might decide to evoke a laugh, or a shudder, or shock, or a sense of poignancy, but the reader should feel something such that even though you’ve only written a few hundred words the story is memorable. Below are some additional tips that you might consider if writing flash fiction appeals. Flash fiction tip #1: Seek immediacy
Consider your choice of tense.
At the time of writing, I’ve written eight flash fiction stories, none of more than 900 words. In all but two I instinctively opted for the present tense. I didn’t notice my predilection until I reread them one after the other. It made me reconsider the two I’d framed in the past tense. I decided to see what would happen if I changed them. I learned something. My narrative tension loses its piquancy when I write in the past. That’s not to say I wouldn’t use the past if I were writing a novel. However, for flash fiction, there’s no time to lose! I’m trying to close the distance between the reader and the viewpoint character so that the former is quickly immersed in the tiny world I’ve built. The opposite might be true for you; there are no rules. But if your flash is flagging, don’t be afraid to experiment with tense and evaluate the impact. Flash fiction tip #2: Characters and viewpoint
Given the space available, keep the story tight by sticking to one viewpoint character.
It’s easier to create immersion if you allow readers to get under the skin of a single person’s experience. That doesn’t mean there can’t be other characters in the frame, just that we see these others through the viewpoint character’s eyes. You’ll likely need to omit anything about the character that isn’t necessary to drive the story forward. Novels include descriptions of the characters’ appearance and personality so that we can better visualize them and understand their motivations. With flash, consider focusing only on those unique physical and emotional traits that nudge the reader towards the big reveal. Flash fiction tip #3: Tap into the mundane
Play the what-if game. Take an object, or place, or personality attribute of someone you know, and ask what the story might be in another universe.
What if that old door in your friend’s hallway didn’t really go to the downstairs loo? What if that scribble you found on the inside of a library book had a more sinister connotation? What if your neighbour wasn’t quite who you believed them to be? What if your best mate’s boring job was just a cover story? Sometimes the most wonderful clues to the theme of a shortie are hidden in plain sight. The editor turned fiction writer – lessons learned
Writing and editing are two very different arts. I don’t believe that a good fiction editor must be a fiction writer. I do, however, think we need to understand the core components of fiction writing and what makes a book work, and be able to place ourselves in the shoes of the author and the reader.
Still, I’m (now) one of many fiction editors who also write fiction. Some of my colleagues have publishing contracts. Some are self-publishers. Some have agents, while others are seeking representation. Some of us write our fiction purely for pleasure. There are many roads, but we all agree on one thing: it has been good for us to sit on the other side of the desk – to be the writer, to be the one being edited. 
Louise reading 'Zeppelin'. Crime writer Elizabeth Haynes looks on.
The short story I wrote for Noirwich 2018 was a challenge for two reasons:
The amazing thing is that I made the final shortlist of three. That, however, presented a new challenge. I was invited to Noirwich Live where the winner would be announced by New York Times bestseller Elizabeth Haynes. Would I read my story ‘Zeppelin’ to a roomful of people, mostly complete strangers? The audience comprised fellow amateur writers, teachers of creative writing, published writers including Haynes, Merle Nygate and Andrew Hook, and most important of all, my daughter Flo and dear friend Rachel. My knees might have been trembling as I took to the floor, but I got the job done and thought about what I’d learned from the experience. Sharing takes courage Writing fiction is one thing; sharing it with others is quite another. Even tiny fiction like mine. For some of us, it takes courage, especially when massive doses of newbie impostor syndrome are flowing through one’s veins. And this is exactly how many of my author clients feel. Sometimes I’m the first person on the planet to see their work when they’re done with it. My experience enhanced my already deep respect for them, because now I know how it feels to share my fiction with others. Editing is an honour My own small venture has taught me what a privilege it is to be chosen by an author to edit for them. When they choose me or one of my colleagues, they take a leap of faith. They place trust in us to treat their words with respect and help them move forward towards their publishing goals. Fiction is intimate The nine stories I’ve written to date are really short. I’m at the beginning of my fiction writing journey. I have a lot to learn. But those stories are precious to me. Every one of them contains a bit of me, or of someone I care about, or someone or something that has made a mark on me in some way. They are not fact, but they are not completely made up either, and that infuses them with a level of intimacy. In other words, fiction writing is personal. It’s important that the fiction editor takes all of that into their editing studio and remembers it at every touchpoint of the project – an amendment, a query, a summary – and never forgets to say thank you. 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.
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.
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.
Lisa Poisso explains how an editor or book coach can teach you new ideas and techniques, and help you begin the journey of mastering novel craft right from the get-go ... if you're prepared to embrace a growth mindset.
When it’s time to reach for growth
I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m not very good. Will you fix my book? If this sounds like the way you tiptoed into your first professional edit, you’re due for a new mindset. An edit is a creative opportunity begging to burst open and drench you with new ideas and techniques.
There’s no better time to reach for growth than when you’re first starting out. You’ll hear a lot of publishing types claim that debut authors need to put in their dues. Write, they tell you, and fail. Write more, and fail again. That’s the apprenticeship process – or so they say. But it doesn’t have to be that way. Hiring an editor or writing coach can be a smart way to accelerate your learning curve. It’s all about the way you and your editor approach your edit. Are you feeding your writing with a fixed mindset or a growth mindset? The growth mindset
If you’re a first-time author, your debut novel isn’t likely to hit it big. You know that. Editors know that. So you might tell yourself that there’s no sense in paying for a professional edit until readers start buying your books and ‘it really matters'.
The problem is this: if your book isn’t very good and nobody wants to buy it, when will it really matter? Enter a new mindset about developing your craft. The fixed mindset, a term developed by Stanford University professor Carol Dweck, keeps your feet stuck to the same two dusty patches of dirt you’ve been standing on for years. With a fixed mindset, you accept that you possess finite abilities capped at a specific level. Editing is about propping up your shortcomings and repairing your inevitable mistakes. But editors can help you achieve so much more. Your editor can show you how to structure a compelling story, beef up the elements that drive your plot, solidify your language, and polish your writing voice. You’ll make strides it might have taken years to struggle through on your own. But that won’t happen unless you decide that developing your craft is worth the time, money, and effort. It won’t happen until you agree that you’re ready to grow. Your first novel; your first edit
A first novel is a learning experience. Authors call them ‘practice novels’ or ‘trunk novels'. They write their hearts out and then lock the results deep inside a file cabinet or trunk. The results aren’t all that different from the canvases artists create to experiment with and practise new techniques. They’re not meant for public consumption.
Good on you for finishing your first manuscript. A complete novel is a tremendous achievement – but it’s unlikely that this first effort will become a bestseller. So start writing the next one. If you really want to make a go of this writing thing, you’ll need more than one good idea in a lifetime, right? Whip up the next concept and get it simmering. Meanwhile, seek feedback on the first manuscript from a writing partner or critique group. Give yourself the space to learn as you go rather than pinning all your hopes and ambitions on a single beginner’s effort. And then when you’ve finally written something your test readers and critique partners are giving you good feedback about, consider a professional edit. The learning curve
You could keep plugging away for years, feeding book after book to your writer’s trunk. You might gain some confidence and make some incremental progress. But without professional feedback, you might not be able to figure out which parts of your story work and which don’t. You might not be able to spot what passages show a distinctive authorial voice and what parts are still mushy.
At some point, it’s time for professional eyes. Send your manuscript to a few editors for a professional assessment. You’re not hiring anyone yet; you’re not paying for a critique or evaluation. All you want is that initial handshake. Every editor performs some sort of brief survey of new projects to help them decide if the project and type of work required falls within their wheelhouse. Ask the editor to flip through, take a peek at a few spots, and see if your work is ready for editing. What strengths and weaknesses do they spot? What kind of editing do they recommend? Would they take you on as a client or do they have other recommendations? If the results are encouraging, use the feedback you’ve gathered to help you choose a compatible editor. It’s time for some editing. A learning experience
Even a routine, production-oriented edit is a learning experience. But when you hire an editor who enjoys working with authors bent on growth and improvement, an edit becomes something else altogether: an intense, one-on-one workshop in storytelling and writing.
I like to compare your motivations for an edit to the motivations you create for the characters in your story. Your characters’ external, conscious motivations wrap around their secret, unconscious motivations – and the same goes for you. Polishing your manuscript for publication might be your conscious motivation, but with a growth mindset, you’ll come to realize that the real value of an edit lies in the substantial leaps you can make toward mastering your craft. Professional editing is no guarantee that your novel will be publishable in the end. But if you’ve chosen a qualified professional, you can count on acquiring invaluable insights into your writing technique. You can count on a growth experience. What’s your writing worth to you?
I’m constantly astounded by the number of new writers who don’t believe that writing is worth the level of commitment any serious hobbyist would give their hobby.
A recreational cyclist can easily drop thousands every year on bicycles, riding gear, event and travel fees, club and periodical subscriptions, and more. A collector of anything? The expenditures are obvious. But when it comes to writing, people somehow feel guilty about spending money on classes or craft books or editing to help them develop their passion. Just think how conflicted they must feel if they’re also harbouring hopes of getting published. Somehow, they have to go from beginner to professional with no help – and at no cost. Is a professional edit still worth it even if your book never gets any bites from an agent or sells more than 50 copies on Amazon? If using your manuscript to spring to a new level of skill ignites your creative jets, you’re ready to invest in yourself. You’re ready to turn a growth mindset into growth. It’s that simple. See you on the other side of the edit. About Lisa Poisso
With over thirty years as a writer and editor, Lisa Poisso has edited and coached developing journalists, content writers and bloggers. She's worked as a journalist, magazine editor, managing editor, corporate communications manager, content writer, foreign language and j-school tutor and communications consultant.
Now, she works exclusively with emerging authors and publishers of fiction, teaching theory and practice and helping writers discover strategies and technique that they can use for the rest of their writing career. |
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