On Writing, Part XII — Sins: Feeding the Ego and Other Unsavory Acts

Before you write that first crime fiction novel consider a few things. What follows is the twelfth and final article in a series about what you might want to consider as you first put pen to paper or fingers on the keyboard.

Mea Culpa. There is no writing sin that I have not committed sometime before this, and should I live long enough, will no doubt commit all them again sometime in the future. If you write for a living, you will too. But that’s no excuse for not trying to eliminate them from your daily routine. As I mentioned in an earlier article, that beautiful but unnecessary paragraph on page 22 may have to go. So might that bit of poetry on page 211. There will be many blows to your ego.

Yet, one has to acknowledge that without a certain level of ego, it’s difficult to continue. When you check Amazon rankings to discover that your book is now 2,456,512^th on the list of best-selling books, it might be hard to keep your spirits up. But up you must keep them (let’s hear it for a little sentence structure freedom).

And reviews? Frankly I believe one in twenty writers who say they don’t read reviews of their work. But if you do — and you will — use the reviewer as you would any critical reader. Read the review critically. Was the criticism specific? “The secondary characters lacked depth,” for example, is relatively specific. Maybe that’s something you should think about. “The book lacked excitement,” is personal but not very specific. Maybe the reviewer just doesn’t like the kind of books you write and doesn’t know how to separate personal preferences from the real question: did you successfully accomplish what you set out to do?

You might have said something in one of your books — or one of your characters might have said something — that really put off the reviewer. Reviewers are human and fallible just as we are. I was once criticized for one of my characters saying something unflattering about Jack Kerouac. On the other hand, I have felt that there were times when the reviewer had been charitable — that perhaps their familiarity with my characters moved their wavering thumbs slightly up rather than down. Just as you shouldn’t take glowing reviews as unequivocal proof of your literary genius, don’t let a few knocks keep you on the mat.

Because you are a mystery writer, does that mean you are only sort of a writer? I once attended a Private Eye Writers of America annual get-together. In the course of leaving the buffet area, plate in hand, I was invited to sit down with a couple of writers I knew of, more than I knew. They were both seriously credentialed, talented veterans of the genre. Though I suspect I was actually older, I felt a bit junior in their company.

At some point, one of them asked why I decided to write mysteries. Not particularly used to using words without a keyboard at the tip of my fingers, I responded by saying: “Because I couldn’t write….” Before I could find the next word, they were laughing. What I had implied, having gone momentarily adrift mentally, was that I believed it took no writing talent to create mysteries — that it is something we do because we cannot write “literary” fiction. Just so it isn’t left there, the rest of the explanation, probably unheard because of the laughter, was that my attempts to write other kinds of novels had been difficult because with so much freedom in the form I wandered about on all sorts of tangents (as I am now). Without some form of discipline I could write forever but complete nothing. I found that having some rules helped me write. My initial foray into mysteries was to submit to the St. Martin’s Best First Novel Competition. This gave me some rules. So many words, completed by such and such a date — specific goals. Also, inherent in mysteries, there are expectations, such as creating and solving a puzzle, which is what most novelists do, “literary” or otherwise, but one that required doing it in a less abstract fashion.

However, despite my long tangent, the point is relatively simple — there is no such thing as a literary novel as a separate art form from the mystery novel or science fiction. There are books that seem to transcend what preceded them, that take us to new places, show us new things, allow us to think in new ways. Some are so good they will be read for the next thousand years. Most not. They might even involve a murder or two.

Odds are that you and I are not going to create that kind of classic. But it doesn’t mean we are not writers and that we cannot aspire to that goal. And it means that if we truly want to write, while we will keep our minds open, we can learn from, but will not be held hostage by, all the noise that surrounds us.

On Writing — Part XI, Publishers, Agents and Publicists

Before you write that first crime fiction novel consider a few things. What follows is the eleventh in a series of short articles about what you might want to consider as you put pen to paper or fingers on the keyboard.

The sad truth that most new writers are surprised to discover is that finding an agent is as difficult as finding a publisher. Any agent worth his or her salt is picky. They get paid when they sell a book. They are not likely to spend a lot of time with writers they don’t believe are marketable or with manuscripts that require work before they are sellable. And one can’t really fault them. They have to earn a living.

You should understand that. They are not, primarily, there to help you.

What agents have brought to the equation is damn near a requirement. Unless you are established, most publishers will not even entertain the idea of your manuscript unless it has been through a recognized agent. Why? For many reasons. For one, an agent is an unpaid filter. If they send schlock to publishers, they won’t last long. So a good agent will gain the trust of acquisition editors. A book they suggest will at least get read. Also, a good agent has good connections. They know who buys what. They are also in touch with the marketplace, understand when the publishing community goes batty over vampires or Swedish authors and cold over serial killers in Omaha and detectives who also happen to be archangels. Also, they know — and you should know — that publishers don’t want to deal with the petty, whiney demands writers may make or the hurt feelings when that particularly beautiful chapter about lilies of the valley has to be cut. Publishers don’t want to spend hours talking to a writer, who has yet to sell one book, about why the cover should have a dachshund featured prominently. The agent often takes the heat from both sides.

Both the agent and the publisher are engaged in a business. And whether you like it or not, or want to be or not, so are you. So when that day comes and you get an agent and/or a publisher, don’t let that happy drug that washes over your brain keep you from reading sub paragraph 302(a) in the agent contract indicating that you may be liable for photo copy costs and messenger fees. The same goes for contracts with the publisher. READ every single word.

The unfortunate truth is that you have little power as an unknown writer. But there’s really no excuse for not understanding the exact limits of your power and a cold, hard acceptance of that reality before signing your name to an agreement that could affect you for years.

Finally, don’t confuse the roles of agents, publishers and publicists. It is not the agent’s job to promote you to the public. Also, unless it is in the contract — and it isn’t — there isn’t a word about the publisher doing ANYTHING to promote or advertise your book. They might. They might not. Chances are if you want your book promoted, you will have to do it yourself or hire it done. And now you are back at square one. If you hire a publicist, you will have to sign a contract and you will have to read every word. Unlike having your house painted the end product is not likely to be clearly defined. In the case of a publicist’s work, one might be able to measure the effort, but they will not guarantee results because they cannot guarantee results. If your book doesn’t sell despite your PR expenditure, you will have no argument against theirs: “We did the best we could.”

To contradict my earlier cautions regarding a community of writers (though I stick to them regarding the act of writing), being able to communicate with your peers can be very helpful in such practical matters as contracts, copyrights and picking a publicist. Joining such organizations as Mystery Writers of America (they have chapters all over the US) and/or Sisters in Crime might be a great way to gain greater insight into mystery writing as a business as well as a passion.

Even if you get by the gatekeepers, you might not be allowed in. What do you do? Easy, if you are a writer, you keep writing until your scrawny, bony, wrinkled fingers can no longer tap out your name as author.

The image is the Mystery Writers of America logo.

On Writing, Part X — The Other Taboos, Politics & Religion

Before you write that first crime fiction novel consider a few things. What follows is the tenth in a series of short articles about what you might want to consider as you put pen to paper or fingers on the keyboard.

Over the years I’ve attended a number of writers’ panels. And I can’t count the times I’ve heard a mystery writer say: “If you want to send a message, call Western Union,” Loosely translated, it means: “Don’t preach.” I agree — for the most part.

It is an understatement to say that your protagonist is likely to be against murder and kidnapping of innocents and corruption in general. There is widespread adherence to the notion of genuine law and order as well as the so-called Judeo-Christian ethic even among those who prefer not to think of themselves as law and order types, or Christians, for that matter. But we send messages whether we want to or not.

To the extent that the message you send is little more than a propaganda statement for your belief system, the Western Union warning is apt if slightly anachronistic. On the other hand, when writing about crime, aren’t we writing about, in some fashion, right and wrong? Or more to the point, good and evil? Is there any kind of book available in the marketplace innately more about politics and religion than crime fiction?

Many writers, except those whose goals are to simply create wonderfully clever puzzles, set their dramas in as real a world as they can manufacture. And those of us who attempt to create real worlds do so from a world view, maybe an accurate one, maybe not. Who’s to say? It’s a personal world view. And that is my point. We cannot help but drag our political and religious beliefs into our writing. What we must be wary of is letting them lead. For a reader, it is still the story and the characters. It is still the suspense and the sense of place. If telling a good story takes a backseat to creating advocates or followers of certain political or religious outlooks, it is doubtful you have a good book. You might as well have written a manual. However, if your view of the world is subtly and well-woven into a fine story, then you may have created a real winner, perhaps a book that is not only enjoyable to read but also worthy of discussion.

Not too incidentally, when I was young and in high school getting my heavy, mandatory dose of Western European literature, we spent a huge chunk of the time with the plays of George Bernard Shaw. What I admired most about his writing was that he gave the “bad” guy not only most of the good lines, but also a very convincing argument in support of his evil ways. If nothing else, Shaw made wrestling with the devil a fascinating challenge. We must do the same whether it is because of or despite the message.

On Writing, Part IX — Brand Names & Ethics

Before you write that first crime fiction novel consider a few things. What follows is the ninth in a series of short articles about what you might want to consider as you put pen to paper or fingers on the keyboard.

From time to time, I’ve been chastised for using brand names in my writing. I often identify the brand of beer, the make of car and, where I can make positive or at least neutral observations about the place, the name of the restaurant where the characters dine. For me, what a person chooses in his or her life helps define the character of the person I’m describing. For example, one of my characters in the San Francisco series, Noah Lang, drives a beat-up, old Mercedes. Here is a man who likes quality but can’t afford it. His specific choice — it’s kind of ratty looking — suggests that he really doesn’t care what other people think about him. He is comfortable with who he is. I could have said that he drives a “beat-up, old luxury car.” But I want to help the reader come to terms quickly. What if I used the generic “luxury car,” the reader rightfully thinks, “Could be an old Cadillac.” Well, no, that wouldn’t do what I want the description to do. I like old Cadillacs, but they are big and showy. Old Mercedes aren’t, and neither is the character.

I can tell you I’ve never received a penny for naming a product, never so much as a free cup of coffee for mentioning a restaurant. Most writers pass through life anonymously — especially those of us who live well below the New York Times bestseller list. No one knows who I am. However, in an era of paid product placement, I can’t blame a reader for being suspicious of brand names appearing in the story. And it is possible to write by saying “she lit a cigarette,” or “he jumped in his convertible,” and get the job done. But truthfully, did anyone else wince when it showed James Bond driving a BMW? Could Rockford have driven a Chevette? A woman wearing a Hermes scarf or a man driving a Dodge Ram provides more telling glimpses of those character’s lives than using either the simple “scarf” or “pickup truck” or a dozen adjectives. Using a brand name can be an effective shortcut and make it real to the reader.

Again, there are no rules, only choices. A reader might have a greater sense of the timelessness of the story if those kinds of specifics are spared. Twenty years from now there may be no such thing as a Blackberry. Culturally, though, might it not be particularly rich for the writer to reflect the times with greater specificity? And would the potentially banned brand name require writers to replace Blackberry with “a versatile communications device?"

On Writing, Part VIII — The Scalpel or the Ladle

Before you write that first crime fiction novel consider a few things. What follows is the eighth in a series of short articles about what you might want to consider as you put pen to paper or fingers on the keyboard.

Personally, I believe less is more when it comes to writing. Then again, am I really going to critique Proust? So, this is another one of those diatribes that likely ends in a whimper not a bang, with a wishy-washy “do what feels right.”

Even so, there are some simple rules that I think even the most descriptive writers would endorse. Use concrete descriptors. Unless they are used to define the character out of whose mouth the words flow, such adjectives as “lovely,” or “fantastic” or “pretty” are useless. They are much like empty calories — no nutritional value. They are there. The reader’s mind must process them, but they add nothing to anything. On the other hand, a word like “yellow” conveys meaning. So does “oblong” or “corduroy.”

How much description is necessary? I have no idea. I’m a fan of the stark prose of Paul Bowles. Certainly descriptions are necessary to establish mood, provide a sense of time and place, and differentiate characters, etc. But, writers who spend a paragraph describing a doorknob drive me up the wall. Of course, the problem is that what bores the hell out of me may magically entertain someone else. The answer lies in your style, your voice. My suggestion is to make sure they (the descriptions) do something — advance the plot, develop the character(s) or provide some level of meaningful context. And sometimes, I admit, more is more. While a character might appropriately say, “she’s a lovely little thing,” the storyteller might prefer. “She’s the size of a toy poodle, pale as cream with bones so delicate she might break if grasped too forcefully” — or something of that nature (I may have been carried away).

The “he said, she said,” debate is another area. Most readers, I suspect, don’t mind the repetitive use of the word, “said.” But it seems to bother some writers. If it bothers you, there are many other ways to identify who is speaking and the way they are conveying their speech without repeating the word “said,” or using more colorful, but often unintentionally silly variations — “He squawked, she bleated.”

For example, “Mildred looked at Henry, unbuttoned her jacket. ‘What do you think of my new dress?’” We already know that it is Mildred speaking. Using “Mildred said” is unnecessary. Or “With all the force she could muster, Mildred threw the vase at Henry. ‘You spent the whole evening flirting with Melissa.’” Not only do we know who is speaking, we know she was angry. We don’t need to add, “she said,” or “shouted,” or “ventilated angrily.”

In this case, less is definitely preferable.

I wonder also, if publishers, who currently demand 80,000 to 100,000 words as a minimum requirement for the submission of manuscripts, tempt writers to use words with more abandon. Let me call it reckless abandon. Certainly as the “word processor” replaced the manual typewriter and carbon paper, it became easier to just keep writing and writing and writing.

But, if you look back, particularly at crime novels in the 1950s and ‘60s, they were, generally, much shorter. Double Indemnity is 115 pages in the edition I have. A classic by Donald Westlake is barely more than 200 generously leaded pages. The Lonely Silver Rain by John D. MacDonald comes in around 200 as does The Maltese Falcon. The Big Sleep is available at 139 pages.

The point is that an important part of writing is editing. No matter how precious that sentence is, if it is only that, it should probably go.

On Writing, Part VII — Sex, Love and Foul Language

Before you write that first crime fiction novel consider a few things. What follows is the seventh in a series of short articles about what you might want to consider as you put pen to paper or fingers on the keyboard.

I once wrote a story for an Indianapolis alternative newspaper. A lady had written a letter to the local daily complaining of the explicitness of a JC Penny underwear ad. The letter prompted me to take a look at Midwestern prudishness. "No Sex, please, we’re Hoosiers" was the title of the story, in which I also referred to the trial of a bookstore owner who was arrested for selling a copy of the "obscene" Tropic of Cancer to a customer. The prosecutor read the entire book to the jury. I believe there was a conviction, later overturned. But the point here is that Henry Miller wrote about the reality he knew and the reality of the people, whose portrayal he wanted to explore. Miller wasn’t interested in lost puppies and their dramatic trek back to the family living on a farm in Ohio — not that there is anything wrong with that.

For many people, though, life is sensuous. Food, sex, drink. It is no doubt inconceivable for writers of a certain nature to get through 400 pages NOT talking about something that is so integral to their (and their characters’) lives. But it must also be noted that some of the greatest literary writers of our times have embarrassed themselves, not by splitting an infinitive, but by attempting to describe sexual conjugation.

Rowan Somerville won the 2010 Literary Review Bad Sex in Fiction Award for sexually related prose. Taken from his second novel, The Shape of Her, one passage read: 'Like a lepidopterist mounting a tough-skinned insect with a too blunt pin he screwed himself into her.' His words were not the worst, nor was he the most famous to be singled out for such an acknowledgement. The prodigious Norman Mailer, the sophisticated John Updike and sensuously neurotic Philip Roth are among those who have earned this kind of unwelcome notice.

So, when do you use sex and when don’t you? How much and how graphic? In a sane society, it seems we should have a far greater tolerance for gratuitous sex than gratuitous violence, but in our writing is there really room for gratuitous anything? It’s not a matter of morals. It’s a matter of style. In a soon-to-be-released novella, Mascara, my long-standing reluctance to describe a sexual act (the act of seduction is more interesting than the act itself) was overcome. Maybe overruled is a better word. The circumstances required the main character to have sex with that woman and that the act be consciously embedded in the readers’ minds. The story required it. Yes, yes, I know; but it’s true.

For me, sex is like any other element in the story. Is it integral to the story — for characterization or to propel the plot? If it is, the use is as valid as anything else. Certainly, if one’s table manners reveal character, his or her behavior in bed can be even more telling. Earnestness, inexperience, worldliness, all can be exposed, not to mention a propensity toward violence and cruelty. We all know sex is big deal when defining why we do what we do. Having it or not having it can be a major motivator and provide a major motive.

Less so in books — because we can skip a couple of paragraphs — but especially in film, sex scenes can go on too long. They can be embarrassing for the viewer. If the scenes are poorly written, they can take the reader completely out of the book and out of the mood to finish it.

As far as foul language is concerned, that’s easy. If it’s in keeping with your characters’ character, by all means let the four-letters fly. But like sex, guns and autopsies, make sure you know what you’re doing and that it’s not a substitute for substance.

On Writing, Part VI — A Community of Writers

Before you write that first crime fiction novel consider a few things. What follows is the sixth in a series of short articles about what you might want to consider as you put pen to paper or fingers on the keyboard.

I enjoyed the sixties (which I didn’t really experience until the seventies). I liked long hair, loose clothing and free love. I listened to the Rolling Stones, Pink Floyd, Santana and Jimi Hendrix. I planted some marijuana seeds and still think kindly of vegetarians. But I could never get into the idea of communal living.

Years later, when a new boss took over the Nonprofit where I worked, many of us were asked to take “personality” tests. The results, they said, would help the new exec know us better and, therefore, how best we could all work together. (Heh, heh, heh) And indeed, we were rated on a whole list of personality traits. “Would you prefer to take long, solitary walks in the woods, or chat with folks around the campfire?” One of the measured categories was “independence.” There, I scored the highest marks possible. I admit I felt a little smug. I’ve always admired independence. (Apparently, I scored pretty low in the keep-your-job strategy category). I should have chosen the campfire. Not everyone shared the value I placed on self-sufficiency. Shortly, I was nudged out the door and headed, my independence in a box with my other belongings, in the only direction I could at my age — “advanced curmudgeondom.”

So it will surprise no one that those lovely ads in the back of the New Yorker inviting readers to join a community of writers in Squaw Valley do not speak to me. Squaw Valley maybe, but not a bunch of communing writers. I can sit in a loud, busy bar and write, occasionally looking up to see what’s going on. I can sit alone on a quiet park bench among the Eucalyptus and write. I can madly scribble notes while exiting a shower. But, for me, writing is not a team sport. Showering maybe. Writing, no.

In keeping with the theme and something about which you could have guessed correctly — I don’t have many writer friends. (I do have friends, really.) However, none of what I’ve said means you shouldn’t have writer friends, or attend writing workshops or have fun alternating chapters on a work in progress. Just as there are outliners and non-outliners, there are people who thrive in the company and through the inspiration of others. And if that process works for you, I think it’s a great idea — for you.

But I do have words of caution for both camps. First, if you are like me, you still need to find a critical someone or someones to read what you’ve written before you send it off to an agent or publisher. These critics don’t have to be writers. Their best trait would be brutal honesty. “This section of the book bored the hell out of me.” You don’t have to do what they tell you, but you need to consider their opinions carefully, seriously, honestly. If you are open and the comments ring even slightly true, consider a fix. No matter how independent we think we are, we cannot operate completely alone. If you’re part of the teamwork camp, you too must beware. Many people want to have written. They have been on the same story for ten years, reading a few pages aloud and talking endlessly about characterization and plot. If you want to be a writer you have to do more than just talk about it. You MUST write. And at some point, I’m convinced I’m correct: writing, even if it isn’t at first, eventually becomes a solitary experience.

On Writing, Part V — Find Your Own Damned Voice

Before you write that first crime fiction novel consider a few things. What follows is the fifth in a series of short articles about what you might want to consider as you put pen to paper or fingers on the keyboard.

A few reviews, particularly of the Shanahan books, have compared my writing style to Robert B. Parker. Okay, first things first. Any one of the late Mr. Parker’s books have sold far more copies than all of my books put together. And he wrote at least 70 of them. If there were a Mystery Writers Hall of Fame, he would be among the first to be admitted. I will always have to buy a ticket. Even so, how can I not be flattered? That kind of review can be helpful. Putting a few of those magic words on the flap of my next book could easily generate sales the book might not get on its own.

But it’s not true. And worse, it reinforces the notion that writers who write like other writers are somehow better for doing so. “The Next Raymond Chandler!” Get that out of your head. You can only be the first whoever you are. Good writing comes from a sense of honesty. And that means it can’t be mimicry. Your writing voice, I would submit, is like your fingerprint. Absolutely one of a kind as it should be. As a writer, it is your most valued possession. No one can duplicate it. The thing you need to do is find it if you haven’t already. And quite likely it is right there in front of your nose.

That doesn’t mean you can’t learn from other writers. Of course you can and should. Learn from Elmore Leonard, for example, how dialog can propel a story. Let James Lee Burke show you how to use nature to set the mood. But you have to write it the way YOU have to write it. Basically, tell the story as you might to an imaginary friend, knowing that you are smart enough to create a modestly patient listener. Telling a story is talking on paper (or screen) with the added benefit of having the time, after the first telling, to make it better.

The truth is I might be a better writer had I started reading Parker before I started writing mysteries. There were no doubt lessons to learn. I came to writing mysteries late in life (40 years old) and I came to Parker even later (in my 60s). I’m certainly glad I did. His books were, for a time, a happy addiction. But he came a little late for me to copy. And I would have been a fool to try.

On Writing, Part IV — Creating Reality. Whose Reality Is It? And Can you Sustain It?

Before you write that first crime fiction novel consider a few things. What follows is the fourth in a series of short articles about what you might want to consider as you put pen to paper or fingers on the keyboard.

Are you God or a mere mortal?

Other than the cover, which you likely had little to do with, the narrative point of view is the first connection you make with the reader. It is also the first thing you choose when you start to write, whether you do so consciously or not. Who is telling the story? At its most fundamental level, there are only two choices.

One is the story told through a single character, many times the main character, either actively or implied. It is his or her voice alone. This can be a powerful way to tell the story. The character is talking directly to the reader. It is intimate. The reader is seeing, feeling, smelling the world through that character. Quite often the reader becomes that character. The downside — and it’s a steep one — is that unless your narrating character is God, him, or herself — anything that happens outside the character’s natural purview cannot logically be told. Switching back and forth can be dodgy for everyone.

The second is the omniscient narrator. This approach provides optimum freedom for the writer, but (and I ask this seriously) how much freedom is too much freedom? How many minds do you feel comfortable wandering around in? When do you, as the writer, know what someone is thinking or doing and when not? What you might lose taking this option is the sense of a personal relationship with the reader. You might also lose the benefit of a single, simple thrust of plot that comes when one human being tells the reader what happened from his or her perspective. However, a complicated story may require greater room to innovate.

There are all sorts of variations on the theme of narration. Some can get pretty tricky. There are advantages and disadvantages to each. My guess is that most beginning writers intuitively know what works best for them. The important thing here is consistency, not just throughout the book, but also throughout the series.

As I mentioned earlier, series readers have a completely different sense of expectation. The reason why they are reading the third book featuring incisive Detective Smith or the bumbling P.I Jones is the comfort they take in the familiar. Just as that includes time and place, it also includes who tells the story and the people who live in that story. This is part of the writer’s construct of a reality that readers choose to revisit.

I have to warn you. This is a half-baked theory; but it is my theory and I’m sticking to it. If a writer sells a million books it is because he or she creates a reality that a lot of people enjoy being in. It may not be a pretty reality or a comforting one and by various standards, it may not even be a well-written reality. Perhaps the literary quality of the writing doesn’t matter if the reader wants to spend time there.

This construct of reality includes all of the characters, especially those who reappear. Maybe the characters are people readers would want to know, personally. They become friends. And the reader enjoys visiting them from time to time. Maybe the readers wouldn’t want your characters in their day-to-day lives, but they are curious about them and, reader-voyeurs, enjoy watching them, the humble or the heroic, vicariously. In any event, characters, their habits and personalities and their voices, must be sustained. And just as you must be careful when killing dogs and children, heaven help you if you kill the wrong recurring character.

Next question on the reality train: In what world does the story take place? Is it a gritty drama on the mean streets of a tough city? Or is it in a polite and quaint village that some ghastly event occurs? In a series, I suspect, readers come to expect a familiar environment. Some readers prefer their murders happen in dark, cold and lonely, places, done in with an axe, others in the parlor, smited by an unexpectedly potent cup of tea.

Many series writers eventually feel trapped by all these expectations, these limitations. And we can get particularly excited when our publisher allows us to do what is currently being called a “one-off,” with a clean sheet of paper. Other writers will do more than one series, often just to have a little more freedom. Unfortunately, another set of characters will upset those readers who have come to know and love the first set. The loyal reader might feel as if the author has betrayed them. And reviewers, too, may have trouble understanding that the writer is going for something different in tone, and yes, “reality.”

But I digress. More About Your Chosen Reality

Riding the buses and trolleys in San Francisco, at my age and combined with my Midwestern upbringing sets me up for the constant shock of seeing and hearing students, many of them in school uniforms talking about sex openly, out loud, in ways I might not have even understood when I was that young. But this is the reality. If I should choose to write a contemporary, young adult mystery, I’d better have a better understanding of that world than I do now.

In that spirit, if you are writing about what goes on in neighborhoods you dare not walk after dark, do you know anything about the people who inhabit those streets? Do you have a sense of how they talk? The same goes for all those who populate your books. Ex-cons, society matrons, soccer moms, the Wal-Mart clerk, Vietnamese immigrants. There might be times when I make smart-ass remarks about people who write about cats solving murders. Objectively, I am wrong to be critical. The point is to write what is real for your characters in the reality you set forth and, I hope, from the world you know. If cats are your world, write about them. It is better to have that smart Siamese discover critical evidence than to embark upon a story about gang-banger killings when you stay locked in your flat, tossing a cloth mouse across the room.

On Writing, Part III — To Outline or Not Outline

Before you write that first crime fiction novel consider a few things. What follows is the third in a series of short articles about what you might want to consider as you put pen to paper or fingers on the keyboard.

A lady came to one of my book signings. She stood in front of me at the table with a serious look on her face. She asked, “Do you outline your novel before you write it?” I told her I never do an outline, which was mostly true. She shook her head and said that she couldn’t possibly enjoy anything I wrote and walked out.

That wasn’t the first time the subject came up. A writer with whom I sometimes did readings and signings not only wrote an outline; but before the outline he wrote a multi-page treatment. He was (and is) a fine, award-winning mystery writer whom I respect. I began to wonder if I was somehow cheating the reader or myself by not always knowing exactly what’s happening next with my own books as I wrote them.

As time went on, I learned that I wasn’t alone in my failure to outline. Among the many who do not use the outline technique are Elmore Leonard, Michael Connelly and Stephen King. On the other hand, there are those who do outline, who must outline. These, I’ve read, include such successful authors as Louise Penny, John Lescroart and John Grisham. Scott Turow, to be completely different, does an outline during his second or third draft.

Using an outline might keep you from going up any blind alleys. Not using one might allow you to find a street you didn’t know existed. I do use a brief outline sometimes when I know what’s happening in the next few pages and I’m afraid I’ll forget what I was thinking. But that is more of a bridge than an outline. The real point of this is that different people write in different ways. Find out how you are most comfortable and most creative. I’d be suspicious of advice that put too many rules down that do not take into account the individual who will need to abide by them. If you’re not sure of the best approach for you, try both. If you choose one, it doesn’t mean you can’t change your mind later. For me, writing by the seat of my pants makes me want to sit down and write to see what will happen next and at some point discover who killed the victim found dead in Chapter One.

On Writing, Part II —Setting: Time and Place

Before you write that first crime fiction novel consider a few things. What follows is the second in a series of short articles about what you might want to consider as you put pen to paper or fingers on the keyboard.

I am in awe of crime writers who set their books in say, ancient Egypt. Or making a mystery of who killed Polonius. However, I believe the writer who does this has an obligation to get history right. While plots may very well be timeless, setting the historically accurate scene means painstaking attention to detail. In the end it requires a serious scholarship that doesn’t necessarily accompany the ability to write. I am certainly not infatuated with the idea of going through page after page searching for information on Elizabethan underwear.

Recently, I found myself creating anachronisms merely trying to set a story at the end of the last century, which of course, sounds longer ago than it is. Did you know that cell phones in 1988 were gigantic and incredibly expensive? A down and out private eye wasn’t likely to have one. Did you know none of your characters could possibly have driven a Lexus in the U.S. before 1989? I didn’t. Now go back to the 16^th Century or 1950 for that matter. It is easy to make mistakes. On the other hand, if you are comfortable in another era and enjoy the pursuit, by all means go ahead. Just be sure you know what you are getting into.

The same goes for location. Some smart writers set their stories in made-up places. Doing so no doubt requires a little forethought as well, but you have all the freedom in the world to create the environment you choose. And unless you contradict your own facts, you are not subject to correction. Much like getting history right, if you choose a specific location, I believe you owe it to the reader to get the cross streets right, to put the courthouse in the right part of town and to even get the color of the police cars correct. If you write about New York, you should be sure your murderer gets on the right subway.

I’ve heard writers, when caught with their factual pants down — and who hasn’t? — offer this excuse, “C’mon, it’s fiction.” I’m wrenched from the story, if only briefly, when I realize that a character in a book I’m reading gets from San Francisco’s North Beach to Potrero Hill in less than five minutes. Maybe readers in Biloxi won’t catch this one; but San Franciscans will and they will think less of you.

On Writing, Part I —Back Story

Before you write that first crime fiction novel consider a few things. What follows is the first in a series of short articles about what you might want to consider as you put pen to paper or fingers on the keyboard.

It’s one thing to write a one-off book — that is you create characters you do not expect to revisit. The book ends. It’s over. You needn’t worry about anything you said jeopardizing anything you write in the future. But if you have any notion that you’ll want to write book two about these same characters, you might want to do a little thinking before you cast them in cement, so to speak.

When I wrote the first Deets Shanahan mystery I gave the idea of a second book with him as the main character no thought at all. I established his age at 69. The problem with this wasn’t yet apparent when St. Martin’s Press suggested a second book. But after book four, I began to see a problem developing. Does Shanahan, like Dagwood Bumstead, remain the same age forever? Doesn’t that become problematic after the 20th murder he’s called in to solve? If I had been less specific, I would have less explaining to do. He could have been just an “older” private eye. On the other hand, I do admit that having to overcome challenges is part of what makes writing interesting. And Shanahan, as it turns out (in a compromise I wish I could make), is doing fine, having aged three years since 1990.

However, the point is much larger than just the age of your characters. How you define your main and reoccurring characters may put limits on their growth or on what you need them to do later on. If you give your main character a college education in the first book, you can’t take it away later. Does he or she have children? Parents? Speech patterns aren’t likely to change over time either. Even how he or she views the world will have to carry forward. Is he or she a worrier or carefree? Though there are always creative solutions to the boxes writers put themselves in, you may be stuck with your first impressions of the people who live in your fiction. Are these people you want to live with for the next 20 years?