Category Archives: First Draft Blog

Permissible Laughter

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In a thought-provoking interview with award-winning Lebanese-Canadian novelist, journalist, and visual artist Rawi Hage a few years back, he talked about how it’s the writer’s job to push the limits, to not settle for being only entertaining. For me this resonates with the idea that authors shouldn’t try to bang out the next “The Girl Who. . .” book, but strike out into some new territory. Of course, for many, it seems, they run up against a failure of imagination or an excess of anxiety, which is why when a particular book catches on, it will have so many clones. In a contradiction bound eventually to fail, many authors try to recapture that uniqueness.

Think, for example of Dan Brown’s books and all the religio-cryptic thrillers that came afterward. Or all the books where a discrete set of people with a shared past and rivalries and bitter secrets are stranded on an island, in a remote area cut off by a storm, or wherever, and . . . they start to die. Or the Gone Girl clones, or, rather, would-be clones.

Hage said he thinks of himself as “a confrontational writer,” and the more marginal he feels about a piece, the better his writing is. In other words, he’s not trying to please everyone. “Writers who try to please and go by the rules and try to do the right things, they tend to fail,” he thinks. It’s an interesting stance to take, and difficult for authors, when the publishing industry seems increasingly risk-averse.

He talked interestingly about the way the Arabic language affected his writing. He read a lot of Arabic poetry as a young man, and it’s very visual, perhaps making up for strictures on visual representations of people and animals in the culture generally. It’s a “very elaborate” language, he says. Writing in English, he pared back.

Even so, he brings “bags and bags of history, travels, concerns, revenge; a mixture of the emotional, the experiential, and the cultural” to his writing. That comports with my view of writing as like assembling a jigsaw puzzle with a thousand disparate pieces of the kinds he mentions, and seeing what picture they create. He wisely infuses that mix with dark humor too. Pavlov, the protagonist of his fourth novel, Beirut Hellfire Society, says, “Laughter should be permissible under all circumstances.”

Meetings, Meetings, Which to Choose?

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So many enticing meetings for crime and mystery writers of every stripe in this season. Some national, some regional, some hyper-local! It’s hard to know where an author should lay their travel budget bets. In the past few years, I’ve put my money toward the Public Safety Writers Association’s annual July conference in Las Vegas. (The hotels are cheap at that time of year, and since the temperature outside is 115, I’m not tempted to wander away from the excellent sessions. And I don’t want to miss the fun prize-drawings!)

The attendees are current and former public safety professionals—police, FBI, CIA, EMTs, fire fighters, military—and people like me who write about them. I can’t tell you how much extra confidence it gives me about my writing, when I’ve been able to check some tricky bit of action with someone who knows what they’re talking about (i.e., not what I see on tv). Many of the friends I’ve made through the group are happy to do that.

I enjoy the conference presentations too. Most important, they’re interesting and informative, especially when presenters talk about their experiences, scary or funny or sad. What I’ve learned from those is not only how a particular individual responded to a particular situation, but much more helpfully, how they think. So, when I put my character into a situation, I can extrapolate. None of us can experience first-hand all the things we subject our characters to (and thank goodness for that!), and we have to extrapolate their reactions from our own experiences and from what we know about how others have reacted in parallel encounters.

I consider this a tough crowd of expert authors, so I’m pleased to say that two of my short stories have won prizes in the PSWA’s annual competition, and my novel came in second one year (beaten out by the estimable James L’Etoile, who any crime writer would not mind being bested by). When this audience respects my work, I know I’m doing something right! My cousin once asked me, suspicion in her voice, “How do you know so much about crime?” I, of course, refused to answer and just gave her a sly look. But now, I suppose, my secret’s out!

Don’t Go in the Water?

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One of many memorable scenes in Fredrick Forsyth’s thriller Avenger (which I’ve listened to three times!) occurs when the hero spends several days scouting the encampment of the villain and sees a stream running along the property, an obstacle he’ll have to cross to get inside. Every day, a worker comes out and throws chickens into the water, which are immediately devoured in a frothing mass of piranhas. Eeeew.

But, do piranas have a bad rap? Before you decide, or before authors enlist them to be aggressors in their fiction, you and they might check out Ronald B. Tobias’s article, “Roosevelt’s Piranhas” in the February 2025 issue of Natural History. Piranhas acquired their deadly reputation after Teddy Roosevelt made a trip to Brazil and observed piranhas devour an entire cow in minutes with their razor-sharp, blade-like teeth. What he didn’t know was that this demonstration had been carefully staged for maximum mayhem. He was “the victim of a hoax,” Tobias writes.

A few factoids: most of the 30 to 60 piranha species are vegan; a piranha can detect a drop of blood in 50 gallons of water; they keep rivers clean by “disposing of” dead or dying animals; the bite of a fully grown black piranha is, pound for pound, more powerful than that of the Tyrannosaurus rex; Latin Americans eat them to treat problems of sex drive (men) and reproduction (women); they’re banned in 27 US states, where officials worry they might escape into the wild and breed—piscine pythons.

The red-bellied piranha, called Roosevelt’s Piranha, is about a foot long and weighs three pounds. It’s not so big, but it’s the numbers that will get you. They travel in shoals that can include hundreds or even thousands of fish. For the most part, they are relatively harmless, “except for a few scary weeks of the year,” Tobias says. In the wet season, the river waters flood vast areas, where many animals live, and fish food is plentiful. As the land dries up again, all these well-fed fish are channeled back into a much shrunken area, trapping predator and prey. Once that limited food supply is gone, the fish attack each other—“the cannibal fish Roosevelt saw in Brazil.” That is definitely not the time to take a swim. As the water polo team in Wednesday Addams – Piranha Pool learned.

Curse of the Curse-Word

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The New York Times recently published an interview by Matt Richtel with Timothy Jay, “a scholar in the science of swearing,” which I read with interest. Probably every author comes up against the dilemma of whether and how much cursing their fictional characters should do. Some worry that libraries will turn their books down and some readers will complain, others (especially crime writers like me) may think that they’re not writing about nuns and clergy (or maybe they are), and a few choice curse words make dialog more realistic. And some just let ʼer rip.

There’s an argument that larding speech with cursing not only substitutes for a more thoughtful and meaningful word—in other words, promotes laziness in thinking as well as speech—and, possibly worse, in some opinions, dilutes the effectiveness of a well-placed “f—!!”

Jay says that cursing has become much more commonplace, “as part of the whole shift to a more casual lifestyle.” Yes, the advice columns receive letters from parents who’ve taken young children out to dinner, only to have the experience spoiled by loud cursing from a neighboring table. Handling that isn’t always easy or pleasant for the parents or restaurant staff called upon to intervene.

Social media, once again, takes some of the blame. In one study of Twitter posts published in 2014, profanity occurred in about one word of every ten—about twice the rate of spoken language. Now that Twitter is X, and many folks have abandoned the platform to the true believers, that rate may be higher. A story in today’s Washington Post reported the abuse a blind government worker received after being ridiculed by Musk on X. Unkind, people.

Online a person “can be aggressive without any physical retaliation” or personal consequences, as Jay points out. This no-restraints atmosphere contributes to another problem: the way women are increasingly attacked and harassed online.

Biometrics has shown that taboo words create a stronger emotional reaction in people than other words; they have effects on both speaker and hearer. However, Jay does say that his research group at the Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts has recorded more than 10,000 people swearing in public. Most of it, he says, is casual and “pretty harmless,” and has never resulted in aggression or violence. He views it as part of the perpetually evolving state of language.

For writers, who care and think about words more than most people probably do, it would be hard to lose the impact of a good swear word just when you need it, emphasis on those last four words.

AI-Generated image from Vocablitz for Pixabay

Not Paranormal, Just Different

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An interesting recent discussion between two indigenous American authors got me thinking about the issue of paranormal. (And, not for the first time, wondering what’s “normal,” anyway, in these times?) Some elements in the books of Ramona Emerson of the Diné (Navaho) tribe and Marcie Rendon, a member of the White Earth Band of the Minnesota Chippewa (Ojibwe)—both multiple literary award-winners, by the way—might fit into a broad paranormal category, but they reject that characterization.

Emerson is the author of two books in her series featuring Rita Todacheene a forensic photographer, able to see in her mind the circumstances of the crimes she is meticulously documenting. (Find her remarkable books here and here.) Rendon, who is also a playwright and poet, writes the popular Cash Blackbear crime series, featuring a young Ojibwe woman, whose guardian is a sheriff, which brings her into occasional contact with violent crime. The fourth book in Rendon’s series, Broken Fields, will be available March 2025. Blackbear’s visions and intuitive abilities help in solving crimes, and the author explores the problem of missing and murdered indigenous women. In both authors’ books, you find a rich source of information and perspective on the protagonists’ cultural milieu.

In a recent webinar, Emerson interviewed Rendon, and they mentioned the “paranormal” issue. Publishers and agents when musing about what they’re looking for in manuscript submissions today increasingly mention their attraction to paranormal elements. It’s not clear exactly what they have in mind. But it is something both women claim to not write. They haven’t decided to paste on some not easily explained or supernatural element. “It’s just part of who we are,” Rendon said, “a different belief system.” In it, dreams are important, she said, and they discuss them each morning. In my dream last night, I was looking for something I couldn’t find—typical!

Her character Cash Blackbear’s visions let her see beyond objective reality. In the Ojibwe culture, such thinking is part-and-parcel of daily existence. In part, that’s because the wisdom of the ancestors guides them through life, and people talk to and “see” their ancestors frequently. And not only because they are “surrounded by spirit houses” (little houses built atop graves mounds). Despite these frequent contacts, interactions with ancestors or the spirit world are done within certain parameters, certain specific rules. Personally, I’d like to understand more.

Naturally, because this is such a different way of thinking, acceptance is hard for people raised in a culture that emphasizes rationality and scientific proof as the keys to understanding the world. From the inside, as Emerson portrays Rita Todacheene, this different way is also hard to simply dismiss.

Another recent book that draws on this type of thinking is Jennifer Givhan’s 2023 novel, River Woman, River Demon. Givhan is a Mexican-American and indigenous author whose story weaves together the otherworldly and the everyday swirling around a murder. It isn’t a novel I would ordinarily gravitate to, but Givhan made it a powerful story, and I’m glad I read it.

Reaching for my more comfortably familiar analytic hat, I can’t help wondering whether stories like these are achieving resonance in this era when the rational seems to have flown out the window. Maybe people are seeking a little wisdom from unconventional sources to help them get through. But that would be selling these books short. These are compelling tales from a less conventional point of view that deserve to be read and thought about in any time period.

Take-Aways

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In a post last week based in part on an interview with award-winning author Laura van den Berg, she talked about the strangeness we encounter in daily life. Some people may see mysteries in that strangeness, some see the workings of the supernatural, and some just pass right by, eyes glued to cell phone. Now that’s strange! The current Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine includes a number of stories that anticipate Halloween and the different ways people react to such hard-to-explain happenings.

Strangeness and ambiguity are useful tools in fiction, not just at Halloween. In real life, friendships may suddenly end, marriages dissolve, and we may not know why—even when we’re one of the principals. Conversely, the things that keep a relationship going can be equally puzzling.

To van den Berg, the ambiguity in a story can be either positive or negative. Even when a story doesn’t provide all the answers, she says, “it should give [readers] something to take away.” Inexperienced writers, trying to achieve a sense of mystery, may under-explain, running the risk of merely creating confusion and giving their readers nothing to latch onto. It’s equally off-putting when authors over-explain. Trust your readers to figure many things out. A friend used to write sentences like, “He threw the plate against the wall because he was angry.” Clearly, the “because” clause is completely unnecessary. “She spent an hour on her makeup because she wanted to look her best.” Ditto.

A story’s ending is an important contributor to what the reader will take from it. Van den Berg’s approach to finding the endings of her stories doesn’t sound like a huge assembly of 3 x 5 cards and post-its. Nor does she flail around trying to discover the ending in a morass of prose. Instead, she says she often sees the ending as “an image of some kind.” She may not initially see all the action steps (plot) that will get her there, but she’s moving toward it, through the fog of creation, following the glow of a distant light.

In the mystery/crime/thriller genre, an ending is likely to be unsatisfying if it leaves too many mysteries unsolved, too many loose ends. When I’m writing, I keep a list of unresolved story questions. They may be tangible issues such as, How does Evie know Carl has a peanut allergy? Or less tangible ones, like, If Steve really loves Diana, why did he have an affair?

I don’t have to work out an answer to them the moment they come up (an invitation to backstory that derails the flow), but when I arrive at the end, I check my list. Are all the questions that can be answered with a fact addressed in some logical and preferably unobtrusive way? Have the intangible questions at least been considered by the character? It isn’t necessary that readers completely believe a character’s explanations, but they should be confident the character believes them, at least at some level. A frequent and annoying cop-out is the phrase, “he had no choice but to . . .” following which the author steers the character into some plot-necessary action. Of course there were choices, and it is the writer who made one. Slightly better is when characters say, “I had no choice . . .” Yes, you recognize they’re probably just rationalizing. Weakly. Unpersuasively. Which of itself says something about them.

You may recall that one of the necessaries of a short story is “it needs to have a point.” That doesn’t mean a political point, or a hit-them-over-the-head-with-a-hammer point. It’s more subtle, something that grounds the stories despite and because of life’s mysteries. Irish author Anne Enright said it well, “Remember that all description is an opinion about the world. Find a place to stand.” You, the writer, are the rock in a sea of ambiguity.

Short Story Prowess: EQMM Sept-Oct 2024

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Last week’s post about what to look for in a short story received a lot of likes, and reading the current issue of Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine offers the opportunity to put those insights to the test. And, the competition was fierce. Here’s what the panel of experts said they (and editors) look for in a good short story.

  1. It needs a point – Andrew Walsh-Huggins’s story, “Through Thick and Thin” is a testament to the wisdom in the old saying, “let the dead past bury its dead.” It’s also a reminder of a point you can’t help but notice nearly every time you watch a television mystery show: If people didn’t keep secrets, they’d have a lot fewer problems!
  2. A strong ending – Kai Lovelace’s tale, “Head Start,” in the Department of First Stories, had a powerhouse ending because it was so unexpected. Based on the fourth-grade memories of the narrator, it focuses on his delight in Halloween, and, true to his age-appropriate sensibilities, the gorier the better. It’s one of several spooky stories in this volume, a bow to the season.
  3. Believability –Extra credit to Kate Hold for the mid-century Los Angeles she created in her delightful story “Rosabelle.” You don’t actually have to believe in ghosts to believe in her narrator and the venality of her landlady, a fortune-teller named Madame Zelda.
  4. Strong characters, right from the get-go. EQMM offers numerous candidates, but I’d choose the boy who narrates “The Phantom of the Concourse Plaza” by Jerome Charyn, whose story starts, “I was nine years old, and I lived at the Concourse Plaza with Nick Etten and eleven other New York Yankees, most of them scrubs like Hersh Martin and Don Savage, who would disappear from baseball once the war was over.” A good example of how specific detail adds to believability. You can’t fault the crime fiction awardee giving her acceptance speech in “[The Applause Dies]” by Lori Rader-Day, either.
  5. Fact based? The facts have to be right. This is one of those good-writing principles that you don’t notice until it’s violated, or some stray fact dings believability, and I have to say, from that perspective, all the stories I read were believable, or mostly so (allowances for the Halloween influence). Quite a lot of facts, fitted together so nicely that I believed them all, were in Pat Black’s “Cadere ex Stellae.” (“Fall from the Stars”—I looked it up).
Milky Way, night sky
The Milky Way (photo: Forest Wander, Creative Commons license)

Going to the Dogs

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Interested in how police and emergency service dogs are trained and used? Lots of readers are, and mystery/crime authors often want to include service dogs in their stories, but accurately. Members of the Public Safety Writers Association got a close look at that corner of the world last Saturday from organization Vice-President Steve Ditmars. Ditmars worked many years as a police service dog handler and K-9 Unit supervisor for the Long Beach (Calif.) Police Department and gave a jam-packed Zoom program on the topic.

His first piece of advice was to find out what the policies and procedures are in the locale where you’re writing about, if it’s a real place, in the time period of your fiction. Ways of handling and using dogs vary by jurisdiction, he explained, and these practices change a lot too. If the locale is totally fictional, you have more leeway.

The training process for a police service dog is extensive, but the risk here, he said, is to get so caught up in it, you give Too Much Information. Ditmars has skirted such pitfalls very well in his own books—Big Dogs, Gasping for Air, and a third (coming soon). He finds adding canine characters helps him tell a story, because they enable a variety of perspectives and events. For example, the way someone handles or react to a dog can reveal key aspects of that person’s character.

And, of course, he cautioned authors to be mindful about what happens to the dog. Many readers have a soft spot for Man’s Best Friend, especially when they’ve shown heroism, loyalty, and discipline. You can write a gritty thriller where human lives come to a bad end, but if the dog doesn’t survive the last chapter, you’ll get pushback.

Dogs can be trained to take on many different roles: search and rescue, personal protection, patrol, tracking and trailing people, finding things (narcotics, cadavers, explosives, gas leaks, even from buried pipes). Each of these roles has a different training regimen and relies on dogs’ acute senses of smell and hearing. Ditmars said they are better than humans at pinpointing where a sound is coming from.

Public safety personnel like to use dogs for certain jobs, because it saves time, in, say, searching an area or building. They can be trained to guard suspects until their handler arrives. The threat of a bite is sometimes enough to keep the suspect in place. Dogs are good for departmental public relations too, at open houses and other public events.

Just as new parents “suddenly” notice how many baby products are out there, in a few days after hearing this excellent presentation, I read two stories in which dogs played a role. They were: Doug Crandell’s lively story “Bad Hydrous” in the Sep/Oct 2024 Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine and the Sherlock Holmes story, “The Adventure of the Creeping Man.”

Thanks, Steve, for this literary heads up!
Read more about Steve here.

Meet Author Laura van den Berg

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The interviews the late lamented Glimmer Train magazine published are a fine source of information on authors beyond, say, John Grisham and Lucy Foley. The mag’s interview with Laura van den Berg was published in 2012—a dozen years ago. Accomplished as she was at that time, she’s done even more now! Then, she was “working on” a novel (isn’t everyone?), but now she’s published three: State of Paradise, The Third Hotel, and Find Me, plus four collections of short stories, including the one with my favorite title, I Hold a Wolf by the Ears. All the while, she’s been racking up the prizes. (Van den Berg’s website here.)

Her newest novel, State of Paradise, was published only two months ago and deemed a “most anticipated book” by a great many review publications. NPR said it was “at once an adventure and a treat, a deep study of Florida’s psychogeography,” and if you know very much about Florida, van den Berg’s home state, you’ll know what a deep and complex subject that can be. “So many worlds,” she says.

In the interview, she talks about the attraction of Gatorland, where people wrestle alligators, which reminded me of Karen Russell’s 2011 Swamplandia!, a Pulitzer Prize finalist about an entire family of Florida alligator wrestlers. Not recommended bedtime reading. “And many other parts of the state are just as strange,” van den Berg says.

Unlike so many authors, van den Berg didn’t start out to be a writer. She wanted to be a psychology major but ran into a major stumbling block: math. As a person who used to sleep with her statistics book under her pillow in case some insight would crawl out of it and into my head during the night, I can relate. What turned her attention to the possibilities of writing was discovering contemporary literature—not the classics.

Part of her learning to write fiction was to learn how not to be “willfully strange.” When her stories have strangeness in them, as they often do, it must “have roots in the characters’ lives” and not feel as if she is “imposing strangeness on them.” Certainly in writing mystery and suspense stories, events, however untoward, should not feel arbitrary or conceived merely to move the plot along. If you’ve ever found yourself thinking a particular character wouldn’t act as the story describes, you may have encountered something “willfully strange.”

Twelve years ago, van den Berg explained her attraction to magical realism themes, “monsters and myths,” as due in part to Florida’s influence. In addition, she says, “there’s so much about the world, so much mystery, that I would never understand,” that may be better described or appreciated through a totally different perspective. Her view was prescient, given the popularity of paranormal themes in fiction today. Recent crime novels with neurodivergent protagonists—Nita Prose’s The Maid, Liz Nugent’s Strange Sally Diamond, or Tim Sullivan’s Detective George Cross come to mind—may be another manifestation of shifted perspective.

Part of the pleasure of reading van den Berg’s work or that of the other authors I mentioned is sorting out what’s real and what isn’t. These alternative realities, like belief in the Loch Ness Monster or the power of wishes, are both “beautiful and terrifying,” she says, because in a way, “it’s easier to not believe in things.” And, “There’s a beauty to people who do live in the world with imagination, and who embrace the mystery of the world at large.”

Take it from me, it’s possible to love such flights of imagination and the cut-and-dried world of “just the facts, ma’am” police procedurals at the same time.More Recommended Florida Reading:
Swamplandia!by Karen RussellNaked Came the Florida Manby Tim Dorsey – irrepressible craziness

Keep Them in Suspense

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What is suspense? In the world of mystery, crime, and thriller fiction, it can seem like an all-purpose label for books that don’t fit the other, increasingly blurry categories. Know who the villain is?—not a mystery. Single narrator?—not a typical thriller. Bad things happening but not, technically, crimes?—not crime fiction. Occasionally, I’ve had to justify reviewing a book for the UK website CrimeFictionLover.com by saying something like “if you think it’s a crime for governments to deceive their citizens…” Not everything that’s a crime, writ large, is illegal. Just ask the fake news purveyors.

A few months ago Kathryn Schulz wrote an interesting New Yorker piece on suspense. “Like a lot of fun things,” she wrote, “suspense has a bad reputation,” and its detractors think of it as just a cheap trick to entertain “the masses” (like me!). A hundred-fifty years ago, when detective novels and mystery stories began to appear, they were criticized for merely appealing to curiosity, rather than offering nobler forms of fulfillment or ethical example.

I’ve been rereading Sherlock Holmes (complete works, 2 volumes, I’m on page 1052). It turns out The Great Detective provides not only suspense, but many ethical examples. Working outside the law enforcement apparatus, he relies on his personal sense of justice. And it doesn’t always entail turning a perpetrator over to the police, though in other situations, he does so gleefully.

The critiques are also misapplied, Schulz said, because almost every form of writing—excepting, she says, telephone directories and instruction manuals—makes use of suspense to captivate its readers. (I might disagree with her here, given some of the highly mysterious instruction manuals I’ve encountered for electronics manufactured abroad.) Shakespeare certainly deployed suspense to great effect. Will Othello kill Desdemona? Will Macbeth evade justice for slaying Duncan? Will Hamlet follow the order given by his father’s ghost? The late thriller writer Henning Mankell once said, “Every good story has a mystery in it.” I use that truism as the epigram for my own website.

Today’s descendants of the critics whose noses turned up at suspense 150 years ago today cluck over “genre fiction”—you know what that is. Mystery, romance, science fiction—in other words, the kinds of books people like to read. E.M. Forster, in noting that every fictional work must be built around a story, said that for a story to be effective, it must make readers want to know “what happens next.” That is, suspense.

While it might seem that withholding information is the key to creating suspense, Schulz points out that suspense also requires sharing information. A reader may not know what’s behind that door, but the writer has implied there are dark doings somewhere in the house; has shown the little boy’s fear; has made the rusty door handle hard to turn, but turn it he does … ever … so … slowly.

She cites Alfred Hitchcock’s example of a bomb going off in a crowded theater. The reader (or filmgoer) can know the bomb is there in advance, or not. How much more scary is it to know that the bomb is ticking away, while people blithely munch popcorn than it is to have a sudden loud Boom! and a lot of flying body parts and settling dust? Even knowing what will happen, we can feel excruciating suspense.

An excellent example of this is the new novel by Robert Harris, Precipice, set in 1914 on the very eve of World War I. He presents, verbatim, some of the hundreds [!] of love-letters UK Prime Minister H.H. Asquith wrote to young Venetia Stanley. Asquith hears the saber-rattling on the Continent, reads the desperate telegrams from diplomats in Russia and France, but can’t be distracted from his obsessive correspondence. Meanwhile, I was tearing my hair out! Because of the extreme suspense, waiting for the worst to happen, this book was one of the most gripping I’ve ever read (my review coming soon). I hope you wait for it with suspense—of the anticipation variety, not the dread kind.