Is this book in my hand a mystery or a thriller? Not until I started writing stories myself did I run up against the startling realization that a lot of the books I liked best—starting with Frederick Forsyth’s Icon—were not mysteries at all. They were “thrillers,” “suspense.” To me, they were just exciting books that kept me turning pages. Think Silence of the Lambs. Think Reamde. Think The Little Drummer Girl.
Oh. So? People who have actually gone to the trouble of analyzing the differences between these two genres can present quite a list of them, along with which go different reader expectations. Looking back, the short stories on my publications list (this website) were all mysteries—puzzles—especially “Evidence” and “Premeditation.” I’ve also written a novel—Witness—and it’s definitely a thriller. In writing it, I fell into thriller mode automatically.
What is the difference? Carolyn Wheat in her excellent How to Write Killer Fiction (a title that tells you these are words to live by) describes “the funhouse of mystery” and “the roller coaster of suspense.” Readers of a classic mystery identify with the detective—from a professional like Harry Bosch to an amateur busybody like Miss Marple—who is attempting to solve someone else’s problems, usually a murder or two. We readers follow “two steps behind,” Wheat says, as our detective gathers and analyzes evidence and tries to figure out who the bad guys are.
In suspense novels, the main problems belong to the main characters. They’re the ones in danger, who must figure out how to save their own lives even as they may be saving others, too, of course. Jason Bourne. Jack Ryan. We know who the bad guys are and what the threat is, because the author has shown them at work. As a result, we typically know more than the hero, and are actually two steps ahead. We’re thinking, “Don’t take that call,” “Take that call!” and “Don’t trust that guy,” and “Don’t go into the British Embassy wearing that electric blue sequined dress and that Tina Turner wig and think you can pass as a legitimate party guest,” we telepathically yell at Whoopi Goldberg in Jumpin’ Jack Flash.
Detectives, like tv’s Inspector Lewis, have legendary ability to see through layers of disinformation and assemble logical pictures from the slimmest clues, clues equally available to us, as readers, but whose significance the author has deftly obscured. The writer’s challenge is to present all those clues without either giving away the game on page 20 or being so obtuse the reader feels unfairly dealt with. In the end, every piece is in place, and the reader’s reward is the intellectual satisfaction of tidied loose ends.
By contrast, suspense heroes, even if they achieve their goals and avert World War III, may not make it out alive. Or not in very good shape, if they do. Daniel Craig’s James Bond needed recovery time at the end of Casino Royale. And his nemesis got away, to plague him yet another day. Still, our hero has prevailed, and the reader’s reward is the emotional satisfaction of that victory, even if it is temporary and we see another battle looming over the sequel horizon.