Reading Outside your Writing Genre

About half of the novels and short story collections that I read are in my chosen writing genre of Crime. I enjoy reading crime stories by foreign writers—not all American or Scandinavian—including Japanese, Korean, Mexican, French, Italian, South African, Australian, Spanish and Canadian. This is going to sound perverse of me, seeing as how my own police stories are set in Cornwall, but I find it hard to engage with many British crime novels. Part of the reason is that they’re so parochial, whereas foreign plots are more free-ranging—with the exception of Japanese novels, where society has even more restrictive social conventions than the U.K.

Although it’s reckoned that male readers tend to avoid the work of female authors, I’m not blinkered; many of my favourite writers are female—Alice Hoffman, Barbara Kingsolver, Annie Dillard, Zadie Smith, Annie Proulx, Helen Dunmore, Rose Tremain, Anne Patchett and poets Sharon Olds, Wendy Cope, Alice Oswald and Sophie Hannah.

There’s loads of overlap in defining genres. What’s the difference between Suspense, Adventure, Mystery and Thriller, for example. And what about separating Chick Lit and Women’s Fiction—does one have a tasteful book cover, while the other is pretty pastels with cute cartoon characters? Romance appears to have gobbled up (pun intended) Erotica.

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Of all the genres, Science Fiction stretches me the most. I definitely have an artistic, rather than a scientific mind, but I make myself read several science-fiction novels every year, hoping to activate dormant scientific brain cells that prefer hibernation. Neal Stephenson has challenged me: I’ve read Reamde, Snow Crash, Cryptonomicon and Anathem.

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Magical Realism and Fantasy are easier for me to swallow, and I’m fond of Alice Hoffman, Gabriel García Márquez and Robin Hobb. What I get out of these three genres, is the courage to make my plotting devious, with bold unexpected strokes.

I read several novels in the History genre every year. I’ve devoured all of the Shardlake series by C.J. Sansom, set in the reign of King Henry V111. There’s some blurring of the lines in my choice of historical reading, as some titles would be labelled Westerns, such as Donald Ray Pollock’s The Heavenly Table and novels by Larry McMurtry and Cormac McCarthy...that’s if they weren’t described as Literature! Again, I’m inspired by the ever-lurking danger and need for self-defence in their plots, which provides a much-needed jolt to my own stories; it’s very easy in writing a 21st-century crime novel to get bogged down with forensic gubbins and procedural claptrap.

Graphic Novels are a good way for me to get ideas about pacing and synthesising the key elements of a tale, as they don’t waste panels on needless illustrations.

I rarely read modern-day Erotica or Romances, not because I’m unloving or prudish, more because I find the conventions of the writing hard to take, as most of the plots are extremely predictable. I recently borrowed a couple of Mills & Boon novels from my local library, which got me a strange look from the librarian who knows my reading tastes. I found them unexpectedly funny, but I don’t think I was supposed to be laughing. Actually, humour is something I used in my last Cornish Detective novel, when my protagonist finally takes and is taken by, a lover—after seven years of chaste widowhood.

Horror stories rarely horrify me, which might be one of the drawbacks of spending so long researching murders. I can’t take monsters seriously, though I love a slow-building sense of dread, such as H.P. Lovecraft once wrote, or more recently, as Patrick Ness achieved in his Chaos Walking series.

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Readers have prejudices about genres other than what they normally read. I was pleased that two of my manuscript readers, who’d avoided crime fiction, thinking they wouldn’t like it, were turned on by my stories which expanded their reading tastes.

I regularly read what is labelled Literature, which might be defined as superior writing of lasting artistic merit, though a cynic might argue that literature wins writing prizes, but sells poorly, while genre writing is commercially lucrative, but is rarely chosen for an award… in the same way that comedy films never win the Best Picture Oscar.

I’m inspired by fine writing, and though I write my Cornish Detective stories with literary flourishes, I respect the conventions of the genre. Mind you, there’s been a rise in literary crime fiction, with authors such as Pierre Lemaitre, Derek B. Miller and Fred Vargas all writing high-quality prose; James Lee Burke has long written rich descriptions of complex characters.

Do you read outside your writing genre?

How does it help to enrich your own stories?

Are there any genres that you avoid?

Which genre provides the greatest escapism for you?

Ghost Characters

Ghosts in literature are familiar to us—think of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, Susan Hill’s The Woman In Black, the dead narrator of The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold, Banquo’s ghost in Macbeth, The Dead Men of Dunharrow in The Lord of The Rings and The Headless Horseman in Washington Irving’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

In my chosen writing genre, Crime, there are several prime examples where the protagonist faces up to malevolent forces from beyond the grave, or is in sympathy with them and even assisted by them.

James Lee Burke’s Dave Robicheaux seriesabout a Louisiana detective, has his protagonist imagining and, at times, interacting with long-dead soldiers from the Civil War—most notably during In The Electric Mist With Confederate Dead.

Image result for n The Electric Mist With Confederate Dead.

John Connolly’s novels featuring a private investigator called Charlie Parker are soaked in supernatural events, so much so, that it’s sometimes tricky to decide who’s alive and who’s dead.

James Oswald’s Inspector McLean series sees his Scottish detective dallying with supernatural forces of evil.

I recently read two of Arnaldur Indridason’s Icelandic crime novelsin which his detective hero is forever tormented by the memory of letting go of his brother’s hand when they were children lost in a blizzard. His body was never found, and from time to time his dead brother visits him as a symbol of how he failed. His brother has forgiven him, but he can’t forgive himself.

In my own Cornish Detective series, my protagonist is a widower, his wife killed in a freak road accident two years before Book 1. In the first two stories, he slid into dark depression clinging to his job as a means of coping. He felt guilty about finding ways to avoid thinking about her, in an attempt to move on. Medication and counselling pulled him through, and in the last three novels, he’s been able to imagine her reaction when he does daft things, how she would have teased him. Her spirit is there to that extent, but she’s not haunting him. I fought shy of adding her ghostly assistance, as there are already enough weird things going on.

I wrote a novella based on my own experiences with the supposedly dead, and a short story in which the protagonist doesn’t comprehend that he’s in a state of limbo between this world and the next, but eerie events in my novels are handled by legends, superstition and the fevered imaginings of drunks, druggies and the insane.

Ghosts needn’t be terrifying. Richard Brautigan created a brilliant spectre in The Hawkline Monster: A Gothic Western an entity that has problems of its own in the form of its rebellious shadow.

When I was a teenager, my father introduced me to the humorous writing of Thorne Smith. His best-known works are the Topper stories, one of which was filmed starring Cary Grant and Constance Bennett. Topper is a stuffy man who’s haunted by a fun-loving couple who lead him into all sorts of compromising situations.

Mind you, I sometimes feel that my muse may be haunting me, sneaking in to do some editing without my permission—as Muriel Spark describes in this poem:

Authors’ Ghosts

I think that authors’ ghosts creep back
Nightly to haunt the sleeping shelves
And find the books they wrote.
Those authors put final, semi-final touches,
Sometimes whole paragraphs.

Whole pages are added, re-written, revised,
So deeply by night those authors employ
Themselves with those old books of theirs.

How otherwise
Explain the fact that maybe after years
have passed, the reader
Picks up the book – But was it like that?
I don’t remember this . . . Where
Did this ending come from?
I recall quite another.

Oh yes, it has been tampered with
No doubt about it –
The author’s very touch is here, there and there,
Where it wasn’t before, and
What’s more, something’s missing –
I could have sworn . . .

Muriel Spark

Do you have any ghosts in your stories?

Are they out-and-out terrifying ghosts…or benevolent shades, who assist the protagonist?

Which famous ghosts do you like?

Are they scary or amusing?

If Wishes Were Horses

‘If Wishes Were Horses’ tends to float alone as a phrase these days, to describe something that we wish were true, though it derives from a 17th-century Scottish proverb-nursery rhyme:

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
If turnips were watches, I’d wear one by my side.
If “if’s” and “and’s” were pots and pans,
There’d be no work for tinkers’ hands.
As unknown authors, seeking representation or wondering how to proceed with self-publishing, it’s nice to daydream about what form any success we may have would look like.
Personally, if my Cornish Detective novels ever take off, I definitely wouldn’t want them to reach the stratospheric heights of J. K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series, or even of any other phenomenally successful author who really can’t write very well…insert your own detested bestseller here. After all, who wants to be so successful that you become a target for kidnappers, terrorists and extortionists?
I’d be happy for my books to sell in quantities that allow me to live a comfortable low-key lifestyle, while writing more in the series, as well as publishing other forms—short stories, novellas, poetry and song lyrics—all of which I’ve written.
I’ve always had my eye on my stories being turned into a television series, and though I know I’d have little to no control over the finished product, that’s the best route to popularisation and steady earnings. Were my novels sold to an American film studio or television company, then I’m sure I’d be able to grit my teeth tight enough to tolerate their inevitable alterations to my characters. I’d hope that they keep the seaside and wilderness of my Cornish location, probably in Maine or Washington state.
Favourable reviews and the respect of my peers would be good too. It’d be great to meet some of my crime writing heroes, people like John Connolly, Michael Connelly, Lawrence Block, Andrea Camilleri and James Lee Burke.
I’d like to please the friends who’ve encouraged my writing, by being successfulNote that I’m listing the pleasant aspects of success, not the irksome obligations, such as interviews, book signings, festival appearances (might be OK) and any hoopla that I need to indulge in via social media to make me irresistible! 
As I wander with as much insouciance as I can muster through the final stage of living, it would be great to have the feelings that appear in this poem by Sir John Betjeman:
The Last Laugh
I made hay while the sun shone. 
My work sold. 
Now, if the harvest is over 
And the world cold, 
Give me the bonus of laughter 
As I lose hold.
If wishes were horses, how would your writing endeavours pan out?
Do you want to be adored?
Could you stand being despised, but wildly successful in terms of earnings?
Would your book make a decent television series or a movie?
How do you feel about being a public face, a household name, instantly recognisable and trotted out to give opinions on things that aren’t even to do with writing?
What about the reactions of your family and friends?

Disposable Characters

After noticing Colin Harrison’s long paragraphs in You Belong To Me, I was also struck by how he used characters who had a walk-on, walk-off role.

The plot of his thriller involved a couple of baddies and one good guy being killed in two separate incidents. Their bodies were accidentally discovered, having been disposed of in remote locations. The people who found them were given separate chapters, rather than a few paragraphs. Admittedly, the chapters were short at three pages, but the characterisation was so strong that they were more compelling than the protagonists.

One was a pest destroyer, specialising in the most extreme infestations of rats, which led to some stomach-churning details of how rats flourish. The other disposable character was a commercial orchard owner, who’d lost her nose to cancer as a result of the pesticides she was forced to use, meaning she wore a plastic prosthesis when in public. Sadly, these two never appeared again after they’d told the police about the corpses. They were only passing through, but they made an impact.

My crime novels are 80,000 words long, featuring about a dozen coppers and villains, with several recurring characters, such as pub landlords, newspaper reporters, a coroner and police informants. I regularly devote entire chapters to the thoughts of my hero detective or his villainous antagonist but haven’t up to now concentrated on the life of a minor player. I may give it a try!

Describing the jobs that folk do, and the landscape they work in is a great way of rounding out a story and giving it context.

How do you deal with supporting characters in your stories?

Paragraph Length

I’ve just finished reading You Belong To Me, by Colin Harrison. It’s his eighth novel, and he previously had bestsellers with The Havana Room and Manhattan Nocturne.

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One thing that struck me about his writing style, is that he composes very long paragraphs. The longest was three pages—about 112 lines—some 1,400 words! Harrison lives in New York, where his novels are set, and he’s plainly passionate about the city. Some of these lengthy paragraphs consist of him pontificating on such things as the history of shopping malls and the use of illegal steroids in muscle gyms. Interesting as these digressions were, they didn’t advance the story at all.

I was taught that a paragraph should focus on one subject, which should be discussed until it’s completed. Harrison certainly does that, though I found my attention wandering a bit, almost longing for a paragraph break.

It made me have a look at how long my paragraphs are in my five completed novels. I appear to average out at 90 words, with only a few more than 100 words. I know that when I’m writing and I see a big block of words forming, I feel compelled to break off—more out of fear of boring readers with limited attention spans, than any lack of belief in myself.

How long are your paragraphs?

Are you intimidated by long paragraphs?

Do short choppy paragraphs put you off, as they make it hard to get a grip on the story?

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Time Span

One of the elements of my crime novels that I acknowledge isn’t realistic, is the time span of the investigations. This anomaly commonly occurs in the genre, for after all, who’d want to read a story that took several years to play out? It’s OK for that to happen in true crime tales, but fiction demands a speedy resolution. In real life, an investigation could take a decade to crack, but in fiction, the detectives get lucky breaks—the trick is, to make them believable and not wildly improbable.

My latest Cornish Detective novel, The Dead Need Nobody, took place over a period of ten weeks, which is the swiftest my protagonist has solved a case. One of the reasons for the short time scale, was I deliberately put the murderer in the frame—everybody in Saint Ives fingered him as the likely suspect—yet he’s as slippery as greased mercury. A very wealthy man, my detective’s problem is pinning him down so that he can’t escape with the help of high-priced lawyers.

The other four books occupied three months, seven months, three months and four months. Not everything was cut and dried so quickly, for a crime that took place in the first story, set in 2012, which was written off as a tragic accident, was only revealed to be a murder three years later in Book 2.

There have been plenty of famous novels that take place over the course of a day, such as Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s One Day In The Life Of Ivan Denisovich. C.S. Lewis wrote The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe as happening over 1,288 years in Narnia, but it only took several Earth minutes. The Taking of Pelham One Two Three, written by Morton Freedgood, under the pen name John Godey, and filmed a couple of times takes place over one hour.

Image result for The Taking of Pelham One Two Three,

As you’d expect, very long books describe events over several decades. Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time is 1,267,069 words long and was published in seven volumes. Proust wrote it from 1909 until his death in 1922; three volumes were published posthumously. The novel is an allegorical contemplation of his own life, effectively occupying the same late-19th-century to early-20th-century era.

The record for the longest time span might well belong to 20th-century science fiction author Olaf Stapledon. His Last and First Men: A Story Of The Near and Far Future describes the rise of mankind over two billion years!

Short stories can describe mere moments. One of my writing heroes, Richard Brautigan wrote a short story that’s been called the shortest ever, including for the duration of the action:

The Scarlatti Tilt

It’s very hard to live in a studio apartment in San Jose with a man who’s learning to play the violin.’ That’s what she told the police when she handed them the empty revolver.

Richard Brautigan

An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridgewritten by Ambrose Bierce, occupies the time it takes a body to drop from the bridge to the end of the rope, as a man is hanged.

When writing, I keep track of what date the action is set, just so I don’t miss things like bank holidays that might affect events. Rather than mention actual dates in the narrative, I tend to indicate the passing of time by natural happenings, such as how the weather changes, birds nesting and breeding, plants growing leaves as spring arrives and dropping them in autumn. I forgot to mention my protagonist detective having yet another lonely birthday in one story, but that’s one of the advantages of being unpublished, for I edited his non-celebration in.

How long a period does your story take to happen?

Have you written an epic that spans centuries?

Do you include influential real-life events in your narrative, to reinforce the authenticity of your plot? I felt compelled to do this over Brexit, as the action of my third Cornish Detective novel was set in the farming community, who faced economic ruin from losing European subsidies—which threat prompted a couple of the crimes described.

If you write flash fiction, does the brevity of your tale focus on moments—or do you hint at the longer time span of a larger story?

How do your Stories make People Feel?

I was recently reminded of this quote:

They may forget what you said—but they will never forget how you made them feel.
Carl W. Buehner

It’s commonly misattributed to Maya Angelou.

Whoever said it first, it’s a pertinent observation when it comes to the stories that we write.

Looking at my own writing—the short stories, novellas and novels—a trait that they share is the protagonist surviving awkward or dangerous situations, and coming through emotionally bruised, with their misconceptions about life changed for the better and optimistic about the future.

They’re not so much feel-good stories, more conforming to what P.D. James said:

What the detective story is about is not murder, but the restoration of order.

Order is restored in most of my tales, not just in my Cornish Detective novels, though there’s still an uneasy sense that things can go wrong and that it’s wise to be watchful and kind to others, as we’re all travelling a rocky road. I try to make my reader empathise with the humanity of my characters, including the antagoniststaking them on a journey that reaches a believable destination, even if it isn’t quite where they thought they were going. On the way, I want them to be intrigued, menaced, thrilled and relieved.

Occasionally, I’ll leave loose ends to make readers wonder about the fate of a character, as not everything should be tied in a neat bow. I’ve also written a few horror stories, aimed at making the reader feel unsettled, at the very least, if not scared to venture outdoors ever again!

How do you try to make your readers feel?

Terrified?

Sexually aroused?

Angry?

Confused about a moral dilemma?

Excited?

Sleepy? Hopefully not, unless it’s a bedtime book for youngsters.

Happy?

How Do You Feel When You Write?

The process of writing a book involves many stages, from the inkling of an idea to making plans and researching, before writing the story, followed by editing…then, wondering how to sell it!

Of all of the stages, editing is my least favourite, and as for marketing my novels, I’m as confused a dunce now as I was five years ago.

For me, the best part of the process is the actual writing: I come alive when I return to the keyboard. Steve McQueen encapsulated the excitement of doing something he loved—racing—and I feel the same way about writing.

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I’m intrigued to see what happens next, for whatever plans I’ve made and however inventive I am, there’s still an unknowable element that appears while I write.

I split into three parts: creator, critic and reader, watching the story coalesce. Not every author feels the same way:

‘My greatest fear is of suddenly feeling that to devote so much of my life to writing is meaningless. It’s a sensation that I’ve felt very often, and I’m afraid that I will again. I need a lot of determination, a stubborn, passionate adherence to the page, not to feel the urgency of other things to do, a more active way of spending my life. So yes, I’m fragile. It’s all too easy for me to notice the other things and feel guilty. And so it’s pride that I need, more than strength. While I’m writing, I have to believe that it’s up to me to tell this or that story, and that it would be wrong to avoid it or not to complete it to the best of my abilities.’

Elena Ferrante, author of My Brilliant Friend and four other Neapolitan Novels. P.G. Wodehouse

Other authors don’t have any guilt about writing: 

‘Writing is the only thing that, when I do it, I don’t feel I should be doing something else.’

Gloria Steinem

‘I never want to see anyone, and I never want to go anywhere or do anything. I just want to write.’

P.G. Wodehouse

I previously posted on How do your Stories make People Feel?‘ but how do you feel when writing those stories?

Happy? 

Neurotic?

Angry? 

Wistful?

Confused?

I feel like this lion:

joyHappy Lion.jpg

Using Real People in Fiction

I recently read a well-reviewed crime novel called American By Day, by Derek B. Miller, in which a Norwegian detective travels to America to track down her estranged brother, who’s implicated in the death of his girlfriend. He’s hiding in a forested wilderness beside a lake, and to get to him first, she sabotages the local police force’s boats and sends a SWAT team, run by a shoot-first-ask-questions-later knucklehead, to the wrong address. They break their way into the mansion, only to be confronted by actress Sigourney Weaver who’s staying at her director friend Ang Lee’s home while he’s away making a movie. She was the perfect strong female character to prick the ego of the arrogant SWAT team commander. In the Thanks To credits at the end of the book, the author apologises to Sigourney Weaver for using her in this way. I wonder what she made of it.

Of course, factual historical novels interpret the lives of real people, imagining what their lives were like. I enjoyed Alice Hoffman’s The Marriage of Oppositesabout the life of painter Camille Pisarro and his mother Rachel, and Lamentationthe sixth novel in C.J. Sansom’s excellent series about the life of Matthew Shardlake, a lawyer who interacts with the Royal household of King Henry VIII. George Saunders’ Lincoln In The Bardo about the mourning of President Lincoln for his dead son was a tremendous feat of storytelling and unlike anything else I’ve ever read, for its unusual structure.

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These novels feature historical characters as protagonists, but what about mentioning real famous people in a novel set in modern times? There are potential problems to do with defamation of character, that could lead to a charge of libel.

This tends to happen with newspaper stories, rather than fiction, but there have been cases of famous authors being clobbered with a libel lawsuit.

More recently, Scarlett Johansson won a lawsuit against a French author, who portrayed a character similar to her as wildly promiscuous. The payout to her was so low, that it hardly looks like punishment!

In writing a contemporary novel, it’s pretty much impossible to not mention what’s happening in the news—and that could include naming names and your characters’ reaction to what politicians, Royalty, famous actors and musicians and mere celebrities have said or done. How could a novel set in the U.S.A. in 2019 not allude to The Orange One who is currently President?

These days, so many lines are crossed when it comes to personal privacy, what with social media, hacking, sales of personal data and CCTV surveillance of our lives, that it’s as if we no longer care very much about preserving our dignity. There’s a pervasive sense of entitlement that has developed in modern times, that we have a right to know about someone’s life. It’s something that we, as authors, need to consider when it comes to wording the bio that appears on our blogs and websites, our publisher’s profile of their clients and even the mini-bio on the cover of our book.

I freely admit that while I resent the idea of becoming public property, to promote my own books, I still enjoy finding out about the lives of authors. I’m always puzzled when I find a novel that doesn’t have a photograph of the author on the cover flap. What are they—hideous?!

Given that it’s unavoidable that we’re putting ourselves up for grabs—as citizens and as authors—should we have a conscience about using real people in our stories? Famous people can be touchy about privacy. It surely depends on how much detail we go into. In one of my Cornish Detective novels, I peripherally referred to the British Royal Family, when the Princes were visiting Rock, a favoured playground of the wealthy, as a loss of police personnel to guard them and control public access to roads, affected the action in my plot, allowing an offender to escape.

I’ve also used a couple of ordinary people as a basis for fictional characters, friends who gave me permission to use details of their lives as a social worker and visual artist. I haven’t had their fictional doppelgängers say anything that’s contrary to their own viewpoint—I always send them extracts to check.

Have you placed real people in your stories?

Do any of your relatives, friends (or enemies) appear on the pages of your novel?

Have you read any stories where a famous person made an unexpected appearance?

Colophons

A colophon is a publisher’s emblem, usually printed on the title page of a book. In olden times, it meant an inscription at the end of a book or a literary composition—often naming the author and scribe (who copied it) and the printer, with the place and date of execution, etc.—as happens on a title page today.

A logo is a modern way of describing an emblem—a visual representation of a brand. A company’s trademark includes a logo, slogan and the font used. Some of the best-known publishers’ colophons or logos are the birds of Penguin Books and its imprint Puffin Books (children’s non-fiction) and Pelican (adult non-fiction)

Puffin Books logo.png

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Of more recent publishers, I’m fond of the Galley Beggar Press demon:

I’ve seen colophons used to mark chapter and section breaks, such as this:

In modern times, with the rise of self-publishing, it makes sense for authors to add a logo to their brand. After all, think of how musician Prince used a visual image, or glyph, to defy his record company Warner Brothers and to denote his identity.

There are some great examples of designs for author colophons in this article.

I’ve already got an emblem, which I intend to use when I return to self-publishing. It came to the Whybrow family courtesy of our Wyber ancestors, who were among the invading Norman army in 1066. Wyber means ‘mighty castle’ in the ancient Norman language, and curious about this, in the 1970s I traced the location of the original castle in Normandy—which had been reduced to few scattered stones covered in poo in a field of sheep! I also traced my forebears’ family crest, which was the commonly found castle turret, sheep and bags of wool (a source of medieval wealth), one sack of gold and a strange red heart with a devil’s tail.

I don’t know what happened to the sack of gold, but I’ve used the demonic heart as a symbol on motorcycle crash helmets for 40 years. I briefly self-published under the pen name Augustus Devilheart, but reverted to my own name, as it was too much fuss to remember who I was!

What symbol would you use for your books?