How To Write Killer Fiction Part 1

How to Write Killer Fiction.

The Funhouse of Mystery & the Roller Coaster of Suspense.

by Carolyn Wheat.

Preface.

THE BEST ADVICE on writing I've ever seen came from a fictional character. Seymour Gla.s.s, J.D. Salinger's cryptic antihero, tells his brother, Buddy, an aspiring writer: "You think of the book you'd most like to be reading, and then you sit down and shamelessly write it."

That's the essence of this insider's guide: helping the writer select the book he'd most like to be reading, then helping him identify the particular pleasures of his chosen genre in order to bring his story to life in the way most satisfying to the reader of that genre.

How To Write Killer Fiction differs from other books about writing in detailing the crucial distinction between mystery and suspense fiction in terms of the experience the reader expects from each. When choosing to enter the funhouse of mystery, the reader wants to be puzzled, to be uneasily aware that things are not what they seem, to see the world through a distorting lens, to follow along as a detective separates truth from illusion. Riding the roller coaster of suspense, the reader looks forward to being hurtled through a fast-moving set of events that leaves him breathless, feeling emotions that rocket to the sky and plunge to the depths in a matter of seconds as a hero confronts her greatest fears. differs from other books about writing in detailing the crucial distinction between mystery and suspense fiction in terms of the experience the reader expects from each. When choosing to enter the funhouse of mystery, the reader wants to be puzzled, to be uneasily aware that things are not what they seem, to see the world through a distorting lens, to follow along as a detective separates truth from illusion. Riding the roller coaster of suspense, the reader looks forward to being hurtled through a fast-moving set of events that leaves him breathless, feeling emotions that rocket to the sky and plunge to the depths in a matter of seconds as a hero confronts her greatest fears.

Understanding the expectations a reader brings to each genre allows the writer to create the experience the reader most enjoys.

The Funhouse of Mystery_ In the mystery, whether a cozy whodunit with its focus on puzzle, or a private eye novel with its emphasis on gritty realism, the reader meets a detective who brings skill and insight to the solution of a murder. The reader identifies with a hero who is in control, who is able to see and understand what ordinary people cannot, who peels away layers of lies to reveal the buried truth.

The central problem of the mystery is not "who killed X," but who covered up covered up the killing of X, and the killing of X, and how did he succeed in creating the illusion that he did not kill X. how did he succeed in creating the illusion that he did not kill X. It is the task of the detective to strip away the "fake reality" created by the murderer, to work her way through the funhouse, with its distortions and reflections, and put the world back in order by recreating the truth about the murder. By the end of the cla.s.sic mystery, we not only know the ident.i.ty of the killer but we have also unraveled lies and secrets unrelated to the murder, for the detective's job is to seek truth everywhere. It is the task of the detective to strip away the "fake reality" created by the murderer, to work her way through the funhouse, with its distortions and reflections, and put the world back in order by recreating the truth about the murder. By the end of the cla.s.sic mystery, we not only know the ident.i.ty of the killer but we have also unraveled lies and secrets unrelated to the murder, for the detective's job is to seek truth everywhere.

The Roller Coaster of Suspense_ In contrast to the intellectual pleasure of the mystery, suspense is an emotional roller-coaster ride; if there is a puzzle element, it is decidedly secondary to the visceral experience. The suspense hero, like the protagonist of a folk or fairy tale, faces tests that will elevate him to another level of maturity. The suspense hero, unlike most detectives who already have the skills to detect, must learn skills to cope with the new reality that has overtaken him. We readers want to see him becoming becoming a hero through overcoming obstacles on the way to the showdown with evil. By the end of the novel, he has walked through the fire and has emerged as a different, larger person. a hero through overcoming obstacles on the way to the showdown with evil. By the end of the novel, he has walked through the fire and has emerged as a different, larger person.

Suspense comes in many packages: romantic suspense, spy novel, techno-thriller, legal thriller, political thriller-indeed, the term "thriller" is enough to convey the roller-coaster effect of a well-constructed suspense novel. We read it, not to be entertained by a detective sifting through the clues of a past murder, but to grit our teeth and bite our nails as our hero dodges bullets and evades danger in the present.

The ending of a suspense novel, like that of a mystery, must satisfy. But where the mystery satisfies its readers by being logical, complete, and believable, the suspense novel must also satisfy emotionally. Some suspense novels that disappoint do so, not because the final chapters are unsatisfactory, but because the author failed to develop the middle sufficiently to support the final act. Others give the reader a less than resonant ending by holding back, taking the characters to less than the maximum danger and confrontation. Pulling out all the stops is the only way to conclude a powerhouse suspense novel.

The Writing Process_ The final section of this book concerns the writing process. Some writers need the security of an outline; they plot the entire novel either on paper or in their heads before beginning chapter one. Others thrive on the excitement of facing a blank page; they feel stifled if they know too much before they begin to write. This book honors both processes, while recognizing that each contains its own pitfalls. The Outliner may lose verve; the Blank-pager often wanders into byways that don't move the book as a whole.

I offer advice for both instinctive Outliners and natural Blank-pagers. I discuss expansion and contraction as processes that recur in cycles throughout the entire period of writing the novel. Both types of writers are expansive at the outset, casting their nets wide to bring in as many ideas as possible. The Outliner contracts the material through the outline process; the Blank-pager is more likely to finish a first draft and then begin narrowing and focusing through revision. Either writer will find suggestions and encouragement in this book, which offers hints for dealing with problems at various stages. In addition, you'll find recognition of the enormous task of writing a novel, with ideas on how to manage paper and disk, how and when to revise, and when to call it finished.

I'm the kind of person who has to know why. why. Telling me there are rules that have to be followed is not the best way to convince me of anything- yet I've become a pa.s.sionate advocate of "the rules" about mystery writing. This is because I think I understand Telling me there are rules that have to be followed is not the best way to convince me of anything- yet I've become a pa.s.sionate advocate of "the rules" about mystery writing. This is because I think I understand why why a good mystery novel must contain certain elements, and because I see "the rules" as rooted firmly in the notion of what makes the mystery experience satisfying for the reader. a good mystery novel must contain certain elements, and because I see "the rules" as rooted firmly in the notion of what makes the mystery experience satisfying for the reader.

I believe that if a writer understands the why why of mystery and suspense novels, he will be able to master the of mystery and suspense novels, he will be able to master the how hows without too much trouble-and the writing will be enhanced by a deep understanding of the underlying psychology of the genre. This book is not about formula writing, but about an organic appreciation of story.

If anything in this book works for you, I'm glad. If it doesn't, toss it away and write from your gut, always keeping in mind the one immutable fact about fiction: You're the one creating the reader's experience.

Introduction.

Fiction Is Like a Dream.

THE LATE John Gardner wrote, "Fiction is like a dream." Like a dream, fiction can send us on a roller-coaster ride of sensation, or it can produce images as distorted as any to be seen in the funhouse mirror at the carnival. Like a dream, it can leave us vaguely hung over, unable to experience the reality of daylight, yearning instead for the mysteries and ambiguities of night. Like a dream, fiction can reach its tendrils into our waking consciousness, haunting our hours until we can return to its potent illusions.

Unlike a dream, fiction is a manufactured experience. And it is you the writer who creates the dream for your intended reader. It is vital, therefore, that you the writer understand fully the experience you intend your reader to have. Are you offering a roller-coaster ride through danger, or are you instead masterminding a trip through the funhouse, with all the distorting mirrors reflecting images that are not what they seem? It is only by knowing precisely the effect you wish to create that you can give the reader exactly what he is looking for.

Two Different Dreams_ If fiction is like a dream, then suspense is a nightmare. The hero, and through the hero the reader, is plunged into chaos, driven from one extreme to the other, hounded and disbelieved and threatened with ultimate danger. How, you wonder, can this be considered an enjoyable experience, one your reader is going to eagerly embrace? Because you the writer guarantee a happy ending in which the hero will come through the nightmare a better person, and the reader will breathe a sigh of heartfelt relief. It's the literary equivalent of waking in a cold sweat, yet filled with a sense of well-being and grat.i.tude that it was, after all, only a dream.

At the opposite pole of the popular crime fiction genre is the whodunit. Here the nightmare of sudden, violent death is tamed, put into a neat, logical package of detection and clues, rendered less frightening by the imposition of order. The detective hero, unlike the suspense hero, is the master of the situation, keeping her head when all about her are losing theirs. The detective manages the out-of-control emotions of others and brings logic and insight to bear on the puzzle of unexplained pa.s.sions. Here the experience is one of taking control while the dream is going on, of telling oneself: I can handle this; it's only a dream.

In essence, then, the reader who buys a whodunit and the reader who plunks down six bucks for a suspense novel are buying two different dreams. One is a power fantasy: the Great Detective is in control, unaffected by the powerful emotions around him. The other is a victim fantasy: the hero is buffeted by the winds of fate-but she will prevail in the end, thanks to skills she hardly knew she possessed.

Reason and Emotion_ Every aspect of the well-written whodunit and the well-crafted suspense novel reflects these distinct dream-experiences. In the whodunit, the reader identifies with someone outside the troubled circle where the crime takes place; whether the sleuth is a cop, a private eye, or an amateur, the cla.s.sic mystery is a story of other people's troubles. In recent years, detective characters have begun solving their own personal problems in the course of the mystery, but the core of the genre is a situation involving murder that happens to other people.

In a straight suspense novel, the hero is the center of the book. The troubles are his, not someone else's. The reader identifies with the hero and goes through a catharsis by following the hero's journey every step of the way. At the end of the story, the hero, as in a fairy tale, emerges at a different level of maturity.

In suspense, the emotions are up-front and dominant. The big scenes are played out in front of the reader; we see good and evil clash before our eyes. The hero is pursued, captured, tortured in real time, while a time bomb ticks in the background. We expect to see the hero working her way free from the ropes that bind her; we will be extremely disappointed to come on the scene after she's freed herself.

In the mystery, on the other hand, the biggest scene of all, the actual murder, takes place offstage. Most of the emotions, in fact, are buried, hidden beneath facades and lies and secrets; it is the task of the detective to bring them to light. Much is told from the perspective of the present looking back upon the past. A police procedural begins with a dead body, and the living person who once existed is seen only in recollections. The private eye novel contains more violence and conflict in the present, but deep-rooted anguish often lies at the bottom of the problem. The immediacy involves the ident.i.ty and apprehension of the killer, not the intense emotion that gave rise to the murder in the first place.

Two Steps Ahead, Two Steps Behind_ One key to the distinction between mystery and suspense writing involves the relative positions of hero and reader. In the ideal mystery novel, the reader is two steps behind the detective. We mystery writers want our readers to smack themselves on the forehead when the murderer's ident.i.ty is revealed, to say: "I should have known! If only I'd remembered that Sally used to be a nurse, I could have figured out that she had access to the digitalis."

What we don't want is a reader who says instead, "I figured that out in chapter four; why did it take this so-called Great Detective so long?" And since the death of the Golden Age, we also no longer want our reader to say, "I couldn't have figured that out in a million years, it was so complicated and far-fetched." We want our readers to stay that ideal two steps behind the detective.

The ideal suspense reader, on the other hand, is two steps ahead of the hero. "Don't go into that old, dark house tonight," the reader begs as Mary Sue puts on her coat to go meet the nice young man she met at the library earlier that day. He's promised to tell her the whole truth about her dead grandfather, but we the readers know he's up to no good. We know something she doesn't (often because the book is written in third person; more on this later), and we writhe in suspense as she steps into danger. We are two steps ahead of her-and that's precisely where the wise suspense writer wants us to be.

Myth vs. Tale_ The cla.s.sic mystery, whether hard- or soft-boiled, has an aura of myth about it. Sherlock Holmes has much in common with the wizards and magicians of old; Jane Marple is a wise woman-or a witch, depending on your point of view-who sees what others miss. Philip Marlowe and Travis McGee are today's knights-errant, on a quest for honor in an honorless world.

The cla.s.sic Great Detective is a finished product; we don't expect character development from Nero Wolfe or Hercule Poirot. They don't change or grow because they already embody all the qualities and skills they need to do the job they were sent to earth to do.

Today's detectives may be a trifle more fallible; they may change and grow and go in and out of relationships and question their place in the universe-but when it comes to their ability to see what others miss, to peel away the masks and layers of falsehood, they still retain a mythic aura. The Just-the-facts-ma'am cop who plays no favorites, the Hard-boiled Detective in his trench coat and fedora, and the Perry Mason-like lawyer who always defends the innocent have become archetypes in their own right.

The suspense hero, on the other hand, is not born to succeed. He must learn skills; he is usually presented at the outset as having little ability to cope with the new world into which he's been thrust. The model here is more fairy tale than myth: a king had three sons, the first two of whom were the bravest and handsomest men in the kingdom. But the youngest son was called Simple, and his brothers laughed at him because he was not brave. Guess which brother is the hero. The orphaned female hero will, like Cinderella, emerge from her ordeal a fully mature woman who has earned the love of her prince.

Larger World/Smaller World_ The suspense hero is thrust from a small, safe world into a larger, very dangerous one. Often, the hero spends time and energy trying to return to the safe world she knew before the adventure began. Sometimes the small, safe world of the hero is invaded by vicious messengers from a larger world, forcing the hero to adopt larger-world tactics in order to deal with them.

One of the chief pleasures of the spy/techno-thriller subgenre is that it gives the reader a pa.s.sport to other countries-and the reader goes visiting, not as a tourist, but as a privileged member of the elite. We travel not just to Moscow, but to the heart of the Kremlin; we see not the usual tourist London, but the inner workings of MI5. We eavesdrop on Hitler and Roosevelt and Stalin as they discuss their forthcoming meeting at Yalta. The hero of this kind of suspense novel is a modern Ca.s.sandra; he knows and speaks truth, but he is not listened to.

The detective's world, in contrast, narrows instead of expanding. There is a small circle of suspects to be questioned; clues are often found in the tiniest of objects: a thread, a bent blade of gra.s.s, a minuscule discrepancy between one witness's story and another's. Even in the hardest of the hard-boiled mysteries, there are subterranean connections between suspects; the murder will turn out to be committed by someone we have reason to suspect, even if all the suspects aren't gathered around a drawing room for the final twenty pages.

Information Concealed or Revealed _ The tension in the mystery depends on information withheld from the reader. A clue is interesting because it must be interpreted; it is not clear on its face what the red thread at the scene of the crime means. It will take the detective's brain to make the connection between the thread and the bellman's uniform worn by the clever killer, and then to put that bit of information together with some other seemingly random fact to form a chain of evidence that will convict someone of the crime.

The suspense novel relies on information given to the reader; we know that when our hero's back is turned, the old friend she's asked for help will telephone the n.a.z.is and give away her location. She sleeps in ignorance in the best bedroom, believing herself safe at last, while the SS is on its way. We shudder with antic.i.p.ation; will she wake in time to escape? How will she get out of the house? Where will she go? We are worried about her because we have been given information she doesn't have.

Central Questions_ The central question of the mystery is: Who did it? Can our detective unravel the puzzle and bring the killer to justice?

The ending of the mystery is intellectually satisfying. We understand the truth of what happened, and we believe that this truth explains all that confused us in the course of the story.

Emotional satisfaction comes, first and foremost, from the fact that we accept the solution to the mystery on an intellectual level.

The central question of the suspense novel is: Will our hero survive? Will she prevail?

The ending of the suspense novel is emotionally satisfying: our hero is not only alive, she has successfully undergone an ordeal and has become a stronger person on another plane of existence. A man has become a mensch; a girl has become a woman.

A mystery novel is at its most satisfying when it is part of a series. The best way for a mystery writer to create growth in a detective character is to do it over a series of books; the focus of each separate story is still the solution of an individual crime. The detective hero ends or begins a relationship, comes to terms with her past, or faces a tough professional choice-but her personal dilemma is a subplot, subordinated to the central issue of who killed the victim.

The suspense novel can be a stand-alone book; the writer has taken the hero through a life-transforming ordeal-and this can only happen once in a lifetime. Since this hero will be seen between the covers of a book only once, the writer pulls out all the stops and tells all aspects of his story. This is especially true of the suspense novel that ends with the hero becoming a mensch; suspense stories mensch; suspense stories that revolve around a hero who is already a mensch give a different kind of pleasure, a pleasure which may be repeated more than once. that revolve around a hero who is already a mensch give a different kind of pleasure, a pleasure which may be repeated more than once.

Crossovers_ Are there books that succeed as both a mystery and a suspense novel at the same time? Presumed Innocent, Presumed Innocent, by Scott Turow, comes as close as any book I've ever read to doing just that. by Scott Turow, comes as close as any book I've ever read to doing just that.

How?

First: the mystery was solid. It was complex enough to satisfy a mystery fan; it had clues and suspects and red herrings-all the things a whodunit aficionado is looking for in a good read. Turow took the reader into the funhouse of mystery, showing us distorted images and confusing pictures of what might have been until we were just as befuddled as he wanted us to be.

Second: the hero was in personal danger, not from a villain out to kill him, but from the legal system that put him on trial for killing his lover. Turow took us on the roller-coaster ride that is the hallmark of suspense; one chapter we were up, we felt Rusty was innocent and was going to win his case; the next chapter we were convinced he was on his way to the chair-and what was more, we believed he deserved to be.

Both the mystery and suspense aspects of the book were given equal weight in the writing-and that's not something most writers in the genre can pull off. One thing that helped Turow is the intellectual nature of criminal trials. He wasn't trying to balance the essentially cerebral function of detection with physical derring-do; instead, the detective/ suspense hero's skills as a lawyer were tested to the full by the courtroom battle.

Another road to crossover success is the one paved by Elizabeth George, whose A Traitor to Memory A Traitor to Memory weighs in at a hefty 710 pages. This length comes about because George is literally writing two books in one: a straightforward police procedural mystery about a death in the present day, and a psychological suspense novel centering on events from the distant as well as the recent past. The result is a kaleidoscope of plot, subplot, sub-sub-plot, character arcs, turns and twists, emotional resonance-it's a book you fall into and emerge from a week later, blinking at the light as if you'd been in a cave. Its 710 pages are the result of an intensely disciplined writing mind, and Ms. George wrote at this length only after publishing shorter books. weighs in at a hefty 710 pages. This length comes about because George is literally writing two books in one: a straightforward police procedural mystery about a death in the present day, and a psychological suspense novel centering on events from the distant as well as the recent past. The result is a kaleidoscope of plot, subplot, sub-sub-plot, character arcs, turns and twists, emotional resonance-it's a book you fall into and emerge from a week later, blinking at the light as if you'd been in a cave. Its 710 pages are the result of an intensely disciplined writing mind, and Ms. George wrote at this length only after publishing shorter books.

My advice to beginning writers who want to write the next best-selling crossover book: Don't. My advice is to stick to one side or the other of the equation, to go into the funhouse or to step on the roller coaster and not try for both in the same book. It can be done, but it's difficult. And the reason it's difficult is that you are combining two different dreams.

There are suspense elements in many mysteries, and some top-notch suspense writers add mystery elements to their plotlines, but this is not the same as attempting a true crossover. Writing two books in one is a very difficult proposition, and one that demands an almost obsessive attention to structure.

Different Dreams, Different Choices_ So enter the funhouse of mystery and see how the twists and turns of the mazelike pa.s.sageways disorient you. Move on to the roller coaster and take the plunge into terror. Then decide which you enjoyed more, and choose that experience as the main focus of your book.

The rest of this book will explore the ways the writer makes the dream happen for the reader; it will follow the distinction between suspense and mystery, detailing the specific techniques that will best create each kind of dream. And it will discuss how to switch gears from mystery to suspense in order to add spice to the mystery, and how to plant mystery elements in the suspense novel that will add to its intellectual enjoyment.

Write What You Read_ Who's your favorite author, the one you turn to after a hard day at work, a day spent with three kids down with chicken pox, a day of dreary drizzle? Is it a cla.s.sic whodunit in modern dress, a Carolyn G. Hart, a Margaret Maron, a Robert Barnard? Or is it a hard-boiled private eye-a Grafton, a p.r.o.nzini, a Paretsky, a Robert B. Parker? It could be that police or forensic procedurals like those of Patricia Cornwell, Ed McBain, or Kathy Reichs are your security-blanket reads.

Or is suspense your favorite escape? Perhaps Mary Higgins Clark, Barbara Michaels, or d.i.c.k Francis sweeps you away. Or maybe it's the techno or legal side of the thriller, with Clancy or Grisham, Crichton or Ludlum. Maybe it's the potent mix of suspense and mystery, as delivered by Jonathan Kellerman, T. Jefferson Parker, or Elizabeth George.

The major reason to identify your favorite kind of book is so you can read like a writer. As you read your favorite author, ask yourself what it is about the book that brings you into the story, what keeps you turning the page. Identify the particular pleasures of the book, and try to figure out exactly how the writer created those pleasures on the page. When you come to write your own novel, you'll find that the techniques your favorite writer used are accessible to you as well.

WE ENTER the funhouse of mystery, and the first question many ask themselves is: What the heck is a funhouse?

Ah, youth. Sometimes called the Crazy House, the funhouse was a mainstay of old-fashioned carnivals and midways, the kind of amus.e.m.e.nt parks people went to before Walt Disney discovered Anaheim. Check out some old newsreel footage of Coney Island if you want the full picture, and this is what you'll see: Welcome to the Funhouse_ It's dark inside. You enter through a giant clown's head with an open mouth that becomes a door. Once inside, things happen without warning. You turn a corner and a skeleton pops out of the wall, stopping inches from your face. Maniacal laughter comes out of nowhere, and blasts of cold air meet you when you enter another corridor.

Nothing is what it seems. You're in a maze, where a wrong turn leads you to a blind alley, a dead end. You encounter floors that move unexpectedly, shift and tilt and have you sliding backwards, grabbing at the walls. Skulls on springs jump at you and taunting Joker-like voices dare you to take the next pathway.

You walk into the hall of mirrors and become part of the entertainment. Distorting mirrors make you look like a plump dwarf one minute, a skinny giant the next. Rows of mirrors one after another create an infinity effect that makes it seem as if you'll never get out of the funhouse, that you might be trapped in a place of dangerous illusion forever. When you want to leave, you're led down corridors that go nowhere, diverted back to where you've already been, guided through a maze that ends (at least this is how it ended at my childhood amus.e.m.e.nt park, Sandusky's Cedar Point) with a huge polished wooden slide. Attendants give you a tiny rug to sit on and then push you down, down, down the slick surface to the ground floor and out into the sunlight where you blink as if you've been inside for a week.

What does this have to do with murder mysteries?

It's been forty years or more since I experienced the Cedar Point funhouse (for some reason, they just don't exist anymore, not the way they used to), and it still remains in my mind the most powerful metaphor I can think of for the well-plotted detective story. Things come out of the blue; the detective walks down dead-end pathways and finds the truth obscured by distractions and distortions. Even the detective herself seems distorted, changed, by the act of investigating the crime.

Just when the detective thinks she has it all figured out, someone puts her on a slick slide to nowheresville, and she's back on the street with nothing.

A Little Mystery History_ The idea of the detective all but preceded the reality. Mystery's founding father, Edgar Allan Poe, set his 1841 short story "The Murders in the Rue Morgue" in Paris because Paris, unlike most major cities of the day, actually had a police force with a detective division. Poe called his story "a tale of ratiocination" and introduced the amateur detective who reasoned rings around the official police investigator, bringing logic and science to bear on the problem of crime.

In Poe's stories and in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes adventures, the amateur detectives use scientific methods, while the police prefer using street informers and beating confessions out of the usual suspects. The detectives, C. Auguste Dupin and Sherlock Holmes, are the ones on their knees picking up threads and hairs, and they see beyond the obvious in ways the stolid, less-educated police detectives can't.

Poe bequeathed the mystery writer two very important principles: "the impossible made possible"-the Locked Room Mystery (as exemplified by "The Murders in the Rue Morgue"), and "the obvious made obscure" ("The Purloined Letter.") These principles embody the funhouse experience: What you see is most emphatically not what you get. In "The Murders in the Rue Morgue," we're introduced to the first of many fictional murders that seem inexplicable. The room is locked; the windows are high and too small for a person to have entered. Yet there are dead bodies inside; the thing happened even though it couldn't possibly have happened.

The police are baffled-and baffled police are always good for the amateur detective-because they can't, in that most nineties of cliches, think outside the box. A person couldn't have scaled the walls and entered the room-but what if the murderer isn't isn't a person? (No, we're not talking supernatural agencies here; if you don't know who committed the murders in the Rue Morgue, find a collection of Poe stories, because some things you have to experience for yourself.) a person? (No, we're not talking supernatural agencies here; if you don't know who committed the murders in the Rue Morgue, find a collection of Poe stories, because some things you have to experience for yourself.) Locked Room Mysteries aren't the only venue for the "impossible made possible" strain of mystery plot construction. Any murderer who fakes an alibi is creating an "impossible" situation-n.o.body can be in two places at once-and making it "possible." In the same vein, a killer who creates the illusion that his victim is alive after the murder has been committed also makes the impossible possible.

The second principle, "the obvious made obscure," is another linchpin of the detective story. In "The Purloined Letter," Dupin is called in when the French police fail to find an important letter they know is hidden in an apartment. They've lifted floorboards and axed into walls, they've taken apart the stove and looked inside every book in the library, but they haven't looked in the one place that seems too obvious, too stupid, too mindless to const.i.tute a successful hiding place.

"Hide in plain sight" will be one of the main methods of clue concealment we'll discuss later in this book. It's your job as the mystery writer to create clues leading to the ident.i.ty of the murderer and then to conceal those clues in a way that fools the reader without making a fool of him.

That Was Then, This Is Now_ "Okay, so Edgar Allan Poe invented the detective story and got an award named after him. What docs that have to do with my writing a mystery novel in the twenty-first century?"

Plenty, if only because that original template for the tale of detection is imprinted on the brains of everyone who ever reached for a library book because it had a little red skull stamped on the spine. The mystery reader opens a book with certain expectations, and the writer who knows what those expectations are can give the reader what she wants in a way that delights and surprises her.

What's happened to the mystery since Holmes hung up his deerstalker and started keeping bees? For one thing, it split into three distinct strands, all of which are still very much in evidence on the bookstore shelves.

The Cla.s.sic Whodunit Poet and mystery reader W.H. Auden called it "the dialectic of innocence and guilt." Today's fans call it the "cozy," meaning no disrespect but expressing perfectly that feeling readers of the traditional mystery get when when they pick up a new whodunit, go home and make tea, and wrap themselves in a physical quilt as well as the metaphoric quilt of a story they know will have a happy ending. they pick up a new whodunit, go home and make tea, and wrap themselves in a physical quilt as well as the metaphoric quilt of a story they know will have a happy ending.

The happy ending-okay, "happy" may be going too far-the positive positive ending, the ending that brings justice to bear on a violent situation, the ending where reason triumphs over evil; that's the ending cla.s.sic readers are looking for. ending, the ending that brings justice to bear on a violent situation, the ending where reason triumphs over evil; that's the ending cla.s.sic readers are looking for.

Why? Because ever since Poe, the cla.s.sic tale of detection detection has has meant meant restoring order to a world that was once well ordered but lost that serenity through violent death. restoring order to a world that was once well ordered but lost that serenity through violent death.

Auden calls the scene of the crime before the murder is committed "the great good place." It is the English village, the manor house, the theater, the university, the monastery, any place that thrives upon stability and hierarchy. Into this idyllic world step not one, but two two undesirables: the killer and her victim. The killer rids the great good place of the victim; it's up to the detective to flush out and remove the murderer and restore goodness. undesirables: the killer and her victim. The killer rids the great good place of the victim; it's up to the detective to flush out and remove the murderer and restore goodness.

Subgenres of the traditional mystery include: The Regional Mystery The old-time traditional whodunit placed little emphasis on setting except insofar as it furthered the puzzle itself. The grand country house could be in any part of England, the sinister university or the bedeviled The old-time traditional whodunit placed little emphasis on setting except insofar as it furthered the puzzle itself. The grand country house could be in any part of England, the sinister university or the bedeviled theater could be anywhere in Britain, the U.S., or New Zealand-we weren't reading for a travelogue or for insight into local culture.

Tony Hillerman helped to change all that. His mysteries took place on Navajo lands, and the land itself was a major factor in creating the circ.u.mstances and the means for murder. The people and their culture were important to the solution of the mystery, which could not have been solved by an outsider without knowledge of Navajo myth and mindset. Even though Hillerman's detectives were police officers, the experience of reading about an exotic place and seeing it through the eyes of someone with deep understanding of the place and its people whetted mystery readers' appet.i.tes for more of the same, only different.

When Margaret Maron wrote The Bootlegger's Daughter The Bootlegger's Daughter, her first Deborah Knott mystery, she changed her setting from the New York City of her Sigrid Harald police procedurals to the rich soil of North Carolina, sweeping that year's awards in the process. Soon mysteries were set in Alaska (Dana Stabenow, Sue Henry, John Straley), in national parks (Nevada Barr), and in the formerly hidden world of Orthodox Jewry in New York and Los Angeles (Faye Kellerman, Roch.e.l.le Krich). More and more writers found Native American connections and set their books among the Cherokee (Jean Hager), the Arapaho (Margaret Coel), the Ute (James Doss), and the Pima (J.A. Jance).

The keys to writing a successful regional mystery are choosing a region interesting enough to engage the reader and making sure the mystery itself isn't swamped by description and portraits of local eccentrics. Those of us unlucky enough not to have grown up in the Alaska bush or the Louisiana bayou have another option: turn back the clock.

The Historical Mystery "The past is a foreign country," L.P. Hartley wrote in "The past is a foreign country," L.P. Hartley wrote in The Go-Between. The Go-Between. "They do things differently there." Using an exotic setting for your traditional mystery may involve choosing a location you can't get to by train or plane. Through mysteries, you can visit ancient Egypt (Lynda Robinson), ancient Rome (Steven Saylor, Lindsey Davis), Victorian England (Anne Perry), the 1920s (Annette Meyers, Carola Dunn), medieval Europe (Sharan Newman, Ellis Peters). You can meet historic figures such as Houdini (Barbara Michaels, Daniel Stashower, Walter Satterthwaite), the Prince of Wales (not the current one; Queen Victoria's oldest son) (Peter Lovescy), or Jane Austen (Stephanie Barron). "They do things differently there." Using an exotic setting for your traditional mystery may involve choosing a location you can't get to by train or plane. Through mysteries, you can visit ancient Egypt (Lynda Robinson), ancient Rome (Steven Saylor, Lindsey Davis), Victorian England (Anne Perry), the 1920s (Annette Meyers, Carola Dunn), medieval Europe (Sharan Newman, Ellis Peters). You can meet historic figures such as Houdini (Barbara Michaels, Daniel Stashower, Walter Satterthwaite), the Prince of Wales (not the current one; Queen Victoria's oldest son) (Peter Lovescy), or Jane Austen (Stephanie Barron).

Some authors choose history because they love a certain period and want to share their deep understanding of it with readers. Others frankly admit that one of the charms of history is that it lacks DNA testing. In a world without modern forensics, the amateur, be he monk or prince, has as good a chance of success as the official investigating body. By removing today's scientifically inclined police from the scene, they essentially recreate the conditions under which Dupin and Holmes first flourished.

Comic Relief Playing it for laughs has been part of the mystery tradition even before Craig Craig Rice, the screwball comedy queen of the forties, and humor spans all three of the major subgenres. Joan Hess combines humor and regionalism in her MagG.o.dy series, while Parnell Hall injects hearty doses of laughter into his Stanley Hastings P.I. series. For a wonderful sendup of the old country house mystery, James Anderson's Rice, the screwball comedy queen of the forties, and humor spans all three of the major subgenres. Joan Hess combines humor and regionalism in her MagG.o.dy series, while Parnell Hall injects hearty doses of laughter into his Stanley Hastings P.I. series. For a wonderful sendup of the old country house mystery, James Anderson's Affair of the Bloodstained Egg Cosy Affair of the Bloodstained Egg Cosy is a must, while Lawrence Blocks more recent Bernie Rhodenbarr books give us sly variations on some of the oldest tricks in the traditional mystery book. is a must, while Lawrence Blocks more recent Bernie Rhodenbarr books give us sly variations on some of the oldest tricks in the traditional mystery book.

The only caveat about using humor: to paraphrase the old actor's saying, "Killing people is easy; comedy is hard."

You Gotta Have a Gimmick Take a stroll through your local bookstore to check out the mystery shelves and you'll see what I mean by a gimmick. If talking cats (Carole Nelson Douglas, Rita Mae Brown) aren't solving crimes, then cooks who provide the reader with recipes do the job (Diane Mott Davidson, Jerri-lyn Farmer). Herbalist-detectives Take a stroll through your local bookstore to check out the mystery shelves and you'll see what I mean by a gimmick. If talking cats (Carole Nelson Douglas, Rita Mae Brown) aren't solving crimes, then cooks who provide the reader with recipes do the job (Diane Mott Davidson, Jerri-lyn Farmer). Herbalist-detectives (Susan (Susan Wittig Albert) give advice on how to dry and use oregano, while crossword puzzle mysteries (Parnell Hall) provide double the pleasure for the word addict. Some of the strictest rules of the old school are broken by authors using ghosts (Nancy Atherton's Wittig Albert) give advice on how to dry and use oregano, while crossword puzzle mysteries (Parnell Hall) provide double the pleasure for the word addict. Some of the strictest rules of the old school are broken by authors using ghosts (Nancy Atherton's Aunt Dimity's Death) Aunt Dimity's Death) and psychics (Martha Lawrence's Elizabeth Chase series) as detectives. and psychics (Martha Lawrence's Elizabeth Chase series) as detectives.

The trick is not to allow the gimmick to replace a solid mystery core. The culinary detective must not only cook, she must detect. The psychic detective must do more than just wait for inspiration from the beyond.

The "Dark Cozy"

The cla.s.sic whodunit has been called a comedy of manners, but in America, broader social commentary has been part of the genre ever since Mark Twain's Pudd'nhead Wilson, Pudd'nhead Wilson, the first book ever to use fingerprints as a mode of detection (well before their use crept into real-life police work). Today's traditional mysteries go deeper than the Golden Age writers ever thought about going and today's writers use the form to explore social and personal problems. the first book ever to use fingerprints as a mode of detection (well before their use crept into real-life police work). Today's traditional mysteries go deeper than the Golden Age writers ever thought about going and today's writers use the form to explore social and personal problems.