“Scrambled eggs, oh, my baby, how I love your legs” — original lyrics for opening of Yesterday, as written by Paul McCartney.

PJ Parrish

My husband is a Tom Petty freak. So in the interest of marital bliss, I have come to know alot about Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers. Alas, never saw him in person but I have been dragged to more Petty cover groups than I can remember — including a really fabulous tribute band called The Traveling Milburys.

I’ve come to really like Petty’s music. And I now recognize that he is one of rock’s greatest lyricists.  As his biographer Warren Zanes wrote, Petty was not “the intellectual gymnast that Elvis Costello was, never as grandly romantic as Springsteen. Petty nonetheless got in there a little deeper than the others.”

I’ve come to envy Petty’s way with words. He had an emotional economy, packing more punch with fewer lines than even Dylan. As Zanes says, he was the kind of writer who “could set up a story in a couple of words.”

She was an American girls, raised on promises…

And this one’s dear to my wrtier’s heart: He had a true love of ambiguity, never hitting you over the head, never telling you what to feel. He gives the listener (or reader) more space to breathe and imagine. I always liked Petty’s song “A Room At The Top,” When I first listened to it, I felt uplifted. Until I really listened.

I got a room at the top of the world tonight
I can see everything tonight
I got a room where everyone
Can have a drink and forget those things
That went wrong in their life

Petty called it the most depressing song he’d ever writtten. But you know, it depends on your mood when you hear it.

Petty also had a gift for channeling his own life and North Florida background. This came to fruition in the Southern Accents album, where he felt free to leave behind “good rock and roll songs…and push beyond.”

There’s a Southern accent where I come from/ The young-uns call it country, the Yankees call it dumb/ I got my own way of talking but everything is done/ with a Southern accent where I come from.

Don’t we all need to push beyond? Don’t we all need to write with our own accents? And if you’ll allow me, one more note about the song “Southern Accents.” In it, the bridge is a visitation in which his dead mother arrives to her grieving son:

For just a moment, I was dreaming/ For just a moment it was oh so real/ For just a moment she was standing there, with me.

That was the power of Petty’s poetry — its emotional universality. I relate to that song not because I am Southern. But because I once had a transcedent visitation from my mother not long after her death. And I used that feeling to write a scene in one of my books when my protagonist is trying desperately to come to terms with his mother’s passing.

Petty also had an uncanny habit of finding the right word. And I know we all struggle with that. We might slip in a “holding” word or phrase until we can get unblocked. We’ve all slipped some scrambled eggs into our books. But Petty didn’t like to settle,

The other night, my husband and I drove through a pouring rain to Elk Rapids to see yet another Petty cover band. They played a song I didn’t know called “You Wreck Me.” It’s an exuberant rocker that ends the show. Petty originally wrote it as “You Rock Me.”  He realized what a pathetic cliche that was and changed ONE WORD.

It completely shifted the emotional weight and meaning of the song into a raw ode to a turbulent, high-energy romance. He did something similar with his iconic song “Mary Jane’s Last Dance”

His original lyrics were: “Hey, Indiana girl, go out and find the world.” After coming to the conclusion that “Indiana girl” was too clunky and awkward, Petty changed the lyrics to “last dance with Mary Jane, one more time to kill the pain.” Is Mary Jane a forgotten love or something else that kills the pain?

Well, shoot, Enough about Tom Petty. Because, as you can see, I have become an acolyte. And there is nothing more boring than the newly converted.

Let’s have some fun. Here are other examples of songs that were saved from the scrapheap — and from themselves.

Little Richard was no stranger to potential censorship. He changed the original, hypersexual lyrics of his signature hit, “Tutti Frutti”, to be more modest and radio-friendly. The original lyrics were “If it don’t fit, don’t force it / You can grease it, make it easy” became “Tutti Frutti, aw rooty / Tutti Frutti / aw rooty.”

While working on the Let It Be album, Paul McCartney was disgusted by the racist rantings of a British politician Enoch Powell. He wrote his frustations into the song “Get Back”

“Meanwhile back at home too many Pakistanis/ Living in a council flat/ Candidate Macmillan, tell us what your plan is/ Won’t you tell us where you’re at?”. 

He wrote it as an attempt at satire, but the verse was cut and the song defanged into a vague track about a guy named Jojo. The episode illustrates how tough it was (still is?) for artists to navigate social commentary.

On a lighter note, McCartney and Lennon often clashed as collaborators. Paul could be cloyingly pop and John stubbornly obtuse. But John did, early in their partnership, save Paul some cringy embarrassment. Here’s Paul’s original opening from “I Saw Her Standing There:”

“She was just seventeen, she’d never been a beauty queen.”

John changed it to: “She was just seventeen. You know what I mean.”

Which is great, because we DON’T know what he means. Or do we? Again, ambiguity can be your friend.

I’ll give the last word to Petty’s biographer Zanes: “That’s a writer’s genius. Just change one word [or phrase] and the whole song opens up.”

Keep that in mind, crime dogs, as you go rewrite chapter 15.

__________________

Postscript: The photo opening the post, as many of you will recognize, is the infamous “butcher” cover for The Beatles album Yesterday and Today. It was considered too grotesque at the time (Lennon wanted it as a statement against the Vietnam War). So they scraped it. If you happen to have a pristine sealed copy, it’s now worth $100,000.

“Beware the dark pool at the bottom of our hearts. In its icy, black depths dwell strange and twisted creatures it is best not to disturb.” –Sue Grafton (from I is for Innocent)

By PJ Parrish

It’s getting toward late Octoer, so something wicked this way is coming. I love Halloween. It’s like a welcome breath of stale air just before we’re lost in the miasma of Pumpkin spice and pine cones.

(Sorry…but I won’t apologize for my dark heart)

I also love creepy movies and books. While browsing in a Good Will store this week, I found an old paperback of Robert Bloch’s 1959 book Psycho. I would guess that most of you, like me, have never read the book. We were terri-reared on the movie. Which with its perfect casting and sinister psychology, is pretty much is etched in our nightmares.

Two things always give me the heebie-jeebies about Psycho the movie. First, Hitchcock shot it in a stark chiaroscuro style. Black and white, everything we see is in shadows and flashes of light. Like Janet Leigh driving in the black rain, blinded by oncoming headlights. Norman’s mother moving across a lone white-lit window in the black maw of the Bates mansion, And even Marion’s clothes — she first appears in white bra and slip in the hotel room with lover Sam Loomis. But after she steals the $40,000, her underwear shifts to a black bra and slip, signaling her moral crossing and loss of innocence.

The second thing that creeps me out is Bernard Herrmann’s unnerving score. Herrmann was the beating-heart behind all of Hitchcock’s movies. Hitchcock wanted the famous shower scene to be just silence but Herrmann talked him into the screeching violins. Here’s a sampling. Note the initial quiet but driving urgency as Marion begins her flight and how it keeps relentlessly and inevitably moving her down the black road to the neon VACANCY sign, a seemingly light in the night..

I was surprised, when reading the book, how different it is from the movie. As in all books vs movies, there’s deeper exploration of each character’s psychology. Some key plot scenes are different. The novel opens inside the Bates house with Norman arguing with his mother. The movie opens in a hotel room with Marion and Sam Loomis in bed. In the book Mary (renamed Marion for the movie) and Norman share a meal inside the Bates house. In the film, they eat together in the motel office, under the stare of dead stuffed birds — while Hickcock keeps the house mysterious until later.

And then there’s the shower scene. I was shocked when, in the novel, Mary was beheaded with a large knife. We all knows what happens to her in the movie. (By the way, Hitchcock used Hersey’s chocolate syrup for the blood and had a prop man stab a knife into a melon to make the grisly sound.)

I liked Bloch’s book, It’s tightly written, very short and fast-paced. Norman is oddly sympathic, an overweight book-geek with glasses. Bloch relies on stream of consciousness narrative to capture his loneliness and fractured psyche. Mary has her own demons — she had to care for her dying mother, giving up her future so her sister Lila can go to college. Life has passed Mary by. From the book, here’s Mary thinking, after she psycholgically snaps, steals the money and goes on the lam:

All at once she could hear the sullen patter of the rain and sense the sigh of the wind behind it. She remembered the sound, because it had rained like that the day Mom was buried, the day they lowered her into that little rectangle of darkness.

Which resonates later when Norman Bates says:

“We all go a little mad sometimes”

As much as I love Psycho the movie, I almost wish I had read the book first. Mary is such a sympathtic character, whose life was cut short by her mother’s death and then again by Norman’s mother’s knife. But every scene of Hitchcock’s classic is so etched in my brain that it overshadowed the subtlies of Bloch’s thriller, which leaves so much more to the imagination.

Such is the tug and pull of book vs movie, especially in the thriller-horror genre. I can think of at least a dozen other examples we could argue about — which is better? — among them:

• Rosemary’s Baby.
• The Exorcist
• Silence of the Lambs
• Almost anything by Stephen King.

And my favorite: The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson. Lucky for me, I read the book before I saw the movie. I read it when I was only about thirteen. It scared the daylights out of me. The movie is equally brilliant. There’s this one scene that haunts to me to this day and it’s in both the book and movie:

Eleanor and Theodora are sharing a room and a bed. As terrifying noises—including what sounds like a child being tortured in the walls—echo through the room, Eleanor blindly reaches out and clutches a hand in the dark for comfort. When the lights come on, Eleanor looks over and sees that Theodora is actually sitting up on the other side of the bed, completely out of arm’s reach.

Horrified, Eleanor stumbles back into the corner and asks the famous closing line of Chapter 5 — “God, God—whose hand was I holding?”

The hairs are standing up on my neck as I write this. Sweet dreams…

“When things get tough, women buy lipstick,” — Leonard Lauder 

By PJ Parrish

I can still remember the first lipstick i ever bought. It was Yardley’s Baby Buff. This was sometime back in the early 60s, when I actually thought I was going to run away to London and somehow find John Lennon’s house. What I was going to do when I got there, well, that part is a little fuzzy. But that little tube of lipstick…

Okay, I didn’t buy it. I shoplifted it from Kmart. What can I say? I had no money, a rocky homelife, and was led astray by the super model Jean Shrimpton who was my personal style icon, in a time when I had no personal style. (That’s Jean up top, by the way)

Lipstick sales are booming these days. Last year, the global lipstick market was valued at roughly $17.5 billion and is projected to expand toward $19.6 billion this year. Why? Leonard Lauder knows. He’s the son of cosmetics queen Estee Lauder and he came up with the Lipstick Effect — in times of economic or social stress, consumers tend to comfort themselves with small luxuries. This has held true in all downturns, including the Great Depression, and was really notable after 9/11. 

You know what else is enjoying a boom right now? Romance novels. Now, we all know that book sale trends are cyclical. Traditional, pure sci-fi is struggling right now, being overshadowed by massive reader demand for fantasy, romantasy, and contemporary romance hybrids. This is going on even as the major film studios invest in sci-fi media. Standard historical fiction set between the 1930s and 2010 is also currently a tougher sell, with editors saying readers are drawn to ancient, 18th-century, or 19th-century settings, or completely fresh, unconventional perspectives on the past.

I’m not sure what all this means, other than the vibe I am picking up from articles about fiction trends is that in these times of economic uncertainty, escapism (either into the far past or into deep passion) seems to be the popular balm.

As an ex romance writer (I started out back in the late 80s), I suffered through the ups and downs. I had four fat family sagas (heavy on romance) published and was riding a good wave. Then things crashed and I was dropped. I got a new agent. I’ll never forget what she told me in her office the first day we met.

“What do you NOT see here?” she said, holding up a copy of that week’s New York Times bestseller list.

“My name?”

She didn’t laugh. “What you don’t see is romance novels. What you do see is mysteries. Go home and write one.”

This is a true story. This was the beginning of a neo-golden era in crime fiction, when Michael Connelly, Sue Grafton, Tony Hillerman, Patricia Cornwell, et al, were breaking out. It took me a couple false starts, but eventually I got published again.

Back to romance novels. The new boom is due in great part to the fact that the genre has changed mightily since I was writing. The diversity of characters and subjects is remarkable now. Sales during the first half of 2025 increased 24% compared to the same period the previous year, according to the research firm Circana, and the same report noted sales volume for romance books had more than doubled compared to four years prior.

Print sales of romance fiction in the US have doubled in the last five years. Meanwhile, in the UK the romance and sagas category, which had for two decades made around £20m annually, leapt to a staggering £53.2m in 2022 during the pandemic, growing to £69m in 2024. (Source The Guardian:)

Romantic fiction handles big themes: chronic illness, global warming, divorce, death, betrayal and despair. Depression, anxiety and PTSD often appear – trauma, almost always. Pain, too. There’s the housing market, issues around antisemitism, Islamophobia, racism, fatphobia, sexism, classism, all kinds of interdepartmental hatred and fear. All kinds of horror, love and loss…

And yet the trick is to hold all this very, very lightly. When romantic fiction tackles the problems of the world it must do so with such grace that you barely notice. It must do so in a way that makes the reader feel better about those things. Not for the romcom the unresolved ending, the unreliable narrator. The romcom must bring everything together, always, to a happy ending.

Years ago, I wrote a romance suspense novel. I’ve mentioned it here before, and told you how my agent sent it around and it was rejected by not only the publisher of my successfull thriller series, but by four other publishers. The verdict was unanimous — I had lazily assumed I could toss in some sex and a couple of cute one liners and call it a day. Nope. Like those sad literary cynics who try to write crime fiction, I didn’t understand the real beating heart of of the genre I was trying to invade.

I’m rewriting that book now, for the second time. It’s becoming clearer to me where I failed. I think I know what I have to do. And it’s a lot more than putting lipstick on a pig.

By PJ Parrish

Okay, I’d like you to read this short scene from a book I grabbed off my shelf. See if you can figure out what’s wrong here.

Jesse handed him the Jack Daniels. Louis took a drink and handed it back. Jesse took a swig.

“Whiskey will kill you,” Louis mumbled.

“Better than that cough syrup you drink,” Jesse said. nodding toward the empty Christian Brothers on the floor.

Louis pulled the afghan up his chin and shivered. From outside came the call of a loon.

“I hate the sound of those f–ing birds,” Jesse murmured.

“Lonely,” Louis said.

“What?”

“They sound lonely,” Louis said.

This is from my second book Dead of Winter. Now, I spent the first 23 years of my life in Michigan. I know what winter is like. I know what loons are. I know they don’t stay in Michigan in the winter.

Speed ahead twenty-five years. I gave Dead of Winter to a friend at pickelball who wanted to read my stuff. The first thing she said when I saw her again was, “It was a good book but the loons migrate, you know.”

I know! I know! What I don’t know is why I brain-farted on this when writing that scene. And of course, my editors didn’t catch it. The good news is when we got the rights back, we re-published it and edited out the error. Too bad all life’s mistakes can’t be so easily righted.

I’m kicking up my old dust because I am angry about a TV series I am watching now — Patience. It is a British series about a brilliant autistic woman who toils in the basement records department of a York police station. She forms an alliance with the chief inspector and helps her crack murder cases. The first four episodes were stellar, tight writing, great character arcs, juicy puzzles.

Then, in episode 7, things got weird. A photographer is found dead in a tower with a stake through his heart and bite marks on his neck. His body has been completely drained of blood. Kewl. But…

As Patience tackles the case, the forensic and investigation details fall apart, The body was apparently moved to the tower after death, and it is implied that the blood draining took place in the TOWER, yet there is no blood trace. The bite marks are never explained.And Patience’s personal life overwhelms the plot to the point that it’s cloying. And annoying. The next two episodes were nearly as sloppy in the police work. I checked the writer credits. And yes, two new writers had replaced the original ones.

Is it because I am a mystery writer that I am so put off? I don’t think so. Readers and viewers are very savvy today about forensics and police procedure. They don’t like dumb errors and they won’t abide sloppiness.

But hey, we’re all human, right?

Yeah, but we shouldn’t be stupid. It’s pretty easy to research and get stuff right. My old buddy Dr. Doug Lyle writes mysteries but is best known for his how-to (and how not to)  forensics books. He writes: “[Mistakes are] part of the [writing] process. Sitting alone, bouncing clever ideas off your computer screen offers little feedback. But readers notice such breaches. They shake their heads, close the book, snuff out the light, and go to sleep. Not the ringing endorsement you wished for.”

Doug wrote an excellent article for Killer Nashville about the most common forensic mistakes beginners commit. A summary:

• The Quick Death: Death rarely arrives instantly. Sure, it can occur with heart attacks, strokes, and extremely abnormal heart rhythms, but trauma, such as gunshot wounds and blows to the head, the staples of crime fiction, rarely cause sudden death.
• The Pretty Death: I call this the “Hollywood Death.” Calm, peaceful, and not a hair out of place. Blood? Almost never.
• The Bleeding Corpse: Your detective arrives at the scene a half hour after the murder. Blood oozes from the corpse’s mouth, from the stab wound in his chest, or from the vampire fang marks on his neck. Houston, we have a problem. You see, dead folks don’t bleed.
• The Accurate Time of Death: Determining the time of death is neither easy nor very accurate. It’s always a best guess and is always stated as a range rather than an exact time. Yet, how many times have you seen the medical examiner confidently announce that the victim died at “8:30 last night”?
• The One-punch Knockout: You’ve seen this a million times. One character socks another character in the jaw. He goes down like a sack of potatoes and is apparently written out of the story since we never hear from him again. Really?
• The Instant Athlete: Your PI drinks too much, smokes two packs a day, and eats fast food. After all, stake outs are boring. His belly flaps over his belt and he gets short of breath climbing a single flight of stairs. He will not be able to chase the villain for ten blocks. Two on a good day.
• The Untraceable Poison: Of all the questions I receive from writers this is number one. Seems that all crime writers want an untraceable poison. Sorry, no such thing.
• The Instant Lab Result: The world is not like CSI. Not even close. Those CSI folks get results in a New York minute. Sometimes faster. In the real world such testing typically takes days, even weeks.

Click here to read Doug’s entire article. You can thank me (and him) later.

In the meantime, if you want to feel better, here are some mistakes from the big guns:

Patricia Cornwell’s bonehead mistake is now infamous. She wrote that Kay Scarpetta was working on a grizzly murder. It was unbearable…

Agatha Christie messed up her math in Elephants Can Remember,  writing that the central tragedy took place 12 years prior but later in the book, characters say it happened 15 to 20 years ago. The years do fly by, my dear…

In Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe, the shipwreck survivor Crusoe is on the island watching his ship sink. He takes off his clothes and swims back out to the ship to salvage supplies, which he brings back to shore…in the pockets he no longer has.

When Sherlock Holmes’s stalwart sidekick meets the great detective in A Study in Scarlet, he tells Holmes he was shot in the shoulder in Afghanistan. In a later novel, The Sign of Four, the wound travels down to his leg.

Thomas Perry has a fun essay about his own errors. He writes:

During all of those years, I was making unassisted mistakes at the usual rate and catching them at a lower rate. I referred to a car model made by Nissan as a Toyota. I revised a chapter, changed a revolver into a semi-auto pistol but forgot to change later references to it as a revolver. I sent heroes and their enemies alike off with faulty driving directions. I can’t remember all of my mistakes, but the ways they used to elude me are familiar….

I’ve come to believe that never making mistakes is impossible, catching them all is a dream, and the only way to prevent them is to leave the paper blank. Since I’m not willing to do that, I’m looking forward to more years of hunting and correcting. I tell myself it’s a lively pursuit, with almost the suspense of a silent, nearly motionless sport.

Maybe Raymond Chandler had the right attitude about literary brain farts. In The Big Sleep, a chauffeur is murdered in his car. In the course of the twisty-turny plot, the mystery goes unsolved, in fact totally ignored. When the book was turned into a film, the producers rang Chandler to ask who was responsible.

“Damned if I know!” he said.

By PJ Parrish

The easy part is done. The book is finished. The rewrites are complete. We’ve even got the cover designed. Now comes the hard part…

Writing the back copy.

I’ve been working at this publishing thing since the early 2000s. First with three different traditional publishing houses — Pocket Books, Simon & Schuster and Thomas and Mercer. Most of my career, I’ve had great copy writers who created the back copy. Often, my editors ran the finished copy by me for approval or suggestions. Thomas and Mercer even let us write a first draft for our book She’s Not There. This is how the finished back copy read.

 A past she can’t remember. 

A killer she can’t recognize.

And they’re both catching up with her.

They say it’s better to battle the devil you know. But what if you don’t recognize him until it’s too late?

She knows her name is Ameilia, but after waking up in a hospital battered and bruised with just the clothes on her back, it’s all she knows. Unable to piece together her shattered memory, she’s haunted by a vision: menacing faces and voices implying her nightmare is far from over,

Relying only on her wits and her will to live, Amelia becomes a fugitive frm a mysterious man, and a life she can’t even remember. But the past she’s fleeing has no intention of letting her go.

But it wasn’t until I branched out into self-publishing (original works and back-list repubbing) and was all alone with no back-up that I learned how darn hard it is to write really good back copy.

Ha! You try it. Take your 350 word manuscript and crystalize it down to maybe 300 words that will capture the attention of a would-be reader.  Have you ever watched folks browsing in a bookstore? Let’s pretend they didn’t come in for the latest Connelly or whatever is topping the current charts. They’re hunting and gathering, searching for someone new to fall in love with. They pick a book off a shelf, maybe enticed by a good cover and lively title. Then usually, the turn the book over and read the back copy. And if your copy is crisp, they might open to read the first page. And you are lucky, they take a chance on you.

Yes, this holds true on Amazon listings as well, You have to supply back copy if you want to sell your books there. And like a good cover that can capture a reader’s eye in a thumbnail, a snappy distillation of your story is what is going to help snag new readers.

The cover is your first impression across the crowded room. But the back copy is your introductory conservation. All good back copy does key things:

Takes readers on an emotional journey—a sort of miniature version of your story. You’re creating a series of emotional beats that guide readers from:

Curiosity > Interest > Action

If this progression is missing, your blurb will feel flat and directionless. Your blurb should move through three stages:

• Who is your protagonist?
• What is going on with the plot?
• Why should I turn the page?

I’m quoting Morgan Lee Clasper there. He’s a copywriter, book sales strategist, and author of The Blurb Puzzle. (publishers call back copy “blurbs” — not be be confused by the quotes you elicit from fellow writers). Clasper has worked with New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling authors, writing 4,000 blurbs. More from him a moment, because he’s worth listening to.

Back to my dilemma. I’m pretty good at writing back copy. But it’s a real effort, and always entailed several rewrites as I try to boil down my story’s heart and soul. My first drafts are always bad, because I try to get everything pinned down and then I go at it with a razor to pare it down to its essence.

Here’s the raw first draft of the back copy of our WIP, Lucky Lady. Bear with me…

Bailey Cassell has had a difficult life. After spending eighteen months in jail for the murder of her abusive husband, she is acquitted and heads to Las Vegas, where she hopes to start over and reconnect with her estranged father, the owner of an aging casino called Paul’s Palace.

But Bailey’s plans for a fresh start take an unexpected turn when a showgirl falls seventy-two stories from The Monolith, a huge casino next door, and lands near Bailey’s office. When Bailey learns that Scarlett may have had connections to her father’s past, she begins asking questions.

Her search for answers leads her to Bullhead City, a dangerous suspect, a wealthy Florida gambler, and JB Mitchell, the powerful owner of The Monolith. Along the way, Bailey crosses paths with handsome homicide detective Morgan Finn. Bailey finds herself fantasizing about Morgan but he rebuffs her advances, leaving Bailey to wonder if she’ll ever break through his professional exterior—or if their relationship will remain strictly business.

But Bailey has more important things to worry about. As she gets closer to discovering the truth about Scarlett’s death, she realizes that Las Vegas is a city filled with secrets, and some people will do anything to keep those secrets buried.

Can Bailey uncover the truth before she becomes the killer’s next victim? And will she finally get the handsome detective who keeps turning her down?

Gag, gag, gag…It’s okay, I know it’s awful. It’s too long, too wordy, and boring as hell. But it’s a starting basis. Now all I have to do is make it sparkle. I’m still working on it but here’s where I am so far:

Las Vegas is where you go to reinvent yourself. And that’s exactly what Iowa-born Bailey Cassell needs to do after getting acquitted for murdering her abusive husband. She tries to reconnect with the father who abandoned her when he gives her a job at his fading casino. But when a showgirl falls to her death from the Monolith casino next door, Bailey finds herself captivated by Scarlett Nightengale’s past — especially when she learns she woman was once involve with her dad.

Bailey crosses paths with the handsome homicide detective assigned to the case distracts her. But Bailey is deternined to find out who killed Scarlett, despite her father’s shady past, the threats of the Monolith’s shady owner, and her attraction to the detective.   

The closer Bailey gets to discovering the truth about Scarlett’s death, the more she realizes that Las Vegas is a city filled with secrets, and some people will do anything to keep those secrets buried. Including kill her.

Better. But not quite there. Just not enough zing. And still too long. I’ll report back.

Meanwhile, let’s talk about what makes good back copy. I’ve written extensively about this in the past here, but I’ve read enough poorly written cop that I think we need to revisit this. What are the main sins? The main one is most writers feel compelled to include WAY too much biography about their protags. Go back to the copy for She’s Not There. It tells you almost nothing about Amelia’s background. But it focuses dead-center on her fear, her dilemma and the emotional core of the story.

I’ll let a pro talk to you now. Back to Morgan Lee Clasper. Here’s his advice in a nutshell:

Lead with emotion, not biography
Your protagonist is usually the central point around which everything else in your blurb revolves. That’s why it’s important to make readers care about them without wasting words by over-explaining.

Sounds like an impossible situation, right? How can you make readers care about someone if you’re not able to paint a complete picture of them? Your protagonist is a multifaceted character with a personality, backstory, desires, flaws, hopes, and dreams… but most of that can’t fit into the blurb.

But there’s one secret to instantly making readers like your protagonist. That secret is leading with emotion….[not] a colleciton facts.

Not every detail belongs
You may still be struggling to figure out what information to include. Here are some handy questions to ask yourself when you’re stuck deciding what deserves to make the cut:

• Is it essential to the premise?
• Is it necessary for understanding the stakes?
• Does it make readers more emotionally invested in the story?
  A cool world-building detail might add depth and flavor to your story, but it doesn’t belong in the blurb unless it can’t be removed without making the plot difficult to understand.

Include both internal and external conflict
Just as a good book has external and internal obstacles for the protagonist to overcome, a good blurb uses both of these elements for maximum effect. While the plot answers the question of what’s happening (defeating an enemy, solving a mystery, or achieving a goal), the protagonist’s internal conflict explains why this is difficult (fear, trauma, or personal flaws). The best blurbs combine both elements.

Establish narrative momentum
Maybe you’ve written a blurb with some of these things in mind before, but it still feels flat. The missing ingredient in many otherwise effective blurbs is a sufficient sense of momentum. The trick is to make sure that each sentence builds on the one that came before it. Every line should add pressure, throw a wrench into the protagonist’s plan, heighten the stakes, or build toward a crescendo. For example:

• Sentence 1: Who is this person?
• Sentence 2: What changed about their situation?
• Sentence 3: What danger or trouble are they facing?
• Sentence 4: What happens if they fail

A simple trick that can help you do this is to use transition words like: but, when, after, and.

Remember that last sentence. Those simple transition words are the keys to unlock a catchy and snappy back copy for your book. Click here to go to Morgan’s full post. It appeared in Jane Friedman’s must-read blog

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some pruning to do.

And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray…when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it. And all from my cup of tea. — Proust, In Search of Lost Time

By PJ Parrish

Morning crime dogs. Today, our submission writer is taking us to a far off place with a strange sounding name. Actually, they don’t tell us exactly where we are, but that’s okay because I can sense we’re not in Kansas, Dotty. The genre, our writer says, is international political thriller. Take a look and then let’s talk.

Light In the Kingdom Of Sand

Ari Edri woke to the heat and stink of his apartment, mouth sour with the taste of alcohol and cigarettes. His bed, little more than a cot, was drenched with sweat. The clamor of morning traffic outside the open window was all horns and chaos. His clock said it was nearly noon – another Monday and no reason to care or stir from bed.

He lay there for a moment, trying to find a comfortable position, but age, abuse, and arthritis made that impossible. Disgusted, he swung his legs off the bed and rose painfully to his feet.

In years past, he might have found a more accommodating home, but this was really all he could afford. He limped across the room to relieve himself. He winced at the pain and his reflection in the faded mirror. It was older, sadder, and more worn than he remembered.

Splashing water on his face, he looked around the room. The chair was still wedged firmly under the door handle. His old Luger lay on the bedside table. Unnecessary precautions, but habits die hard.

Long retired, he had done so without a single citation in his personnel file. Dozens of missions to support his country, and yet he was a cipher to them.

The lady downstairs must be cooking from Yael’s cookbook again. The smell from below and the thought of his ex-wife cooking a recipe she thought he loved brought a smile to his face unbidden. He looked at the picture of his daughter and granddaughter on the dresser. The smell and the picture were momentarily overpowering. Ari found his vision blurring, and he wiped a tear from his cheek too late to stop the next one. Tough guy, yeah.

He remembered his ex-wife and daughter confronting him about his drinking, telling him he couldn’t be around his granddaughter if he was going to be drinking. Not believing them led to not being able to see any of them. I should have believed them. How do you come back from that?

He moved the Luger to the small kitchen table and stared at it. Will today be the day? Will I finally have nerve enough? Not strong enough to stop the booze, why would I be strong enough to pull the trigger?

______________

I’m back. I enjoyed reading this submission. It has a good flow and I immediately felt sympathetic toward Ari Edri. (I like his name, btw, easy to remember as it trips off the tongue). But because this is pretty darn good, I am going to be a little hard on you, dear writer.

About Ari: We don’t know if he is the protagonist, the would-be hero whose journey we will follow for three hundred pages or so. The writer could be setting him up as a victim. Which is a fine entryway into a plot. Your story doesn’t always have to open with your protag; sometimes creating a scenario around a victim can be a really effective set-up. Done it many times myself. (Note to writer: If Ari is a victim, make sure you intro your hero very soon.)

But let’s assume Ari is the main man here. There is much I already like about the guy, thanks to judicious backstory insertion. Notice that the writer does NOT lard in paragraphs of backstory. They give us just enough to entice us about his circumstances — once an effective “warrior” of some kind, but now broken (tortured?) and forgotten. I sense bitterness, which will work well in Ari’s character arc, leaving me to wonder if this is, themactically, a story about redemption.

An aside: Redemption is a powerful theme. And never forget, writers, that THEME is what your story is really about. Yes, it’s about action, plot, car chases, a fight to save a person or a country. BUT your story is, at its deepest depths, about what is happening inside your character’s heart. Never forget that.

Now, about plot. Not much is happening in these first pages. It’s a slow build opening. I don’t mind that. I am willing to go along for a slow ride, BUT only to a point. Dear writer: I suggest you get Ari out and doing something fairly quickly. Too much remembering, musing, thinking, pondering and moping isn’t sustainable for long.

I will ask this to you all out there: Do you think the writer got into the scene too early? I often see mysteries and thrillers begin this way — the protag (usually a PI or cop) gets a phone call to come to a crime scene. We then get him swinging his tired legs over the bed, “padding” across the ratty apartment, hungover, staring at his gun, moping and thinking…

When…

It might be more effective to get the protag OUT into the world actively doing something. I really dislike cop stories that begin with the cop getting a phone call to come to a murder scene. Rather: Put him (and us) there and then go back and fill in the backstory of booze and broken homes. As James said in his great Sunday post on backstory: ACT FIRST, EXPLAIN LATER. Click here to read. Dear Writer: I suggest you go back and read James’s post.

Some other things about the submission. Given Ari’s name and the book’s title, I am assuming this takes place in the mideast. I don’t need you to slap a place tag on your chapter ie:

CHAPTER ONE

KABUL, JANUARY, 2023

That’s lame. But do find a way soon to tell us where we are organically. You’ve already hinted at it.

One last thing. And this is important….

I don’t get much sense of place. I don’t see you, the writer, using your sense, to bring Ari’s world to life. I think you can make this even better. Place is a character. You have to give it as much care as you do your characters. You are working with a good basic grasp of scene-building, but you’ve missed many chances to TAKE US TO YOUR PLACE.

This is a fault I see in many submissions, an underdeveloped sense of place, and no use of the senses in description. You’ve told us it is hot, sweaty and chaotic outside.  You’ve told us his apartment “stinks.” You’ve told us he looks worn and old. You’ve told us there is photo of his daughter and granddaugher. You’ve told us he can smell something cooking downstairs. 

Now SHOW us. What does “chaos” sound like? What does “hot” feel like? What does his apartment “stink” of? What does “old and worn” look like exactly? What does that family photo look like? And most powerfully, you set up this evocative memory of his wife’s cooking! What does it “smell” like? You must use your senses when you write. THAT is what takes us to your fictional world.

A sudden, brassy blast tore through the heavy air, a sharp and angry shriek of metal and electricity. Another horn joined in close behind—a long, heavy drone of pure frustration.

Note: The cacaphony of cars in say Chennai sounds completely different than it does in Chicago. And note that the noise can reflect the emotional noise in Ari’s head. Connect and reflect.

The world seemed to die each afternoon and nothing moved any longer. At last the summer was like a green sick dream, or like a silent crazy jungle under glass. — Carson McCullers, The Member of the Wedding.

Note: Trying to nail down weather description can make fools of us all. Tread lightly.

There is an invalid fug in the room – the faint animal scent of the furs, a vegetal stench of undrained cooking water, and the sour reek from a bowl with which a girl hurries away: containing, he suspects, the evacuated contents of the dowager’s stomach. — Hilary Mantel, Bring Up The Bodies

Note: Of course, your room isn’t historic and this isn’t your style. I offer it only as an example of how you must use your senses, especially smell. Which brings me to what you wrote:

The lady downstairs must be cooking from Yael’s cookbook again. The smell from below and the thought of his ex-wife cooking a recipe she thought he loved brought a smile to his face unbidden. He looked at the picture of his daughter and granddaughter on the dresser. The smell and the picture were momentarily overpowering. Ari found his vision blurring, and he wiped a tear from his cheek too late to stop the next one. Tough guy, yeah.

What what did you miss? The utterly golden opportunity to SHOW us what it smells like and more important, to link it to Ari’s emotional state. Some examples:

She smells of her cooking and the perfume Eau d’Hadrien. My mother wore it, too. She used to cook, like Lili. Our house smelled of garlic and thyme instead of sadness.― Jennifer Donnelly, Revolution

And of course:

As I ate the oysters with their strong taste of the sea and their faint metallic taste that the cold white wine washed away, leaving only the sea taste and the succulent texture, and as I drank their cold liquid from each shell and washed it down with the crisp taste of the wine, I lost the empty feeling and began to be happy and to make plans. — Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast.

I am bringing these passages about food in for a main and final reason. Ari is a deeply troubled man, with a strangled present and a tortured past. He is estranged from his family and deeply lonely. You instinctively chose to put in that smell coming from an apartment below. Not just any smell — the divine scent of his wife’s cooking. How wonderfully Proustian! Yet you didn’t SHOW us what it smelled like. And worse, you missed the opportunity to link it to Ari’s memories and emotional state. Yes, you had him tear up, but it feels distanced and unspecific. Details! Details! Details! This should be a coda, bringing us out of his backstory past and back to the present as he looks at that Luger.

Here’s a clip from one of my favorite movies, The Hundred Foot Journey. It is about a young Indian man who leaves his family to become a famous chef in Paris. In the most touching scene, he shares an after-hours meal sitting on the floor of his famous bistro, with a waiter, who is eating the Indian dinner his wife has made for him. It brings the chef to tears and to the realization he must go home to find himself again. I can’t find that clip, alas. But, dear writer, please find a way to connect Ari to his past through taste and smell.

Good start, writer. I enjoyed this. Now, back to work….

“I was born when she kissed me. I died when she left me. I lived a few weeks while she loved me.” — Dix Steel In A Lonely Place.

By PJ Parrish

I was sleepless in unsettlement — it had been a rough week what with apocalyptic smoke-sulphuric skies and gut parasites — so as usual I turned to my private Ambien — Turner Classic Movies. Eddie Muller was just coming on to introduce In A Lonely Place.

Two hours later, I was still wide awake and in awe. How in the world had I missed this movie? I devour old noir films yet this one had somehow always eluded me, even though it’s considered a classic. I come to you today, fedora in hand, deeply ashamed.

Humphrey Bogart, in what might be his finest performance, sheds his heroic armor to play the boozy, trigger-temper screenwriter Dix Steele, suspected of murder and captivated by his failed-starlet neighbor Gloria Grahame (who can say more with one raised eyebrow than most of today’s actresses can do with their lines.)

This isn’t your conventional noir. It’s more a psychological thriller and a heartbreaking love story. There’s no happily-ever-after, just what one writer called “an epitath for love.” It’s also a meditation on movies and screenwriting, and male cruelty. In the end, it also has an oddly feminist undernote.

I was so entranced by the movie that the next morning, I hied over to my library where I found the source material — Dorothy B. Hughes’ 1947 book. (It was re-issued three years ago by Penguin Modern Classics). Okay, again I confess shame, as I had never read the book. I’ve been making my way through the oldies for years now, But this one…wow.

I’m not alone here in my ignorance. The critic John Powers wrote:

It’s something of an axiom that good novels make bad movies, but one of my favorite exceptions is In A Lonely Place. For years, I lazily assumed that [director Nicolas Ray] had turned a lousy pulp thriller into a silk purse. Then one day, I finally read it. And I discovered that the novel is more groundbreaking than the film. And that Hughes belongs in the crime writing pantheon with male icons like Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler.

Now I have to turn to crime novelist Megan Abbot, who wrote the afterword for the re-issue::

Reading In a Lonely Place for the first time is like finding the long-lost final piece to an enormous puzzle. Within its Spanish bungalows, its eucalyptus-scented shadows, you feel as though you’ve discovered a delicious and dark secret, a tantalizing page-turner with sneakily subversive undercurrents. [Its]  influence on crime fiction is unsung yet inescapable. From Patricia Highsmith and Jim Thompson to Bret Easton Ellis and Thomas Harris, nearly every “serial killer” tale of the last seventy years bears its imprint—both in terms of its sleek, relentless style and its claustrophobic “mind of the criminal” perspective.

But its larger influence derives from Hughes’s uncanny grasp of the connection between violence and misogyny and an embattled masculinity. And its importance extends beyond form or genre and into cultural mythos: the birth of American noir.

That last part about toxic masculinity is important. Because while that aspect is present in the movie in the form of Bogart’s seething anger, the book is where the violence really boils over.

I was taken by how different the film is from the book. (Yes, we can name dozens of cases where this is true in crime fiction — and please feel free to weigh in here). But it’s really striking here.

In the book, Dix Steele is an actual serial killer, but in the movie he is a mere suspect in one hat-check girl’s death. In the book Steele is a true psychopath, who fakes being a crime novelist so he can sponge off a wealthy uncle. An ex fighter pilot, Steele is frustrated that his post-war life is so lifeless and emasculating, Steele turns to stalking and killing women for kicks. “They were all alike, cheats, liars, whores,” Steele says in the book. “Even the pious ones were only waiting for a chance to cheat and lie and whore.”

In the movie, Steele is still hot-headed but more as a screenwriter poisoned by temper and his desperation for another hit. And he is fatally capable of falling in love.

As Megan Abbott sagely noted, Hughes has always been fascinated by the loners who lurk on society’s edge. Hughes’ 1963 thriller The Expendable Man tackled American racism. With In A Lonely Place, she plunges us deep into Dix’s warped psyche. It reminds me somewhat of Patricia Highsmith’s Tom Ripley, in that we almost want to root for the guy because he’s so damaged.

Then there’s that feminist note I mentioned. The book, unlike the movie, is a scathing indictment of toxic masculinity.  And while the movie ends on plaintive note, the book is a twisty paen to post-war girl power. Again, I’ll quote Megan Abbott:

Dix’s story reveals the essence of being a violent hater. He tries to control his feelings of sadness and powerlessness, not through self-knowledge or personal change, but by finding someone to blame and erase — in this case, women. But far from bringing him salvation or even relief, his hatred turns out to be the loneliest place of all.

To his mind, the enemy is not the war, its trauma, but what men face upon their return: staid domesticity, the strictures of class, emasculation. And these threats are embodied wholly in women. Women, whose penetrating gazes are far mightier than his sword.

In case you haven’t seen or read either, I won’t give them away the two endings. I’ll leave that for you enjoy.

So, which is better — book or movie? I loved them both, for different reasons. The central theme is there in both, that the lonely place is not without, but within. Well, let’s let Hughes, via Dix Steele, tell you what that feels like:

Fear wasn’t a jagged split of light cleaving you; fear wasn’t a cold fist in your entrails; fear wasn’t something you could face and demolish with your arrogance. Fear was the fog, creeping about you, winding its tendrils about you, seeping into your pores and flesh and bone. Fear was a girl whispering a word over and again, a small word you refused to hear although the whisper was a scream in your ears, a dreadful scream you could never forget. You heard it over and again and the fog was a ripe red veil you could not tear away from your eyes.

In A Lonely Place. Watch it. Read it. You’ll thank me.

By PJ Parrish

I have to vent. I hope you all don’t mind. Maybe this has happened to you.

You crack open a new book. It has stellar reviews. It has been nominated for a couple awards. The author isn’t an established bestseller but has some good bonafides. It has a jazzy cover and great buzz. A good and trusted friend recommended it.

It starts out great. A killer opening line. Snappy dialogue, a likeable flawed protag, great pacing. It’s an amateur sleuth, which is not my favorite cuppa, but I was willing to go for a ride.

Then…

Around page 50, it stalled in mid-air. I gave it another 25 pages, thinking maybe it could glide into to a good landing. Nope. It got worse. I gave up. I was in bed, reading, and threw it across the room, scaring my dog. I think I am most angry at the author for that, waking my chihuahua out of his deep-dog sleep.

What happened? How did a story with such promise fail? I’ve given this a lot of thought because often we as readers focus on what we enjoy about a book, why it entertained us or moved us emotionally, why we remember the characters long after we’ve finished the last chapter. (Gus McCrae lived in my head long after I closed Lonesome Dove). And as writers — and we can’t help ourselves here — we also tend to analyze why a book doesn’t work.

This book, as I said, was well written. But it failed, I finally realized, because the writer was dealing with an amateur sleuth who lacked all the basic, vital elements needed to make the plot succeed. Now, I’m not here today to diss amateur sleuths. I don’t write cozies or amateur sleuths. All of my books, save one, have dealt with private eyes or cops. My stand alone She’s Not There featured a skip tracer but he was a failed private investigator.

My lone amateur protag was my other stand alone, The Killing Song. The protagonist, Matt Owens, is a seasoned investigative reporter who tries to unravel the gruesome murder of his kid sister. I learned a lot about writing an amateur sleuth when dealing with him. It was, in many ways, the hardest book I wrote. That book gave me great respect for those of you who attempt to write an amateur sleuth mystery or thriller. Why? Mainly, because you can’t rely on the usual police procedural process and the oft threadbare tropes.

Here is what I learned about amateur sleuths. Maybe it can help some of you who might be struggling with this.

1. Give them a relevant job or hobby. Unlike a cop or PI, an amateur can’t just stumble upon bodies without a logical reason. You have to ground them in a profession or avocation that grants them access and freedom of movement within the world you’re building. They have to talk to towns people and uncover secrets without raising suspicion. Classic examples — hair salon owner, baker, bed and breakfast owner. Or as Michael Connelly did so splendidly in The Poet, a newspaper reporter.

2. Give them a good reason. Mere curiosity isn’t a strong enough motivation. Without a badge or professonal training, the amateur has to have some sort of invested stakes. In my case, Matt Owens is trying to find his sister’s killer. Maybe your sleuth is a primary suspect and must solve the crime to clear themselves. Maybe someone close to them is wrongly accused. There has to be credible motivation or you’re just being cutesy. Oh, look…the local vicar figured out who killed old Maud! Praise the lord and pour the G&Ts!

3. Give them credible secondary skills. Without law enforcement training, an amateur can look just silly. You have to give them something extra — a grasp of human nature or a background in psychology. The owner of a nursery might know about poisonous plants. Our own Elaine Viets wrote a popular Dead End Job series and got great mileage for her protag Helen Hawthorne, on the run for an ex while she grinds out a living in lousy jobs. (Helen is the main reason I over-tip hotel maids and never use the coffee pots.)

4. Give them a supporting cast. This one’s important because an amateur needs some access to law enforcement, forensics folks, and other crime specialists to be credible. The amateur cannot operate in a vacuum. Maybe your protag has a business partner, or is close friends with the local police chief. And don’t forget to give your hero a sidekick or foil whose prime role in the story is a sounding board for the amateur’s investigations and plain old figuring out stuff.

Back to my character Matt Owens. Yes, he was grounded in the basic skills of any investigative reporter. But I found it wasn’t enough. His deep grief and guilt over his sister’s gruesome murder was blinding him emotionally. Plus early in the story, he realizes the killer might be in France. In my ardor to set a story in Paris, I had painted myself into a real corner. (I am a rabid pantser). He was truly a poisson out of water. So I had him pair up with a biracial Parisienne police woman, who, subject to chauvinsim and racism within her department, has her own demons to tame. Their friction — and then prickly friendship — made for what I consider one of my best stories.

So…back to the book that I threw across the room. Where did it go wrong?

• First, the main character’s motivation is never well defined and when the reason for her wanting to snoop is finally revealed, it comes so late in the book that it makes the protag seem dumb as a bag of rocks. Hello, Marty McFly!
• Second, the protag has no acess to anyone in police work, and in fact she is fatally antagonistic toward law enforcement, especially those leading the murder investigation. She is isolated by her own stubborness and social anxiety.
• Third, she’s unemployed, whiny and a little too concerned about finding a man to bed and to right her life ship.
• Fourth, she is operating in a near emotional vacuum. When she does finally trust a friend to help her solve the murder, the friend comes across as the more vivid character, who gets all the great lines and insights.

Normally I feel bad when I don’t finish a book. But not this time. Life is short, my bookshelf is full and I have miles to go before I sleep. So does my dog.

Postscript. Thanks for letting me vent. I hope those of you who write amateur sleuths will weigh in.

By PJ Parrish

We’re gonna talk a little heresy today. I am here to try to convince you NOT to show but to tell.

I know, I know. We preach here constantly that the ideal method is always to show your character being active, doing something, saying something significant, In our First Page Critiques, we are always harping on this — don’t tell us what is happening. Show us!

To quote Chekov: Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.

Here’s a bad example of telling:

It was their first date and they had great conversatons at the restaurant. She had barely touched her food, fascinated by his stories about his days working as a chef.

Good rewrite of showing:

“You’ve barely touched your steak tartare,” he said. “I know it’s not –”

“No, no,” she said quickly. “I really like it.” She paused. “It’s just…”

“Go on,” he said. “You won’t hurt my feelings.”

She smiled. “I just hate first dates. They alway feel so weird.”

“I know,” he said, refilling her wine glass. “That’s why I picked Julien’s for ours. I’ve known him for years, so I feel like it’s home here. Julien gave me my first job…as a waiter in a small bistrot in Aix. I was broke, a kid hitching through Provence.”

“I’ve never been to France. I’ve never been out of Michigan.”

“You’d love it there.” He paused. “I’d love to show it to you.”

She laughed. “I trusted you to order me raw steak. I guess I could trust you on that.”

They’re not moving. But dialogue is action. It’s a lot longer. But dialogue is showing. And character is revealed.

But…

Sometimes, it’s better to just tell things. It’s commonly called using narrative. You need to tell (narrate) for various reasons: To bridge scenes more efficiently, summarize irrelevant transitions, speed up time, or to deliver some backstory. And it is an effective tool for pacing beause an entire story written only in dialogue and action scenes doesn’t give your reader a chance to catch their breath.

I realized this recently while doing a rewrite on one of our old unpublished manuscripts. I told you about this a couple weeks ago, that my sister Kelly and I unearthed one of our attempts to get out of our hardboiled lane and try our hand at romantic suspense. We weren’t able to sell that story back then. We thought it still had good bones. But we had made some rookie mistakes. One of them, oddly enough, was not knowing when to TELL instead of wasting precious pages SHOWING. Here’s an actual example from our old manuscript. The first-person protag is an amateur PI, trying to find an abusive husband-suspect of a murdered showgirl named Scarlett. Bear with me, it’s a little wordy. I won’t be offended if you skim-read.

I stopped at the Circle K on Highway 95 and parked beside a pickup truck with a cracked windshield. Inside, the air-conditioning hit me in the face. I walked past a display of beef jerky and potato chips, opened the cooler door, and grabbed a Diet Pepsi.
Back in the car, I twisted the cap off the bottle and took a drink. Then I dug my cell phone out of my purse and called 411.
“Information. What city please?”
“Bullhead City.”
“What listing?”
“Jason Anderson.”
The operator gave me an address on Palm Breeze Drive. I wrote it on the back of an old gas receipt with a pen I found in the glove box.I pulled out of the parking lot and turned left at the first intersection. Two blocks later I realized I’d missed a street and had to double back. I found Palm Breeze Circle first. I drove the entire length of it before realizing none of the addresses matched. I checked the receipt again.
Palm Breeze Drive. Not Circle. Drive.
I made a U-turn and headed back toward the entrance. Five minutes later I found Palm Breeze Lane.
Wrong again.
I drove slowly past mailboxes, reading house numbers. Three hundred. Three hundred twelve. Three hundred twenty-six. None of them were right.
Eventually I found Palm Breeze Court. Not Drive. Court. I smacked the steering wheel.
After another wrong turn and two more loops through the neighborhood, I finally found a faded street sign that read PALM BREEZE DR.
I followed it around a bend and started checking addresses. 431. 432. 433. 459. I pulled to the curb and put the car in park. The trailer was a double-wide with beige aluminum siding. One section of chain-link fence leaned outward as if somebody had backed into it. Plastic toys lay scattered across the dirt yard. A faded tricycle rested on its side near the front steps. A window air-conditioning unit rattled loudly from one wall. I sat there for a moment looking at the place. Then I turned off the engine and got out. Gravel crunched beneath my shoes as I walked up the short path to the front door.
The door was white once, though it had long ago turned gray. Children’s handprints covered the lower half. I raised my hand and knocked. Nothing happened.
I knocked again. A television played somewhere inside. A few seconds later footsteps approached.
The door opened. A woman stood there wearing denim shorts and a Harrah’s Hotel & Casino T-shirt. Her blond hair looked damaged by a bad perm. One side of her face was swollen and purple with bruises.
“Are you Mrs. Anderson?”
She nodded warily.

That’s a heck of a lot of showing. Yeah, it all action. She’s doing something. But it’s long and boring and too descriptive on irrelevant details. Here is how we rewrote it:

I stopped at a Circle K and got a Diet Pepsi. Sitting in the parking lot, I called 411 on my cell, got an address for Jason Anderson on Palm Breeze Drive, and headed out. The blacktop streets circled and twisted and never went anywhere you thought they would. There was a Palm Breeze Circle, a Palm Breeze Lane and a Palm Breeze Court. No palms or breezes though. I cursed myself for being too cheap to have GPS or Internet on my cell. It took me almost thirty minutes to locate the right street in the maze of mobile homes.
I came to a stop at 459 Palm Breeze Drive. It was a dumpy double-wide with a sagging chain-link fence and a dirt yard full of toys. A window unit AC clung to side of the trailer.
I didn’t want to go up there. It looked pretty scary to me, not to mention unhealthy. But I needed to know if Jason Anderson was Scarlett’s Mr. Anderson and there was only one way to find out.
I knocked on a door smeared with children’s hand prints. A woman answered. She wore denim shorts and a T-shirt that said Harrah’s Hotel & Casino. Her hair was blonde, fizzed from a bad perm. She had friendly blue eyes. The entire right side of her thin face was swollen with ugly purple bruises.
I knew I had found the right house.

Better, huh? By condensing her drive, cutting out needless description, and TELLING you what’s happening, it reads more smoothly. Plus her final thought is a great kicker.

So, when should you settle for telling instead of showing? Here’s a few guidelines. Consider using telling to deal with:

1. Passage of Time. Use narrative summary to bypass uneventful gaps, such as a character taking a long trip (like my character), getting over an illness, doing routine stuff, not making progress. TELL us your cop spent three fruitless days on an investigation. Don’t waste time showing us. TELL us a week passed before the suspect was finally nabbed.

2. Change of location. Often you have to move your character around physically. Unless it advances your plot or illuminates character, just tell us it happened. Don’t waste time showing us your girl getting excited, packing hersuitcase, Ubering to the airport, getting on the plane.

Chapter Five

She flew to Paris. He was there, waiting for her in the arrival hall, wearing a funny cap and holding a hand-written sign with her name on it, like he was a taxi driver picking up a fare.

Then return to showing mode, concentrating on the heart of what needs to happen on camera.  Maybe they go to a nice bistrot, share a steak tartare and fall into bed.

You know who’s really grand at telling? Toni Morrison. Check out this condensing of time paragraph from Beloved.

Men and women were moved around like checkers. Anybody Baby Suggs knew, let alone loved, who hadn’t run off or been hanged got rented out, loaned out, bought up, brought back, stored up, mortgaged, won, stolen, or seized. So Baby’s eight children had six fathers. What she called the nastiness of life was the stock she received upon learning that nobody stopped playing checkers just because the pieces included her children.

3. Delivering backstory. Now, you all know you don’t want too much backstory too early. But it is useful to judiciously drop it in the narrative. Here’s the opening of one of my favorite novels, Middlesex. Jeffrey Eugenides uses telling masterfully thoroughout the entire book.

I was born twice: first, as a baby girl, on a remarkably smogless Detroit day in January of 1960; and then again, as a teenaged boy, in an emergency room near Petosky, Michigan in August of 1974. 

4. Dealing with minor characters. As I often advise in critiques, never give the spotlight to spear carriers. These are the poor souls in operas who stand in the back while the diva belts out the aria. Never waste time or paragraphs describing these folks. Don’t even give them names, unless they will somehow later figure into your plot.

Don’t do this:

The waiter sauntered up to the table. He was reed thin, his black vest hanging on his sunken chest, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled just far enough to reveal a koi fish tattoo.

“Vous avez choisi?” he said flatly.

“We’ll have the steak tartare, please.”

“Non, non,” you do not want that,” the waiter said in broken English. “It is not for Americans”

“I’m Canadian. Bring us the tartare. S’il vous plait.”

Just go with:

After ten minutes arguing with the waiter, their steak tartares finally arrived.

5. Letting the reader fill in the details. Now some of you will disagree with me on this one. But I think it is sometimes quite effective to tell some things via narrative and allow room for the reader’s imagination to fill the gaps. Ernest Hemingway was very good at this. His main tenet was to pare the story down to bare essentials. One of his famous telling opening lines:

He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish.

The rest of the story is, essentially, showing the reader what this simple narrative opening means, what the old man’s journey was like.

So, in summary, I guess all I am saying is that we shouldn’t be afraid of telling. We shouldn’t allow the drum-beat of show-not-tell to drown out all other possible techniques. Telling — or some might call it exposition — can be very useful. Put simply, exposition is writing that explains. We use it to quickly fill in background information about characters or circumstances. It’s not exciting. Too much and the reader will tune out. But it can be an effective sketching pencil when used with your flashier showing paint brush.

And that, crime dogs, is all I’m going to tell you today.