“I like it when a flower or a little tuft of grass grows through a crack in the concrete. It’s so f–n’ heroic.” — George Carlin

By PJ Parrish

One of the most important decisions a novelist faces is: Who is going to tell this story?

Well, that’s easy, you say. That’s the job of the protagonist, right? Well, it isn’t always that simple, I am here to plead today. This is on my mind lately because I’m watching an excellent TV series called A Small Light, which is the retelling of the Anne Frank story.

The story of the teenage diarist is ingrained in our culture. What’s the point of rehashing it? But A Small Light is told entirely from the point of view of Miep Gies, a young Dutch woman who risked her life to shelter Anne Frank’s family from the Nazis.

Miep is just an ordinary girl trying to grow up in hard times. She’s a twentysomething slacker with no husband and no job prospects. She charms her way into a job working for Otto Frank at his company. But as the Nazis advance, Miep finds herself smuggling the Franks to the annex above Otto’s Amsterdam offices one at a time.

Anne is relegated to the margins as the story focuses on the growing relationship between Miep and Otto Frank. By shifting the spotlight to a secondary character,  the story comes alive and feels very fresh, even though we know the tragic outcome.

We mystery and thriller writers often use the word “protagonist” as a synonym for “hero.” The protag is the person who gets the call to action, solves the murder, rescues the missing child, saves the world from the incoming comet. But it’s often more complicated than that, especially given how much genre-bending and style experimentation is going on these days. The standard old blond with the great gams who asks the private dick to find her missing husband just isn’t the standard anymore.  We’ve grown beyond that.

I’m not even sure I even know what a protagonist is anymore. So let’s try some definitions. From Stephen Koch’s Writer’s Workshop: The protagonist is the character whose fate matters most to the story. I definitely buy that.

But the writer’s website Dramatica takes it one step further:

• A Main Character is the player through whom the audience experiences the story first hand.
• A Protagonist is the prime mover of the plot.
• A Hero is a combination of both Main Character and Protagonist.

Confused? Yeah, me too. Let’s go to an example most of us know — the movie The Shawshank Redemption. But let’s look at it through its source, Stephen King’s novella Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption.  In King’s iconic book, Andy Dufresne’s story of injustice and escape is narrated entirely by fellow inmate Red (Morgan Freeman in the movie). The book opens with a long recitation by Red on how he got to prison and ends thusly:

I have enough killing on my mind to last me a lifetime. Yeah, I’m a regular Neiman-Marcus. And so when Andy Dufresne came to me in 1949 and asked if I could smuggle Rita Hayworth into the prison for him, I said it would be no problem at all. And it wasn’t.

And later, Red summarizes Andy’s opaque character:

I knew him for close to thirty years, and I can tell you he was the most self-possessed man I’ve ever known. What was right with him he’d only give you a little at a time. What was wrong with him he kept bottled up inside. If he ever had a dark night of the soul, as some writer or other has called it, you would never know. He was the type of man who, if he had decided to commit suicide, would do it without leaving a note but not until his affairs had been put neatly in order.

So in the book, who is the protagonist? I would vote for Red. Andy Dufresne is the story-driver, but Red, even though he is a “secondary” character, is the one whose heart and mind we are living in. More important, he is the one who changes the most over the course of the story. At the end, we shed tears not for Andy, but for Red.

A couple more prime examples of secondary characters who act as narrator-prisms for main characters and thus almost become “main” characters in their own right:

• Dr. Watson. The Sherlock Holmes books are written from his point of view, all observations of Sherlock solving the crimes. Witness:

“You have brought detection as near an exact science as it ever will be brought in this world.” My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the earnest way in which I uttered them. I had already observed that he was as sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of her beauty.”

• Chief Bromden. In Key Kesey’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, the primary conflict is between McMrphy and Nurse Ratched, but the chief is the consciousness through which we view this and Kesey’s views on mental illness.

I been silent so long now it’s gonna roar out of me like floodwaters and you think the guy telling this is ranting and raving my God; you think this is too horrible to have really happened, this is too awful to be the truth! But, please. It’s still hard for me to have a clear mind thinking on it. But it’s the truth even if it didn’t happen.

• Scout from To Kill a Mockingbird. The true “hero” of the story is her father, Atticus, who defends an innocent man, confronts a lynch mob, and faces retaliation against his family. But the story emerges from the emotional prism of the narrator Scout. Like Red in Shawshank, Scout is the one who changes over the story. Thanks to Atticus’s heroism, she learns that evil can be lessened by compassion.

Mockingbirds don’t do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corncribs, they don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.

While researching this post, I found out screenwriters have a name for this type of character — Supporting Protagonist. Some writers chose someone who does NOT have a central role to narrate the story. A Supporting Protagonist is someone who would normally be a secondary character but is actually the main character. It can, as in A Small Light, put a fresh spin on what’s expected.

There’s another type of protagonist that I love — what I call The Hero To Be Named Later. This is a character who emerges out of the pack or obscurity and is called upon to save the day. The reasons might vary:

Shlubb turn savior (Chief Brody in Jaws who can’t even swim)

I Didn’t Raise My Hand! (Han Solo in Star Wars, essentially a jerk who wants nothing to do with anything where he might get hurt).

Default Diva. (Ellen Ripley in Alien, who just wants to collect her paycheck and go home with her cat)

Not So Innocent Bystander. (Michael Corleone in The Godfather who sulks in the shadows until the Sonny sets).

Let’s look at the last two (two of my favorite movies, by the way). Alien opens with an ensemble cast — the crew aboard the salvage freighter Nostromo. We assume the protagonist is Captain Dallas, given his cool stewardship. But as the xenomorph picks off crewmen one by one, Ripley emerges as the badass leader.

I’ve saved the best for last. The Godfather trilogy, taken as a whole, is about Michael taking over the family business and losing his soul. But in the first movie, Vito Corleone is vividly the protagonist, with his sons in orbit around him. Sonny dismisses Michael as “that sad thing over there.” It’s not until halfway through the movie that it becomes clear that Michael is the protagonist. His father shot, abandoned in the hospital, Michael whispers: “Just lie here, Pop. I’ll take care of you now. I’m with you now. I’m with you.”

Michael has looked in mirror. A protagonist is born.

By PJ Parrish

Our submission today is designated as a “thriller” so that’s all we know going in. The presumed protag is a 17-year-old young man. This is a rather spare sample, clocking in at just over 300 words and I wish the writer had gone on some more, up to our 400 word limit. But the beginning has promise. Let’s dive in.

WHERE PIECES FALL

Kellen Koufax sensed no pleasure in the stranger’s gaze. The young Middle Eastern woman’s straight-lined lips knotted his stomach the way he felt on Christmas morning eight years ago. No positives came from firmed expressions. Reluctance secreted in hers. The woman broke her pause inside the classroom door at Skyline High School and approached the teacher.

The woman’s blazer bulged at her waist. It identified her as someone seventeen-year-old Kellen preferred not to encounter. Not on his birthday, and not because he had committed any unforgivable crime. He chose to avoid anyone who relied on firearms to further their careers.

The teacher approached and whispered, “Kellen, this lady is from Idaho Falls Police.” Concern and curiosity infected the teacher’s tone. “She asked to speak to you in private.”

Kellen glanced at a Grizzly football teammate, shrugged, and paced to the detective’s squish-squash footfalls from the classroom to the principal’s office. The school’s guidance counselor waited with a uniformed officer. The counselor ushered Kellen and the detective into her adjoining office. The officer followed and posted himself near the door.

The detective motioned Kellen to sit in one of two chairs in front of a small desk. She sat and leaned forward. “My name is Detective Sahar Osman. I work in Idaho Falls Police Department’s Crimes Against Person’s Unit. Officers responded to a fire this morning at Sandy Downs. I’m sorry to have to tell you your father and mother did not survive.”

Kellen bowed his head. The detective’s words burst into the whoosh of red-orange flames sucking oxygen from the air while they lashed his parents who struggled to inhale their final breaths and flailed arms to beat off the flames. He flinched when a hand touched his left shoulder from behind. It was the only part of his body to sense warmth besides the tears on his cheeks. Everything else stiffened and ached as if the detective’s statement sealed him in cryonic suspension.

_________________________________

There are some good things going on here. We definitely have a disturbance in the norm — what can be worse than being called out of class to hear your parents have died in a fire? Too often, writers feel they must first world-build a “normal” day in order to make the disturbance, when it comes, feel more dreadful. I used to think this was the way to go early in my writing career. But I learned to make waves first and then explain later what was left behind in the wake. So kudos, writer, for not falling into that trap.

Other things that are good: We know who we are following, the protag’s gender, how old he is, and where we are (a real high school in Idaho Falls…I looked it up). You’d be surprised how many writers leave out this basic info.

Given the shortness of the scene, we don’t have much time to get to know Kellen or establish empathy with him. I’m sure that will come later. I wish the writer had taken the care and time to slip in a few telling details about Kellen. How do you do this? Maybe he nervously fiddles with a brand new class ring (which tells us he is about to graduate). Maybe he exchanges a nervous glance with someone specific before he leaves. (which tells us he has a good friend or even a girlfriend). Or maybe everyone stares at him weirdly or even laughs (which, in his reaction, tells us he’s a loner).  I mention this because of this line:

The woman’s straight-lined lips knotted his stomach the way he felt on Christmas morning eight years ago. No positives came from firmed expressions.

Someone happened to Kellen when he was seven that must have scarred him to the point that this stranger’s expression made his stomach knot again. This is good! This is a tease of backstory! I found it the most interesting thing in the whole submission. This opening needs a few more dabs of this kind of intrigue. The TELLING DETAIL is so important. These imprint on the reader’s mind, providing flesh on your character’s bones, a hint of intrigue and the promise of more to come. Slow down in your writing, dear writer, and look for opportunities to provide this.

Also, this is his birthday! So important for someone so young. At 17, you’re on the cusp of manhood. Kellen surely feels this. And he is being thrust, on this very special day, into a nightmare. Surely some thought crosses his mind about this as he is being ushered out by a policewoman. Again, slow down and let the drama play out more.

Okay, now I have to talk about confusion. There were a few times, I had to stop and think about what I was reading and figure it out. We call these hiccups. You don’t want hiccups in your opening. You want clarity and conveyance of plot.  I was a little confused by the opening paragraph:

Kellen Koufax sensed no pleasure in the stranger’s gaze. The young Middle Eastern woman’s straight-lined lips knotted his stomach the way he felt on Christmas morning eight years ago. No positives came from firmed expressions. Reluctance secreted in hers. The woman broke her pause inside the classroom door at Skyline High School and approached the teacher.

First, he has no reason at this point to know the policewoman is there for him. That info comes later from the teacher. UNLESS…you make a point of the teacher looking directly at him first and then the detective does. Only then would he feel targeted.

“Young Middle Eastern woman” is also confusing. Coming in the second line of the book, I hiccupped and thought we were in the Mideast somewhere. And I don’t know how Kellen can realistically pinpoint her ethnicity at a glance. Unless she’s wearing a head scarf? (Yes, women cops wear them). What’s the point of even bringing this up?

The second graph has issues as well.

The woman’s blazer bulged at her waist. It identified her as someone seventeen-year-old Kellen preferred not to encounter. Not on his birthday, and not because he had committed any unforgivable crime. He chose to avoid anyone who relied on firearms to further their careers.

The woman’s blazer does not “identify her as someone Kellen preferred not to encounter.”  The gun, which is hidden, does. Detectives wear guns on their belts, and badges. Why be coy? It’s more interesting that he sees them. And that the detective keeps staring at him!

What’s going on in the class right now? Wouldn’t there be a low hum of curiosity? Wouldn’t heads be craning toward him by now? Given our gruesome times, a cop showing up in a classroom is not a good thing for anyone. Again, you’re missing chances to up the drama and tension in your scene by moving through it too fast.

Next graph:

Kellen glanced at a Grizzly football teammate, shrugged, and paced to the detective’s squish-squash footfalls from the classroom to the principal’s office. The school’s guidance counselor waited with a uniformed officer. The counselor ushered Kellen and the detective into her adjoining office. The officer followed and posted himself near the door.

So Kellen plays football? I almost missed that detail because the wording “glanced at a Grizzly football teammate” is so awkwardly phrased. Maybe something like:

Kellen looked over at Ted. His friend’s eyes were wide with questions, Kellen looked down at his teammate’s sweatshirt, focusing on the logo of the bear print until the word GRIZZ was just a blue blur.

Personalize! Be specific. Connect. (I looked up Skyline HS, home of the Grizz) Make us feel what Kellen is feeling right now. All we get is a shrug? This, after what you told us about a knot in the stomach? I recognize teen boys can be laconic. But again, I think you’re missing a chance to inject drama.

Next graph:

The detective motioned Kellen to sit in one of two chairs in front of a small desk. She sat and leaned forward. “My name is Detective Sahar Osman. I work in Idaho Falls Police Department’s Crimes Against Person’s  Persons Unit. Officers responded to a fire this morning at Sandy Downs. I’m sorry to have to tell you your father and mother did not survive.”

Again, I have to advise the writer to slow down. Because here’s another missed opportunity to add tension. Split the detective’s dialogue into parts and let Kellen react to each new piece of info. I think she would be less blunt, for starters. And second, it gives you a beat — a second or two for Kellen to react and readers to learn something more. There’s no reason to race through this crucial scene. Sandy Downs is a real place, a equestrian arena and popular concert site. Maybe something like this:

“My name is Detective Shar Osman. I work in Idaho Falls Police Department’s Crimes Against Persons Unit.”

Kellen stared at her, not understanding. Crimes against persons?

“Our officers responded to a fire this morning at Sandy Downs,” she went on.

Sandy Downs? The horse place, the arena where they hold rodeos? I was there once, That’s where Ted and I went and saw The Cure. It burned down?

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your parents were involved and did not survive.”

One aside: Most average people (outside us crime dogs) don’t know “crimes against persons” is another name for homicide et al.  Why is a homicide detective going to a school when the crime here is arson? Since the fire was “this morning” it would not realistically be ruled homicide yet. At some point very soon this has to be addressed.

Now, you are at a critical point. Kellen’s reaction is everything here. And depending on your plot, you have to be clear on his emotions. Did his parents work there? If not, why were they there in the middle of a school day? If they DID have good reason to be there, THAT is where his thoughts go first. If they DIDN’T, then his reaction is completely different.

And I think, at 17, he’d almost not understand what she’s saying: “Did not survive” is a cop’s way of couching bad news. I can imagine him thinking:

Did not survive. Did not survive what? Wait….a fire. There was a fire. Does she mean they’re dead?

Such moments need to be that strange. People, especially kids, process awful news in an almost detached away, like they’re trying to tune in a bad radio station signal. Which leads us to the last paragraph:

Kellen bowed his head. The detective’s words burst into the whoosh of red-orange flames sucking oxygen from the air while they lashed his parents who struggled to inhale their final breaths and flailed arms to beat off the flames. He flinched when a hand touched his left shoulder from behind. It was the only part of his body to sense warmth besides the tears on his cheeks. Everything else stiffened and ached as if the detective’s statement sealed him in cryonic suspension.

I don’t think this works, for the reasons I cited above. You must give words to Kellen’s thoughts. I can buy that dreadful news creates a “whoosh” in the brain. But nothing as articulate and “writerly” as what is in this graph.

The detective’s words burst into the whoosh of red-orange flames sucking oxygen from the air while they lashed his parents who struggled to inhale their final breaths and flailed arms to beat off the flames.

What has happened here, dear writer, is that you have abandoned the view point of a 17 year old boy and lapsed into omnisicient. This is you being writerly, not Kellen feeling and reacting.

Then you need a new graph:

Kellen closed his eyes. He flinched when a hand touched his left shoulder from behind.  It was the only part of his body to sense warmth besides the tears on his cheeks. Everything else stiffened and ached as if the detective’s statement sealed him in cryonic suspension.

I think that last line needs to go. It’s a toke over the line after flames, warmth, stiffening. I doubt a 17 year old teen who’s just gotten such news thinks in terms of “cryonic suspension.”  Again, that is the writer talking, not the character thinking.

I’m not going to red line edit today because I don’t think we need it. I’ve tried to cover the main points and hope the writer takes my critique in the spirit it is intended. This is one person’s opinion, dear writer, and meant only to help you down your path. I like this set-up and would definitely read on.  But you need to get inside this young man’s head more and see this terrible event through his eyes only. Point of view is a potent tool. Put it to work for you more precisely and you’ll add more power to your story.

“I love criticism just so long as it’s unqualified praise.” — Noel Coward

By PJ Parrish

So your friend whips out the phone and before you can slither away, out come the pictures of the new baby.

“Look at that face! Have you ever seen a prettier little girl?” new dad beams.

She looks like Karl Malden. What do you say?

1. “What a beautiful child!”
2. “Yup, that’s some baby you’ve got there.”
3. “Are you still within the return period?”

I ask this today because a good friend of mine has an ugly baby problem. The son of her best friend has just published his first book, a sci-fi thriller about the world maybe sorta coming to an end. She read the book while here and says it is terrible. Like terrible in cardboard characters and incomprehensible plot. And now she has to go back and face her friend. Avoiding the writer’s mom is no-go because they play pickleball every week. She asked me what to say because she knows I’ve done a ton of manuscript evaluations and I once made my living as a dance critic.

What did I tell her? I suggested that she say that the genre was not her cup of chai, and thus she isn’t the best person to judge. Which was a true lie. She never reads crime fiction, and the idea of the world ending in ether gives her the creeps. Just to be safe, I read the first couple chapters, and yeah, the book is awful. So I think I told her the right thing. I dunno. I hope so.

I have been in her position. Over the decades, many friends and co-workers have asked me to read their mystery manuscripts, and while none were butt-ugly, not a one was publishable. I gently told them their work needed work before it could be seen in the harsh light of day. (This was mainly in pre-self-pubbing era). Most took it well. Some kept trying, a few quit, one guy never spoke to me again. A good friend, who was trying to write a mystery about retired NFL players, switched to non-fiction and got published by a good small press to great blurbs and national reviews .

Ugly Dog winner Phoebe with proud parents

Brief digression. I don’t have any ugly kids. I have an ugly dog. So ugly she won the Ugly Dog Contest in Williamston, Michigan. First prize was three bags of golf-ball sized kibble, which I donated to the police canine unit. I also won a gift certificate to J&B Boots, which got me a nice pair of Italian kicks. They wrote a story about my dog in The Williamston Enterprise, which hangs framed in my office.

Giving criticism is a fine art. Our own John Gilstrap wrote about his adventures in critique groupland recently. Click here. It’s a little easier when the person you’re critiquing is a stranger and there’s no face-to-face time. But the basic rule still applies: You need to fair and you can’t crush someone’s spirit. I think about this every time I do a First Page critique here at The Kill Zone. I have a process I always go through:

1. First, I read the whole 400 or so words quickly, without any eye toward editing. I try very hard to read it as only a reader would who has just bought the book. Does the opening pique my interest?
2. Second, I ask myself: Do I have any prejudices against this TYPE of book that would make me unduly negative or even ignorant? For instance, I’m not a big sci-fi fan, and I’m clueless about what works in YA these days. So I read such submissions with that caveat.
3. Next, I ask myself if the submission has something to teach all our readers. It’s not enough to just red-ink grammar mistakes or such. I look for a larger issue in each submission that can help all our writers learn.
4. Sometimes, you get a submission that just isn’t up to snuff enough to critique. The writer hasn’t yet gotten the basics of the craft down. I decline to do these.
5. Finally, I do a submission only if I can find something good to say about it.

That last one is important. Because I remember how hard it was to get any feedback when I was trying to publish my first mystery back in the late 1990s. Even though I had had four romances published by a big house, I was clueless about mysteries. When I showed my agent my freshman attempt, she told me I didn’t understand the unique structure of a mystery. “Go home and read,” she said. “Start with P.D. James and Michael Connelly.”

Today, when I do a critique, I use the Hamburger Method:

• Start out by staying something nice.
• Insert a big juicy slab of criticism.
• End with saying something encouraging.

A few other things I’ve learned about giving criticism:

Resist the urge to fix the problem. Unless you really have the solution, it’s not a good idea to offer up the answer to another writer’s problem. You don’t know their book; you’re not inside their head. They have to find their way.
Watch your tone. Being snarky is, unfortunately, encouraged in our culture today. Be firm but kind.
Don’t take out your frustrations on someone else. Your own WIP is falling apart. Your plot has more holes than a cheese grater. Your Acer died and your geek can’t do a data retrieval. Don’t take it out on someone else’s baby.
Don’t boost your own ego. Don’t go all alpha dog, using criticism to show how sharp you are. Nobody likes a bully.
Be empathetic. You’ve probably had the same problems the other guy is having. So tell him how you fixed your book’s issues.

Okay, so you’re done reading a friend’s manuscript. Or you’ve been doing your part in the weekly critique group. You’ve been kind, you’ve been constructive, you’re offering up suggestions that you think might cause a light bulb to go off over the other writer’s head. And then…

They turn on you. You don’t understand their genre. You’ve missed their plot points. You’re supposed to hate their protagonist. You’re just biased against second-person omniscient. I call these folks the Yeah Buts. “Yeah, but if you keep reading, things will get clearer.” “Yeah but if you read more dystopian Victorian zombie fiction, you’d understand what I’m going for.”

You can’t help a Yeah But. They don’t want to hear anything except how great their stuff is. Don’t get angry. You did what you could. Smile and walk away. Sometime, an ugly baby is nothing but an ugly baby with an ugly parent.

By PJ Parrish

Maybe it’s my art background — or more likely because I write books that I hope get noticed — but I really pay attention to book covers. I’ve been known to pass by a good book with a what-the-hell? cover (Chuck Palahniuk’s Haunted) or get seduced by a meh book with a sexy cover (Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight)

Cover design is also on my mind because I’m working on my Edgar banquet stuff this week. This is my 15th year as banquet chair, and one of my duties is to put together the PowerPoint presentation of all the nominees’ book covers. I’ve seen a lot of trends come and go over that time. Some have become classic. Others, well, they belong down there with Juicy tracksuits and Nik Nik shirts. (Score yourself 5 pts if you wore a Nik Nik, 10 if you went out in public.)

Most authors are at the not-so-tender mercies of their publishers when it comes to cover design. But a lot of us also do our own covers or hire someone. A bad cover can really torpedo a book. I’ve seen some butt-ugly covers among the Edgar nominees. This year there doesn’t seem to be a dog in the bunch. So, I figure this is a good time for a quick survey course of what’s hot. (I’m covering only fiction here).

I’m thinking that fiction cover trends have stabilized in the last couple years, maybe because the industry seems to have figured out what a marketable cover should look like. Why reinvent the wheel? But then again, that kind of thinking gave us years of black covers. (Après Amy Dunne, le déluge). Those of you who publish your own stuff know the drill: Make sure your cover looks professional, reflects your book’s tone and meets genre standards. Those of you traditionally published — pray.

For a couple years now, we’ve been seeing minimalism in crime fiction covers — nothing fussy, maybe a plot-symbolic graphic, and strong typefaces with author name and title. This is baked in now, but there are some interesting break-aways as well. Here’s my rundown featuring this year’s nominees from the Edgars and the specials (Mary Higgins Clark, Lilian Jackson Braun and Sue Grafton awards):

San Serif Type. This has become the default design. Note that this approach translates well when reduced to a thumbnail on Amazon. Although I’m not sure about the white type against that pale background.

Written Type Faces. This trend emerged a couple years ago, and is still with us.

Note: All three are from the young adult category. Looking pretty scary, there.

One Strong Graphic. Another evergreen trend that has become a hallmark of crime fiction. It is seen as being symbolic of the plot usually. Many strong examples in this year’s mix. (Click any image to see larger)

Sense of Place. Conveying the story’s geographic place also continues to be popular. Some authors revel in setting (William Kent Krueger brands all of his book covers in this way). We used to do this with our Louis Kincaid series, but it started to feel dated, so we repackaged around the symbolism idea. But setting remains a favorite this year.

A Building Block. A similar device — tried and true for decades now — is to use a house or cabin as the central graphic. I’m not really crazy about this, as it always feels sort of vague to me, like the designer couldn’t quite grasp what the writer was doing. Our worst cover had a house graphic so maybe I’m just prejudiced.

But what if your setting isn’t all dark and creepy? Well, beneath that Don Johnson pink Armani lies a black heart, wouldn’t you know. I love both these covers. I’d rent a VRBO in these towns, even if there was a serial killer a-lurk.

There are also some eye-popping pure graphic design going on this year:

And some successful attempts to capture a book’s tone. Notice the nice marriages of color, typeface and graphics that convey a mood. You know immediately what kind of books these are.

One of my favorite categories, as far as cover art goes, is juvenile. One trend that remains classic in this genre is use of protagonists’ images. Maybe because kids like to identify with them so closely? Hey, I was dark, chubby and had to babysit the Heller brats, but in my dreams I was that blonde in the blue roadster.

Which leaves us with some splendid covers that defy categorization. There’s a retro vibe this year, redolent of Gorky Park, shivering spies, dicks with gats and those fun-loving Corleone boys.

To see all the nominees on Mystery Writers of America’s website, click here. And that, crime dogs, is a wrap.

By PJ Parrish

My post today is going to sound a bit crabby, and for that I apologize. Okay, here goes: . I am not a big fan of historical fiction. I know there are many many truly great historicals out there, and a few remain among my favorites — Shogan, Beloved, Memoirs of a Geisha, The Underground Railroad, Perfume.

I’ve got my favorites from the historical mystery shelf as well — The Name of the Rose, The Alienist, Child 44, The Eye of the Needle, among others. I’m not a total philistine.

But most historicals I’ve tried leave me cold. And for the life of me, I can’t quite figure out why. I think it is because too many just try too hard to impress with…details.

Research is, as all writers know, very seductive. And sometimes, it shows.

To my mind, the best historical novels, first and foremost, explore the great themes of what we like to call popular fiction―crime, family, passion, betrayal― set against well rendered backdrops. The not-so-best of these, on the other hand, let the historical details overwhelm the story, choking the characters in layers of crinoline, stiff collar stays and stilted dialogue.

I’m crabby about this, I think, because the contest I am judging right now for a writers conference is coughing up a lot of historicals this week. I’m drowning in miladies, malingering lords, and gagging on the “sulphuric aroma” of gunpowder and the “foul hint” of stale tobacco. These manuscripts are far from bad; they are well crafted. But they are also boring because nothing is happening. And it’s not happening in numbing historically accurate detail.

I am also reading two historicals right now, and both are somewhat disappointing. I got Kristin Hannah’s The Nightingale for Christmas because the gifter knew how much I loved the TV series A French Village, a superb soaper set in a Nazi-occupied village. Hannah’s book is mildly diverting so far, but the 1939 France setting comes off a little post-cardy and I feel like I’ve met these characters somewhere before.

The second book I’m reading is Jess Walter’s The Cold Millions. I love anything this man writes, truly. Two poor brothers struggle to survive in 1909 Spokane. Exquisitely detailed in its research and setting with a carnival parade of quirky characters. The writing is dazzling. Yet the book is very put-downable. I’m almost half-through and the story itself just isn’t gelling as a whole. It’s more picaresque than well-plotted.

So all this has me wondering why some historicals captivate while others capsize. I don’t have the answer, folks. I actually have written two historicals — fat family sagas with love and sex, one set in post-earthquake San Francisco, and another set in Belle Epoque Paris. You can find them both on Amazon for about a buck a piece. Heck, let me know and I will give you a copy. I have lots left.

My late friend Jerry Healy once quipped that I still write historicals because my Louis Kincaid mystery series is set in the Eighties. And yes, I had to be careful with my research as to when cell phones and DNA arrived, little stuff like that. But research never got in my way.

Maybe that’s all it comes down to — not letting the grinding machinery of research gunk up your plot or drown out what your characters are saying.

In 2003, Dennis Lehane was red hot. His Kenzie-Gennaro series had established his mystery cred. His blockbuster stand alone Mystic River was coming out as a movie. He had just published Shutter Island.  Where does a guy go from there?

He took a couple years off and in 2008 came out with The Given Day. It was a magnum opus historical set in post-war Boston. It clocked in at 720 pages. The New York Times called it “intensely researched” and I don’t know if that was a compliment. I found The Given Day hard going. It’s ambitious, sprawling and almost promiscuously sensual in its style, as in this sentence:

Lying together in the smell of flowers and the constant threat of a rain that never fell, as the ships left for Europe, as the patriots rallied in the streets, as a new world seemed to sprout between them even quicker than the blooming flowers, Danny knew the relationship was doomed.

I didn’t finish the book. After The Given Day, Lehane decided to go back to his Kenzie-Gennaro series with Mooonlight Mile. He told a British interviewer, about returning to genre fiction: “It’s ten years later, and it scares me. Do I still have that looseness? [The genre books] had an ignorance about them, and I wonder if I can recapture that now that I’ve flirted with self-importance.”

Two years later, Lehane came out Live By Night. It’s a slimmed-down sequel to The Given Day, with the spotlight lazer-trained on one character Joe Coughlin. It has the same beautiful Lehane writing, but the ease is back. Here’s the opening paragraph.

Some years later, on a tugboat in the Gulf of Mexico, Joe Coughlin’s feet were placed in tub of cement. Twelve gunmen stood waiting until they got far enough out to sea to throw him overboard, while Joe listened to the engine chug and watch the water turn white at the stern. And it occurred to him that almost everything of note that had happened in his life — good and bad — had been set in motion the morning he first crossed paths with Emma Gould.

The history is there in this gritty gangster yarn. The research is there, but now it’s background music for Joe Coughlin’s solo. Lehane finally won the Edgar that he should have gotten for Mystic River. I loved this book. Couldn’t put it down. It broke my heart in the end.

Okay, thanks for letting me vent today. I feel less crabby now, and am going to give Jess and Kristin more time to win me over. History doesn’t have to be drag.

Would love to hear some of you weigh in who are more learned in historical fiction than I am. What did you read that worked? What fell short and why?

By PJ Parrish

My husband does the grocery shopping in our house. He’s a sucker for buy-one-get-one free. He can’t resist, bless his little hunting-and-gathering heart. I just did a tour of our closets and pantry. We have four bottles of Gardini’s Caesar Dressing, three six-packs of Swiss Miss cocoa mix, five cans of Edge shaving cream, six bags of Greenie dog treats and 52 rolls of toilet paper.

The other day, after hitting the garden section at Home Depot, I popped the trunk to load in my mulch only to find the trunk stuffed with four 8-roll packs of Bounty paper towels. He knows we have no room for this in our small house, and this is a bit of a marital turf war, but he can’t help himself. Why buy just one if you can get three at a great price?

Okay, he did come home the other day with four bottles of my favorite pinot. It was buy-one-get-one day at Publix. Wine can go a long ways to soothing the savage wife.

Who can resist a real bargain? Buy-one-get-one-free packaging is a time-honored ploy to hook customers. Musicians have been onto this since the Great Vinyl Age. TV specials and movies are routinely packaged as one box-set either as physical discs or streaming options. (Being a Luddite, I treasure my CD box-set of the complete original Star Trek).

I realize this post isn’t for everyone. But if you already have some books out there, you might considering bundling. Bundled books can stoke new interest in old titles, especially if you a series, because readers love to move easily from one book to the next. Or perhaps, you’ve written books on one subject — like our own James here does with his series on fiction craft. Even if you’re still slaving away on that first book, file this away for the future marketing option.

I’m writing about this today only because my sister Kelly and I have finally gotten around to doing this. Today marks the debut of our first bundle in our Louis Kincaid series. I don’t usually go in for blatant self-promotion, but even if you don’t buy it, go check it out just to see if it might work for you.

We’re able to do this because we finally have the rights back to almost every book in our series. We’ve redesigned and self-published all the titles as ebooks and trade paperbacks, but we’re banking on the idea that a bargain bundle might stoke sales and reap new readers. Our plan is the bundle three titles at a time over the next couple months.

Okay, so what do you have to do to get this off the ground? My sister Kelly is going to answer here because she has handled all the technical aspects of this, including the formatting and cover designs. Also, my friend Neil Plakcy will weigh in. Neil has four series in bundle now: Golden Retriever Mysteries, Have Body, Will Guard, Mahu Investigations, and Angus Green FBI Thrillers. He has also bundled up a group of young adult romances, and collected together three unrelated contemporary gay romance novels. After retiring from teaching college, he now writes full-time, kept company by his husband and their two rambunctious golden retrievers. Check out his bundles at http://www.mahubooks.com

1. Why bother, if the individual books are already available?

Neil: The advantage is that readers can get a 600-page book for one credit. Bundling also helps read-through — the reader doesn’t have to go back to the store to get the next book. It’s already there. I also use the bundles to generate read-through. If you got 1-3 for free, or through Kindle Unlimited, I hope that you’ll be motivated to keep reading.

Kris: Neil’s point about read-through is a good one. A new release deserves its own launch and breathing space. But if the books have been out for some time, it can generate new interest. Binge consumption is the norm these days, and a box-set of your work at a good price entices readers.  As indie superstar Kristine Kathryn Rusch says, “The best way to get noticed is by publishing enough that readers can binge for a weekend.” Binge readers who buy box-sets are often a different audience than those who buy individual books. Why not go after them?

2. How do you decide which books to bundle together?

Neil: By theme? (I’ve done a set with stand alone gay romances) Or by series? That’s the traditional way I have done them. I usually do a three-book bundle but I’ve also experimented with a larger set. I’ve seen other authors who will put together a complete series. In my case, I’m usually still writing in that series.

Kris: Neil is very prolific. For us, we have just our Louis Kincaid series, so the decision is easy. It seems to me bundling would work best for series writers. Or perhaps you have a sci-fi or fantasy trilogy; that seems a natural. Also, romance novels in any given sub-genre, given the rapacious nature of its readers, would be a good fit.

Kelly: It’s important to keep the tone consistent in your bundle. Don’t bundle fantasy with romantic suspense, for instance. It takes time to create bundles. Use your time wisely. Three is a nice bundle, but I’ve seen authors do two-book bundles (say, a story and its sequel.) Authors also bundle 10 or more. Neil bundled nine in his golden retriever series — quite a haul for readers!

3. How do you set pricing?

Neil: Amazon lowers the royalty percentage for books over $9.99. I usually use $6.99 — that’s a bargain for three books that are usually $3.99 or $4.99 each. But most of my revenue from bundles comes from Kindle Unlimited, not from sales.

Kelly: If you’re a big gorilla, you can price your bundle high. But for the average Joe, you have to make the reader feel they are getting a deal.

4. How do convey that it’s a box set instead of a regular book?

Kelly: The most important thing you do is make sure the image you upload to Amazon or others looks like a 3D box-set (as opposed to a flat cover). Remember, the first thing a potential reader sees is this image. I designed all our individual covers. But when  I went to design the box-set image, I knew it had to look like a realistic box-set that you’d have on a bookshelf. I tried it first in photoshop but it looked amateurish, so I invested in a template specifically for this.

Neil: I use a 3-D cover that shows the front cover of the first book in the series, with an extra ribbon that indicates it’s “Books 4-6 of the Have Body, Will Guard series.” Also you can see the titles of all three books on the spine.

5. Can I do this myself?

Kelly: Yes, of course. But even if you are proficient in cover design already, it’s still a bit of a learning curve. Or hire someone to do this for you. I have designed all Neil’s covers and his box-sets. Formatting the books in the bundle is not hard if you’re used to formatting already. But it is time-consuming. You must combine three manuscripts into one file, and that can be troublesome. You’re now dealing with a 900-page file vs a 300-page file. Chapter headings can move, double breaks go crazy, and the tables of content can be a headache. If you have trouble getting professional looking interior ebooks, consider buying a template for that as well. Don’t wing it. Once you get the hang of a good template, you’ll be happy.

Kris: Back to those covers: Ugly covers signal amateur hour. If your covers are ugly, consider rebranding all your covers first before bundling.

6. Do I leave my individual books up if I upload a bundle?

Kelly: Absolutely. It’s one more product on your shelf. At the supermarket, you can buy one roll of toilet paper or 12. So it should be with your ebooks.

7. Is this really for me?

Kelly: If you’re like us, and your books have been out there for while, it spices up your bookshelf. If you are very prolific, like Neil, and have a several series and multiple stand alones, bundling them up can really expand your publishing real estate. Don’t let the possible problems intimidate you. Think creatively. You can bundle anything — and rebrand old material — if you pay attention to imagery, tone and genre.

5. What about bundling with other authors?

Neil: I have thought about it but haven’t found the right partners. Also the royalty accounting can be complicated, especially if your income is going to come from KU, since there’s no way to tell “which” pages the reader read.

Kris: This can get really messy in terms of dividing income and promotion duties. Whose publishing account will the box-set be loaded onto? Who gets the income and makes sure it is divided fairly? (Amazon allows you only to have one person on an account.). How will you handle this come tax time? Really do your homework if you are considering this. Get a legal partnership agreement. Kelly and I have one, and we like and trust each other. What happens if you and your box-set partner have a falling out? Marriage is beautiful. Divorce is ugly.

Our Louis Kincaid bundle goes live this morning. $6.99. Such a deal. Click here to check us out.

“Can’t say I’ve ever been too fond of beginnings, myself. Messy little things. Give me a good ending anytime. You know where you are with an ending.” ― Neil Gaiman

By PJ Parrish

I love it when I can draft along in someone’s wake. James had a good post Sunday on how to end scenes or chapters. He talked about how he studied how King, Koontz and Grisham artfully ended chapters. And then yesterday, I was a guess blogger over at Kay’s blog The Craft of Writing, where she complimented me on the ending of one of my books.

So what better time than to talk about the alchemy of a good ending? I wish I could remember who said this, but my memory is unreliable: The opposite of a happy ending is not a sad ending. The opposite of a happy ending is an unsatisfying ending.

I recently watched The Princess Bride for the first time. Great storytelling. The last scene is the four heroes – Westley, Buttercup, Fezzik and Inigo Montoya — riding off on white horses. No lousy epilogues, just a sweet satisfying ending reflecting the movie’s tone. But here’s what screenwriter William Goldman said about it in an interview:

Well, I’m an abridger, so I’m entitled to a few ideas of my own. Did they make it? Was the pirate ship there? You can answer it for yourself, but, for me, I say yes it was. And yes, they got away. And got their strength back and had lots of adventures and more than their share of laughs.
But that doesn’t mean I think they had a happy ending, either. Because, in my opinion, anyway, they squabbled a lot, and Buttercup lost her looks eventually, and one day Fezzik lost a fight and some hot-shot kid whipped Inigo with a sword and Westley was never able to really sleep sound because of Humperdinck maybe being on the trail.

I’m not trying to make this a downer, understand. I mean, I really do think that love is the best thing in the world, next to cough drops. But I also have to say, for the umpty-umpth time, that life isn’t fair. It’s just fairer than death, that’s all.

You probably don’t want to even think about your ending, because right now you’re spinning your wheels in chapter 7. But you should think about it. Because often it’s the ending that resonates strongest with a reader. Everything you write before it leads up to it. And if the ending is good, everything points back to it. Last impressions are important.

It’s all about structure and you being in control of your narrative and pacing. It’s also about mood and theme because a good ending emotionally connects. What you don’t want to do is write until you are exhausted and go out with a whimper. What you don’t want to do stay too long at your party and bore everyone to death. A good ending is, like everything you write, a definite choice. It is not a final groan. It is a goal.

Let’s start by defining some different types of endings. If you all think of any I’ve missed, please weigh in. SPOILER ALERTS.

Tied Up With a Bow. Common in stand alones because the story is resolved, no questions are left unanswered, the bad guys are vanquished and the hero has won. Boy gets girl. The child is rescued. The world is saved. The implication is that order has been restored and everyone lives, maybe not happily ever after, but at least existing above the dirt. Unless you’re H.G. Wells. Now my tastes run toward ambiguity in endings. But the bow route can be very satisfying for readers. Don’t apologize if it’s what your story needs.

Closing The Circle. In this structure, the story ends where it began, as events eventually lead back to the imagery, event, or scene that begins the story. Best example I can think of is Steinbeck’s Of Mice And Men. The tragic ending is inevitable because Steinbeck sets up in the beginning the idea that happiness is impossible for Lennie and George. George always protects Lennie, but the task becomes too difficult when Lennie accidentally kills Curley’s wife. Steinbeck begins and ends at the same place — the pond. It is symbolic in that despite all their efforts to better themselves, Lennie and George end up exactly where they began.

Open-Ended Ending. There is still some element of resolution, but nothing is neat. There may be lingering questions, doors might be left open. This is good for series in which you may want the character arc of your protagonist to change over the course of several books. You have put your protag through a challenge, but he still has more to tell. This is one reason readers love series — one story might compel them to the next book to see what is going to happen next to the hero.

The Ambiguous Ending. This is a little different than open-ended. Ambiguity may occur with a character, plot point, image, or situation that can be understood in two or more possible ways. An ending can be interpreted in different ways. Tana French’s In The Woods is a good example. The ending, wherein some events of the case prove unresolved, left some readers frustrated.

The Twist. You’ve led readers down a plot path that makes them expect a certain ending. The satisfaction for readers is thus seeing only how you pull things off. But, maybe you decided to add a last minute plot twist that no one sees coming. Best one I can think of is Dennis Lehane’s Shutter Island, also a heck of a good example of an unreliable narrator.

SPOILER ALERT: Where The Crawdads Sing. After standing trial for murdering Chase, it is revealed that an exonerated Kya did, in fact, off him. Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn. Here’s how she explains her shocking and very abrupt ending: https://www.rollingstone.com/tv-movies/tv-movie-features/sharp-objects-finale-recap-gillian-flynn-hbo-713667/

The Ticking Clock. This is stock in thrillers. To end the story, you decide what should happen last. One example is Lee Child’s 61 Hours, wherein Jack Reacher is racing against the clock as he investigates a small-town murder in South Dakota. But Reacher doesn’t know he’s under a countdown, which creates a second layer of tension for the reader. Like Hitchcock’s bomb-under-the-table, readers know about the time “bomb” as they wait for Reacher to figure things out.

Spoiler alert: 61 Hours ends in a cliff-hanger, with the plot resolved but Reacher desperately running for his life. There’s an epilogue (see below for my take on that!) wherein Child suggests that nobody survived the explosion that ended the novel. What? Reacher’s dead? No answer in 61 Hours. But the next Reacher book Worth Dying For, opens with a bruised and battered Reacher talking to a doctor who wonders why he’s so beat up. Reacher never really explains how he walked away from the explosion. Some fans were miffed about this, but hey, he’s Jack Reacher, right? And maybe James Bond survived that missile attack in No Time To Die.

Epilogues. You all know how much I dislike prologues. (it’s mainly a taste thing). So it is with epilogues for me. This is a pin-the-vestigial-tail-on-the-donkey kind of thing. You’ve ended your story with a good resolution yet you keep yakking away. Usually to impart something like: After her would-be killer went to jail, Barbie went on to marry Ken, become a brain surgeon, and they remodeled their dream house in Hoboken. Yuck. You have to know when to leave the party, folks. After the tragedy/mystery is resolved, allow breathing room for your reader to envision what comes next. At this point, the reader’s imagination is much more powerful than yours.  “Epilogue” looks all artsy-fartsy on the page but it’s almost always an ego thing. Unless you’re Lee Child.

Example: The one good one I can remember is The Book Thief. The epilogue runs four “chapters” and it bookends the four “chapter” prologue. It worked within the complex structure of the story wherein the narrator is Death, who tells us about the girl Liesel’s journey, and laments humanity’s cruelty and hopefulness. I loved this book and its closing lines:

All I was able to do was turn to Liesel Meminger and tell her the only truth I truly know. I said to the book thief and I say it now to you.

*** A LAST NOTE FROM YOUR NARRATOR***

I am haunted by humans.

Tips For Good Endings

1. Know how things end from the beginning. I know, I know…you don’t want to hear this. It’s hard enough, especially if you’re a pantser like me, to figure things out when you’re still mucking around in chapter 2. But I almost always have at least a vague idea of what that last chapter is going to say. Sometimes I know the ending before I know where to start and I almost write in reverse gear. What you should know is the central question of your story — who killed poor old Roger? (See Agatha Christie). Can the team come together to save the world? (Andromeda Strain by Michael Crichton) How far will a woman go to protect her murderous sister? (My Sister, the Serial Killer by Oyinkan Braithwaite.) If you can articulate the central question of your story, you have a good jump on knowing how it ends.
2. Earn it! How you resolve your story has to come organically. What does that mean? You have to lay down clue trails logically. The end, regardless of its tone, must feel inevitable and true. Also, your antagonist must be a presence in the book early (even if you artfully conceal him or lead the reader away from him.) Don’t get lazy and resort to the Long Lost Uncle From Australia ploy where the bad guy suddenly turns up at the end.
3. Know your tone going in. Happy or sad? Hopeful or uncertain? You want readers smiling or crying at the end? That is up to you, but whatever you chose, it must be supported by the plot foundation you lay. My own books are dark and sometimes ambiguous at end. But I like a grace note of hope.
4. Stand Alone or Series. Of course this affects your ending. If you plan to write a series character, you must carefully consider each trait and event in that person’s life (and please, commit this to a record or dossier!). The endings of series books often provide transitions to the next. You must decide if that series character will age with each book. My own hero Louis ages one year to 18 month with every book, so I’m thankful we started book one with him age 24. Or your series character might be static. Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Millhone was born May 5, 1950 (according to Grafton’s website) but she is perennially “in her mid-30s.” A stand alone, of course, dictates a different structure. At THE END, there should be nothing left to say.
5. Write more than one ending. So you get to act 3 and you’re in a fog. You know that finish line is out there but you can’t see it. Don’t choke. Write one ending, then write a different one or two or three. Think of it as your Director’s Cuts. Give them to a trusted friend for testing. Usually, the shortest one, the one with the emotional kick, is best. One of my favorite movies is Cinema Paradiso. An Italian boy Toto, obsessed with movies, grows into a teen who falls in love with the beautiful and obtainable Elena. He becomes a famous movie director but his bed, as his mother tells him, is always filled with strangers. In the ending, Toto returns to his tiny village and watches a montage of old movie clips of couples kissing. It is heart-crushing but so perfect. Yet the director unwisely issued a special cut in which the adult Toto tracked down Elena. It’s awful. Here’s the good ending, the most romantic two minutes ever put to film.

So, no director’s cut, okay? If you don’t believe me, go watch Apocalypse Now Redux.  

I’ll leave you with one final example from one of our own books, Island of Bones. I bring this up only because Kay told me she really liked it. I think it’s also an example of coming full circle and leaving a definite mood of hope. You can skip this part. I won’t be offended.

I wrote this last scene right after I wrote the first chapter. Chapter 1 is all action: a woman trying to escape from an island off Florida coast, so terrified that she risks taking out a small boat during a coming hurricane. The plot revolves around Louis and Mel tracking down missing women and, in the end, saving a boy and an newborn infant. The ending is back on the gulf, this time at sunset with Louis and Mel, who is slowly blind, reflecting on the case and the children they saved. Louis is compelled to tell Mel he is haunted by the fact he got a girl pregnant in college.

“What happened to her,” Mel asked.

“She left school and got an abortion.”

“You sure?”

Louis kept his eyes on the gulf. Sure? Hell, he had never thought about it before. There was no reason to think she hadn’t done what she told him she was going to do.

“Shit,” Louis said under his breath. “Like I really needed to be thinking about that possibility right now.”

Mel didn’t answer. His eyes were closed and he was leaning back on his elbows, his face upturned to catch the faint breeze. “What was her name?”

“Kyla. I screwed it up,” Louis said softly.

Mel was quiet for a long time. “You know, memory is a strange thing,” he said finally. “I mean you can’t always rely on it. I have a whole library of images in my memory, things I use to remember what something looks like, things I use to make me feel like I’m not groping around in the dark when things get bad.”

Louis was quiet, looking out at the gulf.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that you might not be remembering that thing in college all that clearly. Memories can be…unreliable. You did the best you could at the time. I think that’s all any of us do. When you know better, you do better.”

The waves were a gentle hiss on the sand. A flock of pelicans were flying up the beach toward them, and Louis watched as they went by in a perfect V, gliding over the water. The birds were beautiful, no sound, no effort, moving through their world with not a single wasted motion. He watched them until they were gone.

“The boy will be all right,” Mel said. “And the baby is alive. You did the best you could.”

The breeze was kicking up. Louis closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath of the salty air. He listened to the breaking waves.

“Tell me what it looks like,” Mel said.

Louis opened his eyes. “What?”

“The sunset.”

“I’m not falling for that again. I know you can see it, some of it anyway.”

“All I see is a big blur of color.”

“Well, that’s all it is.”

Mel laughed. “Christ, you’re hopeless. Tell me what it looks like.”

Louis looked at the sky and shrugged. “I told you, it’s colorful.”

“Try again.”

Louis took a deep breath. “It’s red at the bottom and kind of yellow at the top.”

“You can do better than that.”

“Okay, it’s really red and really yellow. Damn it, Mel, you tell me.”

Mel lifted his face to the sky, eyes closed. “The clouds are wispy, and it’s like someone tossed a bunch of yellow and pink feathers against a freshly painted red wall. And the sun is laying itself down on the water, giving in, like you would if you were going to sleep and knew you had nothing but good dreams ahead.”

Louis looked at Mel then back out at the sky.

“I can’t do better than that,” he said.

The unreliability of our memories is a theme in the book. No cops fully trust witnesses. No person, as Mel knows, can fully trust their own memories. The mood I was going for is weary but hopeful. And with the mention of the pregnant girlfriend, we set up the plot for a future Louis book.

And on that note, I’m leaving the party.

By PJ Parrish

Well, I didn’t purposefully piggyback on Sue’s post yesterday What Do Ringtones Say About Your Character.  We’re not that cleverly organized here at TKZ. But the beat goes on. Today I’d like to talk about our musical muses.

Several years ago, on the publication eve of our stand alone She’s Not There, Thomas & Mercer sent us a lengthy and provocative questionaire about ourselves and our book. The purpose was to pinpoint marketing campaigns and help with the book’s design design.

They asked what who we thought our audience was. (Answer: thriller readers who like character-driven stories) What we believed the “tone” of our book was (Medium dark but ultimately hopeful). They asked us what “color” our story was. (Midnight blue). They asked us for images that might inspire a cover design. (We sent them photos of women drowning like the one below left. The second one is the actual cover.)

They also asked us what music, if any, had inspired us during the writing. That last question hit the target with me. The idea for our book came as I was jogging and “She’s Not There” by the Zombies came on. I started really listening to the lyrics:

Well, no one told me about her, the way she lied
Well, no one told me about her, how many people cried
But it’s too late to say you’re sorry
How would I know, why should I care?
Please don’t bother tryin’ to find her
She’s not there
Well, let me tell you ’bout the way she looked
The way she’d act and the colour of her hair
Her voice was soft and cool
Her eyes were clear and bright
But she’s not there

The story is about Amelia, a woman who early in life lost her way on the path to living an authentic life and finds herself trying to be someone else for her rich ambitious husband. She’s living a lie. Until an accident makes her lose her memory, and she begins a journey to reclaim her life and maybe find a truer version of herself. All this while someone is hunting her down to kill her — maybe her husband.

I was struck by the woman in the Zombies song — outwardly beautiful but not there inside. The story almost wrote itself, one of the few times this has happened to me, mainly because I knew Amelia and the sotto voce song she was singing to me.

Music is often in the back of my brain when I write. I don’t mean literally because I can’t write while music is playing; it really distracts me. Writing habits is not what I am talking about here today. That’s another topic.

The point I’m trying to make is that I believe every good book has a soundtrack, a melodic mood, if you will. Now, I’m not talking here about a character’s musical taste (ie Harry Bosch famously loves jazz). Although, as Sue pointed out yesterday, knowing what music rocks your character’s soul is part of that dossier you need to be creating. I’m trying to articulate something about the mood-currents and rhythms that propel your story itself.

Only once do I remember having a hard time hearing anything as I wrote. Ironically, it was a book about music: The Killing Song, wherein a serial killer in Paris who is a professional cellist leaves behind musical clues with each victim. The clues were easy because they were all popular music (ie Elvis Costello’s “Crimes of Paris.”) But I couldn’t come up with anything that captured the black heart of the killer. I asked a cellist friend and she suggested a piece called Tout un Monde Lointain. Rough translation: All the world, distant. Which is exactly how my villain feels — alone, cut off, every question unanswered, every cry unheard.

As I listened to the piece, I began to understand him. The piece opens with a shiver of cymbals. Then the cello begins a slow meditative solo but it keeps shapeshifting from balanced to intense, almost chaotic plucking. It feels like two souls struggling. Here’s the opening minute.

As I’ve mentioned, I’m judging manuscripts for a writers conference right now. I am struck by how few of the writers seem to have given any thought to what “color” their stories are or what music is playing in the background. The few that do “sing” have a defined mood that really makes me want to read on. I can see — and hear — the worlds the writers are conjuring for me.

Also, I was thinking about this subject after I watched the film Tár, wherein Cate Blanchette plays a mentally tormented orchestra conductor. The soundtrack, heavy with Mahler and Elgar with doses of Count Basie and Cole Porter, was done by Hildur Guðnadóttir, who calls the movie “an ambient tone poem.”

The score gives the film its undertone of dread.  Guðnadóttir said in one interview: “There is a lot of music in the film that’s working on a very delicate, subconscious level, and if you took it out, it would be a completely different animal.”

That got me to thinking about other scores that amplified the tones of movies. Listen to this piece of music that was used behind the arrival of Eleanor (Katherine Hepburn) on parole from prison, in The Lion of Winter.

Regal, ethereal voices — but undercut with death-tolling bells, and discordant horns that signal a darkness beneath the pageantry.

Another score I think supports its story is in Master And Commander, much of it original, but also brilliant choices from classics. I love this piece for the way the background pulse mimics the rhythm of a sailing ship bouncing over waves as the human bustle goes on above board.

There are endless examples of scores that deepened a movie’s emotional impact. Hitchcock had his Bernard Herrmann. Sergio Leone had his Ennio Morricone. Coppola had his Nino Rota. John Williams played two tuba notes for Steven Spielberg and no one wanted to ever go into the water again.

So, what can we book people glean from this? Well, I’m often harping here on the need for tone. Every successful story has its own particular rhythm, mood, and ambience. You may not be always conscious of this, but the way you, as a writer, choose to put your words and sentences together creates a type of music. This soundtrack, be it butterfly-flit-light or chiaroscuro shadowy dark, must support your plot and characters. It must be true and unique to them. To your story. To you.

I can see you out there scratching your heads. Well, let’s try this experiment. Your book has just been bought by some bigly big director at Lionsgate. They have brought you on for extra money as a consultant (Stop that laughing!) They ask you what music is playing as the movie opens, and what music is playing as the credits roll. Do you sit there dumb as a stump? Or do you know, deep in your writer bones, what needs to be heard.

I daydream about this often. I have songs all ready to go when Hollywood calls. At the beginning of Dark of the Moon, as Louis Kincaid is tramping through the Mississippi swamps and sees a skeleton with a noose, “Strange Fruit” is playing but only in instrumental because I want it subtle.

At the end of the movie, Louis gets in his old Mustang and drives away from Blackpool Mississippi, heading home. Case is solved but Louis’s heart is not. Credits roll. There’s a long birds-eye pull-away shot of a small white car heading north through a huge close expanse of green trees. And this is what we hear:

Hey, it’s what’s playing in my head. Now, what’s in yours?

“When I read, I notice with pleasure when an author has chosen a particular word…for the picture it will convey to the reader.”―Ruth Bader Ginsburg

By PJ Parrish

The older I get, the more words fail me. This is a common ailment, I realize, but that’s cold comfort. What’s worse, there’s no logic to these lapses. I can sing all four verses of the theme song from The Patty Duke Show. But “thing” has now become my go-to noun in daily life — as in when I asked the husband to hand me “that thing over there” so I could change the channel on the TV.

You’d think that, as a writer, I’d be used to this. Not being able to claw up the right word from the morass of our memory is just normal for us, right? It’s part of the torture of our creative process. I’m telling you, crime dogs, this doesn’t get easier with age.

I’m judging a contest right now for a writer’s conference. The entries range from derivative to really delightful. What separates the standouts from the pack is not a matter of just plot and character or mastery of craft. Sometimes it is coming down to something as “small” as word choices. There is nothing better, as the late justice said, than to come across a phrase or sentence that is so striking and original, that you pause in your reading to savor it.

As a writer, when you hit upon just the right word, your sentences and scenes take on a vibrancy and alive-ness. The right word, phrase, metaphor, has a magical power to instantly connect with a reader, making them go “Yes! I know exactly how that feels!”

When you settle for the merely adequate word, your story becomes mundane and bloodless.

Look at these lovelies:

Ray Bradbury in Fahrenheit 451 describing the “beauty” of the pages of a book being burned: “Each becomes a black butterfly.”

John LeCarre in The Spy Who Came In From The Cold describing torture: “The pain just increases like a violinist going up the E string. You think it can’t get any higher and it does–the pain’s like that, it rises and rises.”

Does it give you, as a writer, any comfort to know that all writers struggle with this? It helps me. It’s just one more thing we have to worry about as we move through our stories, trying to keep all the pie plates spinning.

Gustave Flaubert was tortured by his quest for le bon mot, as he lamented in a letter to Guy de Maupassant:

Whatever you want to say, there is only one word that will express it, one verb to make it move, one adjective to qualify it. You must seek that word, that verb, that adjective, and never be satisfied with approximations, never resort to tricks, even clever ones, or to verbal pirouettes to escape the difficulty.

Well, I don’t know if this will make your trials any easier, but here are a couple things I’ve found useful to keep in mind as you struggle for the right words.

Keep word choice true to the characters background and age. Streetwise characters in a PI novel have their own jargon. Ditto the hero of a historical regency romance. Country folks speak a different vocabulary than city swells.  Nothing will yank a reader out of your story faster than ill-fitting words coming from your characters mouths or brains.

Be a good listener. We’re always saying here at TKZ that you must be a great observer of human behavior to write well. So must you be a great listener. Now, in daily life, people talk in cliches, banalities and tried metaphors. If you ever use one of these…

• play your cards right
• bring to the table
• low-hanging fruit
• it’s an uphill battle
• bite the bullet
• nerves of steel
• weak as a kitten

…I will hunt you down. You can take that to the bank. But listening to people talk gives you a good grounding by which to fashion unique character voices. Everyone on earth has their own music. It’s your job to hear each note.

Be aware of your tone. Humor demands a different vocabulary than hardboiled. The word choices you make for mystery set in the Civil War South are going to be more specific and regimented than those for a dystopian fantasy wherein you are free to invent words and phrases. (See below!)

Beware the Thesaurus. I know, I know…it is useful but it can be a dangerous crutch. If you are overly reliant on standard synonyms, your brain will never become muscular enough to come up with something truly original to your own voice.

Okay, okay, if you’re really constipated you can take a dose of Thesaurus. Sometimes just looking a list of almost-right words can free up the juices. Just be careful that you’re not so desperate that you fall for the first pretty synonym that comes along. Here’s a really fun site for word shopping:  https://onelook.com/ (Enter your word in the box but don’t hit enter; hit Related Words)

Don’t gild every word. Sometimes, “He walked into the room” does the trick. It’s usually not “a verdant swath of fescue,” it’s just “grass.”  Pick your places to punch things up and don’t overdo it because you’ll just end up looking silly. Don’t get addicted to metaphors. As Florence King said, writers who have nothing to say always strain for metaphors to say it in.

Likewise, be aware of the moment. This is a problem I’m finding with some of the entries I am judging — the writers over-describe or strain for originality when the context/situation calls for tightness, simplicity, or specificity. This is especially true in their action scenes. The tenser the moment, the simpler the writing, I say. Do you write this?

Frank reached a trembling hand into his holster and pulled out his blue-black Glock 22,, grimacing as the hulk of his would-be assassin emerged from the shadows, lit for only a second by the red reflection of a nearby neon sign. He fired the gun, blinded for a moment by the muzzle-fire, then blinked the scene back just in time to see the large man fall forward, face first, down onto the wet street.

Or something like this?

Frank jerked out his gun, squinting to see the man in the dark alley. A second of neon throbbing on the man’s gun was enough to get off one bullet.  The man fell to the asphalt, his gun skittering into the shadows.

With this example, I cut all extraneous words to keep things moving fast. I purposely left out some things to leave room for imagination. And I tried to find the right word(s) — jerked, squinting, skittering, neon throb.

Don’t sweat it on the first draft. Sometimes, you just can’t find the word. You’re in the ballpark, but it’s not a home run. You’re sorta, kinda, just about, not far from, close to, nearly, more or less…almost there! But nothing comes. Don’t do what I often do — sit there, staring at the screen, brain in knots, paralyzed by the perfection police. PUT ANY WORD IN THERE AND MOVE ON. Believe me, the word will be there in the next draft. Or in the middle of the night.

Have fun. Don’t be afraid to make up words or use them weirdly. Now, this comes with a big caveat because you can end up looking like pretentious fool. But every once in a while, you can get away with this. I didn’t know this until I did some research, but there’s a fancy (specific!) word for this: anthimeria  It means subbing one word for another, usually a noun for a verb. “Chill” was originally a synonym noun for “cold” but has morphed into a verb meaning to relax. After Clint Eastwood gave his famous speech at the 2012 Republican National Convention, “Eastwooding” meant talking to an empty chair. Thankfully, this one didn’t catch on.  Here are a couple of good examples:

I’ve often got the kid in my mind’s eye. She’s a dolichocephalic Trachtenberg, with her daddy’s narrow face and Jesusy look. — Saul Bellow in More Die of Heartbreak.

Until then, I’d never liked petunias, their heavy stems, the peculiar spittooning sound of their name. –Kate Daniels in In the Marvelous Dimension.

You keep lyin’ when you oughta be truthin’ — Nancy Sinatra, These Boots Are Made For Walking.

I unwittingly committed anthimeria at pickleball once when I joked to a female opponent after she fired off a nasty shot: “Stop mean-girling me.” It stuck, though we don’t have an equivalent for the guys.

Okay, go forward and find the right stuff. And relax! This is supposed to fun, right? As I often try to do, I leave you with some final words of inspiration. These come from the great American bard, Frankie Goes to Hollywood:

But shoot it in the right direction
Make making it your intention-ooh yeah
Live those dreams
Scheme those schemes
Got to hit me
Hit me
Hit me with those laser beam [words.]

By PJ Parrish

Was perusing the New York Times over the holidays, lingering at my two favorite stops: sports and arts. In sports, I read about the Kansas City Chiefs offensive line (for you non-sports types, that’s the big fellows up front who form a pocket around the quarterback). In the arts section, I read a review of The Nutcracker that zeroed in on the corps de ballet (that’s the group of dancers who form a circle around the ballerina).

I’ve been watching football since the 1950s, slogging with my Dad through the sad history of the Detroit Lions. I’m now a long-suffering Dolphins fan as well. I’ve been going to The Nutcracker since the 1980s, when I became dance critic. I think I have seen The Nutcracker over 400 times, every version from the dazzling (New York City Ballet, Miami City Ballet, Bolshoi) to the amateur and heartfelt (in hot gymnasiums with many parents in the audience).

On Christmas day, I watched the Lions and Packers. That night, I saw the Tallahassee Ballet dance The Nutcracker. I often focus on the play of the offensive line because they work hard in unison to showcase the quarterback. I focus on the corps dancers because they work in sync to showcase the ballerina. Until now, it never struck me how similar their jobs are.

 They both depend on teamwork

“Sometimes I’m blocking with a blind side and one of the other linemen literally has my back. We must rely on each other. We have to know each other’s personalities to coexist out there, and we have to know each other’s tendencies. — right tackle Kareem McKenzie.

“Sometimes you feel like you are just part of the scenery…the military aspect — the discipline, the straight lines, doing everything at the same time, the lack of individuality.”– Cécile Sciaux, Paris Opera Ballet.

2. They will never be the stars but without them, the show doesn’t go on.

“When you first get into the company, you don’t think you’re going to spend your life in the corps. Your dream is to be the lead, and at one level that never goes away.” — Dena Abergel, New York City Ballet.

“As kids, we all started out as quarterbacks or receivers, but then we got fat and slow so we became offensive linemen. We might try harder now, but who is going to notice a bunch of big guys blocking? — Center Shaun O’Hara.

Well, you don’t really notice them — until they screw up. If a Chiefs lineman misses a block, Patrick Mahomes gets sacked. If a corps girl’s leg goes too high in arabesque during the Shades entrance of La Bayadere, she shatters the whole lovely illusion.

So, if you watch the playoffs this week, pay attention to the chunky guys up front. And next time you go to the ballet, watch the girls in the back. There’s artistry in their obscurity.

Which is a long ways around to get to my point, crime dogs. Many of us tell great stories. Some of us get published. Some of us work hard and publish ourselves. Very very few of us become stars. Most of us will work in obscurity and quiet hopefulness. All of us have our special fears about that.

We fear we don’t have enough talent or the stamina needed to go the distance. We fear we will never connect with an agent or editor. We fear the churning changes in publishing will crush our dreams. We fear our work will get lost in the cacophony of self-publishing. We fear we’re too old for this, or that it’s too late to even start.

We fear obscurity.

What can I say? I’ve been there, believe me. I’ve been published by the biggest houses in New York, small presses, twelve foreign houses and by my own little self. I can tell you it has never gone away, the fear of sliding into nothingness. I’m battling another round of it of late. But I’m plugging on. So here, modestly, is what I can tell you as you start anew in this new year:

Don’t stop. Face the blank screen every day. I suggest doing so after you’ve gone back and read something you’ve already written. If it’s good, you can find great solace in your genius. If it’s not so good, you’re strong enough to admit it, hit delete and try again.

Stay connected. Try to write every day because the string between you and the imagined world of your story is fragile. You have to stay connected. If you stay away too long, you forget the language, lose your place, and find your characters have drifted away. Here’s Walter Mosley on the subject:

Writing a novel is like taking a journey by boat. You have to continuously set yourself on course. If you get distracted or allow yourself to drift, you will never make it to the destination. It’s not like highly defined train tracks or a highway; this is a path that you are creating discovering. The journey is your narrative. Keep to it and a tale will be told. Nothing we create is art at first. It’s simply a collection of notions that may never be understood. Returning every day thickens the atmosphere. Images appear. Connections are made. But even these clearer notions will fade if you stay away more than a day.

Read good books. I’ve posted about this before, but it’s vital to your momentum. When my own work is rough-sailing, I take a break and go read another chapter of Jess Walter’s Cold Millions. To paraphrase Jerry Maguire, he makes me want to be a better writer.

Clean yourself up. When I feel like I’m becoming engulfed by what Virginia Woolf called “the mist of obscurity” I think about that Marie Kondo lady. She’s the one who  preaches about decluttering your den or underwear drawer. Declutter the junk that prevents you from writing. Get off Facebook or whatever your social drug is. During writing time, turn off your phone’s text alerts and let your calls go to voice mail. Lock the kids out of your writing space, or decamp to a coffee house. And for heaven’s sake, clean up your office and your C-drives. Like those skinny jeans hiding in your closet, that lousy romantic suspense manuscript you whiffed on will only make you angry if you keep getting it out and looking at it.

Talk to someone. You probably don’t need a mentor, but a trusted beta-reader is good. Keep coming here to TKZ because we know what it feels like. Ditto critique groups, but stay away from pity parties where wine and whine is the only offerings.

Get some exercise. The science proves it: physical movement helps get the brain, bowels, biceps and everything going, including creative energy. I don’t recommend joining a gym. Wait until February when the crowds thin out. Walk the dog, even if you don’t have one.

Good grief. I just re-read this. I apologize for yet another extended metaphor, that bit about ballet and football. And I didn’t mean this to sound like a rah-rah-get-off-your-ass New Year’s resolution thing. I hate resolutions. Never make ’em.

But I do wish this for you as you go on into 2023: Try to embrace the idea of obscurity. Think of it merely as a state of being, a transition. Understand that writing is, at its essence, aloneness. You can’t write amid noise; embrace the quietude. Obscurity can be freeing. It releases you from your fear of failure, because who’s gonna hear you singing off-key if you’re doing it in the shower? This is what third and tenth drafts are for — whispering in the dark as you hone voice and craft until you’re ready to face the audience.

I leave you with a thought from Susan Orleans: “We are all whispering in a tin can on a string, but we are heard, so we whisper the message into the next tin can and the next string. Writing a book is an act of sheer defiance.”

And if you’re so inclined to watch, here is the Bolshoi corps in five of the most beautiful minutes in all of ballet. Good writing in the new year, friends.

Postscript: For technical reason, I am having trouble posting in our comments section today. If I don’t answer in a timely fashion, please be patient. I have to use our back door.