But completion here doesn’t necessarily mean overexplanation. As with “suggest instead of describe, imply instead of explain” above, short story endings are often most successful when they leave room for the reader to do a little work. A detective might unmask the criminal, but an author could sketch the outlines of a motive instead of scrutinizing it in depth and let the reader fill in the impact of this unmasking rather than belaboring the fallout on other characters or the wider community. And while husband and wife might reunite—the lover killed instead!—a sly side-eye at the end of the tale could hint at more betrayal to come.
Writers often (too often?) strive to sneak a plot twist into the final line. The ink was an exotic poison! The money was counterfeit! Those women were twins! But while such reveals can surely offer immediate pleasures, I would argue that character twists are often more effective. A new perspective on a character the reader has gotten to know, a secret desire that complicates motives, an unexpected action that nonetheless seems perfectly in character—these might provide the reader a deeper satisfaction.
But wait, aren’t there exceptions to any of these guidelines? Because I’ve read a story in which…
Certainly. Absolutely.
Economy and efficiency have governed many of the examples I’ve chosen above, but that third word—focus—might well shift the balance in an author’s approach. Long descriptions, digressions, and diversions? Those are possible, but they come with costs elsewhere.
A story about a criminal’s motivations and psychology might focus more attention on character. Forget the key detail or bit of backstory suggesting great history. Instead, indulge in description! Luxuriate in backstory! But recognize that’s the design of such a story—and that the luxury of such indulgences may come with the need for frugality in other aspects of the storytelling.
In a similar way, a clue-driven short story might skimp on developing three-dimensional characters while constructing an elaborately structured plot—or series of interrelated plots: several characters with straightforward motivations that collide in a perfect storm of actions and possibilities.
Stories can be all dialogue or have no dialogue at all. They can be all scene (“show, don’t tell”) or largely summary (because sometimes telling can still enchant and enthrall). They can unfold over the course of an hour or day or many decades. They can be flash fiction (under 1,000 words) or novella length (15,000 or more).
Based on the design being served, writers can choose to follow a wide array of styles and structures.
To bring us full circle—the way a strong story might, with a beginning that preps us for the end—I’d advise looking back at some of those Edgar winners to understand that range. Perhaps no single solid model will serve as a template, but so many stories can collectively open up a world of potential for the short form. Read Stanley Ellin for how to write luxuriant prose. Read Roald Dahl or Shirley Jackson for navigating tone and irony. Read Ed Hoch for plotting and for placing precise clues and Ruth Rendell for delving into psychological depths. Read Tom Franklin for working on a panoramic scope. And…
That list could go on, and it’s not just these Edgar winners who can teach us, but so many fine short story masters at work today.
Despite a more limited word count generally, short fiction as a form has proven remarkably flexible. The models are myriad. The possibilities are, ultimately, endless.
I. “House Party” by Stanley Ellin, Edgar winner for Best Short Story in 1954.
II. Opening paragraph of “What Do You Do?” by Gillian Flynn, Edgar winner for Best Short Story in 2015.
III. Opening paragraph of “Amapola” by Luis Alberto Urrea, Edgar winner for Best Short Story in 2010.
IV. “The Fallen Curtain” by Ruth Rendell, Edgar winner for Best Short Story in 1974.
V. “Red Clay” by Michael Malone, Edgar winner for Best Short Story in 1997.
CHARLES SALZBERG
It’s something you hear over and over again as a beginning writer: “Write what you know.” But what if you don’t know anything? What if you’re Emily Dickinson and the sum total of your knowledge of the outside world is what you see from your attic window? Is “write what you know” really that helpful? How about writing what you don’t know?
I’ve never been arrested; I have no cops in my family; I’ve only been in a police station once; I’ve never handled a pistol; I’ve never robbed a bank, knocked over a 7-Eleven, or mugged an old lady. I’ve only been in one fight and that was when I was eleven. I’ve never murdered anyone, much less my family, and I’ve never chased halfway around the world to bring a killer to justice. I’ve never searched for a missing person and I’ve never forged a rare book. Yet somehow I find myself a crime writer who’s written about all those things.
How, if I am supposed to write only what I know, is this possible? Easy. It’s because I have an imagination, possess a fair amount of empathy, have easy access to Google, and like asking questions. If I were limited to writing what I know I’d be in big trouble because the truth is, I don’t know all that much.
Ten Stupid Questions about True Crime
Building a vivid page-turner, out of nothing but facts.
DANIEL STASHOWER
1. Is this a novel? Imagine yourself in a bookstore, standing beside a tall stack of copies of your new release. The title is This Really Happened. Above your head is a banner that reads: WELCOME TO THE TRUE CRIME SECTION. And perhaps you’re wearing a T-shirt that says: I HAVE WRITTEN A BOOK ABOUT AN EVENT THAT OCCURRED IN REAL LIFE. Even so, the odds are good that the first person in line for a signed copy will ask, “Is this a novel?”
Space is tight. Let’s assume, since you’ve made it this far into this handbook, that you’ve already come to grips with at least some of the basics of writing a book. We’ll stipulate that you have a general understanding of structure and pacing, and that you’re familiar with the challenges that lie ahead. For the sake of expedience, we’ll zero in on the areas where writing a true crime book differs sharply from writing a novel.
There are several questions that true crime writers get asked over and over again. Some of them seem obvious—perhaps even a little clueless—but they’re all good questions and they spotlight important distinctions about the genre. You should have an answer for each one before you dive in.
So, is your true crime book a novel? The answer may seem blindingly, hilariously obvious, but you’ll be amazed at how many readers get confused on this point. A true crime story, by definition, is true. And yet, people will ask you this question all the time. Strangely, that means you did it right. When all is said and done, your story should have the shape and feel and narrative thrum of a tightly plotted novel. It should seem too good to be true. That’s the challenge of it, finding ways to apply the structure and storytelling techniques of fiction to a real-life event without sacrificing factual accuracy or doing a disservice to the material. Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood is often put forward as the prime example of the paradigm. “It seemed to me,” Capote famously remarked, “that journalism, reportage, could be forced to yield a serious new art form: the ‘nonfiction novel.’ ”
2. Where do you get your ideas? This is another perennial, as you’re undoubtedly aware, but there’s no easy answer. “I am sorry to say that this question has become something of a bad joke among writers,” Elizabeth Peters once remarked. “The only possible answer is: ‘Everywhere.’ You don’t get ideas; you see them, recognize them, greet them familiarly when they amble up to you.”
It’s probably fair to add that fiction writers often look inward, drawing on their private experiences and imaginative instincts, while true crime writers, for the most part, pull from external sources such as newspapers, police reports, and the pages of history. Unfortunately, there’s a great deal of random chance built into this equation. So, a better question might be…
3. Where did you get this particular idea? A handful of writers are drawn to the true crime genre as a means of c
oming to grips with a terrible event in their own lives. James Ellroy’s My Dark Places and Ann Rule’s The Stranger Beside Me are notable examples, along with Dominick Dunne’s coverage of the trial of his daughter’s murderer. These are extreme cases, of course, but few true crime writers are left untouched while excavating the details of a violent crime, even if the author has no personal connection to the story. You should take a moment to reflect on this before you enter the arena. You’ll be carrying around the details for many months, or perhaps years. The job requires you to walk a mile in the criminal’s shoes, and to share in the agonies of the victims. Are you prepared to spend a year or more with a man who strangled his wife? With a cult leader? With a child predator? Plenty of writers have the ability to compartmentalize, which is all to the good, but the story is certain to get under your skin. On a related note…
4. When did all of this happen? Another glaringly obvious question, right? Surely the subject you choose will determine the time frame? If you decide to write about the Kennedy assassination, for instance, your research will be anchored in 1963. If that feels good to you—if you’re willing to go wherever the story takes you—nothing more needs to be said.
Most of us, however, are happiest and most effective when dealing with a specific period of time, so it’s a good idea to locate your comfort zone before you go looking for ideas. Many true crime writers are most effective in the present day, acting as investigative journalists, conducting interviews, and working with contemporary sources and documents. Do you feel at home with this type of legwork—even if it extends to knocking on doors and approaching the families of victims? Some writers look for opportunities to weigh in before the paint is dry, to offer commentary and interpretation of cases that are still in progress or have been left unsolved. A Scottish lawyer named William Roughead was a pioneer of the form with his essays on “matters criminous.” In 1908 his work drew attention (including that of Arthur Conan Doyle) to a miscarriage of justice in the case of Oscar Slater, in which faulty evidence had resulted in an unjust murder conviction. Michelle McNamara’s I’ll Be Gone in the Dark is a cornerstone modern example, chronicling the author’s determined efforts to shine fresh light on the Golden State Killer case.
Other writers gravitate toward historical cases where the outcome is firmly established. These stories often showcase some important forensic milestone or sociological turning point, or focus on a crime so dramatic and shocking that it rose to the level of “crime of the century,” at least in its day. For the Thrill of It, Simon Baatz’s account of the Leopold and Loeb case, is an excellent example, as is Douglas Starr’s The Killer of Little Shepherds, tracking the search for Joseph Vacher, a notorious French murderer active at the close of the nineteenth century.
“Historical” is a pretty loose term here, flexible enough to encompass crimes that are, say, ten or more years in the past—old enough, at least, to have faded from the headlines. Each story of this type will present a distinct set of research challenges, and you should know what they are before you commit yourself. What are the sources? Books? Private papers? Old newspaper accounts? Can you access them? Is there enough material to support a book-length narrative?
In any case, if you haven’t done so already, you should spend some time thinking about the types of crimes you’d like to explore, and the time frame that lines up best with your interests. Once you’ve taken your internal temperature on these matters, you’ll have a better chance of finding something that suits you. It’s comforting to learn that even Henry James struggled with this. The ways in which authors discover ideas, he once wrote, are really “scarce more than alert recognitions,” like the discoveries made by scientists and explorers. The author “comes upon the interesting thing,” he concluded, “as Columbus came upon the isle of San Salvador, because he had moved in the right direction for it.” And speaking of the isle of San Salvador…
5. Did you have to do a lot of travel? Another popular question. Many readers, it seems, entertain romantic fantasies about this. They like to imagine that researching a nonfiction book involves travel to exotic locations in Gulfstream jets, and the uncovering of hidden scrolls by candlelight in the libraries of ancient monasteries. The reality tends more toward municipal parking lots, broken Xerox machines, and library collections that can be accessed only on alternate Tuesdays. As you weigh up the realities of any potential project, you should spend at least a couple of hours mapping out the research phase to get a handle on whether it’s realistic in your circumstances. It often comes down to simple geography. If you live in Oklahoma and the materials you need are in New York, you’re looking at a lot of flights and hotels. Those expenses add up fast, and the research always—always—takes longer than you expect. But maybe you have a friend with a guest room, or at least a couch? Take a look at the logistics ahead of time. Which brings us to…
6. How much research did you do? This may sound like cheating, but ideally you should not be able to answer this one. If your subject sprang from a natural area of interest, or a fascination with a particular crime or time period, you probably did a fair amount of background work before the project began. And even after you’ve finished writing, there will always be another book to read, another fact to chase down, another rock to turn over.
That’s not to say that you shouldn’t refine and focus your research plan ahead of time. You absolutely must have a strategy, even if you diverge from it along the way, to prevent wasted effort—especially if you’re paying for a hotel room. Sometimes the path is clear from the beginning. If there are other books on the subject, or related topics, of course you should read them. But you may also want to poke around at the edges for material that will lend color. If you’re writing a historical piece, for instance, it’s interesting to read books and magazines from the period to pick up some of the flavor of the times. And of course you’ll want to visit the scene of the action, if possible, to soak up local texture.
There will be traps along the way. You will likely come to distrust some sources as you become aware of false information and mistaken assumptions, all the more so when you start chasing material on the internet. Trust, but verify—you’ll learn quickly which sources are reliable and which are not. You’re also likely to see the same anecdotes and factoids repeated over and over again across various books and journals. Repetition doesn’t make something true—whenever possible, trace the information back to the origin.
Another note of warning, at the risk of stating the obvious: When it comes time to write your manuscript, there will be a powerful temptation—almost a longing—to show off the long hours of research and overwhelm the reader with cheerful facts about train timetables and lace collars. It’s good that you took the trouble to learn it, but that doesn’t mean it’s interesting. “What you need to remember is that there’s a difference between lecturing about what you know and using it to enrich the story,” Stephen King tells us. “The latter is good. The former is not.”
Every time you reach for a fact, make sure it advances the story. Ideally it will also contain some mirror element of character, theme, or tone that exerts an emotional undertow, helping to move events along in ways that may not be obvious on the surface. If the train timetable establishes an alibi, go ahead and spend time on it. If the lace collar tells us something about a character’s social station or fastidious habits, have at it. But sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, even if you boned up on hygrometers and stalk cuts. If the research isn’t pulling its weight, leave it out.
For many nonfiction writers, research is the fun part and there’s a strong temptation to keep at it forever. At a certain point, though, you’ll have to hold your nose, jump in, and start writing. Don’t despair; you will almost certainly find yourself doing more research to plug the holes as you go along.
7. Hey, wait a minute, wasn’t there already a book about this story? Probably. In choosing a subject, nonfiction writers have to strike a balance between the obscure and the overfamiliar, to fin
d the sweet spot between “it’s been done to death” and “who cares?” Go to the bookstore, look online, find out what else has been written on your potential subject. If it’s a famous case, like Lizzie Borden or Saucy Jack, do you have a fresh angle? If nobody’s written about it, or if it hasn’t been done anytime recently, can you find a hook that makes it relevant? Ask yourself…
8. Why should I read this book? You’ve probably noticed that most nonfiction book titles now feature a carefully crafted subtitle. You get the main title, a colon, and then a subtitle that serves as both a thumbnail summary and a sales pitch. The Suspicions of Mr. Whicher: A Shocking Murder and the Undoing of a Great Victorian Detective The Poisoner’s Handbook: Murder and the Birth of Forensic Medicine in Jazz Age New York Killers of the Flower Moon: The Osage Murders and the Birth of the FBI.
By now you’ve likely heard more than you ever wanted to know about “elevator pitches,” but they serve a useful purpose. It’s a productive exercise to try to compress and refine the essentials of your idea into the title-colon-subtitle template. If you can’t capture the essence of your idea in a phrase—if you can’t quickly persuade a reader, an agent, or an editor that your idea has legs—you may need to dig deeper.
Let’s also admit that a number of phrases and descriptors have become a little threadbare over the past few years—there can only be so many “Trials of the Century” and “Battles for America’s Soul.” In the early stages, for purposes of marshaling your thoughts, don’t worry if you find yourself reaching for one of these clichés. It’s a means to an end, and it will probably go through five or six revisions before you’re finished.
How to Write a Mystery Page 12