The Elements of Mystery Fiction: Writing the Modern Whodunit

by Tapply, William G.

  Much of this information appears in the form of internal monologues, since J.W. is the narrator of the books and all of each story takes place in his mind.

  He’s never been physically described. All we know about him is that he’s tall (because he looks down into his wife’s eyes); he has big hands (because he puts them on her shoulders); he has big feet (because in one book he was suspected of a crime but was cleared because the perp left tracks and J.W.’s feet were much bigger); and, he’s clean shaven (because occasionally he’s looked into a mirror and considered growing a beard, although he’s always decided not to). We don’t know the shape of his face or body or the color of his hair or eyes or skin.

  J.W.’s friend John Skye is a university professor of Old and Middle English who is married to a woman with twin daughters by a previous marriage. That information generally comes out indirectly through dialogue or through J.W.’s stream of consciousness.

  Zee, J.W.’s wife, was shot in a violent encounter with two gangsters, one of whom she killed. I don’t mention that in later books unless it affects the story. The fact that Zee is opposed to guns and violence, yet paradoxically is a marvel with a target pistol, is revealed more often, usually by dialogue (“Say, J.W., how’d Zee do at that pistol competition last week?”), or perhaps by a mention of the trophies she has stacked in a closet.

  The point is, you don’t have to tell everything all over again in every book. You only have to tell what’s important in the current book, and it’s best to do it indirectly and minimally.

  3. Romance. When I discovered that I was writing a series of books instead of just one, I realized I had a problem: How to handle the love relationship between the hero and narrator, J.W. Jackson, and the beautiful woman, Zee. When I wrote A Beautiful Place to Die, I assumed that their sexual union was a one-night stand. But as the series evolved, things changed, and I had to decide what to do with the lovers.

  It is conventional for the protagonists in crime novels to be single, so as to be available to new romantic opportunities. James Bond, for instance, has a new girl or three in every story. He was once married but his wife was immediately killed, leaving him once again single and available. Joe Leaphorn, who appears in Tony Hillerman’s wonderful novels, is a widower; Bill Tapply’s Brady Coyne is divorced; Kinsey Millhone, Sue Grafton’s tough West Coast private eye, is twice divorced.

  This convention notwithstanding, I realized I liked Zee, so I made a decision: J.W. would continue to pursue her, eventually with marriage in mind. Her reluctance to re-marry (she’d been dumped by her first husband) lasted for four books.

  When Zee said Yes in the last line of that fourth book, I began to get letters split about 50-50 between readers who thought marriage was a great idea and those who thought it would ruin everything.

  Figuring that I was going to lose half my readers no matter what I did, I hedged my bet for two more books, during which J.W. and Zee were engaged. Finally I made up my mind and married them in the first line of the seventh book in the series. Since then, to further violate convention, they’ve had two children and stayed married.

  I try to keep their romance brewing by the way I characterize them. They love each other, but neither is blind to the other’s flaws and foibles, and both are sometimes attracted to others. Since their hormones can act up at inconvenient times, there is a psycho-sexual tension between them that forbids them to take each other for granted.

  This tension is increased by J.W.’s refusal to play the role of dominant male—even when Zee wishes he would. Instead, because he holds her happiness higher than his own, he insists that she is always free to conduct her life as she, not he, sees fit. He will not try to keep her to himself; he will only stand between her and other men if she’s in danger from them.

  Both J.W. and Zee are independent, loyal, loving people, but, as is often the case, their strengths are also their weaknesses. This fact keeps their relationship from being dull, and it ensures that it will remain romantic.

  4. Locale. My books all take place on Martha’s Vineyard, and the island is so central to my stories that it has almost become a recurring character. It is a paradise with serpents under its rocks, an Eden with trees bearing poisonous fruits. The contrast between its image and its reality is reflected in each story and provides background for the crimes that are the principal focus of the books.

  Although I’m careful not to write Vineyard travelogues, I try to describe the island so accurately that both Vineyarders and readers who have never been to the island can see it in their memories and imaginations. I tell islanders of places they may never have seen, and I describe places they know intimately. If I do this well, people who have never visited the Vineyard can see those places, too.

  Both sorts of descriptions strengthen the story by giving it verisimilitude. Because my descriptions can be trusted, my story is more believable. Familiar sites, such as the Giant Pagoda Tree on South Water Street in Edgartown, and even the totally fictitious Fireside Bar in Oak Bluffs, give readers the sense that they know the territory. This knowledge pleases them and makes them want to read more.

  It is an interesting fact that of the hundreds of letters I get from readers, virtually none of them speaks about the crimes or J.W.’s heroics as a detective. Rather, my readers are interested in J.W. and his family and in my descriptions of the island. They worry and give me advice about the Jacksons. J.W. has been drinking too much beer, they way. It’s bad for his health. Or, J.W. shouldn’t take his young children with him when he’s detecting. It’s dangerous. Or, they worry that Zee may be tempted to accept that offer to go to Hollywood. They remind me that I shouldn’t have the children stand up on the back seat of the car to give their parents hugs. They should be sitting down with their seatbelts fastened.

  Readers also tell me that my descriptions of the Vineyard make them eager to return or to make their first visits. The owner of a local bed-and-breakfast tells me that she gives copies of my books to her new guests so they can find their way around the island. At least a half dozen people have told me they moved to the island after reading one of my books.

  These reports and letters suggest to me that by careful, often indirect descriptions of characters, character relationships, and locale, you can write series fiction that is appealing to both new and old readers. The important thing is to provide necessary background information to new readers without boring those familiar with your work.

  With this in mind, I try to write each book in my series for a reader who has never read any previous ones. I’ve been told some readers start with the first and read straight through the latest book; some start with the latest book, and read backward to the beginning, and some read the books in no order whatsoever.

  So the plan seems to be working.

  Oh! Remember that recurring pattern I extracted from studying the four novels I bought in the yard sale? I followed it in A Beautiful Place to Die and then never thought about it again. It’s still a good formula, though. You’re welcome to try it.

  Chapter 13

  Standalone or Series Mystery?

  Bill Eidson

  Okay, you’ve decided you’re going to write a novel. You’ve locked yourself in your office and you’ve told your loved ones that you’re a busy writer and you’re not to be interrupted unless the house catches fire, and then only if the flames are searing your door.

  By now you’ve surely thought about the story, the setting and background, you know that conflict is vital, you probably have at least an antagonist and a protagonist in mind.

  Question: Is this the first novel in a series? Or are you creating a one-time event in your protagonist’s life?

  If you truly haven’t figured that out yet, it’s worth leaving the office and taking a walk around the block, talking to your best friend, or beating yourself about the head with a stick—whatever helps you make a decision. Because choosing between a “standalone” novel or “series” is a decision that will impact every element o
f your story, including the core idea, characterization, plot, pace, style, and setting. When it comes time to sell the book, it will have a major impact on how the book is purchased and how it will be marketed. It will be one of several ways in which you will be defined as an author, right up there with the sentence-by-sentence quality of your writing.

  Now, with that said, did I spend much time on that decision?

  No.

  I didn’t know any better.

  I knew I wanted to write one story about a character and story idea that I stumbled across, and I went about writing it. It became The Little Brother, my first novel. I’ve written five other standalone books since then, and now I’ve just written my first novel that I intend to be a series, The Repo.

  In this chapter, I’m going to focus on the standalone.

  Mind you, either decision can be the right one. If you know exactly the kind you want to write, then skip ahead and get started. I’m not going to tell you which one to choose. But if you’re still in the consideration stage, I’ve learned some things that might help you. Maybe you’ll make a better-informed choice than I did; maybe you’ll just follow your nose and write whatever you want. In the business of writing books, the creative decisions are truly your own.

  What is a standalone novel?

  A standalone novel is a one-time story. No sequels. No trilogies. The story is truly finished when the reader puts the book down. The reader may be left with an idea about how the characters will live out their lives, but he or she will never get to meet them in print again. In comparison to a series, the structure of a standalone offers the novelist both freedoms and strictures when it comes to the basic elements of storytelling. Let’s take them one at a time:

  The Idea—I’m going to go out on a limb and state that the core idea of a standalone novel is more vital to its success than it is in a mystery series. Yes, most wonderful mystery novels have great ideas at their center. But the success of a standalone novel is more often dependent upon an idea that makes the reader say, “Oh, it’s about X. I’ve got to read that.”

  Why? Because readers often look to series mysteries for comfort. There may be heinous acts and a wickedly fast pace in a good mystery, but according what I’ve always read and observed, we go to series mysteries because we like the characters and find them interesting, and we’re comfortable with the world the author has created—enough that we want to revisit that world again and again, book after book.

  But with a one-time novel we want a challenge. We want a fast ride. We want to believe we’re in the scene. The idea of the book is compelling enough to pull us in and drive us hard to the end. We want to see what happens next. Unlike a series novel where we know the hero will come out safe in the end, in my own books, anyhow, readers have some doubt. I want them to think, “Maybe this guy will lose.” Or maybe he’ll win over the bad guy, but it will be a bitter victory, given all that he’s lost.

  The stakes must be high—high for the protagonist, and high enough for the reader to care. This does not necessarily mean the world will blow up if the hero doesn’t succeed. But whatever is at stake for him must be made real and vitally important to him so that the reader will care.

  How do you come up with such an idea? I’ll tell you a bit about how I do it. I keep my eyes open to the world around me. I look for points of conflict in “normal” life. I read, I clip news articles. I develop mental muscles the way a photographer learns to “see” a picture. I learn to see story ideas.

  Take my first book, The Little Brother. Years before I met my wife, I had a blind date with a woman who told me that her roommate was copying her mannerisms, talking like her, and even wearing her clothes when she was out of the apartment. I put that together with an observation I’d made that it was rather strange how people would invite strangers to live with them by placing small classified ads in the “Roommates Wanted” section of the newspaper. Four years of evenings, weekends, and holidays later, The Little Brother came out—the same year as John Lutz’ Single White Female. My book was unfortunately optioned for a movie after Lutz’ was already in production, so there wasn’t much fame and fortune for me.

  While you don’t hear the term “high concept” these days as often as you did a few years ago, it remains a useful idea. “High concept” means a story that people can recognize instantly as something they’ll want to read. The little movie blurbs in the newspaper offer a helpful way to see what a good “high concept” sounds like. One that I remember went something like this: “Two men meet on a train and jokingly agree to kill each other’s enemy. Unfortunately, one of them wasn’t joking.” Strangers on a Train.

  I taught myself early on to see if my stories could be encapsulated so easily. For instance, my concept statement for The Little Brother: “A man adopts the personalities of his roommates and kills them when he feels he can live their lives better than they can. He gets away with it until he moves to Boston and his new roommate and his girlfriend catch on just in time.”

  Mine was a whole sentence longer than Strangers on a Train. Maybe that’s why I’m not rich and famous.

  The Protagonist—If you look closely, you’ll find subtle but important differences in the heroes of series versus standalone novels. For your own story, ask yourself: Whose problem is it anyhow? With the standalone, more often than not the answer should be: “the protagonist’s.”

  Think of it this way. If you’re writing a series novel, Mr. X or (Ms. X) walks into the doorway of your detective’s office (or caterer’s tent, or horse stable, or wherever your protagonist calls home) and lays out his problem. As some sort of expert, your protagonist is supposed to help him out. Yes, she’ll make mistakes. Yes, she’ll get personally involved. And yes, there may be substantial risk to those close to her as she goes about solving the problem. But initially, the problem isn’t hers. She’s the expert, she’s fully expected to survive and live to deal with other people’s problems in the future books.

  In the standalone novel, the protagonist more often than not is Mr. X. If he walks into a detective’s office, either the detective can’t help him, or she tries to and fails, leaving the protagonist in an even worse spot. (The movie Cape Fear is an excellent example of this.) Often, the protagonist isn’t an expert in whatever it is that’s threatening him, but he must find the inner resources and expertise along the way to extricate himself and those he loves from the spot he’s in.

  In many stories, the protagonist is not blameless. He has done something to put himself in a terrible spot and must grow personally during the story to win. In my second book, Dangerous Waters, the character finds himself in trouble seemingly from the outside. But decisions he made beginning in his early teens are at the root of what is now happening to him in his thirties.

  When I look back at what I’ve written here so far, I see the words, “Often,” and “supposed to,” and “maybe” a lot. That’s because everything in a good novel is up for grabs. But more often than not, I’m right. The key problem is supposed to land squarely on the shoulders of your hero.

  The Antagonist—A friend of mine, Frank Robinson, the author of The Glass Inferno, which later became the movie The Towering Inferno, told me this about thrillers: Readers measure the good guys by the bad guys. This means your protagonist can strike all the right poses, say all the right things, and fight with amazing skill, but he’s ultimately meaningless if your bad guy is a wimp.

  Not to suggest your antagonist must kill everyone he sees, or only wear black leather, or kick puppies for fun. But he must have a certain weight and presence in your story. The reader should feel that his threat is real and that truly bad things might happen to your characters. The reader should understand something about why the bad guy acts like he does. That means you’ll have to evoke your readers’ empathy (not necessarily their sympathy) so they’ll believe that this person might do the thing he does. We’ve all been assailed by countless snarling bad guys in novels, television shows, and movies. The only way to m
ake yours come to life is to work on the details that make them real.

  Usually it’s the antagonist’s motivation that first drives the story. He wants something desperately enough that he is willing to do terrible things to get it. The protagonist in some way becomes entangled with the antagonist’s goals…and that’s your story’s conflict. So at the heart of your big idea, your high concept, are the characters—the protagonist versus antagonist wanting opposing things.

  Viewpoint—I refer to movies as often as books. That’s not only because I love movies, but also because I feel that a cinematic viewpoint is helpful for standalone novels. Actually, I feel the same about series novels, which is why The Repo, my first in the Jack Merchant/Sarah Ballard series, is written in the third person. I allow readers a limited amount of viewpoint in Jack and Sarah’s heads, as well as that of the primary antagonist, Thomas.

  Quite often, series novels are told from the first-person POV. I like reading first-person novels (assuming I like the character), but the only book I ever wrote in first person was Dangerous Waters. The book turned out well, but I found the first-person point of view constraining. I knew there was a lot of interesting stuff going on with other characters, but I could only relay it through dialogue and other secondhand sources. It drove me crazy. First person offers all sorts of benefits in keeping a mystery a mystery. And it is easier to give the reader an in-depth view of the protagonist’s inner thoughts. But I find it more difficult to reveal my antagonist’s views in first person. And in most standalones the antagonist is the one driving the story, at least initially.

  Think hard about viewpoint. I usually limit the viewpoints to only two to three characters, and I never switch viewpoints within a chapter. One of the benefits of working in third person is that you can choose chapter by chapter which character has the most dramatic or interesting view of the story.