Drop the Pen! What Every Writer Should Know about Real Police Work: PTSD

By David Lane Williams

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This month, I thought I’d write about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) as it applies to first responders. I went back and forth about taking on such a serious topic, but my job in this column is to help you comprehend people like me so you can better understand the characters you’re creating. I just took a few deep breaths, and my head is right. Let’s dive in.  

I’ve been streaming The Pitt, a series set in a woefully short-staffed, often hostile, and always overcrowded emergency room in Pittsburgh. Each season tells the story of a single shift in a place where tragedies and miracles happen every hour, and the medical staff is composed of naïve rookies and burning-out veterans. It is a glorious series that has been in my head since the first episode.  

Other than taking a few unnecessary potshots at cops, it felt so real and accurate for me. It took me back to the glory and gore, the terror and elation in those early days working in Austin when AIDS didn’t even have a name yet, and gang violence swamped swaths of the city.

Our “Pitt” was Brackenridge Trauma Center—Brack—and this show hit those old vibes with an accuracy I’ve rarely seen in medical dramas. I experienced adrenaline dumps at some points, heartache at others. I became choked up during some scenes, glad to be alone with just my dogs and all those memories. One of the characters made a comment about crying: “Tears are just grief leaving the body.”

Amen. 

I don’t know a single police officer, paramedic, or firefighter who doesn’t have some emotional scarring after a few years on the job. Like a combat veteran, the carnage and cruelty can get to you after a while. Multiply that times a twenty, thirty, or longer-year career, and there is little to no chance of escaping without some damage. If you’re going to write about veteran first responders, you have to understand that this is part of the story. It doesn’t have to be front and center all the time, but your cop protagonist has a demon inside his brain, and the demon is always whispering. 

The trick is to learn coping skills, the earlier the better. It can be a nightmare if you don’t. Depression, anxiety, and suicide are all facets of the equation. Careers and marriages are cut short, and officers who had always performed rock-solid in the past make rash, bad decisions. 

I’ve always considered myself lucky. My symptoms include some mild anxiety when in public. People close to me notice that I look over my shoulder as I walk through a parking lot and scan the tops and higher windows of buildings. If I sleep on my back, I have nightmares of being attacked or of drowning, so I always place a pillow on either side of me in bed to stop from rolling supine in the middle of the night. I probably check door locks more than necessary, and I use cameras and motion-sensor lights around the perimeter of my house. 

Despite this, I still consider myself an optimist. While I harbor concerns about some humans, I remain hopeful for humanity. I believe our evolutionary path is leading inevitably toward a new species I like to call Homo Pacificus— Peaceful Man. I’m realistic we’re not there yet, but I believe our descendants will make us proud—even as they wonder how the hell we survived one another. 

I know cops who take a pistol with them into the bathroom and shower. They eat family dinners with one strapped to their ankle, and they get almost frantic if their wife forgets the family rule about always being on his off-hand side as they walk in public. They tend not to associate with others outside their police family because they have serious trust issues. 

Part of this trauma is related to specific cases. Perhaps the nightmares come from the images of destroyed children or a body charred in a house fire. Maybe the pain lingers from seeing a teenage girl ripped in two from a car wreck or a mother who committed suicide during a post-partum depression crisis. Maybe it’s from having to tell one too many parents that their child is never coming home again.

Irrational fear and anger can come from too many people treating the officer like the enemy or Satan for doing their job. Imagine starting a career with ambition and a passion to help, only to find you are not trusted or appreciated, and often despised. 

Then, of course, there are the life-shaking moments when someone tries to shoot you or gets the better of you in a deadly street fight. Winston Churchill is quoted as saying, “Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without results.” 

He’s right. It’s thrilling to survive a close brush with death, but weeks, months, or years later, the thrill is gone, replaced with jagged nerves and trembling hands. It’s trauma, and it’s real, and it’s prevalent. 

So, how do first responders cope? Some, too many, crawl into a bottle or seek relief through opioids. Others live at the gym, where every rep of every set is a struggle just to keep the demon exhausted, so sleep will finally come. Some take the stress out on their spouses and kids, and others become hermits except when they’re on duty. 

Culturally, PTSD is kept at bay with dark humor. People who have died violently—especially those who were doing something stupid at the time—can be targets of the most obscene jokes back at the station. Someone who died in a fire is a “crispy critter,” and a motorcycle rider without a helmet is an “organ donor.” The only joke territory considered off limits is children. 

I know how appalling this sounds, but that obsidian-dark humor may be the most reliable and effective means of keeping more cops from hurting themselves and others. If you’re writing about a first responder, bleak humor has to be part of the package. Humor bonds first responders, and sarcasm can keep them sane.

As I mentioned, I’m one of the lucky ones. I have a knack for putting bad thoughts in a file cabinet and closing the drawer. As I write this, I know that comes off as denial. I think of myself, however, as an empathetic human being who wants everyone to be safe and feel safe. That can’t always happen, so my ability to put sad or tragic thoughts away for a while has been beneficial. I know there are therapists and care providers out there who just groaned. I’m aware that shutting haunting thoughts deep into the recesses of my mind might not be the best long-term practice, yet I could also argue it has worked well in my life for four decades. 

I used to carry a little bottle of soap bubbles in my duty jump bag. The kind kids blow at birthday parties. Sometimes I’d pull into a secluded area such as a park or an empty drive-in theater when all the filmgoers had gone home. I would then stand outside my car and blow bubbles, watching them rise and fade in the dark. This practice had a way of taking the edge off whatever stress I’d been fighting. Four, five, maybe six bubble blows later, I’d be ready for whatever the Dispatch Center sent me on next. I never shared this with my colleagues—no one needs a nickname like “Bubbles” in a police squad room—but it was a coping mechanism that worked for me. 

I continue to be proactive in retirement. I exercise six to seven days a week, and I only hang around with people who are healthy, balanced, and humorous. Writing is about the best medicine for me. I don’t self-medicate with opioids, and I am not much of a drinker. I have a wife who cares about me, checks in, and listens. My veteran sons understand me about as well as anyone could, and I am surrounded by family and friends who I know will always be by my side. 

I believe PTSD is like sludgy sewage that has been dumped into a river. It is awful and destructive, but given time, coupled with being around good people and action designed to mitigate the pollutants, the river can clear the toxins. 

Your protagonist has PTSD in some form—why do you think there are so many alcoholic private detectives out there in noir land? I am convinced that writers who keep this in mind create deeper and far more interesting characters. 

And just in case you were thinking about having your guy blow bubbles, I’ve already called dibs on that one.  

Onward.

Between Pen and Paper: Flaneuring Through a Writer’s Mind – The API of the Human Heart, or Why Your Characters Keep Misunderstanding Each Other

By Andi Kopek

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There has been no shortage of criticism lately regarding artificial intelligence (AI). Some of it is thoughtful, some quite theatrical. I may dedicate a future column entirely to the ethical, economic, and existential anxieties surrounding AI. Today, however, I want to focus on something far less dramatic and far more revealing: how advanced AI systems actually talk to one another, how this can shine new light on human communication and miscommunication, and how it could inspire a modern writer.

Beneath the glossy headlines and dystopian forecasts, most modern digital systems communicate through something called an API, an Application Programming Interface. An API is essentially a structured contract that defines how one program can send a request to another, what format the data must follow, what information is required, and what kind of response will come back. In other words, before artificial intelligence can destroy our civilization, it must first agree on grammar.

Imagine two computer programs trying to talk. They cannot rely on vibes. They cannot roll their eyes. They cannot say, “You know what I mean.” They must follow a strict contract, a rulebook for how one system talks to another. An API. If the message does not match the expected structure, it fails. Not emotionally. Structurally. The receiving system does not feel hurt. It returns an error code: 400 (Bad Request).

Let’s have a little fun and apply this communication model to human interactions. Every person you know is running an API. It is undocumented. It is unstable. It auto-updates without notice. Your internal API defines what tone you accept, what topics are permitted, what context you require, what emotional load you can process, what you interpret literally, what you interpret as subtext, what feels like attack, and what feels like affection. When someone speaks to you, they are making a request against your interface. When you respond, you are sending data formatted according to theirs. Conversation is not just expression. It is parsing.

In programming, parsing means interpreting incoming data according to a defined structure. If I send { emotion: sad } but you expect { mood: sadness, intensity: 0.7 }, the request fails. Not because we disagree about sadness. Because we disagree about formatting. Now consider the most dangerous sentence in the English language: “I’m fine.” One person means: I am overwhelmed but not ready to unpack it. The other hears: Everything is okay. Same words. Different schema. According to our little game, human miscommunication is not malice. It is incompatible parsing.

If humans were honest, we would speak in status codes.

200 OK: I understand you.

401 Unauthorized: You do not have access to that story.

403 Forbidden: That is a boundary.

404 Not Found: I do not recognize the version of me you’re describing. 429 Too Many Requests: Please stop asking.

503 Service Unavailable: I am exhausted and pretending otherwise.

Instead, we say things like, “Whatever,” which is the emotional equivalent of a corrupted packet.

In AI networks, data can be corrupted, and signals can degrade. In humans, fatigue, stress, trauma, and cognitive overload can increase the error rate. The same sentence can succeed at 9

a.m. and fail by the late afternoon. Moreover, different neurotypes run different parsing defaults. As a simplified analogy, consider autism as a condition where parsing is more literal. If someone says: “It’s cold in here,” one person hears a temperature observation. Another hears a request to close the window. Different inference engines. Not broken. Just different schema.

From this perspective, depression can look like low processing bandwidth, high error sensitivity, and reduced response generation. Instead of getting a return of 200 (OK) for a typical request, the system returns 503 (Service Unavailable). Anxiety resembles a hyperactive validation layer. Every incoming message is checked for threats, rejections, or hidden errors. Neutral packets get flagged as suspicious. False positives multiply. Psychosis might be described as a model in which incoming data is integrated into a framework that diverges from shared consensus reality. The API still functions internally, but its mapping to the broader network has shifted. The person is not failing to process. They are processing through a different model.

AI systems do not have feelings, though they are becoming increasingly sophisticated at parsing human emotion in text and speech. So what about empathy, a feature we tend to reserve for living organisms? Some would say only humans. In this model, empathy is not absorbing someone else’s emotions like a sponge. Empathy is adaptive formatting. It is the willingness to say: Let me rephrase that. What did you hear me say? What did you mean? How would you prefer I ask? Empathy does not eliminate conflict. It reduces unnecessary 400 errors. Rigid APIs cannot do that. Flexible ones can. Consequently, the opposite of empathy is not cruelty. It is interface rigidity.

Since I’m writing this in February, I cannot ignore Valentine’s Day. Love, perhaps, is long-term API alignment. Over time you learn each other’s required fields. You anticipate response formats. You adjust rate limits. You recognize known error codes. You stop assuming malice in malformed packets. I think we could use more long-term API alignment right now.

Now, writers, this approach can be useful to your craft. Characters do not fight because they disagree. They fight because they parse differently. One character speaks in subtext. Another requires explicit declarations. One needs reassurance before vulnerability. Another needs vulnerability before reassurance. Each is making valid requests against an interface the other does not fully understand. Conflict is born in the gap between intention and interpretation. A character says, “You never listen.” What they mean is: “I don’t feel seen.” What the other hears is: “You are incompetent.” Boom. 400 (Bad Request), followed by 500 (Internal Server Error).

In thrillers, the villain often exploits API weaknesses in other characters. The villain withholds required fields, manipulates format, overloads of the emotional bandwidth, and sends signals designed to be misparsed. Gaslighting, in this model, is deliberate schema corruption. It forces the victim to doubt their own parsing logic.

And when two characters finally understand each other, what has actually happened? As in love, they have aligned their APIs. They have learned that “I’m fine” sometimes means “Please try again.” LLMs (Large Language Models) require enormous amounts of training data to achieve alignment. We train on years of shared experience. And still …

We live in an age obsessed with communication tools. Faster messaging. Smarter devices. Infinite connectivity. And yet our communication remains fragile and far from perfection. The next time a conversation collapses, pause and ask: was this bad intention from a sender, or bad formatting in the receiver’s API?

I hope that this little mental exercise will help to deepen characters in your story, sharpen your dialogue, and make the conflicts feel inevitable rather than contrived. And in your own life, you may discover that many arguments are not wars. They are documentation failures. Which, hopefully, can be revised.

Andi

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Andi Kopek is a multidisciplinary artist based in Nashville, TN. With a background in medicine, molecular neuroscience, and behavioral change, he has recently devoted himself entirely to the creative arts. His debut poetry collection, Shmehara, has garnered accolades in both literary and independent film circles for its innovative storytelling.

When you’re in Nashville, you can join Andi at his monthly poetry workshop, participate in the Libri Prohibiti book club (both held monthly at the Spine bookstore, Smyrna, TN), or catch one of his live performances. When not engaging with the community, he's hard at work on his next creative project or preparing for his monthly art-focused podcast, The Samovar(t) Lounge: Steeping Conversations with Creative Minds, where in a relaxed space, invited artists share tea and the never-told intricacies of their creative journeys.

website: andikopekart.ink
FB: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100093119557533
IG: https://www.instagram.com/andi.kopek/
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Literary Alchemy: The Ticking Clock

A series designed to elevate your skills and empower you to write like a pro.

By Chrissy Hicks

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The “ticking clock” is a narrative device that introduces a time constraint or deadline, heightening tension and urgency in a story. It compels characters to act quickly, often leading to dramatic stakes and heightened emotional engagement. This device not only propels the plot forward but also immerses readers in the characters’ race against time, making every moment feel critical.

Why Use the Ticking Clock?

To effectively use this technique, include a deadline—whether it’s something drastic like a timed bomb, or something more subtle, like a bus arrival or cigarette break—the type of deadline will depend on your story’s plot. This can create:

• Heightened tension since a looming deadline creates a sense of urgency that keeps readers on the edge of their seats. In 24 (TV Series), Jack Bauer’s race against time to thwart terrorist attacks amplifies the stakes, making each second count.

• Further character development as the pressure of a ticking clock reveals a character’s true nature, showcasing their strengths and weaknesses. In The Woman in Cabin 10 (Ruth Ware), Lo Blacklock frantically attempts to get the crew to take her seriously about a crime she’s witnessed. If she can’t convince the crew or find evidence of the crime before docking, she risks losing the chance to address the situation entirely, as the potential perpetrator could escape or cover their tracks.

• Gain plot momentum and lose the muddy middle. Time constraints can drive the plot forward, forcing characters to make quick decisions that lead to unexpected twists and turns. In The Da Vinci Code (Dan Brown), Robert Langdon, is thrust into a race against time to solve a murder mystery. The urgency is heightened by the fact he must decipher these clues before a powerful organization can act on their own agenda.

• Pacing is enhanced with this method, because it creates a sense of rhythm that propels the narrative forward. This urgency keeps readers eager to turn the pages, as they feel the pressure alongside the characters. When Lo finds herself trapped below deck, readers are wondering what will happen next and if she’ll escape before the boat leaves the dock (The Woman in Cabin 10).

How and When to Use the Ticking Clock:

To incorporate the ticking clock into your narrative, consider the following techniques:

• Set Clear Deadlines: Establish a specific time frame that characters must adhere to, whether it’s a countdown to an event, a deadline for a mission, or a race against an impending disaster. “I am going to ask you one last time. Who are your co-conspirators? You have until the count of three, or I will kill you” (24).

• Create Consequences: Make it clear what’s at stake if the deadline is missed. This could involve personal loss, failure of a mission, or even life and death situations. “The answer was Trondheim. . . All I had to do was make it until dawn.” (The Woman in Cabin 10).

• Use Real-Time Elements: Consider employing real-time storytelling, where events unfold in sync with the ticking clock, enhancing the urgency and immediacy of the narrative. “Gray... people in this country are dying, and I need some answers. Are you gonna give ‘em to me or am I gonna have to start hurting you?” “Actually, you're hurting me now.” “Trust me, I'm not” (24).

• Incorporate Flashbacks or Foreshadowing: Use these techniques to reveal past events or hint at future consequences, deepening the emotional impact of the ticking clock. “Now, with over four million copies of The Way in circulation in forty-two languages, Opus Dei was the fastest-growing and most financially secure Catholic organization in the world. Unfortunately, Aringarosa had learned, in an age of religious cynicism, cults, and televangelists, Opus Dei’s escalating wealth and power was a magnet for suspicion.” (The Da Vinci Code).

Lookout

Pay attention to how the ticking clock is used in movies you watch and books you read. Analyze how the author or director builds tension and urgency. What techniques do they employ to keep you engaged? How can you apply these insights to your own writing?

Prompt 

Write a scene where a character faces a looming deadline that forces them to make a critical decision. What if you condensed 24 hours to 15 minutes? Consider how the pressure of time influences their choices and the emotional stakes involved.

Further Reading: 

• Screenwriting from Iowa: Ticking Clock

• Narrative Tension and the Ticking Clock

• Use the ticking clock device to add suspense to your stories! (Video)

This Crazy Writing Life: When Publishing Throws You A Curve Ball—Again—And The Scammers Circle Above

By Steven Womack

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We plan; God laughs.

In last month’s episode of This Crazy Writing Life, I told you the long, epic saga of a novel that my writing partner, Wayne McDaniel, and I wrote nearly a decade ago; a book called Pearson Place. The novel is based on/inspired by a true-life fact: Pearson Place is real.

Located in Queens, it’s a four-story warehouse that takes up an entire city block. This massive warehouse in the middle of one of Queens’s most industrial areas is the repository of every piece of evidence collected in every investigation of every crime by the New York City Police Department going back decades.

The stuff in there gobsmacks the imagination. Every illegal drug ever synthesized or grown; every weapon you could ever imagine using in a crime, ranging from the most modern high-tech anti-tank weapons to medieval maces and lances… Stolen electronics, illegal pornography. High profile crimes like evidence from the Central Park Jogger case. If it’s evidence associated with a crime, it wound up in Pearson Place.

In 1992, Donald Trump’s then-girlfriend Marla Maples’s publicist stole over two hundred pairs of Marla’s very expensive heels and had sex with them. He was charged with theft, found guilty, and his conviction overturned in 1994. He was retried and found guilty again in 1999. Needless to say, Marla—by then Mrs. Donald Trump—didn’t wanted the abused shoes back and they’re still in an evidence locker at Pearson Place. Wayne’s seen them and described them as icky.

Or as Wayne referred to them in the manuscript to Pearson Place: Mrs. Trump’s Humped Pumps…

Anyway, Pearson Place is the story of a single mother who’s an NYPD cop with a special needs toddler. She’s broke, desperate, looking for any way to make an extra buck. She takes on extra shifts guarding Pearson Place. Then she discovers she’s terminally ill. Even more desperate now to leave a legacy for her kid, she decides to pull off the heist of the century by ripping off the NYPD warehouse she’s supposed to be guarding.

Chaos ensues…

Last month, I described how after years of passes, rejections, and radio silence in response to our queries, we found an editor at an established prestigious house who loved the book and wanted to buy it. Everything’s done by committee, though, and there was one holdout on the acquisition team. She tried everything, including having Wayne and me do a rewrite, before finally giving up.

This took just over a year to resolve itself.

Frustrated beyond belief, Wayne and I decided to serialize the novel on Substack. We broke the manuscript up into digestible hunks, created a Substack account, and were writing supplemental material to go with it.

Then, out of nowhere (as happens so often in publishing), I got an email from a very successful writer and close friend whom I’ve known for decades, literally since she published her first novel in 1987. She read my column, said the book sounded interesting. Were we sure we wanted to go the Substack route?

It may be the only route left, I answered.

Let me talk to my editor, she said. Maybe she’ll take a look at it.

A couple of days later, an email from my friend’s editor landed in my inbox. She would love to read Pearson Place. Send it on.

So the Substack project is, for the time being, on hold.  I’ve been in this business too long to be anything but cautiously hopeful. But this book’s going to see the light of day, one way or another, even if—as Major Kong said in Dr. Strangelove—it harelips everybody on Bear Creek.

There are two publishing life lessons to be taken away here: 1) in publishing, you never know when the next curve ball’s gonna come at you, and sometimes it’s a good curveball; and 2) more than anything else, publishing is a people business.

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Speaking of people, there’s some real bad guys out there these days. Take Sherry J. Valentine, for instance. She sent me the following email on January 27th:

Hi Steven,

Blood Plot is deliciously dangerous, the kind of thriller that blurs the line between ambition and obsession until the distinction disappears entirely.

The premise alone is irresistible: a critically praised novelist no one reads decides to give audiences exactly what they crave, only to discover that authenticity has a terrifying cost. Watching Michael Schiftmann cross from observation into participation, and then into addiction, creates a chilling psychological descent that feels both satirical and deeply unsettling. It’s smart, twisted, and disturbingly plausible.

At Book and Banter Book Club, our readers are drawn to suspense that interrogates creativity, morality, and fame, stories that ask uncomfortable questions about what success demands and how far someone might go to achieve it. Blood Plot is exactly the kind of novel that sparks intense discussion, ethical debate, and “just one more chapter” nights.

We’d love to feature Blood Plot as an upcoming spotlight read, purchasing copies for our members and centering a full month of conversation around its themes and characters. A spotlight feature includes:

• A dedicated month-long focus, exploring Michael’s transformation, the cost of ambition, and the novel’s sharp commentary on the publishing world
• Organic reader buzz, with reactions, quotes, and insights shared across our club discussions and social spaces
• Author discovery, introducing readers to your broader body of work and award-winning career

Book and Banter exists to turn bold thrillers into shared experiences, stories readers don’t just finish, but dissect, debate, and recommend.

If you’re open to collaborating, we’d love to talk about bringing Blood Plot to our readers and giving it the thoughtful spotlight it deserves.

Warm regards,
Book and Banter Book Club

Now what, you might ask, is so objectionable about such a flattering email and an offer to help promote a book that, God knows, could use every little bit of help it can get?

Well, friends, let me tell you…

It’s a scam, a complete AI-generated con designed to lure unsuspecting, desperate-for-attention writers (which includes all of us) into a scheme to separate us from as much cash as possible. Once you’ve been around a while and have found enough of these missives in your inbox (I get them several times a week), you begin to develop your very own Spidey sense. The flattering text about my novel is clearly AI-generated. No one really writes like that, even if they’re real and really do love your stuff. There’s something about it that’s too slick, like a TV preacher or something.

And the emails are always from some generic mass-market server. In Ms. Valentine’s case, the incoming came from a Gmail box.

To make this even slicker and more insidious, there actually is an organization of readers and book clubs that share and discuss their favorite reads. Only it’s not the Book and Banter Book Club; it’s the Books and Banter Book Club.

Pretty clever, huh? Almost got that one past me.

A couple of Google searches revealed all this. Plus, I searched for Sherry J. Valentine and while there are lots of Sherry J. Valentines out there, not one of them had any association with the fake Book and Banter Book Club or the real Books and Banter Book Club. There’s also no mention of her on the real book club’s website.

So what’s the takeaway here? As I mentioned in the very first episode of This Crazy Writing Life nearly two years ago, writers have been prey for centuries. In our desperate longing for validation, affirmation, and the inevitable fame and fortune we all deserve, we’re often blind to those whose motives may not be as noble as ours. From the Famous Writers School of the Sixties and Seventies to the contemporary companies who will “publish” your novel and distribute it for a mere thirty-five grand, writers are seen by many as sheep to be sheared.

How do we protect ourselves? As Matty Walker said in Larry Kasdan’s magnificent Body Heat: Knowledge is power. Read the trades, scour the websites, especially SFWA’s fabulous website Writer Beware. It highlights specific scammers and con artists, exposing them by name.

And always remember the adage that’s as true in life as well as publishing: if it seems too good to be true, it probably is. A little dose of cynicism never hurt anybody.

That’s enough for now. As always, thanks for playing along. See you next month.

Oh, and Ms. Valentine? Just for S&Gs, I answered her email.

So far, crickets…

Writing Historical Fiction

By James L Hill

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Writing historical fiction requires research. How much and how in-depth depends on the type of story you are writing. As with all forms of writing, there is no one way to do it, or a right and wrong way. It all depends on the writer.

Let’s discuss three styles of historical fiction and the amount of research involved. 

First, is the fiction based on a time period. Your main character is fictitious, and your aim is to tell a story based on a time and event. The event is an anchor that the reader can relate to. The story is about the life of your main character.

You pick the Battle of Trenton during the American Revolution, December 26, 1776. This is a pivotal battle in the Revolutionary War. A time most people will recognize by the famous picture of Washington crossing the Delaware even if they don’t recall the battle that followed. Now, you can tell a story of the life of your MC with little actual research into the facts. Depending on who he is, a private, lieutenant in Washington’s army, or a Hessian’s soldier for the British, you only need to know a little about the clothing, weather, and culture of the time.

You will need to do a deeper dive into the facts surrounding the Battle of Trenton if your story is about Washington as seen through the eyes of your MC. You have to know a lot more about the main character because his status in life will direct how much he knows about Washington and his proximity to him.

If your MC is a private, he will have limited direct contact with Washington. Your story will rely on Washington’s general speeches and commands to his troops. If he’s a lieutenant or higher-ranking officer, then he will live a different life of privilege. And he will be among Washington’s inner circle on and off the battlefield. However, you are still telling a story from the MC’s point of view, and your readers will expect more details from both their lives.

 When writing alternative history, the what-if variety, you still need to know the facts you plan to change. This kind of story can be more difficult because you have to know what effect changing an event would have in your new future. For example, your MC is among the survivors of Washington’s forces as half drowned on the Christmas night during the Delaware crossing. Instead of withdrawing, Washington presses on with the attack believing the element of surprise will offset his loss of manpower. Washington is defeated, perhaps captured, or killed, and your MC is left to deal with the failed revolutionary war. What would the British have done in such a situation? What recourses would the colonist have had? To write a compelling and believable story, you need to know the state of England and the Americans at the time. You probably need to know more about other important figures too.

Writing historical fiction is more than knowing the facts, it’s about how you use those facts to tell a story that is interesting, believable, and satisfying. If you are just stating the facts, you are writing a new story. If your aim is to entertain, then you are writing historical fiction.

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James L Hill, a.k.a. J L Hill, is a multi-genre author, currently working on a three-part historical fantasy Gemstone Series, The Emerald Lady and The Ruby Cradle are in publication with very good reviews. The third book, The Diamond Warrior, is due soon. The four-part adult urban crime series, The Killer Series, is complete. Killer With A Heart, Killer With Three Heads, Killer With Black Blood, and Killer With Ice Eyes are five-star novels. Then there’s the psychological dystopian science fiction thriller, Pegasus: A Journey To New Eden for your reading pleasure. A collection of eight short stories spanning four decades have just been published called, The Moth and Other Tantalizing Tales. He also owns and operates RockHill Publishing LLC which published twenty books by eight authors in Adult Fiction, Fantasy, Science Fiction, and Romance. https://www.jlhill-books.com and https://www.rockhillpublishing.com

Drop the Pen! What Every Writer Should Know About Real Police Work: Garrity Warning

By David Lane Williams

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This month, I’d like to dovetail off a previous article on the Miranda Warning (April 2025) and talk a bit about the Garrity Warning, a cousin to Miranda that writers of true crime and crime fiction should understand. The Garrity Warning is issued to government employees, usually police officers, who are suspected of committing a crime and of violating departmental policy. 

Let’s use an example of a police officer who took a bribe to look the other way as two men robbed a bank, effectively delaying a police response until the robbers could get away. In this scenario, the officer is an accomplice to a serious crime, and he also violated departmental policy regarding graft and corruption. Our plot advances when one of the thieves is caught and makes a deal to inform on the officer in exchange for leniency. The corrupt officer is about to have a very bad day. 

As a cop, you know you must abide by a direct order from a superior officer (unless that order is, itself, illegal or unconstitutional). If a captain says you’re going to answer questions about a bank robbery, you’re duty and policy-bound to answer any questions the investigator assigned by the captain may ask. 

However, answering those questions would likely incriminate the officer in our scenario. He’s stuck between having to answer questions to keep his job or rank and wanting to exercise his Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination. Enter The Garrity Warning. 

In our scenario, there should be two different investigations. One is for the crime itself (accomplice to a bank robbery), and the other investigation is for departmental policy violations. Such a two-pronged investigation involving a public employee requires two different investigators. 

I investigated several such cases during my career. One involved a violent incident in which an officer had attacked his wife. My job was to determine the facts of the matter on the criminal side, which meant that any statement I took or evidence I collected would go to the prosecutor’s office and potentially result in the officer’s arrest. The other investigator was a police lieutenant who was investigating for the policy violation of “Conduct Unbecoming an Officer.” 

In such cases, I tried to be the first investigator to speak with witnesses. Witnesses may clam up after the first interview, so I tried to be the first in line. It didn’t always work out that way, but that’s how it goes sometimes. 

Anything I gained during my investigation was open book for the administrative investigation, but the opposite was not the case. In other words, that lieutenant was not allowed, due to the rights afforded by the Garrity Warning, to share what she’d discovered in the course of her investigation. This is always a bit frustrating for the criminal investigator, but it is the only fair and constitutional way to conduct an investigation. 

So, how does this apply to what you may be writing? Let’s say you’re crafting a novel about a good-guy cop who is being set up so that it looks like he took a bribe and helped bank robbers pull off a heist. The cop must endure an investigation and perhaps even a trial. The Garrity Warning, and all it implies, can allow you to raise those dramatic stakes. Now he’s not on trial just for the criminal conspiracy; his career, pension, credibility, and rank are all in peril. He’ll feel pressure from not one, but two investigations and two different detectives, all while still dealing with the real bad guys trying to set him up. Knowing how Garrity works can be part of your strategy for piling on the drama in order to reach a more satisfying and heroic ending. Have fun with it.

Crafting Ethical and Moral Dilemmas in Crime Fiction

By Chris Berg and Paul James Smith

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In crime fiction, the most powerful moments often aren’t about car chases or shootouts—they’re about impossible choices. Think of Martin Scorsese’s The Departed. At the climax, undercover cop Billy Costigan (Leonardo DiCaprio) faces off against corrupt officer Colin Sullivan (Matt Damon). Costigan has proof Sullivan is a mob mole; unfortunately for him, his cover’s blown too. Both men have a decision to make—cling to their oaths or focus on staying alive. Neither option comes easy, and whichever path they take, both moral and ethical consequences follow.

These are the crossroads we construct as thriller writers. They're neither black nor white; they thrive in the gray spaces that test characters' mettle, deliciously unsettle readers, and propel plots into uncharted territory. Incorporating these dilemmas into your narrative can evolve a simple crime yarn into something truly memorable.

Building the Perfect Dilemma

A moral or ethical dilemma isn’t just a tricky choice. It’s a collision of imperatives: follow one, and you sacrifice another. There’s no safe option, no loophole. A detective may bend the law in pursuit of justice. An officer might cover for a corrupt partner at the expense of his or her own integrity. The power lies in the personal and professional damage they cause.

The reason they matter is simple: dilemmas pull readers deeper into your story. They imagine themselves in the character’s shoes—Would I do that? Could I live with it?—and the suspense turns personal. This is where thrillers move beyond plot mechanics to something that lingers with the reader.

Thrillers hook readers with action, but it's these dilemmas that leave a longer-lasting impression. When characters fight with right and wrong, they feel human; when choices carry heavy consequences, suspense clings through the last page; and when these decisions shift the story, the narrative gains depth.

Compelling thrillers reveal the world as it is—messy, complicated, morally uncertain. They reflect life’s tangled ethics and blurred lines between right and wrong.

Ethical Battles at the Heart of Thrillers 

At their core, many crime thrillers circle the same inescapable questions—for example:

• Justice vs. Law: Do the ends ever justify breaking the rules?

• Loyalty vs. Duty: Protect a partner—or expose their corruption?

• Greater Good vs. Personal Cost: Is it just to sacrifice one to save many?

• Truth vs. Harm: Is the truth ever worth the cost of an innocent life?

Used thoughtfully, these tensions box characters in and pull readers with them.

Building Choices With Real Consequences

Effective dilemmas live in the character’s DNA, not just in plot mechanics. Begin by connecting the choice to your character's past. For example, a detective who delays reporting misconduct may be afraid not just of professional fallout but also of reliving past wounds.

Then, raise the stakes. If the outcome doesn’t alter lives, careers, or relationships, readers won’t care. Make sure every choice matters. And consider timing and consequences—dramatic shifts, unexpected turns, pivotal moments—when decisions matter the most.

Avoiding Missteps

Even the strongest ideas can falter. A scene overloaded with conflicting pressures quickly loses focus, while a dilemma wrapped up too neatly robs the story of tension. Preaching to the reader rarely works—let them wrestle with the consequences themselves. And characters must remain true to who they are; a cautious cop doesn’t suddenly take reckless risks without careful buildup. These dilemmas aren’t tidy. Show the cost of choices, reveal the fallout, and leave readers to navigate the gray areas on their own.

Consequences in Motion

In real life, decisions don’t disappear with the turn of a page—and in crime fiction, they shouldn’t either. A detective who plants evidence doesn’t just secure a conviction; he carries the fear of exposure, the hit to his integrity, and the strain on his friendships. A protagonist who shields a corrupt partner may find that the betrayal festers, eventually detonating at the worst possible moment. The aftermath matters as much as the choice itself. By showing this, your thriller reflects a fundamental truth: these decisions change people.

Make the Choice Matter

If you’re working on a manuscript, choose a single storyline and place your protagonist in a true moral or ethical squeeze. Force him or her to choose between two bad options. Heighten the cost. Resist the urge to offer a safe escape hatch. Then, see how the story shifts around your choice.

Readers stay hooked not by the action itself, but by the choices that lead to it. When a character is trapped by a dilemma, forced to confront who they are and what they’re willing to risk, the reader leans in, breath held. That is the moment when a thriller truly comes alive.

In crafting these tensions, prioritize authenticity over resolution—let the gray areas stand. This approach not only sustains suspense but mirrors the complexities of real ethical terrain. Apply it deliberately, and your story will gain the weight it deserves.

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Chris Berg and Paul James Smith: Claymore Award Winners | PageTurner Award Finalists | Authors of The Night Police Novels

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This article is adapted from a presentation delivered at the 2025 Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference. It explores how moral and ethical dilemmas elevate crime fiction, giving readers moments of tension that linger long after the story ends.