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
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THE CHAIR IS STILL THERE

By Clay Stafford

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Mostly working from home for the majority of my life, there was no boss to meet, no comptroller checking my clock-in for work, no meetings I had to be on time for, only me, waking up and stretching in bed, thinking of how I envisioned my day to play out.

Most days were and are filled with excitement. I knew what I was going to do. I loved what I did. I was blessed to be able to do it. Most mornings were filled with ambition and excitement, so I couldn’t wait to get to work and get started. But there were those dreaded mornings when I awoke, stared at the ceiling, and realized there was no fuel in the creative engine for the day. On those mornings, there was no urgency to get out of bed, no spark inspiring me to begin. There wasn’t even resistance. In the dim light of the morning sun coming through the cracks of the closed plantation shutters, there was simply a hollow quiet where momentum typically was and should have been. Those moments felt empty, nothing resembling the welcomed heaviness of life, just a distant void, as though everything that normally mattered had somehow, during the night while I was dreaming, slipped down the hallway to another bedroom and closed the door, sometimes even locking it behind it, climbing into the bed and pulling the covers over its head.

Those were days that felt like failures even before they began, and because I predetermined them while lying in bed, they usually turned out as I expected. I used to think I could only show up for my life when my inner world was in agreement, when want and purpose matched, when I knew why I was doing something, and when the effort made sense. I could only do things when I felt like it or when the meaning was clear. When that alignment was absent, I assumed the day was already lost and a wasted day of failure lay ahead. I felt it in my heart and even in my bones. I hadn’t yet learned that the real discipline of my life wasn’t built on feeling ready, but on returning.

It wasn’t until later in my life, when maybe maturity or practice, or even serendipitous events, proved me wrong, that I realized these mornings were simply a different kind of threshold, their own unique entry into a day that, at first glance, felt formless and uninspired. Somewhere along the way, I learned that discipline, what I needed to create the perfect day, was less about preplanning, force, or even intention, but more about presence.

I don’t know when my thinking started to shift. I certainly didn’t make it happen. I didn’t will it. It certainly wasn’t some trite self-help or productivity hack. It didn’t even arrive with some revelation. It came oddly and unplanned, as a habit. Whether I had the vision for the day or not, I got my coffee as usual, set up my desk, and sat down in my chair to work, even when I didn’t know what I wanted to work on or, if I did, even when I wasn’t inspired. Motivation didn’t earn me a spot at my desk. Routine did. On those days, I kept the bar low. I didn’t promise much to those hours except the assurance to my computer that I’ll be close by if needed. No plans were negotiated, no meaning defined, and rarely was any enthusiasm offered to the Muse as tribute. Sometimes on those days, I thought my purpose in life was to drink a cup of coffee, watch my birdfeeder, and ponder, in the world of evolution, what crazy lizard found itself jumping out of a tree and realizing it could fly, thus creating a new species of birds. In other words, with no plans or inspiration, I sat there because I didn’t know what else to do.

It surprised me at some point how little was required to sit there. It was freeing. Even on those hollow mornings, the chair was still there, waiting. I didn’t need conviction. I didn’t need direction. I didn’t need to believe that anything I was doing mattered. I only needed not to leave. I needed to sit with whatever drifted through my mind. The common thread behind it all was my chair, on productive days and on days of nothing. It was always sitting there, consistent, no matter where my head was. So, I returned to it, some days with more fervor than others, but always with a refusal to hand over control to the weather outside (I write outside on my porch) or even the weather, no matter how calm or turbulent, going on inside of me.

Those neutral days of nothingness were not heroic. They were days that neither lifted nor dragged, days that offered no motivational or dramatic reason or inspiration to move forward, but at the same time, no compelling reason not to be there. It seemed on those days that the world asked nothing of me other than attendance in that chair, across the lawn from the birdfeeder, pondering the processes of the past few million years.

When I think back on my own evolution now, what strikes me is not how much time I wasted sitting there, but rather how honest those hours were. Out of boredom, I did begin to tinker, but without the need or motivation to impress, accelerate, or aim beyond the moment, I moved straight to the essentials as they popped into my head. It was all rather casual. There was no adornment, no performance, no word count, no chasing of superiority. Just small, impulsive, inner-driven activities, whether rain or shine, just some sort of private continuity with days more productive, but with no invisible audience or ego applauding, but at the same time nothing left undone. When inspired, sitting in the chair, I did what I felt inspired to do, letting direction come from the nothingness.

Over time, something shifted. Those neutral (I wouldn’t call them wasted) days, those unremarkable returns to the chair each morning, began to alter the way I understood myself in the same way that I could envision lizards growing wings millions of years ago. I don’t think I ever patted myself on my back for my consistency of sitting in a chair (that hardly seems a heroic act), but I did begin to trust it as an inkling of something I couldn’t put my finger on began to take form in my consciousness, in my being. Showing up and sitting down, I began to sense that I did not need to feel aligned with my work or even with myself to remain connected. Just drink coffee and watch the birds, and occasionally look at my computer screen. I didn’t need the weather, inside or out, to give me permission. Before I stepped into the day, I needed to go to my chair and sit. And, surprise to me, somewhere along the way, my fingers would find their way to the keyboard, and I would start to type. Somewhere by the end of the day, I would pause and look back on all that I had accomplished, even though I had had no preplanned direction.

Trust accumulated in ways I couldn’t have articulated then, but it did soften the drama around the difficulty of being aimless. It quieted the argument between desire and duty. It reframed commitment as identity rather than effort. I began to see that most of what endures in life is built not on bursts of certainty but on the steady, unimpressive, evolutionary cadence of return.

The curious, but also understandable, thing is that the work of my life didn’t constantly improve in those days, but my relationship with my work, and even myself, did. Sitting down in my chair became less conditional, less dependent on mood or inspiration, or the unpredictable tides of self-belief or raw motivation. Sitting down in my chair became, instead, something like a morning welcome, a companionship, coming with the predictability and comfort of knowing that the sun will rise each day and I will sit: steady, imperfect, patient.

Looking back, I never found the dramatic clarity I once believed I needed to move forward. I saw something quieter. I discovered that life continues, like birds in flight, even when eagerness does not. I found that meaning doesn’t always come hand in hand with willingness. I discovered that neutrality is fertile in its own way. We don’t need a parade; we only need a chair.

I once thought that discipline was a loud, cinematic declaration, something founded in great ambition or proven with relentless, knock-the-walls-down drive, but the truth, for me, instead lived in a place outside on the back porch, an ordinary chair, waiting without fanfare, and asking for nothing other than my presence. “Come as you are,” it called. “If nothing else,” it said in its Southern way, “just sit a spell.”

Perhaps the unexpected lesson for me is this: the parts of life that endure are not always those born from passion, certainty, or predetermination while lying in the bed in the morning and staring at the ceiling with the morning light coming in through the shutters, but instead it is from the steady, unremarkable decision to get my coffee, in my routine, and sit in my chair long enough for meaning to find its way back. The chair is always waiting.

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.

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

MAKING IT BEFORE IT HAS A NAME

By Clay Stafford

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There were periods when I began something simply out of interest, long before I understood why, and, oddly, the not-knowing at times unsettled me more than the effort itself. I am, by nature, a planner and a builder, and to be the best at that, one needs to know from the start what they are constructing. It’s a little irresponsible to build a skyscraper without planning and realize, too late, that you didn’t put the right foundation under the building. The longer I lived, the more I noticed a pattern that didn’t quite make sense to me: some of the most authentic things in my life began before they could be explained, and naming them too early seemed to shrink what they were trying to become, as if definition became a filter or a cell. I didn’t have that concept at the time, but the truth of it lingered as something I wouldn’t understand for years, something that existed long before I found the words to recognize it. I began to realize that some of the most important things in my life only revealed their meaning after I was already living them.

I can think of decisions, relationships, detours, and changes I made in my life that began without language, without an expressed idea, what a writer might call a “thesis statement.” Without a plan, I found myself moving toward people, places, projects, and experiences that couldn’t really be justified. Beginnings were always small, sometimes even unnoticed, like quiet shifts that pointed me away from what was familiar to something new and unknown without offering any clarity or expectations of what might come next. As it expanded into my life, my days, my consciousness, the absence of explanation began to feel like a kind of unnameable negligence, as though I owed myself, if not the world, some sort of rationale before I took the next step. The interesting thing about life, though, and especially adventure, is that nothing meaningful arrives with instructions.

Some beginnings took the form of restlessness, sometimes bordering on boredom. Others came from a pull I couldn’t seem to ignore. I didn’t think or plan my way into those moments as much as I moved my way into them by some magnetic, yet unnamed, attraction. Whatever meaning they carried waited there and didn’t announce itself at the start, like a wrapped birthday present asking to be eagerly opened with childhood innocence, but only when the birthday came. Meaning surfaced only after the momentum of action, movement, or interest, unexplained, but happening, after I gave up wanting certainty that my time or emotions were not wasted. I wanted assurance before I pulled the paper away from the birthday box, wanted to see what was inside before I undid the ribbon.

For much of my life, I resisted this uncertain stage. Maybe it was the way I was raised as a child, but it always felt safer to have clarity before action, certainty before motion. It was inherent in me to want to know the ending, what it meant, whether it was safe, and how I could justify myself if anyone should ask. Without clarity and the words, always the words, which may be why I am a writer, I always felt exposed, awkward in a way that left me sometimes rehearsing the answer, the justification, before I had completely made the choice, even as I was already traveling down an unknown path through a forest dappled with light, leaves flickering with moving brightness, the smell of wet earth rising, without the faintest hint of what it boded.

Being someone who plays chess rather than checkers, beginning something, anything, without clarity required a different posture than I was used to. Those moments asked that I enter them without strategy, even without ambition, but only presence. Being foreign to me, I didn’t have a name for what was happening then other than those moments, things, people, or ideas embraced something that kept me returning to those half-formed beginnings, unidentifiable hopes, and curious opportunities, and that returning to them by some magnetic, unexplainable pull mattered even, at times, if none of it made any sense.

In the worlds I circled, I looked to efficiency and expediency, even in relationships, and from the outside, this way of moving probably looked highly inefficient. In those unnamed spaces, false starts, reversals, and in-between states that didn’t add up clouded the clarity. I collected experiences that didn’t seem connected, yet over time, they began to mark the edges of something that appeared to form out of the mist. They revealed what stayed and what fell away. They traced a shape I did not realize I had been drawing, yet had been seemingly unconsciously engineering from the start.

It was later in life, after I had been married and even after I had a son, that I stopped using the phrases “happy accidents” and “bumbling through life.” Something began to shift when I stopped asking these innocuous beginnings to declare themselves too early. I let them happen. I felt less urgency to start justifying each step. I think part of it was because I had put myself into a world that didn’t require an explanation, a happy place of unconditional love and acceptance, something that came with marrying the right person. Because of this foundation, I didn’t rush decisions simply to escape uncertainty. I let things “percolate,” as my son coined, when he was near an adult. I noticed the quiet gravity of what I kept returning to when those things called to me from the fog, and how nothing real in those voices demanded immediate clarity or even a call back from me in return. Understanding, when it came at all, arrived later, subtle, without fanfare, and I began to let it happen in its own natural way.

The real tension wasn’t in not knowing; it was in the impulse to decide too quickly what something was supposed to be. I saw clearly that each time I started something that seemed to fall into my lap with questions, to name it, to give it a beginning point before it lived, shrank it to match my description of it, rather than allowing it to slowly manifest itself, like the bloom of a flower, into its own possibilities, shape, form, and even my relationship with or appreciation of it. Slowly, through life practice and observation, I learned to wait a little longer. An egg is an egg, but if you wait, to one’s ultimate surprise, a chick may emerge. “Wait a little longer” became my mantra. I needed to allow experience to accumulate before drawing conclusions or judging. Even without my “input,” refinement happened, though it may not have been there in the start, as the Old Me would have desired. In contrast, when meaning did arrive, it arrived as something real, something that could be refined, the “happy accident” seeming predestined on its own. That is how the subconscious works. It is a land hidden, but a calculating world in its own right.

Many of the meaningful shifts in my life didn’t arrive as predetermined or mapped plans. I didn’t select them from a menu of options or make deliberate choices. They appeared first at the periphery while I was occupied with living and paying attention, and they continued even when I couldn’t articulate what they were, what I was feeling, or the purpose or endpoint. I guess what I got out of all this, so many years later, is that life isn’t always the execution of a strategy. Sometimes it is the slow uncovering of one. Venturing into the unknown before I understood the “meaning of it all” wasn’t carelessness or irresponsibility. It was a way, and continues to be a way, of staying open long enough for meaning to emerge on its own through movement and unveiling rather than planning and anticipation. Some of the truest parts of my life found their names only after I let them exist as long as needed without one, and I suspect that might be the only way I would have ever recognized them at all.

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.

WORKING WITHOUT AN ECHO

By Clay Stafford

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There are stretches when work and life carry on, yet the world goes strangely muffled, and I’m left facing a reflection I don’t repetitively acknowledge. The first time I became aware of this was after years of working in the collaborative arts of television, film, and theater, when, without those lively moments, without the noise, silence itself became its own uncanny yet welcoming mirror. To this day, the likeness I see unnerves me.

The experience I’m thinking of wasn’t dramatic. Nothing collapsed. Nothing extraordinary happened. I changed where I wrote. I was living in Los Angeles then, surrounded by the hum of other people’s stories. That was all. I was young. I switched employment and went from the noise of collaborative rooms to the hush of a rented space on my own. Nothing refashioned in my profession except the location and the environment. I kept doing what I promised, tending the responsibilities I chose, still delivering work, but without the usual affirmations. Where daily life had once been bustling, there were now no replies in hallways, no nods in breakrooms, no signs in studios that anything I was offering was reaching beyond my own effort. In the absence of feedback, I learned that the material I was writing and the life I was living were now without endorsement, and the meaning of things changed when nothing echoed back.

Without response, the work felt different beneath my hands. I still had the discipline to continue, but without reflection or resonance, I began to feel the dull ache of questions rising from somewhere older than ambition, closer to the ribcage: What is this for? Does any of this matter? Had I mistaken movement or activity for direction? It surprised me how much the small, ordinary reassurances had once steadied me. A single thank-you, a simple hurrah, being noticed in passing, none of it had seemed important at the time, but when it disappeared, I felt the floor shift a little. I realized how soundlessly I had leaned upon them.

What steadied me again wasn’t a surge of motivation or a sudden breakthrough. It was a kind of returning, almost like walking back to the trailhead after getting lost. I noticed that the reasons I began hadn’t dissolved just because no one was nodding along. The values underneath the effort remained, unchanged and unmoved. The silence hadn’t drained them of meaning; it had only stripped away the applause I didn’t know I’d been listening for.

Working without affirmation brought me face to face with a question I hadn’t needed to ask before: did the work matter only when it was witnessed, or did it matter even here, in secret, when there was no audience to gather the story? It was an uncomfortable distinction. There was no performance in that space, no cleverness, just me and the truth of what I cared about.

Staying with the work in that lonely townhouse on Bedford Drive, where jacaranda petals stuck to the windshield, wasn’t about mettle. It wasn’t about proving anything, not even to myself. It felt smaller than that, more silent. I continued because continuing felt more honest than stopping. The pull didn’t come from momentum or reward; it came from alignment, as if turning away would have been a small betrayal of something I couldn’t name.

In that hush, something shifted. It wasn’t confidence or inspiration. It was a steadier posture, days spent without waiting for an echo, returning without asking to be met halfway. There was nothing heroic or cinematic about it. I certainly didn’t feel that. I simply stayed.

Affirmation did come back eventually, and the validity of the choice I had made did come, though in indirect ways I couldn’t have predicted. By then, the ground beneath the work had already changed. It no longer asked to be seen to matter. The meaning of what I did through my work had moved inward, even to a place where applause, even though it later came, couldn’t reach it.

I once believed that meaning required an audience. Now I suspect that the audience only revealed what was true long before anyone clapped. When the echo disappeared, and I kept going anyway, the work stopped asking who was watching and started quietly telling me who I was. It was from there that I became.

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.

THE WORLD GOT WIDER

By Clay Stafford

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For a long time, I believed that anything worth pursuing should come with a clear signal, some sign, momentum, or external confirmation that I was moving in the right direction. I think I was waiting for the circus to come to town. Looking for that exterior confirmation, though, quietly narrowed my world without me even noticing.

I didn’t really understand this belief, this idea that I was essentially performing for others. I didn’t think about it. It wasn’t something I put into words. It just showed up, thoughtlessly, like the morning sun. Unlike the mark of a new day, however, this subconscious belief or need for validation manifested as hesitation, maybe doubt. When no one clapped, no one replied to my desperate phone calls, letters, or emails, or no one offered a word of encouragement or support, I found I slowed down. I started to wait. “Give me a sign,” my needy heart exclaimed. I started second-guessing my map. I equated uncertainty with fear, that I was about to make a mistake.

I don’t know when this thinking began; it may have started in childhood, perhaps reflecting a need for parental approval in a conditionally loved world. The shame is that it shaped my life more than I realized. It made me cautious, even timid, in moments that required courage. Wherever it began and however it grew, this subconscious belief that I needed that validation trained me to seek approval from others rather than to seek direction from within. I couldn’t help but think that when progress was slow, and especially when it stalled, it was proof that I was off track. When I felt something mattered, but yet it demanded so much unapplauded effort, I wondered if I wasn’t forcing something that should not be rather than earning something that should not have to be affirmed.

Somewhere along the way, it hit me. Why? Maturity? God-given insight? Not sure. I know nothing external changed. There were no circus clowns. No breakthrough arrived. But inside me, the moment that my life began to change, the moment that I began to change, was a shift in the limiting belief itself.

Somewhere in my Los Angeles days, I began to notice that the work that mattered most, not only to me, but to others, oddly rarely announced itself. In its inception, in its call to adventure, it made no promises. I didn’t have to wait for the green light to proceed. I didn’t need any person in power to give me some grand confirmation that I had finally found the path. Instead, my life and work began to show up, not with fireworks, but in small, unglamorous ways.

I found I was passionately involved in my work and life when previously I would have told myself to quit. Problems or roadblocks? Instead of avoiding or dismissing them and walking away, I found I started returning to them day after day, living and loving life regardless of who, if anyone, ever noticed. The silence, the fact that no one was even noticing, stopped coming across to me as a warning. The silence became the mental space where my life and work began to live and grow. And from the silence, to my surprise, others began to notice.

“Reassurance” is the key word. I no longer needed it. And when I began to accept this, to believe and live it, subtly, my attention changed. Without needing approval, I began to notice the quiet pull toward specific ideas or desires that were intrinsically my own, not someone else’s to validate. Life started at that moment to be an adventure, even if it was nothing more than showing up, even when nothing was resolved. It didn’t matter. I was living me. I accepted that sometimes understanding comes only after effort, not before. Looking back, I realized that my strongest decisions, the ones that actually changed and transformed my life, were rarely made in moments of confidence. They were made in moments of scared commitment.

With regret, but also with thankfulness for the experience, I realized how much life-energy and opportunity I had wasted, misreading what were, in fact, neutral conditions and neutral exterior feedback. No response didn’t mean that anyone was rejecting me. Resistance didn’t mean I was going in the wrong direction. Slow progress didn’t mean I was a failure or ill-equipped.

Letting go of the belief that I didn’t need external validation for how I wanted to live my life didn’t erase doubt. Don’t get the wrong impression. But what it did was to strip doubt of its authority. Uncertainty stopped being a verdict and became something I could walk alongside. I could live in the present, not the past or the future, and though it might feel uncomfortable to take risks others dared not, doubt was no longer in charge. Living the life I wanted to live became the mantra.

Letting go of that belief, that need for affirmation, didn’t suddenly make my progress in the world easier, but it did make it wider. Possibilities that had always been there came into view, and I was able to accept them without any need for anyone else’s approval. These possibilities that I dared not dream of didn’t change. They were there all the time. I simply stopped requiring permission to see them. Or honor them. Or rather, I realized the only permission I needed to live the life of my dreams on my own terms was mine.

I realized the world doesn’t widen because circumstances change. It widened when I stopped asking permission to dream big dreams. I wasn’t walking with the consent or acceptance of others anymore. I was walking with uncertainty, and noticing I still belonged, not to the whims of others, but to myself. I began writing my life, telling the story I knew should be told, even when I walked alone.

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.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.

Literary Alchemy: Ingredients of the Story – Foreshadowing

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

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Foreshadowing is a literary device used to hint at what’s coming later in the story. It creates anticipation and builds suspense, engaging readers by making them eager to see how events will unfold. As Chekhov so famously put it, “If in the first act you introduce a gun, by the third act you have to use it.”

Why use Foreshadowing?

• Build suspense and tension by hinting at future conflicts or outcomes. In Gone Girl, (Gillian Flynn) Amy’s use of the “treasure hunt” game, leaving clues for her husband Nick (and the police) to find, foreshadows the underlying (and much more sinister) game she’s playing with him, which we don’t learn until about halfway through the book.

• By providing subtle clues, foreshadowing encourages readers to engage with the text. They become detectives, piecing together hints to predict what might happen next. In the classic, The Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald), Myrtle’s death foreshadows the tragic consequences of the other characters. Her reckless behavior and desire to escape her life leads to her fatal accident. This event sets off a chain reaction that leads to Gatsby’s demise.

• Create cohesion with foreshadowing by tying together various plot elements. When a writer plants clues early on, it allows for a satisfying payoff later in the narrative. For example, in Frankenstein (Mary Shelley), Victor Frankenstein’s early fascination with the works of occult philosophy foreshadows his tragic downfall, linking his childhood curiosity to the catastrophic consequences of his scientific pursuits.

• Prepare readers for impactful emotional beats, making them feel earned rather than abrupt. In The Hunger Games (Suzanne Collins), Katniss’s early demonstrations of her archery skills foreshadow her survival tactics in the arena, allowing readers to invest in her journey and the stakes involved. The reader isn’t caught off guard by her abilities.

• Foreshadowing can also highlight central themes within a story. In my flash fiction story The Last Tour, the canyon, with its vastness and depth, symbolizes both characters’ emotional chasms and the literal danger they face. The tour being the “last one” of the day hints at the finality of their journeys, ultimately foreshadowing the tragic events that will unfold.

How and When to Use Foreshadowing:

To effectively use foreshadowing, incorporate subtle clues that may seem insignificant at first but gain importance as the story progresses. This can be done through:

• Dialogue: Characters can drop hints in their conversations or make ominous statements or jokes that hint at darker outcomes. “When I think of my wife, I always think of her head. ...And what's inside it. I think of that too: her mind. Her brain, all those coils, and her thoughts shuttling through those coils like fast, frantic centipedes” (Gone Girl). 

• Setting: Use elements in the environment that reflect future events. “. . .the sun climbed over the skyline of oaks, revealing its full summer angry- god self. Its reflection flared across the river toward our house, a long, blaring finger aimed at me through our frail bedroom curtains. Accusing: You have been seen. You will be seen” (Gone Girl).

• Symbolism: Introduce objects or motifs that will later play a crucial role. Introducing a motif that recurs throughout the story can create a sense of continuity. “But above the gray land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face, but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a non-existent nose.” Later, “. . .we walked back a hundred yards along the road under Doctor Eckleburg’s persistent stare.” (The Great Gatsby).

• Character Actions: A character’s seemingly minor actions can foreshadow future events. “Eve decides to celebrate her 50th birthday with a Grand Canyon excursion. She doesn’t research companies or pricing. She knows exactly which trip she’ll book. The last tour on Saturday, leaving from Boulder City, Nevada.” (The Last Tour).

• Flashbacks: Consider how a past trauma influences a character’s decisions later in the story. “My father knew and he taught me some before he was blown to bits in a mine explosion. There was nothing even to bury. I was eleven then. Five years later, I still wake up screaming for him to run.” (The Hunger Games).

• Dreams or Visions: These may foreshadow future events. (Be careful: often these can be too on the nose). “I slept, indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in the streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I embraced her, but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death. . .” (Frankenstein). 

• Weather and Atmosphere: Atmospheric changes can foreshadow emotional shifts or upcoming conflicts. “September 9th, the ice began to move, and roarings like thunder were heard at a distance as the islands split and cracked in every direction.” (Frankenstein).

• Physical Objects: Objects that hold significance for a character can foreshadow future events. “I think I’m finished when Cinna pulls the gold mockingjay pin from his pocket. . . I remember now taking it off my mother’s dress, pinning it to the shirt.” (The Hunger Games).

• Narrative Tone: A dark or foreboding tone can signal that something tragic is on the horizon, while a light-hearted tone may suggest a twist or surprise. “Lonnie’s family labels him a failure; his therapist, a lost cause; the justice system, another burden. So much for the American dream. Or any dream.” (The Last Tour).

Lookout! 👀

Be on the lookout for signs of foreshadowing in movies you watch and books you read. Consider how the author (or director) accomplished the use of this device. Was it effective? What hooked you and made you want to turn the page or keep watching? How can your understanding of what they did help you accomplish the same?

Prompt 📝

Write a scene where a character notices a seemingly trivial detail—like a broken clock, a dead tree, or a faded photograph—that later becomes pivotal to the plot or precedes a major event. Consider how this detail can create a sense of foreboding or anticipation.

Further Reading: 📚

• Grammarly: Foreshadowing in Writing

• Oregon State University: What is Foreshadowing?

• LitCharts: Foreshadowing Definition and Examples

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Chrissy’s debut novel, Inheritance of Lies (Marble Press Books), was a 2022 Claymore Suspense Award finalist. Her writing is featured in anthologies and magazines, including Story Sanctum, Killer Nashville Magazine, Black Works, and The Broadkill Review, among others. Her unpublished manuscripts secured First Place in the 2024/2025 Thomas Mabry Creative Writing Award, 2024 Seven Hills Literary Contest, and “Top Pick” in the Suspense category for the 2024 Claymore Award. A Northern transplant who traded snow for Tennessee heat, Chrissy actively volunteers for Killer Nashville Magazine and is a proud member of Mystery Writers of America and International Thriller Writers. Aside from thinking up ways for characters to die, she hikes, runs, reads, and drinks dark wine. Visit her online at chrissyhicks.com or hire her for your next editing project at emberskyeeditorial.com. Join her free newsletter for author updates, a glimpse into a busy writer’s life, and book recommendations.

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.

Drop the Pen! What Every Writer Should Know About Real Police Work: Ten Codes

By David Lane Williams

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I recently spoke at a writers' conference in Texas. Those in attendance during my talk were primarily mystery and thriller writers who had lots of questions about authentic police work. One of those questions comes up from time to time: what are “ten-codes,” and how can I interpret them? Truth is, they’re still a mystery to me, even after forty years of practicing, teaching, and writing about first responding and investigations. Let’s give it a try anyway.  

Everyone has heard the term “ten-four,” one of the many “ten codes” used in police work, as well as Citizens Band (CB) radio. Ten-codes are still ubiquitous in policing, but I find them archaic. Anyone who spends the money for a scanner to listen in on police chatter is capable of getting and printing off a list of codes. “Ten-four” sounds like a rogue trucker movie in the eighties, and you don’t even have to tack on the “good buddy,” for it to sound hokey. Further, I think there is plenty for a young officer to learn without heaping on a couple of hundred codes to memorize when plain old words do the trick just fine. That said, I’m in the minority on this opinion, so don’t listen too closely to me on this one. Ten-codes are going to be around for a while.

There are certain codes that are standard across the country: 

• 10-4: Everything is okay or I understood what you just said to me. 

• 10-1: I have no idea what you just said. Say it again.

• 10-6: I’m busy unless you really need me for an emergency

• 10-20: Where are you? (as in, “What is your ten-twenty,” or just “What’s your twenty”)

• 10-100: I need to stop and pee, often associated with 10-200

• 10-200: I need to stop and…you get the idea. I’ve only heard this one over the radio once, during a night shift. A reprimand was issued before sunrise. 

For every standardized ten-code, dozens are only used in a specific jurisdiction. In some cities, there is a ten-code for an animal carcass in the roadway, though why the dispatcher can’t just say, “There is an animal carcass in the roadway,” is beyond me. I can almost guarantee you in that scenario that the responding officer would have to stop the car and look up code 10-gobbledeehoozit before he understood he was responding to a dead animal in the street. (And no one is going to get on a public police channel and ask what it means…except maybe that one guy who calls out 10-200.)

Beyond ten-codes, many departments also use systems called “codes” (distinct from ten-codes) and “signals.” This can get really complicated, but you may recognize “Code Three” as the term for responding to an emergency with lights and sirens, as in, “Adam 12, respond Code Three to a robbery in progress at…” 

In the first jurisdiction where I worked, we had a code for responding with only lights but no sirens. This was termed “Code Two.” When I moved to a different city, however, the term Code Two meant “intoxicated person.” This resulted in a gaffe on my part one evening after I hit the new streets, during which I called for an ambulance “Code Two” because the person I was trying to help was in a panicked state and didn’t need the extra stress of loud sirens. The dispatchers and other officers listening in interpreted this as me asking for a drunk ambulance crew, which was the subject of relentless teasing for the rest of that night. 

I don’t know why there isn’t some standard list, but every town is different. Thus, I don’t want writers to spend much time on this other than to say if it is really important to you, give the agency you’re writing about a call. I bet they’d send you the whole list if you tell them you’re a writer working on a project in their city. This is not top-secret WWII code-breaking stuff. This is some clerk’s version of CB radio-speak made up fifty years ago, now ingrained in that department’s culture. 

If you want more, Michael Connelly has a cool list of codes and acronyms on his official website (Police & FBI Acronyms - Extras - Michael Connelly). Most are specific to the California area, but the list could be a fun rabbit hole during your research phase. Regardless, ten-codes are part of police life for the foreseeable future, but I think you’re safe if you use them sparingly or not at all. Your call. 

Hope everyone is 10-4 with that. 

This Crazy Writing Life: Requiescat in pace—In Memory Of The Mass-Market Paperback

By Steven Womack

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Jim Milliot and Sophia Stewart’s December 12th article in Publisher’s Weekly isn’t actually an article.

It’s an obituary.

ReaderLink—the largest distributor of books to non-trade channel booksellers in North America—just announced that they would stop distributing mass-market paperbacks at the end of 2025. The mass-market paperback—once the single most popular reading format in the world—has been dying for over a quarter-century. ReaderLink’s decision is, to fall back on a perfectly valid cliché, the final nail in the coffin.

An eighty-six-year long ride is over.

The mass-market paperback had its roots in the Great Depression, when a huge demographic could barely afford food and rent, let alone luxuries like books. Publishers would do anything to sell more books, so in 1935 a British publisher named Allen Lane created Penguin Books in the U.K. and with it, the universal format (4.25” x 6.87”) that could be mass produced cheaply and distributed across a wide variety of markets and outlets. The first American paperback book publisher—Pocket Books—released its first book, Wuthering Heights, in 1939.

Not only were mass-market paperbacks affordable, they weren’t limited to sales in bookstores. In time, newsstands, drug stores, grocery stores, gift shops, airports, Big Box stores like Walmart, gas stations—anywhere you could put a cheap wire rack—became outlets.

The mass-market paperback also created what became known in publishing as the “midlist,” which enabled authors who probably wouldn’t make it in hardcover to gain an audience and earn a living. Several generations of writers thrived and became famous thanks to the mass-market paperback. Louis L’Amour wrote more than 130 books in his long career; all but four of them were mass-market paperbacks. Someone once told me that John D. MacDonald calculated the size of his advances for the Travis McGee novels on the first print run of his mass-market paperback.

Is that a true story? Who knows, but it’s a great story.

Mass-market paperbacks also outsold the hell out of hardcovers. In the PW article, Milliot and Stewart cited the figures for Jacqueline Susann’s 1966 blockbuster hit, Valley of the Dolls. Upon its release, Susann’s potboiler sold 300,000 hardcovers that year, which is certainly nothing to be ashamed of.

Then Bantam released the paperback in 1967 and it sold 4,000,000 copies in the first week. It went on to double that number in its first year. The mass-market paperback lifted the fortunes of publishers beyond the Big Five. The mass-market paperback played a huge role in making independent powerhouse Kensington Publishing as successful as it’s been. Milliot and Stewart cited Kensington CEO Steve Zacharius’s statement that the mass-market paperback was the foundation of Kensington’s success. Kensington’s best-selling author of all time is Fern Michaels; the bulk of her 42 million sales were mass-market paperbacks.

All genres benefited from the format, especially the most popular commercial genres like romance, mystery and crime fiction, and science fiction. In my own career, the mass-market paperback made me a nice living for nearly a decade. My first three book deals with St. Martin’s Press were hardcover and the sales were never that impressive. But once I launched my Music City Murders series, featuring private detective Harry James Denton, with Ballantine Books, my mass-market numbers built what career I had. I published six books in that series and every one of them was either nominated or won a major mystery award (including both an Edgar and Shamus Award). It all worked beautifully…

Until it didn’t anymore.

What happened?

I can only relate a personal experience here. In 1996, I signed a two-book contract with Ballantine Books (I had only taken single contracts before because, candidly, the money was pretty terrible and I didn’t want to get locked in). I’d been nominated for an Edgar twice, won it once, and had also been multiply nominated for the Shamus and short-listed for the Anthony. My editor at Ballantine said if I’d take a two-book deal, he'd move me into lead title and the second book in the contract would go hard/soft.

I took the offer. The first book in the deal was Murder Manual, published in 1998. After several Shamus nominations, I was thrilled to finally win one with that book. I began working on the second book in the deal when suddenly my editor seemed to go into an extended period of radio silence.

Finally, I reached out to him and told him how excited I was to finally see Harry James Denton in hardcover. When would I see a cover comp?

Long, awkward, silence…

“About that, Steve,” he said. “We’ve done an extensive audit on the sales of Murder Manual, and we thought the numbers were going to be impressive. Then, out of nowhere, we started getting a ton of returns. Your sell-through ultimately was so low we’ve cancelled the hardcover.”

He explained to me that through the late 90s, there were roughly 1100 companies across the country that were independent distributors; that is, they were small, often family-owned companies that served a specific local market. Most books were sold through those companies.

In the last few years, though, there had been a wave of acquisitions (with Nashville’s own Ingram Books being one of the most active at gobbling up smaller companies), changes in tax laws, and especially bankruptcies, which decimated that market. And while companies were either being acquired or working their way through bankruptcy courts, hundreds of thousands of mass-market paperbacks sat gathering dust, cheap paper fading to yellow, in hundreds of warehouses across the country.

When the companies were acquired or released from bankruptcy, hundreds of thousands of mass-market paperbacks—their covers ripped off and sent back to the publisher as returns—were shredded and pulped.

Milliot and Stewart backed up what my editor told me over twenty-five years ago. They quoted a study done by the Book Industry Study Group that revealed mass market sales in 1996 fell 3.3% from the previous year. The downward slope continued through the early 2000s, through the introduction of the eBook in 2006, until 2011, when eBook sales and mass market sales were roughly equal. Unfortunately, that parity of numbers disguised the fact that mass-market paperback sales were down by $500 million that year, while eBook sales had grown by $1 billion.

To deploy another effective cliché, it was death by a thousand cuts.

And now it’s dead. They’ll surely be a few mass-market paperbacks around for a few more years, but as a cultural force in society, as a huge segment of the publishing industry, it’s over.

The mass-market paperback democratized literature in America; it turned us into a nation of readers. When America went to war in December 1941, publishers stepped up with special format mass-market paperbacks in what were known as the “Armed Services Edition.” I have several of those in my collection, including Graham Greene’s The Confidential Agent and several GI paperbacks my uncle carried across Europe and through the Battle of the Bulge. These old treasures are frail now, their cheap, high-acid content paper yellowed and brittle, their bindings cracked and flaking.

But they were carried by hundreds of thousands of soldiers through a world war and all those GIs found escape and comfort in them. And hopefully, they developed a love of reading that they carried with them through the rest of their lives.

It’s sad to see the mass-market paperback sunset. But as I’ve learned the hard way over many orbits around the sun, all good things must come to an end.

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Another valuable life lesson is that when one door closes, another opens. Over the next few months, we’re going to go on an adventure together by way of this column.

I have a writing partner in New York City, Wayne McDaniel. He’s a fabulous screenwriter, novelist, documentarian, with an MFA in Film from Columbia University, as well as a helluva great guy. In 2014, we published a novel called Resurrection Bay.

Several years after that, we wrote a novel together called Pearson Place. This project is literally one of the best books I’ve ever been involved in. I’ll have more to say on the book itself next month.

Wayne and I have spent the last few years trying to find a publisher for this novel. We gave it everything we had. We set up a Query Tracker account and queried dozens of agents. Zilch. Nada. As many of you know, getting trad publishing’s attention these days is harder than ever.

Finally, through a connection (which is really how almost everything is done in publishing), we got an editor at a medium-sized-but-prestigious-publisher to take a look at the manuscript.

We were gobsmacked and thrilled when she loved the book. Literally, that’s what she told us. She loved the freakin’ thing. As in many corporate entities, though, all decisions are made by consensus and there was one person on the acquisitions committee who had problems with the book and vetoed it.

Then this editor did something I have literally never seen before in my forty years in publishing; she said if Wayne and I would do a rewrite and address the issues her colleague had, she’d take the book back and try again.

Without hesitation, we did a rewrite.

The editor loved what we did and took it back to committee. Six months and more went by and finally she called us, nearly in tears, and said her colleague wouldn’t budge. We were all heartbroken, but I think she took it harder than we did.

So Wayne and I decided to go a different route. We’re going to serialize the book on Substack. We’ve broken the book out into individual Substack posts/chapters and are writing supplemental material to go with it and just learning how this is done.

It’s a revolutionary way to get books out there, digitized and delivered via the Internet. Nothing like this has ever been done before.

Oh, wait. There was that Dickens fellow who did it with David Copperfield, The Pickwick Papers, and The Mystery of Edwin Drood—among others—over 160 years ago. I guess everything old is new again.

Thanks for playing along. See you next month.

Between Pen and Paper: Flaneuring Through a Writer’s Mind – Why the Inescapable Laws of Nature Matter to Storytellers

By Andi Kopek

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This month, we’ll experience the shortest day of the year—a cosmic reminder that no matter how aggressively we caffeinate our mornings, how many apps we invent, or how many wars we start or can’t end, Earth continues tilting its stubborn 23.5 degrees and throwing snow in our faces.

We may adapt the environment to our needs—insulate it, refrigerate it, pave it, terraform it (fictionally, for now)—but as a species we remain lashed, quite firmly, to the cosmos and its unamused laws of physics.

It’s a humbling thought: even our wildest science-fiction flights depend on what the universe permits. You can bend physics only so far, stretch it only so thin—try to wink at it, and it raises an eyebrow (or the reader lowers their lips in disappointment). Even the fictional worlds we create must ultimately rest on the four fundamental laws of nature:

1. General Relativity

2. The Standard Model of Particle Physics

3. Quantum Mechanics

4. The Laws of Thermodynamics

These aren’t optional. They are the pillars holding up our worlds, real or imaginary—four immense supports of a suspension bridge stretching into the unknown on both ends. We stand upon it, preoccupied with our current state of affairs, trying to unravel the past or imagine futures, while quarks and entropy play on the cables like Einstein bowing a violin.

Creatives who like to play in a sandbox built by these laws are called sci-fi writers. I became a devoted fan of the genre growing up in Poland in the ’70s, when it offered a rare loophole—a way to smuggle big, dangerous, philosophical ideas past the watchful gaze of the Big Communist Brother. Perhaps some of you, concerned with our own modern flavors of censorship, will take the hint. Maybe your next detective story or mystery will unfold not in Nashville as we know it, but on a distant world; maybe the serial killer you’re chasing isn’t hiding in East Nashville but on PSR B1620−26b (the ancient Methuselah Planet) located in the southern arm of the Milky Way, y’all.

The best sci-fi stories I’ve read use scientific principles not as shackles but as springboards for imagination. Here are a few worth keeping in mind:

Gravity. Gravity determines body size, structure, mobility, and evolution; it influences circulation, muscle mass, bone density, and even how tall a creature dares to grow. A world with twice Earth’s gravity won’t give you graceful gazelles—it’ll give you grumpy, compact, low-slung creatures muttering at an early age about knee pain.

Atmospheric Composition. Life requires a medium for energy exchange. For us, that medium is oxygen, but other molecules could take its place: nitrogen, carbon dioxide, methane, even sulfur compounds. Change the atmosphere, and you change the biochemistry—and the smell of everything.

Radiation. Cosmic rays (which are mostly high-speed protons) and various types of electromagnetic radiation—infrared, ultraviolet, and microwave—constantly pepper planets. This radiation might nurture life, mutate it (which could mean more diseases but also faster evolution), or erase it.

Temperature. Most Earth life functions within a narrow temperature window (from about –20°C to +70°C), the range ideal for our enzymes and our chemistry. Below 0°C, life largely halts; by – 20°C, most biochemical reactions have effectively stopped. In the opposite direction, proteins denature above +50°C, and DNA strands come apart above +70°C. That’s the limit of our chemistry.

The Universal Solvent. These temperature limits mostly reflect our reliance on water as a solvent. Water freezes at 0°C and boils at 100°C. Swap water for something else—say, methane, which freezes at –183°C—and life would look radically different. Imagine fish made of wax moving through liquid natural gas.

Magnetic Field. Charged cosmic particles—again, mostly high-energy protons—are deflected by Earth’s magnetic field, which acts as a planetary shield. Without that shield, life on Earth’s surface would be devastated… though not entirely erased. Some extremophiles would endure: certain bacteria (including the famous Conan the Bacterium), fungi (including even more famous Black Mold of Chernobyl), their spores, lichens (a fungus–cyanobacterium partnership), and the legendary indestructible animals—the water bears.

Planet’s Orbit & Tilt. Our planet’s tilt gives us the four seasons; an eccentric orbit would deliver wilder temperature swings. Too much tilt and you get seasonal mayhem; too little, and every day feels like Nashville in March.

Type of Planet’s Star. A star sets a planet’s energy budget as well as day–night rhythm. Remember: the amount of energy a planet receives from its star is inversely proportional to the square of its distance. Double the distance, and the light drops to a quarter. This simple math already creates a universe of possibilities for a writer.

Plate Tectonics / Geologic Activity. This feature is important for creating continents, mountains, mineral deposits, as well as tsunamis and nice views. It also maintains an atmosphere and recycles carbon.

Chemistry & Availability of Essential Elements. Life (as we know it) requires six main elements: carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen, phosphorus, and sulfur. But don’t forget the trace metals: iron, magnesium, molybdenum, copper, and nickel. Without them, enzymes don’t work, cells don’t breathe, and metabolism collapses.

So as you sit through this shortest of days, muttering at the early sunset and your cold coffee, remember: the universe with its laws is not your enemy. The cosmos is your co-author. As writers, we should honor the laws that shape our worlds, knowing that imagination deepens—not shrinks—when it leans on truth. If sci-fi authors could sneak philosophy past censors in 1970s Poland, you can certainly sneak a detective onto a distant exoplanet. The shortest day of the year is a great opportunity to recall that we’re temporary passengers on a tilted, spinning, pale blue dot rushing through mostly empty space at 1,300,000 mph*. We are nobody. Let’s respect the laws of nature and enjoy the ride and creativity.

Andi

*1,300,000 mph is the speed of the Earth moving through the cosmos as a part of the Milky Way galaxy’s journey relative to the Cosmic Microwave Background.

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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
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FIVE KEYS TO CREATING BELIEVABLE VILLAINS

By Venita Bonds

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My elderly aunt never speaks ill of anyone. When I joked that she could find something nice to say about the devil himself, she said, “Well, he does have a good work ethic.” 

Few people are 100% evil—and this includes bad guys. Mystery writer DP Lyle says, “Everyone is the hero of their own story.” While it’s tempting to make your villain bad to the bone, you have to make him “human” enough to be believable. Villains need at least one fault, frailty, or soft spot that makes them vulnerable. 

Key 1: Humanity and Vulnerability

Think of Boyd Crowder in Justified. He’s a bad guy we hate to love, but we love him, anyway. Why? Because he’s charismatic, intelligent, eloquent, and funny. He’s also untrustworthy and prideful. His human flaws make him vulnerable and often self-destructive.

The cannibalistic Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs is impossible to love, but his brilliant intellect and odd sense of decorum make him believable in a terrifying way. FBI Agents Crawford and Starling think his only weakness is his huge ego, which makes him vulnerable to their attempts to use him to track down a killer. We’ve all known people with the human qualities of pride, ego, and intelligence. Hopefully, they’re not hungry.

Keys 2 and 3: Justification and Backstory

Humans believe we have the right to act as we do. We try to justify our actions, no matter how heinous. Villains are no different. They often use their backstory to justify their deeds. Something in their past explains their rotten behavior—at least in their own mind. 

One caution: Think of backstory as salt sprinkled into the mix with a lean hand. While backstory is a necessary ingredient for you to understand your villains and what motivates them, feed it to your readers only a grain at a time, and never in your beginning pages. 

Your villains do not have to be killers to need backstory and justification. They can be anyone who exerts power: lawyers, preachers, politicians, medical personnel, or company CEOs. 

Alabama native Richard Scrushy drove a cement mixer for a living. In his rags-to-riches backstory, he went from hauling cement to becoming the CEO of a multibillion-dollar corporation. Possessing an ego the size of his bank account, he ruled his executives through threats and intimidation. When the Department of Justice indicted him on 85 counts of conspiracy, money laundering, and securities fraud, the company’s stocks crashed. Scrushy justified his actions as those of a philanthropic visionary whose only sin was trusting his accountants.  

Florida prostitute Aileen Wuornos murdered seven johns. Her backstory? Sexual abuse from childhood. During her trial, she highlighted her past to make jurors see her in a sympathetic light. Her justification for murder was that all men were a threat to life and limb. She claimed she acted in “self-defense like any human would do.” She made herself believable enough to garner a fan club. 

Key 4: Body Language

The human body speaks louder than words. We can control what we say and might even pass a lie detector test, but our body language can be a dead giveaway. Even the most duplicitous villain reveals the truth through “tells” that leak out of his movements and mannerisms. To create believable villains, let their bodies do the talking.

Example: 

Her left eyelid twitched. Poker players know that micro movements can reveal a person’s thoughts. I was a lousy poker player, but I’d known Elsa Bea all my life. I saw her tell.

Another example: 

She locked onto my eyes without blinking. Liars do that when they want you to believe they’re telling the truth. Unfortunately, she was bouncing her left leg as though keeping time to a drumbeat. Legs don’t lie. 

Key 5: Secondary Characters

Use your secondary characters to increase your villain’s believability. Like my elderly aunt, secondary characters can provide backstory and justification for a villain. In this scene, a housekeeper is defending a doctor suspected of poisoning elderly women. 

“His primary practice is anti-aging— hormones and hydrogen peroxide infusions,” Geraldine said. 

“Is that what he’s giving Mother?” 

She shrugged. “All I know is that it’s made from plants, so it’s all natural.”

“Poison ivy’s all natural. Rattlesnake venom’s all natural.”

“He’s not poisoning her!” 

“How do you know?”

She threw up her hands in exasperation. “He went to Cambridge. Would the Ochsner Clinic employ him if he weren’t an excellent physician?”

Turn the Key

The most important key to creating believable villains is you. The greater your understanding of human behavior and communication, the more realistic your bad guys will be. Just don’t turn your back on one.  

Suggested Reading and Viewing 

Books

Six-Minute X-Ray: Rapid Behavior Profiling by Chase Hughes 

How To Analyze People: How To Read Anyone Like A Book by Madison Taylor

Confidential: Uncover Your Competitors’ Top Business Secrets Legally and Quickly—and Protect Your Own by John Nolan

Websites and Videos

Thebehaviorpanel.com features educational videos on behavioral analysis, communication and elicitation, deception detection, and interrogation. Participants are: 

Mark Bowden: truthplane.com

Chase Hughes: chasehughes.com
www.youtube.com/@chasehughesofficial 

Greg Hartley:  greghartley.com

Scott Rouse:  scottrouse.com

Scott & Greg:  bodylanguagetactics.com

Television and Movies

“Invisible Monsters: Serial Killers in America” (2021 Miniseries) 

The Serial Killers of “Invisible Monsters” | A&E (aetv.com)

“Monster” (2003 movie about Aileen Wuornos starring Charlize Theron)

“American Greed” (TV documentary series for students of human nature and behavior)

“Catch Me If You Can” (2002 movie about a con man)

Weston Smith’s HealthSouth video on the largest health care fraud in US history:  
https://youtu.be/rjgLRRoc_JU?si=FrfYJsN8WRHDd__2

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Venita Bonds is a retired RN with a background in intensive care and psychiatric nursing. She taught adult writing courses and worked for a defense contractor training human intelligence assets for deployment. The author of four historical novels, she now writes Southern Gothic mysteries and short stories. She was a Killer Nashville 2025 Claymore Award winner. She can be found at www.venitabonds.com.

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

By David Lane Williams

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There are few images more emblematic of police work than handcuffs. Most people get the basic concept: police put them on the wrists to keep arrestees from escaping, fighting, or trying to destroy evidence. Beyond that, handcuffs call to mind constitutional questions, including the Fourth Amendment regarding a government agent (a cop, for example) seizing the physical body of a citizen and the Eighth Amendment as it applies to cruel and unusual punishment. They are a tool, but one that can be abused, so their use must be performed judiciously and without causing injury.

Handcuffs are properly applied with the hands behind the back and the palms facing out. This is the most secure and reliable method for restraining someone who could be a flight or fight risk. It is more uncomfortable than having cuffs on in front, but this is a safety-first issue. Cuffs that are applied so that the hands are still on the front of the body allow aggressive prisoners to punch and grab for weapons, so academies across the country train officers to put them on so that the suspect’s wrists are behind the back. 

Exceptions to the behind-the-back method include obesity, pregnancy, and anyone with a pre-existing injury or illness that would be exacerbated by their arms being pinned back. Large-sized arrestees can get some relief if the arresting officer interlaces two cuffs together to widen the links. This takes a lot of strain off the back, shoulders, and wrists.

Most handcuff brands can be opened with a universal key, meaning Officer A, using Smith & Wesson brand handcuffs, can open Officer B’s ASP brand handcuffs. This, ironically, means people who don’t much like police or think laws don’t apply to them can secretly carry a standard handcuff key on or in their person and use it to open just about any handcuff out there. This is why the process of placing handcuffs with the palms (and thus fingers) facing out and the keyhole facing up is standard across the profession. It makes it tougher for malcontents to “Houdini” out of the restraints. 

Try it. Sit on a straight-backed chair as if you’re an arrestee in the back of a squad car. Make sure the back of your wrists are touching and your palms are facing out. Pretend that your wrists are locked, and that the keyhole is facing up. Unless you’re a true magician, you’re out of luck if your plan is to escape. 

Quality of handcuffs varies from brand to brand, so some officers spring for a higher standard out of their own pocket if they don’t like the department-issued model. The biggest factor is how smoothly and quickly the cuffs encircle the wrists. Most officers like a fast action that wraps around a wrist and locks in one smooth action. Many cops also pony up for better handcuff keys equipped with miniature lights, textured grips, and metal rings for clipping them on the duty belt. There is a whole handcuff industry you’ve probably never imagined. 

Once handcuffs are applied, officers are required to verify that they are not impeding blood flow. This is done either by checking the capillary refill in the nail bed, pinching the nail until it blanches, and then releasing the pressure. The normal pink hue should return within a second if the cuffs are not restricting the flow. 

The other method is to insert a fingertip between the cuff metal and the wrist skin. The cuffs are too tight if you can’t fit the end of a finger in this space. The handcuffs are then “double locked” so they cannot loosen or tighten during the ride to jail, the police station, or the hospital.

Handcuffs can really hurt. Officers in training spend hours slapping them on one another, wearing them in the back of a squad car, sitting down with them on, etc. They know about as well as anyone how painful cuffs can be if applied roughly or, as in the case of police training, repeatedly. 

One of the more brutal aspects of police training comes when the drill instructor orders one or two students to handcuff another cadet, and the “arrestee” cadet is ordered to keep them from getting the cuffs on. This becomes a melee, and I’ve seen shoulders snap out of the socket and bruises to wrists and forearms that travel toward the elbow in the days following the training. Thus, we know that those things can produce agony if they’re not used with some modicum of compassion. 

There is a dangerous period right after the first cuff is applied and the officer is moving to apply the second. This is often when people swivel to attack or bolt to flee. There is something about the sound of that first handcuff ratcheting down on the wrist that can make people panic and do something stupid. Cadets practice applying the second cuff quickly to alleviate some of this concern. I was okay at it, but I’ve seen experts apply both cuffs in a proper manner in under one second—blazing fast and tactically efficient. 

It’s a lot tougher to apply handcuffs than you might imagine, especially if someone is resisting arrest. People wriggle, shove away, buck and sweat, and getting that second cuff on may call for twisting his arm. This is one of the most dangerous moments for both officer and suspect.

Ironically, in nearly all cases, you’ll hear the officer growling, “Stop resisting,” even as the suspect yelps back, “I’m not resisting.” They are resisting, of course, but this is a panicked vocalization coming from a person who, in that moment, may not even realize they are in full fight or flight mode. This is why excellent communication skills and the ability to get those cuffs on quickly if the situation warrants are so critical to everyone’s safety.

I had a personal rule, which I repeat to every student I teach at academies and colleges: Never curse a man in handcuffs. Once cuffs are on, the fight is essentially over. Sure, some might still buck and kick, but the law won that round. It’s been my experience that even the toughest parolees will forgive the arrest, but they’ll harbor years of resentment toward officers who disrespected them after the capture was made. 

Our code of conduct dictates that officers revert to being polite once the scene is made safe. I understand having hard feelings, but we’re supposed to be the good guys. The communities we serve need that level of professionalism and ethics from us more than ever. One way to demonstrate that attitude is through the proper, tactical, and constitutional application of handcuffs. 

Be safe out there…just not too safe. Onward.

Between Pen and Paper: Flaneuring Through a Writer’s Mind – Time Travel Through Memory’s Imaginary Paths, or How the Brain Edits Your Past

By Andi Kopek

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Have you ever caught yourself remembering something that never happened?

I currently, while writing my debut novel, am also working on my second one—meaning I’m collecting information, doing research, scouting locations, and interviewing family members. The novel will be loosely based on my family history and will span over 300 years, starting (if arranged chronologically) in 1821 and ending in 2160. One might call it historical science fiction.

While gathering family stories, I recalled events from my early childhood—or, to be precise, discovered that my recollections did not match the memories of my family’s elders. Without needing to go into the details of the events at this time, that realization prompted me to reflect on what we actually remember.

Our brains, those tireless editors, can’t resist revising the past. Each time we recall an event, we open the file, tweak a line, shift the tone, and hit save again—sometimes without realizing the edits we’ve made. Neuroscientists call this reconsolidation: memory not as a photograph but as a living document, rewritten every time we look. We don’t remember the original event; we remember the last time we remembered it.

Writers, of course, do it professionally. We time-travel through memory like reckless tourists—freely changing dialogue, repainting the sky, swapping characters. We think we’re preserving the past, but really, we’re composing it. The story of our lives is less a memoir than a series of ongoing drafts—each one a little truer to how we feel, and a little farther from what actually happened.

We like to think of memory as an archive—a room full of drawers neatly labeled childhood, college, that one heartbreak we swear we’re over. But the mind doesn’t keep good filing cabinets. Recalling the past is more like being half archaeology, half alchemy. While a restless archaeologist meticulously brushes the dust from fossilized fragments, an alchemist whispers spells over them, turning stone into gold—or gold back into stone.

Some of you, particularly readers of Killer Nashville Magazine and attendees of our annual conference, may have experienced this firsthand in court. When witnesses are called to testify, they believe they’re replaying an exact recording of what happened. But decades of research—especially by cognitive psychologist Elizabeth Loftus—show otherwise. A witness doesn’t press play; they reconstruct the scene, influenced by the questions asked, the room’s tension, even the faces watching them. Every courtroom becomes a theater of memory—actors, in good faith, improvise a scene while being convinced that the scene has been already written. The result isn’t false. It’s just… rewritten. Imagine a writer as a witness—the two-sided power of good storytelling.

Memory’s gaps, forgetting’s loopholes, and the brain’s determination to improvise its own facts are irresistible tools for any thriller or detective writer. Imagine the plot twists, red herrings, and narrative whiplash this flawed instrument of the mind can offer.

So, what’s real? What’s real in the past? Perhaps that’s why the epigraph of my next novel will include a quiet confession: based on the reality of my imagination. Because really, what else could memory be? Every time we recall, we revise. Every time we revise, we fold the past into the present tense. We don’t travel back in time—we reassemble it from the pieces still within reach. In other words, our memories are the latest translation of the remembered past.

One might even say, particularly a therapist, that our imperfect memories are a blessing—a kind of survival kit. If memory were permanent, perfectly accurate, there’d be no forgiveness, no growth, no moving on—only haunted houses. The edits save us, whether we like it or not. The new drafts keep us alive. Forgetting, sometimes, is better than remembering. And our minds, generous cartographers, fill in the blank spaces when the map tears in two.

So the next time you find yourself remembering something that never happened, don’t get upset. Step inside it. Wander through its corridors. You’re not lying to yourself—you’re time-traveling through the only past that still breathes: the one your imagination keeps seeing and revising.

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

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This Crazy Writing Life: AI And Indie Pubbing—Is This The End Of The World As We Know It?

By Steven Womack

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Want to read a book that’ll scare the bejeezus out of you? Grab a copy of If Anyone Builds It, Everyone Dies—Why Superhuman AI Would Kill Us All. The authors—Eliezer Yudkowsky and Nate Soares—have studied artificial intelligence for decades and have reached the conclusion that if we keep going the way we’re going, AI will soon be smarter than we are. The next step is for it to become sentient and when AI is able to perceive, feel, and outsmart us, it will ultimately get into conflict with all us mere humans.

Then guess what? We’re toast…

Is that the way this is all going to play out? Who knows? As Yogi Berra once said: “It’s tough to make predictions, especially about the future.”

One thing I do know is that the whole AI thing is taking up more and more of our bandwidth each day. Major corporations are laying off tens of thousands of workers and replacing them with AI. From driver-less taxis to robotic Door Dash deliveries and fast food cooks, AI seems to be on everybody’s mind. Try calling a large corporation, hospital, or customer service center, hoping to reach a human. It’s harder than ever.

It’s no different in the publishing world, especially in the indie-pub space.

I’ve been lucky in that I’ve been able to attend the last four Novelists Inc. annual conferences. At each one of those conferences, the issue of AI in indie-pubbing—especially AI-narrated audiobooks—has been front-and-center. Is AI going to put human audiobook narrators out of business? Do we need a new army of Luddites smashing the machines to protect the paychecks and lifelines of the modern-day equivalent of textile workers.

Again, I’ve given up prognosticating. I’m usually wrong anyway.

But I can make some observations, and you can draw your own conclusions from them. Let’s start with AI-narrated audiobooks.

First, a brief history. In 1976, Ray Kurzweil unveiled the Kurzweil Reading Machine, the first modern text-to-speech synthesizer. He originally envisioned the machine as a way for blind people to have access to text (Stevie Wonder bought the first one). By 1988, the Apple Macintosh had an effective TTS (text-to-speech) capability, and development has continued to this day.

By far, the that biggest hurdle to creating audiobooks—especially for indie authors—is the production cost. Costs vary widely, depending on a number of factors, but professional audiobook narrators with credits typically charge from $100-300 or more per finished hour. Studio rental, editing, and mastering the files can add significantly to the cost.

For audiobook producers who choose to have multiple narrators, sound effects, etc., costs can double or even triple.

Not only are the costs out-of-reach for many indie authors, the ROI is often simply not there. A ten-book series by an indie author can easily cost $35-50K to produce and publish. Obviously, in a competitive marketplace where discoverability is also an issue, one must sell an enormous number of audiobooks just to make back the production costs.

The evolution of digitally narrated audiobooks has rocketed into high gear in the past few years. In March 2021, Hume AI began developing AI platforms that analyzed vocal inflections and facial expressions that better gauged human emotional states and could create more human-sounding voices (and AI characters).

In 2022, a machine learning engineer and an ex-Palantir deployment strategist—both from Poland—created ElevenLabs, motivated by what they felt were American films badly dubbed into Polish. In January 2023, ElevenLabs’s beta platform went public. Since then, a number of versions have been developed and deployed.

Today, ElevenLabs is leading the charge on realistic digital voice narration for audiobooks. They have a library of hundreds of voice samples. You can even create an ElevenLabs account and upload of sample of your own voice. It goes in the library and if someone likes your voice, they can choose you. Only you won’t actually narrate the book. ElevenLabs will synthesize your voice based on the sample and narrate the whole book and you’ll get a small licensing fee.

In November, 2023, Amazon rolled out an invitation-only KDP Beta test for digitally narrated audiobooks. Early results were considered by many to be problematic. The only appealing thing about it was that it was actually free (but you could only sell your audiobook on Amazon).

At this year’s NINC conference, I had the chance to sit in on a panel presented by Dr. Phil Marshall, the founder and CEO of a company called Spoken, which is the latest contender in the digital narration sphere. Marshall—who’s an M.D. and a surgeon who left the field of medicine to pursue a career in AI development— founded Spoken two years ago, a company whose mission is to make the most realistic and effective AI-narration available to authors at a reasonable cost.

“Listening is the new reading,” he explained. “Half of all Americans listen to spoken word media every day.”

Marshall then demonstrated the Spoken platform, which works on multiple levels. Authors can choose totally digital narrator voices, or they can use voices of real actors, whose voice samples are then synthesized and replicated by the AI platform to speak the text in the audiobook.

He emphasized the editing capabilities of the platform, which enables authors to manipulate voices at a single-line level. If an author doesn’t like the inflection or pacing of a delivered line of dialogue, for example, he or she can go so far as to record the line the way it should be delivered. The Spoken app then analyzes the author’s reading of the line and regurgitates it in the digital voice.

Marshall then outlined his company’s strategic partnership with ElevenLabs and Hume AI, in which authors using the Spoken platform can have access to literally hundreds (if not thousands by now) of voices available on those platforms.

This flexibility, combined with the pricing structure, even makes multi-voiced cast recordings accessible and affordable. In Marshall’s view, he noted, this represents one of the greatest opportunities for indie audiobook producers. He demonstrated a project he’s working on now—his own novel Taming the Perilous Skies—which will contain over 100 voices.

Spoken’s pricing structure offers two different options. Authors can work on a per project basis, which offers an unlimited number of voices, custom voices, full access to the Spoken studio, project download, and audio mastering at a price of $10 per 5,000 words. For multiple projects, authors can subscribe for $50/month, with 50% off all narration costs.

So there you have it, folks. A human-narrated audiobook can easily cost $3500-$5000 to produce. A 100,000 word digitally narrated audiobook will cost a couple hundred to get out there. When you take into account the digitally narrated audiobook will sound about 90 percent human, that’s not a bad compromise. And I don’t think we’re too far away from a place where you’ll almost have to be an audio expert to tell the difference.

The question remains for many people is whether or not this is morally and ethically right. If you look at technical revolutions throughout history, they have always disrupted the status quo. In the 19th century, the Luddites were textile workers rebelling against the automation in mills. Did that stop the process?

No, but it created a whole new segment of industrial jobs. Somebody had to operate those mills. Textile workers became machine operators in a factory rather than sitting at home with a traditional loom. And while Henry Ford did put a lot of blacksmiths and buggy whip makers out of business, in the end I think it’s safe to say he created more jobs than the ones he eliminated.

Besides, blacksmiths are still around, and I’d speculate that they’re making more than ever.

Another way to look at it is if I produce an AI-narrated audiobook, have I caused an audiobook narrator’s children to go hungry? No, because I can’t afford the human narrator in the first place. I drive a KIA; that doesn’t mean I took a Cadillac worker’s job. I can’t afford a Cadillac to begin with, not to mention I wouldn’t be caught dead in one.

Nearly twenty years ago, many gurus railed that the advent of the eBook industry spelled doom for print books. But are print books dead? No, they’re more popular than ever before.

So if you’re a human audiobook narrator and voice-over artist, do you need to be looking for a new career? I don’t think so. Human voices are always going to be needed, even in audiobook narration.

Two years ago at the NINC conference, I had a conversation with USA Today best-selling author Sylvia McDaniel, a hybrid author who’s penned over 100 romance novels. She’s very successful and a delightful person to be around. I’m genuinely fond of her.

She told me that her approach is to produce two audiobook versions of her novels. The human-narrated version is priced as a traditional audiobook—roughly the $10.99-on-up range—and a digitally narrated book for as little as $.99 with an Audible membership.

So if you’re an audiobook consumer and want the joy of hearing Tom Hanks narrate the latest best-seller, then you can shell out a little more for that privilege.

But if you’re just looking for somebody to read you the dang book while you’re driving to and from work, then that option comes a lot cheaper.

Does any of this sound familiar?

During the Great Depression, a lot of people couldn’t afford food and clothes, let alone expensive hardbound books. In 1935, a London publisher named Allen Lane came up with an idea to make books more accessible and affordable. He created a universal format that was cheap to produce and would easily fit into standardized wire racks that could be placed in any retail space, not just bookstores.

He founded a company—Penguin Books—to move this idea forward and the mass-market paper was born. For the next seventy years—until the advent of the eBook that replaced it—the mass market paperback was the chief medium for both fiction and nonfiction sales.

I think we may see something very similar to that in audiobooks.

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But it’s not just audiobooks. What else is expensive to produce for an indie author?

Foreign translations…

With Amazon.com in practically every corner of the globe, marketing eBook translations can be a lucrative revenue stream. Only it costs a boatload of money to hire a translator and there’s no guarantee you’ll ever see a decent ROI.

While at the NINC conference, I met indie authors who are using a company called ScribeShadow to produce AI-translated foreign editions. I spoke with a few authors who have used this service and have been very happy, especially given the 90 percent-plus savings in creating the foreign work.

What about the quality? Idioms and inflection? The nuances of slang and regional dialect? I once had to explain to a Japanese translator that my use of the Southern idiom slicker than snot on a doorknob didn’t mean there was literally mucous on the door handle. Yes, I agreed, that would be very unhygienic. 

One author explained to me that when you produce a foreign language eBook, if the translation sucks, readers will beat you to death in the reviews. She’s done a number of German translations—without speaking a word of German—and so far, her reviews have been positive.

This author doesn’t even use German proofreaders to check the translation. She told me she feeds an English manuscript into the ScribeShadow AI platform, and a German translation pops out the other end. Then she feeds the German translation into ChatGPT for a final check.

There you have it, folks; a foreign edition of your English masterpiece that’s entirely untouched by human hands.

As I’ve said so many times over the last year-and-a-half of writing these columns, it’s a whole new world out there.

As always, thanks for playing along.

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Wait! Stop the presses! The day after I turned this column in, Amazon announced via PublishersLunch that they’ve launched an AI translation service for indie authors publishing through KDP. It’s currently in Beta and will convert books from English and Spanish and from German to English (not sure exactly what that means), with more languages to be added soon.

To quote from Amazon’s announcement: With less than 5% of titles on Amazon.com available in more than one language, Kindle Translate creates opportunities for authors to reach new audiences and earn more…Within a few days, authors can publish fully formatted translations of their books. All translations are automatically evaluated for accuracy before publication, and authors can choose whether to preview or automatically publish completed translations.

And, like KDP’s digital audiobooks option, the service is free.

See what I mean, folks? Things are changing so you have to update columns before they’re even published. I’ll do some more digging and report back in next month’s edition. Best guidance going forward—jump in and hang on!

Flying Solo: On Finding Success As a Writer Without the Help of an Agent

By Anna Scotti

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When a writer lets slip that there's a novel in the works—or a story, or a collection of stories—the first thing people want to know is whether you have an agent. And from there, we writers start to dream. 

Agents do all the hard work of submitting material. They hook you up with advances, royalties, movie deals, foreign rights, video game rights, maybe a TV or streaming deal. Along with their first cousin, the book publicist, agents are the key to success, fame, and fortune. Right?

One of the biggest book deals on record is Michelle and Barack Obama's mega-deal with Penguin - 65 million bucks for four books. Okay, you say, but that's a former president and a first lady. Let's be pragmatic. What can we, as mystery writers, expect?  Well, Lisa Scottoline has a net worth upwards of 25 million dollars following a fat deal with Grand Central a couple of years back. Dean Koontz is worth 150 million, and James Patterson is halfway to a billion, having landed what is arguably the most lucrative multi-book deal in history. These deals were brokered by agents. But we're being pragmatic, remember, so you might expect your first book deal to net you well less than a million bucks. Fifty grand sounds about right. Not enough for a condo in Hollywood, but more than enough for a low-end beemer with cash left over for gas. Sure, fifty grand.

 Well, no.

 The average traditionally-published mystery novel nets its author five to ten thousand dollars. And that's of the books that find traditional publishers, which is a slim percentage of the books that are actually completed and shopped around. And that percentage is itself a slim fraction of the books that are begun, tapped out on laptops before school or after work, dreamed up over lattes in coffee houses and hashed out in writers' groups, paragraph by sweaty paragraph. It's hard to write a book. It's really hard to finish, edit, revise, and polish a book. And it's near impossible to land an agent.

Sure, writers do find agents. Depending upon the source you consult, there are between 300 and 1000 agents currently active in the United States. That's maybe six to twenty per state - not a lot. Each agent has 20, maybe thirty, writers currently signed to their roster, so they are able to be extremely selective about whom they sign. Agents exist because it's extremely difficult to get your work in front of major publishers without one. But it's also extremely difficult to get your work in front of an agent to begin with! Conferences definitely help—quite a few writers have found representation after meeting an agent at Killer Nashville, for example, or at various "pitch conferences."  Networking and persistence help, too. But there are hundreds of articles available about how to find an agent, and most of them are accurate, realistic…and discouraging. It's like a game of musical chairs where instead of one person getting left out, everybody but one person gets left out. Somebody is going to catch that agent's eye—but this time around, it might not be you.

So what about getting your work in front of publishers without an agent? Is it possible? Absolutely! In fact, I can tell you exactly how to get your work seen by Gina Centello at Random House, or Ben Sevier at Grand Central. It's simple—just invent a time machine, go back several decades, and get born into their families. Or save their dog from getting run over and create a life-long debt, something along those lines. But what if your scientific and metaphysical skills are not as strong as your mystery-writing prowess?  You will probably not be publishing your first book with Harper Collins, but it is entirely possible to land a contract with a reputable house. 

The first step is to be realistic. You may end up as big as Lisa Scottoline or James Patterson someday, but you are not there yet. You may end up sipping Stellas at the White Horse Tavern with Gina or Ben someday, but you're not there yet. You've got a book, and it's good. It's been polished to high shine, and you want to see it between two covers. You've made the decision to seek a traditional publishing house, rather than to self-publish, or you wouldn't be reading this craft article. And here's the good news—a trade paperback published by a reputable indie or a university press is eligible for all of the same awards, honors, prizes and reviews as a hardcover book published with a lot of hoopla by any of the Big Five. 

Really?

Really. The most prestigious honor in the mystery world is probably the Edgar Allan Poe Award, familiarly known as the Edgar, and you can submit your own book to the Mystery Writers of America! Longing for an Anthony Award, or perhaps a Claymore? You don't need the publisher or an agent for that—you can submit your own work. You can even submit your own book for the Pulitzer Prize! Books released by university presses and small independent publishing houses—"indies"—routinely nab prizes, awards, honors and the press that leads to sales and builds a writer's reputation. 

But it's not always easy to get your book in front of those smaller, less prestigious publishing houses, either. They can be just as selective as Simon & Schuster or MacMillan. Maybe, under some circumstances, even more so. The big dogs can trust that a book by a bestselling author will move copies, even if it's not particularly riveting or well-reviewed. A book released by a brave little indie relies on word of mouth, professional reviews—usually in small publications and regional newspapers—and reader reviews on Goodreads and Amazon to spark interest and rack up sales. True, an indie house doesn't need to move 10 to 25 thousand copies to avoid Monday-morning regrets. A thousand copies may be considered a success, indeed—and may turn a tidy profit for the house. But because it's expensive to acquire, edit, copy edit, design, register, and distribute a book, small houses have to be careful; they can't afford a lot of misfires.

So as you prepare your novel or collection to make its way into the world, be meticulous. There are a million free sources at your fingertips to show you how to format your manuscript, but the basics are pretty simple. Use a 12-point serif font (Times New Roman will never let you down).  Double space and use one-inch margins. Paginate.  Put your name, address, phone, email and website addy (if any) on page one. Read any special instructions the publisher may have noted on their website. Then proofread, edit, copyedit, spell check, set the manuscript aside for two weeks, and go back and do it again. 

Many publishing houses read year-round. Others have reading periods—just check their websites. But don't be too quick to go over the transom or through the portal. I've had more than a few editors respond to an email letting them know I'm regularly published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. That credit opens doors in the mystery world. Even if they then ask you to submit through their portal, they may remember your name or keep an eye out for the manuscript. If you don't have a significant, impressive credit in the genre in which you are submitting, don't bother with the personal email. But if you do—a book previously published by a traditional publisher, stories in prestigious markets like EQMM or Alfred Hitchcock, or a well-known prize on your CV—send a brief, friendly email and ask for "permission" to send the manuscript. If you're directed to the plebian portal everyone has to use, nothing's lost. But you might get that much-coveted "please send your manuscript to my attention" email!

Competitions are another way to get your book read by a publishing house. There are a kazillion contests out there, some legitimate, and some not. The good news is, it's pretty easy to tell the difference between the two. First, consider the sponsor. Most book competitions are sponsored by small publishing houses, so check the site. Does it look attractive and well-maintained? Are winners from previous years listed? Google a few of them. Are their winning books in print? How do they look? Where can readers obtain the books? Distribution is the bugaboo of indie publishing—love it or not, many readers want to purchase their books online at Amazon or Barnes & Noble. If your book is available only through the publisher's site, is it easy to use? Actually log on and look. All the self-promotion in the world won't help your thriller if the publisher makes it hard to find or hard to buy—and some, inexplicably, do. 

Most competitions charge an entry fee, and that really seems to bother some writers, but the fact is that entry fees help small presses pay the cost of publishing and distributing their winning manuscripts. The same is true of contests that run without a book contract attached.  You may get a juicy credit for your resume, a banquet, a plaque, a sticker for your book cover, or even a cash prize, and the sponsors use entry fees to pay for those goodies. However, if you are truly hard up, there is often a fee waiver available—if you don't see one offered, ask. 

If you do place a book with a small publisher, whether through a contest or simply through open submissions, you may need to do a significant amount of marketing and publicity yourself. That sounds daunting, but it's not, really. You'll make a press kit of digital ARCs (advanced reading copies), a bio, a synopsis, and other materials the publisher will provide - things like an ISBN number, a link to pre-purchase, and some kind of announcement on the publisher's site and social media. Where will you send this press kit?  Everywhere you can think of, from local and regional newspapers, to magazines that publish reviews, to your alumni association and neighborhood groups, and to local bookstores and libraries. There are a lot of resources available that will show you ways to promote your own book, and if you have a good publisher, they will welcome your efforts and do all possible to help you. 

What about short stories? Even well-known writers usually submit their own work to magazines and anthologies. There simply isn't enough of a cut available to interest an agent (though an agent may perform this service as a courtesy to a big-name writer on their roster). The top magazines in our field—Ellery Queen, Alfred Hitchcock, The Strand, Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, and Black Cat Weekly, all pay—and all accept submissions without a "reading fee." And don't forget big-money fiction markets like The New Yorker and The Atlantic. Publishing in one of those can kickstart a career. It's a long shot, sure—but submitting to these and others of their ilk is free, and miracles do happen. (Really! Your girl here had her first New Yorker poem pulled out of the slush pile nearly ten years ago and has published five times with them since.) 

Literary journals are great in one regard—not so hot in another. They tend to be beautifully produced, carefully edited, and packed with notable work. Whether in paper copy or online, you'll be proud to show off your work in a lit journal. However, their circulation rates are generally low. Further, a few literary prizes are open only to work that has received payment from the publisher. That's why some markets offer a token payment. For example, if you place a story with The Saturday Evening Post's "New Fiction Fridays" you'll receive a check for twenty-five bucks. Why bother, you ask?  Because The Post produces your story beautifully, it's accessible online without a paywall, and the magazine is widely recognized and well-respected. Publishing in the Post online is a reputation-builder, not a money-maker. And it may give you a step up into the hard-copy magazine, which pays significantly more. Plus, that token payment will allow you entree to contests that would not otherwise be open to you. Less commercial journals have smaller circulations than The Post, but their stories make their way to various contents and "best of,"s too. One of my favorites of my own stories, What Anyone Would Think, was published in The New Guard Literary Review and made barely a ripple in the pond—but it is the centerpiece of a collection that was a finalist for the Claymore Prize, and is currently under consideration by several publishers—and agents!

That's right, I'm presently un-agented! Sure, I'd like to find someone great to handle my next book, but I can't say I regret flying solo for the collection from Down&Out Books in June, It's Not Even Past. Working closely with the publisher on layout, book cover copy, cover design, editing and copyediting, and publicity has been an incredible learning experience; I know how to get a book into the hands of reviewers, how to post social media announcements strategically, and how to set up cover reveals, interviews, guest spots on blogs, readings, and signings. Being sans agent has never held me back. It's Not Even Past is a compilation of "librarian on the run" stories from Ellery Queen and includes ten of the twenty-two stories I've sold to the magazine since 2018 without an agent. You can also find my work—a good amount of it—in Black Cat Weekly. In the past few years, I've been a finalist for the Macavity, the Derringer, the Thriller, and twice for the Claymore Prize! I've been in the running for an Ellery Queen Reader's Choice Award a number of times, I've had work selected for various podcasts and reprints, and my stories have been selected three times for Best Mystery Stories of the Year (Mysterious Press). I've lost count of the readings and signings I've done, and—oh, yeah. Did I mention that I'm also a poet and young adult author? My poetry collection, Bewildered by All This Broken Sky, won the inaugural Lightscatter Prize in 2020, and my young adult novel, Big and Bad, was awarded the Paterson Prize for Books for Young People the same year. Many of these honors and awards came with nice checks attached, and every single one was achieved without the help of an agent. Now, that's quite a brag fest, but boasting isn't my purpose here. I want you to understand that many working writers are flying solo and finding success, and you can, too—if you're good enough, persistent enough, creative enough, and willing to put in the hours. Good luck!

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Learn more about Anna Scotti - and about publishing books and stories without an agent, garnering publicity, and teaching as a side career - at Anna K Scotti.  It's Not Even Past is available now from the publisher, from Amazon or Barnes and Noble, and by order from your local bookstore.

Drop the Pen! What Every Writer Should Know About Real Police Work: Traffic Stops, Part Two

By David Lane Williams

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Last month, we discussed traffic stops, focusing primarily on how police officers stopping vehicles based on relatively minor offenses can lead to the detection and arrest of violent criminals. Even if you’re writing a detective procedural, it’s important that you understand the constitutional and tactical considerations of a legal and safe stop in the grand scheme of policing. This month, I want to continue with the traffic stop concept, expanding on best practices. Traffic stops are performed thousands of times each day, and writers of crime fiction and true crime need to have a solid understanding of how they are performed to show they’ve done the research and know this subject better than the average Joe Citizen. There is a procedure taught at most academies nowadays, and I think it is enlightening to understand the way these things should be done. Let’s take it step by step. 

Determine Reasonable Suspicion or Probable Cause

Let’s say your fictional officer needs to stop a car because the driver matches the description of a bank robber from the previous shift. Your officer needs to make the stop in a legal and safe manner. The first thing he must decide (and be ready to defend) is the legal reason for the stop. Officers in the U.S. can’t just go around stopping every car they pass. We’ve all seen the awful ramifications of such an approach. There are basically two ways to make a legal, constitutionally sound traffic stop: Reasonable Suspicion or Probable Cause. 

Reasonable suspicion that a driver or occupant of a moving vehicle has committed a crime or is about to commit one is an acceptable reason for stopping a vehicle. It is, however, the least resilient tactic to the scrutiny of a defense attorney, judge, and/or jury. The officer must be able to swear under oath that, based on his training and experience, he suspected the occupants of a vehicle of doing or about to do a crime. Reasonable suspicion stops are done with less frequency than even a decade ago, because of the inevitable attack it will receive from the person’s attorney if the case ever goes to trial. Most officers will wait until they notice an infraction, such as making a turn without a signal or weaving in and out of lanes. Delaying a stop for actual probable cause—AKA evidence— instead of relying solely on suspicion, puts the officer in a better position to defend his actions if the case goes to trial.

Thus, you may opt to have your fictional officer stop a car based on a “gut feeling,” but you’ve placed him in a legally precarious situation that most veteran officers wouldn’t actually choose. It can still work, but your character is in a better position if he is patient and waits to spot an actual infraction about which he can testify under oath. (Go back and read the previous month’s article if you need more detail on the difference between a Reasonable Suspicion stop and one based on Probable Cause.)

Prepare for the Stop

Preparing for the stop means calling the license plate, description, and location to the Dispatch Center so other officers will know where you are and what kind of vehicle they should look for if the officer making the stop gets attacked. The Hollywood version of a cop stopping a car in a dark alley and not letting anyone know is macho hooey and should never happen in real life (or your fiction unless you want to show a police character performing at a level of incompetence or recklessness).

Parking the Patrol Vehicle

Safe parking of the patrol vehicle calls for turning on the emergency lights and pulling in behind the stopped vehicle. At night, a patrol officer will also use a car-mounted beacon-style light in such a way that it reflects in the side mirror of the stopped car. This adds an additional layer of protection because the other driver has limited visibility due to the glare. Officers know the glare is irritating, but it is designed to give them an edge if the occupants are intent on doing them harm.

The officer will then park the squad car at a slight angle with the engine block canted to the left. This has two advantages. First, the officer can cover behind the engine block if the occupants of the other vehicle come out shooting. Second, the parked squad car will careen to the left instead of straight into the officer if another car hits it from behind. 

Approaching the Vehicle

Approaching the vehicle can be done by either stepping up to the driver’s door or around the back of the stopped vehicle just behind the passenger door. I preferred the second method when I worked at night. Most people will be watching for the officer to approach from their left. Coming up on the right side of their car allowed me to be beside the vehicle and use my flashlight to see if the occupants were holding a weapon before they even knew I was close. 

Either way, officers will touch the trunk compartment door as they pass the rear fender. This action marks the suspect vehicle with the officer’s fingerprints and DNA. Should the suspect “rabbit” (flee), his car will carry definitive evidence of the encounter. It also lets the officer make sure the trunk is fully closed in case there is anyone in the trunk intent on doing him harm. 

Once the officer is near the car, he should identify himself and his agency right away. This has a proven effect of calming concerns from the driver that the officer might be corrupt. Corrupt cops don’t tend to give their names, and this small detail can make all the difference in terms of keeping the tone polite and professional. 

I am also a big believer that officers should clearly state why they pulled the car over, e.g., “I pulled you over because you were speeding through a school zone.” Again, this has a dampening effect on any driver revving up to argue. The officer should be clear, forthright, and professional, which is what it will sound like to jurors listening to the officer’s body camera recording if this thing ever goes to trial. 

Positioning At the Vehicle

I roll my eyes at cop shows where the police officer is talking straight down into the window of the suspect vehicle. The problem with standing right beside the driver’s window is that this position puts you in the line of fire should he turn homicidal. Bullets go through car doors like toothpicks through those little Christmas party sausages. Don’t let your fictional officer stand right by the door. I’ll surmise he was poorly trained or that he is about to get shot in the groin.

Instead, officers are taught to stand adjacent to the thick metal door frame behind the driver’s seat. This space has the tactical advantage of keeping the driver in sight while also making it more difficult for him to accurately fire a weapon backward and over his left shoulder. Try it next time you’re in the driver’s seat. Point your finger like you’re a kid playing with a pretend space phaser and see if you can “photon blast” someone standing back there. You can, but it’s slow and clumsy—the advantage in a split-second attack goes to the officer.

Remember: Officer survival is part tactics and part practice, but all mindset. A well-trained police officer will be thinking about these concepts as he approaches the car. 

Background Check

By now, your officer has collected pertinent paperwork, including the vehicle registration (not all states require this), proof of insurance, and the driver’s license. The officer has conversed with the occupants, determined what, if any, violations have occurred, and retreated toward his own car to increase the safety distance. Now the officer will either type in the occupants’ identification into a mobile computer or call it out to the Dispatch Center. 

I preferred to keep my eyes on the car by calling Dispatch on the radio. Oftentimes, I would do this while standing behind the trunk of my own car, again so that I would have the protection of my vehicle should occupants in the stopped car come out firing. The last place I would want to be in that event would be sitting comfy—and trapped—in my driver’s seat.

Once the cop has determined there are no outstanding arrest warrants for the people in the car, he’ll decide whether to issue a warning or a citation. Once this is done, the officer needs to make a formal announcement along the lines of, “You’re free to go.” 

This is where things might get tricky. Once the person who was detained has been informed he is free to go, he is…free to go. But, this is also when the officer may ask if there is anything illegal in the car. If the driver says, “No,” but he does it in a less-than-credible manner, the officer might follow up with, “So, you wouldn’t mind if I did a quick search, then?” 

Why then? Why not ask to search before the officer has lifted the detention? Here’s the thing: any search of a vehicle (or anywhere considered private from the prying eyes of government) done while a person is in custody is likely to get thrown out of court. In simplest terms, a person in custody may not feel they have a choice but to let that government agent search their car. Thus, any search during the stop could, and probably should, be considered involuntary. You can’t volunteer to allow a search if you don’t believe you have an option. The case is likely to be dismissed, even if you were to find a severed head and a bloody axe in the trunk. 

Officers who are looking to make lots of drug-related arrests use this tactic often. Mentioning to the driver that he is free to leave, but following up with a request to search the car is a workaround, and defense attorneys everywhere just groaned. I can’t say I blame them. This strategy pushes the limits of the Fourth Amendment, and I’m not an advocate for using it during most traffic stops. That said, this is a standard drug interdiction technique, and you may decide to use it to propel your storyline forward. 

Bloody axe, anyone?

A Word on “Do you know who I am?” 

I don’t care if you’re a minister taking her family out for a picnic after church, Senator So & So’s aide, or a rookie attorney who just passed the bar; cops don’t know “who you are,” and they don’t particularly care. They know they’ve stopped you for a reason, and they expect to speak with you and investigate further. 

You wanna make a cop mock you long after the traffic stop? Say, “Do you know who I am?” when he approaches the car. You’ll be the belle of the squad room when he tells his buddies about it later. 

That’s it for this month. Until then, be safe…just not too safe. You’ve got a job to do, after all. Onward.