Clay Stafford talks with James Comey on “What Makes Stories Linger”
James Comey interviewed by Clay Stafford
James Comey is a figure the world thinks it knows. Former FBI Director, lawyer, public servant. His name has been bound to history’s headlines. Yet away from the noise of politics, which is a world of fiction itself, Comey has quietly stepped into another role: novelist. His fiction, drawn from a lifetime inside courtrooms, investigations, and the corridors of power, isn’t about retelling the past but about exploring human dramas at its center. In his books, readers encounter prosecutors and investigators who feel like old friends with scenes that linger long after the page is turned. In this conversation, I speak with Comey not about politics, but about the art of writing. What makes stories endure? What gives characters their staying power? Why truth, even in fiction, may be the most compelling force of all. “James, let’s talk about writing stories that linger. My wife always asks me when I’m reading a book, ‘How’s this one?’ And I’ll say, ‘This one, when I lie down to go to sleep, I’m still thinking about the people in it, why they’re doing what they’re doing. I can get in their heads. It sticks with me.’ That’s why I wanted to ask you about writing stories that linger. When you’re writing, do you ever think about how a story might stay with readers after they finish? Or do you focus on the moment, and if it lingers, it lingers?”
“I think it’s the latter. I’m not intentionally trying to make a story linger. But in a way, I am. I’m drawing from my own experiences. The coolest things I've been a part of. The hardest. Back then, I’d wake up thinking about a witness, a case, a judge. They were challenging, fascinating, rewarding. I try to bring readers into that world, show them those characters. Most are composites, but they’re based on real people I found interesting. If I can tell a story that feels as vivid as what I experienced, then it’ll stick with readers the way it stuck with me. I don’t set out with that as a conscious goal, but now that you’ve asked, maybe it’s always been close to the surface.”
“As a reader, what’s the difference between a story you forget the moment you put the book down, and one that haunts you for days, weeks, even years?”
“First, it’s good writing that lets me enter the story. Bad writing, sentences that are too long, language that’s overly complex, or fancy words block my way. It’s like being in a theater behind a tall person who blocks the view. I don’t want my writing to be like that tall person. I want a clear view of the stage. Then, I like the action on that stage to make you forget you’re in a theater. You feel like you’re there, like a non-playing character onstage, caught up in the conflict. The way to do that is to make the characters real, memorable, the kind of people you’d want to sit next to and just listen. If I can give you a clear view, make you forget the theater, and make the conflict compelling, that’s the recipe for a story that sticks.”
“Just curious—not for this—how tall are you?”
“I’m 6'8".”
“Holy cow. I’m 6'3", and I’m still looking up to James Comey.”
“Normal-sized person.”
“Unless I’m blocking everyone else in the theater. I bet you were intimidating in a courtroom.”
“Yes. Except with my wife. Early in my career, I was practicing a jury address in our small living room. Patrice watched me pacing back and forth and said, ‘That’s great, but why are you moving around like that?’ I said, ‘That’s what lawyers do.’ She said, ‘You look like a giraffe in heat. You’re tall enough to frighten people. Don’t move, and step back from the jury.’ From then on, in every trial, I stood still. Because she was right, movement would distract. People might start thinking about my size, my clothes, my feet, instead of listening. I didn’t want those distractions.”
“When you’re crafting a scene or character, is there a technique you use to make them stick in the reader’s mind?”
“I try to lavishly picture the scene before writing. How would it play out in real life? I build a mental map, then write. Afterward, I reread and ask: Does this feel real? Can readers see it? If yes, it may stick. I want people drawn into the conversation. If my characters speak with unnecessary flourishes, use words readers can’t grasp, or talk in perfect, complete sentences, it pulls you out. I’ve now written three novels, and I think I’m better at slowing down before writing, taking walks, imagining: Benny’s talking to Nora, where are they? What does it feel like? That patience makes it real.”
“Is there a specific character or scene readers told you they couldn’t shake?”
“Yes. In all three books, people have mentioned scenes that have stayed with them because they sparked strong emotions or were simply unique. That’s what I want: for the scene to feel like it happened yesterday, real in your mind because of how I wrote it.”
“Did that feedback ever surprise you? Or did you smugly say, ‘Yep, that’s exactly what I intended’?”
“No smugness. That kind of feedback usually comes first from my five kids: ‘Dad, you screwed this up,’ or ‘This scene is chef’s kiss.’ They’ll send emojis. When readers later say something similar, I’ve usually already heard it from the kids. What makes me happiest is when readers say starting FDR Drive feels like being back with old friends, Benny and Nora returning. That’s exactly what I want.”
“Speaking of old friends, when you’re creating unforgettable characters, do you have any habits that help make them feel real?”
“For me, it’s easier. One key character, Benny Dugan, is based on my dear friend Ken McCabe, the greatest investigator I ever knew, who died in 2006. I try to honor him through Benny. Ken wore no socks, carried a revolver on his ankle, spoke with a Brooklyn accent, and was enormous. He called me Mr. Smooth; I called him Mr. Rough. He’d offer to ‘throw someone a beating,’ and I’d say, ‘No, Ken, please don’t.’ He once drove me to LaGuardia, siren blaring, shouting at people. By the time we arrived, I was sweating, but he just said, ‘Say hello home,’ as if nothing had happened. Painful as it is that he’s gone, writing about him gives me an advantage. I also base Nora Carlton partly on my daughter, a prosecutor in Manhattan, and blend in traits from my other kids. Early on, I struggled writing a protagonist until I realized it had to be a woman. That unlocked everything. Writing became a labor of love, being true to the composites of the people I care about. Characters come alive because they’re grounded in real people I know and love.”
“We talked about ambiguity, threads left open versus tied up. Is there a sweet spot?”
“I don’t know. I rely on Patrice. She’s ‘every reader.’ She’ll tell me, ‘End this thread,’ or ‘Leave this one open.’ Almost always, she’s right. I’m married to a test reader, and that’s how I figure it out.”
“Your novels explore the justice system in depth. How do you keep the narrative gripping without drowning readers in detail?”
“By worrying about it constantly. I know the system inside and out, but readers don’t want to hear all that. I always ask myself: Am I giving too much? For example, in my current espionage book, I went deep into paint analysis. Patrice read it and said, ‘Drown some of these puppies. Way too much paint.’ Tom Clancy was brilliant, but often went too far into submarines and torpedo tubes. I don’t want to overwhelm like that. My guardrails are constant self-check and Patrice’s honest feedback.”
“Have you always wanted to be a writer?”
“No. I loved writing. I thought I might be a journalist. I never imagined novels. I always wrote, though: speeches, emails to the FBI workforce. Writing was part of me. My agent once pitched me to co-write a novel with James Patterson. I said no, I wanted to write myself. My nonfiction editor later encouraged me to try fiction, saying it gives me the freedom to show readers the worlds I know. I resisted, but once I started, I was hooked. It’s harder than nonfiction. You’re not just checking facts; you’re building a world. But I like complicated things. And I don’t need to invent car chases or helicopter jumps to make it exciting. Reality is exciting if told truthfully.”
“And maybe that truth is what makes a story linger.”
“I hope so. That’s my goal, to draw people in and have the story stay with them. And no, I won’t be writing sex scenes. My kids made me promise. But believe it or not, there’s not much sex in counterterrorism or espionage.”
“But there is dancing.”
“Yes, there is.”
“And that’s just vertical.” As the conversation wound down, what lingered was not just the stature of James Comey, the public figure, but the voice of a writer intent on making his characters real, his stories truthful, and his readers compelled to stay a little longer in the world he’d created. For Comey, fiction is not an escape from his past, but a means of reshaping it, transforming experience into narrative and memory into meaning. Perhaps that is the mark of every story that endures: it refuses to be forgotten, echoing long after the book is closed.
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/.
James Comey has been a prosecutor, defense lawyer, general counsel, teacher, writer, and leader. He most recently served in government as Director of the FBI. He has written two bestselling nonfiction books, A Higher Loyalty and Saving Justice, as well as three novels in his Nora Carleton crime fiction series.
