Clay Stafford talks with Charles Todd on “Character, Psychology, and the Craft of Story”

Charles Todd interviewed by Clay Stafford

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Few crime series balance psychological depth, historical authenticity, and narrative restraint as gracefully as Charles Todd’s Inspector Ian Rutledge and Bess Crawford novels. Over decades, Charles has built characters who evolve, crimes rooted in emotional truth, and historical worlds that feel lived rather than researched. Charles and I spoke about detail, psychology, silence, and the moral core that sustains long-running characters. “Charles, what kind of details do you find most effective for pulling readers in? If you’re trying to stay spare, how do you decide what to include?”

“I choose details that reveal character, not decoration. For instance, in 1919, pub hours changed after the war, and the beer was weaker: ‘government beer.’ Two men might grumble about it, and in that exchange, you learn the time period, the mood, and a bit of social history without any lecture. A few well-chosen words can carry an era. I’ll describe a setting only long enough for readers to see what Rutledge sees. After that, it’s the people and the story that matter. If you linger too long, attention drifts.”

“Do you ever worry that writing inside a defined historical period will eventually limit your stories?”

“Not at all. Limits actually create invention. When we’d written several Rutledge books, we realized some stories didn’t fit his Scotland Yard life. That’s where Bess Crawford came from. We wanted the female perspective of the war years, someone who could move more freely and see the human side. A Duty to the Dead began with a dying soldier asking Bess to deliver a message to his family. When she does, their indifference puzzles her, and that puzzle becomes the plot. Constraints don’t stifle story; they shape it. With Rutledge, he’s bound by duty and rank, so each case challenges both his intellect and his conscience. In The Gate Keeper, he isn’t even assigned a case; he simply comes upon a murder after his sister’s wedding. A man in a tuxedo dead in the road, a woman in an evening gown beside him. That single moment opened an entire story. Curiosity fuels everything.”

“At Killer Nashville, I meet writers who spend years researching the same historical novel because they’re afraid of getting something wrong. What would you tell them?”

“Finish the book. The difference between a writer and an author is that an author finishes. Research is important, but it’s also a wonderful excuse for never typing ‘The End.’ You learn more by writing a complete novel than by gathering another year of notes. Even if it’s the worst book ever written, you’ll come out knowing how to make the next one better. Don’t chase perfection, chase completion. A career is built on progress, not polishing one manuscript forever.”

“Your characters are psychologically rich. How do you build that inner life so readers don’t just observe it, they feel it?”

“We began by knowing exactly who these people were. With Rutledge, we explored the consequences of war trauma long before it was fashionable. Each case leaves a mark, and he evolves with every book. That growth keeps him real. Readers need a reason to care. When your character faces danger, they should worry. Conan Doyle achieved that with Sherlock Holmes. Holmes is eccentric to the edge of madness, yet there’s a moral core you root for. That’s what I want for Rutledge and Bess. They’re flawed, but their integrity holds.”

“How did you and your mother, Caroline, your co-author, shape Bess Crawford when you began?”

“We asked, ‘Who is she before the first page?’ We didn’t want a fainting heroine or a flapper stereotype. We wanted a capable young woman raised in the military world. Her father became a retired regimental colonel stationed in India. That background gave her discipline and familiarity with rank she’d need as a nurse in Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Nursing Corps. She’s athletic, self-reliant, compassionate, a bridge between the old world and the modern one. We built her piece by piece until she could stand on her own.”

“Readers connect deeply with both Bess and Rutledge. They feel almost like family.”

“They are to me. After all these years, I can’t imagine walking away from them. Each still has more story to tell. That’s what you hope for, that characters become real not only for readers, but for you.”

“When you create the crimes themselves, which comes first, the act or the emotion behind it?”

“Usually, the emotion. Every murderer has a reason. The crime springs from that wound. Often, the killer and the detective are reflections of each other, two sides of the same question. Rutledge understands guilt and grief intimately, so when he confronts someone driven by those forces, he understands them too well. That tension drives the story.”

“I think of A Cold Treachery, where a family is found murdered in a blizzard, and one child is missing. The horror comes from what’s implied rather than shown.”

“Exactly. We didn’t need gore. The police officers refuse to enter the house because it’s so terrible; that says everything. Then we add the moral tension: what if the killer joins the search party? What if he finds the boy first? Suspense often lies in what you withhold.”

“When you write scenes like that, how do you decide where to stop the camera, so to speak?”

“You stop at the line where imagination takes over. Let readers participate. If you describe every drop of blood, they recoil. If you show them the aftermath and the silence around it, they feel it more deeply. Suggestion is stronger than display.”

“Rutledge often says less than he knows. His quiet carries meaning. How do you write silence that communicates?”

“Silence depends on context. Think of snowfall. It muffles the world and absorbs sound. That’s why I ended one book during snowfall. You feel the hush. The same is true emotionally. When a character doesn’t speak, the reader fills the space with understanding. In dialogue, a pause can be more powerful than a speech. But you have to earn it.”

“Many of your scenes use weather or landscape almost as emotional mirrors.”

“Weather is mood. A storm can’t solve a plot problem, but it can echo one. In A Cold Treachery, the blizzard closes in until everyone is trapped, physically and morally. The setting becomes conscience made visible.”

“After so many books, how do you keep discovering new sides of Rutledge and Bess?”

“By remembering that people change. Each case tests Rutledge differently. He’s not the same man he was in A Test of Wills. He’s older, more introspective, sometimes more haunted. If a series character never evolves, the stories die long before the series does. The trick is continuity without repetition. Readers want familiarity, not stagnation. I know Rutledge’s moral compass, but I can still surprise him and myself with how far he’ll go to follow it.”

“You’ve written convincingly about trauma, guilt, and moral conflict, things not easily researched in archives. How do you access that truth?”

“Observation. Writers should be professional people-watchers. I’ll sit on an airplane and listen to voices behind me, then guess the relationship between those people just from tone. When I see them later, I compare what I imagined to who they are. It sharpens instinct. It works anywhere. Sit in a pub and listen. Notice who speaks, who stays quiet, how groups form. Every gesture tells a story. The British, for example, are reserved; they won’t speak about themselves, but they’ll talk endlessly about their dogs. Compliment a dog, and you’ll learn more about the owner than by asking direct questions. History lives in behavior as much as in documents. When I walk through a market square and talk with vendors, I hear pride, humor, and local rhythm. Those cadences enter the page. That’s the difference between authentic voice and imitation.”

“For a writer who wants psychologically complex characters but doesn’t know where to begin, where should they start?”

“Start with empathy. Ask: What keeps this person awake at night? What do they fear losing most? Biography can come later. The inner question comes first. Then observe people. Notice how they hide pain, mask anger, react when embarrassed. Real emotions are never tidy. If you capture that, you’re halfway to a believable character.”

“For someone dreaming of writing a historical novel, what’s your best advice?”

“Don’t choose a period simply because you like the costumes. Ask what conflicts and moral questions mattered then. Would your story make sense in that world? You can’t transplant a modern plot into Elizabethan England and call it historical. When I wrote The Christmas Witness, I tried weaving a familiar Christmas story into Rutledge’s world. I wasn’t sure it would work, but I finished it. You have to think through every choice until history and story become inseparable. That’s when a novel stops being ‘historical fiction’ and becomes simply fiction true to its time.”

“True to its time. I like that.”

“That’s all we can ask, tell a story that feels lived in, not visited. Let the reader forget they’re in another century.”

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and Killer Nashville University. https://claystafford.com/

Charles Todd is the New York Times bestselling author of the Inspector Ian Rutledge mysteries, the Bess Crawford mysteries, and two stand-alone novels. Originally a mother-and-son writing team, Caroline passed away in August 2021, and Charles lives in Florida. https://charlestodd.com/

Clay Stafford talks with Otto Penzler on “What Truly Sustains a Long-Term Writing Career”

Otto Penzler interviewed by Clay Stafford

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For more than fifty years, Otto Penzler has shaped the landscape of crime, mystery, and suspense. As a publisher, editor, bookstore owner, and champion of the genre, he has worked with and nurtured some of the most enduring voices in our field. From that unique vantage point, Penzler has seen what sustains a writer’s career and what quietly ends it. From The Mysterious Bookshop in New York City, we spoke about longevity, professionalism, and why habits matter as much as talent in the making of a crime writer. “Otto, you’ve seen a lot of writers in the past fifty years come and go. What’s the real difference between a writer who lasts and one who fades after their first success?”

“It’s a good character and a great style. Every now and then, you can do it with an incredible plot, a surprising twist, or with the creation of a kind of suspense that’s difficult to pull off. But most of the writers who have lasted fifty years, writers from the 60s, 70s, and 80s who are still in print and being read, have a style that’s more than simple declarative sentences. There’s color and texture in their language, in their prose.”

“Looking at the professionals, what habits or attitudes do those career writers seem to share from your perspective as an editor and publisher?”

“Most successful writers treat it as a job. They don’t wait for inspiration to go to the typewriter or computer. They go to work every day, writing all the time and reading all the time. Those are indispensable. If you’re waiting for that flash of inspiration, you’re never going to make it. You have to keep at it even if you’re sick, hungover, or too busy. If all of those things are true, you still need regular time for writing.”

“How much of it is habits rather than talent? Obviously, you have to have talent, but is it more about habits?”

“I think it’s dedication to your job, to your career. As an editor, I hold writers in such high esteem. They’re almost god-like to me in the way they create living characters and write about them in a fascinating, unput-downable way. But they have to take it seriously. They have to keep working at it. You can have all the talent in the world, but if you can’t produce a book with some regularity, you’re not going to have success. Waiting five years between books makes it tough for a publisher to promote a writer who seems like a debut every time they publish. Ed McBain/Evan Hunter had a shack built about 100 yards from his house. At nine in the morning, he’d go there and start typing. At twelve, he broke for lunch. At one, he came back. At five, he stopped. If it was mid-sentence, so much the better, because when he came back the next day, he knew exactly how to finish what he left undone.”

“If an author has a very successful first book, how do they top that with the next one?”

“By trying and getting better. The more you write, the better you get. It’s not always true; some people have only one book in them, maybe two, but most veteran writers will say the second book is the hardest because they’ve had years to think about the first. Once it’s out, now they have to do it again under pressure. Sometimes they fail, sometimes they succeed. Look at Michael Connelly. He started out with a successful first book, kept going, and a year later produced another that was probably even better. He’s maintained that level of excellence through more than thirty books. It’s remarkable.”

“He’s done okay for himself,” I smile.

“He has, and he works hard. He’s writing two books a year now. He’s been writing and producing Bosch, plus involvement with The Lincoln Lawyer and another series about his female detective, Renée. He works all the time.”

“Times change quickly, and writing can become dated. How does a writer stay contemporary?”

“Live in the world. Pay attention to other books, movies, television. Talk to people. Be in the real world. Don’t lock yourself in an attic and cut yourself off.”

“You’ve worked with many personalities from your side of the desk. What kind of relationship with an editor or publisher sustains a career rather than making Otto Penzler angry?”

“Be a nice person, write good books, and be a nice person. Then there’s no problem. Very few writers I’ve worked with were absolutely resistant to suggestions. I tend to have a fairly heavy editorial hand, and I’m somewhat opinionated.”

“Are you?” I smile again.

“Yes. I’ll say, ‘Don’t use that word, it’s a cliché, it’s trite. Come up with something better.’ And they’ll say, ‘No, it’s perfect for here.’ I’ll say, ‘No, it’s not.’ Then they’ll say, ‘Okay, let me think about it.’”

“And you’ve got the barrels of ink, right?” giving my reference to the publisher having the power because they have the ink.

“I do, but look: it’s their book. The author’s name is on the book. I’m not a writer; I don’t want to write the book. But I do want it to be as good as it can be. That’s my job as an editor: to make the author’s book better than it started.”

“You’ve had authors become brands. How do you keep them from becoming predictable? Sometimes people say a writer is ‘writing the same book over and over’ and doing well at it.”

“If I were publishing Lee Child—I did publish his last two books—but if I were publishing the Jack Reacher novels and said after twelve, ‘You’re writing the same book,’ I’d be an idiot. Even if the books have structural similarities, readers love them and can’t wait for the next one. I’d be an idiot to mess with that.”

“There’s something about ka-ching, ka-ching that keeps it going, right?”

“Yeah. And using Lee as an example, those books are endlessly fascinating. I don’t care if they’re structurally similar to the previous ten. I liked reading every one of them. Agatha Christie did that for a very long career and remains tremendously popular long after her death.”

“For building a career, and for helping a publisher, is one book a year the sweet spot?”

“I’d say yes, if you can. There are writers with series who work very hard, like Robert Crais. Crais is slower; he’s meticulous with language and making sure everything meshes, so it takes him two years. Michael Connelly can write two in a year, which is tremendous. I don’t know how they do it. But yes, ideally one a year is good. Publishers get continuity; readers know what to expect. In hardcover publishing, when the new hardcover comes out, the previous book can come out in paperback simultaneously.”

“When an author underperforms, how do you advise them to turn the trajectory back up?”

“That’s really hard. Sometimes it’s the same book that’s been successful six or ten or twelve times, and suddenly the readership starts to fall. You watch numbers sink book after book. The only advice at that point is to try something different, create a different character, or write a different kind of book. But that’s tricky because writers find their comfort zone. Telling them, ‘It’s not working anymore, do something different,’ can be difficult because they may not know how.”

“Same advice if the genre goes out of style? Reinvent?”

“If you can. Writing is hard, the hardest thing I can imagine. I’d rather do yard work. If you know how to write one kind of book and someone says, ‘Write a different kind,’ that may not be possible.”

“If you could give one truth about building a career that lasts, aimed at a new writer, what would it be?”

“Assuming your career starts with a single book, make that book the best you can possibly make it. After that, try to do the same thing even better. How do you make it better? Give more information about the character, make the character come to life more fully, and polish your prose. Read each sentence over and over. Read it out loud. I learned that when I used to write The Reasoner Report for Harry Reasoner. When you read out loud, you hear cadence, and you catch repetition; using the same word three times on a page is irritating to a reader. Reading aloud helps you catch that. It seems like a small trick, but it’s not a waste of time.”

Otto Penzler has built a career elevating writers who take the work seriously; writers who show up, improve their craft, and respect the reader’s and editor’s time. His perspective is a reminder that longevity in this field is not an accident. It is built on discipline, style, character, and the willingness to keep getting better long after the first success.

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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/.

Otto Penzler is the proprietor of The Mysterious Bookshop and the president and CEO of Penzler Publishers. He has won a Raven, the Ellery Queen Award, two Edgars, and lifetime achievement awards from Noircon and The Strand Magazine. He has edited more than 80 anthologies and written extensively about mystery fiction. https://penzlerpublishers.com/

Clay Stafford talks with David Handler on “Character, Conscience, and Crime”

David Handler interviewed by Clay Stafford

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For Killer Nashville Magazine, I had the pleasure of chatting with David Handler—storyteller, observer, craftsman—to talk about the rhythm of crime fiction, the quiet power of character, and how to say something meaningful without ever preaching. What follows is honest, generous, and full of the kind of wisdom that only comes from doing the work. “David, let’s talk about thematic elements, which are so vital to your work. I grew up in a small town, so your latest book, The Man Who Swore He’d Never Go Home, really resonated with me. It felt different. Your novels often explore issues such as race, privilege, class, and pollution, weaving them seamlessly into the narrative. They never feel like lectures. How do you recommend other writers include meaningful issues in their work without sounding preachy?”

“For me, it starts with writing a lot of drafts. I usually let myself go ahead and write the lecture—get it all out. Then I step back and ask, ‘What do I really need here? What’s boring or extraneous? What moves the story?’ If something slows the momentum, I cut it.”

“So, the line is really about whether it’s boring?”

“That’s one test. But ‘extraneous’ is just as important. I always think like a reader. If my interest dips, something’s wrong. I’m the type who can read one page in a bookstore and know whether I’ll like the book. A lot depends on voice. If it reads like a Netflix screenplay in disguise, I’m out. I’m a fussy reader, which makes me a fussy writer. Pacing is crucial. Especially in crime fiction, you can’t give readers too much time to think, or the illusion might crumble. You have to keep them moving.”

“Like Hitchcock’s famous ‘icebox questions’.”

“Exactly. Hitchcock described those as questions people ask later, like when they’re getting a glass of milk from the fridge at midnight: ‘Wait, why was there a machine gun on that crop duster?’ It didn’t matter in the moment because he kept the story moving. You don’t want to push it too far, but forward momentum matters.”

“Lately, I’ve noticed more books focusing heavily on social issues, sometimes at the expense of story. It could just be what I’m reading, but it feels more common.”

“There was definitely a movement in the crime community a few years ago that leaned that way.”

“What you do differently, though, is include social issues without directing them. Your characters live within the issues. You’re not editorializing; you’re reporting, like a good journalist.”

“That journalism background helps. Whether I was writing criticism, doing profiles, screenplays, or columns, it’s all added up. But honestly, I rely a lot on instinct. After years of hard work, you develop a gut feeling for what belongs on the page.”

“And your tone helps. Some writers come to the page with anger. You bring a sardonic wit.”

“I do, but I don’t consider my books ‘comic mysteries,’ even though some critics label them that way.”

“I wouldn’t call them that either.”

“They have humor—Hoagy’s voice includes sharp observations, and the dialogue can be funny—but I think of them as serious novels. Early in the series, I pushed the humor harder. I was younger, trying to prove I could be funny. But then I took a twenty-year hiatus between the first eight books and the next set. Coming back, I was older, more relaxed. Now I let the voice come naturally. If it feels forced, I cut it. It’s like the difference between a twenty-two-year-old NBA player and a thirty-year-old one. The younger guy’s trying to impress, jump higher, run faster. The older player sees the game better, sets up the team, and plays the long game.”

“There’s a fairness to how you write. One character might view their world as totally normal, while another sees it as broken. You show both perspectives without judgment. That feels like your journalism again.”

“It probably is. I try to keep an open mind. I learn from my characters. One of the central themes in my work, and maybe my outlook on life, is that no one is who they seem to be. We think we know people, but we don’t. You might have friends who seem happy, then suddenly divorce. No one knows the truth of a relationship except the two people in it. I try to dig beneath the image someone presents and find out who they really are. People have layers. Vanity. Flaws. Strengths. And they’re more complicated than we realize. The older I get, the more I see how surprising they can be. I’ve had experiences in show business that would make your jaw drop, people you thought were friends turning on you. But I’ve also seen incredible kindness. For me, it always comes back to the people. The murder is an outgrowth of character and relationship.”

“That’s a powerful point. Social issues do reflect our environment. What advice do you have for writers who want to include them without being heavy-handed?”

“You can always tell when it’s heavy-handed or when a writer did a lot of research and refuses to cut any of it.”

“They throw it all in.”

“Subtlety matters. A little goes a long way. The issue should be organic to the story. Otherwise, it’s a distraction.”

“That’s what I felt reading your work. Pollution, dying towns, underfunded systems. They’re not soapboxes. They’re realities the characters live inside. You’re not explaining the cause of the decay; you’re showing what it’s like to live with it.”

“That’s the goal. Take the brass mill in the new book. One of the characters rarely talks about his father’s past, but the mill was a toxic place. Brass contains lead. The workers got sick. The groundwater was poisoned. It was non-union. Then it all collapsed when cheaper imports arrived from countries without environmental regulations. I’m not giving a ten-page lecture on it, but I want readers to feel it.”

“And we do—because your characters live it. Any advice for new writers?”

“Years ago, when I was doing celebrity profiles, I interviewed one of my childhood idols, Ray Bradbury. I was about twenty-six. I told him I wanted to be a novelist but didn’t know what kind of books to write. I had too many ideas and no direction. He said, ‘Sure you do.’ I asked, ‘I do?’ And he said, ‘Yeah. Write what you love to read.’ I got into the hotel elevator afterward, and I felt like I’d just spoken with the Dalai Lama. ‘Write what you love to read.’ It’s simple, but it changed me. Don’t think about the marketplace. Don’t chase trends. Just write the stories that move you.”

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

David Handler is the Edgar Award-winning author of several bestselling mystery series. He began his career as a New York City reporter. In 1988, he published The Man Who Died Laughing, the first of his long-running series starring ghostwriter Stuart Hoag and his faithful basset hound Lulu.

https://davidhandlerbooks.com/