I’ve written four Rapid Reads books. They are mysteries and feature a very cool guy named Charlie Dowhanuik, about whom you’ll hear more later. The books are read by people in literacy groups, by high school kids struggling with their studies, by men and women in prisons, and by people who just want a quick read. I’ve visited many of these groups, including those in prison, and I’m both proud and grateful when I see the Charlie D series in their libraries.

  Canadian writer Robertson Davies has a line I’m fond of: “When life pushes you in a certain direction, it’s spiritual suicide to resist.” I’m very thankful life pushed me toward writing, and I’m glad my husband was there to make certain I followed through.

  Now it’s time to go back to the beginning.

  Chapter 2

  Getting Started

  In my first year at the University of Toronto, I won a thirty dollar book prize for having the highest grade in Introductory English (Beowulf to Pope). My professor noted that I wrote with conviction, flair, and passion. I was a rising star, no doubt about it, but there was a small and seemingly insignificant cloud on my horizon. In the otherwise laudatory note that accompanied my prize, the professor noted there was “a certain fluffiness” in my writing I “might wish to address.” I had no idea what he was talking about, nor did I care to know.

  I had won a prize, and when I went back to university in the fall I would be a “sophomore,” a term that my English professor told us on the last day of classes was a portmanteau of the Greek words sophos meaning “wise” and moros meaning “foolish.” I ignored him. I was not “a wise fool.” I had won a prize.

  The following September, when I walked into Dr. Ellen Woolf’s class on The Changing Face of Women in the British Novel, I didn’t realize my life was about to change. The air was crisp with the promise of autumn, and Toronto was brilliant with the vivid hues of the September palette. In the early 1960s, Woolf, a PhD who was both young and female, was an anomaly at Victoria College. Like all professors at the college in those days, Dr. Woolf taught wearing a simple black academic robe. Her voice shook when she introduced herself, but her nervousness fell away as she turned her back to the class, picked up the chalk, and wrote “The Elements of the Novel” on the blackboard in a strong, clear hand. Without speaking, she wrote a list beneath the title.

  Theme

  Protagonist, Secondary Characters, and Minor Characters

  Narrative Perspective

  Setting

  Plot and Structure

  Style and Syntax

  Still with her back to the class, she said, “These are a novelist’s tools. The choices the novelist makes about how she will use each of these tools will determine whether the writer succeeds in reaching her goals.”

  For the next fifty minutes, my pen never left the page. I walked out of Dr. Woolf’s class chagrined at how little I knew but determined to learn more. Dr. Woolf had explained in clear and accessible language how, by analyzing the ways in which a writer uses each of the elements of fiction, the reader can recognize why a novel succeeds or why, as a professor of mine in graduate school would later say, a novel “goes off the rails.”

  Like Saul on the road to Damascus, the scales fell from my eyes. Suddenly I understood why, in characterizing my long-on-style/short-on-substance writing as “fluffy,” my first-year professor had been right on the money. A piece of writing, regardless of the genre, must have good “bones.” When the shimmering prose fades, the reader must be left with something solid that enlarges his or her mind. The hundreds of pieces of writing I would later complete have a sobering variety of flaws, but none of them is fluffy.

  From the day I stepped into Dr. Woolf’s classroom, I have asked myself two simple questions before I begin to write: “What do I hope to achieve with this piece of writing?” and “How can I best use the tools at hand to achieve my goal?”

  During the early years of my university teaching, my writing was pretty much limited to academic papers. In 1990, twenty-nine years after I completed Dr. Woolf’s class, I wrote Deadly Appearances, the first of the Joanne Kilbourn mystery novels. In 2017, The Winners Circle, the seventeenth novel in the series, was published. Dr. Woolf’s lessons about how a novel works have informed every page I have written, and you will see her fingerprints throughout Sleuth.

  You will also see evidence of what I absorbed, seemingly by osmosis, during the summers I spent in passionate, indiscriminate, blissful reading of mysteries, starting with Aesop. Remember the tale of the fox that, unlike all the other animals in the lion’s kingdom, refuses the invitation to visit the lion in his cave because the fox, an early master of ratiocination, noted that, though there were many footprints going into the cave of the king of the jungle, there was none coming out?

  From Aesop, I moved on to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (much later, when I was the writer-in-residence at the Toronto Reference Library, I spent a fascinating three months in an exact replica of Conan Doyle’s office, complete with first editions, a deerstalker hat, samples of the three kinds of pipe Sherlock Holmes smoked—a briar, a black clay, and a cherry wood—and very briefly a hypodermic needle). In my graduating year, I split my holiday reading: July was for the golden age of mystery (Dorothy L. Sayers, Marjorie Allingham, Josephine Tey, and Agatha Christie); August was for the hard-boiled dicks (Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, Robert Parker, et al.). Somewhere along the line, I lost my heart to Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin, love affairs that endure to this day.

  The insights I gleaned from the hours I spent reading mysteries when I escaped to Queen’s Park from my soul-crushingly tedious summer job, or on the raft at Cameron Lake slathered with baby oil, have also informed my work. Anecdotes, tips, and examples of what I learned on those steamy summer days about how to write a mystery will pop up regularly throughout this book.

  When I teach creative writing, I’m cautious about the advice I offer. It’s tempting and all too easy for an instructor to guide a student into writing the book the instructor herself would write, so I try not to be heavy-handed with the red pen.

  That said, I have no hesitation in telling you that, as a passionate mystery reader, you already know a great deal about how to write a mystery. Through your wide reading, you have zeroed in on the kinds of mysteries that bring you the greatest sense of fulfillment. Man Booker Prize winner Hilary Mantel offers some solid advice: “Write a book you’d like to read. If you wouldn’t read it, why would anybody else?” Your goal as a writer is to create the kind of novel that most pleases you as a reader.

  Before I began to write Deadly Appearances, I made notes on the mystery novels I had found most satisfying. I discovered that, though I had enjoyed many brilliant stand-alone mysteries, I was powerfully drawn to mystery series, and those series shared certain characteristics.

  Robust plotting is generally accepted to be the backbone of the mystery, but when I looked at my list I recognized how often I was drawn to novels by elements often regarded as ancillary to plot: books with protagonists who were human and humane and left me wanting to be in their company again, and a repertory company of engaging secondary characters who, when they appeared, always sparked my interest. My bedside table was always piled with books that drew me into a world that reflected the world I knew: a place of diversity in ethnicity, sexual orientation, religious and political beliefs, and educational background. Finally, I saw again and again that I was drawn to books that explored the social and political issues that confront us all.

  With Dr. Woolf’s list of “The Elements of the Novel” beside me, I jotted down possibilities (written in pencil, not in stone) about themes, potential protagonists and secondary characters, the advantages and disadvantages of various narrative perspectives, and settings that would allow me to say what I wanted to say. I left decisions about plot, structure, style, and syntax for another day, but when I looked at what I had written I began to get ideas on plot and structure. The seeds of my first Joanne Kilbourn novel had been planted, and they were already sprouting. I was on my way.

  Your decisions about how to use the elements of fiction to write your book will differ from mine. There are no one-size-fits-all answers for mystery writers, but Dr. Woolf’s list will guide you to decisions that are the best for you. The mystery genre is amazingly accommodating. Walk into any mystery bookstore, and you’ll discover a book to satisfy the interests of any reader. There are thrillers, police procedurals, and cozies with cats and recipes. There are mysteries for people with a taste for the high life or the low life, for quilting, for blood and gore, for forensics, for gardening, or for horse racing. There are mysteries with protagonists who have taken holy orders, and mysteries whose heroes seem to have working relationships with Lucifer. Sleuths can be young, old, or in between; gay, straight, lesbian, questioning, or transgender; or of any ethnicity or religion. They can even write mysteries and live in a picturesque village like Cabot Cove, Maine. Someone has to write books for all these readers. And that someone can be you.

  There are many reasons why writers choose to work in the mystery genre. Here are five.

  First, the narrator of Evelyn Waugh’s short story “Work Suspended” offers a modest explanation:

  There seemed few ways of which a writer need not be ashamed by which he could make a decent living. To produce something, saleable in large quantities to the public, which had absolutely nothing of myself in it; to sell something for which the kind of people I liked and respected would have a use; that was what I sought, and detective stories fulfilled the purpose.

  Second, the endurance of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes is eloquent testimony of the “use” of detective stories. Sherlock first appeared in 1887, and here we are 130 years later with movies and at least two television series—the dvds of which, interestingly, are sold with copies of Conan Doyle’s books. Sherlock’s deadly battle with Professor James Moriarty at Reichenbach Falls is a classic example of the eternal struggle between good and evil, law and lawlessness, at the heart of every mystery. That never-ending struggle plays a pivotal role in understanding the mystery’s continuing appeal. The philosopher John Gray has a provocative explanation of the lasting appeal of Sherlock Holmes: “When the future seems more than usually uncertain and the present is troubling, it’s natural to look to the past.”

  Third, Ian Rankin, author of the twenty-book-long-and-going-strong Inspector John Rebus series, points to another factor that draws readers to the mystery genre: “Readers realize that along with compelling narrative, crime fiction says important things about the state of the modern world and asks tough questions, making us think about our societies, our institutions and ourselves.”

  Fourth, American critic Terry Teachout, a passionate fan of Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe series, praises it “as tasteful, impeccably crafted pieces of writing whose sole purpose is to amuse.” Teachout says of the series that “They’ve been giving me pleasure for forty years, and I expect them to do so for many years to come.” In my opinion, giving readers pleasure is reason enough for a writer to choose to work in the mystery genre.

  Fifth, in his New York Times review of Richard Price’s The Whites Michael Connelly (a fine crime writer himself) points to a timely and compelling reason why writers choose crime fiction. Connelly quotes Price’s response to an interviewer who asked why Price devoted so much of his considerable literary talent to crime fiction and film scripts featuring criminals. Price said that when you circle around a murder long enough you get to know a city. Connelly believes that this answer “crystallized what many writers knew and attempted to practice. That is, he considered the crime novel something more than a puzzle and an entertainment; he saw it as societal reflection, documentation and investigation.”

  Five solid reasons to get started. And one final, gentle push: as Vladimir Nabokov notes in “The Art of Literature and Commonsense,” “The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words all being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.”

  Chapter 3

  Prewriting Your Mystery

  Writing in the Cracks

  There is an axiom that’s been around since people began putting quills into inkpots: writers write, and when they are not writing they are thinking about writing.

  Many years ago I received a book titled The Psychiatrist’s Wife’s Guide to Housekeeping as a wedding gift. The book’s title did not reach out to me, but the psychiatrist’s wife offered a piece of advice that has made it possible for me (wife of one, mother of three, grandmother of seven, dog owner, and until recently full-time academic) to sustain a career as a writer. The unnamed wife of the unnamed psychiatrist said that, when she saw a spot on her kitchen cupboard, she did not say, “As soon as I have a significant block of time, I will clean my kitchen”; instead, she picked up a damp cloth, wiped off the spot, and got on with her life.

  When I began writing fiction, I knew I would never have a significant block of time in which to write. I would have to do the most I could with the time I had. Writing in the cracks has become second nature to me, but remembering an encounter I had with a workshop participant a few years ago in Banff has prodded me to include a section here on how to manage that rarest of all commodities: writing time.

  Let me take you back. It was a five-star day, as all days in Banff are—cerulean skies, snow-capped mountains, and sunshine so warm that, though it was early May, the bravest among us were wearing shorts. The emerging mystery writers had gone through the ritual sniffing of the instructor (me) and their workshop colleagues and pronounced us satisfactory. We were all looking forward to a terrific week, so I was surprised when Ms. X, one of our group members, took me aside after lunch and told me she was depressed.

  I was incredulous. Ms. X was an intelligent and charming woman who, for the next five days, would be holed up with her laptop in a room with a million-dollar view. We were surrounded by hiking trails of heart-stopping beauty. Her work would be studied and clucked over by congenial peers and a moderately successful professional writer; most importantly, three times a day, she could eat fabulous meals prepared by someone else. In short, she was in writer’s paradise.

  That, as it turned out, was the rub. As Ms. X and I talked, it became clear that the prospect of “Paradise Lost” was causing her angst. The loss she feared was not that of the mountains, the instructor, the peers, or even the superlative food. What she dreaded most was that, at the end of the week, she would, in her words, have to put her writing “aside” until she was able to come up with “another significant block of time.” Her statement stopped me in my tracks, but my discussion with her that day produced some points worth considering here.

  Unless you are lucky enough to be a trust-fund baby, you are dealing with a real life that contains a number of people in hot competition for slices of your day. It’s unwise to ignore the demands of children, life partners, and employers, so as a writer with a real life you must learn to make the most of every free moment.

  The craft of writing involves three distinct processes—prewriting, writing, and editing—and they are equally important. I estimate that, before I retired from full-time teaching, I spent less than one-tenth of my writing time with my laptop. Now I’ve probably upped the ratio to one-third. Of the other two-thirds, one-third is dedicated to editing, and one-third takes place when I’m walking with my husband, peeling spuds, playing with our grandkids and our dog, taking a shower, reading old New Yorkers, or staring at the wall. These activities do not take time away from my writing; on the contrary, they nourish and sustain it. Every hour spent in prewriting rewards me richly when I sit down at my desk and begin to write. It will be the same for you.

  Creativity is elusive. The closest I can come to explaining it is through Stephen King’s mischievous metaphor of “the boys in the basement.” King says that, as he goes about the ordinary business of living, the boys in the basement are hard at work developing plot lines, filling out characters, coming up with snatches of dialogue. When King sits down in front of his computer, the boys in the basement send up their gifts.

  This metaphor is seductive, and obviously it works for King, but most of us have to accept the fact that, when it comes to the heavy lifting, the writer has to do his or her share. As resourceful as the boys in the basement are, they must be fed, and the only person who can feed them is the writer. Seemingly the hunger of these boys is insatiable, but there are strategies for filling these bottomless pits.

  One is to keep your well of ideas full. In Flaubert’s Parrot, Julian Barnes’s protagonist notes that “The best life for a writer is the life which helps him write the best books he can.” Deciding on the “best life” for you as a writer is an individual decision. Barnes quotes Flaubert: “The writer must wade into life as into the sea, but only up to the navel. . . . It isn’t the drunkard who writes the drinking song; on the other hand, it isn’t the teetotaler either.” No one will ever confuse my writing with that of Gustave Flaubert, but like him, when it comes to combining the solitary act of writing with the far-from-solitary business of living a full and varied life, I need both.

  Do whatever you need to do to get your juices flowing. Take the time to look around you. Keep your antennae quivering at all times. Buy a notebook—the paper kind—with pockets in which you can tuck in whatever strikes your fancy: found poems, clippings from newspapers and magazines, pieces of your own work you need to edit.

  Poet Ted Hughes speaks of the importance of “recording moments, fleeting impressions, overheard dialogue, your own sorrows, bewilderments and joys.” Heed his words. As journalist Bill D. Moyers says, “Creativity is piercing the mundane to find the marvelous.” Take note of encounters with people who fire your imagination.