The Elements of Mystery Fiction: Writing the Modern Whodunit by William G. Tapply Page A
Authors: William G. Tapply
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manners, reading habits, gestures, expressions. What do they watch on television? How do they spend their free time? What do they read, sing, and drink? How do they dress and wear their hair?
Don’t seek bizarre combinations or you will create cartoons rather than believable characters. Encourage your reader to wonder about them and care about them. Don’t present too much information; choose a few details, then allow your readers to use their imagination to create their own interpretations.
Why, for example, does that actress bite her nails? Did her parents mistreat her? Does her husband abuse her? Is she afraid or insecure or guilt-ridden?
Does the English professor with the confession magazine actually read it? Does he write confessions under a pen name? Is vital information coded into one of the magazine’s stories?
And the janitor who whistles Pachelbel—were his parents classical music lovers? Was he—or is he—a serious musician? Did an accident, or an enemy, or a cruel trick of fate deprive him of a career as a concert violinist?
When a quick sketch prompts your readers to ask questions such as these, you’ve done your job.
Chapter 5
Point of View: Giving Your Reader a Place to Stand
The next time you find yourself in a crowded restaurant, take note of which sense impressions have registered on your consciousness. Perhaps you’ve tuned into the restrained argument between the young couple at the next table. Your waitress has a bawdy laugh and an engagement ring on her left hand. From the direction of the kitchen comes the aroma of sautéed garlic, which conjures up ancient memories of your grandmother’s kitchen and reminds you that you skipped lunch.
Now ask your dinner companion what she notices. The Vivaldi they’re piping in through the speakers is nice, she says, but the clank and clatter of silverware and crockery are terribly annoying. What about the waitress? Oh, she wears too much makeup and her roots are showing. The smell of garlic? Now that you mention it, it is a little unpleasant, isn’t it?
You and your dining companion bring different memories, interests, sensitivities, moods, and expectations to the simple experience of sitting in a restaurant. Each of you notices different things. Your reconstruction of the evening is therefore radically different from that of your friend.
You can report it only as you experienced it—from your own point of view. That’s why eyewitness accounts of events often conflict wildly with one another. For a great many reasons, all of us perceive and interpret things differently.
Of course, in reconstructing your evening at the restaurant you could also recount your dinner companion’s impressions—but only as she chose to share them with you. You probably wouldn’t know why she chose to be critical of the waitress’ grooming or why she failed to notice the argument at the next table, although her facial expressions, gestures, tone of voice, and body language might give you clues. Perhaps she was jealous of the attentions the waitress received from her male customers. For all you know, your friend was eavesdropping but didn’t want to admit it to you.
You experience your life only through your own point of view. Part of that experience, of course, comes through your interactions with others. But you can never crawl into other people’s heads and experience what they experience, nor can you trust their reports to be entirely accurate or complete. People lie, distort, omit, and otherwise fail to say exactly what they really think. You must impose your interpretations on what others tell you, basing your conclusions both on what you know or infer about them and on your own preconceptions about human nature. In your interactions with others, you must rely on your own point of view.
In fiction, events are filtered through the five senses of the point-of-view characters and then reported to the reader. Establish your story’s point of
Don’t seek bizarre combinations or you will create cartoons rather than believable characters. Encourage your reader to wonder about them and care about them. Don’t present too much information; choose a few details, then allow your readers to use their imagination to create their own interpretations.
Why, for example, does that actress bite her nails? Did her parents mistreat her? Does her husband abuse her? Is she afraid or insecure or guilt-ridden?
Does the English professor with the confession magazine actually read it? Does he write confessions under a pen name? Is vital information coded into one of the magazine’s stories?
And the janitor who whistles Pachelbel—were his parents classical music lovers? Was he—or is he—a serious musician? Did an accident, or an enemy, or a cruel trick of fate deprive him of a career as a concert violinist?
When a quick sketch prompts your readers to ask questions such as these, you’ve done your job.
Chapter 5
Point of View: Giving Your Reader a Place to Stand
The next time you find yourself in a crowded restaurant, take note of which sense impressions have registered on your consciousness. Perhaps you’ve tuned into the restrained argument between the young couple at the next table. Your waitress has a bawdy laugh and an engagement ring on her left hand. From the direction of the kitchen comes the aroma of sautéed garlic, which conjures up ancient memories of your grandmother’s kitchen and reminds you that you skipped lunch.
Now ask your dinner companion what she notices. The Vivaldi they’re piping in through the speakers is nice, she says, but the clank and clatter of silverware and crockery are terribly annoying. What about the waitress? Oh, she wears too much makeup and her roots are showing. The smell of garlic? Now that you mention it, it is a little unpleasant, isn’t it?
You and your dining companion bring different memories, interests, sensitivities, moods, and expectations to the simple experience of sitting in a restaurant. Each of you notices different things. Your reconstruction of the evening is therefore radically different from that of your friend.
You can report it only as you experienced it—from your own point of view. That’s why eyewitness accounts of events often conflict wildly with one another. For a great many reasons, all of us perceive and interpret things differently.
Of course, in reconstructing your evening at the restaurant you could also recount your dinner companion’s impressions—but only as she chose to share them with you. You probably wouldn’t know why she chose to be critical of the waitress’ grooming or why she failed to notice the argument at the next table, although her facial expressions, gestures, tone of voice, and body language might give you clues. Perhaps she was jealous of the attentions the waitress received from her male customers. For all you know, your friend was eavesdropping but didn’t want to admit it to you.
You experience your life only through your own point of view. Part of that experience, of course, comes through your interactions with others. But you can never crawl into other people’s heads and experience what they experience, nor can you trust their reports to be entirely accurate or complete. People lie, distort, omit, and otherwise fail to say exactly what they really think. You must impose your interpretations on what others tell you, basing your conclusions both on what you know or infer about them and on your own preconceptions about human nature. In your interactions with others, you must rely on your own point of view.
In fiction, events are filtered through the five senses of the point-of-view characters and then reported to the reader. Establish your story’s point of
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