CRIME WRITING: THE CREATION A CRIME SERIES 1 OF 3 POSTS

Psst! Do you want a few tips on how to commit the perfect murder? You do? Ok. But, before asking my advice on planning the despatch of your mother-in-law, you’ll probably want to know why I can help you avoid having your collar felt. Stick with me till I’ve outlined the background to how I acquired such esoteric skills.

I come from an Irish Catholic working-class background and I suppose you could say I was one of life’s late developers in the area of personal ambition. I certainly had no idea what a criminal direction I would end up in. Killing people – and getting away with it, was far in the future.

When I took my the examination, at the age of eleven, which would decide my educational future, I confess, I was far more interested in winning Jimmy Smith’s prize 4-er marble than I was in taking tests. Darlings –I won the marble… but failed the 11+. Examination.

So it was off to secondary modern for me.  For those who don’t know, secondary modern existed to teach people the basics of reading, writing and arithmetic and then send them out in the world at fifteen or sixteen to have jobs rather than careers. So I wasn’t off to a good start in my life.

Unsurprisingly, after I left school at 16, a long list of dead-end jobs followed. I won’t bore you with a litany of them. But, somewhere along the way, i found ambition. I realised that i wanted to do something with my life, rather than fritter it away.

I’d always been a keen reader, so trying to become a published writer seemed a natural step on the road. Oh boy! Was I in for a shock!

I first started writing in my early twenties, but I never finished anything. I was an amateur. A rank amateur. I knew nothing about research. Nothing about creating characters or plot. I hadn’t a clue, basically.

But hitting the age of thirty concentrated the mind wonderfully and gradually, I learned how to write novels and finish them. It was a long apprenticeship. Apart from what had gone before, from the age of thirty I wrote a book a year for six years before I achieved publication.  That book was a romance called Land of Dreams and set in the Canadian Arctic (don’t ask!). But after that brief brush with success, it was back to rejection alley.

By then i was pretty fed up. Nobody likes being repeatedly rejected. My ‘stuff you’ mentality came into play. I felt like murdering someone. So I did.

I turned to crime. I’ve done them all. Stabbings, poisonings, smotherings, bludgeonings. You name it and I ’ve done it. I’ve even hanged someone, but that was after they were dead.

The first book in a crime series is, I believe, the most difficult and demanding. You not only have to master the problems of plotting, clue laying and red-herring scattering and learn about police and forensic procedures, at the same time you have to create a cast of characters who are capable of supporting a series. A pretty tall order for a first effort in a genre I think you’ll agree.

There must be many neophyte writers who have fallen by the wayside in attempting to write crime novels. I might have been one of them if I hadn’t decided to do my own thing rather than follow the crowd.

Maybe the word originality explains why so many fail. That single word strikes terror into the hearts of a lot of new crime writers. I know it did mine.

After a writing history of five rejected romantic novels followed by the publication of the sixth, as well as the publication of various articles, the writing of a crime novel seemed not only much more demanding than anything I’d tackled before, but also extremely intimidating.

Just thinking of all those crime writers who are regularly praised for their devilish ingenuity, god-like intellect and masterly characterisation was enough to have more ordinary mortals, like me, quaking in their boots at the thought of trying to emulate them.

So, how on earth do you set about creating an original crime series? All I can tell you is how I went about it.

I suppose you could describe the Rafferty and Llewellyn mystery novels, which form my first series, as Inspector Frost meets Del Boy Trotter and family. For those who don’t watch British TV, Inspector Frost is something of a bumbler who’s anti-authority, but he’s smart enough to get his man. And Del Boy Trotter is a market trader (market stall not the stock market), who’s into buying dodgy gear. He’s working-class and a bit of a ducker and diver, but witty with it. So if you’re looking for the intellectual, Sherlock Holmes, type of crime novel – steer well clear! Though, having said that, I had one reviewer who likened me to Holmes.

 In short, the Rafferty family has more than their share of ‘Del Boy Trotter types’ whose leisure-time activities are far from Adam Dalgliesh and his poetry writing or Morse and his Wagner. The Rafferty family pursuits are nothing so refined. They’re into back-of-a-lorry bargains and other diversions of equally questionable legality.

And Rafferty’s ma ,Kitty Rafferty, often leads the field in such pursuits, using emotional blackmail to make Rafferty feel guilty when he upbraids her. Having far more than her share of blarney stone baloney, she always wins these little arguments.

Given the above, don’t restrict yourself to what you  think are the usual sort of police characters if something else would come more naturally to you.  Like me with Detective Inspector Joseph Rafferty and his back of a lorry family – try to find the main character that’s right for you.

To get back to this business of originality for a moment, I think we can all agree that being original is a tricky business. A book that one person considers a true original might be thought of as over the top by another. While a third person might consider your hard won originality is nothing more than a poor copy of a well-known writer’s style that’s been given a bit of a twist.

So, originality’s a pretty moveable feast. Publishers themselves are often a bit vague when they try to define what they’re looking for. But, even if they can’t tell you what they want, they find it easier to tell you what they don’t want.

No editor is going to be impressed by a writer who’s a copycat. For one thing, it’ll put the publisher in danger of being sued. So - no second rate plagiarism.

Okay, so where do you start? You start by asking
yourself a few pertinent questions.  About yourself, your background, your family, warts and all and then maybe oomph it up a bit.

Maybe, like British Prime Minister John Major, your family has a circus or funfair background? Maybe you could have a sort of Gypsy Rose Lee type in there somewhere? A travelling crook detector with her crystal ball ever at the ready! Outlandish, perhaps, but then wacky might be just your thing.

Or maybe your working background’s a little more conservative? In insurance, for instance.

An insurance investigator could get to look into a lot of suspicious deaths. And he doesn’t have to be your average stereotypical insurance worker, whatever that is.

Maybe he desperately wants to get out of the insurance business and into the world of entertainment. An insurance investigator as comedian, perhaps, given to cracking tasteless jokes at the crime scene. A man who’s learned to judge the witnesses as he would judge an audience.

They’re just a couple of ideas to get you thinking. Feel free to use them. Or not!

To get back to me, and the choices I made when I was creating my crime series. I decided on the surname Rafferty because I wanted his name to suggest someone who was a bit of a scruff – a rough Rafferty, in fact.  I chose the name Llewellyn for his sidekick because i wanted to give the suggestion of royalty.

In Dead Before Morning, the first in tis fifteen-strong mystery series, alongside the main story runs a humorous sub-plot, in which Rafferty is ensnared in the first of the series’ many family-induced problems. I’ve just finished Kith and Kill, my fifteenth in the series, and, like the previous fourteen, it has Rafferty embroiled in more trouble than a Victorian lady of the night sans the morning after pill.

To return to similarities, I thought if Rafferty shared class and education with me he might as well have other elements of similarity. Why not? Other writers do. Would a non—classical music lover have created Morse? Would someone who knows little and cares less about poetry have created the poetry writing Adam Dalgliesh? Well, possibly, i suppose. But it’s far more sensible to make use of elements from your own life.

I wanted a character I could empathise with. One who was as near me as I could get. Believe me, it helps! (even though I’m not a man, I made Rafferty male because I felt the relationship with his ma was important and I felt, rightly or wrongly, that there would be more scope for humour with a male main character).

And with that first crime novel you’ll have enough trouble creating a plot that conceals as it reveals, with coming up with clues, red herrings, a satisfying denouement and the rest. You won’t need to increase your difficulties by having a lead character from a totally different social background from yourself as well.

My background is Irish-Catholic working-class. So is Rafferty’s. I was educated (sic) in a Roman Catholic secondary modern. So was Rafferty. I come from a large family. So does Rafferty.

There are a few differences, of course. Apart from the differences in gender. But the basic elements of similarity are there, which all help to give the writer a ‘feel’ for a character and their background, something I regarded as essential when I hoped to carry him through a series of novels.

There are a lot of working class policemen out there – just like Rafferty – who have risen up the ranks, perhaps leaving behind them the less savoury habits of youth and family. Often, they’ll have had to shed or at least conceal, certain aspects of their character: prejudices of one sort or another, for instance. Or, like Rafferty, a family with a love of dubious ‘bargains’.

But just because our policeman character has found it necessary to change doesn’t mean to say his family would be so obliging as to do likewise. He would have parents, siblings, nephews, nieces and so on, all with their own ideas of what constitutes right and wrong. And all beyond the lead character’s influence or control.

Imagine such a family. They’d be only too likely to embarrass your lead character.

Now, i know we’re talking fictional policemen here, but just think again for a moment, of John Major and his family. Of Terry and Pat and the trapeze-artist, gnome-loving father. Nothing criminal there, of course. But still, what ammunition they provided his enemies – of whatever political persuasion. He must have often wished he had been an only, lonely orphan. Rafferty often wishes the same!

It doesn’t take a major (go on – groan!) Leap of the imagination to see that a policeman, in a position of authority, with the need to be seen to uphold the law can easily be embarrassed by a less than honest family. He could even have his career put at risk by them.

I was well into my stride now and decided that if Rafferty was going to be working class like me he might as well have other elements of ‘me’ – it not only makes life easier, it also helps me relate to the main character and to the past which has helped to shape him

But in order to have a ‘past’, he’s got to have memories. And the best memories, from the point of view of believability, are one’s own memories.

Which is something else you might perhaps care to bear in mind if and when you start creating your own mystery series.

I’ll give you an example.

In Down Among The Dead Men, the second in the series, I had Rafferty reveal – just as I remember doing – that as a schoolchild he and his classmates would attend Friday afternoon Benediction at the local Catholic Church and sing Latin hymns without – as they had never been taught any Latin – having a clue what they were singing about.

Not much, perhaps, in the broad sweep of a novel, but it’s little touches like that which help to bring a character to life. Which perhaps helps a reader to identify with them, to the point of saying, ‘yes. I remember doing that.’ it helps to make it all more real.

Once i had Rafferty down on paper, i gave a lot of thought to his sidekick. But that’s for the second in my three-parter posts. So tune in next time!

NEW AUTHOR, STEPHEN BRAYTON

 Today, I give my blog over to new author Stephen Brayton. As well as being a novelist, Stephen has a black belt in Taekwondo and also works as an instructor. He is epublished by Echelon Press. He describes how he decided on the kind of characters to appear in his book. Here's Stephen.

Many things I've learned over the years are self taught. When I worked as a graphic designer at a local newspaper, I was unfamiliar about the software being used to create advertising. Slowly, through the months, I discovered new things to be done with the program others hadn't.

So it was with writing. I didn't know anything about outlining, or formatting, or even too much editing, but throughout the years, I developed a system that worked for me. When I started writing my first action mystery, I knew what type of character I wanted as my protagonist. Since, she has developed into a deeper character with more flaws and more personality. At the time, though, I sat with pen in hand and wrote a very basic character outline. Along with her general description, I listed her favorite color, flower, food/drink, car, clothing, music, books. Nobody told me to do this and I didn't read any guidelines out of a how-to book. This just made sense to me to do this to better understand about who I was writing.

Years later, I read about a more in-depth character outline. This included background information, childhood memories, past employment, etc. Also included was a guideline to understand the character in that particular story. I liken it to actors preparing for a scene. What's the motivation? What's the goal? What are the obstacles? How are the obstacles overcome? These series of questions can be used for every character in every scene and for the story as a whole. However, the trap into which some writer may fall is taking this too far. I know a writer whose character description included almost soap opera like dimensions. While this may be fine to jot down, do those miscellaneous factoids have any bearing on the present day story? If not, I think time has been wasted when actual writing could have been done.

One of the difficulties I encountered was in the physical description of the characters. Brown eyes, dark brown hair, and medium build are so common, and I get bored reading about the same person in many books. For me, I had to develop a mental image of each character and I based the looks on various people I knew whether they be friends, classmates, or people in the public eye such as movie or television actresses.

Mallory Petersen, in Beta (release date July 15), was an easy character to develop. Basically, she is me as a female, with a little more flair, better looks, and better martial arts skills. I just took many of my traits, likes and dislikes, and improved them to create Mallory.

For Night Shadows, background plays a large role for each of the two protagonists. Harry Reznik is married to an attractive woman and feels lucky to have her for a wife. He attended almost three years at the university unable to decide upon a career choice…until he met his future wife. So she, in essence, helps to develop his character throughout their marriage. For Lori Campisi, her background is mystery, and her struggle against amnesia and the revelations are part of the story. I knew the personality I wanted to portray and had a mental image of her features.

For other characters, I use familiar people to describe them. The medical examiner has, "Tom Brokaw handsomeness." The Lieutenant is drawn from a model in a magazine. Reznik compares Campisi to Spock because of her control over exhibiting emotions.

Good authors will bring their characters off the pages and put them into the reader's mind's eye. Of course, every person's conception of a particular character may be different than another's, but differing views are the beauty of imagination and what make the books enjoyable.

BLURB:

Description

Des Moines Homicide detective Harry Reznik and F.B.I. agent, Lori Campisi, have their hands more than a little full when they team up to investigate a series of gruesome murders.

With life throwing them one obstacle after another, the unlikely pair has no choice but to put their personal issues aside as they battle malevolent creatures from another dimension. With everything to lose, they have no one but each other to count on in a wicked game of survival.

Bio:

Stephen Brayton owns and operates Brayton's Black Belt Academy in Oskaloosa, Iowa. He's a Fifth Degree Black Belt and certified instructor in The American Taekwondo Association.

Stephen began writing as a child; his first short story concerned a true incident about his reactions to discipline. During high school, he wrote for the school newspaper and was a photographer for the yearbook. For a Mass Media class, he wrote and edited a video project.

In college, he began a personal journal for a writing class; said journal has been ongoing. He also was a reporter for the college newspaper.

During his early twenties, while working for a Kewanee, Illinois radio station, he wrote a fantasy based story and a trilogy for a comic book. He has written numerous short stories, both horror and mystery.

Excerpt:

Des Moines, Iowa
Midnight, Saturday

It is a special time. The Night. A special place.

Where things are seen but not witnessed. Where promises are made and broken. Where dreams and wishes are fulfilled.

During the day, there is a rushing and frantic pace. When night falls, movement is quieter and mysterious. Breezes blow through tree branches and the soft slap of leaves are heard, but those leaves are not noticed as much as their silhouettes caused by streetlights.

The streetlight's sodium vapor fizzes to life, palely illuminating its own small section of the world, at the same time creating shadows.

Moving shadows.

Elongated shadows such as the dog and its owner out for a walk along a quiet residential street. A familiar route for both, but a chance for the canine to track new scents and continue the age-old instinctual, if nowadays needless, practice of marking and re-marking its territory. Its owner is allowed a chance to breathe a bit of cool air after being cooped up in a stuffy cubicle by day and a stale apartment all evening.

He is cautious, however, for while he may favor the night, others less innocent also occupy the patches of darkness. So when his best friend, hardly a breed to cause hesitation to a potential attacker, stops to sniff a scraggly bush, the man swivels to look in all directions. Ears strain for the lightest footfall or rustle of clothing from someone hidden. Darting eyes pick up all movements. The back and forth flow of those tree leaves, the silent streak of a darting rabbit not noticed by the dog.

There! Did he notice a curtain edge dropping back into place in the darkened house he and his dog now face? Maybe. The house is single story, a small box really, with the requisite low pitched roof, dollhouse windows. No porch, just irregularly shaped flagstones leading to a gravel driveway. Nothing special, nothing unique. Nothing to be scared of.

Man and dog continue down the sidewalk, their shadows sometimes guiding, sometimes dissipating.

Inside the house, a figure steps back, letting the curtain fall from his hand when the dog walker turns toward the window.

Did he see me?

Eyes peek around the edge of the curtain and watch as the pair walk out of sight.

No, everything is fine. Nobody suspects.

A gasp and another step back as car headlights spear the darkness and disappear. Startled, the figure waits until his breathing is even, heartbeat normal. Well, maybe a little faster than normal considering what is about to happen.

Obsessive compulsive behavior urges another quick check outside. Nothing. Nobody. A blue flicker of a television from a house across the street, but no worries there.

They won't know.

Without as much as the softest whisper of carpet fiber, the figure steps away from the window to a door. Beyond it lies a flight of descending stairs. Before advancing below, the wraith-like figure double locks the basement door.

Absolute darkness, but there is no concern. The number of stairs is known, as is the number of steps to reach the wall. A scratch, a brief scent of sulfur, and flame burns one end of a wooden matchstick. The fingers holding the other end are nail bitten yet clean. They spread the fire to the wicks of several candles resting on makeshift shelves around the room.

The basement is small as befits the structure above. Not many items are in evidence. The candles, of course, some new and fat, others thin with castle-like moldings of dripped wax. Others are stubby and ready for replacement.

All colored black or red.

A dais stands at the far end of the basement. Next to it is an old wooden chest with an ornate metal lock and hasp.

No windows, no vents. Only the candles, the dais, the chest…and him.

The merest glimpse of a figure behind a curtained window, now a solid man in candlelight, stands stooped. His face and body show the years of a hard life's struggle, an ever striving to find that one elusive…something. The creases in his forehead, the scars on his limbs, the gray hairs on his chest and head, the involuntary twitches of leg, arm, and back muscles all belie the fact the man has only aged to his late fifties. The robe he wears is inlaid with intricate, complex, and alien designs on a background of rich deep purple.

He pauses after disposing of the spent match. His heart thuds in anticipation. He listens to the quiet and watches the shadows created by the candles' flames.

The shadows, yes…

A loner by choice for many years, he sometimes wonders why he lives in the city. Rural life would suit him better, away from the people and the noise. Midnight in the metropolis is tolerable, however, and the traffic on his block is sparse, even during the day.

Unlike Mexico City with its twenty-four-hour-a-day traffic jams, thirty million plus population, and the smog turning his snot and lungs black. He barely survived the ordeal, but he obtained his prize. The old chest…and the treasure within.

Years of research and travel led him to the filthy, corrupt capital where he traced the old Guardian to a forgotten alley in the Zona Roja–the Red Zone–one of the ugliest, dirtiest, crime ridden, rat and human debris infested parts of the city. In a sub cellar of a neglected building negotiations went awry. A stubborn, worthless, withered old man lay dead, and the chest and its contents stolen away in the night.

Now, in another capital city in an American heartland state, his dreams can be fulfilled. Power will be the reward for all his tribulations. Power…

From the Book of Sarmangous.

After unlocking the chest, he withdraws the large tome, its cracked bindings, strange textured cover, and brittle pages all handled with infinite delicacy. The cover bears strange, timeworn designs, some vaguely human, others more monstrous in nature. Some of them spell out in an ancient language the book's title.

Sarmangous.

He places the book on the wooden dais' felt-lined holder. Inhaling one sharp breath and holding the air in his lungs so as not to so much as breathe an internal foulness upon the pages, he opens the cover. He turns to the correct page deep within the thickness of the ancient writings, selects the specific text. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, still holding his breath. His entire body aquiver with heightened nerves, then…then opening his eyes, the words, the phrases, the weird combination of sounds are uttered.

The candles burn a little brighter.

* * *

Another room elsewhere in the city



One second there is darkness, the next there is a flash of swirling purple.

A door has opened.

Whispers like water flowing over rocks fill the air.

In the middle of the churning purple maelstrom is a blackness, a malevolence, almost…prescient.

A shape, burnt gray, slithers from the black, into the room…into existence.

It is followed by another and another and…

Pinpricks of red pierce the darkness. The gray shapes start to expand, to grow.

As does their hunger.

* * *

The man in the purple robe stands in front of the dais, in front of the Book of Sarmangous. He smiles as he feels the energy within him. Eyes closed, he revels in the moment. He has unleashed an unstoppable power, one only he will control.

The candles flare once and settle back, their flickering erratic, and the created shadows dance.

Some of those shadows move against the dancing silhouettes...move on their own.

And it begins…

* * *

Ewing Park, four nights later


"Come on, Betty. It'll be fun. Don't you think this is romantic?" The youth coaxed the reluctant girl deeper into the grove of trees and large bushes, the sweet odor of lilacs heavy in the air.

"Joey, we're gonna get caught. Somebody's gonna see us."

"No, they won't. It's the middle of the night."

"The car, Joey." Betty pulled back, causing her date to stumble. "A cop is going to find the car and catch us. I don't want to go to jail."

"We're not going to jail," Joey whispered, "unless you don't lower your voice. Even if we do get caught, we'll just be thrown out. We're not going to get arrested."

He sensed her hesitation wane.

"Come on, honey. You always complain about how I'm not spontaneous enough. Well, here we are."

"Joey," she said, hands on hips. "You're carrying a blanket, a flashlight, and a condom. How spontaneous is that? You drove directly here after we left the club. Don't tell me you didn't plan this."

"Well…" Joey shrugged. "Do I at least get points for originality? Maybe…a kiss?"

Betty pursed her lips in mock consideration. "I have to admit this is different."

"Uh–huh. What about the kiss?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe…more?"

"At least turn off the flashlight," Betty said. "It won't make any difference how loud our voices are if they see a light."

"Mmm…"

"What?"

"I just…well, I just wanted to see you…"

"Yes?"

"I want to watch you…undress." Joey leered.

"Joey!"

"It's sexy. The way you look at me and take off your clothes so slowly."

He closed in and nuzzled her neck, whispering more seductive words in her ear. She giggled, then sighed as Joey's insistent body warmed her, overwhelmed her senses, and eased her fears. He touched her skin, brushed her arms with soft fingers, and she reached for him.

"Wait." Joey backed off.

Betty moaned at the broken moment. "Why?"

"Not here. I know a good place. Follow me."

They ran nearly pell-mell, hand in hand, to a circular clearing within a copse of trees almost in full bloom. The heady lilac scent only served to push their pulsing hormones up another notch. He quickly spread the blanket on the grass and removed his shoes. Kneeling, he pointed the flashlight at her.

"All right. Show me," he whispered.

"Don't shine the light in my eyes," she said.

"Sorry." He aimed the light lower, but could still see her sultry expression. She licked her lips with the tip of her tongue while her hands slid across her stomach and up to her breasts. Her fingers played with the first button of her blouse.

"Oh, my!" Joey's eyes widened, excitement building.

Betty moved her hips to some silent rhythm as she popped the first button out of the hole. Then the second button, the third.

A faint sound upon the breeze wafted through the branches.

Betty stopped moving.

"What?" Joey narrowed his eyes, upset by the interruption.

Betty cocked her head to one side. "I thought I heard something."

"Ain't nothing out here. Come on, keep going. I'm about to drill a hole in my pants."

Betty giggled again and resumed her routine. Finally, she slipped off the blouse, crossed her arms in front of her breasts which all but spilled from her half bra.

"You like?" Her words were overly breathy.

Joey only nodded.

She reached for the zipper on her skirt and soon the garment joined the other.

"Black panties," Joey said. "My favorite."

"Yes, but it's your turn." Betty pointed. "Time for you to get out of those clothes."

Joey stood, handed her the flashlight, and hastily removed his shirt.

"Not so fast, lover boy," Betty chided. "I like it slow, too."

He moved his hips in a poor imitation of a Chippendale dancer taking off his pants.

"Mmm, looks very interesting," Betty said.

Joey stepped towards her, his hand reaching for her breast. He hesitated when he heard a slithering sound, like a snake on loose gravel.

"What was that?" Betty aimed the light around her.

"I don't know. Probably a small animal."

"Joey, m–maybe we oughta get out of here." Betty reached for her clothes when the sound altered from a slither to a harsh shush as of two pieces of satin rubbing together. The volume increased and the noise became an incensed hiss.

"Joey!" Betty whirled around, flashing the light in every direction. "What it is? What's happening?"

"I don't–"

Another evolution of sound cut off his final words. The hiss became a mushy scrunch, like shuffling footsteps in sand or finely broken glass. Something shifted in the darkness. Too late, Joey realized it wasn't something in the shadows, it was a shadow. No, a lot of shadows. Shifting, expanding, forming.

Coming closer.

"Betty!" Joey's scream ripped through the night air, but Betty couldn't respond. The shadows enveloped her and her screams ripped through the night air.

Although not for long.

Joey tried to run, but other dark shapes cut off his escape…cut short his life.

The flashlight clunked to the ground, its switch still set to the 'on' position. The bulb shone, providing fuel for the attack.

Because with no light, there are no shadows.

The purchase link is:

https://www.omnilit.com/product-nightshadows-514805-234.html

Stephen's website is: www.stephenbrayton.com and his blog is http://stephenlbrayton.blogspot.com/

Thank you, Stephen. Don't forget to click on Stephen's website to learn more about him and his book. Good luck with it, Stephen.