Read Online The Herring Seller's Apprentice by L. C. Tyler - Free Book Online
Authors: L. C. Tyler
Ads: Link
though many authors I know seem to have problems with the question, ‘Exactly when will the manuscript be ready?’
But one cannot lie to one’s readers, particularly when it comes to crime writing. There is a standard of honesty to be maintained that runs strangely contrary to the murky subject matter. Above all, the reader must be given a fair chance to identify the murderer by (say) three-quarters of the way through the book, and the murderer cannot be some obscure character glimpsed briefly in chapter seven and never mentioned again.
This need for honesty occasionally runs against realism. For example, some of my more villainous characters, who would sell their own grandmothers, prove strangely incapable of telling a direct lie. When, for example, in Thieves’ Honour, Ginger McVitie denies categorically that he paid Alf Jones to carry out a murder, the emphasis proves to be on the word ‘paid’: Jones has actually been blackmailed into carrying out the job. When my characters do tell a direct lie, they are usually offering the reader, in a quite generous fashion, the chance to spot an inconsistency between their statement and known facts.
This does not mean, of course, that one cannot lay endless trails of red herring in the path of the reader. As Geraldine had implied, these are, if not my stock in trade, at least a serviceable instrument that always sits in the toolbox of the crime writer. But they must be used with care to lead the reader off in a desired direction for a desired amount of time, not scattered randomly throughout the text. Nor are they the only tool in the box.
Clues must also obviously be provided: most openly, others half concealed in some throw-away line at the end of a section. I have sometimes been accused of providing too many clues too early on, but I am well aware that clues must be carefully doled out so that, while nobody can solve the mystery before the middle of the book, everyone has the chance of getting there before the final page.
But I do not necessarily treat all of my readers equally. I often, for example, throw in a line or two that will only be understandable to a tiny minority. I am by no means the only writer with such a penchant for private jokes. In Enderby Outside (page 94 of the Penguin edition) Anthony Burgess includes, with no attempt at explanation, a pun that could only be understood by a Malay speaker. Oddly enough, I was able to appreciate the joke, such as it is. During the first few months after Geraldine left me I found myself unable to write anything, other than one or two rather miserable and unpublishable poems. I was prescribed sleeping pills (most of which I still have stashed in the bathroom, for who knows what rainy day?) and I tried to forget other things by learning, first, Malay and then, later, some elementary Danish. I cannot say that either language has since been of immense benefit to me, but they both occupied my mind at a time when there was a large void to be occupied.
Finally, and more subtly, I like to include in my stories what I would describe as ‘pointers’. These offer parallels to the main story, and suggest avenues that might be explored. In All on a Summer’s Day, for example, where the interpretation of a date is critical to the plot, I have Sergeant Fairfax (in his capacity as an amateur historian) musing on a strange paradox: while the date of the first encounter between the Spanish Armada and the English fleet is beyond dispute, Spanish historians always give it as 31 July 1588, while their British counterparts more usually record it as 21 July. Why this anomaly for such a well-documented event? It is the sort of question, however, that I usually do not answer immediately, but leave hanging in the air for the reader to ponder. Occasionally I forget to explain it at all.
It did not surprise me that Elsie was in touch again soon after her visit to Findon. The reason for the call however was, ostensibly, routine literary
But one cannot lie to one’s readers, particularly when it comes to crime writing. There is a standard of honesty to be maintained that runs strangely contrary to the murky subject matter. Above all, the reader must be given a fair chance to identify the murderer by (say) three-quarters of the way through the book, and the murderer cannot be some obscure character glimpsed briefly in chapter seven and never mentioned again.
This need for honesty occasionally runs against realism. For example, some of my more villainous characters, who would sell their own grandmothers, prove strangely incapable of telling a direct lie. When, for example, in Thieves’ Honour, Ginger McVitie denies categorically that he paid Alf Jones to carry out a murder, the emphasis proves to be on the word ‘paid’: Jones has actually been blackmailed into carrying out the job. When my characters do tell a direct lie, they are usually offering the reader, in a quite generous fashion, the chance to spot an inconsistency between their statement and known facts.
This does not mean, of course, that one cannot lay endless trails of red herring in the path of the reader. As Geraldine had implied, these are, if not my stock in trade, at least a serviceable instrument that always sits in the toolbox of the crime writer. But they must be used with care to lead the reader off in a desired direction for a desired amount of time, not scattered randomly throughout the text. Nor are they the only tool in the box.
Clues must also obviously be provided: most openly, others half concealed in some throw-away line at the end of a section. I have sometimes been accused of providing too many clues too early on, but I am well aware that clues must be carefully doled out so that, while nobody can solve the mystery before the middle of the book, everyone has the chance of getting there before the final page.
But I do not necessarily treat all of my readers equally. I often, for example, throw in a line or two that will only be understandable to a tiny minority. I am by no means the only writer with such a penchant for private jokes. In Enderby Outside (page 94 of the Penguin edition) Anthony Burgess includes, with no attempt at explanation, a pun that could only be understood by a Malay speaker. Oddly enough, I was able to appreciate the joke, such as it is. During the first few months after Geraldine left me I found myself unable to write anything, other than one or two rather miserable and unpublishable poems. I was prescribed sleeping pills (most of which I still have stashed in the bathroom, for who knows what rainy day?) and I tried to forget other things by learning, first, Malay and then, later, some elementary Danish. I cannot say that either language has since been of immense benefit to me, but they both occupied my mind at a time when there was a large void to be occupied.
Finally, and more subtly, I like to include in my stories what I would describe as ‘pointers’. These offer parallels to the main story, and suggest avenues that might be explored. In All on a Summer’s Day, for example, where the interpretation of a date is critical to the plot, I have Sergeant Fairfax (in his capacity as an amateur historian) musing on a strange paradox: while the date of the first encounter between the Spanish Armada and the English fleet is beyond dispute, Spanish historians always give it as 31 July 1588, while their British counterparts more usually record it as 21 July. Why this anomaly for such a well-documented event? It is the sort of question, however, that I usually do not answer immediately, but leave hanging in the air for the reader to ponder. Occasionally I forget to explain it at all.
It did not surprise me that Elsie was in touch again soon after her visit to Findon. The reason for the call however was, ostensibly, routine literary
Similar Books
