That was the conundrum I found myself in when I started writing my latest thriller, The Deepest Fake.

(Live-writing My Thriller Novel.)

As a practicing physician, I’ve always felt confident fictionalizing medical topics, where my background lends an air of authority, deserved or not. But when The Deepest Fake plunged me into the world of artificial intelligence, I couldn’t rely on my day job anymore. Readers wouldn’t, and shouldn’t, give me the same benefit of the doubt. I’m, at best, tech literate adjacent.

Through researching and writing this book, I stumbled on some important lessons—many of them the hard way—about weaving AI and emerging technology into a story that feels authentic. The biggest takeaway? I didn’t have to be a neural network engineer to tell a convincing story about the human consequences of high-tech innovation.

Readers expect credibility, but in fiction, they don’t need a deep technical breakdown of the subject matter. In other words, they don’t have to see under the hood to enjoy the ride. Overexplaining science slows the pace and pulls readers out of the story. Instead of delving into cloud infrastructure, I opted to show the emotional fallout from a deepfake: the devastation, helplessness, and shame of a victim whose voice and image have been twisted beyond their control.

All genre fiction—whether it’s historical romance, legal thriller, or Nordic noir—requires some world-building. That challenge becomes even trickier with AI and technology, where it’s easy to overwhelm or confuse readers. What helped me most was using the characters to explain the science to one another, rather than rely on the narrator. Dialogue gave me the freedom to simplify, generalize, and take creative liberties.

For example, instead of paragraphs of prose explaining the complexities of AI versus artificial general intelligence—the kind that could truly think and reason—I let the characters unpack it in conversation. Paraphrased, it sounds like this:

“So Generative AI doesn’t really ‘think’ for itself?”
“Exactly. It stitches complex patterns together. As convincing as it is, it only simulates intelligence and creativity. True general intelligence—like you or me—actually understands and decides. Unlike AI, it has agency. And we’re not there yet. Thank God.”

After all, I wasn’t trying to teach computer science. I was exploring how big, abstract ideas can tear through ordinary lives.

Another common trap in writing about AI is chasing headlines. But advances in the field happen so quickly that today’s breakthroughs would probably feel passé before the book even hits the shelves. I found it better to treat tech news as inspiration rather than a blueprint—to let it spark “what if?” scenarios while making sure the plot still stands on its own.

For instance, when I first read about so-called “deathbots”—AI chatbots trained on a person’s digital footprint to simulate posthumous conversations—I was floored. The idea of interacting with a digital echo of a lost loved one, almost like having a Zoom call with the dead, was both fascinating and deeply unsettling. But rather than fixate on how the technology actually works, I found myself asking more personal questions: What if this tool unraveled someone’s life? What if it became the gateway to an even greater deception?

Another key lesson I learned is that while technology always marches—sometimes rockets—forward, the underlying themes remain unchanged. Deepfakes may one day give way to even more immersive deceptions, but the deeper questions (who controls the truth, who profits from lies) are perennial. Technology may provide the means, but it’s rarely the motive or the killer, though it does make for a convincing red herring.

Click to continue.

One other key takeaway: Technology can enhance a story’s atmosphere, much like setting does, but it can’t replace character or plot. Consider Jurassic Park: Those genetically re-engineered dinosaurs hooked us, but the story’s heart lay in its tension, stakes, and complex, believable characters. The same holds true for stories about AI. Without fully realized people, even the flashiest innovation falls flat.

In the end, what matters most is emotional resonance. A character willing to risk everything—their life, their identity, their integrity—will always be more memorable than the most sophisticated technology or gadgetry. That’s true even in the Bond franchise. What gave the AI real impact in my story was anchoring it in the characters’ emotions, struggles, and sometimes survival. That made it matter to me and, hopefully, to my readers.

As for where AI is headed, I’m as curious as I am cautious. The possibilities are thrilling, but the risks are just as real. And terrifying. I wanted to bring that tension into my story. To do that, I needed the right lens: a Cassandra, a protagonist who speaks the truth but isn’t believed by those around her. Through her voice, I could explore my own doubts, questions, and hopes.

What I’ve learned is this: When you root complex technology in genuine human stakes, it becomes not just plausible; it becomes meaningful. And that approach works far beyond AI. By focusing on the universal elements of story—trust, betrayal, identity, connection—you can write with confidence about any fast-changing field, even one outside your expertise.

Quick Tips for Writing Fiction Involving Emerging Tech

• Let dialogue do the heavy lifting. Use character conversations to explain complex ideas in natural, relatable ways.
• Don’t chase headlines. Let recent news inspire you, but don’t tether your plot to tech that might age out quickly.
• Focus on emotion. Highlight the personal consequences of the technology—where the stakes feel real.
• Keep it light but plausible. Do your research, but don’t overload the narrative with jargon.
• Lean on timeless themes. Whether your subject is AI, biotech, or law, the emotional core—trust, betrayal, fear, hope—will always resonate.

Check out Daniel Kalla’s The Deepest Fake here:

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The post How a Deepfake Thriller Taught Me to Write Realistic AI appeared first on Writer's Digest.

I started my professional career 20 years ago on a group blog called Murderati. Group blogs were all the rage—we were pre-social media at that moment—and I was lucky enough to fall in with a group of writers who were exploring all facets of crime fiction. I was the tech-savvy one of the bunch, so I learned how to code and design the website in addition to being the Friday blogger. It was incredible fun, but also a tremendous amount of work.

(How Substack Helped Me Publish My Novel at 55.)

I grew up on Murderati. Late to the writing game (I started blogging in 2003 at age 34, three years before my first book was published), I knew very little about how the industry worked, and even less about what it took to have a career in writing. I learned the ropes experimenting with voice, analyzing writing trends, and otherwise baring my soul for the world every week. It taught me the discipline of meeting deadlines and how important it was to think about writing, even when I wasn’t creating. I ate up every ounce of advice and insight the other bloggers were sharing. I learned; we all did. Over the years, I published book after book, and yes, blog after blog.

33 books and 22 years later, I’ve learned a little bit about what it takes to have a career in publishing. I’d like to think I know how to write a compelling story. And I’ve never been able to break the habit of a weekly blog. Now it’s called Friday Reads, lives on Substack, and is an amalgamation of writing advice, book recommendations, and genial chit chat between me and my readers, many of whom, after all these years, are dear friends.

When Substack appeared on the scene, I jumped in with both feet. The current iteration of social media, with its brevity, incessant scrolling, and performative nature, can be challenging for me. Long-form writing has always been my forte. After all, I am a writer—not a producer, photographer, videographer, or actor—and Substack seemed like a great place to explore a deeper connection with my readers. I arrived a little earlier than most; I was writing on Medium and wasn’t happy with the changes that were in place, and I loved the simple, clean interface that Substack provided. I built the site with my most treasured essays, making it beautiful, functional, and easily readable, transferred my small but loyal weekly blog readership, and continued writing.

(An Honest Review of the Medium Publishing Platform.)

But Substack has a subscription model. And I’ve always wanted to write a book on writing. I’ve collected all the blogs I’ve ever written into a file that I’ve been trying to get off the ground for a long time, but it’s never worked. Publishing has changed so dramatically over the past 20-plus years that much of my older publishing and marketing advice is no longer relevant.

But the actual craft of book writing…well, that’s advice people always want to hear.

I was just starting to work on a new book—Last Seen. And it hit me—why not try live writing the process of writing the novel, from concept to publication day. Multiple birds with one stone. A – It would be great fun, B – It would give me a legitimate reason to put work behind a paywall, and C – I could focus on building my nonfiction book at the same time as writing the fictional one.

Click to continue.

I started by examining the lifecycle of a book. I wrote down all the steps it takes from concept to publication and realized that for me, a story moves through 22 distinct phases. I decided to document them all, allowing readers deep insight into my process and encouraging writers to follow along as they built their current work in progress. Admittedly, deconstructing my process is something I’ve been doing since I started blogging, but nothing like this. This was my book journal come to life, as intimate, realistic, and honest as I could possibly be.

I even taught myself how to outline so I could explore and express that part of the process for those of us who aren’t inveterate pantsers. I hate to admit it, but I actually think it helped the book in the long run (though I did go rogue at one point because the whole thing fell apart on me).

I’m now nearly to publication day, the end of this series, with only a few posts left. It has burgeoned into almost 75,000 words of craft advice, story development, progress reports, behind-the-scenes looks at the day-to-day writing life—what’s worked, what hasn’t, where I pulled my hair out, where I wept for joy—and everything in between. It’s a living, breathing memoir; a craft book; a year-long journal, all rolled into one. And, of course, I realized there are more than 22 steps; I’d missed a few along the way, so I also included a number of essays labeled Interim Steps, which are designed to encourage and illuminate. In these, I discuss ego, the psychology of writing, what to do when you get blocked, and how to develop new stories. They round out the book’s lifecycle.

Writing is hard. There’s no question about that. And the more you do, the longer you’re in this game, the harder it gets. There’s no secret handshake, no magic. It’s just diligent, steady work, grinding out the words, day by day. I thought it would be fun for people to see what it actually takes to write a novel. Judging by the response I’ve had, I was right.

Check out J.T. Ellison’s Last Seen here:

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(Find more Killer Writers conversations here.)

“James, one of the things that stood out to me in FDR Drive was how fairly you treated every character, regardless of their role. As a reader, I felt like I could understand why someone acted a certain way, even when I disagreed with them. What guides you when tackling contested spaces like this?”

“The starting point for me is looking back at the hard questions I dealt with as FBI Director and as a federal prosecutor. Those were moments where you had to recognize that good people can disagree sharply about serious questions. In FDR Drive, I drew from that experience to explore one of the tensions I grappled with in government: Where does free speech end and a crime begin? In a country that cherishes its First Amendment, when someone uses words to incite others to harm, how do we respond? That tension became central to the story. The challenge is finding a path between two deeply held values: free expression and the need to protect innocent people. To write about that authentically, I had to focus on the people: What do they fear? What do they justify to themselves? What compromises have shaped their character? That’s what gives a scene its weight.”

“That came across clearly. The characters felt three‑dimensional because you gave space for both sides. What role does empathy play when you write characters with opposing motivations, especially when one side might be doing things you disagree with?”

“Empathy is everything when you write about contested ideas. What has long scared me about being human is how easily we can fall in love with our own virtue. In law school, one of the most valuable lessons I learned came from Professor Hans Tiefel, a German-American ethicist. Even before I went to law school, I took one of his classes in college. He would force us to write essays and give oral arguments for positions we disagreed with, ensuring we met the facts fairly and presented the opposing side with precision and honor. That lesson shaped me as a lawyer and, later, as a writer. The best lawyers understand that their role isn’t just to win an argument; it’s to serve the larger ideal of a fair system. You must passionately advocate for one side and then be able to turn around and passionately advocate for the other. It’s humbling, and it’s a lesson that applies beyond the law. In fiction, it means putting yourself in the character’s shoes, seeing the world as they do, and presenting their motivations as honestly as possible.”

“That approach came through clearly. Even when one character is acting reprehensibly, you gave readers space to grapple with why. How do you balance making both sides compelling when one side might be overtly acting out of cruelty, greed, or hate?”

“The line between good and evil doesn’t run between people. It runs down the center of every human heart. I’ve worked with people who committed horrific acts. One witness I remember had killed 25 people for the Sicilian Mafia, almost all by strangulation. At first, I thought, ‘How monstrous.’ Yet, after hours and hours across a table from him, I learned about his deep love for his wife and how much he grieved for the pain he’d caused his children. Those moments don’t justify what he did, but they reveal that we’re complex creatures, a mix of wounds and convictions. In fiction, I try to capture that complexity. Not to excuse behavior, but to acknowledge that every person you write is shaped by forces that matter deeply to them. When a character justifies themselves, when you can imagine how their choices felt necessary to them, that character can live beyond the page.”

“That’s an intriguing lens. Do you ever worry about nudging readers too hard toward a specific viewpoint? How do you guard against making a character an extension of your own beliefs?”

“It’s one of the biggest dangers for any writer, especially when dealing with controversial or polarizing ideas. It’s tempting to write a character in a way that serves your worldview, making it a mouthpiece for what you already think. To guard against that, I have built in accountability. My wife reads every scene as I write it, and she has an uncanny sense for when I’ve fallen too much in love with one character or flattened another. My kids do the same. They’ll tell me when a character doesn’t sound like themselves anymore, when one voice is starting to sound like another, or when one character’s motivations seem too convenient. That external feedback is vital. It’s humbling, and it reminds me that every character deserves to stand on their own. The goal isn’t to win an argument or justify a position. The goal is to present a scene as authentically as I can and let readers draw their own conclusions.”

“That’s incredibly valuable for writers. Let’s talk about the process for a moment. You mentioned drawing from lived experience when creating certain characters. How consciously do you lean into those moments when plotting a scene?”

“Very consciously. The witness I mentioned earlier inspired one of the central characters in FDR Drive. When I write those moments, I close my eyes and try to remember how it felt to be across the table from him. What were the moments that revealed vulnerability? What about him felt monstrous? What felt heartbreakingly human? That approach gives a scene a charge. I’m not inventing conflict from nowhere; I’m recreating dynamics I’ve witnessed, and that gives readers a chance to grapple with those tensions themselves. It’s fiction, but it’s rooted in lived experience, which makes it feel more authentic.”

Check out James Comey’s FDR Drive here:

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“That’s evident throughout the book. Do you find that knowing those moments personally gives you more latitude when tackling morally ambiguous situations?”

“Definitely. It allows for specificity. When I picture a scene, I can draw on gestures, moments of silence, or unexpected reactions that shaped the experience for me. This doesn’t mean mimicking reality beat for beat, but it means allowing that lived experience to deepen the emotional core of the scene. For writers tackling controversial or ambiguous topics, I always advise going closer, not further away. Too often, when writers want to grapple with challenging ideas, the instinct is to flatten people into caricatures: the bad guy or the corrupt one. Getting closer means allowing readers to witness moments that complicate that view. The closer you get, the harder it is for readers to dismiss a character as one thing, the harder it is for you, as the writer, to make that character a symbol rather than a person.”

“That’s such an important takeaway: Get closer, deepen the character. What about tackling contested ideas as a writer? In an increasingly polarized world, what’s your best piece of advice for writers trying to grapple with difficult issues?”

“Stay rooted in the lived reality of character. Whatever your topic, ask yourself, ‘How would this person justify themselves?’ Get as close as you can. Let the reader witness that internal process. And remember: It’s so easy and lazy to say, ‘Everyone who disagrees with me is an idiot or evil.’ It takes more work, more humility, to recognize that someone can disagree passionately with you and still operate from a place of conviction, shaped by their own experiences and understanding of the world. That doesn’t mean excusing behavior. It means understanding it. When you approach contested ideas with that lens, you write deeper stories and create moments that linger long after the book is closed.”

“That reminds me of a story you’ve shared before, about teaching a class called Policing Inside Out at Howard University. Could you talk about that? It feels relevant to how writers can grapple with contested ideas.”

“Absolutely. After I was fired from the FBI, I taught a class called Policing Inside Out at Howard University, a historically Black college. The class was intentionally structured to encourage students and active-duty police officers to engage with and grapple with contested ideas. We brought together 15 Howard undergraduates, almost all Black, and 15 active‑duty officers from Baltimore, Washington, and Charlotte. At the beginning of the semester, the two groups sat on opposite sides of the room, wary of one another. By the end, they were intermingled, openly sharing stories, challenging assumptions, and grieving the end of that time together. They didn’t necessarily agree by the final day, but they came to understand each other as human beings shaped by their own worlds and struggles. That experience captures the core lesson for writers: Getting closer doesn’t erase differences, but it makes understanding possible. And understanding makes for richer, more honest stories.”

Click to continue.

“That’s an extraordinary example. Let’s shift to character voice. You mentioned earlier how your wife or kids will alert you when character voices start sounding too alike. What have you learned about keeping character voices distinct?”

“It’s an ongoing challenge. When you spend a long time with a character, it’s easy for their voice to bleed into another’s, especially when you’re deep into drafting and moving quickly between scenes. That’s where readers and editors you trust are vital. My wife, for example, will leave a comment like, ‘This doesn’t sound like Matty Parker anymore. This sounds like your other character.’ Those moments force me to slow down and reread aloud. The sound of a character’s voice, the rhythm, the word choice, and the worldview embedded in their lines are like a fingerprint. Getting that right takes time, and it takes listening. The lesson for writers is to revisit character voices frequently and to seek help from trusted readers. It’s easy to lose track when you’re deep in the scene, but the voice is the character. It’s worth getting right.”

“That’s great advice. Let’s talk about endings for a moment. As a writer, how do you balance making an ending feel both authentic and satisfying, especially when dealing with morally ambiguous stories?”

“It’s a hard question, and one I continue to grapple with. In an earlier book, I left the ending intentionally ambiguous, allowing readers to draw their own conclusions about a character and their choices. In FDR Drive, I gave more concrete closure because it felt right for that character and that moment. Different readers want different things from an ending. Some want a hard stop, a sense that the character has arrived at a concrete destination. Others want an open door, a hint that the questions don’t end when the book does. What guides me is the character and the scene itself. What does this character need? What does this scene require? Will this ending linger? Will it reside in a reader long after they’ve put down the book? That’s the measure I use. Whatever the form, an ending must stay with the reader, long after they’ve finished reading.”

“That lingering quality is one of the things I admired most about FDR Drive. For writers grappling with contested ideas, especially in a time when readers can be quick to judge, what final thought would you leave them with?”

“Get closer. Stay curious. Resist the lazy instinct to flatten people into caricatures. Let your characters justify themselves and trust your readers to draw their own conclusions. It can be exhausting to grant someone the benefit of the doubt, to imagine the best case for a worldview you reject. But it’s worth it. The stories that linger, the stories that matter, are those that honor the complexity of being human. If you can do that, if you can recognize that every person, every character, operates with a mix of convictions, wounds, fears, and loyalties, you can write stories that live beyond the page.”

_____________________________

James Comey has been a prosecutor, defense lawyer, general counsel, teacher, writer, and leader. He most recently served in government as Director of the FBI. He has written two bestselling nonfiction books, A Higher Loyalty and Saving Justice, as well as three novels in his Nora Carleton crime fiction series. https://jamescomeybooks.com/

The post A Conversation With James Comey on Writing Fairly and Making Stories Linger (Killer Writers) appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(Making the Familiar Unfamiliar in Crime Fiction.)

In some narratives, the cat and mouse are quite distinct. The cat is clear from the outset (for example, when it’s the haunted and grizzly detective pursuing a suspect who doesn’t yet realize they’re the target, or when someone from the past reappears under a new guise seeking vengeance). The mouse might be a true mouse—innocent and defenseless, caught in the crosshairs of another’s obsession—or a sociopathic killer. The mouse can be knowing, making intentional moves and countermoves, or entirely oblivious.

Part of what I love about cat and mouse is that it’s timeless and versatile. It’s also innately compelling. Readers love a good chase.

So, what makes a good chase?

I’ll step back here and give a shout-out to my absolute favorite varietal of cat and mouse. It’s when there are two protagonists who instantly—or relatively quickly—realize that they’re antagonists. There might be envy or mutual dislike but most importantly, their fondest desires are simply incompatible. For one to succeed, the other must fail; for one to win, the other must lose.

In life, I hate a zero-sum and would much rather compromise, but in fiction, I love the clarity of the absolute. It means that the protagonists are pitted fully against each other, forced to rationalize and justify every escalating aggression. It’s human nature to want to be right, which means the other cat has to be wrong. Or at least, more wrong than you.

My novel, The Secret Mistress, is available in June and it features two such protagonists/antagonists. Maren’s husband Corey died months ago and she’s still grieving when Jade shows up on her doorstep, accompanied by a four-year-old named Tai. Jade informs Maren that Tai is Corey’s son—ergo, Jade was Corey’s mistress. Maren’s a wealthy widow whereas Jade is struggling to support Tai. So in Jade’s mind, what she wants is simple and irrefutable: Tai is Corey’s heir and should receive an inheritance.

Maren’s position is equally simple and irrefutable (to her): This couldn’t possibly be true. Corey was a devoted husband, and he has no children. Maren knows this for sure, since she and Corey never had any, to her great agony. Jade must be lying.

Soon, though, Maren decides Jade is telling the truth, which is bad news for Jade. Jade wants money but Maren soon wants something else, which is to connect with Tai. He’s the son that Maren wishes she’d had. Jade thought she was the cat, but Maren is not so mousy after all.

If the novel had remained about money alone, that would have been boring. For me, it’s important that a novel contains layers of motivation, and that those layers mirror human complexity. Money can be a psychological stand-in for respectability and legitimacy. It serves to distract from loneliness and ameliorate our need for love. But there’s a limit to what creature comforts can provide. That’s why we always want more.

Click to continue.

When Maren and Jade become increasingly obsessed with each other, it’s because they’re actually seeking validation, contact, and connection. In a cat and mouse, there’s a reason that the cat is pursuing the mouse. The mouse represents something meaningful to the cat.

And that’s what makes for a satisfying cat and mouse. It’s that both antagonists are properly motivated. They should also be properly deluded as to those motivations, believing that they’re not the real problem; the other guy is.

Jade thinks that all she wants is for Maren to cave and give her money; Maren thinks that all she wants is a relationship with Tai. But there has to be a lot more to it. In a cat and mouse, characters can’t just want what they want; they want the clash. Fortunately, the reader does, too.

One of the tricks in writing a thriller is how to shield the character from her own deepest and truest motivations without making her too infuriatingly stupid or evil. Sometimes that’s what a first draft—or second or third…—is for. The writer needs to figure out where the lines are. Because there have to be lines your characters won’t cross, or will only cross with extreme provocation.

As a thriller writer, my job is to create the conditions for escalation. My cats have to keep going further and further in pursuit of their goals and because of their obsession with one another. In a well-executed cat and mouse, there’s always a degree of obsession. That goes back to character: How do these antagonists so thoroughly capture one another’s imagination? What does each represent to the other? What psychological hole do they fill?

Obsession is what fuels the plot, what makes certain actions that could seem unthinkable become plausible. What one character would do to another on page 200 should be very different from what would occur on page 50. The author has to create the kindling for the ultimate explosion. That kindling consists of the character’s backstory, personal traits, and the stresses they’re facing (both in their overall life circumstances and because of their antagonist).

As you can probably tell, I think psychology is hugely important. I’m a therapist as well as a writer so I guess I’m biased. But I know that what elicits the most eye rolls for me when I read a novel is when characters seem capable of absolutely anything at any time.

Even sociopaths have lines. The fun part as a writer is deciding what they are.

Check out Ellie Monago’s The Secret Mistress here:

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(9 Pros and Cons of Co-Writing a Novel.)

It was enough to intrigue a fellow budding writer who happened to be an American Christian, right-leaning, SWAT sniper from Alabama who’d started writing a series that was distinctly, “Not your Mama’s Christian fiction.”

The two authors critiqued each other’s work and tore each other a new one via the platform Goodreads.com. Both were strangely happy with the brutal honesty they received from the other, especially when a new writer’s friends and family often lead with “It’s amazing.” This tough but fair constructive criticism—truly meant to build and not tear down—resulted in a profound mutual respect.

Some years later, around 2015, the scientist had a rather weird idea. He wanted to write a book that explored the God Shaped Hole—the idea that science only explains so much before the answer can only be: God. This story required two differing points of view and he knew he wouldn’t do a religious POV justice. After some thought, he approached the sniper and suggested a collaboration.

The sniper said no. For a year.

But over that time, through discussions and conversations, the sniper came around and they tentatively embarked on a joint project. At first it was awkward. Mechanical. Lots of tracked changes and hurt feelings over sentence re-writes.

But interestingly, they never fought about their political or religious views. Because, ultimately that would have defeated the point. Writing a character each, with opposing worldviews, provided the recipe for lightning in a bottle. The very fact that on the page, their own thoughts, ideas, arguments, and reconciliations could be played out meant that both writers learned about the other, and why they each held the views they did.

The name of the game was respect and the story was a study on tolerance and acceptance.

And so, their debut collaborative effort, It Takes Death to Reach a Star, went on to win multiple awards, including an IPPY, and was a Dragon Awards nominee—alongside Andy Weir. The novel was also optioned for film/TV.

And that was the beginning of something special.

Click to continue.

The sniper’s deep roots in the reality of human nature through decades in law enforcement, but tempered by his faith, juxtaposed against the scientist’s somewhat nihilistic, yet idealistic, view of human potential. The collaboration launched a partnership that churns out genre-twisting, thought-provoking novels to this day.

Their brand centers around asking the most difficult questions, while relying on strong characters and vivid storylines to keep the reader engaged. Their writing style often means that each character reacts to the other’s actions as a real person might.

In their third collaboration, the two tackled autism and PTSD set against the backdrop of world-ending biological warfare. Not how neurodivergence is usually tackled, but they made it work. Bestselling author Jonas Saul said, “Like Dark Matter by Blake Crouch, this novel is revolutionary.”

Their latest novel, Omniviolence, took the premise of left vs. right and cranked it up a thousand percent. A near-future thriller with a dose of satire, the book explores our fragmented society and where we’re headed if we can’t reconcile. No political or social ideology was left un-poked. SciFiNow said, “The book’s title alone tells you this is going to be an extreme examination of human nature’s propensity for violence. Though rather than reveling in the barbarity for the sake of shock value alone, it uses brutality to question how the erosion of moral boundaries can lead to societal ruin. Omniviolence is a warning to the destructive power of technology and the darkness that lurks within the human soul.”

Through it all, the sniper and the scientist have become the best of friends. And while they may not see eye to eye on every subject, they understand and respect the differing viewpoints held by each other. In a world where two such people are often pitted against one another, they strive to exemplify tolerance, respect, and potentially provide a roadmap of the way forward—for all of us.

In the end, there are more than eight billion people on this planet. Embracing kindness, understanding, and a desire for reconciliation might just be the only way we will survive.

Check out Jones Worthington’s Omniviolence here:

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(How I Write Compelling Characters in Spy Thrillers.)

Can two people love each other and still betray each other?  InThe Poet’s Game, Alex Matthews and his wife, Anna Kuschenko, are trained to use lies and deceit in the course of their intelligence work, and they ultimately contend with a dark secret that will forever keep them from being entirely truthful with each other. How does a couple that uses deception in the normal course of their professional duties, approach intimacy in marriage?  

The Secrets in Three Fictional Marriages

The marriages portrayed in The Odyssey, Rebecca, and Berlin Game artfully depict the tension between love and deception, and I studied the texts to see how the authors succeeded.

Odysseus’s wife Penelope, often described by the epithet, long-suffering, is surrounded by suitors seeking her hand in marriage during her husband’s 20-year absence. He is gone and presumed dead. Penelope defends against the suitors’ entreaties, but it becomes increasingly difficult for her to remain steadfastly faithful. When Odysseus returns, he appears in disguise as a beggar, recognized only by his household’s elderly swineherd. He hides his identity from Penelope. Is he suspicious that she betrayed him and he doesn’t want to reveal himself while he investigates? His deception is one of the epic’s curiosities, but Odysseus’s withholding makes their ultimate reunion more satisfying and Odysseus’s deceit adds dimension to his character.

Odysseus’s behavior is a good example of what John Le Carré said of complex characters: “The more identities a man has, the more they express the person they conceal.”

Rebecca, Daphne Du Maurier’s 1938 romantic thriller, uses suspense and deceit in a marriage differently. The unnamed first-person narrator, a naïve young woman in her 20s who is a companion to an older woman in Monte Carlo, happens to meet a vacationing wealthy Englishman, Maxim de Winter, a 42-year-old widower. They fall in love, marry, and he brings his new wife back to his estate in Cornwall – Manderley. Maxim’s household servants, and particularly his spinster housekeeper, Mrs. Danvers, take an immediate dislike to the young wife—comparing her disparagingly to the first Mrs. de Winter, Rebecca, who died a year earlier in a sailing accident. 

At Mrs. Danvers’s suggestion, the new wife dresses in Rebecca’s clothes to please her husband, who mourns the dead Rebecca. But rather than please Maxim, he is angered. The new wife suspects something is not right in their marriage, but she is helpless to discover what is wrong. Only a freak storm one night that sinks a ship off the coast results in the discovery of the missing sunken sailboat, and Rebecca’s body. The discovery causes Maxim to confess to his new wife that his marriage to Rebecca was a sham. Rebecca was cruel and selfish, took many lovers, and on the night that he murdered her, Rebecca confessed she was with child from a beau.

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Layers of deceit are drawn back in the final scenes and all that was hidden from the narrator about Rebecca’s death comes to light, drawing Maxim and the narrator closer together. Jeopardy of the shared secret deepen their bond.

Len Deighton’s 1983 novel, Berlin Game, features the loving couple of Bernard Samson, a middle-aged British intelligence officer working for MI6, and his wife, Fiona, also an MI6 intelligence officer. They have two children, live a respectable middle-class London life that is filled with the demands of parenting, family and friend obligations, and office scandals of adulterous colleagues. Samson is charged with exfiltrating an important East German asset and in the process confronts uncomfortable evidence that there may be a KGB traitor among his MI6 colleagues. Samson’s suspicions of treachery are confirmed when he is arrested in East Germany as he helps his asset escape, and is confronted by his wife, Fiona, dressed in a KGB uniform. She joined the enemy as a young college student drawn to communist ideology.

The villain in Berlin Game is the wife. But, in spite of Fiona’s treachery, her relationship to Samson has all the appearances of an affectionate marriage with young children, an active social life, and the little intimacies of a hard-working couple. 

How the Secrets in Fictional Marriages Move Stories

In each of these marriages, one character’s lies and deceptions deepens the complexity of the relationship, and provide the surprises that make for a compelling story. One partner hides an important detail of their life, and the revelation of that detail operates to bring the couple closer together, or thrust them irreversibly apart. The reveal provides an insight into what a character wants from the spouse—Odysseus wants to test Penelope’s fidelity, Maxim wants to protect his new marriage, Fiona wants to hide her treason. Deception and a surprise reversal in the relationships propels the plots of these stories.

Exposition is helpful to establish scenes and context, but dialogue provides the beating heart of the relationship and deployed effectively reveals the dynamic between husband and wife. Dialogue is used to imply, suggest, and hide and always for the purpose of adding to the unstable relationship between spouses. When characters come in contact with each other, sparks fly and the reader is riveted by the uncomfortable arguments and unexpected intimacies. The appearance of trust masks the inconsistencies and lies that point to betrayal. The best scenes are laden with uncertainty.

A character’s hidden motives make use of complex maneuvers to maintain the dark secret, all the while under cover of a gauzy film of intimacy and love. The layering of intimacy and artifice creates three-dimensional characters who come alive on the page. 

Check out Paul Vidich’s The Poet’s Game here:

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(The Case for Creating When the World Is on Fire.)

It’s easy to say, “Write what you know.” But often, I think the more important advice is: Write what unsettles you.

For me, fiction has always been about entering the places that feel off-limits. It’s not about sympathizing with dangerous ideas, but about rendering them with enough complexity to feel real. When I wrote A Campus on Fire, I wanted to avoid cartoonish evil. That way lies bland writing. I aimed to craft antagonists who were believable—flawed, manipulative, cruel—but grounded in the world we live in. At the same time, I wanted my protagonists to unsettle, to push against easy virtue. That friction is where fiction lives. In a polarized era, where everyone is flattened into either ally or enemy, I think one of the most radical things a novelist can do is tell the truth about people—even the ones we wish weren’t real.

For me, it’s never just a political exercise—it’s a craft decision. I want characters who surprise me, disturb me, make me squirm. If they don’t, I have to ask myself: Why write them? And more importantly, why would anyone want to read them?

Recently, I had the chance to return to my alma mater and speak with a group of young writers. They asked sharp, thoughtful questions—about writing difficult and controversial characters, about who gets to tell which stories, about how to write outside your own experience with care. Their questions stayed with me. They reminded me that this kind of reflection isn’t abstract. It’s urgent. And it’s ongoing.

The spark for A Campus on Fire came during the pandemic, but the fuel was already there: Disinformation spreading faster than the virus itself, campus protests boiling over, and a deepening generational rift not just in politics but in how we process truth. I was thinking about institutions—how brittle they are, how easily trust erodes. I was thinking about the stories we tell ourselves to feel safe, and how quickly they fall apart under pressure.

From this, I created Tess Azar, a student journalist who believes truth will save her, and dropped her into a campus where everyone’s truth is different, weaponized, and slippery. I surrounded her with professors, activists, and students who all believe they’re doing the right thing, even as the consequences of their actions become more dire. I gave her a mystery to solve, but no clear hero to root for, no satisfying closure, and no promise of justice.

Why? Because that’s the world I saw outside my window.

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There’s a risk in writing books like this. I assume some readers may find certain characters hard to stomach. Some may be angered by scenes that feel too real or wish for a greater sense of resolution. I understand that. But my goal wasn’t comfort. My goal was reflection. Honest, brutal reflection.

I don’t believe writers should be moralizers, and I’m suspicious of fiction that tries too hard to be virtuous. But I do believe every writer has a responsibility to tell the truth as they see it—and to acknowledge the complexity of that truth. Sometimes that means making readers uncomfortable. Sometimes it means making yourself uncomfortable.

Writing A Campus on Fire meant revisiting times in my life when I didn’t speak up. When I was complicit. When I laughed off a cruel joke or stayed quiet to keep the peace. It meant admitting how easily we trade in principle for convenience, how often we go along to get along. That’s not easy work, but it’s honest work. And I think honesty is what readers need most right now.

That kind of honesty doesn’t happen by accident. For me, it began with getting sober. I had to look in the mirror and confront not just the things I wanted to change, but the person I didn’t want to be anymore. Sobriety gave me more than clarity—it gave me the practice of reflection, of facing uncomfortable truths without flinching or excuse. Once you’ve learned how to inspect your life, you start to see the world more clearly. And that makes you a better writer. Or at least, a more honest one.

One of the most common questions I get from emerging writers is: How do you know if you’re writing something worth saying? My answer is this: If it scares you to write it, you’re probably on the right track.

Fear is a compass. Discomfort is a prompt. If your story isn’t challenging you, it’s probably not going to challenge your reader either.

There’s no shortage of reasons not to write today. The market is uncertain. The noise is deafening. Social media offers instant gratification and instant judgment—and a chorus of voices ready to tell you what stories you can or can’t tell. But fiction operates on a deeper frequency. It cuts through the noise in a way that posts and think pieces (even this one) can’t. It lingers. It provokes. It starts conversations that last.

That’s what I hope A Campus on Fire will do. I hope it will make people talk and think outside their echo chamber. I hope it will unsettle. I hope it will raise questions—about free speech, about youth radicalization, about gender, class, and race on college campuses, about the stories we tell ourselves to justify power, about the sacrifices we make to succeed. And if it makes some readers uncomfortable along the way, I’m okay with that.

Because that’s where the work begins.

Check out Patrick O’Dowd’s A Campus on Fire here:

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First Person Point of View:

In first person, a character narrates directly to the reader using the pronouns “I” and “me” so that the reader is immersed in the character’s worldview. Crucially, every word must be filtered through the point of view character’s reality so that the narrative is colored with all of their biases and blind-spots. In a first person narrative, the reader can only know what the character knows, so all relevant information must be introduced to the reader in a credible manner. When writing a thriller, this can be restrictive and, if not carefully managed, can adversely impact on the story’s pace.

Furthermore, the first-person narrator is, by definition, an unreliable narrator—the reader only knows what the character chooses to share, and they can lie or conceal information. Two classic thrillers that use first person unreliable narrators to enhance their psychological suspense are Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl and Chuck Palahniuk’s Fight Club.

In See How They Fall, I chose to use alternating first person narrators. For context, my novel—which reviewers have described as Succession meets Big Little Lies—centers on a shocking death in the super-wealthy Turner family. Skye Turner, who has married into the dynasty, faces a disintegrating sense of reality in the wake of the tragedy, and I wanted readers to query whether Skye’s version of events could be trusted. The first person was also necessary for my second narrator, Homicide Squad detective Mei O’Connor, who investigates the death, because Mei deliberately conceals some of her own backstory from the reader, adding to the intrigue and her motivations for chasing down the killer.

Second Person Point of View:

With the second person point of view, the story is told using the pronoun “you” to draw the reader directly into the narrative as the point of view character. This option has the same information restrictions and inherent unreliability of the first person point of view because every word is filtered through the character’s reality. However, unlike first person narratives, second person narratives are rare in fiction because their detached quality makes for an unsettling reader experience.

One recent example of a thriller that used the second person point of view effectively is Kala, by Colin Walsh. Kala is the story of three childhood friends—Helen, Mush, and Joe—who are reunited 20 years after one of their group goes missing. Joe’s chapters are narrated in second person. For instance, Joe’s first chapter begins: “Hogan’s Square is pure buzz as you walk towards Flanagan’s. . . . You’re a new focal point. Faces turn to you like flowers seeking the sun. Feel their energy, the rush of recognition. Is that Joe Brennan? Phones rise to take photos and you pretend not to notice . . .” The second person point of view works well for Joe—a narcissistic celebrity rock star—because he is detached from his own life and views himself through the lens of his adoring fans and social media accounts. The contrast between Joe’s second person chapters and Helen and Mush’s chapters, which are narrated in third person limited, also helps Walsh differentiate his three protagonists’ voices.

The Quiet Tenant, by Clémence Michallon, is another thriller that effectively uses the second person point of view. Michallon’s novel features a woman who is held captive by a serial killer. There are multiple first person narrators, but the captive woman tells her story in second person to convey her trauma and disassociation. “You wait for dinner, for splashes of tepid water. For anything . . . You picture the shed, hidden in the trees.”

As an aside, I want to acknowledge Caroline Kepnes’ bestselling thrillerYou which is commonly identified as a second person narrative. You is narrated in the first person by the psychopathic protagonist Joe. The confusion arises because Joe addresses his thoughts to Guinevere Beck, the object of his obsession, and refers to her constantly as “you” throughout the novel. In a second person narrative, the “you” references the reader-as-protagonist, not another character.

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Third Person Point of View:

In the third person point of view, the story is told by an outside narrator using the characters’ names and “he,” “she,” and “they” pronouns. Within this option, the author must choose between the third person omniscient and the third person limited point of view.

• In third person omniscient, the narrator is akin to an all-knowing god or camera that can zoom in and out of multiple figures’ narrative arcs. Consequently, readers have access to all relevant information at any point in the story. While the earliest novels were written in third person omniscient, this point of view has fallen out of favor because it is less immersive than the other options. It can also lead to “head-hopping” which is jarring for the reader, diluting their emotional investment in the story and reducing suspense which can be fatal for a thriller.
• By contrast, the third person limited point of view focuses in on one specific character, as if the narrator were perched on that character’s shoulder, aware of their thoughts and feelings, yet also able to share additional information with the reader. This is the most common narrative point of view in modern fiction. Many authors now use multiple third person limited narrators in their novels, switching the point of view character between chapters. This approach provides both the intimacy of the third person limited point of view with some of the flexibility of the omniscient one.

For a thriller, the third person point of view can be an effective way to heighten suspense because the narrator can know more than the point of view character and drop clues, foreshadowing the drama to come. This is not possible with first or second person points of view where the reader’s knowledge is limited by the point of view character’s knowledge. The use of third person limited—and multiple third person limited—is a common narrative device for thriller writers, as seen in Stieg Larsson’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo series, The Silence of the Lambs, by Thomas Harris, and Stephen King’s novels such as The Shining and Misery.

So How Do We Choose the Best Point of View for Our Thriller?

The good news for contemporary thriller authors is that we are not confined to one point of view for the duration of our novels. Multi-POV novels that combine first, second, and third person limited points of view are increasingly common. The most important consideration is which combination of the options discussed above best serves your story, or a given section if it, in terms of plot, pace, and characterization.

Check out Rachel Paris’ See How They Fall here:

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Chizmar’s work has been translated into more than 15 languages throughout the world, and he has appeared at numerous conferences as a writing instructor, guest speaker, panelist, and guest of honor. He is the author of Chasing the Boogeyman. Follow him on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram, or visit his website at: RichardChizmar.com.

In this post, Chizmar discusses how mowing the lawn led to his latest novel, the toughest task writers face, and more.

Name: Richard Chizmar
Literary agent: Kristin Nelson, The Nelson Agency
Book title: Becoming the Boogeyman
Publisher: Simon & Schuster/Gallery Books
Release date: October 10, 2023
Genre/category: Thriller/Horror
Previous titles: Chasing the Boogeyman, The Gwendy Trilogy (with Stephen King)
Elevator pitch for the book: A novel of obsession and the adulation of evil, exploring modern society’s true-crime obsession with unflinching honesty, sparing no one from the harsh glare of the spotlight. Will those involved walk away from the story of a lifetime in order to keep their loved ones safe?

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What prompted you to write this book?

I never planned to write a sequel to Chasing the Boogeyman until one afternoon while mowing my lawn, the idea for the entire first chapter of Becoming the Boogeyman came to me in startling detail. Once that happened, I had no other choice but to sit down and write the story.

How long did it take to go from idea to publication? And did the idea change during the process?

It probably took around two years from the day I first set pen to paper to the October 2023 publication date. The overall idea remained the same throughout. The story had “good bones,” and I just followed where it wanted to go.

Were there any surprises or learning moments in the publishing process for this title?

No real surprises, which is one of the many wonderful things about working with Ed Schlesinger and his team at Gallery Books. They have a first-rate system in place that involves the author during every step of the way.

As for learning moments, goodness, there were plenty of those. Everything from participating in the editorial process to sitting in on marketing and publicity meetings—there were so many eye-opening moments throughout.

Were there any surprises in the writing process for this book?

The main surprise was how much of my personal life I ended up including in the story. As with Chasing the Boogeyman, I served as the main character in Becoming the Boogeyman. Initially, I believed that I would be able to maintain a clear boundary between fact and fiction—but ultimately that wasn’t the case.

What do you hope readers will get out of your book?

A few days of escape and entertainment—and perhaps something to think about regarding a certain segment of society’s unhealthy attraction to the dark side of humanity.

If you could share one piece of advice with other writers, what would it be?

Don’t try to be perfect and don’t try to reinvent the wheel. Get that first draft down on paper. Type THE END. That’s the toughest task you will face. Then get to work revising and do your best to tell a good story with characters that readers will care about. 

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In this post, Amy shares how her experience as a criminal defense attorney helped shade her thriller writing.

Name: Amy Engel
Literary agent: Jodi Reamer
Book title: I Did It For You
Publisher: Dutton/PRH
Release date: July 25, 2023
Genre/category: Thriller
Previous titles: The Familiar Dark; The Roanoke Girls; The Book of Ivy; The Revolution of Ivy
Elevator pitch for the book: Fourteen years after the murder of her older sister and the conviction and execution of the killer, Greer Dunning returns home following an eerily similar murder. While the cops blame a copycat, Greer knows there is more to the story and forms an alliance with the unlikeliest of allies in an effort to uncover the truth.

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What prompted you to write this book?

Before becoming a writer, I was a criminal defense attorney. I’ve always wanted to write a book that more directly incorporates some of the things I learned during that time. Specifically, I was interested in exploring the ways in which we demonize not only those who commit crimes, but their families as well.

As a criminal defense attorney, you learn pretty quickly that most people who do terrible things aren’t necessarily terrible people. It changes the way you see the world, and I wanted to bring some of that nuance to this book.

How long did it take to go from idea to publication? And did the idea change during the process?

Time gets a little foggy for me when I’m deep in the writing process, but I think this book took about six months to write. After that, I edited and that took a couple more months. As I’m sure most people know, publishing is a slow process. I think from the initial idea to actual publication date was around two years.

The book idea didn’t change much during that time, although for purposes of full disclosure I should say that I don’t outline. I generally know the beginning and have an idea about how I want the book to end, beyond that it’s a mystery to me until I start writing.

Were there any surprises or learning moments in the publishing process for this title?

I can’t think of any big surprises with this book. I will say that the editing process was a bit more involved than in some of my other books. I tend to write short and have to add during editing, which is the opposite of a lot of writers. My amazing editor, Maya Ziv, pushed me to dig a little deeper with some of the characters and storylines, and it definitely resulted in a better book.

Were there any surprises in the writing process for this book?

Probably the biggest surprise for me were the short chapters from the points of view of various characters we don’t otherwise hear from. I hadn’t planned on those sections, and when I wrote the first one it sort of took me by surprise. But I felt like they added to the story, and I liked hearing from those characters, so I ran with it.

What do you hope readers will get out of your book?

My main hope is always that readers enjoy the time they spend reading my books. Beyond that, I hope that this book causes readers to maybe take a moment and think about the gray areas in life. It’s easy to put people, ideas, emotions, etc. in black and white categories—good and bad, right and wrong, us and them—but most of life isn’t actually that simple. If we could all lean into the gray a bit more, I think the world would be a kinder and more empathetic place.

If you could share one piece of advice with other writers, what would it be?

Try not to get in your own head to the point where it impedes your writing. I think it can be easy to fall into the trap of worrying so much about whether people are going to like your book that you begin trying to write to please everyone, which is an impossible task. Write the book you need to write and let the results go.

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