The Second Rule of Writing

For cozy mysteries, the first expectation I usually hear is the story must be set in a small town or village. The second is that the protagonist is an amateur sleuth. Now, in real life it seems unlikely a murder would be solved by an everyday person who becomes curious, gets involved and solves the murder. That’s okay. I’ve understood for a long time that a suspension of disbelief is part of enjoying an amateur sleuth novel. No problem. I enjoy Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple, for example. She has a curious disposition, and it’s both part of her charm and a reason for her involvement.  Most of her sleuthing amounts to eavesdropping and applying her considerable wit. Over time, she has gained a reputation for her abilities, and people ask for her help. You see? No problem–however tenuous this scenario might be in real-life.

On the other hand, I recently put down a book I’ve been trying to get into, and I probably won’t pick it back up. Over-all, the story is well-written. The reader can have fun making guesses as to what’s coming, but the story is sure to play out with unexpected twists and turns, and some of the early scenes are filled with suspense. Problem is, I just don’t think the protagonist had believable reason to become that involved in the first place. The deeper the involvement, the less believable it becomes, and the harder it is to develop liking and concern, or caring, for the protagonist.

When I began learning the basics of writing it seemed there were myriad rules to be religiously adhered to. After a while I got used to that. Until now, I had pretty much taken it for granted that an amateur sleuth must be given a credible reason for his or her involvement in a murder investigation. I remember an editor asking about my protagonist’s reason for involvement when I was pitching an early novel. I felt a great sense of relief when I could give a good answer, but I knew beforehand that a good reason needed to be there.  Now, I understand why. It makes all the difference. Coming across a novel that appeared to violate this basic principle has been an epiphany. 

In the book I was attempting to read, a small voice in the back of my mind kept challenging each unfolding scene with the question of why the hero was doing what he was doing. Not surprisingly, his involvement became riskier and more suspenseful as the story progressed. But for me, it didn’t progress. It just kept getting more unbelievable. That small voice got louder. The frustration of trying to suspend disbelief grew and was ruining the story for me. The hero just wasn’t believable.

I think most of us who are writers have spent many hours learning the craft. When someone hasn’t, that fact usually stands out when you read what they have written. I’ve encountered this over and over when reading something written by a writer still in the novice stage. When it happens, it reinforces the rules of the craft, and I try to help the writer learn them. The book I was reading that set this train of thought into motion was not written by a beginner with great potential. He is well-established and a good writer—usually. For me, this was a glaring discovery of what happens if the basic expectation of the need for a reason for involvement is missing or breaks down.

I wonder how many others have discovered the importance of some basic tenet of writing by encountering an established author’s failing to follow it in some instance. Have you had a disappointing experience reading the work of an author who should have known better? Any pet peeves to share?