Readers who know me—recent acquaintances, long-time friends from college—have been making comments to me that usually contain some variation of “but you seem so nice…how do you come up with these characters, these scenarios?” Where do bullies like Philippe, seductresses like Isabelle, formerly unhoused street thieves like Ronnie come from? And how can I write the grit, the calamities, the tough emotional rides?

This is not to say my writing is horrifying or terrifying. I don’t write psychological thrillers, nor gratuitous violence. It’s just that my books, The Brownstone on E. 83^rd, and the second in the series, The Penthouse on Park Avenue aren’t cozies. I’ve heard from some readers that they’re too violent, and from others that they’re not violent enough. The books have humor and good outcomes, but there are also beatings and, in the second book, a death. You get to visit the drawing rooms of the rich and the tunnels of the unhoused.

When I set out to write The Brownstone on E. 83^rd, I liked all my characters, and I never wanted anything awful to happen to them. They wandered around New York City, had adventures, and came home untraumatized and happy. I mean, in those early drafts, Isabelle was conning her guests, but little harm was done. So what if the nouveau riche wanted to get rid of their guilt money and get a tax deduction by donating to Isabelle’s foundation? They didn’t bother to look into it enough to ascertain it was fake.

I still like all my characters, but I’ve learned they have to go through some rough times. In workshops people complained that nothing ever happened in those early drafts, no conflict, nothing exciting. Lots of telling (exposition! they’d yell) and little showing. My characters were having a good time, but my readers weren’t.

Kurt Vonnegut famously said, “Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.” My genre dictates, and my readers, that something should get in the way of getting that glass of water. And the stakes should be raised so that glass of water stands between my character and…death, perhaps?

I learned to put small roadblocks up at the scene level, and huge consequences overall. What is the worst thing that can happen? Well, let’s see, Ronnie Charles is a street thief, stealing when she has to in order to survive. So what’s the worst that can happen? Easy:

she gets caught, with a threat to call the police. And the consequences? She is essentially kidnapped by the woman whose bracelet she takes. The good news is she’ll have a bed and meals. The bad news is, Isabelle is dangerous, and while she seems to like Ronnie, what would happen to her when she no longer finds her useful? Then, if you want consequences, we can throw an FBI agent in there, someone who’s undercover, invited to those dinner parties and very observant.

Speaking of this FBI agent, Frank Jankowski certainly can’t have all the fun. What’s the worst that can happen to him? Well, let’s see. He loves his daughter fiercely and his entire self-worth is wrapped up in working for the Bureau. So…his teenage daughter becomes addicted to opioids and then runs away from rehab. And his image of himself as a law-and-order man? Well, let’s just say that when Isabelle turns her charm on him, he finds himself in trouble.

How do we as writers of the mystery/thriller/suspense genre write beyond our own lives, get into the gutter, feel the slime, smell the garbage, experience (through our characters) the violent side of life? We read others who have written the grit. We watch movies, we read news stories. Kelly Link once drove her writer friend around in the trunk of her car so she could write about it with verisimilitude. Every thriller writer I have met is so nice in person. They might write a psychological thriller that will scare the peanuts out of your M&Ms, but they’re warm and generous and kind. They might describe a knife fight in horrific detail, but you would definitely spend an evening at a conference in their company, laughing and safe.

Once a writer can figure out the worst thing that can happen to their character, they have to imagine how that feels. Unless you’re writing plot-driven fiction, then you might forget the feelings and come up with the action, the response to the tough situation. I write character-driven crime novels, so I very much care about what my characters feel. And this is sort of like therapy. I interrogate the character: “How did that make you feel when Isabelle kidnapped you?” “How did that make you feel, Frank, when Isabelle shoplifted in front of you?” And Ronnie, “How does that make you feel when Frank threatens to send you to prison?”

So, we’re nice people, empathetic people who happen to write about the dark side of life to entertain all you lovely readers who don’t want to live it but want to feel it for a little while.

Jenny’s Books: 

FBI Special Agent Frank Jankowski and former street thief Ronnie Charles team up once again in New York City, this time to take down John Anthony, suspected money launderer for the Mataderos Cartel who is known for their own brand of evil. Embedded as his live-in butler at the penthouse, Ronnie must reconcile her hatred of drugs with her need to work for Frank. Mateo Rosas de Flores, head of the cartel, comes to town and tests Ronnie’s loyalty. When she passes, her reward is a deeper involvement in his organization. But Mateo’s interest in her might not be enough to protect her as the danger mounts.
Frank’s search for his drug addicted daughter continues in the seamier side of the city, taking him places he never thought he would go. He becomes unexpectedly entangled with the very criminals he’s pursuing, threatening not only his career but his family as well. What they require of him is a betrayal of everything he believes in. Frank must find a way to protect his daughter and finish the case. And walk away with his morals intact.