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The Differences Between a Crime Novel, Mystery Novel and Thriller Novel

Every writer’s job is to give the reader what she wants in a way she doesn’t expect. [Like this quote? Click here to Tweet and share it!] (And it’s wise to remember that every agent and editor is foremost a reader, too.)

One of the first things to consider when setting out, therefore, is what kinds of expectations your story creates, so you can go about gratifying readers in surprising ways.

This is particularly true of writing in a genre, where conventions can seem ironclad—or all too often degrade into formula. And formula, by definition, surprises no one.

The suspense genres in particular have a number of seemingly hard and fast rules that a writer defies at his peril. And yet the most satisfying mysteries, thrillers and crime stories find a way to create a new take on those rules to fashion something fresh, interesting, original. In other words, while you don’t want to mistakenly pitch your cozy mystery to an agent who wants only high-octane thrillers, you also want to make sure that when you connect with that cozy-loving agent, she’ll be jumping to sign you because your cozy stands out from the rest.

Here’s a map to help you navigate subgenre subtleties.

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Mystery Novels

A crime is committed—almost always a murder—and the action of the story is the solution of that crime: determining who did it and why, and obtaining some form of justice. The best mystery stories often explore man’s unique capacity for deceit—especially self-deceit—and demonstrate a humble respect for the limits of human understanding. This is usually considered the most cerebral (and least violent) of the suspense genres.

Thematic emphasis: How can we come to know the truth? (By definition, a mystery is simply something that defies our usual understanding of the world.)

Structural distinctions: The basic plot elements of the mystery form are:

  1. The baffling crime
  2. The singularly motivated investigator
  3. The hidden killer
  4. The cover-up (often more important than the crime itself, as the cover-up is what conceals the killer)
  5. Discovery and elimination of suspects (in which creating false suspects is often part of the killer’s plan)
  6. Evaluation of clues (sifting the true from the untrue)
  7. Identification and apprehension of the killer.

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Additional Reader Expectations:

The Hero: Whether a cop, a private eye, a reporter or an amateur sleuth, the hero must possess a strong will to see justice served, often embodied in a code (for example, Harry Bosch’s “Everyone matters or no one matters” in the popular Michael Connelly series). He also often possesses not just a great mind but great empathy—a fascination not with crime, per se, but with human nature.

The Villain: The crime may be a hapless accident or an elaborately staged ritual; it’s the cover-up that unifies all villains in the act of deceit. The attempt to escape justice, therefore, often best personifies the killer’s malevolence. The mystery villain is often a great deceiver, or trickster, and succeeds because she knows how to get others to believe that what’s false is true.

Setting: Although mysteries can take place anywhere, they often thematically work well in tranquil settings—with the crime peeling back the mask of civility to reveal the more troubling reality beneath the surface.

Reveals: Given its emphasis on determining the true from the untrue, the mystery genre has more reveals than any other—the more shocking and unexpected, the better.


Mystery Subgenres

Cozy: One of the ironic strengths of this subgenre is the fact that, by creating a world in which violence is rare, a bloody act resonates far more viscerally than it would in a more urban or disordered setting. Reader Expectations: A unique and engaging protagonist: Father Brown, Miss Marple, Kinsey Millhone. The crime should be clever, requiring ingenuity or even brilliance on the hero’s part to solve. Secondary characters can be coarse, but never the hero—or the author. Justice triumphs in the end, and the world returns to its original tranquility.

Hard-boiled: The hero is a cop or PI, tough and capable. The moral view is often that of hard-won experience in the service of innocence or decency. The hero tends to be more world-weary than bitter—but that ice can get slippery. Reader Expectations: A strong hero who can “walk the mean streets but who is not himself mean,” as Raymond Chandler once put it. A realistic portrayal of crime and its milieu, with detailed knowledge of criminal methods and investigative techniques. The style is often brisk and simple, reflecting the unpretentious nature of the hero, who is intelligent but not necessarily learned. Although the hero almost always sees that justice prevails, there is usually a bittersweet resolution. The streets remain mean; such is the human condition.

Police Procedural: A cousin to the hard-boiled subgenre, with the unit or precinct taking over for the lone cop. Reader Expectations: Much like the hard-boiled detective story, but with a larger cast and special focus on police tactics, squad-room psychology, station-house politics, and the tensions between the police and politicians, the media and the citizenry.

Medical, Scientific or Forensic Mystery: A refinement of the police procedural in which the protagonists—doctors, medical examiners, forensic pathologists or other technical experts—use intelligence and expertise, not guns, as their weapons. Reader Expectations: Similar to the police procedural, with extra emphasis on the physical details of analyzing unusual evidence.

Legal or Courtroom Drama: The crime is seen through the eyes of the lawyers prosecuting or defending the case. Reader Expectations: A meticulous rendering of criminal court procedure and politics, along with how police and prosecutors work together (or don’t).


In this genre the focus is on the contest of wills between the lawman hero and the outlaw opponent, and their differing views of morality and the aspects of society they represent. The greatest crime stories deal with a moral accounting on the part of the hero for his entire life, or provide some new perspective on the tension between society and the individual.

Thematic emphasis: What is a just society? The story world of the novel is out of balance, somewhere between a state of nature (where chaos prevails and those with money and/or guns wield power) and a police state (where paranoia prevails and the state monopolizes power). The hero hopes in some way to rectify that imbalance.

Other moral themes can include the challenge of decency, honor and integrity in a corrupt world; individual freedom versus law and order; and the tension between ambition and obligations to others.

Structural distinctions: There is seldom any “mystery” as to who the criminal is. Typically the story starts with a brilliant or daring crime, and then a cat-and-mouse game of wits and will ensues, with the tension created by the increasing intensity of the battle between the opponents. The underlying question is: Will the cops prevail before the opponent stages his next crime?

Given the similarity to war and action stories, the prose often tends toward the naturalistic.

Additional Reader Expectations:

The Hero: Usually a tough and capable cop (or vigilante) who believes in the society she defends despite its flaws, the crime fiction hero is often seen as an outcast but is revealed to be the most morally engaged character in the story.

The Villain: Routinely a tough and brilliant criminal who considers the system rigged and the society inherently flawed, he is often a kind of Luciferian rebel—the rogue individual par excellence—even if he commands a crew
or organization.

Setting: This genre gravitates toward urban locales, but suburban, rural and even wilderness settings have all been used to great effect. Let the setting ground the moral theme.

Reversals: Just as the mystery genre, by focusing on the search for truth, obliges numerous reveals, the crime genre, by focusing on battle, obliges numerous reversals—with the hero and the villain trading knockout blows and suffering serious setbacks to their respective plans.

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The Noir Subgenre

Here, the criminal, or someone who is morally compromised—perhaps even a cop—serves as hero. The moral calculus is usually Bad vs. Worse.

Generally, the “hero” finds himself in some sort of desperate situation, or is tempted into one by an opportunity he sees as his last, best chance at the brass ring. The lure of sex or money routinely leads to violence and often betrayal. If the hero is a cop, the reader is never quite sure whether he’s going to solve a crime or commit one. Or both. Reader Expectations: The real allure is the psychology of temptation and desperation, the little guy trying not to drown. Readers expect plot twists, often based on the hero’s inability to see what he’s up against.


Where mystery stories represent the most cerebral of the three major suspense genres, and crime stories the most dramatic, thrillers are typically the most emotional, focusing on the fear, doubt and dread of the hero as she faces some form of what Dean Koontz has deemed “terrible trouble.” This genre is a hybrid of mystery and horror. However, the thriller also shares a literary lineage with the epic and myth. Monsters, terror and peril prevail.

Thematic emphasis: The dangerous world we live in, the vulnerability of the average person, and the inherent threat of the unknown.

Structural distinctions: The plot often proceeds along these lines:

A devastating crime is about to be committed, or has been committed with the threat of an even worse one in the wings.

The perpetrator is known, but his guilt is not absolutely certain—or the hero wishes not to accept the truth of his guilt. (The uncertainty enhances the suspense.)

The hero is under constant attack as she tries to definitively prove the perpetrator’s guilt and/or stop the next atrocity. (Note the difference from the mystery genre, where the villain typically remains hidden.)

Additional Reader Expectations:

The Hero: Given the relentless attack the villain inflicts, and the emphasis on terror and dread, the thriller hero must be vulnerable—not just physically but psychologically.

The Villain: In the best thrillers, the villain either targets the hero specifically from the outset or learns through the course of the story what his particular weaknesses and wants are, and targets them for ruthless attack.

Setting: Whether as small as a cottage in the woods or as large as the planet, the world the hero seeks to protect represents everything she values. The stakes are ultimate.

Thriller Subgenres

Epic Thriller: This usually concerns the threat of some catastrophe affecting whole communities, cities, countries, even the planet. The threat need not be total devastation—the assassination of a leader will do—but the effect of the action must be profound.

The villain can be a terrorist, a diabolical genius, or an ordinary person with an oversized grudge and a unique capacity for damage.

Given the scope of the threat, the protagonist must possess the skills to defeat the villain, and thus is often a soldier, a spy, a trained assassin, a cop, or a civilian with a special skill set. The action is brisk, even nonstop, and the climax needs to be both thoroughly foreshadowed (we need to know the basic parameters of the threat all along, and the measures being taken to stop it) and unexpected (plot twists are not optional—they’re required). This is a pull-out-all-the-stops genre. Reader Expectations: A diabolical plot, a superbly capable and motivated nemesis, a hero with an impossible mission, breakneck pacing, and clever but credible plot twists.

Psychological Thriller/Suspense: Here the threat is still diabolical but more contained, even intimate—usually targeting the protagonist and/or his family—and the hero is often a relatively “ordinary” man, woman or child. The pacing is a bit more deliberate, to reflect the ordinary person’s difficulty understanding the exact nature of the threat—and the enemy—and then struggling to respond. The third act, however, moves briskly. Reader Expectations: Emphasis is on the eerie over the sensational. Twists again are key, with chapters routinely ending in one disturbing revelation after another. Character is more important than pacing, but pacing can’t be neglected. This subgenre demands an ability to reveal dread and panic without explosions or car chases.

Supernatural Thriller: This subgenre is something of a hybrid, in that the nemesis presents an overwhelming threat—he might be Satan himself—and yet that threat is often focused on a single soul or a mere few, rather than the whole of mankind, at least within the story. Reader Expectations: An amplification of the powers available to the villain, whether the threat posed is truly spiritual or merely psychological in nature. Also, obviously, a credibly rendered menace from the spirit realm.

Stumbling into a mystery, thriller or crime story without understanding what agents, editors and readers expect is a recipe for disaster. Know what they want—and then find a way to gratify that desire in ways they don’t see coming. Your efforts will be rewarded with a resounding yes.

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david-corbett200art-of-character-200This guest post is by David Corbett, who is the award-winning author of five novels, the story collection Killing Yourself to Survive and the nonfiction work, The Art of Character. David is a regular contributor to Writer’s Digest. He resides in Northern California with his wife and their Wheaten terrier. Find him online at

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Writing for Audiences Affected by Cancer

Spiritual nonfiction author and professor Anthony Maranise shares a thoughtful essay about the unique considerations of writing for audiences affected by cancer.

Handwriting has become a lost art. Of this I am convinced. When I was composing the manuscript of my latest title, I made the choice to hand-write the entire thing. I would then type out my hand-written work bit-by-bit to send to my editor so I could edit as I wrote in real-time. One of the most difficult challenges I encountered by employing this rather unorthodox (at least by today’s technologically-advanced standards) composition practice was simple transcription; that is, literally typing out what I had handwritten. Perhaps you are pondering what made this seemingly simple process so taxing. Was it the monotony? Maybe it was the additional labor? Nope, none of that. It was actually being able to read what I had handwritten, and least of all was that because of poor penmanship. Instead, I had trouble reading my own handwritten work because of tear-soaked smudges strewn about the pages.

Heavy is the weight of my latest work. Concerning cancer and the spiritual impacts of the illness, it addresses three audiences in one: those who have lost loved-ones to cancer, those currently undergoing treatment for the illness, and survivors. Having intimately experienced and lived each one of these realities, I bore the weight of this work. Truth be told, that’s why I wanted to handwrite the entire book first; I wanted to “feel” each word, as I have before felt (and sometimes still feel) the agony of loss, the pains of procedure, and the joy of overcoming. Nearly each page, if not each paragraph—sometimes each line—drew out of me either a sorrowful recollection, a poignant realization, or a jubilantly welcome tear of consolation. Throughout the composition phase of this newest work, I felt much, but learned much more—not the least of which being—how to write for various cancer-affected audiences.

My hope is that, in sharing below the valuable lessons I learned along the way, others will take up the pen and write for the benefit of the cancer-affected. Regrettably, we as human persons, learn best from experience—not from theory or some distantly-removed attempt to be empathetic. What this means is that perhaps those best qualified to write for the cancer-affected are those who are… well, in some way, personally cancer-affected. Though I am sure beautiful pieces can come from a talented writer who is not affected by cancer on a personal level, I make no apologies in offering the following caveat-emptor, all the while borrowing from an adaptation on Mark Twain’s infamous line before sharing these insights in writing for the cancer-affected: you should only “write what you know about.”

Recognize the diversity of experiences.

When writing to cancer-affected audiences, it’s imperative, at the outset, to acknowledge, accept, and unconditionally assent to the fact that no person’s cancer experience can or will be the same as another. Those who I am referring to as “the cancer-affected” are made up of grieving persons who have lost dear friends, relatives, or spouses to the illness; persons currently undergoing diagnosis and treatment from the very newly diagnosed to the cured and relapsed to those nearing completion of therapy; and persons who have lived through diagnosis, treatment, and attained remission in any form or for any length of time. If you simply consider, then, the vastness of persons that make up the cancer-affected, you find a surprising unity in uniqueness. This is a vital realization when writing for cancer-affected audiences because as a consequence of this vast diversity, advice from one person’s cancer-experience will likely not be universally transferrable across the whole spectrum-of-experiences. Know this, and make clear in your writing that you do. Doing so at once communicates your humility to your audience and not-so-subtly alerts them that they may have to “reach” to apply your advice to their own circumstances.

We would also do well not to over-generalize cancer-types or cancer-treatments as even these are vast and varied. Cancers generally fall into four categories based on physiological impact and include: carcinomas (affects epithelial tissues), sarcomas (affects deeper tissues and result in tumors), lymphomas (affects immune system), and leukemias (affects blood and/or bone marrow). Within these four general categories are a number of more specific types of cancer – the scope of which is not feasible to discuss in this piece. Consequently, for as many types of cancers as there are, there exists also a vastness in intervention methods. The two primary means with which most are familiar include chemotherapy and radiation therapy. However, a plethora of other therapeutic options exist and should be taken into consideration when writing for the cancer-affected, depending on the theme of the piece and the audience, of course.

Be mindful of language sensitivities.

We’re writers. We know that language and the employment thereof is both useful and beautiful, but it is powerful. I still remember some of the kindest (and the most hurtful) things that have ever been said or written to me. Language heals, but it can also harm. Within the cancer-affected, there are varying degrees of sensitivity about how to refer to an encounter with the illness itself. The most common way to which cancer-encounters are often referred is in the language of combat (e.g.: “fighting cancer,” “battling leukemia,” “confronting carcinoma”). For many—myself included—there is no issue with this language as those who use or prefer this use truly see and identify themselves as persons caught up in a sort of struggle between life and life-to-come. However, others may not share this preference for the description of so very personal and already challenging and frightening an experience. Since we cannot always know our individual audience’s preferences relating to this, it is best to, in the collective sense, utilize a more neutral descriptor for the cancer-experience so as not to, even if perhaps unintentionally or inadvertently, offend the delicate sensibilities of those we hope to aid by our works. Some neutral descriptors may include “cancer-journey,” “cancer-encounter,” “brush with illness,” or simply “cancer-experience.”

Important also in this same vein is to be intentional and delicate in the ways in which we refer not so much to the encounter itself, but the person who is subject of the encounter. In fact, the ways in which we describe the person experiencing the particular cancer-encounter is paramount in importance because no earthly value is greater than that of the human life. That said, we, in our writing, would do well to remember that a diagnosis of cancer does not suddenly transform a person into a “patient” or a “victim;” nor is a cancer-survivor only a person who has attained remission. In the cancer-affected community, survival begins on the day of diagnosis.

“Temper the Wind”

It is hard to write well without also reading well. A beautiful expression from the 16th century French classics scholar, Henri Estienne, comes to mind as the best way for me to explain this third and final insight. He wrote, “God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.” Here, belief in a Divinity or lack thereof, is not my chief concern, but rather, what advice follows in this idiom. When a lamb has been shorn, this means it has had its wool clipped away from it leaving its bare skin exposed to the elements until new wool grows in again. To “temper the wind to the shorn lamb” means to shield the lamb from the wind so that it does not become uncomfortably chilled. Since the lamb has already given up its warmth, it has made a sacrifice and so should be spared any further discomfort. To “temper the wind,” then, has come to be a reference meaning that one should spare another of any further pain, frustration, aggravation, or sorrow.

In our writings, especially to cancer-affected audiences, we must “temper the wind” by realizing that there is “night-and-day-difference” between writing sincerely and writing with a somewhat naïve attempt at empathy. While it’s absolutely true that the cancer-affected crave compassion, empathy, and comfort as do all human persons, it ought never to be to the exclusion of the difficult, excruciating and/or terrifying realities of the illness and its impact. True, the cancer-affected will not somehow suddenly come to forget these realities, but any writing intended for their particular circumstances or situations which fails to address or even consider these facets of the experience is nothing short of naïve. As cancer-affected persons, we are often transformed, indeed, made anew, into rather intrepid and resilient beings. That does not, of course, mean that comfort, hope, love, and perseverance are unwelcome facets to the experience. In fact, those qualities keep us moving forward in our journeys, however, any writing that attempts to instill or increase these emotive qualities within the cancer-affected need also take into account the “hard-truths” of the experiences, lest the writer inadvertently offer false hope. Acknowledging these “hard truths” in tandem with sentiments of resiliency, hope, and/or compassion will signal to the cancer-affected not only a healthy familiarity with their personal experiences, but a respect for their emotional strength and identity.

The author dedicates this piece in honor of Callie Annalee Adams, whose resilient spirit bolsters my own.

Anthony Maranise, M.A., BCC, a 20+ year leukemia survivor, is a professor of Interdisciplinary Studies at The University of Memphis (TN) and is the author of Cross of a Different Kind: Cancer & Christian Spirituality (Eternal Insight Press, 2018 | Amazon | IndieBound | Barnes & Noble). Connect with Anthony via his website: or on Twitter: @amaranise.

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