Writing Fiction: How Dark Can You Go?

One of the joys of reading is venturing, safely, into the darker recesses of humanity. Areas we wouldn’t go near in real life can be explored through the pages of a book. It’s fascinating, isn’t it? Trying to work out what makes others tick. Particularly those on the very edges of society. As far removed from ourselves and our loved ones as it seems possible to go. What makes them behave the way they do? Is evil within us all, given the right circumstances?

But for writers of suspense, the question is perhaps more about how dark we can write our stories and the characters within them without alienating our readers. In other words…

How dark is too dark?

With her latest suspense novel, The Screenwriter, publishing this week, The Novelry writing coach and author Amanda Reynolds explores the limits, if any, on theme and plot strands in psychological thrillers, crime and suspense.

Over to Amanda to explore the dark side of fiction…

Is there a line authors must never cross?

As a child, I had a voracious reading appetite, especially for the sinister. Mrs Rochester in her attic terrified me witless at barely ten years of age, not least because of the macabre cover of the library copy of Jane Eyre I carried to bed each night, the purple and red gaudiness still etched on my psyche. And how dark are Grimms’ fairy tales? Too dark for me, I have to say—images of children eaten up in gingerbread houses and burned alive by matches keeping me from sleep long after the door was closed and the light switched off.

But, like riding the ghost train, we do love to scare ourselves—it’s something we’ve learned from a young age. Even Disney movies deal with heavy subjects. The Lion King is a tear-jerker for me every time, and don’t get me started on Bambi!

Yet we all have our boundaries. Lines we won’t cross. Unique and often specific to our lived experiences. So how do we as writers accommodate those—and, if that’s possible, should we even try? Is there a line authors must never cross?

The first difficulty is that every line is intensely personal and often transitory. For every reader, there is a sensibility. One that shifts and warps, constantly changing with its own set of peculiarities.

My personal limits

When my children were young, I couldn’t read anything where a child came to harm or was in peril, and I still won’t touch a book where a dog’s demise is part of the story. These are my personal no-nos, born of superstition I guess, but also because I wouldn’t enjoy placing myself in that mindset—it would be too painful. Although I found The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold so beautiful and redemptive, I made an exception.

And that doesn’t mean books with that trigger don’t work for me now. (Although the dog thing… Come on!)

But the point is that triggers vary wildly. This means as writers, it’s hard to second-guess what may or may not be acceptable. One reader’s turn-off is another’s fascination. What appals one may pull in another.

When characters drive the darkness

In psychological suspense, it’s often the psyche of the main character that drives the darkness. Their inner demons are the ones we invest in and try to understand. We don’t have to endorse, condone, or even like their behaviour—just be fascinated by it. I wouldn’t sit next to a lot of my characters on the bus, and I definitely wouldn’t want to get stuck with them at a dinner party, let alone invite them into my home, but I have loved writing them all.

Reprehensible characters are a mainstay of the crime genre. Look at classics like Hannibal, an irredeemable cannibal, and Tom Ripley, a sociopathic murderer and liar. Likeability is not a prerequisite. Nice, can—at least in fiction—equate to boring.

In psychological suspense, it’s often the psyche of the main character that drives the darkness. Their inner demons are the ones we invest in and try to understand. We don’t have to endorse, condone, or even like their behaviour—just be fascinated by it.

Toxic relationships are also often explored in this genre, beautifully so in Kate Riordan’s Summer Fever, a tale of lost and forbidden love, and Sabine Durrant’s Lie With Me, a modern take on The Talented Mr Ripley. The darkness of loving the wrong person is a truly chilling and relatable topic.

The current interest in the nature of evil itself, fuelled by a proliferation of content about true crime—from The Staircase to Dahmer, The Serpent to The Pembrokeshire Murders—indulges our need to understand the rationale of the person behind the crimes. Sometimes this is to the detriment of their victims, glamourising the perpetrator. And yet we remain fascinated by the “why”, as much as the “who” of those whodunnits.

But are there some universal triggers that we should all avoid as writers? At least if we want to appeal commercially to prospective publishers and, ultimately, to our intended readership?

Lolita may be a classic, but would a modern book about a paedophile’s preoccupation with a pubescent be accepted in the same way by a top publisher today? Likely not.

And talking of obsessions, Oedipus had… How shall we say it? A rather odd fixation with his mother. The complex may have fallen into our vernacular, but that doesn’t mean a story containing incest is likely to be picked up by publishers these days. They are telling us not! And we should most likely listen.

A publishing editor’s perspective

We asked The Novelry’s deputy editorial director Tash Barsby, who has edited thrillers including the number 1 Sunday Times and New York Times bestselling suspense novel The Sanatorium, for an editor’s perspective on darkness:

I understand the temptation to include risky or controversial subject matter in your novel but I would always urge you to ask yourself why you are doing so. Is it because it’s an issue that truly interests you, one on which you would like to spark a debate? If this is the case, my advice would be to go forward but tread lightly and with sensitivity.

However, I find there are certain storylines—such as gratuitous abuse (whether physical, mental or sexual, and especially when targeted at the particularly vulnerable), suicide and incest—that writers reach for as an easy (dare I say, lazy?) attempt to shock, which poses a problem for me both as an editor and a reader. Nothing turns me off a book more than when I can tell a writer has included a rape scene or incest twist purely for dramatic effect. If you feel an event like this is vital for the story, then please handle with caution and carefully consider how it impacts your character’s journey over the course of the novel—and how it will impact your reader’s experience.

I’m not at all suggesting you can’t write about taboo topics (indeed, there have been many successful books published that have done so!) but if you do, understand and accept that some readers—including some literary agents—may choose not to pick up your novel as a result.
—Tash Barsby

What about telling stories that are not our own to tell?

In a world where censorship is resisted but so is cultural appropriation, this is a hot topic of debate in publishing; one tackled head-on in the number 1 New York Times and Sunday Times bestseller, Yellowface by Rebecca F Kuang. The popularity of the book speaks volumes, but it scrapes deep into the belly of publishing, coming up with some unpalatable truths about the right to tell another’s story—in this case our main character June, who not only steals her dead friend’s book, but also her identity. Personally, I loved it, but it was daring, and I think we should be daring as authors. Challenging ourselves as writers. Opening debates, not answering them. And it’s all in the execution, which must be handled with respect, care and diligence.

But we cannot be limited to write only what we know, surely? I’m not sure my readers want books solely about golden retrievers and muddy walks?

How does all this help you to accommodate your readers? And should you?

There are definitely some trends we have noticed at The Novelry, taste-wise, that can help you decide how dark to go. Sensibilities it might be best to bear in mind if you have ambitions to be picked up by a top publisher.

Take the trope of the beautiful young female victim and the alpha male detective, a mainstay of crime fiction. For decades this character pairing has been accepted without question, but now, thank goodness, is increasingly being questioned and subverted. Victims are being brought into the story, honoured by being given names, back story, nuanced lives and meaning.

And our living female characters are becoming more empowered, given agency and fighting back. A slew of “bad” women in suspense fiction, such as in Bella Mackie’s How To Kill Your Family, has rocketed up the charts. Women who want revenge, and who take control, are appealing to readers both male and female. Unlikeable women who take chances, behave badly, even kill.

Is the measure of “too dark” more a matter of genre?

If we look at the cozy crime market, where murders are often set against the backdrop of a comforting close-knit community, do the boundaries change? Maybe. But the lines are still blurred, such as in Janice Hallett’s The Alperton Angels, a brilliant read which could not be darker.

Similarly in Lucy Foley’s locked room mysteries, where glamorous locations counterpoint gruesome crimes—such as in The Hunting Party and The Guest List—there’s definitely no shying away from both the murder itself, and the rationale behind it, despite the lustre of wealth and charm.

Then there are masters of the craft who take darkness to a new level within a more traditional police procedural crime novel. Fiona Cummins’ debut novel, Rattle, introduced us to a gruesome collector, and her latest book, All of Us Are Broken, brings us a Bonnie and Clyde murderous duo on a hellish rampage, with a gloriously conflicted detective team in Blue and Saul, who both have their own dark secrets.

The appetite for darkness is also reflected in our love of Nordic Noir. Readers are entranced by Jo Nesbo and Stieg Larsson. After a recent trip to the brilliant Iceland Noir Festival, I can see how the landscape lends itself to dark deeds, the short winter days covering all manner of sins. I loved listening to Ragnar Jónasson and Yrsa Sigurðardóttir talk about the inspiration their homeland has brought to their work.

But it doesn’t have to be ice and volcanoes and limited hours of daylight for bad deeds to take place. The sun can shine and we still feel that sense of terrible foreboding. In Nikki Smith’s summer smash, The Beach Party, the gruesome consequences of a freak accident are ramped up the max, and in Laura Marshall’s My Husband’s Killer, another holiday from hell brings death and mayhem. The destination thriller is having a moment, and it’s here for the foreseeable. The contrast of a “perfect” holiday turned to hell is perennially appealing.

So what have we learned about the dark?

As writers we can go there in many forms, and some readers will love it, some will not. And we cannot—and in most cases should not—legislate for those very personal, and often subjective responses. With a few notable exceptions, I’d recommend you write the book you want to and make it as dark as you like.

But if you want me as a reader, please don’t kill a dog on the page.

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Amanda’s latest novel, The Screenwriter, a dark tale of the price of fame when a ghostwriter meets a murderous former star, publishes with Boldwood Books on January 16 and is available to pre-order here.

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