I own a Kindle, but I rarely use it. Not because I’m opposed to e-readers; far from it. My Kindle has been invaluable when I’ve travelled for longer periods and don’t want to take heavy novels. When at home, though, I only read physical books borrowed from my local library. One reason is the simple pleasure of holding an actual paperback or hardback. The cover, the pages — I enjoy the feel of a book in my hands in a way I’ve never felt with a screen. Another reason, though, is also because I believe in supporting libraries.

Some people see libraries as old-fashioned. I don’t. I view them as national treasures, ones we shouldn’t take for granted. My local library is extensive, warm, and welcoming. It offers far more than free book loans — although the shelves of crime fiction and psychological thrillers would be enough to keep me loyal. It hosts free or low-cost events, language classes, useful drop-in sessions, and support for people who may be vulnerable, isolated, or in need of somewhere safe and friendly. That matters.

What else? Let’s not forget the joy of browsing. I love wandering along the stacks, picking novels by authors I’ve never tried before, being tempted by covers, titles, blurbs, and the promise of dark secrets waiting to be revealed. Libraries make that sort of discovery feel easy. If a book isn’t for me, I can return it. No guilt or squandered money. So yes, I own a Kindle. But my heart belongs to library books.

What about you? Do you borrow books, buy them, read on an e-reader — or happily do all three?

Certain storylines are a no-no for me. Two examples: I avoid crime fiction centred on gangs or drugs. Gangland stories often involve a level of violence, intimidation, and unlikeable characters that I don’t care to read about. As for drugs, I’ve spent my life avoiding them. They’ve never interested me in real life, so I’m not keen to waste with them in fiction either.

Domestic abuse is a little different. I will read novels that include it if the author handles the topic with care, but I still find it uncomfortable to read. And to take things a shade darker, my editor advised me to keep the torture scene in ‘Silent Winter’ brief and skimp on details. She was right. That’s a scenario where ‘less is more’ — except for authors like Chris Carter, of course!

I realise this is all a matter of personal taste. One reader’s ‘not for me’ is another reader’s gripping page-turner.

What about you? Is there a crime or thriller storyline that makes you place the novel back on the shelf with a muttered, ‘No, thank you’?

Which of these pulls you into a novel fastest?

A. A missing person
B. A suspicious death
C. A secret from the past
D. An unreliable narrator

I’m always drawn to secrets from the past — the sort that’s supposedly long buried, which in fiction always means it’s about to resurrect itself and ruin several lives. My novel ‘She’ll Never Tell’ examines this exact scenario and proved great fun to write. A missing person is hard to resist, too. I’ve considered doing another novel based on that premise because I enjoyed writing ‘The Second Captive’ so much, despite its dark theme.

Suspicious deaths are a staple in crime fiction and yield a plethora of possibilities for successful plots, and although my novels aren’t police procedurals, often some unlucky person dies in them. However, unreliable narrators, such as Rachel from ‘The Girl on the Train’, aren’t my thing, both for writing or creating my plots. It’s probably because such characters annoy me — deep down, my subconscious is yelling: ‘Why are you so flaky? Tell the truth for once!’

Which would you choose?

When I was younger, I often returned to books I’d already enjoyed. A novel can feel different when you reread it, yet it’s also comfortable; you notice nuances you missed before, yet the characters and plot are cosy and familiar. I would re-read my favourite Thomas Hardy novels, drawn back to ‘Tess of the D’Urbervilles’ and ‘The Mayor of Casterbridge’, with all their longing, landscape, and betrayal. I’ve also read George Orwell’s ‘1984’ several times, bored by the long, dull quotes from Emmanual Goldstein. Understanding that they symbolised the numbing weight of totalitarianism. Horrified by the ruthless suppression of individuality, yet gripped by the raw horror of the story. The first time I read the book as a teenager, I scanned the last page in disbelief, shocked that salvation wasn’t coming for the inhabitants of Airstrip One. To paraphrase from the novel, a boot was indeed stamping on a human face—forever.

These days, though, I rarely re-read fiction. I admit that I don’t always remember books. Sometimes I borrow a novel from the library, start reading, and feel a flicker of recognition. Then comes the realisation: I’ve read this before. In the past, I might have carried on, especially if the story was compelling. Now I usually close the book and return it. Why? Because so many unread books await me, the thought of which fills me with joy. Library books, recommendations, book group choices, novels by favourite authors, books by writers I’ve been meaning to try for years. I don’t want to waste precious reading time by revisiting a story I already know.

Things can change. Maybe I’ll return to those old Thomas Hardy favourites one day, enjoying his complex characters and social commentary while noting how his long-winded descriptions wouldn’t suit modern fiction. I probably won’t revisit Orwell’s ‘1984’ though—I’m not sure I could face that bleakness again. For now, I’ll stick with new-to-me crime fiction and psychological thrillers. Right now, I’m reading ‘A Twisted Love Story’ by Samantha Downing, and loving it.

What about you? Do you re-read well-loved novels, or do you prefer to move on to something new? A mix?

Can a disappointing ending ruin an otherwise good book?

In my opinion? Yes, because endings matter so much in crime fiction and psychological thrillers. When you read a thriller, you’re not just reading for atmosphere, character, and tension — although all of those are important. You’re also trusting the author to deliver the promises made to the reader in the previous chapters. The ending of a novel should make you think, ‘Of course! I should have seen that coming, except I didn’t.’ That’s a tough trick to pull off. The ending has to feel surprising, but not ridiculous. Satisfying, but not too neat.

Critics often accuse Stephen King of being brilliant at premises, characters, and dread, but less reliable with his endings. While I enjoy his books, I have to agree. Sometimes his last chapters are weak and fall flat. I don’t think this means the story has no value — far from it. Sometimes the plot and the tension are so strong that I can forgive a wobbly last act, even if it’s a little unsatisfying.

What I dislike, however, is the feeling that the book has avoided its responsibilities. I’m referring to the idea that the author guides the reader in the opening chapters on what to expect. A crime novel that opens with a dead body, a grieving family, and some strange circumstances? The reader wants the killer caught and those weird clues explained because that follows the well-established and expected story arc. Having the murderer evade justice, the police investigation scaled down, and the crime remain unsolved wouldn’t be a satisfying read.

Exceptions exist, of course — Patricia Highsmith’s Tom Ripley character in ‘The Talented Mr Ripley’, or Jeff Lindsay’s Dexter novels. In these novels, the murderous protagonist doesn’t get his comeuppance, but there’s a crucial difference. With Tom and Dexter, their exploits form the foundation for the story, so the expectations set by the author are different.

As for books in a series, I mentioned in a recent post how much I disliked the fantasy novel I read for my book group. One reason was that by the end, I felt the author was so busy setting things up for the sequel that she rushed the ending and left many questions unanswered. Yes, it’s possible they’ll get addressed in the next book, but the author didn’t even refer to them, so how would I know? A series can leave doors open, but I still think each book should deliver its own emotional and narrative payoff. Otherwise, it feels less like an ending and more like a trailer for the next instalment.

What about you? Can you forgive a disappointing ending if you enjoyed the rest of the book — or does an unsatisfying finale ruin the whole thing?

I used to feel that once I’d started a book, I ought to finish it, regardless of whether the story and characters were engaging. Probably because I can be stubborn at times! These days, I’m far less noble. If I’m not enjoying a book, I’m usually happy to abandon it. Not immediately — I do give books a fair chance. But if I’ve reached the point where reading feels like a chore, or I find myself cleaning my house to avoid picking it up, that’s generally a strong signal.

Life is short. Books are many. Housework can wait.

There are exceptions. I’ve recently joined a monthly book group, and so far, I’ve finished both books even though they weren’t novels I would have chosen. If I’m going to sit in a room and discuss a book with other readers, I think it’s only fair to read it properly first. My fellow group members clearly don’t agree — some happily admit to having abandoned that month’s choice because they disliked it. Each to their own.

As I discussed in last week’s post, I think there’s value in reading new material. Sometimes a book outside our usual taste range surprises us. Maybe it stretches us. Perhaps it simply confirms, that no, actually, we do not want more of that sort of thing, thank you.

Besides book groups, study, or other specific reasons, though, I don’t think finishing every book is a moral virtue. Reading for pleasure should involve at least some… well, pleasure. Not necessarily comfort — I’m happy to be unsettled, suspicious and emotionally toyed with by a novel. Clearly. I write psychological thrillers, after all.

I do want to feel engaged, though. A book might be beautifully written and yet not resonate with me. It might be clever, ambitious, well-reviewed, much-loved by friends — and still not be a book I want to spend time with. That’s fine. Closing a novel and setting it aside is not a failure. Sometimes it’s simply making room for the next great read.

What about you? Do you always finish books once you’ve started them, or are you happy to abandon ship?

Recently, my monthly book club chose a fantasy/magic-based novel. I read it. I finished it. I was open-minded and willing to be transported to another world. The problem? I simply didn’t enjoy the book.

This made me think about genre comfort zones. These days, I’m firmly drawn to crime fiction and psychological thrillers. However, when I was younger, I read much more widely. Classics, historical fiction, science fiction, literary novels — a much broader range than now. Somewhere along the way, my reading tastes narrowed. I can’t decide whether that’s a good or bad thing. There’s value in knowing what we like and don’t like. But should I step outside my preferred genres occasionally? My book club is certainly making me do that. Maybe next month’s choice will be a novel I actually enjoy.

Reading different kinds of books can stretch us. Expose us to different structures, voices, settings and ideas. As a writer, that matters too. Even a book I don’t enjoy can teach me something — about what works, what doesn’t, and also simply about my own preferences.

But there’s another argument too: reading is not homework. Most of us have limited time and energy, and probably a pile of unread books silently judging us. Is it really necessary to force ourselves to read genres that don’t give us pleasure, just because we feel we should? My gut response is ‘no’.

Perhaps the answer is balance. I’ll continue to read mostly the fiction I enjoy, with a monthly foray into something different courtesy of my book club. Maybe I’ll eventually discover a novel, and an author, that opens up new horizons for me.

What about you? Do you read widely across genres, or do you tend to stick with the novels you know you’ll enjoy?

Let’s play a quick game of Would You Rather? — Thriller Edition. Here are your choices:

1. Would you rather read a thriller about a missing person or a suspicious death?

Both are irresistible in different ways. Take the missing person scenario. Are they alive? Hiding? Taken? Running from something? So many possibilities…

I explored this theme in ‘The Second Captive’, and I’ll probably write another novel covering this topic. A suspicious death, on the other hand, brings its own dark satisfaction: who doesn’t love a good whodunnit novel?

2. Would you rather have an unreliable narrator or a character with a hidden past?

The unreliable narrator keeps us questioning the story itself. I examined this theme in ‘Heart of Bone’. Greer Maddox is a damaged woman, grieving the death of her son – can we rely on everything she tells us?

A hidden past, however, keeps us watching for cracks in someone’s carefully polished surface. I had fun exploring this in my novel ‘Guilty Innocence’. In that book, Mark is concealing a dark secret, one that will of course be revealed, creating havoc in his life. His fault for volunteering to be a character! 

3. Would you rather read a slow-burn thriller or one that starts with a shocking event?

I love a thriller in which the tension builds slowly but inexorably, keeping the reader hooked.  There’s also something compelling about a book that opens with chaos and keeps the conflict high. Which works better probably depends on the plot. Some stories suit a slow burn; others work best with high-octane thrills.

4. Would you rather have a glamorous setting or an ordinary place that feels unsafe?

I mentioned this in last week’s post. A luxury hotel, remote island, or grand old house can be hugely atmospheric. But there’s also something gripping about a normal street, a family kitchen, or a familiar walk home that feels wrong. Maybe it’s because ordinary places usually offer fewer places to hide.

5. Would you rather guess the twist early or be completely blind-sided?

Me? I prefer to be taken by surprise. I get that readers derive pleasure in spotting tiny clues and thinking, ‘Aha, I know what’s going on here’. But there’s also huge satisfaction in being wrong-footed by a twist that fits perfectly yet was hiding in plain sight all along.

Now it’s your turn:

Which would you choose in each case — and which question was the hardest?

There are many things I love about psychological thrillers, but if I had to narrow it down, these five would be high on the list.

1. Secrets
Not just any secrets, but the sort that pretend to be harmless, while everyone else gets on with making tea and lying to each other. You just know that those secrets are going to spill out before long, creating angst for all concerned.

2. Uncertainty
I love not knowing whom to believe. Is the narrator mistaken? Lying? Traumatised? Manipulated? All of the above?

In real life, uncertainty is exhausting. In psychological thrillers, it’s entertaining.

3. Ordinary places made sinister (I’ll be posting more about this next week)
A kitchen. A spare bedroom. A quiet street. A family home.

Psychological thrillers remind us that danger doesn’t arrive wearing a black cloak and accompanied by dramatic music. Often it’s already sitting at the breakfast table, buttering toast.

4. Characters who are complicated rather than simply “good” or “bad”
I’m drawn to characters who make poor choices for understandable reasons. People who are flawed, conflicted, frightened, proud, grieving, jealous, loyal, self-deceiving — in other words, all too human. The best thrillers don’t just ask: ‘What happened?’ They also ask: ‘Why would someone do this? Behave this way?’

5. That one-more-chapter pull
You know the feeling. You’re tired. You should go to sleep. You’ve brushed your teeth, climbed into bed, and made a firm and oh-so-adult decision. One quick chapter won’t hurt, though.

Then a scene ends with a revelation, a compelling line of dialogue, or someone doing something they definitely shouldn’t. Suddenly it’s midnight and your sensible adult self has left the building. Then it’s one o’clock, two o’clock…  

For me, that happens all too often. I’m currently reading ‘The Good Father’ by Liam McIlvanney, and I found it difficult last night to put it down and switch off the light. It’s an intriguing read!

Over to you…
What’s the one thing that makes a psychological thriller impossible for you to put down?

When it comes to psychological thrillers, I often think the most unsettling settings are ordinary ones. A quiet street. The family kitchen. Maybe a spare bedroom or the back garden. A seaside town out of season, when the cafés are closed and the beach is deserted.

There’s something powerful about taking a place that should feel safe and making the reader view it differently. When danger creeps into an ordinary setting, it feels more personal. The unease comes from the tiny, and jarring, shift between ‘everything is normal’ and ‘something is wrong here’.

I think that’s one of the reasons domestic suspense thrillers work so well. The genre takes the places associated with comfort — homes, marriages, families, friendships, routines — and asks what might be hidden underneath them. In these novels, it’s always something dark and disturbing. The best thriller settings don’t just provide a backdrop. They add pressure. Make characters feel watched, trapped, exposed, while in the comfort of their own home.

Do you prefer thrillers set in dramatic locations, or ordinary places where something feels slightly wrong?