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Some readers change genres with the seasons, their energy levels, or whatever is happening in life. They want cosy books in winter, lighter reads on holiday, comforting favourites when they’re stressed.
I’m not like that. My reading choices don’t shift with outside influences. I’m still drawn to the same things: crime fiction and psychological thrillers.
I occasionally read something outside my usual genres — my decision to join a book group has certainly encouraged that — but it’s not because my mood (or the season, or life circumstances) demands something different. I’ve found my groove with fiction reading, and I’m happy with that.
What about you? Does your reading change with your mood, the weather, or what’s happening in your life — or do you stick to the same kinds of books?
I’m not like that. My reading choices don’t shift with outside influences. I’m still drawn to the same things: crime fiction and psychological thrillers.
I occasionally read something outside my usual genres — my decision to join a book group has certainly encouraged that — but it’s not because my mood (or the season, or life circumstances) demands something different. I’ve found my groove with fiction reading, and I’m happy with that.
What about you? Does your reading change with your mood, the weather, or what’s happening in your life — or do you stick to the same kinds of books?
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This week’s question is: Do you need to like the main character in a novel?
I don’t. Some of the best fictional characters are selfish, damaged, manipulative, and morally dubious. Definitely not likeable! I do need to be interested in them, though. To understand what drives them. To feel invested in them even when I wouldn’t care to meet them in real life. Dexter Morgan, from Jeff Lindsay’s novels, is a great example. He’s a serial killer, which should make being likeable impossible. Yet Dexter can be funny, observant, charming, and sometimes almost sympathetic. Besides, he’s ridding Miami of other serial killers, so he’s not all bad, right?
Perhaps that’s the real trick. A character doesn’t have to be good or likeable. They just have to be compelling. Otherwise, why continue with the novel?
What about you? Do you need to like the main character, or is being fascinated by them enough?
I don’t. Some of the best fictional characters are selfish, damaged, manipulative, and morally dubious. Definitely not likeable! I do need to be interested in them, though. To understand what drives them. To feel invested in them even when I wouldn’t care to meet them in real life. Dexter Morgan, from Jeff Lindsay’s novels, is a great example. He’s a serial killer, which should make being likeable impossible. Yet Dexter can be funny, observant, charming, and sometimes almost sympathetic. Besides, he’s ridding Miami of other serial killers, so he’s not all bad, right?
Perhaps that’s the real trick. A character doesn’t have to be good or likeable. They just have to be compelling. Otherwise, why continue with the novel?
What about you? Do you need to like the main character, or is being fascinated by them enough?
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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?
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?
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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’?
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’?
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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?
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?
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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?
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?
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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?
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?
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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?
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?
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Why are so many of us drawn to dark stories, the kind that feature in psychological thrillers? I think it’s down to a mix of curiosity and fascination. We want to understand people — especially when their behaviour doesn’t make sense. A thriller lets us step into that headspace, exploring motives and decisions we’d never encounter in everyday life. All from a safe distance.
For me, the most satisfying thrillers aren’t just about twists. They’re about why things happen — the hidden motives, the choices that lead to darker places. Those are the stories that are the most memorable. Not only for what they reveal, but for the hidden truth — that people are often far more complicated, and unpredictable, than they first appear.
What about you — what draws you to psychological thrillers?
For me, the most satisfying thrillers aren’t just about twists. They’re about why things happen — the hidden motives, the choices that lead to darker places. Those are the stories that are the most memorable. Not only for what they reveal, but for the hidden truth — that people are often far more complicated, and unpredictable, than they first appear.
What about you — what draws you to psychological thrillers?
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During my writing career I've come across readers who say they hate prologues. This baffles me, because they're part of the story - why dislike them, if the novel is a good read? As an author, I believe prologues fulfil several useful roles, and I've used them in my books when appropriate. Let's examine why prologues can enhance a novel.
Uses of prologues:
- To foreshadow future action in the book. They can set the scene and make the reader want more.
- To provide tension from the outset if the prologue is heavy on action/drama. This can suit readers who dislike novels with a slow burn.
- To introduce themes, characters, setting, etc. Some would say this can (and maybe should) be done in the first chapter, and I think there's some truth in that.
- To sow the seeds for the resolution, so that the book's ending ties in nicely with its beginnings. I love it when a book's story comes full circle!
- To give background information. For example, it can be useful in fantasy and science-fiction to describe the alien universe/world so readers aren't confused by unfamiliar words, items, etc.
- To give information from a different point of view or time. An example would be a novel that tells the life story of a protagonist who's dying. The prologue would be written from their current viewpoint, whereas chapter one starts in their childhood.
So why do people dislike prologues?
I did notice, in the online debates I've read, that those people who said they hate prologues rarely gave a reason, in contrast to fans of them. This made it difficult to fathom the haters' antipathy! After some digging, I uncovered some explanations. Here are the reasons people cite:
- They dislike an action scene containing characters without context, ones they haven't had a chance to care about yet. This doesn't resonate with me. Surely the prologue provide this chance, especially if the character is in a sticky situation?
- Some people say prologues are old hat. I disagree. If they work for a novel, for any of the reasons I've already mentioned, why not use them? This argument smacks to me of writing snobbery, something I loathe.
- Another argument against prologues is that, all too often, they're information dumps. This hasn't been my experience, but I agree that no part of a novel, prologue or otherwise, should shovel a load of facts the reader's way. Instead they should be woven into the narrative or dialogue in a way that's not obtrusive.
- One person said they dislike the change of pace between a dramatic prologue and a slower first chapter. Me? I love that! A tense, action-packed prologue whets my appetite to read on, then a gentler first chapter gives me a breathing space to allow me to relax into the book.
There is no right or wrong here...
No doubt the debate over prologues will continue for a while yet! I'll continue to use them in my novels if I believe they're warranted. Many other novelists love them too. Some say they use them, but retitle them 'chapter 1' so they don't antagonise prologue-hating readers!
What's your opinion?
If you're a reader, do you love or hate prologues? Give me your reasons! Or maybe you don't care either way? Perhaps you're a novelist. If so, do you use prologues? If not, why not? Leave a comment and let me know!