According to Ian Flemming: How to write a thriller
It's been raining most of the day here, clouds so many shades of gray and deep blue that is almost gray, you feel as if you're under the sea. I've been editing a thriller manuscript lately and so have been thinking about the required pacing and components of thrillers (and plan to send the writer a column I wrote on the subject), then chanced upon this piece by James Bond's creator.
When I was about 14 or 15 I got into reading James Bond. It wasn't a common practice for a budding young thing of my age. One day, feeling embarrassed about my triller-slash- JB tendencies, I tossed them into the trash. Somehow, in our town (Grafton, Wisconsin--twenty or so miles from Milwaukee where I attended high school before happily escaping) the trash collectors discovered my stash and pulled them from my teenish wicker waste basket with hoots of delight. Thinking back on that long-ago morning with the trash collectors beneath my window, here is wisdom according to Ian Flemming:
How to Write a Thriller
Fleming, I. (1962). How to write a thriller. Show. August. 2, 58-59.
People often ask me, "How do you manage to think of that? What an
extraordinary (or sometimes extraordinarily dirty) mind you must have." I
certainly have got vivid powers of imagination, but I don't think there
is anything very odd about that.
We are all fed fairy stories
and adventure stories and ghost stories for the first 20 years of our
lives, and the only difference between me and perhaps you is that my
imagination earns me money.
But, to revert to my first book,
Casino Royale, there are strong incidents in the book which are all
based on fact. I extracted them from my wartime memories of the Naval
Intelligence Division of the Admiralty, dolled them up, attached a hero,
a villain and a heroine, and there was the book.
The first
was the attempt on Bond's life outside the Hotel Splendide. SMERSH had
given two Bulgarian assassins box camera cases to hang over their
shoulders. One was of red leather and the other one blue. SMERSH told
the Bulgarians that the red one con-tained a bomb and the blue one a
powerful smoke screen, under cover of which they could escape.
One was to throw the red bomb and the other was then to press the
button on the blue case. But the Bulgars mistrusted the plan and decided
to press the button on the blue case and envelop themselves in the
smoke screen before throwing the bomb.
In fact, the blue case
also contained a bomb powerful enough to blow both the Bulgars to
fragments and remove all evidence which might point to SMERSH.
Farfetched, you might say. In fact, this was the method used in the
Russian attempt on Von Papen's life in Ankara in the middle of the war.
On that occasion the assassins were also Bulgarians and they were blown
to nothing while Von Papen and his wife, walking from their house to the
embassy; were only bruised by the blast.
So you see the line
between fact and fantasy is a very narrow one. I think I could trace
most of the central incidents in my books to some real happenings.
We thus come to the final and supreme hurdle in the writing of a
thriller. You must know thrilling things before you can write about
them. Imagination alone isn't enough, but stories you hear from friends
or read in the papers can be built up by a fertile imagination and a
certain amount of research and documentation into incidents that will
also ring true in fiction.
Having assimilated all this
encouraging advice, your heart will nevertheless quail at the physical
effort involved in writing even a thriller. I warmly sympathise with
you. I too, am lazy. My heart sinks when I contemplate the two or three
hundred virgin sheets of foolscap I have to besmirch with more or less
well chosen words in order to produce a 60,000 word book.
One
of the essentials is to create a vacuum in my life which can only be
satisfactorily filled by some form of creative work - whether it be
writing, painting, sculpting, composing or just building a boat - I was
about to get married - a prospect which filled me with terror and mental
fidget. To give my hands something to do, and as an antibody to my
qualms about the marriage state after 43 years as a bachelor, I decided
one day to damned well sit down and write a book.
The therapy
was successful. And while I still do a certain amount of writing in the
midst of my London Life, it is on my annual visits to Jamaica that all
my books have been written.
But, failing a hideaway such as I
possess, I can recommend hotel bedrooms as far removed from your usual
"life" as possible. Your anonymity in these drab surroundings and your
lack of friends and distractions will create a vacuum which should force
you into a writing mood and, if your pocket is shallow, into a mood
which will also make you write fast and with application. I do it all on
the typewriter, using six fingers. The act of typing is far less
exhausting than the act of writing, and you end up with a more or less
clean manuscript The next essential is to keep strictly to a routine.
I write for about three hours in the morning - from about 9:30 till
12:30and I do another hour's work between six and seven in the evening.
At the end of this I reward myself by numbering the pages and putting
them away in a spring-back folder. The whole of this four hours of daily
work is devoted to writing narrative.
I never correct
anything and I never go back to what I have written, except to the foot
of the last page to see where I have got to. If you once look back, you
are lost. How could you have written this drivel? How could you have
used "terrible" six times on one page? And so forth. If you interrupt
the writing of fast narrative with too much introspection and
self-criticism, you will be lucky if you write 500 words a day and you
will be disgusted with them into the bargain. By following my formula,
you write 2,000 words a day and you aren't disgusted with them until the
book is finished, which will be in about six weeks.
I don't
even pause from writing to choose the right word or to verify spelling
or a fact. All this can be done when your book is finished.
When my book is completed I spend about a week going through it and
correcting the most glaring errors and rewriting passages. I then have
it properly typed with chapter headings and all the rest of the
trimmings. I then go through it again, have the worst pages retyped and
send it off to my publisher.
They are a sharp-eyed bunch at
Jonathan Cape and, apart from commenting on the book as a whole, they
make detailed suggestions which I either embody or discard. Then the
final typescript goes to the printer and in due course the galley or
page proofs are there and you can go over them with a fresh eye. Then
the book is published and you start getting letters from people saying
that Vent Vert is made by Balmain and not by Dior, that the Orient
Express has vacuum and not hydraulic brakes, and that you have
mousseline sauce and not Bearnaise with asparagus.
Such
mistakes are really nobody's fault except the author's, and they make
him blush furiously when he sees them in print. But the majority of the
public does not mind them or, worse, does not even notice them, and it
is a dig at the author's vanity to realise how quickly the reader's eye
skips across the words which it has taken him so many months to try to
arrange in the right sequence.
But what, after all these labours, are the rewards of writing and, in my case, of writing thrillers?
First of all, they are financial. You don't make a great deal of money
from royalties and translation rights and so forth and, unless you are
very industrious and successful, you could only just about live on these
profits, but if you sell the serial rights and the film rights, you do
very well. Above all, being a successful writer is a good life. You
don't have to work at it all the time and you carry your office around
in your head. And you are far more aware of the world around you.
Writing makes you more alive to your surroundings and, since the main
ingredient of living, though you might not think so to look at most
human beings, is to be alive, this is quite a worthwhile by-product of
writing.