Growing up in a small Swiss town in the 70s and 80s, the availability of books in English was limited. My mum was British, my dad half Swiss, half British, and we only spoke English at home. Despite the fact I was schooled in German, I had a real appetite for stories in my mother tongue. Consequently, we’d stock up whenever we visited family in England, and I’d plunder Mum’s stack of novels every chance I got. Many of them were thrillers, and she’d allow me to read whatever grabbed my interest. As a side note, I recall her (jokingly) stapling together the pages of a novel that contained sexy bits when I was fourteen. No prizes for guessing which scenes I read first (sorry, not sorry, Mum). She had a huge impact on my reading habits that has lasted my entire life, and I wish I could share my recent exciting reads with her.
When I moved to Geneva in the late 80s, I discovered an English bookshop and an entire world opened before me. Many hours were spent browsing the shelves, digging through the newest releases and hottest thrillers. I’d often leave with a selection of Jonathan Kellerman books cradled in my arms and couldn’t wait to read Alex Delaware and Milo Sturgis’s latest case. I’d add Sidney Sheldon, Stephen King, and John Grisham’s work to the pile as and when I could afford to, unsuccessfully trying to quench my thirst for all things suspense.
I believed my love of thrillers would be a lifetime thing, but that changed abruptly when my best friend was murdered in 1994, a tragedy I wrote a previous CrimeReads essay about here. It was the moment I stopped reading suspense entirely. I couldn’t bear to touch stories where people were physically hurt or killed at the hand of someone else, and found myself diving into comedy, romance, or family dramas for the best part of two decades. It was all my broken soul could withstand.
Unsurprisingly, my first novel, Time After Time was a rom com, the lovechild of the movies Sliding Doors and Groundhog Day, but when I embarked on writing my second book, The Neighbors, I soon understood something had shifted. This was a much grittier tale. There was no murder, but things wouldn’t necessarily work out for all my characters. I didn’t worry about switching genres as Time After Time hadn’t sold at that point, but I remember wondering if I could handle traveling a darker road, whether I was ready to confront the demons that still haunted me. And if I wanted to.
Quite fittingly, the answer came at the library while I waited for one of my sons. I spotted a book with an ominous gray cover featuring a pair of dangling handcuffs and the title in shiny red letters. Creep by Jennifer Hillier. I’m not sure why, but something about that book made me pick it up, read the blurb, and take it home. It was a turning point in my writing career because Creep reminded me of my old love of thrillers and gave me that final push I needed to cross over to writing suspense. After all, if I wrote about bad people doing wicked things, I could choose to punish them for their deeds (or let them get away with them). I was the one in control, and that meant it was no longer terrifying.
After The Neighbors sold to MIRA, and while chatting with my editor about recent books I’d read, I mentioned Mary Kubica’s Pretty Baby (another library find). I gushed about how I’d gobbled up the story, how Mary’s characters were flawed, damaged, and felt oh-so-real, and how I aspired to do the same. While saying all this, I hadn’t realized we had the same publisher, and when my editor offered to send me all Mary’s books, I’m quite sure I punched the air. That was my reading week sorted, and I’ve never missed a Mary Kubica novel since. Her tales seem effortless, there’s a unique cadence and rhythm to her writing. There’s just…something about Mary that makes me tear through her books as soon as they arrive.
Samantha Downing is another author from whom I avidly await the next publication, and for whom I’ve had the pleasure of reading in advance. My Lovely Wife was a huge hit, and with good reason as it was irresistibly pitched as Mr. & Mrs. Smith meets Dexter and lived up to every expectation that comparison brings. The ending of He Started It is gasp-worthy, and her upcoming release For Your Own Good will never allow you to look at a glass of milk in the same way. Samantha is fearless in her writing. She’s bold with her character choices both in terms of their personalities and their actions, and doesn’t appear to flinch about writing unlikeable ones, which plagues so many of us while crafting our stories. Her books gave me another shove, making my own work darker still.
And yet, as much as I’ve long rediscovered my passion for thrillers and suspense, it’s not the only genre I lose myself in. One of my favourite authors is David Nicholls, who writes beautiful family dramas and coming-of-age stories. They’re poignant and witty, heartfelt and sad at times, too (remember the ending of One Day? Someone pass the tissues already!). He writes for television and film, which is perhaps why his dialogue is flawless. When someone once told me my characters’ banter reminded them of David Nicholls, it was a compliment of the highest order.
Thankfully, since moving to Canada more than a decade ago, getting my hands on books in English, and any genre, has never been easier. I’m thrilled my teenage sons regularly plunder my bookshelves, often heading straight for the suspense novels, and they regularly me ask for recommendations. I’ve not yet stapled pages together (jokingly or otherwise), but I know my mum would be proud to see how her legacy has carried on to another generation.
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