On choice, chance and circumstances in crime fiction ‹ CrimeReads

I was recently asked to describe my work as a novelist in two or three words. I think it was meant to be a slightly odd question at the end of an interview. I was told that other writers had said “caffeinated and crazy,” “trying hard,” and “poor sales.” As much as I like (and can identify with) those answers, and as much as my gut told me to say “rural and southern,” I decided to say “choice and circumstance” instead.

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I write a lot about choice and circumstance and how those two elements are related. My characters always seem to be on the cusp of a moral dilemma. And when it comes time for them to choose—to make their final decision, which then reverberates throughout the novel—I make sure that the events of their past influence which direction they go. I don't do this for dramatic effect. Rather, it's the most accurate way my characters reflect real people and how we often make our own choices.

For example, the relationship between socioeconomic status and crime rates has been studied extensively, highlighting several systemic and policy factors. Yet these statistical analyses rarely delve deeply into the science of despair. They often fail to account for the actual changes in brain chemistry that can occur depending on the conditions into which we are born and how we are raised.

A study from Washington University School of Medicine showed that the poorest children often had smaller hippocampus and amygdala structures, which are directly related to emotional regulation, memory and response to stress. Other studies show that poverty can also affect the areas of the brain responsible for language and learning.

The WUSM study didn't just focus on economic factors. It also included measures of love and affection and how giving a child attention and security can improve their ability to cope with stressors later in life. As much as parents (like me) may shudder at the thought, what we do now actually impacts our children in the future.

All of this is to raise the question: how many criminals had a real chance to succeed? How many successful entrepreneurs or respected academics had to overcome major obstacles along the way? While there is anecdotal evidence of these cases, how much of our lives belong to us as a general population?

The concept is simple, and yet many people fail to grasp that much of their personality depends on where they were born. Religion, politics, educational attainment, economic opportunities, and even things like diet and fitness or smoking and drinking can all be reasonably inferred based on the country, city, or sometimes even neighborhood we grew up in.

However, the idea that “who we are” is somehow not entirely ours can be a disturbing, or perhaps even terrifying, thought. It puts us on the defensive. After all, we made our own choices, our own decisions. Didn't we? This question contributes to an underlying theme that is present in many of my novels – the gray area between whether or not a character's choices are truly and entirely theirs; and the influence of a traumatic childhood on our adult choices.

A successful business person may want to emphasize their own work ethic and perseverance when talking about their past. Rarely will we hear how a functioning transportation infrastructure aided their growth. Or an SBA loan. Or even an inheritance. It can often seem like circumstances had little or nothing to do with how things turned out.

Likewise, a criminal may quickly tell a sad story from his childhood, about how he never had the chance to succeed. It can often seem as though personal responsibility had little or nothing to do with how things turned out.

Of course, the truth usually lies somewhere in the middle – in the nuances that we care less and less about in our world of extremism and absolute certainties. When a person achieves success, whether financially, familially or otherwise, society tends to celebrate them as a pillar of the “hard work pays off” mantra. And when someone chooses a criminal path, we direct our anger and blame at that person and that person alone. Instead, we should acknowledge the hardships, the opportunities and the personal choices for each example.

There are countless hardships in my own “origin story.” But there are also many moments when I had help. There is luck – both good and bad. And there are moments when I made decisions that had far-reaching consequences – both good and bad. I tend to think about these things when I write heroes and villains.

In each of my novels there is a clear antagonist (usually several), and all of these characters are described in a way that reveals their backstory. The hope is that the reader will not necessarily sympathize with them, but at least begin to understand some of the driving forces that made them who they are. I think that is the more accurate portrayal, but also the complexity of the characters can enrich the reading experience. It can also help us develop empathy.

The way we view success and failure in our society (without considering all the factors on both sides of the balance sheet) only reinforces our biases and preconceptions about culture and capitalism. And most importantly, it plays a huge role in how we use our grace.

To me, grace is humanity's most important quality. We are all capable of it. And we all benefit from it. But where we use it – who we think deserves our grace – is too often distorted by the unreality of “success” and “failure” stories that don't tell the whole truth.

Researching cultural and historical complicity, systemic probabilities, and early brain development is connected to my own reflections on the morality and conscience of my characters (most of whom are poor and uneducated). In this way, I can generate empathy and understanding not only for the characters on the page, but also for many of the people in our society who have been placed in unfavorable situations without their consent and must navigate an unforgiving world.

By writing rural Southern novels and taking the time to better educate myself on the history of poverty in the South, my brain chemistry has hopefully changed enough that grace and compassion, both on paper and in private, have become my defining emotions in times of hardship or conflict.

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