How to Write Action Adventure Novels

by Michael Newton

  I automatically assume that would-be writers come prepared and widely read within their chosen genre, having sampled both the classics and assorted stinkers in an effort to identify contemporary market trends, absorb the common elements of style, and profit from mistakes of their competitors by learning which snafus they should avoid. It’s not enough to be a rabid fan, however. Reading outside the genre is equally vital for authors who wish to broaden their interests and perspective, sample common themes and their handling by other wordsmiths, or pick up pointers on plotting, characterization, and style.

  Every avid reader has a list of favorite authors, and I’m not about to enter a debate on the relative merits of Harold Robbins versus James Michener or V. C. Andrews. I will recommend the following sixteen authors, for reasons specified below. If you have sampled and digested work from each of them, you’re on the road to building an appreciation (and an understanding) of modern popular fiction. (Incidentally, my choices have been listed alphabetically, without regard to merit, so no ruffled feathers, please.)

  Clive Barker is the new kid on the block in horror, working out of England through short stories—collected in his six-volume Books of Blood series—and novels like The Damnation Game. Barker’s frank approach to sex and violence in his chosen genre may be hard for squeamish readers to accept, but if you’re that soft, maybe you should give some second thoughts to picking out another genre … like romance, for instance. Any way you slice him, Barker is relentlessly original, with stories like “Son of Celluloid” and “Skins of the Fathers” breaking new ground in his field.

  Robert Daley is a contemporary master of the police procedural, drawing upon personal experience with the N.Y.P.D. to produce compelling portraits of big-city cops, their families, friends, and adversaries. His best work to date is found in Year of the Dragon, but you shouldn’t overlook such entries as Hands of a Stranger, either. While you’re at it, keep an eye on Daley’s characters, their development, and his insider’s view of the New York Police Department, warts and all.

  The late Ian Fleming came close to scooping Don Pendleton as the father of modern action/adventure, but his continental style and British point of view prevented him from kicking off a revolution in the States. If you’re familiar with Fleming’s James Bond only from the movies, and then primarily from Roger Moore’s portrayal of the role, you owe it to yourself to read the original novels. It’s amazing how well Diamonds Are Forever, Moonraker, and the rest of Fleming’s stories stand up on their own, without the sci-fi trappings that directors ladle on to satisfy a jaded audience.

  Ken Follett is a modern master of historical adventure, blending fact with fiction in such works as The Key to Rebecca and The Eye of the Needle. He’s no slouch at nonfiction, either, but his forte clearly lies in action yarns, exotic settings … and, perhaps, nostalgia for the “good old days” of World War II.

  Nobody—I repeat, nobody—weaves a plot like Frederick Forsyth. Each and every one of several dozen loose ends comes together for a rousing climax in his work, and Forsyth’s novels stand as the epitome of “mainstream” action writing. From his debut, with Day of the Jackal, through blockbusters like The Odessa File, The Dogs of War, The Fourth Protocol, and The Devil’s Alternative, Forsyth has been keeping readers on the edge of their seats and giving them double their money’s worth in action, suspense, and intrigue.

  Ex-journalist Thomas Harris broke on the literary scene with his novel Black Sunday, depicting a Palestinian terrorist attack on the Super Bowl, and followed up with the definitive portrait of a psychopathic serial killer in Red Dragon. His characters are finely drawn, his action scenes well-crafted, and my only strong criticism of Harris is that he does not publish more frequently.

  Jack Higgins is a contemporary master of mainstream adventure, frequently weaving Irish rebels and their politics into bestsellers like Confessional and A Prayer for the Dying. He has also been successful at adapting real-life historical incidents as the basis for adventure stories—Night of the Fox and The Eagle Has Landed serve as two cases in point. Higgins’s style is rather simplistic in comparison to that of Forsyth or Harris, but who ever said adventure writing had to be convoluted? Beginners could do worse than studying this writer’s clear, straightforward prose.

  Unless you’ve spent the past few years in a cave, I will assume you’ve heard of Stephen King. Pigeonholed by fans and critics as a “horror writer,” King transcends the supernatural genre in short stories like “The Woman in the Room,” novellas like The Body (filmed as Stand By Me), and full-length novels such as Road Work, Rage, or Misery. King spends considerable time on the creation of his homey characters, and he employs a master’s touch in making stories come alive through the insertion of familiar, brand-name objects. Imitators have gone overboard, their novels reading more like long commercials for assorted household items, but when King portrays a character sipping Buckhorn beer and ogling the old Orange Crush thermometer, his readers see the poor, dumb schmuck; they hear that monster creeping up behind him, ravenous, insatiable.

  Dean Koontz, like King, has been unfairly labeled as a “horror writer,” with the implication that he can (or should) do nothing else. An “overnight success” in fiction who has worked for twenty years to make his name a household word, Koontz is best known for novels such as Whispers, Phantoms, and Strangers. Along the way, he has produced more than forty other books, including science fiction, poetry, and nonfiction. Would-be genre writers can learn much from Koontz in terms of plotting, building characters, and charting action scenes.

  Speaking of labels, you probably knew Louis L’Amour as a prolific “Western writer.” Well, guess again. Aside from riding with the Sacketts to determine how the West was won, L’Amour published several detective yarns and action-packed collections of stories set in World War II. Across the board, his trademark was definitive research, combining fact and fiction in a winning package. If L’Amour’s top gun is carrying a Remington .44-40, you can bet the weapon will be described in loving—and factual—detail.

  The tales of horror and suspense produced by Richard Laymon aren’t for everyone, I grant you, but you’ll never know for sure unless you give the guy a chance. A writer who delivers on the promise of a swift, hot read, Laymon’s early work was trimmed of excess fat to the extent that certain elements of plot go unexplained, but minor deficits in logic are forgiven when the story packs a wallop. Laymon delivers a roundhouse punch in early novels like The Cellar and The Woods Are Dark, developing finesse in later volumes like Tread Softly and Beware. Explicit sex and violence keep the story rolling, and regardless of your ultimate assessment—love this writer’s work or loathe it—you will find important pointers in the area of break-neck pacing and suspense.

  I’m not a special fan of Robert Ludlum’s work, but I include him here in deference to his impact on the espionage and suspense markets in modern fiction. Once you pare away the heavy prose and histrionics—“God damn this goddamned world!” etc., ad infinitum—you are treated to a view of complex plots, replete with violent action and intrigue. I would advise the cautious student to examine novels like The Parsifal Mosaic with an eye toward both the author’s strengths and weaknesses, recalling that a reader lost around page 2 or 3 will not be with you for the brilliant climax you’ve prepared on page 300.

  Martin Cruz Smith is another “overnight success” who made his bones with genre work, graduating to the best-seller lists with Nightwing and Gorky Park. The latter, just in case you missed it, is a fascinating inside view of Russia, offered through a Soviet policeman’s eyes. It was a fresh idea when Smith conceived it, and the finished product stands as a reminder that occasionally authors should climb out on shaky limbs to chase their dreams.

  Shane Stevens makes my list by virtue of a single novel, By Reason of Insanity. Intricate plotting and finely-drawn characters lift this story of a psycho-on-the-loose above its genre origins and make it a classic piece of modern suspense fiction. We know everything there is to
know about his characters before the author wraps his story, and he still has the temerity to add a tight twist ending that will knock your socks off. Read this classic through for fun, and then go back to study its construction when the shock wears off.

  No author in the modern period has had such striking influence on fantasy fiction as J. R. R. Tolkien. His alternate universe, devised in The Hobbit and carried on through The Lord of the Rings trilogy, is self-contained and consistent in every detail. Modern action writers generally will not be called upon to fabricate surrealistic landscapes or alien races, but it never hurts to watch a consummate word-magician at work. If you can give your “real-life” characters the spark and drive of Tolkien’s orcs and hobbits, you will be a long stride down the road toward ultimate success.

  Last but certainly not least in my compendium of favorite authors, Joseph Wambaugh does for L.A.’s finest what Robert Daley does for New York police… and Wambaugh does it even better. An experienced policeman at the time he wrote The New Centurions, Wambaugh brings an earthy flavor and an inside feel to his examinations of police in Southern California. I personally get more from his fiction than his forays into factual reporting, but throughout his work there is a feeling of involvement with policemen as they go about their daily work and watch The Job encroach upon their private lives. If nothing else, you should read Wambaugh for an honest look at how cops think and talk to one another, on and off the job.

  By now, I hope you’ve gathered that there’s more to genre writing—more to any writing—than just dreaming up a story and committing it to paper, willy-nilly. Skilled professionals make storytelling look so easy because (a) it comes as naturally to them as breathing, and (b) they’ve done their homework, paid their dues.

  When you’ve done all your homework and decided on the basic sort of story you would like to tell, you’re ready to proceed and take a shot at the construction of your novel. With a story line in mind, the plotting should be simple, right?

  Well, not exactly…

  4. The Tangled Web

  Assuming that you have a story line in mind, it’s time to take that germ of an idea and build a working plot. I’ve got some good news and some bad news here.

  The bad news first: For those of you who planned on breaking in with one or more short pieces, guess again. Before we take another step, you’ll need to let your mind expand and think in terms of book-length stories. Yep, that’s right—a novel.

  As I mentioned back in Chapter 1, the classic marketplace for short adventure fiction, dubbed “the pulps,” does not exist today. The macho magazines like Stag and Men’s Adventure, popular throughout the fifties and the early sixties, are a fading memory. I miss them on occasion, but the fact is that they’re dead and gone. Unless the art form makes a comeback—and there’s been no indication of it in a quarter-century—adventure writers with a short attention span are out of luck.

  I won’t say it’s impossible to place a short adventure piece, and if you find a ready market I’d appreciate a tip, but a review of current options offers little room for hope. Men’s magazines like Cavalier and Chic may advertise for short “adventure” fiction, but they haven’t come within a mile of hard-core genre stock since Playboy serialized Ian Fleming’s last novels in the James Bond series twenty years ago. Horror and fantasy magazines likewise hold no promise, unless your fiction has a sci-fi twist like Predator—and that’s been done, in case you haven’t noticed. The handful of mystery magazines generally prefer more sedate fare, minimizing blood and gore in favor of cerebral exercises, and magazines like Soldier of Fortune concentrate on nonfiction reports. Comics publishers may be your last, best hope, but most demand accompanying artwork with the stories they acquire.

  Okay, you’ve heard the bad news.

  The good news is: The thought of tackling a novel should not prove intimidating to a real professional. If you can plot a short piece, chances are that you can also plot a novel. The construction of a working plot is fairly simple and straightforward if you keep the basic, mandatory elements in mind.

  Bare Essentials

  For openers, your story—any story—must have conflict. If you have a story line in mind, you’ve got your basic conflict covered, going in—and if you don’t, you’ve got no business trying to construct a plot in any case. Your conflict is the major problem facing your protagonist(s), which he (or she, or they) must solve before the story’s end. Your hero may be trying to prevent a terrorist assassination, crack a drug ring, rescue hostages, or find the missing link—whatever. Conflict is a story’s launching pad; without it, you have nothing.

  If you haven’t sorted out your basic conflict yet, go back to Chapter 3 and try again. Do not pass “Go.” Do not collect your royalty checks.

  From basic conflict, you evolve a string of complications, incidents and obstacles that will prevent a quick solution to the story’s central problem. If your hero is confronted by a villain and he settles all their hassles with a single punch, you haven’t got a story. At the very most, you’re working on an anecdote, which may be great for filler in the Reader’s Digest, but it won’t a novel make.

  Remember that a short adventure novel, based on current market standards, runs approximately 60,000 words in length. Most weigh in closer to 75,000 words at press time, and the more substantial entries start right around 100,000 words. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not suggesting you begin with manuscripts of Ludlumesque proportions, and you shouldn’t throw in pointless scenes of sex and violence for the sake of padding, either. (Editors will notice). Action writing should be lean and tight, but there is also such a thing as literary anorexia, and writers who consistently fall short of fleshing out their stories may expect to go unpublished while they learn their craft.

  I have been privileged—if that’s the word—to scrutinize a number of the action manuscripts that would-be authors send off to Gold Eagle’s editors from time to time. We’re talking unsolicited submissions here, the kind that feed the slush pile, and while some may have potential, most are best described as … odd. The worst I’ve seen, hand-written, took a single sheet of foolscap paper to describe protagonists and villains, set the stage for action, and conduct a ninja showdown, getting everyone off-stage before the author literally reached his bottom line. In case you’re wondering, this “novel” didn’t sell—and I suspect the writer wonders why.

  The moral: If your story gets too lean, it disappears.

  A story’s payoff is delivered in the climax and/or resolution, when the hero has his showdown with the heavies and their conflict is resolved, for good or ill. (A happy ending isn’t absolutely mandatory, but you should remember not to kill off your hero if you anticipate a sequel!) I should note that, while a story’s climax and its resolution travel hand in hand, they are not necessarily synonymous. The climax is your story’s turning point, the pinnacle of action, but it need not be the final scene, in which loose ends are neatly tied together.

  Lowering the Boom

  Various successful authors place climactic moments near the end—or even in the middle—of their novels, winding down to laid-back resolutions that may cover several pages, even several chapters, while the characters relax or lick their wounds, make love, and generally put their lives in order. In Casino Royale, James Bond’s showdown with Le Chiffre is planted near the middle of a relatively slim adventure; afterward, Bond spends some time in the hospital, and then embarks on a vacation with his lady of the moment, luscious Vesper Lynd. A similar, though shorter, convalescent period is used to good effect by Thomas Harris in Red Dragon, following the second “death” of killer Francis Dolarhyde. And in the field of epic fantasy—The Stand, Lord of the Rings, Swan Song—hefty chunks of prose are frequently devoted to assuring readers that the heroes’ lives are back on track.

  Conversely, in a streamlined action novel, climax may collide and coincide with resolution to complete the story in a single stroke. A prime example may be found in the work of Mickey Spillane, where hard-boiled
detective yarns typically end with the pull of the trigger, destroying the villain before nosy coppers and lawyers arrive on the scene. I sometimes use the technique myself, when a fast wrap appears to suit everyone’s needs. In Blood Dues (Gold Eagle, 1984), for instance, the books close on Cuban agent Jorge Ybarra at an embassy party in Miami:

  His eyes narrowed against the sudden glare, and he discerned something on his desk, a bulky object … not unlike a football. He took a closer step, frowning … and he recognized the head of Raoul Ornelas, wide eyes gaping at him sightlessly, the mouth twisted into one last grimace, hair matted down with blood.

  Ybarra felt the scream rising in his throat, but vomit choked it off. He was gagging, backing away from the desk on unsteady legs, when a subtle scraping sound behind him alerted him to danger.

  He spun around, mouth dropping open at the sight of a tall man, dressed in skintight black, emerging from behind the office door. The intruder’s face was blackened with cosmetics, eyes as cold as death itself—and the automatic pistol in his rising fist was silencer-equipped.

  Jorge Ybarra never heard the shot that killed him.

  At the close of The Fiery Cross (Gold Eagle, 1988), Mack Bolan takes a Russian sleeper agent on a one-way ride:

  Locking the front door behind him, he strode briskly down the walk, across his lawn, in the direction of the waiting limousine. A different driver held the door for Andrews, smiling deferentially, and he supposed that Thomas must have called in sick. No matter. Nothing could be less significant than the selection of a new chauffeur.

  He settled back into the leather-upholstered seat, contemplating the future with mounting enthusiasm. Somewhere tropical, perhaps—at least for openers. And later, Switzerland. Or Liechtenstein. Perhaps the Orient.