Transitioning from Literary to Genre Fiction: An Interview with Damyanti Biswas
By David Corbett | February 7, 2023 |
How does an author of “literary crime” fiction make the transition to a straight-up crime thriller? I put that question and more to today’s guest, Damyanti Biswas.
Damyanti’s Indian debut literary crime novel You Beneath Your Skin was an Amazon bestseller, and it was optioned for the screen by Endemol Shine. Her second novel, The Blue Bar, was published in January 2023 via Thomas & Mercer. Publisher’s Weekly, in a starred review, described it as an “exceptional crime thriller,” adding:
“Meticulous local color matches sensitive characterizations, including of brave Mumbai police who try to overcome the deadly hazards of the corrupt system they have to work in. This searing portrait of marginalized people struggling for survival is unforgettable.”
Damyanti’s work has been published in Smokelong Quarterly, Ambit, Pembroke Review, and Griffith Review among many others in the US, UK, and Australia. She also serves as an editor for The Forge literary magazine.
I first encountered Damyanti (we’ve yet to meet in person) in one of my Litreactor classrooms, where her considerable talent was immediately obvious.
Your first novel, You Beneath Your Skin, was a beautiful novel that had a crime-murder element but focused primarily on the sociological complexity of present-day India and the psychological nuances of its characters. What prompted you to decide to write a straight-up crime-thriller? Not only that, it’s the first in a series — how challenging or exciting of a change is that?
I stumbled into writing You Beneath Your Skin. In my consciousness it began as a literary novel, because I began my writing life as a literary short story writer.
By the time feedback made me realize that I was in fact writing a crime novel complete with dead bodies and investigators, it was too late to make it a straight-up genre offering. My publishers called it a thriller, but in reality You Beneath Your Skin is more of a book club fiction about the periphery of crime: a whydunit rather than a whodunit.
With The Blue Bar, I wanted to challenge myself into writing a genre crime thriller—the ability to create pace and suspense intrigued me. Both my agent and my editor have taught me a lot about these aspects. I’ve also ended up learning much more about plot, and about the beats of Western storytelling in the 3-act and 5-act structures. This is very different from storytelling in Asia, which tends to be low on conflict, and is focused on introduction, development, twist/climax, and conclusion—the introduction and development tends to be much longer than in a typical Western novel.
When approaching The Blue Bar, I wanted to write a whodunit without sacrificing the whydunit aspects. To me, characters are the bedrock of any story, and their desire the jet fuel that propels it. In crime thrillers, the desires of the protagonist and antagonist come into violent conflict but in some stories I’ve read, the twists feel forced, the setting generic, the characters forgettable. The Blue Bar was my attempt at writing the kind of procedural or whodunit I like to read: with nuanced, memorable characters, a specific, atmospheric setting, and a plot that is surprising yet inevitable. Readers might judge if I’ve succeeded, but that was the goal.
I’d written The Blue Bar as a standalone, with a very different, and far darker ending, but my publisher bought the manuscript in a 2-book deal, and they wanted my cast of characters to continue in a second book.
To me, this was a challenge: to retain my artistic vision, yet write a contracted, commercial story. Without spoiling The Blue Bar, I can only say that the ending has brought many constraints within which to write the sequel, The Blue Monsoon. I’ve treated those constraints as a provocation: how do I turn the limitations of a character or setting into a strength? Whether I’ve succeeded only time may tell.
To write a fresh story with the same cast of characters in the previous setting, yet changed circumstances forces you to think about your characters, setting and plot from a similar yet different perspective. You must write a new story, but keep track of the continued character backstories, while not letting these backstories weigh down pace. You must explore new corners of the same setting. And you must try and have a character arc over the series as well as the novel. With the challenges I set myself with the ending of The Blue Bar, none of this was easy. I have a new respect for authors who write long-term crime series.
What were the hardest lessons you encountered in trying your hand at genre writing? You’ve retained your excellent command of your characters’ psychological subtleties and the cultural richness of your Mumbai setting, as well as your command of evocative detail—two of your blurbs used the phrase “assault your senses”—but you switched the structural focus more centrally on the detective in search of justice. What else was a challenge for you?
Thank you for the kind words, David— I’m glad the setting and characters feel vivid.
Crime writing caters to certain reader expectations that I struggle with: the pace must be relentless, the story easy to read, and the protagonist always triumphant. I’ll explain the challenge and the lesson, in each case.
When it comes to pace, I wrestle with what gets shown vs what is told and when. I tend to summarize important bits of action and show characters in greater detail than needed. I’ve had to learn ways to prioritize the investigation/action, but not at the expense of characters. Pace also suffers when your red herrings are clumsy, or if you explain backstory. Cutting backstory and using it in brushstrokes has been effective. All red herrings must make sense in terms of motive, means and opportunity, and this is a challenge for a literary writer used to depending on language rather than plot. I’ve had to verify during edits that each suspect does indeed have a motive, the means, and an opportunity.
The second challenge is cultural: I write stories set in India for a Western audience. Translating not just terms, but embedded cultural beliefs is hard to do with finesse, especially without sacrificing pace. While the rest of the world is used to researching Western terms, Western audiences are new to looking up unfamiliar non-Western ones. Keeping the reader oriented, without disrespectful spoon-feeding, is a delicate balance, especially in a novel with multiple points of view and timelines, as well as a complex plot. I’ve had to use language with as much precision as possible in order to be able to respect both the character/story and the reader.
The third hurdle, about making the protagonist triumphant, is not easy for me personally because I come from a background of literary, realistic writing. Corruption is often rampant in an Indian setting, as in many others, and it’s hard to create an ending that is earned, believable, and in line with genre expectations. The lesson here has been to make only the narrative promises on which the story can realistically deliver. I’ve tried to make the context come alive so that the ending satisfies on the level of story as well as on-the-ground realities.
The “Lost Woman” is an archetypal theme in all of literature (The Lady of Shalott, Heathcliff’s Cathy, Pip’s Estella), but especially crime fiction (Chinatown, e.g.). The disappearance of Tara serves that theme beautifully, but with a unique twist—for example, her willing participation, the elaborate ensemble, all blue, before she steps into the void and vanishes. How did you come up with that? Why did this theme appeal to you?
I’ve forever been intrigued by stories of people going missing. These people walk around, doing perfectly ordinary things, and then one day, they disappear. In the case of Tara, it’s a little different because she’s been involved in, to put it mildly, some very unusual activities when she disappears.
When writing her, I was unaware of her vanishing. I wrote her in response to a prompt at a workshop by the wonderful author Romesh Gunesekera, who asked us to flesh out a character who was being watched, but was unaware of it.
Tara came to me in those ten minutes of writing, wrapped in a sequinned blue saree like a gift from my subconscious. I knew she was in peril, but not what kind. For more than a year she remained buried among my notebooks. Then, my agent at the time asked me for ideas similar in tone to You Beneath Your Skin, and I dusted off this vignette and showed it to him. He was intrigued and asked me to write it.
In my original manuscript, Tara doesn’t vanish—that came about at the editorial stage once I’d sold the book. When it did happen, I was initially terrified of how I’d lose her in the novel, but the part of me that’s obsessed by cases of people who go missing latched on to it, and helped me write her vanishing into the story.
Often detectives are portrayed as loners, but Arnav clearly has a rich if somewhat complex social life—his mentor Shinde, his girlfriend Nandini. The early scene when he arrives late for dinner with them is just one example—it shows both his connection to each of them but also his inability to shake his past as he drifts into remembrances of Tara. This portrayal of him as a social person, if still somewhat isolated in his thoughts, was a digression from standard (clichéd) genre convention. Was that deliberate?
Yes, definitely deliberate. I felt I’d read enough of detectives given to some kind of addiction, living lonely lives tortured by past events. This is useful and somewhat true to the profession—it’s hard to maintain very stable relationships while being a detective, where obsession, overwork, regular exposure to trauma are practically pre-requisites of the job if you want to solve cases.
Arnav is definitely lonely, and also tortured by events in his past, but he does have connections partly because in Mumbai, the social fabric tends to be more inclusive, and a single, unattached man might develop friendships and relationships much easier than other places. This is not to say that people are intrusive in Mumbai, quite the opposite, but since it is a melting pot of migrants, Mumbaikars tend to be helpful and approachable. Arnav’s friendships also serve plot purposes—and hopefully, lend complexity and nuance to his character. I wanted Arnav to be seen and remembered as a protagonist, and sought to achieve some of that through the way he’s seen and treated by others in his life.
There is also a real estate element to the plot—a classic setup in crime fiction, especially California crime fiction. But here it draws us into the fascinating transformations taking place in India. What was it about the financial legerdemain in real estate that prompted your decision to use it in this book?
Being the nation’s financial hub and glamor capital, Mumbai is the most expensive Indian city to live in. Real estate prices often range between 150 USD to 1000 USD per square foot, and counting. A lot of this land is encroached by slums, or sitting around in factories that closed down, or covered by greenery. Much power gets exercised in getting this land converted to high-rises, often in a corrupt nexus between the government, businessmen, organized crime, and the police.
Since much of Mumbai’s major crime is either connected to or openly run by this nexus, adding a real-estate element to The Blue Bar seemed quite natural. It was part of the first draft, but as I researched, connections became clearer, especially when I spoke to a Mumbai Police historian about Mumbai’s mangrove swamps and the conflict with the land mafia.
It is sometimes said that the detective’s true concern is not crime or criminals but human nature. I think Arnav suits that to a T. Once again, was that intentional? How so?
Those who study psychology seek to observe, predict and control. That’s not very different from the role of a police officer.
Once a crime occurs, they study the scene as well as the people closest to, or likely to have interacted with, the victim. Based on their observation and analysis, a police officer must try to predict suspect behaviors, and then, using the power vested in them by the state, attempt to control the outcome.
In that sense, yes, Arnav is a student of human nature. In the course of his long career, he’s been in close proximity with the dregs of humanity, and as experienced police officers do, has developed an instinct for chasing the right leads. That doesn’t make him infallible, but it gives him an edge when trying to solve a crime.
Much of my writing is instinctive, and springs from character. Like Arnav, I try and study my characters, and based on that analysis, try to predict and control the story outcomes. When writing The Blue Bar, though, I actually spent much more time on the antagonist and on Tara. I’ve come to understand that for the sort of novels I write, I need to have a strong, believable villain, one whose desire would be powerful enough to go the distance of the narrative. In many ways, Arnav is a foil to their nature and actions. It is only in retrospect that I can see Arnav’s studying of human nature as an asset to the story. When I wrote him, it was based purely on method-acting my way into the character, and instinct.
Have you ever had to change an ending to suit the requests/demands of an agent, editor, or publisher? Why? How did it work out?
Have you ever had to change your narrative approach in terms of description or characterization to enhance pacing? What did you learn?
If you’ve ever had to explain specific details of a certain culture to a readership unfamiliar with that culture, what tactics did you use to avoid “information dumps”?
Do you have any questions for Damyanti concerning her transition from literary to genre fiction?
David Corbett (he/him) is the author of seven novels: The Devil’s Redhead, Done for a Dime (a New York Times Notable Book), Blood of Paradise (nominated for numerous awards, including the Edgar, Do They Know I’m Running?, The Mercy of the Night, The Long-Lost Love Letters of Doc Holliday, and The Truth Against the World. He has also published the story collection Thirteen Confessions and the novella The Devil Prayed and Darkness Fell.
David’s short fiction and poetry have appeared in a broad array of magazines and anthologies, with pieces twice selected for Best American Mystery Stories.
His non-fiction has appeared in numerous venues, including the New York Times, San Francisco Chronicle, Narrative, Zyzzyva, MovieMaker, The Writer, and Writer’s Digest.
He has taught both online and in classroom settings through the UCLA Extension’s Writers’ Program, Book Passage, LitReactor, 826 Valencia, The Grotto in San Francisco, and at numerous writing conferences across the US, Canada, and Mexico. In January 2013 Penguin published his textbook on the craft of characterization, The Art of Character (“A writer’s bible that will lead to your character’s soul.” —Elizabeth Brundage), and Writer’s Digest published his follow-up, The Compass of Character, in October 2019.
Thanks David and Damyanti, this was really interesting. As one who wrote “suspenseful women’s fiction” but whose agent urged her to write “suspense with WF elements,” I know that dialing genre by only a few degrees can be a real challenge, adding genre aspects consciously learned to one’s own inherent way of thinking and expressing themselves in the world. I respect Damtanti’s considered approach. I recall a similar interview with Katherine Center, who I was surprised to hear had started out as a literary writer who switched to writing what have become New York Times bestselling rom coms. I wish Damyanti similar luck!
Sorry for the typo in Damyanti’s name!
Thanks, Kathryn. You’re so right in saying that ‘dialing genre by only a few degrees can be a real challenge.’ I’ve been trying to cope and have often questioned the decision to write crime novels, and then straight-up thrillers.
My answer lies in the fact that everything I write comes from the same core stories, the same belief in social justice, in second chances, and redemption. With the publishing industry being what it is right now, genre writers need to be able to pivot in order to survive the headwinds.
My thought right now (and i maybe wrong) is that I could teach myself to write different genre as long as I’m aware of my essential beliefs and worldview, and how a particular set of genre conventions would contain them.
So much wisdom to ponder in that last paragraph!
Thank you, Kathryn. Coming from you, I’m hoping that conviction will carry me through if I must pivot again.
Thank you, David, for great questions. And thank you, Damyanti for being so clear and articulate in talking about your work. As a writer of crime fiction who aspires to a more literary approach, I have a question: What steps do you take to overcome the problem of pacing? By definition, literary fiction gives more attention to language, to the how of storytelling. I haven’t read you, but your answers to David’s questions obviously come from someone who respects that value. The problem is, care and nuance at the sentence and scene level tend to be at odds with the attention-holding pace that crime-fiction readers expect. Your thoughts, please.
Hi Barry. I’ve let Damyanti knows about your question. she lives in a distant part of the world and the time difference is daunting, but she’s very much looking forward to participating.
Barry, thank you for reading as I tried to come to grips with evaluating my own writing process.
You ask a very intriguing question, and I’ll try and give you my thoughts based on what I’m doing even now with the sequel to The Blue Bar, which was my first literary thriller.
As a literary writer, I approached the genre as a taker-outer: I wrote the story in a literary fashion, and am now drafting again and again, scraping away each time till only the essentials of plot and pace remain. In the process, the literary aspects aren’t lost, because there was such an excess to begin with.
To make sure I’m saying what I mean to say, maybe I should first set out what I see as the expectations of literary writing vs genre (in this case, crime) writing.
Literary writing, in its essence, is intended to provoke thought, to provide insight, to raise questions which may or may not be answered. All of this is done through often complex use of language, and the readers expect to (and enjoy) laboring to understand the unsaid. White spaces mean as much, if not more, than the text. The reader seeks to be the interpreter, and feels insulted if the meanings and conclusions are laid out for them. They’re less concerned with what happens externally to the character—they’re captivated by the internal journey. That’s not to say that they don’t want plot at all (well, some don’t), but the external plot is not the main deliverable, if you like.
In general I find that pure crime writing is often quite functional, because that’s what the general reader of the genre expects. They like a story that moves fast, characters that they can care for but who don’t have undue complexity, and twists they don’t see coming, even if those might be slightly unrealistic. They don’t want to work hard at finding meaning in the text. The deliverable is the plot and pace—the reader comes into the story craving escape, not introspection. The internal journey does drive the external, at least in crime stories that (imo) resonate and become part of the canon over time, but the external journey is much more important. The meanings must be clear, the conclusions spelled out.
So, to have a crime novel that delivers on all these genre expectations, yet retains some of the ambiguity, complexity, and introspection inherent in literary fiction becomes a challenge not just at the level of language, but in terms of how the story is approached, and how much work the reader is prepared to do in order to get at the meat of the story.
If you’re approaching the writing a of a literary thriller from a crime writer’s perspective, I’d suggest focusing a little more on the internal journey of the character, in including ambiguities (where allowed by the rigor of the crime genre), plausibility, and then, using language to solve the rest. For language to be literary, it doesn’t need to be embroidered. In fact, the challenge is to imbue meaning without letting language be a barrier to it. Simple language can be very literary—it all depends on what you’re saying with the white spaces.
As with everything I say, this is a subjective take, and could be utter garbage. I’m writing this after a 16-hour day of editing on deadline, so please take everything with a grain of salt. And if you’ve read so far, thank you. Hope it’s at least a tiny bit useful.
Your comment is very useful indeed, Damyanti! I’ve often had the same question as Barry in terms of pacing and also how much I need to spell out for readers–but I really love those delicate white spaces… Thank you to you and David for a deeply insightful interview today.
S. K. Rizzolo, thank you for reading, and I’m glad some of it made sense.
That’s one of the best explanations of a writer’s craft I’ve ever had the pleasure to read — a mini-course on allowing oneself to “overwrite” then paring down to essentials with two distinct goals in mind: rewarding genre readers’ expectations without sacrificing psychological, sociological, and thematic complexity, nuance, and depth. Also, the importance of subtext (white space) in both realms.
Thank you, David. Considering that I learned about characterization that enables “psychological, sociological, and thematic complexity, nuance, and depth” in your Litreactor classes, your words tell me that I may finally have a partial but genuine understanding of this process. Whenever I get stuck during my pre-writing of drafts, I look up the The Art of Character. It usually gives me the answers I’m looking for.
“Simple language can be very literary—it all depends on what you’re saying with the white spaces.”
Less with embroidery, more by implication? Beautifully said. Literary.
Best sentence I ever wrote: “The funerals began.”
Donald, there’s no literary way to say this, so I’m going to step right out and say that I’m a huge fan. (I would’ve written that last bit in caps, but I’m trying to remain contained here.)
Your book Writing the Breakout Novel introduced me to the concept of stakes and plot when I was writing my first novel. By that time, I’d muddled through it over 4 years: as a literary short story writer, I had no idea what I was doing. With your book and its checklists, I seemed to see light and was able to do a draft of You Beneath Your Skin that got me an agent. It went on to be optioned for screen by Endemol Shine.
Then, years later, I found The Emotional Craft of Fiction and that book has informed so much of The Blue Bar. I’m using it again as I edit the sequel.
I’ve also read all of your posts here on Writer Unboxed, and keep them bookmarked. Quietly stalking them over the years has been more educational than an MFA.
Sorry about all the gushing, but having never quite built up the courage to leave questions and comments on your posts over years, I didn’t want to lose the opportunity to say thank you so much. I keep learning from you.
David and Damyanti, so much here to read and study. A wonderful post. This statement will stay with me for a long time. “The lesson here has been to make only the narrative promises on which the story can realistically deliver. I’ve tried to make the context come alive so that the ending satisfies on the level of story as well as on-the-ground realities.” ALSO: “In fact, the challenge is to imbue meaning without letting language be a barrier to it. Simple language can be very literary—it all depends on what you’re saying with the white spaces.”
Thanks, Elizabeth. I’m a beginner at this writing business, so I’m glad I was able to say something useful.
Thanks, David and Damyanti, for this exceptional interview. The best ones are a fine interplay of two knowledgable voices. We are lucky to have you both.
I met Damyanti through you, David, and have had the pleasure of working a bit with her. Learning about her process–that has blossomed, as this exchange shows–through her wonderful blog has been inspiring.
I, too, am exploring the carving of a posture that straddles literary and plot-driven stories. I concur that light and clean literary strokes in a genre setting draw out readers’ tendency to delve deeper, rather than distract from the pace. (After all, ice cream lovers devour ice cream with toppings as readily as the single flavor.) It is in a simple gesture/behavior in scene that hints at back story, an unexplained allusion the character expresses in dialogue, an instant of interior monologue of what the character sees or dreads, a hesitation at what occurs around her that inspires readers to ask deeper questions about her experience and troubles. Reading Damyanti’s responses above is great support. Armed with this interview, I look forward to reading The Blue Bar.
Thomas, thank you for the kind words, and for your exceptional post on my site from which I took away so much.
Such wise words: “light and clean literary strokes in a genre setting draw out readers’ tendency to delve deeper, rather than distract from the pace.” I’ve found this incredibly hard to do, because I end up deep-diving into the literary aspects of the character’s journey and then struggle with how it informs plot.
I’m glad you found my responses useful —the credit mostly lies with David for asking questions that compelled me to dig deep. I’ve learned from him over the years, and continue to absorb techniques from his novels as well as his books on writing.
I appreciate you taking the time to read The Blue Bar. That’s really cool of you.
David, thank you for this enlightening interview with Damyanti. Your questions and her answers are a mini-course in writing. Period. Whether it’s crime/thriller or historical fiction, the genre that I write. What interested me the most was Damyanti writing a sequel and what to pay close attention too. The curse of backstory info dumps. And the inclusion of white space to give the writing and reader breathing room. What you say with those white spaces important. Also I’m paying attention to the character’s internal journey (psychological) participating in historical events. Not so much detail driven. But, the character’s experience.
Damyanti, you have given me the idea and go ahead to extend the debut book story (1957-1962). To the sequel mid 1968 through 1970. The protagonist moved from the US to Germany And how she, as an advanced practice nurse, and her physician husband integrate into the medical profession. And how they and their seven-year-old son fit into the different culture. I’ve had experience (the best teacher) living abroad for fifteen years,1970-1985, in Italy, Greece and Japan. Writing about a life in Germany will be similar. Only different landscape, language and culture. I’m more excited to read your book and the sequel when published. Crime/thriller books are now more intriguing to me. Thank you. Christine
Christine, I’m glad the conversation nudged you into a sequel. I love that moment when an idea or a voice hits you, and you know you have another book in the making.
Very intrigued to see where you take this new book set in Germany. Thank you for reading The Blue Bar–I’m still processing the fact that it is a real book available in all kinds of US bookstores and libraries.
Damyanti, thanks so much for your comment . The good news, the sequel is in progress, 30,000 words written. Your push made me feel positive about it. The rules are set what not to do in a sequel. The move to Hamburg, Germany and the settling in over several months will end the story. Instead of the family in the Lufthansa plane on their way to Hamburg. It will add a new dimension to the story. New land, culture and the times in 1970 Germany. I’m more excited than ever! And I just ordered The Blue Bar!! Looking forward to reading it. Your Instagram marketing is awesome. I could learn a lot from you. It’s the hardest part being and Indie author. Christine
Glad it is is working out, Christine. Sounds like a wonderfully vivid story.
Thanks for reading The Blue Bar–that’s kind of you.
David and Damyanti, thank you for a most illuminating and absorbing interview and discussion. I’m not sure I want to dive into the underbelly of Mumbai, but your writing compels me. Your name, Damyanti, is well-suited for a retelling :) I have Kaikeyi on hold at my library and will ask for Blue Bar too. It’s so fascinating that the missing girl came to you in a writing exercise from Romesh G. You’ve introduced me to another author I would enjoy reading. So thank you.
Vijaya, yes, I do have a name worth a retelling, and I’m pretty sure someone would do it soon :) . I’ve got Kaikeyi on my TBR, and will dive into it once I’m out of this round of deadlines.
Romesh G is an absolutely amazing author–his short stories and novels are both evocative, and his voice soulful. I’ve loved Reef, and also Monkfish Moon.
Hi David and Damyanti – apologies – very late … but I’ll be re-reading this and I hope absorbing it – fascinating … thanks for the interview … cheers to you both – Hilary
Thanks for reading, Hilary, and for your support down the decade we’ve known each other. David has been a wonderful teacher and mentor down the years, and I’ve learned so much form him.