How I write: John Nicholl
I never sit down with the pretence of knowing everything about where a story will end. For me, writing is less about rigid planning and more about discovery—finding my way through the darkness with a torch that only lights a few steps ahead. That sense of uncertainty keeps the process alive. If I know every twist and turn in advance, I lose the compulsion to tell the story.
There are never days when the words don’t come. It’s almost as if the story is being dictated in my head, channelled from somewhere else entirely. I sit down, and it’s there—urgent, insistent, demanding to be written. The flow doesn’t wait for the right mood or perfect conditions. It comes whether I’m ready for it or not, and my role is simply to get it down before it slips away. A medium once told me that my maternal grandfather, Mansel Jones, and my great-uncle, Theodore Nicholl—a published author—are helping me. Guiding the words. Whispering from somewhere just beyond reach. And if that’s true, I thank them.
But that doesn’t mean writing is effortless. The first draft is only the beginning. I write quickly, without censoring myself, and then return to the manuscript again and again. Editing is where the real work is done—paring back what doesn’t matter, sharpening dialogue, stripping away indulgence. I try to hold to the idea that less is often more. What you leave unsaid can carry as much weight as the words on the page. Isobel Akenhead, my wonderful editor at Boldwood Books, is a constant source of inspiration.
Characters always come first. I need to hear their voices, see them clearly, and let them dictate the pace and tone. Once I know who they are—their flaws, fears, desires, and contradictions—the plot tends to follow naturally. I want them to feel authentic, not constructed to serve a convenient arc. Real people rarely fit neat patterns; they’re complicated, contradictory, often driven by impulses they don’t fully understand. Capturing that messiness is important to me.
When I wrote The Doctor, my debut novel, I drew heavily on my experiences as a police officer and child protection social worker. It was a story I had to tell, born out of a career spent dealing with the darkest aspects of human behaviour. The novel isn’t autobiographical, but the emotions are rooted in reality—the frustration, the powerlessness, the small victories and devastating losses that define the lives of those who try to protect the vulnerable. That authenticity matters to me, and it continues to inform everything I write.
Dark subject matter demands honesty. I don’t write to shock, but I refuse to look away from the realities of abuse, trauma, or violence. Fiction, at its best, can illuminate uncomfortable truths, giving voice to those who’ve been silenced. In The Wife, for example, I wanted to explore how a predator manipulates and controls, creating a nightmare world behind closed doors. The crimes in my books are fictional, but the psychology is rooted in real cases and real suffering. I feel a responsibility to treat that with respect.
I tend to write early, when the world is quiet and distractions are few. A strong cup of tea, the blank page, and the voices of the characters in my head—that’s all I need. I don’t believe in waiting for inspiration; it’s about turning up, day after day, and allowing the story to unfold. The discipline of writing is as important as the compulsion.
That said, I’ve learned to listen when a book wants to take me somewhere unexpected. When I recently wrote The Surgeon I hadn’t planned every twist, but the characters led me there, pulling the narrative in directions I hadn’t anticipated. That sense of discovery keeps me engaged, almost as if I’m uncovering the truth alongside the reader. I want to be surprised, unsettled, compelled—and if I feel that, I hope the reader will too.
Editing is a ruthless process. I cut without mercy, even if it means discarding passages I spent days writing. If it doesn’t serve the story, it goes. There’s no room for ego in this stage of the process. What matters is clarity, pace, and emotional impact. Every scene must earn its place. Every word must do its job.
There’s also the question of tone. I try to balance the darkness with humanity. My books often deal with horrific crimes, but they also explore resilience, courage, and the persistence of hope. In The Cop and The Sisters, I wanted to capture not just the cruelty of the perpetrators but also the strength of those who survive, the determination of those who fight back. Crime fiction can easily tip into voyeurism if you’re not careful. For me, the focus is always on the victims and the psychological scars that remain long after the crime itself.
I’m sometimes asked whether writing such dark stories takes a toll. The truth is, it doesn’t weigh me down in the way people might expect. Perhaps that’s because I’ve spent my working life confronting these realities. The act of writing is cathartic, a way of making sense of chaos. What does affect me is the responsibility—to treat the subject matter with integrity, to ensure that the victims in my stories are never mere props but fully realised people.
Persistence is key. There are plenty of writers more talented than me who never finish a book because they wait for the perfect idea, the perfect sentence, the perfect moment. Writing doesn’t work like that. It’s a craft, not a bolt of inspiration. It demands patience, resilience, and the willingness to sit with uncertainty until the story reveals itself.
If you’re starting out, my advice is simple: write what matters to you. Don’t chase trends or worry about what others expect. Tell the story that won’t leave you alone, the one that wakes you in the middle of the night. And then be prepared to rewrite it, again and again, until the words are as sharp and honest as you can make them.
The act of writing itself is what makes you a writer. Publication is secondary. Reviews, sales, rankings—they’re all out of your control. What matters is the work, the discipline of sitting down every day and channelling whatever it is that demands to be told.
Crime Cymru 