Mystery novels, crime novels, suspense novels, detective novels, label them as you wish - but they all need characters, and characters need occupations. Plots need context, and details need authenticity. Read widely and you’ll see how today’s writers meet these needs by drawing on their own previous professional experiences.

But what mechanism is in use? I think you’ll see that the process breaks down into three categories: direct, indirect, and contextual.

A direct influence is pretty straightforward: a real-life surgeon might write a mystery with a fictional surgeon as the main character; or a psychiatrist might write about a psychiatrist; or a lawyer might (and indeed they have, in their hundreds) write about a lawyer.

Indirect influence is similar: an ER nurse might write about a trauma surgeon by drawing on direct observation and stepping up a rung or two; a civilian employee of a police department might write about a beat cop; a beat cop might write about a detective lieutenant. A detective lieutenant might write about a CIA operative. Indirect influence tends to be upward and lateral in focus.

And in passing, one could argue that there is an indirect-direct category, also - perhaps a writer’s spouse or partner or father or mother has the sort of job that great stories are made of. But whatever, in all of these cases the fictional protagonist’s job will be confidently imagined, the plot will be rooted in reality, the story’s details will be satisfyingly plausible - and maybe a little educational, too, with plenty of insider fascination.

Contextual influence is apparent where the protagonist might be a straightforward fictional cop or amateur detective dealing with a crime occurring inside an arcane milieu that the author knows a lot about, either as a result of a job or a hobby. Murderous rivalry inside the closed world of talk radio? Cactus growing? Classic car concours? Baseball? Airline operations? Military procurement? There’s always a writer out there somewhere who knows exactly what she or he is talking about.

And there are writers who combine all three elements. But ... there are writers out there who are writing about things they haven’t experienced, about jobs they haven’t had, and about places they haven’t been. I’m one of them. My Jack Reacher series features an ex-military policeman recently discharged from the US Army. I grew up in Britain and was never a cop or a soldier. So, in my case, where’s the link between what we are and what we write?

Because the link might not be as simple as it appears. It might even be purely coincidental. It might be a self-fulfilling prophesy. Because actually - albeit anecdotally - I have to report that I don’t know any writers who weren’t something else first. Not a one, and I know a lot of writers. There must be some somewhere, but I’ve never heard of them. The writers I know all worked half a lifetime doing other things first, and only then became writers. So I’d like you to ask yourself: what’s really important here? The exact nature of the jobs the writer has had? The underlying nature of those jobs? Or the fact that the writer has had previous jobs at all?

Of course, the overlap element might be considerable. Nobody can deny the value of good solid insider information. But not everybody with a gold-mine of insider information becomes a writer, and not every writer exploits his or her personal history. So what is the link? What is the significance of the things writers did in the past? When we explore the link between what we are and what we write, what exactly do we mean by are?

Let’s start with a hypothetical example. Suppose there’s an LA journalist covering the crime beat who goes on to become a best-selling crime novelist. (You might think you know who I’m talking about, but actually that description would cover more than one of my contemporaries.) What’s the important element? Obviously the insider information he has picked up over the years helps. The daily exposure - albeit one step removed - will build effortless authenticity and verisimilitude. But my guess is that the journalism element might be more crucial. Because writing is about more than plot and detail. It’s about writing. It’s about performing. It’s about a permanent consciousness of an audience out there. It’s about deadlines and editing and deals and promotion.

Make mental notes as you read: how many writers had exposure to other media first? I think you’ll find it’s way more than the population as a whole. I worked in live commercial television. I’ve never written a word about it. My own personal gold-mine of insider information goes untapped. But those years are the whole foundation of my writing career. Respect the audience. Deliver the goods, on time and on budget. Do it once and do it right. Don’t get it right, get it written. The rules I used to live by - some of them contradictory - are the rules I live by still. My television deadlines were sometimes five minutes, sometimes one minute. A journalist’s deadlines are at most daily. The pressure to write a book a year feels like a shameful luxury to us.]

Some of the old rules aren’t applicable anymore, but I stick by them anyway, because they’re programmed so deeply. I usually keep my cast of characters as small as feasible, which is absurd for a novelist. If you want an extra character, you can just write it. It costs nothing, except maybe half a cent’s worth of ink. But in my old job, an extra character meant an extra salary, an extra wardrobe, extra make-up, insurance, catering, transport, hotel space, airfare, the whole nine yards. Some habits are hard to break. But most habits are crucially useful. Look for writers who have worked in advertising, television, film, theaters, for newspapers – they’re programmed to be aware of the fundamental proposition of our trade ... that there’s an audience out there waiting to be entertained, informed, persuaded.

But what about writers who definitely didn’t start in another medium? There are many of them. So look for two other elements. One, a job where people relied on them to deliver something, and get it done, and get it right, whatever it was, however important or trivial. And two, look for people who were unhappy in their previous jobs, or who - like me - were fired or downsized in a blaze of bitterness. Because what almost all of us have going for ourselves is that writing is a second career, and it saved our bacon. The second career-ness of it all becomes a virtue in itself - because out of sheer gratitude that we’re still eating and we still have a roof over our heads, we’re determined to keep on working hard and never lose sight of the fact that we’re lucky. That’s what writers are - after all that came before, useful as it might or might not be, we’re people who are now doing exactly what we want to do. The proof? Read writers’ bios and see if you find anybody who doesn’t feel that they’ve finally arrived at a destination. See if you can find a single writer who implies that they’re looking to move on from this tedious old writing business to try to become an accountant or a lawyer or a cop instead. I’m pretty sure you won’t find one. That’s what previous experience really gives us - not just information, not just technique ... but a sense of having arrived in the right place, at long, long last.

Copyright 2004 by Lee Child

Lee Child was born in the exact geographic center of England, in the heart of the industrial badlands. Never saw a tree until he was twelve. It was the sort of place where if you fell in the river, you had to go to the hospital for a mandatory stomach pump. The sort of place where minor disputes were settled with box cutters and bicycle chains. He's got the scars to prove it.

But he survived, got an education, and went to law school, but only because he didn't want to be a lawyer. Without the pressure of aiming for a job in the field, he figured it would be a relaxing subject to study. He spent most of the time in the university theater - to the extent that he had to repeat several courses, because he failed the exams - and then went to work for Granada Television in Manchester, England. Back then, Granada was a world-famous production company, known for shows like Brideshead Revisited, Jewel in the Crown, Prime Suspect and Cracker. Lee worked on the broadcast side of the company, so his involvement with the good stuff was limited. But he remembers waiting in the canteen line with people like Laurence Olivier, John Gielgud, Natalie Wood and Michael Apted. And he says that being involved with more than 40,000 hours of the company's program output over an eighteen-year stay taught him a thing or two about telling a story. He also wrote thousands of links, trailers, commercials and news stories, most of them on deadlines that ranged from fifteen minutes to fifteen seconds. So the thought of a novel-a-year didn't worry him too much, in his next career.

But why a next career? He was fired, back in 1995, that's why. It was the usual Nineties downsizing thing. After eighteen years, he was an expensive veteran, and he was also the union organizer, and neither thing fit the company's plan for the future. And because of the union involvement, he wasn't on too many alternative employers' wish lists, either. So he became a writer, because he couldn't think of anything else to do. He had an idea for a character who had suffered the same downsizing experience but who was taking it completely in his stride. And he figured if he brought the same total commitment to his audience that he'd seen his television peers develop, he could get something going. He named the character Jack Reacher and wrote Killing Floor as fast as he could. He needed to sell it before his severance check ran out. He made it with seven weeks to spare, and luckily the book was an instant hit, selling strongly all around the world, and winning both the Anthony Award and the Barry Award for Best First Novel. It led to contracts for at least nine more Reacher books, which currently extend all the way to the year 2006.

Lee moved from the UK to the US in the summer of 1998. He lives just outside New York City, with his American wife, Jane. They have a grown-up daughter, Ruth, and a small dog called Jenny. Lee fills his spare time with music, reading, and the New York Yankees. He likes to travel, for vacations, but especially on promotion tours so he can meet his readers, to whom he is eternally grateful.