Finding Momentum in the Thorkild Aske Novels
Writer’s block is often described as an empty page, but that is rarely how it feels to me. When I am working on a crime novel, the difficulty is usually more specific: a scene has lost its purpose, a character is withholding the wrong information, or the plot has moved into territory I have not properly understood.
Working on a series adds another layer. Each new Thorkild Aske novel has to stand alone while remaining connected to the books that came before it. The characters carry memories, wounds, habits, and unfinished questions from one story to the next. That continuity can be a source of energy, but it can also make a stalled chapter feel much larger than it is.
Over time, I have learned to treat a block as information rather than a verdict. It tells me that something in the draft needs attention. My task is to discover what that is, then find a manageable way back into the work.
Why series fiction creates a special kind of block
A standalone novel gives the writer one central architecture to build. A series has several structures operating at once: the immediate mystery, the protagonist’s personal development, the atmosphere of the setting, and the long memory of earlier books. If I try to solve all of these at the same time, the work becomes heavy very quickly.
The pressure can also come from expectations. Readers may want familiar elements from the series, while I need to let the story develop in an unexpected direction. Thorkild Aske must remain recognisable, but he cannot simply repeat himself. That tension is useful when I can work with it, and paralysing when I mistake every decision for a permanent one.
I therefore reduce the scale of the problem. I stop asking whether the entire novel works and ask what the next scene needs to accomplish. A scene may need to reveal a contradiction, deepen suspicion, or place a character somewhere dangerous. That smaller question is usually easier to answer.
When the problem is really uncertainty
Sometimes what looks like writer’s block is a lack of knowledge. I may be trying to write a police procedure, a landscape, or a character’s emotional reaction before I have done enough thinking. The prose then becomes hesitant because the underlying material is uncertain.
At other times, I have written myself into a logical corner. A clue arrives too early, a suspect knows something impossible, or the emotional consequences of an event have been ignored. Continuing forward can make the problem worse. I have found that a short pause for diagnosis saves time compared with forcing several pages that will later need to be removed.
The background about me is separate from the fictional world, but it helps explain why observation and research matter in my process. Facts do not replace imagination. They give the imagination something solid to push against.
A small diagnostic before I revise
When a chapter stops moving, I write a few plain sentences about it. What does each character want? What do they believe at the beginning of the scene? What changes by the end? If the answer to the final question is “nothing,” I have probably found the source of the problem.
I also look for the point where my interest disappeared. The last paragraph I enjoyed writing often sits just before the trouble began. From there, I can test several possibilities: the scene may belong later, the viewpoint may be wrong, or the conflict may need to become more personal.
| Sign of a stalled draft | Likely cause | Response I use |
|---|---|---|
| Conversations circle without changing anything | The scene lacks a clear objective | Give one character a specific demand |
| Clues feel convenient | The investigation has skipped a step | Rebuild the chain of evidence |
| The protagonist feels passive | The danger is too distant | Force a choice with a cost |
| I keep researching instead of writing | Research is avoiding a decision | Write a provisional version and mark gaps |
| The chapter feels unrelated to the novel | The connection to the central mystery is weak | Identify its consequence for the main plot |
This exercise is deliberately practical. It moves the problem from emotion to craft. Once I can name the weakness, I no longer have to fight a vague feeling of failure.
Returning through the body and the setting
Crime fiction depends on atmosphere, and atmosphere can help me restart. If I am stuck indoors with a scene, I may walk, notice the weather, listen to the sounds around me, or revisit the physical details of the location. A road, a harbour, a stairwell, or a badly lit room can suggest action before dialogue does.
Movement also changes the rhythm of thought. I often dictate fragments while walking, without trying to produce finished prose. A sentence about a smell, a gesture, or an object may later become the key to a scene. These fragments are useful because they bypass the demand to be polished.
The same applies to reading. I may return to my notes, examine the chronology, or read a few pages from an earlier draft to recover the voice. I do not search for a perfect solution. I look for a live wire: an image, conflict, or unanswered question that still has energy.
Practical habits that keep the draft alive
I prefer habits that preserve flexibility. A blocked writer can easily create an elaborate system that becomes another form of avoidance. My methods are simple enough to use on a difficult day and loose enough to change when the novel demands something else.
- Write a rough version of the scene, even when the details are incomplete.
- Leave a brief note about the next action before ending a writing session.
- Separate research questions from creative decisions.
- Read the last few pages aloud to hear where the rhythm weakens.
- Change the viewpoint or location temporarily when a scene refuses to open.
The unfinished version has an important function. It shows me what the scene is trying to become. I can make better decisions while revising something imperfect than while waiting for a complete idea to arrive fully formed.
I also accept that progress on a series is uneven. One day may produce several pages of clean prose; another may produce a corrected timeline or a discarded motive. Both can move the novel forward. The work is larger than the visible word count.
Keeping the larger arc alive
A series needs memory, but memory should not become a cage. I keep track of important events, relationships, and unresolved threads, yet I leave room for discovery. Characters sometimes reveal a quality or desire that I did not plan at the beginning. Those surprises can rescue a book from becoming mechanically plotted.
When I feel blocked by the scale of the series, I return to the emotional centre of the current novel. What is Thorkild Aske afraid of? What does he refuse to admit? What kind of truth would damage the way he sees himself? A case becomes compelling when its external mystery presses against an internal vulnerability.
The wider life of the books also reminds me that a novel continues travelling after the manuscript is finished. Readers encounter translations and international editions in different contexts, and the story takes on new lives beyond the language in which I wrote it. The foreign editions reflect that continuing journey and make the solitary act of drafting feel connected to a much wider readership.
Trusting the return to the page
I do not expect to eliminate writer’s block. That would probably mean eliminating uncertainty, risk, and surprise as well. Instead, I try to recognise the form it has taken and respond to the actual craft problem underneath it.
A series teaches patience because every book must be built twice: once as its own narrative and again as part of a longer movement. When I can give the next scene a modest purpose, allow the draft to be imperfect, and listen carefully to what is not working, momentum usually returns.
Explore the Thorkild Aske novels, follow their publication journeys, and enter the world of the series through the books and materials gathered on this site.