Detour

by

John Chabot

We all write mysteries.  All kinds of mysteries.  Some like to follow the PIs or the Mafiosi or the street punks into the darker parts of the city.  Others’ imaginations stay out in the suburbs, watching their hero or heroine get into and out of trouble with the law, usually keeping the gore a little off stage.  We all have preferences as to what we like to read and, therefore, what we tend to write.  Hard-boiled, cozy, thriller or puzzle, if we find success along a particular path, why not stick to it?  Go with your strength – know your genre.

 I have no problem with that, but I’d like to make a suggestion.  Once in a while, whether we walk down the mean streets of noir, or drive our Bentley to mysterious weekends at Lord Haversham’s country estate, why not make a detour?  Try something different.  Change hats.  Go a little crazy.  Maybe get our favorite PI an invitation to the Haversham estate.  Or let our plucky little heroine lose her purse and get lost in one of the nastier parts of Chicago.  See how each of them handles it.  Try a little warmth, especially if that’s not our thing, or cruelty if it is.  Throw in some comedy.  We never know what might happen.  And that’s the point – if we don’t give it a shot, we never will know.

 Last year there was a discussion on the Short Mystery list about the definitions of such sub-genre as hard-boiled, cozy, noir, etc.  As I was reading it, a what-if question occurred to me.  What if, I thought, a hard drinking, mean streets PI found himself in the middle of a cozy?  I wondered if I could write a story like that, and had serious doubts about whether I could pull it off.  It starts like this:

 ‘It was right here in Finigan’s that I first saw her.  When she walked in, I wondered what a doll like that was doing in a dingy bar like this.  Young, sweet-looking.  Honey-blonde hair (nothing from a bottle) and very little makeup.  Nice figure, from what I could see, but in a pleated skirt and modest blouse, an open cardigan covering most of the top.  She wasn’t wearing little white gloves, but she might as well have been.  It was like someone had spritzed air freshener into a poolroom – the whole place seemed to get brighter and less depressing.  God, I hate that.’ 

 The nice thing is, it’s perfectly safe.  Think of it as an exercise, our own dirty little secret.    If it turns out to be as bad as we think it will, nobody says we have to send it in.  We work alone, don’t we?  Who are we going to tell? 

 Familiar paths can turn into ruts.  But maybe, just maybe, if every now and then we reach up and stretch ourselves, good things might happen.  Our mean streets might seem darker when compared with something bright.  Besides, I like a PI who can laugh now and then.  It’s easier to identify with the nice guy who has a nasty side, and what’s scarier than the villain who loves little kittens?  Let our crayons stray outside the lines here and there.  Our writing might get a little deeper and wider, our characters a bit more human.  Would it be so bad?

 Just my opinion.