As a writer of mysteries, I find myself, from time-to-time, challenged by readers to defend why I glorify crime. And when they realize that I write humorous mysteries, they are appalled that I make fun of murder. When my first book was published, even my mother announced, “Mysteries aren’t supposed to be funny.” One reader made it personal.
Had your own real life been struck by the tragedy of a murdered loved-one, do you think you could still have written about these subjects without the grief overcoming you? And add to that the thought of marketing the deepest sadness known to man… as entertainment?
I don’t know that I can answer that question in a way that will satisfy the critics, but I’m going to try. So I will start with the easy part.
Five of the 10 top-rated broadcast television shows for a recent February week, in terms of total viewership, were mysteries or detective shows. Ten of the top 20 books on the NY Times Combined Print and E-Book Fiction Bestseller List for the week ending February 15, 2015, were crime fiction of one sort or another, with murder at the center of the plot (13 of 20 on the Hardcover Fiction List). So the pat answer is that millions of people find entertainment value by reading and watching murder mysteries, crime fiction, thrillers and suspense.
Most mystery writers will tell you that their stories are about the triumph of justice, that the mystery is solved, the bad guy is caught and punished, that good triumphs over evil. And that’s true, as far as it goes. People enjoy the puzzle; they enjoy the challenge of solving the crime before the fictional detective. Perhaps people also like taking a vicarious walk down a dark alley on the wrong side of the tracks. I don’t know. But I do know this. When my new book Death and White Diamonds was published, a reader sent me this photo.
She was on a gurney, waiting to be rolled into the operating room, and she was reading my book. In fact, when the ambulance showed up to take her to the emergency room, she refused to leave home without her copy of Death and White Diamonds. So, perhaps, it is when people are dealing with the most serious of life events that our books are most valuable.
For me, as a writer, the dead body is the central character in the story. It is my job to make sure that the victim’s story is told. If it happens that the circumstances are funny, so be it.
I did a book appearance today, signing books at Lines on the Pines.
It’s a celebration of the NJ Pine Barrens, an annual gathering of authors and artists, of basket weavers and candle makers, musicians and photographers, land use planners and preservationists. It is my fourth appearance at the event and I have, over time, developed a small but faithful fan base. These are people that I see only once a year, only at Lines on the Pines and only for 10 – 15 minutes. The success of my appearance may be measured in book sales, but the value of the appearance, for me, is the opportunity to chat with my readers.
I was signing a book this afternoon and when I looked up, I spotted one of those fans. He’s a man in his early forties, a railroad enthusiast and now a fan of my stories. I didn’t see his wife. “I lost her six months ago,” he said. “Cancer.” Then he bought my new book.
Tonight, as I write this blog post, I believe he is home, reading my new book with his late wife. I believe he is laughing.
But I still haven’t answered the question.
Had your own real life been struck by the tragedy of a murdered loved-one, do you think you could still have written about these subjects without the grief overcoming you?
Yes. I think I could have written them. But I’m not sure I could read them.
I’m a writer. It’s what I do. It’s how I process the events in my life. I write them down. I consider myself fortunate indeed that I have not had to face such a tragedy. But I have faced other tragedies, large and small. As have we all. And they find their way into my storytelling.
One of my favorite quotes comes from a Hasidic parable that Elie Wiesel uses as a preface of sorts to his book, The Gates of the Forest.
“When the great Rabbi Israel Baal Shem-Tov saw misfortune threatening the Jews it was his custom to go into a certain part of the forest to meditate. There he would light a fire, say a special prayer, and the miracle would be accomplished and the misfortune averted.
Later, when his disciple, the celebrated Magid of Mezritch, had occasion, for the same reason, to intercede with heaven, he would go to the same place in the forest and say: ‘Master of the Universe, listen! I do not know how to light the fire, but I am still able to say the prayer,’ and again the miracle would be accomplished.
Still later, Rabbi Moshe-Leib of Sasov, in order to save his people once more, would go into the forest and say: ‘I do not know how to light the fire, I do not know the prayer, but I know the place and this must be sufficient.’ It was sufficient and the miracle was accomplished.
Then it fell to Rabbi Israel of Rizhyn to overcome misfortune. Sitting in his armchair, his head in his hands, he spoke to God: ‘I am unable to light the fire and I do not know the prayer; I cannot even find the place in the forest. All I can do is to tell the story, and this must be sufficient.’ And it was sufficient.
God made man because he loves stories.”
I think it was Salmon Rushdie who referred to man as “the storytelling animal.” I would suggest that all of human experience is processed in our stories. I began with a pat answer and perhaps, at the end, that is still all I have. Millions of people find entertainment value by reading and watching murder mysteries, crime fiction, thrillers and suspense. But you are not millions of people. You are one person and you bring your own life experience with you.
All I can do is tell the story, and this must be sufficient.
— Jeff Markowitz
Jeff Markowitz is the author of the darkly comic thriller, Death and White Diamonds, as well as three books in the Cassie O’Malley Mystery Series.