In January of 2012, I enrolled in a detective fiction course for school. This is from an essay at the start of the class that I thought might help better expound upon some of the things I have
been trying to convey for some time.
There
is something comforting about a murder mystery or at least certain
murder mysteries for me. I am speaking particularly of the ones where
one finds oneself in a small hamlet, with an over large cemetery. These
are the ones where every time you meet a new character they are either a
victim or a murderer. Stir in a lead character with some pluck and let
the mayhem ensue. It is a little certainty in an uncertain world for me
as a reader. I particularly like mysteries where the lead sleuth is an
amateur. When I was a little girl, I wanted to be Jessica Fletcher when
I grew up, and I am still drawn to that kind of mystery novel
protagonist.
I didn’t cut my teeth on Sherlock Holmes like most
people do. I always thought there was something pretentious about
Sherlock Holmes that made me less interested in reading those stories.
It wasn’t until the recent BBC production of Sherlock Holmes that I saw a
version of him that I was drawn to, and having heard the portrayal is
generally accurate to the novels, I have been excited to read the books.
Doyle has been in my reading queue for a bit, so the fact that I get
to read them for this class is an added bonus.
Anyway, my first
real eye-opening introduction to mysteries came when I was about 10 with
“Angie’s First Case” by Donald Sobol (of Encyclopedia Brown fame). It
was the first chapter book I had really been engaged in, and the first
time I was so enthralled by a book that I curled up and read it cover to
cover on a Saturday afternoon. I loved the experience so much I have
been afraid to re-read it for fear that it would no longer be what I
imagined it to be. For this reason, I have lost most of the story line
and couldn’t offer much comment.
My favorite mystery/thriller
novel though is probably “Cranes of Ibycus” by Mary Craig. This was a
book my mom picked up at a library book sale when I was a teenager which
I promptly borrowed. It was so much more then I expected to be, and
the story was so driving that I couldn’t put it down. A couple of years
ago, my mom gave me the book when I asked if I could borrow it again.
As much as I was afraid of the disappointed nostalgia, I fell in love
with it all over again. I tend to prefer the type of mystery where an
amateur gets caught up in a complex problem (murder or otherwise) they
can’t solve, and the story becomes a journey through all of the clues
and processes that lead them to a resolution. Many times, and “Cranes
of Ibycus” is not an exception, the character grows through this
experience and there is nothing more important to me in a story of any
genre of fiction then character development.
This book is not a
murder mystery per se and it certainly isn’t detective fiction. But it
is does feel so thrilling while one is reading it. The characters are
ones that you can care about which is actually a fairly important factor
in a novel for me because it means that you start to care about the
same things they do and one can get caught up in those near-death or
near-awesome experiences. It is an out-dated and out-of-print book but
one of the most enjoyable reads I have ever had.
Actually
writing this I found that there is another out-of-print book by Mary
Craig and I purchased it on Amazon. I may have to wait until June to
read it but I wanted to find some of that same reading experience again.
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