Mysterious Matters: Mystery Publishing Demystified

Come Back to Us, O Great Ones

Being in the business of finding new writers, I am always delighted when I think I have found one, whether I published the book or not.  There's nothing more exciting than thinking, "Wow, she could be bigger than Mary Higgins Clark," or "He could be bigger than Harlan Coben."  (No one could be bigger than James Patterson; he sucks all pretenders into his world of co-authorship.)

HOWEVER...that is not the experience I had this week, when I had to turn back dozens of manuscripts for all the usual problems.  That got me to thinking about who I miss the most -- amazing writers who are unfortunately deceased or no longer writing actively.  So herewith an appreciation of some first-class, much-missed, mystery novelists.

MARGARET YORKE

While her later books were uneven, during her prime Margaret Yorke was one of the best mystery writers of the day.  Many of her books centered around troubled families and some form of dementia or psychosis. She was at her very best in books like ALMOST THE TRUTH and CRIMINAL DAMAGE (both dealing with dysfunctional families) and in books where she throws a cruel plot twist on the last page, as in ADMIT TO MURDER.  The cover shown here comes from the period during which Yorke was published by Mysterious Press--probably some of the best covers in the history of mystery publishing.  When St. Martin's picked up Yorke, the covers became dark and brooding (and not nearly as effective).

PATRICIA MOYES

Does anyone remember Henry and Emmie Tibbett, that happily married couple who managed to solve crimes on their various vacations?  The Tibbetts had a marriage of normalcy--of friendship and help.  They liked each other, and that gave the books a real warmth.  But don't confuse a Moyes book with a cozy.  Moyes dealt with some very modern issues (in books like Who Is Simon Warwick?) while building fabulously tricky plots that would've fooled Hercule.

ED MCBAIN

The classic procedurals--the ones that really created the genre--all shared a similar approach to story telling: Teach your readers something about the way the police work, and give them a good story while you're at it.

Ed McBain worked this magic time and again, introducing us to the 87th precinct of Isola (literally the island of Manhattan rotated a quarter turn to left) and to the motley crew of the station house.  Steve Carella was strong and honest, and he set a good standard for all the other guys (and, in later books, girls) at the 87th.  McBain did it all--story, characters, suprises, pathos, usually in under 200 pages.  I miss these long-running police procedurals (I miss Dell Shannon too).  Who will be the next to deliver a really fine series of American procedurals?

MARY MCMULLEN

I have always had great respect for mystery writers who write good one-offs.  McMullen is a sometimes overlooked author who produced one great book after another in the 80s, among them A Grave Without Flowers, My Cousin Death, The Pimlico Plot, and But Nellie Was So Nice.  Later work had some disappointments (The Other Shoe was so awful I had to believe that McMullen didn't write it), but in her prime she excelled at short, tight mysteries that twisted and turned a good amount until a surpising resolution.

CHARLOTTE ARMSTRONG

In an oft-used quote, Anthony Boucher called Armstrong "a spell-casting modern witch."  I can think of no better description for this wonderful writer.  She managed to combined terrific, creative plots with believable characters who were just quirky enough to remain credible.  Her stories went far beyond the murder mystery; in fact, many of her books had no murder at all, which is why they were so often subtitled "A Novel of Suspense."  Of her trifecta of perfection, The Balloon Man, The Gift Shop, and Lemon in the Basket, my favorite is The Gift Shop, a high-speed treasure hunt that begins in an airport.  I don't believe there's anyone out there today who writes like her, and I think our genre would benefit from having an heir apparent.

He Lay in Wait, Watching...

Considering the following prologue to (or Chapter 1 of) a mystery/suspense novel:

He lay in wait, watching.  Soon she would arrive home, smelling of jasmine--that same scent that his mother had favored.  Perhaps she'd just be back from a shopping trip (God knows she loved to shop), and her arms would be laden with bags.  She'd be juggling the bags and her keys, not paying any attention to the shrubberies to the side of the house, which was shrouded in darkness.  All he'd have to do is creep up behind her and push her into the house once the door swung open.  He had no worries about being able to catch her in time.  Lean and lithe from his years a track-team champion, he knew he'd be able to cover the necessary ground in no time.

    After an hour her new Saab pulled up--the sporty red model he'd watched her purchase, but only after she'd driven a hard bargain with the salesman.  That was Lina Lorenz for you--she got what she wanted and made you feel as if she was doing you a favor by making you give it to her.  But tonight it was Lina's turn to give....

If I get one more manuscript with this type of opening, I am going to scream.

I think I know whom to blame: James Patterson.  He pulled this off like the pro he is in the first chapter of his breakthrough book, Along Came a Spider, in which the very brief Chapter 1 presents exactly this scenario and ends with the revelation that the watching lunatic/murderer was also the person who kidnapped the Lindbergh baby.

Wow--what an opening it was at the time.  And the book followed through on its promise, with those trademark short Patterson chapters alternating between the point of view of Alex Cross and the villain he was pursuing.  The plot and its resolution are simply fantastic, and the novel should be studied as a case study of the perfect pacing for a suspense novel.

But that was what--15 years ago now?   And the time has come to add to the "he lay in wait, watching" opening to my list of massively overused plot devices, right next to recurring nightmares and sassy, independent-and-sarcastic-but-with-a-heart-of-gold heroines.  It seems like every other manuscript I have seen lately opens with a variation on this theme--the murderer is waiting in the shrubberies, or in the storage closet of an office building, or in an unused out-building on an estate...the list goes on and on.  It is almost enough to make a poor editor paranoid, assuming that a crazed murderer could emerge from a corner at any time, brandishing a carving knife and some sort of kit that will allow him to eviscerate me and rearrange my body parts in creative ways that symbolize his psychosis.

The problems with the "he lay in wait, watching" opening are many:

• The device has become so stock, and so overused, that an opening of this type sends a signal that you aren't a very creative or dynamic writer.  First chapters have to grab the reader and draw him or her in.  You don't want your readers thinking, "Ho hum, I've seen this before, about a million times."
• This type of opening clangs a very loud bell that dings "Serial killer, serial killer."  Now, I may be alone in this, but to me there's a difference between a good mystery novel and a good thriller, and I usually think of serial killers as being the stuff of mass-market thrillers.  If you're writing a traditional mystery, there are many better ways to signal that killer is known to the victim, and vice versa.  This is part of what made those old Gothics by the likes of Dorothy Eden, Victoria Holt, and Velda Johnson so effective: The heroines knew their lives were in danger, and the sense of menace built slowly but surely. 
• While there are many effective ways of writing a novel, I usually don't like opening a book with backstory.  That can be effective in a prologue, in the hands of a skilled writer.  But many inexperienced writers use the "he lay in wait" prologue to signal the fact that the book is a murder mystery.  The structure goes something like this: First 3 pages: killer lies in wait; Next 47 pages: an introduction to the hero/heroine, along with full backstory and range of emotional issues; Page 50: Crime hinted at on pages 1-3 finally happens.  The problem is that this structure completely delays the story and turns the reading experience from novel to autobiography.  Now, of course the best writers combine character development with story, but we mustn't lose sight of the fact that the best mysteries balance plot and character simultaneously.

I do try to give all the manuscripts/proposals that cross my desk a fair shake, but lately I'm finding it difficult to read any further when I encounter this type of opening. 

Can We Enjoy What We Do?

I experienced a strange epiphany this past weekend.

My wife and I went to see No Country for Old Men, which I do believe deserves the praises heaped upon it.  However, my wife left the theater a very annoyed woman, for she had to explain the plot to me at every turn.  I think of myself as one of those people who would never talk in a movie theater, but it seemed as if every five minutes I asked her for an explanation of a twist, turn, or plot device. 

On the way out of the film, she exasperatedly said to me, "Agatho, you are a bizarre individual.  When you read a book, your eyes will be the first to notice a missing comma or an inconsequential detail that is inconsistent with another inconsequential detail 500 pages later.  So why on earth do I have to explain movies to you?"

That is a really valid question, and I've been pondering the answer.

It strikes me that as much as I love our genre, and as much as I enjoy my job, I have become incapable of reading purely for pleasure.  Yes, there are those books that I greatly enjoy as comfort food, but even as I am enjoying them, I am analyzing why they work so well for me.  I marvel at turns of phrase, oft-used plot tricks, a certain similarity of humor or wit, all while acknowledging why these things appeal to me.  With manuscripts, I'm looking either for that irresistable spark or that damning flaw.  I admire and read for structure, style, plot--all the "elements" of fiction, but I think I have gotten to the point where I just can't separate Agatho the editor from Agatho the casual reader. 

But with other forms of entertainment, I sort of let my mind go numb.  I'm not trained in film making or cinematic tricks, so I don't look for them and I typically miss them.  I haven't quite mastered (understatement of the year) the film maker's art, so I just sit back and let myself be subsumed by the cinematography, or sound track, or actors, or any other element I find interesting and appealing.  In general, I just pay less attention to films than I do to books.  In contrast, my wife is quite well schooled in film making, and she sees and appreciates (or is able to critique) every detail. 

The same goes for music.  I love it-- all kinds.  But the music experience for me is more visceral.  I want to be carried away by the strings, or the voice, or the arrangement, or the beat.  I don't think about how the words and the music fit together, or whether the chorus and verse match up, or any other criterion other than "do I like this song?"  I want to sing along at the top of my lungs (much to the chagrin of my children) to my favorite songs.  But I could no sooner write a review of a new CD than I could climb Mount Everest.  Music is there for me to enjoy, not analyze.

I wonder if poets can ever read a poem without critiquing it -- if novelists can ever read a novel without thinking what they woul have done differently -- if songwriters can ever listen to the radio without comparing their work to what's being played -- if painters can ever go to a museum and just enjoy without examining technique.   Do we all have a form of entertainment that we talk more seriously, while allowing ourselves a blissful ignorance (and more pure enjoyment) of other forms?