Murder

Have I mentioned that I live in a small town? I do. It's not as small as the one I grew up in, and it's technically a suburb of Chicago, but trust me it's small. And in the time I've lived here, not one but two murders have occurred.

Neither was sensational enough to make the evening news. Both were domestic in nature. One was only discovered after the perpetrator went on to murder again years later. The other is still under investigation. They were tragic, because murder is always tragic. I don't take that lightly.

Which is an interesting thing to say for someone who plots fictional murders for a living.

In the cozy mystery genre, murder happens but it's handled with a light hand. The gore and visceral details are left out, and the mystery of who takes center stage. It's a strange balance, writing about the darkest thing humans do while keeping things warm enough that you'd read it curled up with coffee. But I think that's part of why the genre resonates. We all want to believe that when something terrible happens, someone clever and determined will figure it out and set things right.

In another life, I'd be a true crime author, a detective, or a vigilante. But in this life, I sit in gorgeous little coffee shops drinking coffee and plotting the murders of people I made up hoping to tell a story good enough that people won't murder me for wasting their time.