Readers, it’s time to get serious and be honest with ourselves. Take a deep breath — inhale, exhale — and admit: we might be just a little bit twisted. Not in a Hannibal Lecter or Buffalo Bill kind of way. More in a, “Oooh, that murder was cleverly plotted” kind of way. You wouldn’t be reading this essay if you didn’t enjoy crime fiction. Let’s be real: that obsession didn’t start last week.
For me, it began in childhood.
My mom was a member of the Mystery Guild Book Club and a regular library patron. So two things happened:
One, I grew up surrounded by books featuring death, detectives, and dramatic reveals.
And two, when we hit the library, I could always find her skimming through Ed McBain, Joseph Wambaugh, Marcia Muller — basically, her reading list doubled as a future suspect lineup.
So when I discovered Trixie Belden at age eight, it felt like destiny. Kid detective. Yes, please. Then came Nancy Drew. Sure, Nancy mostly solved robberies and vandalism and embezzlement, but every now and then, someone died. Then came Agatha Christie. My mom owned nearly all of her books. By twelve, I was partial to Miss Marple. What can I say? I liked an old lady who could outwit Scotland Yard and enjoy her afternoon tea while thinking about murder.
Growing up in the ‘70s and ‘80s, the Young Adult section was more of a YA shelf. We had Lois Duncan, Joan Lowery Nixon, and a handful of others. So the leap from Nancy Drew to full-blown adult horror wasn’t so much a jump as a nosedive. For me, it was Stephen King. I was thirteen.
There’s a lot of death in Stephen King.
I loved it.
As an adult, I read widely. I even tried romance. But I found myself internally shouting, “Where’s the murder?” Enter romantic suspense. Murder, mayhem, love, betrayal, justice, and a happily-ever-after. I realized I had a problem. I needed a mystery. A corpse. A villain to imprison … or shoot. I wasn’t picky. As long as it served the story.
Because there is nothing more satisfying than justice.
Like most writers, I was a reader first. While on maternity leave in 2001, I read The Third Victim by Lisa Gardner and The Search by Iris Johansen. Two books, one question: Why am I not writing anymore? (Answer: marriage, kids, job, laundry … the usual suspects.) So I made time to write — every night after the kids went to bed.
Naturally, I wrote about murder.
And I liked it. Maybe a little too much. Fiction is an excellent outlet. It’s quite cathartic to castrate a rapist or shoot a child predator or toss a human trafficker off a roof. In fiction, of course. Personally, I’m very law-abiding. Boring, even.
That said, my kids grew up listening to me talk about fictional murder over dinner. Maybe it rubbed off. One evening, while driving my daughter Katie home from volleyball practice, we passed a suspicious-looking large black trash bag on the side of the road. Lumpy. Oddly shaped. Before I could say anything, she asked, “Does that look like a body?”
Yes, yes it did, I thought.
Then she said, “Should we go back and check?”
No, no we shouldn’t.
Katie is now a police officer. Make of that what you will.
As my long-time readers know, I launched my career writing romantic suspense — two broken people solving a murder and falling in love. Later, I shifted into more traditional crime fiction, letting the romance ride shotgun. But sometimes, I missed the happy endings. The idea that even after all the bloodshed, two people can find love and a deep, romantic connection? Call me cheesy, I don’t mind.
Seriously, if you spend your days knee-deep in murder, don’t you deserve to be wined and dined?
So when I was asked to write a romantic mystery, I jumped at the chance. A return to my roots — but with a bit more sunshine, a little less gunfire.
That’s how Beach Reads and Deadly Deeds was born. A romantic mystery set on a dreamy private Caribbean island. Book-lover and workaholic Mia heads there for sun, sand, and maybe a vacation fling … but instead discovers a missing guest and cryptic notes. Scribbled in the margins of a used book.
Naturally, there is a body. I can’t help myself. (Don’t worry — I’m not spoiling anything. The victim gets strangled in Chapter One.)
Solving murders is fun. But you know what’s even more fun?
Planning them.
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