I think my wife is plotting to kill me.
Countless mysteries have begun with some poor fellow uttering these most ominous words. And all too often, as it turns out, the poor fellow was correct. Murderously-minded females do hide in polite society—but of some such femmes fatales, you need have no fear. Consider the case of this young chap whose anxious missive recently crossed our desk:
Dear Miss Lovelost,
I think my sweetheart is plotting to kill me. Or worse: she may have given her heart to another.
I have lately entered into an engagement with a dear and sweet Young Lady of Substance—accomplished, well-read, and able to converse on the widest variety of subjects. I believe we are well suited to a life of connubial happiness, but I must admit to having a few reservations. In particular, my Sweetheart has evinced some personal habits that give me pause.
She is secretive, spending many an hour closeted in her room, telling me nothing of what she does therein. When I enquire, she is evasive. I have even witnessed her concealing papers from my view and burning documents—love letters, no doubt. Behind closed doors, I often hear voices—hers, and others I do not recognize—raised in heated intercourse. This has caused me so much concern that I have resorted to the distasteful move of intercepting the post. Once she caught me at it, and in such a fervor tore a letter from my hands, it must have been some correspondence from my Rival.
On other occasions, I have found her engaged in the most alarming speculation. For instance, she lingers behind at the druggist’s for secret conversations regarding strange and nefarious concoctions, and what doses of various preparations might prove deadly—and undetectable. Once whilst sleeping, I awoke to find her measuring me—for my coffin, surely! And the books she brings home from the library are of the most sordid and unspeakable sort [of which our young lover then goes on to speak]: encyclopaedic guides to toxins, handbooks of police procedure, and the biographies of murderers.
Dear Miss Lovelost, what am I to believe? Shall I flee for my life while I still possess it?
Signed: Nervous in Northumbria
Now, it will not escape the reader that there are some fascinating things afoot in the Future Miss Nervous’s mind! But I feel I can reassure Mr. Nervous on one point: His lady fair is not planning to kill him (although I cannot speak to other potential victims she may have in mind).
That said, Mr. Nervous, I must advise you to prepare yourself: You do indeed have a rival for your love’s affections, and it well behooves you to cultivate a relationship with this rival with the utmost care. Your future happiness with your lady depends upon your next moves.
My dear Mr. Nervous, your sweetheart is writing a murder mystery. She exhibits all the signs of this affliction (which I, too, am known to possess; I’m afraid it can be catching). The voices you heard? She is rehearsing conversations between her characters before committing them to the page. The burnt documents? Dismal first drafts or rejection letters. The morbid books and interviews with experts? Research. (First-hand experience in the field being cumbersome and generally frowned upon.)
In order to ensure our Mr. Nervous—and any fellow suitors who find themselves in similar straits—the greatest chance of making a success of his union with his Author Love, allow me to offer the benefits of my expertise.
People wishing to marry writers must understand that, in general, writing is an honorable occupation, if not necessarily a lucrative one. Do not depend upon your Author Spouse for riches—and, frankly, neither ought you to expect prompt meals or clean washing. The writing, the deadlines (for there will always be deadlines) will take precedence in her schedule. Cleaning will get done, somewhat haphazardly, when your Author hits an impasse: uncooperative characters yield freshly-ironed shirts or a floor scrubbed on hands and knees as a sort of penance to the Muses. The children will be collected from school, eventually, and instead of asked about their days, will be peppered with interrogatives like, “Which sounds better? Arsenic or cyanide?” Your offspring will know how to spell autopsy before they can tie their shoes.
You must welcome your Author’s characters into the family fold. Approach these imagined personages with all the care you’d give new in-laws or a beloved spaniel, for they figure as prominently in your love’s mind as any flesh-and-blood humans of her acquaintance, and, frankly, she probably prefers them. You must steel yourself to memorizing the intricacies of their relationships, the little feuds and intrigues. Listen keenly and offer cogent commentary, perhaps even a gentle challenge—a mystery writer will demand intelligence in her partner. She will count on you to help find the flaws in her plot, although her thanks may come grudgingly.
Your home, too, shall bear the stigmata of her vocation. Furnishings will be selected not to match your wallpaper, but for how well they’d look in a heroine’s cold-water flat, or whether or not a body might be concealed within. Make room on the mantelpiece for unusual bricabrac: antique pistols, a skull, the bust of your favorite Gothic poet. Above all, furnish your living space with plenty of bookcases: this is a demonstration of your faith in your Author’s talent.
Do not expect to conceal your love’s passion from others, for her inquisitive mind will turn any encounter into an opportunity to further her storyline. Dinner guests will find themselves the subjects of intense scrutiny, only to appear, in enhanced version, upon the page. Your banking colleague Mr. Danforth will be transformed in print some time later to the mysterious Mr. Darnwell, international financier, his mildly arthritic knee now a dramatic limp, cum walking stick (perhaps with a raven’s head—no, a boar); his mild wife becomes a flamboyant martinet harboring a secret past.
The most mundane events will be imbued with sinister import: a bill gone astray in the post has been seized by a ring of thieves; the arguing neighbor couple are falling out over the murder they’ve committed together (perhaps his overbearing parents or her wealthy employer); the patch of overgrown lawn is being well-fertilized by suspicious organic matter in the soil. Where you see the lovely scenery of your afternoon picnic in the country, she is scanning the tree line for lurking assassins, or planting clues among the rhododendrons.
But, I hear Mr. Nervous protest, does this not mean my ladylove is disturbed? Should she not seek treatment for these dark and morbid thoughts? Indeed no! Nothing could be further from the truth. Your Author may harbor the darkest of thoughts—but she is content to see them play out upon the page. Having every confidence that even the most perfect of crimes will be solved by a clever and determined sleuth, she would hardly risk putting so much effort into a homicide, only to see it systematically dismantled by detectives. And, in fact, you may rest assured that these fantasies of murder are far more satisfying to her than the real thing. See above, regarding the housekeeping. Your Author Love has far better things to do than clean blood off the tiles.
Yet it bears noting that although keeping your Beloved Author happy comes with innumerable perks, disappointing her poses considerable risk. Never forget, she knows how to plan the perfect murder.
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