Loves, if there is one (fictional) thing that I love, it is a good mystery, a whodunit, a caper full of thrills. I aspire to one day have my own mystery novel published, to join the ranks of the authors I cherish and add a character to the lists of beloved detectives.
What is it about mysteries I love? It’s hard to pin down. I love the slow build up, the pieces put out there for us to see and solve alongside our heroic detective as they track down the wily criminal. It’s a visual puzzle I suppose, and I do love a good jigsaw.
I love that, in mystery novels and television, we know that the good guy will always get his man. That no matter how dastardly, how despicable, how ingenious the villain, in the end he will be caught by his own mistakes, the clues he left behind. That’s a certainty that the mysteries of life, with its humdrum and awful crimes, cannot afford to give us. In mysteries the damsels are saved, and the unjust revealed in their corruption. In mysteries an old spinster can be the heroine of countless stories, saving the young and grateful from wicked plots so that they can go on to ordinary lives. In mysteries a refugee can take up his trade again as an amateur, and become a respected and highly sought member of the field for his brain even as he still struggles with racist insinuations. In mysteries, the cerebral ace is celebrated for his coolness instead of his lack of people skills. In mysteries the gentleman’s love for justice can afford to grapple with his love for humanity and disdain for violence. In mysteries, no death goes unsolved, no murderer gets away.
I suppose that’s what I love about mysteries. The world they offer me, even as I sit in the safety of my armchair.