I was speaking at a bookstore the other day and a member of the audience asked me what the difference was between a mystery and a thriller. My flippant reply was, “About eight hundred thousand dollars.” This surprised my audience who tend to think that all published authors make millions of dollars (Sisters, you are allowed a gentle chuckle here). They couldn’t believe that mysteries were less highly regarded than thrillers. “But thrillers are all about plot,” one person said. “And my favorite Rhys Bowen mysteries are wonderful character studies.”
Right. But as we all know, good books do not necessarily translate into bestselling books. When I’ve been in an airport or on a beach, I’ve been dismayed to observe that everyone is reading Dan Brown or James Patterson. Does that really mean that most people find them more enjoyable or that they are so ubiquitous that the average person can’t help stumbling upon them in the big box stores or at the airport newsagents?
The sad thing is that these people will think that this is the gold standard of mystery/thriller fiction. We’ve all heard the comment, “Oh, I never read genre fiction” by those who consider themselves cultured and educated. I always point out to these people that they have probably read no genre fiction other than the piles at the big box stores and thus can’t really judge. I ask if they have they ever read Nancy Pickard or Laura Lippman or Louise Penny or any number of distinguished women writers whose books are full of wonderfully complex characters, finely drawn settings, moral dilemmas and who write to touch the soul?
I suspect, unfortunately, that most people don’t want their souls touched. They don’t want to be involved with the books they read. They just want entertaining and titillating in the same way that they watch their TV programs. I don’t know about you, but when I read a good book, I am so involved that I am not conscious of words on the page. I am in that place and time—feeling the hot dry wind in my face with Tony Hillerman, shivering in the icy cold of Quebec with Louise Penny. I also strive for this when I write my own books. I want my reader to experience the sights, sounds and smells of New York City with my heroine Molly Murphy. The experience of the setting is as important to me as the plot. So is getting to know the characters. I come to regard series characters as old friends, to be revisited with anticipation each time a new book comes out. I know my fans feel this way, because they talk about Evan and Molly and Lady Georgie as if they are real people—which they are to me, of course.
Which brings me to a second gripe: that noir mystery fiction, usually written by men, is somehow more valid and more literary than traditional mysteries written by women. You only have to look at the Edgars or best books of the year lists to see that we women are lucky if we get a mention. Would somebody please tell me why an alcoholic and troubled loner sleuth is considered more interesting and relevant than an ordinary, likeable person trying to see that justice is done? We writers of the traditional mystery (no, I won’t use the word cozy) are used to being patted on the head, as if we are the maiden aunt who should sit quietly in the corner, knitting. Well, I’m sorry but I find the stories in traditional mysteries more shocking in many ways. If I am on the mean streets of the city, among gangs and drug dealers, I expect to find crime and violence. How much more disturbing is it if violent crime strikes the kind of place where I live and involves people that I know?
I guess I’m biased. I don’t like violence. I don’t like graphic violence on the page. I like to read a book in which justice somehow prevails and order is restored to the universe by the end of the story. I guess I really am cozy by nature.
When I first started writing I complained to my editor that all my reviews called my books “charming and delightful.” I wanted to be taken seriously, not to be charming and delightful. So I told my editor that my next book would contain Satanism, cannibalism and strewn body parts. She smiled sweetly and said, “Yes, and I bet they’ll be charming and delightful body parts too.”
So that’s it: cozy and noir are in our natures as writers and we can’t write well outside our nature however well we try. So I promise no cannibalism or strewn body parts in my next Molly and Georgie books!
Rhys Bowen writes the Agatha, Anthony and MacAvity winning Molly Murphy mysterie
s set in 1903 New York City and the bestselling Royal Spyness mysteries featuring a minor royal in 1930s London. The Last Illusion, her ninth Molly Murphy mystery, will be in stores on Marsh 2nd. She also looks forward to being toastmaster at this year’s Malice Domestic convention.







