Wrong Fit

Several weeks ago I thought I wanted to write a mystery—neither a cozy nor a thriller. Perhaps a psychological or a closed door mystery. Perhaps one steeped in a particular eerie setting.

Research. I decided to compile a list of blogs that purported to critique the mystery genre. Every time I came across a book listed as a finalist or winner of a prestigious mystery award I wrote down the title.

I discovered that this particular genre loved creating new categories and awards.

Eventually I decided upon a New Zealand writer who had won a well-known award in 2011.

The cover of the book hinted at the read being a thriller—guaranteed to raise the hair on your arms. “Don’t,” warned the blurb, “read this while alone.”

Despite the warning I began the book. Yes, it was a bit over the top—but well written and a page-turner. Nothing to it—

But then I went to the library and decided to use the bathroom before roaming the aisles. Just as I was entering the woman’s room a man walked past me and entered the men’s room. Suppose, I thought, he’s going in there and will wait until I close the door and then…

So I opted to forgo the bathroom—quickly exited and went upstairs and borrowed a book about the wild lands of Wyoming.