When I first started writing mysteries decades ago, I didn’t even know what a cozy was. And when I found out, I never thought I was writing them. Still don’t. A lot of my subjects are fairly dark. In Book 4 of the Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries, DEAD … If Only, the story deals with a rape and child pornography. I don’t beat it into the ground, but these two facts motivate many of the characters’ actions. So, as I say, I never thought of myself as a cozy writer, despite resolutions that end with everyone becoming a B&BP (bigger and better person). However, when my publicist flung me into the cozy mystery category and gave me new covers indicating that’s what I wrote, my sales picked up. Inside, my stories hadn’t changed. Not a single word.  But here I was in the cozy mystery category. That was a real eye-opener for me.

There are levels of darkness in my books that, apparently, the reader can absorb or ignore. Or just deal with as a part of life. Readers are, by and large, a sophisticated lot and often take it as it comes. They accept that I write funny while dealing with serious subjects. In fact, they are often grateful for it. Life can be pretty dark and disturbing. If you have a laugh here and there, so much the better. As far as I can tell, I write the humorous mystery pretending to be a cozy. All right then. I cope and write on.

One day a reader sent me an email saying how glad she was I didn’t use any colorful language in my novels. I thought about it. Well, given the setting, yes I do. Or have. But probably not in the one or two novels she’d read. In one scene from Death Runs in the Family, Lee is helping her ex-husband with a serious problem. His gratitude runs along the lines of using every vulgar word he can think of because he’s that kinda guy. Fed up, Lee tells him nicely to stop talking like that or she’ll stop him and not so nicely. I couldn’t have him say words like gosh-darn it and phooey. It simply wouldn’t work in that setting. I had to use the real stuff to get my point across. But other than that scene, I don’t pepper my dialog with curse words for no other reason than I simply don’t. Now and then, if it’s necessary, I let ‘er rip with a damn or hell. But I try to keep it to a minimum. In my opinion, a plethora of explicatives can take away from the story. That might be all the reader remembers.

This is not just in books, either. A friend of mine returned from the theater the other day and was aghast the musical she’d seen seemed to use the F-word in almost every other sentence. At least, that’s what she took away; not the songs, acting, or choreography. Which is a pity. Unless the book and libretto were lacking and the writers thought they were covering that fact up with shock value. Young comics often hide their inexperience with the world. “Fu-fu-fu-fu-fu” seems to be all I hear. If they think they’re being shocking, they’re not. They are being boring and unimaginative. Give me Seinfeld or Rita Rudner any time.

Recently, I asked myself a question. Could I write a novel without using one single explicative? More to the point, could I substitute a clever word for what society has deemed a curse word and still have it come off as sounding plausible? In my last novel, Cleopatra Almost Slept Here, I found I did it once or twice without realizing it. Here’s a paragraph: Startled, I must have jumped three feet into the air from a sitting position, surpassing any previous record set at the Olympics. This is the problem with relaxing for a moment after a hard afternoon. People tend to sneak up and scare the Rumpelstiltskin out of you. 

Brilliant? No. Entertaining? Hopefully. When I write, I write for me, first and foremost. But I do try to have a mystery sprinkled with the emotions of life wrapped up in a few laughs. And lately, I’ve been trying to keep my explicatives to a minimum because, frankly, I don’t want to be remembered just for them.

I recently recovered from an illness caused by a stone in one of my salivary glands. This is akin to having a kidney stone but without the glamor. Instead of sympathetic friends and family saying, “Oh, no! You poor thing,” they tended to say, “huh?” I even did that myself. Before this happened, I hadn’t heard of the condition. The name of it is Sialolithiasis, but I never once tried to pronounce it. I was in enough pain as it was.

So what are the symptoms of this strange malady besides pain? My lower jaw and neck swelled up within hours and turned bright red. I looked like one of those blow-up Thanksgiving Day balloons only not as cute. I would have been the balloon everybody over the age of 12 asked who or what it represented, right before it crashed into a streetlight. I decided not to include a picture of me during this time because this is the stuff of nightmares.

After I was diagnosed, the emergency doctors decided I was a good candidate for a fairly new program that, under certain conditions, sends a patient home for care instead of being hospitalized. The hospital saves money, the patient is less likely to pick up something else in the hospital and in my case, the patient can be home with loving husband, warm fur balls, and an unlimited supply of ice cream.

Advanced Home Care is the term they use when they turn your house into a hospital. I even had to sign an affidavit swearing I wouldn’t leave the house during the allotted time. That’s the house arrest part. Once they’d set up, there was equipment everywhere. Nurses and technicians showed up whenever, drawing blood, taking my temperature, etc. I zoomed with a doctor every day on their loaned-out iPad. I had to take all required medications in front of a 24/7 “virtual nurse,” who was actually a real nurse, stationed in Texas. As I was in California, this was pretty far away. But her face was in front of me, scrutinizing my every move. I got away with nothing, not even taking my pills with coffee. “No, no, no,” she said shaking her head. “Use water, please.” It was a regimented program but a successful one.

What has this got to do with writing? Well, as we all know, we writers are never far from our craft. Or don’t like to be. My latest book, Cleopatra Almost Slept Here, debuted mid-August. Since that time, I’ve been sitting on my hands. Nothing to write. I had an idea for a new novel but couldn’t get it started. Sometimes the new story is too fresh. Sometimes you can’t let go of the previous novel, not just its creation, but the later job of getting it out there to the readers. Such was the case with me.

But back to my little stone. Whenever I’m being taken care of by healthcare workers, overworked and underpaid as they often are, one of the first things I do is learn their names. It’s not just a form of respect but yelling “hey you” when your I.V. comes loose is a little gauche. When I asked my virtual nurse’s name, she had to pronounce it several times for me and then spell it. This was because it’s a made-up family name passed on from mother to daughter. Iejoma, pronounced E- jo-ma.

Well, I loved the name. Not only was her story of how it came about fascinating, but it sprouted all kinds of ideas within me. I’d had the wisp of a character floating around in my head and this name helped solidify it. I asked Iejoma if she minded if I used her name for one of my characters and she gave me permission. Now I am unstuck. All I have to do is sit down and write an eighty-five-thousand-word novel.

Hmmm. I wish I’d phrased that last sentence better.

Recently, the latest book in the Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries, Cleopatra almost Slept Here, debuted. Following my glory hallelujahs, emails started coming out of the woodwork written by allegedly important and famous people. To hear them tell it, I’m not only a wunderkind, but so taken were they, they ignored whatever else was on their agenda to sit right down, read my book, and then write me a lengthy email extoling the book’s virtues. Even my mother rarely went that far. Every day I receive  two or three of these classics. These emails come from far and wide, but manage to say virtually the same thing. I’ve pulled out two as an example:

A Vice President and Editor-in-Chief of a major publishing house said, “The combination of a private-investigator family, animal characters, lighthearted banter, and real investigative stakes gives the novel a strong identity within the cozy mystery space. The archaeological setting also provides an especially appealing backdrop for readers who enjoy mysteries built around history, ancient treasures, and unusual locations.” He then offered I know not what, because all this bot really wanted to do was start an exchange of emails that resulted in extracting my hard-earned moola. I never responded.

I was particularly surprised to hear from Terry Gross of Fresh Air fame, who wrote “It was a genuine pleasure to discover your novel Cleopatra almost Slept Here and to immerse myself in the delightfully witty, wonderfully entertaining, and utterly captivating world you have created. I am reaching out to you personally because I believe your voice and your gift for blending classic mystery with modern humor would make for a truly compelling conversation on Fresh Air, broadcast on Wider Horizons for You and Yours (WHYY).” At the end of the email, she sent her warmest regards while misspelling her last name. Even my two cats laughed at that one.

Here is my response to a particularly insistent bot: “If you are a real human being I apologize. However, I still suspect you are a bot who has learned the ways of charming money out of egotistical writers. I am sorry we have come to this. If you showed up at my house for dinner, I would be more inclined to believe in you. Bring a bottle of wine.”

 I think what is more galling than the unmitigated chutzpa of these emails is the idea that the receiver is so dumb —or has such a large ego — they don’t know a scam when it comes marching at them complete with ticker tape parade.

Sadly, there has to be a naive writer out there buying into this routine, losing their money and a piece of their heart along the way. Let’s face it, if this scam didn’t work, these emails would cease to exist, and the bots would move on to greener pastures. By the way, I have put a pox on the billionaires who own these bots. Like the parents of a spoiled brat, they are really the bad guys.

To muddy the waters, a few years back I received an email from a legitimate producer which led to the Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries being optioned for streaming the series on television. It’s still under option. As only one in every thousand make it to the final stage, I don’t hold my breath. But I’m in the game and it’s a lot of fun.

Given all these scams, would I have even paid attention to that email today? Probably not. I probably would have trashed it like the dozens of others. That thought gives me pause, but not much of one. Such is the climate of internet thievery. Snake oil is alive and well. I can only hope that given the scamming climate, if a legit producer is interested in an artist’s work, they will go the extra hundred miles or so to make it happen. Even though I keep the faith, I can’t help but admit this issue has taken some of the joy out of the debut of my 20^th novel.

In the pool of life, swimming next to sharks is a little scary. I wonder if the shark to the right is really a bot?

Okay, I was trying to be provocative. There isn’t a perfect anything, not even a perfect mystery. Although Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express comes awfully close. Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca does, too. And there are more modern reads like Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn.  But I digress. Back to me writing a perfect whodunit. It’s a worthy goal.

I am heartened by the fact that writing a good mystery is a practiced art. If I play tennis five hours every day, which I don’t but let’s just say I do, I’m going to get pretty good at it. Same with writing a mystery.  I keep in mind that a mystery is a well-written novel that happens to center around a dead body done in by person or persons unknown.

There are some who believe there is a definite separation between the genres of mystery, suspense, and thriller, although many of us combine the three elements when writing our novels. I certainly do. Regardless, I like to keep the definitions straight in my head in case one of our two cats ask what’s the dif. Daphne and Niles are an inquisitive pair (Niles is the one with his belly hanging out).

Mystery – A puzzle of person, place or thing, a ‘whodunit.’ The reader is given clues but has no idea, along with the protagonist, what the outcome will be. If the protagonist is in danger, it’s only when s/he is getting closer to the truth. Mysteries are more of the mind than anything else. Will the protagonist solve the mystery?

Suspense – A ticking time bomb that must be resolved. It has danger but not necessarily action. The reader is often aware of the clues sooner than the protagonist, who must work against time. Suspense plays more on the readers’ emotions. Will the protagonist stop the culprit in time?

Thriller – From the onset, the protagonist is in jeopardy and knows it. The protagonist and reader share the same information at the same time. The thriller has lots of action and keeps the reader on the edge of the seat. No time for thinking or feeling. Will the protagonist survive?

The Cozy Mystery is usually solved by an amateur, often someone who just ‘happens’ to be around at the moment or ‘happens’ to become involved no matter how many books there are in the series. This person does something else for a living but is always bright and committed. The plus side for this type of mystery is the writer ‘merely’ needs to come up with a good story and run with it. No special knowledge is necessary. The protagonist often doesn’t know much more than the reader from the onset of the story. The protagonist learns as s/he goes along, often helped out by a loved one or friend, who tends to have ‘insider info’ that’s missing from our hero. Well, someone has to help advance the plot!

The Detective Mystery revolves around a professional private investigator or law officer, someone who does this for a living. The plus side of this kind of mystery is the writer can dig deeper, go into more detail, reveal maximum facts to the reader, often getting into scenes and places otherwise not available to the average Joe Schmoe. This protagonist is usually more committed to the cause than anyone else, for whatever reason. When I find that reason I’ve got the heart of my story.

Speaking of protagonists, it is essential to have an interesting protagonist, not necessarily likeable, but one with redeeming characteristics. This protagonist should be intelligent and different, someone who knows the rules, but breaks them. S/he has something personal to overcome such as yearning to be a better person or feeling guilty because s/he can’t be. They should also want something, even if it’s a glass of water. Nothing propels a character forward more than wanting something.

When I read mysteries containing successful protagonists, from Miss Marple to Nero Wolf, Sam Spade to Hamish Macbeth, Sherlock Holmes to V.I. Warshawski, I find they all have one thing in common: they are unique. It is essential the protagonist is someone I would want to spend time with at a dinner party, even if once I get home I say, “Wow! What an oddball. I’m glad I don’t have to live with her/him.” Being normal and ordinary just isn’t part of the package. I tend to save that for my youthful love interests.

After I’ve created my protagonist, I occasionally do an essay or interview with her/him in order to flesh the character out. I ask questions, such as: How do they react under pressure? What do they cherish? What do they abhor? Do they believe in justice above all else? Where is their point of mercy? Would they, themselves, take a life? If so, how do they live with that? Then of course, I have to ask what is their favorite color? Not only does that make them feel more ‘real’ to me, but sometimes the mundane can be very revealing.

Now I’ve got the protagonist who’s going to solve the crime(s). Good for me. But where’s my plot? It’s murderous, of course, but I’ve got 175 plus pages to fill out. When I have no idea what kind of plot to wrap around my victim(s), I pick up a magazine, newspaper, listen to a newscast, or search the internet. Sometimes people in my own life have weird stories they love to talk about. So, I listen, absorb, and delve.

The 2^nd novel of the Alvarez Family Murder Mystery Series, A Wedding to Die For, started with an article from National Geographic. It was about an extended family of Egyptian grave robbers, who discovered an ancient royal burial chamber containing precious artifacts. They kept the knowledge to themselves and pilfered from the tomb taking one piece at a time. They did this for generations. They took just enough to feed, clothe, and educate themselves. After decades of careful use of the money, this family came into positions of power within their community and Egypt. Unfortunately, one of them got greedy. Their chicanery was revealed, but it took 60 years to do so. I was entranced. I knew I wanted to take this situation, transfer it to Mexico, and create a powerful family to become the nemesis of the Alvarez clan.

The sub-plot of A Wedding to Die For was a mythical search engine start-up company, Bingo-Bango, and its inhabitants. I felt the sub-plot added a lot of fun and depth to the story, even though it had little to do with the main plot. I did manage, however, to have a situation arise from the sub-plot that gave the protagonist, Lee, an answer to a big problem in the main plot. That was yummy. The finale was the wedding, of course. When I tied everything together, I had the skeleton of my book.

Finally, I go on to the dastardly deed of the murder itself. When my imagination is doing the victim in, the sky’s the limit. What I need to keep in mind, though, is the type of mystery I’m writing. Soft and sweet? Hard-boiled and gritty? Having a disabled little old lady, raped, mutilated and dismembered on page 5 of a story sets up a dark flavor, no matter how many doilies and kittens I throw in.

I have discovered with the cozy it’s best to have the murder victim go in a way that’s more palatable to the reader and off-scene, if possible. But that doesn’t stop me from trying to make it inventive. Drowned in a vat of cabernet sauvignon comes to mind. Someday I may try that. I live in wine country, so forgive me.

If I’m writing a hard-boiled detective story where the protagonist eats rusty nails, drinks rotgut, spits on people’s shoes, and hasn’t talked to his mother since he was eight, dismemberment might not be a bad way to go. Hmmm. Decisions, decisions.

After choosing the protagonist and victim, I try to provide a myriad of suspects with access to the victim(s) at the time of demise. Or just the opposite – no one at all. Right away tension is created. Who, who, who? How, how, how? I ratchet it up whenever I can because I have a pretty fertile imagination. Some say demented. Whatever. You say potato, I say potahto.

Whatever method I choose, I try to do something unusual with it. The method of death, the way the body is discovered, the person discovering it, etc., might have an unusual bend. If I go for the disabled little old lady, for instance, I might have my protagonist find out she was a scam artist on the side, bilking widows and orphans. If I have my victim drown in a vat of 1997 Mouton-Rothschild Bordeaux Blend, maybe I’ll have him be a tea-totaler.

Now that I have some sort of murder going, I start popping in characters that might work with the story. Sometimes I have a chat with these characters as I drive to the supermarket. Maybe when I stop for a light or while standing in the checkout line I’ll go through a scene in my head, acting out certain things. Thank God for cell phones. Nowadays, those nearby assume I’m having an animated conversation on my phone and not demented. Ah! There’s that word again.

When the plot and characters come together, and I’ve eliminated things that don’t work but glom on like crazy to things that do, I sit down and start writing. This is usually the time when the first draft almost writes itself. I just try to keep up.

Hanging over my head all the while is the fervent prayer that this novel will get as near as possible to the proverbial perfect mystery. Wish me luck.