Losing the plot: a guest column from Clea Simon

The trend in mystery these days has definitely gravitated towards more character-driven work. And while I and many others welcome this, what then of plot? Is it being sacrificed because readers give more leeway to writers who don’t deliver enough surprises, twists and turns?

Asking these questions is Boston-area journalist and mystery writer Clea Simon, whose debut MEW IS FOR MURDER is just out from Poisoned Pen Press.

Whatever happened to plot? When did the question mark after the "whodunit" disappear? I’ve been asking myself that since finishing Michelle Wan’s DEADLY SLIPPER, a highly touted debut mystery that, well, isn’t much of one in terms of who did it (won’t otherwise bright female protagonists ever suspect the good-looking guy?). It’s a grand book in terms of physical description, particularly when it comes to the food and orchids of the Dordogne region of France, and I enjoyed my time with it. But not, ultimately, for its story line.

Maybe its the lure of escapism. I mean, along with millions of other people, I’ve fallen hard for Alexander McCall Smith’s Mma Ramotswe series (the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency books). Although I still have a difficult time getting my mind around the idea of a white man writing in a Botswanan woman¹s voice — particularly because our precious Precious Ramotswe is a fat-bottomed dispenser of home truths — the slow, sweet life he describes is incredibly seductive in these rough times. And I read my share of cozies and international thrillers (shout out to Lisa See!) as well for just this sort of between-the-covers vacation.

Part of the appeal of John Burdett’s BANGKOK 8 and the new BANGKOK TATTOO, for example, springs from their exotic namesake locale and from protagonist Sanchai Jitpleecheap¹s cynical Buddhism. His anti-Americanism and his questionable defense of the sex industry is just so much more confit in this context — a dash of spice to take us from our daily lives. With the success of this kind of book, I was thinking that maybe the mystery has simply morphed into something new — the virtual travelogue, the comfort read.

As the author of MEW IS FOR MURDER, a sort-of cozy (my agent and publisher can’t agree), I guess I should take part of the blame: For years now, cozies have colonized such tight little niches that they really have become more involved with their mini-genres — such as knitting, antiques, or, yes, cats — than with serious plotting. The details of the cross-stitching, the recipe, or the pedigree breed is considered crucial; the crime secondary. Maybe their reliance on very particular areas of expertise has bled over to more mainstream books. (Queue Mama Rose singing, "You Gotta Have a Gimmick" here.)

In a spirit of full disclosure, I should add here that I’m benefiting from this trend: MEW, my mystery debut, is getting as much (sometimes more) attention for its music writing as for its plot points. My protagonist is a rock fan and aspiring critic and she spends much of her time in the Boston area clubs. This is bittersweet for me — I spent a good ten years as a rock critic before giving up. I got published, and held down regular gigs at both the daily papers in town for a while. But I could never make a living at it, and so ultimately felt like a failure. To win praise for my descriptions of the sound or the scene now makes me wistful. Especially because I¹d rather make my name now on the mystery part — the surprising revelation, the head-slapping realization that of course so-and-so has motive, means, and opportunity. Maybe in ten more years…

Ideally, for me and my fellows, the swing back will happen sooner. For their own survival, mysteries have got to come back to the plot — without it we have no momentum, no reason for being. DEADLY SLIPPER, for example, could make a claim to be something other — maybe a hybrid between pop lit and belles lettres or even High Art Literary Fiction, but those classifications come with their own set of problems. We can reverse the trend. Plot is still out there.

While reviewing the somewhat disappointing BANGKOK TATTOO I re-read BANGKOK 8 and was astounded by how well it was constructed. In this one slim whipsmart volume, the author had not only given us the aforementioned exotica, but also the kind of water-tight plot that provides a reason for everything by its finale. From the death of Jitpleecheap¹s partner, through the perfect revenge, it all works. Why, we wonder at first, was that case filled not only with spitting cobras but also a boa? Why jade? Why, for that matter, Bangkok? It¹s not just local color, although the description of that boa attempting to swallow a marine¹s head is inspiring. It¹s beautiful plotting. Everything is necessary — the crime, the diplomatic doublespeak, even the sultry rendition of "Bye, Bye Blackbird" that closes the book. I suspect others will disagree with me, citing mood or character, but these puzzles of checks and balances, these beautiful self-contained rationales are what makes our favorite genre so strong.

Don’t get me wrong: Cats are great, and I¹m a huge fan of literary voyeurism in all its forms. But plot is what drives the mystery — that great breathless rush up to the moment of recognition as everything falls into place. Given the options, that¹s where mysteries should still be aimed. Toward a place where suspects are rife, but the real murderer well hidden. Where motives become clear with time, and all the clues are hidden in plain sight. A neat and tidy destination, where the logic works and the reader leaves satisfied, no stone unturned and every snake in its place.