Back when my wife and I were still courting, she made some disparaging remarks about mystery writers in general, and Raymond Chandler in particular. By way of rebuttal, my college roommate and I talked her into reading The Big Sleep aloud to us.
Suzanne started in with a tone of utter cynicism, even disdain. The thing is, when my wife talks like that, she precisely captures the mood of Raymond Chandler. She sounds, in fact, exactly like Lauren Bacall in the movie also called "The Big Sleep."
She looked up once or twice and saw my eyes shining. Her voice lilted over one of those unexpected and exquisitely poetic passages Chandler tosses in from time to time. In just a few minutes, my wife-to-be fell for Chandler's writing in a big way. Saved our relationship, probably.
Or take Mickey Spillane novels. I never imagined I'd go for the hard-bitten, macho cop stuff. But I did recall hearing something about Spillane I liked. Once someone had referred to Spillane as an author. "I'm not an author, I'm a writer," he snapped.
What's the difference between an author and a writer? Spillane said, "Writers make money."
I finally got around to one of his books. It was I, the Jury. I admired its lean, muscular prose, the tightly-wound plot, the impeccable characterizations. He deserved to make money.
I haven't read many mystery writers. But the ones I have, were terrific. As a child, I curled myself into the corner of 221B Baker Street, smoking an imaginary pipe and matching wits with Mr. Sherlock Holmes (and faring about as well as Dr. Watson).
Much later, in college, I stumbled across the novels of Dorothy Sayers. Her Lord Peter Wimsey and the winsome Harriet Vane taught me nearly everything I know about the English countryside and high-born. More recently, I discovered John Dunning's bibliophile detective.
Compared to many, many thousands of library patrons, I haven't even scratched the surface.
Mystery readers are among the most fanatical of all library users. They do not read; they devour. Their appetite cannot be satisfied. To switch metaphors, they line up for new books like stiffs in a morgue. (Sorry. It's the subject.)
They re-read the old favorites endlessly. When most of us want to get to sleep, we count sheep. Mystery readers count corpses. But while they're counting, they're turning pages. Mystery readers are a big part of our business.
People who read mysteries tend to be a little sharper than average too. They like puzzles. A little excitement doesn't scare them. They're observant. They're thinkers.
So to thank them for their unstinting support of libraries everywhere, the Douglas Public Library District has decided to kill somebody.
Not really! But library staff will once again be involved in the antics of the Parker Cultural Commission. On March 6, 7 p.m., the "Murder of the Mystery Detective" will be held at the Parker Mainstreet Center, 19650 E. Mainstreet. For a paltry $15, you get a fabulous dinner, distinctly amateur (but often hilarious) theatrical performances, and the opportunity to interact with the characters.
And what characters! Parker Councilwoman Deb Lewis does girl-sleuth Nancy Prude, which is worth the price of admission alone. I even have a small, but key, role myself. You might even say I'm dying to play it.
Tickets are available at the Parker Town Hall, 20120 E. Mainstreet, or at the Parker Library, 10851 Crossroads Drive. For more information, call (303) 841-0353.
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