But are they appropriate? Is she too young?
Often classified as 'cozies', my crime novels actually have a little bit of offensive language in them (see blog below if you're wondering why) but other than that they really are quite cozy for adult crime novels. There's no sex of any kind, much to some reader's dismay, and the crime is relatively whitewashed. There's no major blood and gore, no sinister serial killers or, at least, the type that would keep you up at night (and by that I mean in a bad way), and no scalpel-happy pathologists slicing into corpses. They're just plot-driven puzzles, really, with a dead body at their core.
And yet I hesitate...
Before I explain why, allow me to go into a little background first.
My mystery history
Like many crime writers, I grew up on a steady diet of mystery novels, from Enid Blyton's The Famous Five to Agatha Christie's Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot. From an early age I binge-read every mystery book I could get my greedy paws on. And I sourced my books from far and wide—from the sandy shelves of my local library (just metres from a sparkling beach that just couldn't compete) to the depths of neighbours' bookshelves. Even my friends' parents' bedside tables were not safe when I was sleeping over.
As a tweenie, I read my share of Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys, but my particular favourite was The Three Investigators, a lesser-known series featuring three gutsy boys who solved a range of crimes, mostly involving stolen jewels or missing pirate treasure. Arrrgh! And they did it from an exotic-sounding bunker in one of the boy's junk yards. (In retrospect, the bunker must have been a dump, and a stinky, leaky one at that. But why let reality get in the way?)
From diamond heists, I graduated to murder mysteries, as I guess most mystery-lovers do. I mean, what more pressing mystery is there than 'Who killed someone or other?' But no children's authors were writing murder mysteries of any kind. Of course they weren't. This was the 1970s, after all. And so I discovered Agatha Christie and never really looked back.
I'm looking back now and I don't believe I was any younger than my neice is today when I was captivated by my first fictitious murder. In fact, I'd bet my knickerbockers and shoulder pads I was around age 13 when I picked up Christie's Evil Under the Sun.
So why hesitate to let Lili, my lovely niece, read, say, A Plot to Die For, my homage to that very novel? In my story, I have a group of well-to-do types lolling at a luxury boutique hotel when, shock horror, a murder is committed. And, as is the way with murder mysteries, it must promptly be solved by my friendly visiting Ghostwriter, Roxy Parker (think Miss Marple but a lot younger, cooler and in way better clothes).
And still I hesitate...
Is it the occasional profanity in my books?
It can't really be that, can it? I mean, surely Lili would hear much, much worse every day on the bus, in the school yard, on her family television set. Kids today are so much savvier and more blasé than we ever were. Swear words are one thing, blasphemy wouldn't even trigger an eyebrow raise. She may not even have heard of the term, so innocuous is it in modern Australian society.
Is it the fear that she will see me in a different light?
I'm not the straightest Aunt she has, or even the sweetest by anyone's measure, but I'm also pretty sure, at this stage anyway, that Lili doesn't consider me a madwoman whose daily job involves conjuring up weird and wonderful ways to bump people off. Does she need to know I've imagined slitting someone's throat? That I've delighted in whacking a sleazy husband over the head with his treasured golf club? That it's all in a day's work for me; that my mind is that dark? Will she start to look at me sideways next time I stop to visit, and maybe even remove the sharp knives from the kitchen drawer?
Probably not, that's a bit extreme, but nonetheless it gets you thinking.
Perhaps I'm just scared I won't live up?
It's one thing to have strangers dislike your novels, it's quite another to be on the nose with those you, well, know. Even amongst grown-ups, I have always hesitated to recommend my stuff to loved ones, or distant friends for that matter. If they read it and despise it or, worse, get bored and stop halfway (is there any worse fate for a writer?) will that sully our relationship? Will that cloud their judgement somehow?
Forget about the knives, will Lili struggle to look me in the eye next time I come to visit?
These are all vainglorious questions, pure self-indulgence, I know that. But they're questions I ask myself each and every time I publish a new novel. And now that a beloved niece wants to read one, they're questions I wish I could answer.
Instead, I guess I'll let her decide for herself. Tell her to do as most of my readers do, and check out the synopsis, read the sample chapter and decide for herself.
But I'll also quickly add: if she decides my books are too rude, or boring or, like, total crap, please don't tell me. I don't think I want to know.
Happy (age-appropriate) reading everyone.
xo Christina
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