Is Quitting Sometimes the Greater Good?

paper and  pen

As that old song goes “Should I stay or should I go?”

For the last five years or so, I have been trying to return to the writing that I walked away from when I stopped teaching after twenty years. Twenty plus years of not writing, then I began again. Stops and starts; small steps into a poem or blog piece here or there; frenzied thousands of words through the past three years NaNoWriMo and here I am: Where?

My writing may not be as bad as my eye and ear perceive it, but as I grow older, grasp for thoughts, words, concepts with more difficulty–my God, I’ve started using a Thesaurus–I can’t help but wonder what or who benefits by my trudging on. I found myself re-reading some older blog pieces and I can’t deny that rather than improving by writing more, I see less value, less poetry, less rhythm of word and thought three years later.

Yes, walking away from 72,000 words of one mystery and 50,000 of another feels like failure. But would walking away from 100,000 in another year be less soul depleting? My heart says I am on a useless journey; yet my ‘pen’ pushes on, another word, then another until a sentence builds and here I am again. But should I be?

At the crisis point in one of the mysteries I have been writing–and every writer who struggles with the “writer’s journey” and the 3 act structure knows that point comes quite late–my protagonist, almost sure she has been the indirect cause of a death, thinks that there is no reason she should stay in the old neighborhood she has embraced as home, thinks she could move on and be free of the responsibility, the guilt, the pressure to solve the riddle of the first death. But as she paces her apartment, listening to the sounds of the bar she inherited floating up from below, the music, the clink of glasses and bottles, the laughter of her neighbors, she knows she cannot go. She is home.

Late in my third act, writing may be my home, my pen continuing to craft a world, sentence by sentence. That might be my answer.

I’m just not sure it’s the right answer.

The Problem With Series Mysteries: Who Changes?



Writing is all about the protagonist, right? And that protagonist goes through some turmoil–yes, simplifying here–and then, abracadabra, she goes through some fundamental change by the end. Succeed or fail, she changes in some deep way. Got that? Never varies? Rules of the game and all.

Except. Except. Really? What about Sherlock Holmes? Wow, he really grows and matures, huh. Joe Friday (if you’re old enough to remember Dragnet)? Yeah, goes home from the precinct a changed man at the end of each episode, hoo boy.

Uh. No. Holmes is pretty much always Holmes. Lights a pipe, grabs his violin and waits for the next client. Friday has to be one of the most colorless, blank slates of all the slates out there. Throws the crook in jail, gavel bangs to show justice will be done. Onward.

So when writing a series mystery, as opposed to a stand-alone, if it’s not your detective who changes, who does? In modern mysteries, of course, we’ve seen more changing. The sleuth–whether amateur or pro–becomes harder drinking as life’s harsh realities set in, leaves the spouse (or the spouse is killed: cautionary note to those thinking of marrying a detective), retires vowing to never touch another case, develops PTSD or OCD or another DSM classification. As I think about it, the changes never seem to be all that positive: “Hey, honey, I feel like the world has become so much cleaner and brighter since that blackmailer fell off the bridge, let’s get a puppy!”

An argument could be made that in a classic mystery series, the “protagonist,” the one who changes, is the “antagonist,” the evildoer who has been brought to justice in some way. But unless the killer goes through a substantial psychological change or breakthrough, isn’t the change really external: he goes to jail, gets sent to the gallows, falls off the bridge? (I’m never walking across a bridge if I forget to pay the gas bill on time, by the way.)

What then creates the epiphany or recognition that “story” supposedly demands? Traditionally, a mystery–whether puzzle or police procedural–brings about not change but a return to stability. Yes, even in the traditional hero story arc, there should be the return of the hero, bringing back the grail or ring or sorcerer’s stone, to the land where she began and that’s stability. But she’s supposed to have changed in some way. She recognizes her own strengths when she thought she had none. She appreciates Kansas. She’ll never go hungry again, damn it.

Can the change occur in those characters surrounding the mystery? In Nicholas Blake’s The Widow’s Cruise, the character who seems to have the most change is a young man who starts as a stuck up little prig, all ego and cockiness, who falls for an older woman only to have her end up dead and himself suspected for a time. Blake describes him at the end as having matured. But do we feel this changes the outcome of the mystery that much? Could he have stayed cocky and the mystery still pleasingly resolved? Absolutely.

Now, I’m supposed to give you the answer. Well, I can’t because I’m struggling to figure it out. Maybe in a series, change isn’t really the answer–although that means I’m going to have to ditch a passel  of books on how to write that I own. Or the change may come to the community as a whole (although in the previously mentioned Blake book, they just continue to cruise the Aegean). Or the “protagonist,” the object of change is just that–an object. The blue carbuncle? The apportioned will? The body in the library?

In my own work, I suspect the neighborhood of The Blue Moon might be the “character” most “upended,” as Lisa Cron phrases it in Story Genius. Yes, my protagonist will change a bit more than Holmes or Miss Marple. But not so much she can’t go on to sleuth out another day or mix another cocktail. (Trigger warning: if this series ever flies, it’s not a cozy. Swearing will ensue.) Cheers. And if you do have the answer, I’m all ears (not really, I have fingers, toes and other body parts, too).


Not All Days Are Today

Each goes to our own corners,

This welcome May-warm April Sunday.

My husband claims the bed,

Supine, hands crossed over belly,

Feet crossed at ankles,

A double helix at rest.

The old, skinny cat

A circle in his heated bed.

No day too warm for his frail bones,

Head resting on a catnip mouse almost

As old and skinny as himself.

I take to the couch,

Stretched into a stick

Under the window beneath the sumac,

Listening to a house sparrow whistle

Without lips.

The day shapes itself into and around us,

Resting with us into the afternoon.

Snippet 2 of Taoist Mystery: Being With Nothingness

Obviously, the only reason I’m putting a few of these very first draft, rather random sections of my work ‘in progress,’ I’ll call it loosely, is to find out whether any readers out there would be the slightest bit interested in continuing if they stumbled across this: would you want to know any who, what, why, when, where? Please remember, compassion is a very mindful trait.

Snippet Two:

And now I was staring at a ditch that didn’t exist yesterday at the edge of a woods that was mostly brush and scrub pine with a roommate who I didn’t even really know at a retreat lead by a mad monk. “Everything changes.” “Accept the Now.” I was trying very, very hard to do just that but  was also thinking about why the ditch had appeared, who had put it there and where did it begin? Or end? Somewhere up in the pines above the dunes. Without saying more, I began to climb the hill. Sam followed, his rolling lumber heavier than mine as was his breathing. As the hill went up, the path turned from slushy grass to rocks and then to no path at all. But the ditch was still there beside us providing a trail when the trail had given up.
Finally, we stopped. The ditch stopped. The trees stopped.. We were in a clearing, a hole in the woods, nothing but dirt and a few wisps of bad grass with a few stumps dotting it. And at the very edge of the ditch, face down, head on one side, torso the other, lay a person. Or “once was a” person because she looked very, very dead. I knew I was letting my expecting mind get in the way. There really wasn’t any certainty that the body was a she. There was very long white-blond hair but it wasn’t like I had never run into a metal band before; and the figure was slight and didn’t look very tall but one of my favorite friends was a 5’ 3” drag queen so that meant nothing. And really, even the “dead” part, was I so sure about that? Who knows how comfortable lying face down across a ditch to sleep off a drunk might be, after all?

A few years before, I had taken a CPR class and I remembered at least the first part—the whacking and shouting part. To be absolutely correct I should first shout “Call 911” to Sam but there were no cell phones allowed at the retreat so that seemed a bit needlessly dramatic. I skipped straight to step two: I walked over yelling “Are you ok? Are you ok?” and started hitting the—person—on the back with the palm of my hand. Hard. There was a girl in the CPR class who had just said in a quiet voice “are you ok?” and she got reamed out by the instructor. I wasn’t making that mistake. “Are you ok?” I screamed as loud as I could and thwacked the—person—again.
“What the hell are you doing?” Sam snarled. “You can tell she’s dead.”
“How do you know it’s a ‘she’? Aren’t you bringing your expectations to this? Shouldn’t you approach it with ‘beginner’s mind’?”
“Well, she or he or it is still dead.”
I paused my back slapping, looked at the unmoving—body—the new position I had just promoted the person to.
“Yeah. What do we do? We can’t call the police; there’s no phone anywhere around. And in all the good detective shows, you learn not to touch the body, so we shouldn’t, but…”
“But you’re really jonesing to find out whether it’s a he or she, aren’t you?” Sam said, tilting back his neckless chin to peer down his nose at me. “Well, do it. Don’t keep me waiting,” he went on, smiling like the good little enabler he was.
I thought about at least waiting until we told Leon, the director of the retreat, the “monk” who ran the place like Mussolini on meth but I wasn’t sure the “mad monk” would be the best person to do the turning over. I already had him pegged as a main suspect. So my slapping hand now became my turning hand and I rolled the—woman–because she had now had a second promotion—over.

Snippet from early stages of my Taoist mystery

The ditch didn’t exist yesterday. Then again, I didn’t exist yesterday, at least not the “I” that was standing at the edge of a ragged ditch stretching from three feet to my left up the dunes into the trees. Right. Everything Changes. I knew that part. But a ditch doesn’t just become a ditch overnight.

Sam came up behind me.

“That ditch wasn’t there yesterday.”

He bent over the edge, looking into it as if the answer to its birth would be gazing up at him from its bottom.


“Well, how did it get there? Who dug it?”

“Everything Changes,” I said, knowing that I might as well just have said “Your mama’s so fat….”

“Don’t give me that crap. A ditch doesn’t just become a ditch overnight.”

Excellent. Something we could agree on out here in the middle of nothing at the end of nowhere.  Sam and I had come out here so he could ‘find’ himself. And the first thing we found was a ditch.