I’ve always been a big reader, I have my bookshelves in general genre sections. There are books under the bed, books on shelves, books by shelves, books on the desk, books under the desk. Some books you read a dozen times, revisiting old friends. Some books you open for the first time and you could swear you’d known them your whole life. Some books are non-fiction…very informative, usually less plot though.

There’s something about a detective story though. They suck you right in! If you’re not that fussed about whodunnit there’s the obvious turmoil of every member of the police force. If you’re more of a monster of the week person (Hello yes thank you.) character development takes a heck of a back seat to chasing down the killer. You figure it out on page ten? You get the rest of the book to see if you were right! You’ve got no idea? Enjoy the ride until the big reveal! (I’m still shocked by whodunnit in Ann Cleeves, The Glass Room (2012).)
Some of the best murder-mysteries I’ve read aren’t the best because of the story telling - If you’ve ever read any of the Longmire Series you’re acquainted with bad, white-male-writer writing. - They’re good because you can picture the city across the river, the cul-de-sac in the last throws of summer, that the petals in the bathtub were oh so bright because the summer sun makes everything that touch more saturated. Or the more sedate, less-saturated blustery fields with bird watchers trudging across in their tweed jackets, collars held up against the wind. I don’t remember who the killer was, I don’t remember all of the clues and red herrings, but I can still picture Vera and Joe holed up in a quaint-but-greasy cafe in a rain soaked town they’d rather not be in.

Detective novels, you’ve gotta love ‘em.