Here is a question I have been asking myself for quite some time now, usually while staring at a post that received three likes (one of which was my own, which I'm told doesn't count):
Does any of this actually work?
There is a moment in almost every mystery novel where someone leans across a table, fixes the detective with a look of wounded dignity, and says: "I was nowhere near the library that evening. I was at home. Alone."
And the reader thinks: you did it.
Let me paint you a picture.
You're reading a novel. The plot is ticking along nicely, the detective is being detectivey, and then you turn a page and walk into the house. And something happens. The hairs on the back of your neck do a little shimmy. The house isn't just where the story is happening — it is the story. It watches. It remembers. It has opinions about you, and they're not entirely flattering.
There is a peculiar tightrope that every cosy mystery writer must walk, and it goes something like this: on one side, a body. On the other, a joke about scones.
Every genre has its icons. Romance has its brooding dukes. Thrillers have their maverick agents with a drinking problem and a past. But cosy mysteries? We have something far more interesting: a retired spinster who knits and sees everything, a fussy Belgian with a moustache that could tell its own story, and an assortment of amateur sleuths who absolutely should not be solving murders but somehow always do.
There's a particular kind of reader who will finish a novel, set it down with a satisfied sigh, and immediately start wondering what happened to the postman.
Not the protagonist. Not the villain. The postman — the one who appeared in three scenes, delivered a pivotal letter, made a dry joke about the weather, and was never seen again. That reader will lie awake constructing an entire biography for him. A difficult childhood, perhaps. An allotment. A secret fondness for jazz.