Christopher Rice



Here's what I like most about writing crime fiction: Every five
seconds there is a large and well-attended convention taking place somewhere
in the United States where fans and practitioners of the craft gather
to discuss the most successful ways in which they can murder their imaginary
friends.



The largest of these conventions is called Bouchercon. It's basically
three days spent shuffling between hotel conference rooms with a bag
of free books slung over your shoulder, three days of flipping through
the convention program in search of the bios for authors whose sharp
wit livened up panels with topics like "The Role of the Potted
Plant in the Police Procedural" and "The State of the Cat
Mystery In The Wake of 9/11." (Don't get me wrong. It's a blast.
You're free to talk about things here that might land you on a watch
list if discussed in an airport, or even a nice restaurant.)



This past fall, Bouchercon was also the setting for what many in the
crime-writing community regarded as a mild insurrection. The invitation
went out by email several months prior to the convention; those attendees
who considered themselves to be thriller writers were invited to gather
in an abandoned conference room several hours before the start of the
Anthony Awards dinner. The goal ‹ to determine whether a separate
organization was needed to promote and celebrate the thriller as a distinct
genre. Distinct, that is, from the mystery. (Insert gasp here.)



A quick check of Bouchercon's website will tell you that it's a mystery
convention. Thriller writers meeting at a mystery convention? For devoted
crime fiction fans, the mere idea of such a meeting gives off a small
spark of controversy. It conjures images of a group of glamorously dressed,
brandy-snifting novelists drawing up plans to kidnap and ransom the
President of the Mystery Writers of America and stage armed takeovers
of mystery bookstores throughout the country. ("All the Frederick
Forsyth to the window display! Now, Otto!")



Rest assured that such silly rumors were merely the inane ramblings
of certain convention center staff members who have since moved on to
other lines of work. (Note to concerned family members ‹ Gayle
Lynds has asked that all inquiries into the whereabouts of these individuals
be addressed to Lee Child, newly appointed chairman of ITW's Disappearing
Committee.)



Joking aside, the ever-widening circle of thriller writers who gathered
that evening shared the belief that their work was profoundly connected
to the traditional mystery, but also its own beast, deserving of its
own corner of the barn. While the mystery and thriller share certain
thematic elements, the all-too-common consensus is that a thriller simply
rockets them all to level ten.



This mode of comparison allows for few shades of gray. Try to use it
to assess which side of the fence a work of crime fiction should sit
on, and the resulting discussion may turn into a hair-splitting dissection
of the novel's more cosmetic attributes. Lots of explosions? It's a
thriller. One explosion where no one dies? A mystery ... maybe. Wait,
a cat is killed in the explosion? Oh, dear! Definitely a thriller then.
Killing cats in mysteries is a big no-no. Especially since they make
such fine detectives. And so on and so on.



I'm not a fan of "the high-stakes" method of distinguishing
thrillers from mysteries. This might have something to do with the fact
that I consider my first two novels to be thrillers but critics don't
seem to agree. In my first, A DENSITY OF SOULS, homophobic terrorists
bomb a New Orleans gay bar, and a massive hurricane destroys southern
Louisiana. Call it really bad luck for New Orleans, but don't call it
a "coming-of-age story" for Pete's sake. Unfortunately that's
exactly how most critics described it.


In my second attempt to write a thriller, a college freshman with an
assumed identity tries to investigate a murder. Only problem is the
victim was married to the professor this freshman is having an affair
with. And ‹ oh, yeah ‹ his fake identity is starting to
unravel. Some critics described this ditty as a "dark coming-of-age
story."



I'm convinced that if I wrote a novel about a massive blizzard that
sent sheets of ice scissoring through downtown Los Angeles critics would
describe it as "meteorological meditation." I don't know.
Maybe my characters talk too much. Maybe I need to use more Semtex.
Perhaps the cover art is a little too stark, a little too literary,
if you will. (Most people thought the dead grass depicted on the cover
of THE SNOW GARDEN was a close-up shot of arm hair)



So here's the real question. Why do I remain convinced that my novels
are thrillers when the majority of critics refuse to describe them as
such?



Simple. My characters always leave behind a trail of physical and psychological
destruction that is ripe for the prodding of a good detective. Upon
finishing THE SNOW GARDEN, I immediately wanted to follow it up with
my best attempt at a mystery, in which a seasoned detective made a new
kind of sense out of the proceedings, the kind of sense that the characters
in THE SNOW GARDEN were too desperate and afraid to make for themselves.
Call it a ghost mystery, if you will, that will continue to linger out
there in the ether until I write it. (I might not.)



Conversely, I think every great mystery reads as if it were preceded
by a ghost thriller. My favorite example is THE GALTON CASE, by Ross
Macdonald, in which PI Lew Archer uncovers a conspiracy of switched
identities that spans decades and straddles North America. I don't consider
the novel a thriller because Archer never gets sucked in by the sense
of desperation among the suspects and villains he encounters, a brave
strength that gives him the ability to experience a different story
inspired by the same crimes.



To put it simply, every great thriller kicks up the makings of a great
mystery, and every great mystery begins in the wreckage of a great thriller.
But both rely on the well-conceived conspiracy or crime.



From a creative standpoint, I like to think of the perfect crime as
a beautiful seductress. (Alright, that's a lie. I think of my crime
as a hot stud. But for the sake of example, I'll let the majority rule
here.) I send her into a smoky bar and have one guy approach her right
away. He falls for her after the first drink. He takes her home and
into bed. He makes ill-advised life plans with her. If I pick this poor
dupe's story, I'm about to start a thriller.



I let another night go by in this new-noir bar in my mind. In walks
my dangerous dame for the second time that week. I have another guy
approach her, only this guy doesn't quite like her tone. He buys her
a few more drinks to see if things lighten up. They don't. He begs off,
but later, he follows her home just so he can get a glimpse of how she
lives. If I pick this guy's story, I'm about to start writing a mystery.



Readers will be able to tell right away which guy's story they're reading,
without counting the number of explosions involved or how many times
the guy flew British Airways in the course of the novel.



For reasons best left unexplored, I always pick the poor dupe who made
too many life plans with the dangerous dame. That makes me a thriller
writer. Someday I might learn to keep my distance or try a different
angle of approach, but for now I'll just keep hitting those crime conventions
and take solace in the fact that mystery and thriller writers both get
worked over by the same dangerous dame. The difference is our scars
are in different places.

© 2005 Christopher Rice

Christopher
Rice is the author of THE NEW YORK TIMES best selling "thrillers"
A DENSITY OF SOULS and THE SNOW GARDEN, which won a Lambda Literary
Award. He writes a regular column for THE ADVOCATE. His forthcoming
novel, LIGHT BEFORE DAY, will be in stores on March 16, 2005.