Serial Killers: a Troublesome Trend

 As a mystery author (E.C. Ayres) I am troubled by a trend in the writing and publication of mystery/suspense thrillers: serial killers have become a near requirement in today's literary fare. Personally, I yearn for the days of Agatha Chrystie, Mickie Spillane, and Sam Spade. It was all about character development, depth of relationship (bright and dark), memory and recollection, illusion and disillusionment.

What happened in those novels were vivid reflections of life as it is or was truly lived (and sometimes, ended). They reflected our actual world, albeit focusing on a particular location or aspect. The keys, always, were character and suspense. And when done right, it can be unforgettable.

There can be exceptions, of course, to this trend (or any trend) as always. The book that triggered my need to write this blog was this one: 

As I delved into the early chapters I was instantly troubled by the opening introduction of a serial killer just getting warmed up, it seemed, with his third brutal, blood-spattered-everywhere murder. Of a woman, of course. Women are always the victim{s} in these novels, and men the perpetrators. There has historically, factually, been only been one, in Florida (where else) and she was never brutal, she simply shot men who picked her up then tried to rape or molest her. But I was intrigued to learn that the author of the above novel, P.J. Tracy, was a woman. 

Could a woman's perspective lend a new element of depth to her novel, such as those I referred to above? In this case, in a word: yes. She successfully reached out and grabbed me, and pulled me in--unwillingly at first, hence this blog, but then this page-turner became one I could not put down (well, except to eat, sleep, and live my life, such as it is in this age of pandemics, both medical and environmental).

So where does this leave me? In a moral quandary, particularly having been raised a Quaker opposed to violence in all forms. Which, given I write murder mysteries, makes me a hypocrite of sorts. But for me, it was a way to purge my own fears and demons and put them to (hopefully) good use. Living as we all do now in a world of constant violence, hatred, and peril, one thing that mystery novels all have (or almost all--I have some issues with John Grisham in this regard) is a positive outcome: the good guys (and gals) win and the bad guys (and, occasionally gals) are vanquished. If only, we all feel, real life could be so safely, sigh-of-relief predictable.

(Full disclosure: in my fourth Tony Lowell Mystery Lair of the Lizard, my opening chapter also features a nasty specimen of a male human being stalking a woman: his wife--or would be ex-wife if her strictly Catholic Hispanic heritage and family permitted it.

 And yes, he has killed before. But only once. For the purposes of this thriller, set in Santa Fe, that was enough. 

NOTE: A new updated edition will be published this Fall by my new publisher, Speaking Volumes).

Stay safe and read on:

E.C. Ayres