Breaking Up With My Book Boyfriends

I was scrolling through Instagram the other day and came across a post from one of my bookstagramer buddies. She had complied several memes to describe herself. I was humored by the effort and accuracy of said memes and found the majority of them relatable. However, one of the memes she chose to describe herself made me think and question my life.

This meme was somewhere along the lines of those “single, taken, mentally dating a fictional character” graphics. For years I have joked about how I only date superheroes and have ranted about all of my “book boyfriends.” But that was when I was single.

I found myself staring at this meme. I backtracked. I questioned my life. My future. 

“I’m in a real actual legit relationship with a real actual legit boy.” My thoughts raced around my head like overactive clockworks. “Like…an actual living breathing walking talking person and we have an actual mutual interest in each other.”

What did this mean? Was I suddenly one of the only bookstagramers that wasn’t allowed a book boyfriend now? Could I no longer comment “lol, totally relatable” when others fangirls posted about their relationship with a fictional character? I was in a real crisis!

With these thoughts lurking in the back of my mind, I inevitably moved on with my life. However, these trying questions were raised to the surface again soon.

My boyfriend and I were at an arcade, ready to cash in out points for a prize. Naturally, I considered getting a Funko Pop and immediately made a beeline for them.

“Look! Poe Dameron!” I squealed with pleasure at the sight of the Star Wars pilot’s figure.

With barely any hesitation, my boyfriend rolled his eyes, walked right toward the POP in question, and punched the box. Right in Poe Dameron’s expressionless collectible face.

Scandalized, I watched in shock. My boo? Punching my fictional boo?! Wait, no…I can’t have TWO boos…?! 

I laughed off the violent act towards the Star Wars memorabilia and instead redeemed my points for a coffee mug.

But those troubling thoughts were polluting my innocent book brain.

“You love him. You’re betraying him, Scarlett!”

“It’s too bad you can’t swoon over those fictional characters anymore. It used to be so much fun.

“Tom Hiddleston is wearing a suit and sunglasses. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look. Ugh! You traitor.”

This is obviously silliness of the highest sort. The love I have for my boyfriend can never be felt for a person who does not exist. It is legitimately impossible. My boyfriend and I have the same great Creator and are connected together by more than emotions. A character has an imperfect human creator and has no real connection to me, emotionally or otherwise. 

That being said, my crisis was soon put to rest. My boyfriend knew what he was signings up for before the new Six of Crows book came out. He had already heard me go on and on about Kaz Brekker. He knew how much I loved Sherlock Holmes. That is one of the things he loves about me. Weirdly. Strangely. Questionably. Yes, he actually said that my ranting was “cute” and finds my attachment to fiction “adorable.” I mean, who would have thought?

Out of respect for him, I can’t fantasize about these men or put unrealistic expectations on my boyfriend. The closest I’ll ever get to that is forcing him to wear a Eugene Fitzherbert T-shirt. But when my heart get the feels whenever I get to that one chapter of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, I no longer go into a book nerd crisis. Instead I enjoy the moment and give my boyfriend and extra long hug later.

Unlocking Sherlock

I used to attend a homeschool co-op. My teacher gave us these little surveys to fill out on each subject. I was going through my old school papers and found this;

If you can’t read my tenth grade handwriting it says;

The most important event in all of world history is when to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle sat all alone in his small optometry office and first thought of Sherlock Holmes (or, at the time, Sherrinford Holmes.)

To which my teacher replied;

You might be a little obsessed 🙂

The same teacher gave me a very fancy copy of the Complete Sherlock Holmes as a graduation present.

It is safe to assume from what you have read, that I am completely in love with Sherlock Holmes.

However, the problem with loving classic literature means that it is probable that your favorite author has long been retired. Meaning that the 56 short stories and the four novels that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote about Sherlock are all I am ever going to get from him. 

And that is why I picked up Lock and Key by Ridley Pearson. 

The book had been sitting on the living room bookshelf for about two years…my mistake. I finally picked it up. To be perfectly honest, the back cover synopsis of the book did not truly reflect what the book actually was.

My first impression of its description led me to believe it was set in Victorian London, told from the perspective of Moriarty’s brother. If you have read Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Final Problem, you would know that Dr. John Watson tells us a little about Moriarty’s brother. 

But this is not the case. From reading Lock and Key, I deduce that Ridley Pearson is not a true Sherlockian. I can tell he has not studied the as books intimately as I have nor has an all consuming love for all things Doyle as I do.

However, that does not mean the book itself is bad.

The Lock and Key series is based on the modernization of Sherlock Holmes in his youth. The main idea Pearson has however is not about Sherlock. It is based on Sherlock’s arch enemy, James Moriarty and told from the perspective of his sister.

Before I get too far into the characters or plot, I first want to address the use of “modernization.” 

I know most classic lit lovers shy away from the word as if it were a rattlesnake. And I totally understand that. It is a risky move to take. Personally though, I usually enjoy modernization tropes. BBC Sherlock is my favorite TV show and it literally seems to pluck Sherlock & Co. from the Victorian era into modern day society. 

While Ridley Pearson does not execute this idea as well as BBC Sherlock does, I am of the opinion that he does it well enough.

The main characters are of course Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty, and they are accompanied by James’s little sister, Moria. 

Original characters (OCs) can be another risk to put in a retelling. I often times enjoy OCs but I am also their harshest critic. Moria Moriarty is…an okay OC. But I feel that the story Ridley Pearson created could have been told without her. 

And there is the issue of her name…Moria. 

Parents don’t just go from naming their first kid James and then their second Moria. James is a common name and Moria obviously is not. In BBC Sherlock there is an OC named Eros who is Sherlock’s sister. But her name is perfectly fine. We got Mycroft and Sherlock, some weirdo names, and Eros fits in perfectly. Moria, however, sticks out from James like a sore thumb.

However I do commend Pearson for making Moria a good narrator but also a distinct side character. She isn’t as logical as Sherlock nor as intelligent as James. But she does own her own skill sets, such as her curiosity.

When I first read Pearson’s description of Sherlock, I laughed out loud because he totally watches the BBC show…I mean, shocking blue eyes, high cheek bones, pale skin…? Sorry, that isn’t Sherlock, that is Benedict Cumberbatch.

I enjoy Pearson’s young Sherlock over the young Sherlock in the movie Young Sherlock Holmes. One fact that many people don’t know is that Sherlock isn’t Spock. He’s not a Vulcan nor a computer. While Sherlock may call love “human error” or show contempt at sentiment, he does not remain immune to human feeling. Pearson recognizes this and allows Sherlock the freedom to laugh, joke, and tease as he pleases. Except when he gets “in the zone.” When Sherlock is in the heat of deduction, solving a problem, or thinking around a situation, he does not revert to his human whims. 

I understand that it is hard to nail James Moriarty’s character on the head. We get little dialogue from him in The Final Problem and soon after, bye, bye, Jimmie. There are many different takes on Moriarty, and Pearson’s own works.

It isn’t spectacular, but it works. 

James is changeable. He has a moral compass and he knows what is right but he puts more stock into power and what he wants. Throughout the series he switches between being on the enemy’s side and being on Sherlock’s side. 

From the very beginning, he does not want to be Sherlock’s friend. They are roommates together at Baskerville Academy and while Sherlock attempts a companionship with James, the latter blatantly refuses the offer. Later, James does admit that he and Sherlock are friends. And still later, they become sworn enemies.

I wasn’t especially into the plot…secret societies have never really been my thing. And I don’t think it went entirely well with Sherlock and James as a whole. However, the scenes and situations in themselves where perfect. Pearson only needed a different overall concept. 

What kept me reading was the one liners, the quips that Sherlock made passive aggressively to tell James how stupid he was. Or James calling Sherlock “Sherlost.” And all the banter…priceless.

My biggest disappointment was the exclusion of any other canon characters. The only attachment to Doyle’s original books where Sherlock and James. No John Watson, no Irene Adler, no Henry Knight, no Dr. Mortimer, no Sebastian Moran…none of them were included! 

I kept turning pages hoping John would come in as a new exchange student in Baskerville Academy, or something…but no!

Mycroft was mentioned ONCE. Sherlock names him as his older brother who has been his legal guardian since their parents died.

I did hope that Mycroft might come in when Sherlock got expelled from Baskerville. I mean, Mycroft would be MAD. He’d be furious with his little brother for getting kicked out of an expensive prep school. But he doesn’t even cameo.

And when Sherlock is supposed to be in London but actually stays in Boston? Sherlock never says how he did that. Because if I know Mycroft Holmes, he would be after his brother like the Hound of the Baskervilles. I mean, that is Mycroft, an overly protective, condescending big brother. But no, Sherlock doesn’t even say he tricked Mycroft into letting him stay in Boston.

All in all, the series is worth a read if you just need more Sherlock. I certainly did. And if you aren’t a huge Sherlockian, you might enjoy the series. But it could have been better if Pearson had done a bit more research or loved the original stories a bit more. 

Boxing Day At Baker Street

I take real pride in calling myself a true Sherlockian. And when writing this Christmas Sherlock fanfic, I studied how Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote John Watson’s writing about his and Holmes’ adventures. I have done my best to replicate this and stay TRUE to the characters as Doyle wrote them. I hope you enjoy this light hearted story! 💛

In all my days of knowing Sherlock Holmes, I have perceived many things. His need for order in all things is both his strength and his weakness (though he would never willingly acknowledge the fault.) His calculating and organized mind is at all times active. 

Like a high speed mechanical device, the many cogs and gears are always turning, keeping the machine alive and working. I, who have been his companion for many a year, often have the opportunity to observe this thinking rotary. Holmes himself calls his brain “an attic” in which he keeps “the tools which may help him in doing his work” and “all in the most perfect order.” However, in my small observations, his brain, which he takes such pride in, has never been so.

As I have said to Holmes many times before, a mortal man cannot rightly decide what he is and is not to know. “It’s not our place,” I say. Yet Holmes chooses to forgo my words and might comment that he is no “mortal man.” 

And on another and more prevalent note, Holme’s mind is anything other than “perfect order.” He values order, yes, and does his best to keep it. But, as is our modern society, order cannot always be kept. And when the inevitability of disorder comes knocking on the door of 221B Baker Street, the place where Holmes and I reside, the former is nothing short of unnerved (I here add “in the best sense of the word” in respect for my friend’s pride.)

Christmas time at Baker Street was a jolly one for those of us who participated. Mrs. Hudson, the landlady of Baker Street, made a roast beef to put Her Majesty’s cooks to shame. The honorable lady (Mrs. Hudson that is, not The Queen) also accompanied me to place a tasteful bouquet on the grave of my late wife, Mary.

All the while, however, Holmes remained in the rooms we shared.

“It is unadulterated foolishness, Watson,” Holmes told me, “To celebrate nothing.”

“Nothing?” I exclaimed. “By Jove, Holmes, Christmas is far from celebrating nothing! Christmas is for the human ability of joy and co-existence. The birth of Christ for His sake!

He raised a sharp eyebrow as a bemused smile began to play on his lips. “As I sad, nothing.”

I was aware of Holmes’ frankly blasphemous thoughts on religion, particularly the one I and the whole of modern England shared. I opened my mouth to defend either the holiday, Christianity, or myself (I had not then decided which) but Holmes spoke before I could. He was rather good at that.

“You are a Christian, Watson, are you not? Then as a Christian attempting to acknowledge this manufactured holiday known as Christmas, you are indeed celebrating nothing. In those days when pagans were the majority, did they not too deck their houses with the evergreen botanicals, such as holly and ivy? I believe these were to keep away the imagined ‘evil spirits.’ And you tell me you do as they did in the name of God? Show me the logic behind this, for I am quite certain that there is none. I do not say I will join in these festivities of religion in which no physical evidence has been produced, for I am no man of faith, but if you feel the need to justify your standing of a Christian who celebrates a pagan Christmas, by all means attempt to prove me wrong.”

I did not retaliate in anger, as many other God fearing Englishmen would have if spoken to by the offensive and disagreeable man before me. I did not roll my eyes, I did not steal a breath, I did not steady my nerves. 

Rather than showing these signs of irritation, I chose to laugh.

Holmes was thoroughly taken aback by my reaction. His head turned sideways slightly and his eyes seemed to take in every feature of my face, pondering the meaning behind my jovial attitude. I recognized the signs of confusion that I often saw when I assisted him in his works of detection and deduction. 

“Why, Holmes,” I said merrily, “You forget that you have told me the exact same speech every year since I first came to Baker Street! My good man, show me the logic in that.” 

“If I have made such an error, which I doubt, it is only because I do not find the memories priority.”

“Or it is because you dislike what I have to say next.”

“And pray tell me what that should be?”

“The same speech in which I have responded, and perfected, I might take the liberty of adding, to your pessimistic diatribe every year in this season.”

I paused and then continued, “It is true that the traditions of Christmas are rooted in less than holy places. I know the history that you have taken the time to explain to me so thoroughly. But allow me to give you a lesson now. Tradition and religion…these are man made and often times artifice. However, even you acknowledge the beauty that God has bestowed upon mankind. I recall you once said to me that “our highest assurance of the goodness of Providence seems to rest in the flowers” and that “it is only goodness which gives extras, and that we have much to hope.” You know there is some higher power, Holmes, do not deny it. And you know that in this world of chaos and ill will there are still those who sew and reap good and praiseworthy values. Mankind is a folly kind, indeed. But on this day, we might folly in a better sort. We might extend a hand to those less fortunate than ourselves and gift that which our very flawed and human hearts lead us to give. There are aspects of beauty in that, no? Why there is even logic enough for you in these things! Now, I’ll allow you to display if you have changed at all in the past year, since the last time I gave you this same lecture. A single remark will do, Holmes. Not one? I thought not. Happy Christmas, good friend.”

And turning away to spare Holmes the slight humiliation of me seeing him at a loss at how to counter, I walked from the room. 

I shall leave him a Boxing Day present by his door tomorrow, I thought with an amused smile in my head.

That night, Mrs. Hudson, myself, and the Misses Hawkins and Hooper, two respectable ladies who shared the flat opposite 221 B, sat in the parlor playing a round of Whist. Miss Hawkins headed the conversation the majority of the time, commenting every so often on the number of Penny Posts she had received from young and eligible men. This was endurable, but only just.

Mrs. Hudson and Miss Hooper were much more versed in polite conversation and the evening had been modestly enjoyable. Though it occurred to me how much more lively the evening might have been had my friend Holmes been there with his uncivil tongue and unpopular ideals. I managed to turn my snigger at the thought into a small cough. 

My mind must have somehow summoned him, because just after the idea had crossed my mind, the devil came through the sitting-room door. 

“My cap, Watson!” He cried, dashing about this way and that. 

“Holmes!” I declared. “Come, sit and join us!”

The three other ladies nodded in agreement with me and invited him to the table in their soft, feminine voices.

Holmes did not seem to hear us. “My cap, it is here somewhere. Watson, find my cap!” 

“Why do you need your deerstalker, fellow? Are you going out?”


“Man, it is freezing outside!”

“That statement would conclude as to why I need my cap! Aha!” He exclaimed with a laugh as he ducked under the table where we had been playing our card game (making the ladies present cry out in surprise.) He came out as soon as he had gone under, however, and brandished his deerstalker cap with a flourish. “Success!” 

He looked at me and at the company I kept, seeing them for the first time. “Ah, people.” 

And with that last statement, he left the room quicker than one could utter “Elementary.”

I apologized for his conduct as I often found myself doing. Mrs. Hudson, who knew Holmes almost as well as I, excused my apology with a smile. Miss Hawkins however asked, “You don’t suppose he’s going caroling?”

I quickly excuse myself from the room as to hide my laughter at the mental image of Sherlock Holmes singing “Oh Come All Ye Faithful.”

I had no plans for Boxing Day. After whatever exertions I had taken on Christmas Day, I often found myself staying inside on the holiday, reading the Strand and enjoying multiple cups of tea. Holmes, whom I had seen the previous night leave the flat with such flurry, had not made an appearance to me since then. And that was most strange seeing as he did so like to torment me on the pointlessness of Boxing Day.

Last year  I had participated in the work of the church in making poor boxes. Mrs. Hudson volunteered her time annually and I thought I might do the same. Holmes immensely enjoyed quoting one of Dickens’ rude misers whenever entering my presence.

Reflecting on this, it was strange that he was not in my view. Had he rushed off on a case? This was uncharacteristic seeing as he wanted for my assistance whether or not I was inconvenienced or not. More often the former than the latter.

I tried to pay the matter little heed. Holmes was as unpredictable as the criminal classes he worked against. 

I spent the hours reading a title which turned out to be easily forgotten and in a few episodes of polite conversation. I was just about to think about luncheon when I heard the front door’s knocker alert me to the presence of a visitor. 

Curious to see if Holmes had spent the whole night away from Baker Street, I opened the door expecting to see the detective. Alas I was mistaken…though not so very much. 

A different genius child stood at the doorstep. I recognized the boy as Wiggins,  a street urchin who was occasionally employed by Holmes. 

He must be here for work, I thought when contemplating the boy’s motives. 

“Is Mister Holmes here, sir?” Wiggins asked, pulling off his wool flat cap and smiling in a way I had not been accustomed to associate with him. 

“No…leastwise, I don’t believe he is.”

“I just wanted to thank him again, sir.” The boy said, excited.

“Thank him?” I inquired. “Whatever for, lad?” 

“For the oranges and half crowns, sir! My family will feast today! Give him my thanks, please, sir?” And in his energetic state, he ran onto the street, kicking up snow as he went and whistling a Christmas tune. 

I stood for a moment, looking down at the place Wiggins had been only moment ago. Then amused realization began to slowly creep up my person. 

Sherlock Holmes…giving gifts to homeless children on Boxing Day? Had my yearly tirade finally made an impression? 

I deduced that Holmes must have been out all night finding the members of his so-called “Baker Street Irregulars” and gifting them with oranges and half crowns. And the reason I had not seen him this morning was consequence of his late evening endeavors. Might he be asleep in his rooms? Or was he still out tracking down those lesser fortunate than himself?

I recalled him saying to me in the case of the Mazarin Stone, “I am a brain, Watson. The rest of me is a mere appendix.” 

Maybe so, Holmes, old friend, I thought, shutting the door against the chilly holiday air, But a heart is in there somewhere as well.

NOTE: This story is NOT a licensed work. The author does not own any copywrite, trademarks and/or license. Absolutely all trademarks, licenses and copyrights are the sole property of the authors and/or publishers. All of this writers works and stories are “fan made”, and are NOT to be assumed as being licensed and/or official work. The production of this story is not intended to mislead or to confuse consumers. No infringement on the publisher/author’s name and trademark are intended. This product is purposed for Fan Fiction only.

5 Books Murder Mystery Fans Will Die For

It was a dark and stormy night. Rain pounded against the windows and the whistle of wind could be heard echoing against the chilled walls of the house. You walked down the dark hallway, an odd shape in your hands and a mysterious glint in your eye. You reached out, touching the doorknob, turning it slowly but with purpose. The door made a great creeeeeek opening. Your footsteps, light but powerful, crossed the threshold. You arrived at your destination, unsheathe the item in your hands, smile madly and-

Sit down to read your Agatha Christie.

Little does a reader know when they will become devoted to a genre. And if you are like myself, mystery is your cup of tea. You start when you are younger, Encyclopedia Brown and the Boxcar Children. You graduate to Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys. Then you finally enter Sir Arthur Conan Doyl and Agatha Christie, amongst other literary and homicidal classics. 

As always, your tastes grow and your shelf space shrinks. As does your murderous TBR. You can fill it up again with these novels you probably haven’t read yet.

Devil In The White City

While a classic whodunnit is thrilling, Devil In The White City by Eric Lawson makes you aware of the Murderer’s every move, motive, and thought. The book takes you deep into the psyche of H.H. Holmes, America’s first serial killer and the owner of the murder hotel. It is so rare for me to come across a piece of non fiction that I enjoy, but Eric Lawson pulls it off perfectly in Devil In The White City (and In the Garden of Beasts, another great historical novel.) This novel is a real nail biter and I recommend it only if you have a stomach that can handle detailed murder.

Flavia De Luce

WARNING! The Flavia De Luce series by Alan Bradley is not yet complete and Bradley one to two years to write the continuations. However the eleven books that are full of gore, pigtails, chemistry, and tea tide a dedicated reader over nicely. Flavia De Luce is not a normal eleven year old, no not even close! She is a skilled sociopathic chemist detective with braces to top it all off. She has a nasty habit of finding dead bodies and getting on her older sisters nerves. Both the murders and the humor are on point and are sure to satisfy your morbid itch.

13 Suspicious Incidents

Mini mysteries are the best and so is Lemony Snicket…and the two combined are just what the pathologist ordered. File Under: 13 Suspicious Incidents by Lemony Snicket is a collection of short story mysteries that the reader can solve and then turn to the back of the book to check of your analysis is correct. True to Snicket’s signature dry, morbid humor and satire, 13 Suspicious Incidents will tickle your funny bone and is appropriate for all ages.

Baker Street Irregulars

Sherlock Holmes is the icon of mysteries. John Watson too has the spotlight now and again. But (if you have read the books) do you remember the Baker Street Irregulars, Sherlock’s eyes and ears all over London streets? Sherlock Holmes and the Baker Street Irregulars by Tracy Mack and Michael Citrin chronicle Holmes and the Irregulars many cases. These children have a nose for crime and an observant mind and assist Sherlock in his most trying cases. If you like mystery with lots of action, this is the series for you.

Murder Most Unladylike 

Let me take a moment to list these genius titles; Murder Most Unladylike, Arsenic For Tea, Jolly Foul Play. The Wells and Wong series by Robin Stevens is both playful and murderous. Daisy Wells and Hazel Wong are two best friends who attend boarding school and solve the many crimes they wander across in their spare time. There are many lovable characters, fun mysteries, and many cups of tea…always a great combination.

There are those who love cozy mysteries, horrific mysteries, and suspenseful mysteries. But I bet my deerstalker that all armchair detectives will love these novels.

A Brief History of The Murder Mystery

Murder is the epitome of crime. Crime scenes are bloody, gruesome, and not a place most would willingly step into. Real life killings appall any decent person.

So why are we so obsessed with murder mysteries? What makes murder in literature more attractive than in real life? What captures the mind when reading crime as opposed to seeing it?

I used to think it was the fiction that made a murder mystery appealing. The crime was made up and therefore acceptable. I loved trying to race Sherlock, Nancy, and Hercule to the conclusion and I thought that is why so many love the dark genre.

It wasn’t until I watched the Lucy Worsley documentary A Very British Murder that I really understood where the murder mystery begun and how it morphed it’s way into the bestselling lists.

The-New-Taste-for-Blood owned by Amazon

Back in the late Regency/early Georgian era, murder was rare. Most criminals were petty thieves. Breaking and entering, pick pocketing, and fraud were everyday occurrences. One couldn’t go a month without being on some end of one of these crimes. Back then, these matters were less than entertaining. Why would you read about a pickpocket after you had just been robbed?

Murder was not a primary concern. Most civilians did not dwell on the idea. Not because it was disturbing but because murder had not been publicized to them.

Just like today, media had a great influence on the commonwealth’s minds. Newspapers, magazines, and pamphlets were the main forms of entertainment. You could read about the latest gossip, last week’s hanging, and the out of country fashions. These were the topics on people’s minds. That is what they talked about with their friends.

The press didn’t find need to report murder thus the commonwealth’s minds didn’t occupy it.

This precept changed radically with the killing of a family. The Marrs were a respectable family, all found dead in their home by their maid, Margaret. The young couple, their baby son, and the apprentice who lived with them, were brutally killed, mercilessly and without motive.

This story was unlike anything the public had ever seen. It had mystery, treachery, gruesomeness, and the most important of all…entertainment. 

The murder house was opened to the public. All stations of people were admitted and could even see the bodies laid out. 

Today, this is unimaginable. Strangers cannot traipse through crime scenes. And why would any one want to see dead bodies, heads bashed in, throats cut? People actually paid to visit the crime scene. Why? Out of fear, curiosity, and a want to assist in looking for clues.

Are these not the same reasons we open a mystery book? To experience shivers, to answer questions, and most importantly, to become detectives. The public response to the Marr’s murders was less of fascination with the murder than with that of the story.

The press soon discovered that this murder mystery made their newspapers sell like hot cakes. The blurred lines of fiction and fact reported in articles were full of drama, enigma, and murder.

Many historians believe this to have been a result of mob mentality. Everyone else was rushing to the crime scene, why not do it too? I do not think this as so. If this first fascination with murder mystery had been a mere fad it would not have survived the test of time. But it has. In fact, it has thrived!

You and I know the invigorating feeling a good murder can induce. Fictionalized or not, a story captivates. Add in a genre that you have never read before, and a wretched one at that…it’s a recipe for success.

The Ratcliff Murders were the first seedlings of what was to grow into a murder phenomenon. Detectives, who had never been seen before, were officially sent out to investigate crime. Homicide was now a legitimate fear, as well as a legitimate form of entertainment. Victims and their murderers would become characters in their own stories. Penny Dreadfuls would begin to appear. These short stories were printed in newspapers and magazines, written specially for these new murder lovers.

Nowadays we would cringe at these stories. They are called penny dreadfuls for a reason. Buy a horrific mystery for cheap! For the lower class in the nineteenth century, whom reading was becoming more and more common, these penny dreadfuls were delightful. The genres we call horror, thriller, and mystery were all smashed into a few short pages. Every single paragraph was vivid and over dramatic.

Everyone loved it.

Being apart of a real life crime, cruel and inhumane, must be an exciting experience…unless your the body of course. But not everyone is called (or has the stomach) to be a detective. Yet one ,ay still experience the “detective fever,” as Wilkie Collins puts it in The Moonstone, …in the pages of a book.

A reader can feel the chills of fear, satisfy their appetite for adventure, and solve a murder or two all from their own bed.

What more could a person want?

I am dead excited for Murder Mystery month! Not literally dead…it was just an expression. Monday, October 5, 2020, my blog series “Murder, Mystery, and Meaning” will be posted! The thought that murder mysteries, one of the best genres, can contain value and even positivity makes me giddy with joy! I’m dying to share the series with you! Again, I’m not actually dying…

What is your favorite murder mystery? Whether you prefer a series or a certain detective, you have to have a favorite. My favorite is Sherlock Holmes…no wait Flavia de Luce! No, Lord Peter Whimsey. Wait! Father Brown! I suppose you can have multiple favorites?