It's A Mystery

I for one absolutely love a good mystery. I always have. From my childhood obsessions with Scooby Doo and crime scene investigation to the present day where those things are still totally awesome. Due to my life long love of mystery I have however made myself completely terrified of the genre at large. And no it's not because of murder, but because there are way too many absolutely terrible mysteries.

I am really good at predicting plot twists. Ask my younger sister who has thrown more than a few shoes at me when less than half way through the episode/movie I have predicted the ending. This usually goes "I know who did it." My younger sister replies, "Don't tell me!" Ten minutes later during commercial break or when we have to pause because of her squirrel bladder she ends up asking me to tell her and I do. Then at the end of the film she yells at me for telling her.

As much as this skill annoys the crap out of people around me, it drives me twice as crazy. You know the guy in Men In Black 3 that can see all possible futures. It's sort of like that, but on a less catastrophic scale. It's a giant pain in the ass and has led to me scorning many many things I love.

Being very nerdy by nature, I spent a lot of my time growing up reading pretty much everything I could get my hands on. While it seems like a good idea at the time it is a terrible idea and just don't do it! EVER! It was that willingness to try everything that has left me really paranoid and had made a hobby out of biting my ass.

For the past two months I have really wanted to read a good mystery, but I haven't been able to bring myself to start one. The last time I got a in the mystery machine (sorry couldn't resist) was in high school and I ruined the experience for myself. Somehow when picking out mystery novels to read I happened to pick absolutely terrible ones. I respect books too much to abuse them (seriously dog earing pages is the eighth deadly sin and you may be maimed if I ever catch you doing so), but even I came close to murdering one after reading Velocity by Dean Koontz where I predicted who the killer was on the first damn page. (The more Dean Koontz you read the more you want to run him over with a tractor repeatedly.) Another book I read through I predicted who the murderer was when he was introduced in Chapter 2, but remained optimistic thinking I just want him to be the killer because it would be a good plot twist. I am a liar and should not be trusted in such matters. No it was not a good plot twist!

It was my binge reading younger years where I was on a first name basis with every librarian because I was constantly checking out books that has made me terrified of starting new mysteries. Everytime I go to the library, I spend about twenty minutes carrying arround a stack of novels most of which are mysteries. By the time I decide to check out I have put all, but one mystery back. (In the proper place because my mother trained me well.) I check out with a handful of books in other genres, but only one mystery which is destined to sit around my apartment unopened for six weeks at which point I can no longer renew it and have to return the book. This has been going on for months and it has become an entirely new level of ridiculous.

To use a horse metaphor my dad would no doubt be proud of, I just need to get back in the saddle. I did back in high school after reading Velocity. But the next one I picked up was the other one I previously mentioned. I can't remember it's name. I just know it took place in Silverton, Colorado and had some lame plot twist with a high school student that was using a World War II microwave radiation weapon to cook people. It may have been cool if the killer wasn't a predictable cutout cookie (the bland stale ones that have been forgotten until months later when someone opens the cookie jar randomly) and the author didn't try to distract from that fact with annoying teen romance. Even after that disaster I was willing to climb back up there and once again I was sent flying. (I can't remember what that mystery was probably because I chose to strike it from my memory for all eternity.) It was at that point I decided to just leave the blasted horse alone and try riding something nicer like a llama.

So here I am a couple years later and terrified of opening a mystery novel. I love reading and I love reading mysteries, but I hate the feeling of having wasted my life on a bad book. Very few books have made me hate them so much that I actually want to hurt them. Two to be exact. Heart of Darkness because dear god that was boring and Velocity by Dean Koontz because seriously screw Dean Koontz. I really don't want to add to that, but mysteries when well written are so good.

I decided I'd only read ones my mother recommended and yet I still stand there looking at the book for an absurdly long time before I put it back on the shelf. I am determined to get over this fear. I don't care how long it takes. I will get over my Post Traumatic Terrible Mystery Disorder (PTTMD) and I am going to be able to read mysteries again! I don't care if it kills me and causes some detective to investigate my death.