Funny Mysteries, by Any Other Name

No, I'm not going to rant on about the holiday season. Suffice it to say, I'm in it for the presents.

Instead, I'd like to discuss two of my least favorite words in the English language. Two words that, when placed side-by-side, constitute one of my least favorite phrases in said language. Two words that, I believe, are infinitely inferior to virtually every synonym available to the user. Let's face it, I'm no fan of these two words.

Humorous cozy.

Yeesh. Has there ever been a less forceful, less interesting, less sexy way to express any thought? For those of us who traffic in the mystery novel that doesn't gore you out and has some laughs along the way, the idea of a "humorous cozy" is similar to saying that the new girl you met is "sufficiently attractive." Add in a "good personality," and you've got something to get excited about, no?

I've said (enough times to bore even myself) that when I started writing my first novel, I had no idea that there was such a thing as a "humorous cozy." In fact, were I to have been confronted with the notion that the word "cozy" could be a noun, I would have thought about something lacy that goes over a teapot. Something, in other words, that I would never have come into contact with in my entire life, and thought about even less often.

A cozy? That's how you want to sell your sub-genre? "It's got murder and mayhem in it, but don't worry: you'll feel like you're in a warm bath!" Is it any wonder Lee Child is a bestselling author (for those who might migrate to or from The Lipstick Chronicles, where I guest-blogged yesterday, I'm on a Jack Reacher rant this week but don't worry--it'll pass)? You'll never hear anybody describe those books as "cozy!"

"Cozy" is something you want in a bed and breakfast. "Cozy" is for a nice warm blanket. It's a term best used to describe a nook of some sort. A book in which someone is stabbed, shot, poisoned, or otherwise deprived of life? That's cozy?

Now, let's turn our attention to my even less favorite word, "humorous." To someone who values the art that is comedy, "humorous" is the equivalent of the word "pleasant." It's something that isn't BAD, exactly, but is hardly memorable, enjoyable or anything else that would indicate a good time being had by anyone.

"Humorous" is the word a fourth-grade teacher uses when you try to spice up your paper about Abe Lincoln by noting that he and George Washington sure did make for a good carpet sale. "Humorous" is something the New York Times uses to refer to Frank Capra movies that have a joke somewhere in the midst of all the spiritual uplift. "Humorous" is something you call your Uncle Bill when he tries that "pull my finger" gag for the seventeenth time.

I would personally like to outlaw the word "humorous" from any work I ever produce. If it's not funny, it should be uproarious. If you can't call it "hilarious," please try for (the actually inaccurate) "hysterical." One review of one of my early books called it "antic." I was perfectly fine with that.

Even if you think my book stinks to high heaven, I can't imagine why you'd want to call it "humorous." I understand the idea of subgenres, but I'd just as soon dispense with "cozy," as well. I understand these are just labels, that they don't change the content of the book in any way, but still--I use words for a living. I care about words.

So I'd like to suggest a new subgenre: The Funny Mystery. See, it's a mystery, but it's funny. Is that really a problem? Yes, I understand that it doesn't describe the coziness of the book (that is, the fact that the sleuth is an amateur, that there's no excess sex, profanity or violence) but frankly, I've never written a book with those rules consciously in mind. If I feel like adding some profanity, it's up to my editor to tell me why I can't. If the characters are in a randy mood, I'm willing to bet they'll end up in bed at some point. Violence? In a book where readers are antsy that there's nobody dead on page 1, I'm willing to bet there'll be violence. It's a question of degree, and the story will dictate that.

So coziness? I never write to be cozy. Humorous? I write to be funny, and if you think it's humorous, I'll feel like I failed at my job.