I was about 5 when I decided I wanted to write for a living, but what most people don't know is that writing wasn't my first vocational goal. Before writing was in the picture, I wanted to be a detective.
I loved mysteries before I could even read. I loved the idea of taking a bunch of seemingly unrelated things and turning them into an answer to a big question. Once I got the reading thing down, I started devouring mystery novels. While my friends were reading about princesses and rainbows, I was trying to figure out who gruesomely murdered the mayor's hooker.
I think it was always that moment when the protagonist figured it out. It was never a slow process when the detective sat down and pondered all of the facts and what they meant. It always happened in an instant, like when the sleuth realizes the vixen was only sleeping with his brother to distract him from her murderous frenzy, not because of his cute dimples, like she originally claimed.
Unfortunately, real life is not nearly as romantic as my murder mysteries. But I like to think of myself as an accomplished sleuth regardless. Here are just a few examples of the mysteries I've encountered in my years of detective work.
'¢ Who ate the chocolate bunny?
Like many outlaws in my books, I got blamed for something I didn't do. I was driving my brother's car when I noticed there was a chocolate bunny in the glove compartment that his friend had given him as a gift. The next day, the bunny was missing its head. Since I was the last one to drive his car and have a reputation of being a human vacuum, I got blamed.
The truth was, I was planning on eating his chocolate bunny anyway, but someone else got there first. When my mom came up with some B.S. theory of how the bunny's head had maybe melted off, I took that as an admission of guilt. She never confirmed my discovery, but I consider it a case closed nonetheless.
'¢ Why does Charter hate me?
About three minutes after I finished swearing at the Charter customer service rep about my dysfunctional cable box, my Internet mysteriously stopped working.
Conclusion: The creepy but grammatically-aware ghost that haunts my bathroom was pissed that I used the same word as a noun, verb and adjective in the same sentence. Usually to describe the Charter guy's mother.
'¢ Why is my little brother smarter than me?
The mystery here is not so much the why, but the how. How can I keep him from ever figuring out his intellectual superiority, and how can I intimidate him into buying me nice things when he becomes a rich CEO?
'¢ Who prank called my friend from the Apple store, pretending to be his girlfriend to tell him she was pregnant?
I'm still proud of that one. . .
'¢ Why do bathroom stalls always swing toward the inside, forcing my calves to graze against the icky toilet seat when I try to leave?
I don't know, but it's pretty damn annoying.
'¢ Why hasn't my boyfriend murdered me in my sleep yet?
If he were as pretentious, demanding and emotional as I was, I would've probably killed him already. So what's stopping him?
It must be my model good looks. Must be.
'¢ Why is my roommate skinnier than me?
While a good, long peek at each of our food cabinets will show a high discrepancy between how much food we each buy, I still think she found some magic potion to keep her thin that she refuses to share with me. Damn her.
'¢ Why are tampons so expensive?
I bet if men started bleeding out of their genitals on a monthly basis, tampon prices would decrease exponentially. Or, better yet, if women refused to wear tampons altogether, the men on top would be dropping free boxes on all of our doorsteps.
If you're ready to boycott tampons, or would be willing to share your magic potion (Alex), e-mail Kiera at wiatrak@wisc.edu.
