What We Are Writing: Rhys keeps it cozy

 RHYS BOWEN: This week there was an article in the British Daily Express about Richard Osman and how he had "invented" the cozy genre. I was delighted that one of the indignant commenters asked, "What about Rhys Bowen and Constable Evans?"

Thank you, kind commenter. I didn't invent the genre either, although Constable Evans came out 25 years ago now. I think we can give credit for that to Agatha and her contemporaries. But I admit to being cozy by nature. The world is divided, isn't it? Either you are cozy and see the universe as a place of order and safety, which a crime disrupts, or you are noir and you see the universe as a place of chaos. You can solve a crime but you can't heal the universe. I am glad I am the former.  I've tried writing darker (and I'm sure you'll notice that my stand-alones do veer toward dark sometimes. Definitely the next one will) but my series mysteries remain on the cozier side.

Molly Murphy does sometimes get quite dark but it doesn't stay there, thanks to Molly's cheerful nature and her ability to see humor--just like my own.  I'm delighted that my new co-writer, my daughter Clare Broyles, shares this sense of humor. I believe this scene in the book we are just finishing (currently called IN SUNSHINE AND IN SHADOW) shows that we see the humor in most things.

Molly has gone to stay with her friends Sid and Gus at a women's artist colony in the Catskill mountains, close to Sid's family who have a bungalow colony up there. Both Sid and Gus are involved in a play that the women are producing and Molly goes to a rehearsal. Here's a snippet:

The building was very dark as we came in from outside. As my eyes adjusted I saw that there were figures on stage and quite a number of people in the audience. I found a seat away from the others as I didn’t want to disturb them.

                The strange figures were lit by hanging oil lamps on the stage. They were wearing long flowing sleeveless garments that reminded me of night shifts and revealed bare feet and ankles. Colorful scarves draped from their arms. Brilliant feathers were stuck into giant bird heads with long curved beaks. They raised their arms high and made screeching noises then rushed forward. They cried out in unison, but I couldn’t make out the words.

                “Louder,” a woman’s voice called out from the center front of the audience. “I can’t hear a goddamn word you are saying.” Nobody, except me,  seemed to have been shocked by the woman's profanity. The bird-like creatures walked back and repeated the scene.  The muffled chorus of voices grew louder and the movement of the scarves more intense but still not a word could be understood. One of these strange creatures, with some struggle, managed to pull the unwieldy mask off, revealing cropped hair and a rather sweaty face.

                “It’s no use swearing at us, Clara,” said the woman tartly, “We can’t make ourselves heard through these stupid things.” I knew that voice and took a second look. It was Sid. The other actors took their masks off as well, not without difficulty. 

                “We just can’t use these things.” A heftier older woman with a deep voice spoke. “I always thought masks were a bad idea.” There was a huffing sound from a woman in the front row. “They are lovely, Doris,” the speaker said apologetically. “Could we put them on sticks and carry them with us?”

                “But that would look like headless birds. It would destroy the symmetry of the movement,” Sid spoke up. She repeated the rushing movement with the mask in her hand and it did look strange.

                “Can we cut air holes in the bottom of the masks so that they can project the words?” the woman Sid had called Clara suggested.

                “They will fall apart,” the huffing woman said gloomily. “The beaks are integral to the construction.”

                “Without the masks we just look like women in scarves,” one of the actors complained. “We need to represent the birds chorus.”

                “For now, let’s try this,” Clara said, clearly wanting to move on, “Before each block of speech add, ‘We are the birds’. It’s in keeping with Greek chorus tradition and will leave no doubt that you are the bird chorus. We must distinguish you from the humans and the gods. Put those masks down and let’s try it again.”

                The scarved women lined up across the stage. Sid was in the middle. They raised their hands over their heads.

                “We are the birds!” they chorused, “Ka-kaw, ka-kaw, Eee-ooo, Eee-ooo.” They rushed forward, scarves waving from their hands. “Forward to the attack, throw yourselves upon the foe, spill his blood; take to your wings and surround them on all sides.” The line of birds parted and flew around the stage, scarves wafting behind them, attacking two other characters who defended themselves with what looked like pots and pans.

                I must confess I didn’t understand the rest of the play. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to laugh. The actors said the funniest lines but with incredible seriousness. After a great many repetitions of scenes, a woman with a flute came on and began to play. The leader of the birds came out and said in time with the music,

                “At the beginning there was only Chaos, Night, dark Erebus, and deep Tartarus. Earth, the air and heaven had no existence.” Gus came out, dressed entirely in what looked like a black undergarment. She carried a giant wooden egg-shaped ball.

                “Firstly, black-winged Night laid a germless egg in the bosom of the infinite deeps of Erebus,” said the speaker. Gus jumped up onto a box that had been placed at center stage and pantomimed laying the egg onto to the box.

                “And from this, after the revolution of long ages, sprang the graceful Eros with his glittering golden wings, swift as the whirlwinds of the tempest,” the speaker intoned as the flute melody went higher and higher. Another dancer jumped out from behind the box, presumably having been hatched out of the egg. This dancer was in the white version of Gus’ clothing but with golden wings attached. She chased Gus around the stage with a golden bow in her hand. After this all sorts of Greek figures came onto the stage and proceeded to create the universe. I admit I enjoyed that part. So, I could truthfully say that I had enjoyed the production when Sid and Gus finally emerged from the theater, Sid in her usual silk pajama pants and Gus back in her rational dress.

                “It’s such an important political statement,” Gus said earnestly as we walked through the dirt lane toward what I hoped was our lodging for the evening. “You do see that don’t you?”

                “Umm,” I wasn’t sure what to say but luckily, she went on.

                “The birds represent the unartistic souls, giving way to convention and trying to tear down the gods of beauty and expression.”

So Molly is not highbrow in her tastes. I bet we've all been through a theater production that is so high brow we're not sure whether we're supposed to laugh or not. I remember going to see a play in London once and as we came out I heard a woman's voice behind me saying loudly, "I suppose that was all meant to be quite significant."  I knew how she felt.

This is one small light-hearted moment in a murder mystery, and therefore a serious book. My gravedigger's scene from Hamlet, perhaps.  Do you enjoy these lighter moments in books? Do you read both light and dark?  I know I do, unless it gets violent and graphic.

And a news flash: Yesterday I celebrated the publication of the paperback of GOD REST YE ROYAL GENTLEMEN: It's a month until the new hardcover, PERIL IN PARIS, comes out.