I've always loved Marisa de los Santos.
She's an extraordinary talent, and her books feel like a warm blanket with little bits of cold whipping through. That, by the way, is my favorite feeling. It's why I keep the air conditioning turned down to 69, let my phalanges lose all feeling, then climb under a comforter on the couch. It's THE BEST, YOU GUYS.
I'm getting off topic.
The point is, I love her even more after reading her interview with Chick Lit Is Not Dead. She gives a belly rub to mystery writers:
Give me a well-written, character-driven mystery and I am happy as a clam. Kate Atkinson, Tana French, Alexander McCall Smith, Dorothy Sayers, Jacqueline Winspear, Raymond Chandler, Alan Bradley, Cornelia Read, Agatha Christie. I try hard not to be envious of other writers, and mostly I succeed, but I am dead jealous of mystery writers. I want to learn to plot like that, to end every chapter with a cliffhanger. I want to write people into dark, dark places and to ruthlessly examine the ugly side of humanity. I want to create detectives that are complicated, vulnerable, and wicked smart. So far, no dice, but I am not giving up hope!
Yeah, I'm jealous of them, too. My first novel (no word on it yet, sorry) is a mix of mystery and chick lit. My work in progress (almost to 20,000 words!) has much less mystery, but I still find myself plotting unexpected turns and proverbial DUN DUN DUN moments. I can't help it. My brain is Law & Order, remember?
I hate when people denigrate those styles (or any, for that matter -- this shit is hard, y'all, no matter what your personal taste). So to hear a prize-winning poet praise detective fiction on a chick lit blog made me feel all... BLANKETY again. Blankety. Yep. That's the word.