Four years ago when my first novel, The Clovis Incident (http://www.parinoskintaichert.com/clovisincident.html), was published, I wore the cozy mantle proudly. I liked the sound of it—warm, friendly, accessible. It felt snuggly. I thought it evoked that wonderful experience of curling up in a soft blanket on a winter's day with a really good book.
My work had all the right ingredients for the designation, too: amateur sleuth, no gratuitous violence, off-screen sex, minimal profanity. It featured a competent PR pro—a strong female lead—who was savvy enough to help her clients well, but who needed to grow as a person herself (so, a series with an interesting character arc could be sustained over time). And, each book I planned to write would take place in a small town. According to reviews, my work was "witty" and "quirky."
Perfect. I was Cozy to the max.
When I received my first Agatha Award nomination, I was even more adamant. If it said "cozy" in a blurb or review, I knew it meant my young daughters would be able to read the book . . . without me being embarrassed.
Back in early 2004, cozies also placed strong emphasis on their protagonists' professions: from dry cleaning to wedding planning, and from catering to restoring classic cars.
But just one year later, when my novel, The Belen Hitch (http://www.parinoskintaichert.com/belenhitch.html), came out, it seemed like something had shifted. By the time I got my second Agatha nomination, I didn't want to use the word cozy at all, didn't want to be associated with it.
What happened? Had I changed? Had my work changed? Or had the cozy subgenre somehow come to mean something different?
I'm not quite sure. I think some of the shift came with a personal realization that many industry leaders, reviewers, and booksellers considered cozies fluff, the equivalent of literary popcorn. Influential pundits in the field—such as Otto Penzler—actually reveled in condemning the subgenre in national newspapers whenever they could. Thriller and noir were now cool; cozy was unhip, dated, old-fashioned.
Yet the writers I knew whose books fell into the cozy category worked just as hard as those authors who gained more substantial attention—and credibility.
But something else changed too, more than that odd private disillusionment.
I think, from the inside of the mystery world, cozy began to mean nothing more than kitschy. The genre brimmed over with punny titles hinting at ditzy, zany protagonists with about as much brain power as sea slugs. Authors and publishing houses fell over themselves trying to come up with wackier and wackier premises, kookier and kookier perky gals.
Now, I have no problem with that. Many of those books are downright fun. But they're not what I write.
I started to feel lost in my own genre.
In the last few years, there's been another more disturbing movement, too. It's currently gaining ground. Niche marketing has become de rigueur. I believe this has influenced the kinds of books now falling under the cozy rubric. In the niche marketing world, the emphasis changes: Rather than idiosyncratic, intelligent protagonists with fascinating jobs, the thrust is now moving toward a hobbyist mindset: knitting, scrap-booking, doll-collecting. Any hobby will do, but, by Jove, there'd better be one.
This says something about women and their role in society; how they see themselves; how they continue to be portrayed . . . but that's another subject, and this trend might only be momentary. Most trends are.
I hope we'll continue to enjoy the works of Donna Andrews, Rita Mae Brown, Susan McBride, Elaine Viets. Mary Saum's latest—Thistle and Twigg—is the epitome of a gentle and, well, cozy cozy.
However, it might be time to find more accurate words for authors such as myself, Gabi Herkert, Margaret Maron, and Jacqueline Winspear. "Amateur sleuth" might work, but there's something about that word amateur that makes me nervous. Someone might just assume the writing is, too.
"Traditional mystery" is what the Agatha Award committee uses. It's a good term, but holds no warmth. On some levels, it sounds obligatory—like an unpleasant assignment—or, like it should sit on your grandmother's bookshelf rather than yours. The moniker also makes people think of Agatha Christie's marvelous Miss Marple.
I'm here to tell you that my Sasha Solomon would consider that elderly English woman akin to a space alien. And, Miss Marple would be appalled at Sasha's consumption of canned whipped cream.
As Readers' Advisors, perhaps you can come up with a more appropriate label. It wouldn't have to do with geography; that's another subject all together. It wouldn't have to do with profession. It would have to do with the essence, the spirit of the works and what they say about humanity . . .
It's 2008 and I've been trying to stay away from labels lately. My third book, The Socorro Blast (http://www.parinoskintaichert.com/socorroblast.html), has just been released. This time, I'm letting my fans describe my books for me. They use words like suspense novels or traditional mysteries or hybrids with dashes of thriller thrown in. One reader said I invented a new genre: Gonzo cozy.
Frankly, these labels are for other people's convenience. They serve a purpose that I can't deny, though I bristle at some of the assumptions that each one carries.
Me? I just want to be known for writing good reads.
Pari Noskin Taichert is a two-time Agatha Award finalist whose mysteries celebrate New Mexico's quirkiness through Sasha Solomon, a prickly, reality-challenged, PR consultant who helps small towns promote tourism. Taichert's newest book, The Socorro Blast, maintains Sasha's irreverent sense of humor while it tackles the difficult issue of contemporary intolerance. Her website is at http://www.parinoskintaichert.com.
Publisher: University of New Mexico Press: http://www.unmpress.com/ http://www.parinoskintaichert.com http://www.murderati.com