Felonious Narrative Trajector
I’ve been sitting here for half an hour, staring at my tea, thinking about weird and clever ways people die. Not in a grim, shadowy-corner-of-the-soul way — more like the curiosity you get when you see a Rube Goldberg machine and think, Now imagine that, but with deadly consequences. I’m not planning anything, mind you. My apartment lease specifically forbids both pets and elaborate murder contraptions. But when you’re building a murder mystery, your brain starts seeing potential crime scenes everywhere. That pothole on Elm Street? Accident. The fact that the pothole is shaped like a perfect outline of a human body? Plot point.
There’s a strange cheeriness to it — the giddy mischief of mentally turning everyday life into an episode of “How Did That Even Happen?” I walk through the farmer’s market and suddenly imagine someone being dispatched via rogue wheel of cheese. I see a hotel revolving door and think, What if it didn’t stop revolving… ever? And when I pass a man on the bus carrying a taxidermied fox, I file it away without context. Every object becomes a clue. Every clue becomes a trap.
The fun isn’t in making it realistic — it’s in making it so absurdly plausible the reader starts questioning their own furniture. I once outlined a plot where the killer used a novelty hot air popcorn maker, a packet of glitter, and a poorly-timed fire drill. Is that possible? No idea. Is it delightful? Absolutely. A good murder mystery should have moments where the reader gasps, not at the horror, but at the audacity. Like, “Oh my God… I can’t believe they killed him with that many churros.”
Of course, under the confetti of ridiculousness, you still need the bones of the thing: the body, the suspects, the motive. My “victims” are never just bodies on the floor — they’re personalities with inconvenient habits and secrets they thought were safe. The suspects? Always an odd mix: someone too nice, someone too angry, someone too quiet, and someone who has never once in their life been on time. The joy is in making them all look equally guilty, then slowly pulling threads until the sweater unravels and one person is left holding both the weapon and a half-baked apple cobbler excuse.
The setting matters too. A murder in a sunny kitchen with the smell of cinnamon rolls in the air? Deliciously wrong. I like contrast — the warm and familiar invaded by something wicked but strangely polite. It’s funnier that way. Picture a small-town library, afternoon light pouring in, and a body slumped over the knitting club’s newest scarf project. The yarn? Alibi and weapon, all in one.
Writing the story arc is like planning a surprise party where the surprise is you’ve been outwitted. I start with the reveal, work backward to the misdirects, then scatter tiny breadcrumbs so subtle they could double as kitchen dust. Every step has to feel organic, like it happened naturally… even if the natural process involved three fake passports, a missing hamster, and a suspiciously enthusiastic weather forecast.
It turns out, thinking about clever ways people die isn’t grim at all when you’re making it up. It’s like imagining the most over-the-top, cartoonishly poetic justice and then wrapping it in enough charm that the reader can’t help but grin while they’re horrified. The real trick is that you’re not celebrating the death — you’re celebrating the dance of the puzzle pieces clicking together.
Side note: if my search history ever gets reviewed by law enforcement, I’m going to have to explain why “can you drown in pudding” is followed immediately by “how to knit faster with cold hands.”
By the time the arc is done, my corkboard looks like a cross between a detective’s investigation wall and a preschool art project — red string everywhere, cheerful sticky notes saying things like “VICTIM TRIPS HERE” and “CHECK POISONOUS PLANTS AT GARDEN CENTER.” It’s chaotic, but it works. The killer is smug, the detective is suspicious, and the reader is about to realize they’ve been played like a kazoo at a clown funeral.
Anyway… turns out the hardest part of brainstorming a murder mystery is stopping yourself from saying “That’s actually a pretty good way to kill someone” out loud in public.
