There’s a certain type of mystery plot out
there that is really starting to get on my nerves. The plot isn’t confined to a
single sub-genre. The book can be set in a charming English village where an
elderly lady plays the role of amateur sleuth. It can just as easily be a
tough-as-nails hardboiled story about a tough wise-cracking PI. But for some
reason, many authors think it’s a clever idea to use the following twist
ending: the killer is gay.
What does the author of such a tale expect
me to do? Throw my hands in the air and scream “Oh, my God!!! A gay person!!! I
thought they were only mythical creatures that hid in forests, picked berries
while the moon was full, and secretly stole pens whenever you needed them!”
This twist ending has long outgrown its shock value… and its welcome. And the
ending has introduced a brand-new set of clichés to the genre, clichés I’m sick
of seeing.
