From Wreckage to Wonder
Finding Clues and Compassion in Mystery and Life
Carrying Loss into Creative Work
Even as spring burst forth in April, for my family and me it became a month marked by two sudden, heartbreaking car accidents. One took my mother’s partner, Pat, who was on a routine grocery store errand with a friend. The other claimed the lives of three of my son’s classmates on a spring break trip in Florida. One senior citizen lost, three high school seniors lost, within days of each other, on opposite coasts. A single tragic event would be enough to shake anyone up. Standing at the intersection of two car-related tragedies in close proximity of time has left me at an emotional standstill, struggling to find words. Which is why this newsletter is late.
I’ve been thinking more deeply about how we write about loss, and why it matters. Mystery writers write about tragedies all the time. But how often do we stop and consider the aftermath?
My son and I arrived in Seattle for his spring break, both looking forward to visiting family, and found ourselves in an aftermath situation: four days after Pat’s accident and two days after he was removed from life support. My mother is an extremely resilient person, but this event impacted her on so many levels. Countless questions remain, the kinds of mysteries you don’t want to confront but can’t help obsessing over, especially without an accident report. What went wrong? Why was he on that particular street? Who was at fault? Was something wrong with his car?
The news of the schoolmates then hit us hard, but I’m honestly still processing that one, so will focus on the first tragedy here.
Pat and my mom had been dating for just about a year. I’d only met him a handful of times since I live far away. Yet he was a larger-than-life presence: a big guy who looked a bit like Santa Claus, who loved music, dance and life. I didn’t always get his jokes, but I loved that he made my mom laugh.
At 76, he was fit enough to keep up with my mom on the dance floor (no small feat) and to teach a regular schedule of folk dancing classes. He was a well-respected instructor and a folk music archivist. He and my mom hosted dance parties together. I would get these invitations and shake my head in disbelief. My mom is not known for hosting parties. But she enjoyed hosting with Pat, and would make it her job to connect people in the background. More recently, they’d enjoyed going out for mini adventures with the dog. Two days before the crash, they had gone to see the cherry blossoms on the University of Washington campus.
His sudden absence was palpable, the souvenirs surreal, suggestive of someone who was coming right back: the signature tweed cap, a stack of DVDs to watch, a pile of books to read, paperwork he was completing, and groceries. So. Many. Groceries.
My mom and I both felt drawn by the need to understand, so we visited the crash scene together. We identified landmarks. I took pictures that we would scrutinize later. We picked up a few pieces of the debris that still littered the road. Broken metal and plastic. Strange behavior, maybe. But not, I think, uncommon. We were looking for something to hold on to. Everything we touched was sharp. As shards of debris are. As memories are. It wasn’t until later when I looked closely at my debris photos that I saw a detail I didn’t notice at the time: pink petals of cherry blossoms.
We mystery writers can get swept up in clever plotting, in the machinery of a mystery plot. Sometimes we speed past complex emotions, focusing instead on crafting satisfying twists, and making sure we have things like means, motives, and opportunities in place. Those of us writing cozies or high-concept puzzle mysteries may be particularly prone to this. Yet sometimes mystery writing isn’t just about clever crimes. There’s an opportunity for characters to be witnessing and honoring loss in very meaningful ways.
In real life, people don’t move on so easily. They weep, they ruminate, they brood. They experience sudden memories that elicit laughs and smiles, or that stop them in their tracks and take their breath away. They revisit crash sites. They pick up the sharp pieces. They look for meaning in the smallest clues. They go through rituals of mourning, which are also acts of love.
As I read or watch mysteries going forward, I suspect I may be more attuned to how characters process the emotional impact of tragedies. In my own work, I will endeavor to render it more authentically on the page. I might ask myself questions like these: Who feels the loss, and how? Who is directly or indirectly impacted by crimes or mystery events, perhaps even in ways they do not show? What do they do in response to a tragedy? (Rituals? Avoidances? Breakdowns?) More tellingly, what might they not do? How much grief or aftermath should be on the page? Could a character react meaningfully in a scene, a paragraph, a sentence, a single purposeful action, a gesture, a sigh? How would I want readers to feel about the loss? Saddened, disturbed, outraged? Relieved? Something else?
There’s emotional power in pausing to consider how loss reverberates. A well-placed moment of emotional reckoning in a story can deepen emotional connection between characters, or between characters and readers. We can write authentically and compassionately about those left behind. We can write about people, not just about puzzles. I’ll try to remember that going forward, both in story and in life.
Happier News: Owl Prowl Mystery is a GEBA Honor Book!
On a brighter note . . . on Earth Day, The Nature Generation announced the annual Green Earth Book Awards winners. After clawing its way up the longlist and shortlist earlier this year, The Owl Prowl Mystery was recognized as an Honor Book in the Children’s Fiction Category, just like its predecessor, Trouble at Turtle Pond, two years ago! I’m truly honored. This organization means a lot to me: it is all about recognizing books that promote environmental stewardship among young people, and amplifying books from small and large publishers alike that have environmental impacts. Please visit their website to learn about their other initiatives, how they bring eco storytelling to schools and libraries, the full longlists and shortlists for this year, and the many other books they’ve recognized and recommended!
School Visits Wrapping Up for the Year
I have one more visit left on my school visit schedule for this academic year; I’m headed to a charter school in western Massachusetts as part of the Mass Kids Lit Festival, which arranges school and library visits. I’m excited to meet with kids at this school, which has a strong eco-focus. Last week I had a wonderful time at the Carroll School in Waltham, MA, where I got to meet with a fantastic group of students who are all reading the book and who are caring for four headstarted Blanding’s turtles in their classroom! They’re getting ready to release their turtles soon at the real-life pond that inspired the fictitious Turtle Pond in my books. I had so much fun meeting them and their turtles, and hearing their own turtle tales, including the extremely thrilling tale of “Lucky” (pictured below) who had a rather unusual journey to the classroom last fall when she crawled out of a bag and got lost in the hallways!
Teachers, librarians: I’m now booking fall 2025 events and have both in-person and virtual offerings. You can check out my For Educators page for more information, a topic menu, teacher’s guides, and an interest form!
I’m especially grateful for the signs of life, growth, and connection that are evident in these classrooms. Wishing you a spring filled with connection, renewal, and countless small wonders.
Onward!
Diana
I'm so sorry for all this loss... Hugs. Beautiful words.