Recently a friend of mine (let's call her Florence) lent my book, The Bridgeman, to a new acquaintance of hers. (Let's call her Gladys.) When Gladys was finished, she returned to Florence and asked her what kind of person I was. Gladys figured I must be a closet psychopath and how on earth could I be friends with the sweet Flo? Gladys didn't think I could possibly be a lady and depict the scary evil-doing that appears in my book.
Well, I must admit that Gladys is right about one thing. I am no lady. I am a bit of a loud mouth, I have been known to swear, I have even - on occasion - consumed too much wine. I don't feel comfortable with my ankles crossed. I can't cook and I do like calisthenics in the bedroom with my husband. I get incensed when I visit a public washroom and have to choose between "Men" and "Ladies". Why can't there be one for women? I mean, it's even one letter less. Do they think too many guys will make a mistake and miss the WO?
So I write about nasty things that happen, sometimes to good people, sometimes to innocent animals and even children. That does sound gruesome. But it's reality. It's the heart of darkness of humanity. I like to explore it because I find the human race so contradictory, fascinating, and puzzling. I want to see inside the criminal mind and try to explain it. Moreover, I want to punish the bad and reward the good.
I love dark, gritty, meaty mysteries like the kind Minette Walters writes, or sometimes P.D. James. They are women, too, I'd bet.