Looking at Disorder by Molly MacRae

 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay

Last weekend I had the pleasure of attending Prime Crime in Indianapolis. It was held at the Columbia Club, a beautiful faux gothic building dating from 1889, on Monument Circle in downtown Indy. Prime Crime is the reincarnation of Magna Cum Murder which had been sponsored by Ball State University from 1994 through 2019. We all know how many things went by the wayside starting in early 2020. Prime Crime was the perfect re-creation of a venerable mystery conference once described as a house party with three hundred of your closest friends. There weren’t three hundred attendees, this first year back since 2019, but I’m pretty sure that everyone who did attend had a fabulous time. I certainly did.

Many of the panel sessions focused around the P.D. James statement illustrated above. A panel I moderated was called “Can Order Really be Restored: Restoration in Interesting Times.” It occurs to me that the questions I posed to authors S.J. Rozan, Ruth Dudley Edwards, and Ted Fitzgerald might be useful for any mystery writer to consider while planning a story, so here they are.

Is order always restored?

What do we mean by order? Who gets to decide what we mean?

If there’s disagreement over the definition of “order,” or over who decides on the definition, is that the beginning of trouble?

Order implies disorder. So when does that disorder start? With the murder? Or did it start with the victim (who might have disrupted the villain’s idea of order)?

Can order really be restored? Or is that restoration, at best, an uneasy approximation of order—like a favorite sweater that doesn’t look quite as nice or feel as warm because it’s full of moth holes?

Of course, we wandered from those questions as they prompted others, because that’s what good panels do, and I’m sure more will occur to you, too. Have fun cogitating.

 

 

Of Accidents and Art

The story of this photograph started off with an accident. I was watering the plants on my backyard deck, and I tripped and slopped water on the wooden boards. Suddenly there was a pretty little puddle at my feet. I spill stuff all the time when I'm gardening – dirt, mulch, compost. And since Mother Nature is not known for being overly fastidious, I don't bother cleaning it up.

So the puddle stayed. And it wasn't until I finished my chores and started back inside that I noticed it again. Only this time, it looked very different.

The angle of light was such that the sky overhead reflected in the still water like a mirror. The white clouds, green-gold new oak leaves, and slick black tree limbs were all backgrounded by a sky so clear and blue it looked freshly painted.

But this was no mirror, no flat oval of silvered glass. The water took an organic form, spiky at the edges, like a starburst. It shimmered with liquid grace, following rules of physics to arrange itself there. There was no design of mine in it. There was only this puddle, and the late afternoon sunshine, and the green spring bursting above it.

Soon the sun sank lower, changing the angle of light, and the puddle became a puddle once again. I am writing this post on another brilliant spring day, and I am tempted to try to replicate the effect. But I don't think I can. My intentions would get in the way.

Some artists are spectacularly good at getting out of the way of intention, Jackson Pollack being one of the best. His paintings incorporate fractal patterns typically found only in nature, patterns that at their deepest level cannot be ascertained by the human eye. We see only seemingly random drip and drops, splatters and splashes. And that's what most abstract work painted by humans looks like under the microscope too – a random mess. But Jackson's work, just like Nature's, has an underlying order. Spirals loop together into elegantly mathematical forms, graceful and precise.

I think of this process, the tapping of the underlying order in the chaos, whenever I sit down at the page. We writers are working with limited materials – in English, we have twenty-six letters and a smattering of punctuation marks at our disposal. You'd think we'd run out of interesting new combinations, that perhaps Shakespeare or Morrison or Dickinson would have used up all the really good patterns.

But no. New stories still abound. It's only natural. Our DNA works with only four nucleotides, and look at all the variety there. We writers haven't exhausted our twenty-six building blocks, not by a long shot.

So the next time you end up with a mess, whether wordy or watery, consider the beauty there ripe for the beholding. Perhaps like me, you'll find a rainbow in the ruin.