I never intended to become a crime writer. I am still not sure I will remain one
forever, even though I thoroughly enjoy the genre and the way its relatively tight
structure paradoxically allows you to wander anywhere and everywhere, as long as
you always return to the narrative at the centre of the story. That’s because, what I
end up writing depends on the idea.|
I fell into writing crime via my first novel for adults, The Mother. It’s not a classic
crime novel and certainly not a whodunnit. Some pundits called it ‘domestic noir’ –
which I rather like – but it certainly has a crime at its centre. I wrote The Mother
because I had an idea that insisted I write it. An idea that could only be written as a
novel.
The Mother was inspired by a photo I saw in a news story. I suspect many crime
novels spring from something like that. The photo was of a young woman and her
children with an older lady – I thought she was probably the woman’s grandmother –
whose face was pixelated. The story was about how the younger woman and her
children had been horrifically murdered by their estranged husband and father. I am
a mother and a grandmother and my heart went out to all of them but I identified with
the older woman with the pixelated face. I thought about the huge loss she had
experienced and empathised with the shock, grief and horror she must have been
dealing with. I wondered what it would be like if such an awful thing happened in my
own family. How would I feel, I wondered, what would I do? Then it hit me. I realised
what I’d want to do, and the idea for The Mother was born.
The Mother was a best-seller and I still receive emails from readers telling me that I
have written their story, their daughter’s story, their friend’s story. Coercive
controlling relationships – the ones most likely to end in homicide – are far too
common, I now realise.
Following a best seller is hard. It feels like the infamous second album. I had a few
false starts until I once again had an idea that got my heart beating and my
imagination racing. This time, I was walking with my husband in the Barrington Tops,
silently beating myself up about the novel (since abandoned) that I was then
struggling with. Suddenly, a lyrebird stepped out of the forest a few feet in front of us
without noticing we were there. We followed along quietly aware of the privilege it is
to see such a wild creature so close and personal. As we crept along, I started to
think about lyrebirds and what impressive mimics they were and, again, a thought
struck me. What if a lyrebird witnessed a murder?
I had my idea.
More info about Jane Caro here.
