The popularity of mystery books never ceases to amaze this peripheral admirer of the genre (read last year’s Book Buying Survey and catch the latest coming in the Feb. 15 issue). I say “peripheral admirer” because I quite literally have never read a contemporary mystery—unless I can count the several volumes in the “Choose Your Own Adventure” series I devoured in the mid- to late 1980s—and yet I love the idea of murder as formula. Oh, the gruesome possibilites! Oh, the intrigue!

Strangely enough, my reading habits aren’t so unique. Yesterday, I ate pizza with two co-workers who are avid readers yet have never consumed a modern mystery to their knowledge either (!!). When we tried to get to the bottom of why, no one cited poor literary breeding. Mysteries, we well know from reading LJ’s Mystery Column, can be very accomplished and intellectually stimulating. Check P.D. James and Walter Mosley, favorites of our own Francine Fialkoff and Michael Rogers, respectively.

One of us did, however, make the point that mysteries can seem almost demanding. There’s quite literally a case to crack, and her brain balks at that kind of a challenge. I can relate to that point, but I would augment it by saying mystery readers seem like a slightly scary gang. What if I don’t fit in? Will I get a pair of cement shoes if I don’t lap up the gory details? What if I don’t “get” the mystery even at the end (this happens to me with mystery movies all the time)? I hate feeling stupid after having indebted myself to Uncle Sam for tens of thousands of dollars for grad school.

For the record, I don’t want to remain a nonmystery reader forever. My brain could use a good stretching and blood splattering, and I might as well start with the best of last year as determined by LJ’s Jo Ann Vicarel.