I'm delighted to welcome S.G. Wong to Type M for Murder. S.G. is a Canadian author, speaker, and community organizer. An Arthur Ellis Awards finalist and WIBA nominee, she's also Past President of Sisters in Crime--Canada West. Known for the Lola Starke novels and Crescent City short stories of alternate history, hard-boiled detective tales, she is currently finishing a new stand-alone contemporary mystery set in the Canadian Rockies.
Just
a Little Off-Centre
By S.G. Wong
This is a selected list of things I’ve held
in my hands, while I pondered their utility as weapons:
·
soup ladle
·
frying pan (various diameters)
·
soup pot (various sizes)
·
The Compact Oxford English Dictionary
·
kettle bells
·
kettle (stovetop)
·
kettle (electric)
·
toaster
I remember with particular clarity the
moments with the soup ladle, so unexpected, a revelation of sorts, really.
Stainless steel bowl, flattened steel shaft, black plastic handle. I hefted
that thing for a while, wondering if it had the right weight to do some real
damage, or if it would just temporarily distract. It had a great, balanced
feel, really perfect for swinging.
In case I’m not being clear: I often spend
time considering everyday, common objects for their effectiveness as weapons.
I especially gravitate to kitchen items,
for some reason. Probably because I spend a lot of time there. I like to cook
and bake and generally futz about with ingredients and non-recipes. It’s the
closest thing to alchemy. What’s not to like?
I
mean, okay, I spend a lot of time at my writing desk, too, but I can’t suspend
my disbelief long enough to imagine throwing my laptop or my monitor at someone
in order to hurt them. Also, if someone corners me in my office, I’m a goner
anyway: there’s only one way in or out.
On second thought, maybe I would use
my laptop…
I remember a Sue Grafton novel, where a
character dies an excruciatingly painful, messy death after being poisoned with
amanitas, time
bombs masquerading as mushrooms on the man’s pizza. Gruesome. And
yet…intriguing.
Human beings are so ingenious. Yes, we can
create obvious weapons: knives, guns, saws, ice picks, hammers, etc. etc. ad
nauseum. But honestly, deadly things are all around us. And really, there’s
something sneaky and weirdly satisfying (for me, at least) in skewing my
perspective just enough so that I see a weapon where someone else (fine, most
people) would see a beautiful maple cutting board or a hand-painted step
stool.
I know it’s strange and morbid and
possibly, not very healthy for my psyche—but. Hear me out.
Writing crime means studying crime. It
means tipping one’s head just so, until an entirely new scenario comes into
focus. It means observing the everyday and looking for its edges, where it
unravels and where it’s patched up, where the familiar becomes a weapon and the
known disappears.
It’s a mean, dark, dirty job—but somebody’s
gotta do it.
PS. Have you seen the latest John Wick
film? The one in which, before all the guns blaze and the knives come out, he
does someone in with a book?
Yep. Gruesome. And…intriguing.
