By Evangeline Jennings

Without wishing to sound even more ridiculous than usual, I have been thinking about my favourite subject – me, duh – and drawing some half-arsed conclusions. Luckily for all concerned, I’ve been thinking about my writing. And in particular the concept of a mystery.

I grew up reading mysteries, became addicted to them. Enid Blyton was my gateway, Agatha Christie my smack. Also my heroine. Even today there are few things I enjoy more than a really good mystery – although they seem to come few and far between – but try as I might, I cannot write one to save my life.


Almost everything* I write is a mystery in its own way, and I could probably go further and say that they’re locked-room mysteries.

I’ve spent an hour trying to explain what I mean by that, but in the end I can’t. Because I believe in the integrity of my mysteries. Because the only way to explain what I mean would be to provide at least meta-clues. And because I absolutely and completely refuse to ever give away an ending.

There’s no hope for me.

I think one day I shall write a real locked-room mystery.

*Except some of my YA


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