Okay, I admit it. I lost my temper. Just a bit. But in front of a roomful of people.

The context: Bouchercon, in Baltimore. I was a member of a panel called, Otherside, which looked at keeping amateur sleuths real. Anthony nominee William Kent Krueger was moderating. Our subject was just what the title suggests — how do we keep a protagonist who is not a cop, CIA agent, or other law-abiding (or law-breaking) thug a believable and sympathetic character?

We had lots of answers for this. Research, details, talking to experts. Good writing. It was a lively panel, highlighted by Kent’s game show, in which he gave each of us a scenario and asked us to explain what we would do with our protagonist in that situation to make the story real. My scene had Stella going to a Catholic church in the middle of the night to meet an informant. I said knowing her she would just call the cops. But that wasn’t good enough, so I talked about how she would go. She’d wear her leathers, for protection; carry a baseball batt, for self-defense; and ride her Harley to the meeting, to intimidate. She’d also have no idea about the protocol in Catholic churches, and would inevitably go where she was not supposed to go.

So we had fun with the exercise, and then came time for questions. The first woman said, “I heard someone on an earlier panel say that it’s impossible for people to write believable amateur sleuths. How would you respond to that?”

Grrr.

Let me explain. In the mystery community, no matter how supportive and wonderful it is, there is a chasm. A chasm between some people who write thrillers or more hard-boiled books, and some people who write traditional mysteries. Call them cozies, if you want, although I would never describe my books as cozy even though Stella is an amateur sleuth. Those who write the “harder” stuff often disdain the works of those who write “softer” stuff. This is ridiculous, of course. Those writers should know how it feels to be categorized, as “literary” writers (as though all of us aren’t literary) tend to look down on genre fiction, as a whole.

Two of my fellow panelists followed up the question by talking about available technology, and how ordinary people do have access to things the cops don’t — namely people they know, and their relationships. No matter how good a cop is, he or she won’t know some of the things that people close to the victim knew, and they probably won’t ever find out. So the ordinary person has some tools. A good answer to the question.

But when asked my response to this comment, I had to say, I’m irritated. Authors can’t make an amateur seem real? Give me a break. Of course it’s not real. It’s fiction. And ordinary everyday citizens don’t go around stumbling over bodies every day. But you know what? Cops don’t, either. How often are we told that in real life the cops’ world is filled with paperwork and footwork and boring procedural stuff? How often is the entire country — or even an entire city — actually threatened by terrorists? (I have a feeling I don’t really want to know) The idea of one CIA agent saving the world from terrorists really isn’t any more believable than an antiques dealer figuring out who killed her neighbor. And how real is the alcoholic, despondent detective with absolutely no family in the world? According to harder-boiled stuff, they’re everywhere. Somehow I think they’re not so prevalent in real life.

So why can’t we just let each other write the books we want to write? Why can’t we let readers read the books they like to read? Why do people have to criticize what’s not their style? Are they so worried about their own stuff that they have to put the others down? Here on the L’il Blog we have a wide spectrum of books represented: paranormal, hard-boiled, non-fiction, traditional… We don’t put down each other’s works. I like to think it’s because we understand that the genre is made up of all kinds of things, and we only make each other stronger by being diverse. Perhaps it’s just because we like each other. But whatever the reason, I’m glad.

So the question on the panel obviously struck a chord, and I got upset. In fact, I’m getting a little hot right now, while I’m writing about it. I ask the age-old question: Why can’t we all just get along?

Some things are worth getting upset about. And I think this is one of them.