I have been amazed, over the years, at my love for Sue Grafton’s work, because so much of it consists of minutely observed details that have no bearing on plot whatsoever. Theme, tone, of course, is reflected in every part of the world, or rather the parts of it a POV or narrator chooses to call out, Grafton spends perhaps 10-20% of each of her books describing the interiors of spaces.
I’m one of those readers that let the specifics of a space wash over them, but tune into the details. I will not remember which wall the bookcase is shoved against, whether it’s opposite the king sized bed or the broken window, at all. There are readers that do, though.
But I do love me some details.
The interiors reflect the characters of the people that inhabit them; bring them into tighter focus.
The average private investigator in fiction will tell you the job is mostly boring details; Grafton makes you live every single one. The plot coupons, the stuff she uses to put her cases together, are completely invisible to me on every read. There’s so much detail to lose the important ones in. She has never once telegraphed an ending.
I have, at times, wondered how the hell she figured out what was going on; I have at times, been confused during the climax, because I have been mesmerized by all the ashtrays and tatty slip covers.
There’s a thing, where a writer describes some perfectly ordinary thing that you can’t recall anyone ever describing in prose before, and it makes you weirdly happy. I remember this during my first Salinger readings. I get that from Grafton a lot, in an among the turns of phrase we’ve all read ten thousand times.
Still, it’s an odd recommendation.
“Wanna read endless descriptions of rooms, houses, faces, lonely spaces, a made up stretch of coastline this detective runs every single goddamn morning?”
Turns out? You do.
