JANE WILLAN: The worship service had just ended, and I grabbed a much-needed cup of coffee in the church fellowship hall. Having just preached a rousing sermon, concluded the yearly pledge drive, and told turkey jokes to the Sunday School children, I was experiencing my usual post-worship-service-fatigue. As I stood contemplating the platters of homemade cookies spread out for the congregation’s social hour, a church member approached me. “Well, Pastor,” he said. “I’ve read both of your books now.” I waited the prescribed ten seconds for a possible compliment, and when it didn’t arrive, I smiled and said, “Oh good. Did you enjoy them?”
“I did,” he said. “You made me feel as if I was right in Wales the whole time I was reading.”
I inwardly beamed. I had labored over my descriptions of the Welsh countryside where I have set my mystery series, and I am always glad to hear that I’ve done at least a decent job of depicting it.
“How long did you live in Wales?” he asked, selecting a cookie from the table.
“Oh, I’ve never lived in Wales,” I told him taking a cautious sip of coffee. Church coffee is characteristically lukewarm, weak, and in a paper cup. But after leading worship for an hour, it hits the spot.
“Never?”
“No. I wrote the whole book without ever having been there.” I have always thought my accomplishment was a great testimony to Google.
“Oh,” he said with a slight frown. “How disappointing.”
“It is? Why?” I suddenly really needed a cookie to go with my coffee. This discussion of my books seemed to be turning into a conversation that called for major carbs. With frosting.
“That means you made it all up,” he said and walked off.
Well, true! I did make it all up. I thought that was why we called it fiction. Perhaps my church member thought my books were going to be like my sermons—factual (at least for the most part). What I didn’t tell him is that I really enjoy the making-it-all-up part of the writing process. Every day when I sit at my keyboard, I enter my private world of Father Selwyn and Sister Agatha. I step through the doors of Gwenafwy Abbey built during the Norman Invasion and nestled in the rolling green hills of North Wales. I experience a place where a round of tea and cakes can solve everything—even murder. I loved building a world entirely of my choosing—in other words, making it all up. Maybe in the eyes of the congregation, pastors aren’t supposed to “make it all up.” But then I am a pastor who writes about murder. I have to make up at least some of it.
Sometimes people ask me, how can a pastor write about murder? The answer is an easy one-- there is no better place to set a mystery than in a church. Nor is there anyone more qualified to solve it, than a member of the clergy. Just ask Father Brown or Clare Ferguson or Brother Cadfael. Clergy are natural sleuths because we are always sifting through questions of right and wrong, order and chaos, good and evil. In the same way that a detective confronts the dark side of humanity, so does a pastor---although my clerical detectives seem to chase down good and evil much more effectively than I ever have in real life.However, it isn't just good and evil that pastors confront. The melodrama within a church community can also be an excellent source of victims and suspects. I have a lot of experience with ecclesial drama (which can sometimes overtake an otherwise respectable congregation) and believe me—it is the perfect setting for murder.
Although there is not a lot of mystery and mayhem in my own parish, First Congregational Church of Paxton (at least not most days), my parishioners are extraordinarily supportive of my writing. The ladies of the church hosted a fabulous launch party for the release of each book. The book launch parties were complete with gouda cheese (the murder weapon in The Shadow of Death), Welsh cakes, and Welsh Brew tea which they served in quaint, antique-looking teapots and teacups. The centerpiece on each table was a diorama of a scene from the book. In the second book, The Hour of Death, Sister Agatha wears a red jumper and a blue wooly hat. The ladies in our church knitting circle made a replica sweater and hat! Not only is their involvement a lot of fun—it is a beautiful statement of their support for my writing.
A pastor who writes about murder? It makes perfect sense to me.
About The Hour of Death: As Yuletide settles upon Gwenafwy Abbey, the rural Welsh convent’s peace is shattered when Tiffany Reese, president of the Village Art Society, is found dead on the floor of the parish hall. Sister Agatha, whose interests lie more with reading and writing mystery stories than with making the abbey’s world-renowned organic gouda, is not shy about inserting herself into the case. With the not-entirely-eager assistance of Father Selwyn, she begins her investigation.
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