Last Friday I was murdered. Stabbed in the heart 12 times with a butter knife. Did it hurt? Not nearly as much as realizing I couldn't even solve my own death!
I was attending a murder mystery dinner, and turned out to be the victim. My name was Purple, a diva rock star with anger management issues.
As the story unraveled and the guests got into the roles, I really thought a lot about the writing of a mystery. In a novel, clues should be slowly revealed, not too obvious, but clear enough that at the end, if you haven't figured it out, you have a Homer Simpson, "DOH!" moment. The murder mystery dinner did not quite end up that way. The clues were confusing, if not entirely vague, the characters mostly unaware of what they were supposed to do. Not even the murderer guessed that she did it. Speaking of which, the picture is of me and my murderess. The white mask I'm wearing is the representation of death...or something like that.
So, did I have a good time? Absolutely! I was obnoxious, I yelled a lot, and everyone hated me. It was awesome. But with better writing, I think those mystery dinners could really take off.