I went to a marvelous place on Thursday night called the Mysterious Bookshop. Mysterious indeed. Not only is it a speciality bookstore dealing only in mysteries, thrillers, crime and espionage novels (as well as rare and out-of-print editions), but I had no idea it existed, despite its being around for almost 30 years. It used to be located in midtown but is now downtown, Tribeca-ish.

I keep saying that mysteries are a relatively new genre for me, but on reflection I don’t think that’s true. Though it is true that it’s only been within recent years that I’ve found pure detective novels interesting, I have always enjoyed elements of the mysterious in other literary fiction, canonical or otherwise. My interest started with Dickens, I suppose, and those shadowy figures introduced in Chapter 5 that one suspects will turn out to be someone’s rich uncle by Chapter 43.

If I had to point to one book that awakened my interest in the mystery as a genre, however, it would have to be Jonathan Lethem’s Motherless Brooklyn. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I do remember getting the same sort of thrill from trying to figure things out in that book as I do when I watch movies with some sort of twist that I try and suss out before the ending. It’s a combination of wanting to know what happens next and trying to figure it out before it happens, and the delight that comes from reading something that’s a few steps ahead of you at all times.

(Unlike, say, a Jane Austen novel, where you know exactly how the main characters will end up, but you nonetheless enjoy the ride.)

Anyway — I am enjoying learning more about this genre, now that I am reviewing mysteries, thrillers and crime fiction for RT Book Reviews. And that’s what brought me to the Mysterious Bookshop on Thursday, to attend a reading by one of the authors whose new book I’ve reviewed, Brian Wiprud’s Buy Back (what the review doesn’t mention — it is HILARIOUS. You should read it). And the reading was wonderful, and the bookshop is wonderful. It’s stocked floor to ceiling with books, and the ceilings are high, so there are a few of those charming rolling ladders that I associate with library rooms in grand estates. There’s an entire wall of Sherlock Holmes mysteries. (An ENTIRE WALL.)

There’s a lush mahogany-colored leather sofa in the center of the space, the kind you’d expect to see in a gentlemen’s club of previous centuries, and on the sofa was this needlepointed pillow:

And that’s really what I wanted to show you. I think it’s neat. It reminds me of the sorts of needlepoint my grandmother did, none of which I have now to show you. But this sort of needlepoint was my gateway to crafting. I liked the feel of the two- or three-ply wool yarn commonly used for needlepoint, the texture of the stitches, the way canvases started out stiff and unyielding but as one stitched a fabric on them they became pliable and soft. I think the first needlework project I ever did was a small decorative pillow with a northern lights pattern in purples, pinks and blues. (My grandmother would’ve done the backing and the sewing and the stuffing for me.)

I look at this pillow and think, “I should get back to that sort of thing.” I know I could easily get any number of pre-printed canvases and kits, but I’m thinking a bit bigger than that.

In my head I am creating grand tapestries that would fill entire walls of my apartment, broad scenes as in medieval times but with a modern, urban slant. Skylines rendered in vivid, saturated colors. Abandoned subway cars covered in graffiti. Comic book panels converted to pixels and printed out on canvas. Maybe even scenes from TV shows or movies. Needlepoint is essentially color-by-number, but with yarn. Anything is possible.

I think I’m more or less serious about following through with this. Any ideas for where to start?

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