Before I moved to Maine, I wondered why it was home to so many mystery authors. The kind who write books that rely on twists. How often have you been smugly cruising along for a chapter or so, certain you can name that villain (or the next victim) in three pages, only to have your theory come to a screeching halt. Plot Twist.

As a writer, I know there are set places in a novel that require special attention. The inciting incident introduces the dastardly deed. The first plot point ratchets up the stakes so the amateur hero decides to get involved and the professional hero realizes something evil is afoot. Bring on plot point two where it becomes apparent to amateur and professional alike that they had the wrong end of the stick. Brace yourself for plot point three where the final bits of the puzzle fall together. The sleuths have the clues, but not the perp. Plot point four, also known as the climax, is home to the big twist. It’s the big action scene where the sleuth risks all and the bad guy bites the dust.

I am convinced that Maine weather birthed the mystery plot structure. I know, I know, I can see those eyes rolling right through the ether. Hear me out. Early spring serves as the inciting incident. The sky blues, the trees bud, the air holds a fresh scrubbed scent. Mainers plan the garden, shake the dust from closed up homes, discover and plan repairs for winter’s toll, and survive mud season. Late spring brings the first plot point, black flies. Mainers are outdoors and under attack. Something evil is afoot so we cover ourselves in bug suits, baste our bodies with deet and move ahead with outdoor activities and fun. Summer provides plot point two. Bugs were never the issue. Enjoyment is the thing. Warm weather is fleeting. Grab it by the tail and shake it for all it’s worth.

Plot point three arrives in the fall. Leaves turn glorious colors, days shorten, the pace of life quickens. The real enemy is fast approaching. We spend time in the woods gathering what we need. Winter can bring scarcity and beauty. Experience serves as a guide. We’ve met this enemy before, and always triumphed. This year, plot point four arrived in early March. I looked out my window and discovered a naked driveway. Most of the snow was gone from the yard and robins appeared in my backyard. I didn’t get downright giddy until I looked at the trees and spotted buds. I did what any reasonable Mainer would do. I raced to the garden store and bought supplies before they sold out. I should have known better. Two days later we had the heaviest snowfall of the season. Two feet of wet, heavy, snow. The kind that freezes on contact and leaves you with a slip and slide when you shovel. In short. Plot Twist.

Two more heavy snowfalls meant digging out the snowblower from the back of the garage. High winds took down power lines. It seemed the villain had the upper hand, until mother nature laughed. Let the snow fall, and the winds blow. Neither lasts long when the temps consistently top the freezing mark. The next inciting incident is on the way.

As I write this, the snow has melted. The driveway is visible, grass is greening, buds are thickening to the bursting point. It’s spring in Maine. Look out for that mud puddle. It will swallow you whole. Nothing in the north woods is free of risks.

It seems Maine writers have been writing what they know for generations. It works because it’s true.