There is a distinction amongst crime writers, which can be put politely or more robustly.
Some of we strange creatures indulge ourselves in the true horror of crime and plunge into the dark and slimy pit of details - about the way people can be attacked, and suffer, and all the psychology that goes with it, and much more besides.
Others prefer skirting around such unpleasantness, preferring the more thoughtful elements of the solving of the mystery and the battle of wits between the good guys and bad.
I'm of the latter breed, as I have no taste for gore.
I've always liked to think of my books as gentle crime, or cosy crime as the sub-genre is often known.
Incidentally, as an interlude, here's yours truly snapped in a pub (shock!) being struck by a thought for a detail in a book and quickly scribbling it down.
(it's one of my better views - ie. from the rearwards side.)
Anyway, as I was saying - I've always regarded myself as a cosy crime writer, but that warm and pleasant image was abruptly shattered when I did a signing at a bookshop recently.
I was introduced to one of the staff, who immediately commented - "Ah, you're the guy who writes granny crime".
And to add a little salt to the newly-inflicted wound, Mr Silver Tongue then added, "I thought you'd be older, writing that stuff".
Ah, it's funny how a mere few words can destroy happily held illusions about yourself.
Do please excuse me now, I have to be away to write some more granny crime...