For a close friend’s 18th birthday, we went to see the movie Booksmart, directed by Olivia Wilde, in theaters. Unexpectedly, I had never felt so seen. Set just months ahead of real time, while the protagonists were facing their final night of high school, we had only weeks left before we would be in the same position. Similarly to the main characters, I had spent much of my high school career in self-imposed isolation, choosing to study alone, opting for selective one-on-one hangouts, and avoiding the larger social scene which, I later realized, held no animosity towards me. Suddenly, with high school almost over, all the narratives about social divisions and imagined hierarchies started to lose their bearing. Without the existing structure of high school, why couldn’t I talk to whoever I wanted? Why wouldn’t people I had known for years be excited to see me at a social event? I won’t give Ms. Wilde all the credit; I had been coming to these realizations on my own for the better part of senior year. But her protagonists were simultaneously so surreal and authentic, both embodying and transcending all the classic high school archetypes, that by the end of the movie it dawned upon me that, both on and off screen, I had yet to encounter a single vindictive or truly unlikeable character.

Beyond these all-encompassing life lessons, there was one specific scene in Booksmart that would fundamentally shape my social behavior moving forward into adulthood. The night before graduation, in their search for an epic end-of-school party to prove that protagonists Amy and Molly did, in fact, have fun in high school, the pair initially stumble upon a couple of false leads. The second wrong address is a ridiculously elaborate theater party; a murder mystery that occupies a full house, complete with immersive costumes, over-the-top acting, and a whole folder of information on each character. This was not what the girls were looking for, instead serving as a humorous backdrop from which they immediately tried to escape. Yet personally, as a self-diagnosed introvert with a penchant for storytelling, my interest was piqued. I had partaken in a few canned, box-kit murder mystery birthdays in my childhood, but combining the premises of drama and narrative with an actual adult house party seemed to me like an entirely new species of social event, one that filled me with excitement rather than stomach-dropping anxiety.

A year and a half later, I was settled into my university courses, having just moved into a shared college house with five close friends. Though I’m not the type to make lots of friends very quickly, the individuals I am drawn to have always been creative, smart, and distinctly singular. Upon a Booksmart rewatch, it suddenly occurred to me that I had many people in my life who would not only be very interested in such a narrative-driven, theatrical social gathering, but also who would be great inspiration for the plot and cast of characters. For one friend – a genius with vaguely-strategic social charm – I envisioned him in a poncho and glasses, ending every conversation with a confession of love in an attempt to force vulnerability. One of my best friends since childhood, very driven and very type-A, would be a sleazy attorney, wearing one airpod in at all times for meetings and randomly shouting at people about business. For the former theater kid from Florida, I knew she could easily commit to a full southern accent and an exaggerated lavender marriage. In this organic way, borrowing inspiration from all the remarkable people around me, I began writing my first homegrown murder mystery in the Fall of 2020.

I would go on to write a new narrative, with up to 18 unique characters, about every year for the next four years. At school, it became a niche I was known for, even by people I had hardly met. Each story would have a different theme, based on the setting or the circumstances of the victim: the murder of a washed-up Hollywood actress, murder at the Country Club, the murder of a billionaire patron of the arts. Though I do love reading Paul Auster novels, I had never been particularly interested in murder mysteries before I started all this. What drew me to the genre, I realized over time, was the interactive element; a murder mystery is something that evolves, a story that you can play within and follow along with, rather than being limited to watching from the outside. Allowing my friends to develop their own interpretations of the characters I write, and to figure out what dynamics naturally unfold between them, feels like watching my creations come to life and surprise me.