Writing mysteries

I spent a day and a half in Dallas for my brother's surgery and then to visit with Jamie and his family, which was delightful. And I spent a good deal of that time reading the mystery I'd started earlier. Now, tonight, at home, I've finished it, and I have more thoughts on mysteries. As I mentioned, this was a "hard" mystery as opposed to the "cozies" that I usually read and want to write. Lots of blood, gore, violent and imaginatively horrible deaths--people who kill without remorse. As I read, I kept wondering how the author could spin it out long enough to make it a good length--75,000 words an agent tells me. Well, she did it by one over-the-top incident after another, until I wanted to cry out for it to end. There were few subplots--just one, and when the main villain was finally killed in a bloody, fiery scene by the amazingly strong but untrained heroine, the book didn't end as it should have. It went on to have the guy from the subplot turn into a psychopath and try to kill her. It was too much. It stretched credibility. I want my mysteries to be stories that really could happen to ordinary people, not this fantastic combination of coincidence, violence, and sick if clever minds--plus an ordinary heroine who suddenly turns into a sort of gun-toting superwoman. When I started my mystery (so far no reaction from the agent) I wondered how I would spin it out to the required length. As it happened, it just worked, with subplots, more characters than I expected, and so on. But I don't think it was contrived--and that's my problem with the book I just finished. I am somehow reminded of the late Dorothy Johnson (author of "The Man Called Horse" for those that are old enough to remember that movie). She once wrote me, while she was working on a novel about New York City during WWII called The Unbombed (because they were always prepared for a bombing raid that never came) that she'd just found out that the man she thought was going to be the central figure of her story was instead going to be killed. Dorothy listened to her muse, and her muse talked to her as she wrote. I think that's a sign of good writing--your book changes and grows as you develop it, and you find yourself following paths you never intended. Your characters tell you where your novel is going. And that, maybe, lessens the dependence on coincidence and violence.
Meantime, here I am in need of a new project. Well, I have one--a small book on Texas women--but I haven't quite wrapped my mind about how to get into it, except to say that we all know the strong Texas women of contemporary times--Molly Ivins, Ann Richards, Lady Bird Johnson--but there are a lot of Texas women of history that we don't know much about. I know one day, suddenly, it will hit me, and I will dig into it.
Another meantime, and this a cooking note: I've been trying really hard to like Brussel sprouts. I remember my mom cooked them, and I think I did when the children were young because we used to call them "Russell" sprouts after my nephew. Twice I've tried a recipe that calls for them to be shredded, then roasted with olive oil and cheese. First I burned them to a fare-thee-well (it always made Russell laugh when I burned somethng to a fare-thee-well); then tonight I burned the outer ones, but the ones I rescued were too chewy. (I think maybe you aren't supposed to mix the cheese in before you roast them). They were a disappointment. I have found a recipe for cooking them with artichoke hearts, sour cream, and Parmesan that is really good. But I'm about to give up on Brussel sprouts--and they aren't cheap in the grocery either.