As a doctor, I’ve learned to spot a patient’s subtle physical cues—a faint tremor, a slight hesitation in speech—that hint at a larger, underlying issue. As a romance editor, I’m trained to read a manuscript for the clues that a seemingly perfect hero is actually a toxic archetype. And as a fan of cozy mysteries, I know that the most innocuous details often point to the deepest secrets.

This professional lens has sharpened my eye for a major behavioral red flag in people: the chronic and pathological inability to take responsibility.

The Clinical Picture: A Case Study in Blame A patient who blames external forces for their health issues is difficult to treat. “My blood pressure is high because my boss is a monster,” or “I’m not losing weight because my family keeps bringing home sweets.” While there may be an element of truth, this mindset presents a clinical obstacle. It creates a closed loop where the patient cannot engage with a treatment plan because they refuse to acknowledge their role in the outcome. In my notes, this is a distinct flag, signaling a need for a different kind of intervention—one focused on empowerment, not just medication.

The Editor’s Note: A Flaw in Character Arc

In romance novels, we call this a “character flaw,” but when it’s never overcome, it becomes a fatal one. A love interest who can’t own their mistakes—who blames the heroine for their own jealousy or a misunderstanding—is not a brooding hero. He’s a villain in disguise. We, as editors, would put a note in the margin: “Does not apologize. Lack of internal growth. Stakes not high enough.” The narrative of a healthy relationship demands accountability. Without it, there’s no dramatic tension, no satisfying redemption, and no happily ever after. The “blame” trope is a lazy writer’s way out of creating a complex character with a genuine journey of self-improvement.

The Cozy Mystery Trope: A Clue Left Behind

In a cozy mystery, a character who blames others for their misfortunes is a classic red herring. They’re loud, often theatrical, and quick to point the finger, drawing attention away from their own shady past. The amateur sleuth—often a baker or a librarian with a keen eye for human nature—knows that the person making the most noise is rarely the culprit. They’re a distraction, a foil to the real mystery. The true villain is the one who subtly manipulates the situation, never leaving a clear fingerprint, because they’ve mastered the art of making everyone else look guilty. Their pathology is so ingrained that they don’t even see it as a flaw—it’s simply how they get away with murder.

Whether in a diagnostic chart, a manuscript review, or a murder mystery, the pattern is the same: when a person can’t take responsibility for their actions, they reveal a profound, dangerous instability. It’s a diagnosis with a poor prognosis for any kind of healthy relationship.