“Anyone can put words on a page. Make them worth reading.” ~ M.X. Dubois
It only makes sense to look at me as a prime suspect right from the start, I suppose. I certainly had the means and opportunity. But what about motive?
There was no life insurance, no jealousy, no bad blood as far as anyone knew. The little blog seemed harmless enough and certainly was no threat of any consequence to anyone.
Or was it?
I am not under oath and will not testify if it comes to that. Much goes on out of view of even the closest family and friends, so who’s to say the killing was not justified anyway?
It could have been me, or my nemesis, or some stray bit of mayhem and elemental chaos that struck at random because that is what it does. No one and nothing has come forward to claim responsibility.
A nameless poem, aimless words,
left scorned, unadorned,
of eternal unreadness.
No verse to be fixed
’til it fits in the mix, to be tagged
on the ear like a pig.
Nor indexed, nor cited,
all love unrequited,
for lack of the lie
A guy I know told me the writing in Blood Solutions, my first crime novel, is too similar to Dashiell Hammett’s style.
He didn’t seem to mean it as a compliment, but I’m pretty sure I can live with the comparison.
BTW, it’s free through Sunday, March 27, on Smashwords with coupon code UW83K.
Hard-boiled? Let me know what you think.
Thanks for dropping by.
Most every good Sunday morning starts with coffee (black, no cream or sugar, because I actually like drinking coffee) and the Perspective section of the Denver Post.
This special one started with a belated Valentine’s Day breakfast in the company of Mrs. Smith at Lucile’s Creole Cafe. The first day of daylight saving time meant enough people overslept that we got our table immediately and my chicory coffee (black, naturally) shortly thereafter.
The gloom of politics settled in after breakfast, when I came across the dire Talking Points Memo prediction that someone will die in Trump-inspired violence (an eerie echo of my own words earlier in the morning).
Then, thankfully, along came Kathleen Parker and her op-ed column, headlined Farewell, prince of tides. In her remembrance of the late Pat Conroy, whom she once declared “the sexiest man alive” (hotter than even circa-1991 Nick Nolte, who played the protagonist in “The Prince of Tides”), Parker and her own wonderful way with words made my day.
Imagine, writers among the sexiest.
Now I have to go write what I’m supposed to be writing.
P.S. The Post has an annoying habit of encouraging readers to go online to read longer versions of opinion columns. Today was a first for me; Parker was engaging enough that I went to see if there was more. There was.
Next month I’ll be attending my first Pikes Peak Writers Conference, an opportunity to meet some literary agents, editors and other writers. I’ve got my eye on a few of the workshops that look especially interesting.
Question for anyone who has been to a conference like this:
How do you get the most out of it?
It is not inexpensive.
This is my country, dammit, and I’m staying put either way. I won’t even joke about leaving because some loud-mouth bully con artist might be elected president.
Sure, even if we’re dumb enough to elect him, hardly anybody will actually wimp out completely and move to Canada. Still, reassure the fraidycats that we’re not gonna let it happen, then step up and support* someone who is actually qualified to be president.
* That means back up your tweets and posts of outrage with $$ donations and working to get out the vote.