Have just been writing a passage for Cerberus which gives any reader a chilling little insight into the perpetrators of a specific killing, and as such have had tremendous fun writing it. What that says about me as a person I’m not sure, but it can’t be all good. Still, I can see why people get off on reading the salacious details of a murder case. It seems to tap into something vicarious and cruel in the human soul. It even gives me the creeps, and I thought I was all creeped out many years ago after reading several illustrated manuals on forensic medicine and criminal psychology found by one of my then classmates.
Glad my version is fiction.
2401 words so far this morning, and I’m sitting in Nanaimo Waterfront Library typing this, listening to the Very Best of Billy Joel on my headphones. Aren’t laptops a boon to the time strapped wannabe novelist? Another forty five minutes and I have to go and pick Angie up from a do she has to attend. Then off to Coombs.