My wife becomes a bit distraught that I write about
death. Murder to be exact. I sit at the key board, tapping keys and
describing details of the gruesome demise of some poor soul, while pausing
briefly to spoon ice cream into my mouth and contemplate the finer points. Not
enough blood. The best location to drive the knife into the body. A bullet to the head or heart. I wonder if we
have any more Rock Road.
But the murder mystery is not about death, but solving a riddle.
For most mysteries, the detective remains detached from the emotion of the death
and focuses on finding the killer. And that is what makes the genre endearing—pitting
intellect with the detective to discover to who-done-it.
And now back to killing someone…
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