(Sigh.) I've just watched a stupid draw at home to Man City, but as a Liverpool supporter I'm still chuffed (that's 'pleased' for my American audience). Why? Not because I'm stinking drunk on Carlsberg, Stoly and muscle relaxers--oh, no siree. I'm chuffed because I AM A WRITER. I love to write not least because I happen to be pretty damn good at it; so happily I take up most of my free time doing it.
I've been writing mysteries for five years now, and though nothing has seen hard copy outside of what's come off my printer, I've managed to write 10 coherent novels set in seven different places around the world. I'm not a cop; I merely read about Poirot and Marple and Morse and Holmes and thought: shoot, I can write twice as well as these people! (No, I didn't either. These stories inspired me to stretch my imagination, to see characters in my mind's eye and try to commit them to paper...er, Word. And I wanted to share these adventures with other people, so that they might just enjoy the 70,000-word escape every once in a while.) I also wanted to write stories which put three-dimensional characters through their paces instead of one set of cardboard cutouts being thrown behind the wheels of cars and chasing other cardboard cutouts all over freaking New York City. I wanted my characters to fall in love, to have their hearts broken, to be horrified and gratified by their jobs, to explore their surroundings with open eyes and minds. And, as I'm not careful by nature, with a tip of the cap to Bill Cosby, I (and someday my readers) just might have learned something along the way.
Why this blog? Why any blog? 'Cause it's the cool thing to do, of course. And I love to talk about writing: my writing, and the writing of those I admire. Some of these folks haven't been published yet, either, but look out. Some of us will be, and wouldn't it be keen to get in on the ground floor?
Happy Sunday to all. And a word to my Scouse brethren: there's always Europe. At the moment. Peace!