So I've got all of my laundry either in the washer or dryer at the moment and I'm giving the turkey tenderloin a few more minutes to marinate. Let's chat.
Writing a mystery is a lot harder than the other things I've attempted. I finished the first chapter of The Gravedigger's Promise a couple days ago and have been pecking at the second chapter in my spare time, along with about a fourth of the last chapter. It's requiring more planning, almost like I picked someone to frame as the murderer and am planting evidence accordingly. I think I have the plot in my head now but it could change again. Digger has changed a bit since I conceived him as an older version of Richard Stark's Parker, retired in a small town. The supporting cast is a little clearer in my mind.
Some woman at work smelled like she rolled in a kiddie pool full of old lady perfume yesterday. She might even have ladled more on when she was sitting in it. Do people lose their sense of smell when they get past a certain age?
The dog is really staring me down. I think that means she's finally recovered from three days of running around over the weekend.
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