Thanksgiving vacation with my son at a mountain inn in Puerto Rico. It is beautiful, lush, fecund, mysterious. I've been able to write a scene from Bluffing is Murder amidst hikes and contemplations. I sit on the patio of our cabin and type away.
The road up to this inn is narrow, winding, and half washed out in spots. So I also drafted a short story. What if the road washed out, and the electricity went off, too. Suppose someone went mad from the dark, the ceaseless calls of the tree frogs, the too-close personal interactions? What if murder happened?
See how the writer's mind works? Happy Thanksgiving, dear readers!
I had similar thoughts when driving up to a ridge in the Blue Ridge Mountains recently in a bright blue Mustang. My final thought was ... at least the car would stand out and they would find my body.
ReplyDeleteI just saw this comment, PJ. So true! Thanks for stopping by.
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