Writing a Mystery is a Mystery

Head. Screwed. Back. On. Straight.
First of all, I'd like to thank everyone who helped me screw my head back on straight after my last post. Boy, was I out in left field! Followers come and go; just ask Jesus, Buddha, or David Cassidy. Why should I be any different? I'm so over it. Those who want to read the fascinating things I write are more than welcome anytime, anywhere, anyhow, and the rest of the losers out there? Not my problem. I'm so thankful the brilliant folks who "follow" (oops!) my blog reminded me.

Current Work in Progress
Writing a mystery is a mystery. In my current WIP "Murder on Twilight Circle" I'm entering new and mysterious territory. Of course, it's a mystery, so what did I expect? It's just that no one told me there would be so much more to keep track of, and by "no one" I mean my "writing angel." (see Elizabeth Gilbert's amazing take on creativity) Does he or she think I know what I'm doing? Does he or she think I'm the reincarnation of Sherlock Holmes? Well he or she is wrong. I have no idea what I'm doing, and according to my past-life hypnotist, I was never Sherlock Holmes. Cleopatra, Mary Queen of Scots, and Lady Godiva, yes, but never Sherlock Holmes. Not that that's stopping me from plowing forward and having a damn good time in the process. I'm only 10,000 words in, but it's a fun roller-coaster ride so far and I have a feeling the ride's going to get a lot wilder as it progresses.

Let me explain what I'm up against. For starters, how did Amanda die? (For those of you paying particularly close attention, you may detect a problem here. The poor girl not only died, but had her name changed from Amelia to Amanda in the process. Poor Amanda, may she rest in peace.)

What will the computer forensics show?

And, of course, who did it?

Was it the creepy guy she met on the internet?

What about Sean, the nerdy engineer who took her to Starbuck's every Monday morning for a chai tea latte with extra cinnamon?

What about her anesthesiologist-husband who slices and dices tree trunks into strange "artistic visions" as a hobby?

Speaking of trunks, what about Father Groark? What was that thing he was placing in the trunk of his car?

And, do her uppity girlfriends know something they're not telling?

So, you can see, there's a lot to juggle here and I'm only up to Chapter Five.

(Please, people, help me out!)

In other news...

I've taken the dive into the querying ocean and I'm trying to keep my head above water and salt out of my mouth (not to mention, keeping away from the "sharks" if you know what I mean.) Hopefully, one of the more astute and visionary agents I've queried will glimpse my literary genius and help me secure a six-figure publishing deal preferably before Memorial Day (I'd like to take an extended weekend someplace nice, like say Paris or Tahiti). Otherwise, remember that post I did a few days ago? Yeah, baby. I'll be hopping on board that train. Woo! Woo!

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