The Dog on the Couch
Families are strange entities aren’t they? In most families we let the dogs on the couches (Buddy T). We bake exotic birthday cakes (Sara will be 14 tomorrow but her dad reminded me she doesn’t like cake—and I feel like baking a first-time-ever strange and wonderful concoction—so I’ll bake her dad Steven a cake because his birthday is soon.) Besides, Sara would rather shop. We try to remember not to make too much fun of the weird habits some family members have…like buying houses and then deciding you didn’t want to live there after all (Robert and Marsha).
Doesn’t all that sound like a lot of meaningful photo ops? So that’s what I’ll do for the next few days. I was going to try to write a murder mystery scene/passage/chapter but my family keeps interrupting with meals, talk, ideas, and angel food cake and red raspberries and blueberries.
The Puffin Murders is coming up next week though—for sure. My first—and very likely last—murder mystery short story. It just could not have been written this week because this is one of those times that truth really is stranger than fiction. Also a reminder that all families aren’t as pleasantly boring as ours, some are downright deadly. When I think about writing a murder mystery, the Cleveland story pops up with one more lurid detail. A little insignificant brutal stupid man—a terrorist in his own right—sex slaves in chains. Or the Boston brothers…disillusioned and arrogant young guys with a crazy belief system right there to egg on every nutty idea. And then there’s that very very very murderous Jody Arias. Wow. What possible fictional account can top any of those main characters or crime scenes?
I think I’ll stick with family topic a couple more days. We are not so very exciting but not so very dangerous either.