The only writer with whom I live is me, myself, alone. It was not always so. In my mother’s lifetime she would read the first two or three chapters of my current manuscript, then write down the name of the character she thought was the villain. This paper she placed in a sealed envelope. When the book was finished this envelope would be solemnly opened by us both — and she was never wrong. Fine words, carefully crafted by me to conceal the murderer among a welter of more suspicious characters, buttered no parsnips with her.
KeywordsVillage Doctor Brisk Walk Detective Fiction North American Literature Light Lunch
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