I woke up on Saturday morning to find I had a dead body on my hands. Not a statement one can share too freely without causing alarm, but we are all friends here, are we not? I'm an author - these things are normal, mostly. The corpse was somewhat unexpected, part of one of the two book ideas that I'm currently incubating. Yes, two. Why can I not get them to form an orderly queue! I knew who she was, but not where and why she got in that state. I do now, so that's fine.
It got me thinking about the crimes I have committed with happy impunity between the covers of various books. I've mused before on our fascination with crime stories in all media, when encountering the real thing is distressing and horrible. Many writers, me included, love writing villains. There is probably something sadly wrong with my mental landscape, but it's probably too late to change it now.
In various books I have frequently committed murder, serial and otherwise, and conspired in a few accidently deaths. There has been a lot of fraud, some kidnapping and a bit of theft.
It is less than a week now until Masquerade on the Riviera is released to the world. Currently biting my nails. I hope the world likes it.