Sometimes a cigar; just a cigar.

I’ve written the first pages of two different kinds of mystery stories.  What they have in common is that I already know whodunnit in both cases.  But that doesn’t mean I can’t have fun seeing them through to their inevitable ends.  I mean, what does Columbo have that I don’t have?

judging book covers by their victims

I didn’t read nearly enough fantasy and science fiction back when I was impressionable and consequently have no appreciation whatsoever for these genres’ most embarrassing book covers. I went for the Nancy Drews and Agatha Christies instead. So now I can’t help but feel kindly disposed to cheesy paintings of intrepid girl detectives who’ve been chloroformed and imprisoned in cellars, or cheery cartoon drawings of knives protruding from the backs of corpses in picturesque British villages — even if that isn’t what I’m interested in reading. But so many of the books I would be interested in have been chloroformed and imprisoned in the most villainous SF covers. Will our heroine find them in time?