Wishful Drinking

I want to write a detective novel. I don't think it would be very good, but I totally want to do it. I more or less have the main character figured out in my head. And if I've learned anything from watching and reading detective stories over and over and over it's that they can't be that hard to write. The trick seems to be to give the reader enough information so they can solve the mystery, but not enough to give them any real proof. Maybe I'll start with a novella, like an eighty page mystery. That way I can throw in twists but not have to completely overwhelm the reader with them.

What it's missing is a plucky sidekick. Although I just thought of one. That was easy.

Now I just need someone to get muuuurrrdderred. Wait, I'll base it on that WikiLeaks guy. He's got a lot of enemies. Wait... too many enemies. And from all over the world. That sounds like a good idea for a second novel, once I've gotten my barrings.

Well, I'll think about it. Don't want to give away too much.

My mom is not doing well with this round of radiation she's getting. She's not immobile, but she's definitely far from full strength. And sad. Much sadder than she's been in a long time. The only thing that seemed to perk her up was trying to calm me down as I was yelling at the idiots on the road as we were driving back from Reno today. I guess she felt good having a chance to just be my mom for a while. Also, turnabouts are simple, people. If the flow of traffic is going to the right go to the right. And don't slam on your breaks every time you see another car. My god.

My dad was also in the hospital today getting skin lesions removed. He was pretty out of it when he got back. He'll recover, but he has a lot of lesions, and they all have to go away, what with it being skin cancer and all.

My sister is about ready to quit her internship that she needs to finish her PhD because she can't stand Ohio and she is stuck there till next August.

I drink and smoke too much and I make myself miserable just by being around myself.

My Aunts doing fine. It's her birthday in six days. Happy Birthday!

So that's it for the blood-related Moore's. One out of five ain't good.

This really hasn't been a banner year for my family. Usually I feel like I'm in the worst shape out of all of us, either emotionally or physically, and while being fat has its disadvantages, I think cancer has that beat out. Let's put it this way, if you know me personally, does it make any sense to you at all that I'm having the best year out of all of my blood relatives? And if you don't know me - no, it doesn't.

I'm gonna start work on that detective novel. Maybe I have just the right combination of skill, luck, and hackneyed cliches to make myself a bestselling mystery writer. But now I am at a point where I sort of want to look down on literary writers from my mansion in the Alps. It could happen. How hard can it be?