It's true that unless you live the life of a writer, the life of a writer is difficult to understand. Especially, I think, the life of a suspense novelist.
The story goes, as best I can remember, that my novelist sister's husband had a client of his in the passenger seat of their SUV. He pushed the button expecting music to fill the air. Instead, a discourse with the title "101 Ways to Kill Your Spouse" began playing.
My wonderful husband, who loves me more than he understands me, was a bit disconcerted when my nightstand held both The Gift of Fear by Gavin de Becker and Serial Killers, The Method and Madness of Monsters by Peter Vronsky. He became more concerned when I began highlighting and making notes in the margins.
An aunt from Utah and a cousin from Texas are visiting me for a while. They are sweet innocents who don't have an inkling of the mind of a novelist. Watching me read a research piece I'd printed to review, one of them asked what it was about. I told them I was confirming that anthrax was the biological threat agent I wanted to use. I should have added it was for my short story, and that by naming the "worst germs known to man", I cut my word count down by four words.
What I'm reading: Life Expectancy by Dean Koontz
What I'm working on: That short story.