I got carried away. Hell, I was so sleepy I didn’t even want to write tonight, but then I got into the story, and my detective was standing there looking at the crime scene.
I like this bit.
The smell was nagging him—not the death, not the perfume, but the herbal note. It reminded him of something. … Something familiar, something bad. But what that something might have been wasn’t coming to him.
The feel of the scene, though, also reminded him of something, and it whispered murder down his spine even as the evidence in front of him looked exactly like some weird cult suicide.
Pretty girls drinking poison and dancing ring around the rosie ’til they all fell down.
Tonight was happy writing, with everything flowing together, and the story grabbing me. I could easily write more—the way my heart is racing right now, a lot more. But I’m going to leave that in the tank for tomorrow night.
If you’re playing “Write a book with me” at level two, your max wordcount is 500, NOT 799.
How’s it going?
And thank you for your good wishes to my overseas kid. I’ll pass them on the next time I hear from him.