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I’ve been cruelly asked to expose my writing space. Inside and out! Here is a question for you dear readers, do you like the look of chains? I write in my dungeon. It is a scary place, and not for the faint hearted. Come in and play. I dare you.
Okay, yes it might be fun to play in a dungeon, but I don’t really have one. Perhaps someday, but not today. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that. Oh well, sometimes I’m Tiffany-twisted. Anyway, my writing process is a messy. I write when I have the free time and in almost any location. That is why asking me to expose my inner sanctum is so cruel. I’m a writing vagabond. All I need is a computer; push comes to shove, pen and paper.
I snapped a couple pics of my locals, including a photo from outside my window.
As for my internal writing space. If you dare come in for a view is equally as messy. At least for fiction. I write when I have the free time. I do not use an outline. I let the story unfold organically as I work on maintaining a daily wordcount. The characters tell me where they want to go. That said, I do workshop parts in a writing group I lead.
On the other hand, for my nonfiction, such as my book Blockbuster Science: The Real Science in Science Fiction, I do create an outline and spent part of each day conducting research before pen to paper (cursor to screen).
Jacobs is happy, for a time, until he is assigned to solve the murder of Shannon Faraday. During the investigation, he is convinced the evidence points to him as the killer. He knows it is only a matter of time before other investigators see the same. He has no alibi and the clock is counting down.
Behind his partner’s back, Jacobs hires a private investigator named Lawrence Holmes. The PI is an irritation to the police, but he is unmistakably brilliant. And, many powerful people in the city owe him favors. Holmes is a bit odd. He insists on calling Jacobs Watson but claims to never have heard the name Sherlock. Jacobs can live with this kind of crazy as long as together they find the real killer.
They quickly link the murder to a series of seemingly unrelated crimes occurring throughout Philadelphia, and Jacobs becomes convinced the murder is related to the truth of what had happened during his time in Afghanistan. Old secrets have come back to haunt him.
Read an Excerpt
I felt like shit for having to hire a private investigator, especially one who was most likely insane. Still, I couldn’t deny that his type of crazy got results. Reluctantly I handed over an envelope to the man sitting on the sun-bleached bench.
He opened it. Satisfied with my offering, he slid it into his jacket. “Ah, Watson,” he said. “Good to see you again.”
I shook my head and dropped onto the bench next to him. “My name is Jacobs. Caleb Jacobs,” I said, hoping the reminder might stick this time.
He turned to me. “Did you say something?”
I sighed. “No, Holmes.”
If I wasn’t desperate for his help, I’d strangle him. Of course my superiors at the Philadelphia Homicide Unit wouldn’t appreciate that. But I wondered if a cop hiring a private investigator was any worse of a violation. I needed Lawrence Holmes for his connections and unique viewpoint, things my PHU colleagues couldn’t provide. He might not be the fictional character he played at, but he was a talented PI.
About the Author:
When David wants a break from this spellbinding work, he writes. His fiction credits encompass two novelettes and sixty shorts. His nonfiction has appeared in newsletters, popular blogs, academic journals and he is the author of the book Blockbuster Science: The Real Science in Science Fiction.
He lives within the shadow of Philadelphia with his wife, Michelle, two children, Seth and Gwendolyn, and a dog named Ringo Biggles Woofington.
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