August Update

I’m working, just a bit slower than before. Cut me some slack. Today I turned 48. I’m fucking old. I’m still working on Where There’s Smoke, There’s Pazuzu. It’s taken longer than planned. I love what it’s become. The problem is that it’s approaching 16,000 words. I feel like that’s dangerously close to novella territory. When I began writing a book of short stories, I imagined the works being uniform in length–not sure why. That’s not going to happen.

What else?

I’ve officially dropped the shared storyline. It got to be a pain adding a scene about the progress of the strangler case. Every story had to come to a grinding halt to get an update. If anything, I’ll just write a separate strangler story. Hell, I’ve got the idea planned out. After Pazuzu, I’ve got a country-house mystery to write. It uses two ideas I’ve been pining to employ. There’s a group invited to a psychopath’s mansion in the middle of nowhere. Tires will be slashed, dying messaged will be uttered, and secrets will be revealed. Luckily, one of the guests is the best detective in the Midwest, so don’t worry too much.

These days, I’m trying to drown out the noise. My writing gives me pleasure. Cooking gives me pleasure too. The photo is of my birria tacos. They look fucking good, don’t they? They were. I don’t know about a date for publication. There’s still a lot of work to do. In the back of my mind, I was thinking March, ’25, but if you quote me on that, I’ll sue.

For my birthday, I’m giving you a quick sneak peak.

The man’s voice was suffused with a peculiar wetness, his dialogue punctuated by frequent swallowing pauses. “Yes, my dear Mr. Manory, I wish to bring to your attention a terrible murder that will soon take place.”

   “Oh?” Rowan’s attention sharpened. “That’s awfully kind of you to let me know. Can you tell me who is going to be murdered?”

   “Certainly. A man named Burt Parnell.”

   Rowan snapped his fingers and Walter handed him a pencil. He jotted it onto his newspaper. “Burt Parnell. I don’t know who that is.”

   “You’ll find out soon enough. Mr. Parnell is going to be murdered in the most horrible way imaginable. His body will be torn apart and set on fire. His head will be cut off and his entrails spilled onto the floor. It’s…it’s going to be a bloody mess. And there will be no suspects…at least none that are human.”

   “Why did you telephone me?”

   “That’s a foolish question. You’re a detective: it should be obvious that I am presenting you with a mystery—, an impossible mystery, one whose solution would bolster your already stunning reputation as Chicago’s preeminent solver of impossible crimes. Mind you, there will be no earthly solution for Mr. Parnell’s murder. That is to say, there will not be one that does not involve the supernatural.”

   “Doubtful. I have solved countless murders with seemingly supernatural elements. The solution always lies within the bounds of reality.”

   “Not this time, Mr. Manory, and soon, you will be forced to publicly admit that fact. I will be a very happy man indeed when I read your admission in the newspaper.”

   “And why is that?”

   He didn’t bother to answer. “Mr. Parnell has an office on the third floor of Pinnacle Place. It’s on Harrison, directly across from the candy factory.”

   “I did not catch your name, Mister…?”

   “Goodbye, detective.”

And goodbye, reader.