(SIDE NOTE: If that sentence
made no sense to you or perhaps frightened you a bit, please see Wednesday’s
post before abandoning this blog altogether or notifying any authorities. Thank
you.)
Anyhow, my Book Three mad-cap adventures continued yesterday.
Yep, things got even more interesting than the climax wanting to join
in on the foreplay.
After getting all my trucks, U-Hauls and sports cars back in a row and
heading once again toward that western horizon called The End, the whole
honking, romance she-bang (i.e. Book Three) was suddenly flagged down and
pulled over by…
Agatha Christie.
You know, the queen of all things mystery? Murder on the Orient Express, Death
on the Nile, A Pocket Full of Rye,
etc, etc.?
Yeah, her.
Don’t get me wrong, I love Agatha Christie. I’ve got a whole bookshelf
of her stuff in my office. Brilliant storyteller. Nobody could ever match her work
in the genre.
But…
The grand woman really has no place on the Romantic Smut Highway.
Does she?
I didn’t think so until yesterday when my main characters in their
spiffy Jaguars offered the dead lady a ride.
Dame Christie accepted and has now joined my traveling entourage.
What she’s going to bring to Book Three, I haven’t the faintest idea.
But I staunchly refuse to look in the trunk she’s lugging around. The last
thing this crazy Romantic Smut caravan needs is another dead body… or a Miss
Marple. (Lovely lady, I’m sure, but simply don’t have the budget for the dear.)
Until tomorrow…
Chloe
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