The other day I was reading a detective novel and knew who the villain would be within the first twenty pages. Not because it was obvious – the book was cleverly constructed. I predicted the resolution of the plot because someone I know once attempted to execute the same crime.
Presumably he borrowed the idea from this book.
He was not an especially clever criminal, and that is why he is serving a life sentence for murdering his wife.
I grew up in a place – and family – where murder was common. This fact is not explored in Lessons in Taxidermy because my editor felt that the bloodshed was excessive: two whole chapters of mayhem were chopped off the manuscript as it went to press.
My agent doesn’t know or she would probably try to convince me to write a murder memoir.
This would not be advisable, since certain people of my acquaintance would take offense and they are not the sort to limit their response to a frosty letter.
My life is so, well, improbable.