Fuel To Burn

Ten years ago, my grandmother asked me if I had ever heard of the Pilchard murder. No, I said. She directed me to a marble top desk in her living room. In the second drawer from the bottom was a stack of old newspapers, yellowed and fragile. Within moments, I was devouring the chilling tale of the Pilchard murder... a series of events that read like a Hollywood movie only this was real. It was wrenching and sad, but interesting and complex as well. As I read the words from that awful winter of 1940, something in the very core of me felt electrified. There was this burning to write, a desire to narrate this story. The intensity of the fire stayed; the research and the emotions became fuel for me.

Recently, I stumbled upon another story that has reignited that old flame. In the winter of 1968, a prisoner shot and killed two men while making an escape from the Salisbury courthouse. While this is the sum of the story, it too has several layers of complexity. I awake each day eager to write this story, to find a new piece of the puzzle. While I don't really want to make a habit of writing murder mysteries, this particular story has reached me in a way that nothing else has in recent months.

So, here's to writing. Like this again.

And may all these poor souls find peace.