How a Pot Boiler Writer’s Brain Works.

29 Jun

“Oh, hello didn’t see you standing there. I’m just taking a bit of a break. Excuse me for a second while I get this blasted thing afire. Nasty habit, quite determined to give it up… but you know?”

“I like to smoke when I’m not working. The old imagination gets lost in the clouds as it were. Helps to clear the mind.”

“Once I go back to my desk I have to see how long I can keep the coppers from figuring out that it’s dear, sweet Mrs.Finster who is slowly depopulating the neighborhood rather than dark, sulking Mr. Brudah.”

“Or I might have to conjure up a love scene in zero gravity. Plus, I will have to decide if it will be more sensual to play the whole thing for comedy.”

“And there’s a musical based on the mythology of the Inuit that I am intrigued with.”

“But at this very moment I am about to murder a flighty, impossible lyricist who has gotten underneath my skin like a bag of maggots. If I do carry out the deed I must take careful notes. This would be my first non-imaginative brush with murder. Mustn’t leave any obvious clues for the gendarmes.”

I jest, of course. I doubt if I could murder no matter how justified it might be. … On the other hand if she were felled by a tree that was struck by lightning? Or by the bolt itself I would not have crocodile tears rolling down my cheeks. …
Murder by crocodile? Now, there’s a jolly thought…”

“Well, back to the salt mines. Nice chatting. Please wipe your shoes on your way out.”


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