She was such a pretty little thing…

I read an article in one of my writing magazines last evening while drinking a glass of wine at the lakehouse. It said, if you are blogging… then you are not writing.

While I understand that this was just a reminder to less prolific writers not to use other pursuits as substitute or excuse to stay away from sitting at their desk and working on their novels…I beg to differ. Each blog for me is a roadmap to a future chapter. Everything that has gone into this blog and everything I have been advised to leave out… is the guts of my book, The Coffee Pot Conspiracy which is already in outline and will be “fleshed out” so to speak, beginning next month. It will be a daunting, but a thrilling task to record it all. Still, much work is left to be done and for that I need Charley. I have several loose ends I am trying to tie up before the clock on the wall ticks too far into my future. And oh what a future it shall turn out to be for all of us involved in solving this case.

Charley was wise not to tell me everything up front. I could not have fathomed such debauchery or treachery from such simple rural folk. There is so much more to this case that I can scarcely believe that those involved – even peripherally, didn’t mentally unravel at the seams just due to the stress of trying to keep so much bottled up inside and secret.

With everything I know now, there are many who almost should have committed suicide. In fact, I am amazed that several of them didn’t… or haven’t…yet! I think about those already passed over. They are now in the court of their maker and will answer accordingly to the laws of that plane. For those who remain this side of the veil… I wonder how it will feel to have the last 44 years of their life erased by the heinous deeds they have tried so hard to conceal. How dare they sit across the table… smile and preach to me of sainted qualities, while their souls sit very comfortably in hell roasting like eternal marshmallows.

Think I cannot name you by name? Describe the color of your hair, the breadth of your shoulders, the weight of your sin or the lurid shadows that cross behind the pupils of your eyes? I cannot wait to write this book– to tell the world the truth about such men and one woman who betrayed their God, one another- and even themselves for want of money and lust.

Remember my search for the meaning of the word OSTRICH? I used to think it a literal translation; or perhaps a metaphorical. As in, meant to have the qualities of; to balk, or run away in fear. To bury one’s head in the sand when things get a little too scary to deal with.

I find it quite amazing what a little research and time will do. How silly it was of me to think it metaphorical in nature! But I wasn’t the only one for awhile, was I? You silly little debutante… you thought it was metaphorical too didn’t you? Right up until your pretty little head got buried in the sand!

Too bad, too. She was such a pretty little thing when she was alive! All that long blonde hair. Men just couldn’t seem to get enough of her. But you know as well as I do… teenage girls just love to chat up a storm. They can never keep a secret… a secret for long.

Can they now?

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