I was totting up how many people I've murdered / killed / maimed / blackmailed / kidnapped / tormented etc this week, and it's quite a number.
(For the benefit of any law enforcement agencies reading, I emphasise this is all part of my crime writing, ie. FICTIONAL (put the handcuffs away, please.))
But nonetheless, this impressive tally of misery does always make me think about the great irony of being a crime writer.
Crime is such a popular genre, yet it's so unpleasant! And people love talking to me about what horrors I'm planning next.
Take this example. I'm sitting in the corner of a pub, here in hometown Exeter, Devon, where the staff know me well. They're aware I'm plotting a new crime wave for my next novel, and for my tray of thought inspiring ales they send over...
I didn't get much work done after that. I was too busy giggling. But it's an example of a great quirk of the writing world.
It's strange, that anyone you met in real life who was sitting and thinking about how to commit terrible crimes, you'd probably want to avoid them. But when it's fiction, the rules change and they become fascinating.
But just to reassure you (and maybe myself), I don't think I'd make a good criminal anyway. I'm too squeamish. I won't even swot a fly, would much prefer to usher it out of a window.
And there's another irony. I seem to do reasonably well writing about something I'm hopeless at in real life.
Hey! Which gives me an idea for my next book. On that basis, maybe I should try writing about romance!