I was at Killer Nashville, having lunch with Annamaria
Alfieri, whom I had just met. We were discussing a session she’d attended about
human trafficking (I had not been to it) and why there’s such a lot of it in
Tennessee (a very chilling subject). (The main reason is that Tennessee has so
many interstates running through it. More miles than any other state, I think I
read once.)
Our waiter, however, must not have heard the gist of our
horrifying conversation. He noticed our matching badges and asked what our
group was. When we told him we were murder mystery writers, he acted surprised.
He said we were, as a whole, a very nice bunch of people. He either said or
implied that it was an incongruity, asking why that was.
We both agreed with him that mystery writers are a nice bunch. One or both of us
answered him that it’s probably because we get all our aggressions out of our
systems on the page. After we’ve committed mayhem for hours, days, months on
end in a lonely room, we’re able to be bright and cherry when released and out
among our own kind.
Both of us agreed that’s the reason. I’d love to hear other
thoughts on this.
(I decided not to write anything about today’s anniversary.
You’ll find plenty of that elsewhere, I’m sure.)
Image from Wikipedia
No comments:
Post a Comment