Just remember to head his way today because he has a Valentine's Day story up that will have you both chortling into your Diet Coke and marveling over that magical, mystical place known as Utah County. When you can eat a sandwich called the 'Parley P. Pratt,' well, you know you ain't in Kansas any more.
Besides, it's time to move on to bigger, fatter news: I think I've figured out who the murderer is in my novel! Yes! Your fasting and prayers have paid off!
The thing is, I am terribly disappointed in this individual. I honestly didn't see them as having the pelotas to actually kill someone. Even though the victim is really quite despicable, and wears satin scarves while visiting rustic Nevada towns. So clearly, she has it coming.
Now it's time to decide on the murder weapon. So far, the narrative has given us the following options:
- A discarded realty sign advertising a "Brothel for Sale: Inquire Within; Hourly 'Inquiries' Available Upon Request."
- A disembodied buffalo head, which is roaming the streets in a definitely menacing way, as though it has some kind of murderous agenda.
- The original 'Parley P. Pratt' sandwich, now petrified into a historically significant lethal lump. I looked into using the original 'Parley P. Pratt,' who is also petrified into a historically significant lethal lump and has the advantage of being much lower in carbs, but his agent wouldn't comp the exhumation. Jerk.
So no lessons today. Just type, type, type, eat Brett's last cookie cuz there is no such thing as 'saving it for later' around here, type, type -- all day long!
Fingers crossed! If the murderer manages to off that scarf wearing nincompoop with a buffalo head, you can bet I'll have my Pulitzer signed, sealed, and delivered.
And I'm thinking, with the prize money, I could totally buy that brothel.