CLEAVED,  Grafton County Series,  MARRED,  SCATHED,  The life of a writer

One Word Separates Us From Psychopaths: Writer

/

Writer brainReal life offers inspiration when we least expect it. That moment can also be awkward, especially if you forget to mention one crucial distinction between you and a psychopath: the word writer.

A service person comes to your home. While you’re watching her — yes, a woman — do her job, a brainstorm strikes you out of nowhere; it rounds first base, second, and third, and charges at full speed for home plate. But you need more information to flesh out the idea, mentally draft the story from beginning to end to see if the premise has merit.

So, you drill her with questions, lots of questions, dark probing questions, and then you feel like you have to explain, but you’re so focused on the story — the story is all that matters — you blurt out, “It’s for a murder.” But you don’t expand, so now, this woman who’s working in a male-dominant field starts to twitch, flinch, her eyes pleading with your husband to stop you if things take a turn for the worse, her protective posture praying to God that you won’t snap right here, right now. Or maybe, she’s contemplating whether or not to call the police.

Whatever. You’ve been down this road before. At the same time, you’re not oblivious to the woman’s uncomfortableness. After all, you’re not a monster. You just need facts, and she’s the perfect person to give them to you.

Oh, well, it’s not the first time your enthusiasm for murder and body disposal made a stranger squirm. Probably won’t be the last, either. No biggie. It’s all good.

You continue. “So, in your professional opinion, how long would it take for the flesh to fall off the bones? Oh, wait.” You mull over the possibilities. The hook of your story emerges like a phoenix from the deep recesses of your mind, and you try to control the smirk that threatens to expose your dark, grisly thoughts. “Would the bones also disintegrate?”

“Uh … umm …” Her work boots shuffle backward a few feet. Nervous laughter takes hold — you know the type, that “he-he,” pause, “he-he,” pause, followed by a visual gulp. “Do you have somebody specific in mind?”

What a strange thing to say. Obviously, she’s never read your books. Bitch. “I’m still workin’ out the details.” Meh. You write it off to can’t-please-everyone and move on. “So, about that flesh, what’s your best guesstimate for a timeframe?”

“Ah … well, I worked with a guy once who had to be airlifted to Boston after his skin made contact with … third-degree burns all over his body … it took about five hours.”

“Five hours? Hmm, what if I added lye or sulfuric acid?” You weren’t really asking, more thinking aloud.

In a tone unfit for human ears, she says, “I’m not sure what that is.”

As your eyebrows arch in disbelief, your husband steps in to explain. “If she adds lye or sulfuric acid, the mixture should dissolve the flesh, skull, and whatnot a lot quicker.” Something must occur to him, because he whirls toward you. “Babe, wouldn’t you need to heat the sulfuric acid?”

That draws your full attention. “Not necessarily. If we didn’t kill her first, it’d definitely prolong the torture, but maybe that’s a good thing.”

He laughs.

You laugh, too. Perhaps a bit harder than you should.

The service woman’s stone-cold expression snaps toward your husband, then you, shifting back and forth before refusing eye contact with either of you.

To break the awkward silence, you say, “Really appreciate you comin’ out on a Saturday. You’re doin’ a great job.”

“Thanks.” Her rigid shoulders relax. “This was my father’s business. After he passed, I left it up to my ex-husband to handle the day-to-day operation, but he screwed me over. So, now, I’m juggling this job with my day job.”

Half-tuning her out, this news doesn’t surprise you. It’s the reason you gave her the work in the first place; you’re a sucker for the underdog. To avoid being rude, you pretend that you’re not familiar with the story. As she rambles on and on about her ex, you retreat to fictionland where you create plot points and milestones for the new premise that has you all fired-up. You can’t afford to lose focus. If you do, the plot could slip away. Nothing can get in your way, not now, not while the creative juices are flowing like Niagara Falls.

“Yeah, what a shame.” To not appear unsympathetic, you wait a quick beat. “So, what about teeth?”Writer brain

She startles. “Excuse me?”

“Y’know, the murder. Enamel reacts differently than bone.”

“Gee, I … I …” Another nervous giggle escapes her lips as she swivels to face your husband, who loves it when your writer brain takes over. “Aren’t you the least bit worried?” On the sly, she jabs a chin in your direction.

You catch the insinuation, and roll your lips. “Please. Don’t let the innocent face fool you. He’s just as bad as I am when it comes to driving aimlessly, searching for the perfect place to dump a body.”

More ideas skip past the concept, premise, plot points, and milestones. “Hey, you must know the area really well.” Your gaze slides to your husband, and he nods in solidarity. “A desolate area, a deserted farmhouse, a dirt trail that doesn’t seem to lead anywhere, a particularly eerie swamp, maybe woodlands that no one dares to enter due to a savage attack-slash-murder that happened decades ago … do ya get what I’m sayin’?”

Silent, her jaw slacks.

Some people, eh? Figures you get stuck with the weirdo. In an attempt to clarify, you rephrase. “What I mean is, have you ever had a call from a homeowner that lived in a Buffalo Bill-style house? Y’know, something remote, or a property that exuded evil, a place where as soon as you pulled on to the long, dirt driveway all your tiny body hairs stood on end.”

She smacks her gloves together. “Well, I’m about done here. If you give me a minute, I’ll get you a receipt.”

“But–”

Your husband gives you the slow eye-close, signaling you to let her leave.

“Okay, thanks for your help.”

“Hey,” she hesitates, “you were kidding about killing somebody, right?”

“Not at all.” With no further explanation, you turn and strut back into the house. And your poor husband is left to relay the one piece of information that separates you from a psychopath: you’re a writer. Did you forget to mention that?

This scenario happened to me yesterday. True story. On the plus side, I have Book 4 of Grafton County Series all planned out. 🙂 UPDATE (October 2020) RACKED is available at all booksellers. Read the Opening Chapter.

Can you relate? Care to share a funny miscommunication? Let’s start the week with laughter.

Sue Coletta is an award-winning crime writer and an active member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and International Thriller Writers. Feedspot and Expertido.org named her Murder Blog as “Best 100 Crime Blogs on the Net.” She also blogs on the Kill Zone (Writer's Digest "101 Best Websites for Writers"), Writers Helping Writers, and StoryEmpire. Sue lives with her husband in the Lakes Region of New Hampshire. Her backlist includes psychological thrillers, the Mayhem Series (books 1-3) and Grafton County Series, and true crime/narrative nonfiction. Now, she exclusively writes eco-thrillers, Mayhem Series (books 4-9 and continuing). Sue's appeared on the Emmy award-winning true crime series, Storm of Suspicion, and three episodes of A Time to Kill on Investigation Discovery. When she's not writing, she loves spending time with her murder of crows, who live free but come when called by name. And nature feeds her soul.

You May Also Like

Muse: How Creativity Effects the Brain

Muse: How Creativity Effects the Brain

December 10, 2016
9 Ways to Build Suspense

9 Ways To Build Suspense ~ Fiction Writing

November 11, 2016
Badass in Heels: Thumb Gouge

Badass In Heels: Incapacitate Your Attacker

October 30, 2016

45 Comments

  • Roland R Clarke

    July 3, 2018 at 9:50 PM

    What happens when we interview a psychopath like this? Or a guilty politician? I love the story and the reactions. But then one of my stepsons feared that I was an axe-murderer when I met his mum…online.

  • Larry Keeton

    July 2, 2018 at 9:03 PM

    Sue,
    Terrific, funny post. Can just imagine the woman wondering what the heck was going on. Think of the story she’s going to tell her friends! Just one question. What industry was she in?

    • Sue Coletta

      July 3, 2018 at 7:26 AM

      Thanks, Larry! I’m hesitant to reveal her profession before I get the chance to write the first draft; it’d give away my killer’s MO. Tell ya what, I’ll do a follow-up post so I don’t keep you all in suspense forever. 😉

  • sally Cronin

    July 2, 2018 at 11:55 AM

    Wonderful Sue and I completely relate.. I get into conversation with anybody and everybody.. I look on them all as future characters and I get beyond nosey.. I am always amazed at the things they are prepared to tell you!! hugs

  • Eloise

    June 28, 2018 at 5:12 PM

    We had a gentleman from Sky walk in during my brainstorming session on the use of arsenic. He did not look impressed when I asked what his weight was and proceeded to calculate out loud how much would be required to make him die after feeding him the arsenic for at least a week! He sped through his installation and warned my husband in the way out to keep an eye on me and the life insurance!

  • Lucinda E Clarke

    June 28, 2018 at 10:33 AM

    This is a great blog, made me laugh out loud. The second of my memoir books begins as follows: I have decided that tomorrow I am going to kill Caroline. I’d like to squash her flat under a road roller, or push her off the top of the Empire State Building, but I’m not sure how I could get her there, and I suspect Health and Safety have got it securely enclosed by now. I can’t shoot her as I’ve no idea where I’d get a gun, and a knife means getting up close and personal and I don’t want her blood all over me. I could poison her, but then I don’t know very much about poisons, and I really should dispose of her in a more interesting way. I’ve grown to hate her, and I want her death to be lingering and painful.

  • Robbie Cheadle

    June 28, 2018 at 1:39 AM

    This is a great article, Sue. I have been writing a ghost story and I have had to research all the deaths by hanging, starvation and other means. Anyone checking my Google search will think I am a mass murderer.

  • Michael Helms

    June 26, 2018 at 2:43 PM

    I would’ve been freaked and looking for my biggest tool and the nearest avenue of escape: (Hmm, how bad is that window glass gonna cut me if I dive through headfirst? No way I’ll be able to open it without them stopping me. Can I get both of them with my wrench before one of them pulls a pistol or knife?)
    Do you ever work with the same repairman/woman twice? Just wondering. 🙂

  • acflory

    June 25, 2018 at 9:40 PM

    LMAO! Oh this made me laugh. My first book was all about a planet full of aliens who were all on the spectrum between sociopath and full on psychopath. I’d hate to think what my online searches would look like to an outsider. Luckily sci-fi is easier to spot than real life crime fiction.
    The thing most people fail to understand is that writers have an excess of empathy rather than not enough. We have to put ourselves in the shoes of all our characters, including the villains. Makes for some fun research. 😀

    • Sue Coletta

      June 26, 2018 at 7:46 AM

      Well said. That day, I was in total villain-mode. Hahaha. Don’t get me started on search history! Very few writers wouldn’t sweat while the authorities searched their hard drive, and a vast majority would be thrown in jail. At the very least, we all have these questions languishing on our hard drive: “How to commit the perfect murder” or “What’s the best way to dispose of a body?” 🙂

  • Steven Ramirez

    June 25, 2018 at 1:14 PM

    Great story, Sue. And so true. I ask questions everywhere I go. When the subject is not related to murder, I just ask and flash an earnest smile. Otherwise, I always preface my questions with, “So, I’m a writer and…”

    • Sue Coletta

      June 25, 2018 at 1:19 PM

      Hahaha. Not prefacing my questions with, “I’m a writer” is a bad habit of mine. It became especially sticky when I left a message for the state police and forgot to mention the body in the marsh was, in fact, fictional. Thank God the secretary had a great sense of humor! 🙂

  • C.S. Boyack

    June 25, 2018 at 12:32 PM

    Doesn’t really happen to me. I think it’s genre specific. “What if you had an app that would actually give people puppy dog ears and noses?” Huh, I may have just gotten a story idea.

      • Sue Coletta

        June 25, 2018 at 1:13 PM

        Here’s an idea. What if by wearing an electrode cap, writers could envision their story from beginning to end and the first draft would appear on the screen?

          • Sue Coletta

            June 29, 2018 at 6:50 AM

            That’s true, Anita. It would take the fun out of the 1st draft, but imagine how much work we’d get done in a short period of time? Don’t mind me; it’s been a helluva week, being pulled in nine different directions by three different publishers and the state who wants a “Letter of Intent” due to a misunderstanding of the words “fictional murder” while planning a Reader Appreciation Day at a state park. Small towns … gotta love ’em!

  • Garry Rodgers

    June 25, 2018 at 10:07 AM

    Hahahaha! I can just hear this happening! BTW, great job of writing in 2nd person voice. Funny miscommunications… let’s see…

    Once, in the coroner phase of my life, I dealt with this heavy-accented Romanian woman whose husband died from complications of surgery. She was hell-bent on holding the system accountable aside from the fact her husband had more things wrong with him than an Edsel. Because it was a CoS death, it became a coroner case under the law, and I was on the phone with her trying to figure out the pre-surgery doctor contacts.

    She was rambling on and on about this doctor and that doctor and she was confusing me. I kept asking her, “Now which doctor was that?” She kept replying, “Heart doctor”. She was trying to blame the cardiologist, but the man’s initial diagnoses and admission on the hospital charts came through the gastroenterologist and the urologist.

    Besides her accent, she was very emotional and wanted someone’s head on a pike. She kept jumping around, confusing me, and I kept saying. “Which doctor was that?” She was getting frustrated with me for repeatedly asking the same question about which doctor was which.

    Finally, she said, “No. No. Not witch doctor. Heart doctor.”

  • Mae Clair

    June 25, 2018 at 9:33 AM

    OMG, that’s hysterical. That poor woman! Yeah, I’ve probed for information before but I usually PREFACE my questions by explaining I’m a writer, LOL.

    • Sue Coletta

      June 25, 2018 at 11:13 AM

      Hahaha. This has happened to me more times than I can count. One would think I’d learn to say, “I’m a writer” first, but I get so excited about the story idea, I totally space that important distinction. 🙂

  • Denise Hendrickson

    June 25, 2018 at 8:32 AM

    Oh, wow Sue! This is completely hilarious and made my morning. Thank you, thank you! LOL! Woke grumpy with a migraine and this put a great big smile on my face. I could see it playing out in my mind with the woman shuffling her feet, inching toward the safety of her car, sweating and trying to act unaffected by the random weird questions. Priceless!

    In answer to your question, I tend to randomly blurt out strange comments and/or questions when they pop into my head. Once, I was taking a trip with a friend and we were in the mountains. I had just finished an awesome book about a group of friends who were trekking in the mountains and their car went over the cliff, some died, some were injured and they had to fight to survive and stay alive to get to safety…you get the drift. On a whim, while I was driving on a small treacherous mountain road I asked her, “What do you think would happen if we went off the cliff? Do you think we would survive…both of us, one of us, neither?” She sucked in a breath and gave me a WTH look, then said, “you’re joking…right?!” I said, “Well, no”…and edged the car closer to the side telling her to look over the edge and see what the landscape looked like. And asked her if she thought we would survive and if we would be able to make it to safety or not. LOL. My mind was reeling with scenarios from the book (being in the area was the perfect setting for the story I read) so I was replaying scenes in my head and asking her all sorts of weird questions. She totally freaked out on me and when I finally realized why…she thought I was gonna try to kill us or something…I realized I needed to explain why I was asking all the strange questions. She told me I was never allowed to bring books on a trip with her unless they were full of puppies and couple drama that lead to happy endings. Hahaha

  • Harvey Stanbrough

    June 25, 2018 at 8:03 AM

    One of my novels is titled Confessions of a Professional Psychopath. The opening paragraph?

    “Of the three wingback chairs in my library, only one is upholstered in human skin. There’s a reason for that.”

    (grin)

  • Margot Kinberg

    June 25, 2018 at 7:46 AM

    Oh, what a great story, Sue!! This is absolutely priceless! I can just see the whole interaction. I haven’t had anything quite like that happen, but I did raise some eyebrows once when I got to talking with a clerk in our local pharmacy about their anti-theft video surveillance procedures. What?! I needed the information for a couple of scenes in a book I was writing.