Aye, there is a wind storm due later to-day, & I am looking forward to it. We lost power for a wee while last night, but I have a battery-operated lantern--and, I love ye darkness (except when I'm into a really swell book). When the lights are out, I find that it triggers my ability to listen--I hear the storm's approach and effect, the moaning of wind within ye chimney, the soft tapping of outside windsocks pushed against ye window pane. There seems to be a link between my love of storms and my fondness for writing weird fiction--the emotions of both experiences are similar, as is the way they make my imagination work.
I began my love of murder mysteries with books, but my admiration for ye form was heighten'd by the British telly series, MYSTERY, on PBS. I love to listen to the variety of British accents--indeed, I think I wou'd be much happier living in England than here in ye USA. Since that cannot be, and since I am trapped in this wretched modern era, I turn to books for an escape--and ye finest from from modernity is found within ye pages of an enthralling Victorian tale.
But I can write no more--ye sounds of storm increase, nature is wind-tossed and may soon be rain-drench'd. I must turn off this contraption, this humming computer, sink into my old armchair, and place myself within ye world of William Monk, Victoprian detective supreme.