ye storm is brewin'...

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.
      My current reading programme is devoted to ye William Monk novels of Anne Perry. I adore British mysteries above all other entertainment, and a stormy night is the perfect time to get lost in a tale of sinister Victorian intrigue. I dislike moft American mystery series (the few I have try'd) with ye exception of the brilliant Nero Wolfe novels of Rex Stout. I have three William Monk novels on order at Amazon (where at times ye hardcover editions sell for a less expensive price than ye paperbacks). My fondness for the Victorian period comes, I think, from my adoration of Oscar Wilde and Henry James, and for ye stories of Sherlock Holmes. The one modern detective series to which I am absolutely devoted is the work of P. D. James.
     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.


  1. Lord Edward Bulwer-Lytton wrote "It was a dark and stormy night...". The sound of silence can be so eloquent... the calm before the storm... the eye at the heart of the typhoon... all is energy and the anticipation of a storm brings its own electricity. People used to 'burn the midnight oil' quite literally to see and write in the peace and solitude of the long dark night. I remember loving the union-led power cuts in Northern England whan I was a boy in 1973 as it meant I had to eat, read and write by candle-light as our ancestors had no choice but to do. I get the feeling Sesqua Valley is muchly candle-lit by night, especially round the grave yard. Hope ye are well. G ;-)=


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