Lately I’ve been getting a lot of questions from friends and family about the book I’m writing. Most days I welcome questions like these; they give me a chance to talk about my favorite subject and the coolest person in the entire world: Me. But recently these questions have been making me feel shy for a minute or two, something that I’m decidedly not. So I started wondering why this could be happening, and I came to a slightly uncomfortable realization.
Call me Hercule Poirot because I’m pretty sure I’ve figured out who killed Mr. Ratchett. Right now I’m about 200 pages into Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express and, despite the fact that this book would never make it onto the bestseller lists if it were published for the first time today, I’m enjoying the hell out of it. Go ahead and strip away the … Continue reading Murder On The Orient Express