Nah, I made it up, although I've certainly been in that position more than once. I don't lead all that much, though. But that's how getting over an overhang can feel, sometimes.

Interesting, Consuela.

Hubby and I stopped by a rock climbing facility a few days ago, and I was in awe of the people who clambered up and down that wall and over the over hangs. Hubby rightly noted that part of my enjoyment came from very healthy young men showing off their muscles.

Yes indeed, Connie. The healthy young men (and women!) at my gym are very nice to watch. The last time I was there I was running on the treadmill and I watched a young man hanging from a pull-up bar. And then he would lift his straight legs and swing them in a circle, pulling them up until his feet were pointing towards the ceiling, and then over and around and down, and then back up. It was such an exhibition of abdominal strength that I've never seen. Wow.

I found this in kind of a random websearch yesterday and thought it might be of interest to other would-be(or actual) murder scribes here. [link]

Writer, Down the Years

Who are you
Long and slender, bent and broken
Who owns that smile, that face
Those words unspoken?

Is there a hand, a heart, a voice, a touch
To send my soul out dancing
Or are you held here, in my memory
Posed for memory's romancing?

I take you as you were, brown eyes and all
And put you near me
I write a history that should have been
But you can't hear me.

And if I pose you in another book
Our world of maybe
Could I retrieve you for another look?

My love
My life
My heart

My baby?

Oh, Deb. That one just makes me want to cry.

Then it did its job. Good. I'm not a poet, not by any stretch, but that one just seemed to want to go in form, rather than prose.

Nice one Deb.

New "How To Succeed As A Failing Writer" column up:

True Tales of Workshop Terror.