I have a planning allergy. Even the word gives me chills. Plans are elaborate creatures that tend to go wrong when they go at all. I am far more comfortable with goals and intentions. They seem to incur less wrath of The Powers That Be. Maybe because they are less arrogant.
That's how I see things anyway.
In line with that, my current intentions are focused on mysteries. I have written them before and want to write more. Beyond that, my intention (goal) is to absorb them as I have in the past--read other writers by the ton, both contemporary and those in the pantheon. Not that I haven't been reading mysteries, but I have read them on a causal basis, as one came to hand. But down at the library yesterday (for you younger people, that is a building that is full of books without having quite enough books in it) I was noting the size of the mystery section. I knew mysteries were popular, but it looked out of proportion. Given that librarians treasure the space available I am sure that is just my perception.
As a mystery lover, it makes sense to focus on them for a time. Reading them intensely, while writing more of my own, can't hurt. So yesterday, at that archaic building I still visit, I picked up Dorthy Sayers'
Whose Body?, Georges Simenon's
Maigret Bides His Time and Mickey Spillane's
Black Alley and brought them home to devour.
I don't think I've set myself a difficult or onerous task.
