I've never understood writers that can't write. I seem to carry around at least three books in my head that are waiting to be written. Mailman, pith helmet, hairy legs, (a lonely man - that might be the title.) lives alone, carries a deep pain inside from a lost love. A can of doggie mace in his pocket. On his route in Beverly Hills, doesn't have his ipod today because he forgot to charge it, finds the front door ajar and the moans of a woman coming from within in. He enters to find a lovely young thing splattered with blood, holding a knife over her father's body. Dead of course. She swears she didn't do it. She asks for his help. He convinces her to call the police. She hangs on him. The police arrest her for the murder. He's convinced she didn't do it, or sees this as a way to win her love if he finds the real murderer. He delves into this guys life. Everyone loved him, butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Big movie mogul, mistresses, a son, a wife, the daughter turns out to be a big problem- lots of affairs. Everyone he meets has a motive. He Sherlocks it out. He does get the girl, but it ends badly. He solves the murder.
What do you think?
Marlow as mailman.
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