A Place for Murder just published, so it's time to start writing a new novel
I started writing a new novel last night, but the idea for it came from a friend just over two years ago. We were knocking back a few beers and talking about recent vacations we’d had and the cool places we’d visited.
Each of the regions of the country we talked about were all fair-weather climates – from Seattle to San Diego, and San Antonio to St. Pete, among others.
Beautiful, upscale communities with great entertainment and art venues as well as excellent libraries and museums. Terrific restaurants and raucous pubs seemed to flourish around every other corner. In short, my kinda towns!
But one other element each of these great regions shared in common was a growing homeless population. In some areas, the homeless had taken “control” of parts of the cities where they lived. Tent cities and makeshift homeless shelters appeared to be popping up almost everywhere.
Panhandlers and doggy-bag beggars lurked in the shadows. Street performers played music, danced, and sang for change.
I remember taking a photo of a guy in Seattle who had an old-fashioned upright piano on wheels that he hauled around town to play in parks where folks gathered to bask in warm sunshine. I thought his ragtime and blues were terrific. The cash overflowing from the hat he’d put on the ground by his stool told me he was making some pretty decent dough.
In Key West, I watched a group of college kids set up a volleyball net right over top of a homeless guy who looked like he was sleeping off a major hangover while hugging his shoes in Higgins Park.
The kids barely paid any attention to the old duffer and he only stirred lightly as the game progressed.
Amazingly, the game concluded without anyone diving for a dig and crashing into him. When I left, the young people were heading back to their hotel for more beer and the old guy simply rolled over, oblivious to it all.
Since then, I’ve frequently thought about that scene – a homeless guy sleeping in the sand under a volleyball net with young people partying, and eating, and drinking all around him – as if he were just a picnic table or another bench in the park, not really a person anymore, just a thing we call the homeless.
It made me wonder if anyone would care if he were suddenly gone. Would anyone notice?
Would his disappearance matter to anyone? What would happen if the homeless started to gradually vanish? And what would happen if someone figured out how to make money from it?
And that’s the basis for my next novel. I cannot reveal anything more about the story except that it takes place in Key West. You'll fully understand why I picked that location when you get to the end of A Place for Murder, which just published Thanksgiving weekend.
As I sit down to work on the new book each day, I will think of that homeless guy under the volleyball net. He mattered to me.
I think it’s going to be a great story.
Stay tuned.
A Place for MurderDave Vizard
Each of the regions of the country we talked about were all fair-weather climates – from Seattle to San Diego, and San Antonio to St. Pete, among others.
Beautiful, upscale communities with great entertainment and art venues as well as excellent libraries and museums. Terrific restaurants and raucous pubs seemed to flourish around every other corner. In short, my kinda towns!
But one other element each of these great regions shared in common was a growing homeless population. In some areas, the homeless had taken “control” of parts of the cities where they lived. Tent cities and makeshift homeless shelters appeared to be popping up almost everywhere.
Panhandlers and doggy-bag beggars lurked in the shadows. Street performers played music, danced, and sang for change.
I remember taking a photo of a guy in Seattle who had an old-fashioned upright piano on wheels that he hauled around town to play in parks where folks gathered to bask in warm sunshine. I thought his ragtime and blues were terrific. The cash overflowing from the hat he’d put on the ground by his stool told me he was making some pretty decent dough.
In Key West, I watched a group of college kids set up a volleyball net right over top of a homeless guy who looked like he was sleeping off a major hangover while hugging his shoes in Higgins Park.
The kids barely paid any attention to the old duffer and he only stirred lightly as the game progressed.
Amazingly, the game concluded without anyone diving for a dig and crashing into him. When I left, the young people were heading back to their hotel for more beer and the old guy simply rolled over, oblivious to it all.
Since then, I’ve frequently thought about that scene – a homeless guy sleeping in the sand under a volleyball net with young people partying, and eating, and drinking all around him – as if he were just a picnic table or another bench in the park, not really a person anymore, just a thing we call the homeless.
It made me wonder if anyone would care if he were suddenly gone. Would anyone notice?
Would his disappearance matter to anyone? What would happen if the homeless started to gradually vanish? And what would happen if someone figured out how to make money from it?
And that’s the basis for my next novel. I cannot reveal anything more about the story except that it takes place in Key West. You'll fully understand why I picked that location when you get to the end of A Place for Murder, which just published Thanksgiving weekend.
As I sit down to work on the new book each day, I will think of that homeless guy under the volleyball net. He mattered to me.
I think it’s going to be a great story.
Stay tuned.
A Place for MurderDave Vizard
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