The kid and I flew to New York today, but before we left I finished a book that I started reading because I saw it on some list somewhere and ended up really enjoying. The book is called The Art of the English Murder (though I gather it’s also published under the title A Very British Murder) and it was written by Lucy Worsley, who I will be reading again.

This particular book interested me for several reasons – including my interest in true crime in general, and as somewhat connected to my NaNo project – though it is now the end of day three and I have a total of 503 words.

The book is a bit British history, a bit literary review. And as someone who has been fascinated with true crime since I was a child (thanks to Time Life books and Robert Stack) but also loath to talk about my interest it was quite fascinating.

I feel much less guilty about my curiosity after reading about Brits who would go to visit crime scenes – bodies, blood and all. That people would go to watch hangings after devouring every bit of gossip and rumour about a crime and those who committed it.

I think there’s a part of all of us that wonders why. Those of us who can’t conceive of killing another human being. I happen to find it fascinating, but now I know there have always been people who do, and there probably always will be.

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