Overnight I realized that of course even a first-person narrator who hardly ever leaves his or her house can get involved in a compelling story. Miss Marple, for example (Agatha Christie's second favorite detective, after Hercule Poirot), observed and became involved in at least one murder in her quiet little village of St. Mary Mead.
I say "first-person narrator" for indeed I find myself drawn to write a story moored in the consciousness of one of its characters, if not of its main character.
Hmm, thinking of Christie just reminded me of
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, in which she exploited an unreliable narrator by outrageously having the murderer himself tell the story (and, of course, not reveal whodunit until the end).
As I said yesterday, gearing up in public is fun. But I'm tired after dealing with some stuff that came up this weekend, so that's all the fun I'm going to have for the moment.
But if I have more thoughts on November's novel writing project today, I'll come back later and share them....
