Although no one reads the things I've written, I've never made enough money to buy a nice pen writing ebooks, no one paid attention when I performed on stage and I got a collective "whatever" from Slam judges, I still need to write.
It's a true need, like eating and mating. Through my misadventures in car sales, I never had the energy or spark. Now looking back at several months of inactivity, I got that itch. I needed to get back to work.
But at what? I have several projects I've thought about, blogged about, doodled about and scratched notes about. The one I decided to pick back up: the one with the best scenery.
He's my sleuth. A French charter fisherman and dive guide. Here's his boat:
And here's where he moors it:
You can buy it if you want.
Well, fictionally I did buy it. And I put a resort on it. Then somebody died there and it's up to Marcel to figure out who dunnit.
If Jacques Cousteau became a very reluctant Columbo, he'd be Marcel. Sort of. There's much more too him than that. I'm trying to avoid Inspector Clouseau or Pepe Le Pew. He's his own style. Mediterranean with a side of French Canadian trapper. Don't think he's Parisian or call him a frog.
"I am no frog. Frogs, they cannot tolerate salt water."