Emilie Richards | Which comes first, the novel or the title?

There is no question that authors are odd. We hear voices in our heads. We stare blankly at walls for hours, leaving those around us to wonder if we have, without fanfare, passed away. We save things other people toss out or never possess in the first place. Real estate circulars. Missing children inserts. Photographs that show nothing except, perhaps, the curve of a cheek or the shape of an eye. We keep files. Oh yes, we keep lots and lots of files. Jotted notes of overheard conversations. Newspaper articles about mortgage fraud. Three word phrases that might vanish in the night.

Authors are almost always asked where our ideas come from. No matter how many times I'm asked, I'm not annoyed by this question. In fact I can relate. Myself, I wonder about architects, particularly those who design hotel lobbies and airports. Where did those ideas originate, and can we please extinguish the source? Or artists. Take Jackson Pollock. What possessed the man, other than an urge to pour lots of paint on lots of canvas?

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Emilie Richards | Why I Became a Serial Killer

Emilie Richards

A serial killer? Well, I didn't become one, of course. Not exactly. But lately, and I have to admit the following part is true, people are dropping dead all around me. And by my hand.

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Of course my hand is on the computer keyboard whenever bad things happen. And the people dropping dead? Not nice people, for the most part. People you and I would cross the street to avoid. People who enjoy causing trouble for others. People who are sure the world revolves around them.

Serial killers get to choose their victims. And there are so many places to look. Take reality shows, for instance. Haven't you ever wanted to rid the world–or at least the television studio–of some of those judges? You know the ones I mean. They're sarcastic and egotistic and often downright cruel, all in the name of ratings. They're the ones we love to hate, and still, like bystanders staring at a train wreck, we just can't seem to pull ourselves away.

Well, I got rid of one of them this year.

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