Brainstorming Ideas on the White Board for the Missy and Columbus Day Crime Fiction Story

Craig Hartranft

Having read Carl Hiasson’s latest novel Razor Girl, with a female protagonist, more an anti-hero, I decided to revisit a story idea I started more than a year and a half ago. The story of Missy Aldritch killing her husband on Columbus Day has no working title as of yet. And back in August of 2016 I did some additional writing and revision to the story.

Brainstorming a Story IdeaToday, after a reread yesterday at Barnes & Noble, I decided to put my story and outline notes to the office white board and do some brainstorming. Maybe get some fresh thoughts and idea peculating in my writer’s mind. At right is a picture of what that looked like this afternoon. (Click on the picture to enlarge in a new tab.) As usual, it’s always a work in progress, but thankfully I’m back at it again.

Here’s the link to the  revised On Columbus Day Miss Aldritch Killed Her Husband story start. [MA-DLV]

On Columbus Day, Missy Aldritch Killed Her Husband George: The start to a crime fiction tale with dark comedic overtones. (Ver. 1.1)

Craig Hartranft

Poster for the 1950 B-Movie, "Deadly Is The Female"

© 2016+ Craig S. Hartranft (Usual caveats apply: this a rough draft, complete with spelling errors and grammar issues.)

On Monday October 12, it was Columbus Day and the day after her second wedding anniversary, Missy Aldritch killed her husband George, giving him a gut shot with her Sig Sauer and then a bullet to the head when he wouldn’t stop moaning and whining and asking why.

Missy didn’t know why. She really wasn’t good at why. Finding out why. Or wondering why. He just wouldn’t shut up.

Shooting George on that cool overcast morning seemed the best thing to do. He had the day off, all day. He had two plans that day. One was sleeping in, the other was detailing his 2014 Ford F-150 pick up truck.

Christ. Missy hated that thing. A silver behemoth that George drove one mile, total, back and forth each day to work. One half mile each way. Geez. He could have walked, worked off that damn beer gut he was developing.

Maybe that was the why. That fucking truck.

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