it Paranoia Park, but we all have our reasons for valuing the security. For me, it's a matter of taking precautions against the types of people I write about in my books, and also against a tiny but peculiar minority of my readers.
I step back into my house, close and latch the screen.
With Ray loose out there, I feel safe in here.
Not that I'd be a target of his. The killers I interview think I'm their best friend until my book comes out. Then they hate my guts, because I've told the whole world the truth about them, which isn't anything like what they tell themselves. The book I am writing about Ray and his terrible crime isn't out yet—isn't even finished yet, and may never be—so he shouldn't be hating me yet.
It's a little early in the publishing schedule for that.
I smile to myself, and walk to another window, another soothing view.
With the windows open, I can hear the water splashing.
This house is the smallest on the cul-de-sac, a two-story apricot stucco flat-roofed cube, Italianate, with green shutters. From the street, the house is nearly invisible behind six towering cypress trees, three on either side of the double front door, which is painted a lacquered green almost identical in shade to the cypresses. The trees, themselves, are visible for miles in either direction from the canal, and are a landmark to the water traffic. From the air or the water, I can pick out the location of my home even before the big bridge comes into view.
Other people can't easily see me, however.
Their visibility is limited from the water by the fifteen-foot cliff and the fact that the house sits on just enough of a slope to block the view from the decks of boats. I can see them, if they aren't directly under my windows, but they can't see me. From my three back doors—one each from the kitchen, living room, and office—it is, oddly, a bit of an uphill walk to stand over the water.
I turn and look around my home.
Some people wouldn't agree, but I think: How fortunate I am!
There's nothing like a shooting to make you value your life.
From my foyer, the house opens into one large sunny living and dining room, all glass along the south wall. The west wing is kitchen, with wraparound windows, and a half bath. To the east is my office, on the canal side, and a bathroom and a guest bedroom behind it. My bedroom suite consumes the entire second floor, but since the house isn't large, the area seems perfectly proportioned to my sense of space, rather than seeming a room for giants. Taking my cue from the apricot stucco walls of the exterior, I have decorated the interior in the colors of the Italian countryside, or of a bowl of ripe fruit—lemons, peaches, oranges, frosted grapes, and strawberries.
"Okay, that's enough self-congratulations," I say.
I return to my desk and computer, after placing an atlas to my left where I can see it as I type. I should be hungry, but I'm not. I haven't stopped to eat dinner or change clothes in the hours since Ray escaped, but have used the time to interview every official who would talk to me. Then I hurried home to get it all down. I know that when I stop, I will feel dirty, exhausted, and starved, but while I am writing, everything else disappears.
It's one of the reasons I write.
Now, I want to make the larger escape scene clear, especially to my readers who've never been to Florida.
"On maps, Florida looks like a state where it ought to be easy to catch somebody," I type, with frequent glances at the map beside me. This is the state where I live, but it's the things a writer takes for granted that are the places where she's most likely to err. "The farther down south they are when they first escape, the easier it appears to catch them. It's a peninsula, after all, with water on three sides, where a person ought to feel just about as trapped as on an island. Anyone who has ever tried to negotiate 1-95 at any time, much less rush hour, knows just how trapped you can feel on the
I step back into my house, close and latch the screen.
With Ray loose out there, I feel safe in here.
Not that I'd be a target of his. The killers I interview think I'm their best friend until my book comes out. Then they hate my guts, because I've told the whole world the truth about them, which isn't anything like what they tell themselves. The book I am writing about Ray and his terrible crime isn't out yet—isn't even finished yet, and may never be—so he shouldn't be hating me yet.
It's a little early in the publishing schedule for that.
I smile to myself, and walk to another window, another soothing view.
With the windows open, I can hear the water splashing.
This house is the smallest on the cul-de-sac, a two-story apricot stucco flat-roofed cube, Italianate, with green shutters. From the street, the house is nearly invisible behind six towering cypress trees, three on either side of the double front door, which is painted a lacquered green almost identical in shade to the cypresses. The trees, themselves, are visible for miles in either direction from the canal, and are a landmark to the water traffic. From the air or the water, I can pick out the location of my home even before the big bridge comes into view.
Other people can't easily see me, however.
Their visibility is limited from the water by the fifteen-foot cliff and the fact that the house sits on just enough of a slope to block the view from the decks of boats. I can see them, if they aren't directly under my windows, but they can't see me. From my three back doors—one each from the kitchen, living room, and office—it is, oddly, a bit of an uphill walk to stand over the water.
I turn and look around my home.
Some people wouldn't agree, but I think: How fortunate I am!
There's nothing like a shooting to make you value your life.
From my foyer, the house opens into one large sunny living and dining room, all glass along the south wall. The west wing is kitchen, with wraparound windows, and a half bath. To the east is my office, on the canal side, and a bathroom and a guest bedroom behind it. My bedroom suite consumes the entire second floor, but since the house isn't large, the area seems perfectly proportioned to my sense of space, rather than seeming a room for giants. Taking my cue from the apricot stucco walls of the exterior, I have decorated the interior in the colors of the Italian countryside, or of a bowl of ripe fruit—lemons, peaches, oranges, frosted grapes, and strawberries.
"Okay, that's enough self-congratulations," I say.
I return to my desk and computer, after placing an atlas to my left where I can see it as I type. I should be hungry, but I'm not. I haven't stopped to eat dinner or change clothes in the hours since Ray escaped, but have used the time to interview every official who would talk to me. Then I hurried home to get it all down. I know that when I stop, I will feel dirty, exhausted, and starved, but while I am writing, everything else disappears.
It's one of the reasons I write.
Now, I want to make the larger escape scene clear, especially to my readers who've never been to Florida.
"On maps, Florida looks like a state where it ought to be easy to catch somebody," I type, with frequent glances at the map beside me. This is the state where I live, but it's the things a writer takes for granted that are the places where she's most likely to err. "The farther down south they are when they first escape, the easier it appears to catch them. It's a peninsula, after all, with water on three sides, where a person ought to feel just about as trapped as on an island. Anyone who has ever tried to negotiate 1-95 at any time, much less rush hour, knows just how trapped you can feel on the
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