Last year, I had an existential crisis. I had known for years that all my favorite authors are dead, but I had not fully come to terms with the fact that that means…no. more. books.
Even though I still have quite a few Ngaio Marsh and Margery Allinghams to look forward to, Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers are tapped out, and eventually they will all be all gone.
Then one day I woke up from a dream. Only a fragment remained, but that fragment was a detective. I liked him. I liked him a lot. And I set about a quest to make him real, to see if other people might like him too.
His name is Edmund Mottley. He lives in London in 1932. He enjoys Elgar, Manouche Jazz, and Orphic Cubism. He describes himself as a Specialist in Discreet Enquiries, and he is in complete denial about how much he needs a sidekick.
His story will shortly be available on Amazon in Kindle and paperback. I’d like to offer you a preview – go to the page called “Meet Mister Mottley,” or you can just click here.
And here’s a shot of the cover, I just got it and I’m kind of in love with it…