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Len Boswell's Blog

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May.12.2010
Inspector Wolf sat quietly at his dining room table, contemplating the superheated microwave dinner steaming in its black plastic tray in front of him, bits of chicken and preternaturally green green-beans in a bubbling cream sauce. Hunger compelled him to eat, but the smell made him slightly...
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May.11.2010
The summer had been hot and unusually dry. Storms formed over the mountains and just as quickly broke up or changed directions, dumping rain elsewhere. But not a drop for much of the East. In early July, water conservation measures were put in place, and lawns quickly browned. And now, well into...
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May.10.2010
Sometimes life comes at you head-on. Other times, it comes at you from around a corner. I’m not sure which is more terrifying or thrilling or wondrous, but the day Mrs. Lagana came around the corner was certainly right up there. I have two memories of Mrs. Lagana, the mother of my boyhood friends...
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May.10.2010
Sometimes embarrassing moments are so embarrassing they remain with you forever. So it was that this morning, as I was riding the train to work, a memory came screaming through the mists of time and made me cringe all over again. I was back on Mountain Home AFB, in Idaho, serving as a Precision...
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May.07.2010
Not too long ago, I completed work on a novel called SKELETON, A Bare Bones Mystery, which included tattoos as both important clues and red herrings. I knew nothing about tattoos going in, so as part of my research, I decided to get my first tattoo. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to adequately...
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May.06.2010
When I think of my brother, I invariably think of the scar above his right eye, and the day it happened. We were playing with our friends, the Laganas, just outside their house. They had a new dog, a big German Shepherd, and everyone was trying to pet him. The youngest Lagana, Little Stevie, who...
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May.06.2010
Unbelievably, the bicycle—my  first bicycle—was sitting there on Christmas morning, leaning up against the fireplace. It wasn’t a new bike, my parents couldn’t afford one, but they had managed to find a used, skinny-tired Raleigh, a 3-speed red one with white fiberglass fenders and a leather bag...
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May.05.2010
When I was ten, my Uncle Buddy caught me staring at the scar on his forehead, and pulled me aside for an explanation and some heartfelt advice. Turns out the scar, actually a triangular indentation, was the result of an unexpected encounter with the tip of a flatiron, which had been thrown at him...
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May.04.2010
Put your loved ones in a cauldron, figuratively speaking, and boil them down to their essence, the one physical characteristic that immediately springs to mind when you think of them. It could be their mouth, their eyes, their missing finger, anything. When I think of my father, the first thing...
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May.03.2010
Another excerpt from The Diner in Moonlight, this time the prologue . . .  When she entered the diner, every head instinctively turned to look at her, not so much for her dazzling beauty, which was evident right from the start, but for the simple fact that she was still behind the wheel of a pink...
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Apr.29.2010
While I’m on the subject of sandwiches, I thought I’d show you an excerpt from The Diner in Moonlight, which is still available for review by agents and publishers one and all. In this “sandwich” scene, the owner of the diner is interviewing a sandwich man for the diner. In diner lingo, a sandwich...
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Apr.29.2010
My Uncle Earl was a bricklayer who prided himself on his craft, particularly the troweling of mortar on brick. It was said—by Big Earl, actually—that he could lay more brick with less mortar than any man alive. While this made him the darling of budget-minded contractors, it also left him with...
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Apr.27.2010
This morning I am a year older, the age dial clicking over to a number that makes me cringe, a number that marks yet another milepost on my headlong charge toward decrepitude. And because of this, I say, “Enough!” Not to aging. Not to life. But to ever being a year older again. “Um, what?” That’s...
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Apr.20.2010
My mother didn’t believe it. My father didn’t believe it and didn’t want to hear another word about it, thank you very much. My sister laughed and ran from the room. And my little brother, who was just two years old, ignored the whole conversation, preferring to taste-test a glob of something he’d...
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Apr.16.2010
I had a humble upbringing. I wouldn’t say we were poor, even though dinner often consisted of one vegetable, usually beans, and a slice of buttered white bread, the kind that never seemed to go stale. But if the Middle Class were a train, my family would have been clinging for dear life off the...
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