Bag End. He always knew it would come back to that. The same old place, the same old rain that never stopped. The same suspicious glares from passers-by as he made his way to the house where the old master lay dying. Inside it was worse. The peeling wallpaper, a faint smell of damp and fungus, like the mushrooms they used to steal from Farmer Maggot's fields. Old Maggot belonged with the maggots now. He went to the room. It was worst there. It smelled like hope does when it dies.

Valuable lesson last night from my golden age crime mystery thing in progress - you need a couple of "dummies", i.e. not significant suspects/characters but just there to bulk up the cast at the country house gathering. sort of unspeaking background actors, to be eliminated as suspects as soon as the murder is discovered. maybe a speaking line or two if you're feeling generous / need the word count

Name's Tumnus. Mr Tumnus. I'm a shamus. A PI. A dick. When this Daughter of Eve came into my office, past the Lamppost, I knew she was trouble, I just didn't know how much. "My brother, Edmund. He is missing, you see," she said. She had the face of a Wardrobe rat.
"What's it to me?" I told her. I could tell a Turkish Delight fiend when I saw one and she had all the classic signs.

I think I only just realised this, but every science fiction book is just a regular book with "IN SPACE!" after the title.

Foundation: The Rise And Fall of the Roman Empire... IN SPACE!
Double Star: The Prisoner of Zenda... IN SPACE!
Dune: Lawrence of Arabia... IN SPACE! also hypothetically works with "... WITH GIANT WORMS!" or "BUT ROBOTS!"

This is a heartfelt plea: publishers, *please* send me and @silviamg your 2021 books or we can't mention them in our book column for the Washington Post. This has been so befuddling. Other than some generic frontlist PR e-mail from time to time we simply don't get anything.

"You are Thomas Cromwell, the detective?" She said. She had the face of a clock about to run out of time. "I'm Anne. Anne Boleyn."
"What's it to me, Toots?" I said. She shimmied over. She was from that lot of Wolf Hall and everyone knew that lot was trouble. "I can make it worth your while, " she said. "They say you're tight with the king."
"You're always tight with the king," I told her. "Until he's had enough and chops off your head or locks you in the Tower. Which one are you after?"

In the beginning God created the Heaven and the Earth and the Mean Streets, down which a man must go.

... As soon as he walked into my office I knew he was trouble.
"My name is Adam," he said. "And I think somebody stole my rib." It was an ugly case of black market organ dealing. It took me deep into the Garden and up against the cherubim and the might of the flaming sword. All to look for a woman. It took me up against the Big Guy himself.

shall i do another top ten writing tips. FINE. if you INSIST. 1) apparently nothing rhymes with orange, which is just ridiculous, i mean, right?

Rivers of London, Book 8.

Name's Punch. Full-time puppet, part-time private eye, and ALL trouble. When this dame, Judie, walked into my office I knew she was trouble, I just didn't know how much.
'Tis them pearly kings and queens what did it,' she said. She had the sort of strings you just wanted to play on all day, if you know what I mean.
'It was them what stole the tarts.'
'Listen, Toots,' I said, 'I don't work divorces and I don't do moppets. This ain't no puppet show.'
She hit me over the head with an iron pan.

what shall i do for today's top ten writing tips! ok let's go. 1) apparently you don't pronounce the 'l' in 'salmon' which is just stupid

Anyway since we're all offering useful advice here are my top 10 tips for writing. 1) stories are made of words, so use words.

of the obscure jokes in unholy land i'm v. fond of the shout-out to the tsaddik of the seven wonders, and one piss take of amos oz and a hitler cameo

So a random observation as I wait for my pizza. I recently re-read what I consider one of the best fantasy novels of the 20th century, John Masefield's MIDNIGHT FOLK (1926) - also one of the best children's novels of the 20th century, when it comes to that. Anyway-- Modern sf/f narratives almost uniformly have at stake the fate of the world. Now admittedly this goes way before LoTR or what not - Arthur, the Fisher King, the Waste Land etc. maybe set up the template, which is then explored in commercial plot terms. Anyway--

In 5 volumes, we published 103 authors, from 54 countries #WorldSFStats China: 7
Cuba: 3
France: 3
India: 6
Kenya: 2
Malaysia: 4
Mexico: 3
Nigeria: 5
Philippines: 7
Singapore: 3

#WorldSFStats

I have regrets, like I never watched Pluto Nash Like, I don't know why but I always kind of wanted to watch it but not enough to actually, like, watch it

I went into a coin shop in London the other day. I think I impressed the guy with the obscurity of my request. He just told me to go somewhere else. I also went into a phone shop to see if they'll replace my battery and they were like, No. I don't think I'm doing consumerism right.

Sodor... shit. I'm only in Sodor. Every time, I think I'm gonna wake up back on the train tracks. I'm here a week now. Waiting for a mission. Getting softer. And every minute Thomas runs the rails he gets stronger. Everyone gets everything he wants. I wanted a mission. And for my sins, they gave me one.

Her name was Kanga and she was trouble. She came into my office as I was about to dip into a honeypot. I liked honey the way priests love God.
"You are Pooh? The detective?" she said.
"I live under the name of Sanders. What's it to you?"
"My boy," she said. "Roo. He's missing." "I can pay you," she said quickly. "All the honey you can eat."
"I can eat a lot of honey, Toots," I told her.
"Please. I'll give you all the honey pots I have."
I looked her up and down. I looked at my threadbare room. There was no honey anywhere anymore.

She came into my office and I knew she was trouble as soon as I laid eyes on her. She was cold - winter-cold.
"You are Snufkin, the detective?" she said.
"What's it to you?"
When she moved she left a trail of frost behind her. She said, 'I am the Groke.' The Groke's been running snow into Moominvalley for as long as I'd been alive. They said she had half the hattifatteners working for her and the other half were dead.