Ah, comfort, the rightful domain of the holiday season. At least, so says the cultural myth. But I’m not here to dispute that point. Rather—and even though it only makes me wish I’d managed to finish trimming up another post I wrote a couple weeks ago—there is comfort to be found from, well, someone who’s actually been published.
Of course, that’s nothing special for many of you, but for me, it helps make something of a point.
Scott Simon, author of Windy City, a novel about politics and crime in Chicago, wrote this weekend,
My novel Windy City (Random House: 2008) opens with the mayor of Chicago assassinated by a pizza (deep dish, artichoke, and prosciutto, to signal that this is today’s Chicago, not Al Capone’s old town). Over the course of the story, there are sting operations, sex scandals, bribes and a suicide.
I would have drawn the line at having a governor try to sell a Senate seat, as if he was hawking a stolen widescreen TV from the back of a truck. In these days of email surveillance, wiretaps, and the 24-hour news cycle, who would believe such a thing?
Stranger than fiction, yeah. And, also, a point I haven’t gotten around to making yet.
(Hat tip to Paul Constant.)