This is a true story, but I can’t believe it’s really happening. It’s a murder story, too. I can’t believe my luck.
This is the story of a murder. It hasn’t happened yet. But it will. (It had better.) I know the murderer, I know the murderee. I know the time, I know the place. I know the motive, I know the means. I know who will be the foil, the fool, the poor foal, also utterly destroyed. And I couldn’t stop them, I don’t think, even if I wanted to. The girl will die. It’s what she always wanted. You can’t stop people, once they start. You can’t stop people, once they start creating.
What a gift. It’s a shame to take the money. Novelists don’t usually have it this good, do they, when something true happens (something unified, dramatic and reasonably commercial), and they just write it down? What a gift from real life.