This is an idea that originated on Twitter. The Tweet went:

#YouKnowYouAreAWriterWhen you’re never going to have a good alibi for where you were on the night of…

— Drew Chial (@DrewChial) May 22, 2013

Turns out a lot of writers have had this thought. We’re a solitary lot. If some flatfoot thought we looked good for a crime they’d be grilling us for awhile. We’re the red herrings that are mistaken for piranhas. They’d see our calm demeanor as a mask to hide our neurosis. They’d see our quiet manner as a smoke screen for an underlying rage. They’d peg us as self-involved sociopathic narcissists.

They wouldn’t be too far from the truth.

Under the harsh interigation room lights, they’d make us tell our stories. They’d ask where our ideas came from. They’d ask, “What do you mean you let your characters tell the story? Do you hear voices? What else do they tell you to do?”

Tread very carefully when answering their questions. They’re not fans and you are not at a reading.

Tell them to check the date and time stamps in the meta data from your document files. Tell them to interview all those poor souls you’ve pushed your story on. Get your beta readers on the line, tell them you’re going to need a whole lot of feedback to get you off the hook for this one.

***

This is my fourth audio short to feature a soundtrack. These pieces are heavily influenced by the Ruby the Galactic Gumshoe a radio dramas from the 80s (worth your time).

I’m digging the contrast between the jazzy upright bass and the haunting ambient synth. It’s like beatneck poetry scored by Aphex Twin.

Now it wouldn’t be me if I didn’t take you for a stroll through the graveyard. Disembodied fingers walk the scale of a harpsichord, unearthed from the basment of an old manor, clogged with cobwebs, detuned by time.

Top that off with some knee slapping, finger snapping percusion.

I’m really proud of this piece. I’ve listened to it way too many times already.

The Writer’s Alibi

Another night staring out the window
Listening to the drunken parade
I’d hate to be accused of a crime
Because I wouldn’t have much of an alibi
Where was I?
What was I doing?
Typing away in my PJs
Trying to fill all the white on the page

This makes me the perfect patsy
The kind of guy that doesn’t surround himself with a lot witnesses
There’s no one to place me on the other side of town
Sometime between dusk and dawn
Where was I?
What was I doing?
Talking to my imaginary friends
Trying to jumpstart some character development

An interigation would do me no favors
Yes, those photographs are disturbing
No, I can’t prove that I wasn’t there
I thought it was your job to prove I was
Where was I?
What was I doing?
Ever spend the night scanning a document for the word “Decent”
Because you really meant “Descent?”

I have

Good cop asks
If I can give him the elevator pitch
Bad cop asks
If any of my characters resemble the victim
I plot murders, sure
What writer doesn’t
But I’m not responsible for any homicides in this world
The only thing I’m guilty of killing is time

Can I get my phone call?
Can I get a witness?
Brooding is not an alibi
Sulking is not an alibi
Where was I?
What was I doing?
You ever watch a time-lapse sunrise?
Imagine it with all the gaps filled in