We shook things up at Casa Wortham this week. We’ve lived here for about seven years in what we call the new house, and felt the kitchen needed a change not long after the Bride’s oven sparked, gagged, and filled the house with the heady aroma of burned chemicals.

But this isn’t about major appliances. Remember when you first moved into your place and beheld empty drawers in the kitchen?

One question always comes up. Where does the silverware go? (In Texas, daily eating utensils are silverware, even though the real silver ((plate)) is in a wooden case stuffed back in a cabinet or under a bed and only comes out on Thanksgiving or when someone dies).

Then there are wooden spoons, cup towels, oversize forks and spoons, tongs, measuring cups and spoons, vegetable peelers, graters, garlic presses, thermometers, kitchen scales, bottle openers, corn cob holders.

They need a home in the shallow drawers.

What’s the proper dispersal method?

And while we’re at it, there’s the (ominous music) junk drawer. Where will that one be, because we know for certain that a drawer will devolve into one of these chaotic black holes that scientists with pocket protectors in their shirts discuss in hushed tones.

I’m sure you have one of these sacred disorganized repositories of migratory odds and ends nestled in a bed of bread ties, old rubber bands, thick blue rubber bands off celery stalks, nuts, bolts, mysterious batters that might or might not be dead (but you can’t throw them out until you know), and mysterious keys you’ve never seen before in your life. Wait. How the hell did my razor get in there? Was someone shaving carrots?

On moving day in the new house, we unloaded boxes marked KITCHEN into random drawers that were probably open and waiting, and have lived with those spur of the moment decisions since.

But there have been problems. The silverware drawer is between the oven and stove. That’s our serving area when we don’t have sit-down meals, which is 95% of the time. And there are usually a lot of people in line.

If someone is filling a plate, they’re in the way of spoons, forks, and knives, which we usually forget. Then we go back and excuse ourselves to open the drawer, or cut in line, which can be deadly with sons-in-law and hungry teens.

On Wednesday of this week, the Bride came home with a couple of classy bamboo dividers to help separate some of the more aggressive utensils. I was between writing projects, and the next thing I knew, we’d emptied all the drawers onto the countertops and forced significant changes in implement and gadget placement.

Now it all makes sense, to a small degree, but here’s the problem. We keep returning to the wrong places for wooden spoons, measuring cups, and the scissors which reside in the junk drawer. We’re on a learning curve, and I sent our daughters and sons-in-law a thirty-second video preparing them the new organization.

They were aghast.

The Redhead, mother of two, sent an eye-rolling emoji, and Taz, the youngest and mother of three kids, was verbally displeased. But then again, she even hates it when the Bride replaces accent pillows with new, fresh additions.

But I explained. “Change is good. Remembering where everything is in their new locations is exercise for the brain.”

With that, I needed proof to counter verbal attacks when the all come over Sunday night for out weekly get together.

An exhausting thirty second search on medical databases provided this agreement. “Positive change and new experiences are excellent for the brain, promoting neuroplasticity (the brain’s ability to form new connections), boosting cognitive function, improving mood (via dopamine, that’s why it’s called dope, according to my dad) and building mental resilience, even though the brain’s amygdala might initially perceive change as a threat. Varying routines, learning new skills, exploring new places, and engaging in diverse activities build cognitive reserve, helping you adapt and maintain long-term brain health.” 

Now I have to make this relevant to my writing blog post.

With that in mind, I looked up “neuroplasticity and amygdala” before diving into another search to find that it’s beneficial for authors to change genres, or write short stories, or nonfiction articles or books. In other words, shake it up.

While reading those confusing medical evaluations and articles for another fifteen minutes, I learned that changing genres or writing styles introduces new narrative tools, breaks writer’s block (which I don’t believe in), fosters artistic growth, and offers fresh perspectives, though it requires extra time.

Switching genres challenges an individual to think differently, find new solutions, and prevents creative stagnation, leading to broader skills and more diverse ideas that can even enrich their primary genre. 

But wait! Getting out of your writing lane is commonly considered a bad idea in literary circles. One article I read explored and supported Stephen Kings change from his traditional horror novels to write an alternate history with 11/22/63, or Cormac McCarthy’s shift to his post-apocalyptic The Road. I’ve been told only bestselling authors should take those chances.

Some say we should stick to our writing lanes and do what our fans come to expect.

Fine, wait a while after you write something different before submitting it, but there’s nothing wrong with taking a break from your WIP and writing a science fiction or post-apocalyptic short story if only for personal satisfaction.

This mental exercise is a great way to get out of a rut.

When you do that, find a different place to write for a day or two. Such a change just might inspire something different. Many authors write in one location, and edit in another.

You don’t have to sell those new works today, or tomorrow. You can put them in a figurative junk drawer (see the unplanned connection here? I love the subconscious author.) and dust it off sometime in the future when you need it.

I did that way back in 2012, when my first novel was published and my editors wanted the next book. I’d written a three-thousand-word short story in 1986 that sat in my file all that time, but when I needed an idea, I re-read that old experiment and found the foundation of the second novel in my Red River series, Burrows, which was truly a horror story.

Or maybe you’ve read a non-fiction article in a magazine and thought, “I know that much.” Give it a try.

For several years I wrote “hook and bullet” stories for several outdoor magazines. More than one took awards from the Outdoor Writers of America and the Texas Outdoor Writers Association. I’m proud of those stories and the framed acknowledgments from my peers.

One was an informative history of the longbow, and with liberal applications of scotch, the article was quirky and funny.

I’d exercised my creativity and different writing skills, because I like to try different things.

Like moving the silverware drawer.

In Science Explores News, an article about Dr. Nathan Spreng, a neuroscientist at Cornell University, explored how the brain changes as we learn. Much of the article concentrates on new physical tasks, such as hitting a baseball, but a deeper idea comes from pianists who can play complicated musical scores without thinking about where their fingers go. Their minds can wander, and that opens up even more neural pathways.

So if we get out of our writing lane and try something different, can authors open new creative paths to follow?

Some doctors think it does.

Try a short story, or an article, or start a new chapter in a different kind of novel just to see if that old excitement is there, or if a different way of thinking helps your writing. No one has to see it but you.

After I posted last month, which was my first post ever for The Kill Zone, I realized that many of you may not know much about me. But since I had already scheduled the post, and it was my last post of the year as well as my first, I made an executive decision to wait until my first post in January to properly introduce myself (Oh, and Happy 2026!). So here goes.

I’m Patricia Bradley, and I write Inspirational romantic suspense for Revell. Since 2013, I’ve written five novellas, 18 novels, and I’m currently working on the 19th. Since I’m not a fast writer, that means I’ve spent the last 12 years mostly sitting at my computer, living my dream. I also teach workshops on writing. In 2012, I met James Scott Bell in a line dance in St. Louis…or Cincinnati, I forget which. He was dancing…I was not. And I doubt he remembers it.

I have a website where you can learn more about me, and a Tuesday blog where I feature a Mystery Question, usually about dumb criminals. I feature four scenarios three of which are true and one that I made up. Readers guess which one I made up. You can find the blog at https://ptbradley.com/blog/.

Enough about me. Now on to my post about Winston Churchill’s favorite paraprosdokians. (We all know how accurate AI is, so they may or may not be his favorites.) Also, according to AI, Paraprosdokians are figures of speech where the latter part of a sentence provides an unexpected twist or surprise, forcing the listener/reader to reinterpret the first part, often for humorous or dramatic effect, like, “If at first you don’t succeed, skydiving definitely isn’t for you” or “I’ve had a perfectly wonderful evening, but this wasn’t it“.

Winston Churchill was known for loving paraprosdokians. Here are a few AI says he loved:

1. Where there’s a will, I want to be in it.
2. The last thing I want to do is hurt you, but it’s still on my list.
3. Since light travels faster than sound, some people appear bright until you hear them speak.
4. If I agreed with you, we’d both be wrong.
5. Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit. Wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad.
6. They begin the evening news with “Good Evening”, then proceed to tell you why it isn’t.
7. To steal ideas from one person is plagiarism. To steal from many is research.
8. I thought I wanted a career. Turns out I just wanted paychecks.
9. In filling out an application, where it says, ‘Emergency contact’, I put ‘doctor’.
10. You do not need a parachute to skydive unless you want to do it again.
11. Money can’t buy happiness, but it sure makes misery easier to live with.
12. You’re never too old to learn something stupid.
13. Where there’s a will, there are relatives.
14. During WWII Sir Winston Churchill’s address to Congress began with:
    “It has often been said that Britain and America are two nations divided only by a common language”.

Do you have any favorite paraprosdokians to start this New Year with?

By John Gilstrap

Okay, folks, SPOILER ALERTS AHEAD FOR “A HOUSE OF DYNAMITE”

Kathryn Bigelow’s celebrated new thriller, “House of Dynamite” is, in this writer’s humble opinion, something of a master class in how not to write a thriller. To be sure, the premise is gripping: A nuclear missile is detected en route to an as-yet unknown target in the United States, launched by an unknown enemy. This happens at a time when the U.S. is at Defcon 4 (peacetime) and during shift change in the White House Situation Room. Time to impact:18 minutes.

The first minute or so is wasted on what resonated as truth to me: “Wait, that can’t be right, can it? Is it a computer glitch?” Then, Captain Olivia Walker, the duty officer in the Situation Room calms everybody down. There are procedures to be followed, people to be notified, and actions to take. America fires two interceptor missiles (only two) to take out the incoming warheads, but they both miss, and the National Command Authority (NCA) accepts the inevitability of a nuclear strike in Chicago. (I’m not going to address the ridiculous plot holes, except for the one where Captain Walker, who lives in Virginia and clearly loves her husband, surreptitiously call him and tells him to get in the car and drive west–toward the incoming nuclear blast.)

The intense 18 minute period from launch to impact is presented more or less in real time, but just before impact, the film shifts to show the same events from the points of view of the various people we know that Captain Walker has been interacting with–saving the president, of course, for last. Call it 20 minutes of screen time. Out of a 90-minute movie.

The rest of the film shows the same actions, same results, from different points of view.

Twenty minutes in, I was breathless. I thought, Wow, what an exciting yet flawed, implausible movie! Then came the reality that they were going to quadruple-down on the same flaws and implausibilities, just from a different angle. WTF?

But I don’t want to talk plot. I want to talk structure and character, and that’s where this film truly fails.

The filmmaker was making a point rather than a piece of entertainment.

Eighteen minutes ain’t a lot of time to make 100% correct decisions under stress. Got it. (And from submarine based platforms off the East Coast, the flight times are more like eight minutes.) Presidents, played in this case by Idris Elba, whose talents are woefully squandered, don’t spend a lot of their spare time scouring the target packages contained in the infamous “football”, which itself is cared for in the film by a twenty-something junior officer. Got it again. Awesome decisions must be made on the fly. Finally, horror of horrors, government officials give their families a heads up to get out of town before the roads become impassible. (Between you and me, I would 100% do that. RHIP, baby.)

The flaw in the film is that everybody simply follows the book–literally and figuratively. No one dares to fire an unauthorized third interceptor missile in attempt to save millions of lives even if it scorches their career. (Okay, I can’t resist a plot comment here. They limit the interceptor package to two missiles because they might need more if there’s a second attack. Better to char the Windy City. That made sense to a Hollywood writer. Someone needs a good old-fashioned Three Stooges slap, hair-pull and eye-poke.)

Reading procedures, discussing the efficacy of procedures, and then ultimately following them is . . . what’s the word? Oh, yeah. Boring.

A thriller is about characters taking chances and succeeding or failing as a result.

I don’t care about anyone in this film.

This reflects back on the intellectual origins of the film. Every character is merely a game piece to be manipulated to bring the larger points home. Once NCA wrote off the millions of innocents in the greater Chicagoland area, why would I give a rat’s patootie whether or not SecDef gets a last chance to tell his daughter he loves her? We all love our kids, buddy, and you just shrugged at toasting millions of them.

Stakes and tension are different things.

Within the first ten minutes of this turkey, we know the the Miracle Mile will soon be baked to glass because the screenwriter says it must be so. In storytelling parlance, I believe that’s called a Big Reveal. Normally, those are saved for the third reel, not the first. All that remains is the question of how the president should respond. The military cliche, of course, pushes for a global, kill-everybody response, and President Elba seems confused and disturbed by the plastic-sheeted four-color Denny’s-like menu sheets that details the pre-targets smorgasbord of retaliatory options. (Had I been sought out for my technical guidance, I might have asked, what’s the hurry to retaliate? As absurdly unlikely it is that an ICBM could be launched from an untraceable location, once detonated, the forensic evidence left behind would tell us everything we need to know for a surgical strike.)

The ending sucks.

That’s it on the ending. Hard stop. Sucks.

Never forget what a thriller is all about.

Pacing, tension, and ever increasing stakes for the characters are the elements that separate a thriller from the other suspense genres. That’s the job of the writer. If it’s a film, add screenwriter and director to that list.

If you ever allow an agenda to take the front seat, your project is doomed.

By PJ Parrish

My new year got off to a rocky start. Short story: suddenly huge water bill. Plumber says there’s a leak…somewhere. Enter Mike from Gulf Coast Leak Detection. Leak is under the lawn, not the house, he says. Bill: $500 vs $10,000 to repipe house. On New Year’s Eve, I splurged on a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

So, in honor of good starts, here is some tasty brain lint about books and writers that I found for all us who are hoping for positive outcomes in 2026.

Actual photo of famous book critic Toby,

Sick Puppy

Decades ago, when I was writing my first romance, The Dancer, my cat Hilary walked across the keyboard of my Commodore and wiped out a quarter of my work. Noooo, I didn’t make a copy. But…John Steinbeck’s dog, Toby, ate half of the first manuscript of Of Mice and Men. Steinbeck didn’t make copies either and it took him two months to write it all over again.Steinbeck wrote to his agent: “I was pretty mad, but the poor little fellow may have been acting critically.”

Hunka Hunka Burning Gov

Once, while doing some routine research on arcane FBI procedures, I got a screen message that said ERROR 451.  This is, I found out, is HTTP code for “Unavailable For Legal Reasons,” meaning the government doesn’t want you to see it. The code comes from Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 where books are infamously burned. It’s reassuring to know someone in Washington read novels.

My Golden Eye Will Be Watching You

Apropo of nothing in my life other than the fact I once got to interview Sting — The Police frontsman wrote the song “Every Breath You Take” at the same desk that Ian Fleming used to write his James Bond novels. Sting was renting the Fleming Villa in Goldeneye on the island of Jamaica while composing the famous track.

Which Might Explain Why the Coffee Tastes Like Bilge Water

Would you go to a coffee shop called Pequod’s? Whelp, that was what Gordon Bowker originally wanted to call his little coffee company because he was a Moby Dick fan and thought using the ship’s name was a nifty idea. His partner Terry Heckler thought naming a business after a doomed whaler was a bad marketing move. So now you can overpay for your Cinnamon Dolce Latte at Starbucks, named after the Pequod’s first mate.

The Allmanns, Jeff Spicoli and The Bard

Was listening to one of my fave boogie-down-the-road songs the other day — “Jessica.” Found out recently that the name — now among most popular for babies and dogs — made its first appearance in Shakespeare’s 1598 play The Merchant of Venice. Shakespeare is also credited with making up over 1,000 words and phrases including “bookworm,” “bibliophile,” “critic,” “vanish into thin air,” and “gloomy.”  He also gave us “gnarly” and “pukey.” Aloha, Mr. Hand.

Let Them Eat Madeleines

I don’t remember why, but many years ago I decided I needed to read Proust. Naively, I cracked open In Search of Lost Time. It became my Everest. I had to conquer it. It took me two years. If you’re into torture, give it a go. At 1.2 million words, it is one of the longest novels ever written. Second longest is Donna Tartt’s The Goldfinch, which only feels like 1.2 million words.

“A Feeling Of Sadness That Only Bus Stations Have.”

Jack Kerouac never learned to drive. He moved to New York City as a teenager on a scholarship to boarding school and then entered Columbia, so as any smart New Yorker would say, who needs wheels in the city? Through every subsequent adventure, across the country and back, down to Mexico, up from New Orleans, Kerouac always let his buddy Neal Cassady drive. Or he took Greyhound buses.

Paperback Rider

True story: When visiting DC years ago, I went to the Library of Congress on a lark just to see if my book The Dancer was there. Sure enough, it was! Then the other day, I read that In 2003, 2.5 million unsold books from the UK romance publisher Mills & Boon were used in the reconstruction of the M6 motorway. This is the company that bought the rights to my book The Dancer. My book never sold much — in US or UK — but it gives me some sick satisfaction to think that my little paperback might be helping some poor git find his way from Catthorpe, England to Gretna, Scotland.  Such is the stuff of immortality.

Happy belated new year, crime dogs.

Today’s deadline slipped up on me, because of the holidays. So instead of a typical blog post, here’s a newspaper column I wrote some years ago. It borders on the absurd, but Faithful Followers always enjoy my Outdoor Detective. Hope you enjoy this White Elephant present, originally titled:

The Presence of Presents

I was filing my nails at my desk when the door burst open.

“You’re gonna have to fix that,” I told Wrong Willie.

“Replacement doors are cheap. Why are you filing nails?”

I glanced down at the pile of freshly sharpened ten-penny nails. “They were dull, and I need to build a doghouse.”

“You don’t have a dog.”

“It’s for me. I’ve been so busy lately I haven’t done my Christmas shopping. The Bride is a little irritated.”

He frowned. “With Christmas?”

“With me.”

“Well, you’re gonna get busy now, because I need the Outdoor Detective.”

“At your service.”

“I know.”

Mellow saxophone music filled the room. We still don’t know where it comes from.

Willie dug a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. When he found it, he threw down the shovel and put his tattered pants back on. “I need Christmas gifts for the Hunting Club, and I don’t have any idea of what to buy.”

“Stuff.” I smiled, because it was an excellent answer.

Willie agreed. “Good one, the problem –––.”

I took over, because that’s what I do. “–––is that as experienced and innovative outdoorsmen, we buy what we want when we need it, thus leaving few, if any, ideas for gifts.”

“You read my mind.”

“No, I’m reading your list.” I held it up. “That’s what you wrote at the top.”

We shared our bond with a handshake. “Next time let’s hug.”

“No. So, Outdoor Detective, do you have any ideas?”

“A few. We should go on vacation, and I think it’s good if you threw a party Friday night., but try this in answer to your quewstion.” I whipped a tarp off a four-foot high stack beside my desk.

The tarp lay there and glared, not understanding why it had been whipped.

Wrong Willie’s eyes widened. “What’s that?”

“Christmas catalogues.”

He whistled. It was Dixie. “You must have been collecting them for months.”

“These came in the mail yesterday. It’s that time of the season.”

“They must be full of ideas.”

“Yep, but we need to get busy, pronto!”

Pronto stepped forward and picked up a double handful. He’s been a help these past few weeks on other cases. The last was a case of beer.

“I’ll get right on it. Thanks for hiring me, boss.”

He left to peruse the catalogues.

I shouted through the broken door. “Come back!”

Willie returned and twiddled his thumbs. “Now what?”

“We need to talk about what you should to buy for the guys.”

He sat back down. “I forgot about them.”

“I know you did.”

“How?”

“Because I did, too, and I don’t have a clue.”

“Pure poetry.” Willie brightened before handing me a Clue board game.

I put on my sunglasses at his glow. “Speak.”

“Arf. How about buying them camo?”

“We’ve always used it when we hunt.”

“Good.”

“A camo wallet for Doc.” I made a note. It was an A flat.

“Like the one you lost the last time we were deer hunting?”

“Yes. I dropped it in the grass and we never found it.”

Willie held up a finger. It wasn’t his. “Perfect.”

“No, it wasn’t, and you should give that back to whoever it belongs to. But that wallet was worn on the edges and the stitching was coming undone.”

“Right. Now, what about Jerry Wayne.”

“He’s a large guy, likes long walks in the evenings–––.”

“What I meant was, what do you want to get him for Christmas?”

I considered that question. “A present.”

“Yes.”

We were pleased with our progress. I had another thought. “And Woodrow?”

“Large also. Bearded.”

“A present for him, too.”

Willie agreed. “Of course.”

I held out a photograph. “Is this them?”

Wrong Willie took the likeness and examined it closely. He finally glanced up from the magnifying glass and put it back into his pocket. “It looks like them, but this could be digital manipulation.”

“Get your digits off of it and give it back.”

He stopped manipulating the photo and returned it.

I nailed the picture back to the wall. “Well, that about does it.”

We smiled in satisfaction at my office. Willie stood. “Well, thanks for your help.”

“It was nothing.”

“Yes, it was.”

He left and I opened a catalog, suddenly recalling that I still hadn’t completed my own Christmas shopping. I made a list.

1. Go shopping.
2. Buy presents.
3. Wrap presents.

Satisfied with the day’s achievements I lit a cigarette, then it stubbed it out in the ashtray because I don’t smoke. I sat back and relaxed, enjoying the soft saxophone music that always fills the air once I put on my Outdoor Detective fedora.

It’s good to be good.

Merry Christmas, y’all!