Kate McCrindle is a recovering journalist whose caffeine-fueled ravings are generally cloaked behind invisible firewalls most days in the interest of tasteful public discourse. In her early days as an ink-stained wretch, she was known to craft savvy summaries of sewage bylaws in Essex County and memorable tomes about men stuck in bathtubs for days.
Her intrepid nature later led her to the crime and justice beat where she witnessed all manner of trial and error, including perps wearing foil hats, convicted murderers filing for mistrials over the quality of their jailhouse egg salad sandwich and perverts who violated positions of trust for…positions of tryst. Her favorite was the guy who changed his parents’ will, hid the typewriter in the furnace, shot his sister, then when captured, explained that drug lords had chased him (on a horse) to a porta-potty where he promptly lit $10,000 on fire. Although the crown was able to simulate the fire-retardant nature of stacks of cash, that particular trial cost the paying public a mint.
After leaving the public life of reportage at the dawn of the internet to become a wifeapreneur to her web dev hubby, McCrindle adroitly avoided writing fiction, or for that matter, anything for which clients were not paying her copious sums. Bill baby bill.
She’s been recalcitrant in her effort to finish her very-slow-boat-to-market long-form fiction effort, and only did so after much bullying by her now-grown son and a dearth of available alternate entertainment.