by Chris F. Holm
My protagonist, Sam Thornton, ain't much for cooking. And given that he's been condemned to hell for all eternity, I suspect he ain't much for giving thanks, either. Also, the dude spends his days ensuring the souls of the damned find their way to hell, so my guess is when he shows up at a potluck, people scatter. Which is to say, I plan on dodging this week's question.
I, unlike Sam, have plenty to be thankful for. I'm thankful for the opportunity to share with the world these silly little stories I carry in my head. I'm thankful for the countless folks who've championed me in one way or another along my winding path to publication. I'm thankful to have the love and support of my family and friends in this and all endeavors (particularly my wife, who, contrary to first fiery impressions, clearly has the patience of a saint in putting up with me.) I'm thankful there exists on this planet a group of people as warm and talented as the mystery community, and I'm doubly thankful they've embraced me as their own. (In case you haven't noticed, Agatha Christie I ain't.) I'm thankful to everyone who's taken the time to write some kind words about my books, whether on Amazon or Goodreads or wherever. Heck, I'm thankful to anyone at all who's read them in a culture so glutted with entertainment, and so choked for money and free time. (Okay, one or two of those readers I could've done without. But internet trolls aside, the point still stands.) I'm thankful to have a roof over my head, food in my fridge, and heat and light when I need 'em. But mostly what I'm thankful for is the improbable fact I lead a life if possible more exciting and fulfilling than the bookish kid I once was could've imagined.
Well, that or pie. Because yum. But probably the other thing.