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Murder, She Workshopped

Kristine Kathryn Rusch


Spending six weeks at a writer’s workshop in the Midwest would drive an empath insane. Or maybe it would make the empath suicidal. Or homicidal, depending on the emotions swirling around the empath that day.

I think about such things because 1) I am trapped at just such a writer’s workshop and 2) I am in the process of divorcing said empath. He’s at home, with all our belongings and our cats, while I’m here for week four, when my target finally arrives. Fortunately for me, Said Empath (who shall remain nameless) didn’t get the bright idea to clear out our bank accounts until yesterday. I had that bright idea three hours before I started researching my lawyer months ago. All the money once labeled ours is now in several accounts now labeled mine, and no matter how hard Said Empath screams over the phone, he’ll never be able to find them.

Empathy works two ways. He can feel all of my emotions when we talk and I can feel all of his. His are extremely powerful. Mine are generally muted, which explains the initial attraction.

It also explains why I do what I do.

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