Some time ago, a writer named Nancy Crampton-Brophy wrote an essay titled “How to Murder Your Husband.”
Two years ago, she was sentenced to life in prison for, well, guess what.
It was the kind of story where the headlines—and punchlines—wrote themselves. But if, like me, you happen to be a crime novelist, the whole thing was less hilarious than infuriating. Way to fuel the stereotype of the homicidal maniac in writer’s clothing, lady. You just had to murder your husband, and now mine won’t stop looking at me suspiciously every time I pick up a kitchen knife.
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