Welcome to THE BOWTIE KILLER Series

 Behind the Bowtie: The Story Behind the Bowtie Killer Series

There’s something unsettling about the ordinary.

That quiet thought—simple, almost unremarkable—became the foundation for The Bowtie Killer series. Because what could be more ordinary than a bow tie? A symbol of class, charm, even trust. Yet, in the wrong hands, even the most refined detail can become something sinister.

The idea itself came from a real-life detail I couldn’t shake. I once heard about a lawyer in a neighboring town, someone known for wearing bow ties to court every single day. He had a reputation, too. People would say he could “kill” your case without breaking a sweat. It was meant as a compliment, of course. But the phrasing stuck with me.

Kill your case.

That’s where the question began to take shape: What if someone who “kills” in the courtroom… also kills outside of it?

From there, the story took on a life of its own, but with a twist.

In The Bowtie Killer series, readers aren’t left guessing who the killer is. You’ll know from the very beginning. You’ll see how he operates, how he justifies what he does, and how easily he moves through a world that never suspects him. The tension doesn’t come from who, it comes from when and how he will finally be exposed.

At the heart of the series is Amalia, a determined investigator navigating a case that grows darker with every clue uncovered. While the reader watches the truth unfold in real time, Amalia and those around her must piece it together step by step. What begins as a string of unsettling murders quickly evolves into something far more personal—an intricate web of deception, control, and calculated violence. Each victim, each detail, and yes, each bow tie, is part of a much larger puzzle. But this isn’t just a story about a killer.

It’s about power. How it’s used, how it’s abused, and how easily it can be hidden behind respectability. It’s about the unsettling reality that someone can stand in a courtroom, sworn to uphold justice, while living a double life just beneath the surface. It’s about relationships, the ones that protect us and the ones that quietly unravel us.

As the series unfolds, readers will follow both sides of the hunt—the predator who believes he’s untouchable, and the investigator slowly closing in, one clue at a time. Book One lays the groundwork, introducing the killer’s method and mindset. Book Two, Unbound, raises the stakes as the danger spreads beyond control. By the time we reach Final Verdict, everything—every lie, every clue, every choice—collides.

This is a story designed to keep you on edge, not because you don’t know who the killer is, but because you do.

Because sometimes, the most dangerous people…

…are the ones hiding in plain sight.

Welcome to The Bowtie Killer series.

I haven't Written In A While

Life really does get so busy sometimes. I haven't written here in a while but wanted to take a moment and catch everyone up. 

I finished my paralegal diploma and I am almost finished with my MA in English! 3 more classes to go, so I should be finished by September 13, 2026!

I self published a few more of my books that I had completed over the years and they are available on Amazon through KDP. Just search for Henry D Parrish Jr 

I am currently writing a new book, and so far am 7 chapters into it. With this one, I am jumping around with the writing, so it's somewhat out of order. So part of the editing process will be putting it into the proper order for the story to make sense. 

Anyways, just thought I would pop on here and say I am still around and hope to get back into writing in this blog more regularly soon. 

Chatillon’s Balance Scales – AHA (My Magazine Artcile is live Online!)

Chatillon’s Balance Scales – AHA: His inheritance of two brass scales used on his grandfather’s farm connect Henry D. Parrish Jr. to a tradition of trust.

I Lay Down In My Grave

 I LAY DOWN IN MY GRAVE

by Henry D Parrish Jr.

I lay down in my grave,
peace settling in around me.
The passing years
rapidly flashing before my eyes—

my first memory at four years old:
cows in the field, an electric fence,
the scar now on my hand.

Then the first time I fell in love,
a scar now on my heart.
A childhood of chaos,
a childhood of pain and sorrows.

I lay down in my grave,
peace settling in around me.
The weight of years passing by,
the pain slipping away.

And in the stillness I see it—
all the faces I have loved,
all the voices I have lost,
each one a flicker, a star
in the dark sky above my mind.

The chaos softens,
the sorrow loosens its grip,
even the scars glow faintly
like constellations of survival.

And as the earth embraces me
I understand at last:
I was more than my pain,
more than my years,
more than the grave
that now carries me home.

Why My First Drafts Are Always a Mess (and Why That’s Okay)

 Every time I look back at a first draft, I have the same thought: Wow… this is a disaster.

There are scribbles in the margins. Half-sentences trailing off. Arrows pointing across the page because I realized something belonged somewhere else. Notes to myself like “fix this later” or “what even happens here??” are scattered everywhere. If someone else found these pages, I’d probably have to explain that, yes, I do in fact know how to write.

But here’s the thing: I’ve learned that the mess isn’t something to be ashamed of. It’s actually a sign I’m doing the work.

The Beauty of a Chaotic Draft

Messy drafts mean momentum. When I’m scribbling notes in the margins or throwing down clunky sentences just to get to the next thought, it means I’m not stopping. I’m not censoring myself. I’m letting the story (or the idea, or the argument) unfold however it wants to.

The pages may look wild, but they’re alive.

If I tried to make everything neat and polished from the start, I’d stall out on page one. Instead, I give myself permission to let it be rough, knowing I can come back later with a red pen—or a delete key—and carve out the real shape.

Why Messy Drafts Work

• They free me from perfectionism. The sooner I accept that “bad” sentences are part of the deal, the faster I get to the good ones.

• They capture sparks. Notes in the margins often hold the best ideas, the ones that wouldn’t have come if I’d paused to be neat.

• They give me clay to work with. A sculptor doesn’t start with a perfectly shaped statue. They start with a lump of stone. My draft is the lump. Revision is the chisel.

  Learning to Love the Mess

  I didn’t always feel this way. For a long time, messy drafts felt like proof I wasn’t “real” at writing. But somewhere along the way, I realized that almost every writer I admire admits their first drafts are terrible, too. The magic happens in revision, not in the first attempt.

  Now, when I see my scribbled notes in the margins, I take it as a good sign. It means I was thinking, adjusting, wrestling with the words. It means I was writing.

  The Takeaway

  So yes, my first drafts are a mess. They always will be. But that’s not a problem—it’s the point.

  If your pages are full of scribbles, arrows, and question marks, don’t panic. Don’t stop. Keep going. Because a messy draft isn’t the opposite of a good draft—it’s the first step toward one.

Motherhood Writing Prompt

 I remember growing up and realizing something fundamental. Women had babies, and men didn’t. It seemed simple at first, almost like a rule of nature, but the weight of it deepened as I got older. A woman carried life inside her for nine months, feeling it shift and stretch and press against her ribs, until one day that tiny flutter became a kick. I’d watch new mothers cradle their newborns and notice how their bond seemed to have begun long before birth, as if the child was already known to them.

I couldn’t help but feel a flicker of envy. Not because I wanted to be a woman, but because I knew I would never experience that mystery from the inside. I would never feel a heartbeat beneath my own, never carry the secret of life under my skin, never sense the way a body whispers to another body in silence.

There was something sacred in that intimacy, something both ordinary and miraculous. And though I could only stand at the edges of it, watching, it left me in awe. Motherhood, I realized, is not just a role. 

It is a lived, physical poetry, written from the inside out.

Messy Thoughts, Neat Notes: How Echo Helps My Characters Talk Back

 

Here’s a little secret about my writing process: my best ideas almost never arrive when I’m sitting at my desk, ready to type. They sneak up on me in the middle of folding laundry, making coffee, or trying to fall asleep.

It’s rarely a complete scene. More often, it’s fragments.  A single line of dialogue, an image, or a wild “what if” that refuses to leave me alone. My characters, in particular, love to interrupt me at inconvenient times. (They’re very opinionated.)

Before, I used to lose a lot of those sparks. Scribbled notes on scraps of paper would disappear, and don’t even get me started on how many “brilliant” ideas I forgot before I could write them down.

That’s where Echo comes in. It’s like my digital notebook. A safe little corner where all those messy, half-formed thoughts can land. I don’t worry about whether they make sense. I just toss them in, and later, when I look back, they’ve transformed into something useful. Sometimes one stray thought from last week suddenly clicks with a character quip from yesterday, and voilà: a new scene takes shape.

My characters are sitting in there, waiting for me, chatting among themselves until I show up. By the time I return, they’ve got opinions, arguments, and secrets ready to spill.

So yes, my writing process is basically: collect the chaos, store it in Echo, and let the characters keep talking until I’m ready to listen. It’s not glamorous, but it’s wonderfully messy, and it means none of their voices ever get lost.