Whenever I talk to Boston’s Patricia Cornwell, that Jack Kerouac line pops into my head.

She never yawns or says a commonplace thing. Every quote burns, burns, burns like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.

The bestselling novelist/helicopter pilot/licensed scuba diver has, in times past, regaled me with tales about Bigfoot, UFOs, an abandoned Wizard of Oz theme park, Jack the Ripper, her funding of an archaeological dig of historic Jamestown.

At 69, she’s still got that childhood wonder in spades. It makes for epic stories and storytelling. That wonder is her bread and butter.

When I reached Cornwell at her Boston home on a recent afternoon, even my simple “How are you?” elicits a colorful response:

“We’re still here anyway, right? We haven’t been

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