April 17, 2017 – OK, this writer needs vacation.
I know, I know. We’re supposed to write every day. For an example of why that’s a good thing, one need look no farther than James Lee Burke, with his two Edgar Awards, thirty-some novels, and named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America. He frequently reads in Missoula, and each time he mentions writing every day, I slide down a little in my seat.
So, yeah. I went on vacation; headed to Yellowstone with the sweetie and my daughter and my son and his family. Woo hoo! No day job and no writing for a whole week!
I last three days. Then, I sneaked down the lodge, broke out the iPad, and whacked away at the WIP for awhile, feeling much better when I re-emerged into the world of leisure. What can I say? It’s a sickness, maybe; a compulsion for sure.
Today, it’s back to the day job, and some more writing, too. (Although, much of the weekend was devoted to the latter.)
So – not every day for this writer. But most days for sure.
No missiles arcing toward me. No sirens. No people dashing about in a panic. No people at all, in fact; just dark, deserted streets without a soul to interview for the story my editor was expecting. In Denver, after all, the clock was ticking toward deadline and the editors – their lives complicated a blizzard of historic proportions in addition to the small matter of war – were tense.
For instance, one page references the black smoke pouring from the World Trade Center on 9/11; a few pages later, the smoke is white. (More head-banging. Ow.)
Why the flurry of activity? Because new book is due June 15, which in book world is basically tomorrow. But, having dispensed with taxes, desk cleaning and some other time-consuming tasks, I’m ready! Having spent much of the last five years writing books set in the American West, it’s both strange and wonderful to re-immerse myself in Afghanistan. Already wishing for some lamb qorma, and some naan, fragrant and fresh and from being peeled from the side of the tandoor. But for now, it’s coffee, coffee, coffee in my favorite mug as the revisions begin.
March 19, 2017 – The most amazing thing has happened. A novel that I’ve worked on off and on ever since traveling to Afghanistan in 2001 and 2002 has finally sold. The first version was (rightfully) rejected all over the place. I rewrote it, collected more rejections, and almost by accident turned to writing crime fiction, which did sell. Those novels had another, perhaps more valuable, quality – they taught me how to write: how to plot, how to develop characters, how to structure and pace a novel. After writing three of them, I took advantage of a monthlong residency last year in Mexico (thanks, 
March 15, 2017 – Reservations, which hit bookstore shelves a little more than a week ago, gets its first reading tonight, always a high-anxiety act. At least, it always starts off that way.
Feb. 20, 2017 – Well, I’ve done a terrible thing. I wrote as long as I could tonight, but when I stopped, Lola was still in Lincoln, Montana. I’m afraid she’s going to have to spend the night there, because I was at the stage where I nearly had to prop up my eyelids with toothpicks. Lincoln, of course, was where the Unabomber was living when he was arrested. He was long gone by the time this story takes place, but I like to imagine that, a couple of decades earlier, Lola could have ferreted him out on her own, handily beating the FBI to the punch.