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Not done, not done, not done. F***ck! Over nine hundred pages and not done. I’ve sent over eight hundred pages to New York, to my editor. It should keep the copy editor busy for awhile, but I’m still working on it. I had this long blog about music that I was going to do, but it’s another midnight, and I’m still working, and I don’t have a long blog in me. Jon’s just helped me count it up. I’ve done 46 brand new pages today, and that’s not counting the number I rewrote. Forty-six pages, and I’m not done. 46 pages in one day, and I’m not done. That’s a little discourging. I’m beginning to remember why Vittorio got away last time. It’s like he knows if I catch him on paper this time, he’s dead meat, and he doesn’t wanna. Damn it, I’m used to my main characters arguing with me, and winning. I’m even used to my minor-major characters arguing and winning, but I will be damned if my villains are going to start arguing with me and winning. Nope, not happening. I’ve planned on him dieing in this book, and by God, if he wants to live through it, he better come up with a better reason than he simply doesn’t want to die. He’s killed and tortured people in this book, alone, he’s earned his end, so why can’t we catch him?

Jon has called it. He’s told me it’s time for bed, and I must stop now. He’s probably right. Okay, he’s right, but *** Damn It! I did not want to get up tomorrow morning with this book not done. I’d weep, but I’m too tired. I’d throw a fit, but that takes too much energy. Tomorrow I will get up and change whose waiting for Anita in her hotel room, because I don’t have the patience, and neither does she. We need comfort, not more challenge after a long, frustrating day of crime busting with nothing to show for it.