Author: Jonathon

You know the earlier blog that I wrote about snow not being magical? Well, I have to take it back. It’s snowing here. Snowing enough that I was reminded of snow in northern Indiana where I grew up. Since we don’t get much snow here I wanted Pippin to experience it. He’s only two, and still very much a puppy. They’re predicting between two and four inches, so it may be the biggest snowfall of the year here. So out we went. I didn’t make Jon come with us because he’s my tropical Viking, not my winter warrior. I got out from the house only a little and realized I needed something to protect my eyes from the blowing snow, so I went back for glasses. Richard, our friend and personal asssstant, was suited up for winter and wanted to come with. I didn’t argue, though I thought volunteering for the snow was a little, well, odd. I wasn’t looking forward to it. But out we went. Rapidly I remembered that with a scarf up, glasses fog and you can’t see. About half way through the mile, or so, I remembered how to not look directly at blowing snow, and look both down and up. The snow was falling very fast, and the wind had it an an angle that was just right to hit the face. It wasn’t as cold as yesterday, but it was still cold. Richard was downright cheerful about the whole thing. I admit, I was not. But it was impossible to be glum with Pip enjoying the snow so much. He galloped in it, licked it, played with it, and when his feet got cold, he pulled harder to go faster, further. He is half boxer and one quarter Brittany, which means he’s a tougher customer outside than the pugs. Sasquatch has wanted nothing to do with the walks since it got really cold. Pip’s prints were his paws, the leash sweeping the snow periodically because he was coming in and out (he courses a field naturally) and his tongue in a long wiggly line. I’d love to know what a tracker would have made of it. by the time we got back to the house my hair was wet with snow. Richard and I had so much snow on our hats, scarves, coats, that we had to shake them out and put them in the bathroom to dry out. We got to do that boot shake-stamp at the porch to get the shoes clean. We spent most of the talk discussing winters we’d experienced. I told my story about getting lost in a snow storm with my dog, King, one memorable winter in Indiana. He weighed about sixty, sixty-five pounds, and was injured, and just refused to move. Too cold. I could carry him, but not through waist deep snow, not for long. We made it back alright, with very minor frostbite. But I still remember the moment when the world went white, and though I knew we were in an open field surrounded by houses, I could see nothing but the snow. I realize that I’ve never liked winter as well since that year. But it was that moment. That moment when I realized that the snow could kill me, that if I chose the wrong direction we could walk out into the fields past the houses, and truly be in serious trouble. I also wouldn’t leave my dog, and I couldn’t carry him through the snow. I got frostbite taking off my gloves and warming his injured leg with my hands and breath, so he would limp with me. But I did it, while waiting for the snow to stop long enough for me to know which direction I needed to walk. So close to home. Minutes before I could see my house, then whoosh, and the world was white. Hell, even my dog was white, but not as white as that snow.
But we made it back and we were okay, and by spring King’s injured leg was fine. I did physical therapy with him and walked him every morning before class. He’d been shot by a neighbor, that’s how we inherited him. The parents of the cousin who owned King told me that they’d take him into the woods and shoot him rather than do the physical therapy. He was just a dog. My grandmother and I had paid for his surgery and a metal pin being put in his leg. I’d found him shot, and threatened to kill my neighbor. If it had been a Matlock, or Murder She Wrote, episode he’d have come up dead and me being a suspect, but in real life nothing happened to him, because we hadn’t witnessed it. He intimidated the only witness we had, and that was the end of it. But I drove up with the dog from the vet’s and my grandmother’s first question was, “Why are you putting that dog in my new garage?” She’d waited years for a garage to be put on the house for the car I drove. I told her why I’d brought King home, and she didn’t argue. We liked the dog.
All this to say that I’m excited about the snow. No one in the house has to drive anywhere in it. Though the local schools are closing and we’re waiting to hear about Trin’s. DANSE MACABRE is in a huge box on my other desk, and all I have to do today is sit at my desk, watch the snow, and edit. Cool. I can see the bird feeders from my windows, and the heated birdbath. A very big hit right now. This morning when Gary dropped Trin off there was a large hawk in the magnolia tree. We think a rough-legged, or broad-shouldered. Trin spotted it first, and I only figured out why they weren’t coming inside when I saw them creeping around the edge of the yard and Gary pointing upward. It flew just over my head, a dark and pale flash bigger than most of our dogs. A good day to make friends again with the snow.
Richard’s just brought up a fresh cup of tea, so it’s time to get editing. If the weather doesn’t get too bad Keath, our personal trainer, is coming today, so I better get busy.

This weekend was not relaxing, but it was very family. We did breakfast with Santa at the Misourri Botanical Gardens on Saturday. We got up earlier for it, than we do for school. Trin had a wonderful time. She was in her social element. By the time we got a compliment on her Christmas dress she was off to another costumed character. She never stayed to hear the compliments. We told her later. Her activity level is what mine might have been as a child if punishment in school had been less punitive. But her socialization desire is my mother’s. I don’t remember it, but she, like Trin, was running into people that knew her name whenever we went out and about. Though, I know for a fact, that I’m not the only parent that has had the experience of being out with your kid and they know more people than we do. Especially when you work out of the house, you just don’t see that many people daily.
Sunday morning, up for church. Trinity has requested to go with Jon’s parents to church, and since we believe that religion is a personal choice between you and Diety, we’re cool with that. Christianity is fine religion, and I trust to Mary and Art to guide her around the fanatics or the misogynists.
We did holiday shopping after breakfast with Santa. Braving the malls all dressed up and pleasantly for us there were very few crowds. Mary told us that later in the day it was so crowded she could barely stand to be there, so going early was good. Tiring, but good. Jon and I will never be morning people, and it’s nice to be married to someone who shares with me the puzzlement of being at places full of Yuletide cheer and costumed reindeer. Rudolph did a nice tap dance. There were lots of babies in the cutest Christmas outfits. But there are usually moments in the middle of such events where I feel completely out of my element. Where I want to pinch myself and wonder how I ended up here. I have one of those Addams family moments where I’d rather be dressed in black and lurking in a corner instead of in red and green and smiling. But the red and green and smiling is me, too. I love Christmas, the whole Christmas season. But that all black, lurking in the corner is me, as well. But now, I’m married to someone that also understands that dichotomy. That some weekends you feel like playing Santa, and some weekends you’d rather be in that black t-shirt being anti-social.

Yesterday was the first of December. We woke to some serious snow flurries. They were those huge fluffy flakes. The kind that if it keeps up pile up rapidly if the ground is cold enough. Once upon a time, I would have thought it was magical sight; the first snow fall of the season. Yesterday all I could think of was what a pain in the ass it would be for so many mundane things. Driving is dangerous; walk and driveway to shovel. Those pretty flakes were short hand for all sorts of unpleasant things. And it was cold. The coldest it’s been here this year. It has stayed around freezing or just above it for yesterday and today feels as cold. Once, the cold meant Christmas was coming, one of my favorite times of year. But living in Misourri, as opposed to where I grew up in northern Indiana, has spoiled me. I’ve stopped associating winter’s cold with the winter solstice. Christmas and all it’s accompanying celebration can come when it’s too warm outside for snow. When we first moved here, I felt cheated, now it’s the snow that makes me feel cheated.
The snow didn’t stick, or even last very long, but my first reaction let me know beyond doubt that I am, at long last, a grown-up. Being a writer that can come pretty late in life. I saw the flakes, and they were lovely, swirling down, but all I thought was of the trouble they would cause, and not the magical possibilities. I’m a little sad, I guess. Though, it’s interesting that my most mundane thoughts about snow have come during the longest period of nonwriting that I’ve had since junior high. When I look away from desk in the midst of creating, I don’t think about mundane things, or at least not about my life usually. I think about mundane things from the world I’m writing. I’ll even forget what season my world is having, and think it should be what season I’m writing about. It will be interesting to see if this new grumpy grown-up view is permanent, or if my effort to not write, and it is strangely an effort, is effecting other attitudes. I’m still tired. Still not eager to get back to work. But it will take care of itself, because the edited manuscript of DANSE MACABRE is coming back next week. So I’ll have work. I’ll also be rereading the last Merry book so I’ll remember exactly where on my plot outline that I am. So I’ll ease myself back into work. Though, maybe this vague unease, almost moments of depression is what happens when I’m not working directly on a book. Frankly, it’s been so long since I haven’t had a book in first draft at any given time that I don’t remember how it’s supposed to feel without it. Weird.

One of the interesting things about all the journalists asking so many questions in such a concentrated space of time was that it made me think about things that I hadn’t put into conscious verbal thoughts. You know, you sort of know it, but you haven’t thought it through completely, than someone says something and you have that aha moment where it all clicks into place.
One of those moments was in Rome. I no longer remember which reporter asked the pertinent question. He asked me, through Olga our interpreter, about my creative process. Didn’t I find that the constant grind of deadlines sort of used me up creatively. Not his wording exactly. I told him, it could, but my deadline pressure was at least in part my own fault. I kept thinking I’d catch up. I did not tell the reporter, but I fell behind in deadlines during my divorce. I have spent the last six years thinking I’ll catch up. I finally realized that you don’t catch up to lost time. It’s lost. So just before going to Italy I’d had my revelation that I couldn’t catch up, especially with the books getting longer and longer. (Still hoping to break that trend.) I finally let it go. I’ll make the deadline that I’ve committed to, but no more killing myself to try and catch up. I also explained to him that writing is an odd business because on one hand it is a business, and on the other it is art. Art and business are never a comfy mix.
I explained that I could have more time off between books now, if I wanted, but that I understood that my missed deadline effected not just my publisher’s bottom line, but the bookstore managers (some have told me that the sales of my books have made their profit margin for a month, or six months, or that year. I’m still amazed by that.) Once you affect the bottom line of any company, you then impact their employees. This is a business. I’ve treated it like a business for my entire career. But it is also a form of art.
I heard myself saying to the reporter in Rome that creativity is like a well, and I’d been drawing water from the well so long that I was draining it dry. That I’d realized just before we left for Italy that I needed time to let my well of creativity fill back up. And that part of that process was the trip to Italy. I’d written in my writer’s notebook in the airport in Atlanta, but beyond that I didn’t pick up my notebook while we were in Europe. I have used a writer’s notebook (a spiral steno book) since junior high school. We were gone to Italy for nine days, and I never touched it the whole time. I did not write, at all while we were gone. I just observed, and lived. I rested. Yeah, the interview process was occasionally trying, but I rested part of me that doesn’t do the interviews, or the photos. I rested that part of me that is the well, that you spend your whole life filling up, then you draw on it, to write. Well, I’ve been drawing on it for a long time, and not really allowing myself time to rest and refill the tank.
On the plane back from Italy I finally picked up my notebook and wrote. Partially to keep myself from running screaming up and down the aisles of the plane. The flight crew and other passengers tend to frown on such behavior. So, to distract myself I wrote. I wrote an Anita scenario that I won’t do next book, but somewhere down the line. I also read Ann Rule’s book, “GREEN RIVER RUNNING RED.” It was the first serial killer anything I’d read in about a year. I’d made Jon take away my books on serials because I had enough knowledge to write my books, and I’d just had enough. I needed a transfer to something less violent, less . . . just less. But I’d followed the green river case off and on, and now that it was solved I wanted to know how it had all come together. I trusted Ms. Rule to get her facts right, her research is always impressive, and I do not say that lightly.
So I sat on the plane reading true crime about one of the most prolific serial killers that this country has ever seen, and repeating my matra in my head. “I must master my fear.” I was talking about my fear of flying, but I finally realized it was more than that. I’ve told several of you at events, and I think here on the blog that the next Anita plot I had in mind was too violent. That Anita and I didn’t have the courage, or the strength for this plot. But, you know what, somewhere in Italy I found that it isn’t that we aren’t strong enough, but it was true that we needed a break. I needed a time and a space when I wasn’t writing, or thinking about writing. The near constant interviews and social interaction helped distract me. Or maybe it was just how much I needed the break. I know what the next Anita book will be, and it is the plot that I said I couldn’t do, not now. I guess after nearly fifteen years of writing Anita I’m allowed to flinch once, but no more of that. Besides, somewhere in Italy, or on the plane coming back while I fought my phobia, I rediscovered something else. Fun. The next plot isn’t just about blood and crime and sorrow. It’s also about Edward coming back on stage; yea! It’s about having Edward ask Anita about how to talk to Peter about sex. After all, he reasons, she has a younger brother about Peter’s age. She gets to inform him that that isn’t the kind of thing she discusses with her teenage brother. We get to see Edward trying to be a good dad in a scary Edward sort of way. We get to see how Peter is coping with his therapy, being fifteen, and playing junior mercenary with his would-be step dad. The plot is not just about the dark stuff. It’s also about friendship and other fun things.
I don’t know what it was Italy, but it renewed me. When I think of the trip to England, I think of places; Glastonbury Tor, Avebury, Chalice Well, London. But when I think of Italy, I think of people. I mean Palatine Hill and the coliseum were cool, but it’s the people that made Italy. The wait staff at Babbington’s tea room who saved us several times on the trip. Not only was it the best high tea we’d had since England, but they serve wonderful food at an hour when most Italy restaurants aren’t even open for dinner. Italy had good hot tea at almost every restaurant we went to. The publishing house staff, everyone, first to last, made us feel welcome. I can’t explain what they do differently in Italy as opposed to America, but there’s something warmer, more intimate about the culture. We came away from Italy feeling like we’d actually made friends and not just business acquaintances. Not what we expect on business trips here in the states. La Rampa, a wonderful restaurant just off the Spanish steps that Olga and Elana took us to. They made us feel very at home, and the food was perfecto. I promise to only use Italian that is obvious in meaning, or to add translations. Stefano and Cristina who took us out to eat after the big signing. I can no longer remember the restaurant, but the dinner table conversation was lovely. Trinity loved her souvenir; thank you. The shop keeper who was closing up, but kindly helped us find our way to the Pantheon one night. Not everyone went out of their way to be helpful, but most did. I’m not sure the same would be said if an Italian author came here. I hope so, but I’m not sure of it.
So here’s a thank you to everyone that made us feel welcome in Italy. It’s funny, poets and writers have been going there for centuries to renew their creativity. I’d always sort of made fun of writers who had to travel to get ideas. Willa Cather said, “Most of the basic material a writer works with is acquired before the age of fifteen.” I believe that. More, I think that idea find the writer, not the other way around. But I have to take it back. I didn’t really get ideas in Italy, and maybe that’s why it was so restful. I wasn’t traveling for research. I was just seeing things, experiencing things. I had no agenda on the few days Jon and I had on our own. We just enjoyed ourselves. Who knew I had to go all the way to Italy to figure that out.

I realize I haven’t mentioned our publicist Elana in any of these blogs yet. She deserves a mention because she was wonderful. I love having people who are good at their jobs and just do them. She was also our life line while we were there. The person who we saw the most of, and who stayed with us between Milan and Rome. I have to say when Paolo left us, and we realized we’d have a different interpreter in Rome, Jon and I felt like kids being shipped off to a strange and potentially unfriendly summer camp. Olga, our interpreter in Rome was wonderful. She made us feel welcome and it was great. But there was a moment in t he airport waiting to get the plane to Rome. The plane had been delayed because of bad weather in Rome. One report had a small hurricane hit the edges of the city. Elana assured us this never happens. It turned out later that it was some freak wind gusts that did, or did not, depending on who you spoke with, knock over some trees on the edge of the city. Whatever was happening, it was one more stress to the idea of getting on a smaller plane and flying to Rome. The moment in the airport was when Elana was on her cell phone and had walked away so she could find a quieter place to talk. Jon and I lost track of her for a moment. I sat up, looked around, a little frantically. I saw her, felt relieved, and turned to Jon and said, “This must be how Sasquatch feels. (One of our pugs.)” Jon said, “What do you mean?” “Well, we can’t understand what anyone is saying, we look around for the person who’s suppose to be in charge of us. We hope she’s making the right decisions, but we have to trust that she is, we don’t know. It must be how Sasquatch feels about us sometimes when we take him places and he doesn’t know why and what’s going on.”
We eventually got on the plane and it was fine. Though the smaller the plane the more likely my claustrophobia is to come on-line. It did, but oh, well. Had to do it. Did it.
Rome was warmer than Milan. November is winter there, too. It’s not usually much below forty, but that can still feel pretty cold if you’ve left your winter coat in the United States. We did what a lot of the Italians did; leather suit jacket, scarf, gloves. It was practically a uniform over there. Though more in Rome than Milan, because Milan gets colder. When we got back to the states people kept asking how sunny Italy was; I think most people forget that they have seasons, too.
We had one day free in Milan. We walked the streets. Because that’s what you do in cities in Italy. You walk. A lot. It’s healthy, and you get to know the city in a way that driving by in a car would never allow.
What we didn’t know when we arrived in Milan was that Italians don’t eat breakfast the way Americans do, and it was Sunday. So a lot of restraurant near the hotel were closed until late. The hotel restaurant had closed their breakfast and would not be open until much later. Jon and I woke late, still tired and jet lagged. We ate some of the protein bars we’d brought with us, drank some bottled water, and went on an expedition for food.
We should have asked more questions about when things opened, and didn’t open about food, but we just didn’t think about it. We knew we wanted to see the Duomo, so we started walking in that direction. We found a lot of places that had been open for breakfast but now at about ten o’clock they were closed, and lunch was at least two hours away. We figured that if anything would be catering to the weird hours of tourist it would be near one of the largest tourist attractions of the city. So off we went.
We found this little cafe like restaurant. No one spoke English. It was our first time trying out the broken Italian we’d managed to pick up over the last few days. Though, our friend Richard had taught us two phrases that he knew we would need. Te caldo, hot tea, and aqua natrale, still water. Apparently unless you ask water at the table is always sparkling. But we knew what a pizza magherita was; basically cheese pizza. It’s healthier in Italy, thin crust, more natural ingredients. Almost all the food was healthier in Italy. I’ll do a blog later about food, and how Italian restaurants in the states have very little in common with food in Italy. Anyway, the waitress was very kind and let us talk to her in Italian, and she managed a little English. People kept telling us that everyone here spoke English. We ran into quite a few that did not. Usually when we were on our own and didn’t have anyone to speak Italian for us. Actually, Jon and I began to try and speak Italian, as opposed to English, when we could. It helped us get better at it, faster. Most people did speak English, but they seemed very pleased with our efforts to speak Italian to them. Apparently, most Americans don’t try.
We finally made it to the Duomo. We actually sat in the pews at the back for part of the service. I don’t know how to describe the experience. This is a place that people have been coming to worship Diety for centuries. It is sacred space. It was so beautiful, I cried. We would see other buildings in Rome that were, perhaps, more technically beautiful, but nothing else would move me as much as this cathedral did.
There is a Mary altar to the side of the main area. It has some seats, but it also has a altar rail to kneel at, and to pray. In front of that railing is a huge area covered in white taper candles. They are for people’s prayers, wishes, burning bright before the feet of the Mother of God. I know why people come to Mary so often. She just seems more approachable than the God that the church has made. She seems like someone who will listen and not judge. People need that. We need that feminine energy, as well that masculine power. We donated to the altar, and took our candles, and looked for a place to put them among the hundreds of tapers that were already there. It was hard to find an empty place. We managed. Jon even re-lit a candle that had burned out before it had finished for someone else. People kept warning us before we went to the cathedral that the front was covered by scaffolding and cloth, because they are restoring the outside. But it didn’t matter, not at all. Once we crossed the threshold, the outside didn’t matter, it was what was inside that counted. No amount of scaffolding could take away from that.

When Jon and I got on the plane from Italy to take us home, the airline personnel kept saying, happy holidays. We both wondered what the heck they were talking about, what holiday? We had totally lost track that we were returning front Italy the week of Thanksgiving. And now the day is upon us.
Jon is feeding the dogs while I write this. We got to stay in bed a little longer than usual, because we were alone in the house for the first time since we got back from Europe. Richard, who dog and house sit for us, was back at his house. Trinity spent last night with her father. Darla, Lauretta, and Sherry, are of course spending the day with their families. Though usually we have Thanksgiving here and Darla and her family join us, but this year we are going to go down to Jon’s extended family in south-eastern Misourri. Darla was invited, but decided to stay up north. It is something of a drive.
I was all set to complain. To talk about how much I’m missing my grandmother, and how conflicted I still am about her. But a funny thing happened on the way to the complaint department. Jon had up a web cartoon that we read; Schlock Mercenary. The cartoonist, Howard Tayler, had written an open letter about the last year. His first year as a full time cartoonist, and not a full time corporate exec. Money wise, it was a hard year, but they made it. Read the letter, he says it all better than I do. It’s his year, afterall. But he mentioned in the letter how great it was that he could spend so much time with his wife and children. That he hadn’t really understood what true quality time was, and I have to stamp his card on that. One of the greatest blessings of working as a full time writer is that I was always there when Trin came home from school. That when she was very young we got to spend so much time together we would have missed if I’d been working an office job outside the house. Mr. Tayler has discovered the joys that I think I sometimes take for granted. I’ve been lucky enough, and worked hard enough, that I’ve been my own boss for almost twenty years. Hard to believe. I remember the early days when there was no money. I remember when I thought every year I’d be forced to go back to the office job I’d left, or one like it. But I made it. I kept making it. Good luck to Howard Tayler, and a thank you to him for reminding me that I have more to be thankful, than to be sad about.
Trinity will be here in a couple of hours. We’ll drive south as a family. Richard is staying to have dinner with his family, so he’ll be able to check on our dogs, so that’s taken care of. I am grateful for Richard, and how often he makes our life run smoother. I am grateful for all the friends I work with. One morning this week we were all in the kitchen trying to get breakfast. Darla pointed out that there were four different conversations going. I said, “Yeah, because we’re all lightning thinkers. One thought makes us think of something way over there. We all do that. Except for Sherry.” We agreed that she is our only linear thinker. It’s why she’s the most organized of us, and why we value her vision. Most business are always trying to find creative minds, but we got that in truck loads. We needed someone to help us think and plan. I am so grateful for all the laughter at work. Mary, Jon’s mom, wasn’t there that morning, but when she is, she just adds to the warmth and laughter. I am grateful for so many people in my life that are friends and help me think, organize, and so many other things.
DANSE MACABRE is finished, and my other friends are beginning to get phone calls, and remember me messages. I am very grateful that they put up with my periodic vanishing acts when a book is beating my head against the creative wall. I am grateful for Jon, and Trinity, and our puppies. Jon and I have been together almost constantly for five years, and each day just gets better. Trinity is growing up, and that just gets better. I love the person she’s becoming.
I’ll go eat breakfast now. I think I’m over the maudlin mood I woke up in. Thanks again to Howard Tayler for making me remember that I have so much more to be grateful for, than to be sad for.

The interviewing process in Italy is very different from the United States. Jon and I got to sit in our hotel and the journalists, photographers, television, radio (with one, or two, exceptions) came to us. It reminded me of the scene in the movie Notting Hill with Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant, where Grant’s character pretends to be a journalist. If you haven’t seen the movie, then, sorry, but apparently bringing the media to the interviewer is the way they do it in Europe. It’s a little intimidating at first, having interviews scheduled from nine in the morning until six or six-thirty at night. A different interview every hour to half hour. I mean that was intimidating, and exhausting. But after the jet lag got better, and I learned how to work with Paolo our interpreter (he was very gentle in getting me used to the whole process)even with the packed schedule it was still less exhausting than touring the U. S. In this country they make you go to most of the interviews, rather than the other way around. And here you’re doing nightly book signings. In Italy there was the one amazing one, then we didn’t have to worry about the physical and mental marathon that is one of my book signings. I love meeting everyone, but some of you were at the six and seven hour signings we had in the States, and you know what it was like. My agent, Merrilee, has actually voiced the idea that we might do a speaking, rather than a signing tour, of the U. S. Don’t worry all you eager to get your books signed, the next mini-tour for MICAH will be our traditional method. At this point a talking tour is just that, talk.
One of the interesting things about the interviews in Italy was that answering their questions made me think about things I hadn’t before. Some of the questions were the same as in the U. S. but many were not. One of the most surprising differences between countries was the sex question. Here in the States I am still being asked why I chose to have sex on paper at all, as if there is something inherently wrong with sex, especially if a woman is having it. (I strongly disagree with both those attitudes. Sex is a wonderful gift, and if it is wrong then it should be equally wrong for both men and women, not that old double standard.) In Italy, I had more than one interviewer say that Anita was not a very modern woman because she waited so long to have sex with anyone. Others asked why had I waited so long? Why hadn’t she just had sex right away with Richard, or Jean-Claude, or somebody? Why wait? I couldn’t really answer the question except to say, it never occurred to me to have sex sooner on paper. I tried to avoid it all together. Honest. I then explained to the Italian journalists how different their question was from the American counterparts. They were very puzzled why Americans had so much trouble with the sex in my books, or sex in general. I was left trying to explain the American attitude towards sex. I mean, sex is everywhere in this country. We use it to sell almost everything. It’s in our programs, our music, and yet, we still are very uncomfortable with sex. There is still a strong feeling that it’s wrong, and it’s still especially wrong for a woman to be having sex, and enjoying it. I did get a couple of the journalists to admit that the attitude that if a man has sex he’s a stud, and if a woman has sex she’s a slut, is still alive in their country, too. But sex is still more okay there, than here. It was kind of interesting after defending my honor over here, to be explaining my prudery over there. Interesting, huh?

Must stay awake. Must stay awake. If we go to sleep now we won’t sleep tonight. Must fight the jet lag. Evil jet lag.
I’m going to get up and keep moving. Even sitting at the computer, I feel like I’m starting to sway in place. But once we go to bed, early, tonight, then tomorrow will be better on the jet lag.
I’m off to keep moving.

We didn’t have internet access in Italy. Not reliably, at all. So we couldn’t put up any blog entries. But now we’re home and the internet is ours once more. Though, truthfully, the schedule of interviews was so busy I’m not sure we’ve have put up more than a few sentences here and there. Jet lag is never pleasant.
First, the people of Italy were warm, friendly, and made us feel very welcome. To everyone at my first, ever, anywhere, in Europe signing: thank you. Molto grazie. That’s thank you, very much. There were about three hundred people, and almost no one spoke English. We, of course, could say, maybe, two words of Italian, at that time. But our wonderful publisher Nord had gotten us a translator; Paolo. As everyone who met him that night can attest, he was great. Jon and I discovered that even names we thought we knew how to spell were differently spelled in Italy. Beautifully spelled and very exotic to our American ears. We had Paolo keep the list of names he’d written down for me to spell from. I figure when we finally see more vamps from the council that some of the names may come in handy. I actually told some of the fans at the signing that I might do that. Such pretty names. Though to Italian ears the American version of the name was what sounded exotic. Funny that.

We leave Friday for Italy. Our Italian publishers wanted us to do a tour for them, and we finally ran out of excuses. Yeah, the evil bastards flying us to Milan and Rome. Forcing us to interview with magazines, newspapers, radio, websites, and television. Yeah, I know your heart bleeds. The way we’ve been dreading the trip you would think it was a bad thing. For me, it’s all about that whole fear of flying thing. It will be the longest flight I’ve ever attempted. About nine hours. All you guys in Hawaii, Australia, and elsewhere pray that I can do this flight, because if I can’t you guys are so out of luck. I don’t sleep on any method of transportation, so I can’t even take a boat to far shores. So pray that I’m not a basket case on the plane. If I can do nine hours, then maybe, just maybe, there’s hope for longer flights in the distant future. If the nine hours wrecks me, well, there you go. Jon sleeps on long flights unless my nails are too deeply embedded in his thigh, arm, or hand. He also stays awake if I have hysterics, or start to cry. I haven’t done the latter in a few years, but the memory lives on.
When we traveled to England two years ago it was eight hours at it’s longest. It might have been nine on the way back, but we had the kiddo with us, and I do not allow myself hysterics in front of her. She loves to fly, because I have not shared my fear with her. She sits by the window. I point out interesting clouds and stuff. I chat, and explain how the plane works. The hand not pointing at clouds is hanging onto Jon so hard I often leave little half moon marks in his skin. I don’t mean to. One memorable flight, I marked him through jeans. But Trinity never knew. She loves to fly, to travel, stay in hotels. All things I detest. Okay, some hotels are nice, but there isn’t a single type of transportation that I’m not somewhat phobic about. I guess trains are the least stressful. Hell, I finally realized the reason I don’t like horses all that much is they count as transportation, too.
We are about to travel to two of the most romantic cities in the world, and we’re so stressed out of our minds that we’re ruining it for ourselves. Yeah, the interview schedule will be very, very full, and that is exhausting after awhile, but if we, if I, don’t get a handle on my fears I am going to kill whatever pleasure we could get out of this trip. I’m trying. I really am.
I’m trying to find a happy place about it all. We’ve gotten books on Italy, and the areas we’ll be in. There are so many cool things to see. It will be wonderful to finally meet some of the fans in that part of the world.
Part of it, I think, is that we haven’t recovered from me finishing DANSE MACABRE. It’s only been two weeks, and most of that time has been spent getting ready for the trip to Italy. There hasn’t been a lot of time to simply relax, and do nothing. I was hoping to refresh myself, but instead I feel empty. I no longer dread my office. In fact it looks bright and cheerful, and welcoming. But I have no desire to sit down and write again yet. I am still licking my wounds, still waiting for the first round of edits to come back from New York. The book isn’t really done. Not done-done. Maybe that’s why it feels like I’m still waiting.
If I could get over the whole being terrified about the flight, being somewhere for nine hours where no one can phone me, or interrupt me, or make demands on me, or Jon, sounds pretty good, actually. The addition to the house is still not done. Maybe by Christmas.