Author: Jonathon

Recovering my strength. It sounds like I’ve been ill. I’m not entirely certain why but DANSE MACABRE was a hard book to write. I’m still searching for an easier plot (emotionally, energy-wise) for Anita and myself. If she’s having a rough time, then so do I. Haven’t found a plot that I’m confident about yet, still searching. I’m off to join my family so we can get brunch and socialize the puppies.

It’s Halloween. This and Christmas have always been my two favorite holidays. Jon and I usually dress up. We decorate the house and yard. This year there are hardly any decorations out, because the DANSE MACABRE ate my world. There wasn’t energy or time to think about the up coming holiday. I’m wearing all the costume I’m putting on tonight; a black t-shirt that says, “I leave bite marks!” I may put on more make-up. Probably. Though every time I put on base and red lipstick on Halloween, no matter what I’m wearing, people always think I’m dressed as a vampire. It’s the dark hair and pale skin, I guess, because the people saying it have no idea what I do for a living. We’re going to take the kiddo around for trick or treat and do a very typical Halloween. While our daughter is little that’s what’s it’s about.
Traditionally, for my faith, it’s the day you say good-bye to people you’ve lost, especially this year. But November 1st works for that, too, All Souls Day. Samhain, or Halloween, is the end of the year for the Wiccan. Harvest gathered in, winter coming on. What we do on this day, or night, is take final stock of the year’s harvest. What have you harvested? What good have you done? Who have you helped? In among all the ghosties and goblins at your door, all the candy being given out, remember that underneath all of it is a holy day. A day of remembrance, and contemplation. I’ll be doing the trick or treating with the rest, and I love it. I love how much joy it brings the kids, and the kid in us all, but I’ll also try to find a few minutes today to think what I’ve accomplished, what harvest, I’ve brought in this year. I last took stock at Lammas, August first, first harvest traditionally. You take stock there, then have until now, tonight, to harvest in what you wanted for the year. To right any wrongs you may have done, finish goals. It doesn’t always work, deadlines bleed over the date, and persist into winter, but this year, I’ve timed it well. The big deadline is off to New York. I’m ready to rest this winter. Though admittedly, I’m sure there’s a deadline lurking somewhere out there. Truthfully, I’ll have to call my agent, because I’ve pushed the idea of deadlines out of mind. But I don’t need to know today. Today, I will try to enjoy the holiday.
We have costumes for the dogs. We’ll try to get pictures up on the board. Happy Halloween, may you have peace with all the dead in your life, and may this year’s harvest have been a good one for you.

Anita and I need a break. A vacation. She’s been working violent crime for over six years, and I’ve been writing about it for over ten. It’s not the real thing for me. I’m not a cop, and the more research I do into real police work, the more I know I could not do it. I do not think my mind and emotions would take the beating. Because it is a beating, but especially so on the units that deal with violent crimes. Most people are transferred out after two to five years, at least for a break; a breather. Anita and I need a breather. I guess most writers would be talking about taking a break from the series themselves, but that wouldn’t help Anita. Me taking a break wouldn’t help her feel better. We both need some place quiet to recover. I know part of my despair is my grandmother’s death earlier this years, and some events it has brought up, but I was pretty tired before she passed away this spring. I would take Anita home to visit her folks for Thanksgiving, I’ve got the first chapter written, but my grandmother’s death makes it impossible. It would not be a light and cheery visit, right now, and I fear that my issues would overwhelm Anita’s family. So what can we do that is a break?
I know I’ve shelved the next plot with Edward in it. I have not the heart for the Vegas book, I just don’t. Anita and I need to lick our wounds before we get more of them. I think the reason I liked writing MICAH so much was it was a simpler plot, and out of town means we’re not carrying all the cast with us. Maybe I’ll look at all my out of town plots and see what I can come up with. Though Micah or Nathaniel would be logical to take with us and with the book MICAH coming out, and both he and Nathaniel being on stage so much in DANSE, well, seems like we need someone else to get a chance on stage. But who? It’s hard to travel with vampires, safely anyway.
Why am I worried about this so soon? Because since book four, I’ve finished an Anita book then opened a new file on the computer and started the first chapter of the next book. I did not do it this time. I did not do it because the book I had planned next is beyond my psychic or emotional reserve. I know what’s coming and I cannot bear it. So something more restful. Something lighter, at least emotionally. Anita ideas aren’t usually that light, but I’m going to try and find one. I’d take her on vacation but you know it would turn into a busman’s holiday. Something would go horribly wrong, and it might not be that relaxing after all. Who knows.

Woke up at 6:30 A.M. I can bloody sleep in, and I woke up with the room still dark. Woke up enough that I knew it was useless to lie there. I left Jon asleep. I told him where I’d be and what I’d be doing, but not sure he was awake enough to really answer me. We’ll see later. Dogs have been out. Pippin proving again that he does not have a good enough recall to be off leash. He’s really good at sit, and stay is okay. He’s even really, really good at recall from across the yard when Jon and I take turns taking him off away, and the other one calls him back. But I think he thinks it’s a game, so without both of us there playing the game, he gallops off to the neighbors yard. Tea is making and the dogs are wondering why the hell am I not feeding them instead of typing at this damn thing. I don’t think I have a good answer for that. Maybe it’s that I’ve been typing my ass off for months. To suddenly stop would be like going cold turkey, so instead of you guys getting fewer blogs like I typed yesterday, you may get more. Who knows?
Darla is reading the book, why isn’t Jon? Because he’s on recovery duty. I finish a book, any book, and I get almost depressed. Lost and mopey, wondering through the house from room to room, because I don’t know what to do with myself. If it’s during the week, I wonder from office to office making it impossible for anyone to get anything done. I started calling it the little lost lamb, because that’s how it feels. Then a few hours after the anxiety hits. I’ll do at least two days with gloom vying with anxiety, back and forth, like mood swings. It happens after every book. It just does. Don’t know why. So Jon has his hands full this weekend, because I’m messy. He’ll have to take care of the writer before he can take care of the book. We can both be pretty moody from time to time, that artistic temperament, I guess. Who knows. I’m going to drink the first cup of tea of the day, finish cleaning up the surprises that my dogs have left in the kitchen. Then feed the little buggers, and then I think I’ll go out to breakfast. Out not to find a place to make notes, but to just go out.

Okay, I’ve recovered enough to say more about finishing the book. Let’s see . . . hmm. The book weighed in at twelve pounds, two ounces. The next heaviest book was a little over nine pounds. I’ve told everyone at events that this would be the longest book yet; I didn’t lie. Hell, I didn’t even exaggerated. Page count; 1045. Yeah, you read that right; one thousand and forty-five pages. No wonder I’m tired. It was great to finish on a Friday. I have the weekend to recover. Nice. Though, it’s not done-done. It’s off to New York and my editor. When I’ve had a few days to decompress, I’ll start rereading it. Darla is reading it this weekend, or starting to. I mean she reads fast, but it’s a bloody big book. At the end of the book you can’t tell if you succeeded, or lost your way somewhere in the middle. It’s too fresh, too raw. My head goes so ugly at the end. Too tired to think clearly. I usually get a rush of exhilaration at the finish line, but not this time. This time was like finishing a marathon. You cross the line and you fall onto the pavement, or into the arms of people that will catch, but you don’t really care which. You’re just glad to that you did it. It’s over. I’m going off to do something fun with my husband, I’ll write more later. I don’t know, you guys may not see many new blog entries for a few days. I just don’t know. I need to rest, recoup, recover. For those of you who noticed, our daughter is off with her father this weekend. All of you with shared custody will know the drill.

I could say other things, but right at this moment the only thing that seems to matter is . . . It is done.

It’s not long past dawn here. My office is still dark. I turned on a light, and turned it right back off. No lights. The dawn darkness suits my mood. Yesterday was hard. It was hard on me, and hard on everyone who works here. When Darla’s voice came over the intercom to tell me to exerscise, I screamed. Because I was so far into the book that I’d forgotten everything else. Her voice was as if someone had suddenly yanked the floor out from under me, because the room I was writing about was, for those moments, more real than the room she called me back to. I kept working, so she called again, and I yelled at her. I told everyone that if they would leave me the fuck alone I could finish this damn book. I said immediately, I didn’t mean it the way it sounded, and I didn’t. I wasn’t mad at them. I was just in that white, hot, heat at the end of the book, but it wasn’t a glorious rush of inspiration. No, it was do the scene, throw it out. Redo the scene, read it to Jon, have him confirm what I feared, throw it out. I must have redone that next to last scene three, four times, back and forth, back and forth. this choice will change things later in the series. That choice will mean the police will never trust her again. This choice will get Asher executed. That choice will doom us all. This choice is less bad. I wrestled with that scene all day. I did not exercise. I did not eat lunch. I wrestled with the book, and had no idea who was winning.
Everyone gave my office a wide berth yesterday. I didn’t blame them. I was mad with frustration, and impatience. Angry with myself; angry with the book; angry with everything. Richard, our newest assistant, took the brunt of it, because one of his duties is bringing up the tea. I wanted the tea. Hell, I practically need the tea to work. Tea, or water. I’m what they call a consumer learning. I work better when I’m consuming something liquid. I’d called down for the tea, knew it was coming, but the first time he knocked on the door after I’d yelled at everybody, I snarled, “What!”
He opened the door slowly, and made certain I saw the mug in his hand, like a white flag of safety. See, I mean no harm, and no interruption. One of the reasons that Richard has the tea duty is that he’s less likely to distract me. If Jon brings it up, I have to kiss him, or touch him, I just have to. If Darla comes up, we have to chat a word or two, it’s a girl thing. Richard and I chat when the occasion calls for it, he is a very good friend, but when I need to work, really need it, he just brings the tea, and leaves me to it. He will lay a comforting hand on my shoulder, but not distract me. Not yank me out of the writing. It is probably one of his most valuable assets on days like yesterday. The other is that he doesn’t take the snarling personally. He would come in and find me either furious, or nearly weeping in frustration over my keyboard. There was no middle ground yesterday. Despair, or anger. Neither emotion had anything to do with the scene. It was my despair, my anger. I could not decide how this scene would play out. If I wrote stand alone books, it would be easy. But with a series this long, with so many books yet to come, decisions in one book can derail plots later on, or make entire story lines mute. So I fought with the scene, and myself.
I fought my desire to get the book done, at almost any cost, against the cost to Anita and her sweeties later on. This cost was too high. This too complicated. This not true to the characters. I fought. I finally beat it into a shape that was close to being done. Richard came up with one last cup of tea, and I told him to get everybody ready for lunch, and what time was it anyway. He informed me about two in the afternoon. We never do lunch this late. Most days I’d be faint with low blood sugar, but yesterday anger and confusion kept me going. It wasn’t pleasant, but I didn’t need to eat. We broke for lunch. We got us all the hell out of Dodge so we could see somewhere besides the offices.
I was finished, sort of. I finally had to skip a reaction scene from Anita. I couldn’t decide how she will feel about the aftermath of some of it. I just couldn’t decide. I tried to go back to work, but I still could not decide how it played out. Everyone urged me to leave it until today, to sleep on it. I have slept on it. I think I know how to finish, but I’m not certain. Sometimes what seems brilliant, or at least logical in your head, falls apart on paper. I don’t know, but I think, oh, I do think, that today I will be done. Today, Goddess willing, I will be done.

Six pages kept. Seven pages edited out. Seven really good pages edited out. They read well. They were powerful and intriguing, and they had nothing to do with the character in question as he is today. I did a scene with Asher that was amazing, wonderful, and so dark that Anita would never have touched him again. So dark that I didn’t know who he was anymore. I finally realized that it was my subconscious trying to get rid of one of the men. Not death, but more like a divorce. I read some of the scene to Darla, she pronounced it good. I finished most of the scene and read it to Jon. His face showed me what I already knew. It was a rabbit hole. A big, dark, bloody, dangerous, rabbit hole. Taking me in a direction that would destroy Asher. I love Asher, and the early part of this scene shows just how lonely and sad he still is. He is so sad, so very sad. Still so hurt.
I understand now that I am dangerously tired. Dangerously needing this book done. What do I mean by that? That I am in such a need to be able to be done, that I might take short cuts, cripple characterization, just to wrap things up. Usually it’s my head that goes ugly, and I get all anxious in real life, but today it was the writing that went ugly. Way ugly.
So the ugly got edited out. The chapter ended not just on an upbeat note, but with the first time Anita is ever alone with Asher. I hadn’t realized that we’d never been alone with him. He’s shared us with Jean-Claude, but never just him and Anita. Funny, that I hadn’t noticed. I’m hoping that Asher comes out of this scene a little less sad, and we just get some surprises for Anita, and the reader. I’m hoping no more surprises for the writer.

I use music so that when I play that particular piece, I know I’m working on this book. It gets me in the mind set, the groove, whatever. But there comes a point in any book that is over six hundred pages when the music chosen is no longer fun. So you pick different music. Well, now that music is no longer fun. I hit Audioslave this morning, and instead of going, oh, yea, I went oh, shit. The music has become wedded to the difficulty of the book. I’ve had other albums with other much shorter books do the same thing. Sting’s album, Mercurary Falling, I believe, took me years to be able to listen to even over the radio without feeling hunched and miserable. Any music that you listen to night after night (whatever book the Sting album was used as back ground music to, was written a lot at night) when everyone else got to go to bed hours ago, well, you begin to feel punished. I know this happens. I sort of hate when it happens because I choose music I like to listen to, and now I no longer enjoy it. At least Anita books work that way. I may have gotten enough different albums all glommed together on an MP3 player for Merry, that I’m actually looking forward to listening to the same music I listened to last time. We’ll see if it works. But not today.
Today, I am in the last bit of DANSE MACABRE. So many scenes that didn’t get used. New characters that never made it on stage. Some really cool scenes that I’d spent months enjoying the thought of, and they are not to be. At least, not this book. Some will get to be used later in another book. That’s one of the good things about writing an on-going series. But some scenes are gone, never to be. Choices made, or not made. I think I am finally at the end of this book, or close, perilously close. We’ll see.
I don’t want to get out new music with the end in my hands, because then I’ve ruined a new album that might have got me through six hundred pages, and I’ve blown it on a hundred. So I’m trying to hold fast to the Audioslave. Nickleback is no more. I can’t listen to it anymore. I just can’t. I have two albums of Audioslave. They will either see me through these last pages, or I’ll have to sacrifice new music to the end of the book. Sigh.
I wrote the above in the morning before work. Ten pages later and a luncheon date with a friend, and back to it. Mood is low enough that I’ve got the Charlie Brown Christmas Album on the player. Nothing says, please God, let me finish this book like Yuletide cheer.

This is the last scene. Not the last chapter, but the last scene. The last scene could take me another hundred pages, but I sure as hell hope not. It’s so complex, or I’m so tired that I’ve resorted to 3 X 5 note cards. So I can write down everything that needs to happen before the end of the book, but since I’m unsure of the order of events, the cards give me more flexibility to shuffle than writing long hand in the notebook. Or so it feels. I’ll probably take the cards tomorrow and scatter them across a clean piece of floor, and play with the order of events. And yes, to the question that someone asked me at the Wolf Howl we had on Wednesday night, the book is still kicking my butt.