Taking London comes out seven weeks from Tuesday. I've been doing this a long time so I know it's best to try not to think about it. The gestation cycle is so long between finishing a book and seeing it in print. I will be euphoric and perhaps weep when I receive my first box of finished copies, cracking it open to hold the new book in my hands for the first time.

Just back from Malta.

I really didn't want to go. Malta is impossible to reach from LA. It's a small island off the southern coast of Sicily. I met up for business with a few friends from New York. Malta is a wonderful destination, almost unknown to Americans. European tourists were everywhere. The ground is hilly like San Francisco and my runs were slow enough that I didn't want to post them on Strava. But in deviating from the main streets and into the alleys I found character and history I will long remember.

It has been a week, my people.

The moment I realized things were getting under my skin came on Thursday evening, as I tried to park for the Springsteen show at the Forum. I went to the wrong entrance and was instructed to turn around and go back down the street to an entirely different lot. Traffic was coming from both directions. I had no choice but to make a very illegal u-turn.

I recently saw a photo of Gray Man author Mark Greaney on a speedboat, laptop open, typing away on a new book while rocketing across a lake somewhere.

I can relate. My guess is that he was on deadline, squeezing in a few hundred words to expand his writing day. There's an illusion that serious writers lock themselves in a cone of silence whenever they make sentences. The world never intrudes. We light a candle, pour a cup of coffee, shut the door, and enjoy a daily routine that does not deviate one iota until the book is done.

On those occasions such as this morning, when I start my day with a leftover slice from Ballpark Pizza, I always think of the fasting guru who told me that any food was permissible when breaking a fast, "unless, you know, it's pizza."

What follows is a cautionary tale, though not about nutrition.

"Why are you crying?" Calene asked.

Calene had driven over to surprise me after pilates. We stood in a parking lot. Hour-old cup of bitter dark roast morning coffee in one hand. Morning practice was just ending, my runners gossiping and stretching after a Saturday long run.

I had visions of matinees.

Way back when I worked in the corporate world I was given an enormous promotion without the posted salary. I was working twice as hard, for twice as many hours, for not much than I'd been making before the new title. I hated the work but bills don't pay themselves. It was a watershed moment in my life when my boss told me I wasn't getting the big fat raise to go with the job. The scales fell from my eyes and I knew the corporate world would always be like that, broken promises and raised expectations that constantly meant putting work before family.

I vowed to get out.

It's raining.

The good kind of raining where I make a fire, move my laptop to a table by the dining room window so I can watch the storm, and bundle up in cozy clothing. I went to bed adamant that my distance runners would have morning practice, rain or shine. But when I got up at five and saw the dark and wet, that felt a little obsessive. We can make up the miles some other time. I sent out a text canceling the workout and got back into bed, pulled up the comforter, and slept until eight.

. . . Here's the thing: authors need to ask other authors for the blurb. If you don't know that writer personally, it's the book writing equivalent of a cold call. Not everyone says yes. Also — and this needs to be noted — there is a caste system in the writing world. It takes balls to ask for a blurb from writers who are more intellectual or think a little differently.

I'm sitting in the cafe at the National Portrait Gallery, just across from St. Martin's in London. Coffee, loud conversation, wooden chairs sliding on a polished floor. Calene is somewhere in the second floor galleries as I sip my sparkling water and protect the seat I saved for her. The fight for tables and chairs is intense in this small public space and I am doing my best to ignore the glances of those in the very long line for sweets and coffee who are currently formulating their seating strategy.

Thank you, one and all, for kindly sending your ideas for my next book.

All great ideas. Exceptional. But I've been inspired by recent events to look for a very specific sort of idea, which I will tell you about it in a minute.

The hunt has gone on for months.

Even in the middle of writing a book, the search for the next topic stalks me. In the morning as I plan the day, in those odd moments of down time, even at night, as Calene and I binge streamers (lately: Slow Horses, Reacher, Murder at the End of the World, a complete re-watch of Band of Brothers), and even as I follow the amazing travels of Cole Brauer (@ColeBrauerOceanRacing on Insta), the question of what to write next looks over my shoulder.

Last day of 2023.

I don't get sick often but something wicked laid me low this week. I've been wearing a mask and secluding in the game room so I don't get Calene sick, too. I chose the game room so I could watch football on the big screen but pretty much all I've been doing is sleeping. I've worn the same sweatshirt and sweatpants for the last three days and I have no plans to wear anything else until this is over.

A journalist recently asked me if I was still a big runner.

By this, he meant do I still run fifty miles a week. I do not. But I am still a big runner, in that I am no longer the sleek supple leopard I was before knee surgery, Covid, and an increasing admiration for IPA as a food group.

Dawn Friday. Ocean Beach. I force myself out of bed and log stiff morning miles. Sports park with too many holes in the turf, straight along the bike path above the estuary. Salt air blowing in from the dog beach. White herons standing up to their knees in low tide. Tomorrow is my oldest son's wedding and I have a toast to write

Shane MacGowan of The Pogues died this week. His run of drugs and alcohol was legendary, even in rock and roll. He will be remembered for his great voice and lack of teeth. I was surprised to see so many social media posts from friends — all quiet Pogues fans.

"I'm so glad the season's over," I told Calene this morning over brunch. Tutto Fresco restaurant. Chili cheese omelet. Soft bread with oil and garlic. Ice water and a greyhound. "I really need the break."

She rolled her eyes. "Let's see what you say in a week."

My wife likes to call me Mr. Magoo. Calene claims I wander through life in a state of mild befuddlement, flirting with calamity without knowing. I blame it on the way I arrange my days, traveling from one obsession to another: predawn dreams about the presidency of Teddy Roosevelt, straight out of bed to sunrise practice with my runners, then an hour with my novel before putting playtime away and turning my focus to historical research and writing.

Had a nice zoom with my editor this morning. Second Pass for Taking London is coming my way on Thursday, which is the last time I'll see the words before it gets sent to the printer, there to be bound and shipped to the four corners of the earth. I'll read it one more time, hoping there are no completely awful sentences. It's a year this week since I began writing it, but the research went on for a while before that…

. . . You've all been very kind in reading these missives. This community we've built through this blog has allowed me to share a whole lot more of my personal life than I ever intended. My goal was to let you inside the head of a working writer. You got a whole lot more. . . .

Sitting in the cancer ward while Calene gets a PET scan. Not a bad place to write, all things considered — plush chairs, quiet, so-so WiFi. So far this morning I've checked and rechecked stats from Friday's cross country meet, cancelled a trip to London, read the LA Times, and checked my American Express balance. I didn't sleep well last night, doing the 3 am wake-up and not falling back to sleep. Sometimes when this happens and I struggle to find a comfortable sleeping position I remind myself that this is where "toss and turn" comes from.

When you write your book, as I believe we all should do in this life, if only for our grandchildren, you will be tempted to read your Amazon reviews. It's inevitable. Writing is a needy act, as storytelling has been since the beginning of the craft. Way back when tribes sat around a campfire to share their vignettes in the most dramatic fashion possible, you told your story to get a laugh, a tear, a knowing glance. Nowadays, we call that an Amazon five-star review.

"You'll never make it."

We were sitting on a taxiway at O'Hare. The guy next to me was a chatty hedge fund manager. Started talking the minute he sat down. In no time at all I had the ear buds in and pulled out my book.

But that was an hour ago in Traverse City. Now, knowing that my connecting flight home was boarding and I needed to hustle from the far end of the F terminal to the far end of the C terminal, I was in go mode. . . .

The universe is speaking.

Just had one of those Peloton workouts that wring sweat out of every pore, bringing forth the aromas of everything I've put in my body the last forty-eight hours. The kind of sweat that makes you glad you're alone because the funk is so embarrassing.

And I was singing.

I surprised absolutely nobody yesterday when I tweeted that I am going to continue coaching. It's been almost eighteen months since Calene was diagnosed with a rare cancer. You never know what's going to happen with a Stage IV situation. So as we got used to waiting rooms filled with other cancer patients and the wonderful nurses administering chemo, it just made sense to step away from anything that prevented me from focusing on getting her better….

Saturday night at the Great Park. America's biggest cross country meet raced under the lights. Arrived at 1 pm and stayed until almost midnight. Usually, the Woodbridge Invitational competes late to avoid mid-September heat. This year, the weather was cool and damp enough that I put on a sweatshirt at 3 and kept it on until the bitter end. As those who know me will attest, I will find any excuse to wear a sweatshirt.

Flying home from Oahu.

I'm on the aisle. Callie has the window, eyes closed, wrapped in a blue United blanket. Somewhere in my carry-on is the notebook I bought in Edinburgh ten or so years ago. I can't remember which book I was researching. Might have been Killing Kennedy, but it was definitely a Killing book. Between 2010 and 2020 I didn't write anything else.