It's time. That's all I can say: it's time.
It has been fifteen years since I left our Mammoth Summer Training Camp in the dead of night, drove three hours to Reno, then flew to New York for the meeting that would define this last decade-plus of my writing career. Back then Killing Lincoln was a stand-alone project and I wrote it with that in mind.
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.
Here's a little Easter gift for all my readers. I've long threatened to write a fiction piece. For the past few months, as part of my daily warm-up, I've written a little of this and a little of that. No title yet. Not sure if this stab at fiction will ever see the light of day but it's been a lot of fun. I hope you enjoy this sample, and have a great Easter!
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.
I usually write these missives on Sunday. It's my down day for the week and my mind is free to wander. But Calene and I spent the weekend in San Diego, hanging out with our oldest son to celebrate his birthday. There was no agenda. We wandered the waterfront to start the morning, stopping to tour the USS Midway, something I suggested because I'm writing a book about the Battle of Midway and the visit felt like a fine symbolic gesture. I also thought it was a great way to kill an hour or so.
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.
