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WRITE EVERYWHERE

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WRITE EVERYWHERE

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.

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MATINEES

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MATINEES

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.

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LAZY DAY

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LAZY DAY

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.

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MILLION DOLLAR IDEA

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MILLION DOLLAR IDEA

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.

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MR. MAGOO

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MR. MAGOO

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.

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NOVEMBER

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NOVEMBER

. . . 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. . . .

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INSPIRATION

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INSPIRATION

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.