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.
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.
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.
. . . 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.
