A new book is brewing. Rather dramatically at times, as will sometimes happen. My office is scattered with magazines and new CDs and paintbrushes. I’ve scotch-taped a bunch of photos to the closet door while I’m letting it all brew. To the outside view, this doesn’t much look like work, honestly, and I can fall prey to the "just get busy" syndrome that can be so devastating to an idea that’s winding its way through my imagination, sending out runners of silk to anchor itself here, there, all sorts of odd places. This makes me think of the first trimester of pregnancy, when you’re so tired and when you close your eyes for three minutes, you fall into that other world, the dreamer world, and it’s hard to tell which is the real world. There’s a lot going on below the surface. Hidden. Quiet. Gossamer.
chart or something. So I have a plot. So I know what I’m doing."
CDs like Sonny and Terry and Marc Broussard and getting SO excited about the storm map on the
wall and practicing their accents, looked up and said, "Plan? We don’t need a
plan. WE know what we’re doing. If you know, you’ll fuck it up, so just
mind your own business."
smelled biscuits baking and remembered a really cool bit of woman-magic that always has intrigued me, and figured out the hero’s name, and there is a big southern thread to this book, which has been missing from my books over the past few years. Suddenly, it’s just there again. Maybe I am pining for my grandmother, or for my late mother-in-law. They both passed in the autumn, two years and three years ago, and I wish I could have a chat with them. Or maybe, the girls want to play with other material, taste new things. Maybe I have no idea where books come from or why, but my job is to say, "Oooh, this one seems like it will be fun."