Writing a novel is like taking laps around a circular track. When I've completed that first draft, I cross that finish line doing a happy dance, fists pumping the air, smiles all around. Yahoo! I did it!
 
Then I start all over again.
 
Rewrites are essential and seemingly endless. I take my manuscript round and round the writing track, lap after lap, developing characters, planting bespoke clues, ripping out sentences, inserting setting descriptors, tightening the pace, and honing a much better read after each rewrite. I pass that final rewrite on to my beta readers and digest their feedback with humility.
 
Then I start all over again.
 
After embedding changes based upon beta readers’ opinions, I get down to the nitty gritty. This last lap around the writing track is a tedious journey involving overused words. Eighty words that pop up all to often in our manuscripts diluting the strength of our writing. Filler words (just, since, that, then, somehow, while, etc.), gesture words (watched, saw, turn, walk, sat down, stood up, etc.) “be” words (was, were, had, have, be, been, could, would, etc.) and those dreaded adverbs ending in “ly.” I spend several days in a find and replace mode that involves deleting words, rewriting sentences, or finding alternate descriptors for all eighty words. Face it, I’m tired of this manuscript. I want to move on to the next story in the series, but I slog through this nitty gritty task, so my readers have the best story possible.
 
Then I start all over again.
 
This time, the stadium lights are dim. I’m taking a slow walk around the circular track. It’s a final read from start to finish where I pick up the odd typo, make some minor tweaks, but pretty much just enjoy the story. It is my favorite lap around the track. I quietly cross the finish line and offer up a smile of satisfaction. I’ve done my best with this manuscript.
 
I hope my readers enjoy the story as much as I did.
 

I’ve been thinking about libraries and how impoverished my life would be without them.
 
I’ve visited ten different libraries in my county, nosed around libraries in other states, and – best of all – stepped into the Bodleian Library in Oxford (UK) which houses over eleven million texts. I explored Hay-on-Wye, a spit of a village in Wales with thirty bookshops of new, second hand, and antiquarian books. It’s the world’s first book town, yet they still have a library so residents can access books without spending money because poverty should not rob us of knowledge.
 
I’m notorious for slamming on the brakes and hopping out of the car to browse through someone’s Little Free Library, returning home with an intriguing book or magazine. During summer breaks, my children would follow me into a library every three weeks borrowing twenty or more books at a crack from Where’s Waldo and Winnie the Pooh to A Study in Scarlet and A Clockwork Orange. They are now intelligent, discerning adults thanks to those libraries.
 
Things change, including libraries. When I go to the library these days I pick up free passes to the zoo, art museum, and other cultural attractions. I take their online classes and borrow their tools and tech gadgets which I occasionally need but never want to own. And, of course, I get books.
 
I also listen to a podcast Not Your Mother's Library where my daughter enlightens and entertains book-loving listeners. Are you really surprised to learn that my youngest became a librarian? She says that my library card history shows I’ve borrowed over six thousand books and lost one.
 
I never said I was perfect, just well read.

We experienced power outages overnight and in the early hours of this morning as wicked storms surged across the Midwest. I realized that I can live without lights and no telly, but no morning coffee? Come on! Life doesn’t move out of first gear without a cup of java to jolt my brain. The outage would last for hours as crews scrambled to address extensive damage caused by the storm, so I climbed in my car and drove to a local coffee shop. They were also hit by the outage. No coffee. I shook my head to clear it of cobwebs and drove to the lakefront.
 
Lake Michigan is fronted by dense woodlands which were still soggy from the storm. Leaves dripping and mud oozing, I stuck to a stone-covered path that descends sharply to the beach. I crossed the rain-packed sand and discovered that the shoreline was deserted. I had the entire stretch of sand as far as the eye could see to myself. Waves were massive; the surf driven by a storm still howling somewhere over the lake. Lake Michigan is a vast body of water covering 22,000 square miles. Nearly 1,000 feet deep, it holds over 1,500 shipwrecks. So not a good day to be out at sea, but the perfect morning to stand on its wind-tossed shore.
 
     Clouds surged. Wind flattened tall grasses. Waves lashed shoreline rocks.
     She screamed in frustration. Screamed again. Wind snatched her raucous noise
     and tossed it into the frenzied surf. Remy felt a keen affinity with the heaving surf:
     Troubled. Turbulent.
                                                      - Excerpt from The Sacred Stones
 
The stiff lake breeze stung my eyes, spiked my hair, and cleared my muddled mind. I plodded back to my car, drove home, and wrote that passage; a fresh scene in The Sacred Stones. Caffeine wasn’t even required! I just had to step into an imperfect day and let Mother Nature rattle my bones to find inspiration that would have otherwise eluded me.

Birds appear throughout my novels. Kittiwakes. Gannets. Nightjars. Magpies. My fourth novel, The Nighthawk’s Nemesis, is about the murder of a birdwatcher (aka: twitcher) observing the bird migration along the western coast of England. I am fascinated by birds, and they are now returning to my world as spring migration has begun. Yes, I am one of those obsessed twitchers, out there with my binoculars and life list checking off new sightings and wishing for more.
 
We’ve had problems with birds nesting in the vine-covered trellises along the side of our house. They flit down our narrow driveway to build temporary homes among the contorted vines. I understand their actions. It’s a safe habitat for their fledglings. Unfortunately, it is also the only route to the garbage bins. Last year, an aggressive robin took on my husband, dive bombing whenever he walked by carrying trash to the bin. He responded with the garden hose, spraying his winged attacker. The two battled it out for weeks. The robin only grew more aggressive and, ultimately, my husband had to hide under an open umbrella whenever he took out the trash.
 
I resolved the issue this spring with bird netting. Farmers use it on crops, so I figure we can safely use it to prevent their nesting on the vines. My husband climbed a ladder by the first trellis and unfurled the 7’ wide net while I watched from inside the house. His arms thrashed the air. His hands flapped rapidly. Was he swatting hornets? No, he was battling the wind with netting he honestly could not see without his glasses. Mouthing a litany of curses, he gave up after the first trellis. I recruited our daughter to finish the project, and the next three trellises where shrouded with remarkable speed and two dozen zip ties. Walking down our drive was no longer a hazard.
 
Then I found a song sparrow fluttering behind the netting on the trellis my husband had covered. How did the poor bird get trapped in there? More importantly, how can he get out? While I considered fetching scissors to cut the net, he flit out on his own! An hour later, two purple finches sang to me from behind the net as if settling into a new bird cage. Well, damn! I managed to flush them out with no injuries and discovered that my husband had not secured the netting to the trellis. Those canny birds realized the net flapped wide open down either side of the 8’ trellis. An emergency call went out to my daughter for more zip ties. I’m not taking out the garbage until she arrives.
 
Life Lesson: Never underestimate the birds.

A blood moon appears in The Stars Prevail, setting the stage for murder. The image it conjures up in the reader's mind is unnerving, no? The rare opportunity to see a total lunar eclipse and blood moon presented itself across North America this week. Witnessing it meant I would have to climb out of bed after midnight and stand outside on a brisk March night. Brr. Doubting the sanity of that plan, I decided to ignore the lunar event until I heard that the next total lunar eclipse with a blood moon wouldn’t occur in North America for 27 years. Will I be around to enjoy it then? The odds are against me. And what if it rains or snows on that date? No, I best seize the day – or the night in this case.
 
I set my alarm for 1:00 a.m., put a jacket on the chair, and prayed for a cloudless sky before drifting to sleep under a cozy blanket. I woke to the sound of my alarm in a pitch dark room, put on my slippers, forgot the jacket, and stumbled outside. When I looked up, stars winked down on me and there it was – the moon slipping into the earth’s shadow, pulsing orange-red. My eyes snapped wide open! I stood in my sleeveless nightgown for quite a while, mesmerized by the phenomenon, before I realized I wasn’t cold. It was only 53 degrees out – downright balmy for mid-March – and I didn’t have a single goose-bump. No, I was in the throes of a heart-racing adventure: a once in a lifetime chance to see the cosmos put on a magic show.
 
When I finally retired I realized how desperately I need to have unusual events lift me out of my ordinary, ho-hum life. To have a unique experience set my heart racing, make my eyes water, and remind me of just how amazing life can be. We experience less as we grow older. The day-to-day raising of a family, holding down a job, taking care of our home or aging parents leaves little room for extraordinary experiences. We become inured to life’s offerings; too busy or too tired to care.
 
I’m indescribably happy that I crawled out of bed to witness the cosmos’ mind-boggling performance and eternally grateful that a blood moon dripped a bit of its magic down on me.

My monthly blog came due just when I was thinking of trying a new cookie recipe. Guess which task won out? Brown Butter Toffee Cookies sound irresistible, no? I’m the first to admit that I’m not a good cook (neither is my protagonist, Remy Lane). I do have a fair hand with baking. Oh, nothing fancy, mind you. I’m talking about the type of desserts you take to the PTA school fundraiser, not Baked Alaska or Lemon Tiramisu. My children never complained though.
 
Facing another birthday (and a BIG one at that), I’ve decided to take on fresh challenges. You know, teach this old dog some new tricks. Might as well begin with Brown Butter Toffee Cookies. There I was, stirring butter as it melted in a saucepan wondering just how different it would taste once it turned brown. In truth, I couldn’t discern any difference. I’ve often felt that chefs and online cooks tend to make a big production out of each recipe, certainly more than is necessary in my eyes. They toss in all sorts of extra steps that, to me, seem a bit of a bother with little impact on the final product.
 
I suppose it is all about personal perceptions. There is no doubt that our perception becomes our reality. If an Asian chef labors over our stir-fry pepper steak then it must surely be better than what we picked up last week at the grocery store’s deli. Or is it? Perception vs. reality. I read of a wine tasting test where experienced wine judges were unable to consistently tell the difference between a $15 bottled red and a $150 bottled red. I know an absolutely charming sommelier in England who would beg to differ – with a very posh British accent – but food and wine are simply all too subjective. And what of our aging taste buds?
 
I decided to set my doubts aside and fuss over the cookies, taking the extra steps, browning the butter, chilling the dough, and only using kosher salt. I ended up with some fine-tasting cookies, but when haven’t I? Still, I’ll use this recipe again because it meets a more important standard: It taught this rather old dog a new trick. On to the next challenge.

I’ve haunted rummage sales and antique shops since I was in my twenties fascinated with objects crafted in the past. I recall buying my first antique, a Chinese Chippendale gateleg table. It was followed by a Georgian period Hepplewhite dresser and a Victorian era Eastlake loveseat. I managed to fill my house with dated furnishings and vintage artwork before Antiques Roadshow ruined everyone’s fun by elevating prices on any object found in an attic. I’m thrilled that – according to YouTube decorators – antiques are now “back in style” and these old items scattered around me are rising in market value. They never lost any value in my eyes.
 
I’ve always admired bone china teapots and silvered mirrors but never studied history until I began writing my series. Abbey ruins. Viking relics. Megalithic tombs. Roman rubble. It is all scattered throughout my mysteries where crimes revolve around coins minted in AD 43, books written in the 16th century, and 1940’s swing dances. No surprise my sleuthing protagonist is a historian. Like me, she has one foot in the past as she searches for her personal history.
 
Plot ideas send me down an endless number of rabbit holes where I continually learn about the past and layer it into storylines because, let’s face it, history enriches us. Gives us our sense of place in the grand scheme of things. Reminds us that our problems are temporary and what seems incredibly important right now will simply fade away along with our memory. You see, I’ve learned history’s biggest lesson and greatest comfort: Life goes on long after we disappear.