I wrapped up my rewrite of The Nighthawk’s Nemesis yesterday and went to bed knowing that the manuscript is so much better as a result of that work. Pouring a cup of coffee this morning, I suddenly realized I’ve nothing to write about as all four manuscripts in the Remy Lane Mystery series are done. I face a day with no writing. A week with no writing. Months with no writing. Oh, sure, I can pen query letters to literary agents in an effort to get trad-published or dive into the online marketing game of self-publishing, but no new story? No fresh characters? No unsolved mystery? Impossible.
 
Writing is my passion. My creative imagination has me jumping out of bed in the morning, popping open my laptop, and penning a fresh narrative. Characters and their various encounters swirl in my brain all day. Snappy dialogues find their way to Post-it notes and fresh scenarios have me pondering possibilities when I lie in bed later that night. Writing fills me with purpose as surely as breathing fills my lungs with air. Can’t live without either of them.
 
Sipping the last of my coffee, I’ve decided to be like Janus, Roman god of beginnings, endings, and transitions – a divine character I learned about when writing The Tide Turns. I’ll rifle through my “ideas” file and begin churning fresh plots for the next story in the series while also looking back over my completed manuscripts to embed stronger emotions into characters. (Readers love vibrant characters.) That new growth and evolution will keep me writing throughout the winter months. I can’t wait to start on them.

I am wrapping up an edit of my fourth manuscript, The Nighthawk’s Nemesis. Editing and rewriting are lengthy processes which every writer undertakes as part of their craft. Glancing over past blogs, I found a reference to The Nighthawk’s Nemesis in April of 2021 when I was “knee deep in research as I begin a new novel.” This particular mystery hovers around birds and their watchers, better known as twitchers in the UK. Four years later, I’ve returned to the manuscript for a final rewrite. Apparently time does fly, just like the birds.
 
I learned a great deal about birds when writing this story and found myself carrying binoculars as I walked through the woods and along the shoreline. I even picked up a birder’s life list where I tracked which birds I spotted over time. Then I discovered an app for my cell phone called Merlin (offered through Cornell University) which amped up my bird watching skills and knowledge, making the hobby even more enjoyable.
 
Birds are beautiful, their songs uplifting. For me, the most entertaining aspect of birds are the whimsical collective names attached to each flock: a gaggle of geese, a brood of hens, a parliament of owls, a cast of falcons, a bellowing of bullfinches, a descent of woodpeckers, a drumming of grouse, a murmuration of starlings, an asylum of cuckoos, a prayer of godwits, a watch of nightingales, a convocation of eagles, a flamboyance of flamingos, a mischief of magpies, an unkindness of ravens, and a murder of crows.
 
Okay, I’ll admit it: The last one is my favorite.

Today is my eldest sister’s birthday. I wish we could share a slice of cake and laughter, but she passed away. I’m the youngest in a large family, and I’m slowly but surely being left behind.
 
It is bittersweet. I’m happy family members and dear friends are no longer suffering but sad they are no longer with me. We lose part of ourselves with the passing of others. Memories fade and eventually there is no one else who can remind us of past shared moments. No one who stood there waving us off on our first date. Who held us during our first heartbreak.  Who encouraged us when we doubted ourselves. Who celebrated our first job, danced at our wedding, and held our newborn babies.
 
This is why stories are so very important. It’s a chance to pass on our unspoken hopes and quiet turmoil. To expose our inner beauty and express our desire for the common threads cherished by humanity: overcoming our weaknesses, finding redemption, acceptance, and happily ever after. Our written thoughts still murmur after we are gone with each chapter whispering of our lives.
 
I just baked my sister’s favorite cookies, a tribute to her memory. I’ll take some out to the garden and enjoy the passing breeze, admire the birds, laugh at the chipmunks, and read my newest chapter aloud to her. I think she’d like that. Happy birthday, Sis.

I’ve long admired writers who are “plotters.” These brilliant minds outline every major aspect of their manuscript before writing the first paragraph. They flesh out characters in advance, know where to plant the twists and the turns, predetermine where their protagonist will fly and where she will fail, and even establish pacing based upon the number of pages in their yet-to-be-written manuscript. Impressive.
 
And then we have the “pantsers” who scurry forward, roughly jotting down scenes, clues, and characters based upon a vague idea without any clear notion of where it will all end. It just sort of happens.
 
I’m a pantser. I allow my imagination to take me down endless paths, whipping up characters and scenes as I move along, chasing after villains that I have yet to clearly define, and dropping clues all over the place, only to go back and retrieve those that really don’t matter. I love the freedom of writing as a pantser, but it invariably leads me to dead ends with no obvious way out. I admit that painting myself into a corner can be damned frustrating.
 
I carry a HUGE eraser, a bucketful of self-forgiveness, and incredible tenacity. When I find myself unable to move the plot forward, I take some time off, ruminate, and allow fresh solutions to blossom. Then I dive back in with more useful supportive cast members, fewer clues, a unique twist, and tighter pacing. I often surprise myself when the ending is far beyond what I imagined it might be and a much, much better read.
 
It takes a good deal of self-reflection and an awful lot of rewriting for me to finally pen an intriguing mystery, but I enjoy the learning process. I’m adapting, stretching my imagination, developing storytelling skills, adding intriguing layers to characters, and ultimately discovering better solutions. There is a profound sense of self-fulfillment found in the process of honing my craft, in developing my own creativity, and ultimately becoming a better writer.
 
I have to admit that for me, it’s all about the journey.
 

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.