Tony Hillerman on writing

“Sitting at a computer is the place for taking a clunky sentence and smoothing it out, making it read better. I do some of my best writing in my head before I fall asleep for my afternoon nap. I recommend that!”

—Tony Hillerman, quoted in Tony Hillerman's Landscape by Anne Hillerman

Draft cover for Cobra

Here is a draft of a cover design for my mystery, Cobra. The clip-art snake image is copyrighted material I will purchase from ClipArtOf.com. The rest of the work is my own, using Paint Shop Pro X.

The story itself, which I'll self-publish, is a detective novel set in urban U.S. with flashbacks to Cambodia. Unlike my previous works, this one is serious.

So here's my question: Does the cover make you want to read the book? I'd really appreciate people's input either way. If anything in the design doesn't work for you, please tell me. Thanks!

The worst typo ever?

The Red Room asked readers about the worst typo they've ever seen. In the early '70s I wrote for a local weekly newspaper. On one fateful deadline night, a reporter (not yours truly) wrote his account of a planning board meeting, and the editor rushed it through to print without giving it much of a look. But the reporter had embedded a parenthetical note to the editor, not meant for publication, mentioning a member of the public who'd attended the meeting. The gist was that the gentleman, who was named, was a loudmouth, a fool, and the town drunk. Naturally, the article was published with the private note intact, and it caused quite a commotion. The way I heard about it later, the newspaper's owner privately apologized to the man, who in turn acknowledged the basic truth of the article as printed.

Defining the border

Gene Keller, the speaker at today's El Paso Writers' League meeting, gave us a 15-minute writing exercise to "define the border." Since El Paso is flush against the U.S. Mexican border, that's the one he meant and the one we wrote about. Here is my effort:

The border is a line we've agreed upon—a river, a wall, a treaty. Land that once was theirs but now is ours, and they had better not show up without their papers.

It's a line between us and them—our language and theirs. Our money and their drugs; our guns and their crime. It's a line we cross every day, enjoying the benefits of each others' culture. It's a line that once kept shifting but now is fixed in the ground. It's a line that is both distinct and blurred.

Writing book reviews

I'm working my way through Barnaby Rogerson's The Last Crusaders, about the century-long clash between Christendom and Islam that lasted into the 16th century. My assignment is to review it for the February issue of the Internet Review of Books, so I need to finish soon, even though it's not a speedy read. When I come across a passage that might be worth referring to, I write the page number and the first few words of a sentence on a piece of paper. When I've finished reading the book, I'll open a Word file and start writing notes--initial impressions, then perhaps quotes or ideas from the list I've compiled. That's generally enough to get me started on writing the review.

That sounds straightforward enough, but what do others do? If you write book reviews, how do you approach the task?

A book unfit for review?

A book reviewer I know recently refused to review a self-published book on the grounds that it was so sloppily written and edited. The book review editor tactfully explained to the author that the reviewer preferred not reviewing it at all to writing a scathing review.

The author blithely responded that since his manuscript had been edited by an English teacher and a grammar-checking program, he felt perfectly comfortable with the book the way it was, and that the reviewer must simply be judging by her own unique standards that were of no concern to the author.

I haven't seen the book in question, but it's hard to imagine a writer with such a cavalier attitude having any success.

Gringos in Mazatlán

Here in Mazatlán we are yards away from both a busy street and the ocean. As I listen to the mixture of sounds, I sometimes find it hard to distinguish between traffic and surf. Perhaps two-thirds of the RVs here in Mar Rosa RV Park are from Canada, including every U.S.-bordering province except for the Maritimes. License plates abound from British Columbia, and these people are here for multi-month stays. With the exception of someone from Ohio, the U.S. visitors are all from west of the Mississippi.

If you can tear yourself away from the lovely beach, getting around the city is easy and inexpensive. Yesterday we rode a bus into downtown for nine pesos each, which amounts to a little over a half dollar. The bus had a hand-printed destination on its cracked windshield, and a little girl who was maybe four or five years old sat on the driver's knee. Bring Your Daughter to Work Day, I suppose.

We rode a pulmonia to an indoor shopping area with dozens of vendors selling clothing, arts, crafts, food, and such. Vendors tend be assertive and friendly, and to an extent you can haggle on prices. Nancy and I must have Gringo emblazoned on our foreheads, because the vendors immediately try out their English on us. For regular shopping, the big chains like Wal-Mart and Sam's Club stand ready to take your pesos. We've been buying groceries at a nearby Mega super market, which is as modern and well-stocked as any in the States.

One night this week we attended an excellent flamenco performance in the historical part of the city. You can see a YouTube video of the dance troupe on their website.

Mexico trip, day 7: Celestino Gasca

Empty beach, Celestino Gasca

At 4 p.m. I walked the long beach at Celestino Gasca and looked around to find that I was the only person in sight. The water is warm, and young men swim out beyond the surf with flippers and mesh-covered inner tubes, apparently diving for oysters. We’re in a tiny RV park built for eight occupants, with a couple of small buildings, a pool that I’m told is called an “infinity pool,” and some colorful flowers. Oddly, at least to me, two sides of the property are fenced off with chain link and barbed wire, even though any unlikely trespassers could easily walk around it. Near the pool is a covered patio area for lounging and dining; they serve excellent seafood dishes.

As nice as this place is, it’s not near anything else as far as I can tell. I’m eager to move on to Mazatlán and, I hope, leave the sand fleas and godawful Internet connection behind.

By the way, my experience so far is that a great many places accept only cash instead of credit cards. That seems to go for gasoline, RV fees, and many restaurants, although my Visa worked for a couple of lunches.

Mexico trip, day 6: Celestino Gasca

RV park at Celestino Gasca,

on Mexico's west coast

Yesterday was no more than an overnight stay in Los Mochis, a good-sized city with just one RV park. Roosters do live there, and the place lived down to our expectations in every way.

Today we stopped at Celestino Gasca, an hour outside of Mazatlán, where we plan to stay a couple of nights. The beach on the Pacific Ocean is utterly gorgeous here, and the place advertised free Internet. That turns out to mean that they have one 3G modem that they lend out on request. I have it now and can’t get it to work. Maybe the owner will help me out tomorrow, or maybe I will be posting this from Mazatlán.

The highway through Los Mochis and Culiacán is mostly a four-lane, divided road that’s in good shape. We passed any number of cornfields and tomato plantings, with mountains in the distance. We crossed from the state of Sonora into Sinaloa, which sports a license plate with a bright red tomato. At one rest stop a fellow approached me, holding up a plastic bag with what looked like garbage in it. I thought he was trying to sell it to me, so I gave him a couple of pesos and waved him off.

Our RV park is small, with perhaps a half dozen RVs here now. Two are from British Columbia and one is from Saskatchewan, all retirees here for extended winter stays. One of the Canadian women had a deep bronze sun tan making her look like a roasted chicken. She also had a big smile as she sat back into her lawn chair to soak up more bright afternoon sun. It seems that Canadians are less spooked by news accounts of Mexican crime than Americans are.

Mexico trip, day 4

We're staying in San Carlos an extra night and leave for Los Mochis, Sinaloa, tomorrow. Our friends tell us not to expect television or Internet there, but we'll have electricity and probably water and roosters. So Thursday will be a day off from email and blogging. Then Friday we'll skirt Culiacán and arrive in Mazatlán, our primary destination. Whenever I find a decent Internet connection, I will upload more photos.

Everything is quiet here in San Carlos, except for the John Deere power shovel chugging and banging almost next door. We see American and Canadian tourists here and there, but the beaches are almost empty except for gulls and pelicans. It feels abnormal for such a nice area.

Meanwhile, our son arrived safely in San Francisco to start his new software job this week.

Mexico trip, day 3

This is one of the worst Internet connections we've come across in a while. Lots of time to daydream and chat while mysterious cyber forces do their slow dance. Aren't electrons supposed to be, like, fast? And the pix aren't loading. Oh, here we go:

Our day here in San Carlos got off to an inauspicious start, as we had little cash, our debit card wouldn't work, and not many places seem to take credit cards. It took us a good deal of the morning to straighten matters out with our bank back in Las Cruces—they had blocked use of the card as a security measure since attempted transactions started happening in Mexico. They told us we should have let them know our travel plans in advance. One fellow RVer told us he advises his bank anytime he's going to travel out of his home state. So Nancy and I stewed a lot, but all was well by noon.

Next door to our RV park, heavy equipment is loudly at work at 8:30 p.m. Apparently a recent hurricane destroyed a bridge so that the road ends suddenly, no doubt harming a lot of businesses. Now there is a giant hole where a steam shovel works on the once and future bridge.

We haven't seen much of San Carlos, but the beach is the big draw anyway. Temps are in the 70s and the water is pleasantly cool to wade in.

Mexico trip, days 1-2

Our first day was okay but not notable. We stopped for the night north of Tubac, Arizona, and will write no epic ballads about it.

Today we drove from Amado, Arizona, roughly 300 miles to San Carlos, Sonora today and arrived tired, cranky, and unfit to be near. It was a long drive down Mexico Route 15, following our friends in their RV--not bad except for the narrow driving lanes. We were on a four-lane divided highway, but the lanes seemed barely wide enough for the trucks and buses that frequently blew by us in the passing lane. Really the driving felt safe except when I'd get tired and bored. We'd bought a walkie-talkie to communicate with our friends, who took the lead because they knew what they were doing. Notable are the topes, or speed bumps, for which signs give ample warning. We went over the first one carefully, but it turned out to be the mujer de todos topes--the mother of all speed bumps, and everything fell out of our cabinets, including a bottle of olive oil. (Tip: Would you like your floors to be shiny and slippery? Coat them with olive oil.)

On a couple of stops we learned that our debit card doesn't work down here--argh--and we have to resolve that pdq. It could be a security measure, as we live near the border and perhaps the assumption is that the card could have been stolen and smuggled across the border. We'll call the bank tomorrow and hope we can straighten things out. Also, we were surprised to find that so few places accepted credit cards.

By the time we arrived in San Carlos, Nancy and I were pretty much at each other's throats--you can get away with that when you've been married as long as we have--but our friends suggested we all hie ourselves over to the next-door restaurant where they offered a free margarita to each RV customer. The first one was good, so I ordered a second, which for some reason filled up a much bigger glass. Well, let me tell you, it figuratively knocked me on my butt. A couple hours and a plancha mexicana (flounder dinner) later, I am still a few degrees off level. But it was just a minute's walk back to the RV, and the restaurant accepted my Visa card, so all's well.

We are yards from the ocean and arrived too late for me to take photos--and I was in no mood anyway--but we'll be staying here at least another night, so I will have pix to post tomorrow. The coast is gorgeous.

Writing and travel in 2010

Our Bengal cat George seems to be doing well on his beta blocker, a tiny 6.25 mg pill fragment that if it fell on the floor we might never see again. We delayed our Mexico trip so he can have a Saturday morning follow-up at the vet, and then barring anything unexpected, we will head off on our trip on Sunday. Our first stop will be Nogales, Arizona, so we will cross the border on Monday. As everyone knows, there is a certain amount of mayhem down there, but none of it—knock on wood—seems aimed at tourists. Still, we'll be careful. The road to Mazatlán is a straight shot from the border.

While we're there, I'll be working on one of my 2010 goals of losing 33 pounds by my birthday in October. As for writing-related goals, those for once are easy to define and should be straightforward to keep. Long ago I set a goal of getting a particular novel published by a certain date, which quickly taught me never to set a goal where I can't control the outcome. So my goals include writing and submitting material for publication, editing and publishing a couple of writing club chapbooks, and maintaining the Internet Review of Books website. Oh, and I may decide to self-publish one of my old novels as an e-book.

What are your plans for the new year? Do you find it hard to stick with your annual goals?

A hopeful prognosis for George

George, doing what he does best

We learned today that our five-year-old Bengal cat George has a defective mitral valve and hypertrophic obstructive cardiomyopathy, which the vet tells us will shorten his life. Lately George has had a few seizures and lacks the energy he used to have, when no shelf was too high, no breakable item quite safe from a swat of his paw. He'll be going on a beta blocker, and his prognosis is "fair to good." Many cats survive only months with symptoms like his. We're hoping for him to have the best outcome possible.

We've been speculating that his life span may be shorter than his twin sister Gracie's, but we will be grateful for whatever time we have with him. Even without his full former spunk, he's a joy.

Getting ready for Mazatlán

We're preparing to leave for a month-long RV trip to Mazatlán on January 1. Today we drove with our friends to the Mexican side of the Santa Teresa border entry to get visas. We're confident we'll be safe because our friends are going with us and have made the trip a number of times. In fact, they've lived in Mexico. So we were all mildly surprised when a woman in line for a visa warned us what not to do when we're on the road: don't pick up anyone, don't talk to strangers, don't leave the vehicle unattended, and at gas stations just pay for your gas and leave. Some of that is common sense; we don't intend to pick up anyone, for example. On the other hand, we aren't going to live in fear. The highway from the U.S. border to Mazatlan is apparently a straight shot, so we aren't worried about getting lost.

Last night our friends called an RV park in Mazatlán and were told we'd have no trouble staying at their park. Skittishness of tourists is one reason they gave, but they said the overall economy is the main problem. In any case it has security, has wi-fi, and is right by the beach. That way I'll be able to get sand in my toes, drink cerveza, maintain the Internet Review of Books website, and write blog entries accompanied by lots of photos.

Mexico is a beautiful country wracked in places by violence. Mazatlan itself is said to be safe for tourists; as with any big city, there doubtless are neighborhoods where strangers shouldn't go. But our friends, who've been there, tell us we'll get everywhere we want to go by bus or taxi.

An uncommon snowfall

Organ Mountains near Baylor Canyon Road,

Las Cruces, New Mexico

Over the past weekend, a storm moved in and delivered two days of rain—not a deluge, but steady. Our Chihuahua Desert climate typically sees scattered rain, if any at all, between July and September, so our most recent storm was a surprise. As a transplanted New Englander, I listened with excitement as the El Paso weatherman predicted that the clouds would deliver one to three inches of snow in the region before disappearing.

I'm happy to write that the snow fell in the relative lowlands of Las Cruces, lasted long enough to titillate us, then promptly melted. Even the Robledos and Doña Ana Mountains were bare. But the Organ Mountains dominate our city's skyline, and they looked as though they wore a coating of confectioners' sugar. It might not happen again for years.

A view from Baylor Canyon Road

So Nancy and I set out for an afternoon drive up Route 70 to the San Augustin Pass (elevation 5719 feet), which leads to the White Sands Missile Range. From there we doubled back to the city side of the mountains and followed Baylor Canyon Road.

It probably won't last on the mountains but another couple of days. Snowmelt is already trickling in rivulets and will soon rush in sheets, watering the cactus, the creosote, and the grama grass. It will find its way into the arroyos and into the Rio Grande, and whatever people don't take out will either evaporate or flow to the Gulf.

Baylor Canyon Road parallels the Organ Mountains.

The White Sands Missile Range is on the other side.

When Pigs Fly gets its butt kicked

Here is the latest review (ForeWord Clarion Review) of When Pigs Fly, and it's hardly kind. The writer's main point is that he hates my humor. Even his compliment about my storytelling is framed as a slap in the face. Mainly, though, Diet Cola is pissed off. He worked so hard to be an asshole in that story, and all the reviewer can focus on is what he drinks.

The review came through iUniverse, and they offered me the option to kill it. I told them heck no. Let it run.

When Pigs Fly
Bob Sanchez
iUniverse
290 pages
Softcover $17.95
978-1-9352-7866-5
Two Stars (out of Five)

“George Ashe sat in the passenger seat, inside the ceramic urn still protected by the FedEx box,” Bob Sanchez writes in a line that is typical of the humor in his latest novel. When Pigs Fly tells the story of Mack Durgin, a former police officer from Massachusetts, who has settled into retirement in Arizona only to be sucked into the biggest crime caper he’s ever seen.

Sanchez’s plot sounds original, but the novel reads like a watered down version of a Coen brothers’ script. First, there’s the compelling protagonist who wants nothing more than to settle down and enjoy some peace and quiet. Of course that can’t happen, because a box arrives with his friend’s ashes contained in an urn inside, and Mack knows that he has to fulfill a promise. The fulfillment of that promise becomes a harrowing task that involves over-the-top, one-dimensional characters like “Diet Cola”—an ex-con with a craving for calorie-free soft drinks—and an Elvis impersonator who is actually named Elvis.

Mack sets out to spread George Ashe’s ashes over the Grand Canyon. Along the way, he’s pursued by a variety of oddball characters who want to get their hands on another item contained inside the urn. This twist provides the hook that propels the tale forward.

Sanchez’s humor falls flat from the beginning because the novel seems to be trying too hard to be something that it isn’t. The characters are clichés that readers will have a hard time taking seriously. There are bad one-liners (“We’re not in Kansas anymore Dodo”) and downright shameless gags such as an Elvis impersonator getting stabbed in the eye with a tampon. Additionally, Sanchez contradicts himself often by making a point, then immediately overruling himself, as in this line: “Too bad tires were so hard to shoplift, or Ace could pick up some nice radials Stealing tires was always possible but it was tough getting them installed.” Statements like these lead readers to question the tale as a whole.

The real shame, however, is that Sanchez is actually a good storyteller when he puts his mind to it. The narrative flows well and actually captivates at times, but sadly, his writing skills are overshadowed by silly character names and lackluster dialogue.

Even in the craziest of crime capers, readers must be able to identify with the characters and believe that, as strange as the story is, it could actually happen. When Pigs Fly does not succeed in this.

Liam Brennan

Turkey Day in the Southwest

A short Thanksgiving essay of mine has just appeared in the newsletter of The California Writers's Club (West Valley Branch), thanks to their editor, Kathy Highcove. You'll need to scroll down to page 11 of the PDF, where I am honored to have space next to Alice Folkart's essay. Here it is:

Turkey Day in the Southwest

By Bob Sanchez

Kathy Highcove recently asked me to write about food for your Thanksgiving issue, and she could have picked no one more qualified. Indeed I have consumed food my entire life, and for virtually every reason one can imagine: hunger, consolation, gluttony, boredom, celebration, love, parental threats, desire to please, and the time of day, to name but a few.

Thanksgiving gives us one more reason to tie on the bib. It’s that wonderful day when we give thanks for football and our God-given freedom to overeat. In 1950s New England, we’d go to a high-school football game that Thursday morning and return home to the aroma of the baked turkey and mince pie that Mom was just pulling out of the oven. She’d make the piecrust with lard and the gravy with bird grease. Clogged arteries were a thing of the future—the near future, as it turned out.

When we sat down at the table, Dad led us in a swift and perfunctory Bless us oh Lord for all those delights we really took for granted. Critical questions followed: White meat or dark? (Always white for me.) More stuffing? (Yes, please.) Cranberries? (Yes, please.) Lakes of gravy filled the craters in the mashed potatoes, while salt and pepper rained over all. At one such meal I politely asked my brother’s girlfriend to “please piss the butter,” causing everyone but Mom and me to get up from the table, choking with laughter. Mom glowered and said nothing.

We didn’t know the word tryptophan back then, but we felt its effect as the afternoon wore on. Then in the days after Thanksgiving we’d pick away at the turkey’s carcass until there was nothing left of that poor bird but the bones and a plaintive gobble.

Half a century has passed, and now my wife and I live in New Mexico, where the official state question is “Red or green?” referring to one’s preference in chile colors. Our holidays have been drained of most of the fat except what we carry around on our persons, but otherwise we still have turkey on Turkey Day. So when my online friend Miz Highcove said, “Hey Bob, what’s a Hispanic Thanksgiving like?” I was briefly stumped because I’m not Hispanic (long story short: Papa Sanchez was from British Honduras and swore allegiance to King George).

So I delved into research for a few minutes, and it turns out that Southwest holiday fare isn’t much different from what you might expect: mix a bit of chile into the stuffing and go easy on the Pilgrim references, and you’re pretty much there. Several Web sources (and you know how authoritative they are), say that the real first Thanksgiving was celebrated near El Paso—therefore, near me—by a conquistador in 1598. Take that, Plimoth Plantation.

Of course, some original research was necessary, so we went out to eat. A Hispanic waitress told me that on Thanksgiving she likes to serve her family cornbread muffins made with chopped jalapeño, which sounds delicious to me. Finally, a Google search turned up such worthy suggestions as mixing spicy chorizo into the stuffing and combining a sweet and sour chile sauce with a cranberry base. So with a little Googling, you can easily add a Southwestern flair to your Thanksgiving meal.

Just keep an eye on the butter.

Bob Sanchez is an ex-New Englander living in Las Cruces, New Mexico, where he’s webmaster of The Internet Review of Books. In the past, he’s been a technical writer and a few other things he’d rather not talk about. You might find his blog interesting and his novels amusing. They are When Pigs Fly and Getting Lucky.

Nothing That Needed Eyes (Flash Fiction)

Here's a short piece I wrote for my writing group's chapbook.

Nothing That Needed Eyes

No good would come from disturbing this old house, I thought, applying my crowbar to an ancient oak plank. Still, there could be money squirreled away somewhere in this mess. Rusty nails creaked and snapped; the board popped up to expose a shallow dirt cellar crawling with centipedes and roaches.

Nellie Westhaver had lived here alone, at first pitied and then ignored by the townsfolk for the shiftless husband who had held lots of odd jobs and fast women until he and some mini-skirted trash named Luann disappeared for good and good riddance, probably on the Greyhound to Boston. He’d left his rattletrap Buick behind, but Nellie didn’t drive.

I’d recently spent ten years’ worth of medium security in Walpole and didn’t have a dime left to my name. Crazy Nellie had been my next-door neighbor, the type who never answers the door, fills every room with newspapers going back to Genesis, and lets you know she’s dead when she starts to smell. The house dated back to Revolutionary times, with its low ceilings and stone fireplaces in every room and not a single wall or doorway plumb or true. Not having many job prospects as an ex-con, I decided to see if the old bat had hidden any cash.

The stench had finally told her fate last week—masked EMTs carried her body out feet first on a stretcher, and police closed and padlocked the door. Already I hear Seven-Eleven wants to buy the lot.

Evidently, someone had made half an effort to tame the terrible odor, but the place still smelled like air freshener overpowered by death. Rot gnawed at the wood while mold spores and silence filled the air. Old Look magazines and Lowell Sun newspapers sat in dusty stacks. A small TV with rabbit ears looked like it hadn’t been used since Lawrence Welk died. At the window, a fly struggled in a spider web as a daddy-longlegs sidled up to suck out its juices. I knew how the fly felt, an inmate at the mercy of a sadistic prison guard.

Home improvement for this house would have to start with a match, but I’d never torch it because I’d be the number one suspect. This was the first place I’d ever broken into, the first place I’d ever been arrested, back in my juvie days when Nellie and Ashton still held backyard cookouts and enjoyed sipping martinis and electrocuting moths with their luminescent bug zappers.

Nellie’s bed smelled about right for her having died in it. I felt in the stained pillows and covers for hidden cash, knowing perfectly well some cop would already have checked all those obvious places and pocketed the prize. Cabinets and closets and dressers turned up the usual jetsam floating in a sea of dust bunnies as Nellie sailed on to her next life.

I pushed the queen-sized bed aside to rummage through the tattered cardboard boxes underneath and found old letters and bills, a broken telephone, stained Melamine plates, nothing even fit for a yard sale. If this house had anything less than ten years old or worth more than five dollars, I’d have been shocked. Frustrated, I kicked a box. There was no point in looking any more—but wait, this was odd. Several floor boards looked lighter and newer than the rest: pine surrounded by oak, galvanized nails bent but not rusted, hammer-head impressions in the soft wood suggesting slapdash carpentry.

Eagerly I pried another board and looked into the darkness. Some godforsaken life form squeaked and scurried away. I turned my flashlight on a pea-green Army blanket, and a thousand miserable bugs scattered in all directions. Only a fool would disturb that filthy piece of trash, but I was a plain and simple fool.

I went to a closet and found a wire coat hanger that I used to fashion a hook. I tried to catch one edge of the blanket, but the hanger slipped out of my hands and out of reach. Disgusted, I lay on the floor and reached down to pull away the blanket.

A sudden visit from the police couldn’t have brought me closer to cardiac arrest. I didn’t care anymore about money.

A pair of skeletons in rotted clothing lay one on top of the other. A hatchet rested inside the skull it had shattered down the middle. Toadstools grew out of both eye sockets—but there was nothing here that needed eyes.

Focus, lad

The last few days have been characterized by my trademarked lack of focus, resulting in much frustration. Yesterday I spent hours trying to create a dynamic HTML menu for the Internet Review of Books's Archive section. It's hard, but it's possible. I have done them before. Does the web site need it? No. Are there more important things to do? Yes.

Then there is the book I promised to review for October that makes me want to beg for mercy. It's 400 pages (300 to go!) of excessive detail on—on—what’s the topic again? My pattern lately has been to pick up the book, read a couple of pages, despair at how many are left to go, then close the book and turn on my Kindle, where James Lee Burke and Tin Roof Blowdown await. But while murder in the bayou is more interesting, it inspires a degree of guilt that I'm getting nothing constructive done. So after a while I'll lift dumbbells or check my email or Google Janelle Moloney because she has the cutest damn smile on West Wing. Recently I interrupted my work to make a list of commitments I should try to get out of in the next year so there'll be more time to write. That list is around somewhere, and I should really stop writing and find it.

One thing worth dropping is Twitter. Yes, it probably has value, but it also sucks up a disproportionate amount of time. My Twitter friend list, or whatever it's called, is up around 750. I'd tweet now and then, always linking to my blog, but who is really paying any attention? The friend invitations would come in, and I'd always click the link to see if they looked legit. If so, we became friends. If not, I deleted the invitation. Each time was an interruption of a couple of minutes in my day, and they added up.

There's more to say, but first I have to check my email.