In response to several emails noting that I haven't posted since August 17 and asking if turning 70 was too much for me:
See that subheading (or, in newspaper jargon, a readout) up there? The one that says "When writer's block strikes a poor but honest mystery author"? That's the reason. Or, rather, its absence is the reason.
Somehow, ten days ago I became completely unblocked, as if I had taken a megadose of Ex-Lax for the brain. What followed was an enormus bolus of creativity (at least for me). Now the manuscript of Hang Fire has reached 256 pages and its penultimate chapter (the one with the usual climactic shootout in the woods), and it appears that the first draft of this project will be completed before Labor Day.
When I'm cookin,' I'm not bloggin.' That's all it is. Turning 70 had nothing to do with it. Or maybe it did. Maybe the event stirred deep down the realization that I had better get this fourth Steve Martinez mystery finished before I lost my teeth and all my marbles fell out and rolled under the bed.
See you later, sometime.