Driving rain  but still a good morning to take the boat out on the lake. Two loons drifted in the cove. Otherwise deserted. Sometimes it’s good to be alone out there.

Reminds me a story one of the old-timers in my town told me. Bill used to lobster and crab on the mid-coast before he was called away from Maine by World War II. One day he stopped me at the Post Office, settled in for a chat. I told him we’d been down to East Penobscot Bay, stopped at Butter Island. Bill knew Butter Island and every ledge from Deer Isle to Owls Head. He leaned close and said,

“They talk about fog but you know what’s worse than fog?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Fog at night?’

“Fog never bothered me,” Bill said.  “Only thing bothered me is snow.”

“Snow,” I said.

“Because in the snow you can’t hear a thing. Bells, waves breaking on a ledge. You can hear in the fog. Fog is nothin’.”

So that’s today’s news from my neck of the woods. Still making the rounds with DAMAGED GOODS (schedule of stops on events page). Some readers have been good enough to let me know how much they’ve enjoyed it. If you have, please pass the word along. I can talk about books, Down East Books can do its publicity thing. But nothing gets the word out like the recommendation of a trusted friend.

Working away at Brandon Blake No. 2., working title, PORT CITY BLACK AND WHITE. (reference to Brandon’s world view in which there is right and there is wrong and never the twain shall meet.)

Drop a line if you have a moment. Always good to hear from you and I’ll add you to the list for news and updates.

So a couple of days ago I’m going through my morning routine: up by 6, on with the boots, out to the box at the end of the driveway for the newspaper, the Morning Sentinel. Back inside, put the kettle on for tea, pour juice, make toast. Get everything all set, open the paper. I start reading, and there are Joel and Kelvin.
The two petty thieves and schemers who decide to go big time in PORT CITY SHAKEDOWN are staring off the page at me. Whoah, I say.

In real life, Jason B. and Jean B. were alleged to have been doing the old tree trimming/paving scam, roaming around Maine and New Hampshire looking for old people to rip off. The D.A. for our area, Evert Fowle, said Jean had a long record: “pending theft and forgery charges; probation for aggravated criminal mischief, eluding an officer and operating under the influence; and probation in New Hampshire for numerous traffic violations, OUI and operating after suspension.”

Jean and Jason meet Joel and Kelvin. Joel and Kelvin meet Jean and Jason. “Hey, wait a minute. Weren’t you guys in Cumberland County Jail in 07? Hell, yeah. I thought you looked freakin’ familiar.”

If art and life really could meet, these guys would probably team up. Except my fictional buddy Joel would be saying, “Driveways? You still doing driveways? Dude, that’s pathetic. PA-THE-TIC. You want to bring in some dinero, you gotta think big. Me and Kelvin, we ain’t done the driveway scam in freakin’, what, Kel, coupla years? Freakin’ old people, looking at you through the screen door through their thick glasses. ‘What? What you say? Your driveway, lady. It needs resealing? I said, RESEALING!’ Screw that. I’m gonna put myself out, I’m gonna make some serious cash.”

Well, that’s Joel, doing all the thinking, Kelvin doing the heavy work. I peg Jason for Joel, Jean for Kelvin. It’s funny, though. When this happens, when the characters seem to step off the page and literally come to life, you feel like these real-life guys should know. Hey, buddy. I invented you way back. I mean, is this life imitating art or what?

I was reading about this today, on some cop blog site where a highway patrolman in Florida was wondering about whether there were headlights that would let him see better when he was going 125 in a high speed chase. Another cop says, you’re driving over your headlights.

Exactly, I think. I’m a writer. I know.

Driving over your headlights means you’re going faster than the illuminated distance in front of you that allows you to react. In other words, you’re moving faster than you can see things coming.

I just had that feeling this week, sitting at my desk. I was flying, barely in control. I leaned back and let off the gas.

I’m writing Brandon Blake No. 2. Working title: Port City Underground. And in a week or so, I wrote 50  pages very quickly. A first draft, but most of it definitely a keeper. But then I hit a point in this high-speed chase where I was going faster than my headlights. I didn’t know where I was going. I couldn’t see the curves coming, the deer about to leap from the woods into my path. And I felt like I was heading for a stretch of black ice.

This is part of the writing process, at least for me (every writer is different). I write scenes quickly, chapters quickly. Dialogue comes as fast as I can type. I always say that when dialogue is going well, it’s like  TV. The characters chatter away and you’re just sitting there watching.

But the dialogue ends and then you come up for air. You look around and say, that was interesting. But where are we? That’s where I am with this book. Time to take a step back, look at Brandon and Mia, where they are now, where they’re headed. What is the route that will take them to the waypoints along the way?  As they say in Maine (sort of), how do you get there from here? So when I step back on the writing gas and the book starts to roar off down the road, I’m at the wheel and I know where we’re going.