At 50 mph the sign was a blur, the kind of thing that has you saying, “Did I see what I thought I just saw?”

I pulled over, laid on the brakes. Backed up. And yes, I’d gone to Hell. Or close to it. Or maybe to a one-way trap door leading directly downward, due south, bring your sunscreen and asbestos swimming trunks.

The sign is handpainted with some care. It is angled precisely so the arrow is parallel to the pole, making me think maybe it was screwed to the pole first and then painted. By whom? I don’t know. Why? I don’t know that either. I do know that I find it intriguing as, well, hell.

So is it the work of a very religious person? Well, maybe, but why nail the guidepost to a powerline pole on the edge of the woods in a forlorn stretch of road in central Maine? Why make it so small that it leads to more quizzical headshaking (what did that say?) than remorse? Is it a reminder that Hell is down there, as in right below us (there may be an express elevator) and you–yes, you– could be there faster than you can say Osama Bin Laden. (Do you think they have roommates in Hell? “Hi, I’m Osama. I didn’t catch your name.”)

I’m joking, of course, but it’s making me uneasy already. Because I’ve long thought that the world would be a better place if we thought there was a reckoning looming. That the Devil was absolutely real, not a Halloween costume. That in the end you don’t get away with anything.

The villains in my book might think twice before committing that crime. The murderers might not pull the trigger. The bad guys would know that even if Jack McMorrow or Brandon Blake didn’t nail their sorry butts to the wall, as evildoers they’d eventually be taking the express train to Hades.

Of course, as a crime writer dependent on people’s bad behavior, I’d be out of business. So I’m going to leave it at that. I do know that, if nothing else, I’ve found my next cover.

When I was in the newspaper columnist biz, all those years ago, every few weeks I’d empty the notebook. I still have notebooks (different ones). To my left is a table littered with them. They’re filled with plot notes, thoughts on characters, stuff I’ve seen in my travels. So here you go. … Three kestrels flew in front of me in  two days. Birds and animals  are hunting hard, babies in the den and nest. … Bass fisherman out on my lake on Saturday. Icy rain, gusting winds. Dedication. … I’m not a gun nut but shooting a .22 pistol last week taught me why they invented nine-milllimeters. … A Maine law enforcement officer went out of his way to answer my questions last week. Two and a half hours worth. Thanks, Sarge. … Just finished reviewing edits of PORT CITY BLACK AND WHITE. Editors are truly unsung heroes. Michael Steere at Down East Books somehow kept track of all those bad guys. … How ’bout those Red Sox! Really. … If I’m good in this life will I come back as Ray Allen? …

Rolled into the Mass Cruisers cruise night last week at Gillette Stadium in Foxboro. Beautiful cars. Nice guys. My pal Chuck B was chillin’ with the rest of the El Camino crew. …Woman I know is about to get galleys for her first book, a lovely memoir. Cloud nine. More on that later. … A phoebe is calling behind the barn. … Heard a  story about a very tame raven today. His name is Edgar. Smarter than your average bird. … If I hadn’t been a writer I would have been a field biologist. Or a cop. … The Long Island serial killer is not long for the outside world. … How many people have access to burlap sacks? … Another killer on the loose here in Maine, the Way Life Should Be. … Young woman missing from Portland, bones just found in field in Northport. … Detectives working it hard. … Reminded me of the beginning of LIFELINE. But that was only a story. … Until next time.

I had an interesting time at appearances this week, at the University of New England (solo) and the Maine Festival of the Book at the University of Southern Maine (with mystery writers Cornelia Read and Toby Ball). Cornelia and Toby were engaging, sincere, a lot of fun. I was the veteran of the group, which was I suppose I should get used to. But still, it gave me a moment of pause, kind of like when I got my first solicitation from AARP. Wait a minute. This is for old people!

Anyway, Cornelia and Toby had tales to tell. Cornelia told about her brief stint teaching in a school for emotionally disturbed teenagers, an evil place, she said, that she turned into her novel, The Crazy School. I started it last night. I’m hooked. Toby talked about conjuring up the 1930s city that is the setting for his thriller, The Vaults. I respect writers who can do period books and can create wholly imaginary places. I think I’d drown in the research but Toby, from what I can tell, has done it with aplomb.

And then there was the audience, good people, pumped about books, mystery novels, writing. Every once in a while it’s good to see a room full of readers, just to remind you that books aren’t dead, people still read and read a lot. They wanted to know about setting, plot, how to get an agent (the aspiring writers in the group), how you get published. One first-time novelist told me hadn’t read my books because she didn’t want to be influenced by anybody else’s writing. Fair enough. She left me with a notecard of carefully typed questions, to answer when I had a chance.I figure I’ll do that here on the blog because they’re good questions any new writer might ask.

I’ll leave you with this one: At the UNE event, I read a character sketch I’d done the previous night. It’s how I invent people, describing them, writing passages in their voice. Little or none of it makes it into a book, but it’s part of the process.

I read my sketch of a young woman I’m considering for a role in the next McMorrow, No. 10. Here’s a snippet of a sketch that goes on for two pages:

A plain girl, as her mother described her to her friends. IN her presence. Her mother was sort of pretty, especially when she had her face on. This young woman looked like her father. Blamed her mother for marrying him. Got divorced a year later. Jayde examined him in old snapshots. He stuck Jayde with his weak chin and his close-together eyes and his ears that stuck out. Except he had a beard and long hair and glasses that turned dark in the light so he looked really sketchy, which he was, but why did he have to advertise it?

I named this character Jayde. At the event, I asked what they thought of the name. Several young women shook there head and frowned. In unison. I said, well what would you call her? They said they’d think about it. They did. After the talk, a young woman came up. Somewhat shyly she told me she and her friends had talked about it. They agreed that Jayde wasn’t a Jayde. “Kim or Beth,” she said. The character would have a simple name. Her mother wouldn’t have come up with Jayde. Kim would fit her situation.

Interesting. In fact, I’m still wondering about it. What makes one name work and another ring hollow?

I have to run (much to do on this Monday) but it’s worth a post all it’s own, don’t you think? What’s in a name? I welcome your thoughts.

Proud to have Brendan Gleeson (In Bruges) playing me in the new Irish film  The Guard, a movie that I would love even if I weren’t so prominently featured. “At the center of it all is Garda Sergeant Gerry Boyle (Gleeson), who looks his role in life if anyone ever did. Corpulent, truculent, belligerent and impossible to read, Boyle paradoxically patrols the comparatively quiet Connemara but jumps right in when the rare murder occurs on his turf.”

Can’t wait.

Hey there. We’re psyched about Brandon Blake No 2, AKA Port City Deathtrap. In fact, we’re so psyched that we want to make sure you’ve read Brandon Blake No. 1. Port City Shakedown, so you’re ready.

So you haven’t read Port City Shakedown? No problem. Do two things. Put down a comment here and shoot me an e-mail before midnight EST, Wednesday, Dec. 22. We’ll do the random-pick thing and send the winner a signed, personalized hardcover of Brandon Blake No. 1. Read it and be ready. Or on second thought, make that two.

Blake as a young rookie cop. Blake bringing his baggage, hard-earned in PC No. 1. Blake knowing he’s going to do the right thing, no matter what, no matter who stands in his way. Blake up against some hard guys, and some not-so-hard guys who may be even badder.

Comment. E-mail. Brandon’s waiting.

A lot to be thankful for in this neck of the Maine woods, as someone very near and dear was in a serious car wreck the day after Thanksgiving. The kind where you see the car go by on a wrecker and you shake your head and say, How did anybody survive that?

In this case, the SUV spun on ice and snow, crossed the opposite lane, hit a rock wall head on at 40 mph, bounced back, rolled, and eventually came to rest on its side. The truck looks like it was dropped from an airplane. There was even a heart-stopping phone call: “This is Deputy …  of the Kennebec County Sheriff’s Department. May I speak to Gerald Boyle?”  But in the end the injuries were minor: two broken fingers and a very stiff neck.

I tell you this not just because it’s on my mind but because it has implications for my writing. It’s like this. Sometimes, mostly when I’m reading the newspapers,  I see life as one big minefield. Mudslides, floods, illness, forest fires, trucks flung off icy roads, wars, famine, packed ferries that sink in typhoons, random maniacs—there are countless ways for the plan we have so carefully devised for our time on earth to go terribly wrong. Not that the glass isn’t always half full.

So when you dodge one of the random bullets, or even the not so random ones, you have a responsibility to make everything you can of the gift that has just landed in your lap. In my case, in addition to keeping my good fortune first and foremost, I’m going to fling myself into my writing. It’s like you have to have something to show for the fact that the big boot in the sky stepped on the anthill next door and not on yours (why does that sound like a Travis McGee line?). Maybe this is some sort of survivor guilt. I’ll have to ask Clair. That’s a subject he knows well.

So what do I have to show? Well, these books are part of it so I’m pumped up. Rejuvenated (though I wasn’t really unjuvenated). Psyched. PORT CITY DEATHTRAP, Brandon Blake No. 2, is ready for the pre-publication pipeline. I’m very fired up for the next Jack McMorrow novel, NO. 10, and am planning the research. I’m looking forward to script notes from L.A. on an ongoing film project.

So it’s time to write, baby, write. And give thanks for all kinds of things. Family. Friends. The first snow of the year (well, maybe not this time).

And airbags.

Last but not least.