I’m back. Barely.

August was a busy month. In case you’re wondering, I’ve sort of taken it on the chin, the whole audiobook thing (see last month’s rather lengthy Musings rant). Am I still angry? Sure. Rightly so, in my opinion. But maybe it’s an age thing. Eight thousand dollars is not “nothing” – by anyone’s estimation. It’s also not everything. In the long run, I’ve learned a valuable lesson or three from both his and my mistakes. There’s also the consideration of the untalented hack who “voiced” the partial book 1 – his reputation will, to whatever degree over whatever period of time, suffer from my feedback. I have a long memory. I also have the terrible audio files he sent me. I’m not afraid to use them.

Either way, time to move on.

It’s been probably two months since I started feeling antsy about writing the fifth book in my saga. There is this nagging, guilt-fused anxiety that grabs me by the throat, kicks me in my middle, and demands that I start writing. It sounds something like: “Writers write, you hack. What’s wrong with you? GET GOING!”

Too much time has passed since book 4, Hit Makers, was finished and released. I took a long time prepping for its August 26, 2023 release. Some of you may remember that it happened in conjunction with the re-release of the previous three books in the saga. Both 2022 and 2023 were uniquely frenetic years, professionally speaking.

By the end of 2022, I calculated that I’d edited/re-edited upwards of 600K words – plus whatever editing or consulting I’d done on certain books written by my close circle of contemporaries. My saga titles were changed. My covers were changed or created. The potential dangers that accompanied the writing of book 4 had taken a toll but were mostly behind me. For the most part, I tried to ignore them. I mean – surely no British villains would come after me for outing their real crimes in a fictional story, right? Not really, right? I mean, they knew. I’d talked to “their people” on more than one occasion. So, no surprises, right? So far, there haven’t been. That’s a good thing.

And then there was 2023. Getting the “final” files to editors, then publishers. Verifying that the uploads were accepted. Writing scripts, hiring voice actors, then creating the book trailers (I’m still behind on that front, though I’m quite proud of most of the ones on my YouTube channel – one still needs to be fixed). Making a zillion little teaser ads. The year 2023 was all about re-releases, releases, and marketing. Those efforts continued far into 2024, which by then also included dealing with the audiobooks fiasco.

Now, I can’t speak for other authors. I don’t know their processes. All I can say is that, for me, it’s very difficult to flip the switch on my “marketing mentality” to my more secluded, private “writing mode.” I attribute this slow change-back in perspective to why it was June of 2024 before that niggling sensation – that itch to create – started tugging at my brain and my fingers. By then, book 5 was already (mostly) outlined. All I needed was that interview of the criminal defense attorney in Florida. Alas, we know how that ended.

The rest of this year was fairly mapped out. I knew I had to go out of town to get some contracts signed for a new book I’m tackling (or is it tackling me?). Somewhere between the firing of my narrator and the trip north, I had intended to … relax? I don’t know. That word bothers me. I don’t relax. I’m not really a “relax-y” person. Perhaps it was me trying to prepare myself for something new – this temporary transition from novelist to true crime author. Like trying to get my mind to turn “off” what I might otherwise invent, in order to turn “on” that part of me that researches things into the ground in the name of accurate reporting. For that, I am well-suited. I research all the time for my fiction work. Constantly. In this, I will serve my new project well. But let’s not fool ourselves into calling the transition “relaxing.”

I started beefing up my reading and TV-watching time with various documentaries. Nothing new there, though I found myself concentrating afresh on the investigations rather than the murders. For a while, I felt like the transition was going well…

Until that damn scene got stuck in my head.

No spoilers here, but the first scene of book 5 takes place in a limousine. It’s vivid and specific. And I can’t get it out of my head. It’s like that song you find yourself playing on repeat until the obsession with it finally begins to fade. It’s that bad. So, I gave in. I started writing it.

Don’t you dare cheer me on, here. It’s not a good thing.

The long and the short of it is this: I began writing the scene. It’s probably halfway finished. I really love it. I shared it with one person. Now, I have to abandon it for who knows how long.

I’ve alluded to, but haven’t given a great deal of detail about, this true crime book I’m doing. It’s admittedly a departure for me. I’m a novelist. I write fiction. This is not a career change. It’s not a genre I want to stick with. All apologies to Ann Rule, but let’s be honest – my other two favorite true crime writers (Capote and McNamara) both wrote exceptional true crime books that will go down as some of the most accomplished and groundbreaking works in the genre. And both authors died addicted, their greatest accomplishments having so personally affected them that they were never the same.

I didn’t get that before yesterday. I do, now.

Last weekend, I hung out with a couple of women impacted by this crime I’m writing about. I needed to get the contracts signed, yes. It was long overdue. But the weekend was so much more than that. This means I’m already behind the professional curve of this thing, folks. I actually like these people. No – I love them. Truly, deeply, and with massive loyalty, I love them.

Each of the three nights I spent at one of their houses, I didn’t get to sleep before 3am. We never ran out of things to talk about. The crime. The families impacted. Our families as they are now. Good food (or my established inability to enjoy what “some” consider “good” food). Where we came from. Where we’re going. Side-splitting laughter that left us bereft of air in our lungs and, probably very soon, the need to consider Depends (age, ya know). Anticipation of the ugly days that will doubtless follow as I roll up my sleeves, poise my fingers over my keyboard, and start clacking away. Details of past abuse – theirs, mine. Everything. I spared them little. I read them the stream-of-consciousness Preface I’d written for the book, and warned there would be difficult questions asked of them in the coming days, weeks, months, and maybe years.

They withheld nothing.

Because I tend to gravitate toward mind games with myself, which seems to spring from my borderline OCD tendencies with regard to organization, I’d decided I’d start the research leg of this upcoming book on September 1^st. There was no rhyme or reason to that choice. Nothing pending or preventing me an immediate immersion into the bloody waters ahead. Just me doing what I do – this constant “gotta prepare” mindset that is, frankly, ridiculous. Instead, I started two days ago, while trying to locate a few main sources I would begin working on. My husband had left for work and would be gone a couple of days. The house was quiet. I could think. I could journey to that inlet where I would take the plunge.

The long and short of it? Despite knowing this case fairly well, despite having been very much involved with it at one point, I found myself not only learning new things, but also falling victim to that prickly foreboding that accompanies the drowning of oneself in a pool of facts surrounding blunt force trauma, stabbings, elusive perpetrators, and a million halfcocked theories. Shadows that rise as the sun sets. A slight pressure on the collar bones, or marble in your belly. The certain, impending doom that propels your seven-year-old to your bedside as she breathlessly alerts you to the fact that there’s a bogeyman under her bed.

I can’t explain why, a mere 48-hours into the beginning of this project, I am suddenly someone who not only locks their doors and windows, not only checks the alarm but double- and triple-checks everything before (finally) crawling into bed at night and pulling my 6-lb Chihuahua guard dog into my arms. I’ve ceased opening my windows to savor the cool evening breeze. The same breeze I’ve longed to enjoy with each sweltering summer day since June. “I hate artificial air! I can’t wait for cooler nights!” But that breeze is no longer welcome in my home on nights when my husband is away. I no longer trust it. It might not be alone.

Who knows how long this project will take. Will I ever open my windows again without a chaperone? As much as I’d like to share more, we’ve deemed it preferable to keep the details of this upcoming book under wraps. There are interested parties we’d rather not involve at this time. Soon, though, I’ll be able to share more. And I will. For now, there are thousands of websites, YouTube videos, case file documents, crime scene photos, and subject matter research tasks to work through. I’ve given no timeframe to the survivors as to how soon I think I’ll be able to get this done. But I’ve committed to work it exclusively until it’s finished.

So long, book 5. So long, breeze. Until we meet again…