It’s Hot August nights here in Nevada. And while I’m not into cars, per se, I can definitely attest to the heat! Presently, I’m experiencing an unusual sense of calm and simultaneous anticipation.

In July, I officially became an orphan, as my second parent in a year shook off their mortal coil. As many do, I had a complicated relationship with my mother. There’s no reason to bring this up on my blog, to be honest. My only purpose for doing so is to acknowledge the strange byproduct that accompanied her passing.

A couple of years or so ago, while preparing to commence with my den-burrowing ritual when writing a new book (in that case, Hit Men, book 4 in my saga), I found myself preoccupied with a sense of dread. Something I couldn’t label but couldn’t shake. When I finally realized what it was, I feared my writing career had reached an abrupt end.

Inside, I felt as if I’d expired. I couldn’t feel a thing.

While I can’t vouch for anyone else, for me, writing a high-drama literary saga with dozens of complex characters requires my ability to step into their shoes—to go through what they go through, especially their often-intense feelings. All the drama. Sorrow. Longing. Fear. Rage. Obsession. Determination. Even though I’ve only once intervened and changed a character’s intended course of action (couldn’t have Chris going to jail for murder, now, could I?), I’ve felt the syncopated rhythms of their hearts. Maybe it’s just the saga. Maybe not. Maybe it’s my process as a writer. Who knows?

In any case, just before sitting down to write Hit Men, I was struck with the absence of an ability to feel deep emotions. Or any emotions at all―well, other than panic. I felt panic just fine. But panic wouldn’t see me through a multilayered book outlining the origins of my characters, or set up book 5 when the time came to leap forward several decades to continue their journey. So, what was a girl to do?

The lengths I went to in order to “unwedge” me from my Winnie-the-Pooh-type predicament put areas of my personal life at risk. I needed something significant to eject me from the hole in which I was stuck. Fortunately, I came out on the other side relatively unscathed (and to this day, only a handful of trusted friends know those details). It was extreme. Unwise. But it worked.

Now, with the upcoming true crime book, I’m in a similar place. Finishing the initial draft took more out of me than I’d anticipated. It thrust me back in time to my childhood homes, caused me to reconnect with childhood friends, made me peek behind curtains better left drawn, and placed me (and others) at risk. In previous blog posts, I’ve touched on these things a good bit. The virtual nervous breakdown I had after its completion. The subsequent revelations I and my executive research assistant uncovered, etc. I’ve been candid about my struggle to get back on the keyboard, so to speak.

Because, once again, I feel nothing.

Nonfiction authors typically take years to study and research their topics. Personally, I had to revisit my involvement in the Keddie Murders over two decades ago while working on the first documentary made on the crimes. I had to relearn things I’d forgotten when I left the production a year or two in, then get up to speed on revelations I wasn’t privy to at the time. Conspiracy theories (and theorists), evidence I’d not seen, documents held by some but not accessible to others (namely, me). A hostile law enforcement regime. Uncomfortable interviews. It was a whirlwind trying to get the facts-facts-facts down. Worse, I’d set myself a very unrealistic deadline which, as anyone who follows my blog knows, went unmet.

I became obsessed with footnotes, as I considered myself out of my depth when it came to topics about which I needed to write with authority. History. Forensics (far more intricate than needed in my saga). Psychology. Childhood trauma. Criminal profiling. The whole nine. “What if someone reads this and finds my work unreliable or juvenile?” I’d convinced myself that a novelist taking on a case of this magnitude would be dismissed outright as a hack. So, I footnoted every source I used…and I used many.

This is a small glimpse into the last two years of my life. But aside from the actual biographies of the four victims and their families, there wasn’t much personal emotion involved. Just facts, statistics, places, etc. I likened it to being a journalist. The kind I’d read about from the perspective of Stephen King in a Writers Digest article he’d penned back in the late ’90s. Who-what-where-when-why-how. That’s it. No filler. Just the facts, ma’am!

When the final line was typed out, I knew two things: one, I’d touched on almost every meaningful angle of the crime (thus, accomplishing my mission); and two, I’d left every ounce of me on those pages.

The misstep, which I’ve written about in past blog posts, was not taking time to decompress before beginning the editing phase. But on the other side of that eventual hiatus, I began worrying. Something was wrong, or missing, from my initial draft. Something more than the fact that it was longer than it needed to be, or that it reads like a giant disclaimer (per one of my editors).

Fortunately, the literary vacay helped me identify ways I could tighten and make it read more like other true crime books. It also helped me realize that the one thing I’d promised the family when we signed the contracts was where I’d most particularly missed the mark.

Early on, I vowed to resurrect the small community in which the murders took place from the shadows in which it has been hiding. I grew up there, after all. I was in the unique position to contribute something few if any other authors could: firsthand perspective. I could illustrate the area and its people during that time. Alas, I realized upon completion that this piece remained incomplete. To get the book right, I have to better set the scene. My problem, however, became the same obstacle I’d faced in the ramp up to writing Hit Men.

Once again, I couldn’t feel. Anything.

The dynamics of my mother’s passing were complicated. We had no relationship and probably never did, though she’d raised me mostly as a single mother. I wouldn’t celebrate her dying, but I wouldn’t mourn it either. In dealing with my kids’ and grandkids’ likewise complex perspectives on her death, however, something unexpected happened.

Since she died, a calmness has settled upon me that’s chased away a million sources of anxiety. My lungs feel new (I battle asthma). I feel physically lighter. We’d not had contact in many years, so I can’t explain these responses. But they’re there. Almost like a parting gift.

I’ve lost my best friend and both parents since starting this book. I’ve slammed head-first into a past I’d long ago left in my rearview mirror as I traveled life’s path. But only in these last three weeks have I finally acquired what I need to bring this project to its merciful end. Not only do I know how to fix the book, I possess the emotional tools to infuse life back into what Death took from the victims and their families. And from me, too.

Have a good August, everyone. Stay cool and stay safe (especially those currently battling wildfires in the Pacific Northwest).

Until next month.

TTFN