Marathons

The word’s been on my mind a lot recently, in a variety of contexts. 

The first is that my fellow Femme Fatale, writer, and friend Elaine Viets has begun a marathon of her own.  Having suffered a stroke last week, Elaine is doing much better now: she’s out of her medically induced coma, she’s off the ventilator, and she’s talking a little, even showing some of her trademark sense of humor.  This is amazing progress, but exactly the sort of thing you’d expect from Elaine.  She’ll have a long way to go, but for now, her friends are ecstatic about the progress she’s making.  You can check updates on her progress here.   

The last time a lot of us saw Elaine was at the Virginia Festival of the books, where she looked fantastic, was full of her special brand of wit, and generally was having a good time.  Her character tells us that her recovery will continue to be amazing, but still: a marathon.  Elaine’s got a book coming out May 1, and she won’t be able to tour to support it.  If you’re a fan, a friend, or a mystery lover, keep Murder with Reservations in mind when you hit the bookstores.  And please keep the good vibes heading toward Elaine and Don.

The 111th Boston Marathon ran this week.   If you’ve seen the weather at all, you’ll know that it’s been a week of hideous rain and wind.  A lot of trees and branches went down, and a lot of towns near us were flooded; they cancelled the traditional reenactments of the Battle of Lexington and Concord because they were afraid the reenactors lying “dead” in the mud would become hypothermic.  But close to 24,000 runners started and more than 20,000 finished the Marathon anyway.  This impresses the stuffing out of me.  I once ran a 5K just to see if I could.  It wasn’t pretty.  The folks running the 10K beat me, but I finished.  It was tedious, and the thought of running 26 + miles on a nice day shocks me (I mean, evolutionarily speaking, why run all that way if something is after you?  Why not climb a tree, invent a spear, yell real loud?). The fact that these folks did it in a Nor’easter is nothing short of astonishing. 

I went to a movie for the first time in a while (the last one was Casino Royale—see the Femmes’ blog for my take on that).  It was Frank Miller’s 300. Not for the faint of heart, not great history, but fun, in a decent-fight-scenes-with-loads-of-eye-candy sort of way. Daisy Wenham in Achaean Speedos:  woof.  They also mention the Battle of Marathon, from which we take the word.

Just having finished a book, I will say it again:  writing a novel is a marathon.  A lot of people tell me that they start a lot of things, but never finish them.  That’s hard to hear, because it sounds like they have the impetus, but don’t know how to pace themselves (or don’t have a story that makes them want to finish or don’t understand that it’s bloody hard work or 100 other things).  It’s a long slog, a battle against yourself, against time, and yes, against the odds. 

I was considering all these serious things, when I found a recipe for “Kitty Litter Cake.”  I have encountered the “Bucket of Worms” cake (a present from a group of fifth graders for an archaeology talk), but “Kitty Litter Cake” takes the concept to a whole new level.  When I got over my shock, I laughed out loud.  It’s gross, it’s funny, the sort of thing where you wonder who first dared execute the concept…and why?  I mean, as someone who’s sifted her share of cat litter, there’s nothing remotely appetizing about it. 

And why Kitty Litter Cake here, amidst the references to personal struggles, battle, feats of athleticism, and writing?  Because metaphorical marathons go better with metaphorical cake, something that will get you to put that next foot in front of the other, the mental margarita that leaves you ready to get back to the job, the person who says, ‘come on, you can do just a little more.”   

Where I've been...

Okay, this is why I hate New Year’s resolutions.  Not that I make them, but I figured if I just sort of …planned…a more regular blogging schedule this year, it would happen.  And since March roared in like a lion and roared out again just as quickly (it’s still freezing here!), I missed getting even one blog done.   So much for planning.

But it’s all good.  I finished the draft of Exit Interview I’ve been working on and sent it out to readers for criticism.   Yes, I employed the “Plan B” that I recommend to anyone waiting to hear about a book or comments from readers or agents or editors or anything else:  I got to work on the next project.  It’s a great reason to combine bookstore therapy with research.  I worked on fleshing out technical details of Exit Interview.  I took a crack at email that had been piling up for a month, and made travel plans for Malice Domestic.  In short, I got involved with everything but worrying (or blogging, apparently).  It’s not foolproof, but it helps.

There was an “Evening of the Spoken Word” at our local high school, and I was honored to be asked to be the guest artist.  I conducted a workshop with the students, and then we all read something from our latest work or favorite writers.  It was not only the sophistication of the thoughts and words I was hearing from the students that blew me away, but their desire and ability to take their work in front of a live audience.  They performed with as much grace and panache as many professionals I know. 

I went to the VA Book Festival and had a blast.  Not only did I have fun with my fellow panelists and the audience for “The Mystery’s in the History,” but I got to see Helen Thomas, who was wonderful.  I caught up with friends and even had lunch with Suzi.  And…there was a gelato place down the street from the hotel.  I admit it:  I went back for seconds.  Hey, there was sun and daffodils, and I had nowhere I needed to be before I hit the airport.  What could be better?

Finally, there was an end to this winter’s All-Consuming Quest:  I found a dress for the Edgars Banquet.  It’s in NYC next month—no, it’s in about two weeks!  Some of you may know that I’m not a shopper.  I don’t dress up a lot (my taste runs to overalls and my husband’s sweaters), but this particular event calls for an effort.  So after hitting the stores on two coasts with grim determination, I found something I believe will satisfy social convention.  I promise:  there will be pictures.  I do not promise they won’t be Photo-Shopped.

So that’s where March went.   More anon.