Kate Flora: A perfect example of how dazed and dizzy I am is that yesterday, I wrote a whole post, pressed the button to have it post on the website, and it disappeared into the ether. That’s how things feel these days. Between the constant barrage of requests for money from everyone in the country, nerves about the election, and the disjointed effect of the time change, at least once a day I’m convinced that my brain has failed.

I’m not gardening, because it has been put to bed. I’m not writing because everything is rewrite on books I’ve rewritten so many times I can’t stand to look at them. Driving to Camden, Maine for an event was a lot of fun, but a whole day on the road leaves me exhausted for the next two days. I never imagined being tired, but the late seventies are a revelation.

Now, the calendar says that on Friday I’m doing a master class on voice in fiction at the New England Crime Bake. That should be fun if I can only organize my thoughts and remember how to do a power point. It also says I’m going to moderate a panel on Sunday. It says there’s a dentist appointment, a hair appointment, two more “maintenance’ appointments and then a quick trip back to Maine to preview the marvelous Gardens Aglow at the Coastal Maine Botanical Garden. When, exactly, are those quiet late fall days sitting at my desk writing?

My mother used to have a sign near her phone: Just Say No. I’d need one near my landline, one near my computer, and one permanently attached to my cell phone. Maybe I could just get a tee shirt. The problem is that those tee shirt mottos are mostly for other people to read. Disconnect? Unplug? Often, from the distance of three to six months or more, everything looks tempting. The problem is when events arrive and they’ve been carelessly crammed into single weeks.

Not that I don’t like to talk about books and writing. I do. I love it. It’s just the driving and toting the books along. And all the other things I can complain about. The real problem is that I’m not writing and I always feel restless, cranky, and at sea when I’m not deeply into a project. The signs from the universe suggest it’s time to dig into something.

What does that look like? Unlike those of my fellow writers who are plotters or pantsers, I’m a cooker. I don’t write out elaborate notes. Nor do I sit down and start writing and see where the story goes. I start working on the plot and wondering. Wandering around for a few months asking questions. Who was killed? Why were they killed? Who killed them? Who else wanted them dead, and why? What will I put at the crime scene that will help the investigation? And so forth. I often say that, like Paddington Bear, during this process I should wear a little tag that says ‘please look after this author. Thank you.’ And on the back, when I’m found staring blankly at the frozen peas, ‘If found, please return to…’ and my address.

These gorgeous last warm fall days are an invitation to get back outside, so I won’t be staring at those peas any time soon. A few more bulbs to plant. A few last perennials to swap. But when the cold and rain arrive, and the calendar calms down, I can imagine sitting here at the laptop and typing: Chapter One. And all that planning I’ve been doing while I’m driving and digging and sorting will begin to appear on the page.

Now, I have a question for you, readers of this blog. What do you like? Are we getting it right? What would you like to see? What should we be doing differently?