Where to buy Traci Robison's books

Buy The Taking at:

Buy Tangled at:

Buy Gates the Hours Keep at:

February 22, 2013

Snowday vacation

"Snowmageddon" folks were calling the storm expected to hit the plains last Wednesday through Thursday night. For a week, grocery stores were jammed with people stocking up on supplies. I bought a big bag of dog food and two bottles of wine. The check-out guy considered my purchases, and smiled, saying, "You'll be good for a week."

Turns out, snowmageddon fell as flat as the Mayan apocalypse, but expecting tough driving conditions, schools and businesses had shut down Thursday morning. I ended up with a free day. Oh, I could have been productive, but that's against the basic nature of a snowday.

I spent the day reading for fun.

I finished an entire book,  The Bedlam Detective by Stephen Gallagher. It was the most enjoyable read I've had in a long time. I'm not going to analyze it today--only recommend it. If you enjoy mysteries, rich in character and setting, you will like this one.

February 8, 2013

Are we there yet?

If "there" means a published novel, then, no, we're not there yet. It's a long drive, rife with twists and intersections, but I'm moving forward. A full year has passed without an entry here. I suppose the emptiness of this blog is a testament to the fullness of my days. 

I've moved to an old house in a neighborhood with big, glorious trees. In truth, I love the shady street more than the house itself. When I was a kid, our house had huge picture windows, all looking out to a big yard filled with trees and shrubs. That's home. That's a haven. Nothing like the stripped-out subdivision where I lived for the last 12 years. I'm middle-aged and too impatient to wait a quarter century for a good shade tree. And so, the old house.

Old houses--I'm one of those suckers who has always fallen for them. Sure, sure, the floors squeak and the windows rattle and the basement looks like a perfect setting for a slasher film. Ah, that's just character. Right?

Now, when brushing your teeth before bed, you hear a faint "drip, drip, drip" coming from somewhere on the first floor and wander down to check the kitchen sink--only to find the kitchen ceiling sagging in a giant bubble . . . well, that's a lot less charming. In the past few months I've learned about electrical wiring, patching drywall, doing a decent skim coat on a lumpy wall, and more about home fixes than I supposed I would. And, I've enjoyed it.

But, dividing my time between tool time and write time,  I've slowed my progress and stalled out more than once. I hit a wall. I felt I'd never write another word and never have the ability to "fix" the stories I was revising. I didn't know if I even wanted to try anymore. I checked out books about writers' block and editing and creativity and read them in a panic in those free moments when I should simply have been putting words on paper. Any words. Anything at all. But, in every part of my life, I'd crashed into crazy fix-it mode. Everything needed tending. Everything at once.

Now I'm sitting in an office stripped of wallpaper with white plaster patches on the still-sticky walls. I hardly notice the mess around me. That's how it is when I'm writing. So, the paint cans wait. The balance that looks so much like chaos has returned.

I'm working on what will be the last revision of my first novel. Some more research on the occult in medieval Europe. A little rearranging in the middle of the novel--returning, in part, to the rough draft's storyline. It's almost there.