Some time ago, my editor at LL asked when I might be finished with the second book of the Dead Detective series. After a pseudo-scientifi process, I told her June. Wrong. Here's why. First, I am an incurable optimist. I tell myself that I will write for four hours/day, five days/week. That never happens, of course. Life intervenes. Second, creativity does not like being forced. Even if I could sit before my computer for four hours a day, five days a week, much of that time would be spent cursing an unmoving cursor. Finally, I'm just a tad anal. I can't just write it and say, "There it is." I have to read it over and over, making it better. Then I have to get people I trust to give me feedback. Then I read it again. More than once. So I started telling myself that July starts with the same two letters as June, and the editor might not notice. But July is fading fast, so it might be...well, it won't be January. I hope. Maybe I should have told her from Day One that I am a cockeyed optimist.

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