These days rubber bands are pretty thin on the ground.  Back in the old days when rolled-up, print newspapers showed up on people’s doorsteps, they were everywhere, and they were especially plentiful in the Busk household in Bisbee when I was growing up.  Why’s that?  For years the Busks were paperboy and girl central for the Arizona Republic.  

Initially, our father and eventually yours truly or whoever was next in line with a Driver’s License would pick up the printed papers which were delivered to the front of the post office in old Bisbee and then distributed to the local collection of paper boys, two of whom were my brothers.  Their two separate bicycle routes covered all of Bisbee’s Warren neighborhood, one to the east of Arizona Street and the other to the west.  On Sundays when the papers were too big to roll up and throw or when the weather was bad, either our mother or father and eventually the next person in line who just happened to be me would drive them around to make their deliveries—all of which had to be finished in time for everyone to get to school on time.  It wasn’t easy, but it worked.

These days bicycle-riding paperboys are a thing of the past, and so are rubber bands.  The only ones that show up in our house on a regular basis are the two blue ones wrapped around bunches of asparagus.  I grab those and put them into the kitchen junk drawer so I can wrap them around partially used bags of frozen veggies.  But why am I thinking about rubber bands today?  Because this week, I need to turn what Hercule Poirot refers to as “little gray cells” into a literary rubber band.

The editorial letter for Before the Trail Goes Cold landed in my mailbox yesterday.  That means I need to go through the entire manuscript WORD FOR WORD, checking for typos, making or disregarding changes suggested by my editors, rooting out echoes, and adding in any number of missing bits of punctuation.  That takes time and concentration, and making it through 50 to 75 pages a day is about the best I can do, but it all needs to be done and be back in New York by the end of this week.  How come?

That’s because, although the pub date for the next Beaumont, The Taken Ones, is scheduled for November 10, podcast interviews for that actually start NEXT week!  Suddenly I’ll have to wash the details of Before the Trail Goes Cold, a book I just finished writing out of my head and be ready to talk in detail about The Taken Ones, a book I finished writing and editing almost a year ago.  Oh, and then in March it’ll be time to talk about Smoke and Mirrors, the Ali book I finished work on almost two years ago!

Unlike some people I could name, I’m not allowed to plead the fifth if someone asks me a question about a book which they’ve just finished reading.  I remember the basics of the plot, but the details are hazy.  If I can’t answer direct questions about The Taken Ones in a sensible fashion, what are the chances people will decide I never wrote the book in the first place?

While I was writing Before the Trail Goes Cold, publicity began sending me touring details for The Taken Ones, which I glanced at, yes, but didn’t really deal with.  Back then October and November seemed like a world away.  Last week, I finally woke up to reality and knew I needed to pay attention.  So last week was all about dealing with touring logistics and making sure we had health care people on hand for Bill at those times when I will be unavailable.  I bought a dead-tree calendar, thinking I could lay it out in paper and ink.  That idea went over like a pregnant pole-vaulter.  I can still sign books—that’s what muscle memory will do for you—but my handwriting has deteriorated to the point that I couldn’t read it myself to say nothing of anyone else.

But now, with the calendar in order, I need to get on to doing those dratted corrections.  Time’s a wasting, and by next week I have to be out of writing/editing mode and full tilt into publicity!

With any kind of luck my mental rubber band will still be in good working order.