Regrets for the delay between blogs but I took time off to focus solely on book-writing. There were several reasons for this:

• Firstly, I needed all the energy I could get to wrestle with ‘The Blood Of Generations.’
• Secondly, a whole bunch of readers wrote in and said, in effect: “We love your blogs, but we’d prefer more books - so blog less and write more!”
• Thirdly, I wanted to get some feedback from my initial burst of blogs.

I have a hard time saying ‘The Blood of Generations’ is finished, because I am now an experienced enough author to know no book is close to being finished until it appears in print, but suffice to say that it is now a complete story and a terrific thriller – and I’m very proud of it.

Madness! Madness! Or, at least, a Window into that state.

When I’m writing, I tend to print out drafts, pieces of research, incoming e-mails that seem important – and so on – so gradually vanish under piles of paper to the point where all further progress remains impossible. Accordingly, at irregular intervals, in the interest of survival, I take a day or two off to clear up the mess and try and impress the world with my efficiency. Sometimes it is quite amazing what emerges from the piles – especially as I am prone to write on the back of the nearest available piece of paper since the piles mean that I can seldom find one of my pads.

A three year old would be more efficient, you will argue. Doubtless true, but few three year olds have been around the block enough times to qualify as thriller writers. I won’t be more indiscreet.

This year I decided to carry our various housekeeping tasks on my computer as well and can now say with authority that the combination of a PC and Windows may well be the most distracting invention since the invention of women.

Writing Bubbles - Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year to one and all.

I find I lose track of time when I am writing intensively. I call it being in a “writing bubble” but “in the zone” will do. By that I don’t mean I forget the time of day – although that happens – but more that I lose track of dates, with all their associated symbolism. That can get me into a great deal of trouble where birthdays and holidays are concerned; and it does not help that I don’t have much of a memory for dates (unless they concern a writing project).

Yes, it is not hard to see where all this is going. However, in my defense, let me say that such social ineptitude is not intentional. It is, I argue vainly, part of a writer’s makeup, a cousin of “Absent Minded Professor Condition.”

This year, I emerged from my writing bubble late December 21 2005 and realized that my chances of getting Christmas Cards out to anyone were zero. Accordingly, I sat down over the next three days wrote about a hundred personalized e-mails. I wish I had sent more. Some of the replies were very touching.

The following is an extract from one of the e-mails I sent out:

“The house is redolent of spices and baking, the tree and decorations are up, the blanket chest is displaying a veritable cornucopia of neatly wrapped presents, and, as I write, my daughter Evie (the very spirit of Christmas) has gone hunting for an organic turkey - which I think she intends to find dead and plucked, though I cannot be sure. I am old enough to remember the days when killing the thing and doing all the rest was considered normal. Mind you, I don't recall that we shot them in Ireland. However, I do remember my stepfather killing a couple of chickens with my machete with spectacularly bloody results. I have actually wrung a few chicken necks in my time on my grandmother's farm though found turkeys a little hard to render dead in a similar fashion - but I was small at the time so it was more like wrestling with a feathered equal who would have won if it had had hands.”

Compliments of the season to you all.

I have this notion that every day one is issued with a strictly finite amount of creative energy. How to spend it is the question?

My mental model of how creative energy is issued by the Muses is based upon the idea of a pint glass full every day - though, actually, the quantity varies; some days are better than others. But, the point is that the totality is limited. That is your lot until the sun comes up again. Eak it out as best you may.

Now whether that picture is inspired from my youth in Dublin, Ireland, when milk was still delivered in pint milk bottle bottles, or by the unit of measurement still, fortunately, in active use in Ireland for beer, I have no idea. The mind is a funny thing and I have never been a beer man. I prefer wine.

I’m prompted to write about this because I often wrestle with writing priorities. My natural desire is to write fiction and let the rest of the world do whatever it wills without my involvement – but life is rarely that tolerant. Further, I try very hard to reply to fan letters within a reasonable time period.

Recently I received the following advice in a fan letter:

“Fri 12/16/2005 2:53 PM

Victor

Write more ---- blog less.

Warmest regards

Sandy and Shirley

Would that I could write with such economy!

The sexual habits of creative types.

Part of my personal routine in an effort to keep reasonably well informed is to read a slew of magazines. My favorites are The Economist and Business Week but the list does not stop there and includes The New Scientist for keeping track of what the fine people who practice the scientific method are up to. They are worth keeping an eye on. These are the people who did not just come up with the iPod, but zealously invented nuclear weapons.

According to Wikipedia, a scientist is a person who is expert in an area of science who uses the scientific method in research. Upon the request of the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge in 1833, William Whewell invented the English word “scientist;” before this time the only terms in use were “natural philosopher” and “man of science.”

Be that as it may, yesterday I ran across a New Scientist article which made my eyes come out on stalks and dance the rumba.

Let me quote from this highly respected publication:

“ONE hundred and two is the number of names British artist Tracey Emin sewed into her tent, Everyone I Have Ever Slept With 1963-1995. Artists and poets have a reputation for having a high sex drive. Now Daniel Nettle of the University of Newcastle upon Tyne and Helen Keenoo of the Open University, both in the UK, have added support to the idea.

They asked 425 British people, including artists and poets, on many sexual partners they'd had (Proceedings of the Royal Society B, DOI: 10.1098/rspb.2005.3349) Professional artists and poets averaged 4 to 10 sexual partners, other people averaged only 3. "What we seem to have established is that artists and poets are, amongst other things, horny old toads," Nettle says.

Volunteers were also assessed for character traits associated with schizophrenia which has previously been linked to creativity. Some professional artists and poets scored as highly on these measures as people with schizophrenia did.

Combined with a high sex drive this may explain the persistence of schizophrenia in the population, says Nettle.

New Scientist asked Tracey Emin to comment on the results and she denied that she has more sex than the general population. “In fact, I do everything to avoid it,” she says. “That’s because I don’t want to have sex with most people. I want angels, giants, tigers, and I would love to love myself.”

Look how they treated Odysseus!

As I write this I note that my daughter is at yoga and my son is pounding the jogging machine. How can two generations be so different! It makes my heart glow - because they think too; or I think they do.

When Evie was very small she would prance around in the cottage singing, “Life is but a dream.”

Given that I write researched action thrillers – and much other stuff that requires specialized knowledge - people regularly ask me how I do my research – and, inevitably, do I use the web a lot? Well, what else do you say to an author? We’re a notoriously quirky lot, though I am told that painters are worse and that poets are the pits.

A frequent underlying assumption, by the way, is that, of course, I must prefer the research because writing is such hard, hard work. A sympathetic look sometimes follows, and occasionally a whiff of perfume and a hand on the arm from an attractive woman; but the latter is not guaranteed. Writing is a tough business.

Between you and me, I much prefer writing to research but, since I enjoy both greatly, I am content either way.

Where research is concerned, America is the land of specialization – to an extent which is frightening because it can (does) lead to gross ignorance outside one’s chosen field – but my personal orientation is to keep myself reasonably well informed on a general basis so as to have a core of knowledge which will enable me to identify the patterns that are frequently more important than the particular. No, I have no precise idea of what I mean by that but it’s my phrase of the day.

Whether that approach would work if I was a nuclear scientist or a heart surgeon is debatable, but it seems to work in my game. Also, the reality is that I don’t know what I need to know much of the time because the creative process is just not that orderly; it’s a branch of anarchy presided over by fickle Greek Gods; and look how they treated Odysseus!

Our secret is that fiction authors are faced with near infinite options - a truly scary situation if you pause to reflect upon it – which may be why publishers like to keep us shackled to a particular formula.

To quote one famous editor (he edited Frederick Forsyth) now deceased: “Victor, readers like predictability. Write Games Of The Hangman all over again, but just change a few names.”

Tight-rope walking – and a window on a ruthless world.

All in all, not a bad writing day yesterday. My target has long been two thousand words a day but, more recently, I have become less concerned with quantity – which I’ve trained myself to achieve - than with quality. Of course quality is subjective but one tends to get a sense of it, even in relation to one’s own writing, with experience. Or so I like to kid myself.

Writing, like tight-rope walking without a net between high buildings on a blustery day, is an irrational act that is hugely dependent on faith in one’s talent to survive. Faith, in this context, is defined as: " Belief that does not rest on logical proof or material evidence." Hmm!

The snow is pretty but, in the broad light of day, a little skimpy. Indeed, I blush to confess that I can see blades of grass on our lawn poking up through it. Penguins and polar bears would chortle derisively. At night it all looks rather magical, especially because so may of the houses around here are festooned with lights.

We braved the I-81 last night and went to see ‘Syriana’ in Martinsburg. I found it chilling, possibly because I have considerable contact with that particular cruel and ruthless world so could not regard it as fiction. It's an excellent movie but I suspect some will find it decidedly confusing. But so is the reality.

If you want to see our tax dollars at work, go and see ‘Syriana’ – and ponder the implications.

What a book! What a man! What a president!

I finished Theodore Rex by Edmund Morris in the wee small hours with deep regret. Not only is the book a quite astonishingly fine literary achievement, but President Theodore Roosevelt, a complex mixture of intellect, humanity and passions is a pleasure to read about. Hard not to contrast him with the present incumbent; but depressing. And by the way, President Theodore Roosevelt was a Republican.

The best movie portrait of Theodore that I know of is in one my all time favorite movies, The Wind & The Lion.

The promised snow arrived on schedule. I remain impressed with the relative accuracy of weather forecasts in the U.S. In Ireland, where we emigrated from in 2001, they tended to cover all the bases so you were never quite sure whether to put on your snow shoes or your bikini (so to speak).

The house has been transformed during the night into Christmas mode. My daughter, Evie, is a genius at such things down to, and including, hanging Snoopy Christmas stocking on each of our doors. Exciting stuff.

My task of the day is to wrestle with The Blood of Generations and the issue is how to inter-cut the past with the present in a fashion that retains pace and flow.

On snow - and being stuck when you’re writing.

I always feel a sense of excitement when I hear snow is coming. I probably would not feel the same way if I was an Eskimo – but, then again, I’m not. I’m Anglo-Irish and currently living in Virginia near Winchester (site of innumerable Civil War battles and adjacent to the Blue Ridge Mountains, the Shenandoah and other mythic places).

Ireland can be horrendously cold, thanks to the rain, humidity and the wind-chill factor, but – at least insofar as the Republic of Ireland (the North is still British occupied) it is light on snow. Accordingly, I tend to associate serious snow with my time at boarding school in Yorkshire, England, when the snow could yield drifts six to eight feet deep which were marvelously disruptive to the normal school routine. As far as I was concerned, sledding, snowball fights and building igloos all added up to paradise. In truth, I never managed to build a really good igloo – but I live in hope.

I’d like to be able to tell you that snow is the answer to every writer hit by writer’s block (tough if you live in one of the Southern states) but, actually, my solution is just to lean against the kitchen counter and just meditate in a glassy eyed way.

Looks odd, my kids tell me, but seems to work.