What a complex party scene.

Sunny, clouds rolling in, very mild, highs plus 3

Great news - we're in Montreal and Michael found the missing 3,000 words while I paced in the living room and tried to 'let it go' - odd, but it worked. I was quite calm, considering. But it all turned out well. Phew.

Up to 25,000 words in the new book. At a challenging stage though. Without being too specific it's a dinner party at Peter and Clara's. A great deal needs to be said and done. Clues, false clues, mis-direction, characters introduced, characters developed, plot moved along. Mood and scene set. And all without taking 10,000 words to do it. Every word needs to count. So I keep telling myself, just write the first draft of this scene, then spend the rest of the week layering it. But just keep moving ahead, not worrying whether what I have already is perfect. But of course I keep going back over it and smoothing as I go. Nearing an end, I think, of the first draft of this scene. But will keep going back to it this week, layering, adding and shaping, like a sculptor. In fact, as I write the rest of the book I'll probably bounce back to this party scene, and shape some more as ideas occur to me. Most books have at least one sometimes a few extremely complex scenes. And the key, of course, is that they shouldn't read as complex. None of this should be declarative. But light and subtle, entertaining, moving even - but not heavy and dense.

It's a little, I think, like writing a short story within the book itself, or even a poem. It needs to be crafted, and every word needs to defend its place.

Have to say, except for the times I think it's all crap, I love scenes like these. Very difficult. Challenging. Scary. Really pushing me to try to be a better writer. And sometimes, I write things that are actually better than I am. And I'm amazed. Sometimes I write crap. Oh, well. I hope most of that I find and take out.

Very fun. Though slightly stressful.

Had a really fun weekend, when not writing, with our friends Barb and Ian, from Toronto. When they arrived Friday afternoon they were aquaintances, but now they're friends. Had dinner with them and Lucy, from Brome Lake Books, at our home Friday night. Very relaxed. En famille, as we say in Quebec...family-style. Barb, as I think I mentioned in an earlier blog, is the noted children's author Barb Reid. She's been shortlisted 4 times for then Governor General's Award for Children's illustrations. Her website is http://www.barbarareid.ca/

Yesterday Ian and Barb took us for a late dinner (we had something else to do earlier in the evening) at a restauranmt about 3 minutes from us, in a farmhouse in the countryside. It's called Il Duetto. Marvelous.

Then today, after writing, Ian and Barb came by the office and Ian spent an hour photographing me, and some with Michael too. He's a professional photographer. His website is: http://www.iancrysler.com/ I can look pretty goofy in pictures. I have very little sense of my physical self - except for an almost total awareness of migrating cellulite. I'll put some of his shots up on the website, after a severe photo-shop session.

Actually, I say that but I'd never do it. I think authors who stay with a very old, or doctored, photo do themselves a disservice. When they show up at events everyone is stunned at how they really look. So, a little makeup - I'll shave the moustache - but besides that, I'm 'au natural'.

The Montreal Gazette had a very nice write-up of The Cruelest Month. A huge relief when the local newspaper says nice things. I was on the cover of this past Saturday's book section. There was a feature interview and then a review by Pat Donnally. Both very enthusiastic.

I realize I shouldn't care - but between us? I do. Plan to work on that in the next lifetime.

Hope you're well. For those of you in Ontario - happy Family Day tomorrow. And in the US - a very happy President's Day!

Smelling good

stormy, 10-15 cms of snow, windy, mild, highs minus 1

Quite a change from yesterday when it was clear blue, blue skies and bitterly cold. Temperatures around minus 14. Then overnight the temps soar and the snow moves in.

I woke up in the middle of the night - not sleeping so well in the last few weeks. Not sure why, but I think it might have something to do with age, hormones and the moustache that's appeared on my lip. And the communication cables sprouting from my chin. Wow, is it ever a good thing I'm already married. Got a lock on Michael. He, poor man, is accompanying his second wife through menopause. I advised that next time he needed to choose a woman in her 20s or 60s. He didn't disagree.

Anyway, waking up at 2:30 I heard the storm and got up to put water in the bathtub. This far out in the country we have our own artesian well, with an abundance of lovely sweet pure water. But if the power goes out so does the water. Being anal I find this thought horrifying. So a tub gets filled just so we can flush.

Power, miraculously, stayed on.

The workshop at the high school went well - no thanks to me. This was definitely thanks to the generosity of Charles Benoit and the patience and tolerance of the workshopees. I really am rubbish at this. If I'm ever stupid enough to agree to give another one, and you're in the position to sign up? Run. Flee. Take your children.

This particular workshop was to teachers, and it ended up being me talking about my process, the things I've learned, mistakes I've made, things I wished I knew before starting. (silly little things like how long a novel is. 80-100,000 works is the recommended length for a first crime novel - though there are always exceptions). I blabbed on, stumbled to a stop, and they back-filled by asking extremely intelligent questions. Like: Do you have an outline before you start? Now, you'd think I'd think to talk about that myself, but nooo.

As always it was just loads of fun meeting people. I'm actually quite shy and always prefer to stay at home. I think people scare me a little. But once out I always have a great time.

Writing going well, except Monday morning when I turned on the computer I discovered 3,500 words were missing from Chapter 3.

Oh oh.

I stared at it, willing the words to appear, which isn't as effective as you might expect.

I think what happened is that was exactly the place where my laptop froze when we were in Montreal last week. And I switched to Michael's desktop. Soooo, I'm thinking (hoping, praying) the rest of chapter 3 is still in Montreal on his computer. Of course now in my mind it's become the pivotal, most brilliant part of anything ever written (except, of course, this blog). We'll find out Sunday when we go back in. More doctors appointments. We all have to have a hobby, and sitting in waiting rooms appears to be ours.

Went to the office yesterday where Lise sorted us out, even instructing us on the Valentine's gifts we should give each other. (but stopping sadly short of buying them) Wrote 1,500 words (and saved them!!!) then met my good friend Cheryl for lunch. Place we'd decided on was closed so we went to Le Cafetier. We'd just settled in, and the order had just arrived, when Michael appears. He'd tried every restaurant in the village (not actually all that many, but it was cold and felt like more). He had a call from my agent Teresa in London. So Michael sat with Cheryl, drank my cafe au lait, while I went into the bitter day to speak to Teresa. I didn't want to stay in the restaurant, since I'd disturb everyone.

Not only was it terribly cold, but suddenly every huge truck in Quebec arrived and was either going forward or backing up with that Beep, Beep, Beep. It sounded like one of those Monster Truck Rallies. Teresa kept saying, 'Louise, Louise, where are you? Are you all right?'

She was in central London and it was quiet as a mouse, I was in my tiny Quebec village maelstrom. We talked for about 30 minutes while I looked through the bistro window like a waif, then I saw Cheryl get up. To go. I hung up on Teresa, rushed in, but she had to go back to work. I felt horrible.

And Cheryl even paid for lunch.

But I did get to tell her something quite lovely. While I was at the high school for the workshop I went to the washroom, and there written on the walls of my stall was only one sentence. It was clear and simple. 'Evan Matthews Smells Good.'

Evan is Cheryl and Gary's son. Isn't that an amazing co-incidence and a wonderful little sentence? So gentle. Not that he looks good (which he does) not that this girl who wrote it wanted to kiss him or anything like that. Nothing rude. Just that he smelled good. It's almost heartbreaking in its simplicity.

Nice day at home today - writing by the fire again.

I'll try to write more tomorrow.