I was asked last weekend at a signing about my writing schedule, and I smiled shyly. “It’s sporadic,” I said. The truth of the matter is that I haven’t written a word on my latest book since October 25, 2005. It’s not exactly the way adage that guides writers goes, but it’s the way that I’ve had to work.

In October of last year, my dad had knee replacement surgery. On the day that he was released from the hospital, my sister called. She was laying on the bathroom floor, unable to walk. I took her to the hospital. After a week of waiting, we learned that she had a rare disease, myelitis, brought on by her flu shot. I had another few bad days, since I’d received my shot from the same vial just seconds after her. She is slowly recovering, but still has nerve damage in her feet.

There’s a Miss Marple story that begins, “there’s never two without three, dear,” and it was true for us. After we got her home, my aunt called. She had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She just finished her chemo treatments, and we’re waiting for word from her doctor.

The cumulative stress made my muse pack up for a extended vacation to parts unknown. I’d had this happen once before when my grandfather passed away, but then I’d tried to work through it. The resulting prose was awful. This time, I just decided to take a hiatus until I could focus again on my work.

That day is coming up. My dad is better. My sister walks again, which is a miracle. So my mind is turning back toward Anthony Boucher and the biography. I hope to have it finished this summer, health provided.