Or it would be, anyway, if one of our beta readers hadn’t found some issues with The Fourth Brother that require some additional writing. How much “additional writing” we’ve yet to discover, but there are enough changes that it will delay the novella’s publication for a bit. I feel grumpy.
 
As the blog posts this morning, Glynn and I are both writing on different sections of the story. Once we're done, we'll switch pages and discuss, then, at some point, we'll be editing the new stuff, then we’ll have to send the new version to still another reader…and I don’t know about you, but I feel tired already. Things never go quickly, do they? Just when I thought we were out, this particular beta reader pulled us back in.
 
It was good thing she did, I realize that, and it was a brave thing she did, since some authors are unreasonably touchy about their work. (I’ve heard horror stories.) I’m grateful. Still, I was hoping to see this story come out before July faded away. Now I worry that the deadline might not be reached in time. And I’m so eager to start The Third Brother!
 
We’ve already started plotting the sequel, you see, and things are falling into place so nicely. My brain is scratching at me, itching to start the new tale. The Urban Dictionary defines “brain itch” as having part of a song stuck in your head. For me, it’s having part of a story stuck in my head. It has to come out!
 
If you’re wondering, the adorable young lady in the photo is one of our recent visitors. She was absolutely ready for the party we threw last week, thank you very much, even if she didn’t quite understand what everyone was celebrating. Or why. And speaking of last week….
 
It's been a gloriously wonderful, wearisome, eventful, tiresome, joyful series of days. Glynn and I were able to hug and kiss people we hadn’t seen in years. We traveled great distances, there was birthday party, we met a new family member, we ate sinfully, and there were just enough babies to go around. Barely.
 
But now we have to roll up our sleeves – well, Glynn does, I wouldn’t wear sleeves I have to roll up – and get back to work. I doubt I’ll be posting anything here next week but I have great hopes you’ll see me the week after, talking about the upcoming 4th Bro’ release. If that happens, when that happens, I’ll be ready to party.

​With our latest story trundling toward the finish line and with a little free time beckoning, Glynn and I did what many writers do when they have nothing urgent on the “To Do List”: we went off looking for another story to write, even though we have a new novella and another couple of novels already in the hopper.
 
Glynn wanted to write a short something based on this old photo, just because it's so cute. It was hard to tell him no, but I had a different project in mind.
 
This time, I was looking for a specific real life story. Quite a while ago, we went to an almost-ghost town (if the last dozen people had abandoned the place, the site would have qualified), where I’d stumbled over an 1870-something news clipping about a murdered prostitute. Plasticized, mounted on a board, far from complete, the news article intrigued me. I thought I’d enjoy doing a fictional take on the incident while trying to keep it as historically-accurate as possible. All I needed first was a little more information. The rest of the article would have been a good start.
 
There was only one problem. My memory is and always has been fleeting. When dealing with historical events, I often forget details and this poor victim had a name that would NOT stick in my memory. Some names are like that for me. (I’ve told Glynn he’s lucky he has an unusual name or I’d just call him Hey-You.) In this instance, with the article in front of me, I fretted. I didn’t have my notepad with me, Glynn had left his at home, and neither of us had a working pen or pencil.
 
As soon as we returned home, I vowed, I would write the name down so that I wouldn’t forget it. A few hours later, after having wandered through two dozen other sites, many of which featured ancient news clippings or antique photos or both, we went home.  Even as I scribbled the name on my notebook, I wondered if I’d gotten it exactly right. I turned on the computer. Found nothing under the name. Tried a variation of the name. Then another.
 
Still nothing.
 
Cursing my uncertain memory, I tried to recall which location had posted the original newspaper piece. It was one of three or four or six places, I was certain. Over the next few days, I continued my computer hunt using various search terms and different versions of the name I thought I knew. I found a few articles about poor murdered prostitutes from the 19th century, but not the one I’d seen before. It was very frustrating.
 
Forced to give up this particular quest, I promised myself that I’d return to the ghost town one day with my note pad in hand. And then I directed my energies toward our other stories and projects.
 
But for a woman who always forgets, I somehow remembered my interest in this story even as time went on. Every now and then, I’d try a little Google-Fu, fail to get any further, and set the challenge aside for another day. Then, many weeks later, I received an email from Travelzoo. The Travelzoologists offered me discount tickets on a history tour through the very same almost-ghost town. The sales pitch promised that the tour guides would talk about the rich and ruthless men that founded the town and the bordellos and the women who worked in them. We’d learn about the dark side of this little town, including some rich and fascinating tales of murder.
 
Bordellos?, I thought. Murder? This struck me as practically an email guarantee that we’d hear the juicy account of exactly what had happened to What’s-Her-Name from the 1870’s. I told Glynn we had to go and we had to bring our notebooks. I was about to find us our next novel.
 
With three novels already in the backlog, he wasn’t nearly as excited as I was. He grew a little more intrigued when I mentioned that Travelzoo was offering 40% off the tour’s regular price and all the ice water we could drink. The man can’t resist a bargain.
 
I made our reservations but, on the scheduled date, a storm front blew into the ghost town and we had to set a different date. A couple of months later, two days before our planned tour, we had a family emergency and couldn’t go. Again, I rescheduled. This week, unfortunately, a heat wave has taken residence, baking this corner of the world. Temperatures are 100+ and it’s so hot that even hairless little Poison refuses to venture outside after 7:00 AM. She’d prefer to enjoy a cool room and a soft sofa.
 
When Glynn suggested canceling the trip again, I told him we couldn’t, not with visitors about to descend in quantity (and quality) for weeks to come. I said this is going to be the weekend we find my poor little ghost and learn the truth about her passing. No matter what.
 
When he checked the predicted temperatures, his eyes grew large but he didn’t say another word about it. At least, not loudly enough that I could hear. He may have muttered something under his breath but I chose not to acknowledge it.
 
That’s the secret behind a long-term relationship, if you ask me. Pretend not to hear the mutters.
 
I think we’re going to have fun. Stop by next week and I’ll tell you what happened, and if this mystery was solved.