Naming rites.

First draft of Chapter 21 -- actually, a short codicil to Chapter 20, but written from a different viewpoint -- completed in one day. Now, only the last chapter to go. And rather a lot to pack into it.

The best bit of today was thinking up a new character name. (Yes, I know, it's a bit late in the book to introduce new characters, but his very brief appearance makes sense, I promise.) It's a purely comic character who's a pompous theater critic. So I went back to my lists and decided, for now, on "Wedgwood Gallimaufrey." (It beat out Clovis Milkthistle, which I thought was too Hobbit-like.)

This Public Plot.

Just finished the first draft of Chapter 20 -- pursuit and trapping of the murderer. Wa-a-a-ay too long. Over 8,000 words, trimmed back to 7,000. But this is not a thriller -- it's a whodunit, and once the perp is named, you don't want to detain the reader too much longer, no matter how intriguing the chase. So it's gone to my writers group with a demand that they tell me what to cut.

Meanwhile, only two chapters to go, one of them very short. I may even finish this week.

Collector's item.

Talking of An Embarrassment of Corpses ("my Embarrassment," as I refer to it for short), the book came out toward the end of the year, perfectly timed for Christmas gifts but already past the deadline for Edgar Award consideration -- at least, that's my excuse. On Christmas Day that year, my brother-in-law Tom gave me a suspicious package, which turned out to be a copy of my own book.  And he and his then wife had autographed it for me, complete with their academic qualifications. Ha bloody ha. But at least it was a sale.

I used this book as my general tote-about copy, including the notes and page-turn cheats I needed when I made the audiobook. (And the egregious typos.) But then it occurred to me that if my in-laws were claiming to have written it, what if other people did as well. I started asking my fellow authors at conventions if they'd also claim it as their own and sign it to me. And they did. S. J. Rozan and Dale Fututani Flanagan added their chop. Carole Lea Benjamin added the signature and pawprint of the excellent Dexter. And memorably, Sparkle Hayter gave it a kiss-print. (Lucky book.)

The list of great mystery writers continues with (in no particular order, honestly) Val McDermid, Harlan Coben, Laura Lippman, Sujata Massey, Donna Andrews, Jerrilyn Farmer, Janet Lawrence, Barbara Jaye Wilson, Penelope Evans, Tom Savage, Gerald Schiller, Sue Henry, Joyce Christmas, Susan Moody, Polly Whitney, Dean James, Brenda English, Tom Kreisberg, Jackie Girdner, and Nancy Bartholomew. And my particular friends (this time in strict alphabetical order) Rhys Bowen, Meg Chittenden and Kathleen Taylor, who is often spotted around these parts. And now Gene Wilder, since I had the book with me at last week's conference. He's not a mystery novelist, but he did write the screenplay for The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes' Smarter Brother.

(I didn't have it with me for Janet Evanovovich, but she cheerfully wrote that she loved my work when she inscribed a copy of Hot Six for me. Of course, she's never heard of me. Who has?)

Progress retort.

Okay, you lazy git, I hear you cry, what of this so-called novel of yours, the raison d'etre of this blog?

When last we referred to This Private Plot, I was nearly at the end, having written the "reveal" chapter, with only the brief chase scene and the final mystifying plot twists still to go. Well, as I mentioned at the time, the reveal is clearly the point where you can see your entire clockwork edifice for the first time. I certainly decided there and then to tweak the mechanism -- removing clumsy threads, bolstering the identification of the killer with a couple of extra clues. No doubt there'll be more changes in later edits.

But I also realized that there were some glaring structural issues. I was holding too much back for this chapter, tipping a whole box of greasy padlocks onto the table to be picked instead of having the entire mystery solved by the gentle turn of a single tiny golden key. This is a plot-heavy book -- hence the title --  and so, amid the distractions of conferences, workshops, taxes, and Spring Break, I've been seriously shuffling the deck, dragging revelations to earlier places, lightening the load of the final stages. It's a bit like rebuttoning your cardigan after you discover you matched your first button to the wrong hole.

Most of this is in my head. Much of it is in note form, with diagrams and arrows. But just as I was about to go ahead and make the changes to the text, I remembered a timely piece of advice: Don't do any rewrites until you've completely finished your first draft.

Chastened by my betters, I pass this nugget on. And it makes sense. Why risk going through fifteen drafts without ever reaching the end? Isn't it better to make your changes after you've seen what the entire beast looks like? And why postpone that motivating sense of achievement that comes from typing the words "The End."

The End. (Or is it?)

Why I've just started blog number one hundred and thirteen million.

Once, I was on my my way to being a moderately famous author. Then I took a break from writing fiction. (It's complicated, but it seemed like a good idea at the time, even though it wasn't.) Now, I'm planning to get back, mainly so I have something interesting to say at cocktail parties when I'm asked  "so, what do you do?"

Not that I like going to cocktail parties. Which is odd, because I like cocktails.

I was told that the modern author needs an online presence. So, I'm blogging.

Here's what you can expect:

Reflections on the black art of mystery writing, as I round the final curve with the first draft of my third novel, This Private Plot. (Fourth, actually, but I've finally given up on the publishability of my first, apprentice piece.)

Dispatches from the home front -- if there's any humor to be found in the life of a bemused English ne'er-do-well cruelly trapped in the body of a minivan-driving, middle-aged, work-at-home, New York-suburban soccer dad, I'll report on it.

Odd thoughts and the occasional joke.

Here's what you won't get:

Detailed political analysis, religious tracts, conspiracy theories, or arcane philosophies of life. I promise.

I did try this once before. When I was ten, I was given a Letts junior schoolboy diary for Christmas, and I resolved to start a journal of my life from that point on. This coincided with my first week back at Beavers County Primary School in Hounslow, Middlesex, after the winter break. (That's fifth grade, for those of the American persuasion.)

My first entry, on the Monday, was "Normal school day. Prefects elected." (Modesty seemed to have precluded my mentioning that I was one of those prefects.) My second entry, on Tuesday, was the equally engrossing "Normal school day." By Wednesday, this had become "N.S.D." I never made it to the second week, but I think there's something there to fascinate future generations of social historians. At least, if they can read between the lines.

Let's hope I do better this time.