Anticipation, Distractions, and the Art of Magical Paper

Next week, I go under the knife for the first of two knee replacement surgeries. I have, as one does, researched the recovery completely to death. Every forum. Every Reddit thread. Every overly cheerful physical therapy YouTube video. If there exists a clinical diagnosis called Internal Competitiveness OCD, I am the case study they lead with in the textbook. I don't just want to recover — I want to recover so impressively that my surgeon frames my x-rays. I've done the preparation. I've put in the work. Now I just have to sit down and take the exam.

Pics from my knee farewell tour - skiing, golf, mowing, body combat, personal training, and walking the dog.

Easier said than done when your brain refuses to stop running laps.

In the meantime, something magical happened — and I mean that almost literally. If you've followed my newsletters, you know I'm a pantser. My stories don't come from outlines; they unspool in my head like a film I'm watching for the first time, and I just try to keep up. The one glorious exception was Sicilian Murder, which I actually outlined after a vacation in Southern Italy. I'd brought back sheets of cotton vellum paper from a little shop there — ancient, tactile, the kind of paper that makes you feel like you should be drafting a Renaissance treaty — and something about writing on it unlocked the story.

I've been deep in a writing rut with Harbour of Lies. The usual spiral: Where is this going? Is any of it any good? Have I somehow forgotten how to do the thing I've done 28 times? Imposter syndrome doesn't care about your backlist, apparently. Then I tracked down a source for that same Italian vellum paper and ordered 25 sheets. Lo and behold — I outlined most of the book. The paper works. I'm not questioning it. Some writers have lucky socks; I have Renaissance stationery.

I had hoped to hand the manuscript off to my editor before surgery, but pre-op life had other plans. The to-do list reads like a comedy sketch: car oil change, dog obedience classes, pre-op physicals, joint camp, and approximately forty other errands that require the full, cooperative use of two legs. Dewey, my 73-pound new rescue, is enrolled in obedience training with the optimism of someone who has not yet met Dewey.

Then there's the sleep situation. I am, under ideal conditions, a committed insomniac. Everything I've read suggests surgery will make this considerably worse for the next three months — which is either a curse or a writer's residency, depending on how you look at it. I've chosen to look at it as an opportunity. My bedroom has been fully reconfigured for middle-of-the-night writing: a tilting overbed laptop table, smart bulbs I can command from my phone without moving, and a six-foot surge protector so all my devices stay charged and within reach. My bed is now essentially a mobile writing studio with better pillows.

The theory is that pain, insomnia, and enforced stillness will, combined, produce a finished novel. It's an unorthodox writing retreat. But at this point, I'll take it.

Cheers,

Alec