It's sunny and breezy in Toronto, and I'm enjoying my perch at the Four Seasons a little too much. Macarons, silence, a monstrous bubble bath. The life. What would Dan have made of it? Not his thing, I imagine, although I've dragged him along anyway, in the form of my sequel notes and draft--and, as you can see, Lyman Draper's enormous 19th-century compendium of material about our man (that's why I needed the bigger suitcase). Draper's notes don't go too far beyond the timing of the end of All True, so I'm also enjoying conjuring up what comes next. And I have the feeling Draper, a small, unassuming, dogged collector, who almost lost everything when his boxes of notes fell off a coach, is going to turn up one of my stories one of these days.
I know I'm lucky not just to be living it up in the hotel, but to have such a deep tunnel of material to add to, thanks to storytellers and writers over the years. And Toronto is a little closer to Dan's territory than I usually am, which feels lucky, too.
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I'm the author of My Name is a Knife, All True Not a Lie In It, and The Old Familiar.