I just came out of an extended period in what my staff (The Pack) refers to as "Black Ops." My pack, my friends, and my family all know that when I am on deadline for a book, I don't answer the phone, I don't open my email (I have most of email forwarded to one of The Pack), and, except to make sure my wolf Tiwa gets a little exercise, I definitely don't leave the house unless I'm out of coffee or toilet paper. I hole up with my laptop and write, write, write, write, write. I do almost nothing else. I recently emerged from my cave, having completed the manuscript for the fourth WILD Mystery, WILD PENANCE. When I did, I had a little trouble adjusting to sunlight, conversing with other human beings, and convincing my friends and neighbors that I hadn't died.

I suppose there are other authors out there who don't go without sleep for days at a time, don't work until dawn because nights are quieter, or possibly don't even sweat the last few weeks before their deadlines. I am not among that group, and don't expect I ever will be. I'm too much of a perfectionist about my writing, too exhaustive in my research, too convinced there is a better way to say it, and too addicted to the revision process. I can't let that baby go until I am certain it is as good as I can possibly make it.

So I admit it. Just kill me now.

But I'm also thinking there might be a few other authors out there who—like me—struggle just a wee teensy bit with the curve of touring, promoting, researching, and writing such that completing a good book every year can't be done without a modicum of self-torture, a long stretch of sleep deprivation, too much caffeine, and total withdrawal from all distractions in the home stretch. If you are one of these, or even if you are aspiring to be an author and want a picture of what it looks like for the crazy ones like me, here's a little list I put together from my own true life experiences on The Dead Line. See if you recognize yourself.

YOU MIGHT BE AN AUTHOR ON THE DEAD LINE IF:

• Out of desperation, you decide that you have to do some laundry. You gather up the heap of clothes you've worn for the last month and start feeding from the pile into the washer. As you do, you notice that the only things there are workout clothes and jammies.
• Everyone you know is afraid to call you before noon.
• You talk to yourself because you are your only companion. You answer yourself, too.
• You haven't seen fresh food of any kind in weeks. In lieu of milk, you open an old can of coconut milk you found in the back of a cupboard so you can put some in your coffee and over your raisin bran. You decide you can make it like that another week.
• Also, the once-plentiful supply of canned goods you kept in the pantry for snowstorms and power outages have dwindled down to a jar of pickles and some green chili jelly, and you figure you can have those with crackers for a day or so rather then drive up the mountain to the store and lose writing time.
• Your wolf tends to gain weight during the home stretch because you hike him less and less. You tend to lose weight because there is no food in the house. And the wolf's kibble is starting to look appealing as a potential crunchy snack while you're working.
• You get in your car and forget where to put the ignition key because it's been so long since you've driven.
• You finally run up the mountain to the store one morning after an all-nighter because, more than anything, you're out of coffee. You encounter a neighbor who asks repeatedly if you are all right. You tell him you are, but when you get back to your car with your groceries, you notice that you forgot to change before you went out, and under your coat, you're wearing your flannel pajama bottoms and your fuzzy slippers. Driving home, it also occurs to you that you haven't brushed your hair in days.
• Your thesaurus and dictionary are showing serious thumb-wear.
• You haven't picked up the mail from the stand of boxes down at the bottom of the road in so long that you forgot which mailbox is yours. You have to try your key in five or six of them before you find your own.
• When you do locate your mailbox, you discover that the post office has put a slip on top of the ponderous pile indicating that if you don't start picking up your mail regularly, they are going to start returning it. The note also kindly suggests that if you are going to be away for an extended period of time, you should put your mail delivery on hold.
• When you bring the mail home, you put it on the kitchen table and figure you'll open it later. After two months, you can't even see the kitchen table underneath all the mail.
• The UPS and FedEx guys wouldn't know you in street clothes because you always answer the door in jammies.
• Your social life suffers from months-long lapses without any human contact. When you finally see your friends again, you don't recognize them at first. And they don't recognize you
• You can't remember what it felt like to go to lunch, see a movie, watch television, read the newspaper.
• The only time you see your family is during your tour events in the cities where they live.

So that's a little snapshot of what it looks like when I'm on the Dead Line. Now that I'm no longer in black ops, I'm going to take a good look around and see what I've missed during my long hibernation. Might get my hair cut, maybe a pedicure, see a friend for lunch, try to catch up on some sleep. I've got about four days to do that, during which I also need to go through all this mail. Then I start the month-long tour for the book I wrote during the hibernation before this last one.

Okay, I know there's probably a better way to do this. As soon as I touch bases with all my friends and family, go through all this mail, get a couple nights' sleep, and finish my tour, I'm going to try to figure it out. In the meantime, I have to laugh at myself and my curious process while on the Dead Line. Hope you got a giggle out of it, too.