Not a Professional Patient

The last round of blood tests trying to locate the cause of my extreme fatigue over the slightest exertion returned nothing of any meaning. My triglycerides are still slightly elevated despite taking a medication for exactly that result from the last blood test. My potassium is slightly low despite taking one medication and a daily supplement for exactly that result from tests over the past decade. Everything else, everything blood can be tested for (include Valley Fever, the local version of Lyme’s Disease) are exactly as you’d expect for a healthy person.

It was suggested I follow up with another doctor who might have more insight.

Rather than becoming a professional patient, since there’s no indication anything life-threatening is going on, no evidence of a ticking clock, and no suggestion that a solution is on the horizon, I’m going to treat myself, starting with the daily bike ride I’ve neglected since the fatigue set in, a return to daily mindfulness meditation, and a continued drive toward emotional and spiritual balance and security.

If you find me beside my bicycle in the ditch with my heart or head exploded, remind me I’m in good health for someone my age. I’m sure I’ll feel much better.


Terpsichore Antipodes

I’ve pushed the button on yet another book, both Kindle and paperback versions. That’s the title up there.

Hold on, hold on. Don’t go rushing off to empty your wallets. The paperback isn’t live yet, though Amazon has created a page already. (Update: oh ho, the Kindle version is live.)

Another reason to hold your horses (and wallets.) This is nothing like I’ve ever written before. It is an experimental stream-of-consciousness romantic mystery novella. What’s it about? It’s about 20,000 words oh ho.

Here’s the sample from the back cover:

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Phil Brennan, Web Martin, and Jesse Donovan Walk Into A Bar

Joel D CanfieldYou’d think I’d know what to expect considering who I was meeting in the cheap dive downtown.

One at a time, sure.

I’d never sat down with the three of them, not all at once.

It’s enough to drive you to drink.

Or for those with other proclivities, to write.

Or maybe both.


Lunch Note

lunch“What makes you think she’s in trouble?”

“I knew you wouldn’t take me seriously.”

“Not saying that. I need the lay of the land before I take the case.”

“Just because I’m not old enough to drive—”

“Hey, age has no bearing on whether someone needs help.”

“Or tells the truth.”

“That, too. People of all ages lie to me. People of all ages get confused about people they love. People of all ages come in here and tell me all kinds of stories. I pepper them with questions like I’m doing right now, and if I don’t like their story, they can take it somewhere else. So like I said, age has nothing to do with it whether I’ll believe you, or take you seriously, or take the case even if I do. I still need to know what makes you think she’s in trouble.”

“She packs my lunch for school every day. Writes me notes.”

“This is not surprising.”

“Wait, I wasn’t finished. This is the note I found in my lunch today. Read it.”

“He’s going to kill me. Get help.”


That Buxom Blonde Phil Was Looking For

A Long, Hard LookAn excerpt from A Long, Hard Look. Watch for the second Phil Brennan mystery, A Still, Small Voice, this summer.


My front door does not have an annoying habit of failing to stay latched.

It latches just fine. I make sure of it.

So it concerned me not a little that it was ajar when I rounded the top of the stairs.

I froze, then stepped back a bit. I stopped on the top stair and leaned my forehead against the wall, which put my good ear almost in the hallway where it could listen better.

Nothing.

These old wooden floors creak if you look at them. Nobody was moving in my place.

Which meant one of two things: nobody was in my place, or they just weren’t moving.

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Finding the Right Title

That She is Made of TruthWhen I started this book years ago, the title was anodyne (all lower case) and the lead character was Jake Calcutta.

And eleventyleven other things were different.

Everything’s changed; much adjustment to the story, which now features Jesse Donovan, instead of, well, the other guy.

Everything changed, but the title.

Until now.

The old title didn’t fit anymore.

Like renaming a child just before you send them out into the world, this is unsettling, but it’s still the right thing.

And so, the first Jesse Donovan mystery will be called That She is Made of Truth.


Through the Fog (Chapter 53)

It’ll make more sense if you start with Chapter 1.

Through the Fog

By the time Max and Mossie and friends arrived, Siobhan had filled in enough of the gaps to make most of it make some sense.

Patrick, Feany the First, had infiltrated Dubin’s organization a year before. He discovered quickly that Conor Dubin was a man of temperament, and could be closemouthed like a clam with one associate and chatty as a schoolgirl with another. The SDU officer unfortunately hadn’t been interesting enough to Dubin to get him to open up about life, the universe, and other crimes. I guess it’s tough to do an accurate personality profile on someone like that.

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Through the Fog (Chapter 52)

It’ll make more sense if you start with Chapter 1.

Through the Fog

When the blow came I wasn’t the only one surprised.

Niall’s fist hit the side of Feany III’s neck with a sound like a handful of meatloaf you threw at the wall. Feany III went down like the meatloaf, and then there was one. Feany the Only must have heard Fearghal behind him; he dodged ever so slightly and caught the ham-sized fist in the side of the head instead of the pressure point on his neck. It was still almost enough; his head rocked, and he shoved backwards into Fearghal. Fearghal went over backwards, and Feany scrambled behind a car.

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Through the Fog (Chapter 51)

It’ll make more sense if you start with Chapter 1.

Through the Fog

I looked at what I could see of the glorious old building; the triple nave above us, the square stone columns, arches everywhere. I wanted to take a closer look at the organ; built just before the Great War, it incorporated parts from the original from 1872. I had a quick mental image of being under a pump organ; I was so small that I could only pump one of the pedals; someone else was on the other, and the feet of the players (I use the term loosely) dangled over our heads. I wonder where that was, and if it was even real.

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Through the Fog (Chapter 50)

It’ll make more sense if you start with Chapter 1.

Through the Fog

As we slipped down the stairs, I could barely hear the three behind me; Max and his big friends. When we got to street level it was black. Out front it was gently lit, but back here there were no lights but the stars.

In five minutes we’d be at the church, and I’d either be goading some thug into calling Dubin, or involved in something much, much worse. Siobhan could pretend it was all business; I couldn’t.

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