I suddenly find myself as the Program Chair for the Fourth North American Historical Novel Society Conference. It is a bit more than I bargained for but I hope to do a passable job of it. Thankfully we will have San Diego as the backdrop, so at least there is that.

Today is the last day of 2009, and I have failed to really do much with this blog.

But 2010 will be different! I'm sure of it!

I'm going to try and start over. I am going to try to do better. Once a month posts at least!

Well, it would appear that I am an utter failure as a blogger. Seven months between posts is a bit much. In order to save face, I will blame it on the demise of the Miss Snark blog. I will say that I was so overwrought by the loss of her presence that I was unable to go on. I will say that without her, life on the web was no longer worth living.

That is what I will say.

That is my story and I am sticking with it.

Oh my God. 192?

Miss Snark gets 192 entries in fifteen minutes for her 100-word contest.

I suppose she is relieved that I was at work and unable to inflict mine on her. I did take the time to write one, though, and feel that I have the right to inflict somebody with it, so here it is:

“Listen up, moonbeam,” grizzled Dan Lazar. “A helicopter with a snazzy paint job ain’t near as good as a griffin.”

Reacher hated to be called moonbeam. “Get with the times, old man!”

Lazar snorted. “What are you gonna do when that helicopter runs out of gas, moonbeam?” He turned and stroked Elizabeth’s cheek. “You’ll never run out of gas, will ya darling?”

Elizabeth smiled in the manner of smiling that griffins have and lifted her tail slightly. The smell hit Reacher a second later.

“No,” he thought, “these two will never run out of gas.”

I check my watch again.

I know I don’t need to, but I can’t help myself. Lying on my back on the roof of the four story apartment building in the cold wind, there is nothing else with which to occupy my mind. The low gray clouds are a solid mass without distinct edges to focus on and spend a bit of time imagining them as other things. They reflect back a varying yellow intensity from the streetlights below, but that isn’t enough to keep my attention.

Somehow I manage to keep myself from checking the chamber on the cluegun tucked next to me. I know what is in there. Eighty-five grains of copper-jacketed hollow-point clue. Three-oh-eight caliber. In a short time I will send it on its way at twenty-seven hundred feet per second and by the time it reaches its target it will be a blisteringly white hot clue. There are two more rounds exactly like it in the magazine, but I have never needed them before and don’t anticipate needing them tonight.

I check my watch again and curse myself for my inability to master the rising tension. The motion has caused the bottom of my parka to shift and a cold finger of wind finds its way inside. I shift and wriggle and seal off the passage and try to remain still.

Six more minutes.

Tonight’s target will arrive in a Lincoln Town Car and will be wearing a yellow hat and a calf-length fur coat. She will be met at the curb outside the bookstore and be escorted inside, out of the blustery weather. When struck by my high velocity clue, she would appear to slip on some ice and fall. By the time she would regain her feet, I would be gone and no one would think to look to the rooftop one hundred and fifty yards away.

I think of my Mistress. I don’t know how she can possibly be so precise. A yellow hat? How can she know these things? I push the thought from my mind. It wasn’t for me to know. As to my target for tonight, it was enough for me to simply know that Miss Snark desired it to be so. The woman in the yellow hat needed a clue. I would deliver it.

I allowed myself a few moments more contemplation. I think that maybe I should give that Clooney guy a clue, a clue to take a hike, but if Miss Snark ever found out that would likely be the end of me and any career as a writer I could ever hope for. I would have to settle for the occasional acknowledgement, the blown kiss or the demure wave of a manicured hand, or the purr of her voice on the phone giving me instructions for my next assignment.

Another look at my watch.

Time.

My motions become mechanical. Cluegun perched on the equipment bag on the roof edge. Stock snugged in tight against my cheek, the cold of it emphasizing the reality of the moment. The Town Car approaches and the safety comes off with a deliberate click. A deep breath. Take tension on the trigger, let out a little air. There she is. A bit more squeeze and the cluegun erupts with a sharp snap and I am moving. I don’t need to look, I know that the clue has found its mark.

Fold the stock, cluegun into the bag and I’m leaping to the next door roof before I hear the surprised cries of the small knot of people in front of the bookstore. Down to the alley via the rappel line and into the car and on my way in less than twenty seconds. I’m ten blocks away before my breathing calms and I can congratulate myself on carrying out her wishes. Miss Snark will be pleased. Perhaps she will favor me with a smile.

Perhaps she’ll even ask for a partial.

I suppose I should probably know this, but how would I know if there are comments? If a comment has been posted and moderation is enabled, will I get a prompt of some sort?