Tag Archives: mental health

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, Writing

Wednesday Musings: A New Beginning

This week, I did something I hadn’t done in a really, really long time. I began work on a new novel. Not a media tie-in. Not work-for-hire set in someone else’s world. This novel is mine through and through. And it felt great.

So far, I haven’t gotten a lot written. I never do at the outset of a new project. It usually takes me a couple of weeks to find my pace and start churning out pages the way I like to. On the first day, though, I got a thousand words written. Good words. Words I like. Long words, short words, fat words, skinny words, words that climb on rocks, yes, my friends, even words with chickenpox….

Seriously, it felt wonderful. I have found myself thinking about this new book all the time, daydreaming ideas for descriptive passages and plot twists even when I’m far from my computer. I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I did that. At least a couple of years.

No, this is not a continuation of any series you’ve read before. It’s something entirely new, utterly different. I won’t say more than that for now.

I am sure that my enthusiasm for the project will wax and wane, as it does with all projects. There will come moments when the writing is nothing but a slog. There will be days when I curse the book and its characters, when I want nothing more than to chuck the whole thing. That is part of the process. Even my favorite books piss me off at times. I have never written anything that was a joy start to finish. Writing just isn’t that easy. To my knowledge, no artistic pursuit is. Nothing worth doing is.

And life will get in the way now and then. That happens, too. Just yesterday, I spent the whole day dealing with homeowner stuff — annoying, distracting, ultimately, I expect, very expensive. That is part of being a writer as well. Stuff gets in the way.

The story remains, though. The world and plot and characters will be there when I get back to them. They’ll be impatient, miffed at me for leaving them in stasis for a day or a week or whatever. A good book, though, stays fresh, even during the interruptions. This one is no different.

Me with Erin and AlexYes, my hiatus from writing was a byproduct of my grieving process. My return to writing is not an indication that my grief is spent. It never will be. I will grieve my darling Alex for the rest of my life. As I’ve said before, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Grief is an expression of love, and my love for her was limitless. But she wouldn’t want to be the reason I stopped writing forever, any more than she’d want me to give up on happiness or love or life because she’s gone.

Writing is part of who I am, and after a long absence I feel that I am ready to be me again, for good or ill. Alex would approve, I believe.

So, I ‘m back at it, and I will keep you updated as I work my way through this newest manuscript.

Enjoy the rest of your week. And Happy New Year.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe

Wednesday Musing: Two Years

Today marks the second anniversary of Alex’s death. Two years. In the past, I have said that the time since feels like more than it actually has been and also like less. Not anymore. Not really. Today, I am struck mostly by how fresh the grief still feels, how clear the memories remain. I can’t believe two years have passed. Reading back through other posts I have written about our darling girl and the loss we have suffered (here, here, here, here, here), I realize that I have told you all a good deal about her — about her passion for life, her courage, her humor, her keen intelligence, her love for family and friends.

So, I thought today I would share a story from when she was just a toddler. I don’t know why this story has stuck with me so thoroughly over the years, but it has. I think of it often, and it always makes me smile.

Most of you know at this point that I am an avid birdwatcher and have been for most of my life. Starting when Alex was just an infant, I used to point out birds to her, on our feeders, when we took walks, her in her stroller and me walking our dog, or when we went on drives somewhere. I’d point out herons and hawks, chickadees and woodpeckers. Whatever. It was always fun to open her eyes to the beauty of our natural world, and living on the Cumberland Plateau, we could always find plenty to share with her.

When she was about two years old, wonderful friends of ours invited us to spend a week with them on North Carolina’s Outer Banks, in a house they had rented. With Alex being only two — this was within a month or so of her second birthday — we chose to fly, rather than drive the eleven-plus hours it would have taken us to get there. I don’t recall which airport we flew into, and honestly it doesn’t matter. Probably Norfolk? But who knows.

The plan was to pick up our rental car at the airport and then drive to the little town on the Outer Banks where we were staying. But for some reason, the airport in question proved to be frustratingly difficult to navigate. It had already been a long day of travel, and Nancy and I were tired, short-tempered, snappish. And we started bickering about how we were supposed to find our way out of the airport and onto the correct highway to take us where we wanted to go.

We stopped for a red light somewhere on the airport grounds, and, with no one behind us, we just sat there, idling, arguing, getting madder and madder.

At some point, we realized that Alex, in the back seat, strapped into her car seat, was saying something to us, repeating one word over and over again.

We both focused in at the same time and realized she was saying, “Hawk. Hawk. Hawk. Hawk. Hawk.” Turning, we saw that she was also pointing out the window as she said this. And sure enough, above a small pond beside the intersection, an Osprey was hovering. And our little naturalist had recognized it, correctly, as a hawk.

Of course, at that point, we began to laugh, our fight forgotten. “Yes, Sweetie. That’s a hawk. Very good.”

Smiles all around.

Alex and me at the beach in North Carolina.
Alex and me flying a kite at the beach in North Carolina.

So many elements of the story appeal to me — her awareness of the world around her; her ability at age two to recognize a hawk and point it out to us, as we had been pointing them out to her; and most of all, her ability to cut through our silly argument to remind us of the things that truly mattered, namely the existence of that hawk and the reality that she was just too cute for words.

She and Erin have been the joy of our lives for the past thirty years. Yes, we grieve. We miss Alex more than we can express. The pain of losing her was, and still is, overwhelming. But both girls have brought so much light into our world. And we are getting to a place where that light, the golden memories that Nancy, Erin, and I share of our beloved child and sister, bring comfort and beauty and even a bittersweet happiness.

So, rest easy, love. We are doing all right. We miss you every day, and we love you to the moon and back. Always.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, Falstaff Books, Radiants, Thieftaker Chronicles, Winds of the Forelands, Writing, Zombies Need Brains

Friday Musings: Checking In and Sharing a Song From Alex

Summer is speeding by, and I have been terribly remiss in keeping up with my blog. For those who have reached out to me in recent weeks, asking if I am okay, the short answer is, “Yes, I am.” I won’t claim to be wondrously fantastic, because you wouldn’t believe me if I did. But I am well.

Our new house continues to feel more and more like home. The house itself is pretty much where we would like it to be at this point. A few more doors, door frames, and window frames need painting, but that can wait for cooler weather. We have found a couple of pieces of furniture to fill gaps in the three-season room on the back of the house, and we now have outdoor furniture for the backyard patio. All we need now is a fire pit for the fall. The yard looks great — Nancy has been planting and transplanting and weeding, and I have been keeping the grass under control with my new (used) standing mower. (If you don’t know what a standing mower is, look them up. This thing actually makes cutting the lawn sort of fun.)

We have a large flock of Wild Turkeys that walks through the yard a couple of times each day. How large? Five hens and twenty-two growing chicks. The young were adorable when they were little fuzzballs. Now they’re bigger, more awkward — like adolescents — but still dependent on their moms. Apparently it really does take a village… We also have a White-tailed doe and two fawns who show up most evenings while we’re eating dinner in the back room. And there is a young buck, with velvet still on his antlers, who appears to be shadowing them. Add to that our hummingbird family, the Indigo Buntings and Chipping Sparrows, and our local Cooper’s hawk, and we have a nice selection of wildlife paying us visits on a daily basis.

I have recently finished reading slush for the Skulls X Bones anthology I am editing with Joshua Palmatier for release from Zombies Need Brains. Soon, we will be making our final choices of which stories to include and will begin the actual editing of the manuscripts. And already I am working on my next editing project, which will be for Falstaff Books with the fabulous Sarah J. Sover. More details to come.

RADIANTS, by David B. Coe (Jacket art by Belle Books)As for writing, I have still not done much at all. But that might be changing soon. There are a lot of moving parts to this development, and nothing is set in stone yet, but for fans of the Radiants books, who have wondered if I ever planned to go back to those stories, stay tuned . . . . Yes, I know that I have promised a return to the Thieftaker universe as well, not to mention a reissue of Winds of the Forelands, which I have had on the back burner for years now. Those will be coming eventually as well. I am slowly working my way back into a writing mindset. I would ask for your patience, as I continue to heal and find my emotional footing again.

Nancy and I have been out to see Erin in Colorado, and will be seeing her again before too long. We have plans for multiple trips later this summer and into the fall, and are also looking forward to welcoming some guests to our home.

Other than that, life has been sailing along. We see family and friends. We watch our favorite shows and listen to music. We cook fun foods and taste new whiskeys. I have been playing music as well, polishing long-neglected guitar skills and trying to retrain my voice.

Alex, of course, is a constant presence in my thoughts. I am learning to live with my grief, to honor her memory in ways that do justice to the loss while also allowing me to function and breathe and be thankful for all that we still have in our lives. At the risk of misspeaking for Nancy and Erin, I believe it is a journey for all of us. There’s no real end point. It is just the reality of our world now, and always will be. Not long ago, I shared a song with my guitar buddy and dear, dear friend, Alan Goldberg. It was a tune I first heard on a mix CD Alex made for me when she was in high school, a tune I hadn’t listened to in several years, since well before her death. I knew he would love the song, but I was also afraid to play it for him. I didn’t know how I would feel upon hearing it again.

I needn’t have worried. It brought a smile. It made me feel close to her, thankful for this tiny gift she had given me — one gift among so, so many. Did it make me miss her? Of course, but it’s not like I need help in that regard. And the sweet memories that came with the melody were a balm.

Here is the song. Enjoy your weekend. Hug those you love.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, teaching, Writing

Monday Musings: Some Recent Epiphanies

The title speaks for itself. These are recent epiphanies I’ve had. Some are profound others less so. Enjoy.

Polaris Award, David B. Coe 2025Last weekend, at ConCarolinas, I was honored with the Polaris Award, which is given each year by the folks at Falstaff Books to a professional who has served the community and industry by mentoring young writers (young career-wise, not necessarily age-wise). I was humbled and deeply grateful. And later, it occurred to me that early in my career, I would probably have preferred a “more prestigious” award that somehow, subjectively, declared my latest novel or story “the best.” Not now. Not with this. I was, essentially, being recognized for being a good person, someone who takes time to help others. What could possibly be better than that?

Nancy and I recently went back to our old home in Tennessee for the wedding of the son of dear, dear friends. Ahead of the weekend, I was feeling a bit uneasy about returning there. By the time we left last fall, we had come to feel a bit alienated from the place, and we were constantly confronting memories of Alex — everywhere we turned, we found reminders of her. But upon arriving there this spring, I recognized that I had control over who and what I saw and did and even recalled. I avoided places that were too steeped in hard memories. I never went near our old house — I didn’t want to see it if it looked exactly the same, and I really didn’t want to see it if the new owners made a ton of changes! But most of all, I took care of myself and thus prevented the anxieties I’d harbored ahead of time from ruining what turned out to be a fun visit. I may suffer from anxiety, but I am not necessarily subject to it. I am, finally, at an advanced age, learning to take care of myself.

Even if I do not make it to “genius” on the Spelling Bee AND solve the Mini AND the Crossword AND Wordle AND Connections AND Strands each day, the world will still continue to turn. Yep. It’s true.

I do not know when or if I will ever write another word of fiction. But when and if I do, it will be because I want to, because I have a story I need to tell, something that I am certain I will love. Which is as it should be.

The lyric is, “She’s got electric boots/A mohair suit/You know I read it in a magazine.” Honest to God.

I am never going to play center field for the Yankees. I am never going to appear on a concert stage with any of my rock ‘n roll heroes. I am never going to be six feet tall. Or anywhere near it. All of this may seem laughably obvious. Honestly, it IS laughably obvious. But the dreams of our childhood and adolescence die hard. And the truth is, even as we age, we never stop feeling like the “ourself” we met when we were young.

Grief is an alloy forged of loss and memory and love. The stronger the love, and the greater the loss, and the more poignant the memories, the more powerful the grief. Loss sucks, but grief is as precious as the rarest metals — as precious as love and memory.

As a student of U.S. History — a holder of a doctorate in the field — I always assumed that our system of government, for all its obvious flaws and blind spots, was durable and strong. I believed that if it could survive the War of 1812 and the natural growing pains of an early republic, if it could emerge alive, despite its wounds, from Civil War and Reconstruction, if it could weather the stains of McCarthyism and Vietnam and Watergate, it could survive anything. I was terribly wrong. As it turns out, our Constitutional Republic is only as secure as the good intentions of its principle actors. Checks and balances, separation of powers, the norms of civil governance — they are completely dependent on the willingness of those engaged in governing to follow historical norms. Elect people who are driven not by patriotism but by greed and vengeance, bigotry and arrogance, unbridled ego and an insatiable hunger for power, and our republic turns out to be as brittle as centuries-old paper, as ephemeral as false promises, as fragile as life itself.

I think the legalization of weed is a good thing. Legal penalties for use and possession were (and, in some states, still are) grossly disproportionate to the crime, and they usually fell/fall most heavily on people of color and those without the financial resources necessary to defend themselves. So, it’s really a very, very good thing. But let’s be honest: Part of the fun of getting high used to be the knowledge that we were doing something forbidden, something that put us on the wrong side of the law. It allowed otherwise well-behaved kids to feel like they (we) were edgy and daring. There’s a small part of me that misses that. Though it’s not enough to make me move back to Tennessee….

I’ll stop there for today. Perhaps I’ll revisit this idea in future posts.

In the meantime, have a great week.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, Writing

Monday Musings: Nesting (Redux) and Writing

Back in early January, with snow falling on our bare trees and the brisk cold of a northeastern winter defining our days, I wrote a post for this blog about “Nesting.” The title referred to what Nancy and I had been doing around the house — unpacking, finding places for our stuff, making improvements to the new house.

That process has continued in the months since. While we have also done other stuff — editing, music, birding, and other pursuits on my part; weaving, knitting, and getting her last academic paper published on Nancy’s part — we (mostly Nancy) have still been working on the house. My hands are not (and never have been) steady enough to paint the trim around the interior of the house, so Nancy has carried the bulk of that burden. And with the onset of spring, my multi-talented spouse has also been planning her approach to landscaping our new yard. And I have done more unpacking and have been slowly hanging our art around the house.

I posted a couple of photos of the new place back in January, but wanted to follow up with a few more today.Interior of house Interior of houseInterior of new house. Front exterior of house. View of yard.

And I wanted to say a few things about this blog, which I seem to be struggling to keep up with consistently. I am trying. Truly. A lot of the time, though, I just don’t want to write. It really is as simple as that. Most days, I wake up, confront the newest atrocity committed by this hateful, cruel, criminally incompetent Administration, and am torn between wanting to write yet another outraged screed and wanting to ignore politics altogether. I don’t want this blog to become nothing more than a nonstop critique of all the current occupant of the White House is doing to undermine the strength of our republic. But I also don’t want to post about birds or baseball or our latest favorite series on Netflix when the country is burning down. And so I go for weeks without posting at all, which isn’t an answer either.

This is actually symptomatic of a larger problem. I’m not writing much of anything — not blog posts, and not fiction. I did some fiction writing early last year, when I was hired to write something in someone else’s world. But the truth is, I haven’t written a word of fiction that was really my own since we lost Alex back in October 2023. Will I write again? I hope so. That’s all I can say for certain. I want to write again. But I don’t want to write now, and I feel that I owe it to myself to take this time to continue healing. I have no idea how long this feeling will last. A month? A year? A decade? Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. All I know is, I need to take care of myself.

Because I AM healing. I’m doing better in most ways than I was a year ago, and far better than I was a year and half ago, when the grief was fresh and I thought it would never ease.

Watching the house come together has been good for me. Watching spring touch our little slice of the Hudson Valley has been lovely. Trees are blooming. Flowerbeds are revealing themselves. We moved in late in November, so the arrival of warmer weather has been a revelation for us.

I saw Erin in March. I will see her again in May. And then June. And then maybe later in the summer. And then . . . soon after that. Being with her is a balm for both Nancy and me. And so is Nancy and my time together. The love tying our family together remains strong, and in many ways missing Alex, loving her, grieving her, has become one more unbreakable filament binding us to one another.

So we nest. We heal. We love. And we continue to ask your patience and support.

Have a wonderful week.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, Writing

Monday Musings: Here We Are

By David B. Coe By David B. CoeWe woke this morning to a snow squall, something that happened with ever-decreasing frequency during our years in Tennessee, as climate change made the warm South even warmer. Here in New York, during the winter months, snow is still the default when there’s precipitation, and I love that. I have missed snow and don’t mind paying the plow guy or dealing with snow on the walkways and driveway. The beauty of an early morning snowfall more than makes up for the inconveniences.

We have bird feeders up now, and they’ve drawn in a variety of species, including several species of sparrow, goldfinches and cardinals, chickadees and nuthatches and woodpeckers. They have also drawn the attention of local hawks, who seem to view our feeders as an all-they-can-eat avian buffet. We have a Cooper’s Hawk who frequents the yard, a pair of Red-tails who come around quite often, and, as of yesterday, a gorgeous Red-shouldered Hawk. Our turkey flock continues to wander through the yard now and then, as does a beautiful red fox. A couple of weeks ago, while driving past the farm that borders our property on the western edge, I spotted a young Peregrine Falcon perched on a telephone pole, hungrily eyeing a flock of doves.

I haven’t written in this blog for a few weeks, and in a way what you’ve just read is why. I am working again, we have settled into a routine of sorts. The house still needs a good deal of work, and we’re getting around to that slowly, steadily. We are enjoying this setting immensely. We’re eating fun foods and finding new stuff to stream. We’re spending lots of time with my brother and his family, who live close by, and lots of time with my college roommate and musical partner and his wife, who also live maybe 20 minutes from here.

Life is comfortable and peaceful and, I will also admit, a tiny bit boring. Not to me, mind you, but I can definitely see where it could seem that way to those on the outside. We traveled a lot last year. This year we’re planning to (mostly) stay put and work on our new place. The past several years have been full and fraught, difficult beyond words at times, and at other times so frantic as to be exhausting. This year won’t be like that. Not if we can help it.

And so, yeah, I have struggled to post. I don’t want to bore. I don’t want to repeat material from old posts.

I continue to grieve for my older daughter. I’ll never stop. But I feel I have made that grief part of my life, part of who I am now, and honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I don’t feel the same need to write about it that I felt last year. And I think many grew tired of such posts. Grief is part of me, but it does not — should not — define me.

I don’t really want to think about the slow-motion disaster unfolding in our nation’s capital. This administration’s attempts to subvert the Constitution and undo a century of progress on Civil Rights, environmental protection, social justice, and a host of other worthy goals is not something upon which I care to dwell. I am too weary to engage in online flame wars with troglodytes and nazis. At some point, I’ll grow angry enough to write a political screed or three, but not now.

And at some point, I am sure, I will have much to say about new writing projects. For now, though, I’m merely editing, and enjoying quiet, productive days in my new work space.

All of this feels healthy, and deeply appropriate for this current stage of my life. None of it makes for exciting reading (or writing). I will do my best to post as I can, to come up with things to say that make something worth reading out of our mundane-albeit-cozy existence. But to those who know us and care about us, please be assured that we are doing well. Better than we would have thought possible a little over a year ago. Some days are harder than others. But we are where we ought to be, physically and emotionally. It’s hard to ask for more.

Wishing all of you a wonderful week.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, Writing

Monday Musings: Checking In, With Further Thoughts On Grief

I’ve been traveling a lot this summer — hence my inconsistency when it comes to posting. Generally the travel has gone well, and visits with friends and family have been wonderful. Whether in personal settings or professional ones, I have felt valued and loved, seen and supported. I can’t ask for more.

I am still on the same journey I have been on for the better part of a year. Grief, I am learning, doesn’t ever go away. It changes, it eases and spikes and eases again, it becomes part of us, redefining who we are and how we interact with the world, with the people in our lives, with ourselves.Alex

Months ago, I wrote that I would not wish to stop grieving. We grieve because we loved and because we remember. Grief is how our hearts and minds remain connected to those we have lost. I continue to believe this.

I am no stranger to grief; I’ve dealt with more loss in my life than I would have liked. We lost my mother and father when I was still in my early 30s. We lost my brother Bill far too early. And, of course, we lost Alex — the cruelest cut of all. In the past, I fought my grief, trying to hold it at arm’s length, fearing that to embrace it would be to surrender. The thought of that surrender terrified me. What if I couldn’t pull myself out of my sadness? What if the loss overwhelmed me?

This time around, I didn’t have a choice. The loss was too great, the pain too consuming. Had I not surrendered to it, I would have broken in half, like a tree trunk snapped off by a straight-line wind. Yes, there is an echo here of Aesop’s fable, “The Oak and the Reed.” A better analogy for my purpose is standing in the surf. I’ve never been a confident swimmer, and I used to hate swimming in the ocean because I would try to stand against the force of breakers. Only when I learned to body surf and to dive through waves did I start to love going to the shore. It was a lesson the girls picked up on quickly, and some of my fondest memories are of swimming with Nancy, Alex, and Erin during our annual beach vacations.

Grief is a huge wave. Only when I allowed it to wash over me and carry me where it would, did I come to understand that I could surrender to it without drowning.

Something else I’ve learned about grief — and another analogy to explain it: Our emotions have needs, just as our bodies do. And often we have to listen to our thoughts and feelings to understand what those needs might be. You know that feeling when you’re suddenly hungry for something very specific — a piece of fruit, or some meat or cheese, or a savory snack. That is our body’s way of telling us that it needs a certain type of nutrition — sugar, protein, salt. We learn to trust those cravings and to cater to them.

My emotions, and perhaps yours as well, work much the same way. There are days when I need to be with other people. There are days when I want to be alone. There are days when I crave work and others when writing and editing are the last things I want to do. One day I wanted to get a tattoo. Another day — Alex’s birthday, actually — I needed to hike and birdwatch on my own. I walked eleven miles that day. I have learned to listen to my grief, to honor it, to let it guide me through the roughest days.

So, how am I doing? I’m asked that a lot. Still. I don’t mind at all. I understand that the question comes from concern and from love. And the truth is, nine months on from the hardest, worst, most brutal thing that has ever happened in my life, I am all right. I won’t say I’m doing great. I don’t think you’d believe me if I did. But I am living my life, savoring time with the people I love most, doing the little things that I enjoy and from which I draw strength and peace. I have bad days, of course. But I get through them. And I’m finding there are fewer of them now than there were in the fall and winter.

It occurs to me as I write this that I have been listening to some new music lately. New to me, I should say. The lyrics aren’t particularly deep and the musicianship isn’t all that flashy. It’s kind of the musical equivalent of peanut butter and pretzels — a bit of protein, more substance than, say, gummy worms. But no one would confuse it for gourmet fare. It matches my mood in a way. I am not ready to go back to the tunes from which I have usually drawn emotional comfort. There is too much baggage in that music. Too much pain. Too many associations. And so these new songs are what I’m using to get through right now.

One last analogy to explain where I am with my grief at this point in time.

Thanks for reading. Have a great week.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, Not at all Writing Related

Monday Musings: Very Special Tattoos

While our older daughter, Alex, was sick with cancer, she continued to live her life with passion and exuberance, in defiance of the disease, the treatments, the fear, the injustice of a cruel and arbitrary illness. She traveled, she spent time with friends, she treated herself to new clothes, she went to concerts and restaurants and parties, she worked out. And she challenged herself to do new things.

Early on, soon after her diagnosis, a dear friend gave her a lovely bouquet of wildflowers that she kept in a vase in her apartment. Eventually, of course, the flowers faded and then dried, but they never lost their delicate beauty, and they continued to mean the world to her. She kept them in the same vase, refusing to get rid of them. I think in some way they became a talisman for her. As long as those fragile blooms remained intact, she would be all right.

Somewhere along the way, as her battle went on, Alex decided she wanted to have the image of those blooms tattooed on her arm. She turned to a friend from NYU who had become an accomplished tattoo artist. This friend, Ally Zhou, specializes in fine line work, and was the ideal person to render the precise details of the dried bouquet. The result was a gorgeous tattoo that Alex bore proudly for the rest of her too-short life.

After Alex’s death, Nancy, Erin, and I decided that we wanted to honor Alex by getting tattoos from Ally as well. Ally had already designed a couple for Alex’s friends: a copy of Alex’s nickname signature — “ABC” — and a small image of lemons, which had a special meaning for Alex during her illness — like Beyoncé, life had dealt her lemons and she was determined to make lemonade.

Last week, the three of us were in New York for the wedding of my nephew and niece-in-law (I know that’s not a thing, but it really, really ought to be . . .). A couple of days after the wedding, we went down to Brooklyn for a day, to the studio collective where Ally works. It’s called Macondo, and it’s a very cool place. We had contacted Ally ahead of time, and they set aside much of the afternoon for the three of us.

I should say here that while Alex and Erin had long talked about getting tattoos, Nancy and I never have. If not for Alex and her ordeal, we never would have even considered doing this. But now it felt like an imperative, something we all needed to do. And so Nancy got a set of blooms based on Alex’s bouquet, and added to it a small butterfly that she (Nancy) drew, and a small version of Alex’s “ABC.” Erin added Nancy’s butterfly to the “ABC” she’d gotten at Alex’s memorial in NYC back in October. And I got the “ABC” and the lemons.

I know there are many of you reading this for whom a small tattoo is no big deal. You have sleeves or extensive back pieces or whatever. I think that’s great. But as I say, this was something Nancy and I had never intended to do. It felt momentous, like a ritual of sorts, a way of alchemizing our grief into something physical and shared and public, something that links us to one another and to Alex. I love my new tattoo, for what it means as well as for how it looks.

Did it hurt? Well, yeah, a little. Tattoo artists use needles, you know. While lying on the table, I gained a healthy respect for those I mentioned earlier who have extensive art all over their bodies. I’m not sure I could do that. But Ally has a light hand and a wonderfully gentle and supportive manner. It was a good experience for all of us.

Our darling girl is gone. Nothing can bring her back. But, strange as it seems, I feel a bit closer to her now. To my mind, our tattoos are yet another affirmation of our family connection, which transcends all.

Have a great week.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, Writing

Monday Musings: A Wonderful Return To Convention-ing

I spent this past weekend at ConCarolinas in Charlotte, reconnecting with fans, colleagues, and friends. And it was great.

The last con I attended was DragonCon at the end of August/beginning of September 2023, before the fall and all that came with it. Since that time, I have largely avoided crowds of people and interactions with even some close friends. I shied away from personal contact with pretty much everyone. It has just been too hard.

And so resolving to attend this con was a big deal for me. I put it on my professional calendar early in the year, committed to it, both internally and publicly. Honestly, I wasn’t sure it was something I wanted to do, but I knew it was something I should do.

All of which made this past weekend such a wonderful and surprising pleasure. Yes, I sold a good number of books — it was one of my best ConCarolinas ever in that regard. But more than that, it simply was wonderful to see people, to talk about writing and publishing, to laugh with friends who have been absent from my life for far too long.

Throughout the weekend, I was touched by the number of people who wanted to offer condolences, words of comfort, hugs of support. I was grateful again and again for the expressions of sympathy, and then for the efforts made by people around me to treat me as they always have — with affection and kindness, but also with irreverence and snark. A weekend that I feared would be awkward and challenging turned out to be fun and refreshingly natural.

It was, in short, exactly the convention I needed and wanted it to be. I have a great many people to thank for that, and I am not going to try to name them here. It’s not that they don’t deserve to be mentioned and thanked individually. They really, really do. But I am destined to forget someone important, and thus do more damage than good with such a list. Suffice it to say that if we shared a moment (or more) during the weekend — if we had a meal together, or a drink, or a panel, or a conversation; if you stopped by my book table to peruse my offerings or buy something or ask me a question about writing; if you had a role in making the convention such a great success (despite broken escalators and hobbled elevators and malfunctioning thermostats) — I am deeply grateful to you. Thank you.

Have a great week.

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, Thieftaker Chronicles, Writing

Monday Musings: “What’s Next?” Well, How About Some Big News?

“When I ask ‘What’s Next?’ it means I’m ready to move on to other things. So, what’s next?” — Jed Barlet, THE WEST WING

Yeah, I will seek out almost any excuse to quote from The West Wing, it being my favorite television series of all time. But as it happens, this is a question that’s been on my mind for a while now. In the show, “What’s next?” was more than a change of topic or a jump to the next agenda item. It was also used to turn the page after a setback, to refocus the staff after a triumph, even to look for a new beginning after tragedy.

As is the case with so much that happens in the course of the show’s seven seasons, the quote has long had great significance for me, and this is especially true now.

I know better than to think I can “turn the page” or “move on” from the past year. And even if I could, I’m not certain I would. But I am ready to restart my life, to venture back out into the professional and personal world, to find a new routine that makes room for all the emotional complexity of the new reality my family and I face.

In some ways, I have already started this process. I finished a book a few weeks ago, one I started back in January. It was sort of a work-for-hire, tie-in book, but it was fun to write. The plotting and character work proved absorbing, and because I started it later than I intended, the deadline kept me focused, motivated, and, yes, just a little manic. If it seems like I am avoiding telling you anything specific about the book itself, that’s because I am. Sorry. For now, I can’t really talk about it. When I can, you will all be among the first to know.

I have also written a novella for a new shared-world anthology that will be released this summer by Zombies Need Brains. And, as some of you have seen, I am again accepting clients for my freelance editing business. At the end of this month, I will attend ConCarolinas, my first convention since DragonCon last September. Baby steps. But steps forward, which is the point.

Today, I can also share some news about What’s Next that I think will please a good many of you.

First a little background.

Many of you will have seen my blog post about the trip Nancy and I recently took to Italy. If you haven’t, you should check it out. For the photos, if nothing else. While we were in Venice, I fell in love with the city’s narrow lanes, ancient bridges, and gorgeous architecture. It is, visually speaking, the loveliest city I’ve ever seen. And there are no cars — all travel within the city is by boat, by foot, or by bicycle. Walking the streets was like a journey back in time.

Street sign in Venice: "Rio Terra Dei Assassini"
Street sign in Venice: “Rio Terra Dei Assassini,” which means, basically, “Street-That-Used-To-Be-A-Canal Of The Murderers.”

We took tours of the Doge’s Palace and Saint Mark’s Basilica (both were spectacular), and one of our tour guides mentioned that while Venice is a very safe city today, once upon a time it was anything but. And as proof of this, she said, we should pay attention to some of the street names. “Street of the Dead,” “Lane of the Murderers,” “Street of the Head” (that’s not a typo), and more.

And, of course, this set my writer brain in motion. One thing led to another, and I can tell you now that I am beginning work on a new Thieftaker universe series set in 18th century Venice. I don’t know yet if it will be a spin-off or will feature Ethan throughout. I don’t even know how I am going to get Ethan to Venice, though I have some ideas about that. But I have already commenced my research for the books and I am totally jazzed. One publisher has already expressed interest in seeing a series proposal, so that’s good as well.

Thieftaker, by D.B. Jackson (Jacket art by Chris McGrath)What about the rest of my life? What’s next in other realms?

Well, we’re about to start doing some work on the house — I won’t say it’s overdue, but it comes at a good time. We have more travel planned for later in the year and several weddings to attend this summer and fall. We’ll see Erin. We’ll see other family and many friends. I’ll be at DragonCon late this summer. And we’ll continue to heal, even as we also look for ways to honor Alex’s memory and celebrate her life.

I look forward to crossing paths with many of you in the months to come. We have some catching up to do.

Have a great week.