Loyally slogged through John Irving's UNTIL I FIND YOU.

Other than the quality of the paper (very smooth and thick) and the upper body workout from lifting this 820 page book, reading this novel was not an enjoyable experience.

Fascinating details regarding international tattooist culture aside, it's difficult to read page after page (after page), spanning almost forty years of a man's life, hoping that at some point he will STOP BEING A VICTIM. No one wants to read about pedophilia, lies and manipulation, or the particulars regarding the draining of cauliflower ears injured during wrestling, but I was amazed at the level of detail in the book.

The protagonist connects the dots that led to him becoming the man he is. The conclusion results in several twists that I wasn't expecting. Given the length of the book, the resolution felt almost too easy and incomplete, yet there was also a measure of satisfaction. Some great characters emerge at this point, for example, there is a discussion among a group of medical doctors that provides welcome comic relief.

The strength of this novel lies in Irving's skill in probing the idea that memory is not always a trustworthy guide, and his sensitivity regarding how our childhood experiences shape our lives:

"In this way, in increments both measurable and not, our childhood is stolen from us--not always in one momentous event but often in a series of small robberies, which add up to the same loss" (438).

Irving has said that this is his most autobiographical novel, which raises some disturbing questions. At the heart of the book is the quest to find a missing father, a desire to feel complete and whole as an individual, a theme which is present in many of Irving's works. While the character of Jack Burns lacks the memorable qualities of some of Irving's other characters, such as the unique Owen Meany in A PRAYER FOR OWEN MEANY, UNTIL I FIND YOU contains haunting and thought provoking elements.

We returned home exhausted last night--adjust temps, sort mail, search for dinner in the freezer, note the shallow pit that some mid-sized creature had dug outside the bedroom window.

My husband attempted to engage the dog in their routine evening play; the dog, nestled in my lap, gave him a look, 'surely you jest.'

After watching many a guitar sale on e-bay, my husband found an opportunity too good to ignore. What an unexpected delight to discover that I married a musician. I knew he enjoyed music, and that he used to play guitar, but hey, I used to play the recorder, briefly, badly.

Now we spend part of the evening playing the guitar. My husband wows me with chords and finger-picking from song segments (everything sounds like "Blowin' in the Wind" to me), and I play "Down in the Valley" or "Greensleeves," over and over (badly).

'Tis a happy household with sore fingertips.

Help, my characters have taken control of my brain. Send chocolate.

It's not as bad as it may sound, in some ways, it's a relief. They were way too quiet last month.

Now, I love these characters, all of them, including their daunting backstories which got the ax in draft two, or three, but I would appreciate it if they would just get on with the business at hand and finish the darn story so I can move on to my next project.

If they don't, I fear I will feel compelled to make collages, build a puppet theater, and keep re-enacting their story with different twists and outcomes.

Maybe if I do just a little more research . . .

As we travel back and forth, from desert to mountain and back again, the exciting transition phase of cleaning, laundry, and stocking the fridge becomes automatic.

Factor in a couple of feet of snow and some altitude adjustment and you'll understand why this is my first blog of the week.

The good news is that the snow is melting quickly and my husband was able to borrow a shovel (the stores were sold out). Now when he returns home from work he has the proper tool to dig his way to the porch.

We've discovered that the cabin design lends itself to snow sliding down the steep roof, inching over the edge like thick frosting until it breaks off and lands directly on the walkway.

The dog has had a great time hopping through the snow like a rabbit, returning to the house to power nap while I discuss changes in the book.

I step up to the free-throw line, bounce the ball and then toss it, watching as it arcs through the air: swish. Ah, it's good to be back.

My sisters and I never really played sports, other than a little tennis. I went out for basketball in junior high for one day. Never comfortable with anyone's fingers flailing near my already impaired eyes, the deciding factor occurred when the coach instructed us to run down the hallway, backwards.

I'm of the opinion that we often know when something just isn't a good fit, like the idea of me attempting to run, dodge, and dribble at the same time. I experienced a similar feeling during my first and last day in ROTC when a woman with a bull whip ordered us to crawl across a gym floor. Not that we shouldn't explore new experiences, but there are times when we are better off listening to that inner voice that says, 'um, I don't think so.'

My father was one of those people who possessed an innate athletic ability. He made every sport look easy, whether diving into the swimming pool, cutting through the water at a even, leisurely pace, or serving a tennis ball with a smooth swing of his arm.

He played basketball, tennis and baseball in his youth. When we were kids he taught us how to play tennis and put up a basketball hoop in the driveway.

Good therapy, shooting baskets, clears the head.

I always thought I'd have a house someday with a basketball hoop in the yard, but I guess it wasn't to be, or at least not yet. Our previous home was built on a gentle slope. Great view, but the idea of shooting at a slant and chasing a basketball downhill lacked appeal.

Now I have access to a community center that has a hoop in the parking lot. Sometimes there are cars parked there, but, time it right, and the opportunity is available, a few short blocks from home.

Swish, rethinking the opening of my novel, ALUMNI AFFAIRS, opening and closing with a campus scene, swish, developing the plot for KEYBOARD CAPER.

Not all of my shots go in, but it is oh so reassuring when they do.

The doorbell prompted the usual cacophonous round of barking, giving purpose to our dog's day and causing embarrassment to me.

I apologized to the stranger hovering outside the security screen.

"Are you Patrice Coleman?"

My brain slipped into high alert mode: SUMMONS?

Was I being sued? Was I being scammed, or worse? Never before have I been so grateful for that substantial security screen (wait here while I lock it).

"I'm a private investigator. Would you be willing to make a short recorded statement regarding a personal injury accident you witnessed?"

I actually paused at this point, reflecting, did I witness a personal injury accident? Not in the recent past, I think I'd remember it. "What accident? When?"

Turns out I was not the Patrice Coleman he was looking for. My surname is common enough, but it's not like you trip over Patrices everyday; half the people I come into contact with can't pronounce it.

When I established my domain name I discovered that another Patrice Coleman had beat me to it (maybe she's the one who witnessed the accident).

I googled my name, alarmed at just how much information is available for free. Where does it come from? Is the DMV selling my personal information? Didn't I specifically ask them not to? Just how much information is available for people who are willing to pay the $29.95, or $49.99 asking prices and where does it come from?

Hmm, Mr. PI did not give me his name and I couldn't see the license on his black sedan.

Well the new 'no socks left behind' policy lasted about a day.

It's a work in progress.

Another one.

Now when I find my discarded socks on the floor I experience this flash of 'how did that happen?' and I pick them up.

Lots of interesting stuff about the writing process and elements of the novel emerging in the ongoing dialogue on the Cruisie/Mayer weblog (He Wrote, She Wrote).

The movie COPOTE also offers a look at the writing process. (I haven't seen WALK THE LINE yet, or BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN, and I'm sure they're good movies, but I say let's just give Philip Seymour Hoffman the Oscar.)

While the pacing of the movie seemed to drag a bit, the story spans four years, from 1959-1963 (or did it cover six years?); given the weighty issues and the real time concept it would have rang false to rush it. The actors, the costumes, the settings--all succeed in evoking the era. Researching and writing IN COLD BLOOD was a life altering experience for Truman Copote on many levels and the movie is a chilling testament to that reality.

Still loving libraries.

I'm halfway through Lauren Willig's THE MASQUE OF THE BLACK TULIP. This doctoral candidate/law student/novelist is continuing the style, content and storyline she pursued in her debut work: THE SECRET HISTORY OF THE PINK CARNATION. She is also working on a third novel in the series.

Willig provides a glimpse into the lives and times of British aristocrats in the 18th century. You don't need to read the CARNATION book before picking up TULIP, but it will provide helpful character and plot background. Both novels follow the research of a contemporary doctoral student as she seeks information about a network of spies.

Willig's lighthearted romance offers smooth development and transitions.

I was thrilled to spot Carol Goodman's THE GHOST ORCHID on the new releases shelf and greedily grabbed it. I can't wait to see what this skillful author does with a group of writers at a retreat.