For the last ten years, since my first daughter was born, my wife and I settled in a house, and I undertook my long-distance commute to Manhattan, I have engaged in a ritual when I return on Thursday mornings. It is a rather traditional ritual in many ways, consisting of stopping at a pub on my way home from the Greyhound station to enjoy a whiskey and a pint with a few friends who also have unusual schedules. One of these friends is a retired doctor, who due loss of eyesight, has retired early from his profession. Another is also retired, an environmental scientist who formerly worked for the DEC and now spends most days hiking with his dog. The third is a barback/musician who knocks off around 11:00 a.m. from his early shift prepping the restaurant for the lunch rush, and the fourth is a property manager who happens to have Thursday afternoons free.

For nearly a decade, due to our unusual schedules (I am returning from a night shift making Thursday morning my Friday night), we would hangout, play darts, and (in the earlier days) carouse like young rakes not so young anymore. It was a moment in all of our schedules when it fit to do that before everyone returned to their responsibilities.

Occasionally we would pause our regular meetings, usually in the summer and around the holidays, then reconvene on our little island of time, picking up where we left off.

Now, however, there occurs a sea-change in this routine. I could feel it coming at the end of last year. Rather than become intimidated and let the foreboding overtake me completely, I decided I would ride with the waves. The first sign of the impending change came when at long last I received the official word from Charon Coin Press that they would not be publishing my book. I announced that in my last blog entry some months ago. When that happened, I hustled to look for a new publisher. In truth, it was a stroke of ill-luck that came at the end of a string of such blows, and I had to reduce time spent on many other aspects of my life (not just the Thursday hangouts—folks were telling me in all my usual haunts, trips to the woods, playing music, everything, hey Carl, where ya been?).

I was lucky in that the manuscript’s editor Margie Colton had a good lead in finding a new publisher, so I worked at doing everything I could to help that come to fruition. In the meantime, another factor struck a blow to the Thursday morning club, namely, the presidential election. I want to keep this point brief, because this entry is about a journey of my own and seeks not to digress into politics. Suffice it to say, that while I made my views known whenever the topic came up, on a personal level I remained neutral and determined that the political situation in the U.S. was bad enough without letting it ruin friendships.

This type of neutrality did not work for everyone, however, and some falling-outs occurred based in no small part on political differences. I could not blame people in the end for being pissed-off. Just as I could not bring myself to be anything but neutral when it came to personal relationships and politics, I couldn’t come down those who could be anything but neutral. It had been a hard season for everyone, and some folks just couldn’t bear to put their differences aside. Like irreconcilable differences in a torn marriage, sometimes it’s better to let go. So it came to the point where only certain members of the group could be present at certain times.

Finally came the proverbial “nail-the-coffin” as it were—and it wasn’t actually bad news that drove it in—it had nothing to do with my book, politics, or friends. It was my daughter deciding to take up the piano. It happened that Thursday afternoons was the best time for her to have lessons. Naturally driving your kid to her piano teacher precludes quaffing ale with your pals. This was a no-brainer for me—as contrary to popular belief… (ahem—many have seen photos of the fine beverages I’ve posted on Facebook—I have no regrets and continue to revel in the fact that living in the northeastern U.S. when it comes to beer is like living in southern France when it comes to wine—we have many of the best breweries on the planet, producing the finest ales available to humanity—even better, it’s not hard to acquire Kentucky bourbon on the side, and then of course, the jukebox, if no one’s available to pick live guitar…) …contrary to popular belief I am punctual in the call to the active life. I also believe in writing every day, like Stephen King describes in On Writing, when you are crisp and focused, and I especially am excited to drive Maddy to the music store to begin learning the keys.

So all of this added up to me going to McGeary’s Pub last week for one final Thursday morning to say goodbye to a ten-year tradition. I am sure I will see these folks when I get the occasion to stop in other times, but not on the weekly basis our little club had in the past. Oddly, when I arrived, none of the others were there. One of them had already called to say he was hitting the museum that day instead. Two of the others had been tentative anyway since the falling out. And although a few folks stopped in before I left and got to say so-long-for-now, the bar’s manager joked when I first arrived that I had a moment of peace that day, a little moment of quiet and reflection.

She was right—I did have a moment to think. Even more, I had a moment of revelation. As I walked from the Greyhound station in the no-man’s land that lay beneath Albany’s knotted network of highway ramps, as I passed by downtown’s mix of restored and decaying architecture, I realized that this walk had been essential fuel for me, an environmental inspiration of sorts that fed my concentration and my imagination. The very fact that my life has the odd schedule it does, that I travel long-distance to work, and that I surround myself very deliberately with a mix of urban wildernesses and rural wildernesses, serves chiefly to develop the themes that occur in my fiction, and soon everyone who wishes will get to partake in this long-time coming and finally ready to be published work. I welcome the inspiration the past has given me, but I welcome even more the changes that the future brings, and all of the possibilities that come with them.

So now we arrive at the good news: I have signed contract with Seventh Star Press to publish Slash of Crimson and Other Tales, edited by Margie Colton. It is no accident that the last blog entry announced its cancellation, and this new entry its rejuvenation. I am very excited to be working with Stephen Zimmer, one of Seventh Star’s founding members and a writer with whom I can already see I have many shared interests. For those who have been familiar with the project since the beginning, I am happy it will finally become available to read. Just as I have experienced a sea change in my day-to-day life, I welcome this all important new development with my publishing résumé. Details will be forthcoming on when the book will be released, but suffice it to say, after regular talks with the book’s new publisher, things will be happening in a timely manner and we will have both novellas and the six short stories available for purchase soon. I am extra excited to offer not just the reloaded, “director’s cut” of Slash of Crimson, but my first novella taking place in upstate New York, Torn from the Devil’s Chest. Thank you to everyone who has helped this come together, and to everyone who has taken an interest.

I will also now be reviving the Crimes of Heaven and Hell blog for book reviews, essays, and other writing-related topics. Feels good to be pulling the oars in a strong, forward-current once again.