While I'm not ordinarily a superstitious person, last month I had a little bit of an epiphany.

It was the day of moving out of my old digs in Missouri, and the movers were doing their thing, stripping bare the place I'd lived in for fifteen years. At one point, as they were almost done, something occurred to me for the first time in the months-long buildup to the move.

All twelve of my published books were written, beginning to end, in the place I was minutes away from vacating forever. That caused a kind of bittersweet feeling, but on its heels came another thought.

Can I continued writing, at least to the level I like, away from there? At the time this happened, I was about halfway through working on Sam Quinton #7, and as I write this today I'm sitting down to begin the final polishing, tightening, etc, to get the book ready to send off.

But can I? Can I successfully complete work away from that familiar environment of a decade and a half.

As I said, I'm not usually superstitious, but this line of thinking gives me pause.

I guess we'll soon see.