September 29, 2024. Camarillo, California. The morning unfolded with familiar routines. Our five dogs, ever the early risers, fixed me with their breakfast-begging gazes, and Jim was already immersed in the digital world at his desk, the rhythmic tapping of his keyboard filling the air. I, too, spent a few moments catching up at my desk, sifting through emails and scanning election updates.
Yet, a distinct sense of anticipation hung in the air. This day was marked as different, a milestone on my personal timeline.
This was the day I would finally hold the tangible result of years of dedication: my book. It was the day I would turn each page, reflecting on the immense effort poured into every sentence, every paragraph detailing my profound relationship with Detective John “Jigsaw” St. John. My aim was to craft a narrative that would grip readers, plunging them into a true crime story unlike any other. In my mind’s eye, I could almost see John beside me, his spectral presence grumbling with familiar affection, “Well, Miss Panic. It sure as hell took you long enough. But you know what? You finally wrote the damn book!”
“You’re still the same old goat even if you are in heaven,” I’d mentally retort, a smile playing on my lips. “But you know what? I didn’t break my promise to you, even if it took forty-two years of the hardest, most challenging, most maddening years of my life. And you know what else, Jigsaw? I wouldn’t trade a single minute of those thirteen years we shared for anything.”
Looking back, the memory of mounting rejections still carried a sting. Each “no” chipped away at my confidence, fueling questions and self-doubt. What was missing? Where had I faltered? Could I even endure this relentless cycle of rejection?
Each editor’s response, while professional, landed like a blow. “Thank you for sending over Badge Number One, your manuscript about John St. John. It’s undeniably well-written and presents an intriguing narrative. However, unfortunately, it’s not quite the right fit for our current publishing list.”
Another variation echoed the same sentiment: “I’m sure this will develop into a compelling story. Unfortunately, your submission has arrived at a particularly congested point in our publishing schedule.”
And yet another, succinctly: “Our publishing schedule is exceptionally full at this time.”
Driven by a refusal to give up, I sought guidance. I invested in consultants, attended writers’ conferences, and networked with producers, directors, and literary agents. John and I, in spirit and memory, had collaborated on thirteen book proposals, each met with the same disheartening answer: No! No! No!
Just as discouragement threatened to consume me, that familiar, insidious voice of self-doubt, a ghost from my own personal underworld, resurfaced, whispering its haunting negativity: You simply don’t possess the inherent talent to be a writer! Abandon this foolish pursuit! Revert to the comfortable predictability of your former country club tennis life before you embarrass yourself further trying to be some amateur sleuth, a grownup Nancy Drew! Your father was correct all along. You are not cut out for this. I fought to quiet the rising tide of anxiety and fear.
What if the ghost was right? What if I genuinely lacked the capability to articulate the story John and I had lived, the love we had shared, the cases we had faced? Failure meant betraying the profound trust placed in me by the detective who dedicated his life to justice, who walked in the shoes of victims in the city he fiercely protected, the man who embodied the very qualities I aspired to. If Jigsaw and Jane remained unwritten, all our shared dreams, all our history, would fade into oblivion. That was an outcome I simply could not, would not, allow.
Then, the day arrived. The moment I noticed the package resting on my doorstep, an undeniable certainty washed over me. I knew, instinctively, what it contained.
I carried it into the kitchen with a reverence usually reserved for delicate medical procedures, as if it were a patient in need of a heart transplant. I called Jim, my ever-supportive husband, to share in this pivotal moment, to witness the unveiling. The book’s cover featured a photograph of a long, winding road, strikingly reminiscent of the very roads John and I had traveled together, often leading to the heart of the Bradford crime scenes we investigated.
“Jigsaw” and my name were emblazoned in bold, black print, commanding attention, followed by the rest of the title, finally realized, finally tangible.
Jim beamed, his eyes reflecting pride and joy. “You did it, Janie. You did it for yourself, and you did it for John. Let’s open some champagne and properly toast Jigsaw John!” Emotion welled up as I clutched the book to my chest, the embrace as tight and heartfelt as if I were hugging Jigsaw himself. “Deal!” I managed, my voice thick with emotion and triumph.
