Particularly since he might even have to refer to an earlier book, or flip forward to a later one to check a foreshadow, or any number of book jumps.

I'm picturing one of those big architect-type desks, littered with all the books and dozens of stacks of notes, both his and RJs. It is night, and he is leaned back in the chair, taking a break, covered in ink, lead and sweat from his lamp beating down upon him. He looks at the clock and sighs at the hour. Wiping his brow, he bends back over the desk, intent once more on his work...