So often the phrase from the play, Hamilton, runs through my mind.

“Why do you write like
you are running out of time?”

The answer: Because I am.

Despite having retired early at 58, my time for achieving my dreams and goals is growing
short. Yes, I have been published in magazines, journals, and newspapers. But my first book,
Cherokee Clay, wasn’t published until I was 67. I have written two more to complete the series,
“Cherokee Passages.” I have been told that these will be published in the near future.

I have four other books in development: three children’s books and one historical nonfiction.
That last one, my first nonfiction, Before We Were a State, is taking all I have to finish. The
clerical parts, such as the endnotes and the index, plague me. I have been tempted to give it up as
being too difficult, but, at my core, is a stubborn stone that won’t yield.

But do I know for sure that I will see all of these books in print? No. After seeing how
COVID-19 affected the publishing industry, the world, and my own life, I know that nothing is
certain. The world can change in a minute’s time.

On a personal level, I am helping organize my 50th class reunion. How did that happen? The
years have flown by, and several of my classmates are no longer living. They ran out of time,
and I am working fiercely to make sure that doesn’t happen to me, at least not until I am ready
for it.

This was my first blog. I will be submitting another one in a few days.