At 72, I feel as if my brain has retained enough, but I keep coming up with more stories to share and memories to relive, and who am I to stop writing about whatever is left inside of me, screaming to get out.
My meager existence revolves around a cup of coffee in the morning and sitting down at my desktop, where, like a Qui-ja-board, my fingers go to the right keys and the journey begins. The almost-silent tapping takes me to far-off places I somehow manage to summon, joining me as I dive deeper into a darkness made clear the further I go.
Distractions don't bother me as long as I don't have to stop for some outside reason, like a truck delivering joy to someone or a kid mowing a neighbor's lawn. Inside my house, I've created a storybook land with clowns sitting on stools and an unknown number of pin-up girls from the 30s and 40s giving me more inspiration to write. Pictures of my family when everyone gathered for a summer picnic. Christmas cards yellowed from time but never thrown out. Shelves crowded with knick-knacks like old plastic army men, sea glass, and a yo-yo with no string.
My writing space itself is small, with just enough room to work, but any smaller, I fear, would lead to a phobia of enclosed spaces. I love writing at night when candles are lit, throwing shadows across the room, trying to bother me but never can, as the candles' glow comforts me and sparks my imagination for the umpteenth time.
Willy Nelson once said everything in the world is a story to be told. No greater words were ever spoken. Many writers spend hours, days, and months researching content for their writing, but I start writing, and my memories become my content. 72, 73, or 85, I'll still write even though I've told myself there will never be a big turnout if I had a book signing.
I'm older now, and all the chaos of my life has blown away on a summer breeze. Silence is golden, and I often forget to turn off my phone, which bothers my kids as they think the worst, like finding me curled up in a ball, my face halfway submerged in a bowl of Raisin Bran and my dog beside me licking away at the milk. Could be worse for sure.
I hope that one day they will read, in death, what they didn't in life, and be proud of my work and share it with the world. There's an image I often see where hundreds of people from all walks of life are sitting in a meadow, reading my books and blogs, tossing pages to the wind as they finish one story and reach for another.
Who do I think I am? I ask myself. I've never had any classes on writing, which is very apparent in my work, nor do I claim it's good stuff. But it is all mine, and I'm proud of all of it, and isn't that what really matters? So time marches on, and more stories come to me, but the words have slowed down as I struggle to find the right ones at times; that's okay with me as long as I don't lose it all and desert my laptop for a shot of whiskey and a cigar.
Mike 2026
Distractions don't bother me as long as I don't have to stop for some outside reason, like a truck delivering joy to someone or a kid mowing a neighbor's lawn. Inside my house, I've created a storybook land with clowns sitting on stools and an unknown number of pin-up girls from the 30s and 40s giving me more inspiration to write. Pictures of my family when everyone gathered for a summer picnic. Christmas cards yellowed from time but never thrown out. Shelves crowded with knick-knacks like old plastic army men, sea glass, and a yo-yo with no string.
My writing space itself is small, with just enough room to work, but any smaller, I fear, would lead to a phobia of enclosed spaces. I love writing at night when candles are lit, throwing shadows across the room, trying to bother me but never can, as the candles' glow comforts me and sparks my imagination for the umpteenth time.
Willy Nelson once said everything in the world is a story to be told. No greater words were ever spoken. Many writers spend hours, days, and months researching content for their writing, but I start writing, and my memories become my content. 72, 73, or 85, I'll still write even though I've told myself there will never be a big turnout if I had a book signing.
I'm older now, and all the chaos of my life has blown away on a summer breeze. Silence is golden, and I often forget to turn off my phone, which bothers my kids as they think the worst, like finding me curled up in a ball, my face halfway submerged in a bowl of Raisin Bran and my dog beside me licking away at the milk. Could be worse for sure.
I hope that one day they will read, in death, what they didn't in life, and be proud of my work and share it with the world. There's an image I often see where hundreds of people from all walks of life are sitting in a meadow, reading my books and blogs, tossing pages to the wind as they finish one story and reach for another.
Who do I think I am? I ask myself. I've never had any classes on writing, which is very apparent in my work, nor do I claim it's good stuff. But it is all mine, and I'm proud of all of it, and isn't that what really matters? So time marches on, and more stories come to me, but the words have slowed down as I struggle to find the right ones at times; that's okay with me as long as I don't lose it all and desert my laptop for a shot of whiskey and a cigar.
Mike 2026
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