I am a little gobsmacked today. Actually, let me be more honest. I am gobsmacked and a little teary-eyed.
I recently put together a post featuring all the book covers for the novels I have released, along with those I am in the process of releasing. When I stepped back and looked at them all together, I had one of those moments where the mind goes quiet.
Fifteen books.
Completed or in progress.
Fifteen.
That is crazy to me. Not “polished author sitting in a mahogany office with a pipe and a velvet writing jacket” crazy, more like “reluctant author from 2010 suddenly looking around and realizing he has somehow built a small library” crazy.
Because that is where this started.
Reluctance.
I did not begin this journey as someone who proudly declared, “I am an author.” In 2010, I was still wrestling with the idea. I had stories inside me, yes. I had ideas, characters, worlds, teachings, questions, and strange little sparks of inspiration that would not leave me alone. But calling myself an author felt too big. Too bold. Maybe even a little arrogant.
And yet, the stories kept calling.
One page became a chapter. One chapter became a manuscript. One manuscript became a book. And somehow, over time, book after book began to emerge.
What amazes me most is not simply the number. It is the life that happened alongside the writing. In that same stretch of time, I made room for a career in government. I made room for my lovely wife, Tina. I made room for friends, family, vacations, laughter, grief, men’s coaching, spiritual work, personal growth, and eventually, retirement in 2023.
Life did not stop, so I could write.
There was no magical pause button that made everything quiet, simple, and perfectly organized. The books were written in the middle of life. They were written in the cracks, in the early mornings, in the stolen afternoons, in coffee shops, in moments of inspiration, in moments of doubt, and in moments when I wondered if anyone would ever care about the words I was placing on the page.
And still, the work continued.
That is what has me feeling emotional today. These books are not just books to me. They are markers. Each one represents a season of my life. A lesson. A question. A battle. A breakthrough. A prayer. A whisper from the soul that said, “Write this down.”
Some of them came from my spiritual path. Some came from my imagination. Some came from deep questions about men, purpose, leadership, courage, identity, and the strange, beautiful mess of being human. Some came from asking, “What if?” And some came from asking, “What now?”
Looking at those covers all together, I did not just see books. I saw courage. I saw persistence. I saw late nights, edits, rewrites, frustration, joy, and a whole lot of coffee. I saw the younger version of myself, who was reluctant to begin. I saw the man who kept going anyway. I saw the man who wrote even when he was unsure. I saw the man who created while also living a full life.
And I have to say, I am proud of that man.
Not in an ego-driven, chest-thumping kind of way. More in a quiet, hand-on-heart kind of way.
Because fifteen books is not just a number. It is proof that small steps matter. It is proof that creativity does not require perfect conditions. It is proof that a person can build something meaningful while still loving their spouse, showing up for family, serving others, taking vacations, having a career, retiring, coaching men, and living life.
It is proof that the reluctant author can become an author.
And maybe that is the part that has me teary-eyed. I did not force this journey.
I followed it.
Not always gracefully. Not always confidently. Sometimes kicking and grumbling a little, because apparently that is part of my spiritual process.
But I followed it.
And now, here I am, looking at fifteen books completed or in progress, and I honestly cannot believe it.
Fifteen works of art.
Fifteen worlds.
Fifteen pieces of my heart, imagination, and spirit.
What an incredible journey.
And the wildest part?
I do not think I am done yet.
Apparently, the Muse still has my number.
And she does not seem shy about calling.
