2053

In 2053, I will be 69. If the world still has exists.

I talked to a woman today about why we write. I admitted the novel I’m working on now has been very slow going. A thriller. A new challenge. COVID got in the way, and all that. She was asking why, WHY? And I said, well, this will seem arrogant, but for me it’s immortality. The ability to be heard after death. For someone to identify with you after you are gone.

The reason I write is to leave a mark. This blog, these books that will soon be out of print … just graffiti on the sidewalk of humanity. It’s an effort to be seen. And as I told this woman today … most people don’t actually try that. It’s dangerous to put yourself out there for artistic criticism. You don’t have to.

Nobody but you will ever care if you create art.

And that is why you must.