I still believe I was possessed when I wrote Gaze and Next Chapter.
2020 finds me still in awe of the many predictions I left on the pages all those years ago. Okay, prediction may be a bit strong, but there are several parallels with the outcome of those stories and my life today.
In fact, upon revisiting the prologue in My Two Flags, I was dumbfounded to find myself in the scene of the pages. Every object I described on the page years ago materialized around me. From the book on my shelf to the view through my windows. I swear I might have even heard a distinct British chuckle.
I may have left my works in progress in skeletal stages, patiently awaiting my return to the keyboard. My trusty wave keyboard has been on hold for over five years now.
Gone are the fans I once had.
Gone is the author website. Thank goodness for Amazon!
Fewer are the messages I receive with demands for the next book.
To those of you who find yourselves staring at this words, my most sincere apologies for this absence.
In the book front, I got tired of literary agents advising to turn Lewis into a vampire and give Samantha magic powers to sell the story, and frankly I fail to see the point of writing when we are all easily entertained in social media with all those crazy cat videos and funny memes. What's the point of writing novels these days?
In the life front, I found my career. Like the much beloved Lewis, I have a view of the Thames similar to the view in his London office. Okay, mine is in New London, Connecticut, but I can't deny the symmetry. You could even say we work in similar fields, security, if you recall.
The sweet little girls who inspired Brooke and Emily are now teenagers who no longer regard me as the high quality, laugh-out-loud source of entertainment they once adored. I tell you one dad joke and it's all over.
The incomparable woman who inspired the likes of Gwen and Samantha fought with me through some really thin years and is happily still tolerating yours truly.
Our chocolate Lab, the unsinkable Bailey, is now frail with more gray on her face. Believe it or not, she has been the rock for all of us through more thin than thick.
That leaves me.
The author in me.
The sole responsible party for the creation of seemingly endless pages of joy, grief, love, angst, and laughter (and entire forests worth of rejected manuscripts), completely befuddled to feel my fingers tap the keys turning thoughts into words once again.
Why? Why now?
I think I'd better avoid some Shakesperean demon's possessive persuasions and get it all out of the mind of Javier A. Robayo.
