Turning points are hard. It's nice to be a solo act again but that means working without a net. Thus, I typically spend an hour in the darkest hours of the night running through a mental checklist of worry and uncertainty. The monsters that ignore me by day pounce on my chest at night, happy to remind me that writing offers no guarantees. I counter with arguments about Taking London going on sale in three weeks. It's a gorgeous book inside and out, a spectacular cover wrapped around a riveting story. They ignore me.

Coming June 11, 2024. Pre-order here.

Instead, the monsters say I haven't come up with a new book yet, laughing at the few flimsy ideas I've floated past my agent. I'm not sure whether the next should be a Taking book or a standalone work. The most recent idea was a travelogue about chasing the Springsteen tour around Europe for a month this summer. The demons chuckle, even after I remind them that Chasing Lance did quite well at the cash register. For the sake of a return to slumber, I agree with them, knowing I'm looking for an idea that transcends a niche audience of aging rock and roll fans.

The pillow cramps my neck. The monsters push down harder on my chest. I roll onto my left side to shake them off, then my right.

I reach over and lightly touch Calene's shoulder, just for physical contact. She's in a deep sleep and has no idea I'm calming myself with her energy.

After a few seconds I pull away my hand and roll onto my back, taking deep breaths to chase away the negative voices.

I remind the monsters there's money in the bank. They swat that aside, looking for something dark and lonely to add dread to the mixture. I fight back, trying to replace worry and fear with hopes and dreams: Taking London will rocket up the bestseller lists, the new idea will reveal itself (hopefully very soon) in a way that make it seem predestined, Taking Midway is being written with a complexity I wasn't capable of ten years ago. I don't dare mention Calene's cancer — that unlooses a whole new army of monsters. A man can only take so much.

Finally, I drift back to sleep. Yet Monster Hour continues. Ridiculous dreams, usually something about walking through a crowd and realizing I'm not wearing pants. That's always a winner.

Then the pale light of dawn shines through the bedroom curtains. No monsters. I am eager to be at my writing desk, putting words on the page, working without a net in all its glory. A brand new hardcover Taking London stands on a bookshelf with my other solo projects in a line of books dating back to 1993. I inhale hopes and dreams, thanking God that I'm such a lucky man.

And begin to write.

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