I couldn’t tell you the nicest thing anyone said to me, but I can recite by memory the most negative things people have said. About me, about my books, about any of my work. Going back to some of my youngest days—even some criticism I got from my teachers in elementary and middle schools. Comments about who they saw me to be, my deficiencies, who I would become.

I’ve had teachers and counselors tell me I wasn’t very bright, that I’d have quite a career ahead of me as one who washes dishes or repairs air conditioners. As if either of those two jobs is something to be ashamed of—I wash dishes for free, these days, and pretty often. And I wish I had the know-how to repair ACs, do you realize how lucrative that business is?

One English teacher told a good friend of mine, “I never understood a word of what Kevin wrote.”

I was an honors English student all the way through graduation. This was my senior year. You’d think I would look at a decade of evidence that writing was something I was good at, and just let that overrule the criticism. But it didn’t. It reinforced what I knew about myself—I was a fraud. An imposter. Any dream I had of writing as my vocation was just fantasy. Not even the good kind, like Lord of the Rings or The Belgariad. Just the weak and worthless kind, like fantasy football.

I kid! I don’t even actually understand what fantasy football is, so I have no right to criticize. Please don’t let that scar you for life. I didn’t mean a word of it.

A few years ago, Kara and I went to a reunion at my old church. The name of the church had changed, along with the ownership and the congregation. But for the first time in maybe 30 years, all the souls I’d known as a kid, the church family I’d grown up with, gathered in the old fellowship hall that we’d collectively helped to build. I, personally, had run drills and swung hammers and swept and vacuumed floors in that space—perhaps confirming for some who knew me that this was to be my career path.

Again… why would that be a negative thing? We currently have a drought of people in skilled labor fields. We need welders and carpenters and AC technicians out here.

As my old church family and I spent the day together, eating one of those potluck meals that only Baptists can create, there came a point where our old preacher and his wife rose before the former congregation to say a few words. Our preacher was wheelchair-bound, by then, and his wife stood beside him. They had a microphone and passed it between them to say their piece.

As the preacher’s wife, the First Lady of our congregation, was talking and telling stories about the good memories and good times, she looked over the audience and spotted me.

“Kevin Tumlinson,” she said, a small smile on her face, a little shake of her head. “I never would have thought you’d be a writer.”

She was complimenting me. I know that. Never meant a negative thing about it. And she went on for a few minutes talking about the kind of kid I was, back then. I don’t recall the specific words, but the gist could be: “You were a weird kid. No one could ever figure out what you were about. You were always saying things nobody understood.”

Later, when Kara and I were talking about it, Kara said, “It’s like no one really understood you back then. How could anyone be shocked you were a writer?”

Good question. Because I wrote a lot, at the time. I was always telling stories—a more polite way to describe the lies and tall tales and babbling nonsense I would rattle on about to anyone near enough to listen. It should have been plain that I was someone who had something to say, and that I was determined to say it. A lot.

So it seems like “he’ll be a writer” might have come up at some point. Surely someonethought it.

But no. Not even me, really. I knew that being a writer was something people did, of course. But I think that despite having that as a dream, some part of me just assumed it was always someone else. Never someone like me. I was too weird. No one ever understood a word I wrote. Or spoke, I guess.

I don’t know why I was so confusing to people, or to myself. I don’t know why everyone saw me as “different,” in that well-meaning but still limiting way that people reserve for kids who aren’t like the other kids, in culturally crucial ways. I didn’t care for sports. Wasn’t much for hunting or fishing. Wasn’t into monster trucks. I was chronically behind in eras of music—I listened to ‘50s and ‘60s throughout the ‘80s, ‘70s throughout the ‘90s, and finally got to the ‘80s when I was almost 30 years old. Sometimes I look back to the jazz era, just for the jollies.

No wonder no one ever got me. I’m out of phase with everything they understand about the world and about culture. I was an “old soul” when I was young, and now, at nearly 54, I’m an anachronism.

I deal with imposter syndrome a lot. I remember all the critical things that have been said to me, over the years. Bad reviews on my books, accusations in reviews and in comments and on social media that I am a dolt or an idiot or a moron. I only seem to remember the worst things that are said about me. And people tend to only care about and judge you by the worst thing you’ve ever done.

It’s a chronic, cultural problem. I’m guilty of it as well.

But then I’ll get a kind word. Today, for instance, I had several people comment on one of my Wordslinger Podcast videos on YouTube, thanking me for being a source of advice in the writing world. Complimenting me on my approach, and on the content. People can be kind, despite the rumors.

I’ve gotten emails from readers who enjoyed my books. Even loved them, and wanted more.

And there’s you. A lot of you, reading these Substack posts, say such kind things to me. It’s almost as if you understood what I wrote.

A miracle, on the scale of loaves and fishes.

Maybe someday I’ll start collecting all the kind things, putting them in a little folder called “Kudos for Kevin,” maybe looking back at them to remind myself that, yes, there are some good things. There are people who actually aren’t mystified by me. There are people who see that I am, indeed, a writer, a good man, someone who tries to help. Someone who lives up to that personal mission statement: To inform and inspire, to educate and entertain, in the service of God and humanity.

I tend to forget to gather those clips, though. And for reasons I can’t define, I have no need to collect the negative comments. I memorize those instantly.

Maybe you do, too.

And if you do, here’s what I pray for you, and I hope for you: Remember, people love you. Remember, you are good. Remember, some weird guy who tells stories and often confuses the people who read or hear them, said, “You matter to me. And I love you.”

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I AM A TELLER (AND A SELLER) OF TALES

Big ones. Small ones. Adventure and mystery, science and magic. There’s a very good chance that if you love a particular kind of story, I have one waiting for you.

Go to KevinTumlinson.com/Books and find your new favorite novel.

Then pop back here to tell me what you got.

A NOTE AT THE END

Look, this boat runs both banks of the river.

People didn’t get me, didn’t understand me, and by the standards of their own takes on cultural norms, they made some judgments and assessments and assumptions about me that weren’t necessarily accurate.

I, too, had to struggle with understanding people. And my approach was to study them and to work out why they said and did the things they did. What did they mean by this comment or that action? When they thought no one was looking, why did they do things in that way? When they were talking to someone about someone else who wasn’t around, why did the tone of their voice change? Why did they say mean things they wouldn’t have said to someone, if they’d been standing right there? Or, rarely, why they said nice things about someone who wasn’t even there to hear it.

I didn’t understand other people. Not at first. Not for a while. Slowly, though, I started picking up on the patterns, noticing the cues, getting the drift.

I think that’s part of the writing thing. Telling stories. There are those of us who take our struggle to understand people and turn it into art.

The fact, the truth, the undeniable reality is this: we never really understand each other. Cultural norms are the best tool we’ve built for simply getting along with the other. They don’t determine anything. They’re a poor substitute for understanding.

Nobody ever understands a single word anyone says or writes or lives. We don’t even understand ourselves, if we get right down to it. Our best option is to observe, find those patterns, and make some educated guesses. But that takes a bit of willpower and effort, and only a few folks go that far.

We can all be better leaders, better friends, better family members, spouses, or parents, if we admit we know nothing, and decide we’re going to try our best anyway. The effort is most of the solution. The rest is owning responsibility for the outcomes we create.

If you want a formula for a better world, that’s the only one I’ve ever found that seems to work, most of the time.

I dropped the dog off at daycare—because that’s a thing we do. She gets anxious when we leave her on her own, and I’m too empathetic to let a dog suffer. I feel bad enough when I drop her off. I walk away from the daycare like I’m forgetting something important. I am. It’s Mini. Tears me up every time.

Today I have a huge block of free time. With Mini in daycare, I get to roam a bit. Very welcome, because lately I’ve been more or less stuck at home. Or, if not “stuck,” exactly, I have been in a situation where it was more inconvenient to try to leave than it was to simply stay.

I get a little hermit-like sometimes, I confess. Kara knows this about me, and tries to encourage me to get out and spend time among the three-dimensional people. To drink coffee I didn’t make at a table that isn’t in our house. To do my work, yes, of course. But to also maybe, if I could swing it, go have a good time doing something I enjoy.

Hobbies elude me.

That’s because all of my hobbies tend to become careers.

There was a time when I wrote fiction as a hobby. I did photography and videography and graphic design for the fun of it. I read to relax. All of those are jobs now. Part of my work. And don’t get me wrong, I love it all, still. I enjoy it and I’m passionate about it. But when you know that if you don’t write that day, it might mean you make less money tomorrow—when you know that you need to record that video to keep ad revenue up, you need to make that graphic to get the book ready for publishing, you need to snap a few photos to keep people interested in you on social media—the ‘fun’ is bonus, but it’s really all just work in the end.

I can’t complain.

I can complain, actually. But I shouldn’t. I mustn’t.

I try to live by the philosophy that if you are complaining about something, it means you think you have the power to change it, but you haven’t. Because complaining about something you have no power to change is kind of crazy. Like shaking your fist at the thunder, or giving a forest fire the finger.

So… I don’t complain. Usually. Sometimes.

If I have an actual hobby, I guess it would be “meandering.” Days like today, with the dog being looked after by someone else, with a tank full of gas and a laptop that lets me work anywhere, I tend to fall into a pattern. I drive. I wander. I take wrong turns.

I walk, too. I love strolling. It’s like driving, but it doesn’t cost me money no matter how far I go.

But driving gets me to new places faster, so it’s usually worth the gas.

And one of my favorite things, something I do all the time, is to get lost.

I do it on purpose. I just aim the front end of the Bronco down the road and I go. I drive until I see something interesting. I start taking all left turns (or all right turns, I’m not biased). I make big, lazy loops around a town or a city. I see things that sometimes even the locals never see. And sometimes I stop driving and check that stuff out—new shops, new restaurants, new parks. New to me, anyway.

I love novelty. My license plate even says KNOVELT. The K is silent, but you can sound it out if you want. I’m not your dad.

Is driving aimlessly a hobby? I’m never sure. I don’t think there are clubs for it, and my impression is that hobbies are things that could be club activities. Rooms of people playing board games or building plastic models or singing a cappella. Even writers have clubs. I’m not part of one, but I don’t judge.

Whether driving counts as a hobby or not, it’s something I really enjoy. Given today’s gas prices, it’s also one that can hit hard in the wallet region. But I don’t go too crazy, nor do I do it too often. Hermit-like tendencies help me regulate my behavior.

Today I’m out and about and enjoying the region north of Pittsburgh. I drove into Pittsburgh proper, earlier this morning, and enjoyed that experience, too.

The fascinating thing about driving is that not only do I discover a whole lot of new, I also end up discovering a lot of same. Cities, by and large, tend to share certain characteristics. Each has its own energy, and its own flavor—unique, like a fingerprint. But the form tends to be familiar. The rules tend to be what you’re used to.

The same is true for small towns. And rural areas. Depending, at least. Depending on the type of town. Seaside? Farm-adjacent? Steel-working or coal-mining? Mountains and high elevation? Tourist or suburban? There are a lot of flavors.

The similarities, though, are what tend to interest me. Even when Kara and I have traveled overseas—Paris or London or Bruges, anywhere—it’s always the similarities that stand out for me. Everything is different, after all. But I think I tend to look for threads that comfort me in the new blanket of this place. Commonalities that make me feel at home, if only for a minute or two.

Anyway, I have no hobbies. I can’t really take any on, at the moment. Too mobile. Too nomadic. And frankly, I can’t afford for one to turn into yet another career.

I have plenty as it is.

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A SERIAL KILLER CREATES DIGITAL DEEPFAKES OF HIS VICTIMS, SO NO ONE REALIZES THEY’RE GONE.

That’s the premise of my new novel, ECHO. The fifth book in my Quake Runner: Alex Kayne thrillers. And it’s the problem Alex Kayne and her advanced AI, QuIEK, have to solve.

You might love this book. Find it, and the others, at https://kevintumlinson.com/books.

A NOTE AT THE END

I actually really love all the things I do. That’s the real reason I don’t complain. I’d love to make more money at all of it, to have even greater range and liberty, to reach more readers and hear from them when they love the books. But I think the thing that proves someone is doing the work of their heart and soul is whether they would do it for free.

I did it for free for years.

For the past couple of years, I’ve not done it for free, but I’ve done it for a lot less money than I was making before. I veered a little, trying something new, pouring my efforts into writing for contracts in the traditional publishing space. I’m not knocking it—I think those things are going to pay off. Eventually.

But the cost was losing some momentum in my indie publishing efforts. And now that I’m writing and releasing new indie titles, I’m starting to see a slow tilt, up and to the right, in book sales. I love seeing it. I’m embarrassingly grateful for it.

At the moment I’m sitting in a coffee shop, surrounded by strangers who have more or less the same general reasons for being here that I do. Coffee, obviously. But something else…

There are times when you need that “third place,” as Howard Schultz described it (when he reshaped Starbucks into what we know it as today). You need to glance over and see that guy with the laptop typing furiously. You need to pop your earbuds in and pretend you’re not hearing the couple across from you talk about their plans for the weekend. You just sometimes need that boisterous old timer to tell you about how this place used to be a gas station.

The random gorgeousness of humanity, recharging your cells and making you part of the flow of life.

I have my work as my excuse, to be here and be a part of things. To break me out of my hermit shell long enough to be reminded that these characters I proliferate onto the screen and the page are meant for someone. You. Them. Us.

So, thank you for giving me a reason to grab a coffee, listen to some overhead music, and be mildly creepy to strangers.

I mean well.

And if you didn’t preorder, don’t worry—you can pick up a copy right now at https://buy.bookfunnel.com/dmaxbi5aeh

Alex Kayne came in from the cold more than a year ago, and has used her skills—and her advanced AI—to help the very agencies that have hunted her since the beginning. But when she uncovers the presence of a serial killer, who uses deepfake technology to clone his victims and keep them alive online, she’s forced to walk away form her deal with the FBI.

Now, on the run again, Kayne has to find the killer and bring him to justice her way.

Get your copy now!

And in the meantime, I have a favor to ask, on behalf of some friends…

I love graphic novels and comics. The combination of good writing and excellent artwork, telling new and original stories in a visual medium—that’s something I’ve aspired to be a part of all my life.

That’s why I’m VERY excited to see this project—an exclusive collection of 12 original stories from Andy Weir, Eloisa James, Tony Lee, JN Chaney & more, paired with legendary artists.

Parallel Truths: A Multi-Genre Graphic Novel Anthology

What If Another Version of Your Life Existed Somewhere Else?

A better one.

A worse one.

A deadlier one.

Parallel Truths brings together twelve writers and fifteen artists to answer this question in one oversized multi-genre graphic novel anthology.

Help support the Kickstarter! This could be the beginning of a new era for authors.

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/authorventuresllc/parallel-truths-a-multi-genre-graphic-novel-anthology?ref=6upt4c

Thank you for all of your support! I would greatly appreciate it if you would share this post/email with everyone you know, to help promote my novel and this kickstarter!

Near midnight. A summer night edging toward a summer morning, sometime in the middle of the week. And there we were, where we certainly and absolutely should not be. We must have rolled past half a dozen “no trespassing” signs to get here. And now, after a lot of tries, a lot of effort, I was sitting at the top of the wall, staring out into a night-shrouded landscape, my two buddies beside me.

I’m positive the statute of limitations has run out by now, but I think I’ll keep some of the details of our trespassing quiet, all the same. Friend 1 and Friend 2, we’ll call them. Location X, we’ll say. A campground, with a wooden climbing wall—a four-faced tower with slats and knobs of wood nailed into place to serve as finger and toe holds.

During the day, when it was in season, this was meant to give young people something to conquer. It was a tool for building muscle and skill and confidence. And it was supervised—every young boy or girl who scaled the wall did so in a harness and a helmet, a rope and a pulley keeping them from falling. An adult supervising down below. Many, in fact.

But the three of us weren’t kids at a camp. We were young adults, drinking age but not drinking. Not all three of us, anyway. And we were climbing without the harness or the helmet or the ropes. Whether you could consider any of us “adult supervision” is debatable, but let me settle the debate—we were not supervised.

We’d come to this wall many times before, and attempted it from all four sides. I was always a good climber, and so I could make a really good run at the thing. But the other guys would always make it all the way to the top, and I never would. Because for all my climbing skill, I was short something. I lacked something.

I wasn’t confident enough. Which meant I was afraid.

But this night, I was determined. And, egged on by my co-trespassers, I refused to do anything less than reach the top.

We’d done things like this before. Those two guys had managed to prod me into accomplishing all sorts of things that I’d failed at over and over. There was a set of climbing ropes at the high school football field that I’d eventually managed to climb with only my hands, because of them. There were high rails I’d walked while they watched. Fences I’d climbed. Pull-ups I’d done. Miles I’d walked.

This wasn’t the first challenge and it wouldn’t be the last.

I always seemed to stop in the same spot—my fingers able to reach up and grasp the top, but somehow I couldn’t go the extra step of pulling my body up and over. The thoughts made me heavy, you see.

I kept thinking, This is high. That’s a long way down. What if I get up there? How do I climb back down? If I fall, will they get help? Take me to the hospital? Leave me to figure it out on my own?

Anything was possible. These were good guys. Still are (one of them, at least. The other… we haven’t spoken in decades). So I would have been alright. But these were early years, and I was used to being surrounded by the people I counted on. I had doubts.

I don’t know why that night was different than the others. But once I got to that spot, instead of climbing right back down and waiting for my buddies to follow, from their high perches, I paused for only a moment. I looked around from that high vantage point. I closed my eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath. And then, I pulled.

I was always a good climber. The skill came naturally to me. And for once, I was relying on that skill, instead of letting myself think my way out of trying.

In only seconds, I was propped up on my palms, and I could easily lean forward, roll onto my side, then get to my feet.

I stood, right at the edge of the wall, staring out into the dark forest surrounding the campsite.

The moon was out that night, and so there was light. Enough to make out some details. Enough to see the ground below.

There was a breeze, cool and comforting.

I’m pretty sure the guys must have said something, but if they did it wasn’t exactly a cheer. No you did it! Nothing like that. I had only done what they’d done a dozen times so far, so what, really, was the big deal?

As guys do, I quickly adapted my own exuberance to that mood. I was pleased with myself, but it would break bro-code to admit it. I was proud of myself, but saying so out loud was as good as admitting I had a Cabbage Patch doll.

So, instead, I took a seat. I dangled my feet over the edge, and clomped the heels of my BKs against the wood of the tower. I pretended that this was no big deal, while I quietly let my heart calm back to its regular rhythm, and I felt an ingrown smile.

I’m sure that doing that, having that experience, was formative in some way. It may have led to some big change in me. Maybe that night translated outward into my life, and as a result of sitting at the top of that tower I one day wrote a short story or a novel that did well. Maybe clomping my heels on that wood gave me the courage to propose to my wife. Maybe pushing myself to pull myself upward gave me the fortitude to be daring and bold in my career and in my life.

Maybe. Probably.

We often don’t realize the value of pushing ourselves to accomplish something. Just the accomplishment can be enough.

But I bet, on that day when God sets me before Him and tells me what He saw in my life, this will come up. I’ll probably be chastised for breaking the law just being there. But I bet I’ll be given some small praise for finally pushing past my self-imposed limits.

And that, thinking back on it, makes me want to do it all again.

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MY NEW NOVEL ECHO RELEASES TUESDAY, 16 JUNE

After years of being Fugitive Number One, Alex Kayne has come in out of the cold, putting her skills—and her advanced quantum-based AI—to work for federal law enforcement. But her mission never stops. And when she realizes that the FBI isn’t interested in a string of serial murders, in which the killer is creating deep fakes of his victims to skew their time of death, she can’t just turn away.

She does what Alex Kayne always does—she runs. Straight toward trouble, and into the web of a cunning killer.

Pick up the latest Quake Runner: Alex Kayne thriller. And your next favorite novel https://buy.bookfunnel.com/dmaxbi5aeh

A NOTE AT THE END

I have a lot of tales of my youth that implicate me in petty crimes. I didn’t set out to be a hoodlum or no-goodnik. In fact, having been raised primarily in a little Baptist church in Brazoria County, short of friends and spending most of my time alone with a head full of Saturday morning cartoons and a heart full of Jesus, I tended to stay out of trouble, most of the time.

Which could be interpreted as “I just never got caught,” as much as “I was always good,” and with equal alacrity.

Kara tells me that when she looks at my school pictures, I looked like a troublemaker. And I suppose I was, in a way. I was never much for the usual kind of trouble—I didn’t smoke or drink or do drugs. In fact, I’ve tried exactly two cigarettes and six cigars in my life, and didn’t touch a drop of alcohol until I was 23 years old. I’ve never even tried illicit drugs, and don’t particularly feel compelled to. I was a good kid. But I did court trouble.

Trespassing was kind of a regular thing for me. Though, honestly, I wasn’t doing it intentionally. I just never knew a barrier existed. I always felt free to be wherever I was, and go wherever I felt like going. Fences were minor obstacles, not barriers. So were locked doors and sealed rooms—I learned how to get into places pretty early.

I never stole anything. I guess that may be how I justified it. Mostly, I was curious. I wanted to know, What is it that they don’t want me to see?

So I would find ways into church offices or locked classrooms or private barns. I would crawl through or under or over any fence that got in my way. I drew the line at actually breaking in my breaking and entering—I wouldn’t damage anything, because that, somehow, always felt wrong. I just wanted to be in a space and see a thing, not smash something or take something.

So I was kind of a troublemaker, but it was a quiet, often unnoticed bit of trouble.

I never bullied anyone (though Kara says I had that look, too). I did get into fights, but it was almost always because a bully was picking on someone else. I have friends in my life to this day who were kids I jumped to protect. Usually getting my butt kicked in the process. But damn, I never could stand a bully.

I did steal things every now and then. I’m definitely not proud of it. I took some money from a coffee can at a public pool once—I felt so guilty about it, I gave all of it to the offering plate at church the next Sunday. Not sure that balances out.

I took a pair of sunglasses from a Spencer’s Gifts in the mall, one time. That one bothered me, too, but for some reason I never did anything about it. Maybe I should swing by a Spencer’s this afternoon and buy a pari of sunglasses, just to leave them in the store. Too little too late?

I did things like this in my teens and twenties. But by the time I was in my 30s I wouldn’t think of it. I somehow became the guy who would go back into the store after noticing on the receipt that I was undercharged for something. I would spend hours scanning through photos on a digital camera I found in the parking lot, to see if I could find a way to return it to its owner. I would even drive to a Spencer’s in a mall in PA to buy a pair of sunglasses I don’t intend to keep (now that I remember it).

I’ve heard that character is what you do when no one is looking. I think it’s equally what lessons you choose to take from what you’ve done. Even if you trespassed in a campground in the middle of the night, to climb a tower and sit at the top. I suppose, if you took some bit of accomplishment from it, and that led to some positive developments in your character… well, maybe that’s alright, after all.

I wonder if I could call that campground and make a donation…

I was all set to write this post but just now I got up to water my aunt’s hibiscus plant, because I noticed it was dry again. The thing sucks up water at an impressive rate. I can’t keep it watered enough.

As I was doing that, I noticed a couple of yellowed leaves, so I plucked those. You want to get rid of dead or dying leaves and limbs, so the energy of the plant goes to the healthy stuff.

I was throwing away those leaves when I noticed that Kara had left some dirty dishes in the sink. So I rinsed those and put them in the dishwasher, because I like to keep things tidy.

I also noticed the trash was pretty full, so I took that bag out and replaced it. I set it aside to carry up to the trash can later. And as I did that I decided I might as well open the glass patio doors and use the screens, because it’s such a cool and refreshing morning.

That was when I noticed the pile of mail that needed to be sorted, so I did that real quick. It was a lot of mail. There is always a lot of mail.

I stopped for a sip of coffee, because this is one of those mornings when I feel like I need all the coffee I can get. Mini, our little dog, heard me messing about in the kitchen so she came in to see what she might be able to beg off of me, so of course I had to pet the dog, and talk lovingly to her.

Finally, now, I’ve sat back down in front of my laptop to write this post.

Only I’ve just noticed there are some water spots on the counter near the sink, so I should probably clean that up before they dry and harden. While I was at it, I noticed there was a bit of food and some crumbs in the sink, from the dishes I cleared earlier. So I rinsed and dried the sink

I pour myself another sip of coffee. And then I sit down to finally write this post.

My phone buzzes—my good friend Bob has found something interesting on the curb. Something with batteries he can salvage. For the next several minutes I get a report on the health of these batteries, and assurance they will be put on charge and tested later, and I am obligated to acknowledge this battery find and to inquire as to what they will be used for. He doesn’t yet know.

Mini would like to go outside, and it seems urgent. So we go, and she pees right away but then sniffs every rock, bush, and piece of patio furniture. She’s getting the story of them. She’s reading notes about what animals have passed through recently. She barks at things I do not see, and finally, defiantly, she huffs and leads me back to the screen doors.

Now I sip a bit more coffee, and finally I sit to write this post. Only I don’t have a topic in mind. I rarely do, if I’m honest, but I somehow manage. I’ll write something from the heart. I’ll write some observation I’ve made.

I’m not feeling a hundred percent this morning—I was awoken from a sound sleep by a sudden leg cramp, and because of that I ended up getting out of bed an hour early. My stomach has been a bit blah, and I’ve had to go to the restroom a bit more often than usual. I also have indigestion, so I take an antacid.

Maybe I’ll write about all of that? But no… that really won’t do, because I don’t like to complain on the page. I like to observe and offer any points of wisdom I may have. I used to complain in writing a lot—I could whinge with the best of them. But those days were not my best days, and I’m currently trying to live my “third act,” and make it the best of the three. I’m even kind of hoping I’ll turn out to be a five-act sort of story.

So finally, here I am, ready to start writing. Let’s do this thing.

Thank you for your patience.

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ECHO RELEASES 16 JUNE—PREORDER NOW!

Alex Kayne has a habit of doing the wrong thing for the right reasons.

When she discovers a serial killer is creating deepfake clones of his victims, keeping them “alive” online to obscure their time of death, she realizes she’s the only one who can stop him.

Preorder Echo today, and read it on June 16th!

FIND IT HERE: https://buy.bookfunnel.com/dmaxbi5aeh

A NOTE AT THE END

A few days ago my laptop keyboard started giving me a little grief. The period key, in particular, got finicky. I joked online, “I think my laptop may be pregnant. The period has stopped working.”

Look, call me what you like and think of me what you will, but that was funny.

The problem is that I cannot be without a keyboard. I depend on these things. Without a functioning keyboard, I’m basically just going to watch YouTube all day.

Luckily, I brought my really good mechanical keyboard with me to Pittsburgh. It was intended for a different computer, but it can work with up to three devices. So I set it up, and that solved that.

Of course, if I’m going to use the fancy mechanical keyboard, I simply must use the very nice mahogany palm rest that goes with it. That’s for ergonomics, you know. One can never be too careful about one’s health.

While I was at it, wouldn’t it be nice to elevate the screen a bit, so that I’m not always looking down as I type? I have a laptop riser for that. A little folding mechanism that raises the screen to nearly eye level—it’s better than laying flat on the tabletop, anyway.

Now that the laptop is raised and I have my comfy and clacky keyboard and my wrists are preserved by the nice wooden palm rest, it’s kind of a pain to have to reach forward all the time so I can use the laptop’s trackpad. I happened to have brought my trackpad for the other computer, so I went ahead and set that up to work with the laptop.

So now I have this nice, comfortable, health-conscious setup.

I can finally start writing.

Though I really could use a nap…

“Why Seattle?”

There are certain people in my life who get the first look at anything new that I create. A few of them can be kind of curmudgeonly about it, but I don’t hold it against them. They’re honest, and their takes keep me honest, too.

Sometimes it’s good to have to answer a question you weren’t ready for.

So when my good, curmudgeonly friend asked me why I set the latest book in Seattle, I had to question it myself. His reason for asking was mostly political—he has strong opinions about both the left and right coasts. I don’t share every opinion he has, but I do see where he’s coming from a lot of the time.

My reasons for choosing Seattle, however, had nothing to do with politics. It became the setting for this novel for two reasons—

First, I like to set Quake Runner: Alex Kayne novels in new places with every book, because Kayne herself is a fugitive. In fact, she’s the fugitive. Number one with a bullet. At the top of every alphabet agency’s Christmas list. When you have that kind of love and adoration from law enforcement, it tends to make you mobile. A new bed every night. A new city as often as you can swing it.

Second, I travel quite a bit. I see a lot of cities and settings. And I like to use those settings in my books whenever possible. Having been to them, walked their streets, eaten their food, slept in their hotels—it lets me add some authenticity to the stories.

Plus, people get very excited and supportive when they discover a book or film is set in their hometown. They write to me, tell me details I didn’t know, share things I love to hear. So I try to spread the love as much as possible. I try to set my books in places that make people say, “Hey! I know that joint!”

I haven’t been back to Seattle in several years, but I still have vivid memories of visiting. Kara and I were there together, and while she was managing a project nearby I had the run of the city. Just me, my backpack, my laptop, and my iPhone.

Like most urban settings, there are areas of the city you shouldn’t visit. So, of course, I found myself traipsing around in them by sheer accident, several times. I saw some of the less tourist-polished spots. Encountered people who were living in a way that is frankly disturbing. I saw some vile acts, which I did not include in this book.

Kara and I were accosted by a guy in his car, as we walked back to our hotel one evening after dinner.

“What are you looking at!” he shouted.

As I positioned myself between him and Kara, I responded, “We heard your music. I was just looking your way.”

He squinted at me, and then shouted, “I thought you was Mexican!” Then sped away.

I relaxed my grip on the pocket knife I had quietly opened in my pocket, but I left the blade open.

Just in case.

I’ve had a thousand moments like that, in a hundred cities. Travel can be as risky and dangerous as it is exciting and entertaining. Something to remember.

That’s part of the adventure of it, of course. And because that’s part of it, I feel nearly obligated to use those experiences in my novels.

I chose Seattle because I’d been there, because I’d had some interesting and even harrowing experiences there, and because, frankly, I hadn’t set a novel there before.

Alex Kayne is a particularly special character to me. She leads a life that I think I’d find exhausting. She’s strong, resilient, resourceful—in a way I wish I could be, and indeed I strive to be. I lack the superpower of an advanced quantum-based AI that can do practically anything, but I do carry a Leatherman tool, so there is that.

I’ll confess, though—the setting for this novel isn’t as vital to the story as it has been in past books. The story depends a great deal on some pretty tech-savvy characters, and that was another reason I chose that region. But with the way things have shifted, since I wrote the concept for this book back in 2024, I’m not so sure it matters anymore. The tech industry, like a lot of businesses, has started migrating and spreading out.

That may be something I explore in a future book. It fits, actually. The idea that an industry no longer needs to be “centralized.” Tech and Finance moving to Texas. Starbucks and In-n-Out are moving to Tennessee. People are starting to go where the opportunities are high and the government interference is low.

Call that political if you must, but it’s hard to say it’s anything other than true.

So future settings for my novels may end up being influenced by that migration. Who can say?

I’ve only ever taken Kayne out of the US one time, and that was in a crossover story with Dan Kotler. I almost regret having done it. Because I’m starting to see her character as being “quintessentially American.” A strong female character, bucking stereotypes, fiercely independent, self-reliant, resourceful. She’s the American Spirit on a wanted poster.

Anyway, that’s why I chose Seattle.

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THE FBI CAN’T CATCH ALEX KAYNE, BUT YOU CAN.

Echo is the fifth and newest book in my Quake Runner: Alex Kayne series. It releases on Tuesday, 16 June 2026. And you can preorder your copy NOW!

Go to bit.ly/QREcho to find it at your preferred retailer.

A NOTE AT THE END

Alex Kayne started off as a pitch to James Patterson.

He had a Masterclass course, and in it he offered to take on one lucky writer to co-author a book with him. To win your opportunity, you had to pitch a book, under preset criteria.

At the time that Masterclass came out, I was already a full-time author. We had just sold our house and moved into an RV, to do full-time RV life. Kara was still working an office job, though, and so our travels were a bit more limited than we liked. Still, it was a good era for us, I think. We did travel a lot, and experience a lot.

It was under these conditions that I had the idea for a female protagonist who was the inventor of an advanced artificial intelligence. So advanced, in fact, that she ends up framed by her own government, in an effort to claim her work as an asset.

I wrote my pitch, and sent it to him.

I didn’t get a ton of feedback. But from what I did get, it seemed as if the idea got pretty far. Ultimately, though, it was rejected in favor of someone else’s idea.

That was mildly disappointing, but not so bad that I was heartbroken over it. At that time, I’m not sure I would have been a very good co-writer, anyway. I was pretty stubborn, and dramatically independent. Patterson is a dedicated outliner, and I make literally everything up as I go. It would have been rough.

But I still had the idea. I held on to it, and let it linger in my brain.

Then I found myself traveling for nearly three months straight for a series of author conferences. And for two of those, I had a long layover in Orlando. As one is legally required to do, when one finds oneself on a long layover in Orlando, one went to Disney.

Specifically, I went to every single Disney resort, over a four-day period. And while I was there, I spent my time in the various lobbies and restaurants and cafés, writing.

That was where I first started writing stories featuring Alex Kayne. In fact, the first book (Shaken) used Orlando as a setting.

The book was fun. The character was intriguing. And it gave me a way to tell some stories I couldn’t tell using Kotler, which was a big part of what I was going for. In short, I loved Alex Kayne, I loved QuIEK, and I loved the entire Quake Runner concept.

I was kind of glad Patterson turned it down.

I doubt it would have been anything like it is now, if he’d picked me back then. And perhaps I’d love that alternate version just as much, who can say? Maybe someday he’ll reach out and ask me to co-write something with him after all—I’m actually much more prepared for it now.

But until then, I have Kayne all to myself. Well… except that I’m sharing her with you, obviously.

A week ago I was in Texas. And then, over the weekend, I dropped Kara off at the airport and started driving. Fifteen-hundred miles later, over two days and with one night at a hotel, I was in Pittsburgh. I got home with plenty of time to do a spot of writing, unpack my bags, even watch a little TV before bed.

Each of my two days of driving was 12-15 hours. A lot of time to myself, in other words. A lot of time to listen to things, to think about things, to sing things.

I’ve done a lot of driving in my life. And a lot of it has been solo. This was perhaps my longest solo road trip, but it didn’t seem to bother me much.

Back in my twenties I did some epic long road trips, but usually with friends or family along for the ride, swapping out driving, that sort of thing. In my 30s and 40s, Kara and I started doing full time RV life and then full time van life, and that meant lots of driving with just the two of us and a tiny dog.

I have a confession…

I think I enjoy the solo driving better.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Kara, and we have some very deep and pleasant conversations while we’re on the road. We talk. A lot. But there is something about long stretches of road with nothing but the sound of the tires on the asphalt, the wind whipping by, the occasional song or audiobook on the stereo.

I have always been a very solitary person. People think I’m an extrovert, because of the volume of my personality. But they’re wrong. I’m an absolute introvert. Perhaps a high-functioning introvert. But the reality of me is that I can (and want to) go for very long stretches without having to interact with people.

I can feel lonesome, like anyone else. Homesick, like anyone would. It happens. And sometimes, when I’m in a strange city all alone, for a conference or some other event, I can feel a bit isolated. At those times I will often find some public spot, perch myself within earshot of some conversation, and just eavesdrop.

That’s right, folks. I’m out there listening.

It’s good material for me, actually. There are snatches of dialogue in some of my books that were plucked right out of the air at a coffee shop or a restaurant or even a Costco or a gas station. There are scenes, in fact, populated by strangers I watched while I sat eating lunch in my car. Everyone is fair game. Beware being interesting in public.

And once I’ve refilled my very shallow Extrovert Tank, I love getting back on the road and playing back all those pilfered conversations, twisting and folding and shaping them so they become fuel to fill my much deeper Introvert Tank. I process all of that grist, and turn it into the most fragrant perfumes.

Long drives. Long walks. Long moments sitting in silence with no one else around.

I need them all.

And maybe I can endure those long stretches because I know that, at the end of it all, I get to go home. Home—that’s Kara, and our little dog, Mini. That’s my in-laws and my mom. That’s my friends, and my fellow writers. That’s you. And that’s my God.

I think that’s the great thing I have learned in my life—that home isn’t a place, after all. It’s the people we love, the God we serve, and the peace we carry with us.

Welcome home, everyone.

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DO ME A FAVOR…

If you read my recent book The Lovelock Protocol, I’d really appreciate it if you left a good review of it on Amazon and anywhere else you can think of!

If you haven’t read it, there’s still time! You’ll find that book and the rest of my catalog wherever books are sold online. Or you can buy directly from me at KnoveltonBooks.com.

A NOTE AT THE END

I made it to Memphis on that first day of driving, having dropped Kara at the Austin-Bergstrom Airport at 6 AM. It was 9 PM when I finally stopped at a Best Western and paid for a room for the night. I was originally planning to drive straight through, keep going. I could have been home by 6 AM the following morning. But Kara talked me into stopping, and it wasn’t that hard for her to do. After being on the road for 15 hours+, I was fine with stopping for a shower and a bed.

Driving in the dark has never been my favorite, anyway. I’m a tinge night blind—or maybe it’s just that my eyes are very light sensitive. It’s easy for my eye to get distracted, and leave the road to look at all the bright lights on the other side of the highway. It’s easy for me to get distracted, even a little confused, which means I miss turns and have to backtrack. I’m never really in danger of an accident, but the risks do go up.

That night, sleeping in a weird bed, I had to contend with all the plagues of cheap hotel rooms. The air conditioning kept turning itself off until I waved a hand for the motion sensor to detect that I was still in the room. The AC fan kept kicking off and the sudden silence woke me. And then there was the airbrake situation, with every big rig that passed by slowing itself in the loudest way possible. I woke, startled, at 2 AM, and it took a bit to fall back to sleep in time for the next airbrake sonata.

Despite all that, however, I wouldn’t say it was a rough night.

In fact, I slept pretty well, I think. And in the morning I got up, showered, did some journaling and writing, and was on the road by 6 AM. I drove another 15 hours, making it back to PA by 9 PM. A rhythm. Can you establish a rhythm with just two days?

I remember doing drives like this and always being exhausted afterward. Sore. My butt and my legs and my lower back aching from all the sitting. A broil of indigestion from all the terrible food I ate.

What’s weird is that none of that applied to this trip. I had no serious aches or soreness. I didn’t eat terribly or even much at all, so there was no indigestion. In fact, I felt energetic and wide awake the whole time.

Why?

No idea. The Bronco has very comfortable leather seats, so maybe that was part of it.

Or it could have been something else entirely.

But it was a good road trip. Perhaps a bit short, and the gas prices didn’t exactly make it a cheap run. But it was pleasant. Relaxing. Smooth.

Ten-out-of-ten, would do again.

So here I am in Texas.

It’s just for around 48 hours, officially. We landed in Austin yesterday, and Kara’s folks came to pick us up (God bless ‘em… traffic was not great). And then we did what our ancient traditions demand of us—we ate Tex Mex for dinner.

Today, lunch will be provided by the great and powerful Whataburger.

My Texas powers are slowly re-emerging.

A funny thing though…

When we got here, as we drove back to our house and picked up my Bronco, as Kara and I drove deeper into the Texas Hill Country to where we slept for the night, we noticed something.

We weren’t really missing the place.

The state, absolutely. The people. The food. It’s been months since I’ve set foot in an HEB.

But the area? It wasn’t feeling like “home” for us.

We had the realization that this was the case for a long while now. Austin never did click into feeling quite like “home.” There was always something slightly off about where we lived. And it seems like we’ve been talking about “the next place” since almost the day we moved into the house here.

I’m not sure what that says about us, beyond the fact that we are clearly very nomadic. Does it make us ungrateful? Selfish or self-centered in some way? Foolish?

I love Texas. So does Kara. This place will always be home. Ish.

But she and I have done an awful lot of traveling. An awful lot of moving from place to place, spending a couple of years here or there, sometimes living in spare or spartan conditions while we were in transition. There’s a lot of discomfort in a life like that. But also a lot to admire and enjoy.

Something I’m seeing in myself—that “work from anywhere” thing is solid with me. I’ve got my entire raft of work down to a backpack. My mobile office. Everything I need in one cool, canvas hump.

So… do I need an office anymore?

It’s handy. Having a door to close is useful. Having a familiar set of surroundings, all my stuff close at hand. I love it. But do I need it?

Of course not. If I’ve proven anything over the years, it’s that I don’t need a dedicated space. It’s just a nice-to-have not a must-have.

That’s a good thing to realize about myself, I think.

Kara and I do need a home, though. We can only stay mobile for so long before it wears us down. Temporary living starts to get heavy, after a while.

So eventually we’ll find a spot for ourselves, and we’ll fill it with everything we own, and we’ll start a new life in that place.

But I think what we’re learning (what I’m learning, anyway… Kara has her own life lessons) is: Simple is the way.

I like simple. I like compact. I like portability.

When I have an office space again, this is going to impact how I use it. Because I have found that I genuinely like having a great deal of mobility in how I work.

I like being anywhere.

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FIND YOUR NEW FAVORITE NOVEL

I’ve built my own store for direct sales, and if you’re looking for your next favorite book, this is the place!

Eventually I’ll sell more than ebooks here, but for now you can pick up one of my novels and read it on your eReader or app of choice. I’ve made it pretty easy.

PLUS, if you use discount code LAUNCHDAY, you’ll get 20% off of your entire cart, all the way through June 1st.

Go to my Knovelton Bookshop at https://knoveltonbooks.com

A NOTE AT THE END

I’ve always been a nerd about remote work. I’ve traveled a lot in my career, and sometimes I have to move pretty light. A quick conference somewhere across the country, with maybe only a two-day layover, and I’m back and running again. Things like that.

So I’ve learned how to use things like my iPhone and a Bluetooth keyboard as my only tools. Or I may use an iPad, from time to time. Or my laptop, of course.

I basically always have everything I need to do all the work I do, wherever I am and whenever I need to.

When I was a kid, I dreamt of the kind of technology that we carry in our pockets today. I couldn’t wait for the future. And now that it’s here, I admit I’m still gobsmacked over it.

I have a piece of Remote Desktop software that lets me use a computer that’s set up on a dresser in our bedroom, 1,500 miles away, and work as if I’m sitting right in front of it.

How cool is that?

I can even do it from my phone.

I tell ya… there are wonders of technology all around us, and no one even thinks about it anymore. It’s crazy.

We live in an age of mundane marvels.

Lately I’ve been weaving baskets.

Metaphorically. I’m not sure I could swing making something that even vaguely resembles a basket, in the literal sense. Not without a whole lot of YouTube videos.

What I’ve been working on is spreading my work out in such a way that I’m not as vulnerable to things going wrong. There have been some shakeups, shifts, and shenanigans in the publishing world, and in the content creation world, that make me a little timid about just operating under a “business-as-usual-approach.” So, I’m taking steps to make sure I have more baskets for my eggs. And I’m working extra hard to make sure I own some of those baskets, as much as possible.

Substack—the platform where I’m writing these words that may be coming to you via your inbox or the Substack app—is one such basket. I don’t own the platform itself, but I do continue to own the list of subscribers. And I can control and own the content I post here. Some of you have generously become paid subscribers, which I greatly appreciate. That helps me keep doing what I do, which is “produce more books and more content.”

Recently, I added a new platform to my collection of baskets. I built my own store.

It’s a work in progress, and I have plans for its growth, over time. But over the past few weeks I’ve worked to get an MVP version of it up and running (that’s “minimum viable product,” marketing speak for “the very least functions I need to actually operate”).

The store is called Knovelton Bookshop. And you can find it at knoveltonbooks.com.

At the moment, I’m only selling ebooks on the store. In the future, I plan to solve being able to sell audiobooks, paperbacks, hardcovers, even special edition versions of my books. I also intend to start selling merchandise—I’m still working on what will look like, and what those products could be. The usual stuff should be there, like T-shirts and coffee mugs, things like that. But I’m thinking about some special options and items as well.

The thing is, building a store sounds simple, but it comes with a truckload of question marks.

How do I handle warehousing and shipping of physical products? What products should I carry? How much should I charge? How do I keep track of inventory, and how do I replenish inventory? Are there tax implications for selling this stuff in other states?

I’ll figure all that (and more) out as I go. For now, the store is going to sell only digital copies of my books. That’s the MVP.

Even that is requiring some problem solving and experimentation.

For example, I wanted people to be able to buy a book from me directly, but be able to read it on whatever ebook reading device or app they prefer. And not everyone knows how to get an ebook onto their device, if it doesn’t come from the store they’re used to. For example, many people don’t know how to get a book onto their Kindle, or onto the Nook, or their Kobo.

I have a solution for that, but it requires doing something a little… funky… on my store. I’m using a service called “BookFunnel,” which can send the reader a link to the book they’ve purchased, and will send the book to whatever device they prefer.

To make this happen the right way, however, I have to sell “something” on the store. So what I sell, the thing that readers get after they purchase, is a graphic that tells them “Your book is on the way! Check your inbox for instructions on how to download it!”

That seems simple enough. But some people get mad, thinking I’ve somehow cheated them. They did all the steps, and now they have to check their inbox?

I’m considering some additional options around this, but for now I’m testing. This is how BookFunnel recommends handling it, so this is what I’m doing—for now.

At the same time, I’m not actually walking away from Amazon or any of the retailers. All of my books are still available everywhere books are sold—in ebook, audiobooks, and print formats. Nothing changes there.

All I’m really doing is making sure that no one—not Amazon, not anyone else—can “cancel” me and suddenly deprive me of income, without some means for me to keep going.

Over time, though, I think that the Knovelton Bookshop is going to become something much, much bigger.

I’m thinking of offering exclusive books on that store—books you can only get if you buy directly from me. I’m thinking of special merchandise. I’m thinking of doing sales or offering discounts.

In fact, here’s a special discount right now: If you use coupon code LAUNCHDAY when you purchase from me, you’ll get 20% off your whole cart! This code is good until June 1st, 2026. Go to knoveltonbooks.com now!

And, later, I’m thinking of opening it up so that other authors can sell their work through me, as well. This will start as a curated list—authors I already know, who write work I read and love. As I work out the kinks and bugs, I’ll slowly open it up to others. I’ll add new features, new authors, new books, new products. I may even become the publisher of new and emerging talent. Crazy things can happen.

I have big dreams and big goals for Knovelton Bookshop. Some of which I can’t even talk about yet, because they’re that cool.

But all of it starts with a move. An MVP. A decision, and taking action.

That’s what this is.

Go take a look at the Knovelton Bookshop, and find your next favorite novel.

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A NOTE AT THE END

It’s weird, but I have always wanted to own a bookstore. In fact, if you looked at my high school yearbook, from the year I graduated, there were several people who wrote, “Good luck with your bookstore!”

Apparently I talked about it a lot.

And yet, here I am at the age of 53, and I’ve yet to actually do it.

This is in part because I’ve learned a few uncomfortable facts about bookstore operation and ownership. Turns out, it’s hard to turn a profit on one. Especially these days, when people are reading less, and competition for attention is high. Some of that is starting to change and to turn, but it’s still a challenge.

So is inventory. Acquiring it. Maintaining it. Reordering it.

There are many models you can operate by. Are you a used bookstore or a new bookstore? Or both? Do you sell just one genre or all genres? Where’s the best location? Should you sell online or brick-and-mortar, or both? What about employees? Health insurance? Coffee?

Won’t someone please think about the COFFEE?!?

It can all be done. But am I the right person to do it? I tend to be less into the details than some. I tend to get irritated with what you mere mortals call rules.

I just want to sell books! Do I really have to (checks notes) “pay taxes?”

The thing is, whether I’m the “right guy” for this or not, it’s a dream that just keeps persisting. Like my writing. Like my content creation. This is just one more thing my brain and my heart have conspired to demand I create.

That doesn’t mean it won’t fail. But it also doesn’t mean it will.

I like to sneak in a bit of philosophy and what little wisdom I possess into these posts, so here’s what I have for you today: There is no harm in exploring ways to make that dream you have into a reality.

But the whole world suffers—especially you—if you don’t give it a try at all.

The world needs people to make their dreams a reality. It just does.

We need people to write the books they dream about, to paint the art they dream about, to build the businesses or invent the products they dream about.

We need it. We need you.

The world needs the dreamers—to dream big dreams, and to make them happen. Or, to try them out, even if they fall apart. Because we all learn from the things that didn’t work, and we move on from there, sharing knowledge and a tiny bit of wisdom.

It’s the people who are willing to take the risk to build something who make the world worth living in.

I spend a lot of time at this keyboard.

A couple of days ago I posted on social media: “I wonder how many words I’ve written in my lifetime. I bet it’s more than average.”

It was meant as a funny little post. The sort of thing I do a lot, actually. Because, yeah, of course I write a lot of words. That’s my job. And of course it will be more than average, because, again, that’s my job.

It’s funny to me that people who knew me as a kid are always surprised I became a writer. I think that just about every interaction I ever had with those people involved me telling some kind of story. Sometimes they were tidbits from my real life. More often they were tall tales. Or “lies,” if you want to be crude about it.

Mostly, they were just me expressing myself, making my life bigger, grander, more exciting. Just using words.

I’ve always been good with words. And I’ve always told stories. So yeah, it’s weird that anyone would think it strange that I went into this as my work. That telling stories, crafting stories, writing and all the rest of it—it’s bizarre to me that anyone could have thought I’d do anything else.

Kara tells me that writing is “the air you breathe.” She’s determined that if I can’t write, I’m suffocating. Drowning.

She’s right.

When I’m not writing, if I’m in some kind of dry spell, I’m miserable. Not only do I feel miserable, I am utterly miserable to be around. The writing is a pressure valve for me.

It’s also how I explore the world around me. Everything I know, I know from telling myself a story. I may read something, watch something, listen to something, even experience something. But I don’t understand anything until I’ve told that tale to myself.

And I don’t master anything until I’ve told that tale to others.

The things I write about require me to become a surface-level expert about a variety of things. And I have to be able to synthesize those things into a whole that is somehow greater than its parts. A story that elevates the simple act of known Fact X about the Mayans, and Fact Y about the Vikings, then jamming those together to create Story Z that somehow meshes both.

I may have to write that story, come to think of it.

If not for writing, I’m not sure I could do anything remotely like that. Or maybe I could. Maybe I would have eventually discovered some other way to express thoughts and ideas, to jam concepts together, to understand the world around me.

But my life chose this way. And, frankly, I really like it.

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SEE SOME OF MY WRITING IN ACTION

My latest novel, The Lovelock Protocol, is available now, wherever books are sold!

But if you really want to help me out, buy a copy from me directly when you go to https://payhip.com/b/Jpwzj

I’m building a brand new direct-sale store, so let me know how that experience goes for you!

A NOTE AT THE END

I know a lot of writers. But it’s funny—many of them don’t really think of themselves as writers. They do the work, they might love the craft, and they might be very skilled and very talented. But there are a few who don’t really see it as being part of their identity. Not the way I do.

And in conversations with those writers, we sometimes end up surprising each other. It’s weird, to discover that someone doesn’t see this thing you are so passionate about, this thing you love so much, in quite the way you see it.

I think there are artists like that, too. And photographers. Filmmakers. All the arts.

And I bet there are scientists, mathematicians, engineers who feel that as well.

They say you shouldn’t make your job your identity. I understand that. Your work is not who you are. Not really.

But when you can’t imagine yourself without that work—when the work you do is the purest expression of who you are—maybe “identity” isn’t a strong enough word.

I’ve been away from Texas since mid-February. A couple of months, so far. It’s not the longest stretch for me—when Kara and I were doing full-time van life, we were away for most of two years, coming back to live out the third within the Great State, while we waited for our house to be built.

I have to confess, I miss my Texas.

That said, I’ve started wondering if I could be alright with leaving it behind.

Not for any particular reasons. I’m not disillusioned or disappointed. I think, in some way, I’m always going to be tied deeply to the state. Particularly the Gulf Coast region, where I grew up.

But this trip away has brought with it some thoughts about exploring life someplace new.

I enjoy novelty. And discovery. And while I can’t say, by any stretch, that I’ve seen all there is to see in Texas, I’ve seen quite a lot. It’s home, no doubt. Familiar. Comfortable. I yearn to go back.

But as uncomfortable as I can be, at times, I still take pleasure in discovering new ways of living. New cultures. New perspectives. New food, new shops, new landscapes and landmarks.

They’ll never manage to wring Texas out of me. But maybe I can bring some Texas to wherever I go.

Still…

I miss home. I’m homesick for sure. I miss knowing where to find what I need, when I need it. I miss the insider’s nod when something that happens all the time happens right then and there.

Every place has that. Their own version of that. I miss being one of the insiders.

But honestly, I’ve been an outsider all along anyway. Even back home. Even as I was growing up. I have never seen the world the way everyone else sees it. I don’t know why. And sometimes my outsiderness really ticks off everyone else. I see things differently, and different is sometimes seen as offensive.

Maybe that’s why I would now consider a change. Maybe some part of me figures, “If I’m an outsider anyway, why not explore something new?”

There are some choices. Some options. At the moment, we’re kind of limited, but the future hints at opening up wide.

I wish I could say that all of this energizes me. Sometimes, maybe. But I’m having a moment, this moment, where it’s draining. I feel too untethered. No home. So maybe that’s why I’m starting to think about where we’ll end up. Maybe I just want someplace to call home, even if I plan to wander a bit more. Someplace with a hint of permanence to it, so that I can shake off all the temporary that clings to me.

When everything is up in the air, what you yearn for is your feet on solid ground.

At least I’m writing.

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PICK UP MY LATEST ARCHAEOLOGICAL THRILLER

The Lovelock Protocol is my newest Dan Kotler Archaeological Thriller, and you can get your copy right now at Books2Read.com/lovelock.

A NOTE AT THE END

Don’t let me whine. Yes, I’m tired, and anxious. And yes, things are wildly uncertain and uncomfortable. I keep catching a radiant glimpse of hope, only to have dark and stormy clouds pass over it.

I sometimes start feeling sorry for myself. Sorry for Kara. Miserable.

But things keep happening. I call them just-enough-miracles. I want and need to be grateful for those. We have a lot of people who love us and care about us, and help us.

When you are low, be grateful for what is down there with you. When you are high, be grateful for everything and everyone that lifted you up. And share everything with those who need you as much as you needed someone else.

Gratitude. Generosity. Hope.

Even in shreds, they are the gold in your pocket.

Today (10 April 2026, just in case you’re reading this in the future) is the day my new novel releases. The Lovelock Protocol. The fourteenth book in the Dan Kotler Archaeological Thrillers.

If you’re interested in picking up a copy, you can find it on the retailer of your choice at https://books2read.com/lovelock.

Yesterday, during a podcast I do with some fellow writers, I said something about this book, off the cuff, that has been ringing in my ears ever since.

“It feels like a comeback.”

It’s been two years since I released the last Kotler book (The Forgotten Rune). In that time, I’ve written other novels. I’ve had some traditional contracts, and so I’ve spent time on books that haven’t yet been released. I also started a few novels that are in various stages of completion. Some are meant for traditional deals, some are meant for indie publishing. I did release a novella (Rover 8) in that time, and I’ve written hundreds of posts and articles.

So there has been writing.

But somehow, without a Kotler book—or without some indie-published title releasing—I’ve felt like a slacker.

I’ve had readers asking, all this time, “When is the next Kotler book?” Or “Are you done with Alex Kayne? Will there be any more?”

I’ve always answered with the only response I had: “I’m working on something.”

That was true. It was always true. But I kept having to put things aside while I fulfilled other obligations. So that dragged things out.

But it was a bit more than that.

Back in 2023 I had a severe burnout. And even though I kept writing, something got broken. Something in me stopped working, and the writing I was doing became sort of mechanical. I could still do it. I still had the skill. But putting words on the page became something I had to force, rather than something that flowed from me.

I started The Lovelock Protocol during this time. And writing it—well, for the first time in my career, writing a book felt like work. More than that, it felt like I was trying to coax a mule out of a mud pit. It felt hopeless.

I put the book on pause. I went on to write other things. And before I knew it, two years had passed before I picked it back up again.

I have plenty of really good excuses, but they didn’t help. No matter what I did or accomplished in that two-year stretch, there was always this one Kotler book sitting there unfinished. And for a writer, especially one who has been considered “prolific” all of his career, that kind of thing is like a weight on your soul—like being crushed, like being mashed into the ground. And it produces a stench in your brain. A putrid, rank aroma that makes you gag every time you notice it.

It’s like being crushed by a mountain of dirty diapers.

I picked the book back up right after we relocated to Pittsburgh.

I didn’t have this on my bingo card, as the kids say. I didn’t have a clue that I’d end up spending an extended amount of time in Pennsylvania. The process of downsizing and packing and moving didn’t help ease me out from under Diaper Mountain. But somehow, when we landed here, when I had a bit of time to breathe… well, I picked up that book again. I worked at it. I started slow, at first, but then I picked up momentum.

And before I knew it, something wonderful happened.

I was enjoying it.

I hadn’t enjoyed writing in a while. Not like that. Not at that level. Writing had become a burden, of sorts. A chore. Something I had to get through.

Now, suddenly, thankfully, it was fun again. It was good again.

I was back.

I have other books to write, and to finish. I have things I started in that two-year gap. Not quite the Diaper Mountain burden of that Kotler book, but they do nag at me. I have work to do.

And I am doing it. I’m back at it. I can feel myself revving up again. That is wonderful. It feels like breathing. Like sucking in fresh mountain air, letting it fill my lungs, letting oxygen get back to my brain.

Life can get heavy like that sometimes. And I hope it all lets up soon, that all the burden sloughs off of me for good. But one lesson I’ve picked up, that I’m taking with me, is this: I can do it.

Even when it’s hard. Even when it sucks. Even when I’m buried under Diaper Mountain. I will struggle and I will weep and I will wish and hope and pray for rescue. And I will do it.

I will write.

Call it a trial by fire. But I’m never calling it quits.

Any hint of “imposter syndrome” has been burned out of me.

So… let’s see what we come up with next.

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READ THE LOVELOCK PROTOCOL NOW!

Get your copy from your favorite retailer: https://books2read.com/lovelock

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A NOTE AT THE END

I’ll always be a Texas boy. Born and raised in a rural area of Texas, close to the Gulf Coast. I learned to drive on gravel roads and learned to love under high school football stands. My family name is carved into a plaque at the Alamo, and into memorials for the first Texas Rangers. Cut me and I bleed Lone Star.

But I’ve always been a wanderer. Traveling the U.S. in an RV or a camper or a van. Traveling the world, exploring cities older than my home country, landscape and ruins that hint at an ancient world.

I’m nomadic. Kara and I have moved more times than I can count. I don’t think we’ve spent more than four years in any one home. When we do travel, we tend to daydream about what it would be like “if we lived here.”

So it’s not all that surprising, really, that I find myself in Pennsylvania. It’s not all that surprising that we are once again on the move.

I have no idea where we’ll end up next. We’ve had plans. Ideas. Hopes. Prayers. God seems to have all this of His own, though. He doesn’t consult me.

All I can do is try to learn from all this movement. Try to take in as much of this world, and the good people in it, as I can. Try to live. No place to truly call my own, but then no walls to hold me in, either.

Sometimes, this makes me feel sad.

And then I take a drive, I roll through new and beautiful countryside. I discover lanes I didn’t know existed, towns I’ve never heard of, new places and new people just waiting for me. Just waiting.

It can feel exhausting, when you think you don’t have roots.

But the bird isn’t the tree.

You may have heard, but a couple of days ago I sent out an announcement about a brand new Dan Kotler novel, The Lovelock Protocol, releasing on April 10. You can preorder the book right now at https://amzn.to/3PNSI5e.

For every novel I write, I also write “A Note at the End.” Something I do for all of these posts as well. It’s something of an afterword—an author’s note, where I slip out of the narrative of the novel or post or whatever it is, and I talk about something that may or may not be related. I often give some behind-the-scenes on the novels, or talk about the process of writing, or just spin a tale that feels like it fits. Whatever feels right, I guess.

I’ve already written the Note at the End for The Lovelock Protocol. And I think it’s a pretty good one. So I won’t try to replicate any of it here. But I thought I’d talk about some of what’s happening for me and my books. The new beginning of my writing career, as it were.

If you haven’t been a reader of mine until recently, you might not even know that I write novels. I find that kind of impossible to fathom, honestly. Being a novelist is such a deeply rooted part of my identity, I feel like I practically broadcast it everywhere I go. Call it ego or vanity, but I almost always try to work in that I write novels, whenever I meet someone new.

Okay, it may be ego and vanity. But I think, perhaps, it’s more about being proud of something. I’m proud of being a writer. I’m proud to have written, and to be writing still. It’s the kind of thing I get excited about. And, to be immodest about it, I think I’m pretty good at it.

I have some social proof for that claim. I’ve hit some bestseller lists. I’ve won some awards. My sales have been good. My reviews have been excellent. I get a lot of kudos on my work, and sometimes from some very big names.

Social proof. Bragging. There’s a thin line. The point, though, is that I like what I do, and I’m good at it.

So, Dr. Dan Kotler…

I created this character as part of a dare, back in 2016. I was doing a podcast with Nick Thacker at that time, and in one episode we were talking about genre. At some point, he mentioned that I should try my hand at writing thrillers, like he does. He dared me to write a thriller. So I did.

I had a bunch of pieces of books laying around on my hard drive. Scraps that I referred to as “thirds,” because they typically represented the first third of a novel. Starts to stories, ideas that I liked enough and was excited enough about that I started writing in a frenzy. But for one reason or another, things petered out. I lost momentum, lost enthusiasm, lost steam. I stopped, and left the book only a third finished, before moving on to other things.

Many of those thirds were written before I was a published novelist. Some go back as far as high school—written and saved to a floppy 5.25” floppy disk that was eventually saved to a 3.5” floppy disk, and then to a Zip drive (remember those?!?), and then to a hard drive. And then another. And another. Until eventually it came to live in the cloud, where a 40-something Kevin finally pilfered it to be part of a dare.

All in all, I’d say that first Kotler novel (The Coelho Medallion) contains now fewer than five thirds, all rewritten and tinkered and modified to be a cohesive story. At least, I hope it’s cohesive.

People seemed to like it, anyway.

In that patchwork of a novel, I needed a protagonist who could embody all the things I wished I could be. Brilliant. Wealthy. Clever. Accomplished.

I have a thing for archaeology, so I made him an anthropologist. I also have a thing for quantum physics—and my previous work had been mostly science fiction—so I made him a multi-PhD, so if I needed to I could leverage all that research I’d done in the years prior. I was staying close to shore, in a way.

I needed a name. So perused my bookcase, because that tends to be where I look first for such things. And what I spotted was Dan Brown, who wrote the kind of thriller I was trying for. I also spotted a copy of Abundance from Steven Kotler. Combining Dan with Kotler felt natural and right to me. And so Dan Kotler was born.

Born really needing to pee, as it turns out.

I don’t know why I added that detail, when I introduced the character. Here was a brilliant multi-PhD, giving a lecture about Vikings in North America to a packed auditorium. He was clearly smart and respected. He obviously knew his stuff, talking in-depth about the topic, offering his own hypotheses, deflecting criticism. But the second his talk was done, all he really wanted to do was find a men’s room.

That was how I introduced the character I would write the most for the next ten years. I had him really needing to pee.

And the character I’d write second most for ten years wouldn’t let him do it.

Agent Roland Denzel. Former Special Forces. Former DEA. Now career FBI.

There’s a fuzzy spot in my brain for where I got Denzel’s name. But I have a suspicion.

As it turns out, there is a real-world Roland Denzel. He is an author, and something of a fitness influencer. And he and I were both frequent guests on some of the same podcasts, including The Self-Publishing Podcast, featuring my good friends Johnny B. Truant, Sean Platt, and Dave Wright.

When I first started self-publishing and podcasting, that show was the go-to for learning about the industry. Those guys practically invented the version of self-publishing that became what most indie authors engage in today. And they tended to have amazing guests (present company narcissistically included!). I listened to every episode.

Which is why I’m pretty sure I must have heard the name “Roland Denzel” long before I actually met the man. It had to have stuck in my mental gumball—that big, gooey mass in my unconscious where ideas stick around waiting to be useful.

So, when it was time to come up with a name for Kotler’s FBI partner, Roland’s name bubbled to the surface.

I had been publishing Kotler books for a couple of years before I met the real Roland. And I’ll go on record now to say that he’s one of the best men I know, and a very dear friend. He’s decided to try his hand at writing romantic comedies, and I can’t wait to read one. He has the heart for it.

His alter ego wouldn’t go near one, however. At least, he’d never admit it.

I’ve been a novelist for decades now, and have written more books than the average writer. I have around 70 in print at the moment, but that’s nothing compared to how many are “in progress” on those floppy disks and hard drives and cloud drives I mentioned.

The point is, I’ve written a lot of stories, and a lot of characters. But the dynamic between Dan Kotler and Roland Denzel is one that makes writing those novels an exquisite joy.

There is love between these two men. Brotherly, bonded love that neither man is emotionally secure enough to admit out loud. It’s “take a bullet for the other” love.

And the banter between them is some of my favorite writing.

Kotler is a student of humans. Their character, their culture. He’s an expert in psychology, perhaps something of a sorcerer when it comes to reading body language.

Denzel is a strategist. He understands humans, too, but from an entirely different angle. Where Kotler sees things through a more optimistic lens, reading even someone’s ill intent as being just a part of a story in which that person sees themselves as the hero, Denzel is a bit more cautious. I hesitate to say “pessimistic.” But… yeah. He understands that people think they’re the hero, even when they know they’re the villain.

It makes for a fun dynamic.

Plus, each man is brilliant in his own way, and mildly competitive with the other. It ends up leading to great dialogue.

So, I had a story in about five parts. And I had two characters who were amazingly fun to write. And I had a dare to nudge me to finish the work.

It turned out to be a winning formula. It turned out to be exactly what I needed, to have a long-running writing career.

I have written other characters and other genres since I started writing Kotler. I still write science fiction, which was my first love. I still write “fast-paced, hopeful fiction.” But I’d be a fool to doubt that Kotler is the reason I have a career.

I’ve got a lot more books coming. Some cross genre lines. Some are experimental. Some might even be considered “literary.”

But I’ll always come back to Kotler.

Not because he’s the breadwinner. But because, of all my characters, he’s perhaps the most “like me.” And more importantly, he’s the most “who I’d like to be.”

So this new novel—The Lovelock Protocol—is the 14th full-length novel in the Kotler series. It’s a novel that brings a lot of changes with it. A new beginning for my career, in fact.

In the near future, I’ll be making a big announcement about the Kotler universe. So you might want to stay tuned (subscribe to me here on Substack, and you’ll be updated). But for now, this latest Kotler book is one I enjoyed writing. One I’m proud of. And I hope that you’ll love it.

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PREORDER THE LOVELOCK PROTOCOL NOW!

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A NOTE AT THE END

At the moment, I’m sitting in the café of a Barnes & Noble, in a little town just north of Pittsburgh. The house that Kara is remodeling can sometimes get a bit loud and chaotic, with all the hammering and grinding and sawing. The finished basement we’re staying in is quite nice, but there are times when I have to leave and find a much quieter place to work.

That search is made all the more challenging by the fact that today is Good Friday, and many of the coffee shops I would normally frequent are closed. Or closing early.

But I have to be honest—I kind of like spending some time writing with thousands of books nearby.

There is something about a bookstore. Any bookstore. Big, small. Corporate, independent. They aren’t all the same, obviously. In fact, the energy of each can be very different.

But whenever I am in a bookstore, perusing the titles, observing the patrons, I get a sort of spiritual lift.

These are my people.

I have a tribe among the writing community. I have a great love for other writers, and I serve them with my time and energy. They are my people, too.

But here, in a bookstore, I’m not an influencer or a thought leader or a teacher. I’m not a podcaster or a keynote speaker.

Here, I’m a reader, just like everyone else. I’m someone who loves books, just as they do.

My people.

There’s also the sort of spiritual inspiration that comes from being surrounded by books. The ideas. The titles. The cover art. It all just works its way into me, and adds nutrients to the inner soil of my soul. My own ideas take root there, and they grow. I have forests inside of me, by the time I leave a bookstore.

So, I’m glad to be here.

And I’m glad to be a part of the world that places like this represent.

I’m glad for my work, my career, and my life.

Good things are happening.

Thank you for being a part of them.

Preorder The Lovelock Protocol now at https://amzn.to/3PNSI5e

I’ll be honest… I’ve wanted to post this for a very long time. Years, in fact. But it wasn’t until today that all the pieces were in place.

A new Dan Kotler Archaeological Thriller is coming!

I get email from readers practically every day asking when the next Kotler book is releasing, and believe me, I have wanted to be able to tell you! But thanks to other projects, and some life events, I haven’t had a book to actually release until now.

But as of this moment, you can pre-order The Lovelock Protocol on Amazon and elsewhere.

PRE-ORDER NOW!

And because it’s been such a long, dry wait, I decide I couldn’t drag things out any longer. The release date for this book is Friday, April 10th!

Here’s everything you need to know about The Lovelock Protocol:

Some secrets should stay buried.

Climate scientist Evan Calder was murdered seven years ago. So how did he just send a letter to the FBI?

FBI Agent Roland Denzel is pulled into a mystery that defies logic—and threatens the balance of the world itself.

To unravel it, he turns to Dr. Dan Kotler—brilliant archaeologist, relentless investigator, and a man with a habit of finding trouble where history and the modern world collide.

The trail leads to a powerful biotech empire, a missing manuscript page tied to the ancient Chinese figure Shen Nong, and a classified experiment known only as The Lovelock Protocol.

What Kotler and Denzel uncover is more than a conspiracy.

It’s a weapon.

A way to control the weather… and reshape the fate of nations.

Now, hunted by forces willing to kill to get their hands on this technology, Kotler and Denzel must race to decode a secret lost thousands of years ago—before someone turns the Earth itself into a tool of war.

Because if the protocol is real…

Whoever controls the Earth Engine, controls everything.

RESERVE YOUR COPY NOW!

This is the 14th installment of the Dan Kotler Archaeological Thrillers, and it may be my favorite of the series to date. Set in Georgetown, Texas, where Kara and lived for the past three years, the story revisits some of my favorite spots there. And the action, the puzzles, the mystery—I think you’re going to love it all.

Click above to pre-order your copy. And be sure to send this to all your friends and family!

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And the good news doesn’t end here…

I have a very big announcement about the Kotler universe. So make sure you subscribe to hear the latest! It’s very exciting—and yet another thing I wish I could announce NOW.

I’ve never been very patient.

We have a situation this morning. The water is out.

That means no shower. It means toilets get one flush, and even using gallons of water we can’t seem to get a second one. It means bottled water for drinking, and dirty dishes and dirty laundry piled up and unwashed.

And it means grumpiness and snippiness. Kara and I have already had a couple of spats.

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Most of my anxiety around this kind of thing comes from my inability to fix it. The problem is something outside my scope of engineering expertise and skill. And while I’m sure that I could figure something out eventually… I’m probably really, really wrong in my assurance.

Sometimes life hands you problems you can’t solve. So you call in a professional.

I’m trying to use this situation to do a little self-improvement. Practice patience. Practice endurance. Practice tolerance. Practice being someone who remains calm and collected and kind, instead of being a grumpy grouse who snipes at the people he loves.

It isn’t going well.

Sometimes I can be a real jerk, especially to the people I love. Maybe some part of me thinks (I hesitate to say “knows”) that they’ll forgive me. They’ll understand. But that’s an assumption I shouldn’t make all the time. It leads to resentment—that long-lasting, sticky, tar-like darkness that clings to everything and is tough to wash away.

Especially when you have no water.

The great irony is that last night we had an absolute gully-washer of a thunderstorm. Rain so heavy and fast that it made driving at night a real challenge.

I have some trouble seeing at night. It’s less a lack of night vision and more of an issue with my eyes going straight for any speck of light. And when there’s heavy rain, and light is refracting all over the place, it’s hard for me to see things like the fading white lines that mark the lanes or the shoulder. I manage, but it’s not easy. It’s exhausting, in fact.

So, I end up tired. I’m stressed. I’m worried and anxious. And I haven’t had a shower. So I’m grumpy and snippy.

And all this “practice being a better person” stuff just exacerbates that, because it makes me feel ashamed when I fail.

Is there a life lesson in all of that?

I think so. I may not be in the best psychological state to point it out. But I’ll give it a shot.

Crisis teaches us who we really are.

When things go wrong, we see our actual makeup. We see ourselves in the raw.

And sometimes, as in my case, you don’t like that much. It reminds you that you have work yet to do. That you are by no means even close to perfected.

No one likes to be reminded of their flaws or their failures.

And so we start looking around at everyone close to us, to see what their failures are. We tend to define ourselves by our relationship with our communities, our tribes. So, if we’re feeling low about ourselves, we look for all the flaws in the people around us, so we can point and say, “Aha! See! I’m not so bad after all. At least I’m not like that!”

We criticize. And that makes the other person feel defensive. So they look for flaws in you, and then they criticize right back. And now we’re in this self-perpetuating loop of nagging and complaining and tearing each other down.

And the only way out is for one of you—and spoilers, it’s always going to be you—to take the high road instead. One of you (you) has to stop and say, “No. I’m not going to be like that. I’m not going to tear that person down.”

And you’ll fail at that, because of course you will.

But success isn’t the goal. The effort is. You won’t be successful every time, but you can try every time. That’s the choice.

So anyway, I haven’t had a shower today.

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A NOTE AT THE END

It’s funny how much I take running water for granted. I keep catching myself, realizing that “Oh yeah, that’s something else I can’t do at the moment.”

And, of course, it’s a stark reminder that there are people all over the world who daily have to contend with a lack of the things I take for granted. It’s hard not to think about how challenging life is for people who don’t have it nearly as easy as I do.

I often roll my eyes when people use the word “privilege.” Usually because when most people use it, they’re doing it in a self-loathing, self-indicting kind of way. And they often don’t understand the thing they’re protesting.

That’s a Kevin take. You’re safe to ignore it.

But we of the Western world do live in a bubble of privilege—there’s no denying that. I turn a tap and get clean water. I flip a switch and get abundant electricity. I open a pantry door and I’m greeted by a larder of food that would make some entire nations weep in envy.

Kara and I have been fairly nomadic in our lives. And there have been times when we were broke and unable to afford even basic things. Challenging times. But I can’t recall any time in my life where I was completely out of options. Where I couldn’t pick up a phone and call for help, from someone who loves and cares about me.

That’s the kind of privilege I have.

I don’t loathe myself for it. Nor do I use it as a criticism of anyone else. By fate we have all been planted where we are, and we took root in the soil that was beneath us. Fate… or by design, if one believes as I do. There’s a plan for everything, and everything is in the plan.

I think, though, it would do for me to remember that not everyone has the kind of privilege I have. And, if that’s the case, what do I do about it?

Good question. And as of now, I don’t have a proper answer. But I should and will start thinking of one. Because if I have any role on Earth, above and beyond simply living, it must be to serve. I must be but to serve others with what I do. With my writing. With my time. With my wisdom, should I prove to have any. And with every effort I can reasonably muster.

It’s amazing how much insight you can gain, when the toilet won’t flush.

But a copy here: https://amzn.to/4c7MEgq

On the one hand, I enjoyed it, and was compelled to keep reading. As an author myself, that’s an outcome I pray for with every reader who comes to my work.

On the other hand, the style of writing (or perhaps it’s the translation) felt somewhat choppy and at times immature to me. This is the first work of fiction I have read by Murakami (having come to him through his autobiographical collection of essays, “Novelist as a Vocation”). I don’t know whether this style is indicative of his work as a whole, or is simply the result of this being an expansion of something he wrote early in his career. Given his great and studied history as a novelist, the honors and awards and accolades he’s received, either people really respond to his style or I’m right about this being early work.

Either way, I did enjoy the book—except for the parts that involved the mystical town. That I found dreary and depressing and even oppressive. It was magical in a dark and haunting way.

And the relationships in the book are all profoundly unsatisfying. Stilted conversations between two dimensional characters, including the protagonist, in which literally everyone remains a standoff to everyone else, in the end.

There’s an absence of internal logic in the plot. There were numerous setups that were simply never paid off. The ending was wholly unsatisfying.

And yet, I was compelled to read every word. Maybe I kept hoping there would be some surprising twist at the end, to tie it all together. Maybe.

I think, though, that what kept me reading was the spirit of the story. The mirror it holds up to life is a bit dim and tarnished, but you can still see traces of something recognizable there. So, I read.

I’m rating this four out of five stars. I was tempted to give it three. But I do think it’s a book worth reading, once in a lifetime. The fact that it’s not for me, to my taste, tarnishes nothing.

Read it with the mindset that it is a glimpse into a haunted world, plagued by the same thing that plagues the real world—not all questions get answered, and not all endings are satisfying.

This past week we had a blizzard, here just north of Pittsburgh. My first one. I’ve been in snow, seen snow falling, but this is the first time I’ve watched it fall so heavy, so high.

It was fast. And weird. Literally, I was on the phone with a friend, the weather outside was in the mid- to high-sixties. It was a little rainy. But there was green everywhere.

Ten minutes into our chat, I saw snowflakes falling.

By the time we hung up, twenty minutes later, the first scrim of snow had stuck to the outdoor furniture. An hour later, the world was white. An hour after that, the piles had already topped six inches.

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Look, I’m Texan. Bred, born, and raised. We’ve had snow. But I am in no way equipped for this.

The strangest part for me was how life just went on for everyone. “More snow. Great.” But life goes on.

The last time it snowed in Austin the whole world shut down. The news was filled with stories of cars sliding off the highways. Piles of accidents, families injured. Homes were damaged by burst pipes. Entire sections of the city were blocked from access due to road closures. I had to wear pants, for God’s sake.

Very different worlds.

But a bigger difference is one I never would have expected.

Two days after the blizzard, every speck of snow is gone. The grass is green. Everything is exactly as it was the morning before the blizzard. No lingering impact at all.

Meanwhile, in Austin, we got maybe a quarter inch of snow and it lingered for a month.

Wild.

Anyway, the point here is I have no serious winter gear. Nothing to scrape a windshield. No shovel to move snow out of a driveway. No snowblower. I don’t even own a puffer coat.

And somehow it didn’t matter anyway. Life still managed to go on, even though I was in no way prepared for it. All I had to do was relax. Be still. Everything turned out for my good, and the good of all around me, and the only effort required of me was to keep doing the work I do, keep serving the people I serve.

This isn’t a post about snow.

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You’ll find my entire library of books here: https://kevintumlinson.com/books

I have new books coming soon. And I’m hopeful that you’ll find a new favorite, and also tell your friends and family about me and my books. This is my work, my service, and the way I make a living. So if you have it in your heart, help me spread the word.

A NOTE AT THE END

It only snowed a couple of times when I was a kid in Wild Peach. But it was wild. The landscape I knew was sheathed in ice and white, and somehow it changed everything.

Perspective is like that.

I’m currently in Pennsylvania, 1,500 miles from where I think of as “home.” And for the past five years, I’ve lived north of Austin… about 250 miles from where I think of as “home.”

Meaning that even though I spent five years living and working and socializing in a place, my inner compass always pointed south. And it wasn’t until nearly the end of our time there that I really started embracing that landscape as a part of myself. I never felt like I was “home.” I only ever felt like I was “living somewhere.”

But I’ve been back to Wild Peach, over the years. Back to my old stomping grounds. Back to Lake Jackson and the Brazos Mall, where I spent practically every free moment as a teenager. Back to Angleton, where I have family. Back to Pearland and Sugar Land, where I’ve lived and have many friends and family.

All of it feels very different to me now. None of it feels quite like “home” either.

And that’s because my perspective changed. A blizzard blew in, and covered the landscape I remembered with a thick coat of new experiences.

Home isn’t that place. Home is buried under all that experience, all the new perspective I’ve gained. Home isn’t a place I can go back to by driving or flying.

Home is what I carry with me.

So we are here, in the northern part of the country, where blizzards are a thing. We are far from where I’ve come from. And yet, still home.

Me. Kara. Our little dog Mini. Our family and friends spread all over the world. Even my readers, like you. And my God, my Father in heaven.

Welcome to my home.

I’ve heard people say they “grew up in church” from time to time. And I always assumed they meant the same experience I had. Now, I’m not quite as sure. I’ve been thinking about my childhood lately, journaling things I remember about it. Largely I’ve been reminiscing on just how wonderful and golden my childhood was—I was incredibly blessed.

This morning, I wrote about my church. The place where I grew up. The buildings, the grounds, rows and rows of blue pews, stacks of tattered hymnals. A wooden cross over a baptismal basin. A stage, a cross-shaped lectern, a choir loft.

I can go on for a while, describing every physical nuance I recall about that place—it’s all so familiar. I have a genuinely clear image of it in my mind.

But that isn’t necessarily the church. We all know that.

The church was the people.

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I grew up in what I’ve only recently realized was an incredible community. A building full of people who all loved and served God, and did so primarily by loving and serving each other, and the greater community beyond.

Ok, so… I was a weird kid. Let’s get that out of the way right here. I was odd in all sorts of perplexing ways. The way I talked. The things I was into. The way I thought and behaved. It wasn’t until many years later that I realized that even this tight little community of worshipers, all bent on loving and serving God and others, actually had no idea what I was about, or what to do with me.

I listened in church. I caught every story, heard scripture and took it all to heart. And for certain, I lacked the sophistication to understand every nuance. But I grasped quite a bit more than most might have thought.

It shaped who I was, how I acted.

In that tight little community I had friends my age—mostly. I had kids who tolerated me, anyway. And I did have friends, some of whom I still occasionally keep in touch with to this day. I had girlfriends and crushes. I had mentors, among the adults. I had a strong community—strangers who became family.

I didn’t realize it then, and I’m only slowly coming to realize it after 50-plus years of living, but I was so incredibly, astoundingly blessed to have that in my upbringing.

From those people I learned all the valuable lessons of life. I learned ethics and morals. I learned the dynamics of interpersonal relationhips. I learned how powerful stories can be, and how they shape the world around us—shape us.

Among those rows of blue pews I learned all the foundational things that I live by now. That, in some respects, I’m rediscovering.

Thank God for all those blue pews. Thank God for all those people. They never understood me (this was confirmed at a reunion a few years ago). But fine. Good. Even better.

Because with no understanding of what made this weird little kid tick, of what he was on about, they still accepted me. They still kept me under their arms, in their embrace. They still encouraged me and showed me who I could be, showed me what was right, showed me how to serve and how to love.

My childhood among the blue pews was the best childhood I can imagine. I’m so grateful for it.

I think—in fact, I know—that my experience there, at Brigance Road Baptist Church, is what shaped my very concept of family and community. It’s why I can so readily and easily embrace others into my “circle.” It’s why I care for and love and serve the writing community, and my community of readers, the way I do.

It’s what I’m searching for, as an adult, in this world that doesn’t always value community, that sometimes seems lost and unaware of what it means to be a part of something bigger than yourself.

My responsibility, as the man formerly known as the boy among the blue pews, is to show the world what that community looks like.

That’s the job.

And I intend to do it.

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So thank you.

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A NOTE AT THE END

The blue pews weren’t my only community as a kid, and they’re not the only place I look back to with warm nostalgia, as an adult. I’ve been a part of many wonderful communities in my life. This one, in fact—this Substack newsletter that you’re reading is just me chatting amicably with the community I serve.

When I was at Houston Christian University, I had some required courses that were referred to on campus under the name “Smith College requirements.” These were Christian courses and events that we had to attend to get a set number of hours in. One of these was a Bible course that I enjoyed. And another used a book called “Built for Community” as its textbook.

The idea was that God built humans to be communal beings. We’re designed to be a part of a village, a tribe, a family, a church. It spins around the central axis of Matthew 18:20, when Christ says, “Where two or more are gathered in my name, I am with them.”

I like the entire concept of this. The notion that we are built to be part of something, to contribute to something, makes me feel vindicated and validated. It means that the service I engage in is worthwhile, even if I don’t always feel that way. Even if I don’t always understand the community itself. Even if it doesn’t understand me.

We’re made to be a part of each other’s lives. That’s the thing.

And that by no means equates to this being

Ok so… it’s not like I haven’t been writing.

In fact, over the past two years I’ve written a veritable library of books, short stories, articles, and posts. So there has been writing. And, if I must say so myself, it has been good.

My metric for “good writing,” by the way, is measured in two parts: First, did I grow from writing it? And second, did it touch someone’s life in a positive way?

God gave me a talent and a skill, and I do believe I’m using them the right way.

The thing is, while I have written new novels over the past couple of years, they’ve all been for the traditional market. Book deals I have, or book deals I want.

I think these have been important learning tools for me. I’ve had to work with others on these things, in a way I never had to think about with my indie-published work. The experience forced me to strain, made me uncomfortable at times. And, ultimately, it forced me to grow.

There’s an analogy that involves butterflies.

A caterpillar is a perfectly functional creature. It crawls around eating leaves, living its life in a world of filtered sunlight, experiencing things at ground level. You could argue that, for the type of creature it is, the caterpillar leads a full and rich life. There are plenty of other creatures in the world that live exactly as the caterpillar does—an entire life cycle of crawling, eating, and experiencing. And then they’re gone.

But for reasons I’ll certainly never know or understand, God made the caterpillar different.

Sure, it looks like some kind of worm. But at a certain point, after it has eaten enough of those leaves and crawled enough branches and experienced enough sunlight filtered through the canopy of a tree, the caterpillar starts weaving a cocoon of silk around itself. And then… it waits.

Inside that cocoon, magic is happening. Growth. Transformation. Metamorphosis.

Eventually, what was once a caterpillar tears its way out of that silk cocoon and spreads a brand new set of wings. It flutters. It rises. It flies. A butterfly is born.

It doesn’t even eat leaves anymore. That’s how new it is. Instead it dines on the pollen and nectar produced by the beautiful flowers of the field. It carries pollen with it as it flits from flower to flower, and helps those plants to pollinate and reproduce.

In short, it evolves from something that merely crawls and eats and experiences life—though, in truth, a very idyllic sort of existence—and emerges to now be a creature of great beauty, and to be an aid to producing even more beauty in the world. It goes from “existing” to “living with purpose.”

If you were to do something cruel—if you were to interrupt the metamorphosis, to cut away that cocoon and nudge the caterpillar out before the transformation was complete, you wouldn’t be doing it any favors. You’d be creating a monster. A half-formed thing that can’t fulfill its purpose. A pitiable creature doomed to live the rest of its life with all of its potential lost.

I’ll be honest, just thinking about this makes my heart hurt.

But this is an analogy. So let’s look at where it’s brought us.

For me, the past few years have been kind of rough. I know I’m not alone in that. But one of the casualties of my burnout and the subsequent shakeup that’s followed is that I started finding writing to be something that was hard to do. Something that I sometimes even dreaded doing.

That’s never been the case for me. Never been the way. And yet, here I was suffering. I couldn’t do this thing I’ve always loved and been passionate about. Not the way I could before.

I have a theory that part of the problem was that I started treating the writing, and my career, as a sort of false god. An idol I served in self-flagellating worship. I was putting all my faith in that, instead of God. And as I’ve said, a time or two—dreams make terrible gods.

But I think there may be another level to all of this. And it lies in that metaphor of the butterfly.

I didn’t stop writing, after the burnout. But I did change my approach to writing. And with that, I also changed what it meant to me. I changed my purpose.

I love telling stories. I love writing and crafting a good story. And I love, above all, when those stories “touch hearts and nourish souls.”

I believe God is telling me, “Do that. Stop worrying about all the rest. Do this work. Spread the new wings I’ve given you. And then go spread beauty in the world.”

So, that’s exactly what I’m doing.

I’ve got a new Kotler book in the works. I have some other books brewing, too. And I recently signed a deal that could lead to some very big things for me, and thus (I believe) for you, my readers.

Here and now, I want to thank you for being here. For sticking with me. Supporting me. I love and appreciate you for it. I was built to tell stories, and so I do. But I can’t do it in a vacuum. I need you. So I am very grateful.

There will be more to come. More news about what’s happening with me and my work. More books and stories. There’s a lot more than I’m even aware of yet, so when I know it, you’ll know it.

But my word of encouragement to you, today, is this: If you find yourself restricted, if you find yourself bound and unable to move forward toward all those things you’ve loved, or all the things you’ve always wanted to experience, consider this…

You may just be in the middle of your metamorphosis.

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TRY MY NOVELS

I have a lot of them, even with a supposed “break” in publishing. My hope is that you’ll find a new favorite novel to love. So go to https://kevintumlinson.com/books and pick your new favorite.

BECOME A PAID SUPPORTER RIGHT HERE

A paid subscription is the easiest way to keep things going here, and I appreciate it when they come. I’m planning to start doing some special things for paid subscribers. I can’t say when it will start, for sure, but it’s in the works. As the chaos of downsizing and relocating starts to diminish, the opportunity to do these things increases. So I appreciate you for becoming a paid subscriber. It helps. It really does.

A NOTE AT THE END

I can be a little hard on myself when it comes to my work. I think that, objectively, most people would look at my daily output and have no doubts about me as a hard worker. Every day I get up, I produce content, I do the writing and record videos, I engage with readers and viewers. I show up and I show out.

A lot of what I’m producing right now is aimed at authors. My “will-be writers,” who are a community I deeply love and feel compelled to serve. I became known as “the Voice of Indie Publishing,” and it’s a title I love and cling to. My podcasts, my speaking engagements, even a lot of what I write is all aimed at helping people start, build, and grow their author careers. I like to believe I help make dreams come true. The same dream that’s driven me, all my life.

But something I know about myself: The story is what matters.

Stories are so powerful. They change the world.

Everything you know about current events is a story filtered through the lens you use to observe it. Mainstream media is the lens for most people. Though I’d caution everyone to start turning away from that factory of lies and manipulation. That’s me. I’m bitter toward that whole grove, and the fruit its trees produce.

But the power of a story is that it can change and reshape your life. And you get to be the author of that story.

There are so many examples. I don’t have the time to tell all those tales. But you’ve heard them. They’re easy to find.

A child raised in poverty tells herself the story of building a business, and becomes a success.

A kid from a small, backwood town tells himself the story of traveling the world, and spends his life visiting exotic places.

A man faces the struggle of prejudice and bias, and tells himself the story of his rise above it all. And, look at that, he rises above it all.

Stories are the superpower most of us don’t even realize we have.

That’s why I’m not at all worried about things like “AI taking our jobs,” or wars or rumors of wars. We will live the stories we tell ourselves.

So I’m going to tell myself a good one.

And you… you should tell a good story about yourself, too.