It’s been a rough year for me—in truth, for everyone—and I decided I really needed to get away from it all. I needed a vacation. Unfortunately, that little virus thingy dictated that the v-a part of the “cation” word be substituted with s-t-a-y.
Stay? Nope, not me. Why let a trivial matter like a pandemic stop me? I made up my mind that I must go, the specter of death and depression lurking just outside my front door aside. I had to get away.
Best decision I ever made . . . putting some time and distance between me and the real world.
So, I flew an antisubmarine patrol off the coast of Oregon, traveled half way across the Pacific on an aircraft carrier, fell in love with a missionary’s daughter in China, became totally enamored with Madame Chiang Kai-shek in Chungking, and spent a few minutes in the Oval Office with FDR.
And those weren’t even the most exciting moments of my journey. I’ll tell you all about everything in detail early next year. But, you see, that’s why I love writing. I don’t have to stay in one place or in one era.
I’m talking, as you’ve probably guessed, about my novel aborning, the one I’ve given the working title The Shangri-La Raiders. I don’t think that title will stick, however–I’ll let you know when it changes.
I’ll tell you one thing that scares me to death about my new work-in-progress, though. My most recently published book, When Heroes Flew, has garnered decent reviews on Amazon and Goodreads. Better than I ever could have imagined, to be honest. So how do I top that? Or even equal it?
Maybe I can’t. Maybe I should quit while I’m ahead. You know, go out on top. What do you think? Stand pat? Or gamble on a new hand?