First of all, please allow me to slip in an update about my newest novel. When Heroes Flew: The Shangri-La Raiders is on track to be released July 13. It’s a captivating tale of bravery, determination, and an unlikely love set against the legendary Jimmy Doolittle Raid on Tokyo in 1942.
Next, since I published my “I’m 80, I’m Old” blog in January, I find myself on a much different path in life than I ever could have imagined a mere two months ago. (Holes-in-one aside.)
Certainly at eighty, widowed, and not in the income category to be denied a stimulus check, I haven’t been added to Atlanta’s most eligible bachelors list. Further, romance has never been part of my lexicon.
For instance, I’m a thriller/historical fiction writer. I would never consider tapping out a tale of une liaison du cœur.
Or would I? (How’s that for a hook?)
Well, you’ll just have to wait awhile to find out. As will I. I’m thinking maybe mid-May, okay?
That, then, brings me to the key point I’d like to make here. Yes, we grow old. We slow down. Body parts wear out. Thoughts slip away. We age. But I’ve learned there’s something within us that doesn’t age—our emotions and feelings.
Something has occurred in my life which I’m not quite believing myself, one that has ignited emotions and feelings I thought died decades ago in my long-forgotten youth. And because I can’t quite believe what has transpired, I wouldn’t expect you to, either . . . at least until there have been some additional chapters written.
I’m working on those. Give me a month or two. But I’ll toss out a little tease by saying that even in the world of over-the-hill codgers there may still exist magic. Albeit it buried in the sediments of decades gone by and separated by the vast distances of a sprawling American continent.