On Slow Weeks and Stubborn Callings

A brief dispatch from the post‑DST haze

Thursday, March 12, 2026 — Orlando, Florida

It’s midafternoon on a muggy, rain‑soaked March day in Central Florida. The temperature is hovering around 85°F (29°C) under a curtain of heavy rain, and thanks to our subtropical climate—now supercharged by global warming—it feels more like early summer than spring. There’s that old saying about my birth month: it comes in like a lamb and goes out like a lion. Well, I was born in Florida, and aside from three extended stints elsewhere, this has always been home. I know its quirks. I know its moods.

This week has been strange and, unfortunately, far less productive than I’d hoped. I’m sure the shift from standard time to daylight saving time has scrambled my circadian rhythm. I’ve tried to stick to the routine I established back when I began working on Reunion: Coda around this time in 2023, but this latest time change has thrown me off. Instead of writing my blog posts in the morning, I now find myself starting them in the afternoon. Add to that a lingering tiredness and a lack of motivation—both of which settled in after the novel’s publication—and it’s been hard to find my footing. Maybe it’s the slow trickle of sales and reviews on Amazon, or maybe it’s my ongoing frustration with Kindle Create’s formatting eccentricities, but the spark just hasn’t been there.

As a result, I haven’t made much progress on The Jim Garraty Chronicles, the omnibus that will eventually gather Reunion: A Story, Reunion: Coda, and Comings and Goings – The Art of Being Seen into one volume. I’d originally hoped to have it ready for the 2025 holiday season, but I shifted my focus to producing the Audible editions to reach readers who prefer listening over reading. That process wasn’t nearly as complicated as I’d feared, but it did require time and attention—time that came at the expense of the omnibus.

And while I’ve seen occasional spikes in sales and Kindle Unlimited reads—especially for Reunion: Coda—the royalties and, more importantly, the number of reviews have been lower than I’d hoped. It’s hard for an indie author to sit down and work on new projects, or even revisit old ones, when the numbers are modest, and the silence is loud. I check my Kindle Direct Publishing reports, see the unimpressive figures, and wonder whether writing literary fiction is worth the effort.

But I always come back to the same truth: telling stories is what I was meant to do. It’s not an easy profession, and in the United States, it’s certainly not as appreciated or financially rewarding as I once imagined. Still, I work hard to be a good writer. I’m not one of those people who slap “author” on their bio and churn out unreadable books propped up by praise circles. Writing is my craft, my discipline, my way of making sense of the world. And honestly, I can’t imagine doing anything else. At 63, I’m far too old—and far too committed—to reinvent myself now.

And yet, even in a week like this—muggy, sluggish, and rain‑drenched—I can feel the faint hum of momentum under the surface. Creative energy doesn’t disappear; it just shifts, rests, and waits for the right moment to rise again. The work will call me back, as it always does. The stories are still there, patient and unfinished, and I know I’ll return to them with clearer eyes once this haze lifts. If anything, weeks like this remind me that writing isn’t just about output—it’s about endurance, honesty, and showing up for the work even when the weather, the clock, and the numbers aren’t cooperating. And I will show up. I always do.