It’s a weird thing.

I’m a middle-aged man. I write books for the children I will never have. In a way, like owning a dog, I’m trying to connect with a true desire I will never hold. If I can help a child with my words and mean something to children I will never know, I, in some small manner, will help guide and form a young mind.

I’m not so blind, it’s about legacy. About facing down the grim reaper who draws closer minute by minute and leaving something behind other than bills, bank receipts, and a carcass to be dealt with. I’ve always clung to the background, a shadow watching others move through the world with different eyes and hearts than my own. I never made sense in the world to myself. I never wanted to be adored or famous. I’ve kept my circle small. I’ve guarded myself.

Now as my years grow longer behind me than in front, I’m working with a diligent fervor to create an impact on a world that needs hope, love, and forgiveness. A hunchback trapped inside a stone fortress trying to share what little I have to give. I vacillate in constant debate over the worth of my world and the worthiness of my words.

It’s a weird thing, to want to share with a world I’ve hidden from. I don’t understand and never will. It’s a weird thing to be sure.