I wrote my book Swagger in a torrent of words lasting three weeks. It opens…

I am the descendant of immigrants, scoundrels, patriots, ministers, and courageous individuals. All that made them runs in my veins.

I discovered America in Wilson, Oklahoma during a snowstorm. I am the oldest of four, all brothers. Mason and Wade are dead. Will and I remain, two of four.

I was born in a snowstorm. Torrents are in my makeup.

In the last five months, more torrents: Both knees replaced. Pandemic. Politics. A derelict world. Dark deaths. A duplicitous media. The death of Ann. Sleep-deprived due to pain’s overreach.

I relish torrents. They remind me I’m alive.

Tonight, my copy of Swagger arrived.

There is a torrent of rain. My dog hunkers on the doormat to avoid the blowing spray. My wife is stranded by the deluge. I’m on the porch. God’s earth is rocking.

The Amazon lady opens her door, I rise on my aching knees, and hobble—cane in hand—into the torrent. The driver’s head is down. I speak from inside the downpour. She gasps—then passes Swagger through the torrent.

The book is born of a torrent. Created to speak within a torrent about a torrent. Written to isolate life and living while in a torrent.

My damp hands tremble. I lance the bubble wrap and lay the knife aside. Swagger. It’s sharp, pointed, alive.

I hope you will read Swagger. I wrote it for you!