About seven years ago, I took up writing seriously. I was nearing forty, and you could say it was a bit of a midlife crisis. That may sound young for a midlife crisis, but taken literally, you’re a pretty optimistic fellow to call a major lifestyle change in your late forties or fifties a midlife crisis. With all of the bad habits I’ve subjected my body to over the years, I’ll be quite glad to reach my seventies.

I think of it as a midlife crisis in the sense that it had started hitting me hard that I had always loved writing fiction, but I had never made the time for it. Since college, through a combination of practicality and a healthy beat-down in creative writing classes, writing became my dream deferred. That’s not to say that I regret making a career as a social worker, but I felt like a big part of who I am had been left unventured. In Eriksonian terms, I was caught in that quandary of stagnation versus generativity, which brings to bear the big questions about meaningfulness and what kind of artifact of your life will be around after you’re gone.

To most of the people around me, my decision to ‘come out’ as a writer came as a surprise. I had been a social worker and an educator for over a dozen years, taking up the cause of LGBT youth. I’ll always be proud of that work and consider myself privileged to have made a career out of service to my community. Still, there was an entirely different creative side of me that I needed to explore.

I started working on a novel, joined a writer’s critique group, attended workshops and conferences, and read books about plot and structure and writing craft. I took the leap into submitting my work for publication, and in 2009, I placed my first short story in a literary journal. I followed up with that at a pretty brisk pace with more short story publications and now three books in print and two more coming out next year.

This writing thing of mine is more than a passing phase. It hasn’t brought me fame or fortune, but I keep at it because I love putting words on the page and I know this journey is a marathon, not a sprint. I also know that I couldn’t do it without the incredible support of my family and friends and the readers who have taken the time to let me know that they enjoyed what I wrote.

So, as the holiday season has us thinking about togetherness and giving, I wanted to thank the many people I have been fortunate enough to come to know as family. You’ve encouraged me, tolerated me during my reclusive, moody periods, and been there to celebrate with me. Thank you, and may 2016 be a stellar year for all of us.