For some, there is no book living inside them. For some, the book is there, but it is never recognized as such.
For others, the book is there, on the outer edges of the mind, from birth. It may show its face to a toddler, poke a teenager in the ribs, or it may just sit there, collecting a lifetime of data until retirement and the Great Dreaded Empty Nest Syndrome.
Then it lightly taps you on the shoulder and whispers, “Relive it all. Write a book.”
Or it “slaps you up ‘side the head”…and shouts in your ear, “HEY! It’s not the end, moron! How about making retirement a new adventure and WRITE A (bleeping) BOOK!“
Here are some thoughts on one author’s journey.