In March of 2026, I published my third novel The Death and Life of Edward Reed, a genre-bending look at the afterlife. In this book I strove to answer some pretty weighty questions, not the least of which is “what if we could have a real second chance to life a good life?”
It’s been said that life is a journey. And as such, most of us follow a linear path from birth to death. Our choices along the way are both driven by and limited by many things: cultural and social circumstances, personal goals and desires, external opportunities, but also by our own unconscious motivations. There are times we act in inexplicable ways based on deeply rooted parts of our being. Understanding what moves us takes deep self-awareness. Or one can work out these questions in a book.
I’ve often wondered why I am always so restless. Can’t sit still. I need to busy my hands with one thing or another. And so often I feel I should be doing something more, as if there is some great unknown thing yet unfulfilled in my seventy-year-old life. A friend once told me that the greatest gift of being old is that we’ve been relieved of the burden of the future. I am reluctant to let go of my burden, thinking I must still trudge purposely forward. More to do. More to do. More to do.
My mother is ninety and she has always had to be self-reliant. Letting go of that ingrained trait and just allowing others to care for her and handle life’s housekeeping tasks has proved almost impossible. She still thinks she’s the one who has to cook a holiday meal because that’s what she’s always done. Likewise, I still think I need to manage things because that’s what I’ve always done. To just allow a day to unfold sounds nice, but who’s going to make sure…? Who’s going to take care of…?
One day I will, like we all will, pass into some other realm, whatever that may be. This knowledge brings the natural questions: have I made the most of my life? Have I done all that I can? But I see now that such questions are a trap. If I could start over again, I don’t know what I would do differently. I would still be me, with my traits and sensibilities and I would still be constrained by the facts of my childhood. Regrets are futile. I see now, that the only second chance we have to live as we ought to live comes with the dawning of each new day. The only future we can control is the present.
The tragic truth of life is that it takes us so long to figure that out.