08/06/2026
The Writer's Statement
After publishing my first novels, I was invited to speak at an author's event in Ponca City, Oklahoma. I thought I knew what I wanted to say. I was ready. I rehearsed. As a retired Green Beret, I'd spent my life standing in front of soldiers, leading men in difficult places around the world. Talking to a room full of readers should have been easy.
Instead, I froze.
Looking back at me were twenty resilient prairie women. In their faces, I saw my mother. So instead of giving the speech I had prepared, I told them her story.
Three days after she passed away, she came to me in a dream. She lived in a place she called her "Psychedelic Castle." As she sat there rolling one of her own, I looked around in amazement and asked,
"Mom, how can you afford all this?"
Without missing a beat, she smiled and as she exhaled smoke she said.
"The trust funds, my son... the trust funds."
That was my mother. Witty. Unconventional. Reassuring. To me, it was her way of reminding me that love, memory, and the human spirit continue long after we can no longer see them.
My mother was a product of the 1960s. She was an English teacher, an environmentalist, an anti-war activist, and a proud liberal. We did not always see the world through the same lens, but she gave me something far more valuable than agreement.
She gave me stories.
Through the stories she told, I came to know people I had never met. I knew my grandfather—not through photographs, but through the values he lived by as a farmer, minister, night watchman, and father. I came to understand my uncles through her pride in them and through the stories they later shared themselves. World War II wasn't simply something I read about in history books. It lived around our dinner table.
My uncles spoke of Boulder Dam and the WPA, of Roosevelt, Mount Suribachi, Okinawa, the Philippines, the Rhine, and the concentration camps they helped liberate. They spoke of boxing championships, French girls, silk stockings tucked into rucksacks, and expressions like FUBAR, Snuffy, and "Hurry up and wait." As a boy, I didn't fully understand those stories. I simply knew they mattered.
Over time, they became part of me.
Those stories—and the pride my mother carried for the people she loved—led me into Special Forces. As a Green Beret, I traveled the world and discovered how people lived, how they struggled, and how extraordinary ordinary people can be when life asks everything of them. I learned what true poverty looks like. I learned what sacrifice costs. I learned how fortunate we are to live in a nation where stories like these can still be told.
Years later, my writing carried me on another journey. I met thousands of veterans, readers, teachers, and families. Every one of them had a story. Some made me laugh. Others broke my heart. All of them reminded me that history isn't made by famous names alone. It is built one life at a time.
Looking back now, I realize I have always been writing about the same people.
The heroes in my books and films are rarely the loudest people in the room. They are ordinary men and women who choose courage over comfort, sacrifice over self-interest, and hope over despair. They are the people who quietly shape families, communities, and generations without ever expecting recognition.
Throughout my life, I have been surrounded by giants.
Some wore uniforms. Some carried lunch pails. Some taught school. Some raised children. Some worked farms beneath an Oklahoma sun. They taught me that heroism is rarely found in grand speeches. More often, it is found in ordinary people making extraordinary choices when no one is watching.
Stories are how we remember those people.
Memory fades. Photographs yellow. Voices grow quiet. But stories endure. They preserve not only what happened, but why it mattered.
Whether I am writing about a Green Beret, a Cherokee shaman, a boy growing up in rural Oklahoma, or the mysteries of creation itself, I find myself pursuing the same question:
What does it mean to live a life worth remembering?
If my books accomplish anything, I hope they remind us that every family carries a history worth preserving, every generation has something worth passing on, and every ordinary life has the potential to become extraordinary through courage, sacrifice, and love.
Storytelling is where my heart is.
Every family has a story worth remembering.
Have you got a minute?
