5 years ago, I wrote a book about a guy from the West. I decided to use Galveston, Texas as his hometown, even though I had never been there – or anywhere else out West, for that matter – simply because it was so close to the Gulf of Mexico. I wanted my protagonist to live close to the Gulf for reasons that were my own. I never went through with the actual publishing of this book, but finally decided to do so last year.
Due to a few life changes, the project had been put off until about two months ago. I needed to update a few things, due to the manuscript being so old. So now I had an opportunity to do so. My work schedule had changed, so now I had the time that I needed to refocus on my craft.
I set the publication date for September 1st, having no idea about the devastation that was soon to take place in this part of the country this week.
I could have easily published this book at any other time. It’s almost as if the cosmos deliberately intervened for this exact moment, but for what reason? What did it all mean? Maybe I’m reading too much into this. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. One of those flukes things that happened to people that seemed to carry some other significant meaning. Maybe, just maybe, but I think not.