I love the idea of someone picking up a book I helped write without even seeing my name on the cover. I love the thought that maybe they’ll love it so much they’ll re-examine the cover and the story and the co-author.

            Maybe they’ll Google my name.

            Maybe they’ll go on my website.

            Maybe they’ll wonder if I’ve written anything else and discover I’ve written a few more. Quite a few more.

            Maybe they’ll order one that sounds the most interesting.

            Maybe it’ll be a story about a wounded baseball player that was made into a movie.

            Maybe it’ll be about a teenager at a new school where lots of creepy things happen.

            Maybe it’ll be a memoir about a couple who almost loses everything but finally finds hope.

            Maybe they’ll order another book and hate it. But maybe they’ll be so intrigued by all the variety of stories they’ll check out one more.

            Maybe they’ll love it even more than the first one they read.

            Maybe they’ll keep reading.

            Maybe they’ll get to know Ethan and Sheridan and Dennis and Chris and Colin and Scott and so many others.

            Maybe they’ll congratulate themselves on finding another favorite author that fills their bookshelves.

            Or maybe, just maybe, they’ll read that first book based on a musical act they like and then set it aside. A nice story but nothing more. Something fun and entertaining and oh well.

            Yeah, maybe.

            I love maybes. I work in a world of maybes.

            Maybes are all part of my life. I’m grateful for maybes.

            Maybes keep me writing.

            Maybes are fun.

            Maybes are still very much me.

            Maybe they’ll all make sense in some great big picture.

            Yeah, maybe.