For as long as I can remember I’ve told people that writing was the most important aspect of my life. No matter how much I loved my family, my woman, my life, they all revolved around writing. At least that’s what I said but it wasn’t until June 22, 2016, that I realized I’d been lying to myself and everyone else.

The morning was clear and there wasn’t a lot of traffic, driving down the highway I’d driven down hundreds if not thousands of times before I looked in my rearview mirror only to see a truck bearing down on me. I’m not sure what happened in the seconds following but it overtook my world forever.

The truck slid and I thought, “I’ll be okay” and then the truck started to flip.

Once!

Twice!

Three times!

Four times!

I closed my eyes and asked God to take care of my family, to forgive me for my sins and I waited for my truck to crash into the train tracks or be hit my another car. Waking up to men yelling at me, “Are you okay?” And the smell of gasoline and metal I looked around and realized I was still alive. A feeling that has never left me, a feeling that changed my life.

The entire passenger side of my truck was smashed in; so were the hood and the back. The only part still intact was my driver’s seat. Having watched countless episodes of Law and Order and football games I wiggled my toes to see if I still had feeling. I wriggled my fingers and my right hand looked fine but my left hand was mangled. Further examination revealed that my fingers were broken, nails hanging off, adrenaline fading and the throbbing taking over.

Fading in and out on the way to the hospital my phone was smashed so there was no way they could get in touch with anyone. I couldn’t remember any phone numbers by memory so all I could think was, “Who’s going to know?”

Sitting in the hospital room, my mother, my girlfriend, and co-workers were all around me I couldn’t help by cry. For the first time since my grandmother died I cried like a baby wondering why I was still alive, wondering why didn’t that truck crush me.

Going home, my shoulder throbbing, my hand wrapped, it hit me. It hit me that I would never be able to write the same again. I’d tried voice activated writing in the past and my Texas accent wasn’t having it.

So here I was, sitting at my desk writing with one hand and as slow as I was going I couldn’t help but smile because I still had my mind. I still had the ability to tell stories and put out books. All these years I said writing was everything but I’d neglected my talents, taken her for granted and in a matter of seconds I was reminded that life is fleeting and short and if you don’t love her and the gifts she gives you. They can be taken away at a moment’s notice.

Since that day seven months ago I’ve ghost written three novels and have almost finished two novels of my own. I’m not where I was when it comes to typing and my hand will never be the same but I’m alive.