That creepy feeling that someone is watching you is one of those things that drives my sense of inadequacy to increase. My former boss used to be that way on occasion. In the early days of finishing concrete, the watching was to offer advice on better ways of doing the job. This was so I would become proficient in keeping his high standards for quality work and making the business money. The boss watching us motivated the entire crew to perform at a high level.

But as the years passed, the need for him to watch over me waned, but sometimes old habits are hard to die, and his hovering moments continued. It began to bother me, but I kept my struggle to my self for as long as possible. It was an irritant that grew into an obsession until one day, about ten years into my seventeen-year stint, I finally asked him, “Don’t you have something better that you could be doing?” He left, and I adopted the tactic of stopping his staring ritual.

I am writing a novel loosely based on my brother’s life. Jeff passed away over two years ago from colon cancer after a twenty-seven-month battle. There are many reasons that I believe his life to be a compelling story. I have called him a “living dichotomy” for years. Everything Jeff did was extreme. He loved to shock people.Once, he was a guest speaker at the church where I was a pastor and drove his Harley up the center aisle to start his sermon. He loved to brew so much that he went to Germany to get specialized training as a pastor. I guess parts of his Lutheran roots did run deep. He loved guns and hated war. He juiced carrots and a green apple every morning, then stuffed his face with Jack-In-The Box® tacos at night(is that even meat?). Jeff kept secrets from everyone and wanted to know everything about your struggles. He was a tightwad on a budget and also very generous. Jeff loved people while and hating their trials. He encouraged everyone around him but loathed his own weaknesses. Jeff ran from God, hiding behind sin and a beard, yet desperately sought out his heavenly Father from his desert place. He quit his job at the church but kept on evangelizing. Jeff loved Jesus and hated his own inadequacy.

Standing at my computer at six this morning, the window next to my left shoulder is dark. When I look into the reflection of my screen, I see a man with a gnarly beard peering over my shoulder. Some days, his memory still conjures up tears as I relive our time together while typing. In other moments, I laugh out loud at his antics that live only in my memories. Yet, he still stares at me, and his expression never changes in that picture. Instead of making me squirm, it motivates me to create.

This new book has been the most challenging thing I have ever written. It has been a slow uphill battle, and at the time of the first noticing my visitor, I hadn’t begun the tear-jerking parts. I was consciously avoiding reliving the emotional roller-coaster that marked his final days. Up to that point, I had filled the time and space with backstory. Then he asked me, “Don’t you have something better to write?”

As the tears stain my shirt, he continues to oversee my fledgling attempt to honor him. “Don’t leave Jeff. I am trying to keep you here a little longer,” I whisper into the morning.

Currently,the story now entitled Cameron Lost is with my editor, who uses his vast knowledge and skill to hammer my incoherent ramblings into something readable.