My Sabbatical at Four Years

Um, maybe it’s not a sabbatical anymore.

I have been living in Auburn Hills, Michigan, with my wife and my in-laws, for four years now, since September of 2021 when my wife and I packed up our belongings in a Penske truck and left Davidson, North Carolina, where we’d lived for nearly eighteen years, and moved back to Michigan, where we grew up.

I planned to take a year or two off from teaching. That was as far as I could see. I didn’t have expectations beyond that. I just wanted to rest, recover, and write.

So I rested. I recovered. And I wrote.

I rested by sleeping a lot and then sleeping some more. It took months, but I got my brain back. As a teacher, I had developed a frantic brain. I was always on the move, always thinking and planning, all day, every day. After a couple months away from teaching, I was able to calm down and settle my nerves.

I recovered by eating better, cooking more, and exercising four to five days a week. I did yard work again, shoveled snow, helped my in-laws, helped my parents, and so on. My wife and I also traveled to see our kids in North Carolina and Virginia. My son got a job. My daughter got married. My nephew passed away. My brother got married.

I wasn’t sure how much I’d be able to write on this sabbatical. I hoped I’d be able to write one novel every year. I did that and more. I’m happy to say that I wrote three novels in the first two years. 

Because I was productive, and because my wife was enjoying her time off, and because my in-laws allowed us to continue to stay in their home, we extended our hiatus—our midlife pause—for another year . . . and then another.

And so in the past four years, from fall 2021 to summer 2025, I wrote six novels: A Box Came for You, Locke Writes a Story to Save His Life, Let’s Not Do Maybe Again, Work Order, Ogre Boss, and Ogre Boss 2.  

I did some other things as well.

I wrote two nonfiction books that are nearing completion: Artphorisms and Mr. B. on Writing Novels.

I kept a daily journal that’s over 300,000 words.

I reread and edited all my past novel manuscripts. Before my sabbatical, I’d written five novels, still unpublished, from 2015 to 2019, and every year, I reread them and edit them: Smarthome Rebel, Monster Doctor, Idol Wish, VCSU: Undercover Vulture, and Summer Clubbing.

For the past four years, I’ve maintained a website, a Medium presence, an Instagram account, and, most recently, a presence on The Black List.

Beyond writing, I kept doing my lettering art and reading books. In the past four years, I have finished 2,500 pages of artwork and read 670 books.

So what happens now?

What about the next year?

What about the next four years?

I can always return to teaching. I may someday return to teaching. I could teach in a private middle school or high school. I could teach in college or in a graduate program. I’d probably love teaching in graduate writing program, but I think I’d have to publish a novel again before I’d be able to get that kind of a gig.

Right now, I’m editing my novels and writing new ones. I’m using this time to its fullest. I’m maximizing this time I have by devoting it to writing and editing. I’m itching to publish, though. I have to gear up to run that race again soon.

My wife recently asked if I was happy.

The question was out of the blue. It was a good question.

It’s a yes-or-no question.

I didn’t answer yes or no. Instead, I hemmed and hawed. I overthought it.

I always have an intellectual reflex to questions like this.

“Well, considering the context, and my personal history, and given our situation, what with the world and all, and imagining the future,” and blah, blah, blah.

I guess it’s that word happy, that concept of happiness: it’s so blunt and so simple that it shocks the system. 

Can I admit I’m happy? Does admitting I’m happy mean admitting I’m a goofy simpleton smelling flowers in the field? Is admitting I’m happy surrendering to a stagnant present in which I lack the desire to dream of more?

I can be a real killjoy. Oy.

Live the moment, you goofball.

It’s a simple question. Give a simple answer.

Just say, “Yes.” 

So . . . yes. 

Yes, I am.

I’m happy to be doing what I’m doing, creating what I’ve been able to create, writing the books I’ve been able to write, and spending time with my wife and my family. I’m grateful to be in this situation in which I can say, “Yes, I’m happy.” 

I’m not in charge of the whole world. I’m not answering for the whole world.

Nothing is forever. We’re only human.

My moods change, the world changes, our fortunes change.

Still, nevertheless, for the moment, it’s true: I’m happy. I’m not pretending that I have not and will not ever feel upset or peeved, pissed off or frustrated, bored or sad or anxious or confused.

You can’t just be happy. You have to do happy.

You have to follow your desires, do what you love to do, and be with the people you love to be with.

I am following my desire, pursuing my dream, enjoying this time of my life, and determining my own rhythms day to day and month to month. 

So maybe it’s not a sabbatical anymore. That’s okay.

It’s becoming a damn good life.
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