It's time. That's all I can say: it's time.
It has been fifteen years since I left our Mammoth Summer Training Camp in the dead of night, drove three hours to Reno, then flew to New York for the meeting that would define this last decade-plus of my writing career. Back then Killing Lincoln was a stand-alone project and I wrote it with that in mind. This was the first of the dozen Killing books in which I playfully inserted an oblique Springsteen reference. Once they survived the edit, I left them in. Just a couple words or a phrase. If you know The Boss, you'll find them.
The books came to define the way history is written, a fast-paced present tense narrative heavy on detail and action. I wrote with an eye toward history-as-thriller. Thanks to this approach, they sold millions, becoming the bestselling history series in, well, history.
This week I turned down an offer to write another book with my co-author. I need to focus on my solo works, among them the upcoming Taking London, due out June 11.
I'm walking away. It feels great. Actually, it feels overdue. My writing is sharper than ever and I want to be in charge of every word that goes on the page. I'm nobody's "typist," as it has been suggested. Being co-author means doing the heavy lifting in the book process. Might as well do that for my own books and clear up any doubt.
So, it's time. I move into this next phase of my career with great eagerness, a lightness in my step. I didn't realize how much I needed this. My best writing is ahead of me, of that I am sure.
Someday we'll look back on this and it will all seem funny.