Huldufólk, a Sequel, and the Next Adventure

Huldufólk hides a magical story within its pages, and I cannot wait to share it with the world. If you know of agents drawn to immersive worlds and tales about the redemptive power of love and chosen family, this might be the book for them. Meanwhile, I’m sending out ten queries at a time. The first tranche is out, with four rejections back. That’s part of the journey. I’ve got a rhino’s hide, and I understand—not every book is for every reader, or every agent. The key is to keep plugging away, and that’s what I’ll do.

I’ve promised to begin the sequel to The Last Independence Day: Secession. This time, I mean it. The delay hasn’t been neglect—it’s been exhaustion. My debut, begun in 2022 and released in 2023, drained me. Its politics and cultural echoes took their toll. But I’ve deprived readers too long, and I lament that, because everyone wants to know what becomes of Jon Freeman, his husband Martin, and Buckshot Brandy. The first book closed with Jon as president, Martin gravely injured, and Buckshot bargained for her life. What happens next? Senator Kuroda delivers a message. The West Coast teeters. An Article V Convention convenes. Will a secession amendment pass, turning soft secession into complete separation? Civil war?

A quiet Venetian canal.

And another story has taken root that clamors for space: The American of Venice. This one is existential, about a man who, driven by principle, accepts the devastating truth that he must leave everything and everyone he loves behind to live authentically, rather than compromise and settle for someone else’s idea of his life.

As Thoreau wrote in Walden (1854): “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” That line has stayed with me since military high school, when Major Lucero introduced us to America’s early voices—Thoreau and Emerson. Emerson’s Self-Reliance offered its counterpoint: “Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string.” Those writers gave voice to something I treasured then, and treasure now more than ever: fierce independence. Together, their ideas buoy my vision for The American of Venice. The protagonist leaves it all behind, crossing into Venice, rejecting the status quo to lose himself, reinvent himself, and emerge remade. It is not an easy journey. He must learn the cost of true freedom and then pay the toll—enduring profound loneliness, grief for the life he left behind, and an uncertain future.

The next adventure. As if two manuscripts weren’t enough to keep me busy, there’s life itself. As I approach my sixth decade in June 2026, I take stock, as many in my age group tend to do. I am the sum of every choice I’ve made, shaped by a practice of reflection I began young. By twelve, I was already looking back, using retrospection to help shape a personal narrative moving forward. I had the good fortune of realizing early that certain moments are precious, finite, and never to be repeated. I learned to mark those times and treasure them, without holding on too tightly.

Over the years, that practice has sharpened my awareness of life’s finite nature and kept me focused. Not to sound too much like a Buddhist, but it grounds me in the now—in what truly matters. It helps me live deliberately, with little regret or resentment. It keeps me driving my life by watching the road ahead, not always staring into the rear-view mirror. A glance back now and then is healthy, but my eyes are set forward.

This experience has led me to re-envision the next phase of my professional life, which is why I am transitioning from a trial lawyer to a mediator. Don’t get me wrong: the courtroom has been a fulfilling place, and I expect to be there until the curtain drops. But thirty-plus years is long enough to do a thing. Besides, I can take all that accumulated experience in courtrooms and apply it to helping parties settle cases, resolve disputes, and bring peace to situations in ways a courtroom rarely allows.

It is a gift to stay fully engaged, to find new challenges. That’s what I intend to do.

Cheers,

Ray Niblock