Three Books. Three Selves. One Voice.

Iceland

It’s a strange and humbling thing to feel torn between duty and desire—not in life only, but in art. My readers know me as the author of The Last Independence Day, a dystopian novel that dares to imagine a world just around the bend of tomorrow if it isn't here already. Since its release, many of you have asked—some gently, some not so gently—when the sequel will arrive. The good news is: it will arrive. That story isn’t finished. Not for me, and not for the characters who continue to haunt me. Duty commands that I return to that world and intend to answer.

But love—love has other plans.

Wait. A story must have a beginning, and I have gotten ahead of myself. Reset.

I have been a writer since I could hold a pen—a fountain pen, to be exact. My mother taught me how, and that was quite a long time ago (as I am on the cusp of my 59th birthday). But only recently was I compelled to really write, to write with purpose, to write because of an otherworldly compulsion, leaving me with no choice but to put pen to pad, lest I explode into itty, bitty bits of a thousand unsaid things.

I think writers out there will agree that there’s a point in every writer’s life when a story doesn’t wait for permission. It doesn’t go around asking, "What do you think about this story?" It doesn't arrive politely or tap gently at the door—it kicks it in.

That’s what happened with The Last Independence Day in the summer of 2022. I wrote that novel in long hand on a reMarkable Tablet on my back porch out of righteous but exhausted anger. It was a clear-eyed rage at what was happening around me, what was happening to my country, which I love. It’s a speculative future, some might say, while others say the story is prescient. A few accused me of writing a work of "rage fantasy." Some claim the future I wrote about is already upon us.

Whatever the case, the fire that fueled it was real. It had to be. I could not hold it back. My husband, God love him, wasn’t too thrilled with me during that season. I was consumed. I was angry. I wasn’t always easy to live with. But that book demanded to be written. I had to write it. Simply. Had. To.

Jon Freeman

And now? There’s pressure to write the sequel. I feel it, I honor it, and yes—I’ll answer it. That world isn’t done speaking to me. There’s more to uncover in it. More to resolve. I won’t let it go unfinished. Jon Freeman must live on and complete his mission.

But something else is happening. Something quieter, deeper.

Venice

The American of Venice has begun to unfurl itself inside me—not as a protest, but as a kind of love letter. Not to a person, but to beauty. To mercy. To peace. It’s the story of a man who leaves everything behind—not because he wants to, but because he can no longer stay. A man who steps off a train in Venice bereft and empty, and eventually meets, one by one, those who will teach him how to live again: a blind bookseller, a shoemaker, a widow, a young monk. Each chapter, an encounter. Each person, a lesson. The story feels timeless. Maybe even sacred. Certainly necessary. It is a book I want to write yesterday. It is a river that cannot be dammed.

And in between those two lives—the fire of The Last Independence Day and the still waters of The American of Venice—there’s Huldufólk: A Modern Icelandic Folktale.

Iceland gave me that story—her fierce wind, blue ice, volcanic fire. It is a novel of grief, longing, ancient roots, and modern rupture. It is about what we carry and what we cannot bury. It cries out with sorrow and, somehow, still ends with the smile of redemption.

Huldufólk is finished now. After over a year of writing, reshaping, and polishing, it’s in the hands of fate and query letters as I search for the agent who will help bring it into the world.

So, where am I?

That's me, part author, part witness, one still learning how to listen.

I’m in motion, between the fire and the silence. Between the duty I owe to my fans to complete Jon Freeman's story and the love I cannot ignore of a book yet to be written. I’m walking through ash and snow and tidewater, listening.

Three books. Three selves. One voice.

Between fire and stillness, duty and love, three stories found me. One demanded to be written. One waits to be finished. One cannot be held back.

Here’s where I am. And where I’m going.

Always.

With gratitude,

Ray Niblock — June 13, 2025