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I recently had a heartfelt conversation with my son, who runs a bakery in Chiang Mai, Thailand. He was speaking warmly about his staff—about their dedication, their personalities, how they work together. I smiled and said, “Sounds like they’re like part of the family.”
But he paused. “They are not family,” he said. “You should never think of coworkers like family.” At first, I was taken aback. I grew up in a world where your workplace often felt like a second home. We shared birthdays, grieved losses, pitched in when someone was sick, and stayed late when there was a crunch—not because we had to, but because we cared. You pulled your weight because you knew everyone else was pulling theirs. There was camaraderie. A sense of shared purpose. I believed then—and still do—that when people feel connected, they give their best, not out of guilt or pressure, but because they want to see each other succeed. But my son challenged that view. He spoke from experience, and with clarity: “That is corporate culture talking,” he said. “Companies in North America push this ‘we are a family’ narrative so they can blur boundaries and get more out of their employees. If it is ‘family,’ then you are not supposed to question long hours, lack of raises, or unfair treatment. If you do, it is like you are betraying the family. That is not healthy.” His words stuck with me. There is truth on both sides, and perhaps the difference comes down to generational experience—and geography. I came of age in a time when lifelong employment was common, where loyalty was rewarded, and where the emotional fabric of the workplace was just as important as the professional one. My son, on the other hand, lives in a time where burnout is rampant, boundaries are essential, and many have learned (the hard way) that companies can preach “family values” while making very un-family-like decisions—like layoffs over Zoom or wage suppression. Maybe what I have cherished as connection, he sees as emotional manipulation. And maybe what he views as professional detachment, I still see as missing heart. And yet, as I think about it more deeply, I realize the answer is not about rejecting either perspective—but about recognizing intention. Calling a workplace “like a family” can be a beautiful thing—if it means creating a space of trust, support, and genuine care. But it becomes problematic when it is used to sidestep fairness, suppress boundaries, or blur roles. Love without respect is manipulation. But respect without warmth? That can feel empty. In my own life, I have experienced workplaces that truly felt like family—where people cared for each other as human beings, not just job titles. I have also seen the opposite: environments where the word “family” was used as a guilt trip. Perhaps the key is not in the word itself, but in how we live it out. So maybe the better model is not “family” or “not family,” but rather community. A healthy workplace community is built on mutual respect, clear boundaries, and human kindness. You do do not have to be family to care. You just have to be decent. Thoughtful. Present. Willing to help when you can—and humble enough to ask for help when you need it. At the end of our conversation, my son and I did not fully agree. But we did not have to. We both believe in creating meaningful environments—his approach just places more emphasis on structure and boundaries, mine on connection and loyalty. Maybe the real lesson is this: work is not family, but it does not have to be transactional either. It can be something in between. Something human.
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Over the past seven years, I have written more than 1,200 pages of my Tracks of Our Tears trilogy. In that time, I have breathed life into a cast of unforgettable characters—each one born from imagination, nurtured into existence, and made real through story. They have become like my children. In some ways, I know them more intimately than many members of my own family.
They are always on my mind. Their journeys—though fictional—are filled with struggles I have never personally endured, yet I carry their burdens. I fall asleep thinking about them, worrying for their safety, praying for their well-being, even though we’ll never meet. These are multi-generational sagas, stretching across 135 years of history. In telling their stories, I have lived and died with them. I have felt their joy and despair. I have heard their laughter—and their final breaths. Some must let go of loved ones, dreams, or even their sense of identity just to survive. And with each of them, a part of me is born, and a part of me fades. Like family, I am grateful to have known them, to have loved them, and to mourn their losses. Life, like fiction, moves forward—relentlessly and without pause. Through these private reflections, my characters have given me something profound: a deeper understanding of my own life. Their experiences illuminate my own joys and sorrows. The lens through which I see the world has been reshaped, offering richer insight into love, loss, and the strength it takes to let go. I’ve been fortunate to love—and be loved by—a few truly remarkable women. Each stood by me with grace and loyalty. My wife, Regina, devoted her life to my happiness and to raising our three loving children. Her legacy lives on through them and their children. Two of these women endured unthinkable losses, becoming widows far too soon. Each raised children while carrying the weight of unimaginable grief. All three are shining examples of strength and resolve—women who refused to bow to failure or defeat. Their courage and determination inspired the strong female characters in my novels—characters who now serve as role models for thousands of readers facing their own everyday challenges. These women—and the characters they inspired—remind me that letting go is not a weakness. It is an act of courage. Whether we are releasing a person, a dream, or a version of ourselves, the art of letting go is what allows us to grow, to endure, and to continue writing the next chapter of our lives. #TracksOfOurTears #HistoricalFiction #AmWriting #WritersOfInstagram #AuthorLife #LettingGo #EmotionalHealing #LifeLessons #CourageToGrow #StrengthInVulnerability Over the last seven years, life has brought its fair share of ups and downs—something we all learn to accept and navigate in our own way. This has also been true of my journey as a writer, particularly with my Tracks Of Our Tears trilogy.
I’ve never struggled with the writing itself; in that regard, I consider myself one of the fortunate few. But recently, I’ve come to realize the toll that hundreds of book signings and promotional events can take. These commitments often demand so much of my time and energy that they occasionally dull the joy I once felt so freely. Don’t get me wrong—I cherish meeting readers. It’s in those moments of conversation, laughter, and sometimes even tears that my passion is reignited. It’s the connection, the storytelling, the shared humanity that fuels me. Still, some days, that spark is harder to find. This past weekend at Indigo Burlington was one of those days. Sales were slow. The weather was unsettled. My optimism was fading. I even considered packing up early. And then, Mahalia appeared. A lovely sixteen-year-old young woman, she approached my table with quiet confidence and a warm smile. “Do you remember me?” she asked. I did—though I couldn’t recall her name right away. She had visited me months earlier and bought From Promise to Peril, the first book in the series. What followed was a conversation I will never forget - touching and memorable from a young lady I barely knew. Mahalia was effusive with praise. She told me how deeply she’d connected with the characters, how moved she was by the story—and then, with tears in her eyes, she spoke about a quote in the dedication that had touched her heart. It was something my dear wife Regina had written to me when we were just seventeen—words I had quietly cherished for decades. Somehow, Mahalia had seen their beauty too. Her sincerity lifted me in a way she couldn’t possibly have known. In that moment, her kind words nourished my spirit. I vividly remembered her dear grandfather who had purchased my first book for her months ago. Sure enough, he gladly stepped up again to pay for her new copy of the sequel, Tracks Of Our Tears. Mahalia was delighted. Unknowingly, Mahalia pulled me up by my bootstraps. Her kind compliments validated me as an author—the power of the written word that every successful author silently strives to achieve. I write today’s blog to graciously acknowledge to Mahalia, the joy and reassurance I needed at that particular time. Had I succumbed to my fatigue and the subtle shade of despondency that had begun to overtake me, the glorious opportunity to meet her again would not have happened. I will always remember how you brightened my day, Mahalia, in a way only you could have accomplished. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I look forward to hearing your impressions of Tracks Of Our Tears! Best regards to your grandfather too! James We often think of legacy as something physical—a family name, a cherished heirloom, a house that has stood the test of time. But more often, legacy lives in subtler places: in personality traits, in the way we love or protect, in the fears we carry without knowing where they began.
In Tracks of Our Tears and From Promise to Peril, we witness lives shaped by war. Not just by gunfire or displacement, but by impossible choices made in the darkest hours of history. Julia is one of those characters. Her experiences during the war changed her—hardened her, perhaps permanently. She became guarded, often untrusting, always wary. These were not just survival traits. They became part of her personality. And they did not end with her. That guardedness, that emotional caution, was passed down to her daughter Regina. And in ways both subtle and stark, I see it still in my children. Even my grandchildren. This is the legacy of survival. It is not always inspiring or triumphant. Sometimes, it is complicated. Sometimes, it leaves emotional residue. Sometimes, what is passed down is not just strength, but scars. Anna—Marisa’s daughter—lived through a different kind of wartime pain. Her trauma was active and immediate: hiding in a box while soldiers hunted for Jewish lives, losing her parents and her husband, being torn from her children. Her survival was raw and visible. But Julia’s was quieter. More psychological. And, in some ways, more enduring. What fascinates me—both as a writer and as a human being—is how these women’s stories echo through generations. The choices they made, the ways they learned to cope (or did not), the ways they loved or withheld love—these ripple outward. From mother to daughter. From grandmother to grandson. They don’t always look like stories of heroism. Sometimes, they look like emotional distance. Difficulty trusting. Or a tendency to hold things in, to always expect the worst. You grow up thinking that is just how your family is. But when you trace it back, you realize it started long before you were born. The trilogy I have written is not just a series of historical novels. It is a mirror. One that reflects how the past is not really past. It lingers. It influences. It shapes. And so I ask you: What do you think your family has passed down that you do not even realize? It could be a way of loving, a way of fearing, or simply a quiet strength that lives in your bones. Some legacies are not left in wills or written in journals. They are passed in the hush of how we speak to our children. In the armour we wear without knowing why. In the ripples that touch generations still finding their way. I would be honoured to hear what legacies—both beautiful and complicated—exist in your family. Share your thoughts in the comments below. Our stories, after all, are more connected than we often realize. #FamilyLegacy #HistoricalFiction #TracksOfOurTears #FromPromiseToPeril #IntergenerationalTrauma #AuthorBlog #WhatWeLeaveBehind In the vast and tangled history of war, it is often the loudest events that are remembered: battles, declarations, losses. But woven quietly through the noise are moments that do not make headlines—moments of kindness. Gentle gestures. Simple actions. Acts of humanity in places where humanity seemed to have vanished.
In From Promise to Peril, Julia is exhausted—physically, emotionally, spiritually. She has been walking for hours, uncertain if she is even moving in the right direction. Her world is crumbling. She has lost almost everything, and the few things she still clings to—her dignity, her hope—are slipping. And then, at a tiny country church, someone holds the door open for her. Stanley does not say much. He does not need to. The door held open is an invitation, a moment of pause, a soft place to land in a world that is anything but soft. It is a small act. But for Julia, in that moment, it meant everything. I have thought about that scene often. Because it is based on real feelings and real people. It reminds me that kindness does not have to be grand or performative. Often, the smallest gestures carry the greatest weight. Especially when we do not know what someone is carrying. Even today, we pass strangers every day—at the grocery store, on the sidewalk, in parking lots—never knowing if we are walking past someone who is at their absolute rock bottom. Their world might be unraveling. They might be quietly clinging to hope the way Julia did. And they might not show it as people rarely do. So, a held door, a kind word, a genuine smile—they matter more than we know. Sometimes these tiny acts are the very things that keep someone going. They remind a person they are seen, that they still matter, that the world has not completely forgotten how to be gentle. Kindness is a form of courage. In the darkest hours of history and in the quiet struggles of everyday life, it is one of the few things that always has the power to shine. So let us not underestimate the power of showing up with compassion. Especially now, in a world that often moves too fast to notice. Slow down, notice, extend grace. Your kindness, however small, might be the light someone desperately needs. -- Have you ever experienced a moment when someone’s kindness changed your day—or even your life? I would love to hear your story in the comments. Let's keep spreading the light. #KindnessMatters #TracksOfOurTears #FromPromiseToPeril #AuthorBlog #HistoricalFiction #ActsOfKindness I have earned every grey hair on my head and every line on my face. They’re not flaws—they are a testament to the years I have lived, the challenges I have faced, the lessons I have learned, and the wisdom I have gathered. And that kind of knowledge? You won’t find it in a textbook or an app.
As I age, I have come to realize just how valuable lived experience is. It is not just about facts or skills—it is about understanding the world, and yourself, in ways that only time can teach. I have lived through seasons of change: from rotary phones to smartphones, from handwritten letters to instant messages, from vinyl records to streaming services. Each technological leap was new, sometimes daunting—but I figured it out. I always do. Because that is the skill that comes with age: resilience. My children do not always see it. To them, I am “out of date,” maybe even a bit slow with the latest device or app. They get frustrated when I fumble with something that seems second nature to them. What they do not see is that I am figuring it out. I know how to ask the right questions to get the answers. I have learned to adapt—over and over again. That is something only time can teach you: not just how to do, but how to learn, how to process, how to think beyond the moment. They do not realize that while they are speeding through tasks, I am seeing the bigger picture. I have lived through decades where mistakes had heavier consequences than a deleted file or a broken streak. I have had to make hard choices, face setbacks, rebuild, and grow stronger. That is the kind of education that does not come with a certificate, but with a sense of quiet confidence that you can only gain by living. Sometimes, it is sad. I try to share this wisdom with my kids, to spare them the pain of learning everything the hard way. But often, they do not want to hear it. I remember being that age—thinking I knew better, that my parents did not understand the times. But what I know now is that knowledge is not just about what is trending or new. It is about perspective. It is knowing that life is full of cycles, that the hard moments pass, that kindness always matters, and that character will carry you further than any shortcut ever will. Growing older is not something to dread. It is a privilege. Every year brings more insight, more context, more depth. I may not be as fast as I once was, but I am more thoughtful. More intentional. And in many ways, wiser than I have ever been. So, if you are young and reading this, I ask only one thing: when someone older tries to share what they have learned, pause before brushing them off. Listen with curiosity. There is gold in their words, even if it is wrapped in a different language than you are used to. And if you are aging like me—wear your grey with pride. Each one is a badge of survival, of growth, of deep-earned wisdom. We are not obsolete. We are seasoned. And that, my friends, is something to celebrate. #AgingIsAPrivilege #WisdomWithAge #LivedExperience #LifeLessons #TimelessWisdom #PowerOfPerspective #EmbraceAging #StillLearning #ExperienceMatters #SlowerButSmarter #FromPromiseToPeril #TracksOfOurTears #HistoricalFiction #StorytellingThroughTime At 75, I have come to understand that the way we see life—and death—is shaped by more than just our experiences. It is shaped by our culture, our losses, our fears, and our love. I have lived long enough to hold many lives in my arms—especially the four-legged kind. Loyal companions who gave everything and asked for nothing. And when the time came, I made the painful decision to let them go, trusting the words of the vet and believing I was doing what was best.
I have often sat in that sterile room, feeling the weight of the decision in my chest. They trusted me in life—and I felt it was my duty to be there at the end. To give them peace before pain took over. Here in North America, we call it “the humane thing to do.” We ease suffering. We do not prolong it. But lately, I have begun to wonder—who decides what is humane? My son lives in Thailand, a world away from the values I was raised with. He tells me that in Thai culture, pets live out their full lives, no matter how ill or frail they become. They are cared for until the end, naturally. The idea of euthanasia is seen as interference. A soul, they believe, should not be rushed. Death, when it comes, comes in its own time. To them, we are the ones making the inhumane choice. It is jarring to hear. It shakes the foundation of what I have believed to be kindness. But it also opens the door to reflection. Are we, in the West, so afraid of suffering that we leap to end it too soon? Are we too quick to draw a line and say, “enough”? And more than that—do we, as a culture, throw away life too easily? We live in a society that values youth, health, and convenience. We do not always have the time or patience to care for the vulnerable. We warehouse the elderly. We see aging as something to resist or deny. In that context, maybe our decisions around life and death are not just about compassion, but also about discomfort—ours, not theirs. I do not know what the right answer is. I am still wrestling with it. Maybe there is not one. Maybe it is not about being right, but about recognizing that life—real life—is complicated. Messy. Painful. Beautiful. Maybe the way we let go says more about us than it does about those we are letting go of. At 75, I have lived a lot. But I am still learning how to see. And sometimes, it takes another culture, another perspective, or even a conversation with my son halfway around the world to make me look at my own choices differently. What is humane? Perhaps the real answer lies in how willing we are to ask the question. #PerspectiveOfLife #LifeLessons #ReflectingOnLife #WisdomWithAge #FindingPerspective #CherishEveryMoment #LifeReflections #LivingAndLettingGo #EndOfLifeCare #CulturalPerspectives #MeaningOfLife #JourneyOfLife #LifeInBalance #LoveAndLoss #LivingFully #MindfulLiving #DifferentPerspectives As I considered what my topic would be for this blog, I thought the potential writers among you might enjoy jumping onto my learning curve with me, in case you ever navigate your own writing journey. Believe me, writing is one of the greatest joys of my life, but things are not as easy or straight forward as you may think if you want to achieve significant success. I have certainly learned many lessons, but I suspect I haven’t even scratched the surface. I published my first book From Promise To Peril in 2021 and have sold thousands of them since that time. When the sequel was published in 2024, the quality of my writing had noticeably improved. While my readers found both family sagas entertaining and insightful, there was a definite change in my writing style. It had matured and become more refined. When it was time to submit another printing order of my first book a few months ago, I chose not to rush the process, because once I identified my problems in the manuscript, I did not want to print anything that was less than my best. There was no quick solution, so I began another complete rewrite. Over the ensuing eight or nine months, I meticulously reworded certain scenes to flow more smoothly, especially the dialogue, which was a bit choppy. I also eliminated many of my redundancies, my unnecessary repetitions and generally, polished the rough stones. Although the storyline did not require any substantive changes, I also had to be mindful of maintaining the consistency of the story to merge perfectly with the already published sequel, with one notable exception. I made a promise to my devoted readers, many of whom are seniors, to significantly enlarge the font size by about fifty percent. Initially when I published my first book in 2021, my publishers cautioned me against increasing my font size because doing so would significantly increase printing costs and ultimately, it could affect the suggested list price of the book by about an extra fifty percent. There is an old saying that I never forgot after selling life insurance for over 25 years - the only thing better than finding a new customer, is keeping an old one. Please forgive my reference to ‘an old one’ but if the shoe fits, then so be it. It just so happens this is particularly true for the thousands of my elderly readers. I will do my best to keep you posted, but at this point the second edition of From Promise To Peril should be released about the end of May. Please let me know if this blog was relevant to you, or even a bit interesting if you are not planning to become a writer. I have always found that if I could learn from other people’s mistakes, rather than my own, the lessons of life are so much less costly as to time, energy, frustrations and money!! #BookRewrite #WritingLife #HistoricalFiction #FromPromiseToPeril #SecondEdition #FontMatters #ReadersFirst #AuthorReflections #WritingCommunity #LessonsLearned #EvolvingAsAWriter A quote that is attributed to American song writer Jade Jackson resinated with my grandson, Benjamin “When people fall in love with someone’s flowers, but not their roots, they do not know what to do when autumn comes.”
It got me thinking, it is a poetic way of saying what many of us eventually learn—sometimes the hard way—about love: it cannot survive on beauty, charm, or fleeting moments alone. The “flowers” represent the best parts of someone—their laugh, their success, their energy, their outward confidence. But the “roots”? The roots are their fears, their past, their struggles, their quirks, the quiet parts of them that don’t bloom for the world to see. And autumn always comes. There will be days when the flowers fade—when life gets hard, when one of you is grieving, exhausted, frustrated, or afraid. There will be seasons when the joy is harder to find, when the weight of responsibility dulls the shine of who you both used to be. If love has only taken root in what is easy, or pretty, or polished, it ca not withstand these moments. Real, lasting love begins when we fall not only for how someone shows up when the sun is shining, but for how they endure the storms. It is in knowing their past and not flinching. It is in loving the parts they are still learning to accept themselves. It is in choosing them on their worst day, not just their best. It is easy to love someone’s potential. It is harder, and far more meaningful, to love their truth. In Tracks of Our Tears and From Promise to Peril, I tried to weave this idea into the love stories that unfold amid war, displacement, fear, and trauma. When you strip away everything—possessions, certainty, even safety—what remains is the soul of a person. And if that is what you have come to love, then the relationship can survive any season. A long-lasting relationship is not built on the flowers alone. It is built on daily choice. On knowing the full story. On seeing someone for exactly who they are—and staying. So the question becomes: Do you love someone’s flowers? Or have you taken the time to know, understand, and love their roots? Because only one of those loves knows what to do when autumn comes. Have you ever wished you could do something meaningful to help someone in need? We are often asked to donate money or time to charitable causes, and while many of us give when we can, true generosity is about more than a financial transaction. It is about understanding need—not just seeing it from a distance, but feeling it, having lived it. Those who have never experienced real hardship may sympathize with those less fortunate, but they will never truly know what it feels like to be cold, hungry, or utterly alone. It is because of that, their generosity—while well-intended—rarely carries the same weight of sacrifice.
Some of the most profound acts of giving come not from wealth, but from those who have little to spare. When you have been in a desperate situation, struggling just to survive, you do not just acknowledge someone else’s suffering—you recognize it. You know the gnawing ache of hunger, the exhaustion of going one more day without rest, the fear of uncertainty. It is that understanding that often compels people to give, even when the cost is significant. In Tracks of Our Tears, Julia is forced to navigate this reality from a young age. She has lost her family, her home, and the life she once knew. Cold, starving, and alone, she wanders through the ruins of a bombed-out city, searching for any sign of safety. When she stumbles upon a young couple and their child, she sees the same desperation in their eyes that she feels in her own bones. Despite her own hunger, she reaches into her pocket and offers the small bit of dried mushrooms she had saved. Later, when she has only a small piece of bread left, she shares it without hesitation. In that moment, it isn’t about survival alone—it is about recognizing another’s suffering and choosing to ease it, even at her own expense. Julia’s journey is filled with these moments—instances where people who have almost nothing still find a way to give. The group of homeless farmers who rescue her from near death do not have food to spare, yet they take her in and nurse her back to health. When she finally leaves them to search for her own path, their leader, Pavel, hands her a knife, something deeply personal and valuable to him. He could have kept it for himself, but he understands what it means to be vulnerable, alone, and unprotected. That understanding is what makes his sacrifice meaningful. Later, when Julia, exhausted and starving, comes across an old farmhouse, she knocks hesitantly on the door, hoping for kindness. The man who answers—worn and wary—initially hesitates, but something in her voice, in her eyes, convinces him to help. He does not have much, yet he gives her food, a warm place to rest, and even a sense of dignity by insisting she clean herself before sitting at his table. His generosity is not about wealth—it is about recognizing a need that he himself may have once known. These acts of giving—small, personal, and often costly—reflect a deeper truth about human nature. A wealthy person can write a check to a charity and feel good about their contribution, but the sacrifice is minimal. It does not disrupt their life, nor does it force them to go without. But for someone who has little, giving often means going hungry themselves, sleeping in the cold, or parting with something that cannot be easily replaced. And yet, these are the people who give most freely. True generosity comes from understanding, from the ability to look at another person and see yourself in their suffering. It is not about convenience or comfort—it is about connection. Most of us will never face the kind of life-or-death decisions that Julia endures, but we all have opportunities to show kindness. Whether it is sharing what we have, offering a helping hand, or simply acknowledging someone’s struggle, with compassion and understanding. Generosity is not about how much you have to give—it is about the willingness to give, even when it costs you something. It is in those moments, when we choose to give despite our own struggles, we often receive something far greater in return. |
AuthorJames was born in Toronto and graduated from York University in 1978. From Promise to Peril is the first of three books in a Trilogy in which he brings his amazing fictional characters to life by creatively weaving them throughout actual historical events. He now resides in Milton, Ontario. Archives
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