After my last post, I'm even more hesitant to admit this... I cry.

I'm not talking about mournful crying; I'm speaking about happy crying. Like I cried when I got married, I cried when my kids were born.

It is such a strange thing for me because I was raised not to cry. My father died suddenly when I was a month old and with four brothers and one sister above me, you learned to be tough. Tears were not an option.

Growing up like that, you learned to fight. Not just fist fights, which I had lots of, but to fight for things. I know someone would say, don't use fight, use strive - like I was striving for the prize. That would be wrong and too genteel. I don't strive for something, I fight. I fight to be a better husband. I fight to be a better father. I fight to be a better writer.

I wake up at 4:30 am and write. I edit the book. I read it over and over and over. I listen to my beta readers. I get it proofread. I have it edited, then grammar checked, and the re-edited. Then, I do it again. I fought to make these books as good as I could and pour my heart into them.

I fought with my wife right beside me. She helps so much with the books. Ideas, editing, plot, dialog - she's right in the pit with me. She's emailed and crunched numbers and created a marketing battle plan that would make General Patton proud.

This morning I woke up at 4:30 and saw the best-seller rank and cried, “Jack Knifed” made the top 50 best-selling books on Amazon. I cried but then I dried my eyes and started writing...