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Doug Dirickson is a walking contradiction: a law enforcement officer who hates people, a college graduate who barely made it out of community college, and a hopeless romantic wrapped in Ric Flair t-shirts and sarcasm. Raised in trailer parks, baptized in sarcasm, and armed with the emotional intelligence of a traffic cone — Doug writes what he knows: broken people trying not to break everything around them.
If you’re looking for a sugar-coated author bio, try another website.
If you’re looking for truth in fiction — you’re already home.
Because sometimes a helicopter crash, a missing leg, and a few family lies are the only things that make you slow down. Gravity Always Wins is a story about legacy, redemption, and learning that the truth has a nasty habit of showing up — usually after you’ve lost something important.
Seven Andrews is me. He’s you. He’s the version of us that still believes we can outrun our family ghosts. Spoiler: we can’t.
Seven Andrews was supposed to become a hero.
Instead, he became a one-legged mystery magnet with a past full of secrets, a girlfriend’s uncle with too many guns, and a grandfather whose legacy might just break him.
From the backwoods of Georgia to the corners of Mexico, Gravity Always Wins is a Southern mystery wrapped in aviation, whiskey, and regret.
He always wanted to fly. But when the smoke cleared, we laid him in the ground with nothing but a folded flag and a name people whispered about. Some legacies lift you up others weigh you down. For Seven, the funeral wasn’t an ending. It was gravity’s first warning shot.
The rearview mirror held more than traffic — it held mistakes, regrets, and every moment he swore he wouldn’t become his father. Seven never asked for a second chance. He just wanted one clean mile of road. But clean miles don’t exist when you’re driving dirty history.
The road used to mean freedom. Now it just circles back to everything he tried to outrun — a dead grandfather, a father in the wind, and questions he doesn’t want answered. Seven’s grip on the wheel says control, but the look in his eyes says he’s already halfway off the edge. You ever drive while haunted? It’s a slow crash.
He sat across from the man who gave him life but nothing else. No apology. No explanation. Just a half-smile and eyes that had forgotten how to love. They didn’t talk like family. They negotiated like strangers.
He stood outside like a man waiting for judgment. The place looked like a courthouse, smelled like bleach, and felt like a graveyard. He could still turn around. He didn’t. Some ghosts you chase. Some chase you back.
Every chapter in this book hits hard. So we hit back — with 40 illustrations in courtroom sketch style.
Think charcoal. Think rough lines. Think truth that refuses to be cleaned up.
Just like Seven’s story. Just like mine.
Doug Dirickson is a product of poor decisions, polyester uniforms, and enough sarcasm to fill a stadium. He’s been called many things — most of them accurate — but if you ask him, he’s just a guy who writes stories so he doesn’t have to talk to real people.
He owns the largest known collection of Ric Flair merchandise, still believes professional wrestling is real, and once studied Spanish just to impress a girl. It didn’t work.
