When I was in college, I once tried to impress a girl I had somehow convinced to come back to my bedroom. I was pumped. I figured all I had to do was keep her laughing, sprinkle in a little Marvin Gaye, and let biology do the rest. I was convinced I was on my way to the Promised Land.
But as luck would have it, my jokes began to dry up. The laughter thinned. She started surveying my room, her eyes moving slowly, methodically cataloging my thrift store decor. I could see it happening in real time. She was sixty seconds away from saying, “Anyway,” and drifting back to the party.
I panicked and started grasping for anything that might reverse the momentum. That’s when I spotted what I believed to be my savior.
On my desk sat an open notebook filled with scribbled cursive—three whole pages. The book I had decided to write. Next to it lay a black BIC pen, its cap chewed to hell. I paused, weighing whether this discovery would be an ally or an adversary to my cause.
She turned, her hand reaching for the doorknob of my closed bedroom door.
I was out of time.
“I’m writing a book, you know,” I blurted out.
I waited with bated breath. Had I made the right call? Had I tossed out one last irresistible hook—or just thrown a desperate Hail Mary into triple coverage?
Lo and behold, Lady Luck appeared.
She froze. Her hand fell from the doorknob. She turned back, a spark of curiosity lighting her eyes. Luther Vandross reclaimed the room. I was back in the fight.
“Oh yeah? What’s it about?” she asked, walking past me to the desk.
I stepped in behind her, confidence flooding back, certain I was about to seal the deal. I waxed on poetically about how it was going to be a story of adventure—good versus evil. There would be fire-breathing dragons and dark, evil shadows lurking in forbidden forests. Merry parties filled with wine, women, and song would follow bloody battles. And lastly, the mighty paladin in his shining armor would rescue his one true love from the evil wizard.
I kept going, spinning a tale far bigger than the man telling it.
Meanwhile, she flipped through my three pages.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
“Not much of a book,” she said, shattering the spell I had begun to weave.
And then it came—swift and merciless, like a hobbit blindsided by an oversized orc on steroids.
“Anyway.”
Two things happened that night. I never added another word to those three pages. And I never got the girl. Turns out she also liked girls, so I was really barking up the wrong tree.
But I did write a different book later in life. I was forty-two by then. That one didn’t start as a prop or a Hail Mary—it started because I actually wanted to write and finish a book.
That book kicked off my author career. And over the next fifteen years, I would go on to write and publish forty-nine more.
Somewhere along the way, people started reading them. And then—thankfully—sticking around. For that, I’m deeply grateful. Writing may be a solitary act, but this career has never been a solo one.
Mahalo for all your support over the years. I’m truly grateful.