I was thirteen when I met a real-life writer for the first time. Sitting in our tiny little rural K-8 school library, I listened in awe as this man described his stories and his writing process. My friends idolized basketball players. Famous actors and singers. I wanted to be like the awe-inspiring artisans who forged the stories I loved in the fires of creativity.

I wanted to be like the man speaking to a barely notable group of seventh and eighth graders on a random day of the week.

Get settled into a stable life, then chase your dreams.

In the Beginning: Acquiring the Writing Itch

I was seven when I read my first novel (chapter book, as we might call them). I immediately knew I wanted to be a writer. I’d been telling stories even before that, but reading that Roald Dahl book sealed the deal for me. Everyone said I should be a comedian or actor, even at that young age. I would just shake my head and tell them I was going to be a writer.

I didn’t know what I was doing, but I did it anyway. I wrote a children’s book in fifth grade and shared it with my teacher. She heaped praise on me and helped me “publish” it so that other kids in the school could read it. It was just notebook paper with a construction paper cover tied together with yarn, but it was so much more than that to me. Fun fact: I’m pretty sure I have that somewhere. Or my mom does. It still exists. I can’t remember the title, but it was about a lost puppy.

I wrote every chance I could get, and I always had my nose buried in a book. I read the entire Dr. Suess collection and all the Little Golden Books. I devoured The Boxcar Kids, the Nate the Great books, The Lord of the Rings trilogy, Shel Silverstein, Garfield, Archie comics, and anything else I could get my hands on. I checked out the maximum number of books from the library and read them all at the same time.

But while my teachers encouraged my passion for reading and told me how great a writer I was, the world was trying to convince me that being a writer was unrealistic. Yet, every week on The Top 40, Casey Kasem told me to “keep my feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars.”

But I wasn’t part of the “you can do anything” generation. I was part of the “know where you come from and be smart” generation. If you wanted to do something big and amazing, that was all well and good, but you had to get a job and an education first. Get settled into a stable life, then chase your dreams. That’s what I was taught.

A Seed Planted: Growing as a Young Writer

While the world (parents, friends, teachers, and even my TV role models) were telling me to be realistic and keep my head out of the clouds, I was still spending my time dreaming of a future me who would travel the world, selling books and speaking to groups of readers and aspiring writers.

It was amid those formative years that I met the short story writer who lived in Eugene, Oregon. He came to Gore Elementary school outside of my hometown and spoke to us about being a writer. Little did I know he was just like most writers who published when they could while working regular jobs. Writing was a passion, not a career. That was true in 1992, and it’s true today.

But I didn’t know any of that. When he finished his talk, I walked up to him, shaking like a leaf, with my jaw hanging halfway to the floor. He looked at me and asked: “Are you a writer?” I think I nodded and said something intelligent like “uh-huh.”

Did that man tell me to get an education and a well-paying job? Absolutely not. He encouraged me to write. He then gave me his address and told me to send him one of my stories so that he could give me feedback. The technical term for the feeling I had as I walked out of that library is HOLY SHIT!

I was pen pals with that man for over a year. We lost touch, as people do, but he taught me a lot about writing. He never discouraged me. Whenever I feel like I can’t write to save my life, I remember that man and his kind letters.

Much to my shame, I can’t remember his name. However, I remember he wrote a short story about a homeless man who slept at a rest stop and would steal license plates, then put them on an imaginary car and pretend he was traveling the country. If anyone knows him or who he is, please tell him I said hello. I hope he’s still with us, but that was 32 years ago.

Growing Pains: Setting Passions Aside

As I said, I lost touch with that writer, and I was being raised to take a sensible path: get an education and find a steady job (is there such a thing?). Turns out, college is expensive. More so now, but it wasn’t cheap in 1998 either. My aspirations of being a writer set aside for the sake of not wanting to starve to death, I set about trying to figure out how to pay for college and get this “steady, well-paying job” everyone was talking about.

Well, I had no money, so I joined the Army. My plan at the time was pretty simple: I needed four years in the military or a degree in order to become an Oregon State Trooper. Young and impatient, I opted for the military. The plan was to do my four years, get out, become a state trooper, and go to college for an English degree. I figured I’d be able to use the G.I. Bill to pay for college and retire with enough education to become a college professor.

Surely, I thought, I’d conquer the publishing world in that time and be the most sought after writer-in-residence at every college in the country.

Ahem. No.

Instead, I did ten years in the Army. I served two combat tours in Iraq and deployed overseas four times. I got married and had kids. I wrote when I could and took a couple of college courses here and there. The passion to write nagged at me every step of the way, but Casey’s voice was lost. My feet were on the ground, but I’d long ago stopped reaching for the stars.

Lost at Sea: Finding the Writer Within

After ten years, I got out of the Army and resumed the original plan. I applied to be an Oregon State Trooper and made it through the first phase. I flew out from Texas, took the exam and the physical. I passed. They asked me to fill out the next part of the application: the background check. To this day, I don’t know exactly what disqualified me, but my desire to become a trooper died with that rejection letter.

*There’s a lesson to learn here: if one rejection kills your “passion,” it wasn’t a passion.

At the time, I was deeply entrenched in the church and decided to pursue preaching. I moved, joined another church, and studied the Bible like I was being paid for it. I did jail ministries and preached in nursing homes and on the street. During that time, it was engrained in me that fantasy fiction (the kind I wanted to write) was evil.

I was supporting my family by working as a CNC machinist in Rutherfordton, North Carolina. We hit some hard times and needed more money. Back then, the G.I. Bill would not only pay for college tuition, but also provide me with money for housing. So, off to college I went.

I was well rooted in practicality at the time, so I went for a degree in mechanical engineering. I can’t do math, and I suck at science. That first semester was a nightmare. Developmental math, hydraulics, and Auto Cad design. Out of the four classes I took that semester, I was good at only one: freshman composition.

One night, I left my hydraulics class and cried the whole way home. I hadn’t understood a word that the professor said all semester. I was miserable, and I knew I didn’t have a chance. I got home and told my wife. She asked what I wanted to do, and I said I wanted to switch majors to English and work on my writing career. But, I told her, that was selfish and wouldn’t get us anywhere financially.

I said I’d figure it out, get the degree, and then get a job as a mechanical engineer. I’d be miserable, but we’d have more financial security. My wife looked at me and said: “It’s like you’re forgetting you’re a Christian.”

The Lighthouse: Returning to Passionate Shores

I didn’t sleep that night. Not one bit. The next morning I was off work thanks to the chaotic swing shifts of a factory worker. I showered, got dressed, and drove to the college. I found my advisor, who doubled as my hydraulics professor, and told him I wanted to change majors.

He told me to follow my heart and gave me the paperwork I needed. An hour or two later, I was officially an English major with a course load set for the next semester. I sat in the student center, much older than every other student in there, and wept quietly. No one knew what I was going through, but I felt inspired that so many of them might have been raised differently than me and were there pursuing their passions.

The next semester brought a series of inspirations.

I still struggled with my identity as a writer (and as a person, honestly), and I was terrified of what my church community would say. Here’s a spoiler: most of them told me I was foolish for getting a “useless” English degree.

Inspiring Moment One:

When I walked in to my American Literature course, I met one Dr. Kathy Ackerman, a well-known and renowned poet. I know. You’ve got to be kidding, right? I kid you not.

Dr. Ackerman took me under her wing. So much so that she started a poetry writing and critique group that met following my evening American Lit. class. She opened it to everyone in the class, but she really did it to encourage me to write. And I did write.

Years later, when I got my first poem published, I wrote to Dr. Ackerman to thank her. I will forever be grateful to that woman. She changed my life, and I am a much better writer for having known her.

Inspiring Moment Two:

While working in the shop, I used to listen to a lot of podcasts and YouTube videos. My audio diet mostly consisted of authors telling the story of how they became writers. A favorite of mine is R.A. Salvatore telling the story of how he got trapped in a blizzard and read The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings Trilogy multiple times, becoming inspired to write.

But as I searched for those stories, I also searched (secretly) for Christian authors who wrote fantasy stories. Somehow, I stumbled on a dead Facebook group dedicated to just that. There wasn’t much in the group, but there was a post by a writer named Bryan Davis, and he talked about his freedom in Christ and how he truly believed his stories honored God, despite the criticism he got from extreme fundamentalists.

I reached out to Mr. Davis. I was surprised to get an email back from him, but he encouraged me, ensuring me that I was not some evil person and that I should write about what God had made me passionate about.

There is much more that I could say about what Mr. Davis did for me, but I’ll sum it up by saying that he helped me break free of some really flawed beliefs that had held me back for a long time.

Living the Dream: Becoming an Author

I began writing with a fervor. At first, I wrote stories I thought people in my Christian community would accept. I self-published them, and people really enjoyed them. I got incredible reviews on Amazon, and the people I knew who read them came to me in tears, telling me how inspiring my books were.

I took a chance and started writing the books I wanted to write: gritty fantasy stories that didn’t shy away from the violence and pain of this world.

I finished one book, and then I got an email from my uncle (also a writer). He told me about a thing on Twitter (back when it was still Twitter) where writers could pitch their books to agents and publishers. I gave it a chance, and an acquisitions editor from a small publishing press reached out to me. She told me to fill out the application and put her name on it.

A few days later, I got an email from the owner of the publisher. He’d read my book over the weekend and wanted to publish it. I fell to the floor when I read that email. I don’t think I’ve ever cried so hard in my life for joy.

The next year was a whirlwind and very much like a dream. Not only was that book published, but I got another contract to write a sequel. I went on podcasts and got some radio interviews. Bloggers interviewed me. Reviews came in, and readers loved my books.

But we all have to wake up at some point.

The Crash: A Pandemic and Starting Over

I don’t blame the pandemic for the souring of my author career, but it definitely didn’t do me any favors. Looking back, I can see a trail of mistakes and bad breaks.

I should not have published my first books when I did. I wasn’t ready. The books weren’t ready. I was learning, which we all are, but there were some things I should have spent more time developing before publishing.

When I got an offer from a publisher, I should have done more research. That’s not a knock against the publisher. My books just weren’t a good fit for them. And, the more I think about it, I’ve realized that a small press publisher is not for everyone (it’s certainly not for me). You really need to know what you want and how you define success. Back then, I was just thrilled to get a publishing contract. It was that seven-year-old kid holding a Roald Dahl book’s dream come true.

Misstep #1: Not Getting the Story Right

Out the gate, I messed up. The stories needed developmental edits. I would have benefited from beta readers or a developmental editor. I had neither. My first self-published books were all edited by me without anyone’s help. Don’t do that. I repeat: DO NOT DO THAT!

Fortunately, independent authors can make edits quickly and easily, even after publication, but you can’t fix a bad review.

My traditionally published books also needed development. The publisher provided an editor, and she was fantastic. She did an incredible job, but her job was line edits, not developing the story. She went above what she’d been paid to do and offered some thoughts on the story, and I appreciated that, but the story should have been developed more before it went to her. That’s on me, not anyone else.

Misstep #2: Not Getting the Launch Right

How you launch a book matters. Don’t let anyone else tell you otherwise. Ideally, you launch with a budget. It costs money to publish and market a book. Can you do it for free? Yes. Should you? Hell no.

I created my first book cover in Microsoft Word. It was terrible. After seeing how bad that roll out was, I reached out to a friend of mine who did graphic design. He made me some covers for free, and they were really nice. He did an amazing job, but he wasn’t a book cover designer, and I hadn’t done enough market research to give him a clear picture of what the books needed.

My book marketing strategy consisted of free Kindle days and Facebook posts. One book did well in terms of downloads, but that’s only because it was free.

My first traditionally published books had beautiful covers. They fit the genre. The blurb was well written. Professional cover. Professional edits. Keyword loaded blurb. Ready to go, right? Sigh.

The launch went fairly well, but the primary strategy was sending the book to bloggers. It got mostly good reviews, but some bloggers should not have been part of the launch. They were romance readers (many of them teenagers), and my book was an extremely graphic fantasy novel with zero romance. Yep. It went how you might imagine it went. I read blogs and reviews that said things like: DM me for details.

Misstep #3: Not Getting the Series Right

Once a book is out there in the world, it’s out there. I did not set myself up for success because I didn’t fully grasp that. At the end of my first traditionally published book, I added a next-in-series preview/cliffhanger. Great marketing strategy, right? Absolutely, if you have the series developed.

I had huge plans for the series, but I bit off more than I could chew. The plan was to rewrite my independently published books to tie them into the series, which led me to think I needed to rewrite all the books so that the series would go in the direction I wanted.

At that point, I realized why waiting to publish is so important. I also realized I didn’t have the freedom I needed to do what I wanted with the series. So I paused everything and entered negotiations with my publisher. They were gracious and allowed me to purchase my rights back. They never recovered their costs, which is why those books are still available.

*Insert author cringing here

I was back to the drawing board, rewriting everything and on my own. Then the pandemic hit and everything changed. I found myself in the middle of a move and out of touch with all the people I’d built a network with. My entire publishing career went off a cliff. I still can’t fully explain what happened. It was just over.

Plot Twist: The Writer Becomes the Villain of His Story

Amid all the chaos and major changes taking place, I was still writing. I finally got the series developed in my mind and on paper. I had an entire arc planned. I spent a lot of time thinking through that, outlining the books I needed to rewrite and compiling notes for the books I would write later.

I wrote the drafts for three books. Each was the first in a trilogy that hit a point in the major arc of the series. Once I had the drafts, I revised and edited the first book and spent a long time getting the story just right. I had no money for an editor, but I was a much better writer. I had some money, and I spent that on cover design and professionally written ad copy (which included the book description).

I soft launched that book, which basically means I didn’t have money for a marketing campaign. It went nowhere for a while, then got one three star ranking without a review before I unpublished it. That’s when it was time for me to face my reality.

Hard Truth #1: I Didn’t Belong Anywhere

That sounds harsh, but it’s true. I was writing Christian fiction, but I was separating from the church. As of the writing of this post, I am no longer a part of any church, nor would many people consider me a “Christian.” Look, I’ll save you the details, but I left the church during the pandemic, and I have never returned.

And the truth is, I didn’t want to write “Christian” books anymore. I felt like a fraud. I wanted to write gritty novels that were closer to Stephen King than Frank Peretti. I’d somehow managed to go viral on TikTok for teacher content. I had millions of views on my videos, and not one person watching them knew I was a writer.

Hard Truth #2: I Needed Serious Help

I will never make light of mental illness. Again, I’ll save you the details, but I’ve been in therapy for quite some time. It’s an onion, mental health. There are so many layers I’ve yet to peel back.

I had a massive online presence as a teacher. I was being invited onto podcasts weekly, and my videos were consistently going viral. People all over the country and world were reaching out to me through TikTok and Instagram for advice. Opportunities were pouring in.

Amid all that, I was at the lowest point of my mental health. I regularly contemplated leaving this world. I sabotaged everything good.

I could have the most successful book launch in history, and amid that glorious moment, I could get the worst phone call of my life.

Starting Over: No Happy Ending

I’m a sucker for a happy ending. I hate when the hero dies. I still haven’t gotten over Tony Stark in Endgame. Alas, my story doesn’t have some magical happy ending. Nope. Sorry to disappoint, but it’s more akin to a Greek tragedy. There have been so many setbacks in my personal life that I’d fall apart trying to lay them all out. I also believe in not putting all your personal business on the internet.

However, as I sit here at my desk at 6 AM on a Wednesday morning, I know my story hasn’t ended. As long as I’m still here, the story is being written.

It feels, at least in this moment, like all the people who told me to get an education and a steady job were right. I have plenty of education. I finally became a college professor (currently an adjunct for a couple of colleges). That TikTok teacher account is currently deactivated, and I doubt I’ll ever open it again.

I’m writing books in very different genres, and I have no doubt that the average Christian reader would immediately clutch her pearls after reading the first page of my yet unpublished books. Don’t read my books if you’re offended easily because you are definitely going to read some violent shit, and the characters are going to say fuck. Like a lot.

The Denouement: The Hero Returns Home

When I talk about feeling like a failure as an author, people assume I mean sales. Sure, but no. When I talk about not making progress in my writing, people assume I mean I have writer’s block or that I’m just not making a lot of progress. No. Not at all.

I’m talking about life constantly getting in the way. I’ve never dealt with writer’s block. For me, that’s not an issue. It’s the mental battle. It’s the tragedies of life that keep striking out of nowhere. It’s the exhaustion that won’t let me sleep. Writing comes easily to me, if I can overcome the barriers life has piled in the road.

Is this me complaining? No. It’s my shit, and I have to deal with it. That’s life, man. It’s tough all over. I get that. No. This is me wishing I could go back in time and tell seven-year-old me, thirteen-year-old me, eighteen-year-old me, and hell even thirty-six-year-old me to ignore all the “sensible” advice and listen to Casey Kasem’s voice instead. I’d damn sure tell those versions of me to “keep my feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars.”

I should be a lot farther along in my writing and publishing career than I am. I should not be an aspiring debut author in apocalyptic and dystopian fiction. Seven-year-old me would be so disappointed.

But I’m old enough and beat up enough to know bad shit is going to keep happening. People are going to come and go in my life, and I’m done trying to keep them around. Things are going to fall apart just when they start going well. There will never, and I mean never, be a good time to start writing or to publish a book.

I could have the most successful book launch in history, and amid that glorious moment, I could get the worst phone call of my life. One that might drastically alter the trajectory of my life.

The world is never going to stop changing around us. It just is what it is. Am I frustrated? Hell yes, I’m frustrated. Pissed off, even. I’m tired of setbacks derailing every comeback, and I’m sick of the proverbial rug constantly being pulled out from beneath me, but life isn’t fair. Never has been. Never will be. It’s a garden. Dig it? Gotta keep moving forward, and I think if I keep doing that, I’m winning in some aspect.

So if I manage to gain some modicum of success as a writer, or even if I don’t, and some big-eyed kid approaches me in a small town library, I’ll ask him if he’s a writer. If he says yes, I’ll tell him that’s beautiful and wonderful. I’ll hide all my grief and heartache behind one of those knowing smiles, look that kid in the eyes, and say: “Remember to keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars.”

Why? Because, maybe if I’d have kept reaching for them, I might have got a hold of one by now.