Has been an amazing two weeks. Traveled to LA and Dallas; had about 100 TV, radio and print interviews; watched my book peak at No. 12 at Amazon and No. 7 on the upcoming week’s New York Times best-seller’s list; as I drove through Texas last week, actually heard Michael Irvin—on his radio show—refer to “Boys Will Be Boys” simply as “The Book.” Thrilling—all of yet.
Now, sitting here at my kitchen table back home in New York, I’m already starting to feel like Erin Moran, five months after “Joanie Loves Chachie” was canceled. The book is gradually slipping down the Amazon rankings, and soon the interviews will come to an end. At some point, “Boys Will Be Boys” will start selling for $2.23 used on Amazon. A new hot book featuring drugs and stabbings and masturbation will come along, and “Boys Will Be Boys” will be vapor. Sigh.
And yet, how can I be even slightly disappointed? I get paid to write books me a living! Me—some unexceptional kid from Mahopac, N.Y. who dreamed of this life. This coming weekend my name will be listed on the ultimate best-seller’s list, alongside such literary giants as Tori Spelling and Britney Spears’ mom. Hundreds of thousands of books are released every year; hundreds of thousands of writers wish they were in this position. I’m incredibly lucky.
Plus, come day’s end, it’s about the experiences; the highs; the joys. My highlight probably comes from last Wednesday, when I held a signing at a Barnes & Noble near SMU. Only about 12 people attended, but one was Kim O’Neill, the father of a boy I wrote of in “Boys Will Be Boys.” Kim’s 10-year-old son, J.P., died of cancer during the Cowboys’ run, and Troy Aikman once scored a touchdown in his honor. I used the story in my book, and semi-dedicated “Boys Will Be Boys” to J.P.’s memory in the acknowledgments. So when Kim arrived, introduced himself and asked to give me a hug, well, what more do I need to write? Pure bliss.
