I don’t know Tyler Huey. Never heard of him before today, have never met him, probably never will. Yet at this very moment, Tyler Huey is invited to my son Emmett’s 3rd birthday party. It’ll probably be at one of those annoying play gyms, almost certainly with thin slices of pizza and bubbles. Tyler, the door’s open. Please come.
Today Tyler wrote this about my book, and I’m touched. Truly touched. I might be off on this, but there’s a common perception that journalists write books because it’s a prime way to make some money. In my case, not true. Yes, I need to feed the tykes. But truth is, I write books because I love the process; the digging; the seeking; the piecing together. It’s demanding and painful, but remarkably rewarding.
And while praise doesn’t usually do much for me, tonight it’s oddly meaningful.
