Over the weekend I sent chapters of the biography I’m writing to my kick-ass fact checker/reporter/superstar, Casey Angle. I did so nervously. Writing a book is like, eh, I’m not sure what it’s like. But when you ask people to read the first drafts, it feels very … naked. Exposed. You put your heart and guts into the thing, and you worry about the reaction. You’re so into the work that you lack true judgement on whether it’s good or not.
There are only a handful of people whose opinions on this I truly trust. Casey. My wife, Catherine. Paul Duer, my longtime friend and a guy with incredibly on-point perceptions. Michael J. Lewis, a great bud/great scribe with the Daytona Beach paper. Jon Wertheim and Steve Cannella, two old SI peers/pals. I’ve developed this little group over the course of four previous books, and while I hate critcism (pure ego), I crave it. And—as we all do— I need it.
Anyhow, Casey was the first guy to see any of the stuff. I waited for his take, fearful of what he might say.
And … he liked it!
I wish I could explain what it feels like to write a book, when you’re in the middle and absorbed and obsessed. Leigh Montville likens it to being stuck in a cave. Which is pretty accurate. It’s joy and pain; highs and lows. You always want more … more … more. I’ve surpassed 600 interviews for this project (a new record), yet I’m still searching and seeking and clawing and digging.
Oy.
