As has been made very clear on this site, today is a big one for me—the release of Showtime, my sixth (and, hopefully, best) book.
Writing a book is insanely stressful. Well, not the writing—the aftermath. You want it to sell. Really, you need it to sell. And yet, one has little actual control. People buy it or don’t buy it. That isn’t, ultimately, my call. It’s yours. And it’s maddening.
So why do I write books? Why don’t I try and get a more stable job at a magazine or newspaper or website? Answer: Because this is the absolute greatest gig of all time. I’m not exaggerating—it’s amazing and awesome and a dream come true. Initially, that love and passion stemmed solely from the ability to devote two full years to a project. My first book, The Bad Guys Won!, was an exercise in bliss. I loved the pace, the timing, the editorial isolation. There was no editor breathing down my neck, screaming, “Where is it? Where is it? Where the fuck is it?”
Now, however, in my early 40s, the greatest happiness from book writing has little to do with the book itself. No, thanks to being an author, I’m able to live life as a stay-at-home father. The wife and I rarely miss a thing. We drop off, we pick up. We serve as class parents, we attend all the concerts and events. I have a 10-year-old daughter and a 7-year-old son, and I know them. I really, really know them—in ways, I think, many parents (and, especially, dads) regrettably don’t get to know their children. I like to think, by being here, the days and weeks and years of their childhood go just a wee bit slower. Maybe it’s merely wishful thinking. But, just maybe not.
So, really, that’s what makes my life so amazing. I have the job I love, I can be the parent I aspire to be …
… and I rarely wear shoes.
That’s pretty sweet, too.