Patrick Combs - Stories

A Week on Fantasy Island

Once, and only once in my life, have I felt like I was sprinkled with magic dust. It happened while I was attending the Maui Writer's Conference. I discovered the conference in the back of Writer's Digest. As soon as I saw the tiny ad I really wanted to go. I had two books that I was dreaming of getting published - one about greatness, which was in the beginning stages of development, and one full of stories from my life, which I'd been working on for three years.

The retreat was actually two events. First, an exclusive five-day writer's retreat, followed by a 2-day publishing conference. The conference was an opportunity to sell your work, and the retreat was an opportunity to pick up tips from real writers. That's what I wanted the most -- to see what real writers thought of my work and get tips on the craft. But to be at the retreat, you had to apply with a writing sample and be accepted. Well, although I already had a published book called Major in Success, I was insecure about being able to get into the retreat because I didn't see myself as a real writer, the kind that writes like a true artist. So I burned the midnight oil trying to make my writing sample the best I could. Then I anxiously and nervously waited a month for the result. I was accepted.

Being accepted was like rocket fuel. And I wrote, wrote, wrote, and wrote. I wrote 6-10 hours a day trying to create a stockpile of great writing for the conference. For the duration of my month-long writing binge, I ate only fruits and vegetables to help me write with more intensity.

The conference meant so much to me that I couldn1t sleep well the night before. When I was on the jet to Maui, I felt like a kid on his way to Disneyland for the first time. The entire flight I was daydreaming about being discovered and inking deals. But I also knew it could go the other way -- I might discover that my writing was no good.

My fiancée, Deanna, went with me. As soon as we checked into the condo that we'd rented for the week, we drove store-to-store. Deanna was determined to get me some shorts and shirts that made me "look like a successful author." All I owned was what I normally wear around San Diego, knee-length skater shorts and t-shirts. Deanna was determined to make my first impression something better than skate-punk. We spent over $200.00 on clothes that I'd probably never wear again after the retreat.

The conference opened with a keynote speech by Jack Canfield, co-author of the Chicken Soup for the Soul series, and, at the time, publishing sensation of the decade. Jack's speech was followed by a beachside Luau, complete with tiki torches and grass skirt dancing. Deanna and I had dressed our best for the event. Deanna was in a long, blue and green Hawaiian dress that wrapped around her gorgeous figure. I was wearing my new acquired "Home in the Hamptons" look. Jack Canfield was surrounded by conference organizers, and had been since the minute he walked out onto the lawn.

I had decided before coming that I was going to take risks to get as much out of the conference as I could, so I went to take my chances on meeting Jack Canfield. I led Deanna to just outside of the tiny circle that guarded him, and waited patiently for an opening. It took awhile, but soon our patient presence became too much to ignore, and one of the staffers said, "Well, I think other people want to talk to you, so we'll talk to you later." It was like the waters parted, and suddenly Canfield and three staffers are staring quietly at Deanna and me.

I hadn't planned out what I was going to say to Canfield yet. I started with a hello, continued with a compliment, and then dropped in a mention of my book of stories. I used the story mention to launch into a telling of a time I delivered a baby on the sidewalk. I had told it many times during my six-year career as a keynote speaker, and all the practice served me well. Canfield was enthralled through the entire fifteen-minute story - you could really see it on his face - jaw kind of open, eyes wide. And when I was done, he filled the suddenly silent gap with a warm bit of dry humor. "You need to work on being animated. Good story."

Then there was this awkward moment in the encounter because I had just performed for the man, rather than converse. I excused myself with, "ThanksS? It was really nice to meet you. I'm going to get another piece of corn."

The things that transpired next were what made me feel like I was sprinkled with magic dust. People began to react so strongly to me that it began to feel entirely magical. For instance, the next day I got up from my chair during a break and this mid-forties woman from the class, whom I hadn't met yet, came up to me. I'd only spoken up in class twice during the entire eight-hours we'd been in session, and said nothing vaguely memorable, yet she came up to me and said, "Do you mind if I just touch you? You have a magical aura about you and I just want to give you a hug?" I was stupefied. It made me feel nice, but also self-conscious. I said, "Sure." So we hugged. The next day a different woman I'd never spoken to approached me to say that my being there lifted her spirits. Stuff like that never happens to me. At some point on my flight to Maui, somebody must have slipped pixie dust into my orange juice.

The magic continued when our class was divided into groups of eight, to get individual mentoring from a real industry professional. My group was assigned to a confident, yet personable Vice President named Brian, from Villard Books, an A-List publisher in New York City.

I was the very last person, by chance, to read my query letter to Brian during the session. I was nervous. I'd opted to pitch him on my greatness book, since I had more confidence in it than my book of stories, but still, the situation intimidated me. As it neared my turn, I chanting to myself, "I'm writing a great book. I'm writing a great book."

Then, as I was gearing up to read my query letter, in walks Jack Canfield. Total, random, chance encounter. I couldn't decide if it was good fortune or bad luck. It would all depend on what he thought of my book pitch.

With Jack sitting right next to the VP, I read my book pitch. When I finished, Canfield was the first to speak. He looks right at me and goes, "It's an important book, and I want to buy stock in your company."

I1m thinking, "Oh my God". I turned sheet red. I felt so self-conscious having that said about me with the other seven students in the room. "Oh my God," is all I could think.

Then, the VP says, "I agree. Your book sounds like a great idea. As for adjustments in your query letter, you might want to move that last paragraph to the top, and shorten it a bit. Your title doesn't work for me. But other than that it's excellent and I'm interested in it for Villard." And referring to a mocked up book cover Deanna had made for me, he added, "You look sturdy in your picture." All I could muster was, "Oh, okay, good. Thanks." But on the inside I was walking on air.

I couldn't contain my excitement around Deanna that night. She was sharing in the success every step of the way. She was helping too. We had set up a portable office in our hotel room, and at night we worked side-by-side improving my chances. I was re-writing and she was creating book cover mock-ups.

The next morning, Bud Gardner, the co-leader of the writing retreat, approached me and said, "I don1t know what you said to Jack Canfield yesterday but you are all he could talk about through dinner. We were out with all these important people and he just went on and on talking about you. He kept telling everyone you were going to be a millionaire." "Really? Jack Canfield was talking about me?" I replied, unable to hide what might best be described as glee.

Ever since I'd written up my $95,000 story for the Internet three years before, I'd felt that I'd die happy if I could get a book of stories published. I dreamed of writing a book that was fun, passionate, but most of all True. My urges to do the book were so strong that I assumed it must be my destiny. That's what I wanted to believe about my book of stories - that it was destined to happen, and happen in a big way. But I had trouble sustaining that belief. Especially while standing in a bookstore. More times than I can count I've stood in the 'new non-fiction' section of an airport bookstore unable to turn away from the quilt-like wall of books that in my mind have pulled off the incredible -- risen to the top of a mountainous heap. And every time I've felt the same thing: more jealous than confident, more desperate than destined. My stomach always tied into a knot over the dark worry that my dream might be a wild fantasy or a load of shit.

Canfield's compliment temporarily obliterated my doubts. That evening, while I was sharing the news with Deanna, I got an idea. It was one of those ideas that feels like a dare. The idea was to corner Jack Canfield and present him with a chapter from my book. Not hand it to him, but actually jump up and perform it like a spoken word artist at a Poetry Slam. I'd perform an entire chapter from my greatness book and end by asking him to do a foreword for the book. The idea of running my ideas about greatness past a giant in the field made me restless all night. The morning's writing session was not my cup of tea. The guest speaker, an author with a truckload of best-selling self-help books, was presenting a lecture based on her three passions: (1) money, (2) royalties, and (3) how to get the money faster. "Screw money!" was my attitude. I wanted lessons in craft -- craft, craft, craft! Content is king, I was thinking. On a break I let my opinion loose on a fellow writer. He was a nice guy, very down-to-Earth, and he replied, "It's like my dad Otto used to say, "Money isn't everything, but make sure you have a lot of it before you start talking such nonsense."

Rather than going back to listening to the speaker obsess on money, I left to find Jack Canfield and try to execute my plan. I got lucky. I found him on a veranda, sitting down to lunch by himself. Just approaching him made me want to forget the whole idea. He saw me coming and the look on his face seemed to say, "You may approach the bench, but be brief, counselor."

I said a nervous hello, and he offered a low-key greeting. He was not acting like a guy who was glad to see me. I was probably acting like a guy who intended to strangle him. I said, "Jack, I'd like to read you something. Give me just 10 minutes of your time and I guarantee you I'll read you something that will change your life." I was planning to read him the introductory chapter I'd written for my greatness book. It was the last thing I'd written during my month-long writing spree and best I could tell, it must have been channeled, it was so good. It was a chapter for my greatness book and everytime I read it to people, I read it with so much passion the listeners couldn't help but feel they'd heard something special. I was hoping to work the same magic on Jack, but he responded, "Couldn't I read it myself, instead of having you read it to me?"

"I'd really like to read it to you," I said.

"I prefer to read it myself," he stated.

I was feeling Jack's power, and knew that there was no changing his mind. I said okay, sat down across from him and slid the chapter to his side of the table.

"I meant read it later," he said not touching the document.

"Please, if you would, read it now. The suspense is killing me. You'll be glad you did."

He began reading my work.

It was time for Step Two of my plan. While he was reading, I took out a hotel note pad and wrote across the top, "Jack's inspired notes. What he wants to tell the world about Patrick's book."

As he read 12 pages about my philosophy on greatness, my heart raced like a newborn baby's. I felt awkward about what I was doing, but at the same time, I felt alive -- as alive as a mountain climber must feel when they risk a crucial step that could cost them their life, but also get them critically close to the summit.

As his eyes scanned over sentences on the last page, and Jack Canfield reads fast, I slid the note pad, along with a pen, over to him. I made sure to slide it so that it was readable from his direction.

I had gigantic hopes riding on that pen and paper. I hoped with all my heart that he would sweep up the pen without hesitation and scribble superlatives at super speed. Maybe he would write, "Patrick Combs has written a book for the ages. Timeless in its message and fresh in its perspective." Or maybe he would not write anything at all, and instead look me in the eye with awe and exclaim, "I'll help you in any way I can to make this a best-seller."

What happened in actuality was Jack read the headline I'd written on the notepad, smiled with two small shakes of his head, and then rejected the pad and pen back to me. I was crushed already.

Then he spoke. "You sure like to have fun with life, don't you," he said as if tickled.

I faked a smile back, trying to hide the fact that I felt like an ass.

"I don't give any testimonial quotes until I've read the entire book. But, I guarantee you I will give you one, and maybe even write a forward for it, and you can tell people around here that I said that. It's a very important book you're writing."

While releasing him back to his quiet lunch, I excused myself with probably too many thank-yous. Then I just sat for a good while by the ocean taking in how fantastic life can be.

The next day rolled around. Our final major activity of the writer's retreat was an opportunity to meet one-on-one with top agents and editors who'd just flown in to discover new talent. Their bios read like the New York Times Best Seller's List. It was set up so that the fifty of us who'd been part of the retreat all week would get first shot at pitching them. Then the next day, the two-day conference would begin, and hundreds of other wanna-be writers would flood the hotel and swamp the dealmakers.

Because of time constraints, each agent and publisher was limited to seeing only six people for 15 minutes each. It was decided that for fairness1 sake, we'd all draw numbers out of a hat to determine the order of sign-ups. I drew number three, a draw that assured me that I was going to get to meet with my first choice. But I was standing next to a classmate who drew number 45. She was staring at the small piece of paper in hand groaning, "Oh my God. I wanted Katy Broward so much. There's no way she's going to still be available by the time I get up there. She is the perfect fit for my book."

"Here. I1ll swap you," I said.

"No. I can1t let you do that. That1s really sweet of you, but I can1t."

"Really, I insist. I1ve already gotten far more than I expected out of this conference. I1m not worried about it. You take this."

"Oh, you really mean it?" she asked.

"Sure, don1t sweat it."

So I went forty-fifth. When I finally got up to the sign-up board, all of the hottest agents and publishers were unavailable, except Grayson Weber, the president of a mid-sized publishing house. It was quite surprising to me since our instructors referred to Grayson throughout the week as "the Godfather of publishing." They'd spoke about him several times as a mythic figure who'd discovered many great authors and who'd edited many classic books. I happily signed up for the second-to-the-last slot with Grayson. For my other session, I chose a VP from Random House.

My meeting with Grayson was scheduled for 11:00 a.m., but I memorized it wrongly as 11:15. At 10:58 am I left the hotel business center with fresh printouts in my hand. I was casually walking to my appointment thinking I had about 15 minutes to spare.

I was within a javelin's throw of the meeting place, when Bud Gardner saw me and yelled, "Patrick, hurry up, you're about to miss your time with Grayson." I ran to where Bud was, just outside of the door, and he grabbed me by the arm and said, "Where1ve you been? Your appointment started a minute ago. Get in there!"

I had no time. Bud sort of flung me into the room and pointed out Grayson, the only person in the large hall, sitting alone. Normally I would1ve first fixed my hair, gotten my book proposal out and collected my thoughts. Instead, I plopped down in front of the elder gentleman and fumbled, "Hi Mr. Weber. Um, thank you for your timeS? I wanted to show you this book idea I have." I pulled my bag to my lap and began searching it for the proposal for my book of stories. I couldn't find it fast enough, so I abandoned that plan and pulled out what I could find, my book Major in Success. "Actually, I1ll show you this book first. I wrote it three years ago, and it's sold 50,000 copies."

He1s said, "That1s good."

I said, "Well, I1ll just tell you my book idea."

I told him about the book of stories, and I told him about the $95,000 adventure having been read by over a million on the Internet. While talking I also found the mocked-up book cover that Deanna had made, and handed it over to him.

His eyes studied the mock-up and my book carefully. Then he raised his eyebrows and said, "Very interesting. Do you have a sample of the book with you? Something that you could actually give me?"

At first I said no, because I was so flustered. But then I remembered the proposal was in my bag. "Actually I do have a proposal for it, but I left all the writing at home. It's almost 90% complete though, honest."

Grayson said, "I1ll give you my home address and my home phone number. Send it to me, okay? I1m really interested in what you1re doing."

Ding went the bell, and the time with Grayson was over as soon as it began. We shook hands. He asked if he could keep the materials I had shared with him. Then I fumbled to get up. Somehow I had gotten my bag strap caught on the leg of my chair. I realized the problem when the chair tried to follow me out of the room.

I got outside and stood to take stock of what had just happened. I figured it went pretty well for my first one. I thought he seemed genuinely interested, but I wasn't sure.

One of my classmates, a woman, approached me. She had also met with Grayson. She felt really good about her meeting, and asked me how I felt about mine. I said, "It's hard to know but he said my book was interesting and gave me his home address and home number so that I'd send him more."

Bud Gardner overheard me and leapt in, "Grayson Weber gave you his home phone number? Wow, Patrick. These publishers don't do that."

My classmate1s smile now looked stressed. "He didn't give me his home number," she said. "So I guess he didn't think my book was that interesting."

I was on the verge of saying something to downplay the significance of the home address thing, when Grayson walked past with a woman, pointed to me and said, "That's the very special man I told you about."

The next morning was the closing session of the writer's retreat. While Dan Poytner, our other instructor, was lecturing, Bud came over to me and whispered, "Patrick, an agent wants to see you."

"What?" I said, confused about the out-of-the-ordinary remark.

"An agent wants to see you."

"Who is it?" I wondered.

"Susan Tawney."

"I didn1t meet with Susan Tawney," I said baffled.

"Well, she wants to see you. She said it can1t wait. That's a good sign."

"All right. Where is she?"

He pointed and said, "Through that door."

I1d never been through the door he was pointing at. I didn1t know where it led. I opened it and was further confused. It led into a service hallway, solid concrete and stacked full with tables and chairs. Standing in it was this woman, dressed in a tennis outfit.

"Patrick? Patrick Combs?"

I nodded, and said hello.

"Hi, I1m Susan Tawney," she said, as I noticed that she was nervous enough to be trembling.

"I don1t know if you1ve heard of me, but I'm a literary agent, andS? Well, I don't know how to say this without sounding like I'm bragging but many of my clients are New York Times Best selling authors. The author ofS?"

I cut her pitch short by injecting, "I saw your name in the book, and your accomplishments are amazing."

"Oh okay, I didn't want to sound like I was bragging, I just didn't know if you knew who I was," she said still visibly nervous.

She continued, "I1ve been trying to find you all morning. You1re not staying at this hotel apparently."

"No, I1m not. My fiancée and I are staying at a condo that we rented down the road."

"Oh, that explains it. Because I tried calling several hotels in the area but nobody had you checked in. Anyway I'm so glad we're talking now. I really wanted to talk to you before all the other agents meet you tomorrow. I looked at your web site last night, wonderful, really wonderful, and I really think I could be a great agent for you. I've been around some great writers, and I gotta tell you, I think you're a new voice in writing."

Her last comment went straight into my head and rung like a giant bell, "You are a new voice in writing." She couldn't have said anything more complimentary to me. She kept talking but I was still replaying the praise. When I finally could focus on her voice again, she was asking, "Do you have any samples of your writing? I read stuff at your web site, but I would love to read more."

"Well, not with me," I replied as my eyes quickly surveyed the tunnel we were meeting in. "But I could get you some."

"It would be great if you could get me some as soon as possible. Could you get them to me by lunch?"

"Yeah, I could do that," I said liking the urgency.

"Then we can talk about what how I could represent your work. I don't know if you know, but I1m married to Grayson Weber and Grayson is really looked up to in the publishing industry. He1s been in it for 22 years. He knows everybody and everybody knows Grayson."

"I've heard that."

"Grayson could sign you to a book deal with his publishing house here at the conference, but we both feel that your book has to be with an A-list publisher - not a mid-sized like Grayson's."

"I like your thinking," I said.

"And not only would I represent you, but Grayson has offered to do something he rarely ever does. He'll personally edit your book."

"Wow," I practically sung. I was deep into La-La Land, just watching the parade go by.

Deanna and I met the husband and wife team after lunch. We met at a bar that was in the heart of the hotel. A crystal clear pond full of fish surrounded the bar. Above us was Hawaiian sky so blue it looked like it was scooped off the ocean. Surrounding us was six stories of balconies, dressed so exquisitely it felt like you were looking up at a mythic tropical canyon made of marble, brass and gardenia.

Susan and Grayson were personable and likeable. Grayson had the aura of a wonderful Grandfather, and Susan made an impression with eagerness and consideration. Over a drink they spoke briefly about their own accomplishments but spent most of their time talking about my potential. Before long Susan said, "Did you bring a sample of your book Patrick?"

I handed the chapters over to her.

It was amazing to watch her hold my writings. She pulled the pages to her chest like she was holding a baby. "I don1t mean to be rude, but I1m going to go up to our room and read these right away. I'm very anxious."

She exited and after a bit of talk with Grayson we left also. We agree to meet back at the bar that evening at 8:30.

The night rolled around quickly, and Deanna and I arrived first. As we sat at the bar, I was nervous, hopeful, anxious, and insecure. I shared with Deanna that I wanted to believe what was happening to me, but that I couldn't. I said, "The hard truth is nothing they've said matters, until they've actually read my work."

"They have read your work at your web site, and they loved it," Deanna urged, "You're a great writer. They're gonna love you even more after they read your ninety-five thousand dollar story and the baby delivery story. How many emails have you gotten telling you that you're a great writer?"

"Hundreds," I said.

"Exactly!"

"But I don't know. These people are the real deal."

"Don't worry," Deanna said. "You're getting this kind of reaction because you deserve it. That's why Jack Canfield said you're going to be a millionaire."

I looked up and saw Susan and Grayson approaching the bar. "Something's wrong," I whispered to Deanna. It was in their non-verbals. Alarms were going off in my head.

They sat down at the table and started to make polite small talk. I couldn1t stand it. "What did you think of what you read?" I shot out.

Susan threw a glance to Grayson. Grayson threw it back. She patted my manuscript, took a breath, and twitched a smile. It seemed like she was about to tell me I had cancer.

"How do I put this in a way that won't sound worse than I mean it?"

"Just say it," I said. "I can take it."

"Well, I wanted to be sure so I asked Grayson what he thought and he felt it too."

"Felt what?" I said bothered by the coddling.

"Well, we feel that there's no voice in your writing."

Suddenly the taste of a best-seller dissolved from my mouth. I grabbed for a gulp of my water. What they'd concluded wasn't hard for me to believe, but it was hard to hear.

"But we think you have voice and we still want to work with you. Grayson can help you get it in there," Susan said.

The enthusiasm in their voice was gone -- changed to what felt like sympathy. My mind was practically making a mantra out of the phrase, "The new voice in writing, who has no voice." But my survival instincts were grasping for the help that was being offered. I had to have it. I had several years and hundreds of hours invested in my stories.

"I can put more voice into my stories," I guaranteed. "Grayson, I'd accept and appreciate any help you can give me. What do I need to do?"

They suggested that my writing was missing my thoughts and feelings. I couldn't remember my own writings enough to know if they were right, but I assumed they were. They said I needed more humor, that I ought to study David Sedaris's work.

After hearing their suggestions I didn't want to be at the table anymore. I wanted to be in my room. I needed a temporary retreat. I felt embarrassed at not being what they initially thought I was. And I felt anxious to pore over my writings with a new set of eyes. So we excused ourselves.

As we were getting up I could tell that they were worried that they had killed my dreams. They hadn't. Finally I had gotten feedback from real writers, and it sounded like they believed I could be one.

Back at the condo, I pored over what I considered to be one of my best stories, delivering a baby on the sidewalk. Reading it this time was like holding a letter written in lemon juice up to a light. Suddenly I could see what was before invisible. Susan and Grayson were right. My story was practically devoid of my thoughts and feelings. I couldn't believe I'd never noticed.

The discovery felt exciting. It reinflated my hopes. In my mind I was only a rewrite away from a best-selling book. And I had a legendary editor who was going to help.

The Maui Writer's Conference went on for two more days, and I used it to make additional connections for my greatness book. But mentally I had already flown back to San Diego and started in on what was really important, putting voice into my stories, one rewrite at a time.

When I got home I put all my other ambitions on hold and wrote with more diligence than ever before - long, concentrated hours. I find writing to be a strange blend. For the first few days it's pure ecstasy. Eight hours experienced as 30 minutes, and the feeling that you're performing like an Olympic legend. But my punishment for too much writing, too many days in a row, is a hellish insomnia of the mind. Words and phrases slam dance in my head for hours after I've stopped. My head tries to keep writing but it makes no sense at all. It talks and swirls and flashes so much that I wish I could take it off. It took me a solid two weeks to rewrite the baby delivery story. Five more weeks to rewrite my $95,000 adventure.

My reward was receiving Grayson's edit of my work in the mail. His wife confessed to me that it had taken him five times as much work as he had imagined. First I looked at his edit of the baby delivery story. There was barely a sentence untouched. Entire paragraphs that I had labored for afternoons to add, crossed completely out. Hundreds of sentences reworded in between the lines. Countless margin notes instructing additional work. His edit for the $95,000 story was virtually the same.

I found his edits both exciting and depressing. Exciting because he transformed countless mediocre sentences into marvels of craft. Depressing because what he crossed out the most was "my voice." It seemed like every thought and I feeling I had inserted to be my voice, had not made the cut. It was awful. According to his edits, most of my thoughts seemed to suck.

I made the changes Grayson suggested. Then I shared the baby delivery story with a friend who had read the original. The friend was Scott, who'd been an agent and writer for over twenty years. I didn't tell him about Grayson's involvement in the new version. Scott read the story and phoned me alarmed. He felt the new edit of the story was significantly worse. I told him what had transpired and he said, "Patrick, I've seen this happen time and time again in publishing. Through no fault of Grayson, who is undoubtedly one of the best, and no fault of yours, you two simply aren't a match."

It was like Scott's words flicked a switch. In an instant I hated writing. I slammed my fist onto the desk, so hard my computer crashed. With a lightening swipe I sent several hundred pages of manuscript flying through the air like a burst open down pillow. Then I slumped over my keyboard and sulked - something I rarely do. I so badly wanted to be a writer with a book of stories, but all my work had added up to no voice, no editor, two screwed up stories and apparently no talent.

After a long slump I gathered up my manuscript and crammed it into the trashcan. I had it on my computer so I wasn't deleting it. I was just getting the crap out of my sight. I didn't want to see it. I didn't want to touch it. I knew I'd never use it.

******

It is my God-given nature that I bounce back from everything quite quickly. Within a couple days I knew I would rewrite everything and keep trying. I didn't know when I'd be up for the task but I knew the day would come. I left the project alone until it did.

A couple of months later, I attended a speaker's seminar where Jack Canfield was presenting. I gave him a copy of my already-published book, Major in Success, and asked him if he'd consider doing a foreword for the next edition. A month or so later he got back to me and said yes. It felt like one of the biggest breaks I'd ever gotten in my career.

spent a couple months revising and rewriting Major in Success. When that project was complete, quite unexpectedly, my desire to work on my book of stories returned.

When I picked it up again, I was benefiting from many things Grayson had brought to my attention. I could see holes in my writing I hadn't seen before. I could see opportunities to share my thoughts and feelings more. It took me less than one rewrite of a story to start being able to again taste a bestseller. And that made me ready to give the process of making it happen another go-round.