When I was 21, I published my first book.
Before marriage. Before Oregon. Before a lot of things.
But I suppose I should also mention, it was after a lot of things.
A life as an immigrant.
A life as a fatherless child.
A life as a non-believer.
A life as a suicide survivor.
A life as another human being, trying to thrive. Trying to revive. And failing. A lot.
It was my first book. And it’s somewhat obvious in its essence.
Yet it is also my my heart poured out for the world to examine fully for the first time.
An excerpt from its Postscript:
I hope you push yourself off of the pavement and see that gravity doesn’t have to weigh you down along with other worldly things. Or perhaps just the opposite; get off of your high horse and actually feel what it is like to hit rock bottom. Make more friends. Make fewer friends. Make different friends. Quit your horrible job. Learn what it means to let go. Or maybe you need to hold on. Find a hobby. Seek your passion. Apologize. Forgive. Pray. Pray out loud. Close the doors, shut the blinds, and admit something to yourself for the first time. Better yet, admit it to God. Hear your heart. Hear its rhythm. Listen to the clock ticking, and then escape it. Draw close to what is good and pray for those who don’t get it. Allow yourself to receive undeserved gifts and find yourself giving the same. Love freely and accept truth. Stop waiting for an invitation to live your life. It’s been here all along.