Confessions of a Lost Scribe

I’ve spent most of my adult life chasing screenwriting as an art form when, deep down, what I really

wanted was to be a novelist.

Clarity comes early to some, late to others – and for many, not at all.

For a long time, I felt like I showed up late to something I should have figured out years ago. But maybe

that’s not how this works. Maybe it doesn’t matter when you arrive—just that you do.

I’ve always loved to write.

As a kid, I would sit with a notebook, writing journal entries or letters to friends. I found comfort in the

written word in a way I never quite found in conversation. Maybe it was the stutter I had growing up.

Maybe writing gave me a way to express myself without pressure. Whatever the reason, I knew early

on that I wanted to tell stories.

What I didn’t know was how long it would take me to understand how I wanted to tell them.

I don’t look at the last 30 years as wasted time. Far from it. The writing groups I started, the comedy

clubs I performed in, the film projects I worked on—they all brought me here.

And where is “here”?

Here is the point where I finally feel aligned with what I’m meant to do.

Not a screenwriter. Not a journalist. Not a corporate writer.

A novelist.

That’s taken time to say out loud. Even longer to believe.

There were a lot of detours along the way. Different paths, different identities, different versions of what

I thought success was supposed to look like. But standing here now, I can finally look in the mirror and

say:

You’ve got this.

Maybe the timing isn’t late. Maybe it’s exactly right.

Because as long as I’m still here—still thinking, still writing, still trying—

it’s not too late.