Today, I turn forty-two—I think. It's hard to keep track anymore (earlier this year, we celebrated my wife's forty-second birthday only to realize at the end of a day, long after she and I had both been telling everyone we knew that she was forty-two, she was, in fact, forty-three). Such is midlife, it seems: one blurry line dividing youth from old age, often conflating the two.

Today also marks the end of March and, in my book, the true beginning of spring. If you would stop and listen to the birdsong echoing in my neighborhood, you would agree. It was this month, ten years ago, that I published my fourth book, a book that changed my trajectory as an author.
In 2015, The Art of Work debuted on a number of bestseller lists and opened doors for me I never imagined possible, giving me access to unprecedented opportunity. The book also marked a deliberate transition for me, moving my writing audience from more of a niche focus to something broader.
This was my attempt at becoming a different kind of author, the kind I desperately wanted to be and feared I might not become. It also introduced me to Joel Miller, the editor who acquired the book and guided me to its completion.
It was Joel who first taught me that writing is discovery; and at some point, whether you like it or not, the trip is over. We authors do not simply type for a living—we explore the world, both inner and outer; we solve puzzles. And the puzzle I was trying to solve with The Art of Work was, "What should I do with my life?”
The question took me far from what I thought I'd be writing, teaching me in the process. Just like a book, once begun, becomes a thing unwieldy and no longer under our control, life teaches the same. Who, and what, we become is not up to us. Citing some obscure African proverb that only an editor would know, Joel told me, "We don't get to choose our vocation. It chooses us."
How that happens became the subject of my book.
After finishing it, I committed to launching the thing well, deploying every marketing tactic I knew and could find. But even while experiencing the success of those efforts, I could sense their luster fading. The book marked a pinnacle for me—the top of an arc I wasn't sure I wanted to remain on, one that was already beginning to decrescendo.
With unprecedented achievement comes three unexpected companions: first, disillusion, then angst, and finally relief. Disillusion, because nothing you want is ever what you think it will be. Then, angst, because that sucks—no one wants to be told that what they think will make them happy won't. And then relief, because once we realize our long list of demands on life need not be met, we are free to enjoy what we have.
Well, maybe.
Over the years, I've revisited that old bestseller of mine, which is a far-from-perfect work but one that I still appreciate, and it reminds me of the person I was trying to be while writing it, as well as who I was. Parts of it now seem naive whereas others carry a wisdom beyond the author's years. In the same way I am proud of it, I am proud of the man who wrote it: the thirty-two year old father who celebrated his birthday a week after a monumental milestone, taking his family on vacation, wondering what was next.
Ten years later, I am still wondering. I do not know if we get any definite answers in this life, regarding what is right, what is good, and what is, ultimately, true. Writing reminds me of the search, of incompleteness; it calls me to cherish what I don't know, what I can't see.
When they ask, I tell my clients that hitting a bestseller list won't give them anything they don't already have; and, of course, they don’t believe me or care. "I want the ego trip," one author told me, and he got just that. In the end, I suppose we all do.
Writing a book, though, is a lot more like building a home than taking a trip. It is a permanent commitment to not just a place, but a feeling, a structure that holds us and guides us, a shelter of our own making that we can return to, over and over again, shielding us from the storms of failure and success.
P.S. If you’d like to get a free audio copy of The Art of Work, check out what the folks at Zoundy are doing. Or you can purchase a copy on Amazon, B&N, etc. Also plenty of used copies on eBay, if that’s your thing.
P.P.S. I am currently ghostwriting a novella for my daughter’s third-grade class and looking for designers who are willing to volunteer their time and talent to help with illustrations and the cover. Hit me up if you’re interested or forward this to a friend. Thanks.
It was an honor to acquire and publish that book! I’ve given away many copies. Same with Real Artists Don’t Starve. If a person is wondering what it takes to “do your thing,” whatever that thing is, both books are great thinking and feeling-it-out partners.
What a nice surprise to see you on here! Real Artists Don’t Starve helped encourage me on the road to success in my early twenties. It completely destroyed the stereotype I had assigned to myself as a starving artist. Revolutionary work.