There's No Map, But Here Be Dragons

Dear T.,

We met once in a bookstore.

You were in town for a friend's wedding. I hyperventilated when I realized it was you. It's not every day you randomly spot your favorite author in the wild. You were kind enough to wait until I caught my breath, which took longer than I care to admit. You live in Seattle now and only come out with a collection of stories once a decade, and so you're a rare sighting. You don't have social media or a public email. My hyperventilating was somewhat justified as I didn't think we'd ever get to meet, nor would I get to thank you in person.

You don't get recognized often. When I came up to you, timid but excitable, your wife gave you a smirk like, "See, I told you, you're not entirely unfamous." She graciously excused herself from the collectibles section and escaped into general fiction. You were calm, quiet, and very patient with such an effervescent fan. I don't usually get starstruck. You might say that I still don't, as intuition tells me you don't consider yourself a star. Yet more than once, you have been a bright, steady light, both guiding and illuminating. You are unique amongst your peers, and there is a reason that you are pound for pound one of the most decorated authors of all time.

You stayed and talked to me for at least forty-five minutes. Maybe an hour. To be honest, I'm not sure about the timing because I didn't think to check my phone—I had to get time confirmation from my coworker, who was quite giggly at how out of sorts I'd become. I didn't think to get your autograph either, which in hindsight was quite funny, as I had recently paid good money to get a book with your signature. I didn't think much about anything other than how lucky I was at that moment, a testament to how kind and welcoming you were.

There were many other things in Austin you could have done for those forty-five minutes. We have lots of bookstores. Or, if you were sick of books, you could have enjoyed the finest restaurants, museums, hiking trails, and live music. But you stayed and were magnanimously generous. Signatures and pictures are easy. Cheap. But you gave me, a stranger, something much more precious.

You gave me your time and your story.

I was ready to give up. I was constantly writing, story after story, submission after submission, heartbreak after heartbreak. I'm stubborn, but everyone has their limits, and because I didn't want to admit mine, there was a chance I'd unwittingly passed them by. And the burnout was real. I still hadn't abandoned the ship completely, but it was no longer moored to the dock, aching to drift away, off to find a new, more resilient captain. There is only so much rejection one person can take. Only so much dissolution before a dream becomes an anchor instead of an adventure. I had collapsed a few weeks earlier. I had finally let go after thirteen years of struggle. Although a part of me felt free and liberated, it felt odd to keep looking along the length of my arm and seeing an empty hand. No pen. No tether.

You told me that it was okay. That you let go after every story. That even after all of your success, your accolades, the movie deal, the adoration, you often still feel like an imposter. That you need lots of rest and recovery after you complete a story, and more importantly, that you worry that the stories will dry up when you do step away. You were vulnerable and shared how you've had to learn to cultivate trust with yourself. How letting go and resting can actually be far braver than doubling down, grinding further, and destroying yourself. That even though the tone of your prose is often calm, collected, and masterful, it doesn't mean you don't struggle with your own demons constantly.

I'm grateful to say that because of our (I hesitate to say chance) meeting, I'm still here. I took time to process and breathe, and I'm now back in the arena with a new novel on submission. It might go nowhere professionally, but it's already expanded everywhere personally. And it wouldn't exist without you. And although true balance still alludes me, I've begun to make much more time for life outside of writing, for the me that needs to recuperate and reflect in order to keep fighting. Your small act of humanity, of graciousness, has helped me find strength in myself over the expectations of others. To listen to my body instead of my ambitions. To seek health and authenticity over fame.

Despite your opinion of your status, I'm still starstruck over our meeting.

Especially since your light, which has helped me extend over my horizons many times, has also helped me return home.

Forever grateful,

Daniel