Ideas have always shown up unannounced, like they were crashing a party I didn’t even know I was hosting. Some linger politely, evolving over months or years, migrating between my head, notebooks, and random scraps of paper. Others disappear the moment I think I’ve got them figured out, leaving me staring at a blank page like a bad magic trick. Then there are the glorious days when everything clicks — words pouring out faster than I can type, fueled by equal parts caffeine and sheer stubbornness (and maybe a touch of panic). And, of course, there are the runaway train days: drafts careening off the rails, plotlines smashing into one another, and me desperately trying to wrestle sense from chaos while clutching a third cup of coffee and wondering why I didn’t just become an accountant.

For years, I noodled, wrote, rewrote, revised, and occasionally rescued abandoned drafts from the trash, dragging them back into the light like an overcaffeinated archaeologist of my own ideas. And if you know me — ADHD as hell, endless tinkerer, artist, creator — it’s like a cage full of monkeys running wild where focus once lived, each one convinced its idea is the most important, and all of them screaming for attention at the same time. Some days I swear they were plotting against me. Every late-night scribble, every “aha!” moment, every spilled coffee stain, slowly built toward this: the day all that chaos finally became a book.

And yet… I still have a hard time believing it: me — now a published author. Honestly, someone should check the fine print.

Here I sat, holding my very first book.

I thought back to junior year, when Mr. Shigematsu, my English teacher, told me that my short story about being an undersized football player had “a little something.” Who knows, he said, maybe someday you’ll publish some of your writing. At the time, I didn’t give it another thought — for me, it was just another assignment. Extra credit never looked so innocent.

In college, a couple of professors encouraged me too. Dr. Medeiros at SDSU once wrote that my autobiographical essay was “delightfully written” and had made him chuckle more than once. An expert writer, he often answered our questions with more questions — always with a smile, or more accurately, a knowing grin. He was fully aware he was causing us a little grief with all the questions, but he knew we’d figure it out in the end… and be better for it.

At UCLA, my photography professor told me I had a way of capturing images that told a story — and that stuck with me. She explained that photographers and artists, like writers, are storytellers: we capture moments in time and craft stories around them. Basically, she gave me permission to be nosy and write about it, which, let’s be honest, sounds suspiciously like my natural state.

And yet… despite all this encouragement, I never truly saw myself as a storyteller. My words never seemed quite good enough, no matter the smiles, the chuckles, or the gentle nudges from my professors.

Writing has been part of me for as long as I can remember (I guess you could say that’s true for most people). At first, it was just another requirement at school — assignments to be completed for points, which at the time felt about as exciting as watching paint dry or counting the ceiling tiles in class. Later, as an educator, it became part of my duties: reports, summaries, proposals… all the thrilling stuff that keeps teachers awake at night and provides excellent caffeine justification.

But over time, writing became something more personal — something I actually wanted to do, not just something I had to do. Little snippets of life, moments and experiences that made me laugh, think, or shake my head in disbelief. Posting on my blog gave me a way to put my work out into the world, even if it didn’t feel quite like “publishing” — more like yelling into the internet void and hoping someone nodded, laughed, or at least didn’t scroll past while texting someone else.

I’ve listened to many authors describe their process — their triumphs, setbacks, and the long, winding road that publishing can be. I thought of J.K. Rowling sending Harry Potter to dozens of publishers before anyone said yes, Stephen King tossing the draft of Carrie into the trash until his wife urged him to try again, and Maya Angelou admitting she still feared someone would discover she wasn’t “good enough,” even after her books became classics. If they could do it, maybe my little stories had a shot too.

I admired those stories, but I never truly understood what they meant — not until I held my own book in my hands.

Holding it now brings so many emotions: pride, gratitude, disbelief — they all rush in at once, and still the words seem too small. I cried. I laughed. I did both at the same time and found myself wondering what the hell was going on — basically looking like a confused, emotional mess worthy of its own reality show.

Then, an incredible sadness came over me, knowing my mother never got to see this come to be. And yet, I know she knows — she’s been with me every step of the way, in every scribbled margin, every late-night rewrite, every coffee-fueled brainstorm. She’s there in spirit, probably shaking her head and smiling as the book finally came to life. And as those smiles returned, I thought of my dad and siblings, imagining their faces as they got to see it too — hopefully laughing, nodding, or at least pretending to be impressed.

Then came the inevitable panic: it’s out in the world now. What if people don’t like it? What if they roll their eyes, or worse, scroll past while muttering, “Who asked for this?” That guy in the mirror — me — is nodding, half amused, half exasperated, thinking, Get over it… and maybe grab another cup of coffee.

And somewhere in the chaos of laughter, tears, and disbelief, I can’t help imagining the book whispering, Well, it’s about time.

Holding my first book in my hands was surreal — the culmination of years of chaotic writing, coffee binges, discarded drafts rescued from the metaphorical trash, and endless noodling over ideas that sometimes behaved like a cage full of monkeys. The encouragement from professors, the small victories, the late-night “aha!” moments, the laughter, the tears… it all led here.

Would I put myself through it all again? Hell yes. Every messy, exhausting, thrilling moment.

I really don’t have the words to describe all the emotions I felt when I held the very first copy of my book… though, admittedly, this post kind of begs to differ.

My first book, Mostly Made Up Stories from a Small Town Nobody, is now available on Amazon in both eBook and paperback.

Enjoy this one? You might just be one of us. There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com —stories and reflections that feel like remembering something you forgot you knew.